Iyla Grace 6.0

  Iyla Grace 6.0 was released today.  My favorite feature is her growing empathy for the world outside herself.  Iyla will chastise my jaded regard for some humans with a simple, sweet charge:  "Papa, care for the world." ... I will try, Little Buddy.  Happy Birthday!

Amsterdam (2018)

Amsterdam, more than my beloved hometown, Austin, Texas, more than Chicago, San Francisco, Miami or New York, more than any American city, Amsterdam draws me into her orbit.  Only New Orleans approaches her easy charm.  A city older than the promise of the New World, Amsterdam has exorcised the demons of austerity – suffered and bled for it – and emerged a wise and mischievous soul ... A city that embraces the full human story and celebrates life as it is.

The Ancient Greeks Knew This

Young men without women live in a cracked 

and faded rooming house
at the corner of Lehigh Street and University Drive.

A bare, wrought-iron porch straddles 

the face of the house, furnished 

with a lone, derelict sofa.  

The men press their backs into the sofa springs,
purse their lips on beer bottles and cigarettes; 

the beer is sucked dry and bottles smashed 

against the crumbling pavement below.

Processed meats are tossed over a flaming grill, 

then devoured with ferocious appetites 

while disinterested young women stop
along the sidewalk so their dogs may shit 

on the unkempt lawn.

The men eyeball the women 

and joke about what they'd like to do to them,
and their dogs.  

By afternoon, their blood boils 

from the heat of the day, 

evoking raucous collegiate chants 

and uproarious feats of strength.  

Often, they spar like wrestlers on the lawn.  

Barefoot and bellicose, stripped to their blue jeans, 

sweaty bodies entwine in ritual combat 

punctuated by breathless displays 

of virile comradery —

the chest bump, 

the bear hug, 

the double high five.

To escape their awkwardness, 

the men pour whiskey shots 

and embellish tales of sexual conquest until

the long shadow of fatigue forces

a reluctant surrender.

They retire each to his solitary space.  

And it's a stark, lonely place, that old house, 

beneath the cover of midnight 

when desperate hands slick with desire 

are drawn under soiled sheets 

and hot, August winds shake the rotting timber 

long stood between erotic passions yearning 

to be released and fraternal pleasures 

dared not entertained.

The Exalted Ones

They meet in the back rooms of coffee houses,
wine bars and bookstores.  Some send their stuff
to the magazines.  They write poems about rejection,
isolation, the tragic human condition, failed love.

They drag their friends along to ensure applause
and run up the flag declaring 'POETRY NIGHT'.
Organizers claim poetic awareness their intent,
but no one comes to the stage holding 

a god-damn unity candle for their beloved audience, 

even the ones who preach Love and Peace, 

who cry for change.  They, most of all, do it for the spotlight, 

for a chance to be heard and understood.

Shouting lyrics over cigarette smoke and cappuccino
machines, much of it is soft, overly-garnished
treatment of standard themes, else unintelligible,
angst-riddled banter.

Professor observes from the corner table, applauding,
half-sincere.  He also writes poetry, a good deal
more carefully.  His collection of haiku is for sale

next to the pastry display.

Afterwards, they congratulate and embrace
one another as new hopes are raised and new poems
find their way to the desks of magazine editors.
I pick up the magazines.  Nothing happens.

Has exalted poetry gone the way of the Aztecs?
Where is our Whitman?  Our Rimbaud?
Our howling Ginsberg?  How I long to taste
the exquisite madness of tyrannous, unbridled souls,

for a righteous voice to rise up and torch this
complacent landscape, deliver us from sedate,
coffee-house prose, weakling academics absent grit
or vision, and tired, angry verse such as this.

Eloise Jane 2.0

  Eloise "Weezy" Jane turns two today.  Our little lady warrior is often mistaken for a three-year-old.  She is B-I-G, in stature, personality, and heart.  She feels big, and the lives in her orbit are bigger for it ... Version 2.0 speaks complete sentences, will hug a crying child ("She sad, Papa"), falls down daily (hourly?).  This child's legs look like she lives alone in the woods.  Eloise relishes moments when her big sister, Iyla Grace, plays with her ... Happy Birthday, Lady Eloise!  

Last Poem

Don't save it all
for your precious art.
Give it away,
to friends,
to loved ones,
to the stranger in need –
most of all
to yourself.
Make this life
your grandest
poem.


**First published in The Austin Chronicle

Eight-Ball

Max observes the woman at the bar
drunk and stumbling about the place.

Her criticizes her makeup: "It's excessive"
Her outfit: "tasteless"
Her bra: "too tight".

She flirts with the bartender.
It's distracting Max's game.

"Don't you think that's sad?"
he remarks, missing the side pocket.
"Look at her!"

Max is referring to her size.
She's a considerable woman
wrapped in glitter-encrusted leggings
and a low-cut blouse which scarcely contains
her enormous breasts.
The blouse is too short to cover
the expanse of her midriff.

A belly ring jingles when she laughs.

"It's disgusting, " Max protests.
"No one wants to look at that."

He looks at it.
He cannot stop looking at it.

I nearly sink the eight ball,
corner pocket, leaving Max an easy,
cross-table finisher.

A handsome couple enter the bar.
They order drinks, scout a booth near the jukebox,
and quietly groom themselves.

She adjusts her off-shoulder sweater
while laboring over song selection.
He picks lint from his gaberdine jacket.
She touches her makeup with a pocket mirror,
sips her beer as if it were coffee.

They inhabit an aching self-awareness,
as if they endure the eyes of the room upon them,
discriminating eyes,
raw and envious.

"I like the big one," I say to Max

as her belly jingles

and he draws the cue for his shot.

A Nice Young Man

I guessed right off by the fanciful demeanor
and baroque, manicured appearance.
Barbara Streisand records on display in the parlor
were a decisive give-away.

He said he was a teacher of special-needs children.  

His mother left him the estate in her will

and he turned it into a Bed & Breakfast.

I know men like him who fled to the city
in their youth, delivering themselves
from the stranglehold of rural intolerance,
yet here he was, fledgling entrepreneur,
charitable volunteer, director 

of the Presbyterian church choir,
as rooted in the red soil as the Cottonwood tree
that shaded my bedroom window.

I'd have liked to ask why a handsome gentleman
living alone in the dust bowl of America
had not turned his heels in search of companionship,
but thought better of it when he presented a photograph
of daughter and grandchild.

"The blessed outcome", he declared,
"of an awkward, high-school affair."

"Don’t the Lord fashion fortune from our folly?"
he added before retiring for the evening.

I lingered with that on the stairwell, pondering 

the difference between luck and fate,

then straightened his picture wall

and signed the guestbook inscribed

with a verse from Psalms 139:14:

"I praise you because I am fearfully

and wonderfully made; marvelous are

your works, my soul knows it well." 

In the morning, he prepared a table
of fresh berries and scones, poached eggs, coffee,
crème brûlée in homemade raspberry sauce.

Our dear Grandmother, for whom we traveled
many miles to celebrate a birthday,
remarked that our host reminded her
of the nice young man who designed
her home interior remodel.

"You're thinking of Cousin Jerry,"
her sister replied.  "Such a charming boy he was.
Shame he never married."

**First published in Hole In The Head Review