Thor, the Norse God of Thunder, had a hammer named Mjölnir. Mjölnir was considered a fierce weapon that could level mountains and summon lightning with every blow. In this poetry blog, every Thursday, (Thor’s Day), Mjölnir will forge only song - sing of the mysteries and beauties of the world.

Thursday, April 26, 2012


ALLERGIES

In the land of 10,000 class presidents
there is way too much Tuesday night traffic,
too much gossip between the monuments,
and too many blossoms rimming the Potomac.

Smiles scar and stone misquotes our heroes.
Lovers father our twins without us. Resentments
are almost always faxed. And dashes declare peace
is not possible without treaties.

The Defense Department waters its rhododendrons
while jaundiced stars hang in tatters
in dark corners, so 8th graders can learn
Evil has a name and a number.

Jazz standards caravan around
the Kennedy Center in a failed circle. Liberty
lassos Happiness while History blames
all it's forgotten on ADD.

Please tell me my sinuses will survive the season,
that no more oaths will be uttered facing east,
that bullets can’t kill a dynasty
or murder a king’s dream.

Convince me Night will never shatter again like glass,
that all our spasms and complaints will come to an end,
that we’ll stop swilling our garlic with our gin,
and that gargoyles won’t rain down from the sky.

And persuade me once and for all
that it will be the newborns who will bless the souls
of the wicked as they file into Heaven
like beasts into the garden.

Thursday, April 19, 2012


VOYAGE

Phyllis and Roy are in a doorway.
Neither is coming or going.
They are framed within the frame
and the door is only half open,
so there is no portal or a passageway here.
It's more like a place to get stuck in.

They are yelling at each other
arguing, fiercely
about a suitcase, of all things,
which is odd and slightly ironic
because they have just come from seeing
a play called, Voyage, which in part
is about characters who keep missing
opportunities for love,
and who keep asking each other
the same curious question:
“What’s wrong with this picture?”  
which is a question Phyllis and Roy
ought to be asking themselves right about now
but they’re not, because all their attention
is on the damn suitcase, its
broken handles and zippers, torn outer pockets,
how it has been mishandled by careless attendants,
has seen too much wear and tear
from too many recent trips “Down Under,”
and how, given its current condition,
isn't really up for the next big trip,
which is just around the corner - unless
they can decide
which one of them will take it
in to be repaired.

As the audience to this little drama
we know something that Phyllis and Roy don’t:
the suitcase isn’t the issue, it’s a stand-in
for something else, that they,
like the characters in Voyage,
are ill-equipped to talk about.
It is a symbol for something
that they can’t quite face.
So all they can do is what they are doing.
It’s a failure of the imagination, really.
That’s what it is.

If they only had a different symbol,
a parakeet, a bath mat, a juicer,
Phyllis and Roy might just be able to
free themselves from the prison of the doorway
and their petty insults
and put the deadweight and baggage
of their rudderless conversation down,
and, suddenly feeling lighter, would, on a whim,
head upstairs, hand in hand -
the door closing blithely behind them -
to search the sea of cable channels
for, of all things, an episode
of The Love Boat,
where Merrill Stubing and Julie McCoy
captain and cruise director,
hilariously dressed
in white shorts and a perky bob,
allow Phyllis and Roy the opportunity
to laugh
vicariously
and affectionately
at themselves
out loud.

Thursday, April 12, 2012

WIPER BLADES

It could be
anywhere
or any time:
Jerusalem
Harlem
Flatbush
the Renaissance
the Summer of Love.

There might be
an ox
a crop
a battle
a crossing
a whaler
a mountain
involved.

The particulars
don’t matter 
much.

The scene’s
darn near always the same
as long as
two good men
one young, one old
one scrappy, one wise
are there
fixin’ to fix a thing
that’s broken, if
ingenuity allows it.
And it usually won’t
‘cause there’s too much
testosterone at stake.

Somebitch, one will say.
Come on, you little bugger, says the other.
Their hands hard at work. 
That’s not right!
 It is right!
No it’s not - its floppin' around like a fish!
And this makes no sense
since they aren’t even fishing.
Try it my way!
Nope, nothin’ doin’.

Working together is not an option.
And that seems to be the point
more than the fixing itself.
Each man must do it
whatever the it is
his own way
and hold steadfast
to that firm ground.

All seems lost
until it happens:

Click!

That magical, musical sound
like the plink of a harp
that a thing makes
despite the commotion
ego and efforting are also making
that tells us, ever so gently and simply:
all is right with the world again.

Neither man knows though
where this clink came from
or exactly how it got there
or which one of them 
brought it about.

What they know is
a thing has found its mate
a gizmos’s in its groove again
a problem’s solved
and this 
they can rally around.

Even if
they are
in a garage
in Pleasant Hill, CA
and the hood and windshield
of a friend’s girlfriend’s car
is between them.

Yes, that little clink
was all it took
for these good men
to end up on the same side
feeling pleased and proud of their work
as if they had just fashioned an angel
with its first set of wings
instead of arming a ‘97 Buick
with a used pair of wiper blades.



.

Thursday, April 5, 2012

FUMES

Mother does her nails
while watching Monday Night Football.
By her side I practice
long division with a number 2 pencil.
Scratch, erase, scratch.

The German Shepherd pants 
on the linoleum floor wearing a hexing grin.
Father hangs from the door in traction
reading Forbes with his head in a sling.
Fred Biletnikoff goes long.

Cotton balls and acetone take the polish off.
Howard Cosell's cocksure cadence, a weevil in the ear.
Father slurps his martini like a suckerfish.

The tiny brush lays down the first clear coat.
Stroke, stroke, stroke.
All those little half-moons getting glazed.

And it is then I know my father’s spine is made of taffy,
the dog’s saliva is fish emulsion,
and the number 3 is the remainder 

that will carry me into infinity.