WHATCHAMACALLIT

Maybe the lock’s broke

on the door we’re trying to open.

Maybe that’s the trouble.

Or it could be the key.

Maybe the key I’m using

and the key you’re using

ain’t the right key.

Maybe we need a different kinda key.

Maybe we need that whatchamacallit kinda key.

You know the one I mean.

The kinda key that can open any friggin lock,

‘cause it’s been filed down

and has no notches, grooves,

or teeth to speak of, 

no real bite, which means,

there’s nothing to trip or trick

‘cause the key just slides right on thru

getting caught on nothing.

And so the knob just turns

and the door swings open, wide-like,

and we walk right on in.

Skeleton key! That’s its name.

That’s the kinda key we need.

Dontcha think?

Maybe if we had one

we’d find ourselves on the inside

of where were trying to get to

and once there

maybe then we’d end up

one day

in the same motherlovin’ room –

and laughing 

at all the fussin’

it took to get there.

GOD'S BLAZER

Step into the judge’s chamber.

God’s blazer’s there

hanging from the rafters

like a verdict of shame.

His big secrets

are there too,

perched on the mantle.

They tower like a dollar store trophy.

Let this be a lesson to you:

there is always a man behind the curtain,

and a density greater than doubt.

All you Don Rickles out there

put your rapiers away.

Let’s make a bargain right now, shall we?

I’ll sleep and dream in your skin

if you sleep and dream in mine. 

Then maybe we’ll wake in the morning

staring into oceans,

where once we saw only caves.

RACONTEURS

So many words.

So many circumlocutions. 

Stories chasing their own tails.

Histrionics and hyperbole 

that always crowd us out.

What if we pared it all down

to the essentials, to symbols and gestures

we'd learn and practice

with the help and studied patience 

of pithy primatologists?

What if we found our way back to basics,

by aping our way into a new kind of affinity

of really being together,

where comfort was cultivated 

through life’s simple preenings:

in the mites we might we’d feed each other,

in each moment's subtle proteins 

we'd harvest and savor?

Maybe this kind of intimacy is 

the only necessity we'd need to know.

And in the knowing it we'd finally feel

like suitable companions,

like the new age raconteurs 

we were meant to be.

                                                          

LABOR DAY

Cloudless.

Holiday-hot.

Barely a breeze.

Picnic-time,

in a graveyard.

A tension in the air—

and a squirrel

or a ‘pecker

at work in the Maple,

we think. This grubbing,

the only sound

around,

other than

what we are

saying…

Until we hear

what we hear

sharply turn to

a creaking,

a cracking,

a tearing:

a broad branch,

above our heads,

gives way,

swings down,

falls

against itself.

We are up

on our feet.

Stumbling. Stunned.

Strange.

No apparent cause,

that we can see.

It’s just us, here.

Only us

and what

we are saying, trying

so hard to say

and make sense of

in the sun

among

the epitaphs.