DOG EATS BIRD

The universe is not asleep at the wheel.

It’s eyes are wide open always.

Like Old St. Nick it’s watching and knows

when I've been bad or good...

When I've done what I’ve done

for all the wrong reasons. And so,

metaphorically speaking, I'm back on the street

with my mangy mutt at my side

panhandling my way through the day

with an attitude of entitlement

as the chip on my shoulder, hoping

to make enough so I can fill my belly

before sundown. And as luck would have it

my upturned hat on the seedy sidewalk

is brimming with loose change and crumpled bills.

And so I go and buy the hen on the spit

in the window I’ve been eyeing all day long

turning in it own juices. And having made

that purchase I go to sit down to make

a feast of the fowl with my mouth swimming

in its own saliva, and I turn my back for a moment,

just a moment, and that’s when the universe

steps in, and like the Grinch, steals

my Christmas right out from under me

by having my own damn dog eat the bird. 

That’s the wrap on the wrist I’ve had coming 

for all the wrongdoing I’ve done

that I’ve paid no never mind to.

Yes, the universe is awake at the wheel—

and will only give me my just desserts and no dinner

until I’ve finally done some good for goodness’ sake.

“LINE”

I wish I could call out: line

when the thing I should be saying

isn’t there to say.

I wish an off-stage voice

would feed me

the exact right words

and sentiment

when I go blank

so my scene partner,

who ever they are,

doesn’t feel like I have 

left them alone 

and standing 

on an empty stage.

That’s not in the script.

I am meant to play my part

until the stage directions

clearly state: [Exit.]

The truth is: I am not

an off-book actor

in rehearsal. I am 

simply myself living 

my unscripted life

opposite good people

who deserve the best

performance I can give them.

Oh great dramatist in the sky,

be my prompter

when I can’t prompt myself.

The play’s the thing, remember?

GAME FILM

     An Ode to Magic Johnson

What would it be like

if we had access

to our every move and,

like a movie, could play

and replay each and every

action after the fact

on a big screen

at the touch of a button?

Would we be equipped then

to bring more of our magic

to the court of our lives,

because we could clearly see

what worked, what didn’t and why?

Maybe.

But let’s not confuse

the magic with the wand.

How we bring ourselves

to what matters, 
is what matters.

And there's nothing 
remote about that!

A SIMPLE CUSTOM

Merchants in the mercato

selling everything

from bread to birds.

A man on a daily stroll

comes upon the cages.

How much? he says,

and points to

the biggest coop.

He pays, then opens

the latch, releasing

the little prisoners

into the blue infinity.

A man and his custom.

A daily practice.

Just another way

da Vinci brought

the Renaissance

to a dark age.

LICK YOUR FINGERS

It’s a new season,

a new decade.

Let’s approach it

like a blank page

we reach for

with freshly licked fingers

ready to write

the masterpiece

we’ve been meaning

to write:

a love letter

to Love itself.

ALWAYS THE GARMENT

Quiet and a lit candle.

Time and whispered

yearnings. Anchors

to the moment.

These are the fabric,

the warp and weft,

the pull and pump,

of a living rhythm

I weave

by being creating,

by settling into

a space I make

like a garment

that keeps me

safe and warm

in winter

and always,

if only I remember

to sit down before

the loom of Now.

IDENTITY THEFT

I woke up this morning

and felt like

I had been ransacked

in the night.

I felt like a part of me

was missing.

And then I remembered

what I had done

the night before

and who I was with

and that everything,

everything that happened,

and the loss
that came with it,

came from the choices

I had made.

It was then I knew

that I was the thief

in the night, that I had

stolen from myself again.