This is the House That Jack Built

Jack was a carpenter.
Born in Italy,
he came to America in 1910,
and for twenty years
he built waterfront vacation houses
on Cape Ann for wealthy Bostonians.
He died of a stroke on his 46th birthday,
and all that’s left of him are a few houses
and a fading black & white photograph
in a box in an attic in Marblehead.

Jack was a cook.
Born in Pennsylvania, he served
with the 28th Infantry Division
during the Battle of the Bulge in World War 2,
and all through that battle he never heard
the roar of bullets and bombs,
only the clatter of pots and pans.
And even though as the years went by
his friends all told him-
"Don't worry about it!
Napoleon said an army travels
on its stomach”,
he always felt guilty
and a little embarrassed,
and would never talk about
what he did in the war
as he sat on his barstool at the VFW.

Jackie grew up on a farm
in western Massachusetts.
She and her husband Peter
ran a greenhouse
in Brattleboro, Vermont
where they raised orchids
for upscale florists and hotels
in New York City.
The day that Peter died of a heroin overdose
Jackie sat alone in the greenhouse
all afternoon,
listening to water drip from the pipes,
and then she got up,
and went back to packing boxes of flowers.

Jack was a truck driver
from New Hampshire.
He drove tankers
filled with unknown chemicals
around New England for thirty years,
and then his hair and toenails
started falling out,
he had trouble breathing,
and he died in a small motel room
in Nashua, New Hampshire,
surrounded by no one.

Jackie was a waitress from Queens.
She waited tables every night
at a fancy French restaurant in Manhattan,
and three times a week
the maitre d’ would bend her over a box
in the walk-in freezer
and screw her,
and she never said anything,
because she was determined
that she was going to put
her two kids through college.

Jack was a firefighter from Boston.
He rode the hook and ladder truck
for twenty-two years,
and he played the dog races in Revere
every weekend,
and raised four kids,
and 15 grandkids,
and never regretted anything.

Jack was a sanitation worker
from New Jersey; he hauled
barrels of trash in Hoboken,
and every night he went back,
alone, to his one-bedroom,
walk-up apartment
and wrote poetry and short stories.
The day after he died
the landlord took it all,
and stuffed it into plastic bags
and put the bags out on the curb
for the trash men.

Ashes to Ashes-

I have a blank sheet
of virtual paper-
and a virtually blank mind.
It’s not that nothing is in there
(though, sometimes, I wonder)
it’s that nothing that is in there
wants to come out.
Or perhaps there are things in there
that I am not so sure
I want to see come out.
Things that could come out,
but then I’d have
to own up to them,
confront them,
deal with them.

And today seems
an especially bad day for that.
As was yesterday,
as will be tomorrow.

So it is not so much
Writer’s Block,
as Writer’s Lock-
I locked those things up years ago.
Months ago.
Weeks ago.
Days ago.
Hours ago.

And words are the key
that will unleash them.

No wonder words
 are so feared-
No wonder they burn books,
and the writers of books.
No wonder Silence
is said to be Golden.
Illusions are gold,
and Reality is ash,
and it is unnerving
to sit in the middle of the fire.

Bi-Poetics

Some poems live on the page,
the black type dancing
against the white paper
and setting the brain on end,
or lulling and mulling it
to a fine introspection,
like a brandy-induced pause
in front of a muttering fire.

Some poems live in the air
and merely crouch on the paper,
muscles tensed and taut,
biding time, hiding their power-
only springing to life
when they are spoken.
Shared aloud with an audience,
the words gambol and dance.

Some poems live both lives,
but they don’t like to talk about it-
The page-snobs sneer at them,
and the spoken word crowd
edge away a little bit,
if a poem admits to being bi-poetic.
But if it can stand the stigma,
poems that go both ways
have the most fun.

Just Say No To Reality-

Reality sucks!
and hey- it may not even be real.
Physicist Julian Barbour of Oxford University
has a new theory that the Big Bang
created a ‘mirror’ universe
that exists alongside this one,
and whatever happens here
happens in the opposite way there,
and backwards.

So screw Reality.
When somebody asks you,
“Is your term paper is done?”
or “Have you mailed that check?”
Just look at them and say-
“Oh, Sorry -was that due
in  - this - Reality?”

And answer me this,
Reality lovers-
If listening to Christmas carols
on my Pandora stream in July
is so at odds with Reality-
then why is July the middle
of the winter in Australia?

Truth is-  there is never
a bad time for a really cool scarf,
and if shoveling snow
in my sandals is wrong,
I don’t want to be right.
 - Having a full set
of fingers and toes after age 40
merely means you missed
some awesome opportunities.

If Reality declares that
my cat only puts up with me
because I am her sole source of kibbles;
 - and I probably won’t win 30 million dollars
in next week’s tri-state lottery drawing;
 - and the earth will eventually
become a fiery cinder;
 - Then who needs Reality?

Reality is an endless flight of stairs
that always goes upwards,
but never actually gets anywhere.
And Reality is full of dead people.
More and more every year.
None of us will ever take on Reality
and make it to the end of the film.

Did you ever meet anyone
who was firmly attached to Reality
and truly happy about it?
Ask any Chicago Cubs fan-
Reality bites.

So next time it knocks on your door-
just say “No” to Reality.
It’s ok- you won’t hurt its feelings.
Reality doesn’t have feelings.
That’s why it sucks.
Put on your sandals,
and join me in the snow-
because in that alternate universe-
it’s July and warm,
And none of our friends are dead.
And we just hit the fucking lottery.

The 21st century may be out to get me-

The 21st century may be out to get me-
I took a Buzzfeed quiz, and it told me
that if I was a poem,
I’d be the John Mortara poem
 ‘The Bullshit’.

My Autocorrect tells me
I am spelling autocorrect incorrectly.
It was pretty pissed-off about it.
When a computer program becomes
that self-aware and assertive,
I start to worry about its’ motives...

Last week Autocorrect changed
“enthusiasm” to “euthanasia”.
Then, when I was typing this poem,
it changed Buzzfeed to buzzsaw

Who’s paranoid now?

The 21st Century may be
trying to drive me insane.
Don’t get me wrong-
I love the 21st century,
but like that passive-aggressive lover
you can’t live with, and you can’t live without-
Parts of the 21st Century
are best dealt with
with the help of pharmaceuticals.

Ambien Dreams are the best dreams,
aren’t they?  Ever had one?
There are entire websites
devoted to Ambien Dreams...

In my Ambien Dream,
My Poetic Muse  looked
a lot like Katherine Zeta Jones,
in that Zorro movie-
She carried a long whip,
and a bag full of adverbs,
and she made me produce
 a tv game show for her 
called Wheel of Sonnets.

We were at a bar with Allen Ginsburg
and Jack Kerouac,
and they were arguing over who had
a better score on Goodreads.
I don’t know who won,
but Dorothy Parker was sitting in the corner
snapping photos of the fight to post on Flickr.

We got so drunk on words
that Charles Bukowski took me aside
and told me, “Man, you need an intervention”.

Emily Dickinson emailed that
she wasn’t going to be joining us
because she’d been up all night
streaming Beyonce videos.

I got instant messaged by Robert Frost-
he needed five synonyms for
“dickhead neighbors” that
the editors would allow in The New Yorker.

Edna St. Vincent Millay kept Skyping me -
Bukowski had been drunk texting her again.

I staggered out of the bar
and ran into Henry David Thoreau,
and he wanted me to watch a dozen videos
he’d posted on YouTube -
God help us, he has cats at the cabin now...

Edgar Allan Poe popped out of a manhole
with a Goth Groupie Gang-
and recited a poem about how
Goths love Depressive Men in Black-

I ran for my car, turned on the radio,
and Shel Silverstein was singing a song
- Dr. Seuss lied about the Grinch.
He never gave back the toys!
He was hunted down, beaten to death
and eaten by murderous, starving Whos.

I woke from my Ambien Dream
to find that I’d used my keyboard
to batter my monitor senseless.

The 21st Century may be
trying to drive me insane.
I love the 21st century-
But like that ear-worm song
that eats into your consciousness
I keep hearing Catherine Zeta Jones
reciting ‘The Raven’ over and over and over-
And I’m out of Ambien.

Writer's Block

If there is one single thing
writers like to write about
more than anything else-
it’s Writer’s Block.
And it is not true
that all writers get it.
Many writers do,
maybe most writers do-
but there are always a few
who never get it,
and sometimes,
after reading what they write,
you dearly wish they would.

Entire forests have been
swept from the earth
to provide the paper
for books and articles
about dealing with Writer’s Block,
written by writers
who’ve obviously never had it.

And, like cures for the hiccups
or avoiding the common cold,
all writers have advice
they freely give to others
about how to avoid it.
Advice which,
in the vast majority of cases,
they never actually
follow themselves.

Picture prompts,
word prompts,
dictionary exercises,
long walks,
short walks,
showers, enemas, and
whiskey are all solutions
of one sort or another
that pale with time
and unsuccessful repetition.

There are a number
of innovative and exciting cures
I am very fond of,
at least in the third-person-
“I have a friend who repeatedly
hit himself on the head with a Thesaurus”
is one I especially like,
not because it sounds as if it might work,
but at least that poet
was taking definitive action.

My own solution is
to sit down at my computer-
draw the window blinds-
lock out the cats-
turn off the radio-
sit in complete silence,
before the blank page-
and then slowly,
methodically,
with great mindfulness
and intention-
type over and
over-

Poet, Heal Thyself.
Poet, Heal Thyself.
Poet, Heal Thyself.
Poet, Heal Thyself.
Poet, Heal thyself.
Poet, heal thyself.
poet, heal thyself.
poet heal thyself.

and then i go
play in the snow
and leave the page
for another day.

My Dog Ate My Poem

I tried to explain:
I have no poem today-
My dog ate it.

“That’s not a good excuse”, she replied-
“You must have a copy,
a computer-file backup?”

I tried to explain:
I have no poem today-
My dog ate it,
and then peed on my computer,
and the computer went *KAZAPP!*,
and destroyed the backup files.

“That’s not a good excuse”, she insisted-
“Surely you have had time
to write another?”

I tried to explain:
I have no poem today-
My dog ate it,
and then peed on my computer,
and the computer went *KAZAPP!*,
and destroyed the backup files,
and shocked the dog,
so we took the dog to the vet,
and it was raining
and I caught cold
and spent the day in bed.

“That’s not a good excuse”, she scolded.
“Surely, spending the day in bed,
gave you plenty of time
to think about a poem to write?”

I tried to explain:
I have no poem today-
My dog ate it,
and then peed on my computer,
and the computer went *KAZAPP!*,
and destroyed the backup files,
and shocked the dog,
so we took the dog to the vet,
and it was raining
and I caught cold
and spent the day in bed
with a 103 degree fever
and I was delirious and incoherent.

“That’s not a good excuse”, she declared-
“I write my best poetry
when I’m high or stoned and delirious
or otherwise incoherent.”

I know, I said.
That explains a lot-

Running on Empty-

Hello Empty Page-
It’s been a week since we talked,
a long time to go
without soiling your surface,
a flashed-by week,
with too much Life going on
to actually sit down
and stop to think about it.

Hello Calendar-
Is it that time of year again, already?
December 21st,
The Shortest Day-
and each one,
each year,
is just a bit shorter.

Hello Holidays-
The pitter-patter scipper-scamper
of the days running up
to Christmas
and New Years
are even more rushed
to get out and be gone
than they were last year,
and last year
they were in one hell of a rush.

Hello Old Friend-
we didn’t exchange cards this year;
but it was a good run,
18 years I think it was,
without missing one?
I should take the one I bought for you,
and put it on your stone,
but there’s not enough postage in the world
to get it to you now.

Hello Morning-
The coffee is ready,
and the cat needs feeding
and there are a dozen tasks
to be completed
before lunchtime
and retrospection
and introspection
are commodities best left
for examination next week.

Did anyone buy eggnog?
I thought it was on the list-
I need to make a list-
I need to sit down,
and make a list,
or maybe
just talk for a moment
 to my empty page.

Fantasy vs. Reality-

All the Care Bears were sucked
into the center of a giant Black Hole.
I hate it when Fantasy meets Reality-
and loses.

Santa’s sleigh crash-landed
on an ice flow with a hungry leopard seal.
RIP, Jolly Fellow. Authorities blame the
accident on the Polar Vortex.

Lassie came home alone today,
curled up by the fire, and dreamt
sweet doggie dreams, knowing nobody
saw her push Timmy down the well.

Faster than a speeding bullet,
more powerful than a locomotive,
but Superman learned too late-
don’t fuck around with power lines.

Dr. Seuss lied about the Grinch-
he never gave back the toys,
and was hunted down, beaten to death
and eaten by murderous, starving Whos.

This time the tornado
got Dorothy, Toto, and Auntie ‘Em.
In Oz, Scarecrow cries in his cornfield,
as the crows laugh and laugh.


Autocorrected

Autocorrect tells me
I am spelling autocorrect incorrectly.
It was pretty pissy about it.
When computer programs become that self-aware
and obnoxious,
I start to worry
about their next move...

And I worry that worrying
will affect my health and longevity;
I spent hours on the internet last night
researching the subject,
and everyone agrees that worry,
especially worrying about worry,
is bad for you,
and I worry about that.

The internet is great for finding out
what is bad for you and what isn’t-
often they’re the same things.
I read on the internet that coffee will kill you,
then in another, happier, corner of the internet
I read that it’s the secret to a longer life.

So I curled up in that corner of the internet
with my coffee
and worried about worry,
and whether my autocorrect program
is plotting to kill me.

Hey, laugh if you will,
but all the signs are there.
Yesterday autocorrect changed
“enthusiasm”
to “euthanasia”.
Who’s paranoid now?

I need more coffee.
-The good kind.
From the happy corner of the internment.
Internet!
uh oh...

First Lines-

I keep a butterfly net
by my desk
to snag good first lines
as they flutter by.

Good first lines
are shy little things,
and they have a lifespan
that makes fruit flies wince.

I often sit in the dusk of
early morning,
sipping coffee,
waiting, waiting-

and none wander by.

And then,
while I am making toast
and feeding the cat
one lands on my shoulder.

And I am quick
to move very slowly,
take a pad of paper
and whack that little fucker.

Then I mount it and
decorate it and proudly hang it
on my Poetry wall.
And the hunt resumes.

Time is out of joint

Thanksgiving is barely cold on the plate
before Christmas pounces like a tiger,
raw in tooth and claw,
snarling for my attention.
I hadn't even figured out
what to do with the
leftover cranberry sauce...
Now all that’s left on the table

is a trail of ambiguous red dribbles.

Don’t let Santa’s elves fool you-
beneath happy smiles and
white-trimmed red coats
lurks a burning drive
to see their holiday stay at #1,
and they’ll do whatever it takes.
The day Rudolph’s nose starts to dim,
he’s gone, shipped out of town as fast
as a .202 hitting second baseman.

Santa outsourced it all years ago,
now it’s just North Pole minions
doing high-profile meet-and-greets,
and forwarding his mail.
Jolly Old Saint Nick
retains a 12% controlling share
in Kringle Industries,
which he oversees via smartphone
from poolside in Boca.

That’s Classified-

PERSONAL: Slightly frumpy 40 y/o M sonnet writer seeks hot slam babe for exploration of poetic themes and mutual phrase parsing.

WANTED: New ideas. WE PAY CASH $$$$$ for hot new poetic themes and prompts. Call 1-800-PAY-POET

WANTED: 25 yo M poet seeks collaborator for epic slam poems, new age sonnets, exploration of outer boundaries of poetic expression. Prefer poet w/ apt. lease & extra couch.

FOR SALE: Bag of metaphors. Unopened. $15, or will trade for futon pillows.

LOST: Poetic muse. 5’5”, 42, brown hair. Last seen walking along I-60 w/suitcase muttering “fucking poets”.

FOR SALE: 2013 edition Poet’s Marketplace. Marked up. Futile. b/o.

PERSONAL: Sandy, please come back. I’ve thrown away the rhyming dictionary.

WANTED: Good unused slam ideas. Must be original. My last 15 posts didn’t get a response, so this is the last time I’m wasting money on this ad.

FOR SALE: Poetic integrity. Took job with Hallmark & won’t need it anymore.

WANTED: 60 y/o F novelist seeks non-embittered M poet, 50-65. No slammers.

Time-

This poem took me three minutes to write.
Or it might have been 30-
I’m not sure.
Hell, it might have been 3 hours;
at the point the words start,
the clock stops,
muffled,
baffled,
swept aside,
and there is no tick of seconds,
only the tap of keys.

Writing the Sadness-

A sad poem is better than no poem-
so you write the sadness.

That’s easy to say,
harder to do.

harder to write.

There are all sorts of words
for sadness
that don’t quite express
the full, rounded
emptiness of it.

But it makes the words sad
when you tell them that,
so you write them anyway.
At least that way somebody
will be happy.

And if the sadness
gave you energy,
the way anger does,
the way joy does,
the way almost everything
except sadness,
does-

it would be different.

Instead it’s the same.
The same as it was last time
and the time before that
and the time before that,
even though this time
it’s different.

And so you write the sadness
and then you throw it away.
Because sadness is catching.
At least this way
it won’t catch you.


Caught you.

Hello, sadness,
let’s talk.