Gandhi with the Wind 

It doesn’t matter how I know this woman
I just know her, and you do.

I’d been out for a spin, come back in
she was in the bathroom so I killed time
looking at her refrigerator door.

Taped up there was Jane Goodall
and Obama
and Gandhi
and Martin Luther King
and Maya Angelou 
and Pete Singer 
and Buddha. 

I could hear her coming out of the bathroom
and down the hall, so one last big swallow of
the Starbucks, and I dropped the cup in 
the recycling bin. 

She stopped in the door; staring, alarmed. 
I sniffed for smoke; it was clear as mountain-fresh air. 
I checked my fly; it was flown. 

“Wrong color, wrong bin,” she said. And waited, glaring.

I was going to ask what color to put her in, instead, 

went for out another, permanent spin. 

4th of July

It was Iowa again, the midwest again.

Big storm upstate, river way up high, almost to the bridge 

people all along the bridge, Americans all of them 

fat, again.

Under the bridge eight ducks were trapped and stranded 

in a backwash, trying to fight out, trying to fly out. 

Cop on the bridge said they’d been trying to get free

for two hours, you could see their orange feet trying hard

under water.

Cop said if they’d just tire out and let themselves be pulled

down into the underwater current, they’d pop up downstream,

resurface free, and live. 

Then, the cop left.

The ducks kept fighting on the surface, twitching their tails dry, necks leaning 
against the surf, little black eyes trying to SEE their way out and over the trouble ... 

A fat woman, really fat, laughed a greasy gross screen-addicted laugh, looked down 
past her gut to the trying but tiring ducks and said

“Well, at least it’s entertainment!” 

Them fucking cell phone cameras 

Truth, Beauty, Love ...

{ cool stuff; iOS devices; }

 ... sweat, flesh, let me kiss you you kiss me ... 

{ 8MP sensor; f/2.2 aperture; A7 chip; 1080p HD; }

... musical vibration on the floor, sex & skin on skin, broken guitar string, eye contact with the singer, with the lover, with the father, with the mother, beautiful wild bird flying right into the windshield, dead now, but she WAS alive!, so anyway ... 

{ got to send this to mom and dad, to the kids, college graduation, weddings I gotta get this new COOL STUFF,  everybody, all of us together, anytime, our special moments, how cool is that? } 

... don’t miss your life. 

You brought your Apple to your teachers and they said you’re more powerful than you think but 

they don’t know the half of it. 

Don’t miss your life; you can’t take it with you, all those photos; won’t be any autofocus on your dead body but your own original soul will always get the point and know when to click. 

Kansas and Profound

I’m saying this with a straight face.

When I was entombed in Kansas as a kid

I was always looking around for something profound

anything

And when I looked across that long state 

from the second floor window of tv and tv dinners

I knew that there was an infinity over the state line of

something 

And while that profound thing occurred to me 

in Kansas 

and that was profound too,

considering 

I didn’t see any reason to stick around there

with that knowledge.

This lesson can be applied anywhere, anytime

so be ready to run. 

Great Expectorations 

I came to this city first in the second grade 

this city of smoking hot juicy dripping black

men and women and rare red meat but then

I got here and the school field trip 

was to a closed slaughterhouse with a polite 

white tour 

guide.

Well, hell: some things you heard about end

or get kicked to the city limits like a dirty ball

that used to be pink; now everything pink 

sleeps sweet

suburban. 

Be careful; what you couldn’t wait for gone sour -

3AM jazz turned to PTA jizz 

- you got to spit that shit right       OUT.                                         

Two guns, talking 

Two guns
a sawed-off shotgun and a pistol 
talking in a McDonalds attached
to a NASCAR racetrack 
and the shotgun says,

"I know I'm a gun, but 
I feel out of place around here."  

"As do I," says the pistol, 
"and do you ever listen to these guys?
Ever think about who's handling us?"

"I do, I do," says the shotgun. "It's 
disturbing. Unkind, a bit blind, which
worries me, me being what I am."

The pistol clicks it's trigger, yes.

"Again today I heard him talking 
about how women can't be leaders because 
of their feminine bodies and curses
and changing moods." 

The shotgun nods it's barrel. 

"Yeah, like they don't have their bodies,
this testosterone; do you ever feel it 
in their hands?" 

"Of course I do; and then they have their
bodies chasing down every schoolgirl they see."

"And they just can't help it, they say
because it's their wiring." 

"Bodies," the pistol concludes, yawning now. 


McDonalds closing, the manager nods at the door. 



"I'm bored with it all, sick of it," 
says the shotgun to the pistol. 

"As am I," says the pistol. "Maybe we 
should turn on them and fire, they who
love us so much." 

"Are you loaded?" 

"No, I don't even have any bullets on me."

There's a little shine on the shotgun's barrel.

"Even better. We'll just shoot them with nothing. That's all they ever do." 

Potpourri Poetry 

The night I ate the home decor 
at the Christmas party my life 
changed, really opened up. 

There I was, in the green and red 
and silver and blue and pine and pumpkin
pie and pink champagne, at a company party 
the Hallmark Cards company, 
the Kansas City holiday party of the year!

And me, the "token heterosexual."
or so the guy at the door told me,
under the mistletoe.
"Well, not literally, but symbolically 
maybe!" he said. 
I liked this party already. 

Through the door and inside
the snow-covered mansion 
it was like an old Christmas movie
with some Menorahs thrown in; warm
and colorful and musical and friendly. 

I didn't really work at Hallmark yet,
I was a temp at the time, directing traffic
in the holiday overloaded shoppers garage 
and yet - tonight might be the night
I dreamed, mingling...
to send a good impression. And I cared enough 
to send the very best.

I mingled through the festive dark;
there were some men in suits - the executives - 
letting their hair down and ties loose.
I sauntered through the dining room the kitchen 
the nursery the bathroom the bar and then 
back through this entire route again; now 
I was HUNGRY. 

The more red wine I drank the darker
it got in there, the more festive 
and merry, but maybe my judgment was off. 

Either way, I was happy as I spied delicious
food on the green velvet-topped cherry-wood table 
by the out of control fire in the fireplace. 
What a night! 

My sauntering now turned into indoor
cross-country skiing, kind of sliding across
the carpet, but I made a bee-line to the food. 

And beautiful food; brilliant unusually bold 
red potato chips, some of them dark brown, dried 
orange peels mingled in, salad too: maybe iceberg 
lettuce, probably romaine, absolutely arugula, 
lots of it blue and even bright yellow! 

The bartender was watching me and smiling,
quite a few people were watching me and smiling; 
I smiled too, walked over to the bar and ordered a drink. 

"To wash it down with," I winked, 
gesturing back at the still, so far 
untouched multi-colored bonanza by the fire. 

The bartender winked. They all did. 
I went back to eat, winking once more.

The first bite was crispy, I could tell
it was going to stick to my ribs, and yet...
as I was chewing and swallowing, I had a flashback
to the Bloomingdale's Cosmetics Department. 

Back then, in New York City, visiting my sister
at her job, I had the security camera feeling
I didn't belong anywhere at all in posh Bloomies 
now I was feeling that again.
And the people at the party were laughing. 

The laughter was large, out of control
like the fireplace and the color in the room
and the snow covering the house like 
a blanket over everyone for the night, 
but the laughter was kind. 

The bartender came over to me, 
told me I'd eaten the Potpourri. 

And as the laughter went on, I looked around the room 
and saw that the suits had left
they had let their hair down too far,  
had to go home and do some shampooing and combing.

Now there was a circle around the bar, around me, 
and a line of food ran through the circle -
pink ham and brown turkey and white clouds 
of mashed potatoes and bright green beans. 

Someone asked me how I felt now? 

"I love this party. I always feel at home 
with homosexuals and Jews and women
and you black guys over there." 

This stopped the laughter cold and
the fire almost went out. 

"I think that was awkward," I said, 
and the fire came back a little. 
Also, the laughter. 

"So, how is that you feel at home with us?" 
asked a hot woman by the fireplace. 

I looked around the room and out the window 
a blizzard out there, the flames in the fireplace 
red and yellow, hot and relaxed. 

"I guess because I think you've all felt 
shit on at one time or another 
by the straight white suits, and though 
I am a straight white, I'm not in a suit, 
like those guys that were here earlier. Also,
they wouldn't have eaten the Potpourri."

The bartender, black, leaning on the bar,
and on his boyfriend, who was lighting a Menorah, 
smiled at me and popped a cork on champagne 
passing the bottle. 

"You know, of course, that 
the straight white suits get shit on, too.
But...we get what you mean, yeah everybody?"

Everybody toasted that. Except me; 
I was back at the Potpourri bowl 
wondering how I ate it, but not ashamed. 

The bartender's boyfriend waved at me,
"Hey, you want a Patchouli on the rocks? 
With a twist of Potpourri?" 

The laughter from this, 
including mine
practically blew out the fire.