Irish Midnite 

Tonight

I'm on the end of the pier

watching every friend and relative

I have sail into the Atlantic.  

I don't know if I'll ever see them again. 

The ship sails smaller into a giant golden glow; 
the sun's spread, done, and going  down, 
into the sea. 

I can't see the ship anymore, only 

the overwhelming glow. 

I'm afraid to turn from the ship and the sea,  
but I turn around and walk down 
the pier, up the path, back to my hotel.

My room is up on the top floor, so when I

get up there, in a minute, I'll see far out over the sea,
and see the ship until it's gone over the edge. 

But from the forecourt I can see into my window
up on top of the hotel, and see that the golden glow

is all over the back wall of my hotel room, too. 

That wall will comfort me 

after the ship and the sun goes down. 

Sky, not falling; quite the opposite 

The chicken crossed the road 

and was immediately surrounded by the press. 

"Why?" they cried, in many languages. "Why

did you cross the road?" 

The chicken, who was smoking a suddenly 

legal cuban cigar, looked at all the members 

of the international press, then up; up 

at a fuzzy boom microphone 

hovering overhead. 

"Well, that reminds me of an old friend," he said. 

"The road, why the road?" The fever 

of the press was rising. "Por qué usted cruzar?"

The chicken smiled. He blew a smoke triangle,
because of the beak.

"Did you clear it with the Coop?"

"What co-op? You mean, like - a consortium?"
The chicken was trying to help clarify.

"No, the Coop! The Chicken Coop!" yelled
the press.

The chicken was looking over their heads
toward a misty thick green mystery of
pine trees. "Well," he said, "if that's what
you guys need, then go on, enjoy that, but no,
I'm not in a coop."

"Do you have citizenship?" Someone in uniform
asked, from the crowd. "This side of the road?"

The chicken smiled again, and started walking.
"Sure," he said. "Everywhere!" 

"But again, why?" asked the journalist in charge,
getting louder, standing with the uniformed one,
talking on a cell phone. "Why did you cross?"

"To get to the other side," said the chicken, softly
… getting farther and farther away.

Ventilation at the funeral

I’ve been dead for a week.
You laugh, but you’d be surprised at what’s next. 

The funeral home loaned me a Makita drill, cordless

to drill some holes in my coffin; they think

for ventilation (you're laughing again) 
but the holes are really so I can see out, 

and watch the funeral, starting any minute now.  

And here they come, with their jello chins, which 
I would be moved by, except who the hell are they? 
Oh … them. Now I see them. Oh … but wait,
I didn't phone-call any of them, either. 

Goddamnit, I'm guilty too! Oh well … 

So there it is, the human race problem -
nobody around with much love, one to one 
until you die then here they come, 
on the double, and on the run! 

Emotional generosity is so much easier 
with an audience, people watching you do it 
in a group, all mise en scène'd out like that
and a big but appropriate party, later. 

But I'm like that too, and here I am 
tirading in a box, pining for love 
and company. Well, ok … now I know. 

I've learned, they'll see, you'll like it
when you get here; it's quite a place, 
I just came back from it to watch this,
and wait'll you see the clothes; you thought
you were going to be naked!

Oh, shhh … the funeral's starting. 
Better turn off your phone. 

Heaven, I’m comin’ !

If you die alone 

and you might, who cares? 
LAUGH big, LAUGH loud

so they can hear you up there!

Lose all control, it’s high time for that; 

flash the color

even if it’s gone from your skin and 

flash that old body 

so they can see where you've been. 

The funeral is for them,

and they’re crying. 

You’re in the cool blue jet stream,

and flying … 

Trickling out of the mainstream

You have worked hard, enjoy

this one day.

Laugh and lock the door, ignore 

Ignore the pop

culture 

Ignore your mom 
and pop

all them that says go get more. 

Cottage cheese & barbed wire 

For 90 years every year she called me 
an idiot. 

They call her my mother. 

We all came to the family reunion house 
to celebrate her birthday. 
The 90th one in a row. I shouldn't have 
been there but I promised myself 
I was gonna give as good as I

don't get. 

At the party they saw a nice old
round perfumy woman. 

I saw something staring and hating. 

Not even a person anymore, maybe a non-person.

A mound of old cottage cheese slid out of 
it's crusted brown plastic past it's expiration 
date but sitting there

staring

with eyes glowing dull, mean 
like electrified barbed wire but
of a very low current.

Later the family all familied-away 
toward motels and airports
laughing, hugging, connecting 
going for meaningful and taking pictures of it,

and then it was just us - mother and son

we were alone.

The mother looked around at
everybody gone and then at me
and said, "Oh, it's just you." 

I drove her back to her nursing home
helped her out of the car
across the parking lot
past the smiling front desk
down the darkening hall and tucked her in,

wished her a happy birthday

of course,

and when I did something else
like, say I love you 
the barbed wire current flickered
even duller. 

I turned out 
her light and began 
to glow in the dark. 

Vod(ka)ville! 

There I was - in the noisy pop

cultural summer afternoon they 

all want to fit us into - longing 

for the quiet of private personal central 

air conditioning, air like it’s from up high,

from the mountain top, with me kneeling 

and breathing it in before the vents, snow

and peacefulness and stars and moons and 

blue sky you can see in forever blowing out, 

then - someone's family and friends and some

bartender in a Hawaiian shirt was there … 

Care for a drink, boss?

No, thank you. Perrier please. 

Oh, c'mon chief. 

I can’t. 

Why not, dude?

I’m an anonymous alcoholic. Well, I was a second ago. 

Aw let loose buddy, please, join us! 

Ok, I’ll take a shot of vodka, with an ambulance chaser.

… No one laughed. 

But it was funny! And it is.