willow street

I envy these trees
on my block they reach
veins open to the cloudy
night sky unmoved
by the ill-lit street light
garish porch lamp
remorseless dog
who yaps or the
silence of a car
yet to pass a record
spinning unturned
static ice cubes melting
and a fan slowing
they are undressed
and still

I have not thought of
the future of each
seedling that may wander
astray onto out unkempt
lawn, next to the brush
and where the sidewalk
ends at their feet.

I have not thought
of their slow breathes
on days when the air
is thick to breathe.

What I can think of
is this and that
money and necessity
all the while
underneath the shade
of a deciduous tree.

After the holidays

leaky creativity orifices
stopped up by turkey fat
and deep fried learning by
rote. fractured brain cells
halfway across a country
and then the other halfway
across too. split to dream
about digging a hole to China
and in the backyard to spill
some sunflower seeds
who would bend and sway
at the sun’s friendly gaze
longingly they sigh, that
every day might be a day
such as this, with the sun
and the center of the universe
all in one place. eyelids shudder
open to rain drenched moss
and the din of electrical
appliances, paved streets
lined with death: pine, fir
and spruce. in the puddles.
they lay.

Public Service

Before work I inhale,
inflate myself with hot
caffeine, swollen with the
infectious implication that

each word that insidiously
slips out of my flap-flap-
flapping lips is precariously
close to being important.

and as I exhale I conjure
inspirational messages and
questions that ignite something
that is so far in the future

I can only hope that it will
still exist. I stand up straight,
unafraid of the scrutiny of
little eyes, making me regret

that damned scientific inquiry
and I brush off the attitude
and insult, the “but, but, but”
and “I’m no good”s and the
failing grades and the demands
for a quality, quality, quality
education, as I inhale

again

I say good morning

Corpus

Somewhere between
Corpus and halfway to nowhere
I saw an oil drill
I saw cornfield after cornfield
clouds slow
road signs are lost but we are moving past
on and back
destination on a map
halfway between
here and the middle of somewhere

the turnin' 24 years blues

when you’re another year older
and all you can think is oh shit
better lay off the drinkin
you’ll need those brain cells now

when you’re another year less young
and you’re still bouncin checks
cuz moneys like water but
there’s no rain to be found

when you’re turning the corner
on another year of your life
you’ve got holes in your socks
dirty clothes on the floor
you look in the mirror and find
lines without smilin

you’re a whole 24 years
and got a grown-up double wide bed
it’s just too big
you’ve got the turnin 24 years old blues

Growing Pains

I woke up with a crink
in my neck. Must be early
arthritis. Stayed up past
eight and the pounding
of the ungraded tests
– or maybe it was
that third glass of wine –
are excavating rows
in my forehead next to
the zits – aren’t I too old
for all this? Five thirty
a.m., and all I want is
a cigarette.

Rapunzel

A quién hablo
por la ventana
no hay ni nadie
que me vea de ahí
me saludan
la calle vacía
el pasto suelto
el caracól aplastado
lo pisó alguien anoche
corté mis trenzas
hace un mes
me quedo