The 5 AM Harley

Where is that fool going?

It’s not the sound of a distant train whistle.

That Harley is not mellow or lonesome.

At 5 AM that sucker is just plain loud.

A twenty year-old male,

Forced to rise this early, wants company,

Or maybe he just likes waking the neighborhood.

He'll be out of range in two minutes, but I’m awake.

His damn music competes with the bike’s engine,

Ensuring that those along his morning path

Share his ride, at least acoustically.

Just Saying

We destroy our language

By speaking in hyperbole

And lose the ability to offer nuance.

That loss is not without significance.

When we cannot use “good”, “unfortunate” or “unhappy”,

We are left with “awesome”, “catastrophic” or “shattering”,

And are then unable to converse in measured tones

That might allow for dialogue.

My dog can signify her unhappiness

Without suggesting she will rip my throat out.

As a species our history indicates that

Killing the opposition is not always preferable.

Between the Rock & the Hard Place

 Between the large Klieg lights and the surrounding electrically

wired fences, you knew the place had a need for security.

One Wednesday a month I came to talk to prerelease prisoners.

We six volunteers had signed the forms that made clear Donovan

State Prison would not negotiate our release, should a riot

break out. A session would run for about two hours. Our job was to

prepare the prisoners being released, for an employment interview.

Of the 15 or 20 guys who signed-up for the class

few would have been there if not for the days cut from their

sentence if they attended and respected our efforts.

Did we make a difference? I thought no, the prison staff thought

otherwise. Most of the guys gave the simulated interviews an

honest shot. What they couldn’t do was show a track record that

might include jobs held, past employer recommendations and

arguments that would persuade the guy on the other side of

the desk to give this ex-con a chance. Surprisingly, the guys

always seemed grateful at the end of the session. They

were probably just playing us, but it invariably felt real. 

At the second annual luncheon the prison staff gave us an award,

that I still keep on my desk. We all received a rock, about 8” long,

egg shaped, and weighting 8 pounds, inscribed   

“DONOVAN, Thanks.”

   

The Joker is Wild

Satan recalls the days of rain.

The earth, all of mankind and the animals;

Were brought to near extinction.

Ah, yes, those were the days.

Man has recovered and now overwhelms God’s earth,

Leaving scant room for God’s other creatures.

Humankind has polluted God’s pastures,

Brought war and destruction to God’s planet.

Satan counsels God: Man must again be punished.

Your fields are reduced to barren waste,

Your animals are treated cruelly; tortured than murdered,

Your earthly adherents are pathetic.

You must let the people suffer, so they mayt be saved.

Those who survive need know Gods wrath and wisdom.

Is it now time to withdraw the water,

And let those who abuse that great gift repent and understand.

God weighs his love for mankind, and all living things,

And finds in Satan’s suggestion a terrible truth.

“Without periods of great suffering the people

Fail to maintain my wisdom. The punishment is just.

Toby Never Had a Chance

It might have ended differently.

Toby could have found something resembling a comfort level.

In 1965 a gay man was a despised creature  

And gay support groups were not advertising.

Toby was among the believers who held that

With enough religion and commitment,

He could overcome the affliction.

His relief came in the form of a needle.

Smart enough to fake getting well,

His time in drug rehab seemed to be working.

Encounter games indicated that he had strengthened,

And could recover from a bad day.

Within a week of completing treatment,

He had a job; with a sympathetic soul.

What he didn’t have was personal integrity.

Faking the job was all Toby could do.

Only alcohol allowed him sleep.

Knowing he would be caught

Did not allow him to ask for help.

Within a month his job was history.

His sympathetic boss was distraught.

Why did he not see through the thin veil?

What help might he have offered? ?

In time the boss recovered, Toby lasted two weeks on the street.

The Bus Left

Jeff was late.

Once again, he felt the weight of things left behind,

Not done well, and screaming in his head,

”Why don’t you finally get straight?”

He could have interviewed for the job.

Crewing on a cruise boat

Wasn’t the worst job he could screw up,

Plus there were ripe ladies to checkout.

But no! Below his non-existent standard,

By which he had no place to live, no money

And probably a deserved reputation

Of not being nice…on occasion.

Jeff’s ex buddy, Lew, could help,

If he could just get past Lew’s wife.

He’s got money, and a good sense of humor.

She has a long memory.

Tom owes him a flop on his couch.

“In the day” he crashed at Jeff’s pad.

Of course, he might remember some stuff Jeff did.

Oh fuck, it’s worth a try.

God, if I have to ask Mom for another loan,

I’m gonna feel really bad.

I think that will put my six loan tab at $1200.

If Dad finds out… shit, shit, shit!!

A Man Called Peter

Peter is a sentient ninety two year-old,

And a confirmed atheist.

A long ago transplanted Dane

Who recalls King Christian, with a tear.

Peter believes that it is possible

To limit worries to matters you can affect.

From that vantage point,

He let his seven children explore with little oversight.

Peter bikes around the island,

In spite of his failing vision,

Taking advantage of familiar Coronado terrain,

His driving talents, according to the DMV, had lapsed.

We shared laments, our  love of dogs, and San Francisco.

He goes to a doctor regularly,

Having decided that an annual physical

Requires he be inspected every five years.

His teeth may not be the originals,

But his trim body and smiley disposition

Lead me to suspect that he had falsely  

Added ten years to his true age.

Despite an exchange of names, chances are

We will not share coffee and “Danish” again.

But for about forty minutes, we were old friends,

Swapping tales and improbable wisdoms.

The Puppet Master

Let’s suppose the brain is controlled by a force beyond our comprehension. That force, which I will call God, plays on a grand chessboard, always trying to create a challenge that surpasses his own ability to perceive both the flow of the next scene and a response that might utterly upset the narrative, leaving the audience of one adrift, with no apparent course of action. That audience, perhaps it is you, might, like Job, look for answers in faith, and cry out “why am I here, what have I done”.

There is, in this scenario a possible explanation for God’s heavy- handed answer to Job’s appeal.  God has succeeded! He has spun a web too devious and self-effacing. Unable to concede that he is not entirely omniscient, he is unable to confront Job with an amazing display of insight. Instead he roars as thunder, belittles Job, and through Job, all mankind.

Can we take from this explanation an insight into our real freedom? We, who are made in God’s image, must look elsewhere. Once the page is turned, the deed done, we cannot, with assurance, look for the essence of wisdom outside our own pathetic grasp.

It may not call for trumpets, but it is ours, and like God we may succeed, though we fail.

Contrail

Against a virginal blue

That had banished the final efforts

Of the predawn darkness,

A single white line lay insult upon the morning’s perfection.

Initially, the contrail appeared stationary,

Mimicking the despondent flags that

Found no breath that might lift their spirit,

A slim, muscular, sculpture pointing north.

With infinite patience this singular object

Began to soften and expand along its entire length,

As though in preparation for a struggle

Against the omnipresent, impenetrable blue sky.

In time, accompanied by the awakening of the banners,

And the return of life along the great arteries of commerce,

The white muscles were stretched

And became a comfortable companion to the overarching blue.

Marty, From the Fourth Floor

Herbie told Marty and me.

That’s when the dream ended.

We are graduates from apartments

At 2134  Homecrest Avenue, Brooklyn.

Marty lived on the fourth, Herbie and I on the fifth.

From six to sixteen this was home,

And I have relived many a silly or pathetic story

Since I moved and aged.

Knowing its been sixty years did not deaden the shock

When Marty wrote back to Herbie “Jerry, wasn’t he a quiet little kid”?

I don’t really remember him.”

Why the hell should I remember Marty?

Because he was the most popular kid in our building?

Girls liked him, we guys liked him, and …

He doesn’t remember me.

How much of my recall is pure fantasy?