Three young men toss ball
stop to huddle, play called off
screen shine in their eyes
quiet close breath
don’t touch anything just
the lit device
pile of mitts
jackets still in grass
the sun sets
no words
but beeps and clicks
heads bent
mute
cyber world
rules
game long
lost.
10-27-14
on Piedmont & Echo Aves.
Oakland
for Greg Favors, the painter
Brown felt hat
worn forever
at the end of the pier
from way off
his eyes bob
down/up inhaling
the sky’s breathy haze
a rumple of hills
the jagged back of the city
white blast of the bay’s
lightning ripples
under sun’s fierce glaze
all blur
when he takes his glasses
off to feel the view
brush stuck in his hand
palette on the bench beside him
he looks down exhaling through
the bristled tip dabbling deep blue
flash of the metal band
that wraps its long shaft
dips into a plastic cup
flicks a drop
dancing on the edge of his paint pot
tickling pigment
sweeping shapes into flat space
colors he can breathe.
6-22-13
Alameda Bird Reserve
Sad is a turd
you step on more
than once, stays deep
in the tread, prints
the hall floor
as you come to meet
the people who would
notice, even if you remove
your shoes the smell
is unmistakable, you nod
and smile at the table
all the guests are your friends
and you want to become
a napkin gently protecting
your lap.
5-14-13/1:15 a.m.
SF
Fog down between the houses
book wet in minutes
shallow pool on the table
ink skipping pebbles
of mist on the page.
No time to complain-
it's your luck to have this
moist air, a full belly
chair on a balcony
light to write by-
praise for the blessed headlamp's
cyclops eye
centered on a forehead
bent to learn! Otherwise
it's just plain dark.
for Alpha and Latif
10-31-12
SF
for Sangye
The mother is never done.
Her hands work
her heart, play dough
shapes. The mold cuts her
to size, she looks in the mirror
of her child’s eyes
and stares back.
She holds a bottle, a receiver
a broom, remembers
not knowing what to do
but she never stops
talking, her voice
an alarm clock
bull horn, lullaby
crackling long distance
muttering under her breath
quick prayers, hopes
like great clouds
on the horizon.
She tells herself
to let go
all birds fly.
She cleans and cleans
the nest, its emptiness
its clutter of songs.
She learns to sing
a new tune.
She’s off key
but carries on
late at night
when the other hens
are quiet.
3-18-13
Mt. Shasta, CA