POEM FIX

She's gone when I get home. No note, But I know she's not returning Because she told me so And there's a large emptiness in the closet. I pour myself a drink Sit on the couch Listen to the air conditioner's whine Try to imagine what the next half hour will be like And the next one. I think about the bed Its expansiveness Afraid it will swallow me. The quiet that strikes me, How hollow it is, A black hole Sucking time and mind. I fill my glass and am alarmed when the ice cubes slam against each other Like we used to This will be a long night, Condemned, Foretelling. © Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012 Photo: Benobeno

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The man next to me on the plane is sleeping Trapping me in the window seat. The urge to pee begins to Nag. I work to ignore it and Refuse a drink from the whispering flight attendant For fear it will worsen my condition. I am sure he will wake soon, Can't snooze coast to coast. At least he's a quiet sleeper, No snores, No drool. His head, beanie pulled down over his eyes, Is turned toward me, Mouth slightly open. I don't fault him for his rest, But am annoyed he never turned off his phone, As if it would actually bring down the plane. I think about maneuvering over him, Stepping carefully, balancing, trying not to wake him. I doubt that will work. The bathroom open light is illuminated, Green, Inviting, Mocking, Taunting me with promise. Still, I wait, My eyes filling, Staring into my anonymous companion's Open mouth. © Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012   Photo: Poem Fix

We burn the pagan puppet to release Unhealthy obsessions and stress, Everything that brings us gloom and despair. We scrawl these worries on scraps of paper and Lay them on Zozobra's massive pyre. The marionette rises 50 feet, Towering over us, Intimidating, Threatening to hunt us down, Trample us with his despair. But before he can laden us with more Silly human demons, We set him aflame, Fire lapping at his immense feet, Engulfing our fears, Divorce papers, despised photographs, Troublesome documents, Taking them to ash and consuming the Monstrous effigy, Lifting our burdens in a dangerous blaze, Freeing us, If only for one night, From the freaks That nag at our souls. © Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012 Photo by Jeff Weiss

A Native American told me that each person is the Center of a universe, Their universe, Millions of separate universes Whirling around each other. The self is the only thing a person can know. Everything else, Knowledge, media, sounds, history, art, other people, Everything, Are outside stimuli, All perceived differently by every organism. So a fly is the center of its universe, too. When you die, your entire universe vanishes, Disappears with a whoosh, Emptying its entropy, It's arrow of time, All of it, falling to ash As if it never existed. But pieces of my universe may also be Pieces of yours, With every universe connected somewhere If only by a thread, Intersecting, A degree of separation. This means my universe And yours, Survive, Even if only by a little, And so make us Immortal. © Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012 Image: S. Ivanov

We recall moments through lenses of Time, emotion, changing priorities, Love, death, marriage, divorce, accidents, geography And surviving photographs. An event's purity vanishes instantaneously, Shaped by our perceived place in it, Its fleeting importance, Imprinted on a brain cell that, When retrieved, Presents only a facsimile of the snapshot, But it is no longer the exact truth. We shape shift it unconsciously, Polishing it, Raising, lowering, focusing its vitality, Inventing different supporting evidence and characters Until they serve their function, Anchoring us somewhere in time So we can talk and reminisce, But always about what might have been Because the memory has been Warped, shaved, brought back, stacked away repeatedly. And each recollection morphs and dog ears the time, Molding, foxing, blurring into Sweet lies We carry and change and use forever. © Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

"Memory Lane"

Jackson chooses a new town By driving his car until it dies. He changes his name to Jake and Takes a job washing dishes at the sandwich diner Outside the one-stop-sign town. He wears a white sleeveless t-shirt To make his ink visible And keeps a two-day stubble Because he's certain the waitress likes it. She does, Eying him, Wondering what brought him to this dusty place And guessing about his technique and mystery. She's tired of the same five worn out guys who pursue her over coffee and pie, And weary of giving in out of necessity and deflated desire. She goes home with him one night and Discovers it's only a room in the rent-by-the-week motel, Barely big enough to hold the bed Which is all they need. She pretends to ignore him the next day. He decides she's not good enough. So they go on with their desperate lives, He, catching a ride to a town three stops down the highway, She, pouring crummy coffee and trying to remember his tattoo, Both of them caught in a destiny of unfulfilled low living and High expectations. © Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012 Image: Robert Lawton

If you're an imbecile you can Work for the man And never give it a second thought. As time goes on you will find The man rises stronger, wilder, Grows intimidating bloody fangs that threaten to sever The ties that bind you to your Future and security. The man tasks you, Unavoidable, Appearing dead ahead no matter how much you alter course to avoid Perdition's flames. Embrace the man, Custom made for you, Created to heal your past, Melting when you turn him from The man Into just a man. Without confronting, accepting him, You will face him repeatedly, incarnate, Waiting for you with a cruel smile and Blessed lessons. © Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012 Image: Odilon Redon

To keep the large pepper tree from falling I thinned its east-facing side Where over time it leaned into the morning sun And took on a permanent unhealthy angle, Dangerous, Jeopardizing my house. My rusty jaw-toothed saw Sliced through easy lower twigs Exposing thick weighty branches, My target. When I needed more height I fetched a ladder, Balancing tenuously, Hacking at strong wood Feasting on gravity. Healthy green limbs fell So the tree could survive. I started through the last heavy arm, Saw almost too late that it supported a nest With three small powder blue eggs. I stopped, leaving a deep wound in the tree That would fester and claim the branch. For now, the nest stayed intact, But for how long? I heard a desperate wind last night, Which kept me up, Anxious. © Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012 Photo: Poem Fix