The snow convened. Amid this borrowed peace,
I, Moses-like, was parting through a sea
Of crimson paper, thinking without cease,
"You could've bought more for your family.

My eight year old watched on the new TV
(Which I impulsively bought for the house)
Commercials for some Christian charity)
For Amerasian children still in Laos.

("They always seem to know just when to sniff
For dough!")- But faking ignorance was vain.
As they looked back at me, it was as if
They did so through my kitchen windowpane.

My daughter had to turn her head because
Of my retreat (still trying to ignore)
To ask me, "Daddy, why does Santa Claus
Give gifts to us but never to the poor?"---

I tinkered with a toy, without much mind.
Watched by the dog, I knew I was as far
From salvaging some sense from our kind
As he was in divining me. The Star

Shone on our Taiwanese nativity.
I tried to pry some explanation loose
But couldn't speak to save humanity:
My throat was tighter than a hangman's noose.

Past ten o' clock. Hitchhiking after work,
the snow and I abandoned to the street,
I doubted fate would favor me a quirk.

Two thousand years ago, three wiser men
than I once trekked a longer way to meet
the Child, without a good Samaritan.

But high beams and a hush of radials
sneaked up on me. I tried to peer through sleet,
expectant of some unexpected pals.

Who else but one would stop on Xmas Eve,
in snow, and unsolicited, to treat
me so just when I needed a reprieve?

The crusted window of the passenger
rolled down, releasing the impatient heat.
A hat. A woman's face. A stranger.

What made this seem just like an act of Lord
was that a family's care was earned, replete.
with love and trust, an effortless reward.

"I said you looked like you could use a friend,"
I heard again, "Hop in, but watch your feet.
Our girl made out this year!" I didn't mind.

"Was my dejection that conspicuous?,"
I thought. I guess my sadness has conceit
as obvious as others happiness.

The darkness blinded me for only half
a minute. Then the images came neat,
like figures in an instant photograph.

The girl stared. So to pass the time away,
we spoke. "I'm Meghan. How are you tonight?"
"Oh, what a beautiful name! I'm okay."

Another Meghan. In another life,
I would've named my first born daughter that.
The name now twists inside me like a knife.

What gift had I to give this lovely child?
My songs of misery in plodding beats?
Possessed of nothing else, I looked and smiled.

Encouraged by her daughter's etiquette,
she asked her, "Meghan, be a sweet.
and tell the nice man where we're headed."

Instead, the man piped in, "Yeah, it's that ol'
time of the year, again. Connecticut.
I'd buy a house with what we'd save on tolls."

A playful slap upon his denimed arm,
then titters like a naughty parakeet's.
"May God and heaven save them all from harm."

How could such unity begin or end,
a seamless harmony, always complete,)
in a perfection few could comprehend?

The rooming house grew larger. They discerned
correctly that there would be none to greet
me on my faithful, usual return.

Before I got out, Meghan said, "You look-
so sad!" "I'm not sad, honey, only beat."-
Her folks caught up to me again--- A hook

Had woke their tired, time-lagged heart
Into alleviating this defeat,
the way a spark makes a cold engine start.

The wife turned quickly to her spouse, who had-
An idea on his face, sketched incomplete.
Drawn to them, yet repelled by this, a sad

"Thank you" on leaving was all I could say.
The man said, "See you," from the driver seat.
I'd seen his wife was in the family way.

The wine boxes brought up
from the basement make
their annual appearance-
cobwebs cling to them
like tattered memories.
My wife's, however, are complete
and vivid- As with all families,
almost every decoration owns
some piece of our memory.
The value of nostalgia
is passed on to the little ones,
even kindergarten-aged Lenore,
who can't wait to hang on the tree
the bell engraved with her name
when she was only two.
But this is my first Christmas
with this family: my memories,
as yet, are mine alone.
Some cards and a few books
(some bought as presents to myself)
are all I have to remind me
of the ghosts of Christmas past.
Nearly a year with Ingrid
and our three kids,
and I suddenly feel like
a stranger again, ever unable
to partake of their memories,
the unnoted ass arriving late
at the manger,
or the drummer boy
with nothing to offer
but a simple song
on his first Xmas.

Whatever is worse
expressed in prose or verse.
from the poet's pen.

Artful
understatement.

The soldier
of the human soul.

Whatever is left
in translation.

An intruder
in the commonplace.

Imagination
straining at the leash of reason.

(for Richard Wilbur)

So high above the stable earth he stalks,
Exacting steps required as he walks,
And at the straight line's end, resumes on air-
Down paths of which he, too, was unaware.

As fate would always have it, in you come
Just as the muse Euterpe starts to hum.
To count ten beats (and to control my rage)
My disbelieving digits drum the page.
She always forms the same embarrassed grin
As if apologizing for a sin,
As well she ought: For poems on the rise.
Don't cotton to this kind of short surprise-
(But then, "The customer is always right;"
Let them use and insult you every night,)
So you can fatten someone else's purse
Who treats you just as badly, paying worse).
Reciting lines too often used before-
"Good evening, ma'm: What can I do you for?"
I find out that it's not her time of week
To fill: "I think my tire has a leak.
Could you please check it?" I don't need a gauge
To see the damned thing's lower than my wage.
Sure, I could tell you that your tire's low-
However, I'd prefer you didn't know,
'Cause serendipity's the thing, my dear,
That keeps our clockwork lives from getting drear.
The eager, handsome swain who helps you out,
May prove to be the one that you no doubt
Consider Mr. Right (Gee, that sounds fine!
Besides, my muse is on the other line).
My fatalism's not her cup of tea,
However; neither is my poetry.
I'm at a loss to know what she expects of me.
Regrettably, most people's attitude
Is we're beneath respect or gratitude.
I serve. That doesn't mean I shouldn't get
The same amenities you'd give your pet.
But they despise us all, the ones who tend
To gaping needs on which our lives depend.
It doesn't really matter much what sells,
High octane gas or octasyllables.
And while they silently consume our flame,
The dead mistake the thunder for acclaim.

(with grave apologies to A. E. Housman)

When I was one dumb yuppy,
I heard a broker say,
"Commit insider trading,
But in the proper way.
Sell tips to corporate raiders,
Yet keep your conscience free."
But I was one dumb yuppy-
Ignored the SEC.

When I was one dumb yuppy,
Myself he once more told,
"The heart out of the bosom
Is worth its weight in gold,
But sold for pasta makers
And BMWs."
Now serving two to twenty,
I sell tips to the screws.

(with apologies to X. J. Kennedy)

Knee after knee, an avalanche
Of flesh reversed and gulping breath,
She scales in moonlight, nude Aunt Blanche,
Naught also on her mind, save death.

We spy beneath the banister
Which, burdened by her blubber, creaks
A constant bludgeoning of air
That groans to let go by her cheeks.

One woman mudslide, it is all
That we can do to check our howls.
She's out to get us for our gall
In hiding all her bathroom towels.

Ulysses Hack had but one dream in mind-
Get all the jobless jobs, then tax them blind.

He promises to change the black man's fate,
Like bringing slavery back into the state.

Soon after this incumbent's stumping stop,
Their once hard soil now yields a bumper crop.

Each day since our President's near death
Hack frequents Washington with bated breath.

"To hear speech by the Senator again,
Relieve yourself and then please pull the chain."

"To get the nigger vote, insult the Jews.
The crowd's majority must hear its views."

Why, in confession, does Hack have his say?
"Plea bargaining before the Judgment Day."

"Ya' got th' rubber an' th' money?"- Hack
Takes care of both by writing her a check.

"We curse the day the Senator was maimed,
For we had wished the shot was better aimed."

On my Iambic Pentameter Lines

Three drunks, a leg on one quite gone, bereft
Of sense, and traveling on five feet, all left.

Who all his life minced words, was found
Upon a crowded beach and drowned.

Tusk to tusk, and while the planet holds its breath,
The busy moles are burrowing underneath.

All night six feet above, I hear your thunder-
I only wish that you were six feet under.

Behold the naked poet shout!
More forcibly than it demands-
Four people, dismally spread out,
One with a broom within his hands.

I miss the old ones not a little bit.
It's true, today's don't leave a foot to waste.
Staccato phrases, though, are not my taste,
Since they abridge not only length but wit.

Imbibing in Ms. Gottrock's meager store,
The microbes in my mouth cry out for more.

"A poet should write nothing but poetry." Robert Frost

Imagine what we would've lost
If they had heeded Robert Frost.

"My foaming urine looks like grandma's cunt..."
This gets a prompt, enthusiastic grunt.
It's times like this I think the MFA
An acronym for Money Flushed Away.

It used to be that, in the Roman days,
It was the bard who had received the bays.
But these are modern times. And times are hard,
Because the unswept bays receive the bard.

Stiff as a board, one can't help guffaw
He's in a hole from which he'd fain withdraw.

If on my grave you're copulating, stop.
In life, I always liked to be on top.

Here lies condemned to decompose
One who devoted life to recompose.

When quick, I was by sick desires led-
It's strange I do not love myself when dead.

He strains for sense, so I don't get the gist-
Acrostics for words that do not exist.

The relationship between the artist
and their audience
is one too unique
for metaphor and simile.
But it would be
a silly pretense to think
that you would carry
much more than an iota of me
to your grave.
Maybe it's just as well.
You don't cater to me,
I don't cater to you,
and the plot
of mutual ground
is well worth wading
through the verbiage.
When we are both a little older,
this will be like
a child's kiss.
In the meantime,
as you hold
this skull of my mind,
like a Hamlet with his Yorick,
who is void of all
save what memories
he may engender
to you, as well,
and when my words
are about to stir,
unbutton your breast-
and only then,
may my hand reach out
and begin to lead you
down the neglected corridors
of your heart
with the words,
"Come, join me
in the land of my thought.
I write what I live
and live what I feel-
and perhaps you
may feel it, too."

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