poet

i am the great sensitive vibrating antenna
picking up human frequencies
waiting
because i know that a taut E-string
contains poetry
even when no jaunty pointer
is around to pluck it.
so i wait--
and i listen for something
that may never make a sound.

What are you a friend to? 10 min. prompt

i am a friend to paper planes and hello kitty kites
i am a friend to coffee sleeves
i am a friend to polka dots and argyle
i am friendly with stripes
i am a friend to shoelaces and mismatched socks; i try not to judge them
i am a friend to the space between us, i am a friend to where i end and you begin
i am a friend to motown, i have been seen carousing with the Supremes
i am a friend to scratched CDs and aging vinyl
i am a friend to the brakes of buses, i defend them against naysayers
i am a friend to the sidewalk
i am a friend to lined pages of notebooks, but it's an on-again-off-again relationship
i am a friend to door hinges and knobs
i am a friend to couches and the curve of your arm
i am a friend to freshly baked cookies and spinach alike
i am a friend to the wrinkles around your eyes, because when you smile i can see all of the time we've spent together reflected there
i am a friend to hangnails and paper cuts, but only out of necessity
i am a friend to words-- delightful words, erudite words, fluffy words, made up words
i am a friend to dust as i let it collect all around me
i am a friend to wooden benches and wrought-iron chairs
i am a friend to fountains and footpaths and bridges
i am a friend to abandoned stairwells that smell like piss
i am a friend to table tops
i am a friend to porch fronts
i am a friend to the seconds in between each breath i take
i am a friend to unevenness
i am a friend to swing sets
i am a friend to zucchini
i am a friend to chain link fences
i am a friend to gravel
i am a friend to trees
i am a friend to braille
i am a friend to awkward silence

what are you a friend to??

Laundry day

i wonder where my quarter has been
from when it dropped out of its mold
got caught between the folds
of clothes
and landed shinycold
on a winter ground--
was it part of a fair wage to a coffee harvester?

i wonder where my quarter has been
since its minutes at the mint
before its brief bank stint
now getting mixed up with my lint--
did it ever fund the Iraq war?

i wonder where my quarter has been
and who it has favored,
was it ever savored like the
last bite of an ice cream cone
dripping all over your fingers?
or was it spent spent spent
before it had time to repent--

always switching hands
(but never switching sides)

9/10

I am running my hand across poems
It is like pressing a rubber stamp with feathers
sticking to it onto a smooth white page

I can see little difference between
writing and breathing
between a sagging couch and an alcoholic
between an apple and the sharpened point of a pencil;
they all seem synonymous.

They are calling me outside
but i am lost amongst the words of others
and cannot find my voice to say no.

Instead, I say,
"art is a form of catharsis"
I say,
"By Christ I am no carpenter"
I say,
"My joy is like Spring, so warm it makes flowers bloom all over the Earth"

I find my voice and I say:
"come back tomorrow"

Bedtime

I am falling sitting up asleep
asleep sitting falling, I am up
I asleep, am sitting, up falling
Falling up sitting, I am asleep---
I am falling asleep sitting up.

Haiku for St. Louis Summertime

wh sh wh sh wh
sleeping to a whirring noise;
the fan gets no rest.

Notes from my notebook, July 21

My tongue has chickpea-shaped indents where the falafel has regularly rested, my eyes have indents the shape of minarets and crosses and the Star of David. My ears hear a buzzing that combines bells and waves, children shrieking, Arabic chanting, air conditioning, and religious fervor. It is too much to take in and too much to let out.
I must try to hold it all while letting it all go.

I don't know what I'm talking about.
I could be talking about camel's milk being a natural Viagra
(according to local lore)
or about how it never rains in Israel,
or the colors of Palestine's flag,
but I think I'm really talking about the inability to write
and the jumble that leaves in my brain
and how I try to cover that jumble up by making it seem like I'm talking about something,
but really here I am rambling on about nothing
and maybe that turns it into something,

but maybe that just leaves me with Druze children
and sand in my shoes
and a backpack with a ripped zipper
or a plate from Tabgha
or three dried apricots
which some magnificent stranger will multiply
to feed all the hungry people in the airport and then all the hungry in Tel Aviv,
including the homeless man
that might be dead
sleeping under the kosher Burger King
which does not serve camel and chips,
but maybe it should.