Mechanical Perturbation

Mechanical Perturbation

From three thousand miles away
a heartbeat is difficult to detect.
The insulation of distance mutes
the sound of sinus rhythms as they fade.

My first car had a bad fuel pump,
the diaphragm membrane developed
a hole and the car began to lose power.
As the hole grew, the engine got weaker
until one day it just stopped.

The day you gave me my first “A”
I think my heart skipped a beat.
The wall of doubt had its first crack
and you’d handed me the hammer.

A new fuel pump for a 1963 VW Bus
is not a stock item so I had to wait
almost a week for the part to arrive.
I used the extra time to change
the oil and adjust the valves.

The first heart transplant took place
in 1964. For lack of a suitable donor
they used a chimpanzee heart;
the patient lived for a little over an hour.

If they can't find a donor, your heart
may stop before I hear it beat again.
Cedars-Sinai is apparently out of stock,
and chimp hearts are no longer used.
I’m not sure how to fill the wait time.

I got rid of the VW bus years ago,
replacement fuel pump and all.
The wall is mostly rubble now;
all I’m left with is your hammer,
and three thousand miles of silence.

(Re-posted from Notes & Grace Notes)

Pressure Cooker

Pressure Cooker

The boiling point for water,

at sea level, is two hundred

and twelve degrees Fahrenheit.

Under pressure the boiling point

will rise at a scale corresponding

with an increase in pounds

per square inch or kilopascal.

I’m not really sure what

the boiling point of faith is

but there would appear to be

an inverse relationship

with an increase in pressure.

Gods and their minions tend to boil

over easier and with more frequency

as the pressure of life’s uncertainty

rises.

Force equals mass times

acceleration. The force required

for flying metal to separate

human limbs from the body

varies based upon the size and age

of the human in question.

The break point for an eight year old

is less than that of an exchange student

or an adult woman but all will break

if sufficient force is applied.

Nails, ball bearings and gunpowder,

ignited in a pressurized environment,

will achieve the required velocity

and generate more than enough force

to break most humans along with
most of my faith in humankind.

SMG

Tallahassee

Tallahassee

When the hands of the clock

are flipping you off,

its face a twisted smile,

and escape to the bottle

has drowned the words

that once intoxicated you.

When lust is merely a metaphor,

love a long distance call

and your voice has turned

to autumn leaves

that crackle under foot.

That is when the night

becomes only darkness

and the call of that bottle

fills the spaces in between

the sunlight.

SMG

A Guilt You Would Not Understand

A Guilt You Would Not Understand

A knock on the door

that echoed in

the unreachable distance.

The last indelible image

of my love as you faded

in the darkness

of a back bedroom.

The foreboding

that swarmed me

ignored, in favor of

an agenda long forgotten.

The immediacy of the day

superseding the years

of sacrifice in my favor.

The hours spent

playing catch in the absence

of a grandfather or father

not otherwise engaged.

You were love and acceptance

in my eyes and when you passed

I was passive and afraid.

Betrayed by a single weak vessel

in that brain that I so admired,

you lay helpless, a state

that was an anathema

to everything I knew you to be.

Forgive me

for not kicking

that goddamn door down

and carrying you to the help

that might have saved you

and all that you were to me.

SMG

Times Square Lament

Times Square Lament

The heavy days of New York summer
sit and wait with me on the train platform
and remind me how far I am from you.

Here at the confluence of Broadway,
Seventh Avenue and 42nd Street;
the eastern terminus of the Lincoln Highway,
I stand and strain my eyes westward in vain.

My picture memory has expired
with time -- with distance,
and you continue to fall away;
another sun below my horizon.

You said my dalliances were unforgiveable,
and you never understood my need for time
apart, though I always came back to you.

I tried to call and confess my love
but the buskers drum and taxi traffic beat
made it near impossible for me to hear.

I don’t belong here amongst the bad clichés,
Bubba Gump and “I Love NY” t-shirts.
I haven’t slept in almost two years
and neon lights can’t replace the sun.

This city is a cheap whore
and Times Square is where she tricks
the gullible as they climb off the bus.

Moriarty’s ghost haunts me
and beckons me back to the road;
back to your long golden embrace.

Please forgive me my love
and help me find my way back
across the broken heartland between us
and back home to you.

SMG

Label Whore

Label Whore

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Thank you


SMG

Knowing

Knowing

You are not a choreographer but you make eyes dance across pages; draw beautiful pictures with your words. They sing to their readers and perform amazing verbal plays. You don’t fold papers but you bend phrases into magical birds of flight. Your whisper is soft assonance, your cry, crafted consonance. You twist steel metaphors into wild animals and weave words like a Panama hat maker. You don’t cook but you tantalize the pallets of those starving for creativity and culture. You remove dead literary appendages with buzz saw tenacity and sew disparate pieces into a fine tapestry. You don’t carve ice; you chip away bits of frozen heart and color the leaves of fall with artisan adjectives. You are languid and lithe in a gown of Longfellow with Langston Hu(gh)es. You do not make wine or brew beer but we drink in your elixir of verse and become intoxicated on the bouquet and effervescence. You create images that stick and emotions that dissolve sweet and savory on the tongue. You are a poet!

SMG

From the Brooklyn Side

From the Brooklyn Side

The dusk climbed behind me

as motorists and pedestrians

moved steadily west and east

across the Williamsburg Bridge.

They traversed the grey steel,

above the flood and ebb-tides,

in a ritual as old as the city.

Below, the East River roiled;

a rough mix from the tail waters

of Harlem and the Bronx Kill.

From the apex of the bridge

I watched the sun burn down

the Manhattan skyline and

slowly drown in the Hudson.

I recalled the Whitman poem

Crossing Brooklyn Ferry

and felt the ties between us.  

In the distance, the gray walls

of granite and glass loomed;

today and a hundred years hence

SMG

Lost Forever

Lost Forever

At sunrise
God breathes
fire and smoke
into azure mourning,
as the demiurge groans
back into motion.

Last night
the world stopped,
dreams and motivations
became paper icons
engulfed in pyre flashes;
Ashes to ashes

As light slowly
pries loose the last
fingers of night
clinging to the landscape,
the shine of innocence
appears tarnished and tired.

Last night
a hero became mortal
human, uncoiled,
glint of his armor
dulled with rust;
dust to dust

The midday sun
hangs, half mast
in the horizon,
weakly illuminating
yet another void,
a diminished world.

Last night
God blinked,
in that omnisecond,
The words fell silent
inspiration stolen;
Amen

(Excerpt from "Another Hotel Room")

Fall of New York

Fall of New York

Fifth Avenue:
Umbrellas bob
down the sidewalk
like drunken
Chinese lanterns
and a cool wind
has invaded in
from the north.

Summer’s anger
still seethes
below street level
but today refused
to bare its teeth,
opting to stay dry
in the warm refuge
of the train tunnels.

A week ago,
I was a stick of butter
greasing 23rd Street
on my walk to work,
and this morning
I was treated to a
coming-attractions reel
for Fall of New York.