Bunny Lamp

God’s voice-

Amidst line three,

my pen runs dry.

Sunday

On sunday I trim my beard, water the indoor plants, start to drink a little earlier.

I test the windows and doors to make sure they’re firm, make sure they’re strong.

There’s a whole week on its way, with yes’ and no’s and maybe’s (the maybe is the worst).

I have to prepare for that.

Like a deluge, like a monsoon, the week comes in waves and if you don’t prepare you’re sucked out to sea.

The phone will ring, it will be someone upset, someone happy, someone ambivalent, some one needy, not necessarily in that order.

And then there will be the people that don’t call at all.

Those people who hover in the dark recesses of you life.  You can see them faintly; a leviathan slowly turning in the fog.  They are the worst ones.

They could smash onto your beaches and wipe you out or, what’s worse, they could never come at all.  And leave you waiting for that fateful day.

Moving towards the deer-

When he looks up,

I am a tree.

At heaven’s gates

Published poems

do not count.

Bank teller-

false nails click

on calculator buttons.

Writer’s block-

in the silence

my pen clicks on and off.

Her apartment

a block away.

How far really?

Piles on

There’s a stack of magazines at my feet full of people’s accomplishments.

I can’t bear to look at them.  They keep arriving in the mail and collecting under my desk.

I don’t know what to do with them.

I read of the worlds of others and there’s this shadow that grows longer and longer across me.

It’s hard to live in that,

to do anything in that.

I don’t want to shut out the world, but the more I know of the world, the more I realize that I’m not in it.

In the corner of the back bedroom of my apartment I live a life of complete fantasy.  Everything in theory.  Nothing realized.

I’m doing it even now, trying to create a myth around these few lines.

What’s the beginning, the middle, the end?

Well there never is one, is there?

Nothing stops, nothing ceases, it all rolls forward and eventually rolls over us all.

And maybe the people in the magazines around my feet have realized this.

If there’s no beginning or end, and it’s all an abyss of possibilty and failure, none of it meaning a thing.

Why not go?

Math problems

in his heart

have now been multiplied.

Stormclouds coming-

the birds shout madly

trying to organize.