Moon Over Divorce

These two souls,

the yolk of the human body,

who were walking

side by side

down city streets

through all four seasons,

formed a bond,

like the whites of two sunny side up

eggs

frying in the pan: they hardened

and cooked together, 

while the moon watched,

winking shut

and unwinking open,

showering these two souls

in emotion: a roller coaster

of sorrow and joy.  

But, eventually, as we all know,

it’s time to eat,

and the giant spatula

of time sets down and severs

these two souls,

sometimes before they are ready,

and maroons them, separately,

each to their own island

of caraway rye.

A Small Intersection

This time our paths crossed

over coffee and comics

while the ghosts of our past

fluttered about in the air,

never quite making it

to our mouths, never quite forming

words on our tongues.  

Around us, people stared

into the lids of laptops

or the lens of their phone.  

Two elephants kissed

near the bathroom.  

I was always concerned

that she thought I was too

pessimistic about life.  

But this time I was coming up

from the bottom, on the way

to fame, to stardom, to the annals

of history.  

It was a small intersection

for a Friday,

but sometimes it’s nice to run into

a face that isn’t scowling,

that’s welcoming and weary,

that digs up the great sex

skeletons of once upon a time

and sips coffee, black,

out of past relationships

made from a paper cup.

The Poetry of Science as it Pertains to Magic and the Mysteries of Life

In blueberry sky, an awesome stroke

of lightning, a jagged string,

connecting treetops to heavens

for an instance.  

Time uses the brush of science

to paint explanation

on the canvas

of our mind.  

What was once scary

is now electricity,

a static shock

between our lips

when I wear wool socks.  

Put down your spears,

hunters,

the sky is not God.  

And science is not the absence

of God.  

Thunder comes next,

a roar,

to which gatherers listen,

collecting under roof,

awaiting the rainfall.

Moon Over Norway Lake

When we turned off the lights

in the lake house, our reflections

in the windows disappeared

and the moon cast moonlight down

onto the surface of frozen Norway Lake.  

Where I once I had seen myself, now

I was inspired by stillness

of winter, whirling through air,

and when I lay down I felt

my imagination lift me

off into the ice fishing house of dreams:

a ceramic owl staring

back from the deck,

a vain search for the coffee grinder,

the perils and pleasures of money,

and muppets.  

The moon watched me

sleeping.  I’m certain of this,

for she told me I was talking

in my sleep more than usual,

and this time it was about a cyclops

laughing in the arctic freeze,

puffs of heated breath fogging up

its eye. I awoke to a pink banner

of sunrise just above the treetops

surrounding the perimeter of Norway Lake.