Thermodynamics

If I were governed
by the Law
of Thermodynamics
then I was (1) never created
and never will
be destroyed
I can only be
(2) transferred from mind to mind
and will continue
in this way forever
I am a debilitating neurosis
the (3) entropy I generate
always increasing in
your closed system

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Touch Of Gray

with two toes I test
the temperature
of the linoleum
like a rookie member
of the Polar Bear Club

wondering if I plunge
right into the day
that the floor is as cold
as it looks from the cocoon
I’ve made with my bedspread

that the tiny icicles
forming on the AC ducts
are really part
of my imagination

then I’m forced
to look at Vonnegut’s
Cat’s Cradle lying
at my head board
and laugh so hard
that I’m crying

I jump out of bed
throw open the curtains
outside it’s bright
with just a touch of gray

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TS Eliot Moth

for Modern Poetry Fa02

“Can you imagine
if T.S. Eliot were
to enter the room, right now.”

Beckoning the call,
almost unnoticed, insignificant
dusty silent wings fluttering
in the mid-afternoon,
the karmic incarnate
sailed into the classroom.

We were unmoved
to the unannounced visitor
to the discussion, somehow
always retrospective to certain
expatriate literary geniuses.

How for fifty years (maybe more)
the accomplished poetic deities
lorded over form and words,
commanding
make it new!
let no words not add!

Forgotten now are radio speeches,
recantations, fascist salutes–

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Americana

sitting on the front porch
I listen to the nuclear family
across the street meltdown

it’s Chernobyl, Rolling Hills Dr.
Wichita Kansas where life
moves like wheat in a high wind

a woman walking her dog
stops to witness the madness
as a man bursts from the house

he lugs a tattered tote bag
which he tosses into the trunk
of 1970’s vintage Americana

the broker from next door
steps outside drinking a beer
and shakes his head disgusted

we are all spectators

the man’s wife, carrying a child
runs out pleading to him
as he drives away, backfiring

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Points In Time (a Short)

I stand at the door to apartment four in the “blue building”, Emporia Kansas, address unimportant. Even at 20, I have the same nervousness of a teen on a first date. I swallow hard, putting on a fa�ade of confidence, and knock soundly on the veneer covered door.

At 17, I was a dreamer. I still am. The things I dreamed then accomplished or future goals; my dreams of today, goals of tomorrow. S was girlish at 20, a Disney aficionado, on the Student Senate at the local college, grounded. She was too good of a person to be dating a hotwired senior in high school hell-bent on escaping the midwestern cultural doldrums. In ways I never left.

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Reclamation

There are days
I want to sit with you
as children playing
in the dirt,
watch ants
busily working,
and listen to wind
brush aside branches
of trees the way
my hand moves
hair from my face.

The ground will reclaim
us someday,
when we can no longer
love like we are twelve.
As the ground reclaimed
Schliemann’s childhood
dream (treasure).
No, even great Achilles
mystic as he was
could not escape
reclamation.

And the ground
will reclaim our cities:
New York, Boston, Detroit,
my childhood home
in Kansas
where my friends
live their lives
on the same plot of ground
that will retake them.

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