the best

Zachariah makes the best pizza
he’s why we go there
house red amid pre crowd quiet
that’s a friday evening meal

Zachariah, two things i’ll recall
at the end of my life
one is your pizza
a pause as he reflected

Zachariah then asked,
and what is the second?
silently i tight-lip grinned
then we both laughed

i am a writer

i am a writer
alive in these words
breathe in the spaces

my pores
absorb periods
that’s why you see none

a flicked bit of ash from
every time i smoked
like food over a fire

with a line into water,
waiting the next one
to donate himself to feed me

phish swimmings
what he does he says
feels so good

i write for no one that pays me,
feeds or gives me shelter
am happy at this moment

writing especially for you
it’s practically i am
like speaking to you.

oh, see that
a period
quick - ingest it

the balance

a leaning fence in a fallow field
pile all parts in a heap
the good over here
bad on that side

so when standing back
way far back to see
the resulting evaluation indicates
an evident perception

worrying excessively
over minutia
or insufficiently about
everything else

pasquali's for the holiday

M. thought like an artichoke
i mean she thought she’d like one
a fond memory
I knew what she was talking about

without family in Roma
holidays are our time to eat out
we walked to a popular locale in the ghetto
forty minutes before the usual lunch time

already a crowd outside was buzzing
all had made reservations the day before
the head man said they were fully booked
the doors hadn’t opened yet we were turned away

bused up the Corso through holiday crowds
then around the corner to Pasquali’s
a familiar favored haunt,
one we had found a decade ago

he and his wife work the counter,
daughter cooks, the son waits tables
they smiled when they saw us
as we smiled at them

we took our table again
one we had known and tested
ate pasta amtriciana
drank red house wine with our meal

all was as it should be
we ate among friends
it was like home again
for the holiday

not comets

comments

(you have to click on it
and i have to tell you
cause the colors aren't right.
like, i messed up the way i picked them)

what you are clicking on is a poem from april '08 called "i feel like you"
i read it again and thought you'd like it if it put it out again.

days off

a moderate, quiet tuesday
a catholic holy day
also a state holiday
they work together

monday was the ponte
the bridge between sunday
and the official state holiday
italians know how to take time off

walked to the ghetto
for an eleven a.m. coffee
plus a slice of thin crust pizza with
sweet red peppers and a light tomato sauce

walked back by the turtle fountain
built from 1581 - 1589
a beautiful, calming sight
for a light rain tuesday

sifting over time

couldn’t say
for sure
don’t know
if i was sleeping

it seemed
my brain remained awake last night
working, sifting, sorting
rather like that

thusly night went by
a least that’s the impression
i held tight
when i got up this morning

the magnitude of life

who could have imagined
dealing with the like
largesse peppered with surprises
some in joy, some in crisis

waking early with morning coffee
to find life going already, rolling steady
by warm golden window light
you know life’s a sweet package

variety you could not have conceived
and while not visible at first glance
something is going on, darling
perchance not always what it seems

growing day by day
born of dreams
hear the joy of life in bird voices
and in the patter of the rain