Early Morning Walking

He is completely untrustworthy…

Ask my sisters,

they’ll tell you the same thing…

Hee hee hee hee .

There is one in section 2,

that I think if I wanted to pick the perfect building…

I think pasta,

you know something soft…

I went running and the air feels thinner.

I don’t know.

Our air seems thicker…

What are you doing?

Having dinner?

Every time when I see it,

I hear my mother say that…


Who Are We Anyway

In the old days it seemed clear.

A human is a human

A cat is a cat

Time is regular, straight, and linear.


It is all confused now.

A human is made up of many different species of bacteria.

A lichen is made up of 5 different species.

What seems like one is really a commune of many.


Replacement parts are available

and ever expanding to supplement living matter.

In the future, creation of stories

will revolve around Hal the computer,

the gods, and us, hubrogs.

Rembrandt in the Clinic

I often get unexpected visitors in the clinic.

Ozu bows and shows segments from Tokyo Story.

Poets of various stripes read theirs poems as offerings of empathy.

Writers will relate their novels to stories of migration.


I was doing a physical on a 13 yo boy entering drug rehab

as his mother watched.

He was an artist but what could I say,

an old man having heard too many stories of bad choices.


Then, Rembrandt showed up

with a bag of clothes from Mad Hatter Clothing Shop.

He took over and shapeshifted himself from

a young wide eyed, open mouth youth with tousled hair

to a bareheaded wide nose, smiling prodigal son

and, finally,

to a old man in a velvet cloak  with a sense of self knowledge.


We were dazzled by this gallery of self-portraits

as Rembrandt gave the young artist a written prescription

to draw during his 45 day program

a self-portrait everyday

and see what happens.

Before Darkness

There is always someone’s uncle who dies

shortly after retirement.

No aunts, no mothers, no grandmothers.


Like baby disaster stories that

are whispered to pregnant women,

these cautionary tales of uncles

are shared with glee.


What can one do,

but stand up and face fearlessly

the approaching cloud of doom

with ones own illumination.


I Thought I was Playing Baseball

Someone congratulated me on crossing the finishing line

and I thought of death.


Years ago riding in a car wearing a bicycle helmut

after a head injury

I thought I had drove to work.


Now, I thought I was playing baseball,

that sport without a clock,

where the endings are unpredictable,

forgetting I am in race against time.


In baseball, time can be

stretched, extended, savored.


Time is fluid.

Leisure is possible

A poem can be written

when you run out and

I run in.


We are trying to stay alive,

you and me,

for as long as possible,

maybe extra innings.


Our next finishing line

is coming up fast

Advice Before Retirement

Go somewhere


Go fast

Go slow

Don’t stop

Sit on the porch

Mingle with the young



Be optimistic

Don’t answer the phone

Destroy all electronics

Become invisible

Learn something

Go wild

Believe something

Go naked

I am somewhere