Rerun

I watch myself


(someone has to)


an endless rerun


of a canceled sitcom.


(There is nothing better on.)


With each episode the laugh track builds,


until snickers echo guffaw.


I long for the theme music,


the predictable end, a chance to begin


again. I have seen it all before.


I want a commercial to tell me


what I need to be happy.






Everything I say is misunderstood,


as if I am talking in igpay atinlay.


If someone bothers to reply,


it’s like white noise, radio static,


the high buzz of the test pattern,


punctuated by screeching


brakes, the breaking of glass.


On my birthday, I go off


by myself, howl through


the empty night until


there is nothing left


but a mournful wail.






Yesterday was not like this,


it was quiet and made


of silly putty. The sun


was a lemony lollipop.


Cars jostled joyfully along


like bright balloons,


bouncing refugees


from the happy party,


and your face, pressed


warmly against mine,


picked up the colors


of my cartoon.

After being told I look good for 67 (on my 57th birthday)

damn fluorescent light
carpet seam carpet
gray on grey
air machines hum
the building thinks it is alive
damn fluorescent light
bright eyes open

to a dimming world
veins ridge skin
it takes longer to chew
almost everything
creaks yet the mind
grows younger
the heart more childlike
the longer we hang on

our engines slow
as the scenery
speeds by
there are no breaks
aging is a paradox
a wind bitten rag
dancing on a stick

the grim reaper
telling jokes
window glare window
knock knock
no one is there
everyone is moving
damn fluorescent light