House on Fire

The smoke detector in our attic is beeping.

We replaced the battery,
but the bleeping

thing keeps on chirping
intermittently. Oddly,
the blesséd thing stops beeping

for about six hours after we press the bleeping
Reset button, which causes
a brief whistle, followed by piercing

silence, knowing our sleeping
will be rudely
interrupted again in a few hours by that beeping.

I looked on Google, hoping
to get a clue, and, apparently,
the only thing to do is replace whole bleeping

gadget if it’s exceeding
ten years in age. We could blow dust out of it
with compressed air, but I’m losing
confidence. I want to set my bleeping . . . 

Don't Know Much About History

I villanelle my dilemmas.

That’s what a villanelle is for.
It unravels all the dramas.

Never forgetting about the promise—
the surprize rhyme behind Door
Number 2 (choosing doors is one dilemma,

plus always trying to obey the rules of grammar).
I sit here in my peaceful chair
while a million fatal dramas

are being enacted, with enormous
consequence for life itself that I barely dare
contemplate, spelling dire dilemmas

for humankind that we’re mostly ignoring—
though aware
we’re probably on the brink of catastrophic drama.

But a villanelle makes nothing happen.
That’s what a slide rule is for:
to calculate in drachmas our dilemmas
(unfolding Dharma).

Going All-In

Whisked away to a verdant hillside to listen to a harpist.

I put all my money on that strong-voiced queen,
only to be stood up by my therapist.

The baleful notion I’m too much of an optimist
enters my mind as I drift into a dream
of being whisked to a verdant hillside to listen to a harpist.

But what I really am is a ventriloquist—
my lower gut does all my talking for me,
especially when I’m singing to my therapist.

And I know my spiel won’t get past the receptionist
if it’s going to be nothing but just honky and twangy,
sent over the air by our verdant-hillside-strumming harpist.

Everyone saw me ante up to be an imagist
poet—I hollered in the squills like Amy Lowell,
and then I had the honor of being stood up by my therapist!

What astounds me most is how much Jesus-juice
is crackling in my bones, though I seem
calm—abiding on my verdant hillside with my harpist—
even after being stood up by my therapist.

Test Lab

I just throw stuff at the refrigerator—

the noodles may stick even when they’re al dente.
See you later, alligator!

You were always quite the masticator—
chewing everything down to a paste with your dainty
nippers, white as a refrigerator

door. When I celebrated my Sader,
the only thing that didn’t stick was the potato gnocchi.
See you later, ball-o’-tater!

I can’t be a lactator—
my chest’s no ripening gourd of plenty—
but there’s milk in the refrigerator.

I threw a piece of English cheddar
at the refrigerator and it bounced into the pantry.
See you later, cheese-abuser!

Every cook needs a stick-o-meter—
something that tells them when the dish is ready.
That’s why I just throw stuff at the refrigerator.
See you later, hasenpfeffer!

The Man Who Wasn't There

I doubt, therefore I am.
Most philosophers doubt even that.
I guess I’m just a doubting ham—

first cousin of Sam I Am.
Sam I Am was lean not fat—    
I fast therefore I am.

Far less quiet than a clam,
I have to tell you of my doubt—
I guess I’m just a mumbling ham.

I want to say, “lorazepam”—
my doubting doesn’t do me proud—
I fret, therefore I am,

but I’ll keep calm and carry on,
stand up and shout it right out loud—
I’m a doubt-proclaiming ham!

if you doubt hard
enough, you’ll have nine lives like a cat—
you’ll be the death-defying ham.

Watch me now with my blue socks on
insubstantiating to the crowd—
I vanish, therefore I am—
just a non-existent ham.

Reprobate Thoughts

Can I be completely

intentional and deliberate
in my responses to others—

so much of my life spent
being shyly avoidant,
yet believing I was completely

(not sweetly)
kind, considerately
concerned for others—

when, in truth, I WASN’T?
Not confederate!—
never wanting to be

exclusively (hostilely)
separate
from others,

but nothing entitles me
to credit
for being particularly generous to others.

Now I’m siding with the sisters not the fathers
and praying for warmth to incubate
a wish to feel reasonable
concern for others.

Becoming a Fish, or, What Do You Mean, Mr. Eliot, Sir?

I have heard the mermaids singing each to each,

mermaids gliding in a sea of green.
Each mermaid sings to another within reach.

What do mermaids have to teach
one another, much less us tailless ones? Still, we
heed the mermaids singing each to each.

We’re going to have to pick up every stitch.
When I look out my window, what do you think I see?—
only mermaids singing to others within reach.

It takes a lot of sutures to attach titanium mesh
to gums boneless and for years bereft of teeth—
I sure heard mermaids singing each to each

when the surgeon turned on the nitrous and I could breath
it in! And I said in my own heart: Heart, you’re free
to sing to any other mermaid within reach!

Mermaids have scales, but are capable of speech
and song. One mermaid of all others is the queen.
I have heard the mermaids singing each to each.
Each mermaid sings to another within reach.