The Grub

My son comes running. "Mommy, Daddy! Come
And see!" We see a hole dug in the yard
Before we see what's in the hole. What could
A four year old dig up? We are on guard.

There, in the shallow hole, a writhing grub --
Long, thick, and white, short hooks up near its head,
Its head with angry eyes of orange and jaws
To make an ant or mother look with dread.

My wife recoils, steps back, covers her mouth.
My son says, "Look!" and gestures down. A lull,
My wife says, "That's disgusting!" But my son
Looks up, concerned, says, "No, it's beautiful."

Together

If I were single I would live alone,
Just reading books. If I could live alone

I'd spend each evening at the Starbucks, drink
A coffee, write, and think, "Will I live alone

Without a love?" And I would then go home
To my apartment where I'd live alone.

But since I found you, dear, I read my books
And write -- but I don't have to live alone

To think and work. I'm more myself since I
Embraced you, love, so I don't live alone.

I melt into your arms, your eyes when you
Say, "Troy, with me you'll never live alone."

Lichen

Embracing me you ground me and the stone
Dissolves to feed us both as with the sun I feed
Us both, and thus we never are alone,
But symbiotic, transformed into waves
Of color rippling in the light. Who craves
Another as we do, yet fills each need?

And when the winter comes and all the leaves
Lie littered, layered, rotting in the sleet
And frost, the safety that your network weaves
Will comfort me, and you will dine upon
All I produce -- our love will warm us, spawn
Delight in us, create internal heat.

The two of us will feast upon the bark,
The stones, the leaves, transform the sun to live
Together, two become one flesh, our mark
In colored bans throughout the woods. We'll drink
The morning fog and tap the frost. Each chink
We fill is so you I, I you can give.

Rainbow Bunting

By all accounts the feathers on
Its wings belong on angels' backs,
Regardless of the dewy dawn
Delivering the sun's golden tracks.

To Those Whom I Make Bleed

I'm of the Gadfly Party, Socrates
And Nietzsche are my models, worthy friends
To help bring you, complacent, off your knees,
Your spear in hand. Oh, when your life depends
On laziness, when you believe without
A thought, then I will sting you with some doubt.

I'll contradict if I should change my mind --
Consistency is density -- I'll change
With every brand-new fact that I should find.
Give me your views and I will rearrange
Them into something new, with properties
Emerging from the ground like locust trees.

And I will lie beneath the trees and speak
To each who passes by, and I will not
Feel shame upon my death, for I did seek
The good, the true, the beautiful -- you rot
In valleys, too afraid to climb, to fly
And dance -- you live in fear and don't know why.

But when you're challenged, when you're asked to dance,
You find the fire to burn the locusts down,
To swat at those who challenge your romance
Of work and life and those who wear the crown --
You'll drive one mad, you'll make the poison drink
To make sure that you sleep and do not think.

Asperger's

It started with a need to learn about
My son, his mind, cast ignorance and doubt
Away so we could help him speak and cope
And find in autism some little hope.

I shared my findings with my wife and brother,
The two who know me best, except my mother
Who is more sadly dead with children who
She wanted yelling, "Grandma!" at her through

The windows of our van as we drove up
The drive. The red brick house that filled the cup
Of me as I sat in my room, alone
And reading books and making lists to hone

Me into who I have become, the one
Whose neural structures, passed on to his son,
Intensified in passing on. I read
About my son, but then that learning spread

To insights into me. My brother, wife
Both saw a brother's and a husband's strife
In life explained. They told me, "You have that."
Impossible! No speech delay. A brat

Who threw himself down on the floor to scream
With every little thing? You could not dream
Of having children who behaved so well
As I. But I lived in a shell, a cell

I made myself. I did not socialize,
But loved to learn and oftentimes seemed wise
When I was very young. Obsessed with sharks,
Then plants -- the endless lists of orchids marks

Me with the patterns that my son will see
As he grows older. Cars lined up since three
The first to show us who he is. The stress
I felt through life make sense at last. I press

Into myself the more I learn. I found
Myself at last. I feel myself on ground,
Not sand, at last. I'm present to my past
And know the neural mold from which I'm cast.

What could I learn from mom, now dead so long?
What would she think of this? This woman, strong
In dying, would perhaps have shown her strength
In love and dedication. The length

I've gone to learn about my son to lead
To me to lead to her has truly freed
Me so that I can see how others think
Of me and of my son, to at last link

With all those people that I found so strange
So that I can expand myself, my range.
And what I learn for me I can pass on
So that my son won't feel a helpless pawn.

Power Laws

I'll sing the song of anarchy,
Of polycentric polities
Where people live in freedom, vote
With feet when needed to be free.

We humans walked the earth in freedom,
Millennia of movement mired
By gangs too many have agreed
Deserve the tributes we must give.

Can I demand you pay me to protect
Your things and freedom from myself
As well as others? Or demand you live
Where I command you live?

How many men will make immoral moral?
Enough to transform murder to statistics?
Do we require the threat of death to love?
To merely get along? Cooperate?

Allow us all to move, to live, to love --
Allow us all to find our place, cooperate,
Discover what our values ought to be
From day to day. Allow us to be free!

Winter in the Southern Plains

This time of year we sometimes get a thick
Mist settling on the skyscrapers and trees --
The whiteness will not burn away at noon,
And evening thickens without any breeze.

Is this the desert edge, the shortgrass plains?
The summer scissortails and grackles gone,
It feels like Limbo, land of Cicero
And Homer, land of light without a dawn.

Is this the place of shimmering steel summers?
The air is webbed with wet -- a dozen brews
Of coffee cannot crack the lull of sleep
That wants to creep inside these subtle hues.

A day of weight where impatience can wait
Beside the station where the trains won't run,
This day has slept, it's blanket warm against
The cold, hard air and ineffective sun.

Health Insurance

The cost of insurance was such
Its price I could sadly not touch --
So I gave all of that
To a young bureaucrat
And now it costs three times as much!

Free Will

Am I my neurons, neurons I? Or are
We free to will what we would be? Are we
When we communicate just like a car
In traffic, part of something new? To be
Responsible and free, do we need all
The people who we know or walk the mall?

I'm free to choose when there's a choice, but I
Could not be me without the rest of you
And you could not be you without the die
Of culture casting you, so you are true
To who you are, the social making one
Unique, for when we're one, then we are none.

My consciousness emerges when my nerves
All interact and I become the tale
I tell myself about myself, which serves
To justify my acts. Succeed or fail --
It's up to me and what I tell myself,
If I'm a hero or a moral elf.

But what I tell myself is also what
You tell me I have done, which always casts
You as the hero of your tale. Your gut
Will tell you you are free -- that feeling lasts,
No matter if you say your life is fate.
But both are surely up for deep debate.

Traffic

The city is a slow-beat heart
Of autos flowing from the suburbs, glow
Of headlights fading as the sun
Golds high-rise windows. Plate glass in a row
Watch as the cars depart --
Whose drivers want to dart
In every gap that opens up,
But find the going slow --
Trucks creeping, making gaps, each moving slower by the ton
As they accelerate, one
Is riding on the bumper of a car
To try to pressure her to go
To fill the gap, though he should know
That doing so won't get them very far.
Each driver has a cup --
A plush white Snoopy pup
Is in a rearview window looking out --
Each driver has a cell phone on,
Up to an ear or glancing down to read
Or type, then slam on brakes. A couple feed
On donuts as the sun-bright dawn
Is blinding half the traffic. Others shout
At those who can't make up their minds. The flow
Is interrupted at each ramp --
It's worse when all the roads are damp --
As autos enter, exit, the flow's slowed,
Affecting all the network, every node.
And then the cars and trucks reach their day's destination
And then eight hours' work and auto's resignation
Before the autos all again depart
The city, flowing from the slow-beat heart.

Restraint

I have released the kraken once, released
Its tentacles to twist and tear, its beak
To reach and rip. I can't control the beast.
The tears and sweat ran down my bloody cheek.

I was not good enough to reign it in,
And I have learned to fear it, keep restrained
The fearsome suckers with their claws of sin --
And since that time, Apollo's always reigned.

The Python's dead, the kraken tamed, my muse
Controlled (cicadas speak to her). I feel
As deep as ocean trenches, but it's hues
Produced by spray of rhythmic waves which peal

Across the public beaches which you see
And hear -- and that is all you'll know of me.

On the Winter Solstice

The spirits on the longest night
Are sparkling with cold delight.
The sun tomorrow will appear
A little longer, do not fear.
The spirits dance on this long moon
Since spring will not be coming soon.
The winter spirits remain bold --
A longer sun? Ha! Much more cold
Will be a certainty. This day
Is but a promise -- cold til May!

Making Special

The bower birds bring bright blue berries, brush

Their bowers with the juice and decorate

The ground with cobalt glass and flowers lush

With indigo. Blue feathers act to sate

The bower bird’s base blue desires, sure

To lure in females who love deep azure.

The bluebird sings his property, each song

A challenge and a lure, a ritual

Denying entry to the threatening throng

Of rivals as his mate will feel the full

Attraction of each tweet and twittered line

Of earthly love that somehow feels divine.

The crane is dancing, jumping on his plot –

He will not let another cross his line –

He’ll throw his head back, dance a high-kneed trot

To demonstrate he’s strong and bold and fine.

And he will flash the red upon his pate

To show he’s worthy of a healthy mate.

This bower of words was made to lure

My love onto my land, to keep her heart –

I dance my words to make our love endure

And say to every rival, “Go! Depart!”
I decorate my words into a strong

And vibrant verse to sing where I belong.

For Anna: A Birthday Poem

My love for you fills all of space --
My love for you is infinite
(One of the big ones) -- and your face
Makes all my love so intimate.

I love you more than you can know --
I love you when I see your smile --
And every day will my love grow
As life goes by with every mile.

And on this birthday, first with me,
I want to say I love you so.
And in this love I want to be
In every birthday that you know.

Rat Race

We have to pay the mortgage soon
One third of that is tax
We have to pay the day care, too
We never can relax

My wife and I each work a job
And contemplate a third
To pay the bills and student loans
Six-figure poor's absurd

We have to pay for insurance
For house and cars and health
We're in a higher tax bracket
Because of all our "wealth"

We have no money to maintain
Our cars, though they are old
But there's nowhere for us to go
With my empty billfold

This cronyist economy
Will keep you in your place
The regulations break your knees
As you are told to race

Outside Politics

I stand outside the city, thrown
Outside by those who fear the laws I make,
Disrupting with my rhythmic moan
The rigid rules imposed for power's sake.

I stand outside the city, thrust
Into the wilderness where words belong --
Their place of birth, birthed from the lust
That grips our souls with every mating song.

I stand outside the city, banned
Because chaotic order can't be seen
Within the walls -- unless it's planned,
Unnaturalized, my work is deemed obscene.

I stand outside the city, out
Away from people, ostracized, removed --
I sing, and in great fear they shout
My message will not ever be approved.

I stand outside the city, bring
A language which is slowly understood --
And then, I hear some voices sing
My song -- it's beautiful and true and good.

I stand outside the city, make
A new community, a city where
The poets rule, each has a stake,
And no one stops them if they risk or dare.

I stand within my city, live
Poetic life by my poetic rules --
In rhythms, metaphors I give,
And love all man, from geniuses to fools.

Wearing the Pants

When I was growing up, I went to church --
A church that preached that women should wear skirts
Or dresses only -- look the woman's part --
Wear blouses only, never pants and shirts.

We also learned that sex was bad outside
Of holy matrimony -- genuflects
Before your God if sex should cross your mind --
But tell us don't and all we think is "sex!"

You first take off her shoes, and then you must
Unbutton, then unzip, then pull the pants
Down over her wide hips, then pull her panties
Down, off before the two of you can dance.

Lift up her skirt -- that's almost all you need
To do. You want me to refuse to fuck
When you make easy access to the goal?
When she can straddle me, begin to buck?

Well, I'm no hypocrite. My sexual scenes
Were only with young women in blue jeans.

Fighting the World

I stepped out of the piney wood and stood
Upon a river bank. The river roared
In turbulent and white-capped green. A good
Eye could not see across, though deep it bored.

Yet, halfway out, a boat. A person rowing
And pulling hard against the current, aimed
Upstream, a Red Queen in the rapid flowing
At best, but often losing what he'd claimed.

"My friend!" I yelled above the roar and mist,
"Why must you fight so hard against the flow?"
A leafy log flowed at him, barely missed.
The low sun made his shadow slowly grow.

The voice that came upon the air was weak,
"I'm out of water, food. A town's upstream
Where I can get the nourishment I seek.
But getting there's a nightmare, not a dream."

"Why fight the current? Turn around and guide
Yourself downstream. You'll find another town."
A silence as my waves reached him. He plied
Against the waves, but answered, flowing down.

"I don't know where those towns would be, but I
Know there's a town ahead, so I'll go there."
He then lurched back, which prompted my reply,
"The more you row, the more you go nowhere!"

"I don't know if there's towns downstream. I fear
I'll starve unless I go with what is known."
"How long have you been fighting?" "But a mere
Three days in this same spot," I heard him groan.

"You could have found a place by now and gone
Three hundred miles if you'd gone with the flow
The river offers you. Another dawn
And you'll become a lunch for some sharp crow."

"But I'm afraid. Besides, you tell me not
To fight, to just give up. I must fight through!"
"To row within the flow's a fight well-fought --
That life will become beautiful and true.

Don't be afraid of the unknown. Don't fight
The natural currents -- they will ease your life.
You'll fight the rules of life in pain. Delight
Will come when you flow through, around your strife.

You cannot beat the river -- all your hard
Work cannot overcome the water; soft,
The river wears down stones. You've only marred
Yourself. When with the air, the crow's aloft."

At once, the boat lurched with the current, turned,
And disappeared so fast, I could not hear
If he replied. I walked the bank. I yearned
To see where he made port, if it was near.

I walked three days along the river bank,
In mud and briars which held up my way.
And yet, through rain, my spirit never sank --
I knew that I would see my friend one day.

At last, I came upon a town. A boat
Was pulled up on the bank. I asked around
About the man. I heard a rumor float
Through town of him, but he could not be found.

So I went back the way I came, my home
A three-day walk. I heard a croaking crow --
I saw him on the bow upon the tome
That only he and I can ever know.

Typhoon

A spot of warmth, tight twisting, rising air
Atop an ocean, sun-warmed. Rising air

Pulls water, molecule by molecule,
Reforming droplets in the rising air

Until the ocean Fibonacci spirals
Up -- reined, it rains down from the rising air.

The gray clouds rope in rapid rounds to reign
Within the walls that wound the rising air.

When air and water merge, new order forms --
I, Troy, saw ocean land from rising air.