False Reporting


Of late, my heels bend and burn

Before an unfeeling incline,

Marked by pock-marked

Desert landscape filled

With deciduous apricot orchards.

Each of the whorls of my fingertips

Numbed, are now sent reeling backward.

While some of us may have defined

As trivial, senior moments,

Inclusive of a soporific decline,

Indicative of unattainable

And unbearable dimensions

Of sweet, divinatory acts of awakening,

What of adulterous

Memoirs of the spirit world,

Penned in verse

As well as in vast altars of prose?

If some of these are seen

As a blessed entree

Served before a menu

Of senility’s feast of capital gains,

What does the presence of a dancer mean

Beginning her wildly yet undeniably

Restrained performance

Of La Bayadere or Don Quixote.

Any chance of an office romance

Cooling to a stop this winter?

The main point of all poetic blathering

Occurring at the old homestead

As an apoplectic apologetics of sorts,

Is that engineered in agenda

Befitting the aged, or the maimed.

In a place of poverty.

How may I dare leave off these projects

Involving yarn for an odd

Assortment of relatives,

Including a host of ragged socks, scarves,

Stockings, as well as flea-bitten cardigans?

Is each item meant to be delivered

To the hearing impaired, the deaf and the blind

Moved by a tumultuous art of lament,

By metaphors of basket-weaving,

Defying merciful episodic bouts

Of dream compliance?

If I still venture out

In a state

Of awakening before

Infinity’s darting glance of grace,

If wind still shaking the barley,

May I dare appear as mistress, crone,

Or as middle-aged balding harlot

Who slept her way to the top?

Maybe I will appear as that rare

Specimen of old age,

Accompanied by recidivist tendencies,

Who, doddering, relives acts of kindness,

Defined and mapped by kinship with the rose.

Or I am someone who,

In synapse of elderly dotage,

Before the spectacle of youth,

Is one appearing

Trapped in time-travel

In rustic parsonages

And constricted parishes

Among various estuaries

Defining seismographic moments

Among hysteria-prone masses?


If I pretend to wrap myself in potato eyes and rhizomes,

Rhizomes unwinding fleeting forms of aloneness,

Moored inside cavernous and abhorrent spates of darkness,

Why am I still wondering now, as I did years ago:

When is it my wife of twenty-five years

Will abscond with her suitor of choice?