Anxiety's Tightrope

No matter what there is always a door
and a window or two and walls and floor
and all around you things that you can name
even those times they're out waging a war.

No matter what you would still sense your shirt
or your jacket or socks or pants or skirt
to see or touch or hear its rustling sound
or smell the sweat there or cologne or dirt

No matter what the selfless breath moves through
your body back and forth each time anew
and somewhere far the wind gives life to waves
which come crashing against the shore of you

No matter what there's always boundless hope
for new resources and more ways to cope
and not just cope but be happy and grow
and fly on love beyond your life's tightrope

Neon Sign

I write poetry for appearances' sake.
But though the phrases sweat
the feelings one might have felt,
they're the neon sign in front—
I keep the goodies stashed in back.
It's not you but my own self
I've failed and long misled:
Aching emotions can't be kept
nor driven out in verse—
as if an evil curse—
unmet, unfelt; unwept.

One-Man Restaurant

The nonstop clank and jingle of dishes,
some being washed, some breaking in the kitchen,
some exploding by chairs and drive us almost deaf.
The mathematics-professor-now-turned-chef,
burning the lamb, knocking over the kettle,
sweats buckets into today's special,
his nose wheezes like the whistle of a ref—
his soul longing to flee, possessed by the devil.
Turns waiter, serves, then talks to us of women, 
now sitting next to us, of being Christian,
of his youth in his homeland going fishing
for compliments from the ladies in his church,
and tears up and his lips quiver and says, Hell!
Gets up, hugs us, begs us to come back again.
We leave complaining to each other, but then
can't wait to go back there again and again. 

Disaster

I met with Disaster along the way;
She looked about a thousand years of age,
And tall as mountain ash but blind and mute,
And nude, aside from diamond knee-high boots.

I must have met her many times in guise,
Perhaps with grief that hurts, with grim surprise,
I felt her in the scent of homeless cries, 
Or faint sadistic laughter of a brute.

I shook her hand despite the nameless rage
That wrapped my body fully like a suit
Of sweat and shakes shooting from wilted roots, 
That feast on acid deep inside my eyes.

Don't you demand from me consoling lies 
To help you sleep soundly beneath the skies
That birthed Disaster long ago one day,
And doomed us both to meet unknown, en route....

But Not to Boss

Work is a funny word.
But not to boss.
To work off debt,
it's said, you have to go to work;
where working as a clerk,
you work your way up, reach the top.
You work around the snags you come across, 
and working in the office never stop
to work away at them with all your heart, 
till your report's a flawless work of art:
Intense and smart.
But not to boss.
You work out quickly, getting set
to soon depart for work, and yet 
you end up working up a sweat.
It's funny how that works...
But not to boss.
Then there's the "work it in" to write,
which now I'm working into this outright. 
By "this" I mean my poem, song,
which, by the way, I've long
been fond of working on.
But does that count as work?
It's never work, it's said, 
but only if you do 
sincerely love the work. 
But not to boss.