Missing stars of the Confederate flag

High on the top shelf of my closet
along with scrapbooks and yearbooks
is my father’s helmet. Six stars remain
on the confederate flag sticker weathered
by rain. I remember staring at all the stars
for days on our way to Naples beach.

I was eleven years old and Nixon was
president. I sat on a small cushion bolted
to the back fender of his Harley Davidson.
We rode within the rumble of mufflers,
long beards and flashes of chrome.
His friends called me “Clickie”.

They knew my father as “Click”.
That was the sound his camera made
when he snapped pictures of motorcycles,
bonfires, drunken men and naked women.
They called me that on the day they
knocked at our door with the helmet.

Part of the sticker was missing.
They never mentioned his real name,
they said his pictures were legends.
I held the scratched up helmet by the strap
as my father did, and locked the door.
That was the last click they heard.

DQ 01/21/07

An Index of Hours

The graceful hours. Ether.
Slow motion acrobats
tongues tethered
above each other.
Small predators.
Slender mountain mints
in ghost white linen.

The adoration hours. Smolder
Scarlet striped tigers
gorging in yin-yang.
Repeat my name. Fever
Repeat my name. Fervor
Spotted jewelweeds
in fire brick red.

The petrified hours. Terrain
Stonehenge embrace.
Lovers chiseled in marble
one sleepless
unmovable kiss.
Evening primroses
in goldenrod khaki.

The moving hours. Maritime
Nirvana cocktail
inside you
the tide beats the seawall
bedposts speaking lace.
Venus looking glasses
in aquamarine turquoise.

DQ 01/06/07

Why we Fall

1.
Five stories he fell, fighting
gravity like a bird statue chiseled
from granite, slapping the air below
the scaffold while urging wings to
come alive until the last second
when the asphalt nest became stained.

2.
He never wanted his feet
to touch the tangle of aquatic ivy,
or find out what type of fish
seabirds dive for. His face was
a desperate shade of blue,
when he drifted on the beach.

3.
The flame, domesticated candle
scented in the flavor of vanilla
sandalwood, first devoured the curtains,
then the entire building while she slept.
She wanted to be buried beneath flowers,
not cremated in room four of the hourly motel.

4.
There is no free will when falling in love.
I could not fly out of it if I had wings.
I could not save myself from drowning in it.
And when my heart reddens with passion,
I could not deny its walls from melting in the fire.
Maybe every time we love, we die a little.

DQ 1/2/7