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Time Factory

The human brain
has an organelle
that stacks heartbeats
end to end
and synthesizes time.
We are conscious
because we
make moments.

posted by Don Schaeffer @ 8:59 AM   0 comments 
My Van Gogh Poem

Oh look at that Europe.
I love the way it moves
the fields dance and
the stars circle each other
in the sky. I want a place of my own.

Thank God for my eyes
and for the color. When
I cry and my eyes
emit paint. I make
my own Europe.
Please take it.

posted by Don Schaeffer @ 11:51 AM   0 comments 
The Odd Thing About Memory

I remember Mr. Quinn.
"You can't just keep running
roughshod over people's feelings."
He told me when I was twenty.
It's odd
that I remember the
bumpy spots in the path
and honor those names.
The broken spots
have anchors in my dreams.
They shame me all my life.
I will be embarrassed beyond death.

posted by Don Schaeffer @ 10:37 AM   0 comments 
How Poorly Do I Love You?

the agreed engagement of
fingers and the casual
brace of arm on waist and
laughter to break the silence.
We sleep with limb touching limb
and feel the brief vacuum of absence.
I tell her that she
spent most of her life
orbiting around people
who never learned how
to show love.
I ask,
among the
love skills deficient,
why am I different?

posted by Don Schaeffer @ 7:07 PM   0 comments 
Heroism Dream

They have forgotten the athletes.
Heroically, I run to grab
as much of the vaccine as I can find.
I dash through the tunnel
to where they are about to board the bus.

But I must return to make an appearence
at the dinner party
and I forget the needles.
You watch my sneaking back.

I can't do it all myself. I cry out,
in spite of my heroic intentions.
I lose the way as my opportunities vanish
Something is wrong with my legs.

When all comes
down to it, poems
flow through my
brain like dreams,
ephemeral whisps
of egocentricity processed
through my eyes,
frozen self-centered ripples.

posted by Don Schaeffer @ 4:54 PM   0 comments 
Biography of a Man

We are creatures
atop and below
whose ancestors joined long ago.

Slimed together
in gelatinous
biological glue
swallowed into
the maw of an elastic fish.

I don't know why
I think myself alive,
suffused among
masses of
soft automata,
each with its own god,
can hear the pumps
and wonder.

posted by Don Schaeffer @ 11:03 AM   0 comments Letter to the Ethics Editor

How do you feel about anger?
Does it feel good
like other passions?
Is it a friendly device
like a sharpened axe
to shape the hardwood?

Can one be
forgiven for it?

When I hold
anger in my mind's hand,
I cut through ropes,
jam smooth uneven walls.

It vibrates hard
like a rifle butt.

posted by Don Schaeffer @ 10:21 AM   0 comments 
Biography of a Tree I know she is one
huge vegetable harmony,
impossible to dissect.

The vines reach inside her skin
and their fingernail fleshes
merge with hers.

posted by Don Schaeffer @ 5:19 PM   0 comments