Houses on Stilts

You are an EyeLand Catch like your neighbor’s great-aunt,


After the oily waves took bites out of your land,

your home deserves a Time-Out.

Be Proud Mary.

Keep on Pipe Dreamin and enjoy backyard barbecues

on the Fourth of July

even as the June Bug bites alligator skin before mother nature gears up her ammunition.

Mama and Papa’s Dreamers swing on the concrete porch

watching the Grey Mist below My Blue Heaven on this Grand Lyle isle.

You will find paradise in these Weathering Heights, just

Sip n Sea.




mend, unwind, stitch

She is still looking

And he is ready.


He was also part of

Your finest issue.

We can build hope.

Really got to.



Opening up to you

There’s always a thread.

The Wooden Mustache

The old man’s cough stirs the sawdust on his work-bench. His green flannel shirt is faded from the fifty years of work. Rustling in the hay above, a mouse kicks a pebble through the small hole in the ceiling. Mr. Jared does not look up from his bench. His eyes drill into the hunk of cedar – sitting, waiting. He cannot wait to release the cedar’s sweet aroma. But how, what design will do this?

Ten-thirty. Moonlight seeps under the barn door. Sebastian thumps his dreaming trail against the outside wall. “I’ll bring you into the house soon,” mumbles Mr. Jared, “by midnight.”

Wooden women’s busts hang on iron hooks around the room, above dark pine legs and crooked limbs. Smooth, well-sanded feet line the dusty floor. Mr. Jared turns to his latest project – a man’s prudently chiseled face. The eyes are shut, the mouth reveals no chompers, and his chin protrudes out like a shelf that would hold a small candle. Waves in the cedar form curly rivers of hair, and a small seashell ear. Mr. Jared sits on his stool, wracking his brain for what is missing. “Facial hair? Did I miss a blemish?” The old man hunches forward, folding like a thin piece of parchment. He removes his silver rimmed glasses, caresses the woodland man’s lip. Slowly he traces the dome above the lip, back and forth as if applying make-up. “Too smooth. I remember now.”

Mr. Jared retrieves his tools, holds the chisel like cutlery, and begins shaving the wood into a petite mustache.

Sebastian begins to whimper. Still dreaming. Then he howls lowly, warning Mr. Jared.

His heart pulses pleasurably in his ears as the wood curls away aned4eec889e9eea34aa70179175630d13d falls to his black boots.

Eleven-thirty. Moonlight filters through the hole. Suddenly, red and blue join the mix. Sebastian thumps his tail louder, then runs down the field. Mr. Jared reaches for his sander, but the lights stop his heart and he hears everything.

The barn door whips wide open. A deep voice demands, “Where is Chris Knight?”

It Stings and it Heals


Abalone, starfish, Rain –

I suppose I will permit them into the waves.


Before concrete arteries, oceans substituted in one large jar, the preserved animals

now kept under microscopes    decayed

smelling like pickles and chlorophyll.

From the backyard of Western Biological,

bookcases store vegetables in filing cabinets

under the Pacific saliva.

As many as 100 encyclopedias attempt to

combine and separate

worms, urchins, nudibranchs,


to make a Picasso into a sensical Dali,

but we all know boxes don’t make sense

in a fluid body.

Cell walls are permeable,

rooms you can enter, float to and fro

exchange energy that is needed. Whenever you please.

Sit on a bench and ponder how the ocean spray

covers barnacles, seals, and humans

when dissection rips and fragments lives

“telling them very profound words to understand.”

Salty saliva drips from our eyes and their slippery pores.

It stings and it heals.

White Stains

I’m too close.

I can’t close it.

The celestial dressing gown grows,

shoots looks of wisdom down on me.

My engine drums against my outstretched ribs;

bones pound at an angle,

they sharpen at the tongue of: harp strings;

their vibrations rip at my throat.

I can’t stop.

I can hear a mantra:

“Shine, you dark, dark skeleton.

Shine, you dark, dark star.”

My shapeless voice quivers and leaves

moonlight stains on the ears of flower buds.



Hell in a Theater Attic

Flee to the attic, meet Anne Frank, scrawl your diary

day by day or minute by minute with a marker in hand

marking the peeling wallpaper.

158 killed

18 is the magical slope (if you’re into math).

Meanwhile, theater balconies terrorize the back of our heads.

Bullets push for center stage

“Look at me! Stop your folly.

Here I am. Look at me.

Look at my

hot metal skin

silver armor


through red, white and blue

blood (sells).

Flee to the attic, I will not follow

there are no eyes to witness

up there.”

Hand-held hearts, unpinned and thrown

into faces – above the cellar.


How can I sit here in my bathrobe

watching funny TV

while the City of Lights is snuffed by grenades,

gun powder, bombs?

An entrepreneur enters the Shark Tank,

a terrorist targets a cafe.

Death tolls rise.

A soccer game hears booms (just the ball, right?)

Stitch the borders, close the Metro.

No one gets out alive.

“This is Hell.”



My image of you:

A marble in orbit

around the ballroom floor

like a smiling astronaut

trying not to panic in a locked up space.

Gloom and doom, together in the endless land,



you are in a locked up space and your legs,

they run in place.

My image of you:

A silver horse, a cosmic gallop

around the sun in a metallic chariot

trying not to panic

in the feverish space.

Gloom and doom, together in bedazzled illusion.


you are in a feverish place

and your reins, they imprison your face. haber-1

White Washed: New short story teaser

In the six years I spent tracking David Addley, it never occurred to me that he didn’t exist.

Perhaps my friends were too nice and polite every time I mentioned his name. “Has anyone got news about David?” I’d ask over coffee at work.

Martin and Tia would look at each other worriedly. One would finally answer, “No, no sign of David. Sorry.” And then she’d change the subject. “How’s the new deck coming for your pool, Ethan?”

After three years, I stopped talking about my search and pretended I gave up on David – like a kid ending his superhero phase and moving on to something else, except I couldn’t focus on anything else.

“Mr. Addley, the car mechanic? Oh sure, I sure him last month at Better Value. He rang up $80 worth of beer and whisky. Must’ve been going to some party!” Darlene informed me over a tuna melt panini. She remembered my obsession with David. I decided to bring him up again. She had always been the best listener. Maybe the time lapse, oh maybe two years between our last conversation about him, resurfaced memory of David.

Darlene took a gooey bite and leaned across the table so I could hear her better over the street traffic. “Ethan. Are you really still trying to find this guy? He’s ubiquitous. Yes, I have seen him. You have not. You have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. That is all. How about I call you next time I see him? Even if it’s just a shadow of his shoulder.”

Mr. Addley was last seen at the auto shop six years ago. He closed up for the weekend and never returned for Monday morning. The thing that bothered me most wasn’t that he disappeared, but how no one cared. No police investigations, no questioning. He had no family or friends to question. Zip, zero. A week later, a new mechanic filled his place. No one wondered if David would come back. They completely denied his existence. “Forgettable character, I suppose,” Ethan’s sister reasoned once over the phone.

But Darlene has been by buddy since high school. She’s also the only one to have spotted Mr. Addley on occasion throughout the six years. “Let’s see. David is clearly sustaining himself. Hopefully not all on alcohol alone!” She chuckled. “He likes to exercise. A year ago he jogged along the Charles River in bright yellow runners and short shorts. It was goddamned freezing too. And, I don’t know. That’s about all I got. You’ve checked all homeless shelters and phonebooks for his name right?” She paused. “Silly question.”

Darlene gave me hope that he was still out there. The police disregarded my inquiries and laughed when I insisted about a man I never met.

But how can a man go missing and no one blinks an eye?

“You sure it’s Mr. Addley you’ve been seeing?”

“Positive. What other person walks around with a gun sticking out of his boot?” whitewashupdate2