her red high heels

i start to tell my therapist
about recent events
when she interrupts me
in mid angst sentence
and holds up her hand.
these shoes are killing me,
she says.
my boyfriend insisted i
get these red pumps and
my toes feel like their
being tortured.
i nearly broke my ankle
coming into work today.
she takes one off and holds
it in front of me.
it's a beautiful red shoe
from nordstroms. a nice
glossy red with a long heel.
i can see the blisters
on her feet. do you mind
if i take them both off,
she asks, as she does so.
no, i tell her. please.
make yourself comfortable.
okay, she says, grabbing
her pen and pad while
stretching her legs
out on the chair beside
me. i wish i had a pan
to soak them in. anyway.
where were we?

indecision

I see him
on the bridge, the water below.
the road.
the trees
that reach where he's standing.
a crowd
gathers.
he hangs on with hands
in back of him,
touching
the crumbling
marble of the ancient
wall.
someone comes up
asks him if he's
going to jump
or not.
traffic is piling up.
the crowd
is making it impossible
for people to go to work.
he looks around
at the waiting faces.
they just
want to get on with their
own lives,
not caring too much
about
what's to come, or not
come.

the pressure

the barista in his green
apron, with his earrings
and lip piercing
glimmering in the low
light of the coffee shop
tells me to have a good day.
same to you
I say
taking my coffee in hand.
licking the overflow
of vanilla foam
off my thumb.
all day I think about
what he's asked me
to do, to have a good day.
so i keep at it.
I smile. I forget my
troubles. I am conscious
of making this the best
day possible.
but it's hard. so
tomorrow i'll make
my own coffee at home
to not be under
such pressure.

nothing to say

exhaustion sets in.
lies
next to sadness
and futility.
wearily
I move over and let
grief
and sorrow
into the bed as well.
we lie
there beside one another,
still as stone
and say nothing.
what more is there
to say. what more can
be done.

there is work

it's work.
this glue, this binding.
what holds
the book
together.
the pages worn, earmarked
and stained.
it's work.
this day into another year.
the boots on.
the splattered shirt.
the dusted hat.
we find
what we need to find
and eat.
we settle into
our chairs,
our bed at the end
of the day. we wait
for sleep and sigh
into the darkened air.
tomorrow
there is work.

the gas

the furnace
won't stay lit.
the gas
seeps out into the air.
misting
into rooms,
into our lungs as
we sleep.
we need the fire
to burn
it off.
we shiver
in our bed and listen
to the vents
empty
of wind.
we wonder what the house
is telling
us,
whispering to us
about who once lived
here.
we take a match
down the dark
steps and pray.

wrong address

I get a photo in the mail.
carefully
I open it. afraid
these days of any
envelope
that reaches my house.
it's a horse.
a small horse
in a field.
there's no one else
in the photo.
there's a red barn
in the background.
hills.
trees.
a small white chicken
in the yard.
I want to give
some meaning to the horse.
to the photo.
the empty field.
but I've
got nothing and let
it go.
I tear the photo in two
and drop it into
the can. then I look
at the envelope.
it's addressed
to the neighbor next door.

today

the future is not
what it used to be.
the unknown
stays ahead of us,
a vague figure
in the fog.
the past is
so far behind.
nothing to do about
what's coming
or what came.
it's the moment
that counts.
the shoe striking
the pavement.
the air
coming in, going out.

the palm reader

the gypsy laughs
as I give her my hand,
palm up.
boy oh boy she says.
would you look at this mess.
ain't you seen it all,
she says
laughing. she yells to her assistant,
jezebel, who's making chicken
soup and nursing a baby
behind a beaded curtain.
get a load of this dude's
palm. she says. jezebel comes in
and they both
slap their foreheads and shake
their black mops of wild
hair.
this one's free, she tells
me.
sit down you poor poor man.
this one's on the house.
oh the trouble you've seen.
jezebel get this man
a cold drink. make it a double.
gin and tonic, I tell her.
Tanqueray, she yells through
the curtain as it sways
between rooms. get the cheese
and olive tray too.

make it go away

you despise them
but sometimes you need one.
a good lawyer?
someone who can cut
to the chase.
a man or a woman in a sharkskin
suit who can
see the light at the end
of the tunnel.
someone who can make it all
go away.
let you sleep at night,
penniless perhaps,
but well,
whatever.

the crazies

we need lines
in the sand.
walls of brick and mortar.
barbed wire.
chain link.
tall fences
with mirrors and wires,
cameras.
we need barking dogs
and alarms.
we need protection from
the crazies
of the world.
from the ones who want
in,
who can't let go.
who tunnel
into the earth to get
to where we are.
look how they swim
across the moat with
torches,
with arrows
and bullets.
they are relentless,
unmedicated and lost.

all yours

I show her my scars.
the old bruises.
the bumps,
the redness of muscles.
I show her
how my finger was twisted
from a long
ago injury. the broken
bone that healed.
I lie down on the floor,
take off my clothes
and stretch out my arms,
my legs.
I open my mouth.
I let her peer inside.
I tell her to take a long
good look.
I tell her to put her
ear to my chest
and listen to my heart.
I ask her to listen
to my lungs
as they grow and diminish
with each breath.
I tell her that I have
nothing to hide.
no secrets. no lies.
look as far into my eyes
as you can, I tell her.
i'm yours. all yours.
what's on the outside.
what's within.

should have had the meat lasagna

I get the lemon
veal
with artichokes.
penne pasta
sprinkled in parmesan cheese.
sprigs of parsley.
it's a mistake,
but I wanted to prove
that I could
try different things
in my life,
that I could be
spontaneous and free
from my
long engrained
habits, not stuck in
my ways,
but after one bite
I know,
as I do every time
I try eat out of
the proverbial box,
that I should
have had
the meat lasagna.

to kneel and pray

we kneel
to pray
and listen as the priest
goes
through
the stations of the cross.
the pews
are scattered
with mostly
older men
and women.
they've been catholics
their whole
lives
never straying once,
but making
every mass,
again and again.
you can't say the same.
but you're trying.

stop the bus

the bus is crowded.
we are
meat in a rolling
sub sandwich
of metal
and fumes.
the driver is in and
out of traffic
like a drunken
sailor
on leave.
it's Friday.
everyone has the look
of a long week
on their faces.
we just want
to get home. get
off this bus,
but there are miles
to go,
stops to stop at
while we spin and creak
down the city
streets.

when you marry an evil person

how easy

we are fooled by affection.

the smile,

the sex,

the kindness handed out

in large

doses.

it's a game of sorts.

it all ends

once their in and have

a set of keys.

the broken winged bird

needs a nest.

needs

food, needs 

all the things that are never

quite met.

one night

with your eyes open,

staring at

the black ceiling

and the future

with her, you have just

one regret.

wishing you had never met.

now to get out.

we have the room

it's hard to be mad
for too long
at the field mice
that find a way in.
so small.
so brown.
their long tails
behind them.
the thin whiskers
alive
with worry.
why not let them in
to burrow.
to wait
out the snow and ice,
the wind.
we have the room.
why not?

a plate of hours

anxious to get out
into the yard, she looks out
the window
to the vines,
to the weeds, the fence,
then up to a grey
wet sky.
maybe tomorrow.
maybe the next day. we
need flowers, we need
to see the red
and pink blossoms.
we need sunshine.
a large unburdened
plate of weekend
hours.

the white cake

a sliver
of her cake is left.
the white
icing hard,
the morsels of sweet
batter
now cold but moist
under wrap,
on the shelf
next to butter and milk.
shame to see it go
so soon,
so fast.
it was a good cake.
one
to be remember.
one that will always
last.

the busy hens

the ice man
with his horse. his
old
chestnut
horse,
sagging under the weight
of blocks
of ice
squeaks up the street.
his wagon
worn
and splintered.
the wheels in need of repair.
the early morning is coolest
to deliver
the ice.
he whistles.
unbothered
by his task.
people need ice. what
would they do without me.
the drinks
not cold?
he snaps the reins and up
and over
the hills he goes.
waving
and nodding to the egg man,
the paper
boy,
the roosters crowing,
the busy
hens.

sunny inside

the radio
tells us about the weather.
a siren of sorts
wails
across the air waves.
wear a coat.
boots.
tie down a hat.
it's going to be a rough one.
beware listeners
the man says,
but we don't
listen.
we're in a sunny
frame of mind.
a happy disposition.
love has warmed us
to the brim.
let it rain.
who gives a damn.

the ping of contact

it's a slow
drip
that won't stop.
the ping
of contact
keeps me up.
the constant
tap
of drop
after drop.
it won't let go.
there's
nothing I can do
at this hour.
I close
the door, put
a pillow over
my head.
in the morning i'll
forget about
it.
or try to.

come home

the dog is lonely
in the window.
his bark is just a yawn.
he stretches in
the sunlight, ignores
the mail man
as the mail falls
to the floor.
what's the point?
he looks down the street,
listens
for your car.
circles again
on the pillow, scratches
at the feathers
and shrugs.
what's taking him
so long.

give her room

her sleep
is long now. her dreams,
are they
dreams,
or something else
beyond
what we know.
the glimmer of stars
in her
eyes
is fading.
the shallow breaths
she takes
are numbered.
let's hold her tightly
one last time,
then let her go,
give her room.

the love within

I remember her differently.
not in this state
of skeleton
and skin,
hollowed out by the cruelness
of how
all life must end.
I remember what
thrived inside, the sun
the storms,
the clouds
and rain, her ice. and
When she finally makes
out,
i'll remember her for all
the good
she brought
to this world, all
the loved she shared,
and was given.

some people

some apples
never make it to the hand.
never
get tasted for the glory
that they
are,
though perfect
red
and round,
or green as bright as any
leaf
on a tree.
some just ripen
and wait,
then
fall to the ground,
never to be bitten,
to be found.

the stage mother

the stage mother
can't wait for the role to come
in.
she's aglow with what
it could mean.
she imagines
her self in the front
row
as the Oscars come in,
the Emmy,
the life time
achievement award.
she's patient and tells
everyone
about how well
the boy is doing. one
day, she says, you'll
see, you'll see,
he's only thirty three,
then she sits down
to sends him a check
to pay
the electric bill.

the picnic

we take the kids
out
on a picnic. we pack
the big basket,
full of sandwiches,
cookies and drinks.
something there for everyone.
we fold the checkered sheet
to lay down
upon some stretch of
hillside
grass.
we bring the dog,
his leash.
the kids bring a ball,
the wife
a radio,
a portable tv.
grandmother
brings her phone
in case
she gets a call for
a new prescription at
the pharmacy.
I bring a book or two.
the chairs.
we jump into the car
and drive.
we drive for two hours
until we see a spot
near the river.
it's there we park
and take everything
out of the car.
the dog runs off, the
kids chase him.
the sun slips behind
a cloud
and it begins to rain.
there's lightning
and thunder, but then it
clears up. we gather around
on the edge of red and white
sheet and eat. we should
do this more often I tell
the wife.
but she's lying on her
chair. the soft sun on
her beautiful face,
asleep.

where have you been

she'd collect
sand
from every land she
went to.
Timbuktu,
rhode island,
ocean city,
istantbul.
she kept the handful
of grains,
dirty blonde or white,
golden,
even black,
in small mason
jars
in the cellar.
marked clearly
with tape
and black ink
the places time
and dates.
if someone came over
she'd march them
into the basement
and say there you go,
this is where
I've been,
how about you?

the long distance call

they were married for
thirteen years.
from 1950 until 1963.
the mother, the father.
unlucky 13?
she was a phone operator
in Philadelphia.
he was a navy man making
a long distance
call to boston.
she was going to connect
his call,
ready to plug in the wire
when he said
with a twinkle in his
sea blue eyes.
hey. let's meet for a
drink.
so they did.
seven children later
they were done.
the marriage was over.
off he went. off she went.
what fell between those
years is hard to put
down on paper.
each finding his or her
own way in life.
for better or for worse.

i've made a mistake

i knew

i knew. i say that now

in hindsight.

four days after

saying i do,

i knew that she was dark.

sick.

a liar. an empty soul.

i knew that she was

trouble.

and yet, i said

i do.

possessed

with some vague hope

that she'd

be someone different

than what

she was.

i fear what's to come.

this will be

the hardest and strangest

year of my life.

i can feel it coming.

and i can't stop

what's coming.

not yet.

secret ingredients

I can tell you everything
about this recipe expect the last
few
ingredients, my friend
jimmy tells me
while he stirs a giant pot
of grey stew.
my grandmother swore me to
secrecy
on her death bed
about revealing the ingredients
of her venison
stew.
the key is to slow cook
and to find
a deer that hasn't been on
the road too long.
salt and pepper?
I ask him.
who told you that? i'm
not saying those are the
secret
ingredients, but i'm not
saying they aren't either.
now give me your word
that you won't ever tell
a soul though.
I promise I tell him,
then call in for a pizza.
hold the meat.

gun control

if everyone who
owned a gun shot everyone
who owned
a gun
would that solve
the problem
once and for all
about gun violence,
the woman asked
at the community
center
talk
on violence and gun control.
perhaps, the man said,
a politician
with an NRA button
stuck to his
lapel.
but then,
he pondered out loud,
wouldn't innocent people
be dying
for no reason?
next question.

doing laundry

I wait on the washer
at the blue iguana laundry mat.
I watch the slosh of suds
and grey water
splash against the glass.
the line of machines shine
in the morning light.
the dents
seem natural.
the rust, the lint, the open
doors
are just fine.
there's a basket in the corner
full of dark
wet clothes.
they've been there for
a week.
left and forgotten,
I suppose.
I see the same people
each time I come. we talk of
small things.
leaving out the big things.
we're doing laundry.
but now I come early
before they do.
before they start their
loads
of whites and coloreds.
carrying in their bleach
and detergents.
I want this time alone.
to hear
the spin, to hear the coins
fall into the slot.
to say nothing to no one.
and have nothing
said to me.
I want to fold my warm clothes
on the counter
without a word said,
then go home.

doing laundry

I wait on the washer
at the blue iguana laundry mat.
I watch the slosh of suds
and grey water
splash against the glass.
the line of machines shine
in the morning light.
the dents
seem natural.
the rust, the lint, the open
doors
are just fine.
there's a basket in the corner
full of dark
wet clothes.
they've been there for
a week.
left and forgotten,
I suppose.
I see the same people
each time I come. we talk of
small things.
leaving out the big things.
we're doing laundry.
but now I come early
before they do.
before they start their
loads
of whites and coloreds.
carrying in their bleach
and detergents.
I want this time alone.
to hear
the spin, to hear the coins
fall into the slot.
to say nothing to no one.
and have nothing
said to me.
I want to fold my warm clothes
on the counter
without a word said,
then go home.

nine pages

the angel on my left
shoulder
bickers all day with
the angel on
my right.
do this one says, don't
says the other.
write this,
say that, you deserve
to let others know
how you really feel.
how dare they,
how little they know
of you, or walked
in your shoes.
i breathe in and out.
exhale
slowly.
i come to my senses
shoving
the devil
out the door.
deleting the nine pages
of feelings I
wrote to get even.

nine pages

the angel on my left
shoulder
bickers all day with
the angel on
my right.
do this one says, don't
says the other.
write this,
say that, you deserve
to let others know
how you really feel.
how dare they,
how little they know
of you, or walked
in your shoes.
i breathe in and out.
exhale
slowly.
i come to my senses
shoving
the devil
out the door.
deleting the nine pages
of feelings I
wrote to get even.

in the moment

we carve
initials in the tree
draw
with a finger into
the wet
cement.
take a hand
onto sand before
the next
wave
comes in.
we try so hard to secure
the love
we share,
wanting it to last
without end,
but it's the moment
we're in
that counts most.

as it should be

we wish
on the star zipping
along
the rug
of black sky.
we toss a coin into the well.
we avoid
cracks in the sidewalk.
black cats
and ladders.
we read our horoscope
and have
our palms read. we
look deeply
into the empty
crystal
ball.
we want to know what's
coming.
we want to wish
something into being.
we're a mess at
times, not letting it
all go on
as it should be
and leaving worry behind.

as it should be

we wish
on the star zipping
along
the rug
of black sky.
we toss a coin into the well.
we avoid
cracks in the sidewalk.
black cats
and ladders.
we read our horoscope
and have
our palms read. we
look deeply
into the empty
crystal
ball.
we want to know what's
coming.
we want to wish
something into being.
we're a mess at
times, not letting it
all go on
as it should be
and leaving worry behind.

spin the wheel

he takes his paycheck
to the
casino
has a drink. has another.
puts some of it
on black,
some on red.
he spins the wheel,
rolls the dice,
takes another
card.
it's a life.
it's a death.
pay day is next Friday,
hardly soon
enough.

one island

one island
looks like another.
one
palm tree, one curve of sand
and crystal
blue water.
one drink, in one hand.
the sun,
alone in an impossibly
blue sky
burning white.
one island
looks like another,
tomorrow we
take flight.

one island

one island
looks like another.
one
palm tree, one curve of sand
and crystal
blue water.
one drink, in one hand.
the sun,
alone in an impossibly
blue sky
burning white.
one island
looks like another,
tomorrow we
take flight.

all hell broke loose

my gut told me no.

the dark look

in her eyes.

her lies.

my relatives,

my friends,

my therapist, my dog

even shook his head

and said no,

don't do it, don't marry

this woman.

she's not who she pretends

to be.

she's a fake.

she's a demon ready to destroy

your life.

crazy as a loon.

all the cards said no.

the stars were misaligned.

there was no luck in

this venture.

no joy. no future.

the pain and sorrow was about

to begin.

and did i listen?

sadly no.

i said i do and then all

hell broke loose.

into open arms

I fill the empty space
with what
can't be bought
or borrowed,
or stolen.
I find it where it can't
be found,
where it must
find me,
when i'm ready
with open arms to
say yes.

yes. me.

who needs a cake,
a gift
a balloon or card.
who needs
things to mark
the road
to bend the corner
of a page
to remember
this day.
who needs a kiss
or warm hug.
who needs a candle
to blow
out.
or a song sung
to celebrate another
year
on this good
cold earth
in the month of
February.
who needs a party.
yes. me.

the black crow

the loud crow,
in mourning,
black as an omen
perches
at the highest point
of a bare tree,
the grey
arthritic branches
tangled
skyward.
what does he know
or see,
what can be told
by this single bird
so high
above you, above me.

night walk

a blood orange
moon
unbitten shadows
this snow
in vague light. we
walk,
our steps left
behind us
in puddled ice.
our tomorrows before
us.
the bloom
of cold from our
warm lungs
telling us we're
still here.

forward

the swallow of time.
the gulp
of hours
and minutes, fleeting.
the wind
of it all.
the dry thirst
quenched in love,
or not.
the spasm
of rush, the linger
of sleep
and dream.
how uneven and sure
this
life goes towards
its certain end.

why not

we all
want the golden egg.
the ring.
the watch.
the pile of retirement
dough.
the lake house
with a porch swing.
we want our feet up.
the sway of stars,
the melting moon. we
want
our backs rubbed.
we want
hot coffee, warm
food,
to be loved
without conditions.
we want nothing,
we want everything.
we want the golden egg.
why not.

so far away

the slush
of night. the pound of wipers
as the trucks
roll
by so close.
the snarl of traffic.
the dotted lines
of the wet road.
the wind
seering through
the cracked window
as the radio plays
carol king.
the destination so far away,
our head lights
muddled
in the falling sleet,
our bones
weary, our eyes tired
and red.
we dream of sleep.
we dream
of sleep. so much road
behind us,
so much more to go.

the fast year

where did the year go.
the days
and hours
flying
into the wind.
swirling away
like so many leaves,
so much
paper,
flowers unleashed.
where did
the past go,
the laughs and tears,
the small
moments of joy,
the tenderness,
the fear.
where did it all go,
what place does it
land and rest,
living on
in memory.

stored away

a box
of yesterdays
goes
into the attic.
that happiness done,
now stored
away
forever or
for a time when a smile
or memory
is needed.
taped and sealed,
wrapped tight.
the secrets
forever resting
in shadows in the cool
dark
light.

the old job

the circus
needs workers.
the bearded lady shaved
her beard
the other day.
the cannon ball
dare devil
wants no more of it.
he limps
around in a cast.
a broken leg.
the midgets
are tired
of being small.
cramped into trailers.
the trapeze family
are fighting,
no longer willing
to catch each other.
one has cut a hole into
the net.
the clowns are sad
and smoking
cigarettes in a bar
down the road.
the hunger artist
is
fat. there's
barbeque sauce all
over his face.
they've all grown
old
and tired.
there has to be a better
way
to make a living
than this they all
agree.

get there from here

the window
left open for the night
lets
in the cool
air.
fallen leaves
scratch at the screen.
the cat wants out.
a fox
in the woods
with it's baby
cry
wants something else.
a moon
says nothing.
the stars
jumbled
like broken
glass
are far away.
we can never get there
from here.
though we
want to.

rare fruit

how sweet her fruit
is.
the first bite.
the juice on my chin,
the drip of it
down my arm.
how nice it is
when ripe, when
picked in season.
right from the tree.
I could eat a basket
of her fruit.
so rare
these days. that
kind of love.

the buzz of silence

go away food.
beat it drink.
hit the road sunlight.
give me
rain.
give me wind and sleet
hail storms
under a darkened sky.
no books.
no television.
no computer.
my knees ache.
my hands
hurt from being pressed
together
for so long.
give me the buzz
of silence.
the dream
of yesterday.

the itch

the itch
returns. but I can't get
to it.
my arms don't
reach.
my fingers are too
short.
the spot escapes
me.
I need someone to help
me with this.

condo association

they tow
and tow and tow.
one car after another.
the condo board is cruel
and efficient.
don't park here.
or there,
hang your pass where
it can be seen.
no refunds. no pay backs.
no remorse
or worry. too bad for you.
don't park on the line.
don't have
a flat tire, or a crack
in your windshield.
don't leave
your dome light on.
inspections, registration,
all must be
on time.
all night the parade
of cars
on hooks roll out the lot
by the predatory trucks,
while the president
sleeps with a crooked
smile on her
happy elected
face. what fun.

a poem

what isn't
a metaphor. take that rock
for example.
your heart, perhaps.
that cold
stream
emptying into the wide
blue
sea.
your dreams?
what about the gulls,
the black birds
solemn
in their
wired rows?
what can't be written
and turned
into something more
than what it is.
a poem?

the beat

the work
is hard. the road
too.
the car won't start.
the tires
are gone.
we take the bus.
we walk.
we put out
a thumb.
the beat, the beat,
the beat.
goes on.

the hearts

the world
is filled with hearts.
broken
unbroken. sad and
defeated, some blue,
some red
some filled with joy
and hope.
you can see
them dotting the open sky,
floating
like balloons up
into the blue
towards a sun
that will embrace each
and every one.

the long book

farther
into the book.
I see the plot unfolding.
I see
what came
before
makes sense to what's
happening now
on this page
in this chapter.
I ear mark
the page, and close
the book
in my lap.
I like where it is
right now
and what's to come.
there's no need to
reread or go back
to the chaos
of chapter one.

my therapist

my therapist
is quiet.
she lets me do most
of talking.
nodding sweetly at my thoughts
and words,
a stream of consciousness.
I settle into the long couch
and begin.
often it sounds
like confession,
without the forgiveness,
without the metal screen,
the dark booth.
the smell of candles burning
on the altar.
she asks
if i'm in danger, or if
anyone I love is
in danger.
I tell her no. I don't
think so.
she says good.
there's a long pause
which means something.
how's your mother,
she finally asks,
breaking the silence.
dying, I tell her.
we all are she says.
we all are.

coffee talk

I've been to jail
he tells me.
I ain't afraid of being
incarcerated again.
I survived the jump,
but he won't
survive jimbo. no siree bob.
it makes
no never mind to me.
someone messes
with my money, then it's
lights out
for that dude.
you hear what i'm saying.
I sip my coffee
and nod.
i'm in the middle of a book
of Buddha quotations.
lingering on
the ones that strike
home.
don't look for the path.
be the path.
yes. I tell him.
taking a bite of my crumbly
blueberry scone.
I smell what you're cooking
brother.
i'll bust him up good
if he don't pay me by this
Friday.
I've got a 32 inch wood
bat sitting
inside my vehicle right now
just waiting to pop him.

as it should be

the neighbor
with her baby bump
is bright
with joy. the first born
now five no
longer crib or stroller
bound
but in ribbons
and dresses.
a small flower
in the winter sun.
they
walk as one
towards
the pathway that winds
between
the houses, into
the grey woods.
so quick
we take their hands,
then let go.
letting them find their
own path,
as it should be.

the weight

there is solace
in prayer.
in reading. in kneeling
with head
bowed.
forgives
and compassion so rare
in this fast
world.
what we do
and what's been to us
by others
weighs us
to the ground, but
opens our
eyes, our wounded
hearts to becoming
better.

just like that

the men
in the rain, jack hammers
pounding
the pavement.
the brittle noise
echoing
off the houses.
white hats,
green bibs,
boots laced high
covered
in yellow mud.
hammers at their side.
wheel barrows,
picks and axes.
the streets come
up in chunks,
in irregular stamps
of earth.
what seemed
forever is gone, just
like that.

the pale sun

the illness of others
brings you
to your knees.
loved ones
or not,
the humbling way
we crumble
over time with no one
getting out alive.
it reduces
all else to pebbles
in our shoes,
the x ray
the blood
the testing all
blotting out a pale
sun with
bad news.

that look

at the wedding
when Jesus turned
the water into wine
there was
jimmy
at the table shaking
his head
taking a sip.
I can't drink this
red wine
he said, wiping
it off his beard.
white goes with fish.
then Jesus gave him
a look.
that Look.
and he said, oops.
my bad.
okay.
red is perfectly
fine.

the cave drawings

if you do the things I want
you to do
i'll be happy.
if you don't
i'll have to punish you
in some sort
of passive aggressive
way.
silence,
or short answers
without ever looking
at you
directly.
i'll come home late
and slam
the door.
watch tv all night
while you go to bed.
it's what we do.
what we learn
from
the cave men and women
who were
our parents.

the new world

the next thing
we need
to do is
this.
then after that.
that.
but we will go through
the list
like a lumber jack
in a forest
of trees.
clearing the land
for a new
world.

every inch of your love

the scratch of a needle
on the old
hi fi reminds you of
the hours lying
in your room
listening to stacks
of wax.
the bands of your era.
credence.
the doors.
led zeppelin's
whole lotta love.
learning every line,
hitting every note,
strumming your
air guitar,
banging on drums
called pillows
until someone, perhaps
your mother,
pounded on your locked door
and yelled
turn that down
and open a window
those cigars you're
smoking
is smelling up
the whole house.

bullets

once out
of the chamber
with the squeeze
of an angry finger,
and in the air,
you can't
put the bullets
back in gun.
the death or wounding
with words
of a loved one
has happened,
the damage is done.

light starch

the dry cleaners
with
their squeaky wheel of a rack
that takes
up the whole
store.
a world of clothes wrapped
in the thinnest
of plastic.
the odor
of chemicals in the pink
air.
shirts
and dresses. pants
suits. all made new,
crisp again
for wear.
alterations.
adjustments.
a seam sewed tight again.
your ticket brings you
what you left
three days ago
and someone behind
you
tosses down his ball
of clothes.
and says, light starch

press on

guilt
is a bitter
taste. a rotten fruit
in one's mouth.
the harm
we do to others
stays with us
beyond
reason or logic.
we can't spit
it out,
ever, though
the taste lessens
over time
with confession.
no words can soothe
either soul.
press on.

in colors

she wants pink.
the brightest pink on the chart.
one wall.
one long wall for
accent, for punch,
for pizzazz.
so you pour the can into
the tray
and roll it on.
three coats.
when she arrives home
to see
it.
she screams with joy.
it's perfect she says
I love it.
thank you.
some needs and wants,
desires
come easy
and in colors.

the black bull

the matador,
is old.
he sits in his spangled
costume,
the tilted hat,
the shoes,
glittering gold.
blood on his sword.
the roar of the crowd
at the black
bull
kneeling towards
death in the middle.
his eyes
uncertain.
the ache
in his back.
so many bulls to kill,
so little time
left
to do so.

this way

a troubled world
spins
on.
the restless night.
the ice
under our feet.
the glare of a low
sun
making us wince.
the coffee
bitter and luke warm
on our tongue.
it wasn't always
this way,
this
hard,
was it?

not a pretty cat

it's not a pretty
cat.
this black long hair thing
with
bottled green
eyes,
a tail like a feather,
black
and slick as a crow's
wing.
she's loud
and needy, cautious
between the cars,
under,
around
the wheels, then coming
to you
to slide between
your shoes and legs
telling you
about the world she lives
in,
which is so
unclear.

boxes

they arrive
in threes, these men
in dark
suits
boots,
hats and gloves.
their world is full
of boxes.
tools and knives
to cut
and open.
they park anywhere
they please.
they want it out
then in,
to get to the next
house
then leave.

the long road

we slow
down to see the cows
in the pasture.
brown and white,
slow to move, to look
up.
mouths chewing sideways
to a slow clock.
unencumbered
in the early sun.
the fence rails go on forever
on this road
that leads
to the blue ridge mountains,
the bent posts and wire
keeping them in,
keeping us
out.
so many fences in our
lives.

coming out the other side

it's too hard
to see
when in the storm,
the flood
or fire
what it all means.
what
the blessing of
brokenness could be.
only
on the other side,
when the smoke
has cleared
when the water
subsides,
when the wounds
have heal
can we understand
or begin
to know what should
be.

we fall

we fall
we land hard.
we bleed
we cry, we get up.
we move
on.
we fall again.
then again.
in time
others reach down
with a hand.
it's there if we
want to take
it.
we need them
to keep us upright.

the black leather coat

he takes
the coat gladly
from my hand.
feels its weight.
it's yours, I tell him.
I haven't worn
it in years.
the last time I was
in a winter storm,
snow up
to my knees.
I remember leaving
home,
looking back at the yellow
square of light
from the kitchen window,
the door already closed
behind me.
it saved my life
that coat, I tell him.
being untruthful
but
dramatic, to give
the coat
more life.
it's black. it's leather.
it's
been in the closet
for so many years
that I've lost track.
he puts it on,
buttons it.
zips it.
puts his hands in the
pockets,
then turns up the collar.
I like it
he says.
it's yours, I tell him.
wear it well.

a month of birthdays

the month
of birthdays has arrived.
the coldest
month.
the white month of snow
and ice.
blue wind.
how the trees bend.
how the candles burn,
the flames
kneeling
in a circle.
so many years of cakes.
so
many blessings.
so many sins,
mistakes. but I've
changed. so
slice me a piece,
not small,
not just a taste,
but one to fill the
plate.

no forwarding address

a letter arrives
in the mail.
the thin narrow
sealed
envelope of standard
proportions.
stamp in the corner,
a liberty
bell.
no scent to speak of.
no clue
as to who from.
no forwarding address.
the handwriting on
the front
unfamiliar
though a hand has
written my name
upon it.
my address too.
why open it?
why know
what's been said,
what's to enter my head.
what words
will be there
to make me change course.
to alter
my tomorrows.
perhaps it's nothing.
so often that's the case
these days
with mail.

a wrong turn

I remember the bat
that flew
into the house. a small
clump
of hair
and claws, mouse
sized, brown
black.
the zip of it's canvas
wings
spread
veined and thin,
frenetically flapping
from room
to lighted room
seeking
the shallow cool
of darkness.
I remember sweeping
it from
the low
sky he was trapped
in,
the stark whiteness
of walls
and ceiling,
moving him
towards the open door
until finally
he was
no more.

form over function

is it form over function?
or practicality
that we need.
what serves us,
what gives us pleasure,
soothes our
minds eye,
saves
us time,
or both.
what are we storing
up so
many minutes for
to begin with?
let's go with form
this time.

light over dark

some days
are without shadows.
we keep
it bright.
light.
our feet walk with
a spring.
our eyes
are wide open,
our hearts
alive.
we've left as
many yesterdays behind
as we can.
we savor
this day.
we want it to last,
to become
all of our tomorrows.
light over
dark.

in the cave

they find
the skull in the bottom
of a shallow
pool, inside a cave
inside a mountain,
inside the earth.
the bones
follow her out
into the daylight
of blue
skies, a sun
not seen for a
thousand years.
they find what there
is to be known about
her.
give her a name,
give her
a place a time,
a reason to be where
she wandered,
then died.
how fast we live.
how quickly
these days disappear,
as we do,
in time.

what now

he looks at his gold watch.
his
rings.
his house, the one here,
the one
at the shore.
his fourth wife
in the yard
on the phone,
stretched out in a chair
doing her nails.
he looks at his boat
in the driveway.
the three cars in
the three car garage.
the sub zero fridge is empty.
water beer
leftovers in sterile
white boxes.
the Viking stove, cold
and clean.
he sees himself
in the black glass
of the patio door
and touches the lines
in his face.
he stretches and yawns
at the sun
peeking over
the pool.
it's early too early
in the day,
but too late
to figure out what
went wrong. what to do.

the late letter

the brother
over seas, in the war.
in the trenches
sends a letter.
it's mud caked. blood?
there is the smell of carnage
in the words.
the heart felt
scroll scratched out
in ink.
the mustard gas
in tightening his throat.
the screams
of the dying
and the undead
barely alive drip
upon each page. i'll be
home soon the letter says,
between shells,
between the narrow line
of bullets
searing by,
but he'll be gone
before it gets here,
boxed and draped
in red white and blue
before a tear can fall
from his mother's
eyes.

waiting for the sun

the ragged
clouds.
the spit of night ice.
the black lines
drooping
heavy
after the storm
but the black birds
that are still around,
still here
don't think twice.
they sit
in army lines across
the long
stretch of
wire,
beat their wings tight
and wait out the day.
wait for the sun,
as we all
do.

rainy day money

with a little extra
cash on hand
I feel the fire
in my pocket.
it needs to be spent.
but on what?
what do I need that I
don't have,
that I can afford?
so little
comes to mind.
a warm
fire, a cold drink.
a good meal.
arms
around me.
most of what I need,
has nothing
to do with price
or purchase,
maybe i'll take
the cash
and give it away,
or save it,
save it for that rainy
night.
that rainy day.

the carnival date

we were having way too much
fun
at the carnival
eating candy apples,
caramel corn,
cotton candy and drinking
sodas,
going into the fun house
to stare into
the curved mirrors.
so it wasn't unexpected
when
she lost it all
on the ferris wheel
as it spun high above
the crowd
and fluorescent lights.
the date was over at that
point.
but she seemed less worried
about me, and more
concerned what her
mother would say
about her pretty pink
dress.

cow milk

i'm done with milk.
i used to love milk.
we've been
going steady since
birth.
mother's milk. cow milk.
skim, low fat,
whole.
half and half, light
cream,
heavy.
i just don't have a desire
for it anymore
despite how much i loved
a tall
cold glass with a
slice of cake.
so many things change with
age, but
it's a slow go.

sleep walk

i used to sleep
walk
when i was young.
walking
into closets,
going down to the kitchen
to forage.
my mother
would
see me in the shadows
of the hall
and get up
to guide me
back to bed.
taking me by the shoulders
and steering
me
to my room.
goodnight, she'd say
again
and tuck me in.
not saying a word
to anyone.

what to sell

i'm running out
of things to sell on
craigslist.
the ladders, the sideboard,
the orange chair,
the three lamps
without shades.
one snow tire.
one bird cage.
one small dog kennel
with a rubber ball
still inside
ready for chewing.
I stare at my collection
of shoes.
brown and black.
some loafers,
some with laces,
some perfectly fine,
but I just never liked
them enough
to wear them in
daylight.
after dusting and polishing
them up,
I take a chance and
take a photo
of six pairs of slightly
worn dress shoes.
I throw a tie or
two into the mix,
one argyle one striped.
no charge.
i'm back in business.

wood for the fire

we gather wood
for the fire.
we break sticks into twos
and threes.
we gather around
in a circle
as the flames
rise
and warm our hands,
our feet.
the snow is around
us.
the trees are bare.
spring is far
off in the distance.
we gather wood
for the fire, it's
what we need to do.

never enough

the salesman
knows everyone. shakes
hands
has a smile
and quick word
and laugh
with all.
he's working the crowd.
selling.
selling.
selling.
it's the bottom line.
the tally
at the end of the day,
the year.
life.
how much do I have
now,
he whispers
to his accountant,
not enough
is the answer,
not enough.

the funeral chit chat

some are crying.
bent over
in sorrow, grieving
the loss,
the memory of a loved
one.
some are
social,
slapping each other
on the back
saying things like
nice to see
you again, it's been
too long.
it is what it is.
so what are you up
to now?
are we heading over
to the house
for lunch?

into rain

we
dance.
we sleep.
we eat.
we work and find
time
for
talk.
make love.
the days slip
away
like water
down
the stream
into the bay
the ocean
then up
again
into rain.

white rice

i can't even look at a roller
coast
these days
without getting dizzy
and sick
to my stomach
i tell my friend jimmy.
he says that he feels
that way too
when he sees a wedding
going on.
i can't even look at white
rice anymore, he says,
without almost fainting.
after four short
sprints
to the altar
he's done with marital
bliss.
his girlfriend
betty, who's
hanging on his arm
and chewing a massive
wad of gum
sighs and shakes
her head
and says
we'll see. we'll see.

itemize

I ask my tax
lady
if I can write off
shoes.
lunch.
shirts and pants.
she
takes a look
at my paint splattered
clothes
and laughs.
and your hat too
she says.
have a seat
and let's
itemize your life
dear boy.
so where did you
have lunch today,
she asks.
did you take a client?

crayola sunset

it was a Crayola
sunset.
a box
of crayons melting
on the palette
of a pale blue sky.
it looked religious
in a child like
way.
the lines wavy and off,
the crude struck colors
smudged,
green where it should
be red.
the sun too white
for winter.

what did we eat last night

i can remember
the phone number i had when
i was
ten and the phone
was black and
hung from the kitchen
wall
with a thirty foot
gnarled cord, but i
can't remember where
i put my
keys an hour ago, or
what i had for dinner
last night.
some things i choose
to forget,
but other things just
don't stick.
it's not dark yet,
but it's getting there.

animal food

i couldn't kill a cow.
or a chicken.
or any animal
unless it was attacking me
and i had
to defend myself.
the thought of trapping
a rabbit and making
stew with small
potatoes
seems crazy, unless of course
i was starving
and just
got off the mayflower
in my pilgrim
outfit
and musket.
famished
after months at sea
without a shower
or a hot meal.
i feel bad enough as it
is pulling
a fish out of the river.
how that hook
must hurt.

the spoon of you

a teaspoon of you,
a small taste,
a dollop or drop
of you
makes
me want
the gallon jug,
the barrel,
the whole factory
that churns
you out.
don't tease me
with
the spoon, I can't
walk straight
with that.

break out

there's been a break out
at the zoo.
giraffes are running
down the street.
monkeys are on the phone
wires.
elephants
are stampeding down
Connecticut avenue.
I see a gorilla
on the cross town bus
wearing a hipster hat
and shades,
reading the paper.
he slouches in his seat.
laying low as he makes
his escape.
a small bag is at his
side. an umbrella.
he sees me looking at
him and nods
good morning. tips his hat.
he's out and not looking
back.
I nod back,
maybe it's my turn soon.

waiting on a friend

my man,
my main man
is outside the seven eleven
waiting for his
ride.
a lucky between
his lips.
a thermos.
his thin leather jacket
barely keeping
him warm.
his paint pants blow
wide in the wind,
bleached white,
streaked
in old dried paint.
his boots speckled,
his gloves torn.
his beard rides off
his chin
in blonde red
curls. he strokes
it patiently while
I arrive on time.

blabber mouth

I hear a secret
and promise
to never tell a single
soul what I just heard.
I vow to never repeat
what has
just come into my ear.
I put my hand
on my heart,
I swear on a stack
of Bibles,
I swear
on a loved one's
live
to never ever
tell anyone what I
just heard.
this last about
ten minutes
before i'm telling
someone on the phone
asking them
to put it in the vault.

a bright red hat

I know
things I shouldn't know.
and don't
know many things that
I should.
I have a cluttered
brain,
an attic of old thoughts,
webbed
memories, distorted
facts
and ideas
that don't get lost.
I know
who I am, by now.
where I live, what
my needs and wants are.
I know
each fault,
each wrong turn that I've
made along
the way.
I know this. I know that.
I know
that you look fabulous
beneath the sunlight
in a bright red hat.

tax season

it takes less
time each year gathering my
papers together
to take to betty,
my tax lady.
I have the annoyance down now.
she says the same thing,
how we'd do
as I plop my stack onto
the counter.
her little business
is in a small cape cod
cottage
next to a farm,
or what used to be a farm,
on the outskirts of
manassas.
she lives upstairs.
cats roam everywhere.
a window hasn't been opened
in years.
I've seen the same
coffee cups and ashtrays
for decades now.
the magazines too.
ancient.
liz taylor on the front
of People.
burt Reynolds on Us.
a few weeks go by and she
calls.
they're ready, she says.
come and get em.

hot tub

I slip out of my
clothes and slip into
something more comfortable.
which
is a hot tub
of water.
the lights off.
the phone off.
the world off.
the water steams
the room
as I slide down
to my neck and chin.
I am back in the womb.
back in
the safe place
I started from.

69

the boardwalk
wasn't always this way.
clean
and swept.
the stores aglow
with
what to buy.
there wasn't always
strollers
and families.
it was a different time.
the runaways,
the drugs,
the collection
of miscreants who
hitchhiked there
from everywhere to
sleep on the sand,
to ask for spare change.
to beg
and borrow their
way through
a weekend.
it wasn't always so
proper
and refined.
the Hilton, the Sheraton.
we'd stay at the Broadmore
on Pacific
and Vine
for two dollars and
fifty cents
a night.
a bare mattress,
a bulb overhead,
the window propped open
with a stick, but it
was fine.

the math of you

the numbers
don't always add up
when
I figure out the math of you.
the quadratic
equation
that you are.
I like the angles,
the curves,
each side of your
isosceles triangle.
it's hard to know
when
you're round
or square
or a line broken off
that trails into infinity.
my calculator
is on fire, my abacus
can't keep up. I've tossed
the slide rule into the air.
I need
Einstein to figure you
out at times.