saturday matinee

you go to the movies
on a cold
winters saturday
and people
are coughing
behind you, beside
you, in front
of you. the screen,
thirty yards away
is blurred
with their
sneezing.
you shield
yourself with a
giant box of
popcorn, ducking
when you hear
the gagging,
the rustling of
kleenex as noses
get blown
like french horns.
it's not unlike a world
war one infirmary
full of mustard
gas victims
coming out of trenches
holding
their eyes and
throats. it's
hard to enjoy
the show, as you
lift your feet
and sit curled like
a ball
turret gunner
in a fetal position
waiting for
the previews to end
and the main
feature to begin.
you place junior mints
into the air
passages of your nose
to prevent
the germs from
floating in.
this movie better
be good.

boiled carrots

you start the new
year off
with a bundle of
bright orange
carrots. secretly,
though you hate
carrots. you buy
some kale too,
spinach and beets.
you are going to eat
healthy this year
if it kills you.
you stand at the
kitchen chopping
away for
the boiling pot
of water. tears
are in your eyes
from the onions.
and as you wipe
away the tears
you look out the window.
the yard is full
of deer and rabbits.
other assorted
wild animals.
mr. raccoon has
a fork and knife in
his hand and
a napkin around
his neck. they all
know that his new
diet of yours
won't last long.
they wave their little
soft paws when
they see you looking.

post mortem

the trees
in the forest
are whispering
among themselves,
speaking
in hushed tones
about
the others.
the dead.
the ones with
tinsel
still hung
on dry limbs,
lying now
on curbs
with wreathes
and empty boxes.
they shake
their high heads
in the january
wind,
sad for the ones
gone down, cut
off so young,
watered
and wired with
lights, for
a week or two,
some just
for one night.

let it burn

standing out
in the cold
with your
hands over
a barrel
full of flames.
you watch
the papered
memories of
the last year
burn, fly
softly into
the air,
white ash
against
the black sky.
fire has a
way of cleansing
your soul,
clearing
the brush
and debris
that you once
tried so
desperately
to hold. the fire
is warm.
the fire
is a blessing,
let it burn.

the day after

you spend the day
standing
in line
returning gifts.
that pink
nightie just
wouldn't do,
with the matching
stiletto
heels that are
already coming
unglued,
nor the bright
blue ring
the size of a
beetle that
doesn't fit any
finger. and the book
on the civil
war for your
pacifist brother.
what were
you thinking.
your mother was
insulted by the spice
rack,
and your father
upset by your gift
subscription
to the aarp
magazine. even your
dog ignores
his new rubber
ball and stares out
the window
at a stick
and a squirrel.

out of hands

out of hands
to hold,
too old now
to find
another, too
weak
in the knees
and heart
to let
another love
go, or
have it
mysteriously
end, like
melting snow,
she finds
comfort
in sleep
and old dreams
and in the dirt
where she
kneels each
spring
with seed.

the blue room

the decorator
sweeps her
hands out
and says,
a shade lighter
perhaps
of blue
would work best
on the north wall.
that wall
is dark
and needs a broad
stroke of light
to open up
the room
to enlongate
the length
and space you
rest in. but
you smile
and say,
i'll leave it
up to you,
you choose. i
only need a pillow
and a bed
and to remove
my shoes
to find sleep.

talking cats

how strange it
seems when cats
are vocal,
emmitting sounds
like hoarse
babies,
not quiet
and serene as
you know them
to be on most days.
but hunger
or love is needed
at times,
in all our lives,
and by being
silent is not
the way to get
them, nor is
scratching and
drawing blood
a good way too.

you look best in black

she says things
like, you look better
in black,
which means i hate
that red sweater
you're wearing, i'd
like to rip it off
your back and throw
it into the trash.
but she's not unkind
like that. instead
she'll find a thread
and pull at it
when you aren't
looking, unraveling
it slowly, going almost
unnoticed, making
you into the person
she wants you to be.

the cost of butter

the price of milk
rises,
eggs too and bread,
soft butter
in a tub,
detergents,
all of it inching
up by pennies
each week
or month, who
knows for sure,
there is no
announcing of penny
increases,
you just put it
into the cart
and go on your way
happy not
to be milking a
cow, or churning
butter this or
any cold day.

new art

you tire of the art
on your walls.
the photographs,
the prints
and abtracts.
they have been
hanging there
for years,
centered and
measured just so.
feeding your eyes
with the same
images both
day and night
as the lights go
on, or the sun
comes up.
you need
new pictures,
new colors, a new
city to hang
near the window,
a different point
of view to
move you.

the beard

you grow a beard
to appear wiser.
it's better
than any diplomas
pinned to a wall.
you sit outside
the coffee houses
and stare at a point
in the distance
as if meditating
on the future of
mankind. slowly
you run your fingers
through the bristles,
petting it as
if it's a cat
wrapped around
your face,
white and grey
like wisdom
should be. you
keep quiet. you
have observed wise
men and none of
them talk unless
spoken to, or asked
a question that only
they can answer.
you'll try that
for a while,
be one of them,
keep silent,
until they find you
out, until they know
that it's just a beard.

talk tomorrow

let's talk
tomorrow or the next
day, or next
week perhaps.
let's let some time
pass between us.
let some
snow fall. let
the wind
pick things
up that aren't
tied down
and move them
to another place.
let's talk
tomorrow, or
the next day
after things have
settled down,
and changed. maybe
then, this
can be saved.

middle age

her feet sink deep
into the dark
wet sand, one foot
after the next
avoiding the curves
of waves,
the white wash
of ocean that plays
at her toes,
cold and relentless.
she runs, and runs
alone in the low
sunlight of december.
halfway home,
halfway from the start.
the inbetween
is the harder part.
she doesn't know
that yet but may
soon find out.

why aren't you married?

in tears your
mother calls you to
tell you something
of great importance.
sobbing, she says sit down.
are you sitting down.
i'm lying in bed
mom, you tell her,
i've got the flu
and a fever of a
hundred and three.
i'm using my forehead
to boil water as we
speak. what's up? ohhh,
you don't sound good,
she says. do you have
any chicken soup.
some hot tea with lemon
and honey? yes. yes.
why are you crying mom?
we lost power, she
says. the other day
in the wind storm.
are you achy. do you
have a headache, too?
no mom, but i feel
one coming on. your
voice sounds scratchy.
you sound like your
grandfather did right
before he died.
you need some vicks
vapo rub and a hummidfier.
i'm coming over. do
you want me to come
over? i can be there
in an hour, but i have
to get gas and stop
at the post office
first. do you want me
to pick you up anything?
you stare at the phone,
pulling it away from your
ear. why were you crying
mom. what happened when
you lost power. oh that,
she says. you won't believe
it. i lost all of my
sauces. all of my
frozen sauces that were
in the freezer in
the basement. i called
the insurance company to
make a claim, but our
deductible is too high.
that's it? that's why
you're crying?
i'm coming over, she says.
don't go out. and put
an extra blanket on your
bed. this is why you should
be married. there is no
one to take care of you.
why aren't you married? what's
wrong with you that no woman
wants you. it makes no
sense....why don't you
let your hair grow out
and shave once in
awhile...slowly you slip
the phone back into its
cradle and put a pillow
onto your head.

guns and god

your neighbor bill
has a gun rack
on his truck
and a holster around
his waist. he's
packing heat.
you see him loading
ammo into his basement
before he goes
to his survival
meetings on saturday.
on sundays after
church he goes
down to the shooting
range with his assualt
rifles and shoots
at targets
with his wife mildred
and their sons
billy and elmer in tow.
in the winter
he goes hunting for
elk while she
waits at home
with her skinning
knives, cutting carrots
and potatoes for
elk stew. they are good
people who like guns
and god. who would
want to take such
happines and joy
from their lives.

walking the dog

the police take you in
for questioning.
there was a man fitting
your description
who committed a crime
in your neighborhood
late last night,
the good cop says,
slowly filing his nails
in the corner
of the cinder block
interrogation room.
you laugh out loud.
a crime, what kind
of a crime?
you look towards
the mirrored wall
and wonder who's
behind there watching.
i've done nothing.
i walked my dog
about ten o'clock
and went into the house,
made some popcorn,
a white russian and
sat on the couch,
watching tv.
there was an all night
zombie movie festival.
i love zombie movies.
is that a crime?
i think not.
then the bad cop
steps over, one hand
is behind his back,
like he's holding
something. you flinch
as he moves in closer.
do you know what germs are,
wise guy, he says, filth,
rats, you ever heard of
the black plague,
disease and pestilence?
he puts his nose
close to yours and you
can smell the steak
and onions he had
for lunch. there's
a red pimento stuck
between his teeth. well,
do you punk, he says. do
you have any sense of
responsibility to your
fellow man?
sure, you shrug, but i
don't know what you're
talking about. then he
slowly pulls his arm
from around his back
and puts a sealed plastic
bag onto the table.
is that yours, he says.
i don't know, you tell him.
pick it up, he says, go
on, it won't bite you.
now open the bag and
smell it, take it out.
that's right put your hand
in there and pull it out.
take it out, he yells
in his bad cop voice.
you do as he tells you,
what is that, he says.
i dunno, a piece of bark,
mulch, you tell him. so what.
is that yours, well, buddy.
is it? maybe you say.
i don't know. it looks
familiar. a little.
just a little, huh?
have you been walking around
your neighborhood
with your dog, pretending
to pick up after him
when he does his business
with this fake bag of
dog excrement? you've been
carrying a piece of mulch?
every time you bend over
you put a piece of mulch
into a plastic bag,
and leave his waste
on the grassy areas and
walkways of your own
neighborhood? is that right?
you suddenly hear fists
banging angrily onto
the other side
of the mirrored wall,
the high pitched voices
sound very familiar. well,
the party is over for you,
zombie boy. you're busted.
in the corner, lighting
a cigarette,
you see the good cop
smirking and blowing on his
filed nails. he shakes
his head and laughs,
mulch, he says.

more fiber

you see your friend candy
sitting at the table
making a long list.
she presses a pen hard
to the paper,
concentrating. what's up,
you ask her, pulling
out a chair in
the coffee shop.
what are you doing?
it's my new years
resolutions, she says,
tapping the pen
onto the table.
cool, can i see.
how many do you
have so far? fifty-two
she says, but i'm
stuck. hmmm. maybe
take a little break,
stretch, get some fresh
air, that always helps
me when i'm stuck
writing like that.
she puts her head back,
and stretches her
arms up over her head.
read me some, you
tell her. okay, she says.
well, number one.
i want to get some botox
treatments to get
these lines off my
face. number two, i
want to lose three
pounds, right here. she
pinches her waist.
number three, i want
a new car, maybe a white
mercedes. number four,
wait, you tell her,
this sounds like a
christmas list of things
you want, not things
you are going to change
in your life to make
it better.
whatever, she says.
stop interrupting me.
and by the way,
i do have one of those
life changing things
in here,
number thirty-three,
more fiber.

tough chicken

a woman pulls
a knife on you during
your dinner date and says
i'm warning you
if you make a move on me
later, i'll cut you. so
keep your hands to yourself.
you stare at the knife
in her hand gleaming in
the soft candle light 

and say, okay,
no problem, but can i borrow
that for a minute, this chicken
here is really tough.

the next flag

behind
closed doors
mop up
the blood,
the gristle
of bone
and tissue,
the debris
of livestock
carved
and pulled
apart.
the slaughter
goes unseen
as it
often does
in the swing
and sway
of history,
of dictators,
presidents
and kings,
of the next
flag
going up.

going home

you miss
the exit and end
up in another
state.
things are
different here.
the skies
are clear
and blue.
the water clean
and cold.
people wave,
people stop to
say hello.
you have strayed
from the road,
and it is
a good thing
to take
another
direction home.

banker's hours

taking a rare
chance
you press
your heart towards
another,
feeding a slip
of affection
into the slot,
but feel a cold
wind
across your
skin. your
heart is rarely
open, the hours
are even less
than a banker's
window.
and less now
as you flip
the sign
closed again.

the unkind world

you are amused
and somewhat amazed
at how small
things don't
bother you
like they once
did. the snub,
the angry words,
or rudeness
for whatever reason
seems almost
normal in
this day in age.
the unheld door,
the bump
in line. a car
that cuts you
off or
won't let you in.
how used to
the world you
are now, it being
so unkind.

the coffee house

along the narrow
stretch of sand and road
the sea oats
blow between
the thin pines
and scrub
brush thickly
tangled in dirt
and sand, a coffee
house appears,
once a fishing shack
perhaps, where men
could get their
hooks and lines,
their bait,
leaden weights
and other
assorted boating
needs, but now there
is espresso and hot
tea, and chocolate,
summer reading
upon the shelves
for when summer comes
again, a book on how to
filet a fish is not
far down from a grisham,
an old cheever, a brown.
and the two girls
behind the counter
pacing, thinking of
so much more of
when they can leave
as their nails
tap tap tap against
the machines.
you can see the clock
moving slowly
in their faces,
heavy and freckled
but pretty as only
girls can be at that
age. they wish you
with thin smiles a
happy holiday,
the bell ringing
behind you, over the
door as a december
breeze blows in,
goes out.

on time

a naked man
is seen running down
the street.
you wonder
what led him to
this point,
what possible thing
has happened
to make him
strip down
to nothing and run
through town.
money problems,
love gone
wrong. his health?
who knows for sure.
and as they
play it on the news
over and over again
with a blackened
circle
strategically
placed, you see
that he has a watch
strapped
to his wrist.
he may have lost
him mind, but he will
be on time,
no matter where
he is going.

small change

you take
no money from
strangers.
not a penny to
make your bill
right. you'd
rather go out
to the car
and dig between
seats for
the quarters
or dimes you
might need.
you'd rather not
owe a soul,
be suject to
a debt that will
be unpayable.
you'd rather
give,
than receive,
at least when
it comes to small
change.

passing through

you're nearly asleep 

on the long silver train 

out of town.
your ticket is bent
in your hand.
you travel light.
the rails sing to you
a sweet lullaby.
they moan softly

over the curves
and straights
gaining speed,

then losing it.

you travel past

green pastures,

small towns,

the farms, schools

and churches,
past more stations
where you catch
a glimpse of faces

you'll never know, 

or see again. so much
of life is like that.

passing through.

passing through.

the arrivals

your arrivals
are coming
less and less
with time.
the places that
you have gone
to and need
to go again
are diminishing.
those who
welcomed you
have long
departed, as you
will too.
your arrivals
are not as
important as they
once were.
it's more
about departures
now. the last
time here,
the last time
there. the farewell
tour, if
you will.

the cold

your cold
grabs you by the head
and shakes
you. your eyes
burn. it then
goes for the neck
and lungs,
mugging
the sweet health
from your
bones. it rattles
your arms
and legs,
sends chills
like spurs up
and down your
suddenly warm
skin. your cold
is a thief
in broad daylight
telling you,
no matter how
hard you try,
you can't
keep him out.
surrender, get
some soup,
some tea. get
in bed and let it
happen.

blue birds and daisies

when you were a child,

you hid

under the wooden desk
awaiting the furnace
blast of
the atomic bomb.
you remember
seeing your friend penny,

crouched next to you,

with her blonde

pigtails hanging down

around her neck,

coloring still
in her book, blue birds
and daisies,

her fingers pressing

crayons to the page.

how could the world
possibly end with
such a beautiful creature

as this beside you?

returns

you save
your receipts
for everything.
no one is
ever truly happy
with what they
get, unless it's
a car, or diamonds,
or an exotic trip,
but they
put on a happy
face, a pleasant
smile and say
something like,
oh how nice,
it's just what
i wished for.
it's perfect, thank
you for my window
de-icer spray
bottle.

the silent reply

silence
is deadly.
the harsh
look, the cold
stare, the
unanswered
rhyme to
the fallen
word upon
a page,
the slip of
tongue
or phrase.
silence
is sinister
and deep,
cuts
to the bone
with its
true
meaning, but
it's better
to know
than not
know.
better to hear
silence
than a lie.

oceans

there is no
match for the blue depth
of water.
the stretch
of immeasurable
darkness
and light, wild
with its wings
of waves
shining in old
moonlight
in winter sunlight.
there are no words
no stories
told well
enough to capture
it all.
you have to
keep going back
and back
and back, to get
a small taste
of the enormity
of what it is,
or could be.

the lightning prayer

move away from
the window
your grandmother
croaked
as you leaned
your skinny
sand rough
elbows on
the sill
and stared at
the magnificence
of lightning
scratching
silver across
the plum sky.
it will kill you
in an instant,
it will snatch
the breath out
of you, she said.
come over here
and pray
that it doesn't,
but you preferred
not to, and to
take your chances
with what god
had in store
for your life.

that holiday spirit

your relatives
come over
without notice
for a slice
of pie and a holiday
drink.
you see them
outside the window.
your aunt
and uncle,
your cousin bob,
your sisters
and brothers, all
peering in
as you peer out.
open up they yell,
we see you in
there. come on,
it's cold out here.
they knock and
ring the bell.
they begin to sing
christmas carols
as you hold
your breath trying
to wait them
out, but then
you see across
the room your mother
standing in the hall
with a shiny key
in hand, holding a
fruit cake
in the other.
it was under
the backdoor mat,
she says, then
helps you up.

a lump of coal

you are very
disappointed
in your christmas
gift.
coal. every year
another lump
of coal. you
try so hard to be
good.
but no one
understands
or sees the light
in you.
you are
misunderstood.
your lack of
affection and
aloofness is misread.
deep inside,
really really deep
inside
there is a small
candle of
good burning
bright. this year
for sure you will
turn things around,
you will
make changes and
make sure
that next christmas
everything
will be alright.

the seesaw

a reporter
comes to visit you
and ask you questions
for a feature article
he's doing
on failed poets.
it's going
to run in the kid's
section
of the post. he
takes your picture
first while
you rub your unshaven
face and swat
at a gnat circling
your ear.
so how long have you
been writing, he says,
staring into your
bloodshot eyes.
since i was four, you
reply. not well, but
i started then.
interesting, he says.
and what makes you
write, what makes
a poet tick deep
inside, what are
your inspirations.
i don't know, you say
and look out the window.
two kids are on a seesaw.
you can only
see one of them as she
goes up and down
against the blue sky,
her pig tails blow
in the wind.
a look of pure joy
and exhilaration
is on her face. what?
you say, did you ask
me something?

lucinda

you see
her in the morning
at the kitchen
table
filing her nails.
her hair
is a tumbleweed
of blonde
brush. she is
focused
and determined
with that file,
a silent storm
about to
burst into tears.
you say something
like, coffee?
but she doesn't
answer.
bagel and some
cream cheese,
lucinda? which makes
her look up
and say, oh, so
you finally
remembered my name.
how nice.

under the bed

on the outside
looking in
the place
is clean and tidy.
smells fresh
like pine cones
off a tree.
the books
are on the shelf,
the dishes
put away.
a vase of flowers
is on the table.
there is no
dust, no papers
strewn about.
but take a peek
in any closet
or under any
bed and therein
lies the truth
as to what goes
on here
in this house.

we're even

i like the days
when nothing
happens.
when no one
calls, or writes,
or asks you
to listen to their
problems.
i'm sure they
like not hearing
from me
somtimes too.
so we're even
in that respect.

my own country

you throw up
the white flag
lay down your arms,
put your hands
into the air and
say i surrender.
let them have
it all, the land
the things they
want, whatever
it is they are
fighting for.
the thrill is
gone, the battle
over. it's all
yours, take
it and be gone.
i'm going home
now to rest
and live in peace
raise whatever
flag you want over
me. inside,
i have my own
country.

one more

a kiss is
like a drink
on a warm
summers night.
one leads to another
and then you
have the bottle
in your hand
and you keep
pouring through
out the night
ripping off
the label and
awakening
hungover in
a strange room
in the morning
light.

abstract art

you are jealous
of the abstract
artists
with their
worshipped
splattered
paintings, saying
things like i could
do that. in fact
i do that on a daily
basis. i spill
and splatter, i
drip paint
onto walls and floors,
clothes, hands
and arms. my
shoes alone are
a work of art.
look at this shirt.
it should be
in a gallery. pollock,
pffft, he was
an amateur
compared to the messes
i've made.

sins

the water isn't
hot enough
or the soap
strong enough
to wash away
the sins of
the world away
that you take part
in on a daily
basis. you're
trying your best
to curb your
appetites
and desires and
to seek
guidance of
a higher more
pure power, but
the hot baths
do help
on occasion.

the bird in a cage

the bird
is such a fabulous
yellow and green
reminding you
of tropical
islands,
full mangos
and wild berries,
the sound
it makes is
pleasant to your
ears, it can
almost speak
saying all the words
that others
have to spoken
into his
hidden ears.
so it's a violent
surprise
when your hand
rests upon
the bars and he
bites into your
thumb like a vise
with his curved
steel beak,
and the blood
flows red
and bright.

the game

on the narrow
streets
lined with
chained link
fences
and beat up
cars
where you
grew up,
you chalked
bases
onto the black
pavement
for stick ball.
these days
they are now
chalked with
bodies that
have fallen
from gunshots.
a game of
a different
sort, for sure.

good people

asleep
you do no
harm, your
lips are quiet,
no words
come out to
say bad things
about others,
your hands
are still,
no longer able
to lift
what is not
yours.
your feet no
longer take
you into places
you should
not go.
sleep
makes good
people out of
us all.

quiet

how you long
for quiet.
to hear
the walls
be still.
the cries
of others
silent.
how nice it would
be if the trains
stopped, if
the traffic
became still.
leaving
only the sound
of wind
sighing
in the trees.

the rest of his life

the spoon fed
baby
with doll blue
eyes opens his
mouth for
the next soft
bite of pablum,
and when it
doesn't come
quickly
enough he cries
and holds
his breath
until it
comes again,
more swiftly,
and in this way
he has set
the pattern
for his life.

finding beauty

you make a gouge
on the wall
marking
another day.
you put a check
in the bank
to break
even for the month.
you pour out
the sour milk
and buy a new
quart to place
on the shelf.
you change a light
bulb that
has been out for
a week
then spin it
dark again.
you turn the
phone off when
it rings.
you settle
in to stare
at the yellow stream
outside
your window
holding the moon's
soft face
in its hand.