we talk about
gluten for six hours.
we're sitting outside
at a restaurant.
I listen.
she talks.
I ask her what gluten is.
she tells me.
well, she says,
adjusting her glasses,
it's a molecular thing,
then begins to tell me
the long list
of foods that have gluten
in them.
the sun moves behind the building,
leaving long shadows
under the trees.
you can't trust non gluten
oats, either, she says.
they touch the same
machine that handles
wheat. they don't clean
the machinery in between
processing.
she arches her eyebrows for
effect.
I tell her
I never heard of gluten
until a few years ago.
I ask her if it's a trendy
thing, not eating it,
she frowns and looks away
to other tables,
to people having real conversations
about books
or movies. she looks at
a bird eating a crouton
on the sidewalk. I see it too,
but bite my tongue
and say nothing.
the waiter brings bread
to the table.
warm bread that you can
smell from ten
feet away. the steam rises
in ribbons.
I grab a piece,
tossing it from hand to hand
because it's that hot.
I slide some butter on
one side and watch it melt.
the crust leaves crumbs
on my shirt as I bite down.
bread, I ask her?
holding the basket up.
no, she says, there's gluten
in it.
I move the bread basket
to my side
of the table.
what about peanuts, I ask her,
any trouble with those?
Friday, June 30, 2017
more for me
we talk about
gluten for six hours.
we're sitting outside
at a restaurant.
I listen.
she talks.
I ask her what gluten is.
she tells me.
well, she says,
adjusting her glasses,
it's a molecular thing,
then begins to tell me
the long list
of foods that have gluten
in them.
the sun moves behind the building,
leaving long shadows
under the trees.
you can't trust non gluten
oats, either, she says.
they touch the same
machine that handles
wheat. they don't clean
the machinery in between
processing.
she arches her eyebrows for
effect.
I tell her
I never heard of gluten
until a few years ago.
I ask her if it's a trendy
thing, not eating it,
she frowns and looks away
to other tables,
to people having real conversations
about books
or movies. she looks at
a bird eating a crouton
on the sidewalk. I see it too,
but bite my tongue
and say nothing.
the waiter brings bread
to the table.
warm bread that you can
smell from ten
feet away. the steam rises
in ribbons.
I grab a piece,
tossing it from hand to hand
because it's that hot.
I slide some butter on
one side and watch it melt.
the crust leaves crumbs
on my shirt as I bite down.
bread, I ask her?
holding the basket up.
no, she says, there's gluten
in it.
I move the bread basket
to my side
of the table.
what about peanuts, I ask her,
any trouble with those?
gluten for six hours.
we're sitting outside
at a restaurant.
I listen.
she talks.
I ask her what gluten is.
she tells me.
well, she says,
adjusting her glasses,
it's a molecular thing,
then begins to tell me
the long list
of foods that have gluten
in them.
the sun moves behind the building,
leaving long shadows
under the trees.
you can't trust non gluten
oats, either, she says.
they touch the same
machine that handles
wheat. they don't clean
the machinery in between
processing.
she arches her eyebrows for
effect.
I tell her
I never heard of gluten
until a few years ago.
I ask her if it's a trendy
thing, not eating it,
she frowns and looks away
to other tables,
to people having real conversations
about books
or movies. she looks at
a bird eating a crouton
on the sidewalk. I see it too,
but bite my tongue
and say nothing.
the waiter brings bread
to the table.
warm bread that you can
smell from ten
feet away. the steam rises
in ribbons.
I grab a piece,
tossing it from hand to hand
because it's that hot.
I slide some butter on
one side and watch it melt.
the crust leaves crumbs
on my shirt as I bite down.
bread, I ask her?
holding the basket up.
no, she says, there's gluten
in it.
I move the bread basket
to my side
of the table.
what about peanuts, I ask her,
any trouble with those?
Thursday, June 29, 2017
ship at sea
my calendar
is empty.
i'm open seven days a week.
I have no where
that I want
to be,
no where that I need
to go.
i'm a ship
at sea, sailing without
a destination,
no port in sight,
no cargo,
no passengers.
i'm afloat on a dark black
sea
on a starless night.
is empty.
i'm open seven days a week.
I have no where
that I want
to be,
no where that I need
to go.
i'm a ship
at sea, sailing without
a destination,
no port in sight,
no cargo,
no passengers.
i'm afloat on a dark black
sea
on a starless night.
ship at sea
my calendar
is empty.
i'm open seven days a week.
I have no where
that I want
to be,
no where that I need
to go.
i'm a ship
at sea, sailing without
a destination,
no port in sight,
no cargo,
no passengers.
i'm afloat on a dark black
sea
on a starless night.
is empty.
i'm open seven days a week.
I have no where
that I want
to be,
no where that I need
to go.
i'm a ship
at sea, sailing without
a destination,
no port in sight,
no cargo,
no passengers.
i'm afloat on a dark black
sea
on a starless night.
she's too good for me
she's too good for me.
too much
fun.
too sane,
too smart.
she eats well, reads well
and
writes hand written
notes
to say thank you.
she knows how to tie
a bow.
wrap
a box,
fold a fitted sheet.
she can
bake a dozen cookies
without burning
a single one.
her kisses are sublime.
her hands know where i want
her hands to be.
she's too good for
me.
I have to keep this
to myself.
too much
fun.
too sane,
too smart.
she eats well, reads well
and
writes hand written
notes
to say thank you.
she knows how to tie
a bow.
wrap
a box,
fold a fitted sheet.
she can
bake a dozen cookies
without burning
a single one.
her kisses are sublime.
her hands know where i want
her hands to be.
she's too good for
me.
I have to keep this
to myself.
loose ends
the sediment
of love, the dust of memory.
the bones
of times past,
scattered
in the quiet near
empty yard
of wall to wall carpet
imbedded with
the backs of earrings,
shards
of glass. martini spills.
pictures
boxed.
books divided.
mine or yours?
all is done,
but the grieving
and therapy,
notifying the post office.
talks
long into the night
on the phone
to those not tired
of listening.
of love, the dust of memory.
the bones
of times past,
scattered
in the quiet near
empty yard
of wall to wall carpet
imbedded with
the backs of earrings,
shards
of glass. martini spills.
pictures
boxed.
books divided.
mine or yours?
all is done,
but the grieving
and therapy,
notifying the post office.
talks
long into the night
on the phone
to those not tired
of listening.
waiting for rain
a furtive line of clouds
brings rain.
reluctant rain. just a drop
of two at first.
a breeze lets you sit
down
on the porch
and watch
how the storm moves in.
the blue
bundle of clouds,
ribboned white,
with lightning.
the chimes
ring,
the rooster, rusted
red, on the far
roof
spins
the dog sits beside you,
lapping cool air.
together
you wait patiently
for it to begin.
brings rain.
reluctant rain. just a drop
of two at first.
a breeze lets you sit
down
on the porch
and watch
how the storm moves in.
the blue
bundle of clouds,
ribboned white,
with lightning.
the chimes
ring,
the rooster, rusted
red, on the far
roof
spins
the dog sits beside you,
lapping cool air.
together
you wait patiently
for it to begin.
waiting for rain
a furtive line of clouds
brings rain.
reluctant rain. just a drop
of two at first.
a breeze lets you sit
down
on the porch
and watch
how the storm moves in.
the blue
bundle of clouds,
ribboned white,
with lightning.
the chimes
ring,
the rooster, rusted
red, on the far
roof
spins
the dog sits beside you,
lapping cool air.
together
you wait patiently
for it to begin.
brings rain.
reluctant rain. just a drop
of two at first.
a breeze lets you sit
down
on the porch
and watch
how the storm moves in.
the blue
bundle of clouds,
ribboned white,
with lightning.
the chimes
ring,
the rooster, rusted
red, on the far
roof
spins
the dog sits beside you,
lapping cool air.
together
you wait patiently
for it to begin.
waiting on the ohter shoe
the coast is never
really clear.
there's always something
that can bite
you,
an insect, a rabid
fox,
that snake
crawling under the stoop.
there is always
something you can step
into.
a stove left
on. an iron that will
set your house ablaze.
is the door
locked?
burglars are in the trees.
someone's at the door
with
a deal on vinyl siding,
something up his sleeve.
what's this rash on my
arm.
when will the other
shoe drop?
really clear.
there's always something
that can bite
you,
an insect, a rabid
fox,
that snake
crawling under the stoop.
there is always
something you can step
into.
a stove left
on. an iron that will
set your house ablaze.
is the door
locked?
burglars are in the trees.
someone's at the door
with
a deal on vinyl siding,
something up his sleeve.
what's this rash on my
arm.
when will the other
shoe drop?
the ice cream truck
the maniacal ice cream
truck
rolls by every day
in my neighbor hood
at 5 pm.
a time that I call nap
time.
but I can't sleep.
I can't get my twenty
minute power
nap in
because the ice cream
truck is playing
its one song.
a simple loud clanging
of bells
in some ridiculous
repeating order.
I peer out the window
and see the smiling
bearded man
with a turban
slowing down in the court,
then the herd of children
run out with their
five dollar bills
to get
a nutty buddy, or a
creamsicle.
screaming like a wild
bunch of hyenas.
it's lord of the flies
out there until
the struck
moves on and finally,
I can get my
snooze in.
truck
rolls by every day
in my neighbor hood
at 5 pm.
a time that I call nap
time.
but I can't sleep.
I can't get my twenty
minute power
nap in
because the ice cream
truck is playing
its one song.
a simple loud clanging
of bells
in some ridiculous
repeating order.
I peer out the window
and see the smiling
bearded man
with a turban
slowing down in the court,
then the herd of children
run out with their
five dollar bills
to get
a nutty buddy, or a
creamsicle.
screaming like a wild
bunch of hyenas.
it's lord of the flies
out there until
the struck
moves on and finally,
I can get my
snooze in.
quit whining and get out of bed
the teenage angst,
who am I,
where am I going,
what will I be,
why doesn't the world
love me
or know who I really
am,
sets in
and can't shake
it's grip
until real life begins.
a job,
a broken heart,
new love,
money.
desire and fear
escalate.
food and shelter
over take
the whining and worry,
in time you
don't care
what you look like
or what others think.
who am I,
where am I going,
what will I be,
why doesn't the world
love me
or know who I really
am,
sets in
and can't shake
it's grip
until real life begins.
a job,
a broken heart,
new love,
money.
desire and fear
escalate.
food and shelter
over take
the whining and worry,
in time you
don't care
what you look like
or what others think.
quit whining and get out of bed
the teenage angst,
who am I,
where am I going,
what will I be,
why doesn't the world
love me
or know who I really
am,
sets in
and can't shake
it's grip
until real life begins.
a job,
a broken heart,
new love,
money.
desire and fear
escalate.
food and shelter
over take
the whining and worry,
in time you
don't care
what you look like
or what others think.
who am I,
where am I going,
what will I be,
why doesn't the world
love me
or know who I really
am,
sets in
and can't shake
it's grip
until real life begins.
a job,
a broken heart,
new love,
money.
desire and fear
escalate.
food and shelter
over take
the whining and worry,
in time you
don't care
what you look like
or what others think.
Wednesday, June 28, 2017
let's go fishing
i know what we can do today,
my love
says, waking up and bouncing
out of bed
with unusual enthusiasm.
let's go fishing.
fishing?
yes. let's go down to the lake
and catch some
fish, we can fry
them up for dinner tonight.
fishing? i say again,
safeway has fish now, in case
you haven't heard.
but these will be fresh fish.
right out of the water.
we don't have any worms,
i tell her, putting on my
non fishing shoes.
we can dig some up.
you're going to cut the worms
in half and slip their
dying slimy bodies
onto a hook?
ummm, well, can you do that?
and when we get the fish,
are you going to shop their
heads off and slice the guts
and bones out of them
so that we can fry them up?
well, i didn't think about that
she says, sitting back down on
the edge of the bed.
what about the steel hook stuck
in their mouths, are you going
to pull that out of them,
while their eyes bug out
because they can't breathe?
hmmm, she says.
i don't know. i didn't think
about any of that.
plus, i like fish, and wouldn't
want to hurt them.
fresh fish just sounded so nice.
what time does safeway open?
my love
says, waking up and bouncing
out of bed
with unusual enthusiasm.
let's go fishing.
fishing?
yes. let's go down to the lake
and catch some
fish, we can fry
them up for dinner tonight.
fishing? i say again,
safeway has fish now, in case
you haven't heard.
but these will be fresh fish.
right out of the water.
we don't have any worms,
i tell her, putting on my
non fishing shoes.
we can dig some up.
you're going to cut the worms
in half and slip their
dying slimy bodies
onto a hook?
ummm, well, can you do that?
and when we get the fish,
are you going to shop their
heads off and slice the guts
and bones out of them
so that we can fry them up?
well, i didn't think about that
she says, sitting back down on
the edge of the bed.
what about the steel hook stuck
in their mouths, are you going
to pull that out of them,
while their eyes bug out
because they can't breathe?
hmmm, she says.
i don't know. i didn't think
about any of that.
plus, i like fish, and wouldn't
want to hurt them.
fresh fish just sounded so nice.
what time does safeway open?
olga
they hired a battle axe
to do the firing.
five foot tall, broad shoulders,
a butch cut.
a no nonsense woman
from the eastern bloc.
she may have had a gold tooth too.
I forget her name,
but we called her olga.
if she came into your office,
you were fired.
that was the only reason
she had
to visit you.
after you gathered your box
of junk
she'd take your arm,
under the elbow
and escort you to the back
entrance,
out into the hot sun
where your car was in the vast
parking lot.
I don't know who fired her,
but I saw her
waiting on tables at ihop
one day,
she seemed happier
in her pink uniform.
to do the firing.
five foot tall, broad shoulders,
a butch cut.
a no nonsense woman
from the eastern bloc.
she may have had a gold tooth too.
I forget her name,
but we called her olga.
if she came into your office,
you were fired.
that was the only reason
she had
to visit you.
after you gathered your box
of junk
she'd take your arm,
under the elbow
and escort you to the back
entrance,
out into the hot sun
where your car was in the vast
parking lot.
I don't know who fired her,
but I saw her
waiting on tables at ihop
one day,
she seemed happier
in her pink uniform.
away from shore
i'm pulled
easily
in one direction or
another.
affection
has a strange power
over me.
I lose
the will to be rational,
logical.
it's a strong
wind,
this infatuation,
love,
and like,
lust too. a perfect
storm that pushes
my boat
away from shore,
away from safe harbor,
to you.
easily
in one direction or
another.
affection
has a strange power
over me.
I lose
the will to be rational,
logical.
it's a strong
wind,
this infatuation,
love,
and like,
lust too. a perfect
storm that pushes
my boat
away from shore,
away from safe harbor,
to you.
away from shore
i'm pulled
easily
in one direction or
another.
affection
has a strange power
over me.
I lose
the will to be rational,
logical.
it's a strong
wind,
this infatuation,
love,
and like,
lust too. a perfect
storm that pushes
my boat
away from shore,
away from safe harbor,
to you.
easily
in one direction or
another.
affection
has a strange power
over me.
I lose
the will to be rational,
logical.
it's a strong
wind,
this infatuation,
love,
and like,
lust too. a perfect
storm that pushes
my boat
away from shore,
away from safe harbor,
to you.
Tuesday, June 27, 2017
first inning
it takes forever,
the game.
the scratch the pull
the digging
of cleats
in the dirt,
we need another new ball.
gloves unwrapped
then wrapped,
gnats are pushed away,
time is called.
start over.
a swing, a miss, foul ball.
another
and another.
spit and adjust everything
one more
time before
a pitch is thrown.
the clock
moves deep into the night.
inning one.
the game.
the scratch the pull
the digging
of cleats
in the dirt,
we need another new ball.
gloves unwrapped
then wrapped,
gnats are pushed away,
time is called.
start over.
a swing, a miss, foul ball.
another
and another.
spit and adjust everything
one more
time before
a pitch is thrown.
the clock
moves deep into the night.
inning one.
first inning
it takes forever,
the game.
the scratch the pull
the digging
of cleats
in the dirt,
we need another new ball.
gloves unwrapped
then wrapped,
gnats are pushed away,
time is called.
start over.
a swing, a miss, foul ball.
another
and another.
spit and adjust everything
one more
time before
a pitch is thrown.
the clock
moves deep into the night.
inning one.
the game.
the scratch the pull
the digging
of cleats
in the dirt,
we need another new ball.
gloves unwrapped
then wrapped,
gnats are pushed away,
time is called.
start over.
a swing, a miss, foul ball.
another
and another.
spit and adjust everything
one more
time before
a pitch is thrown.
the clock
moves deep into the night.
inning one.
lemons to eat
like birds
in jackets, wool
sweaters
and caps, scarves
that don't match.
dickens people
on the corner with
clear
printed signs,
will work, homeless.
sick.
veterans of foreign
wars.
what has clipped their
wings,
what turn in the road
has taken the blue
from their eyes
removed their teeth and
gave lemons
to eat.
in jackets, wool
sweaters
and caps, scarves
that don't match.
dickens people
on the corner with
clear
printed signs,
will work, homeless.
sick.
veterans of foreign
wars.
what has clipped their
wings,
what turn in the road
has taken the blue
from their eyes
removed their teeth and
gave lemons
to eat.
more than luck
a small
cup of wind turns the leaves,
while we
sit on the bench,
it spins
the scraps of paper
that lie
upon the black top,
funnels them
together, puts them
into
a mystical turn,
not unlike us,
caught in the rise
of affection,
in the convergence of place
and time.
there is something
more than luck to this,
it appears.
cup of wind turns the leaves,
while we
sit on the bench,
it spins
the scraps of paper
that lie
upon the black top,
funnels them
together, puts them
into
a mystical turn,
not unlike us,
caught in the rise
of affection,
in the convergence of place
and time.
there is something
more than luck to this,
it appears.
Monday, June 26, 2017
out of work
my friend, jimmy,
the circus
clown,
is out of work.
he looks sad in his yellow
silky overalls,
his fat red nose
and white make up
with exaggerated lips
and eyes.
he sips his coffee,
stares out at the highway
and sighs.
i'm done he says. where
can I find another
job
looking like this,
pretending that everything
is okay, trying
desperately to make
people happy?
no where, I tell him.
no where.
politics?
the circus
clown,
is out of work.
he looks sad in his yellow
silky overalls,
his fat red nose
and white make up
with exaggerated lips
and eyes.
he sips his coffee,
stares out at the highway
and sighs.
i'm done he says. where
can I find another
job
looking like this,
pretending that everything
is okay, trying
desperately to make
people happy?
no where, I tell him.
no where.
politics?
take a breath
it was nice of you to call,
but I have to go now.
I have a cake in the oven
and someone's at the door.
the dog is barking
and a call is coming
in on the other line.
can you finish your story
later, later like when
I have three free hours
to listen?
hello, hello. take
a breath and stop
talking for one second.
there's a wild raccoon
in my kitchen trying to bite
me. let me call you back.
what? no, I can't believe
your mother said that either.
hold on, let me open another
bottle of wine
and get my ear plugs.
but I have to go now.
I have a cake in the oven
and someone's at the door.
the dog is barking
and a call is coming
in on the other line.
can you finish your story
later, later like when
I have three free hours
to listen?
hello, hello. take
a breath and stop
talking for one second.
there's a wild raccoon
in my kitchen trying to bite
me. let me call you back.
what? no, I can't believe
your mother said that either.
hold on, let me open another
bottle of wine
and get my ear plugs.
take a breath
it was nice of you to call,
but I have to go now.
I have a cake in the oven
and someone's at the door.
the dog is barking
and a call is coming
in on the other line.
can you finish your story
later, later like when
I have three free hours
to listen?
hello, hello. take
a breath and stop
talking for one second.
there's a wild raccoon
in my kitchen trying to bite
me. let me call you back.
what? no, I can't believe
your mother said that either.
hold on, let me open another
bottle of wine
and get my ear plugs.
but I have to go now.
I have a cake in the oven
and someone's at the door.
the dog is barking
and a call is coming
in on the other line.
can you finish your story
later, later like when
I have three free hours
to listen?
hello, hello. take
a breath and stop
talking for one second.
there's a wild raccoon
in my kitchen trying to bite
me. let me call you back.
what? no, I can't believe
your mother said that either.
hold on, let me open another
bottle of wine
and get my ear plugs.
who'd you vote for
she bleeds her beliefs.
far left,
waving the flag of discontent,
marching
until her feet hurt,
her voice fails.
save the whales,
kill
the babies.
a chicken in every pot.
jump bail, join the army
if you fail.
the pump don't work cause
the vandals stole
the handle.
a cardboard sign for every
issue.
her rage
is hard to be around.
she opens every
conversation with,
who'd you vote for?
it's down hill from there
if you disagree.
far left,
waving the flag of discontent,
marching
until her feet hurt,
her voice fails.
save the whales,
kill
the babies.
a chicken in every pot.
jump bail, join the army
if you fail.
the pump don't work cause
the vandals stole
the handle.
a cardboard sign for every
issue.
her rage
is hard to be around.
she opens every
conversation with,
who'd you vote for?
it's down hill from there
if you disagree.
who'd you vote for
she bleeds her beliefs.
far left,
waving the flag of discontent,
marching
until her feet hurt,
her voice fails.
save the whales,
kill
the babies.
a chicken in every pot.
jump bail, join the army
if you fail.
the pump don't work cause
the vandals stole
the handle.
a cardboard sign for every
issue.
her rage
is hard to be around.
she opens every
conversation with,
who'd you vote for?
it's down hill from there
if you disagree.
far left,
waving the flag of discontent,
marching
until her feet hurt,
her voice fails.
save the whales,
kill
the babies.
a chicken in every pot.
jump bail, join the army
if you fail.
the pump don't work cause
the vandals stole
the handle.
a cardboard sign for every
issue.
her rage
is hard to be around.
she opens every
conversation with,
who'd you vote for?
it's down hill from there
if you disagree.
Sunday, June 25, 2017
rowing
she likes her rowing machine.
set in the basement
against the blue wall, she has
a poster of maui
in front of her.
the atlantic,
lake Michigan.
a river a stream,
a pond.
she keeps rowing,
and rowing, pulling
forward until she's
out of sight,
gone.
set in the basement
against the blue wall, she has
a poster of maui
in front of her.
the atlantic,
lake Michigan.
a river a stream,
a pond.
she keeps rowing,
and rowing, pulling
forward until she's
out of sight,
gone.
rowing
she likes her rowing machine.
set in the basement
against the blue wall, she has
a poster of maui
in front of her.
the atlantic,
lake Michigan.
a river a stream,
a pond.
she keeps rowing,
and rowing, pulling
forward until she's
out of sight,
gone.
set in the basement
against the blue wall, she has
a poster of maui
in front of her.
the atlantic,
lake Michigan.
a river a stream,
a pond.
she keeps rowing,
and rowing, pulling
forward until she's
out of sight,
gone.
one man band
the singer
is not taking requests
as he stands on the makeshift
stage,
in sweat.
around him people
talk, and ignore,
they eat, drink,
answer their phones,
go out the door for
a cigarette.
he has
his play list and won't
stray
from the songs, the chords,
the
music that he
knows best.
someone yells out
play Elton,
play
Gordon, play Morrison,
or Joan Jette,
but he'll have none of
it
with his guitar, his
harmonica,
his drums and clarinet.
is not taking requests
as he stands on the makeshift
stage,
in sweat.
around him people
talk, and ignore,
they eat, drink,
answer their phones,
go out the door for
a cigarette.
he has
his play list and won't
stray
from the songs, the chords,
the
music that he
knows best.
someone yells out
play Elton,
play
Gordon, play Morrison,
or Joan Jette,
but he'll have none of
it
with his guitar, his
harmonica,
his drums and clarinet.
one man band
the singer
is not taking requests
as he stands on the makeshift
stage,
in sweat.
around him people
talk, and ignore,
they eat, drink,
answer their phones,
go out the door for
a cigarette.
he has
his play list and won't
stray
from the songs, the chords,
the
music that he
knows best.
someone yells out
play Elton,
play
Gordon, play Morrison,
or Joan Jette,
but he'll have none of
it
with his guitar, his
harmonica,
his drums and clarinet.
is not taking requests
as he stands on the makeshift
stage,
in sweat.
around him people
talk, and ignore,
they eat, drink,
answer their phones,
go out the door for
a cigarette.
he has
his play list and won't
stray
from the songs, the chords,
the
music that he
knows best.
someone yells out
play Elton,
play
Gordon, play Morrison,
or Joan Jette,
but he'll have none of
it
with his guitar, his
harmonica,
his drums and clarinet.
the cookie jar
the cookie jar
is broken,
the lid on the floor.
it's empty.
a trail of crumbs
lead
to another room,
out the door.
it begins here,
taking what we want
when no one
is looking.
regret
and apologies come
later
as the jar gets filled
and promises
are made,
again.
is broken,
the lid on the floor.
it's empty.
a trail of crumbs
lead
to another room,
out the door.
it begins here,
taking what we want
when no one
is looking.
regret
and apologies come
later
as the jar gets filled
and promises
are made,
again.
Saturday, June 24, 2017
birthday party
I buy some band aids,
some
burn cream,
bandages
and Neosporin.
flags on little sticks.
a fire extinguisher.
I get buckets of water.
unravel the hose.
patches for knocked out
eyes.
splints for busted
fingers when the roman
candles go wild.
we've got
a dozen pies for the contest.
moonshine in a barrel.
watermelons
full of seeds.
we've cut the grass,
trimmed back the ivy on
the house,
pulled the weeds.
a few kegs of beer,
hot dogs and beans,
country music on Pandora.
god bless
America
on its birthday.
some
burn cream,
bandages
and Neosporin.
flags on little sticks.
a fire extinguisher.
I get buckets of water.
unravel the hose.
patches for knocked out
eyes.
splints for busted
fingers when the roman
candles go wild.
we've got
a dozen pies for the contest.
moonshine in a barrel.
watermelons
full of seeds.
we've cut the grass,
trimmed back the ivy on
the house,
pulled the weeds.
a few kegs of beer,
hot dogs and beans,
country music on Pandora.
god bless
America
on its birthday.
world travel
when she gets back
from china, doing whatever
it is she does
in china, she'll give me
a call,
and we'll try to work
something out.
in her british accent, she'll
tell me
about her travels
around the world.
the flights, the ships
she's sailed on,
she'll tell me about the great
wall, the mountains,
the transsiberian railroad.
i'll tell her about
springfield
and the new greek place
around the corner,
how the shell station
has the best
prices for gas.
from china, doing whatever
it is she does
in china, she'll give me
a call,
and we'll try to work
something out.
in her british accent, she'll
tell me
about her travels
around the world.
the flights, the ships
she's sailed on,
she'll tell me about the great
wall, the mountains,
the transsiberian railroad.
i'll tell her about
springfield
and the new greek place
around the corner,
how the shell station
has the best
prices for gas.
everyone's a winner
everyone gets a trophy
these days.
first place,
last place,
no matter how good you
are or if you
stink.
it's the new age.
there is no last place
anymore.
you competed, you're
a winner.
no need to hang your
head and cry,
everyone gets a
chicken dinner.
these days.
first place,
last place,
no matter how good you
are or if you
stink.
it's the new age.
there is no last place
anymore.
you competed, you're
a winner.
no need to hang your
head and cry,
everyone gets a
chicken dinner.
gold fish
the goldfish
in their bowl, know only
the bowl.
the water,
the castle of plastic
at the bottom.
the green
weeds swaying
below their
fins,
their pulsing gills.
they know the shadow
of our hand
coming towards them
to sprinkle food
along
the top.
do they long for the sea,
do they
need more?
to understand what this
life means?
it's hard to say
if they are like you,
or me.
in their bowl, know only
the bowl.
the water,
the castle of plastic
at the bottom.
the green
weeds swaying
below their
fins,
their pulsing gills.
they know the shadow
of our hand
coming towards them
to sprinkle food
along
the top.
do they long for the sea,
do they
need more?
to understand what this
life means?
it's hard to say
if they are like you,
or me.
the long way home
let's take the long way home,
she tells me,
rolling down
her window, letting the breeze
blow back her hair.
I don't want to go home.
let's keep driving.
okay.
I tell her, taking
the blinker off, getting
back onto the highway.
where to?
anywhere, just drive, just
go, she takes my
hand and puts it in her lap.
we drive and drive.
the sky changes from a golden
blue, to sweet
grey.
the sun a pink melt on the horizon.
there is nothing we can do
or say to better
the moment.
finally we go home and make
love.
we will remember this drive
forever.
she tells me,
rolling down
her window, letting the breeze
blow back her hair.
I don't want to go home.
let's keep driving.
okay.
I tell her, taking
the blinker off, getting
back onto the highway.
where to?
anywhere, just drive, just
go, she takes my
hand and puts it in her lap.
we drive and drive.
the sky changes from a golden
blue, to sweet
grey.
the sun a pink melt on the horizon.
there is nothing we can do
or say to better
the moment.
finally we go home and make
love.
we will remember this drive
forever.
Friday, June 23, 2017
fat moe
my dog, fat Moe,
the daschund, would
eat
anything.
a sandwich left unattended
on the table.
a turkey just out of the oven.
up he'd go,
and pull it away behind
the couch.
a shoe,
a watch, a pair
of sunglasses.
computer wires just out
of the box.
he bit a beer can in half
one day.
showing off at a party.
he loved bras
and underwear.
preferring silk, or satin.
one or two snaps,
front or back, made
no difference.
jeans
found at the end
of the bed.
coats on the floor. belts.
he could destroy
the contents of a purse
in two minutes.
cell phones.
god knows the pills
he consumed.
the lipstick he swallowed.
he was a dog
shark,
always on the move
to eat.
to shred,
to swallow. may he
rest in peace.
I am.
the daschund, would
eat
anything.
a sandwich left unattended
on the table.
a turkey just out of the oven.
up he'd go,
and pull it away behind
the couch.
a shoe,
a watch, a pair
of sunglasses.
computer wires just out
of the box.
he bit a beer can in half
one day.
showing off at a party.
he loved bras
and underwear.
preferring silk, or satin.
one or two snaps,
front or back, made
no difference.
jeans
found at the end
of the bed.
coats on the floor. belts.
he could destroy
the contents of a purse
in two minutes.
cell phones.
god knows the pills
he consumed.
the lipstick he swallowed.
he was a dog
shark,
always on the move
to eat.
to shred,
to swallow. may he
rest in peace.
I am.
smart and yet
I remember my brother,
the genius one,
at ten,
who has more degrees
than a thermometer
standing in the rain,
in a large cold puddle
out in the yard.
I don't know why he was
upset, what it was about,
but he was determined,
he said, to get sick
and die to prove a point.
I remember staring out
the window at him
wondering how he could be
so smart and yet do
something like this.
this thought has often
crossed my mind
as we grow older.
the genius one,
at ten,
who has more degrees
than a thermometer
standing in the rain,
in a large cold puddle
out in the yard.
I don't know why he was
upset, what it was about,
but he was determined,
he said, to get sick
and die to prove a point.
I remember staring out
the window at him
wondering how he could be
so smart and yet do
something like this.
this thought has often
crossed my mind
as we grow older.
no diving
our pool,
our barbed wire contained
pool.
the deepest end, eight feet.
no diving board,
a listless teenager
on the big chair
eating
chips.
a gaggle of kids
near the side,
screaming marco
polo
an million times over.
I jump in.
a whistle blows,
no diving, the guard
yells
pointing at me
as he stands up.
don't hang on the rope.
you're in the lap lanes.
I go under. I hold
my breath
and lie flat on the bottom
hanging onto the grate.
I stare up
through the water,
past the kicking legs,
through the blue,
to an even bluer sky.
i think about how quickly
life moves on.
our barbed wire contained
pool.
the deepest end, eight feet.
no diving board,
a listless teenager
on the big chair
eating
chips.
a gaggle of kids
near the side,
screaming marco
polo
an million times over.
I jump in.
a whistle blows,
no diving, the guard
yells
pointing at me
as he stands up.
don't hang on the rope.
you're in the lap lanes.
I go under. I hold
my breath
and lie flat on the bottom
hanging onto the grate.
I stare up
through the water,
past the kicking legs,
through the blue,
to an even bluer sky.
i think about how quickly
life moves on.
different
there was a day
when I came home from work,
every book
I owned
or had bought since I was
a kid,
from salinger to updike,
to grisham,
was packed away in boxes,
taped up
sealed and sitting by
the door.
eight large boxes
of my books.
I asked my significant
other,
whom I was related to by
marriage at that point
in my life
what was going on.
you've read them all, she
said.
I need room for my knick
knacks
and things on the shelves.
maybe there are poor
people out
there who would like to read
these books.
slowly, with steam
coming out of my ears,
I ripped off the tape
and put the books
back onto the shelf.
she shook her head
and called me selfish.
I mumbled bad things
and asked
her if she'd ever heard of
the public library.
we were different.
not on the same page,
not in the same book,
not in the same building.
when I came home from work,
every book
I owned
or had bought since I was
a kid,
from salinger to updike,
to grisham,
was packed away in boxes,
taped up
sealed and sitting by
the door.
eight large boxes
of my books.
I asked my significant
other,
whom I was related to by
marriage at that point
in my life
what was going on.
you've read them all, she
said.
I need room for my knick
knacks
and things on the shelves.
maybe there are poor
people out
there who would like to read
these books.
slowly, with steam
coming out of my ears,
I ripped off the tape
and put the books
back onto the shelf.
she shook her head
and called me selfish.
I mumbled bad things
and asked
her if she'd ever heard of
the public library.
we were different.
not on the same page,
not in the same book,
not in the same building.
Thursday, June 22, 2017
go ahead and try
the slow crawl
of the copperhead
across the shaded
walk way,
reminds me of you.
deliberate
and lethal, saying
with all of your
shimmying body,
and dark eyes, go ahead,
just go ahead
and try.
of the copperhead
across the shaded
walk way,
reminds me of you.
deliberate
and lethal, saying
with all of your
shimmying body,
and dark eyes, go ahead,
just go ahead
and try.
cupid
I think there's
an arrow
in me.
I can feel the sharp
pointed
head
straight
through the heart
and out
the back.
there's a fat cherub
in the tree
with a quill, smiling.
he has wings
that somehow keep
him afloat.
I don't know what
to make
of this.
an arrow
in me.
I can feel the sharp
pointed
head
straight
through the heart
and out
the back.
there's a fat cherub
in the tree
with a quill, smiling.
he has wings
that somehow keep
him afloat.
I don't know what
to make
of this.
sometimes true
we find
what we need.
it comes to us if we
go after it
hard enough,
and think about it
often.
visualize
what could be.
without dreams
we are destined to
a life of
mediocrity.
which is only sometimes
true.
what we need.
it comes to us if we
go after it
hard enough,
and think about it
often.
visualize
what could be.
without dreams
we are destined to
a life of
mediocrity.
which is only sometimes
true.
staying put
i couldn't be a pioneer
back in those days,
not with the covered wagons
bouncing along.
the beans on the fire.
Indians
with flaming arrows.
coyotes.
i wouldn't have made
it very far,
choking up dust
from the dirt trail.
things would have had
to have been
really bad
to make me leave
the city, with its
crime and rats,
pollution and corruption.
some things you get used
to, and call it
home.
back in those days,
not with the covered wagons
bouncing along.
the beans on the fire.
Indians
with flaming arrows.
coyotes.
i wouldn't have made
it very far,
choking up dust
from the dirt trail.
things would have had
to have been
really bad
to make me leave
the city, with its
crime and rats,
pollution and corruption.
some things you get used
to, and call it
home.
this darkness
the eclipse
is just that.
a darkening of the world
as what floats above
us passes
against one another.
it's temporary,
this shadow.
this darkness.
take heart.
is just that.
a darkening of the world
as what floats above
us passes
against one another.
it's temporary,
this shadow.
this darkness.
take heart.
Wednesday, June 21, 2017
let it dry
is it too green,
the woman asks, as the paint
dries
on her kitchen walls.
will I get tired of it?
it's
brighter than lime,
brighter than
a granny apple green,
brighter than
any color holly go
lightly might wear,
or found in nature
except perhaps a stripe
on a chameleon.
I nod and say, no it's
fine. let it dry.
the woman asks, as the paint
dries
on her kitchen walls.
will I get tired of it?
it's
brighter than lime,
brighter than
a granny apple green,
brighter than
any color holly go
lightly might wear,
or found in nature
except perhaps a stripe
on a chameleon.
I nod and say, no it's
fine. let it dry.
the boss of me
late again,
sniffling, not up to par.
throat a little
scratchy.
sweating already at
eight in the morning.
even the coffee
is stale.
I need someone to yell
at me to get
going.
I need a jump start.
a kick in
the behind.
someone telling me that
this little
world of yours will
crumble
if you don't get out the
door.
I lie back in bed
and hit the snooze alarm.
I don't like
being bossed around.
sniffling, not up to par.
throat a little
scratchy.
sweating already at
eight in the morning.
even the coffee
is stale.
I need someone to yell
at me to get
going.
I need a jump start.
a kick in
the behind.
someone telling me that
this little
world of yours will
crumble
if you don't get out the
door.
I lie back in bed
and hit the snooze alarm.
I don't like
being bossed around.
muffin tops
when the stove
catches fire
with flames billowing
out the back and burns
the top of a dozen
blueberry muffins,
she puts the fire out
with her fire extinguisher
then cuts
off the tops of the
blackened muffins.
she ices them down
and says. there we go,
holding out a beautiful
plate of her creations.
not one bead of sweat
on her forehead.
catches fire
with flames billowing
out the back and burns
the top of a dozen
blueberry muffins,
she puts the fire out
with her fire extinguisher
then cuts
off the tops of the
blackened muffins.
she ices them down
and says. there we go,
holding out a beautiful
plate of her creations.
not one bead of sweat
on her forehead.
whree's my money
it's not about money.
but it
does come down to money
if you have to
chase it
and get paid.
everything changes
if the check isn't in
the mail,
if it's not handed to
you at the end
of the job,
if the check bounces
like
a ball skipping down
the highway.
things get dark then,
and forever
unlightens your mood
towards
a client.
but it
does come down to money
if you have to
chase it
and get paid.
everything changes
if the check isn't in
the mail,
if it's not handed to
you at the end
of the job,
if the check bounces
like
a ball skipping down
the highway.
things get dark then,
and forever
unlightens your mood
towards
a client.
Tuesday, June 20, 2017
Kool aid kids
we used to have
an enormous clear pitcher
of red
kool aid on the picnic
table.
we all drank it
from paper cups poured
to the brim.
we were children with
red lips,
red drips on our
white t shirts.
the girls too.
we believed
in everything we were told.
we crossed our hearts
and hoped to die before
we awoke.
we drank it daily,
taking in the sugar
sweetness,
the icy cold.
then one day, we stopped
drinking, we moved on
from believeing
everything, from doing
what we were told.
an enormous clear pitcher
of red
kool aid on the picnic
table.
we all drank it
from paper cups poured
to the brim.
we were children with
red lips,
red drips on our
white t shirts.
the girls too.
we believed
in everything we were told.
we crossed our hearts
and hoped to die before
we awoke.
we drank it daily,
taking in the sugar
sweetness,
the icy cold.
then one day, we stopped
drinking, we moved on
from believeing
everything, from doing
what we were told.
all about me
there is plenty to do
on the list
in descending order
of importance.
you are in
there.
in fact the first
three things on the list
involve you.
my priorities have
suddenly shifted.
although at times
it is all
about me, as seen
in the next twenty items
on the list.
on the list
in descending order
of importance.
you are in
there.
in fact the first
three things on the list
involve you.
my priorities have
suddenly shifted.
although at times
it is all
about me, as seen
in the next twenty items
on the list.
Monday, June 19, 2017
job hunting
when looking for a job
as a teenager
i'd circle
the ads
with a ball point pen.
stretch out the classifieds
on the living room floor
under the big dining room
light and
underline the phone numbers.
clean, neat and sober.
laborer needed.
6 am.
I could do that.
how hard is it to carry
bricks all day.
or dishwasher.
night shift.
12 to 4 am.
maybe not.
usher in a theater.
once again,
clean neat and sober.
there must have been a lot
of drinking going
on back then.
I loved the red suits,
and glossy brimmed hats,
the big flash lights,
telling people
to get there
feet off the chairs,
and to zip up their
pants.
as a teenager
i'd circle
the ads
with a ball point pen.
stretch out the classifieds
on the living room floor
under the big dining room
light and
underline the phone numbers.
clean, neat and sober.
laborer needed.
6 am.
I could do that.
how hard is it to carry
bricks all day.
or dishwasher.
night shift.
12 to 4 am.
maybe not.
usher in a theater.
once again,
clean neat and sober.
there must have been a lot
of drinking going
on back then.
I loved the red suits,
and glossy brimmed hats,
the big flash lights,
telling people
to get there
feet off the chairs,
and to zip up their
pants.
that did it
she liked horses.
you didn't.
the smell of the barn,
the grime,
the shedding.
she liked going to bed
at nine pm.
you're a night owl.
she didn't have a t.v..
what planet are we on?
she liked
saying nothing for
hours on end.
staring silently while
doing her nails.
you're a blabber mouth
who likes to ask
questions that have no
answers.
she wasn't fond
of fooling around.
that did it.
you didn't.
the smell of the barn,
the grime,
the shedding.
she liked going to bed
at nine pm.
you're a night owl.
she didn't have a t.v..
what planet are we on?
she liked
saying nothing for
hours on end.
staring silently while
doing her nails.
you're a blabber mouth
who likes to ask
questions that have no
answers.
she wasn't fond
of fooling around.
that did it.
fly away
the fly,
a bit of frenetic
life,
a black dot of fury
against the screen.
clear webbed wings
and an iridescent green
tinge,
somehow.
does he even know what
he wants?
buzzing in,
buzzing out.
never flying in a
straight line,
never resting,
always uncertain about
what to do
next with his short
crazed life.
a bit of frenetic
life,
a black dot of fury
against the screen.
clear webbed wings
and an iridescent green
tinge,
somehow.
does he even know what
he wants?
buzzing in,
buzzing out.
never flying in a
straight line,
never resting,
always uncertain about
what to do
next with his short
crazed life.
rain check
the rain check
never comes, nor does
the wind,
or snow,
or hail check.
bad weather has nothing
to do with not
meeting,
but it sounds good
when you can't say
what's really on
your mind.
never comes, nor does
the wind,
or snow,
or hail check.
bad weather has nothing
to do with not
meeting,
but it sounds good
when you can't say
what's really on
your mind.
out of ink
the pen
is out of ink.
bone dry.
not a wet spot of blue
or black
on its
narrow tip.
I hardly wrote a word
with it,
not a single
check, not a single
note
to remind me of
something I might
forget.
I guess you used it
all up,
when listing
your grievances
and complaints. all
of which I filed
in
the corner basket,
balled and tossed
with good aim.
is out of ink.
bone dry.
not a wet spot of blue
or black
on its
narrow tip.
I hardly wrote a word
with it,
not a single
check, not a single
note
to remind me of
something I might
forget.
I guess you used it
all up,
when listing
your grievances
and complaints. all
of which I filed
in
the corner basket,
balled and tossed
with good aim.
slow boat
the slow boat
to china, would be nice.
with short
stops along the way.
the deep
smooth sea.
the low sun, the high
stars,
just us, just you,
just me.
to china, would be nice.
with short
stops along the way.
the deep
smooth sea.
the low sun, the high
stars,
just us, just you,
just me.
Sunday, June 18, 2017
fast girls
her 78 trans am,
had red stripes,
a big bird painted
on the hood.
big tires.
dents and scrapes
along the side where
she'd clip
guard rails
and parking meters.
it was a fast car
for a fast girl.
a cigarette dangled from
her pouty lips, cherry red.
a can of beer nestled
between her daisy duke
legs.
zz top blasted on the stereo.
she scared you
that summer with her
driving
and foul language, but
she was fun
and frisky
and never missed a sunday
mass
no matter what happened
the night before.
had red stripes,
a big bird painted
on the hood.
big tires.
dents and scrapes
along the side where
she'd clip
guard rails
and parking meters.
it was a fast car
for a fast girl.
a cigarette dangled from
her pouty lips, cherry red.
a can of beer nestled
between her daisy duke
legs.
zz top blasted on the stereo.
she scared you
that summer with her
driving
and foul language, but
she was fun
and frisky
and never missed a sunday
mass
no matter what happened
the night before.
veggie time
the men
look hopelessly around
the pool
area
where the party is in bloom.
no grille? you hear
one man say.
they put their noses
in the air,
sniffing
for seared meat,
a chicken,
a steak, a bratwurst.
but there is none.
someone's wife
brings you a plate
and offers up a carrot
and some snap peas.
what choice do you have?
you say yes,
and bite down,
dipping a broccoli
stalk into a strange white
sauce.
look hopelessly around
the pool
area
where the party is in bloom.
no grille? you hear
one man say.
they put their noses
in the air,
sniffing
for seared meat,
a chicken,
a steak, a bratwurst.
but there is none.
someone's wife
brings you a plate
and offers up a carrot
and some snap peas.
what choice do you have?
you say yes,
and bite down,
dipping a broccoli
stalk into a strange white
sauce.
the knot
untying the knot,
takes time.
bending over, stopping
what you're doing,
leaning
over, both hands
working
the tight string
balled together
that keeps your shoe
on.
slowly you work it
free.
life can be full of
knots
that need undoing.
takes time.
bending over, stopping
what you're doing,
leaning
over, both hands
working
the tight string
balled together
that keeps your shoe
on.
slowly you work it
free.
life can be full of
knots
that need undoing.
Saturday, June 17, 2017
shopping with the ancient mariner
the water in his ear
makes him
completely deaf.
he squints and unsquints
but can't
see much,
other than the blur
of colors
in the store light.
but it's okay.
he leans on the cart
and pushes onward.
he knows where the baked
beans are,
original recipe,
the fish sticks,
the boneless pork
chops,
the Debbie cakes.
he's done this before.
makes him
completely deaf.
he squints and unsquints
but can't
see much,
other than the blur
of colors
in the store light.
but it's okay.
he leans on the cart
and pushes onward.
he knows where the baked
beans are,
original recipe,
the fish sticks,
the boneless pork
chops,
the Debbie cakes.
he's done this before.
we go north
go north,
the heart says.
go south, the back seat
driver
chimes in.
east, no west
the passenger beside
me says.
someone here has to make
a decision.
that's me.
my hands are on
the wheel.
we go north.
the heart says.
go south, the back seat
driver
chimes in.
east, no west
the passenger beside
me says.
someone here has to make
a decision.
that's me.
my hands are on
the wheel.
we go north.
let it rain
it feels like rain.
a warm summer rain.
the leaves turn up
in a soft wind.
I open the door,
not a soul around
this morning.
no a bird or dog.
no black cat.
let it rain. let
it pour, let it keep
us inside
together, once more.
a warm summer rain.
the leaves turn up
in a soft wind.
I open the door,
not a soul around
this morning.
no a bird or dog.
no black cat.
let it rain. let
it pour, let it keep
us inside
together, once more.
play on
the musicians,
most grey or dyed an elvis
black,
still love the stage,
there they are,
guitars in hand,
strapped on and drums,
a sax player,
harmonicas too.
a fat man on a tall
bass with a beret
and goatee.
they play for free, for
drinks,
for raw oysters from
the bar.
they could go all night
if you let them.
but there's work tomorrow.
most grey or dyed an elvis
black,
still love the stage,
there they are,
guitars in hand,
strapped on and drums,
a sax player,
harmonicas too.
a fat man on a tall
bass with a beret
and goatee.
they play for free, for
drinks,
for raw oysters from
the bar.
they could go all night
if you let them.
but there's work tomorrow.
cut flowers
the trouble with
flowers,
once cut, they only go
on so long.
no matter the water,
the sunlight,
the turn
of pot
upon the sill.
enjoy them while you
can, or leave
them alone, leave
beauty where it
belongs,
in the garden with
their friends.
flowers,
once cut, they only go
on so long.
no matter the water,
the sunlight,
the turn
of pot
upon the sill.
enjoy them while you
can, or leave
them alone, leave
beauty where it
belongs,
in the garden with
their friends.
Friday, June 16, 2017
strawberry moon
the strawberry
moon, on the ninth
of the sixth month surprises me.
a pink
orb of Chablis,
so full and high.
in another year I would
have called you
and we would have stared
up at the sky
together and admired it.
you, so many miles away,
seeing it through
the tall pines, seeing
it above the pond beside
your house.
I can see you now in your
bare feet, in the wet
grass, looking up, with
phone in hand,
missing me.
moon, on the ninth
of the sixth month surprises me.
a pink
orb of Chablis,
so full and high.
in another year I would
have called you
and we would have stared
up at the sky
together and admired it.
you, so many miles away,
seeing it through
the tall pines, seeing
it above the pond beside
your house.
I can see you now in your
bare feet, in the wet
grass, looking up, with
phone in hand,
missing me.
sweet as you
the sweet berries are in,
boxed and set upon
one another in the bright
store.
how blue they
are in milk.
a spoon
beside the white bowl.
a simple thing this pleasure
is.
to taste anything
so fresh and sweet as you.
boxed and set upon
one another in the bright
store.
how blue they
are in milk.
a spoon
beside the white bowl.
a simple thing this pleasure
is.
to taste anything
so fresh and sweet as you.
through the heart
we need to talk, she says
quietly
on the phone. there is a pause.
silence.
my breathing.
are you there?
i'm here, I tell her.
i'm listening.
I sit down.
we could do this in person,
she says.
no, I go to the window.
there's a bird
coming towards
the glass. seeing itself
in the reflection.
it veers away in time.
say what you need to say.
I tell her.
so she says
what she needs to say.
well thought out,
and practiced.
it's a gentle knife, a soft
cut,
but lethal and through
the heart.
quietly
on the phone. there is a pause.
silence.
my breathing.
are you there?
i'm here, I tell her.
i'm listening.
I sit down.
we could do this in person,
she says.
no, I go to the window.
there's a bird
coming towards
the glass. seeing itself
in the reflection.
it veers away in time.
say what you need to say.
I tell her.
so she says
what she needs to say.
well thought out,
and practiced.
it's a gentle knife, a soft
cut,
but lethal and through
the heart.
time and time again
when things change,
go in a direction you didn't
see coming,
you go to what doesn't change.
the ocean.
the moon, the long path
through
the woods.
you grow quiet in your
sadness.
listen more, speak less.
the heart is a mysterious
thing to deal with,
being captured
and being freed,
time and time again.
go in a direction you didn't
see coming,
you go to what doesn't change.
the ocean.
the moon, the long path
through
the woods.
you grow quiet in your
sadness.
listen more, speak less.
the heart is a mysterious
thing to deal with,
being captured
and being freed,
time and time again.
Thursday, June 15, 2017
to be swept away
you'll catch your cold
if you go
out into the rain
without your shoes, your
mother would say.
put your coat on,
your hat.
don't go down to the storm
drain
with your friends.
but it was too late.
we ran
down the street to see how
fast the water
was moving, to put our
feet into it,
and wonder what it would be
like to be swept
away by something.
if you go
out into the rain
without your shoes, your
mother would say.
put your coat on,
your hat.
don't go down to the storm
drain
with your friends.
but it was too late.
we ran
down the street to see how
fast the water
was moving, to put our
feet into it,
and wonder what it would be
like to be swept
away by something.
drivers ed
the drivers ed
teacher was nervous.
he trembled
in the passenger seat as
the children took the wheel
and headed
off the ramp into traffic.
his foot rested
on an imaginary
brake pedal, which he pumped
and pumped to no avail.
he braced himself for death.
people are crazy out here,
he'd say.
be careful. look out.
get in the right lane,
slow down.
use your mirror,
your signal, don't
be afraid to use your horn.
by the end of the day
he started drinking.
keeping a flask of
scotch in his desk.
at night after his legs
stopped
quivering, he closed his
eyes and prayed
about tomorrow.
teacher was nervous.
he trembled
in the passenger seat as
the children took the wheel
and headed
off the ramp into traffic.
his foot rested
on an imaginary
brake pedal, which he pumped
and pumped to no avail.
he braced himself for death.
people are crazy out here,
he'd say.
be careful. look out.
get in the right lane,
slow down.
use your mirror,
your signal, don't
be afraid to use your horn.
by the end of the day
he started drinking.
keeping a flask of
scotch in his desk.
at night after his legs
stopped
quivering, he closed his
eyes and prayed
about tomorrow.
shallow water
it's shallow water
we're in now.
a murky black swell
of cold,
above our knees as
we slug
forward.
the rain has stopped,
but it could start
again.
dry land is no where
to be found.
this shallow water
though,
gives us hope, gives
us a reason
to go on. take my hand,
hold the light
up. let's go.
we're in now.
a murky black swell
of cold,
above our knees as
we slug
forward.
the rain has stopped,
but it could start
again.
dry land is no where
to be found.
this shallow water
though,
gives us hope, gives
us a reason
to go on. take my hand,
hold the light
up. let's go.
Wednesday, June 14, 2017
beach trip
I woke up with a cat
in my sleeping bag once,
after hitch hiking to ocean city
with my friends perry herbert
and jim acs.
we crashed on the beach, down
by the dunes, this was way
before the high rise condos went up.
we felt the wind
move up from the ocean,
cold and wet, full of salt.
the stars may have been out.
i'm not sure. we had been drinking
around a fire, talking about
girls all night. baseball.
what we might do with our lives
once we were forced
to join the rest of the world.
we talked about
how we needed to be more social
this trip. which meant
meeting girls.
we had maybe twenty dollars
between us, but figured
on pan handling down on the board
walk to get more.
we wore out the talk about
girls, our lack thereof,
then finished our few beers
and went to sleep.
the cat found her way into my
sleeping back at some point in
the middle of the night.
she never woke me, just
crawled in and snuggled up
against my chest.
I remember her looking up
at me with her glass
green eyes in the morning sun
as if she was where she was
supposed to be.
we never did meet any girls.
in my sleeping bag once,
after hitch hiking to ocean city
with my friends perry herbert
and jim acs.
we crashed on the beach, down
by the dunes, this was way
before the high rise condos went up.
we felt the wind
move up from the ocean,
cold and wet, full of salt.
the stars may have been out.
i'm not sure. we had been drinking
around a fire, talking about
girls all night. baseball.
what we might do with our lives
once we were forced
to join the rest of the world.
we talked about
how we needed to be more social
this trip. which meant
meeting girls.
we had maybe twenty dollars
between us, but figured
on pan handling down on the board
walk to get more.
we wore out the talk about
girls, our lack thereof,
then finished our few beers
and went to sleep.
the cat found her way into my
sleeping back at some point in
the middle of the night.
she never woke me, just
crawled in and snuggled up
against my chest.
I remember her looking up
at me with her glass
green eyes in the morning sun
as if she was where she was
supposed to be.
we never did meet any girls.
gas prices
what's the price of gas
down your way, my father asks,
as we fill
up his tug boat of a car
on the navy base.
his gas at this pump is one cent
cheaper than it is off
base.
we had to drive ten miles
to get there.
I tell him, I don't know
what gas is.
I just get it when I need it.
same goes
for milk and bread.
vodka.
I wonder why they even put
prices on things anymore
I tell him.
there would be less
to worry about if they didn't.
or maybe more, he
says.
down your way, my father asks,
as we fill
up his tug boat of a car
on the navy base.
his gas at this pump is one cent
cheaper than it is off
base.
we had to drive ten miles
to get there.
I tell him, I don't know
what gas is.
I just get it when I need it.
same goes
for milk and bread.
vodka.
I wonder why they even put
prices on things anymore
I tell him.
there would be less
to worry about if they didn't.
or maybe more, he
says.
tomato tomato
I spend ten minutes with
the waitress
talking about the correct
pronunciation
of the word gyro.
tomato tomato, I say to her,
getting no smile.
you americans, she says.
explaining in two
words
what she perceives
is wrong with the world
and its lack
of culture
and understanding. I don't
necessarily disagree,
but i'm starving
and take my gyro
and French fries
and get out of there.
the waitress
talking about the correct
pronunciation
of the word gyro.
tomato tomato, I say to her,
getting no smile.
you americans, she says.
explaining in two
words
what she perceives
is wrong with the world
and its lack
of culture
and understanding. I don't
necessarily disagree,
but i'm starving
and take my gyro
and French fries
and get out of there.
who are these people?
a niece, a nephew
a cousin
an uncle's third child
from a second
wife, all of whom i've
never met or
even knew they existed
before i opened the letter,
send me graduation
notices
with a return envelope
enclosed.
there is no personal note.
no how are you?
no hope to see you soon.
how did they find me?
what's the proper gift
to give to a complete
stranger
for that monumental task
of finishing
high school?
a cousin
an uncle's third child
from a second
wife, all of whom i've
never met or
even knew they existed
before i opened the letter,
send me graduation
notices
with a return envelope
enclosed.
there is no personal note.
no how are you?
no hope to see you soon.
how did they find me?
what's the proper gift
to give to a complete
stranger
for that monumental task
of finishing
high school?
Tuesday, June 13, 2017
the lie detector
who are you,
they ask as I squirm
in the chair, a lie
detector band
wrapped tightly around my
arm. small cups on my fingers.
wires on the table.
I don't know,
I tell them.
they stare at the machine
as the needle vibrates.
sometimes I think I know
myself
and then i'll do something
that totally
surprises me.
i'm a mystery, an enigma
even to myself.
the needle is even
against the paper.
he's telling the truth,
the man in the black suit
says. what else do you
want me to ask him?
he looks at the woman
behind him,
holding a frying pan
above my head.
ask him about Sally
she says, in fact let me
do the questioning
from here on.
she squints her eyes
and moves in closer.
they ask as I squirm
in the chair, a lie
detector band
wrapped tightly around my
arm. small cups on my fingers.
wires on the table.
I don't know,
I tell them.
they stare at the machine
as the needle vibrates.
sometimes I think I know
myself
and then i'll do something
that totally
surprises me.
i'm a mystery, an enigma
even to myself.
the needle is even
against the paper.
he's telling the truth,
the man in the black suit
says. what else do you
want me to ask him?
he looks at the woman
behind him,
holding a frying pan
above my head.
ask him about Sally
she says, in fact let me
do the questioning
from here on.
she squints her eyes
and moves in closer.
post card from afar
the postcard
is from afar.
an island you've never heard
of.
it's from someone
you don't know, or haven't
met,
quite yet.
wish you were here,
it says.
with love and kisses.
the smudge of red
lipstick is on
the back. it smells
of perfume.
on the front are coconut
trees, sand,
and a cove of blue water.
it's nice to get things
in the mail
even if it's not
for you.
is from afar.
an island you've never heard
of.
it's from someone
you don't know, or haven't
met,
quite yet.
wish you were here,
it says.
with love and kisses.
the smudge of red
lipstick is on
the back. it smells
of perfume.
on the front are coconut
trees, sand,
and a cove of blue water.
it's nice to get things
in the mail
even if it's not
for you.
Monday, June 12, 2017
the chicken truck
the chicken truck
is a foot or two away from
my back
bumper for much of route
64. we're doing 75 miles per
hour
on a hot sunny stretch.
i'm boxed in by cars
and vans.
I can't get away
from this chicken truck.
I see the name in blue,
Perdue above
the windshield,
and a chicken's
silhouette
on the hood.
I think about death
on the highway.
the truck crushing me
like a bug,
or pushing me aside
into a gully
where i'll drown in a foot
of water. all
so that he can get his
chickens to the grocery
stores on time.
god forbid someone doesn't
have a chicken to eat
tomorrow.
no wings, no legs, no thighs.
is a foot or two away from
my back
bumper for much of route
64. we're doing 75 miles per
hour
on a hot sunny stretch.
i'm boxed in by cars
and vans.
I can't get away
from this chicken truck.
I see the name in blue,
Perdue above
the windshield,
and a chicken's
silhouette
on the hood.
I think about death
on the highway.
the truck crushing me
like a bug,
or pushing me aside
into a gully
where i'll drown in a foot
of water. all
so that he can get his
chickens to the grocery
stores on time.
god forbid someone doesn't
have a chicken to eat
tomorrow.
no wings, no legs, no thighs.
the last car
the thirteen year old
chevy impala,
grey with a barbed wire
pin stripe
around it
has only thirty nine thousand
miles on the fogged odometer.
no further than five miles
in any direction
over the decade has been traveled.
bread milk,
kfc
and lottery tickets,
for the most part.
it passes inspection,
although the tires are
close to being shot,
dry rot, the mechanic says.
my father nods.
and says next year.
he's nearly blind, can hardly
hear, but
the car is something.
he can't give it up.
he can't surrender his last means
of escape.
something that's always
been on his mind.
chevy impala,
grey with a barbed wire
pin stripe
around it
has only thirty nine thousand
miles on the fogged odometer.
no further than five miles
in any direction
over the decade has been traveled.
bread milk,
kfc
and lottery tickets,
for the most part.
it passes inspection,
although the tires are
close to being shot,
dry rot, the mechanic says.
my father nods.
and says next year.
he's nearly blind, can hardly
hear, but
the car is something.
he can't give it up.
he can't surrender his last means
of escape.
something that's always
been on his mind.
original
he knows
where the baked beans are,
original he says.
everything has
to be original.
the bread, whole wheat,
original.
the mustard,
the fish sticks, eight
to a box.
crispy,
battered. original
recipe.
one by one, we go down
the long wide
isles of the commissary
until the basket is full.
he takes
out his coupons
and asks me if I see Leon,
his favorite
cashier
who takes all of his coupons
no mater what's
in the basket.
I don't want an Asian woman,
he says.
I laugh, not going there.
what's the point.
I set the pringles
on the belt,
original.
where the baked beans are,
original he says.
everything has
to be original.
the bread, whole wheat,
original.
the mustard,
the fish sticks, eight
to a box.
crispy,
battered. original
recipe.
one by one, we go down
the long wide
isles of the commissary
until the basket is full.
he takes
out his coupons
and asks me if I see Leon,
his favorite
cashier
who takes all of his coupons
no mater what's
in the basket.
I don't want an Asian woman,
he says.
I laugh, not going there.
what's the point.
I set the pringles
on the belt,
original.
the counter girl
she's lace.
she's icing. she's
dessert
in a dress.
a kiss
about to happen.
a candy cane
of legs.
a merengue of hair.
I shake and tremble
at what
could be
if she looks or
even says
a word to me
at this drug store
counter.
she's icing. she's
dessert
in a dress.
a kiss
about to happen.
a candy cane
of legs.
a merengue of hair.
I shake and tremble
at what
could be
if she looks or
even says
a word to me
at this drug store
counter.
the counter girl
she's lace.
she's icing. she's
dessert
in a dress.
a kiss
about to happen.
a candy cane
of legs.
a merengue of hair.
I shake and tremble
at what
could be
if she looks or
even says
a word to me
at this drug store
counter.
she's icing. she's
dessert
in a dress.
a kiss
about to happen.
a candy cane
of legs.
a merengue of hair.
I shake and tremble
at what
could be
if she looks or
even says
a word to me
at this drug store
counter.
the plow
the bulldozer
has no sympathy for what
was here
before.
what wood, or steel rose
from the ground.
there is no sense
of history, or love,
or memory
of things
that happened here.
the shovel knows nothing,
but to move
forward
and plow under,
so that someone can begin
again,
go forth.
the plows never stop
in this world.
has no sympathy for what
was here
before.
what wood, or steel rose
from the ground.
there is no sense
of history, or love,
or memory
of things
that happened here.
the shovel knows nothing,
but to move
forward
and plow under,
so that someone can begin
again,
go forth.
the plows never stop
in this world.
Sunday, June 11, 2017
the big book
let's not fight tonight,
she says,
leaning over my bed
to kiss me
goodnight
before heading to her
room, but
I didn't like your tone
of voice
at dinner time
when you were speaking
to me.
oh, really, I say,
setting my
unreadable book down.
yes, really she says,
then leaves,
slamming the door.
I open the book
and turn to the last page.
I don't want to
read anymore.
I want to know how it
finally ends.
she says,
leaning over my bed
to kiss me
goodnight
before heading to her
room, but
I didn't like your tone
of voice
at dinner time
when you were speaking
to me.
oh, really, I say,
setting my
unreadable book down.
yes, really she says,
then leaves,
slamming the door.
I open the book
and turn to the last page.
I don't want to
read anymore.
I want to know how it
finally ends.
the old photo
he doesn't know who
I am
anymore, she says of her
father.
he sits
dirty, in front
of the television
and smokes.
he eats nothing but
donuts.
makes no
eye contact or
conversation.
the bones show in his
shoulders.
she shows me his photo
from decades ago.
standing near
a pool
at a country club.
his family around him.
the buttons
of his double breasted
suit shining
in the light.
his hair is blonde
partly neatly to
one side. he is the great
Gatsby.
no more.
I am
anymore, she says of her
father.
he sits
dirty, in front
of the television
and smokes.
he eats nothing but
donuts.
makes no
eye contact or
conversation.
the bones show in his
shoulders.
she shows me his photo
from decades ago.
standing near
a pool
at a country club.
his family around him.
the buttons
of his double breasted
suit shining
in the light.
his hair is blonde
partly neatly to
one side. he is the great
Gatsby.
no more.
fried rice
wall
to wall tables. red
tassels
fall from
the faux crystal
chandeliers.
a slew of ducks
being peeled
and filleted
made ready for pancakes
and plum
sauce.
hardly an inch
between
elbows and knees.
the smell
of fried rice,
fried fish,
fried vegetables
hangs in the still
air.
the muddled voices
loud
as one.
the umbrella drinks keep
coming.
the waiters in their
stiff red
coats singing happy
birthday in
Chinese.
to wall tables. red
tassels
fall from
the faux crystal
chandeliers.
a slew of ducks
being peeled
and filleted
made ready for pancakes
and plum
sauce.
hardly an inch
between
elbows and knees.
the smell
of fried rice,
fried fish,
fried vegetables
hangs in the still
air.
the muddled voices
loud
as one.
the umbrella drinks keep
coming.
the waiters in their
stiff red
coats singing happy
birthday in
Chinese.
Friday, June 9, 2017
ups and downs
his motorized chair
clunks and squeals
up the stairs, he has
coffee in hand,
and a mouthful of words
he wants to say.
bracing himself
against each wall
and door, he waddles
forward to where i'm
working. he
leans in, and with
a smile, says hey.
mind if i hang out for
awhile.
he tells me about his
hip, his leg,
the war, the next
war.
his son and wife,
he asks me
if I've ever been married.
he says, there are
ups and downs, then
laughs. he looks away,
grows quiet.
coffee, he says,
finishing his.
sure i tell him.
so back down he goes,
riding the chair,
the chain needing oil.
clunks and squeals
up the stairs, he has
coffee in hand,
and a mouthful of words
he wants to say.
bracing himself
against each wall
and door, he waddles
forward to where i'm
working. he
leans in, and with
a smile, says hey.
mind if i hang out for
awhile.
he tells me about his
hip, his leg,
the war, the next
war.
his son and wife,
he asks me
if I've ever been married.
he says, there are
ups and downs, then
laughs. he looks away,
grows quiet.
coffee, he says,
finishing his.
sure i tell him.
so back down he goes,
riding the chair,
the chain needing oil.
to stop time
she says,
I love you.
I love you too, I
say back.
before us is the ocean.
our feet
in the sand.
a warm sun bathes us
in light.
the sky is blue
and full
of enormous white clouds.
it's good to be at
rest, like this.
to touch hands
and stop time.
I love you.
I love you too, I
say back.
before us is the ocean.
our feet
in the sand.
a warm sun bathes us
in light.
the sky is blue
and full
of enormous white clouds.
it's good to be at
rest, like this.
to touch hands
and stop time.
Thursday, June 8, 2017
the elevators
the elevators
are beyond slow in this building.
we wait.
a crowd of three,
becoming six,
then ten.
all looking at their
phones or watches,
impatient as we shift
our feet. sigh,
and let out groans
of exasperation.
we stare at the numbers
above the shut doors
one two and three,
the arrows pointing up,
one coming down.
they seem to stop at all
floors, letting
people on or off.
we grow old, waiting.
our hair thins and turns grey.
our bones sag,
our vision blurs.
the world outside
this building spins.
the seasons change.
we stare at the doors to
open, for our turn
to get in.
are beyond slow in this building.
we wait.
a crowd of three,
becoming six,
then ten.
all looking at their
phones or watches,
impatient as we shift
our feet. sigh,
and let out groans
of exasperation.
we stare at the numbers
above the shut doors
one two and three,
the arrows pointing up,
one coming down.
they seem to stop at all
floors, letting
people on or off.
we grow old, waiting.
our hair thins and turns grey.
our bones sag,
our vision blurs.
the world outside
this building spins.
the seasons change.
we stare at the doors to
open, for our turn
to get in.
her gifts
I can't think of a gift
she gave me
that I didn't throw away.
the lumber jack
plaid shirt.
red and green plaid.
the enormous bath robe
that itched, made of recycled
fibers and hair
from a Peruvian goat.
the opera cd.
a hair brush.
a box of carob candy.
a hand painted picture
of the moon.
white and desolate.
it was almost like she
was messing
with me.
telling me something
about where we might be
going.
she gave me
that I didn't throw away.
the lumber jack
plaid shirt.
red and green plaid.
the enormous bath robe
that itched, made of recycled
fibers and hair
from a Peruvian goat.
the opera cd.
a hair brush.
a box of carob candy.
a hand painted picture
of the moon.
white and desolate.
it was almost like she
was messing
with me.
telling me something
about where we might be
going.
lunch studies
I use to study the lunches
of other kids
as we sat at the long
hard table
in the cafeteria.
the boy with the egg
salad sandwich,
the crust removed,
was one.
a thermos of milk
in his plaid lunch box.
carrots in a small
bag, cut up just so.
an apple. a small
box of raisons.
even a note, saying
I love you.
have a good day. mom.
I always felt like
this kid was going
somewhere
as I took the peanut
butter sandwich out
of my used paper
bag and sipped on
a carton of two cent milk.
it surprised me
when I read about him
in the paper,
years later
after he jumped from
the top floor
of the prudential building.
of other kids
as we sat at the long
hard table
in the cafeteria.
the boy with the egg
salad sandwich,
the crust removed,
was one.
a thermos of milk
in his plaid lunch box.
carrots in a small
bag, cut up just so.
an apple. a small
box of raisons.
even a note, saying
I love you.
have a good day. mom.
I always felt like
this kid was going
somewhere
as I took the peanut
butter sandwich out
of my used paper
bag and sipped on
a carton of two cent milk.
it surprised me
when I read about him
in the paper,
years later
after he jumped from
the top floor
of the prudential building.
things return
things return.
people too,
sometimes.
a lost
shoe or watch,
a ring, friends,
or lovers.
we
suddenly turn up
from under
whatever
kept us hidden.
people too,
sometimes.
a lost
shoe or watch,
a ring, friends,
or lovers.
we
suddenly turn up
from under
whatever
kept us hidden.
Wednesday, June 7, 2017
delete me
done with
facebook, i move on.
delete delete delete.
tired
of baked muffins.
dogs chasing
their tails,
pictures of vacations.
the platitudes
and slogans
plastered on the walls.
sick
of politics
and presumptions.
I don't want to know.
I want
to not know what you're
doing and
be surprised
when and if we ever talk
or meet again.
we can still be friends,
but
like in the old days,
where we
shook hands and hugged,
met for coffee
or a drink. looked into
one another's eyes
with love
and joy at seeing one
another once more.
facebook, i move on.
delete delete delete.
tired
of baked muffins.
dogs chasing
their tails,
pictures of vacations.
the platitudes
and slogans
plastered on the walls.
sick
of politics
and presumptions.
I don't want to know.
I want
to not know what you're
doing and
be surprised
when and if we ever talk
or meet again.
we can still be friends,
but
like in the old days,
where we
shook hands and hugged,
met for coffee
or a drink. looked into
one another's eyes
with love
and joy at seeing one
another once more.
hanging on
he hung on to
the sixties as long as he could.
into his own
sixties.
the long hair,
now silver, pony tail
dangling on his shoulders.
the balding
gone too far
to be undone.
rock and roll, he'd
say
to anything said to him.
far out.
peace.
right on.
he'd spin his lp's
late into the night and fire
up
some weed, talk
deeply about
the space between us all,
what time
and love
really mean.
medicare kicked in.
his knees hurt.
he needed a cane to walk
now to
his van, multi colored,
like his tie dyed shirts,
on blocks,
rusted at the edges,
like him.
my man.
the sixties as long as he could.
into his own
sixties.
the long hair,
now silver, pony tail
dangling on his shoulders.
the balding
gone too far
to be undone.
rock and roll, he'd
say
to anything said to him.
far out.
peace.
right on.
he'd spin his lp's
late into the night and fire
up
some weed, talk
deeply about
the space between us all,
what time
and love
really mean.
medicare kicked in.
his knees hurt.
he needed a cane to walk
now to
his van, multi colored,
like his tie dyed shirts,
on blocks,
rusted at the edges,
like him.
my man.
Tuesday, June 6, 2017
what's that?
my doctor, no
not that one, the other
one
who prefers to wear green
versus
a white smock
shakes my hand, then touches
my arm
where a prickly rash
has appeared.
what's that? she says.
eeks.
prickly heat, I tell her.
looks itchy,
she says, stepping away.
okay, so why are you here
today?
I don't know, I tell her.
but I got a message
saying that I was supposed
to come in. so here I am.
I look at her wall of photos
of infectious diseases,
boils, pimples,
what looks like lakes
of fire
growing on people's bodies.
can you pull your sleeve
down over that rash,
it's bugging me, she says.
I pull down my sleeve
and scratch where it itches.
what you need is
an oatmeal bath, she says.
i'm going to write you
a prescription for a sack
of oatmeal and I want
you to come back in
six weeks. hopefully it'll
be healed.
not that one, the other
one
who prefers to wear green
versus
a white smock
shakes my hand, then touches
my arm
where a prickly rash
has appeared.
what's that? she says.
eeks.
prickly heat, I tell her.
looks itchy,
she says, stepping away.
okay, so why are you here
today?
I don't know, I tell her.
but I got a message
saying that I was supposed
to come in. so here I am.
I look at her wall of photos
of infectious diseases,
boils, pimples,
what looks like lakes
of fire
growing on people's bodies.
can you pull your sleeve
down over that rash,
it's bugging me, she says.
I pull down my sleeve
and scratch where it itches.
what you need is
an oatmeal bath, she says.
i'm going to write you
a prescription for a sack
of oatmeal and I want
you to come back in
six weeks. hopefully it'll
be healed.
my russian spy
my friend Natasha
admits that she is a spy.
she doesn't care
that I know what she's up to.
she listens to
every word I say,
reads my emails and text
messages
when I set my phone down.
you are of little interest
to us,
she tells me, sipping
her vodka, while
brushing out her
bearskin coat.
she works the nightshift
as a maid
at the Dixie hotel on
route one, but
drives a black Mercedes.
her cleavage is tremendous.
you are very low on our
list, on the food chain
of surveillance.
I wish you had a better
job with higher clearance,
but no. you paint houses.
so it goes.
I am assigned to you.
every person has a Russian
spy attached to them.
we must learn and know
everything about you
to defeat your capitalistic
ways. throw a wrench
into your elections.
we want you to be cold,
and hungry, unhappy
like we are
in the mother country.
bitter about our lives.
your endless cable channels
and Netflix
is indulgent and bad
for you. coca cola
and burgers. you are all
fools drowning in sugar
and salt, oprah and tmz.
we will bury you.
pour me another vodka,
comrade. maybe later, you
can come with me
and we can go look in windows.
admits that she is a spy.
she doesn't care
that I know what she's up to.
she listens to
every word I say,
reads my emails and text
messages
when I set my phone down.
you are of little interest
to us,
she tells me, sipping
her vodka, while
brushing out her
bearskin coat.
she works the nightshift
as a maid
at the Dixie hotel on
route one, but
drives a black Mercedes.
her cleavage is tremendous.
you are very low on our
list, on the food chain
of surveillance.
I wish you had a better
job with higher clearance,
but no. you paint houses.
so it goes.
I am assigned to you.
every person has a Russian
spy attached to them.
we must learn and know
everything about you
to defeat your capitalistic
ways. throw a wrench
into your elections.
we want you to be cold,
and hungry, unhappy
like we are
in the mother country.
bitter about our lives.
your endless cable channels
and Netflix
is indulgent and bad
for you. coca cola
and burgers. you are all
fools drowning in sugar
and salt, oprah and tmz.
we will bury you.
pour me another vodka,
comrade. maybe later, you
can come with me
and we can go look in windows.
she looked just like you
someone just like you
was in the store the other day.
I saw her from
the side
and almost said hello.
but it wasn't you.
this doesn't mean that I
think about you all the time,
so please,
get that out of your head.
what we had wasn't love,
despite,
how often we told each other
that it was.
but, as I said,
she looked like you,
from the side,
the hair, the face, the way
you'd lean towards me,
up on your toes
to kiss me
hello, or goodbye.
was in the store the other day.
I saw her from
the side
and almost said hello.
but it wasn't you.
this doesn't mean that I
think about you all the time,
so please,
get that out of your head.
what we had wasn't love,
despite,
how often we told each other
that it was.
but, as I said,
she looked like you,
from the side,
the hair, the face, the way
you'd lean towards me,
up on your toes
to kiss me
hello, or goodbye.
the free bike
a bike, with a sign taped
to the seat
sits out front on
the sidewalk for days.
it reads free.
but no one takes it
and rides off.
it looks like a nice
bike.
air in the tires.
no rust that I can see.
it looks like a perfectly
fine bike that
someone just doesn't
want anymore.
finally after a week,
I see the trash truck
pull up
and throw it into
the back, where the big
metal door slams down
to crush it
together
with bags of trash and
assorted debris.
the men in their orange
jumpsuits say nothing has
they hop on board
to drive away.
it's sad in a way, but
I won't lose any sleep
over it.
to the seat
sits out front on
the sidewalk for days.
it reads free.
but no one takes it
and rides off.
it looks like a nice
bike.
air in the tires.
no rust that I can see.
it looks like a perfectly
fine bike that
someone just doesn't
want anymore.
finally after a week,
I see the trash truck
pull up
and throw it into
the back, where the big
metal door slams down
to crush it
together
with bags of trash and
assorted debris.
the men in their orange
jumpsuits say nothing has
they hop on board
to drive away.
it's sad in a way, but
I won't lose any sleep
over it.
table talk
you should eat less
meat
she tells me, sipping on
her soup,
nibbling on a flax
cracker.
she uses her knife to put
a small
wet chunk of cheese
on a greek olive.
i'm stuffed she says,
I can't eat another bite.
i cut into my rib eye.
chew it away,
then tell her that,
you know,
Hitler was a vegetarian.
oh really, she says.
what about Eva, his
girlfriend?
not sure about her, but
he sent her out everyday
into the war ravaged
city to find fresh green
beans and lettuce.
what's your point, she says,
drinking her
sparkling water.
no point, i tell her,
just saying.
meat
she tells me, sipping on
her soup,
nibbling on a flax
cracker.
she uses her knife to put
a small
wet chunk of cheese
on a greek olive.
i'm stuffed she says,
I can't eat another bite.
i cut into my rib eye.
chew it away,
then tell her that,
you know,
Hitler was a vegetarian.
oh really, she says.
what about Eva, his
girlfriend?
not sure about her, but
he sent her out everyday
into the war ravaged
city to find fresh green
beans and lettuce.
what's your point, she says,
drinking her
sparkling water.
no point, i tell her,
just saying.
going on
no matter what happens,
we still
need milk and bread.
we need to do
laundry,
walk the dog,
put gas in our cars.
no matter
what the headlines
read, what the news screams
we are watching what we eat,
walking, running,
listening to music.
lying on the couch,
watching tv.
in some small, insane way we
win, by going on
with our daily lives,
or maybe we just don't
know what else to do.
we still
need milk and bread.
we need to do
laundry,
walk the dog,
put gas in our cars.
no matter
what the headlines
read, what the news screams
we are watching what we eat,
walking, running,
listening to music.
lying on the couch,
watching tv.
in some small, insane way we
win, by going on
with our daily lives,
or maybe we just don't
know what else to do.
Monday, June 5, 2017
her irish jig
if she had a little
too much to drink she'd break out
into an Irish jig.
snap her shoes
across the sidewalk
in a blur
as you made you're way home
from some pub.
her red hair flew
around, her arms
hung out like wings,
her green eyes happy
with whiskey.
it didn't matter that you
weren't in love.
this was enough for now.
too much to drink she'd break out
into an Irish jig.
snap her shoes
across the sidewalk
in a blur
as you made you're way home
from some pub.
her red hair flew
around, her arms
hung out like wings,
her green eyes happy
with whiskey.
it didn't matter that you
weren't in love.
this was enough for now.
playing it safe
you spend much
of your life picking the high
ground.
bringing fire,
and shelter,
food.
thinking ahead to what
could happen,
but never does.
you keep an eye out
for wild animals.
it's hard to imagine
not having
a warm bed
to sleep in.
a couch to sit in.
all the comforts of
home,
money in the bank
and
a lock on the door.
of your life picking the high
ground.
bringing fire,
and shelter,
food.
thinking ahead to what
could happen,
but never does.
you keep an eye out
for wild animals.
it's hard to imagine
not having
a warm bed
to sleep in.
a couch to sit in.
all the comforts of
home,
money in the bank
and
a lock on the door.
the gum
the gum
stuck to my shoe
reminds
me of you, she says,
taking
a stick, sitting
on the curb
scrapping off a wad
of double bubble.
you mean the sweetness
of me?
the fun of chewing
and blowing a bubble,
and snapping it
all the time?
no, she says, not
exactly.
stuck to my shoe
reminds
me of you, she says,
taking
a stick, sitting
on the curb
scrapping off a wad
of double bubble.
you mean the sweetness
of me?
the fun of chewing
and blowing a bubble,
and snapping it
all the time?
no, she says, not
exactly.
Sunday, June 4, 2017
help us, please
they want a donation.
they call,
they send mail requests.
just five, just ten,
fifty if you can,
or whatever you can afford.
we need to save
the babies, the dogs,
the orphans overseas.
we need to
build a hut, a trench,
we need medicine
for the tired and poor,
for diseased.
won't you help us,
as you've done in the past,
if you have heart,
a conscience, if you
truly believe,
won't you help us,
please.
they call,
they send mail requests.
just five, just ten,
fifty if you can,
or whatever you can afford.
we need to save
the babies, the dogs,
the orphans overseas.
we need to
build a hut, a trench,
we need medicine
for the tired and poor,
for diseased.
won't you help us,
as you've done in the past,
if you have heart,
a conscience, if you
truly believe,
won't you help us,
please.
his ship
I just put twenty seven
hundred dollars into the bank
he says on the phone
cheerfully.
I can hear the tilt of a bottle
the clink of ice
in a glass.
he's living large now.
eating chicken.
ordering in.
he's making long distance
calls,
and thinking about
a new pair of shoes.
his ship, though small,
and wobbly,
has come in.
hundred dollars into the bank
he says on the phone
cheerfully.
I can hear the tilt of a bottle
the clink of ice
in a glass.
he's living large now.
eating chicken.
ordering in.
he's making long distance
calls,
and thinking about
a new pair of shoes.
his ship, though small,
and wobbly,
has come in.
it's you
it's not the drip
of the faucet
that bangs subtly
in rhythm against
the chrome drain,
it's not the wind
pulling
on the tree,
or the shutters
swing.
it's not the dog
some blocks away,
wailing
as he likes to do
with or without
a moon. it's not
any of that
that stirs me,
keeps me awake
through the long night.
it's you.
of the faucet
that bangs subtly
in rhythm against
the chrome drain,
it's not the wind
pulling
on the tree,
or the shutters
swing.
it's not the dog
some blocks away,
wailing
as he likes to do
with or without
a moon. it's not
any of that
that stirs me,
keeps me awake
through the long night.
it's you.
Friday, June 2, 2017
what have we here
it's a common snake
in the yard.
striped
yellow, with a fringe
of fancy
black down it's leathery
length.
it sticks his tongue out
at me,
as I find him under
a bed of wet
leaves.
he coils together
in fright.
ready to strike.
but with enough noise
and me saying things
like get out
of here snake, he slithers
into the yard
next door, finding a small
hole
in the fence,
that's just right.
in the yard.
striped
yellow, with a fringe
of fancy
black down it's leathery
length.
it sticks his tongue out
at me,
as I find him under
a bed of wet
leaves.
he coils together
in fright.
ready to strike.
but with enough noise
and me saying things
like get out
of here snake, he slithers
into the yard
next door, finding a small
hole
in the fence,
that's just right.
what have we here
it's a common snake
in the yard.
striped
yellow, with a fringe
of fancy
black down it's leathery
length.
it sticks his tongue out
at me,
as I find him under
a bed of wet
leaves.
he coils together
in fright.
ready to strike.
but with enough noise
and me saying things
like get out
of here snake, he slithers
into the yard
next door, finding a small
hole
in the fence,
that's just right.
in the yard.
striped
yellow, with a fringe
of fancy
black down it's leathery
length.
it sticks his tongue out
at me,
as I find him under
a bed of wet
leaves.
he coils together
in fright.
ready to strike.
but with enough noise
and me saying things
like get out
of here snake, he slithers
into the yard
next door, finding a small
hole
in the fence,
that's just right.
let's all join hands
I never liked the idea
of joining hands with complete
strangers.
not around a campfire,
not even in church,
when asked to greet
our neighbors standing
next to us
and shake.
stand together as one,
the preacher would say,
and out would come
a hand.
I could never do a coke
commercial
and sing in a big circle
holding hands. jumping
around on a sugar high.
i'm not even fond of
a bucket brigade,
or a tug of war.
tug your own rope.
of joining hands with complete
strangers.
not around a campfire,
not even in church,
when asked to greet
our neighbors standing
next to us
and shake.
stand together as one,
the preacher would say,
and out would come
a hand.
I could never do a coke
commercial
and sing in a big circle
holding hands. jumping
around on a sugar high.
i'm not even fond of
a bucket brigade,
or a tug of war.
tug your own rope.
the sunny side of the street
our house was on
the shady side of the street
which I think
affected
our entire lives.
where was the sun?
over there.
a big beam of yellow
light
cascaded down
on them.
who grew great blooms
of flowers
in their yard?
they did.
who had a pool,
where the blue water
glistened like
tiny stars,
not us. the people
who lived
in the house seemed
happier than we were,
too.
their kids seemed smarter,
all of them over achievers.
their marriage,
a rock.
we suspected they had a wonderful
sex life.
even their dog, sparky,
had a spring
in his step,
unlike ours, who sat
curled
under the great oak
tree, licking his paws.
yes. in the shade.
the shady side of the street
which I think
affected
our entire lives.
where was the sun?
over there.
a big beam of yellow
light
cascaded down
on them.
who grew great blooms
of flowers
in their yard?
they did.
who had a pool,
where the blue water
glistened like
tiny stars,
not us. the people
who lived
in the house seemed
happier than we were,
too.
their kids seemed smarter,
all of them over achievers.
their marriage,
a rock.
we suspected they had a wonderful
sex life.
even their dog, sparky,
had a spring
in his step,
unlike ours, who sat
curled
under the great oak
tree, licking his paws.
yes. in the shade.
the sunny side of the street
our house was on
the shady side of the street
which I think
affected
our entire lives.
where was the sun?
over there.
a big beam of yellow
light
cascaded down
on them.
who grew great blooms
of flowers
in their yard?
they did.
who had a pool,
where the blue water
glistened like
tiny stars,
not us. the people
who lived
in the house seemed
happier than we were,
too.
their kids seemed smarter,
all of them over achievers.
their marriage,
a rock.
we suspected they had a wonderful
sex life.
even their dog, sparky,
had a spring
in his step,
unlike ours, who sat
curled
under the great oak
tree, licking his paws.
yes. in the shade.
the shady side of the street
which I think
affected
our entire lives.
where was the sun?
over there.
a big beam of yellow
light
cascaded down
on them.
who grew great blooms
of flowers
in their yard?
they did.
who had a pool,
where the blue water
glistened like
tiny stars,
not us. the people
who lived
in the house seemed
happier than we were,
too.
their kids seemed smarter,
all of them over achievers.
their marriage,
a rock.
we suspected they had a wonderful
sex life.
even their dog, sparky,
had a spring
in his step,
unlike ours, who sat
curled
under the great oak
tree, licking his paws.
yes. in the shade.
i hear people say
I hear people say
this is my last dog, or
cat.
I just can't go through
it again.
loving it and then losing
it.
I've said it too.
although every time
I see a little dog
on the street,
wagging it's tail,
and wanting to kiss me,
my heart melts and I
want another one.
same goes with
tall women
in high heels.
this is my last dog, or
cat.
I just can't go through
it again.
loving it and then losing
it.
I've said it too.
although every time
I see a little dog
on the street,
wagging it's tail,
and wanting to kiss me,
my heart melts and I
want another one.
same goes with
tall women
in high heels.
i hear people say
I hear people say
this is my last dog, or
cat.
I just can't go through
it again.
loving it and then losing
it.
I've said it too.
although every time
I see a little dog
on the street,
wagging it's tail,
and wanting to kiss me,
my heart melts and I
want another one.
same goes with
tall women
in high heels.
this is my last dog, or
cat.
I just can't go through
it again.
loving it and then losing
it.
I've said it too.
although every time
I see a little dog
on the street,
wagging it's tail,
and wanting to kiss me,
my heart melts and I
want another one.
same goes with
tall women
in high heels.
seven
I don't remember
my mother or father ever asking
where we had
been all day,
all night.
there were too many of us
to keep track of.
they gave a head count
on occasion
just to figure out how
many pork chops
to set out, but as long
as the school never
called, or
the police didn't show up
at the door,
they were happy.
there was a large box
of band aides
on top of the refrigerator,
and a bottle
of hydrogen peroxide
which we used liberally.
my mother or father ever asking
where we had
been all day,
all night.
there were too many of us
to keep track of.
they gave a head count
on occasion
just to figure out how
many pork chops
to set out, but as long
as the school never
called, or
the police didn't show up
at the door,
they were happy.
there was a large box
of band aides
on top of the refrigerator,
and a bottle
of hydrogen peroxide
which we used liberally.
seven
I don't remember
my mother or father ever asking
where we had
been all day,
all night.
there were too many of us
to keep track of.
they gave a head count
on occasion
just to figure out how
many pork chops
to set out, but as long
as the school never
called, or
the police didn't show up
at the door,
they were happy.
there was a large box
of band aides
on top of the refrigerator,
and a bottle
of hydrogen peroxide
which we used liberally.
my mother or father ever asking
where we had
been all day,
all night.
there were too many of us
to keep track of.
they gave a head count
on occasion
just to figure out how
many pork chops
to set out, but as long
as the school never
called, or
the police didn't show up
at the door,
they were happy.
there was a large box
of band aides
on top of the refrigerator,
and a bottle
of hydrogen peroxide
which we used liberally.
oh, now you need me
there was turbulence.
the wind
pushed the boat with wings
from side to side,
the earth was
upside
down. clouds were
where the land was
supposed to be.
it grew dark as the rain
pounded our
thin metal home
in the sky.
we gripped hands, began
to pray
to the God we grew up
with,
which amused Him
greatly, wondering
where we had been
all these years.
the wind
pushed the boat with wings
from side to side,
the earth was
upside
down. clouds were
where the land was
supposed to be.
it grew dark as the rain
pounded our
thin metal home
in the sky.
we gripped hands, began
to pray
to the God we grew up
with,
which amused Him
greatly, wondering
where we had been
all these years.
oh, now you need me
there was turbulence.
the wind
pushed the boat with wings
from side to side,
the earth was
upside
down. clouds were
where the land was
supposed to be.
it grew dark as the rain
pounded our
thin metal home
in the sky.
we gripped hands, began
to pray
to the God we grew up
with,
which amused Him
greatly, wondering
where we had been
all these years.
the wind
pushed the boat with wings
from side to side,
the earth was
upside
down. clouds were
where the land was
supposed to be.
it grew dark as the rain
pounded our
thin metal home
in the sky.
we gripped hands, began
to pray
to the God we grew up
with,
which amused Him
greatly, wondering
where we had been
all these years.
Thursday, June 1, 2017
revelations
I find an old diary
stuck
under the mattress
in the guest room.
today I slept in it says
on the first page.
i'm going for a walk.
the next few
pages
were blank, then it
said,
i'm hungry. when will
he ever cook
some food in this house.
i'm starving.
the next page
said,
i'm sick of eating chicken,
for dinner
oatmeal for lunch.
I wonder if he likes me.
a day or two later,
my back hurts from making
love on the pool
table.
I think he likes me though.
we're going
out to dinner
tonight.
stuck
under the mattress
in the guest room.
today I slept in it says
on the first page.
i'm going for a walk.
the next few
pages
were blank, then it
said,
i'm hungry. when will
he ever cook
some food in this house.
i'm starving.
the next page
said,
i'm sick of eating chicken,
for dinner
oatmeal for lunch.
I wonder if he likes me.
a day or two later,
my back hurts from making
love on the pool
table.
I think he likes me though.
we're going
out to dinner
tonight.
out of work
I saw a circus
clown
on the corner looking
for work.
still in make up.
still with the floppy
shoes
and nose.
a squirting flower
on his lapel.
he was holding a sign,
will
make you laugh
for money, or food.
I gave him a dollar,
then he
put a whipped cream
pie into my face.
I didn't laugh,
but those in the car
with me did.
clown
on the corner looking
for work.
still in make up.
still with the floppy
shoes
and nose.
a squirting flower
on his lapel.
he was holding a sign,
will
make you laugh
for money, or food.
I gave him a dollar,
then he
put a whipped cream
pie into my face.
I didn't laugh,
but those in the car
with me did.
out of work
I saw a circus
clown
on the corner looking
for work.
still in make up.
still with the floppy
shoes
and nose.
a squirting flower
on his lapel.
he was holding a sign,
will
make you laugh
for money, or food.
I gave him a dollar,
then he
put a whipped cream
pie into my face.
I didn't laugh,
but those in the car
with me did.
clown
on the corner looking
for work.
still in make up.
still with the floppy
shoes
and nose.
a squirting flower
on his lapel.
he was holding a sign,
will
make you laugh
for money, or food.
I gave him a dollar,
then he
put a whipped cream
pie into my face.
I didn't laugh,
but those in the car
with me did.
her halo
her religion
has slipped, her slip
has
slipped,
her shoe is off,
her halo
is on the table.
she hasn't given up,
just surrendered
a little,
at least for now.
she's tired
of being good.
has slipped, her slip
has
slipped,
her shoe is off,
her halo
is on the table.
she hasn't given up,
just surrendered
a little,
at least for now.
she's tired
of being good.
her halo
her religion
has slipped, her slip
has
slipped,
her shoe is off,
her halo
is on the table.
she hasn't given up,
just surrendered
a little,
at least for now.
she's tired
of being good.
has slipped, her slip
has
slipped,
her shoe is off,
her halo
is on the table.
she hasn't given up,
just surrendered
a little,
at least for now.
she's tired
of being good.
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