let me think about it

the used car
is very used. the tires
bald
and rotting.
the dashboard
ripped.

she's got a few miles on
her
the salesman says,
but she'll get you where
you need to go.
she was beauty in her day.
he takes out
a picture
to show me when the car
was new and in
the show room.

but she cleans up nicely.
i'll have jimmy wash her for
you and put on a clear coat
of wax.

I start her up. it's cold
out and she won't turn over.

we jump the battery and I hear
the muffler rattle.

the pistons ping.

the growl of exhaust.
how much.
I ask.

i'll knock off a hundred if
you make the deal today,
he says

he takes the picture out of his
wallet and shows me the car
again.

she's all yours buddy. sign here.

let me think about it.

why are we here

the therapist

has no clue. she's squished in
her chair like
a fourteen year old
girl
just in from the beach.
flip flops.
her hair in wet disarray.

sure there's
a degree on the wall,
psychology today
on the table. is that a porcelain
figure of
Sigmund freud in the window
or president grant.

I see her pack of
camels.
the ashtray and matches.
an empty quart of rocky
road ice cream
in the trash.
I see the coupons she's
cut out
for total wine.

I calm myself down, wiping
tears away.

she's using a toothpick
when I sit down on the green
leather couch
and says, so,
why are we here to day.

indeed. why?

loose wire

the table lamp
wobbles
and spits out a wide
splash
of light.
half on, half out.
a wire must be loose
somewhere, or i'm
going crazy.
or both.

more to come

I can count my mistakes
on one hand,
four fingers actually.
maybe five
if I include
the decision to buy
a Pontiac sedan once,
a car I couldn't afford.
but that's it.
that's the grieving
list.
four and counting
but i'm sure
there'll be more.

the sun will come out

the flowers
are happy. the yard.
the green
of everything. the birds
wait
in the dark trees.
the rain will cease.
soon the sun will
come out
and all will be well.
won't it?

13 floors below

a stranger
arrives in a yellow cab.
she's traveling light.
running away,
or towards something, or
someone.
it's hard to tell.
tears
can go either way.
but she's crying.
she's waving goodbye.
she's waving
hello.
who's to know these
things
from the high window.
when it happens in
the street, thirteen
floors below.

the days you have left

the bare
necessities are
all you really
need.
food shelter
work
books
and love. family.
the tender touch
of a hand.
what else
is there
that soothes the soul,
allows
you to sleep
to eat and rest
in the days you live
in, the days
you have left?

another day

another day

of this.
work.

slight amusement.
sleep
and food.

the quiet.

another day slips
by

and what have you missed.
not much.
hardly a surprise.

a blue bird on the sill
but then

it's a grey
line
of days left behind.

another life

a dog
follows you home.
no leash,
no collar, no name,
no phone.
you let him in.
he drinks from a bowl.
eats then
he goes up
to your bed as if he's
been here
before.
perhaps he has.
maybe in another life.

finding gold

on my knees
I bend on the wet sand
of a cold
stream
and pan for gold.

I've been here most of
my life.
just one nugget will do.
one
solid piece
of gemstone.
gold, or silver.
a diamond perhaps.

something that will last
forever.

I've been at it so long
that I doubt
what God has told me.

but I keep at it.
pan after pan.
sifting, biting the fool's
stone.
tossing it back
again, and again.

trust

i trust
the weather is correct.
tuck an umbrella
under my arm.
i trust
that the money in my pocket
will buy
me coffee
pay for the bus, get me
home
at some point in
time.
i trust that my watch is right.
i trust my heart to keep
beating, for
the blood to course
through my veins.
i trust my eyes to see
where i step.
i trust the stairs i climb
will hold my weight.
I trust so many things,
so much of life,
and yet.

grab hold

I run towards the train.
i'm late. it won't wait.
my brown bag in hand.
my legs churn against
the silver
cinders
between the rails.
my breath is a bloom
of breath
before me. i
hold on to my hat.
my watch and chain.
I see a hand reaching
for mine,
be quick, the voice says.
you can do it, you can
make it, grab hold.

gaslight

you've been tricked.
duped.

flim flamed before, but
not like this.

not at this level of the game.
which shell hides the pea.
which card
is mine?

the rug has been pulled out,
the trap door opened
and away you go.

the trick is done,
the joke's
on you. gaslighted again.

what a shame it is
with life
so short
to be taken once more
before your very eyes.

across the nile

as I stand
here ironing a white shirt
for the funeral
I think
about my mother
holding a can
of spray starch,
a basket of clothes
at her feet.
I see her arms,
those long fingers,
he black hair
under the raw light
of the laundry room.
the cement floor.
I see her
turn up her transistor
radio
when the platters come
on. I see her lips
move with the words,
see the pyramids
across the nile.
she's was in heaven then,
as she must
be now.

everything you feared

somewhere
in the dark, you take
a wrong turn.
there's no moon
no stars,
no lamps to guide you.
no map. no friend
whispering go back
go back, into your ear.
your intuition
is broken.
your gut
out of order.
you keep going,
touching the walls,
the trees,
the rocks
along the way.
the braille of life
at your fingertips.
you feel the cold water
circle your ankles
like metal.
you hear the strange
growl of animals in
the woods.
someone shouts out
your name from a roof top.
this is not the way home,
it is everything you feared.

message in a bottle

while stranded on a deserted
island
with no food, or water,
no shelter, or way
to get home again,
I find a bottle with a note
in it
washed ashore,
I take the note out and
read it while sitting
in the wet sand.
hey, it says. it's me.
how are you?
I miss you and wonder
what life could have
been like if we had made
a go at things.
write me back and let
me know how things are going.
I laugh and stand up in
my ragged clothes.
I stroke my beard and look out
past where the waves are breaking
and see a small boat
with someone in it waving.
she has a picnic basket
and is wearing a large white
hat. a yellow scarf
is around her neck. slowly she
rows in to save me.

summer church

the air conditioning
has died
in the old church.
we sweat.
we kneel
and wipe our brows.
the robes
sag
on the priest,
the altar boys
tug at their collars.
the lights are dim,
the fans
whirl.
the doors
are open to let
a warm breeze blow
in.
the homily is shortened.
love one another,
he says.
be kind, be good, be
gentle.
the baskets
move quickly from
hand to hand, coins
and dollars
tossed together.
prayers are speeded
up
in the sweltering
air. we can hardly wait
to leave,
there's a lesson here
somewhere.

the shiny things

she puts
a bag of bread crumbs
in his coat
pocket
before he leaves the house.
cuts a hole
in the pocket
so that the tiny bits
and pieces
leave a trail
as they slowly fall out.
she knows
where he's going,
where he's
been, who he's seen.
she knows everything
there is to know
about his betrayal.
the crumbs are all over
town.
everyone knows.
it's old news.
but does it matter
that their home is loveless,
no.
she'll never leave,
never give up
the life, the sad faux
world they live in,
the shiny things and him.

a piece of you

a piece of you,
a piece of me, we tie
ourselves
together,
stitch us up
with needle
and thread.
we make a quilt
of blood and memory.
of seasons
long ago.
of what tomorrow
might bring,
of what could keep
us warm
when the cold winds
blow.
when the rains
sing.
we make a blanket
to cover
our sins, to hide
our lies, our secrets.
we begin
with a needle and thread
to start
again.

the cheap door

the wood
is warped by rain.
the door won't close.
the knob
won't turn.
the hinges run
with rust.
it's hardly old,
barely new.
so soon to start
once more,
to build another
door for which
to enter.
the carpenter
has cashed his check,
and run
away.

going down

from the shore
I stand and watch as the boat sinks.
i'm happy
about this.
I don't wave, I don't say a
word.
I don't throw out
a life jacket
or rope.
I fold my arms and smile.
I let all the lies
and deceit go down. i
let all the pain caused
go under.
i'm delighted
that finally someone gets
what they
deserve
and more.

the washing

I take out
my brain and wring it
as hard as I can
to get the bad stuff out.
I take it
down to the river
and beat it against
the rocks.
I twist and turn
it like a wet towel
full of tears
and angst.
I want to be done with
these memories
this past parade
of fools and jesters,
so full of pranks.
I clean it
out, shake it free of
all these doubts.

washed ashore

the emergency
room
is buzzing.
bells ring,
machines whirring.
patients
in disarray.
stretched out
like
starfish
against the white
sheets.
the injured
have washed ashore here.
the boys
and girl
in blue and sea foam
green, barely out of school
attend
to their misery as
best they can.
the cloaked white
doctors
are on their way.

greener grass

out of breath,
out of time, out of luck.
out of ideas
and rhymes.
out of words, spent
and tired.
bone weary. looking
for a place
to lie down.
a nice blanket of grass
beneath
a shady tree.
a single day without
fear
or grief.

a line of ants

the ants
come in during the night.

a quiet march.

small dots
of black with legs and arms,
things too
small to take notice of.

but life of
some sort.

no tools in hand.
no proclamation, or
mission statement.
but they're here doing
what ants do.

what to do?
brush them away.

a wet cloth, a hand,
a spray.

they don't know what
they've gotten themselves
into.

blue jay

the blue jay
in his thick purpled coat,
his blue
bully jacket
keeps the others away.

he's too heavy
for the feeder. see
how it bends,

sways.

some lesson to be told,
i'm sure.
beauty being
less
agreeable
towards others
that you realized.

the loose thread

a thread
pulled, and pulled,
tugged
to some end
does nothing
but unravel
the whole.
best to snip it where
lies,
cut it clean
or tie a knot
to end the trouble
where it
begins, not
further down
the line.

choices

we choose the shoes
we wear.
the shirts, the pants.
we decide
where to work.
what to eat,
who to love, or who
to dismiss
as meaningless in our
lives.
we choose worry
over faith.
indulgence over fasting.
we rush and hurry
when we should wait.
we make our beds
and lie in them.
we lead ourselves astray
taking
the wrong roads,
the wrong fates.
we do it all
and then complain
as if we had nothing
to do or say
about it.

be back soon

I slip into
a coma
gratefully. my mind
still awake
my body in a state
of relaxation.
i'm gone, but i'm still
here.
I can see and
hear
those gathered around me.
tears fall.
some tremble and sit
besides the bouquets
of flowers.
another person touches
my face,
wipes my brow with
a cold cloth.
I feel lips my forehead.
there's a hand on my
knee.
words of
love are whispered into
my ear. others seem bored.
they want to be
anywhere but here.
I want to tell them all
not to worry, don't be
concerned. go home,
go about your lives.
i'm just
asleep. i'm taking a well
deserved break. a long
rest.
I needed it, be back
soon.

unplug those lights

I buy a string of Chinese
lanterns for the back yard.
I plug them in
and let the lights glow.
red, blue, orange, yellow.
green.
it's a pretty sight to see
against the back drop
of dark woods, the full
array of trees.
I get a note in
the mail from cruella
the condo board president,
former treasurer
and v.p., one term comptroller.
unplug your lights
the letter reads.
or else. according to section
eight part B, line 12, you are
in violation of having fun
and being frivolous.
i light the letter with a match
and watch it burn, then
wait. I wait. another
letter comes.
then another. they fine
me. they threaten me.
they wait outside my door
with signs and placards.
megaphones. turn off those
lights, they chant.
they wait for me to leave
in the morning, but I
don't go out.
I sit in the yard and
stare at the lights.
those wonderful
the Chinese lanterns.

disappeared

he was good at table
magic.
cards and thimbles. dice.
slight of hands.
hats and rabbits.
handkerchiefs
and canes, boxes
with false bottoms.
but then he went too far
and made himself
disappear.
we haven't seen him
in years.
someone said that he
had life insurance,
but
his wife's not talking.
she's waiting it out.
he tried to saw
her in half once.
took forever for the wound
to heal.

going out of business

there's a sale on.

two for one.
buy three and get the fourth
one free.
buy a dozen and get
the next half
dozen half off.
it's a red tag sale,
a blue light special.

you've never seen anything
like it.

we're going out of business.
everything must go.

closing soon.

no refunds, no returns.
everything as it is.
right off the shelf.
in the crate.
off the boat, off the truck.

sixty per cent off
on Thursdays only.

ten percent off the original
price.

discounts galore.
going out of business.
moving to a new location,
opening a new store.
we're out of room, we need
to move
last years models
to make room for more.

get em while they're hot.
one size fits all.
it's make your day,
your life.
you'll never be the same.


come on by. open all night.
no credit, no problem.
cash and carry.

bring a friend, but come,
come soon. going out of business.
last chance. last chance.

old habits

the cops
are at the door.
I can see through
the peep hole their
badges,
hats pulled tight
around their brow.
I fall to the floor
and quietly crawl
back to the kitchen.
the dog
looks at me,
licks my face.
stop, I tell him.
he tugs at my sleeve.
stop, be quiet.
the popo
are at the door, I tell
him.
shh.
he looks at the door
as the loud
knock of knuckles
raps against the wood
he growls.
shhhh I whisper. it's
the fuzz.
be quiet.
he lies down
beside me,
nestles his head
against my neck.
we wait it out together.

the ties that blind

the web
of us, the ties,
the strings of the past
keep
us from moving
forward.
we sidle sideways,
stuck
in the glue,
the tether of what
was.
the muck and mud
of another time
holding our shoes.
where's the scissors
to set us free.
the shovel
to bury it,
the broom to sweep
it away.
the rope to pull
us out
and get us on dry
ground
where we can start
anew.

sweet cherries

when they went away for a day or
two
we'd climb the black cherry
tree on the corner
and like monkeys
scramble up and through,
to eat our fill.
our skinny arms and legs
would hardly
bend the tender
branches.
we'd stuff our mouths,
our pockets,
the white t-shirts
stained with the blood
of stolen fruit.
we'd spit the seeds
at one another
with glee.
we ate until we ached.
dropping down the trunk
when the car turned the corner
the owners returning,
coming into view.
two summers we raided
that fat sweet cherry tree
before they took it down
with cruel strong swings
of a silver axe.

the ice cream truck

I remember the unemployment
office
in the 1970's.
the squat red brick building
in Beltsville Maryland.
the long lines
the waiting.
a dreadful time
in so many ways.
sitting for hours
until it was your turn
to prove
you had skills, that you
were unemployed
through no fault of your own.
the check per week was
less than
a hundred dollars.
better than nothing, I said
to my friend john.
we earned it, we both said.
we worked all year
before the lay off, now
it's time
for us to get something
for nothing.
we looked for another job together.
our long hair, his beard,
and beret, our youth keeping
us from doing much
in the world
but painting houses,
cutting grass, or driving
an ice cream truck.
our classes at the community
college did nothing
for our short resumes.

john's been dead for over
two years now.

when I hear the bells
and music of the truck
as I sit on the front porch
alone, I watch as it rolls
slowly down the block.
the children
appear out of nowhere
running as they always have
every summer,
burnished with sun,
in their bare feet, with
money clutched
in their tender hands.

get happy

we buy a bigger
house. one with a better
view.
another boat, another place
to live in.
another car,
another suit, another
set of ear rings,
a watch,
a stick pin, more bling.
we lie inside the tanning
booth
for darker skin.
we get the fat sucked
out of our bellies,
our chins.
we buy a wig, new teeth,
new shoes.
we do nearly everything
to make ourselves
happy,
everything, but working on
what lies within.

no more clowns

when the clowns
keep coming out of the small
car.
I don't laugh.
I don't find it amusing
at all.
it's ridiculous.
I don't want to send in
the clowns.
there is nothing funny
about a clown,
in fact the exact opposite
comes to mind.
the make up.
the permanent smile.
the squirting flower
and horn
blowing.
I want a world without
clowns, without
their polyester yellow
jumpsuits.
their red bushy air
the animal balloons.
I want a clown ban, that
goes for mimes too.

evil dessert

jealousy
is such an evil dessert.
so cruel
an emotion there never was.
a devil's
dish
of angst.
you keep spooning it
in,
the black heart
never quite full.
the flight of rational
thinking
flies quickly
out the window.
just a word or glance
is enough
to throw a jug of
kerosene
onto a single flame
of a match struck.
it's a sick world.
crazy
and mean.
how rough the waters
can be
so quickly, though once
so placid, so relaxed,
so serene.

the barber shop

as a child
I feared the razor of the old
man,
the barber
in Barcelona.
his belly brushing against
my buster browns,
his garlic
lunch a cloud of despair
upon me.
how small I was in the thick
hot chair
that held me down
like sand.
I watched and listened
as he sharpened the blade
against a strap
of Spanish leather.
preparing me for what?
I was only six,
what possible reason would
there be
to place that shiny
knife against my brow,
my cheek,
my lineless face.
how would I look without
ears?
where was my mother to
save me
from this death.
shopping?
eating shaved lemon ice
in the promenade,
flirting with a
conquistador or a bull
fighter
in the cool arc of shade?

put the money in the bag

the first time
I robbed a bank
I didn't know what I was
doing.
my hand written note
was nearly illegible.
put the money in the bag,
I scribbled on the back
of an envelope.
the teller, a nice young
woman, asked me
what the note said.
I can't read this, it
looks like you wrote
put the baloney in
the box.
no, no I whispered
loudly, the money in
the bag. money, moohlah,
cash, dough rey me? get it?
I put my finger into my
jacket to indicate
I was carrying heat,
but she paid it no mind.
you're going to have to
go to a deli for
baloney, she said.
and we don't have any
boxes or bags here.
I gave her a paper bag,
and whispered to her
again, my hand
cupped to my mouth.
money, dollars, cash,
into the bag. now or
I might have to hurt
someone.
do you have an account
here, she said, I need to
see some ID.

In the woods

it's a long night.
I look out the window
and see
them creeping about
in the shadows.
longing for what's inside.
they're in the woods.
in the trees,
they crawl
and scratch their
way through
the thickets, the fallen
leaves.
I see their eyes,
red in the moonlight.
their sharpened fangs
bared
and dripping
with carnivorous desire.
nothing stops them.
nothing
keeps them at bay,
not even daylight
sends them back home,
back to the lives
they've made.
they stay and wait
on their hind legs,
they pant and beg.
what they want's inside.

fresca?

the gypsy
takes my hand and stares
into the lines,
she bats a fly away
from her face
and yells out
for someone
to shut the screen
door.
I hear it slam.
I see trouble, she says.
lots and lots of trouble.
what are all these
lines?
do you mind if I smoke
she says,
lighting a cigarette.
when I see hands like this,
I don't know,
it breaks my heart.
take out a handkerchief
and wipe
the dark paint off my
hand, still
wet from work.
oh, she says. much better.
she touches the clean
lines
on my palm.
things seem to be going
well for you lately.
are you in show business
by any chance.
I see wonderful adventures
in your future.
do you want a fresca?

the water color

it's a water
color
world of unskilled
strokes,
the reds
bleed,
the blues are mottled.
the greens
have
slipped into muddy
brown.
the hand moves across
the canvas
trying to make sense
of it all.
trying to put
a straight line
into view.
it's harder than it
looks,
what isn't?

shipping lanes

hardly ships passing
in the night.
more like barges floating
in
daylight,
a thousand miles of ocean
between us.
the slow crawl of our
lives apart.
not a wave or word
spoken.
not a blow of the boats
horn.
just the quiet ripple of water
in the green shift
of time
slipping by.

land fill

the landfill
is overflowing with what
we don't want
or use.
tires and books,
pants
and broken chandeliers.
there goes a heart or two
as well.
they truck it in from
Baltimore,
from
new York,
from LA,
and Brunswick.
it keeps coming.
doesn't stop.
I add my share to the pile
shoveled
onto the rising heap.
I purge
the life I led,
the encrypted world
of me,
but there's always
some newer stuff.
always.

digging out

i'm in the hole again.
lock down, solitary
confinement.
I feel the rats
slip past my body as I lie
in a curled
bow.
there is little light,
less food,
or water.
no human voice, or touch
comes near.
i'm being punished again
for things
I haven't done.
I can hardly wait to get
back to my cell
to dig once more,
to tunnel out with a
wooden spoon.
to be free once more
from this cage
i'm stuck in.

survival

I wring out
my muscles, the sinew
of an aging body.
i let my bones crack
under the weight of me.
I lie
on the floor
and stare up at the ceiling.
I've been here before
and survived.
i'll live through this
one too,
and be all the stronger
and wiser
when I come out the other
side.

don't we?

the lights
are dim. the shadows
long
this time of day.
the world slinks home
from work.
from school.
the children get off
the buses.
lovers depart
from their rendezvous
in green parks.
the day is nearly done.
we all go home
to something or someone.
don't we?

old cars

the car has seen better days.
royal blue
is now denim faded.
there's rust
on the running boards,
in the wheel wells, the radio
doesn't play.
a crack in the windshield
serrates the glass.
in the morning she
groans when she tries to turn
over. when i hit the gas.
the pistons stuck,
the gear shift, the doorknobs too.
she was a great car for
many years,
smooth as silk on the open
road.
plush and fun around the curves.
I remember the beach
on our first trip to the eastern
shore.
the bridge, the gulls.
the salt in the air.
i'll miss her, as I have all
the old cars I've been down
the road with.
but it's time to go, pull
up the truck and take her.
i'll wipe my tears away
and get another. maybe a foreign
job with a convertible
roof to let the sun in.

the clean slate

I take
the eraser and wipe
the black board. it takes
all day.
I scrub hard
at the words, doubt,
fear, loneliness, etched
in with a heavy hand.
I want a clean slate.
it's a joyous occasion.
I remove all the chalk
of yesterday. I sponge
it down, make it new
again.
the board is pristine,
ready for a new day coming.
that lesson is over.
those dark pages are gone.
the next chapter
of my life begins.
I can hardly wait.
I take a new piece of chalk
and begin to write.

when she died

when she died
i made an altar to her.
i went blind
to what it really was
and kept
photos of happy times.
i put the things we shared
nearby, glass
beads from a jar.
a blouse, a scarf, a shoe.
in every room a touch stone
of our life together.
anything to keep that love
alive. her greeting cards
signed with hearts and smiles.
a bottle of her perfume,
a ring,
her books close by,
book marked with a picture of
the two of us
and underlined
to remind me of what
i felt inside.
i framed our mythical world
beside me to keep me warm
on cold nights.
it took so much time.
so many tears and pain
before i let her go,
accepting the truth of what
it really was,
and moved on with my life,
letting others in.

two hearts

the rain is bliss,
the summer pour of warmth
from a layer
of brushed silk clouds
is fine
on this late morning.
I can hear
it on the roof, against
the tin,
the tile, the wood.
I can hear the beat of my
own tired heart
wanting two.

the hand not taken

we make mistakes.
we do things that change
our lives forever,
not for
the better but for the worse.
regrets
are sharp stones we carry
in our mouths
and can't spit out.
what could have been
rattles
around in the iron
cage of
our minds. always there,
always reminding us of
the hand not taken,
the vows not spoken.
we stay lost and mired in
the fog of doubt.

what the problem is

my new personal yogi,
guru and wise man,
jimmy,
says that my problem
is a spiritual
one.
he's turned over a new
leaf. in fact
he's turned over a tree
full of leaves
since I've known him.
but I think he's on
to something now.
it's not money, or love,
or work,
or relationships, he
says,
that's keeping you
blue, in the dumps,
it's where you are
in your spiritual life,
he says.
all of man's troubles
are the result of a
spiritual one.
who's first in your world?
who or what means most to you?
straighten that out
with the man up there
and you're home free
my brother. surrender
is the answer.
I look up to the rafters
when he points with his fork
full of rib eye steak and says
the man up there.
I see a tiny
brown sparrow looking down,
there's a small
worm in his mouth.
jimmy raises his cold bottle
of Budweiser and waits
for me to clink
his bottle with mine.
I do.
surrender man, he says
again. let it all go.
could you pass me the ketchup?

a piece is missing

a piece of me
is missing. I can't find it
anywhere.
I've looked all over
the house,
in the car, the yard,
on the street.
I've sorted through
the laundry,
shook the pages of books.
I don't even know what
it looks like,
how to describe it.
I just feel that it's gone.
a broken chunk
of me removed and lost.
strangers and friends alike
stop me on the street
and ask, what's wrong?
I haven't been myself
without it.
perhaps the x rays
will tell me more.

the hand you reach for

sometimes
the hand you reach for
is not the one
who is going to help
you get over
the side of a cliff.
it seems right
at the time,
dangling a thousand
feet above the ravine,
your life in the balance,
but they don't have
your best interests
in mind.
having done so many
climbs,
you are more wise
these days,
and so you wait patiently
for another hand,
a stronger rope to arrive.

the land line

i don't have any money
i say when picking up the phone
before hearing a word.
it's the irs.
i can hear a thousand voices
talking at once
in the cavernous warehouse.
it's about a student loan,
it's about discount
drugs
in Canada.
new windows, or the police,
or fireman wanting
a donation.
sorry, but i'm plum out
of cash at the moment i
say, then hang up
and wait for the next call.

kenny and mary

I get a postcard in the mail
from the karrikers in Miami.
come soon, it says.
we miss you.
we'd like to see you this
year.
a flamingo is on the front
of the glossy card,
pink against a pale
blue sea.
we have oranges here,
it reads. we have plenty
of room.
come before it's too hot.
before we're too old
to walk, to hear or see.
come soon before kenny dies.
he's not well.
we have cable tv.

which way

the canvas is white
today
despite the rain outside,
the emerald
green of trees
is lit
under a sunless sky.
no ink spilled or brushed
yet.
what to do.
what to say, where to go.
I stand at the intersection
of young hours
and turn
in each direction.
who's available
to paint outside the lines,
to hit the road,
to misbehave,
what trouble
or goodness can we
get into on this long wet
rainy day.

the other life

the baby tooth,
the small white shoe
the bellini crib,
the mobile
swinging
from a vine
above.
the monitor,
the plastic toys,
the smell of powder,
the warm
bottle
spritzed on a wrist
to see how
hot.
the blankets
and soft pillows,
the binky
and bear. the video
tapes,
and albums.
that life is boxed,
stored in a cellar,
an attic,
somewhere.

old ink

yesterdays news
is stale.
but I read it anyway.
I open up the paper
and graze upon the mass
of words.
the headlines
screaming war or terror.
nothing's changed since
the last
paper.
the funny paper unfunny.
the horoscopes
and puzzle
ignored. the ads in color
so as not
to be confused with the news.
final clear out
on mattresses. everything
must go.
the rib eyes are marked down.
I flip to the sports page.
where's mantle,
where's
sayers and Lombardi.
where's
clemente when you
need him?

point of view

the walls of the infirmary
are white.
the long coats
of doctors are white
too, the nurses
are splattered
red
as if Jackson pollock
had just left
the room.
the gurney I am
rolled upon
is sheeted white
as well. i feel the ironed
starch of them
upon my skin. I see the life
of me
puddle in a brownish
hue.
unheavenly lights
flicker above me,
fluorescent
and full of sparkle
from this view.
I see the face
of a surgeon lean over
me
as they insert a needle
into a vein,
place a shield
of air
upon my mouth.
his eyes are dark
and worried.
everything will be just
fine,
someone says.
why do I keep hearing
those words.
I see the knife.

until the first bite

the apple
on first sight is red
and glorious
in its color, its
simple orbed life.
look how it shines.
how often we don't see
the worm
on the other side,
burrowing
through the white
turning
it soft and brown inside,
all unknown to us
until the first bite.

the sand lot

when we were kids
we'd go down to St. Elizabeth's
Hospital
and look through the iron
fence at the mad men
and women
who wandered the grounds.
set free
from the red brick building
to be in the sun.
some in conversation with
the air,
or trees, others slumped
on benches, or on
bent knees.
we wondered how, we wondered
why, as we stood there
with ball caps on,
our gloves in hand.
bats and balls.
we stared and wondered
about this strange
dark world we were yet
to know about,
before running off to play
on a field not far
from where we were.

fire in the engine

half the year
is
in the can like
a dead fish wrapped
in yesterdays news.
how is it possible?
the wheels of time
are on
greased rails
it seems, going down hill,
speeding ever closer
to some end.
i'm hanging on to
the straps,
knees bent, eyes shut,
waiting
to get out of the tunnel
and around
the bend.
I do see a light.
and sigh. I see there's
still time,
still track, still fire
in the engine.

starry eyed

who hasn't been
starry eyed,
mad about someone.
a loon howling
at a silvered moon,
running wild across
the fields at
night.
who hasn't
tripped and fell
when running towards
love.
who hasn't
flown with thin wings
into the light
above,
believing that now,
finally now, that
all things will be
just right.

good people

we are good people.
we go to work.
we obey the laws of
the land
as best we can.
we love our children,
our parents,
our friends.
we wipe away the tears of
others when they fall.
we listen,
we pray. we sin,
then ask forgiveness.
we start all over
again.
we brush and floss,
we drop a coin into
the homeless tin.
in time these days add
up to something.
I think. but
are we accountable
at the end.
did we do enough, we're
we selfless,
and kind enough,
or does it even matter
as we fade
back in the ground where
we began.

no plan

i go into the safeway
without a clear plan.
hunger is setting in.
i take a cart and roll
it down the aisles.
the wobbled wheel steering
me to where I don't
want to go. I rest
and admire the glimmer
of it all.
even the cans of beans
shine. the olives.
the foil pans.
all heavenly objects
in orbit.
i walk around store,
then circle back again.
i'm making friends.
i nod and wave to all
the other men, scruffy
with three day beards,
in long coats, watery
eyes, some women
too with strollers,
or riding in the scooters,
wearing flowered hats
holding pads and pens.
purses on their shoulders
as large as hens.
the deli man says hey,
back again?
i stare at the rotisserie
chickens
spinning slowly,
basted brown,
in the silver oven.
it's a good store. clean
and polished,
well lit. the pyramids
of pears and apples,
set high. dead fish on ice,
blue eyed,
yesterdays bread at half price.
i can't think of a better
way to spend time
so late in the afternoon,
so late in life.

the early day

it's too early
to take a nap.
too early to eat.
i'm not in the mood
to read, or write,
or do anything,
I look at my phone.
everyone's at work, or
out of town.
the house is clean.
laundry done.
there's nowhere to be.
it's a good time to have
a dog,
perhaps.

i need to borrow some money

we're lucky
he says, nodding, smiling,
folding his
legs
as we sit on the park
bench.
i'm glad you picked up
the phone
after the last time.
it's so nice to see you
again.
yes. I say. it is nice.
we go back a long way.
we have so much,
he says,
stretching in the sun,
but we need so little
to survive.
we're blessed,
aren't we? you
and me. we're winners,
aren't we?
what are you talking
about,
I ask him.
he's an old friend
and when he talks like
this I begin to worry.
I need to borrow
some money he says.
just a few grand. and your
car next
weekend. i'm in a jam
right now, but things will
be fine
in the end. things
will be fine.
this is the last time,
I promise.

catch and release

the fish
I take out of the sea
is large.
I need both hands
to hold him.
he's green and silver
in the sun.
flecks of orange.
I pull the steel hook
from his stiff mouth,
trying not tear at his
skin. I see the fear
in his eyes.
the cold panic
of is body, writhing
in pain.
he wants to swim.
he can't breathe in
this air.
who doesn't know
that feeling at some
point in their lives,
wanting to be thrown
back in.

the storm clears

the swing of the broken
blades, the hard
slap of metal
and rubber against
the glass
reminds me
of something,
a different place
and time
as we drive through
the rain.
I can't put my finger
on it.
a deja vu kind
of thing. but i'm
careful on the curve
of road,
the detoured lane,
both hands on the wheel
but at ease
as the storm clears
and the wind settles
beyond the trees.

the blue squid

a blue squid
appears in your dream.
slow moving
out of water,
he lies on the kitchen
floor
a fleshy lump of life
from some far away sea.
we stare at the long
limbs. the dark button eyes.
the suction of his
arms, or are they
legs?
what to do with him.
or her.
whose to know these
things, whose to know
what to do when a squid
appears in a dream.

who's next

he counts the days
towards the end. no gold watch.
no group photo.
no nothing,
just a hug, a pat
on the back,
thanks for the thirty
years you put in.
it goes like that now.
the farewell of us is
not what it used to be.
the ceremonial dinner
is at denny's.
some come, some can't
make it, some never knew
you or where you sat
at your desk.
but it's clean
now. ready
for the next guest. who's
next?

captured

the tumble and slip
in
the hall sends him down.
blood
but no stitches.
away he goes
in the red boxed truck,
lying
in the back at the hands
of young people
who want to help.
the wires, the tubes,
the beeping of
machines.
one slip and now this,
after a life of
slips.
captured at last to get
to the bottom
of this.

new wings

I peel off the old skin.
the wet
clothes
of me.
I cut my beard,
my hair,
sink into the warm
bath.
I burn everything
I bring.
I start anew.
a fresh pair of clothes
new shoes.
a new set of wings.

a good place to be

I awaken from asleep
between the snowy sheets
that rise
and fall in billowy
drifts of cotton.
it's three a.m.
I see the fan
above swirl
in the shadows,
I touch my arm,
my face to see if i'm
still alive.
I am.
what's come and gone
hasn't killed me.
this is not a dream.
I don't want morning
to arrive,
I don't want another
night to start.
here is a good place
to be.

i'm coming home

the war is over.
i'm coming home. my sea bag
on my shoulder.
i'm limping,
my arms are tired.
my back sore.
it was a long war.
a long
battle full of sleepless
nights.
I can still hear the bullets
in the air,
the blast of bombs nearby.
the dead and dying
fresh in my mind.
but the war is over
i'm coming home.
be there for me
won't you, when I arrive.

no charge

how nice
the suds go over
the black
metal, my arms
stretched onto the roof,
the sides.
the tires next then
the rinses of a long
red hose,
the sponge, the rag,
the bucket
at your soggy shoes.
i'm settled nicely
in the shade without a care,
out of the sun.
a cold beer in hand.
the radio on.
the neighbor smiles
and says,
mine next?
sure, I tell him, pull
it up.
no charge.

getting closer

the rungs
on this ladder are old.
aluminum
steps that feel the weight
of me,
the strike of my
boots.
hot in the summer,
so cold
when the wind
blows in from the north.
I climb
and hold on.
my fingers grasping
at the sides.
I reach the top
and look down.
i know i'm closer to
where i need
to be.

juggling

so many knives
in the air,
kids
and work,
lovers and friends.
we juggle
so much, balancing
on a wire is
our
life long act.
it's never easy
keeping
it all going.
not enough time,
not enough
energy.
but we try, oh how
hard we try
to keep it all
from falling.

the seed

the seed
buried will take
its own time in coming up.
water
and sun,
there is little else
to do,
but wait
and wait
for what's to come.

to the moon

as we glide
forward
towards the moon,
the earth behind us.
what is there to see?
stars,
rocks, a lifeless
orb,
the white dust
of nothing.
we want to travel
to places
where there is nothing
there to see.
no air
to breathe.
all that matters
is behind us.
the love
we've made,
the friends we choose
to keep.

the joy last

the birds
are fat in the yard.
they teeter
with red and blue
bellies
on the wooden fence.
the feeders
are full but not for long,
the suet gnawed on
and broken
by squirrels
and raccoons
a woodpecker or two.
too much, perhaps?
are we upsetting
the world
beyond our grasp by
making life
too easy? so much
is about
the struggle, the hunt
that makes
the joy last.

the red ball

there was a time
when I could juggle
a ball, a sword, a candle
with a flame
in the air,
all flying in synchronicity
together and not
drop a thing.
wild days and nights
they were,
now a simple spongy
ball from one hand
to the other is
enough to suit
my needs.

the long winter

the long winter
continues.
the cold air sweeps
across
the plains.
we look up into
the indigo sky
and wonder when the next
season
will turn.
when will the frost
die,
when will the trees
fill up
once more with green.
we rub our hands
together
and stand by the fire.
what is there to do,
but wait
and have patience.
tomorrow, or the next
day, maybe,
love will arrive.

zen painting

i stare at the wall
and watch paint dry.
it's a zen thing.
i go into a zone, a place
of bliss.
my mind is empty
of yesterday.
tomorrow doesn't exist.
i can paint all
day and watch it dry.
wall after wall.
i find that ignorance
is bliss.
i want bliss.
it keeps me
from the real world.
from truth
and worry.
another coat goes on.
i watch it dry.

and cake

if not for ice
cream and cake, i'd see no
reason
to go on.
I used to think that love
was important.
not so.
that having money,
a home,
a car. that things
were necessary
to make me happy,
the frivolous
je ne sais quoi,
that the world
offers,
but I see how quickly
things fade
and break,
disappear.
I stare at the hole
in my
expensive Italian shoes
and smile.
I see now that ice cream
is key
to life and happiness.
and cake.

the swan dive

the rapids
are tempting. perhaps a swan
dive
from the highest rock
into the vortex
of the river
would do the trick.
going under
until my lungs are
empty of air
and full of ageless water.
my arms too tired
to swim,
my legs like leaden pipes
taking me down.
it would be a magnificent
dive.
arms extended, legs
together like I learned
at the airman's pool
on Bolling base when I was
twelve.
my chin would be up.
it would be a ten on all
the judges cards.
i'd keep my eyes wide open
in a final glimpse
of a wonderous world.
hours later
they'd find me in calmer
water, drifting alone in
the low swirl of peace,
which is where I always
wanted to be
in the first place.

unoriginal sin

sometimes you wonder
who isn't
lying, deceiving
playing some foolish game
of hide and seek.
who doesn't
have a dark
side, a side you never
see until it's
too late.
who is truly good,
fair and honest
clean and
free of ego,
transparent and genuine,
none that I see,
including me.

the whistle

as the train crosses
the trestle
the whistle blows.
we stand
below, near the flat lake,
powder blue
with ducks.
we watch.
passengers wave.
some of us wave back.
we are here
to stay,
they are moving on.
it's always been
that way.

in moderation

what makes me
happy
is less.
less of nearly everything
that seems
important.
the bling of life
means little to me.
the only
thing i need
not in moderation
is love.
bring me barrels
of that.
boxes, crates,
roll it in
by the truck load.
no need to sign
or ring the bell,
just leave it at the door.

friendship

how sweet to have
an ear
that listens, a friend
indeed.
a kind word, or touch,
a hand
upon your shoulder,
telling you
all the things you
need
and want to hear.
how gently a true
friend can be,
sorting through
the waves,
the tsunami of heart ache
that leaves your shore
littered with debris.
how kind of a friend
that tells you
what the truth is,
who untangles the flowers
from the weeds,
lifts you up with a tender
heart,
gathers you
from your calloused knees.

doing nothing

I make a day of it.
doing
nothing.
I exhale all the dead
air
and angst out of me
and inhale a fresh breath
of love.
of goodness
and virtue.
I lie down in the sun
like a fat cat.
drinking a beer.
reading a magazine
or two.
flipping through
a soft book, nothing
too hard.
I call up some
friends.
I ask them if they'd
like to come over
and do nothing.
they can't get here
fast enough.
they bring food.
we put some music on.
we should do this
more often
someone says, rubbing
lotion onto his arms
we should do nothing
more often.
we clink our bottles
together
and say yes.
here's to nothing.

self help bonfire

it was a wonderful
bonfire.
we held it on the beach.
a crowd gathered,
each bringing their own
pile of books.
self help books.
hundreds of them.
pages and paragraphs
underlined and marked
with dates
and names.
dog eared
book marked.
so many. so useless.
together we danced
as the flames licked
at the stars,
the sea beside
us, black and roaring
with life.
I threw book after book
into the raging flame
and felt
enriched. felt freed,
felt joy for the first
time in ages.
done with the pyscho babble
of the pseudo therapists
and doctors
making a mint on our
human needs.
it was worth every penny
I used to buy
them, just to see them
burn.

slave world

we live in a world
of factories,
hunched over
our keyboards,
chained to our desks,
our phones,
our laptops.
there is no leaving
the job
anymore.
we drag our so important
work
into homes
into families.
there is no escape.
there is no time to smell
the roses,
for there are no roses.
they're dead,
unwatered or cared for,
the violets too.
all night, all day.
the beeps and bells
keep sounding.
demanding
come to your master,
dear slaves.

this grape

this grape,
this simple thing,
green as spring,
succulent
and tart
as a true love's kiss
in may.
this grape
means everything
to me,
this day.

the baby's room

the wallpaper
is green. it's for a baby's room.
some stripes,
some flowers.
a matisse sort
of thing.
eight sheets
across.
I paste and smooth,
I place the level upon
the edge
making the bubble just
right.
I cut, then sponge.
soon
the job is done.
the check is made
and i'm home to write
about it.

been there and back

i see the priest
in his black garment
kneeling
behind the church.
there is grey in his short
hair.
he's in tears.
i see the rosary in his
hand.
His bible beside him.
the crucifix
around his neck.
i stop walking
and stand for a moment
while he sobs
and bends, groans with
the pain
he is going through.
i don't want to disturb
him
so turn around
and go a different way.
this kind of grief
and sorrow
is magnificent
to behold. I've been
there
and back.

let's stay here

i wake up from a bad dream.
it's almost as if I've been under water
months at a time.
hardly alive,
hardly breathing.
i could see
above me
the ships sailing over,
the oars
slapping against the current.
i watched the silver
fish in schools
wave by.
the water was cold,
darker as i sunk deeper.
the tangle of the bottom
kept pulling me down,
then a hand reached
for me and pulled me up,
gave me air.
embraced me then said,
you're awake now,
be who you are, be true
to yourself,
let's stay here.

steak on the grill

the liquid diet gets old
after a while.
I need
red meat.
a pork chop. a slice
of prime rib,
something with blood
in it.
something
to bring me back to life.
i'm growing gills
lately.
i'm swimming upstream,
my skin is green
from lettuce
and asparagus. kale
and spinach.
my eyes have turned
yellow
from succotash.
throw me a steak on
the grill soon,
asap.

the portrait

a newer shade of blue
goes up
on the wall.
near grey in certain
light when the shades
are drawn.
but it will
match
the drapes, the rug,
the newly upholstered
sofa
that's centered in
the living room
as you come down the hall.
a vase
goes on the mantel. ming?
doubtful, perhaps
home goods
or Tuesday morning.
flowers too, a bundle of
fresh roses,
of a pinkish hue.
a painting of a
man, a woman,
unsmiling, goes over
the fireplace.
they don't touch,
but look
at the artist as if
he held a camera.
a small dog sits between
them.
they most likely
have passed on.
whatever happiness
they shared
is not shown.

out of scratch

my brain
is bankrupt. there are
no words
left
to be said.
the safe of me is empty.
everything has been
withdrawn, over drawn,
or stolen.
I have no coined
phrases, no
letters inside of hearts
to be written
or carved into
trees along the wooded
path.
the bridges are all burned.
my knife is dull.
my nails
are bitten to the red.
i'm out of scratch.
out of bread.

the shadow world

it's a world
in between worlds.
a shadow world
of doubt. of secrets
and things
hidden from your eyes.
the lies of omission
cloaking my world
in fog.
not knowing where
to step,
what words to use,
what place
to sit.
it's a murky cave
of running water,
locked doors and
misunderstanding.
I hear the constant bell
of a phone.
the desperate ding
from past lovers.
I hear the birds
outside
the window.
i'm startled by touch.
I know there's
another heart in this
room, somewhere.
I know there's
a window,
to open, a shade to raise,
a door
that isn't closed.
I remember the blue sky
and sun,
the open and free world,
the joy of life,
but where?

what mercy

folded
together like sticks.
her bones are stuck
in place.
she looks not unlike
the photos i've
seen of bodies
stacked as lumber
at Auschwitz or Dachau,
but her eyes are open.
blank
and brown.
staring into yours.
her mittened hands
scratching,
scratching
at the boards of her
skin.
parchment now,
yellowed and veined,
sagging
under the weight
of what's left
of her.
what wisdom is there
in this kind of dying,
what mercy
is there?

we are here

a friend or
two
come to the rescue.
they see me lying
in the road,
wounded, near death.
they see the bloom
of my breath leaving
my body in the frigid
air.
they bring
food and drink.
a blanket from home.
they place their
hands
upon me,
they tend to my
wounds. they lean
their faces onto mine.
I can see the infinite sky
above.
the salt of stars
against
the black cloth of night.
lie back they say.
close your eyes, don't worry.
you are loved.
you are blessed.
we'll never leave you
or forsake you.
let us wipe
your tears,
let us carry you
to a safe place,
or further
if need be.
you are not alone
in this. have faith.
we are here.

almost there

the mirror
talks to me. says what's up.
where has
the smile been
lately.
the joy, the grin, the smirk.
the roll of eyes.
the mischief?
I nod, and say, yes I know.
hold on.
it's coming.
it's on its way.
be patient.
i'm almost there.

killing vines

so quickly
in rain, these vines
reach
towards
the fence, the brick.
under foot,
the petals of purple
and green rise
from the hard earth,
life goes on
no matter how much
you trim and cut
away of the past,
the slate is never
quite clean.

calm waters

your lips
have said enough, you've
made your case.
let's go silent now
and pull the boat down stream.
the words have fallen
out, rushed like the rapids
of a river
nearing rock, and falls.
how much you need
to be beyond this
rough water, this turmoil
of wash,
the jagged cliffs,
the vortex of pools
trying to suck you under.
is there clear and calm
waters ahead? maybe,
let's hope so.
I row patiently
in that direction.

the hunter, the hunted

the cat
full of ancient wisdom
learned
through the centuries
lies hunched
in the shadow
below the bush,
patient with
claws drawn,
just out of site
of the bird feeder
and its
sway of life
upon it. the flutter
of wings,
the pinching of beaks
against each nut
or seed.
in time one bird
will alight
upon the ground
and quickly the cat,
its patience rewarded,
will strike
in a pounce. it's always
been this way.
the hunter,
the hunted.

the panic attack

breathing
used to be easy.
so was sleep.
you remember the taste of food.
the touch of a hand.
the wetness of a kiss
against your lips.
so many things you recall
as you lean
against the iron fence
with heart racing,
the beaded brow,
the ache and groan of
the unknown.
the spinning wheel
of your mind
greased with
fear and worry.
this too shall pass
you believe and know,
but death seems like a
sweet option
at the moment.

tar road

the smudge of sun.
the flint of
a broken smile,
the shoulders hunched,
the weight
of arms
and legs
lead pipes swinging
to a distant
drum.
the road of tar
must be laid.
names stenciled
against the orange backs,
the shovels turning
over and over
the turn of steel blades,
the heat rising,
shimmering, nervous
in an unkind world
without shade.

the dry yard

the flowers in the yard
have seen
better days. it hasn't rained
for weeks.
they're limp
and dry.
the petals no longer
soft.
you know the feeling,
colorless
in the shade,
even the tangle of vines
and weeds
await rain, then sun,
a new day.

in the dark

each watch
ticking away
in a drawer by themselves.
keeping time
for no one.
they never stop.
you come and go,
you live your life
without them
strapped to your wrist.
it doesn't matter
to them.
they have lives of their
own.
they need not know
where you've been
with who or what
you've done.
what lies you've told,
or untold.
the story of your life
is written without
keeping time.
these watches lie
in the dark,
in a drawer kept closed.

the punching bag

we jab and bob,
weave,
we shadow box,
beat the big bag
with all our strength.
hooks and crosses.
upper cuts.
leaning in,
with torso and legs.
we pound
at it. striking
with fists
wrapped in white tape.
we are at war
with this
thing, this lifeless
stuffed
leather bag,
all the while
cursing a fight
in the real world,
the one we can never win.

a dolls life

the doll,
with her pinked skin
chipped,
her large
black eyes. glossed
in fictitious thought,
though
not a thought has entered
or left
this plastic
work of near art, ever.
the plaintive smile
is unchanging
through the years.
the tangle of wired hair
brushed and held back
by a small beret.
she never shows her age.
from garage to box,
to attic,
to this shelf at a
flea market, besides
other lost dolls, or
thrown away.
whose hands held
this faux
baby, this replica
of life.
what child grew up
and held
this thing and cried,
or cared for it,
cuddled to it in a nightmarish
night,
as if real, as if almost
life?

the fine day

how fine the day is.
the light blue
of sky
and clouds. the warm
tenderness
of spring before summer.
how sweet the hand is
upon your face,
your chest,
that warm embrace
when love is real
and not imagined.
how fine the day is
when all is well,
when everything
is safely in place.

the winged pig

it's just a dream
you tell yourself as you
sit up
startled
at 3 a.m.
just a horrible dream.
you at the pier,
the yacht sailing into
the sunset
with the one you love.
the two of them laughing.
him pink
with a tail,
those pointed ears
and mustache.
wings poking from his
fat back.
the joke is on you.
it's a nightmarish
brute
of subconscious
wounds and fears.
humiliation of the nth
degree.
how the mind gallops
over such
simple things as words,
as shapes,
objects, that by themselves
are laughable
simplistic things.

ants

the ants
are everywhere.
the word is out.
a black strand,
like pepper
come to life, linked
from sill
to counter, to the floor.
an army
of sorts, an insect
platoon
of dots
marching on tinsel
legs towards
crumbs
left behind,
things not swept
by a careful
broom.

her new poems

the bricks are loose.
but she
pushes them
back into place.
they're ancient,
browned
from sun and winter.
no mortar left to hold
them still.
each step she takes shakes
them, crumbles what's
left.
pieces fall and tumble,
but she doesn't care.
she's old and new
in her wisdom years.
back in they go,
and the next time too
when she comes down
the stairs
with tea, a book,
a handful of
her new poems, happy
just to see you.

the physician

the doctor
leans over her patient
and listens to
his heart.
her hand so close
to what keeps the body
alive. she
takes his temperature
his blood pressure,
says open wide.
she peers and probes,
she listens
but she isn't there.
her thoughts
are elsewhere.
she remembers Paris.
she remembers
lights. how strong
the coffee was,
the bread so soft
upon her lips.
she remembers a time
so long
ago. it was all love
and laughter then,
a tear falls
upon the chart
of the man who sits
before her.
he takes her trembling
hand and says, my dear,
my dear,
are you alright?

over the back fence

my mother
liked to gossip over
the back fence
while hanging laundry
on the line
with her friends Jolene
and Linda,
or on the phone
to far away lands
like Philadelphia
where Gloria and Delores
resided.
it wasn't malicious or
mean,
but just good fun
with no harm intended.
that can't be her
real hair
color, she'd say.
I've never seen a red like that
in nature,
have you?
or what about Francine,
I heard
she went to Miami,
by herself!
for a short vacation.
what divorced woman
does that? travelling
alone, oh my.
and bill, next door,
the lonely married man,
how many cups
of sugar does one man
need to borrow in
a week?
he always tries to sit
next to me in church
when his wife isn't with
him.

free and easy

for an hour
you stare out the back window.
you have a plate
of hours on your hands.
there are
birds on
the feeder.
cardinals, hummingbirds.
blue jays
and sparrows.
they feast nervously
at the seed
and suet hanging
easily in reach.
life is like that sometimes.
free and easy
when least expected.
safe with
no predators in sight.

luck like that

I take all
the lucky pennies
in the penny jar
to the bank.
I say lucky
but don't mean it.
I let them slide
into the slots
where they make noise
like a one armed
bandit
coughing up three
cherries
worth of winners.
but it's just pennies,
brown round metal
stones,
all adding up
to a 12 dollars and
seventy two cents.
I let them go.
I don't need luck like
that anymore.

without a need

fatigue
is sweet in a strange way.
when you
can't get up, or talk,
or raise a finger
to argue.
you just want to unfold
your bones and lie down.
on a rug or bed, under a table,
in the cold
black street. makes no
difference. you don't
care about the dust
upon your brow,
or the rain falling
in blue pellets
from the low bank of clouds.
you've reached a point
of being done. cooked.
tired beyond tired,
beyond belief.
seared and burned.
the eyes are red.
the mouth is dry.
nothing seems worth
reaching for
to drink or eat.
you can't fall asleep.
you can't stay awake.
you just want to lie there
without a thought,
without a care
without a need.

chasing the truck

I chase the trash
truck down the street
with a bag
of old shrimp shells.
fish heads,
and orange peels,
but i'm too late.
i'm in my bare feet,
my pajamas.
hey, I yell as the truck
turns
the corner.
I look at the bag,
holding it with
two fingers.
now what.

what breaks your heart

sometimes it's the scent
of something
in the air,
a whiff
of yesterday,
or past mistakes,
misgivings
that sets you reeling.
while other times it's a
word said
taken the wrong way,
a mere echo of a thought
misplaced
and spoken.
it could be the color
of the sky,
a song.
a wing with a broken
bird.
a flower you once gave.
maybe it's something bought
and set aside
in memory
of someone else.
hidden in a corner,
but once seen
breaks your heart.

the daily journal

i start a journal,

a diary of sorts.
i type in all the things
i can't say out loud.
it makes me realize how
untruthful I've been
with so much of my life.
telling others, everything
is just fine.
i'm good, but I've been
holding back what i really
need and want to say.
I've been polite and kind.
cautious,
like a man walking
on thin ice,
trying so hard to not
hurt anyone.

but now
i pound furiously at the keys.
i'm off the chain.
happiness is a warm typewriter!
i have so much to get out
and rail about.
I peel back the layers
of skin, get down to the bone,
the marrow,
whether right or wrong.
i don't care.
i'm running free again, at last.
no borders, no fence, no
wall to keep me in.
this is selfishly for me,

each word a nail driven hard
and fast into the paper.
I've cut a vein and use
the blood for ink.

i punch goodness
in the face
and write it all out
with vengeance and venom.
no one gets out alive.
it feels wonderful.
no punches held back.
each blow a direct hit.
part of me would like to print
out each and every page
of what I've written and
make ten thousand copies. 

i'd like to drop them from a plane,
from the tops of buildings
so that everyone could read them
and know the truth, at last.
but no. this is all vanity.

mere confetti of my brain.
i'm too much of a coward
for that
and what would be the point
anyway,
nothing would change.
would it, dear diary?

i see an island

I see an island
I want to get to.
it's small and warm
surrounded by water.
a few trees are there
for shade.
it's a place of rest
and relaxation.
no worry.
no angst. no trouble
from the past
or present.
a place where my mind
is free
and easy.
to hell with the future.
just get me
to the island.
point it out on a map.
show me the way
by the stars.
steer me in the right
direction.
i'll swim, i'll row.
i'll run as fast as I can
to get there.

when the mood strikes

i take chance
on a dozen lottery tickets.
when the numbers
come out i have
none.
not a single number
is on any of my tickets.
i tear
them into halves
and toss them in the wind
towards a waste
basket.
i have to laugh.
what else is there to do
but try again
when the mood strikes,
and the heart is healed.

the smell of bacon

the dream
comes to me at four a.m.
it startles me
awake.
i'm in a barn yard,
in the mud.
pigs are everywhere.
fat pink
pigs ready for slaughter.
small and large
with their wiry tails,
glassy eyed.
they are all
around me,
snorting in their pig
like way.
one large one seems
to be running the show.
large and onerous.
I try to escape the mud,
the pen
that i'm stuck in,
but they keep me there,
they bite and pull
at my pants my
shirt,
my shoes. they want
to devour me, these
pigs.
I hear laughing.
mocking me. telling
me i'll never get away
and be done with it.
perhaps my love of
bacon has put me here,
put me into this dream,
into this
crazy nightmare.
who's to know.

giddy up

I take the whip
out
and crack it against the red sky.
I load my gun, the one
with the pearl handle.
i'm wearing
boots. pointed boots
made out of snake skin.
I mean business.
I put my badge on too.
tarnished, but
still, a badge.
I whistle for my horse
who comes running
from the field.
saddle on.
my wife brings out my
hat.
I slap the dust off it,
then mount my horse.
dinner's at six sharp,
she says, don't be late.
she blocks the sun from
her brown eyes,
then waves as I ride off
towards town.
I mean to make the world
right again.
giddy up.

the egg moon

I was talking to myself
the other day.
we had a deep discussion
about life, death, love,
all that heavy stuff
that no one talks about
anymore unless
you're in therapy, or
on the other side
of the screen at confession.
we had a good talk. me
and myself.
we've disagreed on so much
at times, but in this
conversation we both
agreed that life is tough
and we're all dying.
some faster than others.
we decided to try and be
happier and to not to worry
so much about things
we have no control over.
we shook on it.
afterwards we went out
for a drink, a steak
and a potato, a nice green
salad, and a slice of cherry pie
for dessert.
relaxed and full,
I felt better as I walked
home under a shiny
egg moon, as beautiful
a moon as I've ever put my
eyes upon.

we make buttons

where do you see yourself
in five
years, the interviewer asks,
leaning back
in his leather chair.
twisting a pencil
in his soft hands, waiting
with raised eyebrows
for my answer.
his shoes are up on
the desk, pointing towards
where I sit in a low chair.
what I want to say is
anywhere but here, or
away from this building
would be a good place
to be. but I don't say
that. I need this job.
I've got a wife and kids.
I've got credit cards maxed
out. tuition to pay.
dental bills. the list goes
on. so, I bite my tongue
and tell the man.
i'd like to still be working here
in five years.
perhaps working my way up
to be a manager of some
sort. doing what I can to
make this company grow.
I see myself in a tiny
cubicle working 60 hours
a week, dedicated to making
these amazing rivets that you produce.
buttons, he says, squinting.
what?
we make buttons.
oh right, I mean buttons.

no secrets anymore

the word gets out
on the street. onto
the grape vine.
monkeys swinging from
the trees know too.
even fish
are going upstream
with this secret
on their lips,
stuck to their fins.
everybody knows.
drums
beat the message
through
the trees beneath
the sweaty
canopy of branches
and leaves.
the word is out.
it's on the street.
on the tongue of loddie
doddie and nearly
everybody.
names are being named.
places
and times.
it's all out there.
whispered from one ear
to another.
everybody knows
what's going down.

under the grey rock

she hides the key
to the house
under a grey rock.
it's to the left of the porch
she says
in her message.
there are a hundred
grey rocks
though.
I turn each one over.
one by one
searching for
the key.
there are other keys.
I try them in the lock.
they don't turn.
I keep looking.
rock after rock.
soon it's dark
and there's one last
rock.
it's there.
I find it.

the party

I dream about
barry white.
he's an enormous
chocolate man with a long
braided silver
chain around
his neck.
he's in the kitchen
drinking wine,
talking in his deep
baritone voice.
a crowd is around
him.
I can hear the music
as he begins to sing.
people are doing
the hustle
in their polyester
clothes
and chunky shoes.
they are eating cheese
off of crackers.
someone brings out
a dish of shrimp wrapped
in bacon.
I take three, lifting
them with toothpicks.
I find my pina colada
in a long glass,
then I begin
to dance.

in the cloud

the electronics
baffle you.
the technology of fobs
and plugs
chargers and screens.
speakers.
the wireless,
the wired.
where is this cloud
that knows everything
about me?
and how do I blow it away?
it's a tangle
of pamphlets
in Chinese.
you just want things
to work,
open the box
click
on the power and
voila.
like a toaster.
I miss the toaster.
put the bread in, push
down. in a mere
two minutes you have toast.
no fuss or muss.
no need for a phd
degree.