something new

is there something new
to
know,
to let sink
into your bones, some
new fact
or fiction
that will bring you
home,
settle you
into a final peace.
is there some book,
some rhyme in a poem,
a song
not heard
that will form upon your
dry lips
and go out
like a happy wind.
is there a place you
haven't seen,
a city that beckons
you to sleep in.
too soon to know.

it's up here

it must have been up here,
up this wobbled ladder
that creaks
beneath my weight,
in this
webbed attic,

with rotted wood
and scattered bones
of small animals,
bats
birds left
to be unfound.
it's up
here
that you find the grey satchel
thread bare,

holding
an empty bottle
of red wine,
a flask
of bourbon drained dry.


a slew of letters,
post cards saying wish
you were here,
now and into eternity,

it's up here where you find
her silk scarf too,
golden in shine, holding
the scent of her perfume,

it's up here
that he held it to his cheek
and remembered how it once
wrapped
around her neck
and fell to her side.

it's
up here where he must
have gone
when the wife was angry,
when the world
inside the house
was wrecked in storm.
up here


where he found a place
to go
and remember what could have
been,
what should have been
so long so long
ago.

around

at the start
you lean in your blocks,
head down,
feet
tightly in place
muscles
trembling,
fingers
just touching
the paved
ground.
you wait to hear
the gun
go off.
then rise and spring
forward,
your legs gliding against
the lined track.
it's a long race
with no winners no losers.
just around
and around
you go, no point
in looking back.

thirty years

no longer working.
he sits
on the stoop
and waves to those that go
by.
coffee in hand.
a paper.
the empty house
behind him.
what to do now.
he thinks about the last
thirty years of his life,
shakes his head
and wonders what
that was all about.

the weight lifter

the weights
are heavy, as he lifts them.
straining his
muscles, the veins, blue ribbons
down his arm,
his neck,
face.
he is in the mirror,
up and down
they go, curls and lifts.
presses.
he bends to the world
to shape
himself into something,
anything,
anything but this.

the luncheon

we unfold
our napkins and place them
on our laps.
some begin, taking
the fork beside the plate,
some bow their heads
in prayer
their hands folded,
fingers laced.
others stare out the window
not here.

the playground

it's a grey
wind that has passed over us.
aging
our bones,
thinning our hair,
our ranks,
our once smooth skin.
the bleating
of time,
the sand of it, the vapor
of it
rising into
the full sky
above the playground.
we press on,
no less thrilled at
the shot, the pass,
the win or loss that
will be
forgotten
or remembered into
eternity.the

surrender and let go

attachments
and desires are the death
of you,
the buddha
says, breathe and let
go.
be free of all
that you love, things,
people,
imaginings.
quench your earthly desires
and let go.
ungrip your hands,
open them and fall
into the grace of God's will.
do not be afraid.
He will catch you.
let nothing steal
your heart, your soul,
your life,
by taking such
a death grip hold.
let go.

just drive

i take a taxi out of town.
throw
a thousand dollars over the seat
and tell
the driver to just drive.
anywhere, just hit the gas and go.
go as far away from this place
as you can.
he looks in the mirror,
and says, okay.
one way?
one way i tell him.
stop anywhere, anywhere and let
me out.
but keep driving, keep going.
don't stop
until i tell you to.
i'm going to close my eyes
and pretend i'm someone else.
this isn't really
my life, none of this is
true.
he says okay. okay.
relax mister, here we go.
he understands.

lost and found

I peer into
the empty house.
the for sale sign in the yard.
I cup my
hands and lean into the plate
glass window.
I see where the table was.
where we gathered
for meals.
I see the couch,
the chair,
the wall where the tv hung,
the mantle where
our pictures stood.
side by side, one by one.
I look under
the mat for the key, but
it's gone.
no mail in the box.
no paper
on the step.
the shrubs are over grown,
the ivy
gone wild up the side
of the brick.
the grass
is thick and brown.
I remember living here.
I remember
her smile, the day,
that night, the wedding gown.
I remember most
everything. once lost,
then found.

the birds keep singing

the ink
hardly dry on the paper.
the flowers
wilted but
not quite dead
in the vase.
the wrappings and ribbons
still
on the floor,
champagne gone flat,
three bottles
never poured.
how quickly
the tide
comes in, goes out.
what was
isn't anymore,
and yet as I stand
on the balcony
looking backwards,
the birds are still
singing.

uncommon sense

I take a class
in common sense.
the obvious is discussed
on the first day.
look what people do,
not what they say.
actions speak louder
than words,
a long worn, but true
cliché.
look before you leap.
listen
before you speak.
measure twice, cut once.
trust your gut.
it's never wrong
and don't look back.

one last round

after the eight count,
and the bell dings,
I get up from the canvas
and stagger back to my stool.
my corner man
asks me if I can go on.
do I have anything left.
anything?
I spit out my mouth piece,
drool out a pint of
blood, saliva.

someone pours water over my
head to clear my eyes.

they suture up the cut on my
cheekbone. whisper encouraging words
into my cauliflower ears.

I look across the ring.
she's tired too.
beaten. she's weary.
her eyes are blackened.
her legs limp
as she rises at the bell.

one more round I say.
standing, slapping my gloves
together.
one final round of love
and then i'm done.

the carnival

a carnival arrives
in town to no fanfare.

they're tired people
with tired
tents
and poles.
rides
and what not.
half smiles.
half frowns.

they put it all together
in the cool
shade of night.
the lights, weak
and yellow.
the machines
that grind. someone takes
the tickets.

the smell of burned sugar
laminates the air.
cigar smoke
from old men with broken
teeth
slithers out from their
purple lips.


the crowd is young.
too young to see the pain
in their travel weary eyes.

in time they'll move
on, take apart the games,
the tents,
wheel out onto the open road
to another
strip mall,
where the glass embedded
in the pavement
looks like diamonds.

the blue blade

it all
depends on this
shovel.
this
blue blade.
where to dig, what
to bury.
what to
uncover, or leave it
as is
and let
nature run
its course.

who owns you

every life
has a dozen crossroads.
a hundred
choices of go left go right.
go alone,
or take someone with
you.
your gut
puts you there. standing
at the intersection
of tomorrow.
which way
do you go.
who or what thing owns you,
keeps you in fear,
isn't this your life?

regret

there is no
surrender in some.
they hope, they wish, they
beg for a different
outcome.
the reality
of the day is beyond them.
the truth is not their friend.
they are blind to
the facts shown daily
by sun and
the terrible harsh blue
sky above.
they want what they can't
have,
they want yesterday
to be today
and tomorrow. they
waste their hours,
their lonely hearts,
twiddling
prayers, twiddling their
dreams
and mistakes on
calloused thumbs.

your life

there are no
mistakes according to
Miles Davis.
the world is a jazz
piano,
a jazz trombone,
horn,
or trumpet,
there are no miscues.
no drum
hit wrongly,
no note out of place,
it is what your hand
has plucked, your mouth
has blown. this is your song,
no going back, no front
or sideways.
it's your life
by you, for better
or worse. accept it.

if it's not one thing

I prepare myself for todays
therapy
session
by lying on the floor
and crying
for an hour.
the dog comes over
and licks my face.
I tell him thank you
and wipe
his slobber off my cheek.
once that's
out of my
system.
I write down my list of
grievances
of all those that have
done me wrong.
I need two sheets of standard
typing paper.
then I think, what
about me, have I caused
any of this
angst or grief,
have i unconsciously caused
this turmoil
that I've been caught
in.
impossible.
me? it has to be them.
I laugh. I know it's probably
at least half
of me, if not more.
as i pack up my
brain luggage, my heart
sheaves of paper,
my laundry list
of pain, i realize
that's what I need to get to,
the me in me,
and stop believing that
if its not one thing,
it's your
mother.

down the drain

I take
some soap, a sponge, a wash
cloth.
I scrub the inside
of my
head
for an hour, rinse
then do it again.
I scour my brain,
brillo those clinging thoughts
from deep inside.
the bubbles come out of my
ears,
my mouth,
my nose runs with
dirty water.
I take the hose and give
it all a
thorough dousing.
I shake my head then
let it dry as I lie
out in the sun.
i'm ready now for new
thoughts,
fresh ideas.
the old ones have been washed
away.
down the drain they go.

lines in the sand

you draw a line in the sand.
then another.
one more,
one curved, one crossing
the other.
you are surrounded
by lines.
unable to move
or cross over, you've
trapped yourself
in a world
of ultimatums, none
of which are
taken seriously
by anyone but you, and
even then, the wave
of time
rolls by and washes
them all away.

parents

you go back to square one.
birth.
lying there
in a crib.
someone holds you.
feeds you
changes you.
keeps you warm with
a loving
embrace.
it was so simple then.
unconditional
love.
the mobile of music
above your new ears,
your new eyes.
a blanket around you.
someone singing
you to sleep,
there in the morning
when you rise.
someone who helps you
take step one,
and the rest that will follow
until you die.

friday night

there's one beer
left
in the fridge.
a single cold brown
bottle on the rack.
a half of sandwich.
ham and cheese.
a pickle or two floating
in the brine
and green water
of a round jar.
there's mustard
and ketchup.
old lettuce ready
for the can.
four eggs, a white
box of white
rice
from west hunan.
what to choose as my
stomach
growls, my thirst grows.
what
says Friday night
as I lean into the cold
light of the box.
I grab a beer
and shut the door.

the kitchen window

I remember my mother standing at the sink
staring out the small kitchen
window with a plant on the sill,
looking down the road, wondering
where my father was, if he was coming
home. who was he with, what woman,
what house or bar was he in, being kissed.
making love to someone else.
how she stared out that window
waiting for his car to appear,
smoking, running the water over her
hands, a dish, a glass.
I think about all the wives in
the world who are staring out their own windows
wondering where their loved ones
are and if they will ever come back.

I wash my hands, pour water on
the small green plant
then turn away. it's late.

blue river stone

the new therapist
reminds me
of an owl.
her round glasses, her
oval
face
and hair.
she's prim and proper
across from
me as I sit
and cross my legs
in her deep cushioned chair.
so why are we
here, she asks, pen in hand,
staring me down
using all her knowledge
to examine
and reveal
the reason for my coming,
my frown.
why are we here, indeed.
why anywhere,
why can't we leave well
enough alone,
and numb ourselves.
live and die,
walk through life
unbothered, cold
and thoughtless. silent
below the water not unlike
a rounded blue
river stone.

no looking back

I pack light for this journey.
a single bag.
some cash,
a book or two.
I get coffee on the way
as I walk
to the station.
the wind is at my
back.
a light rain falls as I adjust
my collar,
my hat.
I stand at the platform
and look down
the rails.
they shine so bright, glisten
with promise
of a new life.
I listen for the wheels
of the train,
the surge of it approaching.
I hear the whistle
as it slows to a stop,
I pick up my bag,
get on, find a seat
by a window.
I don't look back.

nothing is lost

the day begins.
the pale light of morning
brightens
up the green of trees.
the sky
is grey
and soft. a blanket
of clouds.
the birds are in the yard.
on the fence.
despite all things,
you feel
that nothing is lost.
how can you lose what
you never had,
the long night
has ended.

the bonfire

I remove my clothes.
put them into a pile and burn
them.
I take my books,
my shoes,
my hat. I throw
them into the fire.
I take everything I've ever
written, every poem,
every letter
and toss it all into
the rising flames.
I carry out a box of memories
and drop them
on the fire.
I've given up on this world.
I want a new life.
one without
the past, without the shame,
the guilt,
the pain.
I want the bonfire of my
vanities
to burn away.
I want the ashes to be
buried deep into the earth
where i'll never
see or think of them again.

the small dog

the dog
was brown with white spots.
he knew how
to beg,
to lie down
and play dead.
he would bark on cue
and
howl
at the full moon.
he was a lovely
dog
except when it rained
or snowed
and wouldn't budge,
wouldn't
fetch his leash,
but hide and brood.

smoke and mirrors

it's a house of mirrors.
of smoke
and fog.
the locked doors,
the stuck
drawers.
the traps, the hidden
agendas,
the mask.
the costume of the day,
the whispers
into a phone,
the light typing of words
to lovers
who won't let go.
pray for me,
she says,
pray for us he replies.
as you go to a window
and try to remember
a life
that wasn't full
of deception of
an endless nightmare
of black and white
lies.

almost there

each wave
that hits upon
this rock
chips away a little more.
the ocean of trouble
makes
sand of strength,
the salt of tears,
the blue pounding
of surf.
each blow
of hard water upon
its craggy soul
erodes its form,
breaks it into what
it once was
no longer stone.
but something else,
something
that the wind will
catch and blow away.
almost there.

bling

they are just things.
objects.
shiny,
bright pieces of jewelry
watches,
bracelets
and rings.
mere stones
collected and brought
together
to be worn
and held under the light.
temporary bling.
worthless.
hardly
sand, compared to love
compared to what
reins in a heart
for life.

let go and surrender

to exit
this life, one must
make plans.
otherwise
we leave against
our will.
no different than
our birth.
we had no say in
that either.
let's see out this
plays out,
as we let go
and surrender.

before midnight

I play no
music
other than this keyboard.
no strings,
no percussion,
no wood winds.
but this is enough
music for one life.
for one
stroll through the park
before
midnight.

tomorrow is another day

I get fooled
a lot.
i'm an easy mark, an easy
prey.

I think everyone
is honest.
not a lie in their heart,
no dark
secrets,
no scam or deceit,
everyone is on the up and up,
and not
part of some
play.

I look deep into their eyes.
I listen and believe
the words
they say.

I get fooled a lot.
but less and less
as I grow older,

hopefully wiser, but tomorrow,
sweet Vivien,
well tomorrow is
another day.

thinking of gin

the boy with gum
on the bus. red cheeked
and wild
eyed.
a strange blue like
broken
glass.
chewing and blowing pink
balloons.
his sharp teeth red
with candy.
a fireball stuck
within a cheek.
his brush of blonde hair
looks
aglow,
uncombed, the tail lick
up
like a shark's fin.
he pounds on the window
with two pink
hands, and the mother,
two seats to his left.
staring out
the other side.
no husband in sight,
she's thinking
of gin.

hindsight

if I knew then
what I know now, would things
be different?
would
I take off those rose
colored glasses,
unplug my ears,
silence
the nagging doubts
and fears?
would I have taken a
different path
on a different horse,
or would I
have gone forward, blind
and deaf
into the storm,
weak of heart,
stumbling into what I
thought was light,
was right,
but was dark.

the false sigh

our memory of yesterday
is never
quite what it really was.
we've shined
that apple nicely,
turning the brown bruise
away,
hiding the worm and rot.
but in the window, on
a white sill, least
for now,
those days were wonderful
and full of love,
let's pretend they were
fine, keep the apple
shined and ignore that
they were not.

sail on

old loves
die hard. they are crawling
through
the desert of lost
relationships.
abandoned
and circling.
taking the cup of water
you dole out
on occasion
that gives them
hope.
massaging their soul
with the mirage
of maybe.
the oasis of let's wait
and see,
the beginning of a new
day,
another try,
once more.
the desert is full of them.
I can see
them
in the hot dry sand,
crawling on their hands
and knees
as I sail
off into the sunset,
the mast full of a cool
breeze
with drink in hand.

a blue period

your blue period
has been
extended for another six months.

indigo.

azure. pale.

all different shades of blue
have appeared.
baby blue,
jay bird,

blue bird. royal.

oh to have wings and fly
deep into the forest
to be rid
of blue.

there must be other
colors out there.

no changes

you make no changes
in
what you
do
on a day to day basis.
you
rise early,
you shower,
get coffee.
pants, shirt,
shoes go on.
you drive to work.
the same route.
you say good morning
to those you see.
you sit
at your desk
and begin your day.
turning over page after page.
the seasons change
outside your window.
the rut is deep.
the wheels
are dug in.
you think the same thoughts.
ruminate
over the same things.
stay put
resisting change. sadly
it would take an
earthquake
to get you off this
path.

the past

it's been a year of frost.
of cold
winds.
icy roads
and blue steel.
the dullness of the sky
the grey
bloom
of a melted sun,
always low.
tired.
word is that summer
will return.
a hopeful rumor,
perhaps.
we wait
on the park bench
in our long coats
and wait out
this strange weather.
sipping on our coffee,
remembering
the past.

more

relentless
the squirrels are.
all
looking about the same.
grey
and fat
this time of year.
unpettable and wild.
their
nut eyes
never stopping to gaze
too long
at any one thing.
digging at the fallen
seed,
onto the bird
feeder they swing.
into the steel
lidded bucket
to find more.
there is no stopping
them,
their need for more,
and more.
it's the world we live
in.
no difference
between us
and them.

yellow balloon

the air
seeps out of the fun
balloon,
the yellow
thin
ball of warm air
held tight in your hand
on this summer day.
it wants to fly
but can't.
the string goes limp.
it's going soft,
going fast,
things don't always
go as once
planned.

another try

you surrender your life
to a higher power.

give everything, all issues,
all thoughts,
all problems large
and small
to God.

work, relationships, love
death
and sex.

i'm taking my hand off
the wheel,
letting you drive this time
you say from
your calloused knees.

God listens and sighs.
you hear him whisper.
again?
and you say yes. i'm
giving it another try.


good, He says. good, get
ready for
what happens next.

i'll be waiting

strangers call
and say
hello. I listen politely.
they have thick
accents.
there is the chatter
of phones
and typing
in a loud wide room
somewhere.
they want to sell
something to you.
give you
discounts on pills
and magazines.
they ask if you are hard
of hearing,
tired of living,
or just plain
run down and need a drink.
I tell them yes.
yes. yes.
how did you know this about
me.
i'm in.
here's my credit card,
send me everything
you have.
i'll be waiting.

hacked into

your life gets hacked into.

your old dating world online
is active
by some
child
in his mother's basement.

they post
new pictures of you on
facebook

you have a cat now.
a bird too.

they
are having fun in your old
skin.
sending and receiving
messages
from afar.

who you used to be is still
out there somehow.

undaunted.
they are buying televisions
on your amazon
account.

e harmony sends you ten
new matches per day.

a woman in Russia thinks you're
swell.

the cat in morning

the cat stretches

on the bed.

turns her glass green
eyes
to the thin light
etching
the sheets in shadows.

we begin the day
like most
days.
quietly.
each going towards
what work there is to do.
the cat
is beyond that.

beyond us.
thinking little
about
her life, just wondering
when
the yellow bird
will
appear.

it's not far from here

it's not
too far from here.
you can almost see it
if you
lean
to the left and stand
on your toes.
see,
there is.
just over the horizon.
see the white
glow,
the oasis of trees
and water.
it's the place of rest
you've been
looking for.

still here

i see the length me

decreasing.
the hair
gone thin, swept grey.

the teeth are
worn,
like tools in an old shed,
as is
the crepe of arms,
the plains of skin.

i am blurred in light
and

must lean towards a voice
to understand
what's
said.

i steady myself on the rail,
or take an arm to
walk with tender
feet
up the concrete stairs.

i am going fast, going slow.

i remember what i want
to remember, if remember
things at all,

amazed at times that
others are gone while
i'm still here.

this late in the game,
this season
of fall.

waiting in the rain

I look out the window
and see
you standing across the street.
your arms are folded
across your chest.
it's raining.
you have a hat on, a long
rain coat,
green, the color of olives,
or the sea
after a storm in Portugal.
we look at one another
and wave.
i'm still here. you're over
there,
across the black
wet street.
I go to bed, turn off
the lights. i look out
the window once more
before I lie down
in my bed.
I see you there, still there
waiting. patient as
any mountain, as any tree.
I wonder how long you
can wait.

a new light

a lamp arrives
in the mail, it's on the porch
when I get home.
instructions, nuts
and bolts,
a wrench inside.
i'll put it together
in no time.
it'll help take away
the darkness.
it's what I do to wile
away
these hours, buy things,
then find
a place to put them.
tighten down a bulb,
three way,
and let a new light shine.

half in

my father often smelled
of rye
whiskey
and cigarettes when he arrived
home
after the sun had gone down,
tail between his legs,
his dinner still
on the table, cold.
my mother colder still.
but he was happy
and smiling, quick to lift
us in the air
and spin us towards
the ceiling.
he'd rub his rough beard
against our
faces,
wiggle our noses, our ears.
he was never happier
than those days,
half in the bottle, half
out.
like his marriage, like
his life, never quite settled
down.

the broken pipe

the pipe breaks
and floods the basement, peels
back
the green grass cloth,
soaks
the carpet.
fish appear, small birds.
a deer is seen
in the corner of the living room
lapping
at the new pond.
in a way
this is nice too.
this new park within the home.
soon
you can come over
and paddle
on a row boat beneath
the silver moon.
we can strum our ukulele
and sing
all night long.

busy

I need to be busy.
like a bee
from flower to stem
to tree.
I need to have my
wings moving,
my mind in flight,
my legs
tapping to a song,
my head
lost in a book,
going towards
some new light.
I need the wind
in my face,
the rain,
the sun. more work
to be done. I need
to be out in all
of it, to hear
a knock at the door,
the ring of
a phone,
I have too much
time alone.

time alone

we need room.
space.
time alone.
a place to go
to sleep,
to read, to bend
to nothing
but self
and thought.
we need a soft
place
to land
at the end of a
day.
at the end of
the week.
to push all things
to the side
and close
ones eyes
and breathe.

cigarette

he used to make a big
deal
out of smoking. tapping the pack
tight against his hand,
against his knee, or rail
where he stood.
pensive
and nonchalant
in a leather coat,
greased hair,
he struck the tip of a match
head against his shoe
and lit
the lucky strike up,
then blew smoke rings towards
the girls,
who almost all darted away,
like a flock of birds, but
there was always one
who didn't scare.

places other than home

the world.
this small dot of blue
afloat
in a sea of black
and
studded stars
aglow.
what is there that isn't
here,
why should we go,
what places
other than home do we
need to know?

salt water taffy

my friendly
neighbor with her daughter
used to bring me taffy
from the beach.
a bag
from a store on the boardwalk.
soft
and chewy.
sweet. the scent of salt
and ocean
on the bag.
I hated taffy.
salt water taffy.
but she never failed in
bringing me
more and more as each
summer came and
went.
I wonder where she is
today,
and who gets it now.
the daughter grown
and off to her own life.
the house empty
and waiting for someone new
to share
the wall between us.
maybe they like taffy.

i have the bags to share.

the postman

the mailman
is crying as he slouches
with his heavy
bag.
his grey uniforms
wet from the sun and labor.
what's wrong
I ask him
as he hands me my mail.
i'm tired, he says.
tired
of this life.
the news I bring is rarely
good.
rarely bad.
it's nothing
like it used to be.
no one cares
anymore if I come or go.
if i'm late,
or don't arrive at all.
no one looks out the window
for me,
or waits by the door.
the world has
changed.

morning comes too soon

the moonlight is
lovely
as it shines
into the window,
a soft hand
upon
your face
that lies against
a cloud of
pillows,
your body stretched
out
on a snow drift
of sheets.
you are far
away
into a dream.
how morning comes too
soon.

a dish of time

I have a plate of hours,
a clean white
dish of time
to dine from on this
lazy sunday.
what to do,
where to go. who to see.
the list is short
even shorter now
as autumn approaches.
those once
a mile or call away
have disappeared,
but I have these hours
on this day with
which to fill or
unfill, a clean dish of
time to wile away.

examination

the doctor places
his stethoscope upon my chest.
and listens.
he nods his head,
makes a clicking sound with
his mouth.
hmmm. hmmm. he says.
it's a strong heart.
very strong. but
be careful with it.
there is only so much
life left.

the beach trip

from the beach
in her chair at sunset.
her book
thick and heavy in her browned
hands.
unopened yet.
the wash of
a green ocean upon
her feet.
what lies ahead is as
mysterious as
what came before it.
each new wave
does nothing to ease
the worry,
the pain, the doubt.
one can only pray
and hope that things in the end
will go
the way they were meant
to be.
that all in time will work
out.

it smells like rain

it smells like
rain.
the blue leaves
think so
too.
they've curled
their veins
to the heavens.
and the birds,
still
in the trees.
the stream awaiting
new life.
and us
on the porch, you
in your summer dress
me in shirt sleeves.
it smells like
rain.

it went by like that

the retirement looms
near.
the gold watch. the party.
the balloons.
the desk left
as it was thirty years
ago.
a coffee mug.
the pad
with which to ease
your back.
the plant on the sill
never quite
happy where
it sat.
no more good morning
so and so.
no more, so what
did you do last weekend.
did you see the game?
no more tears
at the water cooler,
or laughs
in the lunch room.
who wants my tuna
sandwich?
it went by like that
you'll say
to the new person
chipper at the keyboard.
fresh and crisp right out
of school. it all went by
like that,
and then you'll walk
away.

monday is not far off

I go down
into mine and start with my pick
and axe
against
the black wall.
I chip off a days worth
of coal
and wheel it out in a steel
wagon.

my face is charred,
my lungs wheeze.
even the birds are full of soot
above this mountain.
they shake their wings
but are never free from it.

I go to the saloon and get drunk,
then go
home to my wife
and kids.
they don't know me anymore. I don't
know me anymore.

I put the money on the table.
Monday is not
far off.

one chair

I start
with a chair. a simple wooden
chair with
a strong back.
I place it in the center
of the room.
a space that is empty
except for me,
except for this chair.
I sit down
and fold my hands into
my lap.
I am unafraid, or worried.
I have been
here before,
I've sat in many empty
rooms, alone,
and once again here I am
starting from scratch.
I look around and see
what needs to be done.
with this house, this room.
I know how to fill spaces.
I do it easily for others
and for me.

the after life

there are boxes
still in the rooms.
clothes in the closet.
a sweater,
shoes.
the kitchen has the spoon
she stirred with,
the forks
and knives she used.
there's vodka
in the fridge.
frozen peas, tv dinners.
a slice of
cake from her wedding.
her mail
sits on the table.
still coming
through the door.
her cat looks out the window,
waiting.
I paint the rooms.
we move on.
there's a knock by the new
tenants
at the door.

fine dining

the food doesn't sit
well with us.

Ethiopian perhaps.
buffalo? goat?
who's to know what the meat
is or was
that lies now in a spicy
brown sauce
on our yellow plates.

we wash it
down with beer brewed
in a Cambodian rain forest.
nibble on cake
from mexico.
thick and soft,
dripping with sweetness.

we look over at the table
beside us
and nod. we should have had
that.

potatoes and chicken.
a slice of pie.
coffee.

a world of this

i hear the couple next to me
at lunch
fighting.
i sigh and wince.
i get another drink, nibble
at the food on my
plate.
it's a gorgeous day.
mild and sunny.
a wisp of white clouds above
the trees swim easily
along
the boulevard.
i turn the other way
so as not to hear so much.
she's crying,
he's angry.

their food gets cold,
the ice in their drinks
melts over the edge of the glasses.
the waiter arrives and leaves
without a word.

i hate the world that owns
this.
i despise
the death of love, the grief
of lovers
gone sour. the betrayal
and lies
we indulge in when
it's over.

i want to turn to them and say
stop.
no more.
i want to wave a magic wand
over their sorrow
and make everything okay.
to steal a cupid's arrow
and aim straight towards each

troubled heart.

the oak tree

i've turned over so
many new leaves that i'm
an oak tree
on the lawn.
tall and wide,
rough barked.
i'm as tall as i'll
ever be with branches
reaching.
i'm just here now
for the duration.
not ready to fall
or to be cut down.
not ready for the saw
or for a summer storm full
of wind
and lightning
to have its way.
I still want someone to
climb my branches.
scale my arms,
and listen to me as a breeze
cascades against my
body. I want someone to
wrap their arms around
my trunk,
rake the leaves
that fall around me in
the shadow of my life.

it's hard to believe

I've been bullet proof
for so long
that it surprises me when
I get shot
and it goes through me,
flesh and bone.
into the heart.
I look down
and see the crimson
ribbon of my life
spilling out onto the floor.
the heat of my body
rising like a cloud.
not me.
it's never me.
it's always someone else
that's in this predicament
not me.
i'm Teflon, i'm steel.
I fall off of roof tops
and walk away.
and now this, you're
telling me i'm human.
it's hard to believe.

foreign film

under a spell
I walk
through life
with eyes half open.
legs and arms limp
with dream.
i'm in a foreign
movie,
a subtle film
with a vague plot
and people whispering
over subtitles.
the light is rare,
black and white with
blue vapors,
red tail lights,
amber
lamps under a falling
snow.
i'm walking the streets
with my coat
pulled tight
up to my chin,
my breath a cold cloud
caught
by wind.
I feel the cobblestones
under my thin
shoes.
I am going somewhere,
leaving somewhere.
i stand at the corner
and rest, waiting for
the director
who sits in the shadows
to tell me what's next.

the pause

the cows out
there
are large. some white.
some black and white.
spotted brown.
some chewing. heads
bent to the green grass.
some stare in the distance
off to where the white hills
rise. gazing
at nothing
in particular.
their tails wag
in the sunlight.
we slow the car
and look out
at them across the white
rails of an old fence
that needs tending.
we say nothing.
our thoughts too are
far away.
we pull back onto
the road and drive,
there are places we
need be.

rain check

it's too hot
for nearly everything but
this
I tell her.
touching the curve of
her hip,
laying a small
kiss upon her elbow.
the fan
is going above us.
the sheets are warm.
a trickle of sweat
eases off our brows.
she waves a magazine
against her face.
it's too hot she says.
let's sleep on it awhile.
rain check.

she lights my fuse

she lights my
fuse
with a match, stands
back
and watches as I fly
across the sky
zig zagging
among the stars.
she waits and waits
for me to
come back, to hold her
and love
her
like the old days.
to see only the good.
the fireworks
that were.

just a phase

who are you,
my friends ask.
we don't know you anymore.
we've lost touch.
you've changed.
you've lost weight and grown
a beard,
shaved your head.
are you a monk now?
have you lost your way.
what's happened to you.
and I answer, it's just
a phase.
just a phase.
that's all I can say.

on the lamb

on the run
I'm fast, I know where
to go,
how to hide.
I know every hole
in the county.
every broken lock
and door that's left
open.
I won't be caught this
time.
i'm on the run, the lamb,
i'm in the wind.
i'll lay low for awhile,
change my name,
erase my past
and start all over again.

the island

it's an afternoon of black
and white
movies.
cool in the basement.
a bowl of fruit.
water. legs stretched out
on the white couch.
it feels like sunday,
but it's only Monday.
no matter.
it's good to be home
in the quiet, in the shadows
of sunlight,
on the island
of peace.

the rotten apple

the shine is off the apple.
the worm
has made its way through
from one side
to the other.
in the light I see the brown,
the soft
bruise, the fallen fruit,
what once was gold
and glorious and red
is tossed to the ground.

the white flag

I wave
the white flag.
put my hands into the air.
i'm
coming out of the fox hole,
the dug
trench.
I climb the wire,
step over the bodies.
I throw down my gun,
my words,
my heart.
I surrender.
I wave the white flag.
i'm done.