open windows

a simple normal
day
would be nice.
not a negative word
or thought
in mind.
a hot cooked meal.
a kiss.
a book.
lying on the couch
until the stars
come out, and then
some.
gin and tonic.
music
with the lights out.
maybe a candle
is on the table.
the white flame
a flicker
of hope as autumn
approaches
and the windows
are raised to let
the cool air in.

on the run

you take a wrong turn
and end up
in a bad part of town.
you roll your window
down and ask
directions from a woman
in a sequined dress.
it's getting dark.
you hear someone call your name.
the woman asks you for
a match
before pointing to the left.
go left, then straight she says,
smiling.
you see the gold in her
teeth.
slowly you turn
the corner before
your car runs
out of gas. you get out,
abandon the car.
you start to run
as strangers
come out of the shadows
and chase you.
down the alleys,
through the park, you sprint,
through the hedges and trees
you run,
run for your life.
you wake up in a cold sweat.
it's a long
night with dreams
like these.
it's why you wear
your running shoes to
bed.

under water

i'm a submariner now.
i'm deep below the surface
of the roiling sea.
my periscope is down.
i'm hunkered in.
encased in the metal tube
full of air,
water, food.
i'm in my bunk, swaying
to the gentle
roll of the ocean.
i'm part fish, part crab,
part whale.
i'm growing fins
and gills.
i'm a submariner trying
to forget about land,
about the life
I had.

playing the market

she's studying the market.
the
ins and outs
of stocks.
the highs and lows.
blue chips and penny.
she's got a knack
for gambling,
it's in her blood.
black jack, or poker.
she'll sit at a table
of men,
puffing on a cigar
and drinking scotch
and walk
away with the pot.
now it's the dow jones,
the Nasdaq.
I see her perusing the paper,
following the numbers.
she's got the lingo down.
she knows when to buy,
when to sell.
she's rolling her dice.
spinning
the wheel, she's about
to make her move.
leaving you in the dust
driving away in her fancy
pants wheels.

nobody knows what they're talking about

he tells me it is
what it is.
I saw it on fox,
and cnn.

I answer back with
so you say.
the long and short of it
is this
a woman speaks up,
wagging a dagger nail.

someone else says,
baloney,
at the end of the day
is all that matters.
it's the same old
story an old man in
a red beret
whispers
into his newspaper.

he might be a socialist.

we talk like this for an
hour or so,
sipping on our coffee
never knowing what in
hell any of us are talking
about,
then we go home and walk
the dog.
watch tv.

the weather report

the sun
has moved closer to the earth.
they haven't
told us this
yet, but it has.
they don't want to scare us.
and yet.
eggs are scrambled
on heads,
dogs sleep
in the streets,
the wings of birds catch fire.
squirrels hot foot
it across the road with
parasols,
the herd is being thinned.
it's going to be
a hot one today,
don't go out, lie in
a tub of ice,
stay in.

the good

it's the good in her.
the beauty
the intellect.
it's the mother.
the child.
the woman.
it's the way she cares.
the way
she smiles and laughs.
it's how hard she works
and is fair.
it's the way she can fix
nearly anything.
the way she tenderly
holds me,
and kisses me
and accepts how human
I am.
seeing through my fears.
it's her patience
and hope
for a new day.

into the woods

I forget to take my
compass at times.
no sexton no map,
no gps, or lap top
to guide me.
the trees are too thick
to see the sun
or stars.
I go alone through
these woods,
asking on occasion
as I get deeper in
when strangers pass
by if there is a coffee
shop up ahead, perhaps
around the next bend.

the dark skillet

there is something about
bacon
that I can't explain.
the smell of it.
my father at the big black
frying pan
on a Saturday morning,
standing over
in his bare feet
a mess of spitting strips
with his spatula.
the smell of it.
the way, your mouth waters
with its scent.
a strange comforting food
of salt and lard,
of no nutritious value.
and yet.
I order it every time I have
eggs
in some god forsaken
diner on the road to somewhere.
I see my
father at the stove.
the house filling up with
the smell and grease of fried
bacon, a bowl of eggs
waiting their
turn in the dark skillet.

shopping for a dress

why is it so hard
to shop for a dress.
too thin of fabric,
too bold, too blue,
too short.
too old of year,
too much,
too hip, but it's
on sale
and it might
it might, if the mood
strikes
might fit,
so why not, i'll save
the package,
the receipt try it
on.
and turn left then right,
then forward
and we'll what we
shall see.

tell me now

small words.
like birds. fluttering
at the feeder
at the stone bath.
brown
and fragile.
light coins,
feathered.
how long a life
do we have.
and with whom
in this stretch shared
of short flight
beneath the blue.
tell me.
tell me now, i'm running
short of time.

the higher light

let's toast tomorrow.
let's
be done with today,
yesterday
and all the days
that we've toiled in
futile sorrow.
let's lift our
glasses
to love, to aging
well, to being ourselves
and accepting
the lot that God
has given us.
let's toast
each other and move on
into the higher
light.

the good life

easy,
breezy. a cool blue
shirt
and chinos.
no socks.
the sand and surf.
the roll
of pristine white
clouds
fat
with sunlight.
a soft glow of tan
upon your brow
and nose.
the music of waves.
the joy
of yesterday
on this midday stroll
with a loved
down the beach.
hand in hand.
heart in heart.
may life be this good
forever more.

mid century tyrants

the tyrant
has a small kingdom.
but it's big enough
to fuel
his rage,
his fire, his desires.
to quench his thirsts
when needed.
what he wants
is his. he spreads his
arms and says
mine, mine, mine.
no questions asked, no
denials.
he is a king
between his walls,
his property
and others.
all
who enter and live
here
must obey
or go. but it lasts
for only a short
while
and soon he is alone,
dying,
wishing
they would all come back.

becky and my trash

i hear the beep
of the trash truck,
so i run out with two soggy
bags
of garbage, chasing it
down the street
in my socks and bvds.
becky, my neighbor,
yells at me to go put
some clothes on.
out of breath, i throw
the bags into the mouth
of the disgusting
fly swarming truck,
then go home
where i see a note on my
door.
she'll write me up,
put me on the community
news letter, report
me.
becky. oh becky.

old news

I get the inside scoop
from jimmy,
the dirt
the skinny, the word
on the street
about what's going down.
he heard what's happening
on the grape vine.
across the fence,
online, off line,
between the lines.
it's shameful.
shocking. it's totally
outrageous, but it's old
news,
I heard about this
ten minutes ago, I tell him,
so what else you got?

the cheerful man

my neighbor
in the apartment building
is
always happy.
his friends too,
who visit with a smile.
a cake,
or tray of food.
I want to kill him
at times.
so perky.
so full of life and fun.
he's cheerful
to beat the drum.
I try to avoid him
at times.
listening at the door
for when he leaves,
when he comes.
how are you he says,
old chum.
gorgeous weather we're
having, yes?
no kids, no pets,
no wife.
I hear music
all day
between the walls of me,
and him. laughter
and frivolity all day
and night. and
all of it just makes
me glum.

a new song

so many words
to this tune.
too many. to each
his own
way of looking at the world
and dealing
with the cards
life has dealt.
no one is
right.
no one is wrong.
let's shuffle the deck,
deal another hand,
drop the needle on
a new song.

one shoe

i find
a piece of you on
the floor.
left behind. one shoe.
i think i'll
keep it,
lock it away when
i need a fix
of what I imagined
we were,
or maybe i'll just toss
it in
the trash
and move on.

night reading

the child
is grown. those days of reading
at his bedside
over.
now I read
what he writes.
I go to sleep with it.
pull up
the covers
and doze off
to his words.
the circle is almost
complete.

local hot spot

it's a small dive
outside of town. a gravel
lot,
a neon sign with half
the letters out.
open.
liver and onions Wednesday night.
live music,
a local band
of senior citizens
holding on to the past
with pony tails and mustaches,
one with a gold earring.
a wife or girlfriend, or
both sit nearby
drinking beer, staring into
their phones.
the band's thin voices are
a vague out of tune scratch.
high pitched
and whiney.
with guitars in hand they strum,
someone on drums.
grey or nearly bald, paunches
under plaid shirts.
one has a beer in hand,
they go at it in the soft
glow of pale light.
the bathroom door opens
and closes nearby.
there's an echo, a squeal,
a thump.
a few patrons look
up from their beers and fries,
offer a clap or two
when a song ends or did it
end.
it's a long night as people
disperse, leaving
money on the table. no one
saying goodbye. it's enough
to make you cry.
we get out of there.
the night comes on so fast.

piano lessons

even then she smelled old
beside us.
a walking antique. musty.
her cloak, her crocodile hands
with pointed nails,
her long
heavy dress draped
upon her slender
silhouette, those boots
laced.

the perfume seemed
permanent
on her floured cheeks,

those silvered lips outside
the lines.

come sit beside me, she'd
say.
tell me about your day.

oh how she loved liberace,
his candelabras
his grande piano,
his silk white suits
and glorious bouffant of hair.

he's wonderful, she'd say,
staring into the black and white
screen,
eating melba toast and tea.
cursing all along the kennedys.

maybe one day you can learn
to play.
perhaps i'll teach you if your
father ever buys
a piano.

but he doesn't make much money
does he?

some trees

some trees
fall. heavy footed in the deluge.

the birds scatter.

the engine of life stalls. sputters.
your wings shudder,
you're dripping oil and gas.

the gauges are stuck.

the plane goes down in gorgeous
flames.

everything has its day.
behind everything beautiful thing,
lies pain.

who has the time

word leaks out.
gossip
is spun like fine
silk
thread
across the lines.
he said,
she said.
you won't believe this.
but
does it matter
anymore.
who's right or wrong.
who's fault,
who
has the energy,
the ambition to keep
up with others,
when we're treading
water ourselves.
who has the time.

embrace the view

the power
is out. the wires
are down
the water has risen
and flooded
the highway,
the bridge knocked down.
a wind full of rain
pours under
black skies,
but it's all
good.
i'm in here with you.
safe
beyond words.
let's lie in bed,
open a window,
enjoy
each other, embrace
the view.

vampire blues

the vampire
sucks
the blood from my neck.
swallows
the life of me.
all
of the liquid
red.
the warm
elixir of who I am.
I go pale
with fatigue.
I climb the walls
at night,
hang from my feet,
weak
in the bones,
the knees.
i'm a puddle on
the floor, avoiding
sunlight
praising the darkness
of dirt. i'm
half in half out
of this life.

the bliss

curled beside me.
her
legs and arms
entwined,
her brown eyes.
the sleep in her,
close by.
tired from the bliss.
the wonder
of her smile, her
laugh.
the sunshine
of her soul
shining bright
at last
and forever more.

no hurry, breathe

nothing changes
quickly.
how our impatience grows.
life
is
truly
the growth
of grass, the drying
of paint,
the nails and
hair of us proceeding.

the sadness from years
gone by,
they fade
then come back.
there is
the line that won't
move.
the sun
coming out
from a cloud.

boiling water.

the long shadows
of a full moon at last.

everything at its
own pace,
no rush, no hurry.
why can't we be like that.

sunday morning

the sea is wide.
let's
go in.
the waves are soft
like
kisses.
the sand
is white.
what else but blue
skies
are above us.
even the sea gulls
in their
hunt
for life,
their predatory eyes
and dagger beaks
seem pleasant
on this sunday
morning.

coming or going

a man sees
me crying on the train
and approaches me.
he's older than me.
he asks if he may sit down
beside me,
if the seat empty.
are you okay, he says.
dear boy, are you okay?
i wipe my tears on
my sleeve and tell him
yes. i'll be fine.
i'll be fine. i just don't
know if i'm coming or going
anymore, to which he
says nothing, but nods
knowingly of what i speak,
and gently takes his
hand in mine.

why and what next

after a cold
ice shower, i towel
myself dry,
wrap it around me,
then lean
forward into the mirror
and examine
our patient.

i dim the lights.
such realism is unnecessary.
i check
my pulse. yes. i'm still
alive,
despite the grey
of me, the bones of my
ribs
showing. the trembling
of hand.

despite the deepening
of lines,
the carving
of life
upon my face.
i'm still here.

despite
all things. both love
and death taking their toll.
i'm still here.

still wondering why
and what next.

this gives me hope

at night
i hear the cold drip of
ice
melting.
this gives me hope.
this
puddle
on the floor beside
the bed,
almost as warm
as a hand
upon my shoulder, this
gives me hope.

waiting for you

i wait for you to arrive.
I've been
waiting for so long
in the rain and sun.
I've waited through the seasons
of my life.
my hair has thinned,
blown grey.
my shoulders sag
with the weight of waiting.
i look into the window
of each car,
each bus that passes by.
i look down both ends
of the darkening street
for you to arrive,
but you don't come. I've
waited so long for you.
I've prayed for you and
imagined who you might be,
but soon, i have to go.

ashes

nothing sticks.
nothing stays forever.
these shoes
already worn, this shirt
torn,
the buttons gone.
the pants ripped
at the seams.
even that chair in
the corner is faded
from the harsh sun.
nothing lasts.
not love, not even sorrow,
that too
has its day.
in time it all washes
away, all things in time
come clean.
our bones whitened
in the grave,
our memories caught
like ashes
in the wind, blown
blown
blown away.

at the end

there is a light
at the end of all this.
a soft blue
light
rimmed in white and gold.
I can see it
as if in the hands
of an angel.
I can feel its glow.
she stands
far into the tunnel,
far down
that gravel road.
I can see it as I crawl
on my knees.
I can see it.
I can see her smile,
whispering the words I
need to hear.
keep going, she says.
trust me.
you'll be fine,
you're almost out,
almost there.

the good night

I bury myself in books.
I dig
a trench in the yard
with a silver
spade
and toss in
the works of cheever
updike
carver and plath.
I blanket
my body
with the poems
of Bukowski,
oliver
and Whitman. Hemmingway
joins the party.
salinger and frost.
once in the shallow
grave,
I pull more upon me.
sheets of dried ink,
of other's thoughts about
the world,
about love and death
the struggle
and joy of it all.
book after dusty book
I pull upon me,
yellowed and dogeared.
stained with coffee and drink.
underlined in black.
I clean the shelves,
the bedside stand,
the boxed ones,
once read, then never
again.
all my books I stack
then tilt
letting them fall upon
me. this is how I go
into that good night.
reading, remembering of a younger
me,
wondering wondering,
savoring these faithful
joyful lights.

the pink balloon

your balloon has little
air
to keep it afloat,
the string
is unwound, limp in your
hand
as you try to get
it up and up
off the ground.
but its sadly of no use,
this pink
once happy
clown of thin skin
and helium, how it sags,
how it swims nowhere,
but falls and falls,
unseen, never to be let
go and happily
found.

the rise and fall of water

I've never had a summer
without visiting
the beach until now.

what it means, i'm not sure.

but it does
have meaning.

I long for the cold wash
of surf as I stiffen my body
and ride
the next wave in.

the curled green glass,

the sparkle of sun
and salt,
the pure power of an ocean
that was here
before me
and will remain as it is when
i'm done.


at night I stare at the sunlight
of the moon
and think
about the tides.

the rise and fall of water,
caressing me.

the sea, so close, so far.

the mountain of love

I push the rock
up the mountain, again and again.
it rolls
back down.
rolls right over me.
every day,
I try once more,
I take the boulder
in my arms
and set it down at the base
of the mountain,
then I push,
I get my body beneath it.
my heart and mind
the history of me.
all of my life has led me
to this moment.
I use my arms
and hands to hold
it upwards, pushing
it towards the top.
I push it towards a place
I can't even see.
I don't even know
if the top exists. but
up it goes, inch by inch.
at times it seems pointless,
this love
I seek, this mythical
world, but
what choice do I have.
I feel the need to struggle,
to stay with it,
another foot,
another half mile, if only
I can get it there,
then again,
it rolls back down
right over me.

the dime

i flip a coin
to decide where my life
goes next.
i toss the silver
dime into the air
and watch it as
it flips and flips
in the morning sun.
i let it hit the ground
where rolls away
hiding itself
from my eyes.
it's lost and i may
never know what's next.

the big bus

i dip into
one of a thousand books
on the shelf,
this one leaning towards
an eastern
way of thinking. let go.
surrender
all things and move
forward.
your desires and attachments
are what brings you
pain.
i get it. i get it a thousand
times over.
and the thought
lasts an hour, or a day, and
then i'm back at
the wheel
driving this bus
of hurt down the center lane.

on hold

i'm surprised
at how quickly the baby
has grown.
walking,
smiling.
so soon, it seems.
from nothing
to this. she is growing
forward
as I remain
the same, not young,
not old.
lingering
in the middle, waiting,
so much still
on hold.

i'll be home soon

i'll be home
soon
I tell her on the phone.
but it's not true.

i've made

a mistake in loving

such a person,

someone crazy,

a fake.

how did i let such a liar

and loser

into my life,

such an evil person?

i won't be home soon.

i'll never

be home,

until she's gone

and out of my life.

they drink a lot

they drink a lot.
man and wife.
the soft crepe skin of this age
falling
off their bones.
retired. pool in the back yard
that they
never use.
the vacuum running all
day.
gin and tonic.
they don't eat much.
they're done.
cooked.
baked from a hundred
suns
from Mexico to Barcelona.
there is nothing
that they need or want.
the kids are grown,
who do nothing too, they've
given them too much,
too soon.
the shrubs are cared for.
someone
shovels the walk,
someone dusts and makes
the bed.
tv bores them. books bore
them.
so they sit on the back porch
and drink.
they drink a lot. they listen
to the cicadas.
sometimes one will say something
in passing,
and the other will say.
what?

the test

I remember
staring at the bright oval
clock at the front of the room,
nailed to the cinder block
wall,
the black hands
like iron
moving fast
towards the end when
a bell would ring, and someone
would say,
put down your pencils.
the test is over.
I can conjure up sweat
and anxiety, even now
at this age.
my hands wet, my mouth dry.
my tongue full
of sand, thick with unspeaking.
fearing that at last
they'll know for sure how
dumb i truly am.

there 's more to it

there's
more to it, I tell my therapist.
a lot
more.
things I can't even talk about.
but the water
is dark.
it's deep.
the undercurrent pulls
at me everyday.
I can barely keep my head
above water at times.
i'm hanging on to whatever
jagged rock
I come upon.
but i'm floating down stream,
fast.
I can hear the roar
of the falls not far in front
of me.
no matter how hard
I paddle back,
I keep going and going
to where I don't want to go.
i'm looking for a rope
a vine,
a tree to climb upon,
a ladder out,
a soft soft raft.

little white pills

the physician
in her white coat, her stethoscope

around her neck.
takes my
pulse.
looks into my eyes
and tells
me, no worries. you'll
be fine.
she helps me up
from the sidewalk, gives
me a glass
of water and says, here,
take one
of these.
she hands me a little white
pill.

take one each morning she says, smiling.

everyday, swallow one and you'll
be fine.
you're just
having a bad dream
and these will help you
wake up.
they're full of nothing but
sugar
and common sense.
I made them just for you.

fifteen rounds

love is fifteen rounds.
not one
not two.
it's the full match
between the ropes.
each bell
a day,
a year, another swing
at one another,
another duck,
miss.
hit.
I look out into
the crowd as I take
the standing eight,

then go to my stool
for water and advice,
they clean up the cuts.
between rounds,
I spit blood into the metal
bucket.

i see the faces
out there,
covering their eyes
some I know
who wish i'd just quit
the game
cut off the gloves
and take up
a saner line of love.

the teacher

the teacher.
grizzled now, lies in bed
receiving the gamma
rays
of medicine. there was something
funny
in everything, or
so he said.
this too? hardly, at least

I can't imagine,

facing death without a God

in mind.
an angel by one's side.
a cross
in hand.
how do the faithless do it?

crawl out from this old skin
and
go onward, wherever that may be.

hard rain

I get wet
in the rain. which is fine.
I like the cold

feeling, the strikes of hail.
the pelting
of hard
drops from the bruised
clouds.

I don't mind at all
and take my time as I walk
to the truck.
the day is done.
tired to the bone.

this rain feels good.

makes me forget sometimes
about being
alone.

she's in minnesota now

happiness is one elusive
son of a
biscuit eater,
my grandfather says
as he
whittles down
a stick
into a smaller stick.
when he talks like this,
you don't say a word,
you just listen.
we're sitting on the front
porch of his
run down house
in the woods.
I see a mouse pop his
head out from the floor boards
and scurry back under.
my first wife was a peach,
he says.
she made the finest pies
in town.
I truly loved her. she made
me happy.
but bill, the postman
made her more happier than
I could,
so she ended up with him.
they live
in minnesosta now. every once
in a blue moon
I think about her. about her
pies.
about the way she used to sit
on the front porch
with a hot cherry pie,
right out of the oven,
rocking in that chair over there,
waiting on the mail.

job hunting

you start looking for new job.

you don't like the people you work with
anymore.
the pay is low
and you're going nowhere
fast.
sure there's free coffee.

an hour lunch break.
volleyball on Wednesdays
and happy hour on Thursday and Friday
night.
but the work is dreary.
endless.
coal out of a mountain.


but you have no experience

in any other field. you don't even
really know the work you're doing now.

somehow though you get by.
it would be nice
to get out of there. start fresh.

it's just a fleeting thought though,
as you prep the next patient to take
out
his spleen.

the welfare lady

the welfare
department showed up at our
door one day.
the power had just gone back on.
a woman in a blue suit,
a white blouse.
she was carrying a briefcase.
lipstick, red, line
her tight lips, her shut mouth.
she took a look around.
at the seven kids,
a dozen friends,
dogs and cats,
a chicken and rooster in
the back yard.
a gerbil on a squeaky wheel.
where's your parents
she asked, standing in the small
hallway.
are all of you children alone?
we were at the table,
doing homework,
the television on.
someone strummed a guitar,
someone was painting,
another decorating the Christmas
tree
we found in the woods and
cut down.
nothing changed. we stayed
together. we were
in this as one,
unlike now.

the arrival

the arrival
is fine.
the thoughts gel.
the heart
becomes one with the mind.
planets align.
stars shine.
we have arrived,
we are there,
finally,
just in time.

things fade

things
fade.
the light. the blue
essence
of day,
the ink
of night.
the fabric of our
lives
wears thin,
the curtains,
the sheets,
the clothes we live
in.
friends and lovers.
things fade.
the light,
the blue essence
of day,
the ink of night.

the corn field

my grandmother would say,
why don't you children
run across the highway over there
and grab some corn
off the vines
in that field.
farmer smith won't miss em. there's
thousands of them,
ripe and ready.
we'll boil them for dinner.
she was a good Christian
woman. loved Billy Graham.
put your hand on the television,
she'd say.
and pray to God that you'll
be saved.
now go, run. go get us some
corn. it's getting late,
don't get run
over. watch out for them cars,
behave.

the wounded

brilliant
anger. seeing red.
a bull
in the ring with one
thing in
mind.
end the madness.
pillage, purge, death.
see the swords
plunged into his oiled
back,
see the ribbons of his
blood
let loose
amid the fray.
how his eyes grow
wild in the sun,
wounded, he's at his most
dangerous.
his horns
are pointed with truth.
they know one thing
and one thing only.
survive, get loose.

click click click

I see
them in the park,
on the street, everywhere
and
anywhere, people holding their
cameras
cheek to cheek.
lovers, or friends, family
smiling all teeth.
just the like the others
we took
two minutes ago, then
another
another,
one more, and again,
this one
and all of them, strangely,
saved. some printed.
click
click and click
memories, precious memories
made
for keeps.
let's validate the moment
lest we forget,
each breath taken, each
heart beat.

lost and found

a memory
is found behind
a drawer,
beneath a bed,
tucked
forgotten in the dark
mouth
of a closet.
what lies
below, floats up
to the surface
and the river
takes it all
away.
nothing to think
of,
no date, no clue,
no attachment to anyone,
or thing. there is
truly
nothing to ponder,

nothing
to say.

the hour goes by so fast

my therapist
is an owl.
a wise owl in a soft
chair.
pencil in hand.
spiral notebook,
legs crossed.
her hair a wide
neat nest of locks. black,
like her shoes
that seem too tight.
she listens so well.
nods
and smiles. she has good
eyes.
shakes her head when
necessary.
I can feel her empathy
from across
the four or five
foot stretch
between us.
we go around in a giant
circle
of talk.
never getting to the middle.
we touch
the thorns, we ease our way
through mud.
she hands me a box of Kleenex
at some point.
to which I say thanks
and blow.
the hour is up before
you know it.
the check is written.
take cares are said.
next week?
sure, why not, I tell her.
got nothing else going
on.

the chicken

my grandmother
would go out into her
squared
short yard in south
philly,
arched with grape vines
and figs,
a cherry tree,
and wring a chicken's
neck with a simple twist
her muscled italian
hand.
pluck it clean,
chop it
into parts, boil and bake,
no part not saved,
and have it with veal
meatballs
and penne pasta
for a
wine soused meal
in no time.

love or money

i'd rather
have love, than money.
it's better than
a car,
or boat, or plane.

that mansion on the hill
can slip into the sea
for all I care.

i'd rather
sleep well
beside
a woman who cares.
who says into my ear. you
are loved.
you are so loved
by me.

i'd give so much of what
I have away
for that.
love wins
hands down every time.

the globe

I stare at the world,
the globe
on the table.
perfectly round. green
and blue
for water, the seas,
the brush of
brown for land,
white mountain caps,
the soft
sands.
I spin it with eyes
closed
and press a finger upon
the metal ball.
then look to see the place
where i'll never go.
i'm here,
it seems for good.
plant
me.
water me. see that my
grave is kept clean.

friday nights

we filled
our mouths with cheap wine.
music
on the car radio.
the dashboard drums,
the tires
almost bald but getting us
there on a Friday
night.
maybe there's a party
on deal drive.
hey let's ride by the old
school.
who's hungry.
who has money.
what's at the drive in?
i'm not getting into the trunk,
my turn to drive.

i remember laughing

I remember laughing.
I really do.
hard
and long, tears in my
eyes.
mouth wide,
stomach held in check.
buckled
over
with gay laughter.
I remember the friends
that brought this on.
men and women
who held a gift for love
of life
and all it's strangeness.
finding good souls
good
hearts, and the twist
of it all in everything,
everyone.
how well
I remember them all
and miss them.

weak men

retreat from
this strange land.
pull back on that steed's
rein
and thunder out
and away from
this land
not of oz
but of some queen
on a thorny throne
with a wand
that she wields to slay
weak men
that love her.
get them, kill them,
torture them
first, let's
see them twist
in the cold wind
in their lethal passion.
she's a spider
on the ceiling,
in the corner,
dropping down with teeth
bared,
the blood of others fresh
on her jowls,
her appetite is endless
for this sport,
a spider with silken
traps, sharpened nails,
and
poison,
so bright, so cheerful,
so loving
before the death.

idols

the anger
clears my head. it's a fine
wine
this angst
turned red
right before my bewildered
eyes.
I've had enough of them,
of him,
of her, of all those
toxic souls
who planted roots into
my once
happy life. how the lies and deceit
stains my skin,
rolls out with the tears.
they choke the fun out of any
life.
i'm done
with fear.
bring it on.
bring me the darkness,
your
lies, your false cheer and jewels,
your guilt filled
religion with
men in gowns telling
the world
what's right, what's wrong.
Pharisees each one.
crushing the souls of so many
each sunday, begging, always
begging for
money money money
to build another
golden cow and not a single
clear word by
Christ leaves their
pinched mouths.
I lie under the stars at night
and see no good
in anyone in any of these twisted
guilt laden
words they preach with
thick tongues.
what a small minded god these men
have made.
bring it to me, this witches brew
and watch
me devour
then spit it all out
like the bile it is.
the anger clears my head.
it's a fine wine, this angst,
turned red.

not a home

it's a house,
not a home.
it's brick
and wood, mortar,
plastic
and paint.
aluminum and steel.
copper pipes
and tile.
it's just a place
to lay one's head.
a cold
square of steps
and rooms.
not a home,
not a place to stay
long,
just a house.
we come, we go.
it means nothing
and when we're gone
and in the ground,
some one else
will pound a nail
into the far
wall, as I once
did.

silent night

another day
another morning.
coffee and birds.
the work I've chosen.
the house
I live in.
the stretch of hours
alone before me.
before dark,
before the quiet sighs,
before
the closing of books
in silence
and sleep again
engulfs me.

even love is possible

I used to care
but things have changed.
I wasn't always
like this
hunched over in tears.
I'm younger now
than I was back then.
I've grown
backwards.
back to the playground,
the fun,
the grin,
the ball that spins.
the girl
in pigtails,
the blue open sky.
the brilliance of a first
read book.
the sun,
the surf, music,
a song
that opened my heart,
my eyes.
i'm going back where
I belong.
in the make believe
world
of childhood
of hope and happiness,
where all things are possible,
even love,
minus the gloom
and doom
of adult lies.

crash after crash

i take my hands
off this
stiff wheel, i take
my foot off
the gas. i lean
back
and let the car roll
where it wants
to go,
forward, back.
who's to know
where i'm supposed to be,
or who with.
it just has to be better
than what
i'm doing, crash
after crash.

before i die

how rare
love is. it's a strange
color,
a wonderous
thing
to behold.
it's
bread
warm
in the oven.
it's a twinkle
in one's eye.
it's hands together,
entwined.
fingers laced.
which are yours, which
are mine.

I want that before
I die.

game over

the clock has
stopped
ticking.
the sun is stuck
in the yellow
sky.
the moon is frozen
over some
plum dark
ocean.
even the tide won't
rise.
the hour glass
has not a grain of sand
left in it.
no words left to say,
no pages
left to be turned.
time is up.
game over.

late summer

we get to the beach.
settle in
to our chairs. the sun is
behind us
on the bayside.
slipping like yellow
silk into the water.
no one but us is on the shore.
we hold hands
as the water rushes
cool and warm
against our legs.
we kiss,
we say nothing.
we love one another.
the sea holds an endless
array of color and hope.
this is what summers
are for.

coming home

I see her in the window.
waiting
for me.
I've been gone for a while.
captured
then lost, circling
with the shackles still on,
and now
finally set free.
she sees the dust on my
shoulders
my hat.
my boots are worn
through.
i'm weary and beaten.
older. she
opens the door and takes
my hand.
offers me
a cold drink.
she puts her arms around
me
and sighs. she wipes
my brow, the tears
from my eyes.
welcome back, she says.
i'll never leave
you. you'll always be
mine.
forgive me, I tell her.
forgive me,
let's start over.
there's still time.

what you never had

you give up.
surrender. the white flag
comes out.
you retreat
and go
where you need to go.
not in defeat
but in victory
over lies
and deceit.
you exhale and throw
down
your gun,
your badge, your
past.
you go home to the one
you truly love
and who loves
you.
you can't keep what
you never had.

the long road

bored and distracted
I
order eggs
and bacon, hash browns
at the dive
breakfast
trailer
on route one, heading south.
tina,
my waitress
in pink
with a black apron,
says, hey hon,
what's it gonna be. she's wearing
a button,
yellow, like mustard
that says smile on it.
I tell her
over easy.
coffee too. toast with
jam.
I get up to go
wash my hands.
I lock the door in the small
bathroom
and lean on the old
porcelain sink.
I stare into the mirror
and take stock
of what the night
has brought on.
to the side of the mirror
someone has written,
for a good time call
with the number
beneath it. I recognize
the number.
my ex wife
from years and years ago.
I laugh and throw some
water onto my face.
dry it off with some stiff
paper towels, then
go back and eat my
breakfast. it's a long road
ahead of me, but there's time.

chasing fire flies

the mattress salesman
says
welcome.
come in. take your time
and look around.
how about this rain we're having?
are you looking for firm
and stiff,
or soft
and cushiony.
I don't know, I tell him.
I need to lie
on one to know for sure.
no problem,
he says.
start at the top and work
your way
towards me at the back
of the store.
if you have any questions
just yell out.
these are all on sale,
by the way,
and we have a lay away
program as well.

I watch him go back to his desk
and continue eating
his lunch.
I see a pair of chopsticks
in his hands
as he opens a small white
box from carry out.

I look around the store
and spot a mattress that I might
like.

I don't need one.
I just need to lie down for awhile
and think
about things.
so I do. I lie there and stare
up at the ceiling tiles
yellowed from leaks. I see
the long bulbs
of fluorescent lights.
I shut my eyes and sigh.
I listen to the buzz that reminds
me of childhood.
summers in the trees,
under stars, free and chasing
fireflies.

nothing changes

a line of liars
and cheaters,
manipulators
and abusers
winds around
the church.
repentant and wanting
forgiveness.
they show up
with crocodile tears
and hand
written notes
from loved ones.
this time it's for real,
they say in unison.
honest.
the priest sighs
and pulls a long
red hose out
from the back of the church.
he turns on the holy
water
and sprays them all down.
see you next week
he tells them
as they slink off
to be who they always
were and always will
be. nothing changes.

what isn't said

what isn't said
is swallowed hard
like a stone
instead of warm
bread dipped in a savory
stew
to fill
the soul
the heart, the head,
nothing is
left on the table.

you can have my pickle

I try to convince my friend
jimmy
to go on a hunger strike with me.
he says okay, sure why not,
while he takes
a bite
of his enormous salami sub
sandwich.
when do we start and what's
our cause, he says,
wiping mayonnaise from his lips.
he reaches over
for the bag of chips,
snaps one in his mouth.
the environment? he asks,
baby seals, what?
I don't know I tell him.
I read where the ocean is running
our of fish, he says.
maybe, I tell him, but
something bigger,
there must be something we can
think of to
change the world if we stop
eating.
i'm full he says, do you want
the rest of this sandwich?
sure I tell him....provolone?
of course he says. you can have
my pickle too.

i need to move

i fall awake
after a dream. i'm in a house
full
of dogs
and cats. strangers
with old
children in their laps.
my mother is on the phone.
my sister
is still in the bathroom
washing her hair,
reading a magazine.
there's a leak
in the roof. a silver pan
catches the rain.
someone's at the door
with bad news and a tuna
casserole.
my father is pushing a mower
across the chrome green
lawn.
he's smoking a cigarette
and has a can of beer
snug between his chin
and neck.
I get the feeling that he wishes
he was dead,
or with Laura
a girl he met in high school.
i see my future. it's bleak.
i smell
something burning in the oven.
fish sticks, or a slab
of something that reminds
me of meat.
i look out the window
and see the love
of my young life
on a bicycle for two,
riding behind
billy Arnold.
my nemesis since i was
three, or two. it's a clear
portent of things to come.
her hair is
golden and reminds me of
California, though I've never
been west of the Mississippi River.
my brother's are laughing,
playing cards,
telling lies to one another
about the past, about the future.
i am alone in this crowded
house.
i need to move.

lying is hard

I've been caught in every lie
I've ever told.
my mother would shake
her head and laugh at my
attempts. my eyes shift,
I get nervous and twist
my hands
into one another,
my mouth is dry.
I grind my teeth.
I bead up in sweat, little
rivulets
rolled down my neck.
I get an itch
that can't be found.
lying is hard.
very hard,
but it beats the truth,
beats it like a rug
sometimes.
hands down.

those freckles

his name was Bernie
and he lived in the house behind
us.
he had a sister named
Bernadine
and a brother named dexter.
they were all covered
in freckles.
when Bernie came back from nam
he was in
a wheel chair.
he couldn't walk and never did
again.
but he was still all
there.
the wide smile, the white teeth.
those freckles,
those freckles.

black beans

a can
of beans sits on the shelf

in the dark cupboard.
it's an old friend
at this point.
black beans.
a blue labeled skin
is wrapped
around the aluminum
barrel.
how long have I had this
can?
which wife
was I almost in love with
then?
who was the president
that day
when I found it on the shelf
at the grocery
store.
was a man on the moon yet?
was the war over?

was my hair

still brown, not grey?

swords or pistols

i ask
my lover's former lover
to a duel.
he's annoyingly still around.
swords or pistols
at thirty paces,
i ask
him as he wipes the drool
off his
slack jaw
after slapping him with
one of my
long leather gloves.
he shrugs and says,
why'd you hit me.
why not, i tell him.
you dog.
go home to your wife
and leave mine
alone.
swine.
there's no fight in him.
or me either
for that matter.
thankfully he goes
on his way, at least for
the moment,
as do i.
why didn't i think of
this before.

have a drink

what makes you drink
he asks
as I pour a tall one from
a green bottle
of Christmas tasting gin.
when i'm happy,
I tell him, I pour a drink.
if things are going my
way
with work, or love.
i'll find a bar to celebrate
my luck.
but when things go south,
well,
there it is, another reason
to have a drink.
I find the same
bar, with the same bartender
and he knows
the medicine I need to
get better.

no cat

she packs her bags
for the shore.
glasses, umbrella, cream,
lotions.
sandals
a pink suit, one
yellow, one blue,
an umbrella too.
wide long towels to lay
upon, a chair
to sink
into as the sun falls
from the sky. into
the trunk they all
go, remnants of sand
still stuck
like candy
to beach coolers,
beach shoes.
the dog goes into the car
last.
the leash
and dish, the bag of food.
a ball to chase along
the shore.
everything
she needs, but someone
to apply
sunscreen to her back.
no cat.