they need us now

they need us now,
not then.
these old people who look
like us.
with their
walkers
and chairs, their oxygen
masks
and pills.
they need us
to be there, to go
places where they can no
longer go.
helpless now
in their aged bones.
their loose robes,
shaking
and coughing. bleary
eyed
and thin.
they need us now,
not then.
strange how things
come around
before the end.

small things

it's the little things.
the paper cut.
the pebble
in a shoe, the shaving
miscue.
the finger
in the door.
an ankle twisted
off a curb.
it's the spilled coffee.
the misunderstanding
of words.
the late train,
the early
rise.
the disappointment
of love
though
erases everything.

to paraguay

when I arrive
i'm shaky.
just off the plane.
bag in hand.
I look around at this
strange land,
with a different way
of speaking.
I go down the ramp
in the bright sun.
I see yellow birds
in the trees,
animals on the tarmac.
police men in white.
i'm thirsty, hungry.
exhausted from
the flight.
I take a cab to my hotel
where she waits for me
and says,
are you ready to begin
the rest of your life?

fixing things

she can fix
anything.
leaky toilets, washers
with bad belts.
televisions
that won't come alive.
computers
gone dead.
the sink that drips.
with her tool belt on.
a wrench in hand,
hammer and drill,
a manual, a light.
she kneels to the machine
and goes at it,
making what's gone wrong.
right.
but of course, the heart's
another thing.

for now

there is nothing
one
can do about bad weather.
good shoes
an umbrella, an overcoat
is about it.
be careful
not to think of it as
a bad omen,
or what the future is.
it's just weather.
rain
or ice,
snow. neither fair
or unfair. these things happen.
as it is with those
who cross your pass,
contentious and ill willed.
embrace it all as life.
where you are.
where you need to be
for now.

twenty minutes

the sweet silence.
the undoing,
the stoppage of movement.
thoughts
settled
by the flame
of a candle burning.
let the ripple pond
of life
grow clam.
breathe
in
breathe out.
erase, delete, subtract.
go quiet.
just the hearts soft drum,
in the moment.
no looking forward,
no looking back.

the empty house

the empty house
sighs.
it breathes in then out.

it's
almost alive.

the wind of time.

the laughter.
the tears.
all still here.

somewhere.

and love too.
both yours and mine.

inspecting the attic

the attic
was moldy, dusty.
dirty
grungy when we pulled
down the wooden
steps.
they wobbled with
our weight
when we went up,
holding a flashlight
in our hand.
we didn't know what we'd find.
what secrets
from the past lay hidden
in trunks,
or bags.
the webs
were stuffed in the rafters.
spiders scurried and sat
still.
the small
white bones of birds
and other
creatures
who called it home
were scattered about on
the pink
insulation greyed
like wool.
an ancient burial ground.
the bats, like figs
twitched
in their dreams,
their claws holding them
upside down
in the wood.
nothing up here to be
seen. why bother with secrets,
with what we don't know.
we left
and thought of different
things.

reminders

we trip
over one another.
shoes
left in the way.
purses
and coats,
things not put away.
we stumble on
the boxes
and bags,
slip on the wet
bathroom
floor,
cut our hands
on the knives
left in the sink.
there's a reminder
in every room
of who was here,
who
left, or decided
to stay.

wrestling with God

i wrestle with my
religion every now and then.
I struggle
at times with the whole church
thing, the validity of
noah's ark, and the garden
of eden. i'm
full of doubt and worry.
my faith is weak
wondering about
heaven and hell.
purgatory, really?
a weigh station for the unconfirmed
believers?
we get down on the floor
and go at it, on our
hands and knees.
we argue,
get sweaty, we spit
and gouge each other.
kicking is allowed, as is
hair pulling. but in the end
god puts me in a choke hold
and uses the old boston crab
on me, squeezing
the bejeebees out of me
with his super strong legs.
i cry uncle, and tap the floor
in surrender.
then he lets me up,
and stands over me with a smug
look on his face, then
says something like, okay,
now go and sin no more.
i shake me head and murmur
beneath my breath,
like i haven't heard that one
before. i duck as i hear
a bolt of lightning
go by my head.

the white sale

I don't own a white
shirt that doesn't have
a stain on it.
chocolate or coffee.
dribbles.
dots, drops, dollops.
red sauce
and grape nehi.
some are t shirts,
some dress shirts,
starched and ready
on the hanger,
some are white sweaters,
wool,
cotton, or a blend
of polyester
and nylon.
once the drop is on
them, it's over, done.
and back to the store
for more.

so many miles

the heart fails.
the blood pressure is high.

the pulse
races.

they do what they can to
mend,

but we're old
and worn. we're

bald tires with plugs,
losing air, with

only so many miles
left to
spin.

eat cake

I make a small
dent
in the cake with a fork.
I lift it to my
mouth. no need
for plate
or napkin, or politeness.
I just need
to taste the baked
sweetness
of a chocolate cake.
cold
milk goes nicely
with it
and a window to look out
as I
dig in.

candle burning

two
ends of the candle,
both burning.
the middle
too
now has a wick.
burn on.
sunrise
to sunset.
a puddle of melted
wax
by years end.
and what to show.
what
is the point of this
life,
these working
days
without end.

give me what i want God

what good is
prayer, if it won't get me
what I want.
if I can't
have the winning ticket.
the car, the beach house
with a pool,
the vacation to the south
of France, a few publications
with stellar
reviews.
what gives
dear Lord, I've been so
good for so long, well
lately at least.
okay, today.
I was on my knees,
hands folded
for nearly three minutes
this morning.
and sometimes before I
drift off to sleep
I offer up a Hail Mary or two.
I even put five dollars
in the second collection basket
which I don't
normally do.
(I like to get coffee after
the service.)
i'm just wondering what
more do I need to do
to have things go my way, to
get on your good side. I know
you have one,
or so they say.
you've had my list
for some time now.
I know you're very busy,
but who isn't?
i'm waiting patiently.
oh, and I do thank you for
helping me find
my keys the other day.

the thorn

a thorn
decides to pierce
the soft
skin
of your arm.
just below the elbow.
almost like
a bee sting, but worse.
it stays
in where it hooked.
thick
and curved like
a shark's fin.
the drop of blood is warm,
as you taste
the tiny lamp
of red
off a finger.
roses used
to be your friend.
roses of any color.
how things have changed.
the bundles
coming less
and less
to an empty vase.

at the sand pit

on the swings
at the sand pit,
the children rock back and forth.
swaying
beneath a harsh
blue sky.
the mothers are to the side
sitting.
talking.
wrapped in coats and colorful
scarves
picked
in a different world,
a distant time. much of
their lives are still
before them,
but it's different now.
with husbands lost in work
and weekend chores.
golf and friends.
drinking and television.
the children
want little more than to
be pushed
upwards, back
and forth. that's enough
for now.
their desires and needs
are yet
to be defined. and the wives,
as one,
have a look of uncertainty
locked within
their eyes.

who will get the mail

at ninety
they wheel him in.
having avoided doctors
and hospitals
for most of his life,
he's getting his full share
now,
at the end.
the mask goes on.
the machines whirr,
the clicking
and whirl
is a symphony none of
us want to hear.
monitors come alive
as death
approaches.
the chatter
of nurses in green
and blue,
yellow and pink,
fill the white room,
children
at his feet, like flowers
in some garden
he once kept
clear of weeds.
at ninety he's in a strange
room
with strangers.
the sea is under him.
his blue eyes
are full of fear, of fatigue
and wonder
at how quickly it all
came to this.
who will get
the mail, he whispers
worriedly through the fogged
mask, I left milk
on the counter.

waiting on a train

i'm always waiting for a train
to take
me somewhere.
waiting for the long dark
cars to approach
and screech to a halt.
it's film noir.
hands in my pockets.
hat on,
looking down the steel
rails,
the wet cinders,
grey
and black. it's late
in the afternoon
and the trees are almost
bare.
what's left of them are shades
of plum or brown.
I stand and listen
for the wheels, for
the signal,
the blow of a whistle.
i'm always on the platform.
one bag
beside me.
the life I once had
long gone.
no map, no where to really
go.
but ready, always ready
to get on board
and go.

click click click

I raise the camera,
hold it out a far as I can
go
and click.
it's me
at the beach, me
in the city.
me
on my bike, at
the lake
me walking through
the woods,
in the snow.
me
at the desk, writing.
me with a sunset,
a sunrise.
me
at the park,
the carnival,
the market,
me in front of the water
fall,
me with mountain
peaks
behind me.
me eating ice cream,
reading a book.
it's me.
just me. alone.
click.

slave labor

it's an American
thing.
this obsessiveness with
work.
how we tell others
how long
how hard the day has
been.
how busy we are.
at the shore with our
lap tops.
on the mountain
with the phone.
hardly a minute goes
by without the ding,
the buzz,
the ring
of each and every
connected gizmo.
our fingers a blur
against the key board.
vacations are non
existent. no holiday
to rest.
Saturday and sunday
mean nothing
anymore. there is no end
to any week.
we are proud of our
work ethic,
the work is never done,
who needs art and books,
films and friends,
who needs the quiet
mediation of a soft rolling
brook,
who needs fun?

the deep cushions

I remember
the deck. white with
new stain.
the falling leaves,
the fire
and deep cushions.
I remember
the music
from the window. how
the sky
went blue to dark,
full
of stars.
the drinks refilled,
the plates
put away.
how the night wore on
without words.
hand in hand.
there was little to be said.
being in the moment
was enough.

a familiar dream

it's a sweet cool
rain
on this late summer day.
a soft
coat of grey
with swimming clouds.
the grapes
are in, the apples ripe
and crisp
from the farmer's market.
how nice
to lie here
in the afternoon, with
work behind me,
book in
hand, nowhere to be,
no need to go
out for anything.
this bowl of fruit
will suffice.
these words I read,
these words i write.
i watch
the cloth of violet
blow across
the wonderous sky
between what's left of
leaves
then drift off
into a familiar dream.

easy prey

it's the low
fruit,
the fruit on the ground,
the easy
prey
that those
of lesser beings
go for.
the wounded and weak,
the staggering
souls
left behind
by the herd. broken
and disheveled,
it's those
who get devoured.

fine old wines

some people
can make you happy, just
by
talking to them.
by bumping into them at market.
there they are
in line
getting stamps
and a smile broadens
your face.
your heart beats faster.
you reminisce
of good times.
how lucky it is to be
in their company,
and them in
yours.
to have such friends
is a blessing. they're
fine old wines.

true love

a vase
of white roses,
a hand written card.
a simple gift
from the heart,
unbought,
wrapped
with a ribbon
and bow.
one kiss, and the words
whispered, I miss
you,
welcome home.
love can be that simple.
that true.
no need to think
about it.
just do.

therapy

i'll meet with my doctor
today.
my shrink, my confidant,
my
mother and father wrapped
into one
warm heart.
i'll tell her about
the week,
the days behind, what
may lie ahead.
she'll nod and smile,
drop a tear or two,
give me words of studied
advice.
she'll tell me to breathe.
to meditate, to eat
and sleep.
she'll offer a book or
two to read.
then the hour is up,
and i'll write the check.

the empty seat

she boards the plane
in the early morning rain.
she's packed light
for her short stay.
I stand at the gate
and watch
as she waves.
the plane rises into
the grey sky.
red tail lights are all
I see
as it heads west
with one empty seat
beside her.

writing in the sky

the world
doesn't need to know everything,
and yet
you want to write
your story in the sky
in large black letters.

you want to shout
from the highest
building
all that you know,
blow the whistle

to stop this train
dead in its tracks,
but you can't.

what would
be the point.
what purpose is there
in this maudlin self pity.
this dark desire
to come clean.

the ego
is a monster that must
be tamed or otherwise
things could get ugly.
the fragile house of cards
will burn.

her cold cold heart

she lies

she cheats

she betrays.

she pretends to be

someone she isn't.

she goes to church.

she smiles.

she's polite.

sadly

she's my wife.

the unknown

there's a chill in the air.

a cold

room full of ghosts.
apparitions.
things unseen.

I put my arm through the sleeve
of frigid air.

the dog howls.
the cat's hair stands up.

something is here
beyond
what we see.


we know and we don't know.

we exhale
with fear.

imperfect

I learned
how to walk on water.
turn water
into wine.
I raised the dead,
made the crippled
walk again
gave sight to the blind.
I even moved
a mountain with my
mustard seed
faith,
but that's not enough,
is it?
as I look at
the clock, leaving
you waiting,
late once again.

clay

we take
the clay of those
we love, fold it
in our hands
spin it,
mold it to the shape
we want
it to be.
not perfect,
not exact, but a
close resemblance
of what's in our
minds eye.
enough
to accept them,
to get us through
the day.

the fig wound

a corner
catches the hip
leaving a blue red bruise.
no blood.
it actually feels
good
in a strange sort
of self inflicted
way.
still alive
and breathing.
that's a good thing.
I study
the welt.
in time it will go
from
blue to green
to a soft
fig like brown.
i'm basically
a piece of fruit now,
once juicy and ripe
hanging brightly
from a blossomed tree,
now
fallen to the ground.

blue hair

God bless the blue
haired ladies,
the soft bellied men
in tow.
high belts
and matching shoes.
easterly plaids
and khakis.
everyone as pink
as buttons on a starched
white shirt.
they sit in the same
pews,
the same
spot for years.
a neighborhood gathering
of who's who.
smelling sweet in
perfume,
bejeweled.
how the prayers,
rote and cold, leave
their hands, their pursed
lips,
rarely going anywhere,
stalled
at the arched old
roof.

before going home

i go north
for awhile. i need
the sting
of a cold wind
against my skin.
i want my shoes wet
with snow.
i want
ice in my hair. i want
to walk
the highway, between
the tall pines,
to find someplace
new to go.
i'll stop along
the way, but say nothing.
i'll sit
near a fire and drink
coffee. i'll warm
myself and get right,
before going home.

the disappearing

the trickle of
the pipes,
the hum of air
through
the vent.
I roll over
to pretend. I listen
to the early slap
of a paper
against the stoop.
is that the milk
man with
his glass
bottles
his butter and eggs.
who's in the other
room?
mother, father.
what century are
we in.
how did
then disappear
so quickly.

sunrise sunset

we work.
we plug along, day
in day out.
it's not about the money.

it's something else.
we're filing
time. precious time.
we're dutiful. loyal.

we bow to the grind
of it.
the religious ferocity
of the clock.
kneeling at the altar
of work
we genuflect to
the corporate cross.

in moving
we find the stillness
that life
won't give. the vague drug
of peace that being
busy gives. there's
no time
to think about what is,
what isn't.

work.
work.
work.

sunrise sunset.

pound the hammer.
the chisel, bring out
the saw.
but making nothing
that lasts. all that matters
slips
through our fingers.

there is no now,
just an empty heart,
a faded past.
life will wait,
until it won't.

the new suit

I make
my self a suit
out of steel.
alloys,
iron,
gold, and platinum.
a breast plate
of titanium.
silver
gloves. it's bullet
proof.
bronze boots.
a space age shield.
a helmet too.
I slip into this new
suit
when I arise
and begin the day.
I clank about
like a knight without
a kingdom, or horse, but
nothing will get to me
now.
i'm protected from
everything, and everyone,
nothing can get to the
the essence of me,
or my heart of course.

purging

I empty
the closet. I start there
this Saturday.
what's no longer of use
or has meaning
goes out
to the waiting curb.
then to the drawers.
to the shelves.
to the basement, then shed.
i'm purging my soul
once more.
clearing my heart,
my world of things
I no longer
care about,
my head.

photo albums

i reach up onto
the high shelf and pull
down the dusty
bin full of books
and pictures, old cards,
mementos from lovers
and friends.
I look through
the photo albums
at the hundreds of pictures
and try
to get a clue
as to what was, what
the deal
was then.
are the smiles real,
the kisses
that sweet, or is there
darkness
when the camera is turned
away.
the hands, and body in
retreat.
that birthday cake,
the meal
on the table, the gifts
unwrapped.
the cards
saying love. what was it.
why so brief.
what happened.

evacuate

do you ride out
the storm or get out.
go to higher ground,
to safe harbor.
do you barricade
the windows, the doors,
stay put and let
the flood water rise,
let the wind
whip its furious
folds upon you.
do you burrow in
and depend on the uneven
promises of prayer,
for safety and for
life to get normal
once again?

friendship

we were joined
at the hips my friend from
the fourth grade.
both freckled
with cow licks.
small and lean, down
the halls,
down
the hills going home.
studying together.
we dressed alike as
if twins.
talking girls
and sports, always
on the same team,
in the same
games.
into high school and
college,
those years of carousing,
confiding.
driving into the late night
with other friends,
young and pondering,
this world we were
born into. then
in each other's weddings.
then to work, or war.
which ended that.

happy pie

an apple pie
would make me happy
I tell
the waitress at the diner.
a hot
apple pie
with a scoop
of French vanilla
ice cream plopped on
top.
that's it, she asks?
that's all you need to
be happy.
yes. yes
I tell, her holding
my fork and knife
in air above the table.
one apple pie please,
and a strong cup of coffee.

the spill of time

the clock spills
out it's ticking hours.
see how
they puddle at your feet.
see how time
evaporates
into the sky.
tomorrow, today.
all into a cloud,
rising, rising, fading
into memory,
soon, all that you are,
or thought to be,
is wiped away.

take a number

there are good priests
and bad.
bad lawyers, and not
so bad.
drunk poets,
movie stars who eat only
celery and carrots.
narcissistic sailors
and
angst ridden
cowboys.
depressed bakers, unhugged
as a child.
the traffic cop
who's afraid of the dark.
the senator
who
thinks he's king.
the street walker
who's a queen.
there's napoleon
on the street corner.
jesus outside
the grocery store playing
a harmonica.
the weary, the happy.
the rich, the poor,
the love sick.
those on the bridge
about to dive.
it's a mixed up world,
with a long line
forming
outside of Sigmund
Freud's door.

an eight mile drive

it's an 8 mile
drive
from here to Dorchester St.
at the edge of the D.C. line.
twenty minutes
in traffic.
I can almost
see the house, the brick
duplex from
my window. the rusted
gutter and down spout.
I see the chain
link fence. the metal
trashcans out front
without lids. I see
the clothes line full
of dungarees and thin dresses.
the broken steps
and rotted
wood of the porch.
I see the cracked windows.
my brothers and sisters
in the yard,
splashing in a plastic
wading pool.
I hear the dogs bark.
see the cat in her box
having more kittens.
i see
my mother at the
ripped screen door
with a fly swatter
talking on the phone,
the long black cord
curled behind her all
the way from the kitchen.
white tape holding her
glasses together
upon her nose.

suburban dream

the boys
with smokes and leather.
the pointed
Cuban boots,
the black hair
slicked
and combed into
an oil stream.
switchblades in their
jeans.
they know do wop,
they know
elvis.
they know what you
don't yet know
about so many things.
one day they'll disappear
from the corners
from the stoop,
from the drugstore
counter
and move on
to cut grass and walk
the dog
in a suburban dream.

a place to be

so many birds
on wing.
black
and red.
the sparrows are
plentiful.
what price, a penny?
what a secret
life they lead.
they disappear
into the thickets of
hedges,

bramble and
trees.

so unlike us,
there is no place,
they'd rather be.

in white

winter slows
us down to a crawl.
we burrow
and build a fire.
we eat
what we have
to get fat and ready
for what's to come.
we cover ourselves
in wool,
in leather.
our knit hats.
we look to the sky
for snow.
bring it on.
bury me in white.

the cold black numbers

I count on both
hands
the friends that have passed
on
over the last five years.
john and dave,
steve and mike, Debbie,
lynnie.
all younger than me, but one.
I still have
their numbers in my phone.
I want to call them,
to talk with them just once
more.
to say hello. to say I love
you and miss you.
I want to say, remember when.
I stare at the cold black
numbers, then close
the phone.
i'm not sure what to think
about it,
anymore.

sweet dreams

we pretend.
we lie.
we know so much
beyond
what is said,
but
the real truth never
leaves our lips,
you can see it in our eyes.
we've learned
to deceive and hide.
it's a sick game
that we've learned
from others,
elders and young alike.
we try with half a heart
to keep the dying
flame alive.
we nod,
we smile, we grimace
as we
turn our backs
and go to another room.
with dry
lips we kiss goodnight.
say sweet dreams.
it's come this.
we are our parents,
stuck in a
familiar gloom.

marked yours

what can i throw away today?
let's see.
a dozen
old shirts, paint stained,
greasy,
ripped and torn,
shredded, yellowed.
a few pairs of pants.
zippers
that won't zip.
buttons missing.
and shoes.
so many smooth soled
shoes.
into the can they go.
that lamp
with the frayed wire,
the table
with the wobbly leg.
the thread bare rug
in the hall.
a dozen or more self help
books,
dog eared
worn and read to the core.
hardly a word
absorbed.
how about all those watches
in the top drawer.
not a single one
giving the right time.
those photographs.
those greeting cards.
that slice of cake in
the freezer, marked yours.

lines in the sand

i draw lines in the sand.
proclaim
ultimatums.
i make a long list
of deal breakers.
i stand up
for my rights,
my dignity.
my self respect.
i nail them to the door
like martin luther.
and wait.
all I want is the truth.
i hear the laughter.
a year goes by,
another year.
another.
nothing changes.
i'm alone in this.
I grow old
then die.

the indigo sky

I see the plane
overhead
as she departs.
the silver
wings,
aglow in twilight.
the red
tail light
blinking, a beacon
of sorts.
I wave my hand
towards
the crush of stars
against the indigo sky.
it doesn't long
until she's out of sight.
she'll come back
and i'll be here
waiting.

lost souls

I see the truck
outside.
the movers, young and strong.
how easily
they carry out the boxes.
the furniture,
one piece at a time.
up the ramp,
everything taped
and folded
over with a blanket.
snug into the dark mouth
of the van.
I watch them as they work,
laughing, unaware
of the why.
I lean against the sink
in my kitchen.
the windows, both front
and back are open.
I feel the cool
clean breeze of the day
curl around
my hands, my neck,
my face.
I feel young again.
the doors slam, and the latch
goes down heavy
against the locks.
the truck pulls away
and I wonder where they
are going,
where will they land,
these lost souls on this
fine autumn day.

home at last

a new haircut.
new shoes.
a new suit.
the war is over.
my brain is a plate
of scrambled eggs,
but i'm home.
home at last.
i'm on the bus
to go see my best
girl.
I've kept a photo
of her
against my chest.
no more drama
for me. let the warrior
die a peaceful
death.

how they laugh now

after years of sifting
the river
for gold.
I heard the strike
of a hard stone hitting
my worn
rusted pan.

I held it to the sun,
it glittered real.
it felt and tasted real.

I proclaimed to everyone
that I was rich.
that I was done.

I threw my pan to the ground
sold my gear,
my burrow.
dusted off my clothes
and washed my hands.

I was done.

how they laugh now.

the wind of sea

the mind
has a life of its own.
going
sideways.
dredging the black
sea
of sorrow,
circling deep beneath
the cold.

the wind
below the sea
carries me away.
under green
under blue.
across the bottom.
the grey fish turn
away,
they have no room
for you.

sweet day

it's a sweet
day.
a fruitful
day of love and healing.
no need for sunshine.
it's all
from within.
surrendering
the pain and sadness
to a higher power.
to begin
again.

the mouse

the black
cat
doesn't mind the rain.
there are plenty
of cars
and sewers
to duck under or in.
she doesn't cry
or sing,
she purrs.
her long matted
hair black
as oil
her bottle green
eyes are startling
before the sun
goes down.
your headlight
catches them as you
pull away or.
the saucer of milk
you set out
is never licked, or
bothered with.
it's the mouse she carries
in her white
tight lips
that concerns her
now.

smoke and mirrors

smoke and mirrors.
what's true
what isn't true.
the fog we live in.
the secrets,
the hidden world
behind
the curtain,
closed doors
and tucked away
things.
how desperate we
are to
not be known,
to stay a mystery
to find a way
to be without others,
to be alone.

the truth this time

a long line
forms.
I get in it.
I have all day.
no one speaks,
everyone is quiet
or on their phones.
the line moves slowly
into a black door
that sits
between two windows
of a long white wall.
I see no one ever
leaving, but i'm
patient. I can wait
all day
for what's to come.
what lies inside.
I hope it's the truth
this time.

i can do that

I take another white
sheet
from deep within
the linen closet. i
stretch it out on the floor
and cut
it with the good scissors.
I make another dozen
flags of surrender,
attaching each to a sturdy
wooden pole.
I go out into the rain
and march silently.
there is nothing left to
do, but do nothing.
I can do that.

another turn

I turn
the calendar page.
another day.
week, month.
nearly a year.
so much rain this year.
good for the green,
the ducks,
the fish,
the frogs.
out the window I see
an emerald wall.
I see the fat trees
full
of rain water,
heavy and leaning,
sighing from the long
summer,
so many
about to fall.
I turn the calendar
page.
i'm still in the moment.
awake, alive.
suddenly amused
at all of it.
my turn has come, again.

all is well

the cookies are stale.
the milk
sour. a lace breaks.
the bed is cold.
a good freeze has
wilted
the rose.
the shine is off
the apple.
a bulb explodes
and i step on the thin
shards
of hot glass.
the key breaks off
in the door.
I take another bite
of a lemon
and make believe that
all is well.

side of a cliff

my fingers
bleed while I hang on to the cliff.
my feet
are dug into
the granite,
my toes curled.
my muscles ache and burn
from holding
me tightly
to the side of this mountain.
i'm afraid to look
down, but finally,
with the sweat pouring
into my eyes, I do.
I see that
i'm only two feet off
the ground.
just that far, what was
all that fear and worry
about.
I jump.

the dead horse

I take a stick
and go out into the road.
the dead
horse is still there.
flies buzzing.
the stink, the smell,
the stench
of death is
overwhelming. I cover
my mouth. my eyes water.
my lungs stink
with decay.
I can hardly breathe
as I go over
and beat it once again.
Monday.

sticky fear

like the squirrel
in the road,
I scramble back and forth
from one
decision to another.

north or south.
up a tree,
or over the fence.
run or stay put,
which way do I go from
here.

it isn't easy, it isn't
clear.
the unknown
is so unknown, so much
of what to do
or not to do
is governed by what's
come before,

the stickiness of
inexplicable fear.

it isn't you

life is hard
says
the bum
on the corner. holding
his sign.
the woman
in the coffee shop
in a wheel chair
banging her way
in and out.
the dog
with one leg.
the girl weeping
in the rain.
the kid
with a shaved head,
homeless giving
blood for food.
they've had
their turn and then some,
while the preacher
preaches
love and forgiveness.
the mystery of it
all.
be thankful, be glad
it isn't you.
yet.

down the road

even after all these
years, all these
miles, we still wash
and polish
the car, keeping it new,
or at least appearing
to be new.
we fill
the tires with air,
gas it up.
a quart or two of 10-40
goes down
the gulley.
a coat of turtle wax
from stem to stern,
using the chamois cloth
we go at it in the summer
sun.
an air freshener
on the mirror.
a wipe
against the dashboard,
we vacuum the floors,
in between
the seats.
we straighten up
the trunk. we comb
our hair in the rear view mirror.
buckle up
and we're ready.
it's not new anymore, but
hey,
it'll get us down
the road.

you get used to it

this pebble
in my shoe is sharp,
it feels so much
bigger than it really is.

I should stop
at the first chance,

sit down
and shake it out,

but no.
i'm getting used to it.
I've befriended this pain,
this small stone.

I've grown accustomed to

the trouble it gives me,

as i have with you.

I almost expect it
each morning when I rise,
to get dressed
and go out again.

going fast

the small
boy
leans against the bus
window
staring out.
his cheeks, red pressed
and cold
against the smudged
panes.
the world beyond him
is vague
but moving
fast.
soon he'll be one
of them.
swinging his arms,
hurried,
worried, rushing to where
he needs to be,
walking fast.

the owners

they own six houses
they are quick to tell you.
six
he says, she says.
they say what the other
one is thinking.
finishing sentences
for one another.
they've been at this for
awhile.
painting, plumbing.
the floors.
the cracks in the wall.
it's how we met, she says.
right, he says.
they've seen it all.
been there. gone down
every road.
but it's fun she says,
smiling, holding a color
chart against
the wall. what do you think
of antique white, she says
out loud, looking at her husband
asleep
against the cut up
rug, rolled on the floor.

summers end

we walk
the boulevard,
stroll
in the oppressive heat.
the fountain
rises and falls.
we speak
of things to come,
what might
happen or not.
the world feels
small.
the sky too close.
the weight of
it all
keeps us quiet
and hopeful.
the voices of children
are high pitched
as they
run barefoot
through the clear
cool water of summers
end.

the good neighbor

the neighbor is good.
so good.
she is the moral authority
of the block.
be careful
where you park.
be cautious with your
words.
speak softly,
be polite.
be kind.
don't take your trash
out too early.
cut the grass
and trim those hedges.
our dogs and tongues
are on a leash.
she's whipped us into
shape.
we are like her now.
so good.
no longer making our
horrible
human mistakes.

on the side of the road

staring out at a
quarter moon, she said,
I hate these nights.
these talks, these long
discussions
that go nowhere.
me too, I tell her.
I despise
this self analysis.
these wretched books.
why do we do this to ourselves.
what happened
to us, what put us here
with the air gone out of the tires.
why are we stuck
on the side of the road,
going nowhere.
I don't know I tell her.
I wish I had some answers.
I wish
it wasn't like this,
that it wasn't this late,
this late without so much
as a hug,
a tender touch,
a whisper or kiss.

bring beer

I was muscled once,
he says, looking
far off into a place
that isn't there.
I was lean, strong.
I have pictures
to prove it.
and hair,
gleaming thick locks.
oh, how the girls adored
me.
I could dance all night,
name the dance,
i was like fred
Astaire.
and run, oh boy, could
I run. think of a fox.
think of a deer.
I was young once,
come and listen to
my tales,
my stories, amuse me,
pretend that you believe
all that i'm saying,
bring beer.

this desert

starvation
comes
in many forms.
lack of food,
nourishment from
any tree,
a piece of fruit,
how weak we grow
from lack
of talk, of touch,
of love.
the spirit
sags, the body
limps
through another day.
and thirst.
how dry the mouth becomes
without water to sip,
without a pair
of lips
to kiss.
how empty
the heart is
when lost in a desert
such as
this.

she made it right

my mother's older
sister,
Gloria
took her own life back
in the early sixties.
why
or where, or what
the details were
are locked away.
all the witnesses
are too old to remember
or dead.
but I remember her.
a whispery song
on her lips, her long
fingers
at the canary cage,
nodding. I remember
how strong
and worried her face
was.
how the lines were
carved, set as if in stone.
her black hair
framing
a gaze, an imperial
gaze
of what was wrong
with the world and what
could make it
right.
she made it right.

off the beaten path for a few minutes

we get lost
in the cave, straying
off
the path
roped
and lit
for our safety. we
want
to see more, so go further
inside.
we want
some danger, some
chaos,
to rebel
at what we've been told.
we want
to see where the bats
are,
where the rocks
are sharp and slippery.
we want
to smell the danger
of the cave,
of the ancient wet
walls.
we want to see the bones
of the dead,
hear the murmurs
of things
we know nothing about.
we stray off the beaten
path.
then go back.
we're not that crazy.

an air brushed world

it's the small
print that you have to read.

it's an air brushed world.
what lies
between the lines,
the smile. the house
on the hill,
the touched up
photo of a fake
family.

even the dog is an actor,
barking on cue.

it's a new car smell,
the scent
of chicken on the stove.
balloons
and clowns.

the cruise ship
of happiness
the promise
of perfume, of coffee,
of shoes
and shirts,
gloves.
and rings.

pick me
they all yell.
pick me and be happy.

the new shirt

the new shirt
with a hole in it,
with ink
stained
on the sleeve.
the tag
still on.
hardly out of the bag
for an hour.
never worn.
I have no idea what
it could
mean.
what the message is
from God.
but truthfully
I hope that he's too
busy for
such things.

the green light

the couple
in front of my car
are kissing.
they are as old as i am.
it's a romantic kiss,
a prelude
perhaps to the night
ahead.
his arm
around her, hers
around him.
an awkward but loving
embrace.
the light turns green
but i don't
honk my horn.
i just wait. i sit
there.
i savor the moment,
the beauty of such love,
and remember
when.

what i want

the therapist
sighs
at my words. she opens
up her heart,
her eyes,
her hands,
her soul comes out
for a visit too.
is that I tear I see on
her cheek?
but it's not what I need.
or want.
i'm tired of words,
tired
of books, tired
prayers
and thoughts that
circle and circle
with no
end. i'm tired
of being tired.

just love.
give me that and i'll sail
off into
the sunset
a happy man.

on his knees

I think of my father
on his
knees
in the black soil
poured, in
the weeds,
in the garden snug
between
the patio and the common
ground.
a stump
from a tree cut
down
last winter.
I see him now, at ninety
his hands
in the tomatoes
the peppers,
feeling his way
with murky eyes, watered
like the salty
seas he
drifted upon when
he was muscled
and tanned.
blue eyed and blonde.
the world ahead of him
bright with
hope.

what a summer it's been

I lie
awake in the puddle
of blue sheets,
a night time pond of
uncertainty.
the heat
is unbearable. the fan
over head
spins slowly,
the hour hand
hardly
moves.
there is the glow
of red
numbers on the clock.
why so many clocks?
I can hardly breathe.
the hum
of the house,
creaks with its
bones
of wood and plaster,
cold sweating pipes,
the glass panes
trickle with
condensation. let's not
call them tears, okay?
people have
died in this room,
but it's too
soon for that.
what a summer it's been,
if i see you on the street,
don't ask, i won't
give you a straight answer,
and i certainly
when it's over won't
look back.

the light ahead

i'll dig myself out
of this.
tunnel out from
these prison walls.
there is light, there's always light.
I've been in worst
spots before.
this nothing
this is small potatoes.
i'll be back stronger
and happier,
more alive
than ever. give me the spoon,
the spade,
and watch me dig.
inches at a time.
night after night when
the lights go out.
just wait.
you'll see. i'm coming.
i'm almost home.
almost free.
I see the light ahead.

Inside

inside
i'm still the same boy
my mother knew.
full
of love
and mischief. shy and
quiet.
i'm still the same
soul
she held at night,
read to
and prayed with.
a wise guy,
a tease. but sensitive
and sad
for anything or anyone
that hurts.
i'm that boy now, same
as before.
same as I've ever been,
but the world has
taken its toll
and it's hard to find
me, to see
what isn't seen.

on ice

I put a bag
of frozen peas on my knee.
another frozen
bag of sweet corn
on my hamstring.
I put a rock hard frozen
rib eye on
my eye to soothe a migraine
that has its own
beat. I swallow
a few large white pills,
washing them down
with gin.
i'm in for the night.
for the day.
at times it seems like
it may be for
life.

it'll be fun

she wants
to live in texas.
the lone star state.
cowboys and cattle.
hills
and prairies.
cactus.
she wants to live
near the rio grande.
raise sheep.
have a barn
with chickens and roosters.
let's go she says.
what's keeping you here?
you've got not ties,
nothing
holding you back.
giddyup, she says.
saddle up and let's go.
it'll be fun.

the strange enormous night

I bow
to the quiet.
it's my new God. my new
place
of being.
another false idol
added to the list.
silence.
complete lack
of caring.
I go numb, I go black.
I drink
my own blood
and stare out at the moon.
i come into this
world
alone, and will leave
it
the same way
with no hand to hold,
no love
to say farewell to.
I bow to the quiet.
I listen to my heart,
its low
clock tick.
I hear the rattle of
my old
bones unfolding
in the corner chair.
I am in the thick of it
and ready for some end
to begin.
i'm lying low.
waiting waiting
patiently
in the long dark
of this strange enormous
night.

on the gurney

the world
is full of snakes.
I feel the green brown
muscles of them
around my feet,
venomous with
dagger teeth.
rats
in the alley,
and bugs with wings
that sting.
disease
and lies
under the guise
of love and faith.
deception is at every
turn.
negative thinking,
bad
people who
pat you on the back
and spit,
crossing themselves
in public
reciting prayers.
pretenders and hypocrites.
betrayal is around
every corner.
dark clouds loom.
the rain
is cold. the snow
deep.
I lie in it.
strapped
to a gurney of a world
gone sour.
there's an IV in my vein.
a mask of air
around my mouth and nose
I yell out
for help,
I weep, I wait for rescue.

courage

in time
i'll find the words.
i'll
have said them over and over
again
in my head,
out loud
during the day,
while on a walk,
a drive.
in the shower, i'll
practice,
hone down
the verbiage.
keep it simple clear
and concise.
in time
i'll find the courage,
the resolve
to say what i need to say
and be done
with it.

love and plants

I had a potted plant
once.
1977 was the year.
a gift from
someone I used to know,
someone
i cared about.
it didn't last.
all that watering
and care.
turning it towards
the sun.
I hardly said a word
to it,
or it to me.
in time it went
brown.
the roots died.
the leaves
fell off.
I set it in the trash
room
outside in the hall.
when I moved
out, I saw it
in my neighbor's window.
it was green.
alive
and blooming.
it made me happy
and gave me hope about
life,
about love,
about the future.