crab world

at the beach
they insist on putting
crabs
into everything.
the drink,
the eggs, the fish.
the potatoes.
they come in from Thailand,
from
Indonesia,
from
anywhere but here.
crabs.
fresh and unfrozen.
legs
and shells.
their crusty pointed
lives
ending at captain bob's
buffet,
sprinkled
with bay seasoning.

the unseen sun

i untie
my shoes, stare out
at the ocean 13 floors below.
against the sand
it rages.
it roars.
the rain comes down.
the gulls are grey
and slow to wing their way
into the water.
the earth is cold.
so easy it would be
to float
to leap and leave
to reach for the clouds,
the unseen sun
and go.

the wheel

under a harsh blue
sky
this wheel
on the playground

keeps spinning.

round and round.

my hands grip the cold bars.
my legs splayed out
on the iron
platform.

i feel the grit of sand
in my mouth.

the wind blows
back my coat,

my teeth are exposed
as I go faster,

my hair goes white
and thin.

round and round.

but I hang on
while others fall off.

I see my father disappear,
my mother.
friends become shadows,
then nothing.

it's a world of leaving
when on this wheel.

since childhood
I've been doing this

waiting to be pulled off
and saved.

near love

the father
is washed away in his grief.
whitened
from
his loss. which wasn't true love
at all,
but resembled it.
who's to know what it really was?
yes, there was dancing.
yes. there were meals shared.
shows watched, walks taken.
but not a firework went off
and exploded in the air.
there were no bubbles
in that champagne,
but now
the bathing and feeding of a near
loved one grown old
and feeble,
says everything.
no cards, no flowers, no flourish
of words are
needed. no hearts carved
into a tree.
it's the whisper into the ear,
the hand on the cheek,
the arm,
the heart of one
lying there beyond life,
beyond belief,
the tilt of a bottle, or spoon
towards dry lips
waiting for the lights
to close that says it all.

a slow death

strange how

i once loved this person.

at least the person

she pretended to be, and now

as she lies beside

me, half asleep,

i actually despise her.

i've never felt such hatred

for a human being.

and i'm married to her.

how could this be?

the lies, the betrayal.

the adultery.

the evil is so thick within

her i can smell it

like a sewer in the street.

i look into her eyes

and see nothing. i see

no one. no heart,

no love, just a skeleton

waiting to die.

the pull

this white
wafer
in the air,
unbitten and full.
waiting, watching.
being something it isn't
to help fulfill
our poetic attempts
at understanding love,
or us.
we feel it's presence,
the pull of tides,
of blood,
the incremental rise
of hope,
or despair.
we can hardly take
our eyes
off such a thing,
this full white moon
within the hand of a black
unspeaking sky.

the carrying

we speak of death
in whispers. small cups of
breath
leaving our mouths,
our lungs,
our hearts. we possessed
learned
sadness.
the culture of being somber
in its face
becomes us.
death is near, death is far.
we reach
into a place
where we love
and fear their departure,
whether surprised,
or not.
father, mother.
son
or daughter.
friends.
they never leave us, or
us them.
the weight is there.
the memory
imbedded. attached.
but
we become more somehow
with their absence.
our souls expand,
carrying, taking
them with us
into the day,
down into the night.

Holy Help

the priest in his long
shiny gown
comes calling.
he's dour
as usual.
he brings me a box
of guilt.
sprinkles me with
holy water
and assigns me penance.
three hail marys, five
our fathers
and sixteen jumping jacks while
i hit myself with a whip.
repeat
and rinse, he says.
hell
is at the end of the road
you're on
if you don't change
your evil ways and repent.
i smile. I put
a twenty into his ever
present basket, and tell
him thank you
for coming over
and cheering me up.

going full Hazel

i take down the crosses
the platitudes
of thankfulness. I
toss
the self help books,
i purge the cards, the letters,
the gifts.
the sweet nothings
which are exactly that.
i bag and burn
the lot.
i delete the emails,
the texts.
i erase and smudge
what was written in faux
love.
the vacuum comes out,
the broom.
the dust rag.
i go full Hazel on it all.
it's how i move on.
how i survive in this
world
of impermanence.
it's how i heal
from
this ephemeral beast
called love.

lost and found

a stranger knocks
at the door
with something in his hand.
it has a slow beat.
a tell tale thud.
I believe this
might be yours he says.
and hands
it to me.
I found it outside in the snow.
it looks broken, he says.
but I found it that way.
no problem, I tell
him, I understand.
I take it from him and press
it back into
my chest. it slips out
every now and again, I tell
him. but thanks
for bringing it back to me.

black bottom cake

it's a large cake.
black bottom
cake.
chocolate on chocolate.
the balloons are
black.
the streamers white.
no gifts allowed,
but lots of wine and
gin and tonic. let
the music play.
b.b. king
and tom waits.
let the saxophone howl.
there will be dancing.
singing.
reminiscing.
open the door and let
everyone in.
raise the roof.
let the party begin.

the farewell party

my old friend
who wasn't all that bad,
but
a criminal at heart. He
stands now on the hatch door
of the gallows.
the noose around his neck.
someone says a prayer.
his family cries
for him. a man of cloth says
a few mumbled words
in his defense, or something.
his hands
are behind his back,
tied tightly.
his legs together, rope
around his ankles
to keep him from flailing
once he begins to swing.
but he looks fine.
he looks at peace.
i think for a moment that he'll
get out of this too.
but no.
he sees me in the crowd
and smiles, nods his head,
he winks his wink.
the black hood drops over
his head, then
down he goes. down he
goes.

the fix

the addicts
in the alley. needled
and deboned
of ambition but that
of next
fix, the next high,
they are shadows,
ghouls
bitten by the vampire
of ecstasy.
at time I join them
and lean
against the cold wet
wall
of memory.
how quickly we succumb
to what
makes us feel good.
whether the ding of the phone,
the kiss,
the drink,
the drug. we chase forever
that high
of love,
that pinnacle of pleasure
that the world
offers falsely.
in time
the champagne goes stale,
goes flat,
the bubbles subside.

awaken and rise

the Lazarus in
me
awakens.
the flesh and blood
once cold
and blue
go warm.
I am nearly in the pink
again.
I brush off the dirt
of my grave,
rip off the shroud
that covered me.
I dry the tears
of those who stood by
and loved me
when I was under,
when I was gone.
together we lift
our glasses,
our hearts to life
and love.
we toast tomorrow
once more.

i need a parade

I miss the city.
the iron of it. the steel
blue
water
off battery park.
the up of it all.
the cacophony of horns,
the swarms
of yellow cabs,
tourists from texas,
florida
and france,
bundled trying to stay
warm.
the cart of chestnuts.
the faux watches
and chains, pictures
of the empire state building
framed and wrapped
ready to go. fools gold.
the insanity
of times square.
the sailors, the soldiers.
the broadway lights,
the tarnished glare
of it all.
never quite the same,
never different.
from the Hudson to the village,
to Washington
square the thunder
of the subway deep below. the
whistles
of cops. Chinatown and pizza.
a cross town bus will take
you there.
littly Italy.
St. Patrick's,
central park, the zoo.
The Met.
fifth avenue. I miss
the city, I need a fix.
I need a parade,
and soon.

a winters story

the cold comes
not
a moment too soon.
the boots come out.
the scarf and gloves
go on.
everything appears
that needs to worn.
let there be frost in
the air.
let it snow.
let the wind blow.
let the sky
full of grey clouds
lie upon us.
let the next winter
story of you and me,
others
be told.

to be home

the new house
needs
love.
the new floors need dust,
need dirt
from the steps
of boots and heels,
slippers
and bare feet.
the new house needs
crumbs
on the counter
a dish in the sink,
a glass left
on the table.
clothes on the floor,
a wet towel
draped
on the shower.
the new house needs
an unmade bed.
plants that need
water.
books left
opened, waiting to
be read.
the new house
like us needs to be loved
and felt
a home.

the horses pull
all day
at the plow.
the earth
needs to be dug.
things planted.

another blue bird

I scratch
the nail into the wall
of my cell.
make another mark.
grinding the dull point
into the limestone
wall.
the floor is wet.
the bars
are ice cold as I sit
on the stiff
thin
bed they've given me.
I smell
the grunge of others.
I hear
the rats
plotting their own
plans
in the tunnels.
the grunts and groans
of cellmates
down the row.
there is no light but
the bare
bulb that swings its 40 watts
over my crude sink,
my metal mirror,
my toilet.
I scratch out another
day, then look
to the window above
where I see the miracle
of a bluebird
on the sill.
he's singing a song.
I know that song.
there is hope.

the porch swing

she hands me a glass
of sweet tea.
it's amber color
collects the sunlight
as we sit
on her porch.
we say nothing.
we sip our tea and swing
gently
as the sun
sets, as the moon appears
and kisses
us with it's kind
light. we could do many
things
in this moment.
but this is good.
doing little, saying nothing.
swinging,
waiting
for the world to change
and be made right.

to sleep

i fall asleep
in the middle of chaos.
i drift
off into a dream.
a dream
i won't remember when i
awaken.
sleep
rescues me
from the day,
from tomorrow.
fatigue is a wet
coat.
but i'll trudge through
the daylight hours.
i'll get to the end of it.
to sleep once
more, dry and warm,
safe in the comfort
of sheets,
and blankets, a bevy
of pillows.

going to mars

i tell no one about
my trip
to mars.
i leave no forwarding
address.
i pack lightly.
just my silver suit.
my helmet
and a good pair of boots.
i leave
my dog with a neighbor.
kiss my
wife goodbye.
she hands me my lunch pail
and waves
as i drive
towards the rocket which
will take
me away.
i leave her a note
on the nightstand.
going to mars,
be back soon.
i hope.

unlearned

i turn my pockets inside out.
i shake
my shirt
of lint, of grass and leaves.
i kick the mud
off my boots, then
sit on the curb
and listen
to roar
of silence as it surrounds
me.
it reminds me of another
day,
decades ago.
another time.
another lesson learned,
then unlearned.

skin and bones beside you

strange how i now

hate the woman

who sleeps in my bed

a foot away.

the boney wench i married.

i hate the way she lies

and betrays.

i despise her. who she is,

who she pretends to be.

she's sick and making

me sick.

she's drowning in her own

nightmarish life

and trying to take me down

with her.

i know the day is coming

soon, but i have to wait

just a little bit longer.

i'll know when the time

is right to get her out of

my house, my life.

soon, very soon.

creative writing

your old teacher
passes away, you see his obituary
in the paper.
there he is.
larger than life.
the books and poetry behind him.
how he held
court.
kept us in laughs and wonder.
a performance.
brash and gentle.
kind
and harsh.
a pendulum swinging.
cigarette in the hallway.
a drink
after class.
laughs and laughs. but the darkness
of life
did not elude him.
his signed book is on the shelf.
his wish
for you to continue on.
to keep at it.
keep going.
write for yourself first,
and the rest will follow
rings true,
even now as I sit here at this
hour,
typing and thinking
of him.

the waiting

she waits.
she waits. she sits.
hands
folded in her lap.
he's late.
he said he'd be coming
soon.
he was on the train.
bags
packed.
hat on, the past
and road
now behind him.
she waits.
she looks up to where
the rails
disappear into
the mouth of woods.
the seasons change.
promises have been made.
she's patient beyond
words.
she knows he's worth it
though.
that the love is real.
just a little
while longer
the station master
says, looking at his
watch, then the sky overhead.
he's on his way.
he's hoping
she's still there.

around and around

my mother
suffered with men.
though no picnic herself.
her Italian
blood
full of passion.
the plates would fly.
forks and knives.
glass littered
the room.
blood was spilled, but
in the end
they'd make love,
my father and her,
have another child,
then start all over
again.

let it begin

what
lies ahead of us
means little
when the now
is rich
with pain.
tomorrow means
nothing.
yesterday is a pale
fragment of
our memory.
I want an answer.
I don't want
to be in the wind
another day,
another week,
another hour.
let it end,
or let it begin.

the empty streets

the clock on the town
tower has stopped.
the clouds
are still.
the streets are empty.
only the leaves
move
from the trees.
scattered in color.
I listen
to the heart beat
of this day
becoming night.
I put my ear to the chest
of tomorrow
to understand what's to
come,
what's wrong.
what's right.
the stones are cold
and hard
beneath my feet, but I
walk.
I walk.
I go forward as I always
have,
with or without
you.

born into this

born into this.
alone with no choice
in the matter.
i'll die the same way.

against my will.

it's not the end or
the beginning that's hard.
it's
the middle
that's hard.

the loves and losses.

the slight gains.
the meager

joy.

the thin thrills
that throw what light
there is upon darkness
and make

life bearable.
with ever fading witnesses
to the fact.

sleep

it's cold enough
for meat.
for stew. potatoes
and carrots, onions.
the slow
cook of a long fall
afternoon.
how the leaves drop
on cue.
how the sun turns white
and soft.
how sleep
seems far away.

all me

I see the wind
of arrows,
a cloud
of them arriving
as expected. i
feel the piercing of each
sharp
head
into my skin.
going deep to the places
I remember.
I have no
need for this blood
anymore. let it pour
and go.
this sting,
this outrageous fortune
is all
me. my road is my
road.

the night

a blue note
from the horn
in the blue haze.
the blue
lights
of the stage.
the voice is
gravel.
the drinks
are cold and hard.
shoes tap
fingers drum.
hearts
slow down to remember
and forget.
the bitterness is
sweet.
the night no longer
young.

cooking and kissing

it's her brown eyes.
her laugh.
her hair.
her hands upon me.
it's her legs
and arms.
her brain.
her strength and compassion.
it's her
way of forgiving.
it's all of that
and more.
not to mention cooking
and kissing.

more cake

when the cake arrives
all eyes
go upon it.
it's a big cake.
long, thick, and rich
with icing and fruit.
layers
of thick yellow
beds. soft and moist
in the light.
the candles are lit
then blown out.
were wishes made?
pieces are cut
and handed out on plates.
the crude jokes
end.
the small talk,
the clutter of chatter
is hushed.
the room goes quiet
as forks move from
dish to mouth. at times
all it takes is
sugar and butter,
cream and flour
to make people stop talking
and be silent.
we should all eat more
cake.

gone south

I drop a coin
into the slot and pull
the arm
down.
the windows spin
and spin,
then the rattle of small
changes comes
down. not much.
I try again, again.
my luck
once rich with tomorrow
has gone
south.

we say things

we say
things we don't mean.
we lie
to ourselves.
go against our nature.
protecting
hearts
and minds from the grief
we dole out.
ours and theirs. we
deceive and deflect.
defend
the sand we stand on.
we go nowhere
with this game.
round round and we go
on this carousel with stiff
horses,
plastic and faded,
melted.
never truly galloping
in the sun
across the open fields,
free and honest.
true.

free flight

the plane
shudders in the late bloom
of October.
historically not a good month
personally
for me.
i'm at the door.
parachute on, trembling,
not from the wind,
or the speed of the plane
over the bright green fields
of orange county,
but from fear.
the cold fear of what ifs.
the gut is raw
with the height. the rush
of blood
in my head.
the numbness of my feet
as I crouch at the door.
it's not like I haven't done
this before,
many times.
I hear them all yelling
at me, from the ground, from
inside the plane,
from those already in the sky.
jump, jump, jump, they say.
I close my eyes
and pray. i feel a hand reaching
out to touch me on the shoulder,
but
I don't know if it's too
push me out into the open sky,
or to hold me in place.

out of reach

I don't have enough
money
to buy what I need.
or time
to shop.
or gas to get me where
I need to go.
even love is out
of reach.
so I sit
on the front porch
and swing
and swing.
and swing.
until the sun disappears,
sinking softly
behind
the trees.

photo shopped

little is what it appears to be.
if it's almost too good
to be true, well. yes. it is.
the camera lies,
the words
ring untrue,
it's the little lies,
the small print
beneath
the photo shopped view
that speaks the truth.
what you see is rarely
what you get.
buyer beware.
whether a car, or house,
or a glossy photo
of food,
or trip to a discount room,
a flight half price.
swing back the light
like Stanley in Streetcar,
and take a hard look.
the world we live in is
so often air brushed
and polished, unrecognizable
in person.
disappointment ensues.

get out while you're young

get out while you're young
the old
man says to me
when I tell him my troubles.
don't look back.
love will come again.
cut your losses.
you did all that you could
to make things
work.
there's nothing to be ashamed
of,
it's not failure.
it's life.
they can't all be winners.
you had some fun.
the worst thing you can do
in life is to stay with
someone who doesn't love
you, or who you don't love.
the world is full of such
insanity.
life is too short.
too brief. too valuable to live
in sorrow, sadness and grief.
look at your watch, it's ticking.
look at the sun.
how many more sunrises do you
have mister.
find joy. find joy. find joy.
get out while you're young.
and don't look back.

so happy i could burst

the holidays
look like fun this year.
there is so much love
and understanding going around.
my hair stands on end
with excitement.
I've already picked out
a pumpkin to carve.
I have a new wreathe
to hang on the door.
I've purchased rolls and rolls
of silver wrapping paper
for the gifts i'll buy
for loved ones.
there are so many to give
to. but that's okay.
I like to give.
i'm a giver by nature.
I've unraveled the strings
of colored lights, taken
the tree out of the attic.
the ladder is out of the shed.
the stockings are hung
by the faux fireplace.
I've bought dozens of cards
from hallmark and have drawn
hearts with arrows through
each for all my special loved
ones.
there's a pumpkin pie
in the oven. a turkey
in the freezer. I can't wait
to make a pot of gravy.
i'm excited and full of joy
for this upcoming season.
i'm so happy I could burst.

what was that all about

I wake up startled.
it was all an unpleasant dream.
a long mysterious dream.
I shake the cobwebs
out of my head
and let my feet hit the cold
floor.
I shower,
I shave.
I get dressed and look
into the mirror.
no worse for wear.
I get coffee and go to work,
wondering what in the hell
that was all
about.

out of the storm

it's a long
trek
from there to there
in these winds.
this hail storm without
end.
but we'll get there.
be patient.
hold on.
the longest days
of our lives
are getting shorter
by the minute.
be fearless
and strong.
keep on keeping on.
one foot
in front of the other.
trust
and faith. hope
and perseverance.
put your hand out
i'm almost there.

work shop

the workshop
is hard.
the words come out of these
hands,
those hands,
those minds and hearts.
leaves
on trees fluttering
down
in the autumn of their
lives.
dreams
of fame, of fortune
don't appear, just a nice
word or two,
well done,
we like it, can't
wait to read more,
is all most
of us want to hear.

there's still time

a man in a black
suit
is looking for me.
when I see
him coming down the street
I step
into a doorway, or an alley.
I ball myself up
and crouch
behind a garbage can.
sometimes I climb up
a fire escape
and lie upon a roof.
all day
I see him out of the corner
of my eye. I can hear
his shallow breathing.
he's relentless
with that paper in his hand.
he's been following me for
years,
since I was a child,
and has come close
a few times to putting
his hand
upon my shoulder.
but not yet.
not yet. there's still
time.

the blue bird

the simple life.

normalcy.

love from the heart.

work. hard work.
the pleasures of doing nothing.

perhaps a good book.
a well crafted poem.
a walk along the shore hand
in hand.

to wake up with someone
and smile
and say yes, yes yes.
again.
and again.

i have a blue bird in my
heart
that wants to get out.

i want the simple life.

normalcy.
love from the heart.

the barrel fire

i can't purge
fast
enough.
i can't burn and bend,
break
and throw away
all the poisoned links
to yesterday.
i throw
my life into a barrel
and pour gasoline
into it.
i drop a match
and watch it go up
in a roar
of flames.
it's an old barrel.
well used. and
it will be
used again
and again before i'm
done.

the future

by chance
i run into someone
on the street that i used to know.
we're older
now.
not wiser, just older,
pretending to be so.
we make the same
mistakes over and over
again, we say to one another.
we're freaking moses
in the desert.
forty years of wrong
turns,
miscalculations.
mirages.
heat and cold.
lack of food, lack of
drink.
lack of love.
we reminisce about the good
old days.
back when.
back when we had hair,
back when our skin was smooth,
and our knees
and hips didn't hurt,
causing us to limp through
the dry sand.
it was before everything,
almost.
before wives and children,
jobs
and mortgages, bills, bills
bills,
and yards to tend to.
what fun we had.
we wondered how we landed here.
we wondered
under the yellow sky of a
low blistering sun.
we stared at one another
and hugged, shook hands.
kissed each other on the cheek,
and then realized together
without having to say it,
that the future is not
what it used to be.

a bed full of feathers

I cancel tomorrow.
and the next day too.
i'm bored
with life. my eyes have
glazed over.
my heart
beats
slowly
under the October sun.
I imagine
being on the moon.
or mars.
or some distant planet
yet named.
i could easily
or on a silver ship
travelling through
the black
clarity of space.
I find that sleep is of
no help
and the daylight hours
linger on,
linger on, linger on.
but there is hope.
i will arrive
soon.
i'll get there. please be
there when i do,
with gin
and tonic in hand
and a bed full of feathers
to lie in.

the blue of night

the blue
of night is here.
the soft
clouds of youth have
flown.
I inch
to the window
to find a sullen moon,
a yellow
lamp
holding a cat
in its shadow.
I go forward
I go back.
I understand less now
than I did
just yesterday.
I used to be
young
before I became old.

quiet

there are no laughs,
or
jokes
or pratfalls.
there is no
laugh
track no sly retort,
no double entendre,
no quip
or clever
back and forth.
there's just this.
this walk
away.
the other cheek turned.
nothing gained,
the mike dropped,
the day in flames.