sleeping with poetry

i fell asleep
listening to an old scratchy
record
of walt Whitman
reciting his poetry,
Emily came
next, then frost,
then William blake.
the sleep grew deeper
with each poem.
T.S. Eliot made me snore,
and frost made
me turn over,
looking for the cold
side of the pillow.
i scratched hard at my
head
with e.e. cummings.
Sylvia and sexton though
stirred me into
bad dreams,
as did Bukowski and Ginsberg.
but i was getting somewhere,
closer and closer to home.
Philip Larkin
woke me up,
as did Ignatow
and
Collins. Oliver rest
her soul, gave me hope.

to be read

the workshop
is mostly old white men,
retired
and well read, well bred.
bmw's line
the lot.
a Mercedes or two.
i don't sniff a single
struggle for
shelter or food
amongst the lot.
good boots or shoes on
all of them.
there's a sprinkling of
women too.
young and older.
quiet for the most part,
but smart
as whips, whatever that
cliché might mean.
it's a good group of
readers who go line by
line
through your small piece
of art.
your little story pulled out
of thin air.
a simple story of a first
kiss,
that's it.
no need to think much more
about it, but the words
are welcome.
feels good to be read
and liked.
who doesn't?

you've got a lot of nerve

i tell her that one day
when i'm
rich and famous, she'll
regret her mistreatment of me.
giving me the cold
shoulder
all the time.
she'll regret that,
and i'll just tell her
that she's got a lot of nerve
saying she's my friend.
at that point i'll
put on positively 4th street
and let bob
sing the rest.

land lline

the land line
is worthless, for the most part.
it's the number
that my mother used
to call me on,
though.

so it's hard to let it go
despite
the 7 hundred dollars
a year I pay for it to ring
by people I don't know.

someone from
india
or the urkraine
asking me
if I need any medication,
or new windows,
or if i'd like a no interest
loan
or maybe a warranty
on my toaster oven.

these things all interest
me, but
I just hang on up on them,
which doesn't seem
to phase them in
the least bit.


they call the next day
without fail.
same spiel, same deal,
same scam,

different day.

the project

no need for a plumber.
she's got this.
a saw,
some new pipe,
putty,
a wrench, a sleeve,
an elbow.
inside
there's the ring,
a tooth,
hair
and assorted debris
from years
of brushing,
washing, rinsing.
a mercury dime appears.
a clasp
to a bracelet, a shard
of glass
from the wine that
tilted
and made a red splash
everywhere.

the gentle splash

they sell their last house.
the sign gets hammered into
the yard.
time
has caught up
with them.
the parade of renters
is over. the painting,
the electric
and plumbing
is too much now
to deal with.
they lived there once
in the sixties.

bean bags and lava lamps.
throw rugs
and water
beds. the rooms were
full of smoke
and music,
Hendrix and Joplin,
the beatles,
the stones. books on
zen, on god, the poetry
of Ginsberg,
Frost and Whitman.


Dylan when Dylan was forever
young.
how quickly youth fades.

they're slow now, whitened
by time
the steps are steep,
the sidewalks crumbling
and too hard to navigate.
the lights too dim to read
anymore.

to a warmer climate they go.
to eat, to drink,
to bathe in the warm light
of the deep south,
to finish out the years
with a gentle splash
then swim.

the quiet zoo

the zoo is quiet tonight.

I see my life before me
as the gates
close, as the children leave,
as the keepers
depart to their own lives.

I see the wrong turns.
regret.
remorse.
I feel the sting of what's lost.

I put my head to the earth
and give
thanks for the little
I do have.

I hear the whistle of a distant
train.
the air of life escaping one
breath at a time.

where is he

the mail
hasn't been arrived
in days.
I go to the window
and look
out for the white
truck
with red
and blue trimming.
nothing.
I look down the sidewalk
for my mailman.
he's tall and lean,
Asian.
pleasant not so much
that he wants a new
friend.

he was a little careless
at times.
my mail going to someone else,
and other's mail
coming to me.
some bills were lost
during the years.
but that was rare, i doubt
i could do
any better.

I miss his quiet walk,
his gaze, his
slight smile, the tilt
of his pith helmet
on his head.
rain, sleet or snow,
he came with that brown
leather sack
weighing him down.
lightening it one envelope
at a time.

the hard work

I feel guilty.
ashamed.
the priest confirms
my feelings.
he can hardly look me
in the eye
through
the perforated screen.
three hail marys.
six
our fathers
and say the rosary
until your fingers bleed.
is that enough,
I ask him?
actually, none of that
is necessary,
just confess your sins,
He did all the hard
work
by dying on the cross.
go home and sin
no more, or at least
try not to.

veil of deception

it's the door
closed, the one with the lock
on it
that has my
interest.
it's the hidden note,
the secret message,
the cradled phone.
what's hidden and held
close
is what i want to know,
despite the pain it could
cause.
i want the truth,
not a veil of deception.

calm waters

after death
we lose contact.
the sisters and brothers go back
to their own
lives.
over the bridges
real and imagined.
they've never gone too far from
what was home.
the silence
is fine.
the arguing has died.
calm waters have returned
for most of us.
we'll be together again
though,
life has a way of ending
when least
expected.

parenting skills

my father would
flip
a quarter onto the made
bed
to see if it would bounce,
or not. to see
if the sheets
and blanket were tucked
in tight enough.
that the bed was made properly
like how it was
in the barracks during
boot camp.

that was about the extent
of his
parenting skills.

let's go

i whistle
for a cab to stop.
the door swings open.
where to he says.
new York, i tell him.
manhattan.
Chinatown.
i need some kung pao chicken
from jimmy's
in a bad way.
i'm starving, i haven't
had a decent meal
in ages. do you know
jimmy's, i ask him.
it's right next to a Greek
church.
i don't know no jimmy's,
he says, but
it's gonna take
us five hours to get to
new York.
so what, i tell him
and throw a handful
of bills over the seat.
drive on.
okie dokie, he says
then flips on the meter.
he looks at me in the rearview
mirror to see if there
is any crazy in my eyes.
there's a lot. he shrugs,
tells me to buckle up,
then hits the pedal.
my wife is gonna kill
me if i'm late for
dinner again,
he says tugging at his
turban. call her up,
let me talk to her, i'll
smooth things out for you.
i'll buy you dinner,
i tell him.
drive on.
do you like kung pao chicken?
sure, he says,
sure.
good, jimmy's has the best.
let's go.

time to go inside

I feel
the rain against
my bones.
the cold hard push
from
galvanized clouds
riveted onto the tin sky.
the drops
ping against my upturned
face.
the furrows
of my skin
lets it all roll down.
i'm tearless.
dry inside.
enough is enough.
time to go
inside.

the short drive

you don't want to open
up that can
of worms, do you?
she says.
she's cliché girl.
a bird in the hand
is worth two in the bush,
etc.
when it rains it pours.
when she's on
a roll,
well, yes.
she's like butter.
no use trying to stop
her.
she's just a kid
at heart.
barely old enough
to drive me crazy,
which in itself is a
short drive.

friday night

the bank
has all my money
but they make it hard to get it out.

I keep putting more in,
getting ready
for old age,
for the oatmeal years
when my teeth are gone.

I look at rocking chairs
in the windows
of big stores.

I think about collecting stamps,
or coins,
or taking up
painting by numbers,
or putting together puzzles
late into the night.

I make another deposit
and the young
kid behind the glass smirks.
he's thinking
about girls and food, drinks,
and fun.
fast cars
and the clubs downtown
where he can dance
all night.

been there, done that, but
right now

i'm thinking about a bowl
of hot soup
and cnn,
the antique roadshow,
a good book to curl up to
and read until I fall asleep
at ten.

fist full of pills

one of my seven doctors
is the one
I go to
to get a new prescription
of prednisone.
low dosage though.
when I get the high octane
stuff
I go a little nuts.
I want to put on my cape
and fly
around the world,
solve crime
and vanquish the world
of evil.
but the low milligrams
I can handle,
with food,
of course. it clears my
head
for a few weeks.
able to breathe again like
normal humans
who walk the earth.

the itch

it smells like
rain.
or snow.
or something wet
about to fall from the sky.
i'm bone dry
in that department.
the winter has whitened
my skin.
starched me free of
whatever summer
did last year.
i'm ready for a change.
for a new
start.
i'm waiting on a train,
for the phone
to ring.
for a message from the heavens,
telling me what
to do.
I've got an itch I
can't scratch.

pick me up at 8?

the crimson syrup
of his lungs splatters
the white sink.
i'm dying,
he says
lighting another cigarette,
wiping his mouth
with a sleeve.

what's the point
in quitting now, he growls.
fuck it.
his eyes are grey,
the blue
all gone.
the sunshine of his soul
has dissolved
into a yellow pale froth
of fatigue.

even his hair looks tired
as he combs it back
as if readying himself
for a friday night date.

i'll be okay, he says.
bending over to tie
a boot.
tucking his paint stained
t-shirt into his
white sagging pants. he coughs
and clears his throat.

i'll be fine by Monday,
pick me up
at 8?

road side assistance

I need roadside assistance.
my life
has broken down.
I need a lift,
a ride, I need
someone to get me down
the road
and into
a warm hotel, with hot
food
and a view.
someone to draw me a bath
and read
to me as I fall asleep.
it was an old car.
I may just leave it where
it died.
right there
on the highway.
it got me where I needed
to go for so long,
I trusted it,
but that's done now.
the past is past.
I need roadside
assistance, my life,
has broken down, my thumb
is out, my heart is open
for suggestions.

all night

all night
a dog barks in the yard
across the street.
I look out
the blinds
and see nothing.
he's behind a fence.
it's cold out,
the wind is fierce.
finally he stops.
he's either died or
the owner has let
him in.
I can't get back to
sleep though.
I miss the chaos.
the howling,
the sound of his paws
scratching at
the gate trying to get
out.
I listen to the wind,
the rattle of
the shutters against
the house,
the sound of metal
cans rolling down
the icy street.
the bending of frozen
trees in the woods,
ahhh. music to my ears.

crime does pay

they take
me away in handcuffs,
arms behind
my back,
after I attempt to rob
a bank with a toy
pistol.
I was running low on
money because of the shut down.
guilty of all charges.
but I don't mind.
no more cutting the grass,
taking out the trash.
no more telemarketers
calling me
up to buy things I don't
need.
I don't mind
the orange jump suits either,
or the stiff cot
they call a bed.
I could read and write,
study micro biology,
lift weights in the yard
with my new friends.
it wouldn't be so
bad,
three meals a day.
maybe I could get a job
in the kitchen
cooking up
scrambled eggs.
I didn't like my old job
anyway.
nine to five, who needs it.

when there is none

we pretend.
we wear masks, costumes.
we say our lines
accordingly. we
find our spot on the stage
and perform.
where is the real self?
the transparent
you.
the naked you
unburdened by who you
think you are, or need
to be
for others.
how we toil at the play
when there
is none.

marshall hall amusement park

I can still hear
the clank
of the roller coaster
climbing up
the first steep
hill of the wooden
dinosaur, the white
paint peeling in
the april wind.
cross hatched in wood,
planks and two by fours,
beams.
how the car slowly rose
under the weight of us,
struggling to
climb, pulled by
a chain, decades old.
the whole thing creaked and swayed.
rattled like ancient bones.
how we hung on
for dear life
as we approached
the crest where the whole
world could be
seen.
then down and down,
swiftly, falling,
our slight bodies lifted
from the steel seats,
our eyes
wide open with a fierce
wind, our lungs
alive with screams,
our fingers wrapped
tight around the bar
that held us in.
around we would go, side
to side,
up and up, hill after steel
hill, down,
the wheels screeching hot
along the way.
then finally, finally slowing
to a stop
at the flat
platform, where our parents
waited and smiled,
knowing that life
is so much like this ride,
let's do it again.

like i always do

the slightest
creak
of wood startles the cat.
she purrs and shivers
beside
me.
nothing to fear I tell
her.
lying to her
like I always do.

i remember this

i remember
the first kiss.
the last dance. the smell
of her perfume.
the beginning and the end
is easy
for me to see.
i know what's coming,
what's
not.
i can see the future,
but resist it.

i am alone in this.
i am
in a crowded room
with everyone pulling
on my shirt tail.
i forget
who i am, i remember
nothing.

i remember everything.
i am confused
and worried.
i'm perfectly content
with
how things are. i'm angry
and disgusted with myself
for being so weak.

i'm found.
i'm lost. i'm in love
with who she is,
who she was,
who she isn't. i lift weights
to gain muscles,
to feel the burn.

i answer the phone by saying,
i have no
money.
i let the sun surround me
and warm
my cold body.

i remember her in a white
dress.
the drink she ordered.
the food we ate.
the kiss
under the veil of darkness.

my mother is dead.
my father is alive and well
at ninety. although nearly blind
and deaf, and unable
to walk more than ten steps
without stopping to catch
his breath.
I've lost 7 friends
in
three years.

i think there is hope by
writing things down.

i don't think having a dog
is the answer, or drinking heavily,
but i'm willing to try.
i bake bread in the oven
and watch it rise.

i see a woman on the street
that looks like my mother,
i want to tell her that, but decide
not to, why should she feel
my pain. i leave her alone,
as she pushes her shopping cart
down aisle 6 where the olives are.

i refuse to give up. i give up.
i think about joining the army,
any army, but i'm too old too fight.
to old to kill
someone for no reason.

i'm a pacifist at heart, but
willing to take a sword
to the dmv, or to husbands who
cheat on their wives.


i want to be silent. to meditate
on the world I've created within
a world.
i want to scream it all
from
the highest roof top and let
everyone know what i know.


i want to sleep. i want to wake
up in a different world with
everything i know unknown.

i remember everything.
i remember nothing.

no heavy machinery

i buy stock in Kleenex
and sinus decongestion pills
and liquids.
the stock rises
this time of year
from my purchases alone.
the day time variety,
the night time,
the generic brand
and the luxury brand.
i try to stay away from
heavy machinery
all day.
no plowing the field,
no cement trucks,
or buzz saws.
i stick to the couch
and lean back,
relying on chicken soup,
green tea,
and slices of blueberry
pie.

spare change

I make my sign
and go stand in the ten degree
weather
at a busy
street corner.
god bless
I write.
not a veteran, not lazy,
but not very
ambitious either.
just need some cash
to see me
through the weekend.
i'd like to see
a movie
maybe grab a steak
at Mike's and have few
cold
beers.
put some gas into my
v 8 mustang.
any amount would help
my cause.
I just don't want
to crack into my 401 k,
or blue chip
stock funds, just
yet.

the other side

frozen
in
time. unable
to get
up
and walk.
my eyes are locked
down.
my mouth
sealed.
i'm beyond the shiver
of the blue
cold.
i'm
warm inside.
about to see what
is on
the other side.

the blue cover of night

unable to sleep
for a variety of reasons
I rise
and find my clothes in
the dark.
I peer out the window
at a frozen world
of grey ice
and slush.
not a dog barks, or
fox
howls.
I go down the stairs,
hearing
the creak of wood
I've listened to for
the past 14 years.
what's changed?
I feel the ache in my
knees,
the soreness of work
and age.
I wonder about the next
ten years.
what it will bring.
the woods get lighter
as the winter sun crawls out
from under the blue
cover of night.

her life

the death
of a poet goes unnoticed
by most.
a small obit
in the back page
of the metro section
of the post.
she spent her life
in the woods
wandering,
trying to extricate
what
her father did
when she was a child.
each leaf that fell
at her
feet had meaning,
each stream she bent down
to touch
was real
beyond what it was.
it never ended.
until now.

i see an island

the gypsy
smiles when she sees me coming
through the door.
she wraps a new red scarf
around her head
and pulls out the old
crystal ball.
she lets out an ugh
as she hauls it to the
round table, blows
the dust off of it.
sit, sit, she says. tea?
sure, I tell her.
earl grey with a splash of
cream.
two sweet and lows, she says,
right?
yes. I tell her and take off
my coat.
she looks at my palms first
and sighs.
oh my she says. oh my.
some year, eh?
brutal, I tell her.
well, that's all behind you
now.
not to worry. I see an
island resort in your future.
white sands.
blue skies and palm trees.
I see a tall drink in your
hand
and someone rubbing
lotion onto your back.
how's that sound, she says.
pouring me some tea.
great, I tell her.
go on.
cash or credit today? she
asks.
I pull out a roll of bills,
keep going, I tell her.
keep going.
some cookies with that tea?
sure.

i know so little

I feel the twinge of
sciatica
run up the back of my leg
from heel to spine.
I cringe at the numbness
and tingle
of it burning.
it's not old age,
or stress,
or weight, it's just
the nerve
impinging on some unseen
bone, or muscle,
ligament
or something I know nothing
about.

there is so much I know
so little about.
but the things that I do
know,
I know thoroughly,
without a doubt.

less is fine

she has frost
in her hair. go for it,
I tell her.
go silver.
go white.
go boldly into the next
phase of
your hair
life.
I show her mine
and tell her how hard
it was
at first, but no more.
I like
the shine,
the saving of time
in washing,
in combing.
a new hat fits so
nicely, less
is just fine.

soon she'll be gone

i can feel it coming.

a premonition.

the absence of her.

the final straw about to happen.

i can taste in my mouth,

the ashes of it all.

it's coming. thank God.

that my prayers 

will be answered.

finally, it's coming,

and she'll be gone.

back in time

i find a time machine on ebay
used once.
the former owner is nowhere to be
found,
although from
the dial on the machine
he may be
someplace
in the 18th century.
that's a shame.
i have the machine delivered
to my door.
there's a note on it.
be careful, this is a one
way trip, which is good news to me.
i don't want to go far.
not far at all.
i sit in the seat,
strap myself in
and turn the dial.
i push the button,
hold on for dear life,
then close my eyes. away i
go.

the session

I fall asleep
on the couch in the therapist's
office.
she keeps talking.
she keeps
telling me the same things
over and over. it's hard
not to doze off.
there is nothing new to
tell me anymore.
she takes my shoes off
and puts a blanket
over me. puts a pillow
behind my head.
she loosens my tie,
and puts my coat on a hanger.
she takes my wallet
and charges me
for the visit,
then turns the light off,
closes the door.
it's the best session ever.

one day more

I see her
in the kitchen.
at the stove.
she's mixing up something
in a bowl.
I see the ice
go into the glass
the gin
poured.
the lime cut
and set on the rim.
I see the snow fall
out the window.
I hear
the fire place
roar.
I see winter and more
winter.
she watches me as I fall
asleep
on the long
couch.
a weekend away,
just one day
more.

the blue bird inside

his time is nearly
up.
he lights a cigarette and takes
a deep drag,
letting it
soak into his rotted lungs.
I did it to myself
he says,
flicking the ashes against
the steps.
all of it.
he coughs, then spits
out some blood,
it's crimson against
the thin patch of white snow.
you'll miss me when
i'm gone, won't you,
he says,
his hard blue eyes crystalline
with tears.
probably, I tell him.
probably.
he smiles and nods.
I ain't so bad, he says.
there's blue bird in me
that I hardly let anyone see,
but I think you know that,
don't you?
yes. I know that, I tell
him.

weight of the world

the priest comes to me
in his full
black gown.
his white collar
wilted and dirty, smudged
with life.
he looks tired.
he looks
sad, dour
and done.
he asks if he can sit
for awhile
and talk.
I bring him a chair,
and listen
to his sins, his doubts.
I tell him
we're all in the same
boat
which makes him laugh.
I knew a girl once
when I was
younger, he tells me.
I loved her more than
anything under the sun.
I wanted to marry her one
day.
I wonder where she is now,
if she'd have me
back.

I bring him a cup of hot tea.
he takes it and says,
I wonder why i'm so sad
when i'm so close
to God.
I say nothing. I've got
nothing.
he stands up to leave,
sipping on the tea.
we shake hands.
I watch him walk back
to the church, down the narrow
path through the woods
with
the weight of the world
on his shoulders.
he still doesn't get it.

in times of trouble

in times of trouble
I need beef stew. I need
the house to fill
up with the scent of onions
and carrots,
meat
braised and slow cooked
in the broth
my mother taught me.
I need to see the potatoes
and carrots boil,
the sprinkling
of pepper and salt,
the celery
and bay leaves.
the cup of wine poured
in like
the blood of me.
rich and red.
in times of trouble I can
wait for the stew
to be ready.
I am patient on days like
this.
in no hurry for anything,
or anyone.
just waiting
on a meal to soothe me,
to fill the void
of cold
and warm my soul.

on ice

when I fall
on the ice, I wonder
about you.
where you might be.
I stare up at the starless
night,
cold
and harsh.
I lie there on the pavement,
and wonder
who you're with,
whose lips are kissing yours
tonight.
I could lie here
forever and never
stop wondering what went
wrong, what
could have been right.

i see

I see the suitcase
by the door.
the note on the pillow.
the taxi out front,
leaning on his horn.
I see the neighbors looking
out their windows.
I see the empty spot
in the driveway, the tracks
leading out.
I see the moon high above
the trees.
the same moon we spoke
about
so many years ago,
so many spring and summers,
so many seasons
of turning leaves,
so many hard
winters of deep snow.
I see the smile and welcoming
arms
of who you run to.
I close the door and move
on with one more glance
at a moon
that never changes.

day one or day done

the turning of the calendar
page
to the first of the new
year
means little to me.
who cares?
it's just another man
made way of
controlling how we think
and act.
forget the numbers, the years,
throw that calendar
into the fire.
every day is the first day,
or the last.
day one, or day done.

moon landing

i read where they want to
put
a colony of men
of mars,
or go back to the moon.
why?
we have rocks here.
plenty of them.
why go where there is no air,
no food, no
water, no
shelter?
why not cure cancer first?
or help
the elderly,
take care of the orphans,
the invalids,
the disabled?
why not solve one single
thing down here?
and quit looking to the stars
for answers.
look in to the eyes
of those who
need help first. that's
the moon landing
we should
be worried about.

alone

some
journeys are best taken alone.
why
risk another
life
for mine.
why bring along
a loved
one
to join me
in where I need to go?
we enter
the world against
our
will
and for the most
part leave it
against our will too.

is it weakness
or fear
that keeps us where
we shouldn't be?

moth to the flame

a moth
to the flame.
my wings are burned off.
my eyes
gone blind.
my feet are scorched
from the heat
of that light
I flew into.
turn it off and let
me fly
away into the cool
soft
night of stars
and truth.

crayons and skates

don't lose
the nonsense of youth.
don't
go dark
in old age, letting
go of
the jump
rope, the jacks, the chalk
on the sidewalk.
don't throw
away the glove
and ball,
the bat,
the bike, or skates.
don't lose
your youth in the grey
cage
of grown ups.
throw open the box
of
marbles and things
saved. that skull
and cross bone
ring,
that silver chain
with a key.
the crayons, that picture
of a loved one,
who shared
a first kiss.

shake the world

how easy it is to get lost,
to take the wrong
turn,
buy the wrong house,
order a bad meal,
kiss the wrong
person
again and again.
in our hearts we know what
we truly want.
how much sorrow we bring upon
ourselves
with indecision
and bad directions.
it makes you want to scream.
to shake
the world and make it right,
finally.

he's come undone

my poison pen
has been busy over the past month.
the point as sharp as ever.
if I could write
with both hands
I would.
let the blood spill.
no one gets out without
being wounded by my
hurtful words.
I line them and knock them
down,
one by one.
it's not revenge, or making
myself feel better.
it's just a response to anger
after a year
of being bitten again and
again by wrong doing,
to the point of me becoming
undone.

mistaking the purr

three cats arrive in the mail.
kittens
actually.
each with blue eyes
and striped
tails.
they seem thirsty
after their long trip
so I give them a saucer
of milk.
they wet their lips
with it,
the fur
going white around their
mouths.
I don't know what i'll do
with them.
I mistake their purr for love.
three cats.
I know so little about
cats,
or any feline for that matter.

i need light

black is no longer my
favorite color,
though it hardly is a color,
but the absence
of light.
how easy it is to hide
in the dark,
to cloak oneself
in black.
to pull the shades,
to douse
the lamp, to crawl beneath
the bed
and wait
life out.
I've given up on black.
I need light.

if you were here

if you were
here
i'd tell you things.
tell
you small things
that
I've never said before.
but you aren't.
if you
were asleep, i'd
lie beside you and listen
to you breathe.
i'd touch your
hand
and wait for you to awaken.
if you were here,
we'd walk
through the woods,
down by
the cold stream. we'd
find a warm
ocean to retreat
to.
we'd begin again.
if you were here i'd
tell you things
I've never said before.
but you aren't.

post card from beyond

i get a post card from my mother.
which is strange
since she died six months ago.
how are you, it says.
miss you, hope you are well.
i love you. on
the front is a picture
of the ocean,
palm trees and white sand.
the sky is a magical azure
blue. the clouds are perfect
puffs of cotton.
the world is a glossy globe
of relaxation and peace.
i turn it back over again,
and look at what is written.
it's her hand writing.
no doubt.
finally, she's on vacation.

making friends along the way

i don't smoke
but they ask me if i have one
last request before
the firing squad
takes aim
and finishes me off
in the hot Mexican sun.
cigarette, please?
i say.
and so they give me one.
i choke, i cough.
they laugh,
and point. they begin
to joke at my expense
and shake
their heads.
a drink, please, i ask.
so they give me
a glass of water.
sandwich? i plead. just
a small one,
if you don't mind.
i'm starving. i don't want
to die hungry.
tuna, perhaps, no crust.
and maybe a small pickle,
chips on the side.
they shrug and set
down their rifles.
they bring me a sandwich
and a dill pickle.
we sit in the shadow along
the wall.
we begin to talk. to learn
each other's names.
i ask about their families.
how old their children
are.
they show me pictures
of their loved ones,
their girlfriends,
their pets.
their humble homes
along the border.
then it's time. some of
them are weeping, some
are sad and can hardly
look at me as they stand
me up against the wall
and drop
the blind fold around my eyes.
they say they are sorry as
they shake my hand.
our job, they say. our job.
i hear the guns click, i
hear the leader count down,
then they fire
all at the same time.
and that's it.

starting over

I change my name.
my hair, what 's left
of it. I go to a surgeon
and remove
some lines,
some furrows
in the brow,
they smooth out the worn
stretches
along the eyes,
my mouth.
I grow a beard.
I lose weight.
I learn to write
with my left hand,
no longer the right.
I leave
no forwarding address.
I toss my phone into the river.
I'm on the run,
on the lamb,
i'm a shadow in the night,
i'm no one.
i'm starting over
this time
without the past, the present
or future in
sight.

what isn't?

the bills
are due. i line them
up on the desk,
write out the checks.
stamps,
envelope,
a ledger, old school.
i take them to the post
office,
bundled in my hand,
drop them into the blue
box.
it's a matter of trust,
what isn't?

trick of mind

distance
and time fools us.
puts a shine
on the rotted apple,
we forget
the splinter in our thumb,
the broken
bones,
the black heart
we slept on.
we paint a false picture
of what was.
whether love
or family,
friends or work. we
try and remember the good,
this trick of mind
saves
us, keeps us safe
and able
to go on,
keeps us blind to what
really was.

disappearing

if it's cancer
he tells
me i'll kill myself.
swallow a bottle
of pills,
drink heavily.
they can put me out
on the curb
after that.
food for the dogs,
the worms. i don't want
to lose my hair,
he says, putting his hand
through the thick
brown swirl, uncombed
upon his head.

i'm driving, and look
over at him,
as he coughs
up the syrup of blood.
he's
bleary eyed and cold.
he stares out
the wet window
and wonders where his
life has
gone.

i pull up to the emergency
entrance
and he wobbles out
towards
the hands that guide him
towards the end
of his life.
he turns
to wave, and smiles.
i wave and wait until
he disappears, then go.

of the essence

i put a piece tape
over my
mouth,
i bleach my brain,
cough out the moths
that have
worn
holes into my soul.
i shower,
i bathe.
i get clean.
i keep what's in me,
in me.
i shake off the debris
of yesterdays
and move
forward. time
is of the essence.

pointed towards home

he would put his shoes
on the steps,
large black or brown,
so we'd
do the same.
that's where they always
were,
until he left.

his were polished,
holding the sheen
of the stairway
light
at the top of the stairs.


but most of ours were worn
the soles turned
the sides buckled.
holes near formed.
the white sneakers marred
with the street
and woods,
the mud
of the thin creek behind us.


I look at the shoes
now
that I own. dozens.
under the bed, on
shelves.
so many of them,
some new and hardly
worn, some lined on
the steps. some black,
some brown,
but all

pointed towards home.

the wedding party

the traffic slows
for the wedding party coming
out of the church.
bells ring.
the long
black cars gleam in the winter
sun.
she's in pure white,
he's in a deep
grey suit.
flowers are everywhere,
rice
rains in arcs
from the smiling families.
friends in tears.
it's a beautiful
thing
this love,
this joining of souls.
then the cars clear
and the traffic
moves on. off we go,
there is work
to be done.

after visiting the zoo

we should
get a monkey, my son says,
as he jumps
around
in the house, from couch
to couch,
a banana in hand.
he's only
four,
but he can play a monkey
quite well.
why get one, i tell him,
when you do so
well pretending
to be one.
he jumps onto the drapes
and swings
across the room
before landing
on the dining room
table.
he makes his monkey
noises,
scratches below his arms,
shows his teeth.
i need a friend, he says,
biting on
his unpeeled banana.

resolution

i see her
list of resolutions.
it's a long
list.
goes on for several pages.
she runs out
of ink
and has to start using
another pen.
days later
she's done.
she hands it to me
to read.
i tell her good. good,
then add on
another dozen or so
for her to ponder.

how about you

she says she's happy
now
in her high rise
over looking
the interstate that rolls
both north
and south.
money isn't a problem.
she has a cat.
she still knits,
still
watches her shows
that come
on during the day,
and reads herself to sleep
at night.
she's happy, she says
again, but with a look
in her eye
that says it isn't so.
she misses
being young, being
courted,
working and living in
that whirl wind world
of youth.
I still like a good glass
of wine,
she says, taking a sip
and raising it in
the air. I have friends.
my daughter comes to visit
when she can.
i'm happy she says,
how about you?