if there is such a thing

i see a gaggle
of nuns
over by the rectory,
a few priests in black
and white.
it's a flock of penguins
all giddy
and jumping with joy
about something.
i ride by on my bike
and smile.
someone's prayer
has been answered and
the angels are singing
they all say as one,
throwing
rosary beads into the air.
no need to bother them
about mine,
my little prayer.
i'll savor that
forever, if there is
such a thing.

how's the weather

it's raining here,
I tell her, how's the weather
there?
she sends me a picture of the drink
in her hand,
her tanned legs,
the crowd
on the beach.
just horrible here too
she says, while biting into
a shrimp the size
of a chicken leg.
just awful.
she laughs, she sips her pina
coloda, moving
the umbrella to the side
so as not to poke
an eye out.
she sends another picture
of the serene
blue sea,
the low lying white
strands of unmoving clouds.
the sea goes on
forever and ever.
it's raining here, I tell
her.
grey and cold.
the trees are bare and gripping
with arthritic
claws at the bleak
sky.
I need to go set the trash
out by the curb.

donna reed with a whip

I need a night owl.
a good talker,
someone skilled in the lips
department.
sharp
and edgy, but not
too edgy.
no needles in her
eyebrows.
low on crazy meds,
someone with her own
dough, her own life.
independent but loyal.
someone free from the past
and believes in God.
someone who laughs
at herself
and at me, and trust
me, there's plenty
to laugh at there.
compassionate and kind
with
baking skills would be
nice,
non clingy, but
trustworthy,
and true. someone with
a smile and kiss
waiting
when they see me
coming through the door.
donna reed with a whip
in an apron
and high heels.

mamma said

you put the 45 onto
the turn table
after wiping off fifty
years
of dust and cobwebs.
your stack of wax is still
in a box
labeled
45's.
elvis, beatles. the four
tops
and the troggs.
but this record you need
to hear
again,
over and over.
mamma said there'd be
days like
this. you kick
back
with a bottle of tab
and some
fritos,
slip on your chuck
taylor's
and sing along.
you know all the words.

don't believe a word she says

because she kept

saying

she was going to kill herself,

i couldn't

leave her.

did i want her blood

on my hands?

would it be my fault

if she

went through with her

plans?

my fault?

they told me no.

despite her praise for

others

doing themselves in.

this is what she does

to everyone.

the victim since birth.

this is how

she keeps people close,

keeps them

from leaving.

please, don't listen.

get free,

she won't do it.

it's a scam.

the clean slate

I plot and plan
the new
basement where a pool
table
once filled the middle,
and vinyl records once hung
from the walls.
where an old couch leaned
on a broken leg,
where books
and tools
littered
the floor.
where the dog came
to roll
into the carpet with
his muddy ball.
a place where we argued
and slept
when lies were discovered
and vows broken.
when things weren't right,
were they ever?
but it's clean now. all the pain
gone. the stains, the smell,
the debris of that life
hauled out. there is
a fresh new canvas to
work upon. the memories
washed away.
what fun to make new again
what's come undone.
what joy
and rebirth there is in
fresh paint, new
carpet, art, and beauty
to enter once more.

back on the bike

you think
after the crash, after
the bike
goes down on the wet
wooden bridge,
bending your wheel,
and scraping your arms,
your knees, your ego,
you think that you'd
never get back on again.
that that was your last
ride
down the golden path
of love.
but it's not true.
you heal, you fix the bike,
fill the tires and get
wiser when you decide
it's time.
how quickly you
hop back on, and ride
and ride
all through the day,
into the night.

she's that kind of girl

describe her to me
he says,
tell me about this girl,
this woman
this new love interest
of yours.
well, I say, putting my
hand to my chin
and staring up at
a floating white puff
of a cloud.
well, she's like pastry.
fragile
and sweet. filled
with a delicate cream filling.
layered in soft mystery.
easy on the lips
and eyes and heart.
she's the one
in the window,
the one never marked down.
one of a kind,
unique.
I could eat her all in
one bite
if she'd let me.
she's that kind of girl.

don't look back

the things that I missed
while away are plenty. it's
a long list.
a good nights sleep,
a welcoming kiss.
a warm embrace.
television
and movies,
the grown up kind.
love and affection.
books and writing
without a censor.
travel.
the beach.
new York city.
music.
and fun.
especially fun.
I look back at the prison
where I spent the last fourteen
months and wave.
the guards wave back, they
know the reasons why I stayed.
good luck they yell.
be brave.

the next kind soul

you know when the child
is lying.
the look.
the averting eyes.
the shrug of shoulders
and pretend
shame and guilt.
they learn early to get
away with things.
hand
in the cookie jar,
a stolen
this, or that.
promising never again
to
do what they got caught
at.
but they do and they do,
until their
life
is upside down with no
mother
to forgive them again,
or to wipe away their
crocodile tears,
and faux frown.
they are on their own
at last, but knowing that
there is another kind
soul
to forgive them, and not
take them to task.

just a bad dream

it's a crazy dream.
you can't make this stuff up.
it comes to you
in your sleep.
while your eyes are shut
and you
are so tired you
can't move, or think.
your bones are heavy with
the world,
you sink deep into
the cushion of your bed
and dream.
but it's not a dream.
it's a night mare.
a long crawl through
a dark damp hell.
what you thought was love
wasn't.
it was this. this imaginary
world of lies
and betrayal.
time to wake up,
to bathe in the sweet warm
sunlight of truth
and hope for a better
tomorrow, for real love
to appear.

new under the sun

the new book,
hard covered, full of poetry,
rhyme
and unrhymed
verse.
free and constrained,
sonnets
and haiku.
the subjects are all the same,
for what is there to
write about,
but love
and death, sex and work?
children
pets,
friends and family,
the meaning
of everything.
is there truly nothing left
under the sun
that hasn't
been thought of, or
written about?
i'll open up this crisp
new book and see if
it's possible,
but I have my doubts.

those gone away

it's a tall
wooden house, built in
the early 1800's.
the wood is rotting, the shutters
hang by a thread,
bats fill
the attic,
mice scramble for cover
in the cellar
where coal once lay.
trees have come and gone
once
providing shade,
the fences have changed
from wood
to chain link,
to nothing but pillars,
crumbling clay.
rusted swings
and slides lean against
one another where children
once played.
a leather leash
is still wrapped to a post,
curled on the ground.
death came and took those who
slept here,
year by year families
were formed
and grew, then left,
each new soul to their own
lives, now no one remains,
just
the hollow rooms with peeling
sheets
of wallpaper, a piano of
yellowed keys,
cracks and faded colors once
bold
once gay. clocks unwound,
stuck
in an hour now forgotten
by those gone away.

prayer works

I meet my friend jimmy for
one cold beer.
I haven't seen him
for a long time.
he's happy as usual,
sipping on his drink
and eating a pretzel.
we slap each other on the back
and hug.
so what's up he says.
what's been going on?
you don't want to know, I tell
him.
it's too hard to believe.
but listen, and listen to me good,
prayer works.
trust me.
you'll see.

drifting away

the gypsy queen
is between lives, lost
in the quagmire
of doubt and shame.
the clothes on her
back,
the trunk full
of dishes and books,
broken dreams
and false promises.
the vows are broken
as she floats away
on a thin raft,
whispering may day,
mayday, as the wind
pushes her
to an old island,
where they welcome her
with open arms.
a place she will
forever stay.

the masquerade

the masquerade is over.
everyone
takes off their mask
as dawn
approaches
and we see
who we
really are,
all the words spoken,
the fluttering
of eyes,
the twisting
of lips and hands,
arms are done,
we are no longer
in disguise.
we see the true self,
absent of lies.
we go home alone,
none worthy.

don't drink the water

send me a postcard
I tell her when she gets to mexico.
bring me back
something, anything,
maybe a wide sombrero.
anything. tell me
that you love me.
that
you can't wait to get home
to squeeze me, to hug me.
you haven't even left
yet
and I miss you.
be good, behave, don't
drink the water, fly safe.

away on her broom

i remember

lying in bed laughing. stretching

out my arms

and legs,

crossing over

to where she would  be

if she were there,

but she was

gone.

get out of my fucking house

i told her

as i caught her in one

last lie.

one last betrayal.

you're not welcome in my

life anymore.

i endured 

a year of hell with her,

but at last she was gone

and back into the basement

of her ex-husband,

back to window

where she signaled

her married boyfriend

next door.

i was done with the skeleton

whore.

a room with a view

it's a room,
a small room with a bed.
not a cell
exactly
but a place to stay
for now,
to rest her head.
the past is around her,
on the upper floor,
in the other rooms,
and out the window,
across the woods,
the water,
where she longingly
waits
for him to rescue
her once more.
the priests will be over
for dinner,
prayers will be said,
but everyone is left
unknowing about the truth,
why bother,
let's pretend it never
happened.
let's hold hands
and pray and laugh
and smile and be happy
instead.
let's put a shine on
that rotting apple
and turn it so that
the worm is never seen.

railroad jake

when he died,
he was drunk and asleep at the wheel
of a stolen car.
there was a lot of shrugging
at the funeral.
why, what for, he was such
a nice
guy.
two ex wives
and a handful of kids.
he loved beer and wine,
jack daniels
and wild turkey.
there was always a bottle
by his side.
he wore a mustache and a ponytail
since
his early teens.
always hitching a ride.
who didn't know him.
on the corners
with his sign.
at the shelter, at the half
way house.
at the rehab center.
the city jail. they loved
him for his jokes,
his lack of remorse, his
rail road tales, almost all
of them tall and full
of lies.

kicking the witch out

i finally come to my senses

and boot her out of the house.

i've had enough

of this insanity.

i bag all of her clothes

and belongings

and set them on the curb.

all of her make up,

her pills,

her laxatives and self help

books, her pictures

and greeting cards, all of

her crap that she brought

into my house.

it's a relief kicking her butt

out the door. she's been

a liar from day one, a cheater,

a scoundrel, a freak of nature,

anorexic, suicidal borderline

psychopath. a vegan, of course.

i put her carrots and kale,

and spinach packs

in the bags too.

then i change the locks on

the door. i delete and block

her from my computer

and phone.

finally i burn some sage

and wave it around in each

room, killing the spell,

the toxic vibe of her for good.

defeating the devil

strange how the devil

appears

in your life,

steals your will to live.

it's a struggle to fight back,

to rid yourself

of the demon

in your own house.

it takes courage,

it takes strength.

prayer and faith.

he comes in all shapes

and sizes,

colors and gender.

the devil

you have been living

with, the liar,

the deceiver, is gone

at last.

the apron strings

the child
grows in inches.
in height
in weight in stature.
his wisdom
tags along a little
late.
as does ambition
and drive.
unable to leave
the nest and fly,
he's not hungry enough
to move
forward,
to use his own wings,
still tied to apron strings,
and the shadow
of love
nearby.

seeing clearly

it smells
like something is burning.
something
nearby,
but not in the stove,
not the furnace.
no one is outside
cooking on the grill.
but something
is on fire,
something is going down
to the ground
in flames,
and ashes.
I see the smoke
everywhere.
I feel the heat
and the burn nearby.
I step away and look
from afar
and see what it is.
strange how distance
and time
clears your eyes.

hanging onto a cliff

sometimes we hang
on to a cliff for ages,
digging our fingers into the rock
and dirt,
bracing our knees
against the side,
finding foot holds
for our slipping boots.
we sweat it out,
hanging on for dear life.
we can't see what's above,
or what lies below.
but we can't stay in
this position forever,
so finally we give up
and let go, only to discover
we were just two feet off
the ground, and we're okay.
we're fine, the fear and
anxiety, the danger,
was all a mirage,
a figment of our mind.

check please

it's a terrible restaurant,
though shiny and clean
on the outside.
the food is cold,
bugs everywhere,
the silverware is bent,
the wait staff is rude.
it's over priced,
and undercooked.
but we give it another chance,
and another,
hoping that the advertising
will at some point
be true. we gaze at
the air brushed ham
and eggs, the steaks on
the grille, we drool
over the glamor shots
of potatoes
and pies, the spreads
of cheese and olives,
all making our mouths
water,
opening our eyes.
but it's a sham, a
scam, a lure just to bring
you in. nothing is what
it seems, once you take
a bite and try to swallow.
check please.

delivering the bomb

sometimes
you need a giant
bomb
to end a war.
you need something
so undeniably
true
and wrong
to make things right.
you need something
that leaves no doubt.
it's a strange
paradox of sorts,
but the worst has
to happen in order
for the world,
and your own life,
to survive.

make it a home

it feels good
to repaint, to buy a new
rug. a new piece of art.
to move things
around.
to throw away the waste,
to bring
in a new feel
to the house,
your oasis
from the crazy world
outside your
window.
time to make it right.
make it your own.
to create a place of joy,
of hope
of fun
and peace. to once
more make
it home.

get busy living

I like your new shirt,
she says,
touching the buttons,
snazzy.
and those shoes,
right out of the box?
yup, I tell her.
check out the pants,
spinning around in my
fancy, stay pressed
gabardines, like silk.
oh my, she says, oh my.
aren't you the dapper
boy?
I tap my new watch.
gots to go, sweetheart,
time is short, don't
waste it.
time to get busy living.

a good nights sleep

it's a sweet deep sleep.
not a sound.
not a peep,
not a bird
outside the window
in any
tree.
a solid night of dreams.
no tossing or
turning,
no wondering about
what if, no,
angst or sorrow.
the worry gone
about when the other foot
might fall.
just this. just this.
a good nights sleep.

no more

we excuse
we look the other way.
we enable.
we allow
bad behavior to ruin
our lives,
to take place,
time and time again
we forgive
transgressions.
we say it's love, it's
forever
and we must endure.
we must keep the flame
alive.
we're kind
and compassionate,
we bend and bend
in pain,
but life is too short
too sweet
and wonderful
to let it continue,
losing dignity and self.
no more.

the devil beside you

a mere

foot away, in your own

bed,

your own

house,

is perhaps the most evil

person

you've ever met

in your life.

she's wearing a wedding

ring,

the one you gave

her

a few months ago.

husband and wife?

hardly.

evil comes in all shapes

and sizes.

when the devil opens

her mouth

lies fall out.

at last her mask has slipped

off and i see

who she truly is.

now to get out,

to get free.

the purging

I purge.
I burn. I build
a pyramid
of the past
at the hydrant
where the trash goes.
I rip, I tear.
I crumble
into bags.
I toss everything
i'll never need
or wear
into the wind.
I want the clean slate.
I want the memories
erased.
I want a new day.
a new life
without pain.

how lucky they are

the animals
have no secrets, they
tell no
lies,
they are soulless,
neither happy
or sad,
no worries.
no love lost,
or won.
they do what needs
to be done.
food and shelter.
how lucky
they are.

Ginger and Piggy

she called him piggy, 

not because

he was fat,

or that his eyes were blue,

or could oink

uncontrollably

on cue.

no, she said. when he took

his shirt off

his skin was as pink as

bubble gum.

he was a balloon avoiding

puncture.

what a lovely couple

you must have

been, i told her.

you with your borderline

disorder

and anorexia.

your suicidal desires,

the laxatives and sedatives

to keep you soothed.

a mistress for

for years and years, and him

always promising

that soon, you'd be together.

as you lay on the floor

in your rented room,

the phone in your hand

waiting

for it to ding,

hoping that his wife would

leave their house soon.

he'd keep you on a leash

with more and more

bling.

the one year bride

there is she,

the white boned girl,

asleep beside me,

with her hollowed

out soul.

a face full of ashes,

a fraud, a demon of sorts.

how did you

let this person

into your life, how

did you open the door for her

and carry her in.

her black eyes tell you

everything.

her warm breath,

and pointed

tongue.

no truth is found within,

if her mouth is open

a lie falls out,

she's deceiving everyone

and  sleeping

with married men.

and there she lies, a foot

away

on the other side

of the bed.

your one year bride,

the devil incarnate.

when will it end?

the grey squirrel

the fat grey
squirrel
wonders where the bird
seed has gone.
the feeder down.
the posts
unscrewed, dug up
from the winter ground.
he looks
dismayed, saddened
and confused
when he sees me in
the window, staring out
at what was.
I shrug, he shrugs
and off he
goes.

blessed

I see a blue bird
on the sill.
he's beautiful
and small,
a piece of art with
wings.
he stares at me
and smiles,
no worries, he says
in a bird
like whisper,
no pain today
or tomorrow,
no tears,
all is well,
you are blessed,
then he winks
before he flies.

going home

the old man
waits. he's been
praying and praying
for a long
time.
the priests have gathered
around him,
the candles have
been lit
each day, each mass,
and now, at last his prayers
are answered.
he raises his hands
to the sky.
with a beaming smile
he welcomes her.
life is good again,
their world is as it should be,
once more
he has his precious bride.

split screen

there is good
and evil.
there is worship and
denial.
there is truth, there
is a lie.
it's in all of us.
the world is a split
screen
of who we are,
who we wish we were.
some get stuck
on either side and they
never
see the reality of their
behavior
they blame the world
for what's
become of their twisted
strange lives.

your past life

once
betrayed, you can forgive.
twice,
is harder,
three times, almost impossible,
but by the fourth lie
and betrayal
you see who that person
really is
and you must run,
run,
run fast, because things
will never change,
this is what it is,
this is the life
that will become your past.

she's waiting

she's waiting
on the other shore.
patiently.
her arms are behind
her back
as she stares at the green
bottled
sea.
she's smiling.
she's waving.
she knows that in time,
the lessons
will be learned
at last,
and i'll be free.

the old car

the old car
hardly runs. the valves
ping, the muffler
rattles,
blue smoke blows out the back.
the windshield is cracked.
the leather ripped
and worn.
it was a fine car in its
day, but it's time
to let her go. she was
right off the show room
floor.
washed and waxed.
new rubber all around.
but now,
the tires are bald and low.
the odometer
spun around and starting
over.
she was a good car, a fine
ride
to the eastern shore,
to the city. how I loved
her. listened to the radio
and drove
with windows down, gently
rubbed her fenders,
her baby moons,
her fins, her hood
and bow.

Get Her Out

i'm too old
for this. too much drama.
too much
pain.
too many lies, too many
days and nights
of going
insane.
and who's to blame,
she is.
but so am I.
I let the wolf
in the door,
let her sleep under my
roof, enter my heart.
steal my life.
with her,
until I get her out
things will stay the same,
in slow misery,
my days with her
will trickle
down that dark dark
drain.

the campfire

we used to sit around the fire
and roast
marshmallows
in the woods.
pup tents and sleeping bags.
telling each
other bad horror stories.
we listened to the crackle
of the fire.
the bend of branches
in the woods.
we looked into one another's
eyes, at our young
unlined faces
and tried to remember
these moments. being this young,
this new to a world
we would learn more about,
too soon.

becoming me again

I start over.
I shave and shower.
buy new clothes.
new shoes.
I exhale and listen to
my true self.
who I really am.
I shed
the fear, the doubt,
the desire
and wrong intentions.
I free myself
of the cobwebs,
the strange dark shadows
that stole
my soul.
i'm back. i'm free.
i'm who I've always been.
kind compassionate,
full of faults and sin,
so much room for
improvement, but at last,
and finally,
i'm once again. me.

Mistakes

we all make mistakes.
sometimes over and over.
we have a pattern.
she was part of it.
a moth to the flames,
i was.
tricked, duped,
coerced and lied to
time and time again.
it's a weakness in me
to tolerate evil,
to accept bad behavior,
hoping for a change,
praying that the good
in a person will prevail.
but there is no good
in her. zero empathy.
zero compassion.
she's a fraud through
and through. god help
her and her next victim
too.

gone mad

I've gone mad.
crazy
as a loon. a wolf hound
howling
at an orange moon.
i'm
beside myself
with confusion. walking
through the joyless
days
with a broken heart.
how empty the streets are
at night
when love goes wrong.
my clothes drip
on my bones.
my eyes sag from being
tired.
i'm alone in this.
so far away from home
so far away from home.

the long white porch

I see her on the white
porch.
the trees leaning green
and bright
above
the chaise lounge.
I see
the fire going.
the drinks poured.
I hear the music on,
her playlist
that's worn.
she watches
the waves lap at the sand.
her dreams
collide like soft clouds
in her sleep.
what isn't yet, may someday
be.

just words

they called
it love.
but money got in the way.
things.
houses, cars,
boats.
a wife still wearing
his ring.
it's a love like no other
he said.
one for the ages,
Romeo and Juliet had
nothing on us.
and yet.
he let her go.
let her find another,
let
the love of his life,
like no other
slip through his hands
and heart
like
grains of sand,
gold dust
caught in the wind
gone forever.
misery to the grave.

ask and receive

we know when something
is up.
our spider sense tingles.
we have a premonition.
intuition
suspicion.
call it the shine,
call it esp.
call it a calling,
call it what you may,
but
nothing escapes us.
no lie
goes uncovered.
divine intervention
happens
when we ask, when we
really need the truth.
we walk into the woods
and find
a tree.
the tree of lies.
just ask.
and it shall be given,
would he give a stone
in lieu of a prayer
for bread?

self help

i buy a cake,
some candles. a card.
a small gift
which i wrap nicely
in a box
with paper and a bow.
i set them all
out onto the table
where they can
wait for me
until i get home.
and when i get home,
i pour a glass of wine,
put on some
music,
open my gift to me,
slice
out a piece of cake,
dance around the room
and enjoy.

the lightness of being

she's dead to me.

this evil

woman who ruined my life.

(temporarily)

she's gone.

i've packed her things

and set them

by the curb.

i have her keys.

i've burned

whatever it was she left

behind.

i've never known

anyone quite

as despicable

and unspiritual as her,

and yet

i let the devil in.

let her lie next to me

for a year.

when i look into her hollow

self starved

face, i see nothing,

but the empty abyss

of a lost soul.

when she opened her mouth

on lies came out.

strange how we're blinded

by the spell

of demonic women.

new gizzmo

the new toaster oven
is a wonderful
gizmo.
how crisp and brown
the toast is.
how easy it was to push
the toast button,
squinting to see
the little
letters marked light
or dark.
I see that I can bake
and roast,
grill
and broil
in it too. there are
so many wonderful
things
it can do and in time
when I get out
my magnifying glass
i'll read the instructions
and learn
all about those things
too.

it's a cold wind

it's a cold wind
picking up the trash,
the debris
of our lives.
the useful and useless
things
we drag about from
place to place,
none being a real home.
just stops
along the way.
it's a cold wind
that blows up our sleeve
gets between
our coats,
reddens our cheeks.
we walk and walk, we
try to stay warm,
but the wind says no,
it's late for that.
there will be more.

the awful ringing

the pendulum swings.
karma
is hell.
what's wrong in time
gets
what it deserves.
listen, listen,
listen to the ringing,
the awful
ringing,
the ringing of bells.

angels singing

i hear angels singing.
the soft
wings of doves
rising into the sky.
the patter of rain,
the whisper of beauty
saying i love you into
my ear.
i see the flowers grow.
the grass
get green.
the sky
bellow blue.
i'm on a cloud.
a large white bed of
clouds,
floating majestically
and calmly
in the direction of you.

let's make love

the quiet warm
house.
a fire burning.
the books set aside.
just love
from here on out.
being in love.
acceptance and trust.
let's wile the night
away in
each other's arms.
put some music on.
pour the wine.
light the candles.
we've waited too long
for this night
to happen.
let's make love
under a full moon,
whisper gently
our devotion,
then fall asleep,
a deep sweet sleep
until sun decides to rise.

it's not me, really

the bank robber,
the rapist, the terrorist,
the thief,
the liars,
the abusers, the betrayers,
the cheaters, the deceitful
lost souls,
they all
plead mercy on the court
for reasons of insanity.
it's not who I
really am. the person inside
is good. honest. just
give me one more chance
and i'll prove it to you.
this time i'm serious about
turning over a new leaf.
yes, i've done this
over and over and over again,
I've tricked you
so many times,
I've made vows, made promises,
but now,
now that you've caught me
red handed for the fifteenth time
I want to say, whoops,
i'm sorry. really really sorry
this time.
it's not who I am,
none of it is my fault,
I'm wounded deep inside.
i'm a victim of circumstance.
it's like i'm in a trance.
my parents, my upbringing,
my youth,
my ex's, my life. i'm a victim.
this cruel world has put a spell
i'm me
and i'm not responsible
for all the bad things I
continue to do. they made
me this way,
they poisoned my life.
they're making me do these
things without remorse or feelings,
look at me, i'm praying, i'm
wearing a cross. i'm doing
the rosary.
i'm going to church,
i'm observing the holy days.
i'm going to synagogue,
i'm doing yoga, i'm speaking
in tongues, handling snakes.
i'm almost a buddhist,
i'm praying to mecca.
i'm praying over my meal. I
give money to the poor.
i'm genuflecting
to my God.
I have no
control over anything in
my life. not my mouth, my
arms, my legs. my fingers.
i'm like lucy pulling the ball
away from Charlie brown
when he's about to kick it.
laughing each time I yank it away.
I can't help myself from
being evil. i'm like an innocent baby
in a crib with no mind of my
own, no say, or power
to control actions and behavior.
as long as it's hidden
and no one knows, i'm okay.
people will actually believe
that i'm good, that the fake
image I present is the real me,
but no,
i'm at the mercy of
those devils who control me.
please, understand.
i'm sick, I won't do this again.
honest. it's not who
I really am,
and if you forgive me for
the hundredth time
and trust me once more,
you'll meet that wonderful
person. the true me,
the person I really am,
buried deep inside. come on,
everyone else let's me get
away with this behavior,
why won't you? and maybe if you
didn't know what I was doing,
you wouldn't feel so bad.
in fact, I think this is
all your fault.

the list

a small drip
drips
and drips all night
on the chrome
drain.
it's too cold
to get up
and turn the knob
tight.
i'll get it tomorrow.
it's on the list.
a long
list of things
to make right.

the other side

finally you break.
everyone has a breaking point.
the line
in the sand has been swept
aside
so many times.
trust broken
with an endless stream
of lies.
there is only so much
a heart
and mind can take.
when dignity and respect
has eroded to the point
of insanity.
rage and anger take
it's place.
the monster in you arises
and takes
charge.
but then it fades and you
see the light.
the truth.
you wake up on the other
side at peace,
understanding who should
be in your life,
who you should keep.

as it should be

the stillness
of normal, of peace awaits.
the kind
hand,
the gentle touch,
the smiling
face.
the quiet of love
in a loving
house.
no anger, no sadness,
no
lies,
no pain.
the glow of life
as it should be.

a new path

spring
is good for a new way.
a new
trail
unbeaten
through the woods.
let's find a new
path
to the waterfall,
let's get out of the dark,
out from
under the canopy
of old trees
and broken dreams.
take my hand
and let's move forward,
to find the open
the sky,
to put our hands,
our feet into the cold
stream
of fresh fallen snow.

the rest will follow

the mother
reads her son to sleep.
he falls
and falls away
into that slumber that
only children
know.
it's before they have
joined the world.
before work, before money.
before love and death,
loss
and suffering.
they are still safe
and sound
in the bubble of youth.
the rest will follow
in time.

the business meeting

it smells like
a bad idea.
stinks, in fact.
but let me run it
by you,
she says dragging
on a camel.
she's wearing a pink
dress.
a rattle snake
handbag under
her arm.
can you do something about
that sun, she
says, staring into
the bright yellow glare
coming into the window.
no, i tell her.
it's the sun. what is
there to do about?
i guess nothing she says,
but here's my idea.
we can get rich
on it.
but i'm already rich i
tell her.
so what, she says. who
doesn't like more money?
okay.
what's your idea?

sucker punch

it's a sucker punch
to the gut,
a hard swing into the ego,
the id,
the I ching.
the soul
goes down for the count.
a standing eight.
blood boils.
hearts race.
you fight back, you
know
that you have the power
of righteousness on
your side.
you rise in fury,
in pain.
it won't happen again.
your guard will always,
from this point on,
be up.

get in line

I think about
getting into the victim
line for a little
tea and sympathy,
but change my mind.
it's so long,
so deep
along the red bricked building.
I see them.
the weary,
the misunderstood,
the poor, the rich,
the faithful
and unfaithful.
stamp my forehead
with a big V.
woe is me.
my parents didn't hug
me enough.
i'm too white, too black,
i'm catholic,
i'm jewish.
i'm too short or too
tall.
i'm a victim of circumstances.
it's the economy,
the environment.
it's too late in the day,
too early
in the morning.
i'm married,
i'm divorced.
i'm lonely and forgotten.
I never get a break.
my life has been too hard,
too easy.
slowly I back away,
get into my car and hit
the gas.

help for a little while

there is nothing quite like
retail
therapy.
shopping for things you don't
really need,
but could brighten
your walls,
or floors.
a new green chair,
a mirror
over the dressers.
a bright
new light,
sheers for the sunny
room,
shades
for the rear.
a spring shirt,
a summer pair of shorts,
grey shoes,
new socks for
the courts.
full price or half,
makes no
difference. just push
the cart forward and
go to your happy place.
it'll help
for a little while.

to those who wait

a winning ticket appears
out of nowhere, a falling star
gives you a wish.
a lost pup
wanders into
the yard,
a dollar bill lands
in your hand
on a windy day.
you're first in line,
every light is green
on the open road.
you have
exact change for the toll.
you wake up
on the right side of the bed.
go left in the woods
and there it is.
the universe is
telling you something.
listen and listen hard
to these lessons
and premonitions.
they are priceless and rare,
blessings
come to those who
wait.

let it go

the police call
with inquiries as to why I
would
say such things.
write such things.
threaten and be mean and
nasty
towards a despicable
person
who has ruined the lives
of many.
I ask them to stop by
for a cup of tea,
so they come
and I tell them my story.
by the end of the afternoon
they are in tears,
they put their arms around
me, and say, it's okay.
it's okay.
you've done what any
man in love would do.
no one blames you for the rage
and fury
that dwells within your
soul.
now go and find peace,
erase, extinguish those
memories and thoughts
from you mind,
move forward,
find joy, delete.
let it go, brother.

where i am

the night
air awakens the dead
soul
in me.
I button my coat to my chin,
and plow forward
down the old
streets.
down the cobble stone,
by the river
then up and up,
starting all over again.
I breathe in
the coolness of the wind.
I see no one.
feel nothing.
I've arrived where I've
always been,
at the beginning,
at the end.

mystery of reason

not unlike job,
minus the plagues, the boils,
the loss
of life
and land, sheep goats and
cattle, gone.
you
beg for mercy under
a quiet God.
your faith must stay
in tact, throughout
it all.
all things good or bad,
are allowed
from his hand.
the mystery of reason
though, at times
like this is nearly
impossible to understand.

in life and in love

it's a valiant effort.
but you have to know when
the battle is
lost,
when the fighting must end.
the bloodshed
must cease.
you call in the
foot soldiers, the cavalry.
you roll back
the cannons,
put away the sword.
not every battle can be
won, you must save
your strength, get well
and heal.
in life, and in love,
there will be more.

may she rest in peace

was she possessed by demons?

or just evil.

just sick

and disordered.

mentally ill.

do i feel sorry for her.

not now, maybe later,

i think as i bag

her clothes and set her

trash out on the curb.

will i miss her.

no.

a resounding no.

she was a fake, a liar,

a loser.

everything about her was

dark.

the first night without

her i laughed

myself to sleep

after changing the locks,

and burning the bridge

completely.

may she rest in peace,

as i will

without her.

gaslighting

nothing is what it seems.
there are layers upon layers
of deceit and deception.
the clouds are upon us.
the fog is thick.
the gaslights are on.
what you thought was true
is untrue.
what's a lie anyway?
what's twenty lies.
a year of lies.
it's the fabric of a soul.
that's what it is.
God save us all from such
people who hurt without
remorse, without conscience.
without care or repentance.

biscuits in the morning

she was a funny
woman.
made me laugh when i
wanted to cry.
made me
biscuits in the morning,
warm
with butter.
she was tender and soft,
always sweet with
kisses and words.
a pot of water was
always boiling on the stove.
there was a cat
on the sill
and a dog on the bed.
it was home
away from home.
she saw beyond the pain
of life,
how there was more
than that,
she believed that joy
was in the making.
love and truth will
win out in the end.
she whispered to me
hang in there.
be strong,
keep your faith.
protect your tender heart
from evil, it's everywhere.
she had kind eyes and soft
hands. no worries.
you're a good man.
you'll get
there. i promise.
she made biscuits
in the morning,
warm, with butter.

sharp knives

i pull a sharp knife
out of my back
and say ouch.
not again. but yup.
there it is.
the serrated steak
knife stuck
half way into my
back.
but i laugh and shrug
it off.
this makes me stronger.
wiser.
more wary of liars
with sharp knives.
a mere flesh wound.
it missed the heart
completely.

i take an axe

I take an axe
into the forest and start
chopping down
trees
until I find the one
that i'm looking for.
it's a wasteland.
the stumps are everywhere.
but there it is.
what I've been looking for.
that special tree.
the tree of knowledge.
the tree of life.
it tells me all I need
to know about what I
need to know.
it's a truth tree.

daydreaming

my favorite teacher
was the hardest.
five foot one. grey eyes.
glasses.
squared from top to bottom.
she taught analysis
in the eleventh grade.
Mrs. Curtis.
she knew you could do
the work,
knew that you were smart
enough, but
also knew that you had
some lazy bones in you,
distracted by sports,
by the girl
in the first row. by music,
holidays and books.
the window drew your
attention away from her
chalk board.
her numbers and equations.
her diagrams.
Stephen, she'd say
loudly, tossing a piece
of chalk my way, what's
the answer to the problem
I just put on the board?
and it would awaken me
from my day dream.
of blue skies and clouds.
of poetry and imagination,
all the things that lay
outside lines.
at the end of class she'd
scold me in her soft way.
and say, you should be getting
A's not B's or C's.
now take these erasers outside
and bang the chalk out of them.
and tomorrow, I want you
to be present, not day dreaming
your life away.

let's make a deal

he was a person
who
had to have his way.
it was all about him.
always.
he couldn't stop being
on call.
making the sale.
glad handing all who
crossed his path.
hey buddy.
hey pal.
my friend.
did you lose weight,
you look
great. younger.
smarter. you even smell
good today.
he was the life of the party,
but dead inside.
full of baloney
and casual, unending lies.
he couldn't have
everything he wanted
he found out
in the end.
some things
were out of reach.
some people came to their
senses and escaped
his greedy clutches.
some things slipped through
his hands
because he was too busy
holding onto
everything and everyone
else.

get me off this thing

it's fun
being on the ferris wheel,
strapped in tight,
around and around
up high.
I can see the sites.
the bridge, the water,
the tops of buildings,
birds flying by.
it's fun,
for awhile, but then
I get queasy and need
to get off.
it's going on and on
and on, with no stopping.
a few times around was
wonderful, but now
I finally want to get
off.

no more cake

I blow out a candle
in each room
and make a wish.
it's my cake of life.
I've baked it.
I mixed up this batter
and set it out.
but the sweetness
is gone.
it's stale and crumbling.
it was a beautiful
cake at one time.
the icing, the shape,
the hope of it.
I blow out a candle
in each room
and toss the cake
out the window.
my wishing is all done.

tomorrow

tomorrow things will change.
I tell myself
in song.
tomorrow, or maybe next week,
maybe next month
things will make a turn
for the better
and get right.
tomorrow. always with the tomorrow
I sing in the shower,
on the way to work,
as I lie in bed
at night.
but the past and present
is singing a different
tune.

the cold room

you go to sleep cold
lying on the edge
of your ice
berg bed.
you wake up
cold.
the floor is ice.
the air
is frigid.
it feels like it snowed
in this room
last night.
there's not a single
waft of heat
coming from
any direction, not a
single ray of hope,
or light.

i'm not sorry

no one says i'm
sorry
anymore.
they justify their actions
as being human,
being misunderstood.
they believe they're innocent,
their actions are
okay
and perfectly normal.
they don't see the pain
the agony
caused.
their righteousness
keeps the word out of their
mouth.
no empathy, no concern.
deal with it,
they say and move on.
sorry is not in their
vocabulary, which tells
everything there is to know
of what truly lies within
their soul.

a basket of clothes

my mother used
to gossip over the back fence
while hanging clothes,
wet clothes on the stiff line.
there would be a basket
at her feet,
a dog in the yard,
we were in the window,
some of us, faces
pressed against the cold
march glass.
but she would talk
to the neighbors in conspiratorial
whispers
about what the dirt
was in the neighborhood,
a husband gone astray,
a job lost.
a child sick with the measles,
a mother in law
who had over stayed her welcome.
i'd see her laughing,
standing in the blue green
grass of early
spring. the patches of dirt
where the dog ran
along the chain linked fence.
she was happy then.
out of the house, hanging
sheets and blue jeans,
shirts and dresses.
letting the wind do its thing.
tossing her thick black
hair about.
she would always be young
back then. I will always think
of her in that way.
strong and laughing,
a basket of clothes at her
feet.

flying kites

do you still believe in love,
she asks
me
as I look upwards into
a vibrant
blue sky.
we run along
the march grass as
the wind takes our kite,
bright as a gold finch,
high into the clouds.
of course I do, I tell
her,
pulling on the long
string
to keep it near.
it's not the emotion of
love
that's a problem,
it's who you fall in
love with.

getting out of the jump

I can feel
the cool breeze of a new
day
as I lie inside
my cell,
staring at the window
and
the black
iron bars that keep
me in the stir.
my time is almost up.
I've served
and paid my dues
to love.
I listen to the guard
come down
the hall with his
keys.
he's glad i'm going home.
he knows i'm
innocent, as does
the whole prison.
they all want me
to be happy and free.
they clap and yell,
they whistle.
go home, they tell me.
go home. go home and
find
a new life.

the truth shall set you free

you hire a detective
to see
if she's cheating on you
again.
lying through her teeth
once more.
putting on her casual
air
of innocence. but
my man is good.
a gumshoe of the very
best.
he blends into the trees.
smooth as silk
with his
deft moves.
no one can escape
his tail.
just take a few pictures
you tell him
of her and her lover.
they usually meet
in a park,
or some special
place
off the beaten track.
i'll be out of town
so i'm
sure they'll plan a
sweet little
rendezvous.
you pay him double
for his work and he
tips his hat.
i'll get you what
you need, he says,
striking a match
to light his cigarette.
give cheaters time and
rope and they
all slip up eventually.
have a nice trip,
you're worries are about
to be over.

not dark yet

she says you seem depressed,
sad,
lonely, despondent,
discontent.
go on I tell her
while lying on the floor
in a fetal position.
what else?
well, you're no fun
anymore. no more
sly observations, no
jokes, no laughter,
no witty banter about
the mundane.
it's like
the you in you has been
cut out.
someone carved away
the heart of you.
what else?
that's it she says.
now get up off the floor
and get right.
get living again.
get happy my dear boy,
the night
is approaching. it's
too early in life to
call it a day.

awaiting the light

another orbit
around the sun.
another day
another night.
where are you?
what's keeping you
from
saving me
from this planet
I've arrived on?
beam me up
and out. i'm here
with arms extended,
awaiting the light.

we're holy now

i see them pray.
church every day.
on their knees.
rosary in hand.
repentant and remorseful.
they've turned
over a new leaf,
a new life.
how nice.
let's forget the past
and move on.
but something is amiss.
something
doesn't feel quite
right.
the outside has a shine,
but what lies within
still is in the dark.
there is no light.

they never stop

it never ends.
they never stop.
like termites
they eat the wooden
legs
off the table.
carve holes into
my door, my
heart.
they go after the windows,
the floors.
they never stop.
they are incessant
with their desire
to win her back.
this is what they do
and know
with no respect for
me, my life, or home.

erase and delete

my memory is good.
I remember
a good meal. a good story.
love.
hate.
I remember
the past as if it was
now.
which can be a problem
when it
comes to moving on.
even the imaginary
memories
are hard to shake.
what you thought then,
thinking it was true.
it still feels true,
despite all that you
know and the tears that
you've shed.

happy times

he used to tell
me
that he only drank
in happy times
or sad times or when
he felt bored.
if not for those times
he wouldn't at all,
not even a single drop.
and I tend to believe
him as he fills another
glass.

a new book

a new
book is in my hands.
hardback with a glossy cover.
slowly I turn the pages.
reading line
after line.
each word bounces off
me. off my
eyes.
nothing gets absorbed.
I start again
and have no idea what it's
about, who's who,
where it's going, or how
it might end.
the blurbs all rave
about it.
the new York times says,
some book!
they may even make a movie
based on it,
but for the life
of me I can't get passed page
three.
i'll try again tomorrow.
maybe.

don't wait

the bread is good.
warm
right out of the oven.
people stand in line
for it. it has
a nice
hard crust.
they slide it into
in a paper bag. you can
still feel
the heat
when you put it under
your arm
and go out the door.
why wait until you
get home,
go ahead
and snatch it apart,
have a piece. don't wait.

march on

a sweet coat
of white drapes the birches,
the pines,
the oaks
outside.
the grass is smooth.
a sleeve
of ice
on the lower stream.
the wind light.
i'll get out there
at some point.
alone. resigned.
a scarf around me,
a hat,
gloves, my coat
buttoned tight.

what do you miss

what do you
miss about your old life
my therapist asks
from behind her owl like
gaze.
she's across from me with
a yellow pad.
her glasses tilted just so
on her nose.
her hair is all over the place,
which i take as a sign
of intelligence.
what do you miss, she asks
again, but softly
to keep me from crying.
tell me she says.
go slow.
it's okay. give me
your pad, i tell her.
and more paper, more ink.
how long do i have?

true love around the corner

i hear a rumor
that true love is right
around
the corner.
just a half a block up
to the left.
mutual love.
romance
and joy.
friendship and trust.
a love that forsakes
all others.
i hear
it's rare. unusual.
but it's out there,
i can feel it.
right around the corner
is what they
say.

the war is over

he wins.
they both win.
I surrender.
to hell with it.
I give up.
give in.
I wave the white flag
and climb out
of my bunker.
i'm done. I have
nothing left to give.
no bullets left
in my gun.
i'm tired, out of
food and water.
my clothes hang on me.
i'm a skeleton.
bared to the bone.
not a tear left
to shed.
take her.
she's yours.
the war is over.

still winter

there is a chill
in
the air.
winter is lingering
on.
I can't remember
warm
air.
the warm embrace of
a golden
sun. I never knew
it would
take this
long.

a desk rises

she's mechanical.
with her tool belt on.
her flash light
her flat head driver
phillips too.
a hammer.
and glue.
casters askew,
pegs and screws.
the directions spilled
across
the floor of her room.
in no time,
a desk rises
from a slew of pieces,
solid
and clean ready
for her work,
for her elbows to lean.

the night fire

I push a steel barrel into
the center of the yard.
I find the lighter fluid
and a book of matches.
I throw in some branches,
some newspapers just to get
it going,
then set it all ablaze.
I put all of my self help books
into a wheel barrow
and bring them around
the house
to the raging fire.
one by one I toss each in.
I watch the flames lick
the pages,
the underlined and dated
sentences.
I see the bindings go up,
the sizzle of the laminated
covers,
the smoke of ink burning.
I stand around the barrel
and smile.
I feel better as I warm
my hands over the fire.
finally they have become
useful.

the new wife

in his turquoise Chevrolet
he
pulled away
as we stood at the door,
others at the window,
and waved.
divorce is cruel
to everyone.
where once there was love,
then none.
the promises of returning
became fewer.
we grew
without him.
he found another life.
a new family.
a new wife.

friday nights

it's Friday night.
the early meal.
the book, the silence.
the rain,
the quiet as you slip
into bed
before ten.
there is another world
out there.
I remember it well.
the nights
out
with the boys.
the closing of bars.
the sweat of dancing.
the promise of a dance,
the miracle
of a kiss, or a number.
we were young
then.
so very young and hopeful.

the bus

the bus
is on time.
they gather like birds,
huddled
in the rain,
wings to their sides.
the air brakes
bring it to a halt.
a door flaps open.
they climb aboard
with their lives.
work
is down the road.
life is
going and coming.
the bus
is part of it.

be patient

she says i can't read your poetry
anymore.
it's too sad.
too maudlin and blue.
you're broken heart
and
anxiety is killing me.
you're no fun anymore.
what happened, what
went wrong?
i miss the old you.
be patient, i tell her.
i'll be back, i'm on my
way, not to worry.
more frivolous poems
are coming, stay tuned.

i don't need any of this stuff

i don't need
a new car but i think about buying
one.
i don't need
new shoes either,
but it doesn't stop me from
going to the shoe
store and purchasing
another pair.
i don't need a new chair,
or a tv,
or a new rug, or hardly anything,
not even new friends,
most of what i have is
perfectly fine, hardly old,
but certainly not new.

a girl from the north country

at the gym
there is a man who stares
into the full length mirror
for an hour
after lifting his weights.
his hair is peroxided
a golden yellow.
the color of a twinkie.
he flexes
his arms,
his legs.
the veins in his neck
bulge into
ropes of blue
beneath his glistening
tanned skin.
he turns from side
to side,
looks at himself from
behind.
he's pleased.
very pleased at what
he sees.
finally he struts out,
giving high fives to the trainers,
the towel boy,
the girl at the front
desk.
what this all means,
I have no clue.
but it's interesting
as I sit here
thinking about a girl I
once knew, or thought I knew
who lived in Quebec.

that might do it

it's the blues.
the doldrums, the winter
deep freeze.
cabin fever.
I pull the blanket
to my chin
and think about skipping
work.
skipping
the whole day.
quitting, or joining
something.
I think about making some
changes.
going south,
going west.
or just going somewhere
where nothing
looks the same or reminds
me of the past
12 months.
maybe somewhere tropical.
or a big
city I can get lost in,
or maybe a deep
mine in the mountains
where I can carry
a lantern
down down down to the center
of the earth.
that might do it.

not here

you don't come around here
much anymore,
do you, the woman says,
pushing a cold drink in front
of me.
you used to be a regular
here, weren't you.
in fact you used to sit over
there,
right over there in that stool
if I remember correctly.
I never forget a face,
or the drink that goes with it.
gin and tonic, right?
right, I tell her.
slice of lime.
go easy on the tonic.
where you been, my friend.
not here, I tell here.
not here.

food

I spoon the words
into my
open mouth. I am a child
with books.
I eat strings
of sentences when I can,
when I have
time.
I devour the pages,
crumble them
into my mouth.
the ink drips from my lips.
whether on the road,
or in bed, I read
and read.
I need the nourishment
of thoughts
written down.
I hoard the books
on shelves,
on the floor,
stacks of them rise
like timber
in my rooms.
I starve for poetry,
for
fiction, for truth.
yes, even that, though
so often that's
the hardest thing to
swallow.

in line

in line
again for something.
I fold my arms and wait.
I have been
waiting all my life
to reach a point
where I don't
have to wait
for anything,
or anyone.
it's coming,
I can feel it, but
i'm' not quite there,
just yet.
soon. soon.

monday

another weekend
passes.
and the new morning
punches you
gently in the gut
to get up.
to get to it.
get out there and
make a buck.
do something.
so you shower and dress,
slip
on your work
shoes.
coffee on the way,
you steer numbly
into Monday,
the start of a new week,
no different
than the last
or the one to follow.

the flea market

in tidy rows
they line the shelves,
the floors and tables with
their
dusty gold.
the vases and jars,
the unworn
rings and broches,
the dresses
and shoes, all thin
bare,
unwanted, but used.
magazines with Kennedy
and Nixon
on the cover,
the moon men,
natalie wood,
or john wayne.
the yo yo's.
the empty coke bottles.
a tin
from an Esso station
saying stop here.
one man's treasure
is another
man's
trash, not thrown
away, but kept and sold
to the lowest
bidder who has a place
somewhere in
his already crowded
basement or
room.

the splinter

the splinter, the stick,
the split
board
the sharp pointed
sliver
that jabs
your heart, your mind,
your increasingly
indifferent soul,
is without
a clock.
it stays and stays,
it seems
to have found a home
in you, never wanting
to stray too
far
from where you
live
and breathe.

the long distance swimmer

arm over arm
you swim and swim.
you kick your legs
turning your head side
to side
to breathe.
the salt and cold
of the waves
roll over you.
this takes the measure
of who you
are or thought you
might be.
there is no land
visible
in any direction.
there is little you
can do,
but swim, and swim
and swim
under a cold moon,
under a hot sun.
you do all that you can
do
to not slip under
and succumb
to the world you've
been born into.

you're getting old

you're running out
of time
the therapist says. look at you,
at this age
coming unglued,
untethered.
full of anxiety and pain.
you only have a few years
left.
why aren't you having fun,
why aren't you in
paris, or rome,
or Bombay
enjoying your golden
years with a loved one.
her voice is soft and lilting.
the couch in her office
is full of feathers,
the walls are a pale grey,
the light is low
and warm.
it's easy for me to drift off
and forget my troubles
when i'm there.
what?
I ask her when she stops
talking,
did you say something?

the pie lady

she likes to make
pies
and sell them at the
farmers market
on pitt street.
Saturday and sunday
mornings from
eight am
until
she runs out.
her own recipes.
her own crust.
everything from scratch.
no cheating.
real butter and sugar.
she knows what people like.
apple, blueberry.
pumpkin and mince
meat when in season.
lemon pies
with the froth
of meringue just so.
peach
and the rare
pear pie, made to order.
she sits there in her
metal
folding chair
beneath an umbrella
and says little.
her hands are pink
from the kneading and washing,
the dicing of fruit.
they are thick
with time and work.
she's not there to
socialize
or make friends.
she lets her pies
do the talking.
the sign says cash only.
it's business, these pies,
just business.