the field trip

I remember the time
I was ten on the school bus riding
home in
the middle of the day
after a field trip to the capitol,
and looking
out the window of the bus
to see my father
with another woman
riding next to him in his car.
she had her hand
on his knee,
and he had his hand
somewhere else on her.
I recognized her.
my mother's best friend, Doris.
I ratted him out
when I got home.
then life got really interesting.

late night rice

it's late.
but I need some Chinese food
and a mai tai.

I need a greasy spring roll
dipped in wasabi mustard.

I need to sit at the bar
and eat with a fork, not
chopsticks.

they'll have the tv on.

the girl at the front will
nod when I come in.

the guy who pours the water
incessantly
will come over and shake
my hand, tell me it's good
to see you once again.

the usual, i'll say.
and off he goes with the order
into the hectic kitchen.

we've done this before.

your cheating heart

it was a good song.
hank williams wrote it 

on the back
of an envelope
in a few short minutes.
so the story goes.
it's a simple song.
your cheating heart.
country blues.
but he sang it 

like he knew 

what it was all about.
it was written before
it even left his hand.
it's timeless. 

and once you've gone 

down that road,
and tasted love 

gone wrong,
you'll understand.

Get Out

once
out, we don't go back.
when someone
abuses you,
whether physically
or emotionally,
or lies to you
again and again.
it's over.
no more chances.
strange how time and distance
gives
clarity.
the water clears
and stills.
we see the past for what
it really was,
people for who
they really are.
there is no doubt after
a while
about what went down.
we know without
out a doubt
what was lost, what
was found. we don't go
back. we move on.
some people never change.
we need to realize that.

the far blue wall

I let the phone ring.
i'm busy.

well, not really, but I
don't want to talk at the moment.

i'm not in a talking mood.
i'm in more of a thinking mood.

pondering.
wondering. examining.
rehashing.
staring at the far blue wall
recalling a moment in time.

it passes and I listen to the
voice message.

but I still don't return
the call. it's someone I don't
want to talk to.

there is a time and place for
everything.

like all painful things,
I put it off,
i'll get to it
when i'm ready and not a second
too soon,
or too late.

say nothing

I change things up.

remove
all books of a negative nature
to a room
where I won't see them.

enough is enough.
i purge the phone.

I dispose of bad habits.

worry,
despair.
pondering the past,
the future.
i let go.

the moment is where I am.

a cold shower.
good food.
good sleep.
good friends.

I break the spell, clear
the haze
the fog. i erase.

i'm done with it, with
toxic souls. i realize
that i can only change me,

they're on their own.

i move onward in simple
ways.

I make the bed.
I drink more water.

i pray. i say nothing
when nothing is all i need
to say.

i clean the wounds,
i heal and carry on.

package in the mail

i get a package in the mail.
a brown
wrapped
box with no return address.
it could be anything,
from anyone.
i pick it up off the porch
and stare at it.
i give it a shake,
holding it up to my ear,
listening for a tick,
or something. but
there's no sound.
it's neither heavy
or light.
i bring it into the house
and set it on
the table.
i make a cup of coffee
and sit beside it.
i don't open it though.
i like
the mystery of it.
that's enough for me
right now.

open wide

the dental assistant
is perky. a head of wired bushy
hair,
controlled by rubber bands
behind her head.
dressed in blue
pajamas.
she tells you about the needle,
the numbing stick,
pills and food. she
takes your blood pressure,
puts a piece of cardboard
in your mouth that makes
you drool,
smiling all the time.
she's young and new.
all day she's at it with
the fillings,
the cleanings, the pulling
of teeth that
are no longer of use.
opening and closing drawers,
telling you
the doctor will be in
shortly. just a few minutes
more.

milk man

the milk man
used to deliver the eggs,
the juice
the bacon. milk.
there'd be a metal box
on the porch
and in the early
morning
he'd pull up in his
round shouldered truck
to drop off
what we ordered.
we could hear
him pull up and pull
away.
never meeting him
in person, but wondering
about his life.
his children,
his wife, did they miss
him
when he rose so early,
and went away.

goodbye wisdom tooth

how quickly
the dentist
finds
my wisdom tooth
where it's been for a very
long
time, and yanks
it out after
a few well placed
shots of novacaine.
I hardly have a moment
to say goodbye,
to thank it for all
the chewing that it's
done over the years.
I apologize
for the lack of brushing
and flossing
not on a regular basis,
i tried,
but it was a good
tooth,
a fine tooth, i'll miss
it,
and so will its friends
who still stand by.

Love Story

we made
love after watching
love story.
it was awkward,
not love exactly, but
something else.
more like an
extended kiss, an
opening to what's next.
it was deep
in winter.
february.
there was snow on
the hard ground.
we were testing the waters,
letting
go of the past and
present,
banking on some nebulous
future.
the movie, such as it is,
was not
a favorite,
not one to save or
go back to.
a tearful film,
from the book,
an easy read.
written in a day.
the dying the girl,
the preppy boy,
the overbearing father.

dents and bruises

we all have dents
and bruises,
scrapes and cuts, scars
and cracks.
we've been through a lot
once we reach
a certain age,
no one gets out
unscratched,
unscathed.
life gets in the way.
things falls
apart at the seams.
what's real
is fake,
what you thought was
true,
is not what it seems,
but it's not how you
fall,
but how you get up.
cliché after cliché,
and yet
they all fit at some point.
we lead a life of mediocrity
if we don't press on,
and
follow our dreams.

rewire the brain

i get out my medical bag,
scalpel, syringes, wires,
clamps, antiseptics.
cotton balls.
i am going to rewire
my brain.
i send away for a manual,
the necessary
instructions i need to
go in
and fix the faulty connections
that are adversely affecting
my way of thinking.
causing wrong choices
in my relationships and other
aspects of my life,
but there are no tools
necessary.
it's just words of advice.
let go,
trust god, get busy, move
on, don't look back.
be good, be kind, be fun.
be creative, be compassionate.
clear the toxic souls,
the energy vampires that
suck the joy and hope
from your life. and
remember, it's not
a sprint, but a marathon.

Incompatible?

you like to sleep in.
she likes
to get up early
and cry.
you enjoy breakfast, she
has a glass
of lemon water.
you go for a walk,
she runs until her feet
bleed.
you want to make love,
she doesn't.
you read fiction, she's
onto self help, self love,
avoidance.
you tell the truth,
she lies.
you try to be transparent.
she hides.
you forsake all others.
she keeps
all the ex's close by.
you want to talk, or hold
her, she asks you why.
you love the holidays,
she wrecks each one, and
makes them about her.
you want to go out to
dinner, see a movie.
she boils an egg
and puts on a cartoon.
you turn off your phone.
she stares into hers
all day and night,
cradling it in her hand,
like a loon.
this will never work.

there are no coincidences

there are no coincidences.

when the student
is ready the master appears.

synchronicity.

put the desire and need
out there
and the universe will
answer.

God will answer the prayer.

someone will appear that
you need in your life,
a truth will be revealed
that will
free you from bondage,
from anxiety and fear.

think it clearly and it
will show up before your eyes.

there are no coincidences.
it's not by chance
that the world shows itself
to us.

believe and watch it happen.

what's for dinner?

when my grandmother
lena,
would go out into the back
yard
of her little row
house in south philly
to grab
a fat chicken, and then
wring it's neck
without blinking an eye,
we became worried
and confused.
all of them had names,
they were well fed
and cared for,
not unlike us grand children.
were we at some point
going to be
baked and seasoned,
fried in her big
black pan,
or end up in a sunday
stew?

everyday i write the book

I begin to write a script about
love.
the words pour out.
the dam breaks with ideas
overflowing on each new page.
I run out of ink,
I run out of paper.
the plot sickens.
the twists and turns get more
bizarre
and strange.
but it's all true, true
to the bone.
not a word needs to be changed,
altered,
embellished
or honed.
it's a tome of sorts.
a real life story,
an unbelievable tale that's
all true.
I call my agent and read him
chapter one.
he screams wow, this will
be a blockbuster.
i'm drawing up a contract now,
don't tell anyone.
I can almost hear him drool.

gold mine

there's beauty in nearly
everything.
in all people.
but it's our own making,
for the most
part.
we perceive
or trick our minds into thinking
gold is really
gold,
that it just isn't
the surface,
the gleam of someone
in the sun,
but there has to be more,
a lot more
waiting inside the mine.
so you go in to dig,
but it's empty
and eventually it all
caves in.

love and gambling

it's a gamble.
love
is.
it's the slot machine
taking
your nickel
of affection and giving
you back
a dollar,
then putting in a dollar
and getting back
a nickel.
then another nickel.
and another,
but you keep pulling the arm,
hoping against
hope
that it will go back
to the way it was.
the change pouring out,
real money,
real love.

the apology

apologies
are often too late in coming.
not sincere,
or forthright.
instead
they are lame attempts
to appear
remorseful and contrite.
ways to assuage
the guilt
that's imbedded in their
tattered souls.
they cringe that others
look at them
in such an awful light.
they don't work.
save them for someone else.
another lie
on top of lies
just makes everything
done seem
ten times worse.

meet the new boss

i had a boss once,
when i worked in a cubicle,
that was shot
up
and left for dead
during the vietnam war.
he was from the south.
he survived though
swimming to a barge out
in the china sea.
he was riddled with bullet
scars,
and wounds
he wouldn't talk about.
one hand was stiff, the fingers
unmoving.
he'd eat a bowl of rice
for lunch in his office
with the door closed.
you could hear the chopsticks
clicking.
he was an angry man,
small in stature,
thick glasses, a cigarette
dangling in his
mouth at all times like
a Saigon gangster.
you know nothing, he used
to say to me.
nothing.
when will you ever learn
and stop being so american
lazy?
that was when he was having
a good day.

the august beach

I look at the calendar.
august already,
oh my, how time flies,
but it's coming soon, the beach,
the long
stretch of days
water and sand.
blue skies, white clouds.
no rush,
no hurry, no worry.
unpacked and settled in,
just us
hand in hand.

my father's phone

my father
misdials his phone which
isn't hard
since he's legally blind.
the irony
does not escape
me.
he's been blind for a very
very long
time even when he could see.
he's surprised when
he hears my voice,
as he's often surprised
when there's a knock
at the door
and it's one of his children
that he admits,
or denies is his.
he's always been on shaky
ground when it comes
to children. he'd rather
be at sea, safe upon
the ocean, but
a child in every port
would not surprise me.

numbers 1111

numbers appear
out of nowhere,
receipts
addresses,
birthdays,
chairs,
groups of ones.
there's a meaning there.
something about
angels.
something beyond
the obvious,
it isn't clear.

one boiled egg

the boiled egg
awaits.
hard and white,
hot
from the pot
of water still
on the burner.
I stare it down
into coolness.
I get the salt,
the pepper out,
ready for a shake.
I can almost taste,
the first bite
after the shell
has cracked and
broken away.

ice cream blues

I told myself no ice
cream
this week.
it's part of my new
diet,
but it's all I've been thinking
about.
chocolate, rocky road, coffee.
mint chip.
i'm thinking
of nuts and cherries,
whipped cream.
i'm thinking of sugar cones,
and sprinkles,
the gallon, the pint,
a little cup.
or maybe something cold
and creamy
from the dairy queen.
a blizzard
with oreos crunched up.

the upgrade

i hire a new assistant,
an intern
to help me around the house,
keep track
of where i put my glasses,
or keys.
do we have any stamps,
i'll ask her as i do my bills.
top drawer she answers.
she makes my bed, makes
me cookies. puts fresh
flowers in a vase. she
rubs my shoulders when
I've had a long day at
the office.
sometimes she'll hold
my hand when we watch t.v.
or give me a kiss
for no reason whatsoever.
i'm thinking of giving
her a raise, an upgrade

of status. she deserves it.

we tried to warn you

i should have said
i don't
when the justice of the peace
in the empty
basement of my house said,
do you take this
woman to be your lawfully
wedded wife, etc.
but no.
like an idiot, i agreed,
and said i do,
despite knowing and going
against very single
intuitive feeling
i possessed.
my heart and mind
was fluttering wild with
red flags.
my spider sense was tingling
to the nth degree.
beware it screamed. run,
don't do it.
i was a moth to the flame,
a sheep to slaughter.
even her family admitted
later that i was doomed.
we wished we would have
warned you they told me
apologetically after the deed
was done. she's a
freaking nightmare,
a rollercoaster of emotions,
she's been like this
forever,
she destroys
everyone she meets,
and she'll destroy
you too.
they owe me, big.

going back in time

i finally get my time machine up
and running.
it's taken a while, but it's
done. i found the design in an
old popular mechanics magazine
that my father subscribed to.
it was hard getting the plutonium
to give it power, but the internet
was very helpful with that.

i take a test run and go back
thirty minutes ago, when my
full cup of coffee was just
poured and hot.
it works. i have my coffee hot
again. i take it with me as
i return to the present.

i then set the lever to take
me back two years ago, to an
exact date that i have in mind.
when i get there, i change my
phone number, my email address,
i delete and purge every connection
I've ever had with one particular
person, then return to the now
again.

amazing.
life is peaceful. life is calm
and stress free.
i feel lighter, happier,
more myself than i have in
years. i have no bad memories,
no more ruminations, or
anxiety about what this person
did to me. there's not a trace
of anger or resentment.
all the crazy nonsense is gone.
it's like that nightmare
never happened.
i am at last free. i love
my time machine.

those kind of days

i see the stray dog
on the highway,
not dodging traffic, but just
sort of taking his time
as he walks across six
lanes of traffic
along route 66.
cars are slamming on their
brakes.
trucks are veering
out of the way. buses
just barely avoid him.
the dog doesn't care,
he just keeps walking
slowly to the other side.
he doesn't seem to care
or has a lot on his mind.
I've had those kind
of days.

The Monday List

I take the day
off
to get things done.
laundry, grocery shopping,
a trip
to a store to buy more things
I don't really need.
the bank.
a stop by Kaiser
to get a prescription filled.
maybe i'll change
the sheets, sweep
the floor.
rearrange some furniture,
exorcise
a room or two,
to get the evil spirits
out.
maybe i'll write for a while,
and say the same
things once
more.
wring the angst and seemingly
perpetual anger
out of my
psyche.
the car needs an oil
change.
the yard needs some weeding.
it could be
a busy day, or it could
be me,
just lying on the couch
with the phone off,
a cup of coffee in hand,
reading.

Late Night Prayer

late at night,
at last in bed,
fatigue upon me,
the blankets and sheets
pulled tight, I
close my
eyes and say a prayer.

hands are flat together
as i was taught
when a child at church.

thank you God
for all the blessings
you've given me,
for all the love that
others give and share,

and especially i'm
grateful
for removing all
the suffering and evil
that once lived here.

the days of milk and honey

it's the same old story.
boy meets
girl.
girl meets boy.
love ensues.
the honeymoon takes place.
they can't wait
to be together under the silver
moon.
it goes smoothly for awhile.
hugs and kisses, sweet
nothings
whispered into welcoming
ears. two peas in a pod.
then all hell
breaks loose.
the toilet seat is up.
toast gets burned,
an old boyfriend calls,
suddenly
no one is who you thought
they were.
the masks have fallen.
the milk goes sour,
the honey rancid.
there's a smell about it all,
that you just can't
get rid of. doors are now
exits, not
ways to get in.
the lying begins.
betrayal. secrets
come to light.
denial. tears, threats.
vows are broken.
it's the same old story.
boy meets girl.
girl meets boy.
love ensues, until it
doesn't anymore.

another bone to chew on

sometimes I chew
on the past like a dog chews
on a bone.
the meat is gone.
there's nothing left but
shards, broken
pieces cracked.
but i'll gnaw on it a little
while longer.
remembering
how satisfying it
was for a short while.
a meal, a banquet, dinner
and a movie.
a way of life,
but now, and forever more,
it's just a nasty old
bone.

we crave candy

we are all addicts
of some kind.
whether it's coffee, or
heroin,
sugar,
sex, or wine.
we all need a fix
of some sort.
exercise. work.
a man, a woman,
some semblance of love,
money.
our phones.
texting endlessly,
checking
our social media.
the lure of it all.
power and control.
we all try to soothe
our troubled
lives, resolve
our pasts, our unloving
parents
or spouse,
with something or
someone else, hanging on
for dear life to
what's bad for us.
what's false.
we medicate to make
the days
and nights go easier.
we need that boost,
that high. the adrenaline
rush. the dopamine.
year in year out,
we never let go
of what needs to be
let go of.
instead we soothe,
we mend, we placate
ourselves
with another hit,
another fix.
it's a circle without
an end. we crave
candy.

cell mates

I wake up some mornings
not knowing where I am.

I think i'm back in prison
sharing an eight by eight
room
with my cell mate.

but she's gone.
thank god she's not there.

I look at the bars,
the small window
carved in the brick.
the notches I've scratched
into the wall.

my eyes are blurred, my
mind not quite cleared.

i'm not sure if I can
speak, or say what's on
my mind.

i'm paralyzed again with
fear. it's quiet though.
there's no rustling
of the bed.
no ding of her phone.

i'm alone. i'm not in
prison anymore. i'm free.
i'm alive.
I've survived the abuse,
the torture,

I've somehow escaped
the prison of my wife.

let's get out of here

let's get out of here.
go someplace where
we can't be found.
let's run.
let's leave
behind
the toxic souls who've
come in and out
of our lives.
let's change our
phones,
no forwarding address,
let's leave no trail
for them to find,
let's sever the ties.
cut the cords.
set a fire
to burn what needs
to be burned,
then fly. fly, fly.

we decide, not them

some people you miss.
the good
of them. the love in them.
the beauty
of who they are.
while others fade
into the past,
no longer a part
of your life,
they've become
a pebble in your shoe,
a thorn in
your side, an illusion
of who you thought
they were.
we pick and choose
our memories.
we pick who stays with
us,
for the rest of
our earthly lives.
we decide,
not them.

board game

we use the whole board
in
a late night game of scrabble.
drinks
have been poured,
the words
are getting misspelled
the rules
are ignored.
we lose track of the score.
but we play
on, pulling letters
out of the black
bag
until there aren't
anymore.
when it's done, we finish
our drinks,
look at one another
and laugh,
and say, we'll that was
fun. what now? it's only
one.

tender love

I throw
a bone to the dog.
he runs away with it.
tail wagging,
tongue
half out.
eyes a blaze with happiness.
sometimes
that's all it takes
to make you happy.
a bone,
a crumb. a smile,
a hug,
a word whispered,
a gentle
kiss, some tender
love.

the bad apple

i don't choose apples
well.
or at least i didn't in
my youth.
shiny, and golden,
would be fine, right off
the stack,
or plucked from
a low branch.
my eyes were everything
back then.

but not now.

i spin, and hold an apple
in my hand, i look
at the front
the back, i ignore
the shine,
ignore the price.
i look for the dents,
the worm.
the deceit the lie.
i pay attention to who
i want now
in my life.

yellow winged

there's a butterfly
at the door.
yellow winged,
light, and soundless as
she parades
gently through the air.
does she want in,
or is she just seeing what
goes on in there.
her eyes wide open,
as are mine.

i'm very low maintenance

when you hear the words.
i'm low maintenance.
run. don't walk, don't
dilly dally, run fast.
you are in for trouble.
chaos and drama is soon
to follow.
those three words will
rock your world, take
you through the streets
of hell in a rickshaw.
people that say that
about themselves are
normally delusional
and the worst kind of
souls you want to get
mixed up with.
drama is their middle
name.
they are anything but
low maintenance. they
are the opposite.
they will put you through
the worst time of
your life, and laugh
about it.

if she was an appliance

if she was
an appliance.
i'd say she was
a refrigerator.
an ice box.
the old kind,
circa 1960.
the kind where
the ice
builds up on the inside
walls
and at some point
you have to defrost
it and chip
away the rock hard
ice with a butter knife.
yes.
that's the appliance
she'd be.
a pretty blue
but
cold on the outside,
and ever frostier
on the inside
when you opened the door
a little.
the white chilly light
giving you
nothing,
but an arctic heart
a bitter
breeze.

if it rains

if it rains,
it rains. if not. that's okay
too.
no use worrying about it.
we have a roof
over our heads.
we have chairs, and tables,
beds.
we have umbrellas.
no worries about the rain.
let if pour,
we'll be fine.
you have me, and I have you.
let's stay dry
together.

to the moon, Alice

it was like being on the moon
for a year or so.
from earth she looked
so inviting.
the fine silted sand of a million
years
crusting
the airless orb
afloat, gleaming white
in the suns
light.
from a distance she was
a beauty, but up close
she was trouble,
pocked with craters,
jagged valleys
holding nothing
but darkness. dead in
space.
I was away for so long.
locked tight
in my suit, my capsule
keeping me alive, along
with
my faith. my hope.
it was a dangerous
place to be.
stuck there on that cold
world
devoid of love,
devoid of life. it was
an empty place that gave
nothing return.
could I
make it home?
could I finally separate
myself from this trap,
this false idea.
I could, and did.
finally I boarded,
and without looking back
for even a glimpse.
I took flight.

what else do they know

the telemarketers were up
late last
night.
calling me from Nigeria,
or the Ukraine.
Ohio?
i'm half asleep when
they ask me if I need
any medication, or
health insurance, or
have any sore muscles
that need relief.
anxiety pills? spiritual advice?
apparently they have
my age, my number
and current state of life.
i'm in the range of people
that need these things.
what else do they know,
that's what I want to know.

three baskets full

somehow three laundry baskets
aren't enough.
I need one more to put
all the folded and unfolded
laundry in.
too many clothes, way too
many shirts and socks,
pants and towels.
I could open up a store,
slightly used, hardly
worn, but clean, reduced
price.

the buddhist way

attachments cause
suffering.
it's a Buddhist thing.
by attaching ourselves
to things
and people,
relationships,
jobs, possessions of all
sort we
set our selves up for
suffering. for a long hard
life of grieving
when people leave, when
things disappear,
when circumstances change.
attach yourself to nothing,
Buddha says and live
a content life.

but you know what, I love
my new comfy couch and my hi def
4k high resolution 55 inch tv
in my remodeled basement.
Football season is
right around the corner, so
it's too bad Buddha. not to mention
that Shelia is coming over
in her high heels
with a seven layer mexican
cheese dip and a blender full
of margaritas, so
sorry about that.
have a nice life with nothing
and no one you're attached to.

gonna need an ocean, etc.

I can't think
of anything without having
a metaphorical
meaning added to it.
pulling weeds for example
is not just pulling
weeds,
it's getting rid of all
the bad in your life,
those people and things
that have infested
and ruined
the placid calm yard of
you.
and that poison ivy
that has sprouted up everywhere,
well, do I even need to
say what I think about
that. snip, snip, snip.

fast or slow

a penny for your thoughts,
she says
to me with her specs on her
nose,
sipping her first
Friday glass
of chardonnay, ice cold.
hmmm, I answer,
you don't want to know.
she winks,
and say,
maybe I do, maybe I don't.
i'm just wondering,
fast,
or slow.

perfectly human

we make vows.
promises to ourselves.
saying things like, i'll
never do that again.
i'll never get married again,
or let someone
crazy into my life,
i'll never eat Ethiopian food,
or travel
to mexico without bottled
water again,
or swim in shark infested
waters
with a bloody nose.
or put all my money
on Microsoft before
the market closes.
we say never again, and
yet, strangely something
overcomes us and we do.

where's the money

I remember one sister
sitting beside my mother, as
she lay dying.
half in and half out
of consciousness,
asking her, tapping my
mother on the arm and asking
her where the money was.
where she may have hidden it,
in jar, or
box, or in a can buried
in the back yard.
i'm getting my inheritance
she said
to my mother, with no
guilt or shame, or remorse.
I wondered how much there
could be, twenty dollars,
a hundred? maybe more,
maybe less, all squirreled
away for some cold and wet,
rainy day.
and now the sister holding
my mothers cold hand, asking,
pleading, begging for a clue
as to where it all could be.
she was ready
to dig and dig, to find
this meager pot of gold,
keeping her alive until
she knew.

sorry about that

some of us age well,
retaining that youthful
spirit,
the spring in our step,
the joy of being
alive still with us.
while others it's a struggle
just to get
out of bed in the morning.
the mirror is no
longer our friend,
but a set of eyes judging
us,
the weight gained,
the sagging of bones,
the lines
on our faces,
the thinning hair,
the veins that run along
the pathways
of our crepe skin.
we see our parents staring
back at us.
it's not for the weak of heart
this getting old thing.
it's upon us before
we know it.
beauty is fleeting,
sorry about that.

trust your intuition

on occasion there
is a flash
of insight.
intuition is in full bloom.
it's a stunning
thing
to have this sixth sense
awakened
and alert, finding out
all things you need to know.
a gift from God? or is it
in all of us,
like an arm, a leg,
a heart?
once you distinguish
the difference between fear
and intuition
you're on the path
of freedom and peace.
don't ignore it. it's there
to protect you, guide you.
listen to it. the whisper
of truth.
it's a quiet
feeling that drops upon
you, a vibration of
rightness and knowing.
ask and you'll receive,
it will come to you.

suit yourself

the deli man
in his netted cap
and plastic gloves,
is an older
fellow.
maybe from new York,
something in the way he says
pastrami
makes me think that.
regular slice, he says,
or thin? need a taste,
i can do that,
when i tell him a half
a pound of ham,
do you want cheese with
that,
maybe a pint of potato
salad? or a pickle.
how about some mustard.
dark, or light?
spicy or mild.
i'm good i tell him.
just the ham, okay he
says,
suit yourself. your loss.

flying by

they're in the wind.
siblings,
brothers and sisters.
parents.
cousins,
uncles and aunts.
done and gone.
old loves.
old friends.
sometimes i see them
up in the sky,
heads in the clouds,
busy with their lives.
caught up
in the swirl
of wind.
flying by, flying by.

take a note

i make a note
to remind me to make a list.

work,
appointments.
doctor,
dentist.
groceries.
laundry.
phone calls.

this and that.

i write it all down on
a yellow sticky
note
and pin it to the fridge,
next to last
weeks notes.

i'll get to it.

but i need a nap first.

what's next

what's next.
what will the day bring.
what will
technology
bring to us in our
ever complicated lives.
new everything
appears
overnight.
new roads,
new stars in the sky.
even new friends,
new loves,
does anything remain
as it was?
does anyone not stray,
or lie,
does the world always
have to be
in flux,
strange and disorganized,
haphazard?
doesn't anyone ever stay
in one place
anymore?

i miss you

i'll leave
the light on for you.
i'll leave a space
in front of the house for
you to park.
the key is under the mat.
i'll leave a box, a small
gift
on the counter.
white wrapped in ribbons
and bows.
those flowers are for you
too.
there will be a card
that will tell
you my feelings and love.
i'll be upstairs, half
asleep, follow the rose petals
on the stairs,
i'll
leave a light on for you.
come soon.
drive careful.
I miss you.

midnight swim

I sit at the edge of the pool,
my feet dangling
in the cool water.
it's late at night, so there's
no one there.
I climbed the fence like I did
when I was in high school.
but this time around
there's no beer, no girls,
no friends going wild off
the high dive. it's just me
under a silver moon, thinking,
feet dangling in the water,
staring at the reflections
of light and dark
that swim about the still pond.
thinking about the years
gone by, the years ahead.
the blessings, the mistakes.
the turns taken that have all
somehow ended up just fine.
I slip off the side and go
under. I feel the water encase
me, like a baby in a womb.
I sink under to the bottom
and look up, I see the
watery trees,
the stars, the sky, the silver
welcoming embrace of a full
sweet moon. as I rise to breathe,
I am born again,
once more, for another time.

his next life

he's thinner now.
his hair
once thick and tied tight
into a pony
tail
is thin too, like silver
feathers
on his tanned skull.
but his eyes are clear.
chemo
and radiation haven't dampened
his rebellion
to a world he's never
really been a part of.
he's on the dole.
every taxpayer has paid
his share of
his medical woes.
he's home free, in the shelter
with three squares a day,
a bunk,
a bureau, a lamp.
he's a survivor.
off the grid, onto his
next life, one of many.

the epiphany

it's an awakening of sorts.

therapists would call it a break
through,

or an epiphany.

it's an ah ha moment when you
realize
the answer
to the problem.

when you hear the click
as you turn
the dial on
a combination lock,
or slide a key
into a door.

things open, you're in.
the clouds part.
the Red Sea of your life
divides.

you suddenly get it
and completely understand
what the problem
was, and who it was,

and how to solve it.
it was a long time coming,
a lot of water
under the bridge, tears

and suffering, but now
you're there.

you at last understand what
love is.
what love isn't.

you've crossed over,
you've arrived and there's
no going back.

there is no B side

I put on some
elvis Costello and turn it up.
I clear the floor of
chairs in case I get
happy feet and need to dance.
I play his
first album on the stereo,
dropping the needle down
onto the vinyl groove
of the first track,
when it ends i
flip it over to the B
side.
there is no B side.
watching the detectives,
red shoes,
Allison, my aim is true,
and my favorite that
fits my current mood.
i'm not angry, anymore
sung in a gravelly
angry voice. love it.

the book club

we tried to have a book
club
but no one read the books
or were
prepared to discuss
them.
some came late,
or cancelled at the last
minute.
for some it was more
about the food
and the drinks
and talking about their
lives,
catching up
on trips, and children,
love and romance,
who's dead, who's still
alive.
nobody had the time for
run rabbit run, or war
and peace, or bridge on
the river kwai, so
we changed the meet up
to drinks and food,
desserts and coffee
at 9.

spare me

spare me the fools.
the talkers.
the liars.
the manipulators.
I have no room for them
in my life
anymore.
the pretenders,
the sick of heart,
the sick of mind.
the zealots,
the religious right.
the do gooders,
the kneelers
and cheaters. keep
them all away from me,
out of mind, out
of sight.
they charm you with
a smile, and stab
you in the back
when the timing is right.

the condo board

the condo police
are out there in full force.
large women in flowered
curtain like dresses,
with clipboards
and cameras.
they stand in front of my
house
shaking their heads, mumbling
writing furiously
about the color
of my door, it's one
shade off the red
that's required, and that
bag of trash, that's
out there, 45 minutes
before it's allowed.
is that a new knocker
on the door,
a new mail box slot?
who said you could go with
brass instead of gold?
and those windows. when
are you going to replace
them?
and your car is slightly
askew, nearly touching
a white line where
you parked it in your
spot. they post their
findings on my door, with
a list of pending fines
if these things are not
taken care of soon, like
within the week, and not
a day more.

smart isn't everything

i remember
when i lived next door to albert
einstein's
cousin,
jimmy.
he wasn't the brightest
bulb
in the box,
the sharpest
knife in the drawer.
in fact
he'd ask
me if i could help
him
turn the water on
to the outside
faucet.
but he made a nice batch
of mimosas
when we had brunch
on sunday morning.
and had quite a few
women friends,
who'd come to visit
and sunbathe
in the back yard
after he'd spray them with
a garden hose.
being smart isn't everything.

the green yard

the yard
is green, weeds are out of control
so I go at
it
with the clippers.
the rake,
a quick
random mow.
I can almost see the ground
again.
the small square
of a yard
is trimmed.
it's nice how when you
leave things
alone,
distance yourself
from others,
how your heart
heals,
how nature takes over
and new love grows.

click here

the spam box is full.
it's
crammed with ads with inquiries
both false
and true.
there are so many helpful
people in the world
wanting to give you
a loan
interest free, or to
install new windows into
your house, or
cure you of anxiety,
or the jimmy leg,
that pesky ED.
religious mail.
insidious e mail.
strangers and friends
hacked, who now have pictures
they want you to see.
click on my link.
click here
and throw away your life
as you know it.
it'll cost you nothing.
it's all free.

closing time and love

it's closing time.
I lock the door, pull the shade,
put the sign in the window.
wipe
the counters, sweep
the floor.
I count the cash and
coins
in the register.
I turn the lights off
and go upstairs to my wife.
who's waiting.
reading in bed.
with the light on.
how'd we do, she asks, her
glasses on her nose,
her hair up like she does,
cream her face.
we did alright, I tell her.
alright.
good she says, good,
now wipe that worry off your
face,
and get in bed, lie next to
me, tell me that you
love me, whisper sweet
nothings into my ear.

diner on 29

there was a waitress
named jeannie
I used to be fond
of back in the day.
she worked
at a diner along 29.
strawberry blonde
with cat green eyes
and a little shamrock
tattoo on her pale meaty arm.
she was a moving violation,
going from table to booth,
hardly a smile,
just a smirk a glance,
a wink.
do you boys need some cream
with that coffee? she'd say.
she wore nylons that came
up to the edge of her
pink skirt, her black
apron.
she knew what she was
doing with what she had.
an actress worthy of an
Oscar. it wasn't the coffee,
or the ham and eggs,
the ambiance
of the place, it was her
sashaying about, those
heels clicking against
the tiles,
that kept
us coming back.

these apples

i'm thinking about eating
one of those
five apples I bought before
they all go bad.
honey crisp apples,
I do believe.
they're on the counter
next to the bananas that
have already turned
a dirty shade of brown.
I don't know why I keep
buying so much fruit.
I just can't seem to get
to it when I have other things
to choose from,
like ice cream.
like cake.
like chocolate chip cookies
with nuts.

handprints on the sheers

i replace the curtains
in the front window because there's
a half a pound of brown make up
streaked
on the sheers from when the previous
tenant would look
out the window
to see if i had left or not
so that she could do whatever
secretive things
she was doing when i wasn't there.
i tried warm water, cold water,
soap. i scraped, i rubbed. i wiped.
i tried everything to get her
hand prints off the curtains
and the sheers,
but nothing worked.
so i bought new ones, just like
the old ones.
i wondered how she ever got all
that junk off her face
at night.
whew. it was a little thing,
but just another part of a long
exhausting nightmare.

believe them

when they show
you
who they are

believe them.

believe them.

believe them.

going home again

when I go back to my childhood
home,
driving down Dorchester street
to winthrop
and audrey lane,
where I had my
paper route,
past the parks where
we played ball.
the bowling alley wall
with a strike zone
we painted on.
when I see the house
next to ours,
the brick duplex,
where the girl I loved
lived,
the bushes still there
where we hid
and stole our first kiss.
I have good thoughts.
sweet memories.
I don't see the bad in
any of it.
the poverty, my parents
divorce, the feeling
of having less
than others. I only have
good memories.
brothers and sisters
before things changed
and we fell apart.
love and fun, summers
at the pool.
winters on our sleds.
i'd have it
no other way, than what
it was.

cupcake in the window

she's a cupcake.
a pastry.
a sweet on the shelf
of the store
window.
is that sexist?
comparing a woman
to a baked good?
I don't care.
sue me, forgive me,
do what you want with me,
but when I see her,
I want to take a bite
out of her.
I think of a cupcake
in the window.
so live with that.

if i had a hammer

I go to my tool box
for a hammer. it's not there.
I have no
idea
where it could be.
I check the closets,
the laundry room,
the shed out back.
under the bed.
the kitchen drawer.
it's a heavy hammer, one
I've used for years
to drive
a nail, to remove a nail
to unstick a stuck
door.
I can't find my good hammer,
my friend,
my unwavering source
of banging
on things for twenty five
years.
my hammer is gone.
sadness overcomes me
like never before.

everything tastes better

food tastes better.
drinks too.
they slide down easily.
even
water has a sparkle to it.

each day
is a new dessert, sweeter
than the one
before.
each hour of freedom
is a joy.
each week and month,
is full of open doors.

nothing is hidden. there
is no one whispering
lies into my ear,
no one,
stealing my time, my
heart.
there is the absence
of fear.

sleep is an island
of good dreams.
and being awake without
pain
is even better.

the broken spell

it's clear now.
whatever spell I was under
has been swept
away by a cool wind,
a change in temperature.
reality has set in.

the truth does set us free,
it breaks the spell
that controlled us.

strange
how life goes. what you
once thought you couldn't
live without
is now something
you can't ever imagine
being near again.

people like you

there are people
like you.
then there are people who
aren't.
you'd like to think that
everyone
is the same
inside,
God fearing,
with a conscience,
a beating heart
a brain
that's rational,
a good nature, but
that isn't true.
don't be fooled.
there are people walking
around
who are different.
they may look the same
but they play
by different rules.
don't believe a word
they say,
they'll ruin your
life
if you let them.

it feels like wednesday

it's only Tuesday,
I tell her. can you believe
it's only Tuesday?

she says,
I thought it was Wednesday.
it feels like a Wednesday.

I don't know what that
feels like
I tell her.
I know Mondays, and Fridays,
but I got nothing
for Wednesday.

well, okay, she says.
Friday is coming, and you
what comes after that.
Saturday? I ask.
yup, she says.

saturday and then sunday.
the weekend.

The Apron Strings

some mothers
and fathers give and give.
they become close friends
with their children.
finishing one another's lines.
sharing jokes,

incestuously close,
out of love,
guilt, some sort of unresolved
shame.
they keep their children
beside them with constant
hugs and kisses,
never snipping the apron strings.
never pushing them out
the door,
out the nest like
healthy parents do.

they suffocate
their young
with what they think is love,
but it's not.
it's selfish and cruel
to never let the child leave
to the adult side of their
lives, to go off on their own.

to find a job, to find a love.
to find their own place
in the world.

they remain stuck in the weeds
and tangle
of their parent's life.
held back by their aging claws,
afraid to be left alone
with each other.

soon the boy or girl has
grey in their
hair, furrows in their brow,
kept safe and sound,
like little children,
forever five,
in the room next to theirs.
forever lost,
forever home bound.

don't be a fool

don't ever
ever
not listen to your
gut.
is there pain, anxiety.
is there
doubt,
fear?
do you have that strange
queasy feeling?
those aren't the butterflies
of love in there,
but something else.
it's your intuition.
self love
telling you to run.
listen to it.
it's your second brain.
there are
more neurons
there than in your spine.
your gut
is a genius.
it wants to save you
from
mistakes, keep you alive.
trust it. believe
what it's telling you.
don't do what I've
done
and ignore
what screams danger
from deep inside.

a change of scenery

i need a change of scenery.

tired of riding by
the same old buildings with
the same
old memories.

some bitter, some good.

the restaurants,
the old
haunts.
the playgrounds of middle
age.

fatigue has set in with this place.
i know the sequence of every light.
i know every stop sign,
every bum on the corner
with a sign.

the burb
in the middle
of nowhere. there has to be
more.
please tell me this isn't it.

what kind of life is this.
culture?
what culture, what literature,
what art,
what poetry exists?
it's like a zombie apocalypse
around here.

it's at the intersection
of hell
and purgatory.
you can't miss it, but you'll
wish that you did.

so they pull you out in the end
on a stretcher.

they come
for your things, they empty your bank accounts
your funds,
your savings that prepared
you for a tomorrow.
that never came.
someone drives away in your car.
some one takes your dog
and gives him another name.

it's crazy, this life, how
it strangely began,
how it even stranger ends.

visit now. call now. don't wait
until one of us is
in the ground. let's figure
this thing out. get out

while we can.

stuck in the spin cycle

I was stuck on spin
cycle
for a long time in the
whirlpool washer.
around and around
I went, squeezed of any
sense that was in me.
I peered out the window,
at the world
flying by in a dizzying
circle.
I screamed, I cried.
it was an Alfred Hitchcock
movie in black
and white.
I banged on the glass
for help.
I used my phone to call for
anyone to stop
the machine. to get me out
of this nightmare
I was stuck in.
it went on and on
until it finally stopped.

prayer does
work.
trust me. oh the stories
I could tell.

her reign of terror

her reign of terror was
brief
but deadly.
her demands
and rules were ruthless.
her silent treatment,
her withholding of affection.
her temper,
her tantrums.
spreading fear with an
iron fist.
lives were lost,
land taken,
futures were put on hold,
dreams deferred.
hearts broken.
if there was any hope
it was
extinguished by
her endless purge.
the guillotine got a work
out,
the noose,
the sword, the electric
chair,
the firing squad.
but she was a charming queen.
she had her
throne,
her crown.
her court jesters and
admirers who gave her
unconditional love.
all of them fooled
by her double life, and
covert ways.
how they learned to bow.
somehow I escaped, got away
in the dead of night
sprung free by a friendly
guard who stole
a horse that provided
me with flight.
giddy up.

biography and biology

does our biography
become our
biology.
are sins and transgressions
obvious
in how we look?
the lines
on our faces, the sag
in our
posture,
the brittleness of
hair
or lack thereof.
the circles under our eyes,
is that worry
and guilt
in our gaze,
or genetics?
are who we are inside
eventually
shown to the world on
the outside?
do we begin to pay for
our sins
before leaving this earth.
does the mirror lie?

write me a letter

we used to write letters.
sit down
at a desk with a pen
and paper
and write out our thoughts
in long hand.
we took our time.
we rambled, we explored,
we stopped
and waited to hear what
was on our mind.
we wrote letters to one
another, folded them
into envelope. put a stamp
in the corner and off
they went into the wild.
we put x's and o's at
the end.
we wrote things like, i
miss you. i love you.
can't wait to see you
again.

Our Gardens

we discuss
death over the phone.
relationships.
the days gone by, the days ahead.
friends
for life.
what books are you reading,
she says.
what are you writing about
these days.
her kids are raised
with kids of their own now.
onto their second
marriages.
houses, cars and jobs.
we talk about the mistakes we've
made.
the trust and hearts
broken along the way.
there's little she doesn't
know about me,
or me about her.
she tells me about her
garden,
the school where she teaches.
the children, all the same
year after year.
we love each other, but
it's a different kind of love.
it's thick,
it's a rope, a bind, a love
of friendship.
pulled closer and tighter
by time.

the girl from iowa

I met a girl
from iowa
in the summer
of nineteen
seventy. she was
lean, and bright,
blonde and blue
eyed.
I can still see her smile
and feel
her hand in mine.
a corn fed beauty.
I don't remember her
name.
and she probably
doesn't remember
mine.
but we had a few
days
before she left town
again
with her parents,
traveling on vacation.
she's old now.
like me.
the beauty shed
on the outside, but
I doubt
it's gone from
within.
she was that kind
of girl.

a days work

it's a nice tired.
work,
hard work will do that to you.
a sublime
fatigue, bringing peace.
physical work
using arms
and legs,
back. out in the sun
or cold,
feeling the wind
beneath your
clothes.
hardly a moments rest.
the sweat and grime
upon you.
the hours on your feet.
it's an honest
days work.
a blessing, a sanctuary
that at times
you hate to leave.

do you like my dress?

she says
do you like my dress.
she spins around
in a soft pirouette
I say
yes
yes
yes.
and my hair, too short,
too much
color,
too curled?
oh no, it's perfect,
lovely. I tell her.
and those shoes,
oh my,
what they do for your
legs,
I adore them.
she laughs.
and my nails, is pink okay?
or should I have
gone with blue,
or red?
love em, I tell her.
there's not a single thing
i'd change about you.
not one thing
I would do instead.

cutting coupons

he was a frugal
man.
coupons.
sales.
in line for second
hands.
he waited for the rain
to fall
to wash his car.
wore
his coat
until the threads
unraveled,
the buttons fell,
the elbows became
worn.
brown or black the
soles
of his shoes had
holes.
stingy with his tips,
he saved and saved
penny after penny
wanting at some point
to die and take
it all.
but didn't.

Red Flags

she was the worst
of a long list of mistakes
I've made
with women. ignoring all
the red flags,
the feeling in my gut,
that had already surmised
what was to come.

she took the winning prize
for ill behavior,
deceit and lies.
playing the victim.
always pretending to be good.

she was not unlike the others,
but she turned it up to the nth
degree.

it was all about image.
how she looked
in the mirror,
how she appeared in other's
eyes.

what lie beneath the surface
was rarely seen.
who she really was
stayed hidden behind a mask.
always, and it still does.

If people only knew
the darkness that lies
within her. the lack of empathy
and conscience. the unfixable
sickness of her mind.

I saw it. I feared for my
life.
I ran, I screamed. I nearly
died.

do it without me

I used to worry.
attempt to make others
good.
listen to each word and
analyze
it's secondary meaning.
I used to look into the eyes
of someone
I didn't trust
to figure out
what they were actually up
to and doing.
I used to cringe
at the hour, at the sound
made,
at the sigh, or crying.
the ding
of a phone,
wondering, wondering, wondering.
full of fear,
knowing that something
wasn't right.
that behind each word spoken
was a lie.
I used to worry
and try to control,
to try and make life what
i wanted it to be,
when what I really
had to do was open
the door, and say go,
Go be sick with
Someone else,
go have your own version
of life, but do it without
me.

july day

the air is full of fever.
the exhale
of the sun
is upon us, breathing
fire
on our skin,
melting the weak,
drying up the stream.
there is no where to hide
from this
white light.
nothing can escape
this heat,
nothing false will survive
and make it
to the night.
drink, slow down, find
a rock
to get under and hide.
at some point
the moon will rise,
the moon will coolly.
shine.

surrender to it

we don't defeat the past.
we surrender to it.
we let it slide out of our hands,
slip
from thought to thought
out of sight
out of mind. there are no more
battles left
to be won,
left to be lost.
it's over.
it's done,
the war is over, go home,
rebuild.
the past is over, today is what
we live for,
finding joy,
finding love.
let's fill each tomorrow
with that,
soon they will come.

grey squirrel

I saw a squirrel
on the bench this morning,
stretched out,
tired,
he was wearing a little sombrero
and had his
feet in a dixie cup
of cold
water.
I came and sat next to him,
he didn't
budge,
he lifted his little
grey head
and looked at me, and
nodded.
hot out, I told him.
yup, he said.
crazy, isn't it?

Greasy Spoon

let's go for breakfast,
she says, stretching her arms
and legs,
what's
the nearest greasy spoon
around here.
I need
some eggs, potatoes,
bacon right
off the flat splattering
grill.
hmmm.
let me think for a minute,
I tell her
sipping on the first
cup of
coffee
this early morning
in a blistering heat wave.
I got it,
I tell her, I know
just the place.
and you can smoke
in there too if they
haven't yet changed
the rules.
it's the greasiest place
in town,
eat at the bar or
in a red vinyl booth.
parking right out front
in the gravel lot,
juke box too.
sounds lovely, she says.
let's go.
what's it called?
Moe's, I tell her. Moe's.

pina colada night

I make a batch of pina coladas
in the blender,
it's been that kind of day,
that kind of week,
what the hell, that
kind of year.
it's a frothy mix of coconut
juice
and rum. some other stuff.
lots of crushed ice.

they go down easy.
really easy in this heat.
it's so damn hot out
that one won't do. we
need the whole pitcher
for a night like this.
no need to venture out.
put some music on,
pour me another.

put some al green on,
let's cuddle on the couch.

wedding vows

there are a few
things
we need to get straight before
we go any
further, Ok?

be honest.
be true.
be loyal and faithful.
be compassionate
and giving.
forsake
all others.

listen, listen, listen.

be in love,
not half in
half out.
be authentic.
your true self.
it's actions, not
words that truly count.

understand and forgive,
be a friend,
a lover, be the other
person's light.

i'll do the same for you.

and one other thing,
Never go to sleep
Angry or without
and embrace, or a kiss
goodnight.

Recess at St. Thomas More

i remember the school yard
at St. Thomas More.
the squares of black pavement.
the faded white lines,
the tall fence
keeping the children in
who flung themselves about
like flocks of small birds.
there was
the slanted shadow of the church
and rectory nearby.
the nuns, looming large,
in black cloth, white trim.
crosses around their necks.
whistles in hand.
was it fun? i don't know
about that.
but there was one little girl
with blue
eyes, pensive and shy,
that i'll never forget.

to another shore

it was like putting a finger
in a dike
about to break as the rain
kept pouring down.
the water cresting as the thunder
roared.
another crack, another hole.
another argument, another lie,
i tried my best to keep
the river back,
but it was an impossible task.
i had no help.
it was just me trying to keep
together what wouldn't hold.
finally, i just gave up,
and let it all go, let the dam
break, the levees overflow, i let
the whole thing go down,
taking me with it to another
shore.

she was more than that

the girl that died
used the same perfume my father's mother
did.
i used to tell
her that which made
her smile, being
from new England, my
grandmother from north reading.
white linen? was that the name?
when she passed away,
fifteen years ago, i kept
a bottle
of it,
half empty that i found
on her dresser,
and would open it once
in a while
to get a whiff of her.
to get a whiff of both of them.
the memory wasn't the same.
in time
it evaporated and i threw
the bottle away.
she was more than that, they
both were.

on to the next

i finish one job
to go on to the next.
it's a carousel never stopping,
never spinning.
on and off.
the music plays.
each day flowing into the next
seamless.
endless.
a day a month a year.
a life.
i finish one job
and go on to the next.

Revenge Served Cold

i can't say what
i want to really
say. to drop a letter in
the mail
a satchel of pictures
and things, evidence
of her past and present deceitful
nature,
to show people who she really
is.
i can't take the actions
that i really want to do,
to get even, to make myself
feel better
and avenged for the living
hell she put me through.
I can't tell the whole world
the truth about who she really is,
although it's tempting
when it crosses my mind
and pricks a nerve.
as they say,
revenge is best served
cold. but if i did
fragile lives would change.
the truth would be known,
she'd be homeless
and on the street with her
pill filled
bags and phone.
all hell would break loose.
even the church would finally know.
but what's the point.
why stoop to that level
and become like her.
let her live
in the muck of who she is.
a liar, betrayer, a fake.
an adulterer,
a pretender and such.
let her
sleep in the bed she's made.
a wolf in sheep's clothing.
fuck her and the horse she
rode in on.
bite your lip and take
the higher road,
leave her sordid life alone,
it's not who you are,
it's who she is
and always will be.

pay day

I remember those Fridays.
punching the clock
at the end of the day, then
the check handed to you in an envelope.
name showing
through the little window.
net, gross.
taxes taken out, fica.
what the hell?
is that all there is?
depositing most, but taking out
enough cash
for the weekend.
to go out dancing, drinking,
eating
cheap food with
friends. gas for the car.
maybe flowers for some new
love interest that was
along for the ride,
trying to make it all last
until the next Friday.
living on the edge in a one
bedroom apartment near
the race track.
235 a month, utilities
included.
it was a simple life back
then, but I don't miss it.
life was fun, but hard.

get rid of these things

I love to get rid of things
when something ends.
the clean slate.
the empty closet.
the tossed boxes and bags
of sentimental
junk.
I like to burn the past
that wasn't true.
barbeque the pictures
out back.
crush, delete, abolish.
I have no grief over things.
over cards and letters.
watches, rings.
gifts that once had
a semblance of meaning.
I get a happy feeling
seeing the trash truck
take away the pile I
put on the curb.
I rejoice and laugh at
what's gone, what's left.
it's truly the theater
of the absurd.

No Such Luck

i remember an old
girlfriend, if you can
call her that,
she was a friend, and yes,
she was girl,
she proved that frequently
with uninhibited charm.
she was a cupcake
with a lot of icing.
it was a few years ago
when I was on the prowl
looking for the real thing.
the honest to god end to this
madness
I was in, dating up a storm.
we went out
for a month,
maybe three weeks, but i was
mad about her. infatuated
to the bone.
couldn't wait to see her,
take her anywhere, a car,
the woods,
a phone booth,
take her home.
she put me in therapy
after it ended.
it's funny. not even four weeks
and i was doomed, even though
she was crazy as the day is long,
and involved
with others, her husband
still in the house
living in the basement.
she worshiped her phone.
it rang and pinged all day,
all night long.
her kid flunking grade
school. spinning like a top
on sugar.
three dogs, a snake in
a cage.
she was fun for about five
minutes. drinking, laughing,
carousing around. she was a live
wire, but
it was all about her,
she needed the attention,
a narcissist on crack,
and I gave it to her.
i was on her ride for a short
while, a rollercoaster,
of angst, pain worry
and anxiety.
i leaped off to save my life.
you'd think i'd learned
something after that,
became wise to women like
her, the jezebels that crush
your soul, but no such luck.

clean the fridge

i clean the fridge.
it's about time. so much debris
collected
over the past few months.
whose avocado is this?
whose
rotted lime?
seven bottles of salad
dressing.
an apple gone soft.
grapes,
shrunken in the bag.
smoked salmon in foil.
a box of Chinese chicken
stuck
to the glass shelf.
packets of soy sauce,
fortune cookies unwrapped.
half bottles of wine.
i empty it all. time to start
a new
collection.
bring something over,
maybe a freshly baked
rack of chocolate chip cookies
with nuts,
or an apple pie.

thoughts on emily

I think of Emily
in her room, writing in long hand
her
rhyming poems,
rarely leaving
the house to wander.
her window her view of a world
rushing by,
then hiding what she wrote
beneath her bed.
numbering each
piece, the date, the time.
was there love,
was there joy, heart ache.
was there laughter.
what went through her mind.
would she be different now,
reclusive, shy,
or would she be out there,
like this.
writing, writing as if she
was running out
of time.

the abstract

it's abstract.
blue
green, splotches of
violet
on a glossed
canvas.
red streaked,
not unlike the crimson
of a vein
undone.
i'll take it.
this will work, i'm
in that kind of mood.
it means nothing.
it means everything.
each time I look
at it,
i'll think of you.

let's talk about love

we sit in the cooling
shade
near where
the stream collects
into
a lake. a cove of woods.
we have no where to be,
or go,
so we talk. we look into each
other's eyes
and talk about love.
have you ever been in love,
she asks,
looking at her hands.
yes. I tell her. twice.
and you?
just once, she says, but
it was true love.
real and unimagined.
that's the best kind I tell
her.
with who?
she smiles, then looks away.
how nice the sun
is upon the water she says.
I could stay
like this all day.
who?
I ask again.
she takes my hand,
why do you ask, no worries,
don't
be afraid.

for now though

as the july sun
settles down, a melt
of yellow,
it's a swift ride
through the woods
pedaling as fast as
I did last year
and the year before.
churning, head
down, the lake not
far away,
but time
does catch us when
least expected and
the legs will get
heavy, the lungs won't
be what they were before.
suddenly I will no
longer be young.
for now though. i fly
quickly through the thick
green woods as I've done
for decades and hope
for decades more.

i had a dog once

i used to have a dog.
long
and fat,
just barely off
the ground,
smooth, the color
of chestnuts.
crazy as a loon.
his sister may have been
his mother.
maybe evil, i'm not sure,
smart
as a whip,
but a barker.
a chewer, a strange
beast, who barked at planes
in the sky,
who loved to watch
tv,
or eat glass,
or cans,
or bring rocks into
the house
that he would try to hide.
he was the Hannibal
lechter of dogs.
always into trouble.
he ate clothes,
hats,
gloves,
underwear,
shorts and bras.
belts, shoes.
he absolutely loved leather.
(who doesn't?)
computer wires.
his teeth were razor
sharp.
he couldn't be trusted.
he'd break out of cages,
gates,
fences
and run wild in the woods.
but at night
he'd curl up next
to you, exhausted from being bad,
give you a lick
and sleep like an angel.
he reminded me so
of someone else i once
had in my life. very similar
breed.

she called it the devil's music

I make a playlist
of all the songs
she wouldn't let me listen
to
while we were together.

she called it the devil's
music. evil and filling our
minds
with dirty thoughts.
sinful ideas that we should
be ashamed of.

al green.
then there's marvin gaye,
and barry white,
not to mention teddy
pendergrast.

all of them
sweet and tender,
romantic to the nth degree.
the words
filling the candle lit room,
the night. poetry
for lovers
under the full moon.

music to
dance to.
music to make love to.
music to heal
the heart, soothe
the soul. God's
music, not hers.

we were lions once

someone says
we're getting old, as we stand
up slowly
from the table
and stretch.
getting the kinks out of our
legs
and shoulders,
yawning at the time.
out of old stories.
nine already.
it looks like it's raining
someone says.
I forgot my
umbrella.
we wait until it stops.
huddled
under the canopy
of the restaurant, then
hug
and wave, go off to our
lives.
we were lions once.
believe me.
we were.

one for a dollar

the large print gives
and the small print takes away,
I hear tom
waits sing.
going out of business,
everything must go,
half price.
fire sale,
bargains galore.
one for a dollar.
one for a dollar,
no salesman will visit
your home.
step right up.
step right up. it's a song
I wish I would
have written.
would have sung.
would have invented.
but I didn't, so I'll
just have to steal
a line or two,
keep the beat and sing
the song.

you ain't no moses

you ain't no moses,
the old woman
says
as I tell her my story.
you ain't got no
reason
to wander around for forty
years, let
alone forty days, or
forty minutes in no
god dammed desert.
pick yourself up boy.
and get out of here.
git boy, git.
the lord takes no pity
on the weak, when they
should be strong, when
they are strong.
look at you and all you
got.
inside and out.
what's done is done,
thank your lucky stars
she's gone.
now get out of here
and have some fun.
the promised land is
right here, no need to
look any longer
or dwell on what's
been done.

we're not old

it's a ribbon of road
that takes
us there.
black tar, white striped.
it rolls
along, beside the corn fields,
the melons
in rows, all the way
to the eastern shore,
where the ocean
waits, like it always has
each summer.
we roll the windows
down
and sing to the radio.
we're not old,
but we're getting there.
we're getting there.

Collin Chute

he's thirty tomorrow.
hard to believe this baby boy
that I carried
like a sack of sugar in my
arms
just a blink ago is a man
now.
how proud I am, I
don't say that enough, but he
knows I am.
his intelligence and imagination
brightens my day
each time we talk or share
our lives
by phone by text, in
person.
he works so hard, is so
passionate at his craft.
his courage of going west
astounds me even today.
his work ethic, his love
of parents and friends,
his beautiful companion.
his strength of self
and character brings joy
to my heart. he left
the nest so long ago,
his wings have spread.
he's aloft in the blue
sky, it will be interesting
to see where he lands.
there is nothing he can't
do, I believe that. his
heart and soul are gold.
I love, admire and respect
him, more and more
each day. happy birthday
baby boy.

blowing leaves

the landscapers,
have their machines out
blowing
a leaf or two
towards the woods, or
to a bag
near a truck.
it's loud. it's endless.
the mechanical roar.
not a broom
or rake in sight.
just the constant blow,
the rumble,
the noise all morning long.

one lie too many

i remember her saying to me
once after another
circular argument
full of accusations
and denials,
finger on her chin,
wide eyed and innocent,
just back from church
or meeting her married
boyfriend, or ex husband,
let me think,
have i lied to you
today?

i laugh now and shake
my head.
i wanted to say, have
you ever actually opened
your mouth and not lied
to me or anyone else?

one lie, is one too many.
exit, stage left.

happily onward

i see something that reminds
me
of something.
old things, long ago.
or a smell,
or a sound
that echoes into my ear.
it's all connected
by
strange dots.
this life, this future
death.
each flower grown,
each bouquet bought.
perfume
and cards.
i see someone that reminds
me of someone.
i smile and happily
move on.

her new book of poems

my poet friend Neva
calls to tell me about a new book
of poems
she has coming out.
at 87 she's still at it.
finding joy
in the written word, the sound
of syllables
collected and honed
to a fine
sweet tale
of joy or grief.
nuanced and sweet.
i buy two, one for the shelf,
signed,
and one to read.

planning ahead

i look at my calendar.
the days circled happily in red.
vacation.
a well needed rest
to the ocean.
to the eastern shore.
I've got my bags packed.
my bathing suit
on.
the umbrella by the door,
sunscreen.
books to read on
the sunset side
of water.
she laughs at me and says.
three more weeks, or
four,
relax.
it'll be here before
you know it.

it's a living

I see the same man
on the same
corner
everyday.
eight to five.
red bucket, sign. sunglasses
on.
he's neither young,
or old,
pacing back and forth,
leaning towards
each new car waiting at
the light.
it's a full time job.
he's tall
and large.
red faced. clean clothes,
good shoes.
it's a living.
I suppose.

a nice ending

there are days that
I miss my therapist, not having
talked with her in some
time now.
she probably wonders how i'm
doing,
what i'm up to, if I've finished
all the books
I told her about.
the friends who helped
me out.
I miss her comfy couch,
the window
to the street below.
her clock keeping time
on the fifty minute sessions.
what started out like a greek
tragedy took a nice
turn at some point. a light
went on.
and we would laugh.
it became easy
and clear.
we would nod in agreement,
both at last on the same
page,
at the end of a book, ready
for the shelf.
she knew the ending long before
I did.
but she waited patiently
for me
to read on, to go slow
and catch up,
to turn one page
at a time until I got there.

what follows next

the wedding
is in the backyard.
she's younger than he is by
decades.
a handful of guests
stand around,
their jackets off in the white
heat of
afternoon.
it's Tuesday.
why not?
there's a dog lying in the shade
a bowl of water
beside him.
we see it all from our deck.
we see
the preacher with his book
opened,
words are said.
the groom and bride kiss.
there's light applause,
then they all disappear inside.
for cake I assume,
and what follows next.

work and love

I think of all the jobs
I've had since childhood.
being a paper boy with a red
wagon
and a dog trotting beside
me in the early
twilight
of morning.
I washed dishes
in dingy diners, swabbing
plates of cigarettes
and potatoes, slippery
remains of
jam and eggs.
I've carried bricks
for men who flicked their
finished cigarettes at you,
for fun. i've
dug ditches, hung pink
loaves of insulation
between the studs of new
homes.
I been a carpenter,
a painter.
I've swept and mopped
hallways in the stair wells
of half lit
apartments in hard times.
I've loaded lumber onto
box cars,
pushed mowers over wet grass
up to my knees. i've
sold suits and sharp dress
shoes, before I owned either.
I've worked in
cubicles, punching at the keys,
never seeing the sun.
and yet, behind it all,
it was never about money,
never about,
shelter or possessions.
it was never about things.
it was always, now that I
look back on it, it was
always about finding
love and it finding me.

emoji

some like
the emojis, the smile,
the frown,
the tears, the praying hands.
the snarl,
the kiss, the happy
face.
it's childish,
but it fits who they are.
not good with
words, or real
emotions, unable to say
what they mean
face to face.
they need cartoons
to express who they are,
how they feel
in the moment.
true words are dead.
poetry
and expression.
emojis are the new
hallmark card, sappy
and gooey.
just click and send.

she's so busy

she's a busy woman.
what with the kids and the dog,
the ex,
the parents
sick and old.
the house and all that
it entails.
her work, the patients
with all their problems.
she feels guilty at
times,
for her lack of time,
her tight
schedule.
but it's fine. I tell her
so.
no worries.
no problem.
all things will work out
for the good,
with trust, with faith,
with love
with time.

under ground

we stop by the cemetery
to visit
the dead.
a one way conversation.
we pull up and walk to the grave,
flowers in hand.
neither happy
or sad, just curious as to
what this all means.
all these stones
leaning in the weather,
the grass cut,
the flowers and flags,
the angels
the statues, the marble.
what's going on here,
what's below
the ground, no one that i
know.
we stand there, we say a prayer,
not just for the dead,
the dearly departed,
but for the many lost souls
that are still
walking around.

bring your camera

i remember
excavating the basement.
purging, tossing,
removing
another life out
in boxes and crates.
sifting through the debris
of the past
few years or more.
like glue these things
were stuck
to me.
but i found it easy
to let them go.
there was no sentimental
value at all.
cards, letters. pictures.
rings,
clothes.
once done, once no longer
needed or loved,
or used,
i have no problem
seeing them go out
the door. i have no
problem starting over
with a fresh coat
of paint, new carpet.
new everything.
bring the camera,
let's take some pictures
to be framed,
let's begin once more.

farm raised or wild?

we go out to dinner.
the waiter hands us a menu
thicker
than war and peace.
we ask for a flashlight to read
it, or one in braille.
bread and drinks arrive
but we're only on page nine.
the appetizer section.
tell me about your fish, she
says. farm raised or wild.
the young waiter, says,
well, they're farm raised,
but we get into the pool
with a broom and chase them
around a lot, so that makes
them wild. sounds scrumptious
she says.
i'll have the chicken, I
tell the boy. free range,
right? oh yes, the waiter
says. we lasso them every
Thursday night out on the prairie.

it's hard to explain

I go to the hospital
to visit her.
I peek in through the narrow
window.
she's in bed.
a white bed,
she's wearing white.
she's asleep.
she's disappearing,
just bones now.
the wires keep her alive.
the machines blink
with white,
with green,
with red eyes.
she's not long for this world.
it hasn't been easy.
for her or anyone around
her.
finally her heart will cease.
was it dark, or light,
who knows.
it's hard to explain.
what isn't?

nothing less than her

she shines
in the summer. a bright
light
on the beach.
under the glisten
of blue
sky, the wide
umbrella.
book in hand, legs
dangling
in the ocean drawer.
she dips
her glasses, her hat,
and kisses me.
I want nothing
less than her,
I need nothing more.

waiting for the splash

I send a dozen poems
off
to a variety of rags
that publish
grudgingly
whatever this is, whatever
we call and name
now,
as poetry.
it's not unlike throwing
a rock
into the air,
through the woods at
night
and waiting to hear a splash,
or the applause
of the universe, that
finally sees and understands
everything
you write.

who we are

we are cells.
bits and pieces of energy
massed
together
to make us who we are,
who we think
we are, who we pretend
to be. the unseen
is more
predictable than
the seen.
in time we find that
we can't alter
what is, some things
can't change, for better
or worse we just have
to be.

his true love

he had an aquarium
in his living room.
it was his one true love.
a 50 gallon tank full
of water and tropical fish.
he gave them all
names.
joey, Susie, mac and George.
Sylvia.
they had castles
and greenery
on the rocky sand below.
there was the hum of a motor,
the filter to keep
it clean and pristine.
all day
they'd swim about.
there were lights too.
greenish
and blue.
he'd feed them with a sweet
voice.
spreading the crumbs
onto the surface.
come look at my fish, he'd
say when you came
to visit.
and the fish would stare
back, blank eyed, their
mouths opening and closing
all night,
all day.

the covert self

it's easy to judge others.
to say,
i wouldn't raise
my children that way,
or
i'm more polite, i'm better
at this or that
than they are. look at me,
how i dress,
and walk, how i talk.
i'm we'll read, i pray,
i give cans of food to the church.
i do so
much for others.
just a text message away.
i'm an empath with a heart
of gold,
but beneath it all,
there is darkness,
there is deception and lies.
in private
there is this double life
kept hidden.
the public image is one
of good, one of charm
and smiles,
while beneath the surface
the true self, the covert
life lives on and
thrives.

fairy tales

i build a wall around me.
bricks.
stones.
mortar, some wood beams.
thick tiles for overhead.
i'm protecting myself,
I've been too vulnerable
lately,
I've let the wrong people
in, they've
gotten too close, I've
believed them, when i
shouldn't have. i didn't
listen to the voice inside
of me.
i believed in fairy tales,
in rainbows.
in miracles, when there are
none.
so up goes the walls,
four sides.
a door, a window.
a roof.
it's going to be thick
this time.
it won't happen again.
there are no second chances.
it's one lie and done,
this time around.

the mission statement

what's your mission statement,
she asks
you
over coffee.
her pen ready for your answer,
her survey nearly
complete
about your business.
work hard, do the best you
can, get paid,
then go home and take
a cold shower
and a nap.
eat, drink, relax.
then do it again the next
day.
I like it, she says.
I like your mission.
me too.
I tell her, me too.

a single fly

one fly
gets in, somehow.
an open door,
a crack in the window.
I hear the buzz
as he circles the room
like a wayward thought,
in and out of
the lights,
never landing.
never quite
reachable to chase
out, or hit.
he has his day with me.
his night.
but in time,
i'll win out.
fly for now. have fun.
soon it ends. as all
annoying thoughts will do.
no doubt.

the gift horse

i gave her a horse for Christmas.
a chestnut
horse.
lean and fast.
but it didn't make her happy.
i put a saddle
on the horse, fed it oats,
fed it grass.
gave it water.
take a ride, i told her.
give it chance.
but she said no, i don't want
a horse
i don't want any gifts that
cost more
than a dollar.
it's too much. i'm not worthy.
how dare you show love
like that.

the dull quiet

the pendulum swings
from
disgust to hatred, to dismay,
to feeling sorry,
to being thankful,
to
feeling lost, to being
found,
to being overjoyed.
it keeps moving from side
to side,
up
then down.
i'm ready for the middle.
the steady
unswinging, the dull quiet
of nothing.
just a normal day,
a normal
thought, washed clean,
scrubbed sound.

the crack of the whip

i hear the crack of the whip.
the alarm
going off on Monday morning.
i crawl out of bed
and into the world.

i hear the scramble of cars,
the trash truck outside,
the bark of dogs,
the yawns,
the muttering.

is this the life we choose,
or has it chosen us.
we are farmers going out
into the field, planting,
harvesting, praying for rain,
tending to our crops.

indigo glass

the blue glass
jars
and plates
on the window sill catch
the light.
indigo.
full of color, deep
blue.
an ocean,
a lake,
the sky at night.
I set them
beside one another
for no reason other
than I just
like how they look,
the joy
in their strange
and mysterious color.

power outage

the power goes out.
but we are not lost
in the dark.
there's no electricity
no force
to light our lights,
but we will survive.
we have each other to lean
on, to get
to where we need to go.
whether day, or night.
we have legs
and arms, voices.
lips and hearts to move
us to where we need to go.
who needs lights?
it's within us.

let's be cold

I dream of snow.
of ice.
of Alaska.
of the north pole.
I am
in the blue water
of the north
atlantic.
you shiver and smile.
our teeth happily chatter.
we're wearing fur
coats.
boots, and hats.
only our faces show.
we are eskimos
rubbing our noses
together.
our cheeks are
a happy red.
later, we'll make love
and turn
the heat up,
but for now. let's be
cold.

the vampire blues

once you pull back
the curtain
and you reveal what
you know
to be true.
game over.
once
the light shines
on that cave of darkness.
like vampires
they can no longer
exist in your life.
they fall apart,
skin and bones dissolve.
they've lost their
source that you provided.
you no longer
enable and turn
the other cheek, you
no longer
allow a single white
lie to exist.
you laugh at their
pretensions.
you bring the sun, you
let it shine.
they run. they hide.
a part of them dies
and you survive.

scrabble under the stars

we sit under the strands
of Edison lights and stars
and play
scrabble.

we sip our gin and tonics,
the slice of lime
adding color
to the swim of clear ice
in our tumblers.

we play one game, then start
over.
stuck with nowhere to go
on the board. not a single
tile
can find a home
to make a word.

life is like that.
when there's no moves to make,
let go of what's
not working, begin again.
clear the slate,
start over.

keys

I have too many keys.
old keys.
cars,
houses, mysterious keys.
gold
and silver keys.
mailbox keys,
keys to locks I've
lost,
keys to boxes, or trunks,
keys
to someone else's house.
the garage key,
the back door,
the front.
I have a drawer
full of keys.
a ring of keys.
keys that won't turn,
broken and bent.
keys
for the maid, for
the plumber.
a key under the mat,
under the plant
out back.
a key in the shed
hanging on a nail.
I have a key
in an envelope, no
note attached, sent
via
mail.

hungry

I wake up hungry.
go to bed hungry.
but it's not for food.
it's for something else.
some
intangible thing
I can't put my hands on,
wrap my
brain around.
something deep within.
a spiritual longing
to get things right.
to dispose of the past
and let go
of all that was wrong,
all that was darkness,
not a glimmer of truth
or light.
my stomach grumbles
with it,
my heart aches, my
mind races with ideas,
I need a buffet of
affection, or knowledge,
I need a large plate
of love, I need to feed
the emptiness within.