the empty tree

the tree in full bloom
is full of birds, and why not.
it's green. the sun is high.
the air is sweet with summer,
it seems as if it will
never end. this youth
so full of loves.
such is our lives,
our trees,
so full of life, but in
winter
how it empties, each bird
having vanished
one by one to somewhere
beyond, off into another
season, out of reach, out
of sight.

my summer sang in me

while soaking
in the smooth warm
waters of my
bath, I stumble upon
Edna St. Vincent Millay's
poem,
'what lips my lips have kissed,
and where, and why'.
she wrote it when she was 31
and living in Greenwich village
during its halcyon days
of the nineteen twenties.
it's a bittersweet, nostalgic
piece of work. terribly sad
and beautiful. my summer sang
in me, she writes.
remembering those days
and night.
the lovers are referred to as ghosts
tapping at her window.
she's alone, the world outside
dark,
as I am now, listening
to the rain, contemplating
loves that have come and gone.
who hasn't been there? Sigmund
Freud said that all literature
and poetry
is about love and sex, and perhaps
death.
I don't deny that and neither
did she,
I imagine.

what doesn't kill you

it's all a blur.

a dream. a disaster
that never should have been,
but it's over.

i wake up clean
and sober.

free at last, the shackles
off,
the die cast. i'm

back on my feet.
out side the walls
of Shawshank.

what doesn't kill you
only
makes you stronger.

i could lift that building
over my head
right now.

she was hardly here

my father's companion of
30
years dies
in her sleep.
wordless, as she was in
life.
i could count on one
hand
the things she said.
she was a small bird,
just bones
and skin,
big brown eyes,
but a quiet soul,
always with a smile,
her hands folded in
her flowered lap.
polite and mannered,
raised down the road
in Carolina.
if she picked up, she
was quick to say, let
me get your father on
the phone.
childless, friendless.
always to herself
in her own room.
at times it seemed
she was hardly here,
and now it's hard
to imagine that
she's even gone.

some dinner

i wake up to a
sink full of dishes.
on the table
too.
the bones of a chicken
are strewn about.
there's
a dollop of mashed potatoes
on the floor.
i have gravy
on my shirt, red wine.
a string bean is stuck
to my arm.
my pants are on backwards.
the tv is still on,
the cushions of the couch
are thrown about.
some dinner last night.
a broken high
heel lies on the stairs,
a dress,
a stocking with a long tear.
i put my finger to my
chin,
lean my ear upwards
and wonder who else is
here.

inhale exhale

i empty
the chest, the lungs of
air.
inhale
gently, exhale again.
out with the toxic
past,
in with new
memories, drama free,
serene and content
as
new life
takes hold.

let em run

I think about getting a dog,
but thankfully
that notion passes the second
I see someone
passing by bending over with
a baggie,
their dog on a leash squatting
in the lawn.
I remember how my dog, moe,
would eat
anything dead he found in
the road, then i'd have to
take him to the dog mayo
clinic to have his stomach
pumped, blood work, and
an iv stuck into his little paw.
three thousand dollars later
he was back home, good as new.
yes. I like the wagging of
the tail, the chasing of
the ball. the love they
give without conditions, but
aren't there conditions?
food, water, shelter, sleeping
on the bed?
I think about the hair all
over the place, the stains
in the rug, the chewed
furniture, the barking,
the needs they have that
never seem to get met. selfish,
yes? I admit it. but I've
done my hard time with pets
and come to think of it, wives
too. they're so similar
when you think about it.
who needs the trouble
just for a little fun
and so called companionship.
as soon as they see a crack
in the door, off they go.
let em run, i'm done.

we're never ready

we're never ready for death.

no matter how long
the journey is.

how obvious that it's coming.
we wait,
not for healing, but for
ease
and comfort for those
closing in.

finality with respect.

we're never ready for death.

but it comes and comes.
live with joy,

have no regrets.

the same old news

I ignore the news.

had enough of the same thing
day in day out.

so it goes with you.
the same problems, the unsolvable
issues.

there is no silver lining,
no
way out.

just repeat and rinse
again and again.

you're always right back where
you started.

it never seems to end.

rainy day museum

a rainy day is a good
day
to visit the museums downtown.

so we go
on the train.

we stroll and stare at
the wonderous
pieces of art.

the paintings, the sculptures.
it's beyond
our imagination
how anything so beautiful
could be made.


we point and are stunned
at what we see.

life
can be so dangerous
and ugly,
or it can be this.

this beauty that we observe
and welcome
into our minds,
on this rainy
day.

table for two

we make reservations at the big
Chinese restaurant
off of route 7.
it's been there for ages.
always packed,
crowded, tables inches
away from one another.
red and black décor.
tassels swinging from
the gaudy chandeliers,
but the food will slay you.
the drinks are strong.
it's a hustle and bustle
place nestled in between
a post office and a hair
salon. come early, come
hungry, come thirsty.
we'll seat you soon, it
won't be long. parking
is sketchy, don't leave
anything of value in
the car. table for two,
but there is now view.

the discount lawyer

lawyers are fast
with their words, their talk,
their
legal documents.
even the cheapest ones make
the simplest of tasks
more
difficult.
written in a strange language
half English
half latin.
the more confusing it is,
the more you pay.
sign here, sign there.
layered thick with legalese
and misspellings,
punctuation out of
sorts.
have it stamped and notarized,
they smile
and shake your hand
as you finally start a new life
and walk away.
next, you hear them say.

when she slips away

we get word from afar,
late,
that she has taken her life.
slipped under
a warm bath gone pink.

we sit with this news
in the kitchen, drinking our
coffee.

we have no words to say.
although
who didn't see it coming.

she was a light flickering
on and off,
as if a storm inside of her
never settled,
never passed.

you could see it in her words,
the way her
hands shook, in her
eyes, how dark
and still
they'd be when joy
should have stayed.

her papers will be sifted through
for clues.
her phone, her
electronic devices
that she was glued to.

but the reasons are not
one, or two,
but many. so many that
there was little,
her doctors, her friends,
her lovers,
her children could ever
do.

someone will collect her clothes,
her things,
her books,
her necklaces and rings.
her world, such as it was.
all of it
will be packed away in boxes
and shifted
to some dark place
to be forgotten.

sentimental

I stack up
my nostalgia at the door
for the trash man.
my sentimental bones
of things.
my collection of stamps,
cards,
love letters
and old poems.
I gather up the dead
roses,
the vase they came in.
the mementos,
the touch stones
of all the past years.
a jar of tears,
an envelope of regrets.
photos.
out to the porch
they all go
for pick up. I need
the room, what wasn't
real,
must go.

the grey haired band

the band is old.

grey haired men with bellies
and pony tails

singing songs from a long
long time
ago.

they've been practicing in their
basements all week long,

strumming their guitars,
banging the drum.

their voices shot, their faces
lined
with age,

but into the night they go.

it's soft rock that the women
like, who sway and swoon
wishing they were
young again, singing the words
to every song.

they stare up at the stage,
through the glare of lights,

and drink their wine,
remembering betters days
before them, the band and
the world got old.

hammer and nail

we each have
a hammer of some sort
that we
take to the nail, the problem
at hand.
some use anger.
some
use brains and others
fake
love or altruism
to get past
the pain.
some use humor
or lies,
or drugs or drink,
even sex
can be a sledge
hammer of sorts.
the day is full of nails
that want to be
driven
back down.

and a cherry on top

for awhile my brain was like
a monkey in a banana tree.
going every which way
in an emotional tizzy.
(not sure if tizzy is still
a word, but i like it just
the same)
i couldn't think straight.
full of crazy thoughts,
indecision, wild emotional
swings of irrationality.
relationships will do that to you.
but now. i feel like i'm
one monkey, with one banana
and i'm not even in a tree,
i'm stretched out on the couch
in my pajamas.
i might even cut it up
and put it in a bowl
of ice cream with hot
chocolate on it and nuts.
whipped cream and a cherry
on top.

true dedication

the second
my ex found out she was pregnant
with our son
she quit her
job
and stop working forever.

her dream had come true.

I still scratch
my head at her decision,
thirty years later.
she found a way to live
off the kindness
of strangers and has been
quite successful at it.

she was pretty enough
to pull it off.
a brilliant move.
good work, or non work if
you can get it.
I admire her dedication
to what she believes in.

she definitely was no fool.

thinking about baseball

I spring out of bed,
okay
maybe spring is the wrong word.
I ease myself
off the mattress
and limp slowly to the bathroom.
the third trip since
going to bed last night.
but it is Friday.
a cold shower, a cup
of hot coffee and i'll be
almost ready to face
the day.
I send Julie a text and tell
her, hey, what
time tonight?
then realize that I sent
the note to betty.
betty, says, oh, I didn't know
we had a date.
she sends me a picture of
a new pair of sexy
high heels she just bought.
like em? she says.
i'll wear them tonight.
oh well, I say out loud.
it'll work out somehow.
I rub my eyes and try
to think about baseball.

a day at confession

I get in line for confession
at the local
church
St. Bernadette's.
it's a slow moving line,
people have been so
damn bad lately,
whoops, I put that on the
list. cursing. not good.
men, women, children
with sticky fingers.
I see a few familiar faces,
there's Joe, the gambler,
Jake the snake, who takes
money out of the basket instead
of putting money in,
and Suzi in her short black
skirt with a pocket book
of diamond rings
and a trail of broken hearts
behind her.
I wave to them, they smile
and wave back.
the line inches up.
I look over their shoulders
at their lists.
lots of lying going on.
cheating, deception,
stealing, the usual array
of broken commandments.
adultery, slander, lust
and greed.
after an hour or so,
the priest comes out
to put a sign at the end
of the line, saying,
the line ends here.
he's sweating in his long
silvery green robe.
wiping his forehead
with his arm. Jesus,
he says out loud, staring at
the long line, then
goes back into the confessional
booth.
I look down at my list
and see the usual three things.
I wonder if he's going to
yell at me, or just sigh
and give me a penance of
three hail Mary's and two
our father's like he always
does.
my feet hurt from standing
in line for so long, but
just thinking that feels like
a sin too.
I do wish I had a drink
though, some ice tea or
something.

the sugar bowl

a string of black ants
appear on the kitchen counter,
a line
moving against the white
flat surface.
they reach the sugar bowl,
where spoons have spilled
the luxurious sweet crystals
and stop to load up.
there's no talking, no music,
no bickering, just work,
a procession of life staying
alive at all costs.
it would be easy to kill
them all. easy to convince
myself that they're just
insects, invaders and should
be taken out, but I don't.
we are all looking for our
own sugar bowls, working hard
to get there.
I open the window and spill
the sugar down, then carefully
take each one back to from
where they came, then pull
the window tight and shut.

turning back the clock

I buy a dozen syringes of
botox
to try and erase some of the wrinkles
that have
accumulated over
the years.
sun damage, worry, laugh lines.
drinking and carousing,
thinking too hard about
things
I can't change.
the weather, work,
sleepless nights.
it's an impossible task, but
I give it a shot
and manage to shave a few months
off
the calendar. turn back the clock,
a smidgeon.

Cupid at the Coffee Shop

I run into cupid
at the coffee shop and give him
a piece of my mind.

hey, what are you doing here?
I ask him.
shouldn't you be out and about
shooting your little arrows
into people's hearts
making them miserable with love?

I beg your pardon, he says to me
in a surprisingly adult tone of voice,
despite being a chubby
child in a diaper with little
white wings protruding from
his back.

poison darts are what they
really are, I say to him, 

putting my finger into his
soft Pillsbury dough chest.

oh, bug off, he says.
the arrows don't always work,
you know. some are bent, some
are rusted or dipped in toxic
paint.

it's a factory thing.
the work is farmed out over seas
to undeveloped countries.
they don't have the same standards
as we had in the old days.
and well, sometimes i've had
a long day and my aim is a little
off.

whatever, I tell him.
stop shooting those arrows.
do you have any idea the pain and
suffering you cause? how many self
help books I had to buy last
year? the therapy, the hypnosis
and psychic healing I had to
go through because of that last
arrow you shot at me and you
know who? you turned my life into
a freaking nightmare.

you're a menace to society
and mental health.
you call that love what you gave me?
for crying out loud. you should be
ashamed of yourself. and what's
with the diaper. get a pair of
big boy pants, for god's sake.

well. I was just trying to make
you happy, and others too.

Well guess what, it's not working.
I wrestle his
quiver away from him and throw
the arrows to the ground, stomping
them into little pieces.

oh, great. that's just great.
cupid says, flapping his wings.
you just blew my whole afternoon
schedule.
you know I used to think that love
made the world go around, but
now i'm not so sure. you'll be
hearing from my lawyers.

I reach over to grab him
by his curly head of hair 

and give him a good smack, 

but he's too quick with those
wings and flutters off out
the door with a grande
vanilla no fat soy latte
in his tiny fist.

turning on the light

we spend much of our lives
overcoming
our childhood, our parents,
or lack
of parenting.
so much of those we choose
in our life
reflects the lack of what
we were given.
we keep searching, reaching
for a love
that never came. always
grasping for the wrong
person, the half person,
the sick reflection
of a mother or father
that wasn't there. we
try to get whole
by putting two halves together.
if poor, we buy too much,
we try to fill
our lives. we look into
the mirror too deeply
for affirmation. there's
too much food on our plates,
clothes in our closets
too much
of so much to fill our
wanting hearts.
it never works, but when
the light goes on,
it stops and hopefully
health and true love
begins.

an old photo

i find an old photo
stuck
between the pages of a book,
a card
too, signed with love,
from me to you.
i can almost smell the scent
of a familiar
perfume.
it's a sweet card, all the words
fit
the time, the mood,
the memory of what was.
i slip it into the basket,
along with
everything else
that wasn't true.

the writing class

I ponder another writing class.

another meet up of poets and writers,
critics
with red pens, eager
to crush
your spirit and tell you
what you've written
needs work,
that you need to start all over
and try I again.

I think about it. new people.
new ideas,
new temporary friends
found in the high school
at night
in Arlington.
but i'm so easily annoyed these
days
by women and men.
the clique of them.
the audacity of them
critiquing me, pfffft.

maybe, maybe not. we'll see
what the next day brings.

cold shower therapy

the cold shower
startles me awake, thirty
days
and still going strong.
shivering
but alive and well, once
the thrill of it
dies down.
of course it's ninety
degrees outside,
let's see how long
I can go
when the weather changes
and there's frost
on the pumpkin,
or me.

the love knife

it's like the story
of the wolf
that finds a knife near
an old campfire, he licks
it, cutting his tongue.
the blood on his lips,
in his mouth is salty,
warm
so he licks some more.
cutting himself again
and again. in time he dies.
what he thought was good
for him, has killed
him.
we often do the same,
licking our own shiny
knives.

a bowl of health

I stare at the slab
of bacon
in the fridge, but resist
the urge for a salty fatty
dose of
heart stopping nitrates
and make a bowl
of oatmeal instead.
cranberries, brown sugar,
walnuts,
and a splash of milk.
it's a bowl of health,
but my mind is elsewhere,
romanticizing that
bacon sizzling
on the grille.

give it a day or so

I have eight sticky notes
on the desk.

the maid has arranged them
in a long line.

she rearranged my eggs too
in the ice box.
the milk, the water.
each side by side.

socks have found their mates.
the basket full
of folded clothes.

the pens are in the drawer,
the books aligned,
the sheets tucked and tight,
pillows stacked
just right.

the rugs are vacuumed,
the hard wood shines.

the bathrooms are immaculate.

the blinds half raised,
the curtains parted just so.

it's clean for now, give it a
day or so.

halcyon summer

it's been a summer
of peace.
of calm.
a halcyon string of months.
sweet and warm.
bring it with you
now
into fall, into
the depths of a cold
winter.
no more
stress, or walking on
eggshells,
no more concern
about what was,
no worries, no fear
from this point on.

should we move

it's almost like you don't
care anymore, she says to me
while putting suntan lotion on my
bald head.

I don't. I tell her.

I really don't care anymore about
a lot of things.

I used to care, but things have
changed.

I put my hat on and stare out at the wide
green sea.

it's beautiful and lovely. serene.

a minute later,

a family of six screaming kids
with a wagon of gear
set up their enormous tent
right in front of
us, blocking the view.

they've brought a pizza to the beach
in a giant brown box. each with a slice
dangling in their greasy fingers.

should we move, she says, shading
her eyes with her hand.

to where, I ask. mars?

when you've had enough

you reach an age
where you get tired of people.
not all people, just

bad people.
losers, liars, lawyers.
politicians,
abusers. toxic dark souls
who wander the earth,

those that are full of themselves.
stuffed
with their own
bullshit and want to spread
it around
on everyone else.

it's an epidemic of narcissism.
a wave of greed,
a storm of bad behavior,
fakes
and phonies,
thieves. liars.

your empathy has weakened
for them. your patience is thin.
it's too much for
too long. their drama, their
permanent victim pleas.

you can only tolerate bad
behavior so long, before you
break,
before you have to speak up
and tell them
to get out of your life,
that they have to leave.

it's too short. these days,
these hours,
to be around lost fools
like these.

which way from here

bored to tears,
I sit on the front porch and talk
to myself.

what the hell has happened.
how did life
come to a screeching halt.

there's a part of me that wants
to stir things
up, make some big changes,
and another part
that wants to crawl under the bed
and get away
from it all.

i'm in the middle of something.
i'm floating in the Saragossa sea.
stuck in the eye of a hurricane.

okay. you get the picture.
i'm neither here nor there on
almost everything.

I stretch and yawn in the hot
sun while
a cat comes up to me
to rub it's back against my
leg. she looks at me with
her wet green eyes
and sighs, meows.
yup, I tell her.
I know. I know.

Hazmat situation

I move the bed
to center of the room,
and cover it with a drop cloth,

I find covered in dust,
a gun, a wig,
a whip.
handcuffs, a bottle of
Wesson oil
and high heels
under the mattress
under the box spring
and the frame.

there's a video camera too.
a pack of gum,
clothe pins,
a crate of condoms, cigarettes
and matches,
candles,
and strangely a black and white
picture of someone that
looks vaguely like you.

what the hell.

oh well, I carefully,
cover it all up and push it out
of sight with my shoe.

such is life. I get to work
and try not to think
of what goes on here
at night.

five things you need to know

the speaker at the mike
has five things
you must do to live a good life,
the woman over there has seven,
that man in a black suit
has nine things you need to do
to be successful.
another has ten.
there are volumes of books on how
to find love, to get love back.
there is a book
on how to win friends
and influence people, how to
be positive in spite
of a careless life. subscribe now,
half price.
six ways to find a husband,
an honest wife.
there are books on love and
wealth, how to get
in touch with your inner
child,
your true self, how to reach
the dead in the great beyond.
if you need religion, dig in,
there's plenty there.
lost and lonely, more than
you'll ever need for a lifetime.
troubled and lost, abused,
confused, conflicted, there's
a hell of a lot on that too.
you tube, therapists, self help.
centers and groups, meet ups,
societies, classes and
gatherings to stroke your needs,
your desires, to make right
all the things
in your life that you've
managed to fuck up. start now,
time is running out,
get well, get healthy, eat
this eat that. go to the light,
be the light.
trust God, trust science,
buddha,
trust the stars, the planets,
numbers, vibrations, sun spots.
vitamins, sleep, exercise,
deep breathing, sex, drugs
and rock and roll. find a way.
there's at least five, or maybe
more. there's a book out
there on a shelf somewhere
to get you started.

a toast

we tap our glasses together.
cheers

to life
to love
to now.

then we drink while
the champagne is cold,
the bubbles
loud.

what does anything matter
but
family
and friends, loved ones.

it's a brutal world
softened only by a kind word,
a gentle hand,

a kiss.

a toast, a vow.

so it goes

i burn my hand
on the oven, a blister arrives
quickly.

i run it under cold water
from the sink,

letting it pour as i look out the window.

there is a throbbing pain,
redness and swelling, but

i don't curse the stove,
the hot iron,
the flame.

i did this to me. no one else
is to blame.
and so it goes
for almost all things.

september memories

i wake up with a half smile.
the window is open
the curtains pushed inward
to the bed.

what? she says.
what?

nothing, i tell her, just
thinking of something that happened
once this time of year.

the air, the breeze, the weather
has struck a chord. but it's

ancient history. not to worry,
nothing to fear.

she rolls her eyes.
you remember everything, don't you.
the good or
bad. words said, or unsaid.

things done,
or left undone to you.

unfortunately, yes. i do, i tell
her. so much is crystal
clear.

but it's different now,
i tell her, so different,
my perspective on it all,
has changed
ever since i met you.

the shadows of her life

I sit with the old woman,
drinking tea
in the shadow of her yard,
the willow tree,
the long fence, the clothes
line
full of white sheets.
I have no regrets, she says,
looking off
to a place I've never been.
no regrets.
mistakes, yes. but necessary
to get to where I am.
she turns to look me in
the eyes. have no fear about
love, or life, or death,
she says, touching her plate,
a piece of bread.
all in good time.
be good, do your best.

the mystery of girls

we had a secret handshake,
we cut
blood and mixed it.
palm against palm.
brothers
for life, which lasted
one summer.
a boys club of sorts.
angels by day, devils
by night.
we were young and full
of ourselves.
school and summer pools,
sports.
still unraveling the mystery
of girls.
which still goes on.

postcard from italy

she sends me a picture from Italy.

she's in white.
her dark hair down around her shoulders.
bare
and tanned in
the Tuscan light.

she's happy in wine.
in food from the villa down below,
below the wall where
she stands, the olive grove,
smiling in her pose.

a horse and carriage
with a man holding the reins
waiting nearby.

Italy, she writes. i'm happy.
content.

it took an ocean and a year
but i'm free from him.

beyond the clouds

we wave goodbye in the rain.

the car pulls away. there is no
looking back.

only forward. the wipers working
hard to clear the way.
there is no time
for mistakes.

life gets shorter every day.

enjoy, embrace, endure whatever
pain
that came your way,

but move on, move forward,
no looking back,

just wave. new love waits
just beyond
the clouds, beyond the falling
rain.

thank god it's monday

I see him
limping, coming up the street.

what? I ask. what is it now.

his arm in a sling.
a patch on one eye.

he coughs, then spits.

rough weekend, he says.
smelling of rye.

do you have a light, he asks,
pulling a lucky
strike out.

weekends are tough, thank
god it's Monday.

Easter at Home

she used to set out the good china
for this holy day.

set the table
so that martha stewart would be proud.

the cloth pressed and neat,
the edges smoothed,

flowers in crystal vases.
silverware, correctly
positioned. candles would be lit.

the house would be clean.
the food cooked
from her favorite
recipes.

it was a feast. a meal fit for
a king and queen.

it was all perfect, the trouble
and darkness of her
life, of the hell she
lived in
and brought to the house
was hidden and unseen.

the wedding party

the wedding
is much like many weddings.

the bride in white, the groom in
his dark suit,
the cake, the band.
the relatives tired from
their long flights.

but there is joy.
smiles and laughter.
children, like bees set about.

dancing, drinking, eating.
the swirl of new hope
that love has been found.

the music plays on deep into
the night.

we dance in one another's arms.
around and around.

it's a good party, a good wedding.
there is a prayer
that blessings will be upon
them. that they will love one
another
be faithful, and always kiss
at the end of a day,
goodnight.

out of the fog

we rise out of the fog,
slowly,
the thick grey
air
that swamps the land
we walk on.
no light, no sense of
direction.
it takes time, to find
our way through.
it's confusing, unnerving,
to believe one thing
but know
that the truth is
something else.
the cognitive dissonance
makes us dizzy.
what is real, what isn't.
slowly and carefully
we find our way through.
touching the ground,
the trees with our hands.
finding the path
back to light, out
of the fog, at last.

losing the will to live

be attached to nothing,
the swami says,
the guru says, Jesus says.
my therapist, Lee, says.
I even say it to myself.

I agree in the lesson of letting go,
to surrendering
all things, having no attachments,
they cause pain,

but I really love this black sweater
I wear nearly every other
day when winter comes.

it's so soft and warm and goes with
nearly everything.

if something happened to it,
if a dog chewed it up, or bleach
got on it,
I don't know what i'd do.

I may lose my will to live, especially
if Lord and Taylor's
stops carrying it
on the floor.

We Had Nothing In Common

we had nothing in common.

nothing.

some love, some affection, but
most of it was
unreal.

fake, imagined.

her charm and wit seduced me.
fatal
kisses.
sex. a warm embrace.

it was toxic from the start.
and stayed
that way
until the very end.

I still see her face
at night her
blank
stare. i
hear the lies that fell
from her mouth
so easily.

the deception and betrayal
so prevalent
and now so clear.

we had nothing in common,
but I closed my eyes and dove
into
a living hell.

so long ago

the pale light of late day
softens
our face,
the violet
glow of a long September
sun
stripes us in yellow
and shadow.
we want to bottle these times.
catch them
in a glass jar,
save them for when things
are not so good,
when love
and peace are nowhere near,
but left
someplace in the past,
someplace
so long ago and very far.

come clean

are we on stage.
actors.
are we pretending to be who
we want to be
to make others like us,
hiding what lies below
the surface
of our clothes,
our skin, our smile
or frown.
do we ever come clean and show
the world
the truth about
who we really are,
is it all just a game,
moving pieces around?
will that truth set us free?
at what point do we say,
this is me,
love me the way I am,
for who I really am,
for better or worse,
or pack your bags
and leave.

leave the leaves

she worries about the leaves
in her yard,
on the driveway, the deck.
on the roof.
don't worry about them, I tell
her.
leave them alone,
they worked so hard all year
to become green, but
now they're old.
let them rest for awhile.
they're so beautiful
in death, ruby reds,
burnt orange and gold.

be home by ten

i crawl under the old chevy
to turn
a screw to let the hot black
oil
drip into the pan.
it's 1978 and i'm trying to
save a buck or two.
i pour in the 4 quarts
of quaker state
after twisting off the filter
and replacing it
with one that's new.
i adjust the points with
a match book cover,
screw in some new spark
plugs.
i wash the car next.
rub a coat of turtle wax
into it's dark blue skin.
it's Saturday morning
and I've got a date at 8.
plenty of time to put
air into the tires,
get a haircut and go to
the bank.
when i pull in front of her
house to pick her up,
her father will look out
the window at the rumbling
car, clean as a whistle,
and shake his head.
he can probably smell my
after shave from where he
sits. he'll
be worried, as he should be,
and will tell his daughter
to be home by ten.
midnight, dad,
midnight she says.

one door closes

one by one
each light dims then flickers
then dies.

no matter how strong
the flame,
the memory,
there is only so much
light
they can give before going
dark again.

but in their absence
there is room now for more.
for new
memories to occur.
for new love to find its
way in
through a different door.

a better road

the sun sparkles
against the road on this sunday
morning.

glimmers like a path of diamonds.
I listen to an old
song
on the radio.

I know every word by heart
and sing along.

i've been down many roads on
many of different mornings, but
I like this one more than the others.

it's peaceful and serene.

it's hard to explain, but it's
better than the rest.

before it melts

take this with you, she says,
at the door
as you pack up to leave.

a slice of apple pie, still warm
from her oven.

the potato, the steak, in halves.
oh,
and the ice cream too.
rush home
so that it doesn't melt.

then she blows a kiss out the window.

pumpkin time

it's pumpkin time.

forty five days before Halloween.

pumpkin candy, cake and pie.
pumpkin
latte,
pumpkin wine, pumpkin
soup,
pumpkins in the window
on the porch
carved
in a scary design.
pumpkins are everywhere,
they're falling
from the sky.

wake me when it's over.

proof is in the pudding

the proof is in the pudding.
they say.

and what exactly does that mean.

what pudding are we talking about here?
tapioca?
rice, chocolate.

it's pudding or it isn't. what's the mystery
here.

milk, sugar, maybe an egg, stirred
and left creamy
almost like a sauce, but a tad
harder.

best served cold.

we need more information for this cliché
before it's used again.

bring it inside

i hear laughter out
on the sidewalk. the husband and wife
with the two kids.
something said
by someone has made them
laugh.
i see the sun in their eyes,
they shake their heads and smile
as the laughter
subsides.
i open the window and tell
him not to stop, in fact bring
here, bring it on inside.

no stamps

the check is late in coming.

months late.

it's not much money, but still payment due.
I text and call,
leaving one message after the other.

finally he calls me back.
sorry, he says. I've looked everywhere
in the house and I don't have any
stamps. my wife even checked her purse.

where do you get stamps these days?

I tell him the post office or any grocery
store, but no worries, i'll send him some
with a self addressed envelope,
to make it easier.

thanks, he says. life is so complicated
these days.

get the bum out

he's an idiot, she says, staring at the tv.
watching
cnn switching every now and then to
CNBC.
he's a buffoon in ill fitting suits.
not to mention his dopey children and wife.
he's a tyrant and a bully,
a charlatan, a liar and a narcissistic
creep. how in the world has he become
our president?
he's dragging the world down to a dark
dark dangerous place.
she shakes her head, and rolls her eyes
as he swings his golf club at his
own resort.
he's nero playing the fiddle while
rome burns.
I know I know, I tell her. I used to feel
the same way about Nixon, back in the day.
I said I wouldn't get my hair cut
until he was out of office.
it seems that nothing really changes.

he's changed

he was smart, she says. so smart.
world traveled.
he was loved, and gave love in
return.
he knew everyone, everyone
by name and they in return knew
his.
well respected, liked and admired.

now he sits there, beyond all
that youth, all that once was.
the work done. retirement setting
in.
he sits on the porch and stares
out at the cars going by and
waves.

everything he once was had faded.
the world once so full of color,
vibrant and alive, has turned
to grey. even the children admit
that he's changed.

we need some

we need ice cream.

any flavor, cone or cup.
it reminds us

to enjoy life to its
fullest

before it melts away.

paddling out

we paddle out to the island.

our slim boats, orange
in the morning sun,
skimming along the surface of
calm
bay water.

we are novices at this, but it's
easy.

we're both easy.
which makes it work.

we circle, we bump our boats
against one another
and steal a kiss.

home, she says. yes. i tell her.
home.

emerald green

years ago,

when I was younger
and in a strange state of
imaginary love,

these panic attacks would hit
me out of nowhere.

i'd bend over, heart racing.
stomach
in pain,

crying uncontrollably
in a ball
on the floor.

it felt like a heart
attack.

the thick heaviness in my chest.

disoriented. lost.

fear, anxiety, stress. jealousy
and anger.
a cold stew
of dysfunction. not knowing what
was a lie,
what was the truth.

and yet, I remember lying there
on the floor,

looking
out the window through blurred
tears

and thinking how beautiful
the trees were this time of year.
so full and rich with green.

like emeralds.

that thought alone made me realize
i'd be okay
in time.

in love and in nature

you hear roar
a half mile away.
through the woods, the marked
trail.

water breaking on rocks.
the thunder
of untamed
waves against the grey
sculptures.

people drown here,
slip in
getting too close to see
the violence,
the turbulence.

how long have these falls
existed,
a million years,
perhaps, longer.

and when we're gone, others
like us
will get to too close,
alive
with the danger.

taking the risk,
but knowing better.

there is a thin line
between life and death,

in love
and in nature.

making it new again

my father's 58 turquoise
chevy
impala had some serious dents
in it.

driving drunk
will do that.

a bent bumper, a broken
windshield.
bruises and scrapes on the door.

I wonder how he ever
made it home at night, although
sometimes
he didn't.

he get them all fixed at some
point
and wash and wax
the car under a shady tree.
a pack of lucky strikes
in his rolled
up sleeve.

he'd make it new again. just
like he did with
himself.
a shave and a shower,
some old spice
splashed on his smiling
cheeks.
hot coffee. voila!

the oasis of peace

we buy some land
near the ocean, bay side.

a small sandy stretch of grass
and rocks,
a small beach
a dock.

it will be our go to place,
she says.
our oasis
of peace.

I smile and take her hand.
I have that
now, right here, or
wherever
we stand.

poltergiest

there was a time
when the dog I had would bark
at one corner of
the room.
staring, the hair on his back
bristling.
baring his teeth viciously.
I looked up to see what he
was looking at, but there
was nothing there.
I stood on a chair and waved
my hand to the area where he
barked, he bolted from the
room, running up the stairs.
I felt my arm in a long sleeve
of cold.
freezing cold air. then it
was gone.

the snap of truth

it's the snap
of an
ending. of understanding
and letting go.

you can almost hear it
as the bond
is broken,

the sadness and sorrow
extinguished.

whatever you were hanging
onto
is over.

you have your senses back.
your heart.

your soul. you see the truth
and shake your head.

what were you thinking,
what lesson
have you learned, never
to repeat again?

trust and real love is
everything.

the puzzle almost done

the furniture is the same
as it was in 1977.

the plaid couch.
the heavy drapes. a painting
of a ship
on some far away sea.

she sits at the table doing
todays crossword puzzle.

he's looking for his cane.

the kids are gone,
off to their own lives,
with children of their own.

there's no tv on, no radio.
just the quiet chirp
of birds at the feeder.

they are in no rush to have
the work done,
no rush for anything.

all the hurry has been done.

coffee? she says, looking up
from the folded
paper,
the puzzle almost done.

the cake of you

as I stand here in the kitchen
stirring cake batter,

I think of you.

the icing of you, the sweetness
that lies within.

I imagine having a slice
before bed, and perhaps another

in the morning
when the sun comes in.

the dark house

some houses have a dark
cloud,
a stain
about them.
it's hard to pin point exactly
what it is.
but even the road that leads
to them
feels wrong, and dreadful.

there is a feeling that you
shouldn't go there.

the house is cursed.
I have been in houses
like that
and felt the aura of something
bad
lurking about.

the infection of evil
in there. despair.
you feel it when you enter.
it's in the eyes
of those of
live there too.

in their
bones. they can't shake it.
the underlying sadness and fear.

the break in

there are fingerprints
on
the door.
footprints in the hall.
someone has been here,
they've gotten into
the safe
hidden in the wall.
the mattress is overturned.
papers strewn
about.
there's blood on
the counter, a broken
glass.
the tv, the computer
are gone.
a cut cord to the phone.
it's a mess. a disaster.
I look in the fridge.
the cake is still
there. cold milk too.
it's not so bad after all.

the high road

so many roads
to choose from.
high roads,
low.
roads that veer off.
detoured roads.
the back road,
the scenic route.
the city street.
let's just take the train
and not worry
about it.

platonic relationships

have you ever had a platonic
relationship
with a woman, my therapist asks
me.
her ball point pen clicking on
her long chin.

what's that, i ask her.

you know, she says, writing something
down on her yellow
legal pad.

a friendship with the opposite
sex where
there was no romance involved.

you mean no kissing, no nothing.
no sex?

wow, i say. is that humanly possible?

yes, she says no sex.

of course, i tell her, laughing,
i'm just joshing
you, pulling your leg.

I've had many platonic relationships,
neurotic ones too.
in fact name a type and I've probably
been there.

she stops writing and looks out
the window, then the clock.
she seems weary, exhausted,
only forty minutes
to go.

the castle life

it would be nice to live
in a castle

protected by
the moat and all that.
the steep brick walls,
keeping out the rift raft.
the solicitors who come to call.

the neighbors too.
no need for chit chat about
the weather.
no awkward conversations
about parking,
or the neighborhood picnic
on the 4th.

no one bringing you a tuna
casserole just to say hey,
how you doing.

i'd be done with all that.

just a wave from the high tower
would do.
or maybe shoot a flaming
arrow their
way, just so they get the message.

why worry her

we'd go down to the river
to
shoot cans
and bottles with the one
b b gun between us
four boys.
all in dungarees
and striped polo shirts.
our hair clipped
in crew cuts.
chuck taylor's on our
feet.
our mothers had no clue where
we were
for nine hours of the daylit
summer day.
just be home for dinner,
she'd say. don't get run
over. don't talk to strangers
and stay away
from the river. you'll fall
in and drown.
we all made it back each
late afternoon.
tired, hungry, thirsty.
dirty.
full of stories, meeting hoboes
in the woods.
stealing melons from
the farm along the way.
hitchhiking home.
tales, she'd never hear.
why worry her.

you'll just paint more houses

we never actually had real conversations,
my first ex wife
and I.
she played the devil's
advocate
on just about everything that
came out of my mouth.

if I said the trains were not
running on time
today,
she'd reply with, do you know how
hard it is to
keep a schedule.
the weather, the crowds, the holiday.
you should be happy that they
show up at all.

I asked her once, after the
ink dried on the divorce decree
if she had any regrets.
she said yes. several.
one being that she wished she
had done differently things
with her life.

like what, I said.
go back to school? become
an actress, perhaps?
no she said. I wished I had
married a richer man,
a lawyer or a doctor,
a politician perhaps.
someone with more money, so
that my alimony would be more
today.

bored without a job,
the son in school all day,
she wanted to balance the check
at one point in our marriage, so
I agreed.
every month she made sure
there was zero balance, to which
I asked her why.

what happened to the savings,
the rainy day money,

and she said, what are you worried
about, you'll just paint more
houses.

the nearest exit

i see the exit
sign at the theater.

a box of red letters.

bold and in caps.
EXIT
it says.

i look at the aisle,
the path
leading to the door out.

there's another
one on the other side
and one behind
the last row of seats.

i try to decide which one
is closest,
the easiest to get out
of.

it's how i think now.
when trouble
occurs. i refuse to stay
put and see
things out.

i quickly find the nearest
door
and flee.

the holiday party

we plan a party.

a holiday get together with
a few
close friends.

drinks and food.
music of course.

if it's warm we'll take it
out back
under the strings of Edison
lights

on the long white porch.

we'll put a tree up.
someone will spike the eggnog.

we'll toast the coming new year.
all the good,
all the blessings.

each other.
we'll look forward to the days
ahead,

the nights, too.

we'll leave the past alone,
now is where
we live, what we choose.

the gypsy life

it's the gypsy life for some.
never being in
a home that is really
a home.
there is nothing
that they truly own.
half in half out,
always looking at a map
of where to go
next.
they have no anchor.
no port,
no harbor, they
are in perpetual confusion
of
which road to take.
half their possessions
in boxes.
the other half, from
twenty years ago.
they are restless souls.
sleepless.
not wanting to stay,
not wanting to go.

tequila mockingbird

we stop in a faux Mexican
joint
in a strip mall along the coastal
highway.
tequila mockingbird
is its name.
clever.
but there is no one
serving drinks
with a name like scout,
or atticus, or del.
it's mary lou
and betty jean
in sombreros and daisy
duke shorts.
the food, if you can call
it that, is
all Americanized
south of the border
faire.
lots of cheese, heavy
on the salt
and hot sauce.
weak drinks, loaded with
ice, overflows
in your hand, made with
rail tequila that stiffens
your spine
and gives you a headache
before it goes down
the hatch.

the phone call

they found her horse
out near the far stretch of fence
that held back
the woods
in California, Maryland.

deep into the thick of weeds
and grass.

she hadn't rode him in years.
old
and nearly blind.

but she brushed him each day,
washed his back.
swatted the flies away
in the grey barn.

sugar and carrots fell
from her hand.

I remember how she cried on
the phone.
harder than when her father died.
harder
than when our love
ended.

fading memories

how pale
this memory has become,
almost washed away
beneath
not swift,
but slow moving clouds.

tomorrows
have arrived.

people talk too much
about nothing.
you can hardly meet them
in the eyes.
you want to think
on things, but the world
gets in the way,
demands
you pay attention to what
you don't care about.

you gaze anywhere,
but where they want you
to look.
they force words into
your ears. unwanted
thoughts into your mind.

they all have an answer.
but they have no clue.

how pale this memory
has become.
we live lives made out
of sand.
those who've never been
where you are,
will never understand.

a year of seasons

it takes a year of seasons
to
move on, to go forward.
a year of new
memories, new images and words.
new music.
it takes a river of time
to cross under
the bridge, the sky needs to
fill with clouds
and rain, rain hard,
before it clears.
it takes a year of seasons
to get well
again.
to shake your limbs,
your coat,
your shoes of where you've
been.

if you could read my mind

if you could read my
mind love,
what a tale my thoughts could
tell.
Gordon
sings it so well
as I drive to the lake
to begin my walk around.
so much
time, so much wasted time.
so it goes.
I walk.
I walk.
I visit my old friend.
the rough blue of water.
the trees
before me about to fold
their green
and find the yellows
and gold,
the reds,
the burning orange.
there are so many
songs yet to be sung,
stories of love
yet to be told.
I walk in quiet.
I walk alone.

staying fresh

things get old.

dogs. cats. dinner.
fish again?
the clothes we wear, our
old brown shoes.

us, the house, the car.
the conversation.

even love making can go stale
after a while.

it's hard to keep the world fresh
and new.

it takes imagination
and fun

to keep us in the groove.

a shopping spree, a trip,
maybe a bite
on the neck
when a kiss won't do.

her ups and downs

she used
to sleep hard and fast.

her travel kept her going.
flight to flight.

paris, rome, Dublin, Chicago
then home.

the ambien
knocked her out cold.
her low breathing, and slow
heart, often
had me reaching for the phone.

i placed a mirror over her
mouth,
unable to shake her out
of slumber,

but in the morning a new
pill would go
down with a slug of coffee,
and she'd be happy,
back to her normal
perky self.

up once more, no longer
down.

christmas girl

even now at this age she is
a Christmas girl.

her eyes are aglow.

she's ready to hang the lights,
the stockings,
to set out ornaments for
the tree.

it's early, the first frost
has not even appeared
and yet there she is

bringing out the boxes.
the ribbons and bows.

the music, the tinsel.
the wreathe. her list is made.

she's at the stove
looking at recipes

for cookies and cakes. treats
for those she loves, or anyone
who needs.

a peach

it's a good weekend. a peach.

too short, as always, but a fine
few days
of fun
and relaxation. R and R.

the sweetness of fall.
the trees and vines are full,
ripe with
crisp apples. violet grapes.
succulent peaches.

the fruit of our
lives.

plucked and savored.
a memory that will not
fade easily, it will survive.

treasures

we have treasures
in our life.
small boxes of gold.
there are good hearts out
there.
true and faithful souls.
friends who don't fail.
people who have your back,
who treat you kindly,
care if you are well.
one call and they are
there, it makes no difference
the passing of years.

train out of the city

we board the train
in bunches.
sardines in the silver can.
the yellow line
to the green to the blue.
we stand.
the car wobbles and sways,
speeds
up and slows down.
we hang on to one
another, keeping our
feet firm,
our grip strong,
hand in hand while
we roll down the tracks,
across the river,
through towns,
passed graveyards
and buildings. so much
we've never seen,
so much
we don't understand.

sunday night

I find frozen cookies
in the freezer
and eat them.
one by one, dipping
them into green tea,
just boiled and brought
down to the big couch
in front of the big tv.
I remember sunday nights
like this as a kid,
one last treat before
being sent off to bed.
Monday school looming
like a dark cloud, a storm
rising up ahead.

play ball

the ballpark is pristine
on this
gem of a day in September.
the grass a postcard green.
blue skies, soft breeze,
the sun high and warm
upon the shoulders of
those who anxiously
wait in their seats. it's been
a long season. red hats
are everywhere, each hand
with a cup, a bag, a bite.
where else would they like
to be? nowhere, as we
squeeze into our seats
and rise to sing the national
anthem.

nine pounds three ounces

what hurts, he says?

I show him my arm, my hand,
the cut. the bruise on my shoulder.

he shows me his knee.
swollen
like a soft ball.

then pulls a band aid off his nose.
pre cancerous, he says, proudly.

betty leans over and says, you
boys
are sissies, then pulls up
her blouse, pulls at the edge
of her yoga pants to show
us a scar.

caesarean, she says.
9 pounds, three ounces.

they disappear

they disappear.

come and go. like flowers.
like clouds.

people.

once real, now so easily
disposed.

friends, lovers, relatives.
down the river.

into the enormous ocean,
where we
all eventually go.

if you get this, come on over

i check out of my house
for a few days
and check into the Hilton down the street.

i need some room service
and a polite greeting from those at
the desk, the door,
the maid with her vacuum and clean
sheets.

i need a plate of eggs
and unlimited coffee. leave the pot.

i need a break.

the king sized bed. the enormous tv.
a potato and salad,
a steak
in the dining room.
with piano music and an ice
cold martini.

come over if you get this.

i need some cake

I need some cake.

a slice will do, with a cold glass
of milk.

tell me about your childhood.
the lack of.

the trauma of violence and abuse.
breaking glass.

cursing. broken bones.
sitting at the top of the stairs
at midnight
listening to the fight.

to the parents who couldn't get
a thing right.

I need some cake.
even now, so many years later.

a goodnight kiss

saying good night to someone
you love,

leaning across the bed, to touch,
then hug

is part of it.
a large part of it.

the kiss,
a sunset of a day in love.

a small thing. but it holds
us together.

it means so much.
the world can't get to us

from here. we're safe.

nearly impossible

the world is full of broken
promises.

broken windows. broken hearts.

hardly a day goes by
without finding a broken latch
or lock.

a broken dream,
a broken clock.

finding someone to fix things
and make them
right again is hard.

nearly impossible.

let's walk together

sometimes we need to feel
the earth
beneath our feet, shoeless,
and bare.

the wet dew of grass
as we gather mail at the gate.

the sand
of the sea.
the dirt of a road we're on,
between our toes.

it connects us.
the puddles of childhood
that we ran
through.

the hard floor, cold
concrete.
the stiffness of new carpet.

the warm wood of the porch
in summer.

the silk of sheets.

let's walk together and see
where we might go.

taking blood

my doctor is gentle
with the needle. she slips it
into a vein
so easily.

I hardly know she's draining
blood
from my arm.

she taps my chest,
listens to my heart, peers
into my
throat and ears.

she says, hmmm, every now
and then,
then writes something down.

she's a good doctor, always
with a smile,
tender
and concerned.

rarely is she down.

the hardest thing

I climb up
into the attic, where
I've
stored boxes over the past
fifteen years
and begin.

I have a flash light and a small
pillow to sit on.

one by one I go through
each stuffed box to slash and burn.

ribbons and bows, photos.
rings and cards.
letters. memories that only
bring pain.

there is little hesitation,
no pondering, no regret.

the past is the past.

letting go is the hardest, but
the healthiest thing.

and when I climb down,
I take out my new camera
to begin
all over again.

their dirty work

there are thieves among us.

robbers.
burglars.

safe crackers.

they slip in so easily
in the dead of night,
to take our money,
our jewels,
the possessions we've
accumulated
throughout our life.

our tender hearts.

they hardly make a sound
as they turn
the dial,
pry open a window
and
do their dirty work.

in the day they seem so nice.

when it cools down

after
a while, it's no longer about
the face,
the hair,
the legs or arms,
the shape or size of someone.
it's no longer about
making love.

real love
is different.

it's heart and soul.
conversation, trust and respect,
the mind.

once the boyish infatuation ends,
the real
begins.

when the heat dies, and things
cool down, then you
know.

then you know for sure,
if it's just for a season,

or for life.

we're still here

we planned a trip, the boys
and I, Jim Acs and Perry Hebert,
to California. it was 1974.
we had saved our money,
stuffed what clothes we had
into duffle bags, gassed up
and hit the road in Jim's 57 chevy.
i knew a girl there, a cousin
of a friend from high school.
she'd show us the ropes
of the left coast.
we drew a line on the map
from Maryland to Huntington Beach,
California.
we were young. strong. invincible.
long haired and fair skinned.
how hard would be to get there.
to the ocean, to be part
of it all, out of suburbia.
on the beach with beautiful
California girls. living the life
of surf and sun.
we had no job skills, a little
education, but not much else.
the three of us, together were
going to start a new life.
we were so young,
but the car broke down, ten miles
from home.
we're still here.

anonymous

i have no rings,
no watches that i wear,
no cross
around my neck.
no bling, no bracelet,
no pin,
no shiny thing to adorn
me.
i don't want to sparkle,
to be seen,
to be asked.
to be known.
i am happy leaving
as i came in,
quietly happy, anonymous
and alone.

the accident

ahead of us,
there was a horse in the road.
still alive.
his legs
moving, in an attempt to get up.
the cart
he pulled was turned over,
all its belongings were spread
in front of us.
blocks of ice. eggs, metal
cans of milk.
the car that hit them
was off the road, the driver
bleeding, holding his head,
the windshield
broken.
the police arrived and brought
the man to my
father's car, where they
placed him in the back seat.
el hospital, he said, over and
over again until my father agreed.
my brother and I climbed into
the front seat, while my
father drove.
the blood was everywhere.
we looked back at the man as
he closed eyes and crossed
himself, holding his head.
murmuring in his language.
his heavy breathing finally stopped
before we reached the hospital
on the outskirts of Barcelona.
whether he died, or lived,
we never knew.
all afternoon, my father quietly
washed out the car,
saying nothing about the accident,
until yesterday, fifty five
years later.

let's get out of the rain

in the rain
I find you outside the store.

in a doorway.
you are wet and crying.

I don't ask you why,
because lately
you're always crying.

I put my arm around
you
and say nothing.

it's what I do now to those
in pain.

I say nothing.

everything has already been
said.

instead I kiss your cheek
and tell you,

let's get out of the rain.

we invite into our lives

we invite into our lives
both
good and bad souls, and then
must
decide
who is to stay, who is to go.

do they embrace you,
make you a better person, do
you enjoy
them. is their influence one
of fear and anxiety,
or joy and trust.

are they truthful, do they have
compassion.
is the respect mutual.

some souls take us down into their
dark
hole of despair.

into the drama of their own lives,
that forever circle
downward.

chaos is their home, the deep
cold sea of where they live.

those cords must be cut. must be
part of
the process of letting go,
or drown with them.

everything you desire

like candles,
the stars light themselves

all at once.

infinite blessing are in reach.

no need to wish upon
one.

what you have is all you need.

let go of fear.

everything you desire
is already
here.

more than friends

each summer
has its end. a sad sweetness
to it.

like a different lover, it holds
you in another way.

I fall for autumn though.

the caress of leaves.
the cool
kiss of wind.

the promise of Christmas to come.
the pristine
confection
of snow.

us together, more than friends.

rowing towards shore

the moon is silver
against the water, as I move
slowly
across the bay,
digging my oars
deep into
the black water.
there is no sound but the gentle
slash
of oar,
of me pulling the wooden
boat
through the gauze
of memory and moonlight.
I am neither close
or far from shore.
I have a long ways to go.
but my arms
are strong, my lungs breathe
in the cold air
of November.
I will, in time, find
what I am looking for.
the moon is silver
against the water, it's
a lane of light
i will follow.

A Meditation

I need no one

I tell myself
after a day of meditation.

I am content
being alone.

I am attached to no thing.
no person.

I can fast for 40 days.

I find bliss in this silence.

I am buddha.
I am Gandhi.

I am Batman.

day two.

I am completely out of my
mind,
starved for affection

and hungry.

all the pretty girls

after showing me
the pristine new car
in his garage,
unwrapping the cloth of
the Aston Martin,
he opens his mouth
to show me the dental work that he's
going to have
in an hour.

then shifts his hands to his
stomach where he curls
his shirt against the fleshy
lobes
of a hernia.
that's next week, he says,
then rolls up
his pant leg
to show me his swollen knee.
November for that,
he says,
shaking his head.

don't even ask me about my
heart.
i'm falling apart. don't
get old.
you might not believe it
now, he says, but I used
to get all the pretty girls.
he smiles, winks,
then grimaces
as he gets into his car,
he revs the engine, then
drives away.

i wake up

I wake up in a strange house.

a bed not my own.
whose lamp is that, whose
books are on the nightstand.

I am wearing someone else's clothes.

there is a dog on the bed,
a woman
who is not my wife.

I hear the voices of children
in the other room.

I get up and go to the mirror.
I am not who I thought
I was.

I don't recognize myself.

perhaps the other life was
a dream,
and this, this life is real.

the woman wakes up and says,
sweetheart,
is something wrong?

I look at her, wondering who
she is, trying to remember
how I got here.

come back to bed, she says,
opening her arms. it's early.
too early to get up.

so I do.

two double A batteries

I see that the clock
on the far
wall,
the battery powered clock,
the mid
century thing with wooden
spikes
and a silver disc
at the center has stopped.

it's been three ten for five
hours now.

I got nearly two years out
of those batteries.

a lot of time has passed
since I hung it on the wall
next to the black and white
photo of the flat iron building
in new York city.

enormous changes have occurred.

I pop in two more batteries.

let's see what lies ahead now
as the second hand begins
to sweep forward.

between 8 and 2

they give you a window.

the repair man,
the plumber, the cable guy,
the delivery man,
the pick up guy,

what kind of a world
are we living in
when
we allow a five hour window
for anyone
to do anything.

just tell me when you'll be
here,
give or take
fifteen minutes
and i'll be there.

why is this so hard?

what's the problem?

waiting at the station

the milk
of this moon is upon me
as i sit
on the porch and examine my life.

the trees sway
with a gentle wind.

i hear the train blow it's whistle
in the distance.
three times.

even now, at this late hour
people are on the move, going
places.

going to be with loved ones.

i'm still at the station, waiting
once more for
my train to arrive.

bake me a loaf

i was in Maryland
the other day and started thinking about
zucchini bread.

warm, right out of the oven with a thin
coat of icing.

i go way back with zucchini bread.
good memories.

i wish i had a bag of it right now, as
i sit here
thinking about it.

i could eat a whole loaf, if you baked
me one.

grow through it

if you live long enough,
a lot of crazy stuff is going to happen
to you.

you'll meet a lot wacked out people,
including your own family.

trouble comes with the territory
of living.

money, relationships, jobs.
neighbors. pets.

if you're breathing, you're in for
a long day, most of the time.

traffic. aging. disappointment.

mostly annoying, petty stuff, but big
stuff too, divorce and death
comes to mind.

but you keep going. you keep getting
up and plowing through the day.

you either grow through it, or stay
stuck in the mire and the swamp
of it all.

but if you do make it through, you
do find a way to put the pieces together
and find love and joy,
contentment in your life. sweet.

don't look back, and stay away from
the losers you've left behind.

forward. grow through it.

the whole cake mistake

each year that goes by, I look
back and think,
good lord I was a knucklehead
last year,
and the year before that.

I can imagine being ninety
and looking back at eighty nine
and thinking, jesus mary and
joseph, what a fool I was
back then.

how silly and immature
I was, the things I did,
the stupid things I said.
it's embarrassing how i behaved.

each year a new lesson.
a whipping of sorts, a humbling
journey, for sure.

and so what was last year's lesson?

don't make one person
your whole cake. that's it.

queen Jane

my dear friend,
queen jane, the drama queen,
is up
in arms
over something. I hear her scream,
plates break,
dishes fly. I see her
across the courtyard
yelling
at her man.
she's only happy, when
she's unhappy.
she's hard to understand.
she likes her wine.
her phone.
her lipstick and big hair.
she's stuck
in the eighties, lost
in big shoulders
and mtv glam.
but she's my dear friend
who comes over for a cup
of sugar
in her satin pink robe,
teasing
the boys
down at the pool with
her leopard print suit,
and stiletto shoes.
queen jane is a piece of work.
blanche dubois
and betty davis, all rolled
into one,
the queen bee
of the apartment court.

the art prison

they've turned the prison
into an art house.

women and children,
men
with canvasses and brushes
go in
to show their work.

to brush long strokes turning
white into
trees and
faces. cats and dogs.

it was a notorious place
for decades.
the worst of the worst
of crimes
were committed by its
inhabitants.

murder, rape. robbery.

but now there is no guard
in the watchtower,
no
barbed wired
on the fence. no cell locked.

no rifles pointed down
preventing escape.

daisies are painted where
blood once ran.

flowers bloom in the yard,
where shivs
were sharpened,
were deals went down.

pottery spins in the work house.
yarn,
and sketches.
there's singing too.

it's kumbaya in the big house.

not a single shriek is heard
anymore.

go slow, i tell her

drink this i tell her.

but go slow.
think tantric drinking.
there's rum in there.
it's sweet too.

i advise only one or two,

with three
you'll be swinging
from the chandelier
and throwing off your
clothes and shoes.

fiddle de dee, she says.
i know what i'm doing,
i'm a big girl,
so down it goes,
one after the other,
and by midnight she's in
the bathroom,
hugging the porcelain
wheel.

all those wasted words

i used to write long
letters, trying to right the ship
i was on
as it sank
into a blue sea.

tearful letters, letters of remorse,
letters of angst
and pain,
and sorrow.
my fingers knew no end to what
what was in my heart.

the ache was poetic and dark,
it was a strange period of time
back then.

thinking it was the loss of love,
but having nothing to
do with such a thing.

i have burned everything i ever
wrote,
and vowed to never be in such
a horrid state, so lost
again with such a sick individual.

new ink will not go to waste
anymore.

routine

I bend to the familiar,
the routine.
I know how the day goes,
before it goes.
one foot before the other.
what I will eat,
or drink, what clothes
i'll wear.
I will drive to work,
in silence, and return
home when enough is done.
I bend to the familiar.
the structure of what
I've created, often
unwilling to change, or
have anything come undone.

making love under a full moon

the moon casts its milky
light upon
us as we lie beside one
another, our
hearts still
racing after making love.
we say nothing.
there is nothing to be said.
her hand is
upon my chest, my hand
on her knee.
we listen to each other breathe.
there is sadness, a sigh
of grief that it's over
once more, the thought
is tragic,
that one of us may leave.

she was busy

I don't remember my mother
worrying
about being happy.
about finding out who she really
was deep inside.

I don't think she ever asked herself,
who am I, what's my purpose in life?

she just wanted to pay
the electric bill and feed her
seven kids.
put clothes on their back,
shoes on their feet.

there was always another heavy
wet load of clothes that she had
to hang on the line out back.

she never concerned herself much
with fashion,
she was too busy worrying about where
the next loaf of bread
and gallon of milk was
coming from.

I never saw her reading a self
help book,
or going to therapy,
or meditating, or agonizing
about her looks,
staring into the mirror,
upset
if she gained two pounds,
or there was a strand of
grey in her hair.

she was too busy for all the hippy
bullshit that was going on too.

sleep was her only break in life,
until the phone rang,
or a baby started crying.
or someone needed to find their
gloves, or shoes, or keys.

the wedding gown

i remember her white wedding
dress
sealed in a plastic
bubble
hanging in the closet.
that must of cost a fortune
her uncle Al said

as he stuffed another shrimp
into his mouth.
i tried to imagine what she
was saving it for.
do men save their tuxes,
their shoes
and bow ties that they
were married in?

so the marriage ends,
who didn't see that coming?
but she still has the dress
hanging in the closet.
a dress not unlike
Glinda's the good witch
of the north.

one day of good memories,
a nice cake,
and lots of shrimp,
a band playing proud mary,
and
the rest of the six month
marriage a train wreck
with a boat load of regrets.

the wonderful house

at the new showing,
the floors gleam, the counters
are wiped
clean.
the wall are painted a
pleasant white,
the inside of the house
has everything
in place.
everything is right, but
out the window
is a swing set left behind.
the rusted chain
and seat swinging in
the fall rain.
what child found glee
out there, what child went
down
the bent dull slide.
what years were good
before the parents found
each other out,
separating, then divorcing
selling what was once
and still is a wonderful
house.

drive through religion

I see over at the church
the new drive through
arrangement.
the priest is out there
with a long black hose
hooked up
to a tank of holy water,
spraying the cars down.
he has a megaphone
and says what needs to be said
as the cars
ride through,
the passengers crossing themselves,
repenting
taking the communion wafers
as a nun in earth shoes hands
them through the windows.
it's quick and easy. no fuss
no muss.
in and out, then off to breakfast
at Dennys.
i'm not sure if the Vatican
knows about this, but
hey, they seem to adjust
to whatever the current
times are.

the unwasting of time

i get into the habit of
daily
meditation.

sitting quietly.
breathing. observing my breath
as it comes
and goes gently
from mouth to throat to chest,
then out.

within a few minutes my
mind stops wandering,
stops thinking about ice
cream
and cake.
women and work.
all problems are equally
erased.

the relentless brain, slows
and actually clears itself.
and it's just me.

clarity arrives.

there is no worry, no past to
ruminate over, no future to ponder
aimlessly.

you realize how much energy and time
has been wasted on nothing.


you're free.

when it comes back around

there is no need
to take
revenge, to seek justice
for the harm
others have done to you.
no need to sharpen
your sword and go under
attack.
rest and be assured,
in time,
it will all come back on
them.
all the deceit and lying
will
eventually do them in.
it's not your duty, or call
to seek
revenge.
life and the karma
will do what needs to be
done.

she's got game

I pick her up for the ball game
at the stadium along the river.

she's wearing her jersey and cap.
a glove on one hand.

smacking gum.

high top chuck taylors and
knee high socks.

what the hell, I say to her.
Halloween is a month away.

she dabs some black under
each eye.

i'm ready, she says, let's go.
she slams her fist into her glove
and gets all steely eyed.

swing batter swing
she screams when we arrive.

she starts harassing the players,
talking about their mommas
and their lack of manhood.

it's a long day at the park.

beer, hot dogs, peanuts.
at some point she even
snags a foul ball away from a kid
in a wheelchair.

I had no idea that she had this
in her.

the new girl

my buddy jake the snake
finds
love at the shelter. her
name is helen.
after 45 days in, he stumbles
upon a new resident
who was uncuffed
and let in.
she's gone through rehab
for heroin
and cocaine, and has come
out the other side,
she pees into a cup
each morning to show she's
clean.
she did burglary for awhile.
small time.
jimmying locks
on the sliding doors
of apartments.
all to pay for her addiction.
she's in the women's
wing of
the facility. she smokes,
he smokes.
they talk, they go to
a movie.
they hold hands on the balcony
overlooking
the highway,
staring out into the distance.
they watch the sun set
and talk about
drinking. they
talk about an apartment.
a car. the money they both
get from disability,
food stamps.
the future is so far away.
but they have each
other, for now.

the performance under water

I hear her singing in the shower.

she has sweet voice.
a lyrical way with words as the water
pours upon her.

I see the steam slip out from
under the door.
I stand in the hall and listen.

such sounds I've never heard.

she smiles when she comes out,
soaked, hair wet, a towel
wrapped around her.

gleaming.

she's happy and so am i.

on the open hill

she lies down
in a bed of flowers, poppies
bright
on a field.
she puts her head upon my lap.
we watch
the sky
move against the sun.
there is all day to do this.
no need to speak,
or to wonder what may
or may not
come.

the hidden sin

when something
stays hidden, safe from
other's eyes,
when we know deep inside
it's wrong,

there is either
shame or
guilt or both
involved.

we haven't traveled
far from the garden
of Eden, where sin
has
clothed us all.

man outside the window

i see a man outside
my house, late at night.

he's wearing a long coat.

he's staring towards me.
i wave.
he puts a hand up.

he looks like someone i know.
or used to know.

he's very still. quiet.
he's wearing sunglasses and a hat.

holding an umbrella at his side.

i watch him for a while, then go
back to what i was
doing.

which was nothing.

hazel, where are you?

I stretch like a cat in
the morning sun.

is it Friday yet?

I yell down to hazel to put
the coffee on.

she's not there.
damn her.

I pay her so much and for what?

my psychiatrist tells me to get over
her.

my imagination runs wild sometimes.

but I love the idea of hazel.
not the television hazel. but a hazel
from Norway or Sweden.

very tall and demur. she doesn't even
have to speak English.

we'll figure it out.

if she can make coffee, that's a plus.

get well

she has my back.

I have hers. there is comfort in
being together.

no worries, no cares. just the simple
quiet
of being with one another.
no drama.
no arguing. no discussion
of what was.
there is trust.

open communication
as we embrace the now.

love is like that.
simple and sweet.
you get past the rough patches
and
get well.

things have changed

how quickly things change.
the houses go up,
a building that wasn't there yesterday
is now
ten stories high.
the roads are different than
they were
a week ago.
we look at one another and ask,
where are we.
new stores, new restaurants.
boutiques
and shops with strange names.
even the people look different.
where do we park?
our town is not the same
after just a week away
on vacation.

crab house

it's a restaurant on
the main drag of town.
picnic tables covered in newspapers.
liters of vinegar,
ketchup, salt and pepper,
old bay,
trays of crabs, steamed
and hard in their red shells,
coming out from
the floppy doored kitchen
by the dozens.
it's a loud place.
everyone seems to be yelling.
the music. the large groups
of people, sunburned and
almost out of money on this
sunday night, heading home
on Monday.
the frenzy of food is
frightening. everything fried,
and hot. the waiters tired,
dragging in their shorts
and sweaty tops.
we shrug and say, okay. let's
eat. there has to be something
on the menu we like.
drinking helps.

the light and dark

we make
mistakes. missteps.
we do
things we regret.
some days
we trip and fall.
we say things
we'd like to take back.
but we can't.
we don't forget.
it's part of us. who
we are
in the deeper regions.
there is a light
and dark
side to us all.

pay it back

the guy in line
behind me, has a cart full of hamburger
meat
and buns.
hot dogs. mustard, relish.
onions.
I see him counting his change,
his dirty fives
and ones.
he's covered in twigs and leaves,
as if he'd been sleeping in
the woods.
he swears to himself, mumbles
beneath his breath.
recounting his handful
of money. nervously
he pulls out all his pockets
and checks his shoes.
it's obvious that he isn't going
to have enough, so
before I leave
with my bags, I reach back and hand
him a twenty.
what? he says. really?
yup, I tell him.
it's fine. put it to good use.

willing to change

after a hard day on the job
it's a nice nap
after a freezing cold shower.

I hardly moved
beneath the cool sheets
as I fell into a deep slumber
full of dreams.

I wake up refreshed ready to
start the next
third portion of the day.

it's good to have a routine,
but with some flexibility of course,
I mean if you
were here,
it might be different.

i'm willing to change.

the whipped cream aisle

I roll the cart through the fruit
and vegetable section
of the grocery store.

I stare at the oranges. I don't think
I've bought an orange
in five years.

or a pear, or pineapple, maybe never.

but I like to look at the colors
and how everything is
so neatly stacked

in rows, in pyramids. I like how
the apples
shine, the grapes glow under
the fluorescent lights.

so many bananas, where do they all
come from.
who picked them?

there are the peaches, as fuzzy as
the first one I remembered
eating as a child.
biting into its sweet slush
as the skin tickled my lips
and tongue.

I circle the melons. the lopes.
the berries one more time before
moving on and taking a small basket
of strawberries.

I head to the whipped cream aisle,
I think the can she bought me
once for a Saturday night, may
be dried up now.

the toaster oven gift

I remember the dairy queen
in Cambridge.
halfway to O.C.,
we stopped there once in 1975,
for a cone.
one for her,
one for me.
I had chocolate, she had vanilla.
we were on our honeymoon.
fresh out of high school.
she was the love of my life
for about
six months,
the first of a dozen
soul mates
yet to come,
before she walked home to her
mother's house
with one suitcase
and a toaster oven.

coffee tea or me

as crazy as my friend was,

Debbie the flight attendant,
she was fun.

smart as a whip, well read,
intuitive. nothing ever got
by her.

she was always three steps ahead
of me,
she had the upper hand,
the upper leg.
the upper everything on me.

as sweet and charming as she was,
she was as equally untruthful.

with nary a wink, she'd lie
like a rug
about anything and everything,
she always had something to hide.

but I didn't care.

she knew I knew. so that made
it interesting.

it was never going to go anywhere
to begin with,
because of all the other
men in her life, and all the other
women in mine.

but when we were together,
we were both all there. all in
for a three day layover.

I can still see her at the airport,
luggage at her side,
in uniform, red lipstick on,
stockings and heels,
with a sly cat ate the canary
grin.

even near death, shaved bald
and bone thin, she smiled
and winked
for the camera. she sat there
in her wheel chair,
half of what she was,
and promised that she'd see
me once again.

love yourself

yo, he says.
my buddy at the ball court,
my man. you got your mojo
back,
don't you?
I see that sparkle in your eye
again.
you're hitting your shots.
shoulders back,
head straight.
that last time I saw you
things were dark,
you were bleak, broken,
but not now,
I feel it brother. glad for
you.
the light's back on.
took a while didn't it.
women will do that us,
won't they. goddamn them.
can't live with em,
can't live without em.
but hey. don't lose it again.
be strong.
be wise. be yourself
no matter what.
love yourself first and
the rest will follow.
now let's play ball.

the grey man

when he got out of prison
he got
a job mopping hallways in
an apartment building
in crystal city.
his uniform was grey.
his face
greyer.
he was sick, you could see
that.
he'd been in jail for a long
time.
too long.
it changed him. took his
life away.
but he mopped, he waxed, he
buffed those floors
to a high shine.
he almost smiled
at them, squinting down the long
corridor that led
past the beauty shop,
to the pool.
then he was gone. no explanation.
no goodbyes.
it was time. no need to
overstay.

she had muscle

she had muscle,
my mother. she used to flex her
arm
and we'd feel
the bulge in her bicep.

she was rosie the riveter,
mother Theresa
Florence nightingale
and at times jayne Mansfield
all wrapped up
into one.

seven kids will make confusion.
but she had
muscle.

from cleaning. hanging clothes
on the line,
dishes,
diapers,
cooking.

she was tough and weak.
she could cry at the drop of a hat.
or laugh
at the littlest
thing. she couldn't tell a
joke to save her life,
but she was funny.

she was full of herself, for better
or worse, from
the depths of despair
to the joys of seeing her children,
on occasions, get life right.

i'd prefer the kiss

I make a run to the store.

a short hop. no list. just a gut
feeling
of needing something
sweet.

or salty, sort of like a kiss.

I stare at my phone.
no.

not that, I scroll. yes. this.

it's either, chocolate, or chips.

though I would prefer
the kiss.

kitchen dancing

she says let's go dancing.

sure I tell her.
i'm rusty, but ready.

she spins around like a top
in her little back dress
and heels.

I catch her before she falls.

oh my, she says. I have a case
of the vapors. I think I had one
too many glasses of vino.

maybe we need to practice some more,
I tell her, clearing out the kitchen
to give us more room.

I turn up the music, put the party
lights on,
and away we go.