my left foot

my left foot starts shaking around
a song by al green comes on the radio.
al green.
let's stay together.
I look at my foot and smile.
hey.
what's up, I ask my foot.
it keeps going,
keeping the beat, suddenly my
mouth begins to move
and i'm singing the song.
my hips are moving,
my head begins to dip
and swing side to side.
i'm all over the room.
let's stay together.
i'm suddenly al green, holding
up a water bottle for a mike
and singing to the crowd
to their ooohs and ahhhhs.

there by the grace of God

each corner on the main
roads
of the neighborhood
there's a man
or woman standing or
sitting there with a bucket
and a sign.
sometimes i give, sometimes
i don't.
it's a hard life, i realize.
but most are well
dressed, clean,
heavy with shelter food,
tanned from being outdoors
all day.
i can't imagine
being out there, with life
having reached that
point
of hard luck
and despair,
but one never knows, there
by the grace of God
goes all of us with
a sign a bucket
and a chair at the side of
some road.

bowl on the porch

i put a bowl of candy
on the porch
and let the kids go at it.
taking
as much as they can.
bite sized bars, gum,
the usual sugary
sweets you buy
at every store.
the boys take way more than
their share,
while the girls, polite and demure,
take one,
or two, then go to next
house.
in ten minutes it's all gone.
that was easy.

the last laugh

we put a message
in a bottle and tossed it out
into the sea
after she died.
each writing a personal
note to the deceased.
the waves
brought the bottle back in.
we tried again.
no luck.
I swam out up to my neck
and heaved it
from there.
again, the tide washed
it ashore.
so we gave up. she had
the last laugh
but would have loved
the effort and sentiment.

the past is present

why write about the past
she asks
move on
from that, delete, dispose
erase
what lay behind
you.
but no.
bring it.
carry it until your finished
with what it was
then drop it
and go forward. these are things
we carry.
for better or for worse,
in sickness
and in health,
love, hearts, souls,
the people
we have known.

this is fine for now

I remember a night,
my friends and I after carousing the bars
of Georgetown,
drinking,
dancing, chasing the young
girls
from Marymount,
how we found a diner
on the side of the road.
it was snowing,
we were tired, but thirsty still,
hungry,
defeating the wind,
the cold
in our winter clothes,
Christmas scarves around
our necks.
we found a booth and ordered
eggs and toast,
bacon. juice and coffee,
a thin steak, waffles.
we were lucky.
young still in our twenties.
just out of the gate.
I remember looking
out the window
at the snow, how it gathered
so pristine and white
upon the road.
my friends full of laughter,
the wonder of it all.
I could stay here forever,
I thought,
right here.
who needs what's next.
this is good. this is fine
for now.

don't write

don't write to be loved,
or for money or fame.
don't write
if it's too hard, if the words
don't come
as you hunch over
the keyboard, stop
if you can't think of a thing
that's boiling out
of you.
don't write
to impress, to be read,
to be hailed as
some sort of creative
genius.
throw down the pen if it's
too difficult,
too shallow
and not from the heart.
move on, move on to other
things if you can't find
the words
or the time, or you're too
busy
to even start.
don't write, don't fool
yourself
and waste your time.
it's not for you.
the bookstores yawn with
your kind of writing.
the shelves sag with defeat.
don't write if it's not
like beams of light
emanating from you soul.
don't write.

halloween politics

i buy three bags of candy
for the onslaught of children soon
to come
knocking at the door.
little vampires.
walking pumpkins, devils
and princesses,
goblins and ghosts.
little children dressed
as the president
with big yellow hair and
a mouth that won't
stop flapping,
the scariest costume of all.

before dinner chores

after a grueling hard
physical week of work,
i'd take a trip over the bridge
to visit my mother.
finally saying yes to
the innumerable requests for
dinner. immediately she'd hand
me a list
of chores
there were leaves to rake
before hand,
things to move
about the house,
the king mattress down into
the cellar.
oh and could you
carry in those bags of groceries,
and that new
water heater.
she'd hand me a broom,
the leash to her dog.
give me a dust mop and a
bottle of windex.
I can't reach that window,
the ladder is out back.
oh, and the room needs painting.
and when you're done with
those things,
the oven needs cleaning.
i'd look over at her husband,
sleeping on the couch,
a dead cigar in his mouth
and wonder what's up with that.

back into the wild

back into the sea you go,
back into
the wild.
tossed under the bus
and over
the side
of a relationship gone
south.
the water is cold, dark,
the woods
deep and endless.
the profiles are pieces
of chocolate,
not all with creamy
fillings to your liking.
there is catch and release,
bite and spit out.
it's a wacky
world we're living in.
but what are the options,
mars,
venus, both too far
away.
so it's small talk,
and calamari.
drinks and pats on the back,
luke warm
hand shakes,
kisses on the cheek.
it's a nightmare,
but I guess i'm back.

the hopscotch kids

the kid
next door draws a bunch
of squares
on the sidewalk
with a stick of white chalk,
then gets a game of hopscotch
going
with a bunch of her
little buddies.
i'm sitting on the porch
with a beer
and a book,
stretching my legs out,
letting the sun
careen off my face.
the dad is out there with
them, the mom too,
holding the next baby
in her arms. they
keep the game
under control,
dampening the screaming,
keeping score.
it's a wonderful thing
to be a kid
playing hopscotch
and not worrying about
tomorrow.
a truly glorious thing.

splendid isolation

I try not to join any clubs,
groups,
meet ups,
gatherings of those
with similar interests.
no group therapy, or dance classes,
or spin classes,
or running groups.
I don't want to sing in
a choir,
or go to a bible study,
or make pancakes
on sunday morning with
the men's group.
or attend a writing class
and have
things analyzed
and torn to shreds.
I actually try to stay away from
most of my family.
or the family of others who
get under my skin.
it's not a good trend, what i'm
doing here.
but at this age I truly
don't give a damn.
I've paid my dues doing all
the things I don't
want to do.
I just can't do small talk
anymore with a bunch
of fools.
spare me. and trust me, I know
it's not cool.

waiting on my number

floundering in my late teens,
with long hair, and a solid
three years of community
college under my belt,
I pondered
the idea
of joining the navy

so that I wouldn't get drafted
into the army
and have to go to Vietnam
and kill be people.

I had nothing against them
yellow men, as Cassius Clay
once said.

the bell bottoms and snappy
white hats
somehow appealed to me.

join the navy, see the world.

being on a ship for months
on end
with a bunch of animal men,
well,
that didn't sit well with my
tender sensibilities.

no windows. are we there yet?

would I have to
get a tattoo
on my arm, saying mom,
or death, or
a skull and cross bones
with angel wings?

would I have to smoke and drink
and do whatever it is
that sailors do?

going wild on liberty looking
for dames
in the dockside bars.

I didn't see a future in the navy,
so I waited
with my fingers crossed
on the draft.

hoping that the war would end
before my number was called.

got lucky with that.

falling in love once more

you dive into a hardback copy
of Charles Bukowski.

The Essential Bukowski.

it's poetry with a hammer
and
nine inch nails
driven into brick and board.

power saws and shovels
cut and bury the world in hard
struck letters
on his manual typewriter.

a lot of blood, blisters,
hard boiled
sentiments
and words.

and then you come across
a poem
called 'bluebird'

slipped into the mix
of drunkenness
and whores,
racetracks and bad luck,

and you fall madly in
love
with poetry once more.

the girls in their summer dresses

i go visit my boy jake,

at the local ICU
facility.

his head is wrapped like a turban
in white gauze.

they've cut him open to stop the bleeding.

his eye is black.
he's grey and brown, bruised,
his leathery skin
is drawn
tight and loose at the same time,

he's immobile, tethered
to the humming machines,

but he's still here.

he laughs when i come in.
i guess you're not working today
i tell him.

no, he says, maybe tomorrow.

the nurse spoons some apple sauce
into his mouth,
then the juice.

i tell him about the job. i can see
in his eyes
that he wants to be out there,
brush in hand.

on a ladder, smoking, cursing,
whistling at girls
walking by in

their summer dresses.

gourmet shopping spree

i take a small loan out

to go shopping at the big new grocery
store down the street,

where everything is fresh, organic
and
wonderful.

so much green to behold,
cabbages were hugged as they came up out of
the ground.

salmon were read to every night
before going to sleep,
and the chickens all
had names like binky and Susie,
jimmy and spike.

the clerks are perky and smart.
each aisle has a bench so that you can sit
and read the labels.
study the ingredients.

how much sugar, how much salt.

fresh fish, thank god, no one wants
old fish,

same goes for meat, or freshly baked
bread.

no, on second thought give me the stale
loaf, i kid the kid in his
starched green apron.

and yes, i did find everything i was looking for,
if i didn't, why
would i be in line?

there will be more

I grab the strap of the train,
riding
through this tunnel, it's gonna
be a bumpy
ride the conductor
says over the garbled
speaker, sounding much like
betty davis
when she hit her crazy
woman stride.
a job falls apart, you get
a dear john letter
in the mail.
someone wants a refund
for work undone.
there's a wet spot on
the ceiling.
it seems, as always, that
many things, good or bad,
happen at once.
I grab the strap and hold on.
I've been around this bend
before, and expect before
it's all over that times
like this, with rain and wind,
defeat and sorrow, well,
there will be more.

cat lady

lonely for love,
she started with one cat,
but one soon became two, it seemed
only kind
and natural to give
the one a friend to spend
the day with,
the night time too.
soon, though, three cats
were there,
then four, and when the fourth
had kittens,
well there was little
to be done,
but tell no one, and shut
the door.

almost a moon

it's almost a moon.

a piece missing. such is the sky
at night.
the spin of the earth,

the sun too.
all things are not always aligned
the way
you want them to be.

it's almost a moon.
look up.
see.

stay calm, breathe

how do we handle
traffic,
the long line, the loss
of power,
the middle seats in
life.
the small inconveniences
like rain
when you wanted sun,
a broken lace,
a loose thread,
someone forgetting your
name,
taking your space,
wrongly thinking that you
are to blame.
how do we overcome these slights?
we don't,
we exhale and move on
without a thought
to what they may or may
not mean.
move on, stay calm.
breathe.

the father son talk

i call my father for advice
in the love department,
which is a crazy idea to start
with, knowing his track record.
he quickly changes the subject
to baseball though, saving us
an awkward and pointless
conversation. we talk best when
nothing really gets said.
the weather, sports, his garden.
the price of milk, bread and eggs.
gas is two thirty nine for regular
he tells me before hanging up.
how's it up where you live?

practice

I put a turkey in the oven.

a small bird.
throw some potatoes into a pot
of boiling water.

corn.
beans.
sprouts.

gravy of course and stuffing.
cranberries.

bread. red wine. sparkling water.

it's a practice run for the holiday.
need to get it right
this time.

practice makes perfect.

make it cold

anxious
for cold weather. I stack
the cords
of wood for the fireplace
near the door.

the chill is late in arriving.
i'm ready though
to be snowed in.

for a deep freeze. a killing
frost.

i'm ready for the ice
to cover the roads.
ready to bundle up and let

all that's behind me sink in.
i'm ready for comfort food,
for the furnace,
the hot burn of the fireplace.

the hot drinks.
the blankets pulled tight.

bring it on, father winter.
bring it on,
make it snow. cover the earth.
cover it whole.

make it cold.
then start life in april
all over again.

down shirley highway

we would dive for copper
pennies
in the deep end of the airman's pool
on base
at Bolling,
down Shirley Highway, or
South Capitol street,
depending on how brave we were
on our bikes,
weather and parents
permitting.
we had our military id's,
and a pocket full
of change for sodas
and hot dogs
at the concession stand.
we were not brave boys
or girls who
who traveled those roads
in southeast dc, but
we were young and strong,
innocent and naïve.
we would dive for pennies
in the clean blue water
of the pool.
lined in black, the ropes
for those swimming
doing laps.
down we would go off the side,
like skinny white
tadpoles,
diving, diving to the bottom
where the steel drain was,
our eyes blurred with chlorine,
red and stinging,
our ears popping from
the pressure.
we were tanned and burned,
lean. we through ourselves
into
cannonballs off the low dive,
the music over the loudspeaker,
sixties pop, the smell of coconut
butter,
the girls in modest bikinis,
the lifeguard with his whistle
keeping us between
the lines.
life was wonderful,
and it felt like it would
never end,
it seems now like a distant
impossible dream.

different woods

i go for a walk into the woods.

no, not those woods with the infamous
heart carved in the tree
woods.

where my ex and her married boyfriend
would rendezvous
and hold hands like
children
hiding from everyone.

no not those woods. God no.
but a different forest, a different path,
with a different stream
beside it.

i know that the weather will change
soon, and that
the leaves
will eventually give
way.

so today is as good as any to stroll
through
the woods,

quiet and calm.
a peaceful walk on
this drama free day.

reversible belts

I don't trust
anything reversible.

belts, or coats, hats,
gloves.

any type of clothing.
don't tell me I can wear
it inside out
and it's okay.

even
phone calls, when they
reverse the charges.

if you don't have a few quarters,
just write me a letter.

something just doesn't seem
right.

seem kosher.

just make it one way and leave
it at that.

I don't want a brown
and black belt
in one.

give me one or the other.

the lie detector machine

I make a trip down to the old
fbi
building to pick up a few things
that they're throwing away
or selling at dirt cheap
prices.

I have my eye on an old fashioned
lie detector,
the kind with the arm cuff
and the wiggly lines
that
zig zag all over the place
on the scrolling sheets
of paper.

I wished i'd had one of those
a few
years ago,
or thirty years ago, as a
matter of fact.

there's a dozen women
I've dated
or had relationships with
that I would have loved to hook
them up to the machine.

oh, the mistakes I wouldn't
have made.
a few simple questions would
have saved me a lot
of money, heart ache,
jewelry and
flowers, not to mention
scratches down the side of my car.

although the last relationship
would have blown the machine
up and made it catch fire.
you couldn't get the truth
out of her even with her hand
on a bible.
she was allergic to the truth.
still is.

let's get this work day started, yo

at some point i'll get to work.

feeling lazy.

lethargic. maybe this double espresso
will help.

I look into my phone.
nothing.

I got nothing. no sweet good mornings.
I love you,
I miss you can't wait to kiss
you.

boy I miss affection.
if my libido ever settles down,
maybe life would be easier.

how much longer can I have the desire
of an eighteen year old?

I think about getting a dog.

then take a cold shower and shake
that idea out of my head.

pants, shirt, socks and shoes.
stuff a few dollars
into my pocket for lunch.

the coffee and cold shower
seem to be working.

off we go.

i hate to complain, but

I get in line at the complaint
department.

the line wraps around the building.

my list of grievances is short,
but strong.

I look over the shoulder of the
woman in front of me.

her list is longer.
I read it quietly while
she continues to write.

illness. betrayal. children,
husbands,
a litany of lies.
sore feet, headaches,
kidney stones,
money issues. adultery,
flat tires, pink eye.

it goes on and on.
I look down at my list
and realize that my life isn't
so bad after all.

I crumble up my little piece
of paper
and toss it in the can.

I feel better already.

stolen

if you leave things
lying around, they may get taken,
stolen,
lifted.

your wallet, your keys,
you car,
left running.

a half a sandwich on the table,
the dog
comes along
and takes it.

there is part of this world
without
a conscience.

they take what they want
without guilt or remorse,
regret.

if you make yourself vulnerable,
open your heart,
the door to your soul,
that too is gone,

taken like a thief in the night.

they just move on, and take more
when no one is looking

and the coast is clear.

the giant rubber eraser

i'd like to take a giant
rubber
eraser
and erase parts of my life away.

yes, I know, childish, foolish,
a ridiculous notion, but

oh the pleasure it would bring
to my psyche
to carve
out a half a dozen knuckle headed
mistakes I've made.

I'd take that eraser and scrub
the words out of my mouth,
actions, behavior,
desires,
crazy notions of love, or anger,
most of the dumb
things I've every had the audacity
to say.

it would have to be a very large
eraser,
so I might need help with it.

come on over, will make it a day.

planning ahead

I make a plan
for the next day. it's not
something I ordinarily do,
but I need to get more organized.

I plan on stopping by the ice
cream store
on the way home from work
tomorrow
and getting a double scoop
of rocky road and mint chip

ice cream on a sugar cone.
I've written this plan out
on a note card.
three by five, blue.
my favorite color.

I've set the card beside my keys
so that I won't forget it
in the morning.

I go to sleep more soundly
now.
my plans for tomorrow all
set
and written in ink.

solitary confinement

I remember those long nights in prison.

on my stiff bed, the thin cold mattress
without a sheet,
a hard sand bag
like pillow for my head.

I remember the stripes of
the iron bars, their shadows
long in the corridor.

the sirens, the beams of searchlights,
the rattle of cans
and the whimpers of those
in the cells beside me.

how we whispered into the night
what we'd do when we got out.

the meals we'd eat, the drinks
we'd pour, the places we'd travel,
the women we'd love.

I remember looking up at the ceiling,
listening to her breathe,
hearing her nightmares
come out of her mouth in small cries,

curled like a cold stone in her own
arms, a foot between us in the same bed,
but a thousand miles away.

I scratched another mark on the wall.
another day, another night
without love, without trust, without
freedom.

more alone than I've ever been
in my life,
married
and stuck behind these bars.

the devil will get his due

we make handshakes
with the devil,
a moments pleasure for a life
time
of grief.
steal the money,
cheat on the test,
marry the pretty girl
and ignore
what's best.
it never turns out the way
you wanted it.
the devil will get his
due, all in good time,
on that you can bet.

i'd really like to know

this
other thing, this other
problem.

this issue,
this mysterious secret,
this cloud,

this dark current,
this undertow,

this quiet storm above,
below.

do all things pass, or
do they
continue on and on and on.

i'd really like to know.

broken

broken laces,
broken
valves broken
windows
broken locks
broken vows.
broken hearts broken
gates,
broken chairs,
broken vases.
busted dreams,
busted
lips, broken noses,
busted hips.
broken shoes, broken
bottles,
broken children,
broken
tools, broken beds,
broken
women, broken men,
broken lives,
broken bread.

the nomad

another move is near.

more boxes. more tape.
more pens
to mark
the places where things
have been

where they'll remain, or
go next.

kitchen, basement, bedroom.

books and dishes. the borrowed,
the rented,
mementos saved from
a distant past.

a new nest is needed, another
bus stop
along the tour
of a disheveled life.

love farming

relationships
form roots, vines...weeds
and flowers.
you never know what might
come up
from under the ground,
fruit
or poison ivy.
lemons,
or oranges.
it's a sweet and sour planting
of seeds
along the way.
each day plowing the earth
of love,
or hate.
we need sun, we need rain,
and sometimes we need
a plow to raise
the field and start all
over again.

waiting on karma

they tell you that anger
and resentment, jealousy,
envy,
etc.
are poisons that harm you,
not the other person
these dark emotions are
directed to.
but there are times when
you can't resist
the hard punch of
revenge, of getting even,
shedding the light
on those with no remorse,
regret or guilt.
they walk through life without
a care, a worry
for the destruction
they leave behind.
they continue on with no one
the wiser.
you grow
tired of biding your time,
waiting on karma
to come around, although
it will, it always does.

the only one at home

tired of being alone.

night after night, she joins a club.
a meetup.

she goes on hikes, sees movies.
knits
and bikes.

she takes a singles cruise,
learns to dance.

she buys another book, loses
weight once more,

new shoes, a new dress, new
hair.

she's tired of being alone.
the grind of it.
the absence of love, of pillow
talk,

of intimacy and joy, of sharing.

she stares into her phone
in desperation, in fear. the world
is a hard place
to live in

when you're the only one at home.

hoping to find an answer

you come up for air
in the black pool of night.

having swum through a myriad
of dreams.

you are wet with fever, with
imagination,
with truth, with lies
barbed
against your skin.

your arms are weary.
legs heavy with fatigue.

your lips are covered in
the brine of salt. your eyes
blurred and red
from the sea.

you have traveled far
and yet have gotten no where
once again.

the light of day and work
will fade what you
went through, and when night
arrives once more,
you'll dive back in,

hoping to find an answer.

sunday fast

i boil some eggs.
six in all.

brown, organic.

three minutes in a black pot
of water.

i run the cold tap over them,
until
they're ready
to be cracked

and peeled.

one for each day of the week,
excluding sunday.

i'll fast when that
day appears.

as usual

let's sleep on it,
she says.

decide things in the morning.

the morning comes.
the afternoon arrives.

the sun sets.

and darkness falls upon
the land.

as usual, nothing
is decided.

the dead quiet

it's deathly quiet.

I pick up the phone, shake it.
no ring,
no sign of life on the outside.

I look out the window to see
if there is a mushroom cloud
in the distance,

but nothing is there.

now word of plague, or
an apocalypse,

no zombie dead walking about.

it's just quiet.

I yell out the window,
but I get nothing in returen.

there's not even
an echo.

no voice coming back.

the dry well

it's a dry well.

the bucket hits the bottom
and sends
up a thud.

no water at the bottom
of this
bricked
encasement.

the stream is done.
the spring
expired.

no love here. no affection.
no desire.

just dirt and dust,
the dry bones of others
who went
down

for a drink and couldn't
make it back up.

there is work to do

it's a yellow flicker
of light, peeking between the clouds.
the cat
senses it too
and goes to the window
to look out.
the birds will
come,
the squirrels will arrive.
everything
taking shelter will
come out of the shadows
and get busy with life,
knowing there is work
to do
before winter comes.

she's come undone

you know that in order
to move
on you have to drive the final
nail
into the coffin
of what was.
it's a necessary evil, self
serving for
sure, but a thing that
must be done.
those in the dark must
have light.
those who have chosen
to live
a life of lies, regardless
of the pain
they cause others,
must
come undone.

ice cream on the other side

my father, with his muscled
shoulders
and tan,
his blonde hair a mass
of unkempt
curls,
and steel blue eyes,
would put us all
in a wooden
boat to row across cape
cod bay.
I keep a picture of him,
in black and white,
of him standing
in the puddled boat,
smiling broadly
with his
five children
that would so easily drown
if the boat
capsized.
I remember the clank of
oars, his deep
breaths, pulling us across
the blue,
as my mother stood on
the shore, feet clenching
the sand, her hand on her mouth.
he promised us ice cream
on the other side.
that's how he lived
his life,
putting all at risk for
a promise
he couldn't keep, but
would often try.

love comes

love comes.

love goes. the seasons change.

take it from nature. it's a lesson right
outside
your window.

in time those trees will fall.
the stream will
overflow,

change course.

your heart will mend.
new love arrives.

we too, will grow old,
and hopefully
learn to let

all things go.

on her broom

I saw the ex the other day
on her broom flying over the lake.

she didn't wave, she seemed ticked.
more angry than most days.
even more depressed, if that's
possible.

she circled around with her
flying monkeys, then
wrote in the sky
with puffs of black smoke,

i'll get you for
this
my pretty.
just wait and see.

her skin was green and there was a
pained look on her
face

as if she had been found out,
or just eaten a bad
egg,

she looked as if
the world had found
her out, that she was
exposed,
that her fake life had been
unmasked,
and at last the truth
to everyone was known.

getting lucky

is it luck,
is it positive thinking,
the law
of attraction,
or are we just bumbling fools
stepping into
the good or bad of what life
puts in front of us.
the energy within goes out
into the universe
and comes back. a reflection
what and who you are.
who we meet,
the jobs we have, where we live,
we bring it on ourselves
it seems.
so maybe it's a lot of things.
spirituality, genetics,
environment, nature
and nurture. and maybe
just maybe, somehow
luck is tied in.

time well spent

when you were a boy
you prayed for no rain.
rain meant
the fields would be soggy,
that the street would be slick.
you'd be stuck inside,
with ball in glove in hand,
face pressed to window,
looking up at the dark
grey sky.
but now.
bring it on.
bring on the rain. the deluge.
keep me in.
there are so many books
yet to read,
so much
to write about, so many movies
to see,
naps to take,
meals to cook, let the clouds
break, let the showers
come. it will be
time well spent.

significant strides

you make significant
strides
in becoming a better person,

but it only last for a day or
two,
then you're back
being what you've been for most
of your life.

half good, half bad, a third
indecisive.

rinse and repeat, clichés
again.

you promise yourself to not write
in the victim
mode,
to leave the harm that others have
done to you alone,

but it's easy and strangely fun
to scratch at old wounds,
pick the scabs, tear at them
and have
the old blood run.

the pendulum of your heart
swings back
and forth
from revenge to apathy,
each
wrestling with one another
for attention. trying
to steer your day.

in time though, you know
that indifference and
good cheer
will eventually win out,
that all of this
insanity will at last be
finished.

off the chain

I like seeing the stray dog,
unkempt
as he zigs through the woods,
across the highway,

the wandering dog without a leash,
a ragged collar
around his neck. his tongue
hanging out.

he's answering to no one.
he's off the chain,
out of the yard,
no longer tied to the tree.

he's not longer
being yelled at to stop barking,
or to get off the couch,
or being sprayed for fleas.

he's on his own.
happy, and looking for true
love, a new bone to chew on,
finally
he has only himself to
please.

turning the other cheek

sometimes you can't
turn the other cheek, you
have
to strike back.

you can't let evil rule
this world and get away with
what they do, leaving a path
of wrecked souls
behind them.

you have to fight.
to give it back as good
as they've given
it to you. give them what
they deserve.

there are times for peace,
times for a truce,
or even retreat.

and then there are other
times,
when you fire up the cannon,
scale the walls
with sword
and flaming arrows,
and attack.

that new car smell

that new car smell.

who doesn't know it, or like
it.

a fresh start with a new set
of wheels.
hardly ten miles on the odometer.

never a flat,
never having left you on
the side of the road.

everything about it, in tact.
no leaks, no dents, or bruises,
no vague past.

she's full of gas,

shining brightly with factory
paint,
a factory wax.

look how clean she is
inside and out. ready for the road,

ready for you to hit the pedal,
and go. it's the best
relationship
you'll ever know.

dead dogs

I remembered visiting
the pet cemetery one fall,
on a day like this.

the graves coated in slick
sleeves
of orange
and yellow leaves.

the dogs and cats all tucked
neatly into
the earth
in their own steel caskets.

we walked along until we came
to hers.
then his.

I looked the other way. even
dead dogs
were getting under my skin.

we're watching you

there's a time
in everyone's life when you
hide
things.
what you read, perhaps, or
write.
or look at,
you keep your private imagination
to yourself,
telling no one,
not your friends, your
wife
your children.
you keep everyone in the dark,
out of fear.
shame, maybe.
caught up in your catholic
upbringing of guilt
upon guilt upon guilt.
you hide even your art.
you mean no harm to anyone,
but you're ordered to not
utter a curse, don't think
those things,
avert your eyes,
stop being human, obey,
and be quiet. get along.
be normal, be kind, be
one of us,
walk the straight and narrow
line, we'll tell you when it's
okay to sing.

to survive

you see it in the grocery
clerks, in their eyes,
the stock boy, the gas
station attendant,
those hanging onto
the straps
of the train, buses.
it's in the stare
of the homeless,
the factory workers,
blackened men
down in
the coal mines, the mills,
on the fishing boats
with their heavy
nets out in the green
sea.
the poor, born poor,
and forever poor,
those in line for a ticket
out,
a lottery number.
the drunks, the whores,
the addicts.
the priests who hear the sins
of others all day.
the strippers on the stage.
the single mother
on the dole, in the long
line at the unemployment door.
it's a stare, a low
flame
of fatigue. of feeling like
the game is up.
weariness set in, with
no way out,
trying to figure out how
they arrived where they are,
when as children
it seemed as if there was no
other way
but to win, not to just
survive.

phone won't charge

i get a piece of something stuck
inside
my phone, the little opening
where i insert
one of a handful of chargers
i have lying around
the house
and in the car.
but i can't get the charger in.
there's a shard of plaster
stuck inside,
or a donut crumb,
or paint, or some bread pudding
i had for lunch
the other day.
could be coffee, or a soda
dried and clogging up
the works.
i'm down to ten per cent.
my life is about to end
as i know it, i'm in a panic,
the phone cost 900 dollars
and it's about to die
an early death,
so i take it in to the phone
shop,
where the guy takes a tooth
pick out
of his mouth and cleans
out the tiny rectangular
opening,
he plugs it in and says,
there you go. you're back in
business.
i shake his hand like a madman,
i give him a giant bear hug,
grateful and happy
for his technical assistance.

the lube job

the guy at the oil
lube
place,
calls me out of the waiting
room.
I can hardly hear him as he yells
out my name over the blaring
tv stuck
near the ceiling in the corner.

i put down my
people magazine with liz taylor
on the front
and get up.
I stare at the brown cold
pitcher of coffee
on an unlit burner, then go out
out to my car
for a diagnosis.

air filters, cabin
filters, oil filters, wipers,
lights,
tires, shocks,
transmission fluid, on and on.
anti-freeze,
wiper fluid.

each part of the car
needs a screw turned,
a bulb replaced. some orifice
topped off.

I don't know how I've been
able to drive around in this two
year old car
for so long.

just oil I tell him.
he shakes his head and sighs.

okay.
it's your car, your life.

a book is moved

a book is moved.

the sofa, the chair.
someone's been here.

the bed is made. the curtains
pulled back.

the bathroom is clean.
there's a hot meal
on the table.

a vase of flowers on the buffet.

a note on the fridge saying
i'll be right back.

I hear music
from the speaker on the shelf.
softly playing
veedon fleece,

van morrison, she knows me
so well.

the old school

they took the old school down.

bulldozed it all away,
the brick, the beams, the walls,
the blackboards,

what was left of chairs,
desks.

they knocked down the stairways
where a first
kiss took place,

where friends
were made, enemies too,

all the cold mornings
getting off the yellow
racket of buses,

the tests, the homework,
that you would
never forget.

the alley between buildings
where cigarettes were
smoked, gone,

where cards were played,
dice rolled,

pints of southern comfort hidden away
in the pockets of
winter coats stuffed into
the metal lockers.

it's a bare lot now.
no fields where we played,
no library
where you fell in love with books,
with words.
no cafeteria where inedible
meals were made.

the teachers, the coaches,
the principles.

each kid that crossed your path,
all gone.

everyone and everything gone.

as the day unfolds

one never knows
what the day will bring.

what will come in the mail.
what call
will ring.

the day is a clean plate
of hours
waiting to be filled.

what will you find out,
what will
be known.

each day a mystery as it slowly
unfolds.

as we shall see

sometimes you need to come clean
and get things off your chest.

you need to pull the curtain back
and see who is behind
there, pulling the levers, punching
the buttons, lighting
up your life with lies or truth.

indeed, the truth will set you
free, but we are so afraid of it.
so afraid of what others will think.
of losing someone
you think you need.

some live a life of charm, hiding
who they really are forever,

pretending to be who they never
have been, it's all a charade.
some get away with it. some
don't, as we shall see.

which is it

do we create
the life we live, or is
it destiny,
fate, an unstoppable
set of circumstances
already set in stone.
is God's hand involved,
or are we
free
to choose the mistakes
we make
alone.
which is it
that makes us who we
are, nurture
or nature,
or a combination of
both, even in death
will we ever know?

and in the end

we speak of karma.

of the universe paying back what one
deserves.

a wrong for a wrong.

in the end we all get what's coming to us,
whether good
or bad.

sometimes it seems like it never comes,
but it will,

what's done will be undone,
we'll get
what we deserve.

no need for wishes

it's birthday for pops.

another one in a long line of birthdays.
the family gathers
around with cards
and gifts.

a cake with 79 candles.
make a wish, they all say, and he smiles.

hunched over,
he huffs and puffs
and blows out as many as he can.

life is good, even at this ripe old
age,
limping towards home
with a bad heart
and no money.

what he doesn't know, can't
hurt him. the secret still safe
for now.

he thinks
his prayers have been answered.
no need for wishes.
good luck with what you got
back.

it's too early

it's too early.

I really want to go back to bed.
but no.

work awaits.
coffee, another cold shower to wake
me up.

clothes, put the key under
the mat
for the maid.

leave out her money.

what i'd like to do is go back to sleep.
up too late
watching
a game.

reading, pondering. in eight
hours
i'll be back though to
start it all over again.

he makes another day

he's near the end.

he's dark,
the color of wet leather.

he can hardly get up from the floor,
or get down again.

brush in his hand.

weary, his eyes yellow.
his breath warm
and foul.

a pack of luckys in his pocket.
a can
of beer
waiting for him
at the end of the day.

he talks of another round of chemo.

talks of linda.
how he might be in love with her.

he talks about making love to her.
he's dreaming.

he talks about his son in prison.
the hundred dollars
he gave him
for the commissary. he's

day dreaming.
he's dragging, but wants to keep
at it.

keep working. what else is there
to do.
so I let him.

he makes I through another day
and I drop him
off in the rain
at the shelter.

no place like home

I click my high top
chuck
taylors together
three times and repeat

there's no place like home
there's no place like home
there's no place like home.

and suddenly i'm there.

I think of all the places I've
lived.

beat up one bedroom apartments.
sharing a room
in a flat roof duplex in the hood
of oxon hill.

renting townhouses.
apartments with roaches,
with mice.
with noisy drunken neighbors
above.

I've lived in places
where people have jimmied the locks,
trying to get in.

where the car has been keyed,
where the newspapers have been stolen.

fires, floods, the walls as thin
as paper.
busted ovens, rusted water in the sink.
noisy places
with the trash room
in the hall.

I've been next to the railroad yards
and heard the trains roar by,
rattling every dish in the place.

I've been
next to the racetrack and listened
to the call of the harnessed horses
as they circled the track.

I've been next to woods where
the homeless kept a fire going, next
to highways.
billboards, gas stations.

I've looked out my window and
seen hookers
plying their trade.

seen the mail man get robbed,
the milk man get laid.

but i'm not there anymore with
the rent going up each year.
new neighbors every six months.
foreclosures, evictions.

cops pounding on the doors
for dead beat dads and drug dealers.

no. i'm here. home at last.
nestled cozy in a house I've
longed for.
brick with wood floors, woods
and stream out back.

there's no place like home.
I think it's time for a nap.

one more game

i used to run.

five miles three times a week,
then four sessions
of basketball
on the other days.

then work, up and down
tall ladders,
but things have changed.

the cartilage is worn
away.
bone on bone.

but I've left nothing on
the table,

no regrets, no wishing i
had run one
more time up the trail,
or played one
more game.

the same holds true for love.
I've given it
my best shot.
no regrets, despite the pain.

no wishing
i had met one more
woman, asking me, why
aren't you kissing me,
whispering my name.

off the track

sometimes the trains
just don't come.

you stand at the station looking
down the tracks,
but there's nothing.

no rumble, no blow of the whistle.

no faces in the window.
no arrivals
or departures.

you look at your watch.
you get tired of waiting on trains,
on people.

so many off the track.

lady at the bus stop

she's in her winter coat
already.

the fur.
the scarf, those leather gloves.

she's old but she ain't dead
yet. two stripes of red upon
her lips.

I see her at the bus stop going
downtown
to shop
for a new dress.

a new hat, perhaps, or just
for a cup
of tea,

to sit and reminisce
about her lovers,
most dead,

to wonder where
all the good times
went.

mind reading

my mind reading ability
has
diminished
over time. I know longer know
what women
want.
or don't want.
perhaps they don't know either
and that's why
the signal is fuzzy
and lost.
I concentrate as hard
as I can
until I feel a migraine
coming on, but
I got nothing, not a beep
or a buzz,
so I stop.

skills

my computer skills
are minimal,
just enough to get me into trouble
online.

to take me places I shouldn't go,
to buy more things
that I really don't need.

email, google, print, save.

create a file.

send, receive, delete.

it's enough though to get me by.

to write
a few of these self
serving poems
which I write for no one
anymore.

just for me.

i've seen the worst

I don't let these dreams
get to me.

they are no worse than the real
life I endured
for a couple of years.

I eat these dreams for breakfast.
monsters,
ghouls,
people breaking in. pffft.

I laugh at these dreams
after what I went through.

is that all you got mr.
subconscious?

falling out of buildings,
drowning, fires,
and bullets. Ha.

bring it on.
I've seen the worst of what
women can do.

dreams got nothing on me.

cold enough for stew

I've made it so many times.
beef stew.

but I look up a recipe just to see
what else I can do,
to add to the mix.
spice it up perhaps.

potatoes, of course go in.
carrots,
onions.

garlic.
pepper and salt, hello.

beef broth
and red wine, pinot noir,
of course.

then there's the meat,
kosher
cubes of kobe beef.

lots of dicing on the big
wooden board.

sipping wine as we go.

braise and boil, soak
and slow
cook on the low burner.

a few hours, don't forget
the loaf
of bread, French
with a crust.

see you at six.

what happens next

as I swing on this
hammock stretched out under
the blue
sky
on a late Monday afternoon
I sigh.
I let out a deep long breath
of relief.
exorcising all pain,
all grief.
I let go.
it's a gentle swing, back
and forth.
to and fro.
it carries my weight well,
between the clouds
and the earth,
I let the past completely
go.
I surrender to what lies
ahead. to the life
I've yet to know.
let's see what happens
next.

the shredder machine

i love my shredder.
that noisy
machine
in the office. it's silver
toothed
mouth devouring
whatever it is i dispose of.
cards and letters.
printed things.
ribbons and bows.
photos.
false memorabilia of
once sentimental things.
how quickly it chews and
spits them out
confetti like.
what was mistakenly
important, is no longer
to be seen.

monday list

it's a long
list of things to do
that I ignored
over the weekend.

paper work. phone calls.

bills.

taking the trash out
to the curb.

dishes in the sink.
clothes in the basket
ready
to go down.

is the bed made, no.
is that spider still in
the house.
yes.

is the water turned
off
before a winter freeze
over takes us. no.

it's on the list.

witches about

are there really witches,

demons, devils,
strange dark evil spirits
that walk
the earth.

those empty souls
that wreck and dishevel
the lives of
others.

I believe there is.

very often you will find
them kneeling
in church,

keeping their brooms
outside,
their dark hearts
hid.

be done with fools

anger is good, for a short while,
it will get
you through
the tough times.

it's there when needed.
but hung
on to too long

will poison you. rob you
of
life.

be done with these fools,
enjoy
the wealth of true
love,

savor the joy you find,

and do not
go gently into that good
night.

three the charm

your best friend dies,
then another, then one more,
three
is that the charm?

how quickly the world disposes
of us,
our youth,
our fashions, our sense
of style.
the words we utter.
our souls.

each to his own
serving of miles.

it means no harm,
this singular orb,
it just
is.
spinning coldly
under a dying sun.

that which fades

the moon slipping
away, ghost like,
as morning rises, the snow
on the ground
losing
its whiteness to the traffic
of foot and wheel
that the day brings,
another night is lost,
slow in its farewell.

why is there such affection
for that which fades.
even false love has her
dark hand upon you.

the infallible gut

what you don't know can't hurt
you,
they say,
but truly, you know in your gut,
your heart
everything, every lie,
every deception and betrayal
is revealed to you
in a different way.
you don't need to hear the words,
or see proof,
your infallible intuition
and mind
tell you all
you need to know about the person
you live with,
you feel it,
she's evil, and now
you must give
her a strong swift
boot.

judgemental

we judge.

we can't help ourselves but
to think
badly, or good of others.

do they lie, cheat, steal?

do they open doors,
or
let them slam into your face.

are they kind,
or mean in what they say
or share.

we can't help but put a robe
on
and strike a gavel
upon
the desk and judge what is
or isn't fair.

and they, in turn,
do likewise.

dead weight

we are ships
and we must save ourselves
first and foremost.

to stay afloat we must throw the dead
weight over
into the sea,
or go down with them.

cruel to be kind, indeed.

some are so called friends, some
are wives,
or husbands, relatives
dark souls
who steal what you eat.

some need a push, or a shove,
and others, well,
the plank
is as good a way as any to
have them
leave.

do we become them

do we become our mothers,

our fathers,
or can we distance ourselves
in time.

despite the fair skin,
the blue eyes.

the hands, the way the shoulders
set, the legs bend,

so many similarities,
this we can't deny.

but what about within, do
we have
to be the same.

can't we better, be kinder,
be more
aware
and compassionate.

or are we stuck with them inside
us, their ill will,
and dark side,
dragging
us down until the end.

how old are you

oh, it's your shoe today.
a blister.

a lace broken.
indigestion, oh no, not
again.

yes, traffic.
yes.
you have the blues.

yes, it's raining.
the market is down.

the milk has spilled.

yes. yes. yes to everything
gone awry.

and why, why now, suddenly
at this age,

is any of this news?
how old are you?

boy on a swing

I see the boy on the swing.

it's not me,
but it could be.

the rusted seat, the squeak
of the chains
as I push
off with my boots,

upward with a crow like
creak.

the sand is brown,
a trough dug out where other
children
have swung,
shoes dragging with each push.

swinging as the sun set,
quietly pondering the bluest
of skies,
the tilt of roof tops,
the chimney with it's ashes,
a darkened plume,

seeing the world as it really is
and isn't, swinging back and forth,
higher and higher,
until at
last we are found.

i should have known

she used to take the butter
off the table,
remove it from the recipe,
salt too,
sugar was nowhere to be found.
she took
the fat right off the steak,
the oil
went out the door.
no seasoning, no flavor,
and certainly no spice,
or fun.
I should have known what
the future held.

the lion and the lamb

I have been a jealous man,
a desperate man,
a man
of anger, of fury,
of hatred.
a roaring lion, a beast
ready to devour
those who block my
path.
I have been all these
men
at one time or another.
but deep inside
i'm soft, there is
a lamb within,
wanting only
love and kindness,
respect and a gentle
person beside me.
I don't want to be this
other man.
i'm split right down
the middle at times.
knowing what's right,
what's wrong, always
trying to get back
on track, trying to cease
the roar
and find the love
I lack.

the mystery box

a package arrives
in the mail. you bring the box in,
set it on
the table.
no return address, no
sign or clue of who it's from.
you shake it,
toss it in the air.
you turn it over and over
again.
you listen to the side
for a tick,
you put it to your nose
for a scent.
it's a brown box, no ribbon
no bow,
no idea who it's from or
where it
came from. it's a mystery
box. you set it in the corner,
unopened,
next to the others.

they are no different

the dog cannot
apologize for what he's chewed
and wrecked,
but you can see the guilt
that he has,
the angst of being caught,
but no remorse, no regret.
I have known
women like that, but
it takes time, and
wisdom to see that
they
and the unconscious
dog are of the same mindset.

desire

you know in your heart
that desire leads to sorrow,
and that sorrow
leads
to more of this,
and then emptiness.
but we plow on, we wait
for rain,
for sun, for the elements
beyond our control
to raise flowers
from the ground,
to bring
some sort of happiness,
yet
received.

someone the complete opposite

my life coach,
jimmy, sits down with me,
a cold beer in his hand, and a lit
cigarette in the other,
okay, okay,
he says, we're on the clock.
what's going on.

i shrug.
women, i say. just that one word,
women.

we might need more than an hour,
he says. get you a beer?

no, i'm good.

so, he says. what do you want in
a woman.
describe to me your ideal
partner,
your soul mate, your dream
come true,
your girl next door.

well, i say, looking out the window.

i like legs.

stop, right there, he says,
blowing smoke rings towards the
ceiling.

i'm talking about the inside.
not just the outside. we all like legs,
and the other parts.
we all want
pretty and shapely. but beyond that,
what kind of woman
do you really want in life.

well, i start again. smart is good.
funny.
a sense of humor.
a good mother to her children if she
has any.

kissing skills.

no. stop right there. the inside,
the inside.

okay, sorry. ummm, well i like
someone who can relax and take it
easy. not too high strung,
or mentally ill, or a liar.

jimmy punches out his cigarette
into the ashtray and finishes his
beer, crushing the can in his hand.

think positive, he says. no one wants
a nut case.

okay, positive....ummm, baking
skills is a plus.
so is compassion and understanding.
loyalty. no criminal record and not on
too many crazy pills.

someone the complete opposite of the last one.

good, good qualities. but don't shoot
too high.

what you need to do is write this all
down, make a list, and use your imagination.
you've heard of the laws of attraction?

yeah. i have.

well, you will attract what you want,
if you put it into your mind.

how long will this take? i don't have
a lot of time. kind of wasted a lot
of it on my last train
wreck of a relationship.

forget that one. an anomaly, an aberration.
she was a looney toon.
sometimes what you're looking for
is right in front of you.

okay. time's up. now go make the list
up and put it under your pillow. read
it every night, and watch the magic
happen.

sarah speaks

I listen to sarah
speaks
on her you tube channel.

she's as clear and concise
as
a bell rung
on a cold winters day.

she's got the low down,
the skinny
on lots of abusive behavior.

most of which she's been
through,
having gone down that road
with many of
disordered, sick
men.

in time i'll discard the whole
lot of these
self help gurus,

a growing community of
narcissistic experts,

but for now, a tune up
every now and then
keeps me from
coming unglued.

her flip side

if you don't come tomorrow
she says,
well then,
don't come at all and i'll find
someone else to
do the work.

she's harsh. mean.
a witch on a broom,
then slams the phone down.

in person though,
she's as sweet
as cotton candy,

as plump and friendly
as a fresh baked apple pie.
my oh my how people
fool you.

the paper moon

we live in a world of paper.

for the news.
for tickets. for legal documents.

books
and magazines.

greeting cards, invitations.

confetti.
it's a paper moon above the stage.

the ink upon them
bringing enlightenment,
or joy,
or sadness.

each page with its own mood.

thin sheets of paper
in our hand. the centuries of them
piling up.

yellowed and saved,
forgotten or burned.

I've done both, but lately more
to the flame
instead of
the safe.

dying in the wind

the old man
with his bad heart,
nearing 80 likes his warm milk
before bed time.

a kiss upon the cheek.

he's bent,
arthritic and cold in this wind
as he rakes
the leaves. waving a crooked
hand
to his crooked neighbor.

he's lost in his mistakes.
his criminal life,
the promise
of youth and fortune have
failed him.

it's sad to see him in his
stolen yard,
grey, barely
able to kneel
and pray
each morning at his pew.

believing that the church will
save him,
but much too late,

as those around him,
his children,
his wife,
patiently wait to
dig his unpaid grave.

i've got milk

I could use a cake.

a nice round two layer affair
with chocolate icing.

I put the cake signal into the sky.

it shines at the end of my
beam, from
my rooftop
onto the clouds.

emergency. come soon,
bring cake.

bring two, one for me,
one for you.

I've got the milk.

run fast, not slow

intuition
is gold. listen to it.
respect what your body, your heart
tells you.

it's the truth.
don't ignore its whispers.
it's the voice of God
saying
no.

pay attention to it,
it will save you a world
of trouble
in the short and long run.

it's all
you need to know.

trust me on this, run fast,
not slow.

i know about cats

the cat slips out the door
and runs into the street.
off she goes
never to be seen again.

it was a house cat.
unaware of what
lies
beyond the door, the couch,
the window sill.

it's tragic.
and saying that there are
a lot more cats in the world
doesn't help
the person who lost the cat.

so you say nothing of the sort.

but in time, another cat
does appear curled in
your bed, warm, purring
safe upon your lap,

you think it's true love
at last,

until she too runs away
and disappears,

then another. the world,
indeed, is full
of cats that disappear
without a trace, cats you
thought you knew but
don't.

I know about cats, they
can't be trusted.

something fun to do

a free day falls into my lap
unexpectedly, what to do?

the lake, the store, coffee, a book
to browse,
a poem or two.

a white plate of hours is ahead of me.

come over and play,
we'll find
something fun to do.

so much is missed

together we row across the inlet.
pushing free
from the brown sand
by the hotel.

our paddles strike softly against
the green
waters
of the atlantic.


pulling us out and towards

an island,
not far off,
reachable for the hour we've been
given.

the gulls fly close and loud
to where we row.

there are fish in the air,
silver stripes arched above
the water.

the plaid backed shells of turtles
dipping heads
as we approach.

so much of life is missed,
so much is ignored.
so many beautiful things are
dismissed,

so often we're too busy with
our rowing, digging
harder with our oars.

the scars to prove it

when someone tells you
who they are,
through words,
through actions, through
lies and
deception.

believe them.

this is what you'll be
dealing with
for the rest of your life
if you don't
escape their spell.

trust me. I know.
I have the scars to prove it.

unforgiven

so much talk
about forgiveness.

forgive, forgive, seventy
times seventy.

but why when there's no
remorse, no
regret no
apology, no change of heart.

instead they keep doing what
they're doing,
but more secretly.

i'm done with forgiveness.

the orange field

I fall asleep
in the lush field of
orange trees,
resting in
the soft furrows of soil,
rich and black.
the oranges
are full
and ripe, thick with the nectar
of juice.
I will sleep here and dream
of love.
of tomorrows, i'll
stay under the stars.
the world will be fresh in
the morning.
life will be right.

a passing thought

I was thinking about taking up
golf
the other day.

it crossed my mind for about
three seconds.

walking the links with my clubs
and friends.
shanking balls into the woods,

strolling the cemetery
grounds,
manicured and green. going
from hole to hole,

checking the lines, the flag
in the wind.

but then I come to my senses
and put that thought to bed.

the sports car thought, the boat,
the beach house, no thanks to
all of them.

into the pink

the sky is a silk
scarf
pink and white, draped
loosely
across the arms of blue.
the sun
sinks, the sun dissolves,
the sun
does whatever it wants
to do.
like me, like you, in
the long run, we pick
and choose
the colors we paint with.
the image we create,
what we want to be true.

cleaning the erasers

i remember busting erasers
out behind
the school, slamming the black
soft pads
free of chalk,
free of numbers,
and history, Columbus
and Lincoln, of
sentences being diagramed,
pounding them against
the redbrick wall,
the clouds of white powder
filling my nose,
my mouth.
punishment for teasing
the girl in front of me,
pulling at her
pig tails,
or tapping a pencil against
her chair.
true love is always hard
to find,
and rarely goes
without some kind of pain
and punishment.

flying high

i had a dream the other day
that i was dunking
a basketball, that i was literally
flying through the air,
effortlessly and dropping
the ball through the hoop.
a fun dream.
in my youth, when i was bone thin
ands strong, i could leap,
but still i could barely
touch the rim, then as time went
on, i could barely touch the
net, and now. dribbling is
a challenge, reaching my shoes
to tie my laces is a victory
of sorts.

a gun to your head

when someone you once
believed in and trusted,
holds
a knife
to your neck, or an
emotional gun
to your head,
you acquiesce, until
you're able to get free,
and get away.
safely.
then the hate and
the resentment sets in.
it's a poison, for sure,
but one that
makes you see the truth
of who you were dealing
with, there is no
forgiveness or love,
and never will be for
them.

the road home

good to be back
on a rainy day, the splash of
it
on the roads, the wet
ribbons
that lead me home.
quickly I disrobe, and turn
the heat up.
I spy the rum cake,
and fix a cup of coffee.
a book, a blanket,
a doze.
what's missing is you
here beside me, snuggled
and spooned
side by side. your long
arms around me.
your heart beating
next to mine.

the anniversary tree

she asks me for the truth,
if I've gone back
to the path,
to the tree
deep in the woods
where I discovered the true nature
of the
so called love of my life,
my devious
and deceitful bride
of a few months, marking

the callous and sick
betrayal
of her with a married man.
leaving him
photos and cards,
valentines and birthday
greetings,

anniversaries, with hearts
and sweet nothings
pinned to the bark
of their anniversary tree,
where he carved
a heart and nailed
a plaque
forever holding the dates
of their adulterous affair.

I tell her no. never again.
I washed my self clean
of the sickness of others.

they deserve the life they live.
i'm thankful to be free.

there's no reason to go back,
let them have their tree, all
seven of the trees they've
carved.
let them have their misery.

a new look

I need a new wardrobe.

a complete do over. change my
look from
the shorts and t shirts,
the ball cap.

that never ending college attire.

new shirts and shoes,
pants
and coats.

maybe even a new styled hat,
one of those Russian
deals.

tall and furry.

something to keep me warm on
those cold
Siberian nights
when i'm out and about with
natasha.

I like the clothes they're
wearing
on peaky blinders.

my new Netflix binge indulgent.

quite spiffy.
maybe i'll go in that direction.

get hip.

the sky is not falling

the sky is not falling, it's
not the end of the world
as we know it.

doomsday has not arrived. so
relax.
have a drink, rest and stay
inside, put your feet up
and breathe.

it's just another day. another
headline,
another blurb or tweet
or message from afar proclaiming
defeat.

not true. it's just another day.

a bug going around

there's a bug going around.

people are sneezing, coughing,
gagging

on the corner, in the shops,
on the street,
on buses and trains,

there's hardly a person walking
by without

a fever, without a shake,
or shiver.

there's a bug going around,
be careful the air you breathe,

whom you come across.

the long flight home

the snow was falling in Denver.

we could see the mountains from the hotel
window.
larger than life.
blue with white peaks.
the thick green of the forest
rising.

the field in front was flat and brown.
we weren't in love,
but this is where we
were
this week,
so far away, so far out of town.

I watched her walk through the field
from the window.
kicking stones. not
looking back. soon she disappeared
in the curtains
of snow falling.

it was a long flight home.

beach food

as the plane
drags the banner slowly through
the sky,
barely above
the blue ocean
we read it to ourselves.
all you can eat,
chicken and fries.
23rd street grease palace.
write that down I tell her.
i'm starving for
a drum stick and a plate
of fries.
no, she says.
plant based tonight, I won't
have you
dying on my time.

the altar of avocados

some don't eat meat.

red meat.
or chicken.
even fish is off the table
for them.

they devour asparagus
and leaf
green lettuce, romaine or
ice berg.

fruit salads.
a grape or two, a banana.

no pasta, no cheese, no bread,
or milk.

they worship and kneel
at the altar
of avocados.

you see them teetering on
the sidewalk,
pale and weak. disoriented.

tilting with light headedness.

gaunt like death warmed over,

but smiling,
and always, and always
so fashionably
thin.

catch and release

we used to fish
down by the bridge, close
to blue plains.
when the herring were
running we
snagged them with three
tiered hooks,
blood worms
for cat
fish, and perch.
the golden grail
of enormous carp,
the rare rock fish that wandered
into the cove
where we sat
on rocks in the warm
summer months of 67.
it was catch and release
back then
as young boys yet to
make mistakes,
or do anything
with our lives
that we would regret.
unlike how it is now,
once more,
once again. catch
and release.

until it's cold

in the dark
I draw a hot bath.

I wait for it to fill
then slip
into the still water.

each muscle melting in the heat.
under I go.

under I go.
savoring the warmth,
the calm of quiet.

not unlike love,
I stay until it's cold,
as usual.

the living dead

the ghosts
are out and about.

the stairs creak.

I can smell them in the air.
the cool
breeze they
travel in.

crowding dreams, pushing,
elbowing into
my thoughts in the middle
of the day.

I see the bones of them,
those blank eyed stares.

I hear their words.

they will haunt me
for a long long time.

as the dead often do.

in the wind

he turns
the screw with his hand,
the tool
slipping into the slot,
around
and around,
until
the plate comes off.

we spend so much of our lives
doing
what we need to do
to get to the end of
the day.
sometimes it's all a blur.
like paper
in the wind, these years
just drifting away.

the wedding ring

i'd rather
run through a forest fire,
jump from a moving
train,
i'd rather walk a tight
rope
between two towers,
or leap
from a jet plane.
i'd rather have someone
stick needles in my eyes, or
wrestle an alligator
or put my head
into a lion's mouth.
i'd rather
dive into a pool
of ice water in
the middle of winter,
or stand naked
under lightning in
the pouring rain,
I'd rather
do almost anything
dangerous in this world,
take any chances
in life, instead of,
once again, insanely.
slipping on a wedding ring.

crossing the pond

the ice is thick
as we carefully cross the pond
in the white dead
of winter,
listening for cracks,
for a fissure
that might make all things
come undone.
how quickly we would sink
into the cold brine,
a bluish green
on this winter night, without
a moon
to guide our way.

christmas lite

Christmas
lite
this year.
a penny for your thoughts.
a sandwich,
a cold
cold beer.
one candle lit.
no tree,
no wrappings,
no carols or holiday cheer,
no wreathe upon
the front door. it's
Christmas lite this year.
but better
than the year
before.

the closed door

sometimes the door slams in your
face,
while other times,
it's pushed slowly closed
and locked behind you. I've seen
many doors open,
and just as many close.
some for good reasons,
and others you just never know.
I used to pound and knock
to get back in,
but not anymore.
I say farewell through
the crack, turn and walk
away, accepting reluctantly
the decision to say no.

go slow

be still
be quiet, let your heart
relax.
say nothing, do nothing.
don't react.
let it all
go, let life become
what it wants
to become
and be a part of that.
tomorrows will appear.
make the day
a good one, go slow.

at the lake

we circle
and circle as dogs do before
lying down.

getting still
in the warm puddle of sun.

how nice
to relax, to feel the warmth
of a fall

day upon your face,
your arms
your chest.

stretched out on a bench
before
the blue
lake.

a welcome destination
away from drama,
away from haste.

not always about love

I was out on my horse the other
day riding the range.
checking out the lower forty.
we galloped along at a fast pace.
through the woods until
it opened into a flat
green plain.
it was a beautiful day.
we went for hours until
we reached the stream that bordered
the land.
then we stopped. we ate, we drank.
we stayed and slept.
we let the moon come out
and guide us home under
a silver band. it's not always
about love.

the math of you

the math of you.

the numbers don't add up.

the decimal point is out of place.
I've added, when
I should have subtracted.

divided when I should have multiplied.

you're a quadratic equation.
a formula
I haven't seen. this is astro
physics,

complex to the point where I
need a white board
and a week of sundays
to try figure you out.

you're an obscure theory
without a fact.

my abacus and slide rule just
don't compute.

chicken dinner

i hear the smoke alarm
go off,
that means the chicken
is ready.
charred just right, not
quite on fire
but close.
i run up the stairs,
and stir the potatoes.
shred some lettuce
into a bowl and pour a glass
of red wine.
dinner is served,
well almost.

forgiveness is hard

I think back to a year ago,
at this time, this same month.

the leaves falling, a chill in the air.

there was no joy in looking forward to
the holidays.

just anxiety and fear.

the brutal hell I was going through
will never be forgotten,
in love with an imaginary woman,
a liar.

sharing a home and life with someone
who was betraying me
with a married man, her lover
of seven years.

each day was worse than the next,
each clue I found was
cruel and harsh.

I was grateful for the help I got,
from friends,
from books, therapy.
a sweet woman who gave me comfort.
all of them telling me to get out.

they saved my life. got me off
my knees. it took time. a lot of time
to see the light, but even now
with this fall wind, the cascade of leaves
it brings it all back,
the sting of it all feels fresh at
times, and the cut will bleed.

forgiveness comes hard, forgetting
even harder.

a little off the top

seems like you're having a mid
life crisis,
my mentor Antonio, my hairstylist,
says. he sees the sad look on my face,
my shoulders hunched.

what's a matter you?
where's my boy?
you just a be going through some
problems, he says, waving his scissors around
in one hand
and a comb in the other.

ah, don't a worry about so much.
women.
pfft. they come, they go.
they're like cats, where can't you
find another cat?

most of the misery and mistakes I've
made in my life
is because of women, I tell
him, while itching my neck
and looking at myself in the big mirror.

he sighs, snipping away at my long
curly locks.

be happy alone, he says, nodding his
head.
be happy alone and then the right one
will appear.

when you get happy alone, tell me.
my sister has a friend. mamma mia.
her name is Victoria.
she's a widow, kids are grown, she
has her own money, her own house.

she has the heart of a saint.
her lasagna alone is enough
to fall in love with her.
I tell her about you. but like I said.
get happy, get healthy, then you
can meet her.

okay. great, I tell him.
just a little off the top,
and trim the eyebrows.

dog with a bone

sometimes you get a thought
or an idea
and like a pit bull with a bone
you can't let go of it
no matter how hard you pull
and try to remove
it.
you chew the hell out of that
bone. that crazy rumination,
gnawing it, grinding on it,
until finally your brain hurts
and you give in, and let
it go. which seems to be the key
to life.
the let it all go and move on.

sunday morning

I want to sleep in, like I did
when I was younger.
to lounge around in the big wide
bed
and snooze for another hour,
but no.
i'm too awake, too up, too
ready to start the day
with a cold cold shower and a
cup of coffee.
there's the phone, on the charger,
the books i'm halfway through
into on the nightstand.
the remotes to the tv.
the sun is in the window.
I hear people on the street.
I get up and get to it.
the day awaits.

when the snake bites

she was spoiled to the core.

a bad apple with a worm inside.
dented brown
and soft with rot.

a horrible human being.
a whip in one hand a plate of cookies
in the other.

as phony as a three dollar bill,
as they used to say.

sinister. deceitful. but charming,
insincerity to the nth degree.
ask anyone. but

she couldn't open her mouth
without a lie falling out.

a praying woman. altruistic
and kind,
until you got her behind closed
doors.

then there was hell to pay.
the fangs appeared,
the mask came off
and her true self came out,

suffer and obey.

it took some time to get her
out of my system,
as it does with most poison
when bitten
by a snake.

but I did. thank god, I did.

no plan

when we
worked in the factory
down along the river, we were
happy.

happy to have a job, a paycheck
every other Friday.

the soot filled the air,
singed our lungs, our hands
were never clean,
cuts that never healed.

we never got the grease or
grime out
of ears, our mouths.

we coughed as we ambled
down the gravel road,
through the wired gates
to the pub
where we drank
and chased
the women that wanted
to be chased.

it was hard money. but we were
happy.

we were young and had no plan,
other than
to get paid,
to find love, or something
that resembled love,
and to get out of
this town.

decorating for fall

I put out my glass
pumpkin,

the size of an apple,

onto the window sill.

it's orange and catches
the light
in an amber glow.

I sigh,
and sit back to relax.
i'm done with
my fall

decorating
for another year.

when the river overflowed

the water rises suddenly as the river
overflows.

people are shoeless walking
through the knee deep water.

people take pictures, gather around
to look
at how the river
has risen
and taken the corner, half way
up the block.

there is almost joy in the air,
a festival
of sorts. even the police are happy,
with their orange batons
and lights
flickering.

the energy of something gone awry,
making everyone
wide eyed and
curious, getting close
to where the water rose.

wondering which way now to go.

grey rock

you grow quiet.

grey rock. silent in the storm,
the lingering
but fading storm.

you toss in the towel.
no more words to say, no more
misgivings
or apologies.

you sigh, and move on.
go quiet.

if spoken to you
you answer in clear concise
sentences.

saying just enough to
respond, then move on.

your emotions are numb.
your heart has slowed.
you breathe
just to breath, there is
nothing left to hold.

grey rock.

through the cracks

things begin to slip through
the cracks,
appointments are forgotten.
numbers written in haste
are in the wind.
names and addresses
are blurred.
keys are lost, bills going
unpaid.
birthday cards unsent.
you're not as sharp as you
once were, the world has
softened around you.
in time, you'll get to these
things, but there is
no hurry, and you're
unbothered by the trend.

the laughing girl

i hear the sweet sound
of the baby crying next door
in the yard.

the father holds the child
in the air,
bouncing her up and down
gently.

soon, the girl stops crying
and laughs
with her new
pink face, her sterling
blue eyes.

life in its kindest moments,
breaks your heart
with hope, makes you wise.

dope money

the summary
of savings appears in the mail.

stocks, etc.
equity in the house.
personal savings.

change in the jar on the fridge.
pocket cash.

I remember having four hundred
dollars in the bank once,
and feeling pretty damn proud
of that.

I had enough to get a haircut,
buy and new shirt
and take my girl out.

now I get nervous as the market
jumps
and stalls, falls backwards.

seven figures seems hardly enough
anymore.

will there be enough at the end
of the road, to keep me
in clothes.

oatmeal and diapers,
a nurse to hold my hand,
strangers caring for me,
people
that I don't even know.

will there be
enough syringes full of quieting
dope

so that I forget I've grown
old?

a place for everything

it's been years
but I remember the house in falling
water
west virginia.
frank Lloyd wright's.
how clean and efficient
the lines were.
the brick, the rail, the stone.
built into
what God laid down before
hand.
a house inserted
into land
and water.
solid within the trees.
no extras, nothing superfluous,
no bling,
or opulence.
just the quiet and patient
vision from
his mind.
everything in its place,
a place for everything.

the water fall

the waterfall
is white against the blue sky,
the concrete
slab
curved to give it a poetic
nudge
in nature.
how it over flows with a rush,
the rumble
of its push towards
a larger cause,
the river into the bay.
I could stand here for a long
time
and not avert my gaze.
no words,
no mantra, no meditative
saying,
just water moving
over the fall.

the party lights

I see the police
out in the parking lot,
their party lights are on.

there have been break ins
into the cars.

tires are gone.
electronic gizmos, wallets
and phones.

it's a feeding frenzy for the boys
from the hood,
or local
kids with nothing to do.

good suburban kids with moms
and dads,

dogs and homework to do.

but this is more fun
breaking into cars, stealing
what isn't
nailed down.

out you go praying for the best,
that this
time they missed you,
leaving your car alone
before they left.

taking the boat out

I think about taking my yacht out today.

my big blue boat, maybe sail over to the bay,
with my bikini babe
on board.

i'll drift around the docks and wave.
slowly sail down
ego alley in Nap town,

making sure i'm seen. yelling out
to all my sailor buddies, saying hey.

i'll blow the horn at other boats.
wave my captain's
hat. my girl will stand up and shake
her booty,
making them all wish
they had something like
that.

it's a glorious day of sun and blue
skies,
I think i'll take my boat out today,
buy a case of brew,
what else is there to do
when the wife is out of town?
Hooray!

a failure to communicate

what we have here is a failure
to communicate,
ain't that right luke?

I feel that sentiment nearly every
day.

with strangers, with loved ones.

people don't know how to talk
or to convey their feelings, they

have no clue how to get their point
across.

it might reveal a true self.

an intelligent thoughtful conversation
is aberrant to them.
instead they burrow down inside
and go silent.

go dead.

which in a way is communication,
the point well made,

although unsaid.

jumping for joy

I hear a commotion out the door,

people are in the street with horns,
banging on pots and pans.

jumping for joy. doing a jig.
blowing whistles and clapping their hands.

I lean out and ask what's going on.

didn't you hear they yell and scream,
what? I say, what?

it's Friday. it's Friday. it's Friday.

the week is over.

I go out to join them in my slippers
and robe.

banging on my tambourine.

after i was gone

I remember
when my son was barely a month old
and staring into
his eyes
with wonder.
this person did not exist
a short while ago.
I shed tears,
not of joy
or sadness, but a strange
feeling
of amazement at the miracle
of life, I held
him,
wondering what lay ahead
for this boy.
what troubles, what fun,
what love
was in his future,
what journey would he be
on, most
of which would take place
after I was gone.

what once was

and in the end,
she says nothing and I say
nothing in
return.

we used to talk until three a.m.

and now there is quiet.
cold, deathly silence.

how does the wind stop,
how does the sun
no longer bring light.

how does the ocean dry up?

how does
what once was love, what
once seemed
right,

get lost.

each step

each walk at night brings
me back
in a circle to home.

I find solace in the dark,
the new chill
of autumn
as the trees unfold

I walk by the church and stop
to sit
for a moment
near the statue of Mary.
the candles lit.
a light upon her blue
white robe.

then move on.
I prayed here once or twice
in joy, before the fear
took hold.

around to the small chapel.
locked tight.
closed.

towards home, up the path near
the road.
through the lane of trees
and homes with most lights off
at this late
hour.

I know the turns by heart
after fifteen years of this same
walk.

taking it all in stride.
what comes, what goes.
the friendships and loves
remembered in each step,
in each breath I blow.

he's back in the game

jake tells me about his
new girlfriend,
she's got her own room now,
nine large a month
over in south Alexandria.
she's got a toaster oven
he says, her own dishes,
and shares a bath,
a kitchen too.
she works over at the chicken
coop
diner
serving breakfast and lunch.
two shifts.

after asking me about my love
life, and getting
absolutely no response,
he then
he tells me more than i need
to know about his, he
tells me that him and his
new friend
haven't gotten busy yet,
which makes
me cringe. i do notice
though that he's lathered
himself up with old spice cologne
and has slicked his hair
back with a dab
of brylcreme.
he's back in the game,
such as it is.

keeping the faith

my brother found
God when a door to door evangelist
knocked on his dorm room door
with the good news.
he was then suddenly wearing bow ties
and plaid shirts,
strumming a guitar
and singing gospel songs.
he was pat boone.
totally disregarding the catholic
church he was raised in.
this was something new,
he was born again, which somehow made
him comb his hair differently
and wear funny looking shoes.
he carried a thick bible
with him wherever he went,
and a parcel of religious tracts.
he was not shy with his faith,
if you ran into him,
you'd know about Jesus in
two shakes of a lamb's tail.
on the boardwalk, on the beach,
in a store, the fire burned within
him.
on sunday morning, he'd awaken
all of his heathen brothers and
sisters, pull back the sheets,
turn on the lights and announce,
let's go, get up, we're
all going to church. reluctantly
we went, some of us hungover
from the night before,
living on two hours sleep
with bite marks on our necks.
in time we were all on the same
page, and he let up on
the sermons, but those early years
were rough getting hit over
the head daily with a wooden
cross and doused with holy
water to the point of
being water boarded. he meant
well. still does.