everything but love

my father

with his money. with his
depression

era
mind set. bills tucked
under his

mattress.
stretching milk
and bread.

sniffing for the sour,
scrapping
free the mold,

wrapping tight each pack,
securing
each lid,

he's frugal to say the least.
driving

nine miles to save a penny
on unleaded
gas.

my sister sends away
for his

shoes once the old pairs
have

have worn off the soles.
he has made
everything in his life

last long.
preserving, holding, keeping
it until

the bitter end.
everything but the love
of others,

lasts, stays on.

she'd cry wolf

I used to worry

that she'd kill herself.
I was concerned

about her mental well being
after
so many threats,

but after a few
times of seeing the bottles
of pills

still capped,
the rope, the razor, the crocodile
tears,

and what not,
I relaxed and yawned,
then went for a long
walk.

hoping that the house wasn't
in flames
when I returned.

the three a.m. call

when the phone rings at two
or three
in the morning.

it can only be that someone
close
to you has died.

or it's a telemarketer
in another
time zone

trying to sell you health
insurance,

or reduce the rate
on your credit cards.

death at times would be
preferable
when this occurs,

though
there's no one I currently
wish that upon,

not recently at least, but
maybe
in the bye and bye.

this too shall pass

it's easy to say things like
this too shall

pass. have faith,

to take a line or two, a
well
known verse from the Bible

that says, worry not,
be like the sparrow,

do they worry one second
about
life,

about food.

it's easy, to say, be happy
and content

in all circumstances.
easy.

it's much harder though to
believe

when in pain,
when the blood runs down your
leg,

and the roof
has fallen through.

it's easy, but hard to understand
how all of this
will pass,

but it's true.

have you met her yet?

the husband,

the man of the house,
so called.

asks me if I've met the lady
of the house.

he rolls his eyes
and looks over his shoulder
as if

a monster might lurk
behind him.

i see her across the yard,
with a spade
in hand

digging into the earth,
angrily.

yes. i tell him and cross myself.
we had words
earlier.

to which he says, be careful,
be cautious.

trust me, i know, it's been
fifty years.

i suspect these people

i suspect

the person who has no creative
outlet.
no brush in hand,

no pen, no recipe
on the table with the oven

hot.
they don't sing,
or write,

they don't act, or play music.
there is

no joy or flair,
nothing grows outward,
there is no juice
to share.

no dance, no gift of gab.
they minister
to no one.

they give
nothing to the world,
and the world

in return, gives nothing
back.

find what you love to do

some say

you repeat yourself. you
write the same
things over
and over

again.

I do. no doubt about
it.

but so what.
I've made love before
too.

does that end, because
it was once,

or twice?

no.

you find what you like to do,
and you
keep at it.

it keeps you alive
in good times, and in hard
times.

live long enough and both
will arrive

in equal amounts.

it's easier now, so much

i used to carry

a small black comb in my back pocket.
my thick brown hair

was slicked down with brylcreme.
parted on the side

not unlike
wally and the beaver.

i would look at my reflection
in the toaster

on my mother's linoleum
kitchen table

and try to pat down the cow lick
that

kept popping up.
i'd take out my comb
and go at it,

trying to eep it all straight,
side to
side, the back.

that even line of a part.
it was a lot of work

with all that hair, not to mention
the shoulder
length locks

in the teenage years. but

it's so much easier now.
so much.

on a different road

I smile
and laugh to myself

when I pass
the road side sign
that

says in green
exit here.

it means nothing now,
when

once it was the world
I lived in.

a path towards home.

I fly by
with hardly a thought
these days.

the music on, the windows
down,
i'm

on a different road.

sickness and in health?

we fall in love.
madly in love.

we call each other sweet names.
we get married. we buy a house

with a big yard, a dog appears.

he barks behind
the picket fence.

we barbeque with the neighbors.
we have two kids.

the in laws come over for the holiday
dinners.

lights go up.
lights go down.

work work work.
we're always late.
always in a rush.

we vacation at the shore, once
a year.

a week
in a motel.

time moves on.
we question if it was real love
to begin with.

others catch our eyes.

there's
grey in our

hair. we're heavier,
wiser?

maybe not.
the kids are gone.

we drink too much.
we're tired but we can't sleep.

we sleep in separate rooms.

no more dogs. the yard is overgrown
we both

get lawyers.
it was fun while it lasted.

but it's time to move on.

the run on meat

i see a woman carrying

out a side
of beef

from the grocery store.
blood dripping
on the ground.

her kid

has a leg of lamb tied to her back
and her

husband
is carrying a pig with an apple
in it's mouth.

they see me in the lot,
and say

with fear in their eyes.
you'd better hurry

the ground beef is almost gone.
just the 80 20

is all that's left.

no pork chops? none they
all say at once.

not a single chop to be
found.

i sigh and run to the store,
what next?

off and on the phone

some people

are not good on the phone.
it's quick.

not much to say.

how are you. good.
and you?

it goes nowhere fast.
a loop

of yawns and weather.
yups and I knows.

some people

can't wait to get off the phone.
i'm

often like that.
somedays i'm off

while other days,
i'm on.

a bagel and coffee

i miss

a bagel, toasted with a smear
of cream

cheese.
i miss the Hudson.

the bench beside the water.
i miss

strong coffee
and feeling the breeze of april

run up my pant leg
while i fold

and unfold the blowing times.

i miss the city.
i miss you beside me,

your hand upon my leg.
i miss you saying

let's walk,
the park is beautiful today.

i miss a bagel, warmed
from the oven.

the spread of cream cheese.

the living room?

she called it a living
room.

I preferred to call
it

the dying room.
it was the place where most
of the fights

took place.
the arguing.

the accusations, the lies
uncovered

one by sticky one.

there was no living going
on in

there. no fun,
no relaxation, no joy.

I tell the real estate
agent

to change it on the ad.
I tell her to change
the name to

the dying
room,

not living. she hesitates,
reluctant.

she doesn't want to lose
the deal,
so the change is made.

a brush of sun

a brush

of yellowed sunlight
falls

upon your arm.
the warmth reminds you

of a summer love,
of sand.

an ocean that stretched
out wider

than your mind
could understand.

this one patch of sunlight
does
all that.

what would a day of it do,
what would that bring

back?

she wants to be a widow

she wants to be a widow.

but it's not time yet. he's
strong.

healthy, old, but very healthy.
this could

take some time.
she thinks about his money.

his house,
his cars. his stocks and bonds.

what's in the safe.

all of it would be hers if
he would just

die. there might be a struggle
with his children,
but so what.

she likes a good fight.

what's taking him so long?

for heaven's sake.
she wants to be a widow

and wear black.
she looks good in black.
the dress and shoes are already
picked out.

hanging in the closet from
Nordstrom rack.

she can mourn just like the rest
of them.
but with crocodile tears.

she can learn how to grieve.
read up on it.

each day she looks at him
and smiles. listening to the
slightest

cough. the tremble of hand,
the slurring of words.

she buys him a new bike
and tells him, why don't you
go for a ride today.

it's fun going down the hill
out back.

she wants to be a widow,
but when. dear God, take him
soon.

i'm running out of patience
and so is my boyfriend
next door.

under the radar

in time

we discover who people are.
we suspect
early on

who's a fool, who isn't,
but there are

some people that fly
under the radar,

not easily known.
their charm and good looks

get them in and out
the door.

sly. deceitful and dangerous
they are.

we feel the clues, but
don't see them.

we reel out more and more
rope,

excusing their behavior,
their lies,
their betrayals.

we let them go on and on
and
on, until
at last

the light goes on, and we
take out our sharpest
knife and cut.

we let them fall.

she was Noir

from start to finish

I watch stranger on a train.
black and white.

1951. hitchock.

the last time I watched it was
five

or six years ago.
on the same couch,
in the same spot,

but with a flight attendant
from Seattle.

passed away now.

she was as noir as one can be.
a throw
back to another age.

dark and light
at the flip of a wall switch.

we never made it to the end,
as was the case

with most movies we
watched together,

but this time
I will. i'll see her out.

a different life, unlike this one

the dying man

whispers his regrets to the attending
nurse.

a stranger, at best,
seeing him

to the other side of this
madness.

I wish, he says, I wish, struggling
to breathe,

to get out
the words caught in his heart,
his throat,

hardly able to cough or free
himself as he drowns
in his see within.

I wish, he says, pulling her
closer,

his hand reaching out to
touch her.

I wish I had loved more.
he says. and not lived the life

I did.

it's early, but the men are at work

it's early, but the men
are at work.

i see them in their lime green
jackets,

helmets too.
one is riding a jack hammer
into

the sidewalk.
the others have shovels

and picks.

they say nothing to each other,
the noise is

too loud, the generator moaning
beside them.

they are there when
i leave.

there when i return.

when they finally leave, they
look at

one another and say
something that i can't hear
from behind my

behind my window. but it's not
much.

house for sale

i put

the house up for sale.
pull up

the truck and unload
my belongings into it.

i stick a sign in the yard.
i go room

to room and pack
my life into boxes.

trash what isn't coming with
me.

especially the bad memories.
that brief aberration
in time.

i do it quietly. alone.
box by box

out the door.
when it's empty i stand

in the Livingroom
and say.

i guess that's that,
then

turn around and go.

change the channel

I can hardly watch

a show where there's screaming and
yelling,

fighting.

domestic violence.
arguing.

acrimony of all sorts
by anyone

but especially a husband or
wife.

with the memory of childhood
pressed

into my brain
I want none of that.

so don't bring it.
change the channel.

i'm done with that sort
of pain.

not ready for plaid

colors are moods.

I've been black and white for so long
that

I've forgotten
about green, I've

shunned and dismissed even
my favorite shade

of blue.

not an orange red or purple
in sight.

I went through the no nonsense
fade

of grey.
the clean canvas,

the emptiness of vague
light. but I think i'm ready

now.
not quite for plaid,
or paisley or even

stripes, but maybe a pale
shade
plucked off the rainbow

arcing in the sky.

not there again

I forgot where I was when I woke
up
this morning.

there were no bars
on the windows,

no slab of concrete under
my feet.

no guard walking the hall.
no squared

in walls.
I was home.

not there again with the warden
and her

whip and chains,
her

twisted mouth, forced into
a smile.

the weary sun

remember the sun?

I say
to no one in particular.

just a thought
that leaves

my lips.
well, look, there it is
again

making a shy appearance
in the grey sky.

it struggles
to push back the clouds,

she seems weary.
tired

as we all are, waiting,
waiting,

hoping that things will
change,

not tomorrow, but now.

she loved her horse more

she loved

her horse more than she loved
me.

the dog
too.

a long list of siblings
and relatives,

parents, even in laws,
now
on the outs

were higher in the food chain.

in time I realized how far
down

on the totem pole of her life
I was.

carved in at the bottom,
a niche

made with an axe.
a small

dent banged into the wood,
an insignificant

bruise.

take it to the edge

we take it to edge.

to where the flat land ends
and the drop

begins.

when young
we see how far we can get.

new love is fresh and new,
hearts
unbroken, there is nothing
to mend.

immortal,
for a short while until

the real life begins.
death occurs.

illness and loss becomes
known.

the world gets under your skin.
but when young.

we see none of that.
we press on.

we take risks, we take it
to the edge

where the flat land ends

and the drop begins.

come here and kiss me

why aren't you here kissing me,

I tell her over the phone.
bring

legs and arms,
lips

and what not, come here
and hold me,

whisper in my ear sweet nothings.

bring your warm heart,
your caring soul,

your compassion and love.
come here,

put yourself into the car,
get on the road.

and don't forget the brownies
with nuts,

please.

when the light goes on

it wasn't easy

scrubbing my life down,
getting

free from the toxicity
of others.

but I did it
with the scrub brush of
therapy

and books,
you tube videos,

prayer,

and a few new friends
who've

done the same.
when the light goes on

inside of you,
it beams out from your eyes.

exposing anyone
abusive,

anyone full of bullshit
and lies.

my butcher fred

my butcher, fred,

has replace my bartender pete.

I see him every other day
for

some ribs, or crab cakes,
a few pounds

of ground sirloin
or a slab

of beef.
something about a grizzled
unshaven man
in a blood

splattered
apron
holding a big knife
that makes

him seem smart
and wise.

some days you have nothing

I borrow

a line or two from
something

said, or read, it escapes
me now

and attempt to write
a poem about it,

but it goes nowhere.

some days you have nothing.
the creative side

of you is dry.
the cupboard of your mind

bare, dusty,
with old expired cans on
the shelf.

boxes of old cereal.
strands
of stiff noodles
never to be

boiled,

but just the same,
I move my

fingers across the keyboard
and try.

tomorrow will be okay

I forget that it's six

in the morning in Oregon and text her
about the job.

no answer. of course.

she's still sleeping under
the canopy

of wet trees, an emerald
umbrella of

cool shade, lost in a dream
of deep sleep.

I look out my window and see
the same.

I love green. the woods now
full. it feels like hope.
like new

love,

like tomorrow will be okay.

show me your scars

she me your scars

she says to me, pointing at my
arm.

dog bite, I tell her,

then lift my shirt to show
her one on

my shoulder,
a thick half moon
gone pink.

knife fight
in high school with billy Arnold.

I pull up
my pant leg and show her
a bite

mark on my calf.
dog bite, stray that I tried
to get
out of the street.

the nip on my rib cage,
tiger shark, well no, actually
my ex wife did

that with a fountain pen,
trying to make me sign the property
settlement

while in mediation.

i show her a long line
on the back of my
hand.

sushi bar, I got over anxious
and reached over the bar

to grab

a rice roll with crunchy shrimp.

and you?

no, she says. none yet.
at least not on the surface.
most of mine are below the skin.

and please, if we fall in love,

promise to not give me anymore,
okay?

fine dining

I make some crab cakes

hands in the bowl
cold.

I broil asparagus, olive
oil

salt and pepper.

garlic mashed cauliflower
on the stove.

I pour a glass of wine
as I drizzle

chocolate onto
a slice of new York city
cheesecake

adorned with thin slices
of strawberries,

then a dollop of whipped
cream.

i press out the linen
table cloth

then set the table with
fine china.
one plate, one fork,
one knife.

the music is on.

i light a candle, then sit.
fine dining.

wish you were here to kiss.

we still have time

she's a little girl,
a kid

at heart.
she loves the playground,

the swings
the monkey bars,

the sand pit.
she loves how the woods
wraps

its arms
around the circle
of benches.

the see saw of life.

the joy of youth still
fresh

in her mind.

meet me there she says.
meet me there

before dark.
we still have time.

forget paris

I get a post card

from paris saying on the back
in her
own hand

wish you were here.
and then something in French

which I have no clue
of.

she's pressed her lips
to the paper

the red smudge of lipstick
remains.

I don't take it seriously
though.
she was always

insincere,

rolling her loaded dice,
playing with
marked cards,

making life her own game.
but I pack

my bags anyway
and flag down a cab,

forget paris, I say, perhaps
somewhere warmer,

where I know the language,
where the women
are languid and cat like,

forget paris,
maybe spain.

into our long coats

it's another march day,
and yet

it's almost may,
well into spring, on the doorstep

of summer.
we tie on our boots,

find a sweater,
a long coat,

we button to the top
and head out into a grey
wind

full of rain,
full of what feels like sorrow

and despair.
is it our imagination

can this be now and forever
more,

has the world, once
sweet and ripe,
gone sour?

help wanted

I see the help wanted
sign
in the window,
and go in.

the small bell above
the doors rings

and a tired man
looks to meet me in
the eyes.

we're very busy
he tells me, are you placing
an order

or looking for work?

I look over his shoulder
towards
the shop

where men are at it
with saws and drills,

wood and metal forged
together
into long boxes,
coffins.

I smell the stain brushed
and drying on hard woods.
I smell
the singe of metal burnished
into a shine.

can I help you, he says again,
a stack of orders
on his desk.

do you need work?
are you skilled?

I shake my head, no.

I've changed my mind,
sorry to bother have
bothered you,

I tell him.
don't get up,
i'm just passing through.

your lucky day

is it the rabbit's foot

on your key chain,
or the glow in the dark
statue

of Mary stuck to the dash,
or is it your lucky
day,

your lucky hat,

avoiding ladders,

avoiding cracks,

the meteor passing

through the sky

in a brilliant flash,

or the coin tossed into the well
both wished upon

that brings
luck back?

bring rope, come fast

she calls me
on her phone, she sounds
scared.

desperate.

please, she says, come
help me.

i'm in it again.
come quickly.

where are you, I ask,
looking
at my watch.

you know, she says, where
i'm always at

when I call you at times
like this.

i'm in quicksand.
i'm sinking, i'm going down,

bring rope, come fast.

the little things

I remember

an arm, an elbow.
the shape

of a knee.
a foot dangling out
from

morning sheets.
the curve of a shoulder.

I remember
a glance,

a wink, a smirk,
or sigh.

I remember small things
quite easily.

but I can't put
a finger on

the exact moment when
love died.

equality in sin

no sin is greater
than another, it says in
the Bible.

but i'm not so sure about
that.

when I weigh one against
the other,

some seem heavier,
harder to overcome,

or heal from. guilt
and remorse

doled out accordingly
for size
and intent, it seems.

i'm no theologian
which may
surprise you,

but I have my doubts
that they're

all equal.

a best seller

i weigh the book

in my hand, it's heavy,
i look at the front
cover,
then back.

i look at the praise,
the blurbs

in bright quotes
inside.

a must read, says the new
York times.

fabulous, the post says.
and the examiner

puts up four stars.

i turn to the last page
and read
the last line.

i sigh. maybe tomorrow
i'll begin, maybe not.

but tonight, it's poetry.
it's red wine.

i get up from the chair
and set
the book in front
of the door
that keeps swinging open.

i'll be back, i tell the book,
no worries,
you'll be fine.

we're very close

not quite, she says,

but almost.

we're almost there, aren't we?

tapping me on the knee

as the train rolls smoothly
down
the curve
of track.

i'm staring out the window,
and see
her reflection

in the glass.
am I in love, or is this just
someone

to get over the last.
how long,
before we really get

there, I want
to ask.

did you hear me, she says.
we're almost there,

aren't we?

I look at her and smile,
we're close,
I think,

very close, but not quite.

with everything behind us

I fall asleep

thinking of pepperoni pizza.
extra cheese.

mozzarella melted.
i think about you and me

sitting in a joint
along the highway,

heading to new York
on a rainy Friday night.

the checkered table cloth,
red and white

made of thick vinyl.
the plate glass window
greasy.

a juke box in the corner
playing
bob seeger.

night moves.
I look into your eyes.
you look into mine.

we're hungry and the night
is young. life begins now.

what's behind us, everything
behind us,
is done.

land in florida

I like insincere people.

you know at least who they are.
it's clear.

no worry, or wonder about
them.

they're full of it, they know it,
you know it.

the hot air. the bull.
the praise. a shovel
in their hand.

you look great, did you lose
weight.

everything is a transaction
with them.

best friend after one day.

they have a used car they want
to sell,

low mileage,
they have land in florida.

they tell you they love you,
they'll always love
you,

sign right here.

I like them.
transparent and real
in their own

abnormal way.

no place like home

I used to complain

about the ex wife, the ex girlfriend,
all the ex's.

was it all their fault?
I toss that idea around in my head

as I look out the window
at a bird
pulling a worm out
of the ground.

what's my part in these train
wreck relationships?

or am I victim shaming myself.
how do I even know
concepts like that?

books therapy the internet.

I don't know. maybe I wasn't
hugged enough as a child,
I suppose. who is?

and if you're hugged too much,
well, that's a problem too.

insecurity, lust, wanting the drug
high of a crazy
woman? maybe.

it's a tangled web, this love
thing. but I put the complaining
away

for awhile. i'll come back to it
i'm sure,
from time to time.

it feels like home, chaos,
mayhem, insecurity,
deception and lies.
home sweet home.

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

lamb chops, please

the butcher

in his blood splattered apron
has no

room for foolishness.
he's in the slaughter business.

go in with a list
and surety.

don't browse the meat.
what's it gonna be, he says.

his fat fists on the counter,
the ragged lines
of healed scars

on his thick fingers.

what's it gonna be he asks
you again. his dark eyes burrowing
into your skin,

but you're not ready
as you eye the rib eyes,
the ground beef, pork chops.

so he moves on. Next, he

says, you, what about you,
he bellows,
pointing at a small woman
wearing a fur coat

and a tilted leopard print hat,

lamb chops, please, she says
quickly
pulling out a handful
of cash.

the three of us

when she moved in

she brought with her, her clothes.
her shoes.

some bills, but that was
all she owned.

the rest was bought by her
married boyfriend, she being

the mistress for six years.

she carried in his piano,
a guitar, a box
full of rings,

bracelets, sliver, gold.
she carried in trunks of his
things

that she cherished, a hair
brush with his hair still in it.

books of his, letters and cards.
his shoes too, left
under her bed.

a couch, a chair, lamps
all paid in cash by her lover
from her recent past.

she kept a picture of him
in the dresser beside our bed.

her phone stayed cradled in
her hand,

never setting it down,
filled with more pictures,
filled with texts from him,

some new, some old.
the voice mail full, saved with
his messages to her,
from years gone by, and from
an hour ago,

and there she slept beside me.
while

I stared at the black ceiling
in my room. my life would never
be the same.

it couldn't end
too soon.

falling forward

I fall,

I trip and stumble.
I lose

my balance,

my grip on the rail.
I slip

on the wet pavement,
the crumbled

concrete
of what I've built.

i'm on my way down,

but out of nowhere,
on soft
wings,

you catch me,
and give me reason

to keep going.
I begin to believe

that love is possible,

yet again.

i like to steal

I like to steal.

mostly words. things said
in passing.

any unusual noun,
is ripe for the taking,

a dangling
participle,
an unusual adverb.

i'll catch a glance or a face
on the street

and pocket it.

I enjoy the curve
of someone walking by

and save it
for a sunny day

when the fingers on
the keyboard

fly.

I like to borrow.

to take without asking a phrase,
a joke

a cry.

there is beauty, in
both ugly

and old.

in some strange way, despite
all, despite

the world,

in everything there is
some strand
of silver,

some nugget of gold.

windows

we have
windows into our soul,

our minds,
the corridors of our
heart.

some are brightly
lit

stained gloriously
in color,

while other panes
are broken,

with holes where the rocks
of the world
have flown

through.

splintered, with shards
on the floor.

round portals,
squared,

long windows, peep holes
into us.

arched, a simple wooden
frame
without glass,

or with. we need
a place

for others to look in,
for the light to enter,

and for us to
look out.

my therapist calls me

my therapist calls me and tells
me that she needs
to see me right away.

it's an emergency. i hear a door
slam
and then what sounds like
a vase of flowers
hitting the door.

okay, okay, i tell her,
calm down.

are you in any danger, is everything
okay at home.

i'm safe she says, but no everything
is not okay at
home. my husband is having
an affair.

he's such a lying pig, narcissist.

oh my, i say.

see you in ten minutes.
i just need to get out of
my pajamas and put some clothes on.

i go to her office, the door is open.
she's not in her chair though,

she's on the couch, where i usually
sit. she's crying, holding a box
of Kleenex on her lap.

i'm sorry, she says, sobbing, but
i didn't know who else to call.

i know after what you went through
that you would understand.

i cross my legs and pick up
her yellow legal pad on the table.
okay, okay. i tell her. breathe,
breathe. need some water? tea, perhaps?

no, no, she says, then blows her nose.

let's take it slow. tell me what
happened. she tells me about his
infidelity, his lies, his deceptions.

finding his emails, and receipts
to restaurants and hotels, etc.
she goes on in detail about her
discoveries.

i should have known, she says, still
crying, but softer now. my gut
told me something was wrong.
and isn't that something you've always
told me

listen to your gut?

yes, i tell her writing something
down on the pad. it's my mantra.
everyone knows that.

listen to your gut.

but enough about me, tell me about
your childhood, your mother,
your father, i tell her. it all
starts there. we know that, don't we?

take your time, we have all day.

face time

we do the face time

thing, after I finally learn how
to install

the app into my phone.

I didn't even know what an app
was two
months ago.

it thought it meant an appetizer.
like
calamari

or sliders, or
oysters.

small portions of food you
get at a bar

when having a drink or two.

we look at each other in our
little screens

and say you look good. been awhile.
i'm cutting my own

hair now,
she says. and flips her head to the
side to show
me a sheared area
close to her scalp.

your hair looks very dark,
I tell her. black now?
going goth, are we?

I say with a hint of an English
accent. it's raw umber,

she says. the last box on the shelf.

we both have pretty much lost
our minds.

I like your t shirt, she says.
is that ketchup on the front.

no, no, I made a bloody mary
this morning
and spilled some
when I slipped and fell
across the coffee table.

I can't get used to these new bed
room slippers I found on amazon.

sailors at sea

people are full of advice

after you've fallen off
a ladder

or been in a terrible fight,
or just
gone through a relationship
from hell.

what you should do, or shouldn't
do next
time is this,

they all say.
you look at them and smile

as they go on and on,
full of wisdom

and guidance.

you say right, but what you really
want to say

is go away, you have no idea
what you're talking
about.

but saying it all
in the salty vernacular
of a sailor
at sea

too long.

the flea market

it's a warehouse of
discarded things, one's junk

is another's gold.
lamps and chairs, silver forks
and knives.

crystal glasses.
pearl necklaces worn
in a different era.

the whole place a dust ridden
portal
in time.

she bargain hunts with nothing
in mind,

nothing needed
and stops
at one station to talk to an
old

man about a wooden bowl.
he tells her about
the tree it

came from. how he used his
tools to carve it down,

to mold it into what
it is now. he seems to be
on the verge of crying.

or he could be tired.
who's to know.

he wants to tell her more,
more of the story, the long
detailed history
of the bowl, but instead he says

make me an offer, while
rubbing the side of his face,

the sandpaper of grey bristles.
she looks at me and I shrug.

we move on.

not what it is

there is a certain
sadness

walking down by the docks
at this hour,

a vague attempt to clear
your head. figure things out.

the sun a weak yellow
melt

giving it all it has on
a winter morning.

but the stench of the water,
the fish

afloat, having risen like
silver
petals

dead too soon, perhaps.
the green sloth
of foam,

the gulls bored with it all
floating
sideways.

there's uncertainty.
the boats resting, tied
to the docks,

rocking, colliding with the wood.
times were
simpler back then,

you say to yourself,
walking onward, past the shore

turning up the cold alley
thinking of what home should be,
not what it is.

my hoarding progress

I look at my forty seven rolls
of toilet paper

stacked in my living room.
i'm very proud of them.

the courage and determination it
took to fight through
so many
elderly people to get them
out of their weak hands.

I never thought i'd be the hoarder
type,
but i'm getting the hang of it.

meat. yes. vodka, yes.
paper towels,

cheese and eggs. bacon. three pounds
should hold me.

sixteen bars of white hand soap.

a case of water. batteries, candles,
matches,

surgical masks, curiously made in china,
a hundred.

fifty pairs of purple surgical gloves.
(also, curiously made in china)

two measuring tapes stretched out
and locked into six feet.

what's next. maybe a cat, or two,

or three. i'll go slow with them.

oh, and least I forget,
testing kits....zero.

that new car feel

it's rare to hear

a car back fire anymore.
or to see

a man out under his car
changing the oil,

or with a wrench in his hand,
the hood up, cursing

the tight bolt.

we don't work on our
cars anymore.

they are sleek computers
on rubber wheels.

we gas them up, but someone
does
all the dirty work for us.

we get in and go.
we don't even need a map
anymore.

we drive through the car
wash, extra wax please.

the car tells which direction
is best.

soon there will be no need
to even drive at all, or park
them.

we can sit in the back seat
and make out with our sweethearts,

just like we did in the good
old days. take me home,

James.

the gold fish

the fish,

the size of a thumb,
more orange

than the name might give
notice to,

swims in a circle all day,

all night, I presume.
I've made her

as comfortable as possible,
what with

white sand and strands of greenery,
a small castle

with which to swim through
to add excitement to

it's long day.
I sprinkle a dusting of
food

as needed,
but I can't say that I enjoy

this fish much.
there is no true conversation

or love, between us,

not unlike the last person
who swam into my life.

I have no feelings for it one
way or the other.

I've given it no name, why
bother, I think.

and if I get attached to it,
what then in a week or two when

I find her floating gently
on top of the still water,

enough with this falling in love
thing. I shall just bid
adieu.

them bones

i see the bone

of her arm in my sleep.
i hear

the rustle
of limbs, like branches
of trees.

the shuffle
from bed to door, then

out.

i see the darkness of her

in my watered dream.
the shock

of old.
the shiver of cold.

the slack of her jaw,
the grey
tombstones
of teeth.

i smell what is deceased.

and when i awaken
on the sweet iced island

of bed, the unruffled
sheets.

i sigh loudly.
i breathe.

if i die before i wake

sick of social

media, facebook and whatever.

all the neighborhood
posts

and connecting
forums.

it's mayhem, chaos.
the world is small these days.

you can't sneeze
without

a thousand people knowing.
no more

posts, please.
don't tell me how you are

or ask me
how I am.

I don't want to see the cake
you baked,

or the flower you watered,
or
what your
cat is doing

with a ball of string.

i'm fine, I hope you are
too.

if I pass away, you'll know
eventually,
but long after

I do.

a list

a list

of things to do
is posted

by a small magnet on
the door
of the refrigerator.

I put it there two weeks
ago.

nothing is checked
off.

it's not about not having
the time
to get things done,

it's more that there is so
much more free

time ahead of me.

tomorrows keep piling up
as the yesterdays

slip by.

breakfast at target

I went to Tiffany's to

have breakfast, but the doors
were closed.

locked tight.
I could see all the diamonds,
the silver

the gold
lying still and shiny
beneath

their glass cases.
not a single hand to hold

or wear them in sight.
life standing still.

few are saying yes, or no,
I do,

I will. so I went across
the street to

target, still open.
six feet apart, but you can

have all the things you
think you need,

you can have your fill.

this is the rainy day

this is the rainy

day
you heard about

when your
mother told you to fold
that dollar bill

and put it in a safe place

where you won't spend
it or
think about it.

don't let it burn a hole
in your pocket,

but hide it.
one day you'll need it.

this is that rainy
day and it may keep raining

for a long long time.

some listened, some
didn't,

some still don't.

in for service

it smells
like sunday, I think as I sit

here in church,
kneeling

getting out my list
of sins

to confess and ask repentance
for.

i'm a car going in for service.
up on the rack.

dear God,
change my oil, rotate my tires.

lube me, fill me up of with holy
fluids,
all
that I lack.

vacuum the dust and debris
of my
dark mind.
shake me
clean

of leaves, of cobwebs.
then put a sticker on my forehead.

i'm good to go
until next sunday,

if it's not raining or
there's a foot
of snow.

page one

I get stuck on the first page,

hallway through
the first page.

it's a biography of someone's
life.

a hard life
in the hills. not enough love,

not enough hugs,
or food,

or beds to sleep in.
I yawn

and skip to the middle of the book.
nothing
interests me.

I get it. life's a bitch
for some,
and less so for others, but

i'm not feeling it.
I turn to the last page

and I sigh.
I look at the author's photo.

he looks like a really
nice guy, but

i'm glad I didn't read this
book,

having lived through most
of it already.

don't you want to know, she says

please don't bring up my

mother again, I tell my therapist
as she sits

there drinking her tea, a big
long yellow
pad

balanced on her thin knee.

but, she says, it's the root
cause
of why you're here today,

daddy too.

daddy? I say. please, not him
as well.

yes, yes, I know they were both
a mess.
incapable of raising children,

but can't we keep them out
of the discussion.

but, maybe just once?

she sips her tea, smiles
and shakes her head politely
and says

no. we have to go there, don't
you want to know why

you've picked such crazy
psychotic women
as your partner all these years?

I guess so, I tell her. settling
back into the big couch,

grabbing the box of Kleenex
on the table.

okay, let's go. i'm ready, but
as usual,
i'm scared.

misunderstood

we are all misunderstood
to
a certain degree,

some more than others.
some we have no idea what they're
ever talking

about.
or why they do the evil things
they do.

why, is a question never answered.
you look

into their eyes and see
nothing.

just darkness,

no reasons. no rationale,
no clue.

against your will

the fallen

trees

are crisscrossed
upon

one another. the heavy rain,
the strong

winds

have decided
with or without their approval

who's to stay,
who's to go.

such is life
and death,

both coming upon you
against your will.

it's not over, not quite,
not yet.

i think she winked at me

when we were young,

working summers in the great outdoors,
doing some

sort of minimum wage
construction job

we were tanned and long haired,
full of
vigor and nonsense.

it was nothing for us, all or
one

to whistle at a girl walking by,
no matter the age,

old, young.
thinking

we had a shot
in our boots, our shirts off,

covered in mud,
our faces red from the summer
sun.

we had a shot. we swore we had
a shot when

she looked back and smiled,
was that a wink?

I think it was a wink
I saw

as she sashayed away,

moving
down the boulevard like
the hands of a clock.

a piece of sky

a piece of sky

falls down, shatters on
impact

as it strikes the ground.

a window, perhaps.
or snow,

or rain. stained glass,

a rainbow of shards,
or tears.

a cloud deciding that enough
is enough.

it's gone before I can touch
it,

place it in my hand.
love can be like that.

awakened

when I pull the shutter back

before wiping it down
to paint it with a paint

called charleston green,
almost black.
I see the small brown
bat nestled against

the wall. his small body

gripping the rough brick.
gently, I move him with
a long stick, sending him 

to the ground with wings 

spread wider than I imagined.

his teeth and pink mouth

bared open. a whispered

hiss barely audible, but

vicious. he's angry, 

and who wouldn't be,
awakened on this cold
spring morning from 

a dream filled sleep.

the apple and the lamb

i don't think

about the lamb when i eat lamb,
or the chicken

or the cow when i eat
a steak

or the pig in his mud
when

frying bacon.

i don't think about the life
i'm

about to eat,
but instead boil potatoes
to go

with it,
or corn, or butter

a square piece of bread.
i am grateful

for the life they lived.
just as i am for

an apple
when plucked from a tree.

a thin book of poetry

i find

an old book of poems
stuck
between

volumes of psychiatry
books.

self help,
and other manuals to get

clean,
to get help,
to get my life back to normal.

a year of education
on two shelves,

but this thin book of poems
does more

for me than all those books
put together.

the flash of hope,
the clean

clear water of words
saying so much

with so little effort.
hitting home,

making me smile and go on.

the honey moon is over

why do you have to drag

the police into this, she says.
holding a butcher

knife in the air
as I dial

911. her eyes are black
and hollow.

step back from the phone,
she says

in a guttural voice, one i'm
not familiar with.

i'm using the wall
phone

not unlike the one my mother
had hanging
on the wall

in 1964.

hang up she says, moving closer.
I said,

hang up, or else.

I see the glimmering silver
point of the sharp knife
so

I put the phone back into
its cradel
and say.
okay, okay. calm down.

maybe you need a sandwich
or something.

I get it now.
the honey moon is over.

in crisis

in crisis

they disappear.
the prosperity preachers,
the do gooders,

the politicians.

the healers of the sick
putting on a show.

their voices have disappeared.
we're on

our own, out here, aren't
we

she says to me.
apparently so, I say.

the world hasn't changed, it's
just clearer

now.

caught again

caught again, I used to ask her

why do you lie about everything.
everything.

for no apparent reason.
the simplest of questions

or inquiry leads
to you opening your mouth

and lying about it.

why?
and she would stare at me,
blankly,

as a small dog might when
asking him

why he's ripped up the cushion
on the couch,

that same dull stare, without
understanding,

and she'd answer, you would
lie too

if I asked you the right questions.

exhausted, i'd give
up

and move on to the next day.

solitary

some don't need
a cell

or a rented room
or

a basement corner to feel
lonely

excluded from
the world.

some don't need solitary
confinement

or to be lost
at sea,

or on a highway alone
to feel

by themselves.
they've always been

there.
isolated in a world
they can't

get out of.

the lunch counter

we ponder

those gone, as we sit at the lunch
counter

eating a grilled
cheese sandwich.

a cup of coffee, stirred
blonde
by
cream and sugar.

we see ourselves in the long
drugstore
mirror

and wonder where the years
have gone.

we nod to the waitress
with a pink flower

behind her ear
for more
coffee

then finish our
work day lunch.

with a glance at the clock
we leave an appropriate tip,

then move on.

pillow talk

we spoon, afterwards,

we kiss, we say goodnight.
we say, I love you,

and mean it, then reach for the light.
her side,
then mine.

books carom to the floor.
remotes.
phones.

the dog jumps up, finds
a middle spot
between us.

he's asleep before we
are

as we talk sleepily,
as lovers do,
against the pillows.

meat loaf

I stir in some ketchup,

a little dark mustard
sprinkle in

some brown sugar
a dollop or two of Worchester
sauce.

mix and taste,

salt, pepper.
perfect.

now baste.

the wrong hand

sometimes you grab
the wrong

hand to walk down the road.

you hold it tightly
for as long as you can,
not wanting

to let go, but after
awhile

they're holding you back,
the weight

of them is too much to hold
too hard to pull

along.
you have to uncoupled
and release them,

if you ever want to get
to place,

to the love

you were meant to know.

let's wait and see

with age

we worry less about tomorrow.
we have a lot
of them
behind us.

stored away.

we know how bad things can
be

and how they pass
in time.

whether joy or tragedy,
it's all
part of this life.

we wait, we pray, we find
a quiet
place

to ponder
and find peace.

sometimes it returns,
and other times

it gets worse.
let's just wait and see.

finding the key

i remember this other life.

walking
gently on thin ice from dawn
to
night.

wondering which mask
would she wear
today.

what role, what act, what stage
was she on.

who was she now?
which side of her would win out.

i remember thinking am i crazy?
or is she?

is this a dream, some
place i can't wake up from.

how did i get here?
where's the door, the window,

who has the key?

i remember this other life,
and think

that it was a hundred years
ago
and other times it feels

like it was
yesterday.

My Kind of Place

bad weather made me pull into the gravel
driveway

off the interstate.
a red neon sign flickered, motel.
it was just outside
of a town
i never heard of. the low brick building was
carved roughly into a patch
of woods

inside the steel shadows of an iron
mountain, that seemed to be growing.

it was a bad marriage that put me
on the highway.

i kept the radio off and stewed about
my life with her.
ending each thought with a curse.
telling her to go fuck
herself.

i had one bag of essentials in the back seat.
my uncharged phone, needing a wire.

a pocket full of cash. weary and out of
tears, out of ideas, out of luck
and faith. we were past therapy, past
books and conversation, past all the bullshit
that couples do
to try and save a doomed marriage.

the house was burned down. ashes.
her thousand lies and a life of cheating
revealed to me an awful truth
about me, about her.

i was pretty much flat broke of hope
or reconciliation. not that i
wanted that. i just wanted
the pain to stop.

i sat there in my fogged car,
the wipers slapping loudly on the glass
and looked at the rain pocked
windows of the fleabag motel.

i just needed one night. i could see
the faces looking out
as my headlights streamed in.
the heavy curtains pulled back
just enough to reveal
a long line of mug shots.

it was the kind of place where murderers
hid out, drug dealers heading
south,
where women or men came to kill
themselves, sick of love,
sick of the world and what they
couldn't get out of it.

the kind of rooms where the lonely
met up with other lonely
people to have sex and smoke cigarettes
and drink bad whiskey.

nobody truly in love came here.
it's where virginity was lost, where tired
housewives
slept with handymen and local lawyers.
salesmen and whores.

my windows were rolled up tight, but
I could smell the musty beds, the shag
carpet, I could see the peeling paint
and taste the weak coffee from the machine
out in front of the alley office.

free cable, the sign said. vacancy.
hourly rates.

I turned off the car and went in.
my kind of place.

who are these people

some people aren't there.

you're with them. side by side.
but they

aren't there.
there's no one home to speak
of.

yes, the lights are on,
but the rooms

are empty, the cupboard bare.
you never

truly know who they are.
they don't even know.

but here they are, beside you.
as far away

as anyone can be,
unreachable,

unlovable, not a single clue
as to who they are,

or who they want to be.
they mirror

the world, they play a role,
whatever
is needed
in the moment,

behind the curtain though,
there is nothing,

just an empty shell,
pretending,

there is nothing there to see.

lion and lamb

there is a lion

in all of us. a lamb too.

sometimes they lie together in
the soft
sun

of day.
while other times.

they need their own
space,
to have their own say,

and they go their separate
way.

greeting cards

I abhor

the hallmark card.
the sap

of the tree turned
into ink.

hollow words, for
the weak

and hopeful. the desperate
lovers

wanting
all of it to mean

more
than what it really is.

they pop up like magic
kingdoms,

they sing,
they play music.

they laugh.

they are good for
starting
fires.

I've watched so many burn,
watch them light

up into a dark wind
of ashes.

the ocean motel

we wake up early on this april
morning.

our feet cold in the damp room
of the cheap

boardwalk motel.

we hear the crash
of waves rushing towards
shore,

the fine print of wind
blown salt and sand
in our eyes,
our hair.

we pull the heavy curtains back,
and as if a broadway

show, the glitz of sun appears,
over a gem of an ocean,
the plateau of sand
before it.

we stand there and say nothing.
so much blue sky
to take in.

we've already made

love, but if we hadn't now would
be a good time to start.

she kisses me on the cheek
and says no,

let's go, she says,
bundle up, it looks cold.

let's take a walk.

the glow of apples

i see the grocery clerk
with his

cloth, shining apples.
buffing them below

the fluorescent lights
of the super market.

then stacking them in red
rows.
some less red
than others,

across the aisle are
green apples, they too
have a certain

unnatural glow.

must there be a shine
on everything we
possess, or own?

take old love for
instance,

once past the skin, there
was little
you wanted to know.

the boarder

he wakes
up to

the alarm of heavy shoes leaving
the boarding
house
stirs him from a feather bed,

his door ajar,
the wood warped around the frame.

it's a ship
of a house, going slowly down.

local
oak and timber.
from the 1800's.

somebody once lived here,
the house keeper
tells me

as I pull down the scales of
wallpaper
off dust laden walls.

the boarder, in his room
for seven
years

comes out.
says hey in passing.

he looks like a man who owns
more than one
gun.

a cigarette, a beer in hand.
he wanders into
the tight kitchen,

fixes himself eggs and sausage
on the common
griddle.

he uses the back staircase
when he's done.

I won't see him again.
the rent
three months overdue.

the morning news

we talked
over coffee at the round table.

black, the newspaper opened
and flat

between us.
old news.

and what was the news
of us.

what page needed to be turned.
should we
go straight

to the obituaries?

of course.
the rest of the news,
the comics, the weather,

entertainment, the classifieds,
all absurd,
why bother

with the lives of others,
when our together

was so full of drama,
so oddly

disturbed.

the unpaved road

the workers

in bright orange
lime

green, highway vests, tight
and full

around these men
with shovels

and picks.
signs
and rubber cones.

they smoke and laugh.

the day is young as they
grumble
forward

to the long unpaved
ribbon
of road
ahead of them.

there is work to do
under
the melt of sun.

it's early, hours and hours
left to go

before they're done.

i fall asleep in your arms

i fall asleep in
your arms

but you aren't here.
i lean
upon
your lap

stretched out, exhausted
but content,

but you aren't here.

i feel your warm hand
upon my back,

i hear your voice,
the whisper of you saying

things
i need to hear.
i smell the perfume
that you used to

wear,
skin against
warm
skin.

i fall asleep in your arms,
but you aren't
here.

unfinished thoughts

I find some words

on the sidewalk, discarded letters,

unfinished thoughts,


fragments of conversation,
they adorn

the road,
the roof tops

like fallen leaves.
wind swept

with no rhyme or reason.
I collect them

stuff them into my bag
and take

them home with me.
this is how I try to make

sense of a world gone
wrong.

I need meaning and maybe
this will help.

i can do that

after watching

show after show of professional
chefs

whipping up delicious meals,
desserts

etc.

I say to myself at the end of
each.

that looks easy, I can do that.

then I go into the kitchen
crack open

a few eggs
and scramble them.

salt and pepper,
butter.

the shadow self

the shadow self

is a dark
mysterious side within us
all.

it comes
in the night.

no stars, no moon,
no shine

or light.

each to his own dark
side.

finding its way out
in fear,

in flight.
it's not a side you

want to see, or have others
know.

but it's in there.
in there.

lurking, waiting its
turn

to make things right.

without you

at times
you are the hard boiled
soul,

the shell
of you protecting,
defending

trying not crack under
the hands
of others.

writing with a poison
pen.
retaliation, revenge,

but deep inside there
is softness.

a kind heart. a gentle spirit
wishing

no harm no hurt upon
others

despite all they've done.
their sickness

belongs to them.
let them alone with it.

let them carry their burden,
their illness
of mind
without you

piling on.

in the rear view mirror

in the rear view
mirror

things behind you get smaller
and smaller

as the odometer clicks
off the miles

in rapid succession.

what lies behind
is reduced

to the fine
of point of disappearing.

the straight line
of the highway

out of town, leaves much
behind,

just the silt
remains on the windshield,

the crust of
ancient rust on the undercarriage
of a relieved
mind.

you take some of it with you.
but for
the most part,

you're done, it's gone. you're
gone.

forward the wheels spin,
pedal to the metal.

as rome burns

sometimes

you have to move the chair
or the table

just an inch
to the left of right.

to make
things work,
to have that okay feeling

that everything is exactly
where it should be.

the lamp
on the table.

the plant on the sill.
the pillows
on the couch, each

positioned just so.

it's a strange feeling,
but it feels

good when the world is
crumbling around
you,

to have just this little
bit of control.

some sort of harmony,
feng shui
as rome burns
below.

breakfast in bed

I nibble on the ten
pound

easter ham
sitting on a plate

in the ice box.
potatoes gathered around

it like hard
buttered pillows.

I move the foot tall
milk chocolate
rabbit to the side

and look at the asparagus
lined
up, leaning upon

one another in some green
disturbing way.

I reach in and find
the pie.

boston cream.

that's a good start.
no need to slice,

just bring the tin up
with a fork.

a good day to go back to bed

a deluge,

the streets roll with
rain.

I open the door and feel the cold
wind
of Monday

against my bare legs,
my feet
wet in

the rising water.

a good day to go back to bed.
there have

been a lot of good
days
to go do that

lately.

what she needs

I was going to bring her

flowers for easter,
chocolate

and a sweet card, but she said no.

I need wine and toilet paper,
and

paper towels,
six rolls.

six?
yes, she said, or the twelve
pack

super strength
if they have them
at

the store.

blessings

don't let the external

change the internal.

all things will change,
all thing will pass.

but what lies within is
the rock
you need to stand on

and be firm,
be resilient

relying on faith.
through suffering and pain

we get blessings.
sounds crazy, I know.

but I know.

game over

in a cleaning frenzy

I throw away all

the board games but scrabble.
words,

not trivia
melt my butter.

I carry the boxes out to the curb.
games
of another life.

with their little pencils
and scores.

I stack them up
like bricks in a wall.

someone will find them,
or not.

makes no difference
to me. game
over.

it's mercy

it's beyond quiet,

she says,
holding a finger to her lips,

peering out the window
at the street.

it's mercy,
is what it is.

it's the silence of gold,
of peace.

shhhh, she says, don't
say a word,

don't even breathe.
let's enjoy

the moment. let's wait
for one second.

okay. enough, now kiss me.
please.

those you love

you try not
to think about the evil in the world.

the prisons
and the white house

the senate and congress
chock full

of men and women
full of greed and power,

bent on making their world
great
again,

not yours.
you try not to think about how
much

corruption there is,
how much abuse

there is at home and away.
how even those close to you can

can be wolves in sheep's
clothing.

stealing your joy, your life,
your faith.

you try to dwell on the good.
the handful

of friends and siblings.
those you truly

love and love you in return.
you go there. because going
elsewhere

is too hard to face, day after
day.

easter morning

she would rise
early

before sending us off to church
each
with an envelope

with coins
for the basket.

like ducks in a row
we'd go.
she'd

wave from the door as we went
to mass
at St Thomas More.

then it was
to the sink to scrub vegetables,
to put

a ham in the oven.
to bake
biscuits and pies,

a cake.

when we returned there would
be seven plastic

baskets of treats
on the table, the colored
sheets

glimmering in the early
light of day.

the howl

I hear the fox

under a full moon. the scream
of it.

it's mournful howl.

wanting what?
love,

affection?
something that he or she
doesn't have.

who hasn't been there
on a cold
night,

rolling over
with a sigh and wondering,

where,
why? thinking something

just isn't right.

the end of the beginning

the water is rising
as the ice caps melt.

the fires
burn.

the virus swims in the wind
into
each lung.

the markets fall.
the wars

go on.
a gun in every hand.

as Churchill once said,

it is the end of the beginning,
but not

quite the end.
there's a long ways to go.

buckle up, it's going
to be a bumpy
ride.

the empty tomb

he's
not in the tomb.

or in the church,
or

at the bank,
or on the water.

he's not in the stores
or
on the mountain.

he's not on the cross,
or
on television.

he's not a face in the crowd,
or
on the moon
or in the stars,

he's not in your food,
or
your drink
or drug.

he's not there.
look within.

there you'll find him
or

you won't.

most people

most people have never stood

in an unemployment line,
or a breadline,

or at the door of the pawn shop
holding a watch

or a toaster oven.
most people have never tasted
meat
out of a can heated
up over

a barrel of fire,
or slept in the woods, or felt
the rain
down to their bones

as they hitch hiked
out of town, going nowhere
in particular.

most have people never stood at the
window
waiting for the mailman
to bring a government check
to cover
the electricity, the water,
the gas.

they don't know what powdered
milk tastes like,
or week old
bread,
or meat gone bad, with
the green trimmed away.

most people have never looked at
their bank statement
and have seen a row of zeros,
or had a check
bounce,

or collected change
between the cushions
of their couch to go find
food, any food.

most people never felt the cold
at night,
or heat when summer
arrives. lying their in their
own sweat
waiting for God

to wave a magic wand.

most people.

all dolled up

there's too many
words
with no end,
no result, no real plan
but hunker down
and don't kill
each other.

it reminds me of growing
up
when my mother had
to leave the house
for groceries
or to meet frank
the coca cola man
who parked his big red
truck
around the corner.

i'll be back in a while,
she'd say,
all dolled
up as best as a woman can
doll
her self

on food stamps.

we'd look up from the tv,
from our
comic books,
or homework
or bologna sandwiches
and nod.

okay. we'd tell her.
then the door would close.
sometimes she'd be
back
soon, sometimes later,
and other times we'd have to
go out
and find
her the next morning.

upstream

we go upstream

to cast our lines into the muddy
water.

we say nothing.

quiet in the august heat
under
the looping green of long
branches.

the insects screaming
in their whispery way.

it's beyond hot, beyond
muggy.

it's a wet oven.

here, he says,
looks good to me.

we set up our little camp.
find a fallen log
to sit upon

then cast out into the brown
water
and wait.

no need to talk about what's
bothering us.
no need at all.

we're fishing.

the long call

I listen.
I wait. I listen some more.

I put the phone down
and go
fold

some clothes.
fix dinner.

I go back to the phone and
say, yes.

right, I know.
I read a book.

I stretch and yawn.
I look out the window

at the fast array of strong
trees

putting their new
green
cloaks on.

yes, I say into the phone.
go on.

go on. yes. I say.
tell me more.

you realize that what she
needs
and what you need

are two different things.
which is fine.

it's just a phone call,
a phone call

gone on way too long.

going old school

I haven't heard
from mary in Miami.
she's ninety five, or will be,
or was.

I didn't get the card this year.
the Christmas,
the birthday card.

the new years call.
she was going
blind, so maybe that's why.

or the cancer final got her,
or she tripped
and fell.

or, or or.
there's a thousand ways to die.
some new.

some old.

i'm not fond of the new ways.
give me the old way
of dying every time.

I hope she went out old school,
i'll dial
her up

later, maybe i'm assuming things
too soon.

waiting, waiting

the sun

is a cold globe
of despair.

it shines a yellow dress
of light

upon
the wet grass, the low
lying
homes

with latched doors
and windows.

not a soul
trespasses the yard.

all stores are closed.
no church

bells are ringing.
shadows

are in the windows
peering out.

no one is looking in.
everyone waiting.

waiting.

for Godot to end things,
to figure it
all out.

further and further away

the further you're away

from them.
the closer you are to you.

the light of self
is clicked on

once again.
all the bullshit and pain

you endured, thinking
it was love,

evaporates.

the fog clears.
your eyes are focused.

your feet once more are on
steady ground.

it's an earthly miracle
in some
strange unpoetic way.

getting out of hell and
being free,

never to make the same
mistake.

imaginary flowers

it takes

time.

but life will show you where
and who

the thorns are.
you'll

see as you walk through
your life.

down the primrose lane.

you'll feel the bites of beauty,
the sting
of hope,

the pain
of wanting what isn't real,

the imaginary flowers of the world.
you'll hold
them

in bunches, put them in
vases.
you'll think,

godammit, things are good.
I've conquered
this life.

I've got it made in the shade.
finally it's

all going to be all right.

the bare essentials

he didn't say much

anymore. not that he didn't have
a lot to say.

but he'd said most of it already.
why repeat yourself.

his face had
been carved down
to the bare essentials.

his ice blue
eyes now smaller in the construct
of his
face.

he sat, he rocked.
he looked out from the old porch
with it's
rotted
boards

and bird nests stuffed
into the upper corners.

people waved when passing by,
tilted
their heads, their caps.

children laughed at him.
the mailman

put his mail on his lap without
a word.
he had a don't fuck with me
look

about him.
but really, all he wanted in
his life,

then and now was love.
true love,
not the love

the world, and most
women dole out.

another unread book

I buy

another anne tyler book

and make it through about ten pages.
my hopes are quickly
dashed.
it's thick

and heavy.
a great writer, but boring as
all get out.

if I want boring, I go to my
own life
for that.

is there love, passion,
something

to stir the blood. not really.
just your everyday

reality.
grey, dull.
no adventure, no blood.

no sex
or much chaos.

it's the inner dialogue
kind of book.

i'm tired of my own inner dialogue,
let alone
someone else's.

i want my sugar back

i want my cup of sugar
back.

i want my
words, my poetry,

my kisses, my affection returned
to me.

i want my feelings
sent
to my address,

along with my love,

all of it box carefully
and packed, sent
back.

i want my cup
of sugar.

i want all
of that emotion,
that tenderness
and compassion, all of
it,

I want it
back.

I want it restored

in me. saved for someone
more deserving

than you.

thin ice

there's a man
drowning in the lake.

I can see him from the window.
his hands
flailing in the air.

he's walked out onto the ice
too far.

the weather too warm,
the ice too thin to hold his
weight.

and now, he's drowning.
I wave to him,

there's nothing I can do,
by the time I get there,
it will be way too late.

a crowd gathers around the edge.
they throw him
ropes, branches,

they yell at him, asking him
why he walked
out on the ice.

they berate him, you knew that
this was dangerous, how
could you?

he has no answer as he turns
blue in the cold water. he tires,
he says he's sorry.

he says he regrets what he's
done, he regrets his
entire life,
he wants forgiveness,
but it doesn't matter.

his life has come down to this.
to drowning
in a lake.

it's like riding a bike

it's like
riding a bike, she says.

you don't forget.

just hop on
and start pedaling.

then away you go,
hold on to the handle
bars,

head up, back straight.
once you

get your balance
and the wobble goes away,

you'll be fine.

okay, I tell her, and what
about us.

oh us?
that too. it's like
riding a bike,

you'll see.

out of time

the rain keeps you home.

the virus.
the news.

life has become a gamble,
a toss of the dice.

food or no food.
water.

each gulp of air a cloud
of uncertainty

entering your
faithful lungs.
is today the day

you get it, tomorrow
the day

you die. it's a gamble,
this life.

in living, in love.
are those church bells ringing,

are we running
out of time?

the phone call early 70's

a rare
coin appears in your hand.

you hold it up
to the light.

read the letters,
the date.

what road has it traveled
to get
here
tonight.

now lying in your hand.
poised

to go into the slot.
you shuffle your feet

in the cold
damp
glass box along the highway.

the thunder of trucks
rolling by as you stare at

the paper smudged
with the number.
is it worth it

to hear her voice one last
time.

down it goes. we'll see.

what you feel has a name

despite my age

I had the clarity of what was.
what came
before

what was to come.
I could see the ocean stretched
out
before me.

the dark fists of blue,
the wind
of purple, thinking what if,
as I clung

onto the frozen rails,
between my mother's shoes.

I could feel death right there,
the absence
of tomorrows
on this iron
ship sailing across
the atlantic,

those arms open
and waiting
whispering

to me, into my childhood
ears.
I am here, I am always here.

come when
you're ready.
no need to fear, what you feel
has
a name.

lying in the sun

the sun

feels good upon my face.
the front
porch

of white cement is warm.
the trees

smile with green.
a stack of books beside
me

waiting to be read. the pages
willing

to give me
what I need.

the sun feels good
on this

new day, new morning.
it feels

like a wonderful dream.

what are you talking about?

I remember having a conversation

with an imaginary person.
it must be exhausting

to be you. I tell her,
sitting across the room.

her eyes red and sunken from
fear and fatigue.

it must be hard keeping track
of all the lies,

all the things you do
and hide
in your crazy disordered life.

why the charade?

aren't you tired of being this way?
pretending to
be someone you're not,
I ask,
shaking my head in wonder.

she doesn't answer, instead she
smiles grimly
and says

I don't know what you're talking
about.

control

we all have
our little thing.

some small crazy habit
that goes

normally unseen.
the touch, the count.

it's control we want
on a world

gone wild.

make the bed, fold
the sheet just so.

turn the plant
towards the sun.

left shoe, then right.
one last

look with a brush
in the mirror,

all systems go.

the slowing train

the train slows

down as it crosses the trestle,
blowing it's

loud horn, screeching almost
to a halt.

the wheels grinding against
the steel rails,

over the planks
and boards,

the starched gravel, shards
oiled
and grey

in this morning sun.

two fools are on the track
with their dog, they smile
and

wave. their lives so close
to ending.

so close
to finding a freshly dug
grave.

the engineer presses onward.
finding speed again.

wondering.

the first cut

some days
and nights prepare you for
other days

and nights.
the wound, the cut,
the slice

now healed is a reminder
of what's
next,

what might come when someone
holds
against your heart

another knife.

the first cut is the deepest,
they say,

but not so.

it's the little cuts, that
linger,

that bleed and keep you weak,
unable

to pack, to pick up
and say no more,

it's time for you to leave.

hello, my friend

some save

some spend. some don't care,
don't keep

count of the beans
kept
in the bin.

they live in the moment,
spending all
they have.

and then the day comes.
when all hell

breaks loose
and there they are at
the door

with hands out,
a sheepish smile
on their face,

saying

hello my friend.

the bird feeder

there was a bird feeder

on the far fence.
a metal house

on a black pole.
once the word got around
it was

full and swinging, tilted
with every
imaginable creature

with a pair of wings.

red, blue, black, brown.
together

they'd share the bounty of
seed
we placed
within. all day long.

their hunger was impressive.
pre winter,
pre snow.

pre life as it is now,
with the feeder
taken down,

and another bird gone.

a bag of macaroons

my father

tucked tight in his little
apartment

near the ocean
sounds

good on the phone.
at 92

he's doing fine.
meals on wheels.

the television always
on.

neighbors stopping by.
waving,

bringing him cakes
and pies.

his nine
or more

children completely
out of sight

out of mind.

he's safe in his little
cocoon, without a worry,

a care.
sitting on the porch

with a cup of black coffee
and a bag

full of macaroons.

maybe tomorrow

I stare at all the frozen

food
in my freezer

and wonder, is this the day
I take it out

set it in the sink
and defrost it.

maybe even cook it,
eat it.

no.
I've become attached to it.
why

let go now.
it's there. it's useless
at the moment

but I have it
safe

and secure in the ice box.
maybe tomorrow,

she'll come around.

a midnight snack, yo

it's midnight

but i'm thinking about a steak
sub
sandwich,

onions, cheese, grease.
all of it fried

on the big iron griddle
over

in southern Maryland
by some large women
with names like

Maybelle and Sassy.

jiffy's was the name of the place.
a big yellow sign hung on the roof
with half the letters
blacked out.

the joint was the size of a phone
booth,

but they knew how to fry
up some thin
cut steaks

and make a foot long
sub out of it.

mayo, tomatoes, lettuce.
they'd wrap it in paper sealing

up those precious greasy
juices

then wrap it again in foil.
you stood outside in the cold
with your hands in
your pockets, then slid your money
under the caged window.

the whole car

would smell of that sandwich
for days on end.

jiffy's. maybe i'll do a drive
by. it's only midnight.


I haven't been there in forty years,
but i'm sure they're open.

going back to sleep

I wake up
from

being frozen in an ice berg
for a few years

and yawn, stretch,
get out of my wet clothes

and head to Starbucks,
but it's closed.

what the hell.
everyone is wearing masks.

no one is going to work.

the shelves at the grocery
store are thin.

no toilet paper anywhere.
I call up

my friend betty to see if
she wants to go

have a martini or two at
Mike's. pete the bartender
will figure this
out.

she tells me it's closed. I ask
her if I can come
over.

i'm starving, hungry
as a bear after being asleep
for so long.

no, she says. social distancing.

what the hell is going on?
I yell out
walking down the middle of
the street.

newspapers are blowing by
like tumble weeds as my

voice echoes down the canyon
of empty buildings.

this is crazy, I say to myself
and head back to the ice berg.

I crawl back in and wait it out.

dear daddy

she memorized
the daddy poem by Sylvia.

she performed it
in the mirror, at dinner.

in the moving car.
the affected accent giving
it rhythm

giving it life, as if it
was her life

lived, not hers. each word
a nail

in the coffin of a wretched
father.

siege heil.

and now strangely, I know the
poem too

by heart, but it's not about
him

but her this time.
each of them,

not miles, but mere inches
apart.

sour dreams

her skin,

witch like in the green
jello

mask

was frightening. the last
vision
seen before

the lights went out.
even now

years later, I cringe
and bite

my hand in remembrance
of that.

the hair yanked back
into a yellow

knot.
the rack of bones,
whitened
like flour poured from

a hole in a sack.
I stayed on my side of
the bed,

her to hers, lying still
in the cold darkness

on

the dungeon rack.

the cards are marked

she likes to gamble.

poker, the wheel, the slots.
she'll

throw her money down on any table,
raise

the hand
on any pot.
the dice are loaded,

she doesn't bluff, or
ever fold, instead
she cheats,

the cards are marked.
she only wins.

don't get in a card
game
with her. you'll lose
the horse you rode
in on,

you'll lose your heart
you'll lose everything.

all the lights are green

don't miss the past.

don't sweat what came before
and left.

don't worry about
the dust

the debris
you see in the rear view
mirror.

the small things.

the road is straight ahead.
all the lights

are green

what's behind you is ablaze
in red.

be patient, be calm, just wait, don't die

it will be the roaring twenties

once again,
when this thing ends,

she says, sipping on her apple
martini

doing her nails a hot pink.
the sun

is in her blue eyes. she knows
her history.

you'll see she says.
i remember after the war to end
all wars.

it will be chaos, but fun chaos
and calamity.

booze and love will overflow.
the bars
will be full,
restaurants will
have lines out the door.

the circus will be in town.
fireworks will fill the sky.

babies will be born by
the truck load.

music, dancing, cavorting.
it will be back to the good old days
of living the lie.

you'll see she says, with
a wink
in her pretty blue eyes.

be patient, be calm, just wait,
and most importantly,

don't die.

the black thumb

some people have a green thumb

everything they touch
grows
and blooms

blossoms. it's the same
in life

too, friends abound, love
is everywhere
with these green thumbed
souls.

there's hardly a cross word
spoken, not an enemy
to be found.

whereas others, the thumb is black,
and where the seeds
went in

nothing rises, what was there
dies,

weeds and vines
take control.

they'll strangle you if
you don't take

the hoe and cut them off
at the root.
nothing around them
will ever see the sun,

and grow.

the cookie jar

there are so many children

walking around
in adult bodies.

hands in the cookie jar
of life.

getting caught time and time again.

they don't regret their behavior
they just
regret being seen,

being busted, found out.

no sin is too large or too small
to cover up.

beware of those in church
covered

with cookie crumbs, their
hand

just left the jar.