a sliver of moon

a sliver of moon,

just

a taste

clings

to the black hand of sky.

no stars.

just the frost

of a lamp post

on my

face,

my hands, glimmering

in my wet eyes.

this park

bench feels cold.

these woods, deep

and dark

beside me

have turned copper,

turned gold.

i am still amazed at

what

life brings.

what it takes away.

but the moon, the moon

is always

there.

at least a piece of

it.

the steak knife

i remember lying

in bed

one hot summer night,

anxious and exhausted after

another long

fight, half asleep

next to my new

bride, well, not quite so new,

but a few months into the fiasco

and thinking

i wonder if she has a steak

knife under her pillow.

it was a funny thought

after hearing

the rattling of cutlery as

a drawer opened in the kitchen,

before she came up to bed.

my deepest regrets, rsvp

i'm sorry, but i can't attend.

you know.

the virus and all.

maybe in the fall,

or next spring?

pool party, oh my.

again, i'm sorry but i have

to refuse

the invitation, although you

know me,

how i'd love to attend.

the wedding. gosh sakes.

no.

but tell me

where you're listed and i'll

be sure

to send

whatever it is you might

be needing.

birth of your child.

we shouldn't take the chance,

and you know

how i feel about babies.

i won't be able

to sleep

without holding it in my

arms.

perhaps when it's more grown,

say out of the diaper phase

and into college.

but you know what,

once we have a vaccine

i'll be the first to arrive

and the last to leave from all your

frequent gatherings.

honest to goodness,

i do miss our get togethers.

zoom perhaps? 

you look lovely, my dear

do i look fat in this dress

she asks

spinning around in a gold 

array

of fabrics

from the far east,

nordstrom's rack,

macy's,  lord and taylor,

or maybe target, who's

to say.

no, you don't look a pound

overweight i

reply

from the chair

where i'm lacing up my

shoes.

in fact, you look

more sexy now than the

day i said

i do.

you look lovely, my dear.

no worries.

i've learned

the hard

way

what words to choose.

slow boat to china

there's not a bone

in my

body

that wants to own a boat.

i like

the water.

but i don't want

to work

all day to get from point

b

to point a.

let's take a drive,

then a dip.

dry off and find a place

to eat

and sit

without the sway of water,

the waft

of salt,

the threat of rain,

or drowning.

a taste of what hell might be like

i was in atlantic city once.

just once.

horrible.

a dump.  the ocean can't rise 

fast enough

to erase it from the world.

no matter how much lipstick

you put

on betty davis at the end

of her career,

it didn't matter.

there were throngs

of  bused in

old people with buckets of coins.

social security

money.

petty gangsters and whores,

who would

never drown on account of

their enormous surgical enhancements,

standing in line. blue haired

seniors, shaped like gum drops

melting in the sun,

grim in the noisy

chaos.

people in wheel chairs,

wheeled

in by nurses for one last

pull of the arm

to win

ten dollars.

it seemed to be a small taste

of what hell was going to be like

for some people.

some i was once related

to once, by the institution 

of marriage.

the cold war

i'm in a cold war

with one of my neighbor's

i won't say her name, but

people refer

to her as the witch on the corner,

or just becky.

when i see her on her broom

flying over the neighborhood

looking for home owner

violations,

i shake my head.

we have stopped waving.

there's no pretense anymore

that we could ever

get along.

no more how are you' or hey.

what up?

i got nothing for becky anymore.

i see that she's spelled my

name wrong

as she writes it in the sky,

preceded by the smokey word

surrender.

it's with a ph, not a v, i yell

up to her,

shaking my fist.

things will be different if

if i move things

will be different.

if i lose weight.

change my hair,

my clothes.

my doctor.

if i get a dog,

or a cat,

a bird, a fish,

a pony

named macaroni,

then things will

change. perhaps

a new hat,

new shoes, a new

political view.

a new wife, a new

mistress.

a boat, or car, something

bigger, shinier,

something

something,

a condo with an ocean

view.

if i wake up earlier

and go to sleep late,

take vitamins,

stop drinking,

or drink more, than

it'll all come together

and at last,

that will

be that.

something's missing

there are days, when you feel

like

you've missed an appointment

or a call.

there's a gap, an empty space

that wasn't filled.

you wonder about it all day.

isn't there something i need to do.

a place

to be, a person to call

or see?

and then it hits you

after midnight in the middle of

an early dream.

you turn the light on and write

down

her name.

how come we never made love

she liked

girls. she was muscled

and brave.

she could snap a whip

at

an apple held in your hand

at twenty

paces,

throw a ball

like a man.

run like the wind.

your first love.

kissing in the shadows

behind

the gym.

taller than me, stronger.

older.

a friend until the end,

whatever end that might

be.

and when we talk,

her in california with

her life long

partner,

a girlfriend, 

she asks

how come we never made love

back in the day,

and i say,

i don't know.

it's a mystery to me, like

many things.

Forward and Backward

the future is not

what it used to be.

in childhood

for most of us, there

was

the playground

the woods,

the cold sleeve of a stream.

full of fish

and frogs.

the girl with freckles

playing jacks,

the hollow sound of

a bouncing ball.

the bowling alley

up the street

with the blue curved roof,

the jukebox playing

dusty springfield,

james brown,

where you rolled duckpins

on saturday morning

in a league.

it's where the barber was.

the pin ball machines.

the restaurant full of men

with bellies

and red faces,

smoking. cursing their

luck

or wives, or both.

it was a mix of mirth

and wonder,

a growing disgust 

with adults.

finding out exactly what sex

was. really?

the sketches on the stalls,

the condom machine hanging

on the wall.

that's what they're doing

behind closed doors?

there was school. the books

carried home

wrapped in a belt.

the lunch box.

the beatles. the stones.

baseball cards.

your first copy of catcher

in the rye.

playboy smuggled home

and hidden.

it was a different world then,

and it's a different

world today.

the only constant is change.

you fear the same things

now

as you did then.

the loss of love.

the loss of friends.

what tomorrow might bring.

your sister was there

we had a nice

time

she says, taking off her

coat,

her scarf,

setting her purse

upon

the table.

what happened,

i ask her.

oh,

nothing she says.

it was lovely.

we had a very

nice lunch.

and talked.

we had a nice time.

she looks at me,

folding

her hands into her lap.

the curl of a smile

upon her

cat like face.

well? are you going to tell

me what happened

or not?

okay, she says.

your sister was there.

devil be gone

i buy

a smudge of sage to set fire to

then blow

out

to move around the house

and let the smoke

float about

to rid

the demons,

the dark

aura

of her presence, to leave

no doubt

that she's gone.

does it work, who knows.

but anything

is worth a try

when it comes to evil,

especially in

ex wives.

the aquarium

the fish

don't last long.

so get an eye full as they

swim

in the bubbled tank.

the fake

grass blowing

in some underwater

wind.

a windmill nearby,

teetering on white

rock. there goes freddy,

swimming by,

sally,

and joe.

blue green,

one black with what

appears to be a scarf,

another

dressed

in bright yellow,

with stripes.

they rise to the hand

of god

that sprinkles

manna from the sky.

but in a week, or

two,

some, the moses of bunch

might last a year,

but he too has a short

aquarium  life,

before he dies

time to walk away

you know when to walk away.

when to throw in

the towel, throw up the white

flag.

you get it.

you're on your own.

never asked, how you are,

with  work, with health,

with anything that has

anything to do with your life.

it's just their drama, their

problems, their aches and pains

that matter.

you are just a set of ears

to listen, to shake your head

and sigh, and feel sorry

for them.

they've  got nothing for you.

not a kiss, not a hand, not 

an ounce of wonder

about your life.

nothing. they could care less.

you're 

taken for granted, stuck in a world

run amok

with narcissism.

you know when it's time to walk

away.

time to get healthy,

begin the new day.

a shade of blue

don't bother me

with your politics. 

with your uneducated

take

on the world.

your narrow views.

there's not enough

aspirin in the world

to heal the headache

you give

me after an hour or two

of babble.

please.

let's keep it to small talk,

if it's okay

with you.

the weather seems safe,

you go first.

tell me what you think

of the sky.

tell me what color it is,

what shade of blue?

sending them home again

my grandmother

would scrub the marble porch

with a hard

brush

every morning in the low

sun over

the city, stacked with

row houses in south

philly.

the whole neighborhood

was spotless.

everyone had five kids

or more.

grandmothers, families,

the street

was italian.

the market. the schools,

the catholic churches.

you could smell the food.

hear the music.

see the men playing cards,

bocci ball.

gambling in the alley,

big shots

with Cadillacs,

the ice men pushing 

carts.  the junk man

with his scraps.

the widows in black.

someone was always dying or

dead

and food

was being prepared to send

them home again.

the cold shadows of morning

i remember

tip toeing down the stairs one cold

morning

up at 6 unable to sleep

because of the emotional

domestic

turmoil i was in.

living with a mistake.

a lie,

a loser.

but i was careful to be quiet

as to not awaken

the beast

still in bed,

her phone curled in her hand.

i put a dish in the

sink.

boiled some water,

then heard her feet hit the floor

as she bound down

the stairs.

how dare you wake me up

at this hour, she said.

the nerve of you.

we're done.

that's it. we're done.

her eyes were black, her hair

wild,

the bones of her rattled

in the cold shadows

of morning.

soon, i hope. soon.

the torn check

i piece the check back together.

carefully

aligning numbers

and words.

dots.

important dashes

that mysteriously litter

the landscape of

a personal check.

i didn't mean to rip it

in half when it arrived

in the mail. but it was

flimsy in an envelope

and practically tore itself

as i pulled

at the edges.

but tear it i did,

then cursed the heavens

as i looked for

the elmer's glue,

the blow dryer,

the razor blade.

a lamp without a shade,

as i went to

work reconstructing

the check.

get angry

every now and then

you're so mad, so angry, you're

spitting.

literally

spitting out the words.

it's not you, but it is you.

a deep

primitive

part of you, that is defensive,

aggressive

and true

to yourself and what you 

believe in.

trust your anger, it's rarely

wrong or

misplaced.

to bury it deep within and turn

the other cheek

in silence and acceptance,

will only keep you in the depths

of personal

hell and angst.

i read the news today, oh boy

everyone knows everything

these days.

it's a race to be the most informed.

twelve news

channels,

twitter, and all that other nonsense.

the phone

let's you know minute by

minute if the world is about

to end,

did you hear,

do you know,

let me tell you about what happened,

you have to see this

video.

it's a must see.  

when people die, you almost

know it before they do.

war, famine, plague, pestilence.

all the biblical

warnings

and prophecies

are now on the news as they occur.

you can't stop what's coming,

can you?

this ends our broadcasting day

in the old days

when you fell asleep on the couch

in front of the tv

you'd wake up at two

in the morning to the black and white

buzz

on the screen.

the crackling static.

this ends our broadcasting

day

it reads. there's a high pitched

whistle

like a bomb

is on its way.

but now. you wake up,

and it's i love lucy is playing,

or gunsmoke, or a commercial

for ginzu knives

or how to lose twenty pounds

in twenty days

with a powder you stir into water.

in this day and age

there is always money to be made,

i take the number down.

the foundation

we measure, we cut.
we hammer.
we stand back and think
okay.
not bad.
we build
a life, day in day out.
from birth to now.
but at times it gets old.
the wood
rots,
the paint peels,
the nails and screws get
loose
and we need to tear it
all down again.
start over.
it's all about the foundation
though.
if you have that,
you're good to go.
start again.

trauma bonding

is this the person

you want to be with for the rest

of your life

i tell her

as she gives me the list of his

many abuses

towards her.

he lies.

he cheats.

he manipulates and isolates

me.

he's quiet

and withholds information

about what he's

doing, where he's going.

he hides his phone,

always texting someone 

in front of me.

he makes promises that he'll

change,

but he never does.

my friends and family don't like

him, they tell me

to move on.

we never go anywhere, or

do anything.

he stays in contact with his

old girlfriends, sees them when

i'm not around.

i wake up crying.

i'm having panic attacks.

i'm in therapy.

i've lost weight, i've lost friends.

i'm a nervous

wreck all the time.

but i love him so so much

and can't imagine my life without

him.

what do you think?

will he kill me in my sleep

the interview

is brief.  i look at him.
he looks at me.

can i be trusted, can he.
arms,
legs all in tact.

young enough to climb
a ladder,

he has a car, he's sober,

but will he kill me in
my sleep?

how long have you been
painting,
i ask him.

he shrugs and says.
a long time.

okay, i tell him, i guess
that's good enough for me.

you start monday.

paper plates

what dishes

did your parents use at the table
when
it came time to eat?

it's another mindless test
online

to discover who you really are.

a facebook stream of more nonsense.
there are six choices.

colors. style. cheap or priceless.
there is everything

from good china, to porcelain,
to everyday dishes

from the local department store,
but nothing

that we used.

which was paper plates.
a stack

of a hundred, white and flimsy.

stacked on top

of the refrigerator.

missing

i see my face,
a picture on the side of a milk
carton.

that grin, that happy go
lucky look.

missing for years.
the date
when last seen is there.

i pick up the box and hold
it closer.

i'm right here.
i see a phone number below
the photo

so i call and tell them i'm
fine now.

she's gone.
all is well, i have my identity
back.

and they say, okay,
we'll mark you down as healthy
and intact

again. congratulations.
remember always,

to stay no contact, or you'll
be gone again.

the coffee spill

you spill coffee on your bright
white t-shirt
at 7 am.

you're in the car and have
no time
to turn around and go
back home again.

all day you walk around with
a stain
the shape of italy
on your chest.

people point and say,
you have something on your
shirt.

and you answer them
excitedly
with an italian accent,

and say, i know, i know.
yes.
yes.
using your hands, to
express.

when fall arrives

some like the heat,
the sweat,
the boil of a good hard
sun
white in a pale
dry sky.
while others, including
me like
the cool
autumn breeze,
the falling of copper
leaves.
the fire, the warmth
of another,
while snuggled inside.

rolling dice

as we sit in the shade
eating,
her peeling a banana
and me
with an orange, she says
that

she believes
we came from a string of monkeys
rising
to walk
once fishes in the sea.
and i don't.
she laughs and laughs.
you mean you
don't believe in evolution.
no, i tell her,
flatly.
i don't. it's just a theory.

and so how
do you think we arrived here,
she says.
and i say,
i really don't know or care,
but i do believe that
a divine power
must have been involved at
some point.
to which she says,
oh my.

so many varied species,
just look
at the beauty
in the sky. everything
is not random.
everything appears to be
by design.
as Einstein says, God is
not rolling dice
with the universe.

you're no longer employed here

it was the last day on the job
after
the bull
woman from the main office
came down
to hand out walking papers
to a few of
us less than productive
souls.
we deserved it.
we welcomed it. the job was little
more than
shoveling coal, in the form
of raw data
collected on a tape
to be printed in legible form.
i yawn just writing about it.
i remember staring out the window
at the lawn workers,
the delivery trucks,
the painters and road
men and thinking how lucky
they were.

there were goodbyes
to say.
farewells, hugs and kisses,
but sadly
no cake. just things to say,
like call me.
let's still meet for lunch
or dinner.
or happy hour.
same time same place.
and as Barney, the old security guard,
with his black
toy gun
walked me to the door, i
carefully hid the stapler
i had stolen,
and one more thing,
something  from the counter,
a warm
and iced
sweet cinnamon bun.

a little something for
the ride home.

once more for measure

don't count me out
on account

of a limp,
a sore knee,

a vague feeling of mystery
in my

thought.
the age of fog and slow

bones shuffling
to the toilet, so far from me.

don't count me out.
not yet

dear girl.
youth though wasted
on the young

has a second wind,
about to rise,
about to come.

a promising life

pale and cracked,

the egg falls
and spills it's guts onto
the tiled
floor

a yellow pollack sort of mess.

it's beautiful
in a sad sort of way

against the black
and white,
the sheen of window
light.

still holding the cold glassy
stare
of once a promising
life.

twenty four seven

some need to work
to bury
themselves in paper, in calls,
in e mails,
in the hustle
of it all.
twenty four seven.
a second with nothing to do
would be
earth shattering,
unused
and wasted, boredom
would set in.
the constant scroll of the phone.
affirmation of life,
without a minute
rest, or stopping,
but without work,
then what would there be
to do.
have fun?

the dating profile

i see her on the dating site.
the old photo.

crimped at the edges,
a sepia tone as

the sunlight washes upon
her in some
foreign land. water in the background.

i read her words.
they haven't changed.
it's what we all want or don't want.

one script for all.
drama free, fun and sexy.
smart

and well read.
a sense of humor is a must.

it makes me smile to see her on
there.
to see
how she's moved on.

how she hasn't aged after
all these years.

the phone rings

the phone rings,
i see who it is on caller id,
i reach
for the tylenol.
extra strength.
i grab a bottle of water
and an ice
pack to place
upon my head.
i go into the cool
basement and lie upon
the couch.
hello, i say into
the phone.
what gives? what now?
i put it on speaker,
and listen.

the blank stare

it is the blank stare,
the gaze
of empty.
the far off look of puzzlement
that throws
you off, makes
you wonder
who you are dealing with.
a true self,
or someone in the game,
being
what they need to be
in order to manipulate
and control
a world she cannot ever
truly know
or believe.

kings and queens

the bent
were once straight,

those stumbling about
in grey

overcoats, and high boots
were
once kings and queens.

generals and admirals.
now
the war is with

their own bones.
the blurred eyes, the dampened
ears.

love is a distant sweet,
lost

on dulled tongues,
fallen

like shiny coins
in the wilderness

of tall grass.

no news is good news

no news, as they say, is
good news.

the set is off.
the radio
too.

the telephone is off
the hook.

even the woman next
door as she
hangs

her things upon the line
is curiously mum.

no little birds appear
to whisper

in my ear the dirt,
what's gone down,

or what is to come.

finding the fix

some find their way
in drink,

or a snort, or the glimmering
of an angel
with wings

at the tip
of a filled syringe,

with others it's the delight
of sex,

the kink,
the strange, the obsessed
fix

that flies away as fast
as it came.

there is no bar raised
that can't
be raised farther.

we choose our lives,
as often

as we choose our deaths.

as the pretty girls go by

women
don't understand, at least
many
of the ones i've had the pleasure,
or unpleasure
to have known,
they don't quite get
that desire
never dies.
that even at ninety
we will be
sitting
on a park bench,
in our long winter coats,
with cane,
and hat,
watching
the pretty girls go by.

poison arrows

sharp words
are swords, tipped in anger.
what brilliant aim
you have, but
regrettable
once
the heat has died down.
once the quill is empty.
but in they are,
deep into the target's
skin.
it will take time to heal
these wounds.
to mend,
to make
things right again.

dry eyes

love dies
in your arms, in your hands.
what
you thought was real
was a mirage,
an ice
sculpture, not meant
to last
for a season.
the light dissolves it.
the sun.
the warmth of summer
makes liquid of the lie.
we are left
to mop,
to throw a towel
in. to walk away
now learned, sober
with dry eyes.

the shave

as men
we go to the mirror
and frost our face with
cream.
we ponder the old
soul
that we are staring back
in the mirror with
our father's eyes,
our mother's grin.
we take the razor and pull
at what grows,
what thickens
on our cheeks, below
our ears,
our chins.
it is a ritual we obey
daily.
cold water
onto the clean up
then
a blue bright lotion
as clear
as the bermuda shore,
slapped with
a waking sting,
and we
begin our
day again.

in far away villages

in low lying
huts, in far away villages,

thatched and dry
in
the sunlight that bathes
them

people arise
to what day they were born
into

unworried
by the world at large.
there is fish to catch.

fires to build.
the simple things of keeping
alive.

but there is love too.
don't forget that.

ever.

by days end

someone dies.

not unusual. it seems to happen
all the time.

in fact,
so far a hundred per cent
of the human

race have gone down that road.
but
this name

sounds familiar.
someone from the past.

high school
or college perhaps.

an acquaintance, a lover?
who was she

in the scheme of things,
your cluttered
life?

was she blonde or brunette,
funny or sad?

but the vagueness of her,
the memory
for better worse, will by days
end

pass.

take your shoes off

when i hear

you need to take your shoes off
when you come
in.

i know it's trouble.
don't come before noon.

and not at two
because the babies will
be sleeping.

text before you arrive.
wear your mask.

ring the bell, don't knock,

wash your hands.
don't park in the drive.

i can smell trouble from
thirty miles
away,

but i go just the same, it's
work
after all

and something to write
about
when i  run dry.

sniffing glue

there were some kids
in the old
neighborhood that would steal
tubes of glue
from the hobby shop
and run to the woods
to sniff and get high.
they'd be wild eyed for the
whole day. sleepy
and lost,
while i went home with
my glue
and put together the model
of a battleship
or truck, a 57 chevy with
baby moons.
my fingers had a new skin,
with pieces of
the newspaper
stuck.

polishing the fender

the world
can be sand paper rough.

a gritty
day of grime and pain.

we try to smooth out the edges
of us.
put a shine
on others.

we do the best we can with
what we have
or know.

the hood, the fenders,
on bended knee we go down
with

the chamois cloth,

we look at the crazy
reflection
of a world

half lost.

keep it moving

we are as busy
as we want to be, it seems impossible
for some
to slow down
the pace.
they need the flurry of
activity
the bustle and hustle.
they need
the blur of life,
the calendar flying by.
to stop would mean
reflection.
looking deep into their
soul
why bother
with what's important
though.
let's keep it moving.
we're running short of time.

the mob mentality

they protest

that the police are scary
with their
dark

suits,
their helmets. their tear
gas

and batons.
they won't let us burn down
our city.

or toss and turn
over
whatever lies before us.

they're in the way of us
destroying

the property and businesses
of others.

how dare they.
we are the righteous mob.

we have no where else
to be.

no ambitions short of shouting
slogans
holding placards

we are jobless, uneducated,
bored
with our lives,

naive.

confession comes to mind

the rain

comes in sideways.

full of light and fury.

the roar.

the power dissolves

us into darkness.

shadows

grow.

as we huddle on the bed.

it's a good storm.

one that shows us who

really is in

control here. confession

comes to mind.

sweet and sour

i called her sugar
in the beginning. honey.
sweetie pie.
etc.
terms of endearment
in the honeymoon phase

at the end though.
the sweet had soured
and i called her by her
name. her full name.
with regret and sorrow,
more bitter by the hour.

the taste still lingers
despite how i spit it out.

the flying dream

i don't need a dream
book

to figure out the dream
i had last night.

i can still taste it in my mouth.
see it.
hear it. feel it.

i'm flying. the rope that tethered
me to the ground

is cut.
the sky is blue again.

the rain has stopped.
my arms are stretched out
as i glide

between the clouds,
not worried about direction

or where to land.

the grape vine

i trim the grapevine
down

to almost one person.
a dangling strand

on the fence of my life.
the shears
have dulled from all the cutting

of the vines.
friends and relatives.

acquaintances with nothing
but trouble
and gossip on their minds.

i'm done with grapevine.
the drama

of others, the secrets, the whispers,
the promises

to promise that what i'm
about to tell you is never told

to another soul.
i take it down to the roots.
and kill it.

8 a.m. English Composition 101

i remember standing in front
of my
first college professor.
doctor Bodnar.
a sharp man
in a grey suit with a starched
white shirt.

he wanted to talk to me
about the paper i wrote.
telling me i showed promise.
he smelled of perfume.
his hair
was slicked back
and his skin was like polished
olives.
neat, clean, a magazine model.

after talking
at length about my first
attempt at an essay, he looked
at my hands and said.

are you still biting your  nails?

watching the detective

when i became
sherlock holmes for a a few
years.

i enjoyed it in a dark sort of way.
finding
clues in
every dark corner
of every closet.

each drawer a treasure chest
of betrayal

and lies.
it was a creepy world.
slimely.

reading e mails
and watching from afar,

finding footsteps
on the trail,
deep into the woods
where the murder took place.

but someone had to do it,
someone
had to get to the bottom

of who killed a heart
and left it bleeding on the side
of the road.

i found no pleasure in it,
despite
the skills i developed
over time.

if the stars align

i find the orange in back
of the ice
box.
half green
half brown,
yellow striped somehow..
it's a planet
in some far off galaxy.
no life
of its own.
just sitting there
in a stale orbit
in the cold
depths of space.
rolling to and fro
with the opening of the door.
i'll visit it sometime
and send
it off to a long delayed
death.
maybe tomorrow.
if the stars align.

blimey

she says things
like

peace out, girl scout.
she's funny.

i like her funny bones.
plural.

i like the way she puts
her finger
into my pudding
and says,

are you going to eat that,
in a british accent.

when i can't open
a jar
of olives
i hand it to her and she smirks.

one twist, and calls me lame.

i'd marry her in a heart
beat.
but my heart
these days is out to lunch.

and anyway in a week
or two

i'd be annoyed with her.
always being more
clever and funny than me.

where was that wisdom?

you think of yourself
as being smart.

clever, well read, intuitive
even
dare i say, spiritual at times.
you say wise
things.

help others when they're troubled.

you don't steal, you don't lie.
you don't sleep
with other people's wives.

you've never struck another person
in anger.
you let everyone into
the lane
in front of you.

you hold doors for others
you give up your seat.
you tip
your hat, and you tip
your wait staff.

but then again
there is a dark side.

a dumb side when it comes
to love.
you are easily fooled by those
wearing the pretty mask.

where is that wisdom when you
really need it?

you have a petty mean streak in
you
if hurt.

if abused or lied to.
especially if betrayed.

there is a deep feeling of wanting
revenge
of some sort,

unable to wait for karma to come
back around

you have a tendency to
 bad mouth others
when you feel disrespected.

the child in you cries out
when hurt.

but then you get a good nights sleep
and start over.

you try to do better the next day.
hopefully there's
enough time to work all these
things out.

big mistakes

when you look
back
at your mistakes, you say
to yourself
i should never should
have done this or that.
i never should
have taken
that left turn,
or bought those shoes,
or ordered indian
food.
i never should have moved
in to a high rise
building
with bugs.
i made a mistake with
that car,
i never should have picked
up that snake,
or licked that plant
that turned out to be
poison ivy.
i never should have stuck
my hand into
the fire
to see if the coals were
hot.
i never should have married
that woman
who arrived on our first date
riding on a broom wearing
all black,
with green skin
and a pointed hat.

you never know

you
are never more busy,

more appreciative of work, than
when it's your own
business.

once you get over the wall
and away
from the corporate
world

life begins in earnest.
free at last

from the will of others.
no coat or tie, or shirt
with your name
on it.

no desk in the corner office.
no cubicle.
no clock to punch.

the dollar you make is yours.

not half, not a third
but whole.

you hardly miss a day.
you return every call.

it's you.
seeding and plowing field
at harvest. you don't know how
wonderful

that is until you climb
the wall
and leap.

A Stranger on the Train

is there anything
better

than a rainy day with a black
and white movie
on the tube.

an old classic.
Hitchcock perhaps.

Bogart and Bacall.

legs up, pajamas on, or not,
doesn't matter.

a cup of tea perhaps,
or maybe
a gin and tonic.

the lights off.
the night approaching.

quiet. shhhh. the show is
about to begin.

where is the truck?

i look outside the window
for my delivery.

i can't remember what i bought,
but i know something

is on its way.
maybe a book, or piece of art,
or shoes,

or a shirt. a cap.
stretch socks.

more things i don't need
are coming.

but where oh where is
the truck? brown or white,

maybe blue with stripes.
it makes no
never mind to me.

just get here before i go
to sleep.

ruminations

ruminations
are
ugly, pesky dark thoughts
that come back
out of nowhere.
what triggers you?
the road you're on,
the smell
outside the window.
a song
on the radio.
they are old stale thoughts.
like grey gum
stuck to the tread of
your thick shoes.
you can never quite
scrape it all away
with the sharp stick
you carry with you.

it's a good day for ice cream

it's a good day
for ice cream, i tell her.

my arm around
the cool roundness
of her bare

shoulder.
the fan upon us in the great
room

where the dog
likes to lie on the rug

and be a dog.
so we go.

two scoops each.
taking turns on each other's
cones.

our lips sugared
in mint chip and coffee.

it's the beginning of a wonderful
night.

sea of air

there is something
between us.

let's call it air for now.
stale air.

the sargasso sea of air
a calm

that belies
what it appears to be.

it's more about apathy.
that relationship

poison of i just don't care.

most likely you'll go your
way
and i'll go mine.

but for now we'll sit,
across from
one another,

between the unblown
air.

the absence of others

i'm getting used to quiet.

to being
alone.

though less alone than with
someone

who wasn't really there to begin with.
no shower running,

no footsteps
in the hall. no slamming
of a door,

or twist of a lock,

no crying. no arguing.
no

tension in the air.
no shadows
that aren't mine.

it's amazing how the absence

of someone can
bring joy back into your life.

make the world right again.

we've rented it out, so why bother

you call yourself a professional
painter,
she says

in her email, there are little specks
of our popcorn

ceiling everywhere. we might have to
vacuum before
we rent it out again.

just because it's never been painted
and is smoked damaged
and has absorbed all the grease
and grime of the last
15 tenants, still you should have
been more careful
in putting three coats of paint on it.

and yes, we know we haven't
changed
the carpet in 25 years,

or cleaned the ancient stove,
or painted the chocolate brown
closets,
or fixed the squeal in the refrigerator,
but you

should be more responsible.
and that black caulking in the tub,
where the mold
has grown,

maybe we'll rip it out in a few years,
and fix
the leaking faucets, and the always
running toilet,

and get an ac unit that actually
blows out cold air.

but we've rented it out already, and
so why bother.

The Red Roosters

every year or so
i get the notice from elaine about the next
high school reunion.

she's been doing this for 50 years.

she used to sit behind me in
social studies

wearing her pilgrim dress.

we called her mother.
always telling us to quit talking,

or chewing gum.
she was 60 years old, even then.

her hair up in a bun,
her hand

perpetually raised with an answer,
or a complaint

about how others
were misbehaving.

she writes a long e mail
apologizing for the smallness of the venue.

a burger joint along route 7.

so many have died, she says,
or are sick

or in wheelchairs and walkers
and won't be able to attend.

but there will be access ramps
available.

Mr. Brody the science teacher who
is now 92 promises to show up though.

Go Braves, she ends it. our team
mascot, which is no longer in use.

but is now the Red Roosters.
politically correct.

the flickering light

the power goes out
in the storm.

it comes back.
the clocks blink red.

the world stops then begins
again.

who hasn't had days like that.
years
perhaps.

we are continually
starting over.

each day. each night,
a reboot.

another shot at redemption
under

the flickering light.

the survey

please, please
take the survey and tell us how
wonderful
we are.
we've called, we've emailed.
we've texted you.
it will only take an hour
of your time
to tell us
how perfect our product
is.
how good the installation
went.
we need your praise.
we are desperate to hear how
happy you are.
our business depends
upon you marking
five stars
for service, for quality, for
price, for compassion
and kindness by our workers.
they were amazing, right?
you are a valued customer
and we want to bask
in your praise
and tell the world how thrilled
you are with our work.
please, please
fill out the survey.
it means everything to us.
and if you do,
we promise to leave you alone.
honest.

My Neighbor Becky

for the most part
i get along with my neighbors.

hello.
how are you?
hot out, isn't it?

etc.
that sort of non invasive
chit chat
that goes nowhere.

just gets you from the car
into your house
without having to discuss

anything of importance.

but then there's Becky.
she's been putting notes on my
door for 15 years now

about the trash, about the dog,
about the stickers
on the car.

about how i shovel snow.

she smiles and waves
whenever i see her acting like
all is well.

she never signs her notes anymore,
but i recognize the handwriting
from the first manifesto she
pinned to my door when i first
move in.

she's old
and from what i heard
was engaged once

to adolf hitler, but she's one of
these mean people

that will never die. something about
the poison in her
veins keeps her alive.

she reminds me of the grandmother
in the story The Misfit
by Flannery O'conner.

"she would have been a good woman,
the misfit said, if only she had had a gun
to her head all her life."

i read the new note
and sigh in the heated air.
please double bag your trash
when you put it out at night.

the animals are getting into it.

and please remove that tread mill,
if it's yours, from the trash pile
too.

the trashmen will not take it.
you should not put heavy exercise
equipment
out on the curb like that.

i look at all the other porches
along the rows of houses.

i'm the only one with a note.
lord have mercy.

i've never owned a treadmill
in my life and i put the trash out
at 730 a.m.

i walk the note up to her house
and drop it on her porch
with three words written on it,
two being .....You Becky

The Lemon

she looked beautiful
in the showroom.

the online ads
praised her attributes.

no drama with this used car.
low maintenance.

clean and polished.
a fresh coat of paint.

sleek and sexy. not a bump
or bruise

on her immaculate
body.
ready for the road,

hardly a mile or two
on the odometer.

just church going miles on
sunday.

she purred like a kitten
when you turned
the key.

how were you to know?

the stars at night

we want to romanticize
the sky
at night.

talk about the chandelier
of stars.

the velvet blackness,
the mystery of it all.
we want

our world to have poetry
in it.

we want the fantasy of
love, the wonder

of childhood, so we stare
longingly

at the cold empty sky, with
no air,
no life,
and pretend that all

can be well, if we try.

the busy night

it was a busy night.
in and out
of strange dreams.

moving, travelling,
in and out
of love.

wearing strange clothes,
speaking
in another language.

staring at maps on the open
sea.
i was exhausted when i woke
up,

but disappointed too.
i was still
where i was when i started

seven hours ago
after falling fast asleep.

falling in love

i keep a plant alive
on my kitchen
window sill for over a week.

i'm very proud of myself.
watering. talking to those green
leaves,

those delicate sprouts of purple,

spinning it towards the sun.
i've even given it a name.

violet.
i'm falling in love with her.

i truly believe she's in love
with me,
and after all i've done,

who wouldn't be?

it's none of your business

i'm not responsible for your emotional
health

she'd say
after lying and cheating, meeting her
married boyfriend

at the park for a rendezvous.

maybe you shouldn't have followed
me

or read my emails, or my text messages.
you wouldn't be hurt then,

would you?
why do you invade my privacy?

it's so immoral.
just because we're married doesn't give
you the right

to know everything i'm doing,
no matter how evil

or crazy it is. what i do behind your
back

is my business. not yours.

apartment living

i was never good at apartment
living.

the noise, the smells.
cabbage? goat?
babies crying and crawling
down the hall
with fat
diapers.

domestic battles raging
inside the air vents.

dogs peeing in the elevator.
i'd bang
pots and pans against the walls,
the floors

the ceilings trying to get the bongo
music to stop.

sometimes i'd ask the super
to either get the
bugs
out of my unit, or please just

shoot me on the spot.
the rent went up every year as
walls got

smaller, the tenants got wilder.
it was ellis
island on crack,

and everyone was sick
and coughing in the lobby.

i remember taking the steps
twelve floors up

carrying a raw chicken
and two potatoes,

a bottle of rose
for my date tonight.

god help her. i try to warn her
and tell her to arm
herself,

but she doesn't listen, and i
get a call from
the cops.

one oar in the water

i turn the page,

but first do a revision.

i change

the names to protect the guilty.

i cross

out, erase,

then add

and subtract whatever nonsense

i feel

is necessary to get the point across.

i make

me the good guy.

i'm wearing the white hat,

on the white horse.

i can hardly

say one good thing about her.

which isn't her

fault.

it's mine. but those are the words

i cross out.

i want to be in the best of light

when my

ship

comes in.

there it is now. a leaky row

boat

with one oar.

shades of blue

there are many shades
of blue.

take the eye
for instance, take the color

of that bird.
the vein

in your arm.
the sky, the ocean from this

hill.
just look at the view.

there are many shades of blue.
i've known

most. and many
because of you.

we all make mistakes

we all make mistakes.

we take the wrong job, marry the wrong
person.

hang on too long to some
nutcake
who's in your life.

we get a dog.
or a cat.

or invest in goldfish that will
overnight,

we buy things like plants
that
need watering.

we buy a red or orange shirt.
we
try to dance.

we over drink, over eat.
we text

in the middle of it. we take
a picture
of our food and send it

to people
we once had blocked.

we are fools sometimes.

we all make mistakes,
so what.

get over it. tomorrow we'll
try to do better.

we are so alike

i run into my therapist
at the grocery
store.

i can't help but look at what's in
her cart.

ice cream, cake.
beer, wine.

rib eye steaks.

i look into mine. the same.
we are so alike.

she nods.
i nod.

see you next week at 7,
i tell
her.

sharp, she says. 7 sharp.

what women want

little girls
want a pony to ride.

a pink dress,

and as they get older
that want
a prince charming
to appear
on a white horse,

and when they finally get over
that

they want to be left
alone

on a beach, perhaps,
with a book, a bottle of wine,

and maybe a few
close girl friends.

then a nap.

behind the glass

masked
and cautious. don't stand
to close
to me.

the public address system
in the grocery
store

proclaims we are all in
this together.

it's eerie. strange.
the world

we once knew, will
never be
the same.

wash your hands.
wash your hands.

behind the glass, we wait.
we stand.

we are few

we invest
our time in work, trying
to the best we can do.
we are honest
in
relationships. family
and friends.
we do what we can
to keep
it altogether.
we are caretakers,
codependent
on the love of others
always trying
to keep the peace,
keep tranquility
in store.
we want no drama,
no turmoil.
we want the world
to be calm
and reasonable
like we are.
we are dreamers.
we are poets, writers,
artists.
philosophers.
our nature is spiritual.
compassion
and joy resides within
us.
we believe in the power
of love.
we want the world to
join in, but

we are few.

what could be worse

i shudder at what could have been
if i hadn't escaped

the clutches of the demon
possessed.
i try to find a comparison.

being in the dentist's
chair

for a year. the drill bearing
down
on my teeth,

or locked in an elevator
with judge judy.
or donald trump.

tax time. a colon cleansing.

i think of the dmv.
the endless wait.
or the car inspection
with the man holding a greasy
filter
wanting you to inspect and decide.

or sunday mass at high noon,
the incense and smoke
burning my eyes as i pray
on throbbing knees.

i shudder and think of all
these things,
but nothing can ever compare

to what it was like,
having her
living here with me.

attachments

it's attachments
that do us in. that make us suffer.

large or small.
dead or alive.

inanimate or moving.
each thing,
each person that gets under
our
skin
and we define as loved

brings us pain
in some inevitable end.
there is no way around it.

live long enough
and you'll

feel the sting of living this way.

no longer lovers

there is no
humor

in it. the smiles have
slipped away,
once easily found.

we are ships
plowing dark seas
in the hall

bumping hulls.

hardly friends,
no longer lovers.

no longer asking each other
what's for dinner.

did anyone call?

we take
turns with the hot water.
we are polite
in our absence.

we think of others.
we drink our coffee alone

with the unread paper
on the deck.

we ponder.

we ponder a lot, about
what's next.

Primrose Lane

they build
the neighborhood in a week.

migrant workers
with hammers a bleeding.

trees go in.
they fill the ditch with water
and call

it a lake.
they pave a path around it.
ducks arrive.

shops go up.
we have landed in a place
where we'll
end our lives.

found peace.

and we call it paradise.
we are
so easily

fooled.
so easily led like sheep.

nothing there to see

we live in a world
of insecurity.

of look at me.
we scream for the focus
to be on us.

we post, we send, we present
ourselves
in the kindest of
light.

it's all image,
not what lies beyond
the skin.

we wash and clean, we
scrub and polish.

we spend our lives wanting
praise from others.

look at what i've done,
what i've bought,
what i've hung
upon the wall.

look at all the people that
love and admire me.

it's all a mirage, a charade,
behind
the mask
there is nothing there to
see.

anyone, anyone

as leon russell
sings

we are lost in a masquerade.
is there
anyone real

out there.
anyone without a mask,
a false self.

with make up on,
a wig.

a disguise? is there one
honest
soul

walking the earth?
anyone, anyone.

bueller?

wrong love

we cling
to things, to people

to places
where we don't belong.

we struggle to understand
the wrong.

we beg for mercy, for love
that shouldn't
be
to stay.

we are crazy at times,
not only

in our youth, but now in
these
later days.

we move slowly

we move slowly
into

the shade.
into the later years

of old age.
we limp

with cane
with

hand in hand
towards

the open grave.

we move slowly in this
heat

of summer, nearing
fall, then
winter.

the wind of time

has colored us grey.
what smiles
there were, what love

was new
has vanished. the youth

we once believed
would never end

has slipped away.

were they happy?

the whole food organic
store

has installed benches
in the aisles

so that you can now sit and read
the labels

on all the cans
and packages.

floor lamps have been
placed

for those with bad eyesight.

the calorie count. the nutritional
value.

carbs and what not. all must
be accounted for.

is this a local carrot?
a woman says

to the young clerk.
this can of beans, were the workers

treated well?
were they happy?

the conversation

it begins
with a nice conversation over
coffee.

the weather, work.
sports.

then he wants
to talk politics. religion.

race relations.
rewriting history.
tearing down statues

and redefining life and culture.
he veers off into
the dark zones of conspiracy.

it's exhausting.

there used to be a time
when we sat
and talked

about the new girl down the block.
how cute
she was.

we'd wonder if
we should go play catch
in front of her

house to grab her attention.

we know people

we need this
done

quickly and cheaply.

yesterday would have been
a good day.
you have come

highly recommended.
we've done

a back ground check
so we know that
you are

a wonderful person.
we want your

lowest possible price
for the highest

quality of work.
if nothing goes wrong

we promise to keep
your card
and pass your name along

if we can find
it amongst the hundreds
of other cards

from other estimates.

we know people with
money. important people
that have been in the news.

can you come by today?
take your shoes off before
coming in.

the children will be napping in
the afternoon, so don't ring
the bell or knock.

sit out on the porch and at
some point we will look out
the window

to let you in.

we have white carpet and our little
ones are allergic
to strangers, so wear a hospital
mask
and hat.

someone will take your
temperature and examine
your throat and ears

upon entering.

frozen meat

I take out a frozen piece

of meat

from the freezer.

I set it on the counter.

I wonder what it is, how it

got there.

I roll it over, stiff and hard.

full of ice. 

the date on the side is smudged.

fish?

maybe. a sirloin?

I stare at it for a minute

or two, thinking of other things.

then pick up the phone

for Hunan West.

keep the kiddies happy

there was a balloon man
in the early
eighties who
sold his balloons
in the bars in Washington.
keep the kiddies
he'd say, standing out on
the sidewalk
as we left, half sober
and hungry.
new loves attached to our
arms.
keep the kiddies happy,
he'd say,
holding up his bouquet
of pink and yellow
blue and green balloons.
he wore a black top hat,
round sun glasses
and vest over a white
silk shirt. his skin was
a bright black sheen
of sweat and sweetness,
keep the kiddies he'd say,
tipping his hat
in the wee hours of the morning.
keep the little ones happy.

blonde in a red car

there was always
someone

who needed an advance in
their pay.

usually it was the last time you
ever saw them.

you'd see them
standing
in the boss's office, head
down,

pockets out, with a hang
dog expression
on their face.

they'd get their money,
then leave.

running down the  steps to
the side
door of the factory

where a blonde in a red
car
with the top

down waited for him.

six feet apart

i started

social distancing early,

before

the virus went full bloom.

it was six inches apart at first.

then six feet.

and then she slept

in the other room,

before going to the basement.

now it's six miles.

working on 

sixty.

seems you can never quite

get away

far enough from pain

and disease.

where are you

which closet
is yours.

which dark corner
holds
a secret.

which drawer.
which box.

which letter or card
stuffed
beneath the clothes.

where is your true self.
in what shadow

does it lurk.
maybe it's all in your

phone. yes.

there you are.

her rescue dogs

to  prove to herself
and others that she had
any sort of empathy, she'd
carry

around the boxes of ashes
from her dead rescue dogs.

shiny laminated boxes
with metal plagues holding
their names.

Rex, Viking, Fido. she'd hold
them up

smiling like a proud child,

and yet,
when it came to humans,

the knife was bloodied, hidden
behind her back.

the picture text

my friend diane in ohio

sends me a picture of her fence
that she's about

to stain.  the long stretch of bare
wood.

i send her a picture of mine.

it wasn't always this way.

when the hunt ends

in the beginning

she'd slip into something more comfortable.
something
silk
and transparent.

tied together with fragile thin strings.
she'd be
a walking

whisper entering the candle lit
room

full of al green and marvin gaye,
teddy

music on the speaker.

but in a few months,
she'd clothe herself in burlap,

showerless, her body wrapped
in barbed wire.

game over. the hunt was over.

what was her name?

i tell the masseuse to dig deep.

she hops up onto the table
and puts her
knee into my bare back.

it's still not enough.
am i hurting you, she asks,

kneading and tugging
at my muscles.

no. i tell her. you don't know
what hurt is?

but she can't get to the  spot,
the muscle
tight and knotted
deep within me.

she can't seem to find it
with her elbows, her hands.

i feel the drops of her sweat
falling onto me.

she grunts as she keeps at it.

you are so tight and beaten, she
says. what has happened to you?

what was her name?

finding the middle

there is a middle
with some.

a no man's land, of peace.
of
quiet.

of respecting
each other's  ground.

no bullets, no words
need
to be spent.

just a meeting of minds,
disagreeing

on all things
learned.

a compromise of sorts
before
going back behind

the wire, to reload
and fire.

off the leash

the lost

dog is in the street.

he looks left

then right.

the cars honk their horns.

they swerve to avoid

hitting him.

he's tired.

thirsty. his tongue hangs

out.

his eyes are bloodshot

from the travel.

weary from trying to

get back home.

so many dogs.

lost,

and confused, trying

to remember

where love is.

how you keep warm

your feet are cold.

your heart

hesitates.

you stay put, unable

to move

forward.

love is no longer appealing

to you.

no longer

an unfulfilled goal.

you listen, but believe no

one.

you bundle up.

button your coat up

to your neck

in the brisk wind of time.

this is how

you keep warm now.

thick coats,

a fire.

things are fine.

the court date

i see the neighbor hood
boy
in his new suit.

a dark blue. it looks two
sizes
too large.

a wide striped tie.
white shirt and tennis shoes
with

grass stains
from when he mowed the lawn.

it's  a court date.
his mother waves, dressed

to the nines.
i can almost smell the perfume
from here.

the boy has taken the rings
out of his nose

and combed his hair.

he looks like he could be going
to church
to sing in the choir,

instead of
doing three to five.

the narcissist

there seems to be

no logic

to the bee sting.

you have no anger or acrimony

towards

it.

and yet it flies upon

you

and stings your arm.

she looks at you,

you look at her.

what is there to understand?

she shrugs and goes off

to die.

it's what i do, she says

without apology.

no reason, or explanation.

it's who i

am. it's how i fly.

frankly my dear

i feel  guilty about not
feeling
more empathy for certain people.
one person in
particular.
i got nothing.
no tears, no remorse
or regret.
i just don't care anymore.
she's ancient history.
a book
of lies tossed to the trash.
i'm rhett butler.
and that's that.

it's early in the game

as i stand
at the kitchen sink with a ham
sandwich

drinking a glass
of cold milk,
breaking
a pickle in two.

i gaze out the window
at the kid
on his bike

talking happily to the
girl
next door, in pigtails.

i feel happy
that it's early

in the game for him.
that he has no clue,

at least not yet.

letting things in

i think about all the bugs
i've swallowed
as i ride
my bike through the wooded
path.
across streams
bridges,
through the dark caves
of trees
thick and green.
it's too late to spit them out.
they're in.
they're down.
they're a part of me, for
better or worse.
such is life, and the words
that people
tell us.

this is the year

this is the year, 

she tells me.
this is
the year i quit, retire
and start my next life.

she's been saying this for
five years now.

she looks off into the distance
as we talk,
quiet for a moment.

there is nothing but air

between us.

maybe i'll travel, she says,
as if the idea just came into
her mind.

see the country. see the world.
i look at her.

she's tired.
she's lonely.
she's lost. her cat jumps

into her lap,

knowingly.

i've never seen the grande
canyon, she says.

maybe i'll go there.

why not, i tell her. why not?

the white album

we were listening
to the white album
in dana's basement
when henry sadowski
pulled out his works.
a rubber band, a syringe
a spoon
and some white powder.
we watched him
tap out a vein
and shoot the boil
of heroin into his arm.
he was an A student.
a boy scout.
an athlete. he had the world
by a string,
but everything was about
to change.
ob la dee ob la da.

no where to go

there's too many hours
in the day.

too many minutes to fill.
the weeks
are backing up.

i've got a month of sundays
with
nothing to do.

i've got a new suit on
with
no where to go.

no one to see.
i'm waiting. at the bus
stop.

wave, if you drive by,
give me a shout out,

if you see me.

the cutlery from montgomery wards

i remember squeezing open

the slats of our venetian blinds,

peering out the window
of our one bedroom apartment
in maryland

and watching my first
ex wife

walking up the street with a toaster
oven under her

arm and a pink suitcase in her
other hand.

heading back to her mother's house
a stones throw away.

the toaster oven was brand new,
hardly a slice
had been buttered or browned.

a wedding gift from her uncle

Felix from a month or two ago.

i've always wondered
about the oven. why that?
why not the mixer, or the blender?

why not
the afghan her grandmother knitted
for us
that i was yet to ball
up and put into the trash room

right outside our front door.

what about the fine cutlery from
Montgomery Wards?  

i discovered later that she took

the last piece

of the wedding cake too, 

wrapped in foil in the freezer.

i'll never forgive her for that.

i can still taste it

till this day.

this new storm

in this new storm

the lights go out, but i'm prepared.
i have

batteries and water.
candles.

i have bread.
i have chocolate.

and i have you in the other
room

half asleep
beautiful in your dreams,

unclothed
between

the clouds of cool
white
sheets..

in violation once more

the woman,
i think her name is
eva braun,

is standing
with a clipboard
outside

my window.
she's writing something
down
in indelible black ink.

i see my name at the top
of the ledger.

my address,
she's writing something down

that's going on to my
permanent record.

she shakes her head as she
writes. she sighs
and draws a deep breath
exhaling

a cloud of flies.

i am in violation again

of something. it's always
something

that i'm in the dog house for.
that i will be punished for.

she reminds me
so much of my dearly departed

ex wife.

have a nice day

i try to go a few hours
without telling
people
boy, it's hot out.
it's hard though,
not saying useless things.
but it's what we do.
being personable
and friendly,
being the humans that we
are trying
to fit into an imperfect world.
boy, it's hot out.
the humidity
is killing me.
i'm a ball of sweat.
i see the mail man coming
up the street
with his heavy bag
full of mostly
ads and fliers, his blue
shirt is soaked with sweat.
he's wearing his pith
helmet.
he gives me the look,
like don't even say it,
when he hands me an
envelope from my lawyer.
so i don't.
instead i say, have a nice
day, then go

into to open the letter

of good news.

back to the drawing board

my friend
jimmy

calls me at six am.
he's been up for an hour
or so.

well, she did it, he says.
she finally

did it.
stabbed me in the back
and left me

for that loser
physics professor
over
at Cornell.

that's a shame, i tell
him.

yup, he says.
back to the drawing
board.

going down to have her
name removed
from my arm

once i finish mowing
the lawn.

the ink is dry

the ink

is dry. the sky too.
as is
the well.

some days, it's all you
have in
you

is to get up
and shower, find coffee

and sit
with a book off the shelf.

the wonder
of the world has frayed.

the fabric
is faded.

the birds chirp
nonsensically.

the day is a glacier

melting towards
night.

i dream of Ireland

i dream

of Ireland.

of green.

her eyes. the blue sea.

the steely rocks

off the coast.

i dream of her pale skin.

her black

hair.

her rose petal lips,

slightly parted,

awaiting mine.

i dream of Ireland

and what

could have been,

if not so far away.

if not so far away.

those rare souls

there are certain
writers,
poets and what nots
that inspire you.

you can barely get through
a page,
or hear a song
they've sung
when you have
to run to the keyboard
and get it down
in ink,
before the thought fades.

there are some people
like
that in your life too.
rare intuitive souls
who know
what's what.

you listen to them speak,
to them ramble on
with their vision
of life and death,
and you
can't get enough.

and in the end

some people will always be poor.
no matter how much
money they make
or have
it will leave them in the blink
of an eye
and they'll have to start all over
again,
from scratch, from zero.
a dollar burns a hole right
through their pockets.

and the same goes for love,
no matter how many women
or men they sleep with, in
the morning they're all gone.
the lovers add up over the years,
but at some point
they're alone, looking at
themselves in the mirror wondering
who's next. will there even
be a next.
will there be more?

fainting

in the tightly knit
rooms
stuffed with items marked
on sale,
last chance
the ac is broken.
i see a sign on the wall
that reads,
smile.
you have one life to
live.
live it as a blonde.
my eyes are wet
with salt.
my mouth is dry.
i step gently upon
the ladder
to reach the ceiling.
the fuzziness of fainting
arrives
as i tumble to the floor.
it's a sweet
passing out.
with dreams, with nothing
left to worry
about.

living on the edge

it's eerie.
strange and bizarre
to be in a room with someone
who wants
to end it all.
curled in
a wet ball.
rocking back and forth
in the dark room.
muttering their dire
needs.
they are unreachable.
there is nothing you can
do.
but call who needs to
be called.
let the doctors know.
the priest.
the family.
you are not equipped to handle
this kind of crazy.
this kind of
lost. you have been
on the edge yourself,
but never
never quite this far.
you say nothing as she
teeters,
not a single word,
even a whisper might
make her fall.

letting the mob go by

i stand aside

and let the sheep pass.

they are armed with disinformation.

armed

with

naivete and inept

education.

without morals,

without a code.

without faith

they strike and burn, tear

down

what disagrees

with their hurt.

i step gently into that

good

night.

lock the door and find a

good book

to read.

they have lost their

love

of life.

lying in the ashes

with nowhere
to be she travels far
inside
her mind.

she goes where she's been
with others.

this
will
be her life.

all the cards have been
played.
there is only shame

and the ashes
of sin.

the good sleep

when
entering bed, alone.
the cool sheets, the windows
open
to a breeze
to a moon full of wonder,
i laugh
to myself.
true love
is this.
quiet with arms
draped lightly
around
me.
my arms.
there is no absence
of anyone, just the fullness
and joy
of being whole,
being one.
being free.

the sketch

i remember staring
at her elbow,

her arm.
where it led.

and beyond. i was taking
stock of
her

for memory.
a sketch, a photograph,
an image

impressed upon my mind.
i knew
it wouldn't be
long
in coming,

the necessary end that i
welcomed
and prayed for,
but

i wanted to remember this
arm
this elbow
and the places it led

for reasons
unknown.

she wore a red dress

for her sister's wedding
she wore a bright red
dress.

she did not go unnoticed.
she bloomed

while the sister withered
and
aged, gone
brown

in her white lace.

she wore red and made a speech.
a long
sonnet
from shakespeare.

memorized
and acted out for the attentive
crowd.

she won.
she wore a red dress.

no ring, no beau.
but victorious.

the queen at last despite

no crown.

apathy

apathy is home now.

the broad cool
room of uncaring.

the past
no longer mine to be concerned
about.

i smell
the perfume of new love.
the innocence

of fresh starts.
i taste the peaches of lips.

my chin drips with desire.

apathy
wins the day.

no attachments. no suffering.
join me,

or don't
i'm fine either way.

agree to be agreeable

religion
politics

let's throw in love
too

as subjects to be avoided
amongst friends

with drinks
poured
and the long hours of
night
ahead of us.

let's leave as we arrived.
friends
who talk of nothing

of consequence.
it's better that way.

we preserve the past,
protect
the future, and make it

easier to live in this day.

the spare key

there was a spare
key
on a nail
in the lightless
damp
of the shed.
but how were they to know
that?
how could
they possibly know
anything
other than
the doors were locked.
she didn't
show up at work
and no one would
the answer the phones.

was it a surprise
after entering through
the broken
glass
to find her in her bed,
reaching sky
ward
in death to some unseen
figure.
an angel
perhaps, or someone who
arrived
before her. hands stretched

out in

agreement

that this life was over.

there was a spare key
in the shed.
i told them that, afterwards
when
the body left under
a  white sheet
in the throes of winter,

the tree adorned in the corner,
christmas to come
in barely a week.

from what i've been told

yesterday.
she was not grey.

she was not asleep in the chair
facing
the window.

a book in her lap.
the tea beside her cold.

she was not
old.
we were in love.

yesterday
seems so far away.

she was not grey
and neither,

was i from what i've
been
told.

the memes

i'm

memed out.

is that even a word?
how do you pronounce meme?

shouldn't there be an accent
grave, or aigu
somewhere over
a letter?

does anyone actually say something
clever

or unique, or original
that hasn't been

posted on the internet.
are we
sheep

or what?
incapable anymore of reading
books,

writing books.
thinking and creating
from our own

souls.
we need for others to tell
us what
our morals

should be. how we should think,
what
we should believe.

i'm all
memed out. yo.

the unfixable

you think of people
at times

as fixable.
turn a screw here,
tighten

up a bolt, a belt.
put a new plug in.

change the oil,
wash
and polish.

we think we can put
a new
shine

on them.
pull out the manual
and figure them out.

put air in their tires.
wipe
them down.

fill them up with gas.
but it doesn't

work that way,
you can't fix the unfixable.

be thankful that
they're gone,  gone
at last.