new years eve

i pick up two fat live

lobsters,

a pound of shrimp

an ice cold bottle of champagne.

some cheese

and olives,

crackers.

some caviar. we

make

cocktails with funny

names.

we put some music on,

we dim the lights

and dance

across the floor.

we kiss.

we whisper sweet words

into one another's ears.

then head upstairs

tripping on our clothes.

by eleven we're

sound asleep,

but happy in each other's

arms.

send me a memo

i'm confused by your confusion,

but i'm trying to work it out,

sort through

the debris

of thoughts.

of ideas.

propositions and possible

scenarios.

the outcome is sketchy

to say the least.

my pay grade is way too

low

to analyze where this might

be going.

send me a memo

when you've reduced it down

to a line or two.

then i'll know.

the flight attendant

after she dies

her husband calls and says

how could you?

how would you like it if i did

that to your wife?

i pause and say to myself,

ummm. what wife?

i look at the phone.

i say sadly. i'm sorry. i didn't

know.

she said it was over.

you were gone.

divorce was pending.

there was no love between you

anymore.

silence.

i hear him breathe and sigh.

okay,

he says.

perhaps i'm wrong.

take care.

sorry to have bothered you.

i have a lot

more calls to make

as i look into her phone.

i should go.

untidy lives

there is clutter.

sweeping to be done.

closets

to be emptied.

all the lies and secrets

are stacked

up high.

there they are in

the attic,

boxes and bags,

in the cellar. 

in the shed outside.

beneath the bed.

so much hidden.

so much to be cleaned.

to be the taken

to the curb

before the world

knows

what you've been

up to,

before you're dead.

trauma

trauma

is a beast, the fire

you

get caught in, the near

death by

drowning.

the car accident.

food poisoning.

love betrayed.

the list goes on and on.

it's a frightful

thing.

and you remember

it all

as if it was yesterday.

strange how

pain

sticks to us.

fresh in our minds

with the slightest

of triggers. though less

and less

as the years roll on.

the melted candle

my candle, which is me.

is melted down

into a puddle.

i've burned both ends

for months on end

and found a way

to find the middle.

it's a hard shell

of wax now,

stuck to the table.

what a year it was.

getting permission

do you mind if i 

nibble on your

neck a little

before the check comes.

i ask her

politely on the second date.

sure she says.

no problem,

have at it.

she lifts the collar of

her wool

turtle neck

and leans towards me.

i slide over

to get into position.

go ahead.

but no biting, she says.

promise.

i promise i tell her.

cross my heart.

i don't have your back

who has your back.

who's behind

you

ready in case you're 

in trouble,

attacked.

who's

beside you in a line

of fire,

when life hits the fan.

who's got the hand

to reach

down and pull you

from the ocean

before you

drown.

the list is few.

and it surprised me,

stunned me in fact,

when i found out 

none of them were you.

a name in the dust

i don't worry about 

the dust anymore.

i'm

not wiping down

the tables,

or shaking

the lamp shades

clean.

i'm not taking a broom

or cloth

to what lies

around in fine silt.

silky sand.

it's in 

the air we breathe,

the outside coming in.

i like to run my finger

through

it when it mounds

on the shelf,

a small dune

of dust, unstoppable

a distant relative

of rust.

i write a name within

it with a finger.

one name

is enough.

we all make mistakes

there is something dead

in the cellar.

you can smell it

all the way to the third floor.

a rat,

a bird.

some creature that has

crawled

in

and couldn't get back

out.

perhaps a mouse,

a snake.

all the same.

but we all make mistakes.

find the broom, the pan.

hold your breath.

this is nothing

compared to what's 

to come

when all of us face

our unexpected death.

we always know

we always know.

we

get it before we admit it.

the gut.

the brain within

tells you in no uncertain

terms to run.

to fight, to flee, but

whatever you do

get ready.

something's about

to hit the fan.

despite everything

you think you know.

she is not your friend.

her string in a ball

her string in a ball.

old keys

in a drawer.

her little gold nails 

that have

been pulled

from walls.

a jar full of tacks.

a box full of

matches,

rubber bands from

the store.

post cards

from afar.

what seems silly

and sentimental

at times,

is what she adores.

and that's

where i come into

the picture.

quick on the trigger

i'm quick on the gun,

the trigger.

quick to pull

and empty a chamber.

to delete and erase

at the first

sign of trouble.

i'm out the door, down

the road.

exit, stage left.

on my horse and riding

out of town.

not waiting for the sunset.

giddy up and go

in a cloud of dust

with no regrets.

finishing the book

i'd like to think better

of you.

but i don't.

it's not in me.

i can't rewrite, i can't 

turn back the pages 

and start over.

at this point revision 

is out of the question.

i've read too much into

this book

to believe otherwise.

i know the plot,

and each character by heart.

i'm one page from the last

page of knowing

who you really are.

i'll finish it tonight.

the ending of another year

we wait on the ball

falling

off the building in the city

as the countdown

begins.

the champagne is poured,

the hats are on.

the confetti is in the air.

we hug each other 

in the wind and cold.

we're both happy 

and sad about

the ending of another year.

we make no promises,

no vows or resolutions, we

just say i love you,

and let it go from there.

what's it going to be

she says

i need a commitment.

i need to know

where this is going.

are we

together on this or not.

i squirm in my

chair

like a school boy

who hasn't done his

homework.

made an example of

in front of the whole class.

well, she says.

standing over me

with a ruler, 

smacking it in her hand,

what's it

going to be.

are we a couple,

are we monogamous,

and if so,

when do i get

the ring?

anniversaries

some people i know keep

track

of things.

they're very good at remembering

dates,

anniversaries.

no matter how sad

or disappointing the event may

have been.

but they know when the day

arrives

and go deep into their mind,

remembering.

never able to escape the pain

they were in.

this will continue until the day

they die.

whereas i tend to forget my own

birthday sometimes.

what's below the surface

i watch the divers

go in.

the soft splash as they enter

the dark

water

dropping off the boat,

along the coast.

what are they looking for?

what's down there that isn't

here

on land and breathing.

i think the worst

as i often do, but don't stand

around long

enough

to find out. i'd rather not

know these

things.

next in black ink

i was relieved to have

the last

tattoo lasered off my back.

i'm done

with that.

all that ink wasted.

all that art,

hearts and arrows,

cupid's bow.

those poetic words

beside the names.

the dates of when

it all began.

but no more, i'm forever

a clean slate.

just one word

has replaced them all

with next in black 

ink, small print,

lower case.

red sauce

it's not

blood, it's tomato sauce

dripping down my side.

although it looks like

she finally got the best

of me.

all day

i have to explain

the stain upon my shirt.

people shake their

heads and sigh.

they put their

hand on my shoulder

and say we're so

sorry, we know what

you've been going through,

but we're happy

you're alive, can we

take you to the emergency

room.

i tell them no. it's just

red sauce, showing them

the remnants of onions

and mushrooms,

but they don't

believe me as they weep

and hold me close.

let's go camping

from the camp site,

half in, half out

of our baby blue pup tent,

her choice,

i can see the motel

up on the hill with its

red vacancy sign

blinking open. i sigh.

she says. this is fun,

isn't it?

camping out under

the stars.

cooking on an open

fire. beans and dogs.

maybe we can make

smores later.

it's so romantic.

she claps her hands

together, giddy with

happiness.

i pull a large bug

off of my neck, wiping

the blood with my

hand and say, yup.

i find a marshmallow

to put pressure on the wound.

oh honey, i say to her,

while you're out there

stirring those beans,

could you hit that coiled

snake over there

with a rock or something.

i think he's getting

ready to strike. no not

that snake, the other

one making the rattling

noise.

sure, she says. anything

for you my dear.

it's friday

i ask my new dark love

what she's doing with that long

black whip

in her hand.

those leather boots

and that come

hither look in her eyes.

what's up

i ask.

going somewhere

tonight? no she says.

i'm here with you,  have

you forgotten? it's friday.

ringing in my ear

all day i hear ringing in my

ears.

is someone talking

about

me behind my back, or do

i need a match stick to

get it clear.

it's like a live wire

buzzing,

a busy signal from the brain.

i try to ignore it.

like i used to do with

you when you talked

about your mother

for hours on end,

but it's impossible.

it may drive me insane.

fare thee well

we split the check,

not because

we'll never see each other again,

but just for a change

of pace.

i tire of seeing the cobwebs

on so many purses,

rarely opened on a 

meet up date.

it's the black box in

a plane.

so in a huff she finds

her credit card and pays

for her meal

her drink

her valet parking

and i do the same.

we shake hands and say

good luck, take care,

best wishes,

and adios

my two hour friend.

it's been real.

and by the way

i'll be late again.

i know.

but just one more thing

i need to say

before i go

and then

i'll leave, leave you

alone

to ponder and decide

on everything.

anything i need to add

to that

i'll save for later.

but meanwhile think

about what i said,

whether or not

you want to leave

or stay,

and by the way

we're completely out

of bread

and butter, milk

and eggs.

tap water

if she needs

sparkling water

from france

in a glass

with ice

and will never touch

a plastic bottle

or tap, and certainly

not water

from a hose

out back,

run, don't think twice.

you'll never quench 

her thirst.

she will shorten

your life.

what could be the harm

don't let beauty fool you.

don't let

words

whispered into your ear

make you swoon.

don't let

a gentle a touch on

your arm,

a kiss upon your lips

trick you into thinking

this is good.

what could be the harm.

don't go there

this time. 

there is something

within this bed of roses

that will make you 

bleed,

we call them

thorns.

again with the orange light

i should get the oil changed

in one

or both of my

vehicles.

the truck, the car.

each with

an orange light burning

a hole

in my retinas

when i start them up.

i know.

i know, i tell them as

i drive.

an oil change, i get it.

please go away.

take your little sideways

wrench and go dark.

raise the bar

do we lower our expectations

or raise

them even

higher.

do we set bar beyond

a reasonable height,

one

that most cannot reach.

i say yes to that.

don't settle on second best,

or third, or fourth,

resist

the notion

to shrug and say okay,

that's good enough,

i guess.

i can't remember

i can't remember

the last time i kissed you.

or made

love to you,

or sat beside you

and held your hand.

i can't remember the last

thing we said

to one another,

how you looked as

you were leaving

for the last time.

were there tears in your

eyes, or mine?

i can't remember a

thing these days.

the past is such blur,

and the days go by

so quickly,

but i hope you're doing

fine.

driving all night

driving all night

to get away from you,

i fall asleep at the wheel

and end up in

a corn field

on the outskirts of town.

i wake up

as i roll to a stop,

then get out to check

for damage.

nothing of consequence

to me,

not the field.

i get back into

the car

and turn on the radio.

i roll down the windows

and listen to

the symphony of crickets

the sway of trees

on the other side

of the narrow road.

i'm out in the country

under a sheet of stars,

a thousand miles

from nowhere.

tired and alone,

but it's okay, because

you're not here with me.

cow on the side of the road

i see cow

on the side of road,

she seems

to be wandering.

lost perhaps.

i pull over and roll

down the window

and ask,

are you okay?

are you lost?

she looks at me and

offers just a short

moo, then continues

on.

i'd give you a lift,

i tell her

rolling up to her as

she moves,

but as you can see,

i just don't have

the room.

i don't believe you

i don't believe you.

not a word.

not one single word

leaving

your mouth is true.

you know it and i know

it.

the world knows it.

so what do you think

of that?

would you like to start

over with

something new.

try again. let's try again.

now look into my eyes

and tell me,

for once in your life,

the truth, where were

you?

the old friends on the shelf

the books i love to read,

i read again.

dogeared and worn.

the pages coming apart

at the seams.

coffee stains,

and tears.

they have become

old friends.

i underline what's true,

what feels important

to me.

then back onto the shelf

they go.

waiting for the next time.

when i have nothing

new to read.

my weakness

i can't be around chocolate,

or sweets

of any kind.

cakes

or pastries.

a bag of candy from

the five and dime.

i can't be around a pint

of ice cream,

or cherry

pie.

sweets are my weak spot.

and it's the reason

i can't see you anymore.

good bye.

the next stop

is every person

we meet

for a reason, a step forward

in

the right direction.

is there purpose

in them

being in your life, even

for an hour,

or a year or two.

is the person sitting next

to you

there for you,

or you for them.

are they meant to be

a part of who are,

a lover, a teacher,

a friend, or just someone

getting off at the next

stop.

the measure of you

we are measured 

and weighed

from birth and in

all the days in between,

until death.

our height, our weight,

the pounds

we are.

the length and size

of us.

shirts and shoes.

pants and hats.

we are measured in other ways

too.

our grades.

the way we speak, 

the way we work.

the money made.

what school?

and yet the most important

measure of all

is how we were loved

and gave love,

lost in the measuring,

somewhat ignored.

new worlds

like astronomers

we discover new worlds

when we gaze

out into the night,

leaving this one behind.

there are other planets

to live on.

to find love.

to get it right.

it just takes time to get

there.

we just need to saddle up,

be courageous

and take

flight.

cashing in

he tells me about his new

home.

the trailer

court in berlin.

it's nice

he says.

plenty of room

to spread out.

i'm walking distance

to the water,

to the pub

and back again.

i sold my boat.

my car. i quit my last

job,

i've cashed it all

in.

you should visit sometime.

but call

first. i'm very busy.

very busy.

i might not be in.

her flowered dress

her flowered

dress

was never worn.

yellow

and blue, green leaves,

the stems

and petals

full of color, a summer

dress

with the tags still on.

but the season changed

too quickly,

as did our love for one

another.

and now it hangs

behind the door.

where i've been

these walls won't hold me.

these bars.

the barbed wire fence

is nothing.

i laugh at the guard tower

with it's search light

and barking dogs.

the guards

with pistols on their

side,

patrolling the halls,

the yard.

they can't keep me in,

they have no idea what

i've escaped from before.

this is child's play compared

where i've been.

planning ahead

i hire a lawyer.

she's very nice and polite.

she asks

me why.

why do i need a lawyer

right now.

i tell her

i'm not sure quite yet.

but i have

feeling that at some

point

i might be needing you.

i may be

slipping soon on a patch

of ice.

that looks like fun

i lie down

on a bed of nails, because

i see

someone doing

it on tv.

i run through a

a fire,

for the same reason.

i jump out of a plane,

i dive

into the ocean full

of sharks

and sting rays.

and then the bachelorette

comes on

tv.

and i quickly change

the channel.

i smell what you're cooking

the dog,

fat on table scrapes is happy

despite

his size.

his belly full with whatever

it is

i cook.

when i'm gone he

nudges

the recipe book off

the shelf

and browses for something

new.

he tires at times of chicken,

or fish,

or stew.

when i see him with his

sombrero  on.

i see what he's up to

and stop for beans and rice

on the way home.

fajitas for two.

living alone

live alone

long enough and you'll begin

to strike

up conversations

with the broom,

the floor.

the windows and doors.

let's close up

tight tonight you

say to the bedroom

window. it's chilly

out there. and

oh dear shovel.

you'll get your turn

soon.

just wait, be patient

it won't be long before

it's february.

and you, you lonesome

thing.

the chair no one

ever sits in.

tomorrow, it's just

me and you.

all night as i read

my book. i'll move us

next to table lamp,

our very good

friend.

when you find me

when you find me, 

you'll know

it's me.

as i'll know it's you.

there will be no doubt

as to who we are.

we've been hiding

from one another for most

of our lives.

but we'll find each other.

you'll see.

you'll see.

keep looking, don't stop

and i'll do the same.

it's inevitable.

i'm here.

right here.

i'll always be where i am,

waiting for you.

i think i know

the crippled man

on

the corner.

smiles

and waves his plastic

bucket.

god bless, the sign says.

he's wearing

red

for the holidays.

a droopy hat

and green pants.

he has one leg.

i want to roll the window

down and give him

something.

something that would

change his life.

what would a dollar do,

a loaf of bread

a pint of bourbon.

what is that he really

wants.

i think i know.

a hundred poems or more

in an effort to find

a hundred

half decent poems

to throw into a small book

before

i die.

i struggle and moan

at the slew

of thousands.

i pull what little hair

i have left

from my head and sigh.

i want to rewrite

every one of them.

nothing feels finished,

nothing seems polished

and ready

for the worlds eyes.

so much babbling, so

much whining, so much

spiteful typing 

of anything 

that popped into

my mind. but there's

still time,

still a little sand left

in the hourglass.

i consider this idea

i consider this

idea

at another chance.

another try.

i let it roll around my head.

a ball.

bouncing from side to side.

i'm full of maybes

again.

perhaps, i say, and think.

let me sleep

on it,

let me ponder the possibilities.

let

me

allow just one more

day

for my heart to mend.

the under tow

it's the swift water 

that holds you back,

the under tow,

the rip

tide

that you don't see

before it's upon you.

how quickly you're pulled

out and under.

struggling to breathe,

to swim to shore.

you can only save yourself

by letting go.

by going with he current,

the flow.

don't fight it anymore.

don't look pretty anymore

please don't look pretty

anymore

when i meet you again

on the boulevard.

don't

look so fine, don't smell

so nice.

don't be cruel like that.

be kind

and pay no mind to how

you look when you

leave the house.

don't fix your hair,

your face, wear all the

things i never liked.

please don't look pretty

anymore. it's not fair

when it's not me you're

going to meet,

like we used to on a

summer night.

the easy test

it's really an easy test.

what kind of water do you want

brought

to the table.

seltzer, perrier.

spring water,

tap?

do you need a slice of lemon

on the edge?

does it need

to be filtered.

with ice, without?

a bottle for the table,

or just a glass.

a straw perhaps.

tell me dear with what

you order,

what you're truly all about.

the clean window

i splash

the window with vinegar,

then wipe with a crumpled

page

of the daily news.

old school.

i can look out all day

now at what passes by

as life.

perhaps soon i'll get back

out there

and join them.

getting a physical

i stick the thermometer

into my

mouth

and wait.

it's under just a bit.

i do feel a bit chilly inside.

not quite ninety-eight point

six.

but close enough.

i run up the stairs to see if

i can breathe.

pretty good.

heart is thumping like

a bunny rabbit

not a single cough

or wheeze.

i touch my toes,

the tip of my nose with my

eyes closed.

 bingo.  i open my mouth

and say ahhh

in the mirror.

nothing there.

i swing my eyes from side to side

looks good too.

i do a quick scan with my hands

to locate any new

body lumps that may have

risen overnight. 

nope. clear.  i prick my finger

with a needle.

yup,

blood is still red.

i try to remember a few

birthdays

of significant others

i used to know to see if

my memory

is still intact.

oh well.

i couldn't remember 

dates

when i was with them

anyway,

but i do find my

keys

and wallet

in the fridge.

for the most part i think

i'll live

another day.

the under sharers

there are two

kinds of conversationalists.

those that over share

and those that under share.

with one, you find out everything

they've ever said

or done

over the last twenty years.

each bump

or bruise in the road.

their children,

their daughters, their son.

a husband or lover still in

the mix despite all

the pain they've done.

they show you their scars,

their

pay stubs, their photos and texts.

they tell you about their

sex life.  their money problems.

a run in their hose.

and then there are the under

sharers, the quiet ones that listen.

calm and reposed.

with them there is little

you will ever know.

i like them.

no returns

as i stand in line

outside of the big

store

with a brand new

37 speed food processor

that someone,

not santa,

gave me for

christmas.

i think about my

childhood

gifts.

a bat, a ball, a glove.

socks.

a toy train with smoke

coming out

of the stack. a new

pen and a spiral notebook,

so many things

i would never return,

or take back.

really, this is nothing

after awhile you tire of hearing

people say

what a bad

year it was.

it was horrible. this and that.

the pain

the strain.

work, the virus.

riots and protests, death.

the weather.

politics.

schools and children,

pets

and elders.

lockdowns.

the whole world going to

hell

on a speed pass,

but after awhile, enough is

enough.

suck it up

and stop whining,

i've seen worse. a lot worse.

this is nothing.

let me tell you

about two thousand eighteen.

too early to end things

it's too early to take down

the tree,

pack up the ornaments

and tinsel,

or stockings hung

by the chimney.

or the lights

strung about the house.

it's too early

to take bing off the channel.

to

pour a nearly full

carton  of eggnog down the drain.

or box the cards

standing on the mantle.

it's too early

to take down the mistletoe,

but on second

thought, hold on,

i might keep that up

all year.

the fare

there is a cost

we must

pay.

sometimes small change,

a dollar or two,

or a large check

written in the end.

but we always pay

the price, the toll.

the fare, the entry

fee of

nearly everyone we meet

that stays.

we feed coins into

the meter.

we buy flowers,

we buy chocolates, 

gifts

from the heart.

we slip payment into

an envelope

and drop it in the box.

pardoned

i'm so happy to have received

my pardon

from the president

last night.

home for the holidays and

out of my orange jumpsuit

and eight by eight cage.

it was the hardest one 

hour of my life.

i should have paid

those parking tickets

on time, but i didn't,

i was lazy and careless,

and i had this crazy woman

on my mind.

i blame it on her mr.

president, and you know

from personal experience

the trouble they can bring,

but thanks for

thinking of me during

this season of love

and forgiveness. sorry i

didn't vote for you this year,

but maybe next time,

maybe, though doubtful.

home for christmas

the soldier coming home.

the daughter

from school.

the prodigal son.

a husband once lost,

all coming home 

for christmas.

on trains

and buses.

driving through ice,

through fog,

on flights from afar.

walking in deep snow,

but they'll get there.

they'll get there.

nothing can stop

loved ones this

time of year

from being apart.

borrowed books

i have a few books

on my shelf

that are borrowed.

favorites that were promised

to be returned,

but weren't.

do they wonder where they are?

every time i pick one up

i want

to give them back.

but don't.

for if i did, i might forget

the hand

that let me borrow them

to read,

and in returning them,

perhaps,

they too would forget 

all about me.

i make use of the cold

i make use of the cold.

i burrow

into

it.

wrapped tight in my winter

clothes.

i like the sting

of wind.

the harsh blow.

the whip

of it all against my chilled

bones, my skin.

i go through it

as i do to all

painful things. straight

to the other side

and out again.

the melting

petals

of snow drift

slowly down,

and kiss

our cheeks.

they do what i want

to do

with you.

how easily you

melt me

when i'm near.

something i remember well

we sit around the table,

a few

good friends.

lucky to be alive and healthy.

our

faces

red from the cold

when coming in.

we've had our fill of food

and drink.

desserts.

and now we sit under the low

shine

of light

and talk, reminisce.

we toast tomorrow,

to a new year.

it feels like love in the room.

something i remember well.

the end of turkey

what's left of the turkey

finds

room

on a shelf in the cold

light

of the refrigerator.

it had its day and then some.

covered in foil

beside a bowl of potatoes,

the remnants of what

was once

a pumpkin pie.

tomorrow i'll

find the big knife

and go at it once

more and slice,

layer what's left upon

a plate.

i'll find the bread, the

stuffing

and pile it high.

but that will the end

of turkey

until next year. no lie.

the marriage proposal

let's get married, she says.

let's throw

caution to the wind.

let's fly off

to some far away island

and slip rings

onto our fingers.

blue water, white sand.

just me and you.

the birds and clouds.

the sun upon us.

let's get young again

and do the things we were

born to do.

let's do it together as one.

i'll be yours, if you'll

be mine. let's say i do,

until the end of time.

can i sleep on it?

why isn't it everywhere

why does

kindness surprise us

these days.

the held door,

the dollar given,

generosity in general,

unselfishness.

why are

we astounded

at a good heart

that crosses

our path.

a truly spiritual being

seems rare

these days.

why isn't it

everywhere?

don't roll your eyes at me

don't roll your eyes at me

my mother would

say.

my ex wives would say.

my teachers would

say.

my dog would say

if he could actually say

anything, other than bark

incessantly.

i believe i'll make it my

signature look and take

it to the grave, lying

there in wake. unable

to shake my head at

people crying, 

my eyes rolled up, just

the same.

around 2 p.m.

it would be about this time

of the day

with the first game on

and the house

filling with

relatives

and strangers

when my mother would

set out a tray

of olives.

black and green.

some cut cheese and crackers.

a few grapes

tossed in and

celery stalks

filled with cream cheese,

all lined in rows

like soldiers

on her best holiday dish.

something to nibble on,

she'd say, sweat rolling

off her brow, while a turkey

the size of a small child

roasted in the oven

beside a pan of lasagna.

a spiral ham waiting

its turn to be next.

christmas snow

it's either feathery snow 

coming down

from the grey sky

or 

something's burning nearby.

out the window

i see white ashes

floating down

like confetti. i hope it's

snow.

and nothing's on

fire in the neighborhood.

so far i don't hear any siren

or alarms going off.

i really don't want to get

out of these pajamas today.

the dead santa

seems he went

down the wrong chimney

one time too

many

messing with another

man's wife,

the detective says, standing

over the body

of santa claus.

the snap on beard loose

around his

chin.

blunt object to the head?

one cop says to the other.

yup, candlestick,

look at the blood

and white hair from his wig.

suspects? mrs. claus?

maybe, it could have

been anyone though who didn't

get the right gift,

we have a list, a scroll

of suspects found in his

woolen red suit. chalk

him up and get him out

of here before any kids

see him and 

scrape some of that

apple pie off his suit.

take it down to the lab.

that lipstick on his cheek

too. we need to get to

the bottom of this.

and pull his pants up.

california time

while i sit here in the snow,

she's on california time.

in california

weather,

in her california clothes

and eating

and drinking her

california

wine, her grapes

and avocados.

but it doesn't matter.

the miles between us,

nor the hour

of the day or night.

we have our own

schedule within, 

that keeps us connected.

a jet stream of love 

flying in upper winds.

the soundtrack

some songs

i know by heart, every word.

each beat.

i remember where the record

skipped

and i had to get up

from the floor

to lift the needle,

blowing fuzz from

the tip.

the hours would go by

as a stack

of 33's or 45's

fell and dropped

upon the turntable.

what joy in

doing nothing,

just listening with closed

eyes to the sound

track of

your life,

again and again.

we dance all night

we all dance around things.

difficult subjects

that may decide,

you and me.

we free style,

we ballroom,

we twist. we tap.

we do the watusi,

we dirty dance and limbo

under a stick.

we shimmy and shake

across the floor.

we don't want to come out

and say

what's on our mind,

instead we let our feet

talk for us,

doing a crazy jig,

a rumba, hot salsa,

never saying what

we mean,

never meaning what

we say

as our fingers and feet

click until they're sore.

what isn't there

like most, i try to think

the best

of people at first

glance.

good folks.

good to the core,

decent, hard working,

loyal souls,

but people fool you

from time to time

when

you're eyes and heart

are wanting to see 

what isn't there,

half closed.

a summer peach

we have skins.

we have

juice.

but what's in the middle

when you finally

get there,

is it just skin

after skin,

piece after piece

as you peel away

the layers.

is it an onion,

with nothing left,

or are you

a sweet and savory

summer

peach

with a seed in

the center.

more important things

there are things we leave

unattended.

chores and duties.

things that must be done at

some point.

they lie

on desks, in the shadows,

plants

that need water,

checks to be written

and sent.

dogs that need walking.

calls

to be returned.

but we delay.

we procrastinate. 

we're busy with other things

of greater

importance.

such as pondering the trees

outside the window

as snow falls.

enough, enough of this life

i'd like

to die in my sleep at

an

elder age

after a fine gourmet

meal,

the proper wine,

a dessert

of course

and then a dance

across the ballroom floor,

in love with the likes

of you.

that would be nice.

so in your arms we'd

go

to bed.

make love make love.

and then

when morning came,

again.

that would suffice.

then perhaps i could close

my eyes

and say

enough. enough of this

life.

though doubtful.

the new is not so new anymore

the new is not so new

anymore.

what we buy or rent

loses its shine

in no time.

whether car or shoe.

or that dress or coat

you once wore.

that you

could never part with,

now heaped in a pile

destined

for another set of eyes

and hands

for them to adore,

perhaps

they'll make use of it

as you once did.

to favor and love,

which brings me back

to you,

once more.

the empty vase

an empty

vase

longs to be filled,

as does the dish,

the cup,

a bowl.

not to mention

a  hand, and heart.

each formed

and shaped

for what it may

hold.

come sit beside me

come here

the old woman says. 

stretching out her arm

like the branch

of a tree.

come over here

and sit

beside me.

she smiles softly

with her blue eyes

wet in the sun like

glassed antiques.

right here, she says, patting

the bench.

i know you.

i know you.

i don't know your name.

or who are you, or where you

live

but i know you,

i know your pain.

she takes my hand and folds

it into hers.

me too, she says. me too.

as the water freezes

she's crying

somewhere. i see her down

by the water.

where it's beginning

to freeze.

it's not

for me though. 

these tears

aren't for me.

she's crying for someone

else

she misses,

but i knew a long time ago.

from the moment

i met her,

that this

is what it would be.

the blue mailbox

fifty years ago,

in the neighborhood

where i lived,

there was boy

who

lost a kidney

when sled riding down

a steep hill

nearby and struck

a mailbox.

hitting his side,

full speed.

i wonder how he is

these days,

has he survived this

life?

i put my letter

into the round shouldered

blue box,

watching the door close,

then move on

in the falling snow.

morning prayer

the cracked stone

steps

have crumbled

grey

from the rain

and age,

and as i step

down 

to where the woods

open,

i bend

and kneel

to touch the blue

swell

of stream.

what is myrrh anyway?

i see my friend Irma

up

at the church buying a christmas tree.

hey, she says.

what do you think of this tree.

she holds it up.

good, nice. tall, fat. perfect.

she hands the guy some money

and he drags it to her

car.

i thought you didn't believe in

this sort of thing

i tell her.

huh? she says.

you know, God, Jesus, that sort

of thing.

pffft. i don't. all sounds a little

fishy to me.

the virgin Mary.

come on.

give me a break.

trust me, it didn't go down like that.

three wise men following a star

in the sky with gold, frankincense

myrrh. what the hell is myrrh

anyway.

i can't find my way to a liquor

store without

using mapquest on my phone.

sorry, didn't mean to offend you,

i know you

believe in all that stuff.

so what are you doing here?  

heading into mass, i tell her,

starts in a few

minutes,

you're welcome to join me.

no thanks,

i got to get this freaking tree

in the house and decorate it.

the string of lights are up

in the attic balled up like

a tumbleweed in a box.

and then go to the mall, i have

a list a mile long

of presents to buy.

well, have fun and merry

christmas.

whatever she says. see ya.

home for the holdiays

no travel.

no stuffing the car with

packages.

no hot plates loaded

onto the floor of

the front seat.

no plants.

no boxes or bags for

the trunk,

or roof.

no map to look at to

find the interstate.

no gassing up, and scraping

the windows

of ice,

of turning 

on the radio

to sing.

no travel, this year.

to a house full of friends

and family,

strangers alike,

and it's a wonderful thing.

the box of crayons

the first box of crayons

is fascinating

as a child.

reading what each color is

on the round

sides.

and there is no direction,

is there?

there never is when you have

that many choices

in hand.

with no parent nearby to say

even a simple thing

like the sky is

blue

the grass is green.

mistakes are made

into adulthood, when

we color

without a plan.

too early, i thought

too early, i thought.

the white

crib.

the flowers.

a rocking chair in the corner.

all new.

a changing table.

three months to go.

the mobile hung above.

the stripe

of paper on the wall

in pale

blue.

a stencil of his name,

but

the boy that was coming

so soon,

never came.

white out

i like the way snow 

whites

out the world.

how it makes the houses

disappear,

the streets, the sidewalks.

the woods

are blanketed.

covering both you

and me.

it gives you hope

somehow,

puts a clean

fresh start

on things, before

we muck it up again.

in the sandbox

we trade insults

via

text.

mostly passive aggressive

gestures

of disrespect,

behind the back

mimicking.

children at this age

still in the sandbox

pushing

each other off

the swing.

making fun of one

another

with a pointed finger,

a twisted grin.

the daily news

i still buy the newspaper

these days

from the corner store,

but only because i have

a bird in a cage.

no need to read it anymore.

i just fold the pages

and make for Tweety, 

a nice clean floor.

jiggle it

with my hands

on her hips as i kiss

the back of her neck 

i say jiggle it.

put the key in all the way

and jiggle it from side

to side

up and down

then turn the knob.

when you hear

the click it's unlocked.

it won't open

she says, struggling with

the key in her

shaking hand.

i can't get it open.

so i try, but get nowhere.

i tap the door with my foot.

it's stuck, it's cold.

it's jammed.

i give up, i say,  we

don't have time for this.

maybe your

house tonight

instead of mine.

a place we can go

is there is no place

we can go

and be done with things.

to live

out

a quiet life amongst 

the trees.

a place where the water

is still.

where the snow falls

deep.

just you and me.

have you heard the news

have you heard the news,

he asks,

his eyes wide,

his hands on hips with

dismay

disgust.

no, i haven't.

what's up.

you won't believe this,

he says.

you'll never guess

what's going on

now.

it's worse than yesterday

and the day

before.

i will believe it, i tell him,

nothing really

surprises me anymore.

but i have to go now.

bad news will

keep, right?

let's stay up all night

let's stay up all night

i tell

her

getting into my pajamas.

she laughs.

what are you ten?

i'm going to bed.

no,

come on.

it's only two in the morning

let's play

one more

game of chess,

or scrabble or twister.

i can make us smores and hot

chocolate.

you're killing me, she 

says.

killing me. okay,

let's stay up,

but in the morning, don't

try to wake me

i'll be too tired to even think

about sex.

i pause and look at her, 

then say, okay.

you win,

let's just go to bed instead.

scrambled eggs

you're  such a good cook,

she says

stirring the scrambled eggs around on

her plate

to make it

look as if she took a bite

or two.

what's in these? they're simply

delicious.

and what's this?  bacon?

home made

hash browns?

i think i taste cheese.

have you ever thought of going

to culinary school?

not to learn, but to teach?

i laugh and take her plate away.

i bring her tea

and a dry piece of toast.

then kiss her on the cheek.

flattery will get you everywhere,

i tell her,

everywhere.

what the world needs now

money is not important

unless

we don't have it.

same goes

for food,

and transportation, a place

to live, our health.

when we have these

things

we think little

about them.

there are other things

on our mind,

which we

ponder and

most

desperately lack.

secret santa

i drop a gift off 

on her porch.

something small

of little cost,

something

from the heart.

i don't write my name

on a card.

no mention of me

is anywhere.

i'm careful to drop it

off at night,

in the dark,

but

she'll know who it's from.

she always knows,

well before

the ribbon is cut,

before

the wrapping comes

undone.

clean the slate

i can't do more than two.

me

and you.

that's the plan.

no extras. no third wheel.

no lingering

lost loves

pining in the weeds.

no

ex's, no husbands

from the past

who want you, who

still have

a burning needs.

it's me

and you. or nothing

at all,

and if that doesn't work.

i'm sorry,

but it's time to leave.

another cup of coffee

another cup of coffee.

just one

more before i go.

i'd like sit here and talk

all morning with

the yellow sun 

a puddle of light

in the window,

but the longer

we talk

the more i'm falling

in love with you.

i want to reach across

the table

and hold your slender

hand.

i want

more than this, this cup

of coffee

i'm holding.

the steam rising in my

eyes.

i think you understand.

anger

anger is a fine

emotion.

but use it wisely, when needed.

it's the loaded

gun

of feelings,

a hot barrel full of lead

for the righteous

hand.

it's necessary at times

to get out,

to get real

to get past and beyond

the danger

whether felt, or real.

at some point

when they've  crossed

the line,

you need it.

even Jesus needed it

when the time

was right.

don't get me wrong

don't get me wrong.

i love

dogs.

big small, all kinds.

but

i think i'm done with dogs

for now.

i can't scoop anymore,

or use

a plastic bag.

no more trips to the mayo

clinic

for canines.

fleas and baths.

no more barking, or chewing

of shoes

and clothes,

no more being out late into

the night and racing

home.

i love dogs.

just as i loved being married

for

a hot minute.

but i'm done, at least for now.

let's fly south

let's fly south for the winter,

she says,

purring like

the kitten she is.

warm

and snug against me.

your feet are cold,

she says.

don't you want to put them

into the warm

sand

along the coast?

she lifts her leg beyond

the blanket,

the sheets

and says look, stretching

her leg

towards the ceiling fan.

look how pale i am.

come on, my love.

let's pack a bag and get

out of here.

stay a week.

i'll make it worth your

while, she says, 

with another purr,

then a very convincing

wink.

the troubadour

i watch the documentary

on gordon lightfoot.

it's heart breaking.

how he feels the guilt and shame

of a thousand lovers

left in his wake.

the music giving cues to each

wrong step

along the way.

if you can read my mind,

to beautiful.

to in the early morning rain.

he's bone thin now, his

silver hair down his shoulders,

recovered from

drink

from drugs 

from the never ending road.

the troubadour

still out there, still singing.

still writing

on his sheet of paper, the lyrics,

the notes.

still wanting just a little

bit more.

the best

we met her on the bus

on the way to new york city.

a young woman

full

of herself.

her fur boots, her hat,

her janis joplin

look

full retro at seventeen.

she told us

where to eat in chinatown.

the best she said.

absolutely the best. don't

leave

the city without going there.

you'll regret it.

she had a guitar with her,

but didn't

know how to play quite yet.

but she

had a teacher

in soho who was going

to give her lessons, she said.

he's the best, the best in the city.

everyone who's anyone

goes there.

next time you come up you'll

have to 

sit in on one

of my gigs.

probably in the village,

or tribeca,

i haven't decided quite yet.

she got off in newark before

the tunnel.

her father and mother in tears,

both shaking

their heads.

the stars you can't see

it's a strange

dream

not being able to breathe

i lean over

to tell someone about it,

but there's

no one there.

i sit up in bed and feel

across

the rumpled blanket

and sheets

to touch the pillow

where she would lay her

head.

no one.

i look at the clock.

three a.m.

i lie back down and count

the stars

that i can't see,

the ones beyond the ceiling,

the roof.

the clouds,

but i know they're out there.

which is good enough

to get

back to sleep.

the best christmas card ever

i get a beautiful 

christmas card

from the Shell Gas Station

up the street

where Billy Bob inspects my

truck once

a year.

the paper is thick, bonded,

not that cheap

paper they use when you buy

a box of fifty generic cards

at the dollar store.

i need two hands to open

it up.

it's a glossy red with white

snow flakes

falling down.

this card is musical too.

it plays the andy williams

version of  silent night,

which always brings a tear

to my eyes.

and get this,

it doubles as a tree ornament.

i may never throw it away.

i feel bad though, because i haven't

sent them

a card this year, or any year

for that matter.

but my list is so long now.

the paint store,

the maid,

the dog walker,

my insurance agent

my dentist

my massage therapist

my optometrist 

my plumber

my exterminator 

i owe them all a card.

good lord.

the pressure.

maybe next year.

employee of the month

i ask the coroner what did

her in.

what finally killed

her.

he looks at me and sighs,

paper cuts.

mostly

although there were some small

puncture wounds

that maybe have been caused

but the sharp

ends of paper clips or staples,

we haven't finished

the investigation

on that yet.

she did like to work a lot,

i tell him.

twenty four seven with that girl.

was it a painful

death?

not really. she died at her desk,

bled out.

sort of fell asleep

from the lack of blood.

hands on the keyboard,

in the middle of a spread sheet.

but she was a good worker, i

tell him.

loved to stay late. holidays.

always in the office

after everyone else went home.

didn't have much

of a life

outside of that.

in fact, she was employee 

of the month

this month,

she told me next week they

were going to give

her a plague and a fifty dollar

bonus.

that's a shame, she'll be hard

to replace.

luck be a lady

i'm waiting for you.

for you to come

up the walk

or drive.

i'm

on the steps,

outside.

i'm waiting for the stars to

align.

waiting.

for the sun to rise.

for a shooting star

to streak

across the sky.

i'm waiting for the wish

in the wishing well

to come true.

i'm waiting for the gypsy

to be right.

for my ship to come in.

for the jackpot,

the prize,

i'm waiting 

for luck

be a lady tonight.

what lies underfoot

there is so much we don't

see.

what lies underfoot,

under stones,

beneath the wooden porch,

the steps,

the cellar, where webs

are woven.

where mushrooms grow

in the black dirt.

so much

life behind the scenes.

the insects

crawling, flying, burrowing

themselves,

their seed.

so many secrets left

unturned, unseen, 

not to mention

the ones unspoken

between you,

and me.

grey gum

i remember too much.

words

said.

glances given.

i dwell on slights

and disrespect.

i have a hard time letting

go

of lies

and betrayal.

it has a strong hold

on the neurotic side

of my psyche.

it's grey gum stuck

to the bottom

of my shoe,

my soul. dirty and hard.

nearly impossible

to scrape it all away

and be done.

chasing the bagel

i drop a plain bagel

on the floor

and out the door it rolls.

straight

down main street.

i give it chase.

people step aside as it

rolls

by,

they point in the direction

that it travels

as it swerves

and makes a turn down

the boulevard.

it's fast.

i can't catch up.

i see the river up ahead.

i watch

as it bounces off the pier

onto a boat

where a man is

drinking coffee beneath

his enormous

white sails.

he catches my bagel in

his hand

slices it with butter, slathers

on some jam.

i sigh and go back

to from where i came.

they can't all be wins,

sometimes

there is a fail.

six cats and a bird

we hit if off.

the conversation is easy.

the kissing

excellent.

she can bake an amazing

pie.

pumpkin, apple, or mince meat.

she's funny

and smart.

knows how to turn up

the heat.

she's

well read and easy on the eyes.

but she has six cats

and a parrot that talks

all day

and night.

so 

i'm not sure

if this relationship

will ever survive.

when time stands still

work slows down

in the middle of winter

and you become a human slug

moving about

the house

leaving a trail of you

behind

as slugs do.

clothes and shoes.

crumbs from cinnamon toast.

shards of christmas cookies

underfoot.

books

and newspapers.

a half empty cup of coffee

or tea

strewn about..

scraps of notes written down,

the beginning

of some

epic poem you might

write, if you find the time.

is it day or night?

who's to know these things

when the phone is quiet,

when there is

no ring.

dear scott

you're neighbor who has been moving

for months now

with their under contract

sign in their yard

and endless open house,

leaves a note on your door.

dear scott, it says, which isn't your

name,

but close enough so you aren't

offended.

we've lived here

over nine years and want to say

what a great neighbor you've become.

you're so quiet now, hardly a peep

out of you

these last two years.

no noise or arguing, no dishes

hitting our shared

wall anymore. no slamming doors.

no bonfires

in the yard

as you dance around the flames

throwing

things in that look like photo albums

and hallmark cards.

we're glad you've found your happy

place again.

by the way, we may need your 

parking space

in a week or two

when the truck arrives to help

us move.

literally waiting

old people

don't die easily. if they've

made

it into their nineties

or that rare stratosphere

of a hundred.

they know how to keep

the ball rolling.

they dig their heels in

and aren't leaving without

a fight.

you might think they're

close

to checking out

when you visit them

and their eyes are closed,

the monitors beeping,

bouquets of farewell flowers

around them,

but then you get 

the call that

they're up and about

playing checkers down the hall,

pinching a nurse

on the bottom,

no longer

on the morphine drip.

the priest in the waiting

room, looking at this watch,

literally waiting. waiting for

the last

rites call.

you look familiar

you look

familiar my son says

staring at me

as we bump into each other

on the street.

you too, i say.

i think i was married to your

mother back in the nineties.

right, he says. right.

we had a dog.

a house in the burbs.

you used to hold me in one

hand

and fly me around the house

like an airplane.

yes, yes.

i that was me, i tell him.

i taught you how to play

sports

and skim stones across the pond.

i remember, he says.

good times good times.

so what's up?

same old, he says, not much,

what's new

with you?

who's chandler?

at night, in bed,

we tug

on the sheets, the blanket.

it's a war for warmth

without peace,

all night long.

my legs are cold,

her arms

are like ice water.

we should have tucked

it all in at

the bottom of the foot

board.

who made this bed?

is this your pillow or

mine?

the light on the clock is

too bright.

planes could land by its glow.

you're snoring again dear.

i'm thirsty, is there

water on your side?

i have a headache

i shouldn't have had so much

wine.

tap tap tap, on her shoulder,

you're

talking in your sleep again.

who's Chandler?.

the days are better,

sometimes.

are you in a mood?

you know when someone close

to you is in a bad mood.

the quiet, the aloofness,

the lack of eye

contact,

but you can't say to them,

you're in a mood

aren't you,

because, well, that just makes

it worse.

the room suddenly gets colder

as if a window

is open,

a darkness

settles in.

it's going to be a long journey

into night

and it's only

6pm.

as i have done with you

there are things we

can start

over.

the cake,

the bread, too much salt,

too

much of anything, and out

it goes.

too stale, burned.

whatever, no problem.

start

over. we can make

new love.

we live

we learn.

as i have done with you.

small endings

the end, the final end,

is never

what you think

the end will be.

because there are

so many small

endings in between.

you

can't see

the future, but you can

feel it coming

like wind

upon your bones.

you know

it's not going to be pleasant

the longer

this goes on.

her christmas wrapping

she was meticulous 

in her wrapping

of gifts.

the paper spread wide 

on the black oval table

cleared

of all things.

the scissors out from

the kitchen  drawer, the tape.

a variety of rolls

to choose from.

a different one for each.

how carefully she snipped

and measured with

eye and hand,

no ruler needed.

side to side, the corners

wrapped

tight and tucked

neatly inside.

the tape applied. then a ribbon

around

each box. each hidden prize

with

a bow on top.

i can still see the smile

in her eyes, her face aglow

once done. then the  card

she'd sign

merry christmas, happy holidays,

with love.

catching up with an old friend

i catch up 

with an old friend.

and without

saying a word

we both

realize how old

we have become.

and yet,

the spark is there,

the smile,

the grin, the laugh.

the way we talk and sit.

the way we act.

nothing has changed

expect more time put

upon us. 

but still quite far away,

we hope,

from never meeting

again.

the NPR interview

i go to the interview

at NPR.

they want me to talk about

my writing.

how eclectic it is. accessible

and real

to the unwashed masses.

how would you describe your 

art, the woman asks, touching

her chin.

she looks like

an owl. wise with big framed

oval glasses

and a little bit like a man,

but i don't think she is.

i'm sure she went to columbia

or yale,

or brown. i see the light shadow

of a mustache

coming in.

she pauses and smiles, as i

take

a sip of my studio coffee.  horrible.

i ask her if she has any snacks.

scones, perhaps?

she shakes her head no, but then

pulls out some

peanut butter crackers from her

purse.

i take a bite, crumbs are everywhere.

about your writing, she says, again.

who are your influences.

hmmm. i say. smacking my lips,

any water, by chance.

she snaps her fingers and a nearby

intern runs

into the hallway

to get me a cup of water.

i drink it, then say hmmm. again.

smart people, writers and poets,

deep thinkers in general

say hmm a lot.

so i do that for effect.

well. i finally say, addressing her

question.

i tap the microphone, is this thing on?

are people actually listening to us on

the radio?  i should text my friend

Betty and tell her.

good god the hostess says,

under her breath,  please,

tell us who you admire.

well, i say, clearing my throat of a

stubborn piece of cracker.

i get a kick out of sylvia plath

and anne sexton, but

charles bukowski is no slouch either.

and then there's

dr. seuss

and 

benny hill.

i'd say most of those have been

a great influence on me.

and throw in

mark strand,

phillip levine and that old stand by

phillip larkin.

she looks at her notes trying to think

what to ask next.

she smiles painfully.

she's in the dentist chair at this point

getting a root canal.

and what is your procedure for writing.

how do you go about creating

your unique art?

do you ponder,

do you wait until the muse strikes,

is it a struggle

to be creative all the time?

nah, not really, i just sort of sit down

and start typing.

excuse me, i say,

but do you guys break for lunch

around here?

it's almost twelve.

i'm starving. i saw a chinese

place around the corner,

maybe we can order in. 

a little kung pao, crispy beef, no?

on the right path all along

community college

was the best

eight years of my life.

a class

here, a class there.

geology biology computer

science.

but nothing fit, nothing

seemed right.

if you had been there,

maybe things

would have

been

different. you'd given me

a push,

a kick.

a jump start in the right

direction.

but you weren't, which

is fine

after all.

i'm good,

i'm where i should

be.

even without you,

i was on the right

path

all along.

taking out the good china

i take out the good china

for you.

i make a dish according to your

dietary needs.

i put the music on that you

like.

i change the sheets.

i light the candles.

i dust i clean, i set all my time

aside.

i turn off the phone.

i unlock the door, i give you

the space out

front.

it's you my dear, that i adore.

slip sliding away

sometimes you need someone

to push you,

to tell you

that tomorrow is today.

come on boy.

get to it.

enough with the procrastination.

the delay.

get it on.

get going.

come on, you can do it.

time

is slipping away.

making the bed

i stand at the door

of the bedroom trying to decide

if i should

make my bed or not.

i sigh.

maybe i should. maybe by doing

something

so simple like that 

it will

make me a better person.

it will get the ball

rolling

about other things like recycling 

or finishing

a book i've been

reading for six months.

one has nothing

to do with

the other, but by making the bed

maybe it will put

a spring in my step.

the sheets tucked tight,

the blanket spread,

pillows arranged just so

in hotel

fashion.

it's a good way

to start the day i've witnessed

and been told.

maybe later. 

i need coffee. gotta go.

spiteful shopping

i stand outside

the dollar

store with my christmas list.

that's right.

the dollar store.

five and below is the next stop.

i haven't been getting the love

this year

from my peeps.

so i'm going cheap on them.

it's a short list,

but still.

i'm not fighting the crowd

at target

this year. this will teach

them

a lesson they won't soon

forget.

holy moly

with church attendance

down,

the collection

baskets near empty,

i see the local priest

at home depot.

he's working there now.

a bright orange

vest around

his long black gown.

i ask him where the toilet

plungers

are, and he smiles, strokes

his shaggy beard and

says

aisle six. now go and sin

no more.

and if you need a plumber,

let me give you

this card.

give a call to Father

Smith.

Yelp gives him four stars.

your world is about to change

we need to scare

you.

the news. we need to bother you.

upset

you.

please.

stay tuned. you won't

believe

this next story

we're about to tell.

don't leave your couch,

gather

round

the family.

death and disease,

world war three

is nothing compared

to

our next exclusive report

about the dangers

of fat free donuts.

hold on to your seats.

your world

is about to change. don't

touch that dial.

Esmeralda

he liked

peppers. hot peppers.

in his eggs.

with his potatoes.

he liked

the heat. the flame of peppers.

how they

made his  brow sweat,

his tongue swell,

how

he 

twisted in his seat.

shaking his head with a smile.

he couldn't get 

enough of peppers, red or 

yellow.

or green. 

he liked things hot,

and this is why he married

Esmeralda

and broke up with Irene.

you shift your weight

you shift your weight from

side

to side

trying to decide things.

shuffling your feet,

looking down each road,

your hat is on tight,

a scarf wrapped around your

neck.

you want to plant your

foot and go.

but nothing is clear.

has it ever been?

you listen for the voice

of reason,

you wait patiently, but

it's cold.

if you were a math problem

if you were a math problem

i'd be better off,

more well equipped

to solve

the equation of you.

i'd take out my pencil,

my paper,

my algebra book from the 9th

grade

and slide rule

and get to work.

i'd get to the bottom

of your variables,

your unknowns,

your constants.

and finally, at last after much

work and scratching of

head, i'd figure out

the mysterious answer

of who you really are.

the white plate of moon

the ice was slick

and

black in the quiet

darkness

of night.

no wonder i slipped.

and fell with nothing

to grab onto,

no loved one near

to catch me,

so down i went.

but nothing broke

no cuts

no bruises to speak of.

and as i lie there alone

i looked up at the sky.

the clouds

opening slowly

to reveal the stars,

the white plate of moon,

i thought

how wonderful things

appeared

from this point of view.

be wise and listen closely

this intuition

is too much sometimes.

how you wish

to dial it down, or turn it

off.

it fills you with information

that sometimes

you wish you didn't know

or need.

but need it you do

in order

to move

on.

you need

to embrace and listen

carefully 

to what your

body, your gut

is telling you. or there

is no left

to blame

no one to point a finger

at,

but you.

there is joy

there is joy

in unfollowing, deleting

blocking

unfriending, not  responding

to those who 

bring

drama and trauma

into your life.

you have to let go of such

toxic holds.

they will pull you down

to drown

into the depths of

hell

if you don't release 

your grip

or theirs upon your

heart,

upon your soul.

three hours at a holiday inn

through the thin

walls

of the holiday inn

on route one heading south

down

richmond highway

i could

hear the man coughing

in the adjacent room

while

he talked on the phone.

my vent being

his too.

the bed was hard.

the pillow a small sack

of what felt like straw

and stones.

it smelled of smoke

and urine.

ashtrays overflowed.

a picture of a revolutionary

soldier

firing a rifle

hung on the wall.

my plan was three nights

to let

things settle down back

at home, to figure out

a way.

but at two in the morning,

i got up.

grabbed my unpacked

bag by the door

and left.

my decision made.

skipping stones

the last i saw of her

she threw a stone across the blue

hand

of

a lake.

it skipped and skipped

as if it

had a plan, before it sunk

below

a gentle wave.

unlike us, who never spoke

a word again,

and went

on

our separate ways.

the night shift

they are different than you

or me.

they set their clocks for ungodly

hours.

they pack their lunch

for midnight.

they walk under the moons

glow to work

in singular rounded shadows,

down the empty streets,

bundled

against the cold.

to  factories, to stores to

stock shelves,

to bake, to open then

behind them

lock the doors.

they leave their houses

to do things we seldom see

them doing.

so little do we know

how they rise, how they sleep

in sunlight,

do they have

families,

or lovers who wait for

them

in darkness, back home?

the door bell rings

the door bell rings

and

she shows up in a long

black coat

at the door.

it's cold out

snowing.

the wind is blowing her long

hair

around her shoulders.

she stamps her heels,

shakes the snow from her hair,

and slowly unbuttons

what she wore,

leaving little to the imagination.

merry christmas

she says

may i come in.

to which i say, sure.

i'm just fine and dandy

when we smile too hard,

with big cheeks

and teeth,

when  we

tell others

that all is well.

we're fine and dandy,

we couldn't be better,

and you?

then it's a clue

a clue that you're about

to jump off a high bridge,

or drink a giant jumbo

bottle of red wine

with a straw.

paper work hell

i hate paper work.

despise

the stack of bills,

the contracts,

important documents

on the desk

the need to be signed.

it's my impression of

one level of hell.

the postage the return

address.

what's due, what isn't.

i groan at crossing

the t's, dotting the i's.

it's  torturous at times.

tomorrow, tomorrow

i tell myself i'll sit down

for the nine minutes it

will take me to get it

all done and do what

must be done to keep

me alive.