namaste

we eat, we work.

we supply our minds with some

sort of

distraction.

some pleasure,

some numbing of the soul

to wring the worry

out of us.

i cringe at the word namaste.

how little we really

know of life.

pretending, breathing,

still wanting

our just desserts quickly.

not overnight.

never quite satisfied

no matter how long you

sit there

in your pose

and stare into the light.

the longest month

there are days.

deja vu

days

of childhood

snow

and wind.

ground hog days.

when the needle

is stuck

on the record,

playing

the same word

over and over again.

they usually occur

in february

the shortest but

the longest

month by far.

not yet asleep

i don't crawl

into bed, or slip between

the sheets

it's more of a joyful

leap.

especially

when you're there,

glistening in candlelight,

not yet

asleep.

wanting more

she couldn't hold her

drink,

nor her money,

or her men.

all of it and them

slipped through

her fingers,

not unlike a cup

of sand.

it was always more,

wanting more.

never reaching or

understanding

that forever her purse,

her thirst and

her heart would always

be poor.

come spring

a blue cold 

settles hard into your skin.

it's the winter

season.

a time of endings.

more days of this until

change.

white ice.

a starlit night, scattered

like broken

bits of glass through

the arms of trees.

you've been here before.

everything before you is

what you've already

seen.

but as always,

you'll get to the other

side.

you'll be alive once more

come spring.

a year in the life

in time

wounds do heal.

but they leave scars

behind. they leave

a trail.

a story told in each

slice,

each raised line

of skin

where the knife 

took hold,

where

the bullet went in.

they do

heal, they fade,

but not completely

they will always 

be there

to remind you of that

brutal year.

once out

once out.

you run and run, until

you no longer

hear the dogs behind you.

no longer

hear the whip,

the gun,

the stomp of boot.

the voice

of discontent.

you go up stream

swimming madly

until you reach the sea.

never will you go

back again.

never to be with thirst,

or hunger,

at last you are free.

get it done

get it done 

while there's still time,

while there's still light 

in the sky,

get it done

before the sun sets,

don't wait.

don't delay, don't

wait for the planets

to align.

get it done.

get it done now,

for tomorrow may 

never arrive.

the storm hunger

she looks at me

with her hands on

her hips, staring out

the window

and says

i need to go to the store.

but it's snowing,

i tell her. the roads.

they haven't begun to plow.

it looks treacherous

out there.

i don't care

she says.

i need bacon.

i can't live like this anymore.

i need eggs.

potatoes.

toast and jam.

don't try to stop me, i'm

going out.

i need bacon.

angels in the snow

while most 

of the little girls

were making

angels in the snow.

she was making

devils.

the trouble it would

have saved me

all these years

later,

if only i had known.

finding an answer

i used to love math.

still do.

how nice

it was to have an answer.

the problem solved

with a pencil

and paper.

to sit back and look

at the numbers.

clear and concise.

the equation solved.

no question as to if

it's wrong or right.

it can be no other,

which is so unlike 

our love, this life.

the fireplace

we rub our hands

in front of the fire and say

nothing.

we let the flames

talk, the wind of heat,

the crackle of wood,

the floating of ashes

rising up the chimney.

what is there to say.

what haven't we said?

let's just watch the flames

and keep warm

before one of us leaves,

and the other one

stays.

someone kind

hard to put

things back together once

they've fallen

and crashed to floor.

hard to glue

and tape the shells

of what we

had into one piece again,

nothing sticks,

or holds it in place

like it used to.

we've fixed this broken

thing so many times.

perhaps it's time to give

up on us,

and find someone new.

someone unlike me or you.

someone kind.

another day another pill

he had everything on his shelf.

tucked away

in his medicine cabinet,

inside of drawers,

on the window sills,

pills,

bottles,

vitamins.

zinc, calcium, magnesium.

things i never 

heard of.

a dose for every part of

his body.

from kidney,

to bones,

to eyes.

somehow they were keeping

him alive.

despite a life of 

debauchery, drink, fast

women and cigarettes,

and an unbreakable 

penchant to lie.

prince on a white horse

there is no

oz.

no fairytale land,

no prince

on a white horse.

no knight in shining

armor,

no disney,

no magical

kingdom.

no dream boat

running across

the sand.

but you can't let

go of such

notions. it's what

you were fed by hand.

it's what you were

told, what

you watched

and read

in books and movies

so long ago.

but you keep waiting

and waiting

as you look out

the window 

hoping against hope,

slowly

growing old.

she's late again

she stops

to get her nails done,

her toes.

her hair,

to buy a new dress,

some heels.

a wax.

a sheen

a shine.

something frilly to

sleep in.

she's a busy

girl,

no wonder she's

late again.

shopping online

it's not what i ordered.

it looks nothing

like the picture.

in fact it's broken in

several places.

bent and discolored.

it's cheaply made,

glued together, just

barely keeping

its shape. i've been

duped before, but 

nothing quite like this.

the description she

wrote doesn't fit.

it's a fake, a fraud,

a replica of a person

that doesn't even exist.

and now what?

can i send her back or

am stuck with this?

that's as far as i'll go

so much of life

is knowing 

what you want when

you see it.

you stroll through the aisles,

waiting for a meal

to jump out at you.

something or someone,

that says, eat me.

take me home, tear

off the wrapping

and devour me,

bones and all. 

i'm yours.

but that's as far as i'll go

with this poem.

the apprentice chef

i've tasted it, 

i've swallowed

it whole.

i've carved it up.

i've sliced

it with a serrated knife.

i've made it tender

with a mallet,

i've seasoned it.

marinated it for days

in the cold. i've

baked and broiled,

i've fried, i've let

it sit for hours on a low

burner, setting the timer

on the stove.

i've stood by the skillet

so that it doesn't

boil over,

i've been careful,

keeping a watchful eye

on things burning.

i've done so much to cook

this love, but to no avail

perhaps one day

i'll get it right,

but it seems right now 

i'm still learning.

another persons shoes

it's impossible to put

yourself into another

persons shoes.

to start with

they probably won't fit.

too snug, too tight,

the wrong color, the laces

round, not flat

like you prefer. 

we can't go there. 

we can't sit and tug

with all our might

to get them on.

there is little understanding

as to why or how

people behave

the way they do,

or why they choose 

such horrible shoes

to wear.

it will be your turn

even if you

play badly, play. sing

out of tune.

don't stop.

two left

feet don't matter

dance

and fall

get up, and begin

again.

practice.

write until your hands

bleed, no

matter that few

will read what you wrote.

make

the finest dish

and eat it, even if

it burns,

don't stop with your

talents,

no matter how weak

they are,

no matter how much

they are ignored.

practice, then practice

some more.

keep going. keep going.

it's your world.

and in time it will be

your turn.

the last of her

i drive to the outskirts of town,

to a shack

on the side of the road

to have a tattoo removed.

i show the old woman

the name i want removed.

it swirls across my arm

in floral lettering.

she laughs, i did that name

just last week, in fact

three fellows came in with

the same exact name.

boys, she says, shaking her

head, boys. moths to the flame.

so what's it gonna be,

chemical or mechanical?

mechanical i shrug.

she takes me to the back

and hands me a jar of whiskey

and says you might

need this. then gives me

a leather strap off the hook.

that has teeth marks in it.

bite down on this, she says, 

distract yourself by

thinking of all the pain

she put you through.

the lessons you learned.

she cranks up a circular

sander, looks me in the eye

and says, shall we begin.

the eater of whole pies

i stare at the pie in the tin

half gone.

a fork left behind

on the empty side.

i realize that if i continue

on with it

it will mean that i've 

eaten an entire apple

pie all on my own.

how do i live with myself 

knowing this.

how can i go on knowing

that i am the eater

of whole pies.

where does it go from here?

i must keep this to myself.

and not let the world

know who i truly am.

parking meter

the parking meter

reminds me

of how the world

can be.

how a quarter gives you

just three more

minutes.

it doesn't seem fair,

as you continue to feed

more coins into

the metal face.

nickels and dimes.

it swallows them with a gulp.

hungry for more.

until you reach

a mere hour.

that's all, 

that's all the time

you get. now move along.

an afternoon of catch

the boy and his father

on the field

in the cold sun of early

march, but warm

enough

to play a game of catch.

their hats on.

their gloves,

they look alike.

the father

instructs and praises 

the boy with

each swing of the bat,

each ball caught.

he's growing before his eyes.

does it remind you of

your life, your father.

the green of the field,

the blue skies. the long

afternoons together?

no it doesn't,

it was nothing like that.

on the wrong train

i get on the wrong

train,

but it's okay.

i feel like riding today

and watching

how others

live their lives.

i want to know how

their time is filled

while

going from here to there.

staring at the maps,

listening to garbled

instructions from

the conductor, naming

each destination

once arrived.

it's a long day. so many are

lost, so many

are confident in where

they're going

when to stay put and ride

a little longer, and when

to get off.

the faces are distant,

the eyes holding

that traveler's gaze,

not here.

they seem to be already

off the train, but

not you. not yet. but

soon. soon you'll

be there.

all the broken wings

tired of the broken 

winged birds

i walk by the next

three that lie on the ground,

twisting

in their small

bodies unable

to fly away.

i want to help. i want

to stop

and listen to their tales,

to mend their

broken bones,

but i just can't,

i can't let their hell 

become

my mine anymore.

meeting olga for lunch

i circle the block

looking for a space.

i see her in line

for bread. a black

handbag

on her shoulder.

a scarf

wrapped around her head.

her grey overcoat

lumpy

and pilled.

her shoes squared

in the slush of snow.

i'm suddenly

in st. petersburg

meeting olga

for lunch.

no surprises

i don't want to be surprised.

no party, please.

no one jumping

out of the closet or cake.

i want to know

what i'm about to eat, 

what i'm in for with 

this drink, so

tell me before i make

the drive over.

i want to know what's hidden,

what hasn't been said.

no secrets before me.

tell me, before we go 

any further,

for once in my life,

i'd like to hear words

from a mouth that

doesn't lie.

beach day

the child looked

more boiled than he did burned

from

the sun.

his day at the beach would

be remembered

not for joy, but for pain.

how red

he was, how tender

his skin had become

under the rage

of an unrelenting summer sun.

and now when

i look back at the photo

and see me smiling,

shovel and bucket in hand,

bare skinned

with the green Mediterranean

sea beyond the sand, 

i wonder, where my parents

were. arguing

no doubt, somewhere.

waiting on the news

as i sit here

in my hotel room

awaiting news 

of my father's death.

the clock ticks.

the wind blows.

the dust of the desert rises

and falls.

my hands are folded,

not in prayer,

but in submission 

to a world that takes

its toll.

out of arrows

i reach back for one more

arrow

to sling

but i'm out. not a single

one left in

the quiver.

and what use is there

in killing the dead

over and over

again.

let her rest.

let her crawl beneath

the rocks, into

the darkness,

back to the life

that she knows best.

the wolf moon

the wolf moon

startles you in the cold

black

night.

you stop what you're doing

and look up.

it's white

and full.

it's beyond you to 

understand

such natural beauty

in the sky.

so rare to find something

so true,

so real,

authentic. a constant

that is new.

the nearest bridge

what's your dope?

your joy.

your drug of choice.

what keeps

you going.

the drink,

the needle, sex.

what is it that melts

your butter, eases

the pain.

your art,

your work,

your children.

what

keeps you wanting

to live

and live

and not leap off

the nearest bridge?

fear of the unknown

it may start out that way.

you know.

marriage.

all is well.

there's this magical feeling

about it.

but time,

or something happens.

there's lying,

there's cheating.

there's arguing.

there's the pull of nature,

gravity

tearing you apart

and you spend

the next twenty or thirty

years,

or if you're lucky,

twelve months,

pretending. going along

with it.

love has become

a distant memory.

an old coat

in the hall closet

that you wear every blue moon.

worn and torn, ripped

at the seams.

it itches.

you spend a lot of time

staring out a window, 

wondering what if,

but what are you going

to do?

there's the kids, the yard,

the house,

the in laws.

the dog.

who gets the dog?

there's almost no way out.

fear of the unknown keeps

bringing you

back home.

missing the city

you miss the city.

the subway.

the park.

the smells and sounds.

the cabs,

the yelling and honking

of horns.

the tall buildings.

so ho. no ho and

the village.

the hudson.

you miss the bustle.

the crazy

of it all.

you need a bite of

a hot

pastrami sandwich,

a bite

of the big apple,

a slice of ray's original,

to walk the streets

until you can't walk 

anymore.

don't obey

when you think too hard

about what you're doing.

when you start to wonder 

about what to write,

or to paint or draw.

you've lost your way.

the censors, the audience are

now guiding you.

whispering in your ear

to stay between the lines.

this is not the way.

over thinking ruins nearly

every thing we do. close

your ears and go on your own,

don't obey.

gardens of their own

all day

she kneels in

the yard 

planting seeds

alone.

her children have

all gone off

to gardens

of their own.

falling asleep

i like it when people 

are so tired that they

fall asleep

in public places.

at work, or school,

at their desk, leaning back

in their chair,

or head upon their folded arms,

taking a nap.

people on the bus, lost

in a dream, their faces

pressed against the window.

a woman on the subway,

unbothered by the jostling

of the car.

a child in a stroller.

there's a man lying

on a steam grate,

and another under

a tree with a book of poems

by walt whitman.

he'll be out for hours.

how it begins

when it was my turn to check

on the baby,

i'd tip toe into the darkened

room

and sit by the crib.

i'd whisper, hey, hey, are

you awake? then gently

rattle his little cage.

i heard this joke today, do

you want to hear it?

and the child would open

his small eyes, rub them with

his pink fists and nod okay

as best he could at this stage.

every breath you take

the world is being recorded.

each step

you take,

each move you make.

your computer,

your phone

is watching you.

we are living in a Police song.

there are cameras everywhere.

each house

with its own eye looking out.

each store,

each building 

has a camera pointing down,

saving

what it sees 

forever.

you can't get away with anything

anymore.

do you need another friend?

do you need another friend.

another person

in your life,

another number in

your phone, someone you

have to talk

to now and again.

someone to text and say

hello to.

another person

to have lunch with,

coffee, to discuss world

events or what

trauma they are going

through.

do you need another friend,

is there room

at the inn.

or should we just remain

as we are,

strangers till the end.

flowers are for the dead

she wants to send

flowers

to her father for his birthday.

he's turning ninety

this week.

i tell her no. no. no.

what does he like,

what food

does he like to eat?

she says desserts.

he loves his sweets.

i tell her to send him a cake

a triple layer

deep dark chocolate

cake with icing.

no candles.

flowers are for the dead,

desserts are for

the living.

a helping hand

who doesn't have an itch

that needs scratching.

a spot that's hard to reach

without the help of another.

who doesn't need a helping

hand, a helping heart at times

to get you through the day,

those long winter nights.

home

where would you move to

when it's time,

she asks,

spinning the globe on

the desk.

nowhere, i tell her.

i like it here.

i've made this house my

home.

it's my oasis, my place

of joy, of rest.

there is no place that i'd

rather be.

i can travel, i can visit

anywhere, but this is where i

come home to.

there is no reason 

to ever leave.

stirring the fire

i used to long

for summer, dreading the cold,

the snow.

the ice laden

roads.

but now it feels 

just fine.

bring the wind.

bring

it on.

i have no where else to go,

and why would i

with you here

stirring the fire, lighting

the stove.

the island of dreams

tired to the point

of passing out, i leap onto

the open arms

of the bed.

she welcomes me with

a soft silk touch

of sheets

and blankets, pillows

that bounce and fall

upon my head.

where would we be

without this island

of dreams, the wonder

of sleep.

the rewrite

writing is rewriting.

again

and again,

until you can't stand to read

it anymore.

the fine tooth comb

has lost its teeth,

the pencil point is worn.

there is not a word,

not a comma,

not a period you want

or need to move.

it's done.

or is it?

let me sleep on it

and see how reads in

the morning.

how to lose ten pounds

i am desperate

to fall in love again.

to meet the next girl

of my dreams.

to find my next cell mate,

whoops,

i mean soul mate.

my true love.

but not for the reasons

one might think.

by breaking up with her,

and having a tragic end,

i can finally lose these last

ten pounds around my waist.

it's a sure fire way.

as i grieve and cry,

unable, at least for awhile,

to never eat again.

he's been barking all day

people would tell me

when i got home

from work,

your dog has barking all

day.

he sits on the bed

and barks and growls

at everyone walking by.

to which i say,

i'm glad i wasn't here

to hear him.

thank goodness i've

been away.

her three pears

while staring at her

painting

of three pears 

in a white bowl

on a wooden table

i told her

that her paintings 

were getting better,

they had more soul,

to which she

took offense

and said, 

your writing 

is improving too.

it was those kind

of remarks

that made me aware

that things were over,

not right away,

but in a darkened

month or two.

the sentimental you

there are things you can't

bear

to part with,

to throw away, or set

out on the curb.

a postcard from the past,

a ring,

a book signed.

a scarf she used to wear.

so many things you keep

tucked away

in a safe place, 

such as all that

frozen food in your freezer.

unmarked,

there for eternity.

the book sales are slow

i realize quickly that i won't

be able to retire

on my

book sales.

so far i'm up to a hundred and forty

dollars,

for both kindle 

and paper back.

e book is killing me with

their free offers.

the book tours have been

canceled due to

covid

and cancel culture.

i try to get an interview

with larry king,

but he's dead now.

maybe i need illustrations,

or pictures of

some sort, a centerfold

perhaps of my friend Ursula,

in the middle, for

the next book.

when it's your turn

i see the ambulance pull

up in the court yard,

the lights flashing, no siren.

it's early.

they're pulling someone out

on a stretcher.

a neighbor i don't know.

the sheet is up to her

neck, so it appears there's

still life there.

will you ever know what

happened? probably not.

and people will no doubt

wonder about you, when

it's your turn.

upon meeting rimute

when she arrived

from germany with five

suitcases

for a weekend

visit

i knew i was in trouble.

she stood at the airport

door

wearing her black fur

and high heels.

a pile of blonde hair

stacked high

on her head.

she could speak

three languages,

but not english.

it was exhausting.

but we learned to 

communicate like koko

the gorilla

did with her handlers.

making hand signs

for thirsty, hungry.

sleep, etc.

did we fall in love?

no. but we had fun.

low maintenace

when i hear the words

low maintenance,

or no drama,

or the whole package, i

cringe.

i shiver with doubt

and put on my running

shoes.

words are a dime

a dozen, it's how you live.

life support

we are all on life support

of some kind,

yet still walking around,

taking care

of our wounds,

our self.

getting what needs

to be done, done.

we survive,

press on.

coffee helps.

random keys

the drawer 

is full of keys.

silver and browned,

all sizes,

all shapes,

all now unknown

as to where they go,

what door they might

unlock.

some yours,

some mine,

left over from old

houses and cars,

mailboxes.

pad locks on gates.

doors we went through

and came out

the other side

together, and now apart.

down fifth avenue

as the cabbie swung the car

down fifth avenue

doing seventy miles an

hour, flinging us about

in the back seat,

i asked him in a serious

voice, just how many 

people does he kill each week

driving like this.

he looked back with a

kabob in his hand and laughed.

his gold tooth glimmering

in the sun which shone

through the grease splattered

windshield.

we need more boxes

i remember

buying her boxes

to move in with.

and then buying more

empty boxes

for her to leave.

there are so many things

in life, when it comes

to love and marriage,

that one should 

never throw away,

but keep.

out to the country

some people talk about

moving

out to the country, 

out to where there's

land

and blue skies, 

mountains and trees,

fresh air,

cold streams and wildlife,

while i'm thinking

about a four star hotel

in manhattan

with room service

and netflix, 

wifi.

midnight toast

we clink

our glasses together.

the ping

rings in the air, as we

cross arms

and toast one another.

wishing in one more

new year.

we make no vows,

no promises,

no resolutions. 

this is good enough.

why worry or concern

ourselves

with tomorrow,

they all come soon enough.

my friend vincent

i see my friend Vincent

sitting on his front porch.

there's a white bandage around

his head

protecting his blood caked ear.

he looks more haggard

than usual.

his hands are covered in oil paints.

bright blues and yellows.

hey Vince, i say to him, going

over to sit down.

are you okay?

he pulls the bandage back

to show me

his half carved ear.

what the hell i say.

you can't let these women

get to you like that.

it's not worth it.

maybe you should quit

that online dating site.

crazychicks.com.

i quit last week. personally

i'm done with the nut cakes.

have you ever thought of meet ups?

hikes and movies,

you do things in a group

with people who have similar

interests, like cooking,

or bird watching.

he looks at me and shakes his

head, then spits some blood out

onto the sidewalk

it splatters a small bird 

that's pulling on a worm.

yeah. i know, i say to him.

i know.

he pulls a pint of what looks

like gin

from his raggedy coat,

then takes a sip before handing

me the bottle.

it tastes like turpentine.

it is turpentine.

women, he says,

rubbing his ear.

i cough and gag as i swallow

the drink,

and repeat after him,

yup, women.  give me another

swig of that.

the unsaved penny

no matter how many

jobs

some have,

no matter how many hours

they put

in at the office,

nights and weekends,

work work work,

at the end of the week

they still have no money.

their cups have no bottom.

they save nothing.

they keep nothing.

a penny burns a quick

hole in their pocket.

the new vaccine

i decide to go to pharmacy

school

and get my degree

in chemistry

so that i can make my own

covid vaccine. 

seems i could do that before

i actually get inoculated

with the current one being

made in batches the size

of thimbles.

i'll make it in barrels.

anyone with an arm will

get the shot.

or legs, or wherever

they want the needle to go.

i'll fill up every swimming

pool with it.

every barista in every coffee

shop around the world

will be able to administer

the shot.

i'll make sure everyone

gets a vaccination,

a freshly baked chocolate

chip cookie to go

and a extra foam low fat

vanilla latte.

it looks like rain

i remember specifically

having a rain coat.

a long tan

coat with a belt that i wrapped

around me.

it came down to my knees,

keeping me dry.

it had wide lapels.

deep pockets.

i looked like humphrey

bogart

standing on the tarmac

in casablanca wearing

that coat.

i wonder what happened to it.

just as i wonder where all

the years have gone.

i look out the window.

it looks like rain.

third place

you hear it said

that we are all winners.

not true.

there is second place 

and last place.

and all the other places

in between.

there are those not even

picked to play 

the game.

but it sounds good,

it gives the losing heart

hope.

it keeps one going to

hear falsely

that yes we all will

get the gold ring.

wear the banner, stand

tall as a winner

at the end of the day.

just one fly in the air

it takes one

fly in the air, in the room

to take

your mind

off other things.

will you chase him towards

his death

or let him go

out the pulled screen,

the raised window.

it becomes the task

at hand.

you set life aside for

this.

how are minds

are easily distracted,

how thoughts get

stuck on one thing.

the problem

the world

remains as it always

has been.

crazy.

the world is old.

very old.

but the people are new.

which is

the problem.

they are not our kind

happy people are the worst,

aren't they?

always with the smile, 

never a bad word

to say about anyone.

they never gossip.

forever going the extra mile.

hardly ever cross.

they can't be trusted.

they don't fit in

with their good cheer,

their optimism.

they must think we're deaf,

that we're blind.

these people, these happy

go lucky souls,

we know they must be up

to something.

they are not our kind.

i can't get this open

i can't get this open,

this can of tuna,

this aspirin bottle,

this tub of sour cream.

i can't untwist

the safety caps, the plastic

wrap,

the child proof lids,

i can't unhinge

the snaps.

i go backwards

and forward using my nails,

my teeth.

i can't get what i want

because 

all that i want is trapped

inside this can, this box,

this jar and

how to open them is

beyond me.

my fingers are bloodied

from the effort.

i twist and bend.

i pull out the sharpest knife

in the drawer,

but nothing moves. 

nothing works.

where is a child of ten

when you need one?

a temporary freeze

a thick frost is on

the car.

making silver of the leaves.

it's on

the metal rail,

even the pond

glimmers with

a sheet of ice.

but the sun will take

care of it

in no time.

unlike you,

this is just a temporary

freeze.

why don't you freeze it

i made way too much soup.

gallons.

i stare

at the monstrous pot

of chicken noodle soup

and sigh.

i can't give it away.

i think about pouring it

into the woods, but

my neighbor becky might

see me doing so,

and there would be

hell to pay.

i put it on the stove and stir.

turning on the burner.

maybe one more bowl.

i call betty and ask her

if she wants to come over

and have some.

she says no, and then

she says why don't you

freeze it. wrap it and put

it in the freezer.

which is her answer for

everything i cook.

everything now was fine

we will come to take

her away

they said on the phone.

it's the law

if she doesn't comply.

we need

to see the paper work.

we need

to see her in person.

a doctor, a therapist,

a psychiatrist needs

to look into her eyes.

and after the second

or third time

after finding her curled

in a black ball.

she no longer talked

about ending things.

she said softly from

someplace

deep inside her,

that everything now

was fine. just fine.

the old world

in barcelona,

while waiting for

my father

to get off the ship

in his sparkling white

uniform, i remember how

the gypsy women 

would hold up their 

bronzed babies 

at the pier

and moan.

the horses stopped.

the drapes

of the wagons, dirty,

wind blown. old men

at the reins. 

i remember how

the babies cried.

feeling some strange

fear inside

me.

that this was a world

with darkness

in it.

not just light.

the new dust bowl

i take a walk down 

to the farmer's

market.

a few tables are up.

a few so called farmers

are bundled

in their hats

and scarves.

they don't smile

as you approach.

it feels like the dust bowl

of the 1930's.

their wares are thinned

down

to almost nothing.

tomatoes. lettuce.

apples. a six dollar

cup

of coffee, donuts.

i shuffle through the thin

coat of snow

on the ground.

and go home. 

empty handed.

a bad investment

you can't get back

the time

the investment you've made

in another's life.

that money

is spent, gone. no refunds,

no returns.

you just have to take

note of it,

write it down somewhere.

make a promise to 

yourself to stay away

from such fool's gold,

never again.

the new rulers

the king is dead,

the queen too, the princess

the prince,

the wizard

and the knights. each

gone.

all the wise men

and women

are departed from

this life.

that leaves us,

the jesters. why not.

we're way over due.

the end as we know it

will end

it with a boom, a 

blast

or with a sigh and a whimper

as we fall onto

one another, sick

with fright.

will it be fire or ice.

or something smaller,

more lethal.

unseen

but deadly

with it's microscopic

might.

a forty degree day

i put my ear

to the ground to listen to

what the earth

might be saying

today. but there's

nothing.

not a whisper. no wise

words

to bring my way.

some days 

are like that.

forty degrees

with nothing really

new to say.

better days

you knew they were

coming.

you could sense that

this had

to end.

that you had to finish

it, before

it finished you.

you knew there were

better days

around the corner.

not far, not too far,

they were always

up the hill, up the hill,

there they were waiting,

all of them in plain

view. you just had to

press on.

that's it, we're done

i pull the car over

and tell her to get out.

that's it.

i'm done.

but we're in the middle of

nowhere,

she says.

how will i get back?

i don't know, i don't care.

but get out.

she grabs her purse

her phone and gets out.

she stares

down the long stretch

of black road,

her hand blocking the sun,

and wonders which way to

go.

as i drive away i look

into the rear view mirror

and see

her getting smaller and smaller

and until

at last,

she's gone.

when he came home

when he returned home from

the war

he was different.

the long hair

shorn.

the shoulder's squared,

the arms muscled.

but there was

something wrong.

there was this stare,

this awful gaze into

a world

you'd never known.

he tried to talk about it,

but couldn't.

he never came around much

after that.

he was gone.

no dancing

my father

likes his jokes.

blonde jokes, especially.

he laughs

before he gets to the punch line,

then coughs and has

to get up

for kleenex and cough

drops

and a bottle of water.

then he tells me

the punch line five

minutes later.

to which i laugh, maybe a

little harder

than i should.

then he starts with one more,

one more he says.

why don't baptists make

love while

standing up,

why, i ask him,

because they don't want 

people to think

they're dancing.

a calming green

i put my finger into

the meter box

that i invented to determine

my feelings,

the level of

good or bad

that i'm feeling that day.

i push the red button

and feel the pulse of the

machine

as it churns taking in all

of my vital signs.

it's a color wheel

with an arrow that 

swings

from pale blue. to red,

then black,  which signifies

near death.

i've been nearly every color

over the past few

years.

but now it gently finds

a calming green, a 

good place to be, as

the whirring comes to rest.

the surgeon's hands

the surgeon needs 

a steady hand.

he can't be

drinking on the job.,

or out partying

the night before.

his mind has to be right.

he has to put his life

aside and focus

on the task before him.

he has to get love

out of his mind.

he has to forget his

bills, his car, his

children, his wife.

he can't think about

hunger or thirst.

he can only stand there

in pristine light

like a monk, a buddha

about to kill or heal

and make things right.

wild child

i never believed my

red haired

freckled

third grade teacher,

Eloise,

when she threatened

to put something onto

my permanent record.

no talking, no gum

chewing no pulling

the pigtails of the 

little girl in front

of me. no day dreaming.

a well honed skill of mine.

where is this record.

who holds these files.

are they still classified

are they in 

the public domain

will it ever leak how

wild i was as a child?

the tyranny of love

it can go either way

with this love thing.

a freeing of

the heart, the sudden growth

of wings

taking you aloft.

or it can

go sour, and the tyranny

of love

will keep you earth

bound, with

your wings clipped,

no longer

who you are.

counting

are we not forever counting.

whether

our age

or the days until

some holiday

or birthday, our retirement.

how many days

since

then,

since she died, or 

he no longer was

a friend.

the numbers are everywhere

in cold

black ink.

a tabulation of sorts,

three more days until

a weekend.

two months before spring.

you have to and you will

can you go back

and

find yourself. be who you

were

when a child.

can you reverse the damage

done.

turn back the clock

on mistakes.

free yourself from guilt,

from pain.

can you retreat

and wave the white flag

of this life,

become new

again.

you have to and you

will.

the locked doors

the door to her

house

had many locks.

the screws

turned

deep into the wood.

the clang of chain.

the sliding dead

bolts.

no one was getting in.

and few would

ever get out.

just you, which was

enough.

a few years more

the restless

wind. she rises cold

from the north.

she's telling you something

you've always

known.

this world is temporary.

she's into the trees,

she's leaning against

the windows

the doors.

she wants in, but it's

not time.

not yet. you still have

a few years more.

the devil at the door

most of the lessons

i have learned

in my life,

i have learned 

the hard way. 

letting the devil

in the door when

she knocked and smiled

through the window,

the alluring life 

without a soul.

i have ignored my

intuition, my gut,

letting the beast in

time and time again, 

and still did not learn 

a thing, until the last one 

brought it to an end.

a deeper dive

i can do better.

there is a deeper level,

a deeper

dive

into the subconscious.

i'm not there yet,

but i don't want

to get there the hard way,

like the last time,

by love ending,

by a death.

i'd rather take the easy

route this time around.

a road i've never taken,

not yet.

some lost, some found

families

are difficult. no doubt.

the good sister.

the dark

ones, always stirring

some pot.

the loving brothers.

the father

on some distant shore,

a cold

wind in his face.

a mother

in the ground.

it's less about who we

were when together, but

more of who we

are now.

who we have become

apart

from each other.

some lost, some found.

neither of us has changed

i pick up her book.

an old book.

weathered by my hands,

the torn page,

the dog ear

where i twisted the edge

down

for further reading.

the cover limp from

being wet

with bath water.

i pick up her book

and read

the same poems over

and over.

they still ring true.

feel as new

as they did when i first

read them

thirty years ago.

neither of us has really

changed.

maybe next year

next year i'll retire, 

the man says.

and yet he keeps working.

he needs

to work.

he needs to have his hands busy.

to move

his legs,

to think and breathe

with others.

it's not about the money,

but he can't imagine a life

lived differently.

next year he says, 

maybe next year i'll lie

down at last

and rest.

there was nothing there

i asked her once,

why are you so aloof

and distant,

impossible to read

or truly get to know

and she smiled

and said, i'm like this

with everyone.

and yet still i tried.

and when i finally did

get inside

there was nothing there

but an empty soul.

this was who she was

trying to hide.

the warm and delicious

it's yesterdays food i don't

want.

the leftovers

the uneaten, the cold chicken

on the iron

shelf

i don't want what's in

the box,

the bag carried home

from some

restaurant.

i don't want what's in

the tupperware.

i need the new, the freshly

cooked.

the warm, the delicious.

i need you.

the real world gets in the way

the real world

gets in the way of this

other world.

this unconscious world

full

of yesterdays

waiting at the door to be

remembered

and let in,

to be written down

and read.

but there's this real world

too.

the one we work in.

the one we need to take the

trash out in.

to do the laundry.

the bills.

to bathe and eat and shave.

we need

to say hello to the neighbors.

we need to be normal

in this world,

to smile and wave, to pretend

that everything

is really okay.

temptation

i'm tempted by the apple.

i doubt i could have waited 

for eve

to pick one

off  a branch

and put her hand out 

offering one to me.

i would have climbed the tree

and shaken it hard

with all my hidden

desires,

until most them were free.

returning home

i change my mind

about

you.

i circle back around.

is it love?

is it like or lust, or

something

deeper, something undefined

by words.

only known,

by touch.

we'll see how it goes.

day one

is the hardest

when returning home.

gin and tonic

i haven't see you in awhile

the clerk

says to me

when i put my items onto

the moving belt.

i've never seen her before.,

she's a complete

stranger.

but i play along.

she smiles, i smile.

i ask her how the kids are,

how's work,

how's life?

great, she says. everyone

is fine.

that ask about you all

the time.

they miss you and wonder

if you'll ever come

to visit again.

soon, i tell her. maybe

tonight?

she holds up the bottle

of tonic water.

she winks, and says,

still with the gin and tonic,

a slice of lime?

what you see

her health

matches her life.

her

place

of living,

her car, her money.

her relationships.

there is no

difference between

each.

no seams, no

wall

between how she

feels

and the rest.

her past is her present,

and will

always be her

tomorrow.

truly what you see,

is what you

will get.

i can't find my purse

people like to bargain

with you.

can you do this work for less,

can you give

me the senior discount,

did i tell you i'm on a fixed

income.

i'm a vet.

my father used to paint,

did i ever tell you that?

he's going to stop by later

to inspect.

if you paint three rooms

will you

take half off on the fourth?

will it cost less

if you don't give me your

best.

if you give me your 

C job not your A job, what

if i paint half a wall

and you do the rest?

you do the high work,

and i'll go low.

can we get cheaper paint?

can you come on sunday?

can you take your shoes off?

can you work around

the cats?

do you take paypal, cash,

or check?

can i send it to you when

you're done?

i have to transfer money from

one account to the other.

i can't find my purse.

what's left behind

his coins

were pinched,

his dollars folded and ironed

stacked

neatly

in a box.

his income

was saved, for what

was there

to spend it on?

no wife,

no children, no pets.

there was no need to buy

a new suit,

except for the grave.

so the money grew.

he ran out of places

to hide it.

the mattress bulged,

the oven

was full.

the attic and cellar

too.

he wondered who

when he was gone

would find it,

who  would know

what to do with so much

money

left behind.

five nights and five days

it rained five nights

five days

in mexico.

we stared out across the bay

at

the rising water.

the grey sky.

what was there to do

but drink.

make love.

eat.

and then the sun came

out

on the day we

were to leave

and so we burned

in the southern skies.

we lie there

taking in as much as we

could,

we had to come back

with something.

you're in a good place

when food loses

its taste,

and your clothes

hang

loosely on your

bones,

when the drink is only half

gone.

when you no longer

look at your phone,

when there's not a thing

of interest on tv,

and there's not a friend

you care to see.

when the book

is not picked up,

and there's not

a sentence you wish

to write.

when you have no desire

to leave your room.

it's means you're in a

good place.

it's up from here.

you've found the bottom.

closing the door

in the late

night

we used to stand at the door

and wave

waiting for the car

to pull away.

a smile and a kiss

blown

past the window

but now

the door closes quickly.

gets locked.

the lights go out

one by one

as you take the stairs

to bed.

there is nothing left

to say.

two is the number

one is not

the loneliest number.

i beg to differ, for

i think

it's two.

one feels

more sadness

and being alone

when the other has

turned their back

and lies in bed

next to you.

a new home

the mouse

finds its way in.

not unlike you,

he doesn't need much room.

the smallest

of cracks or holes

serve well

for entry.

he's quiet in his

walk.

not a squeak, not

a sound

he makes

as he escapes the cold,

the wind,

a life he once knew.

he finds

warmth

in the straw bed

of an attic he'll call

home. maybe a loved

one will

join him too.

welcoming the new

i resisted green

for so long,

orange too. it was always

grey, or white,

some shades of black,

plenty of

indigo blue.

but now

somehow green has elbowed

its way into

the room

that pillow for instance.

that picture

on the far wall. abstract.

the orange vase

sitting boldly 

on the window sill.

welcome

to you all.

can we change the subject

i'd rather not talk 

about them anymore.

i tell the therapist

as i walk around her

office watering

her plants.

can we move on.

can we dispose of that topic

and find

something new

to talk about?

you should really turn

these towards the sun

in the morning,

i tell her. look how brown

they are.

sure, she says.

no need to talk about your

father and mother.

let's take them completely

off the table, despite how

every problem in your

life is directly related to them.

their tragic neglect

and lack of affection 

from the day you were born

has completely determined

who you are as a person.

i look at her

as i accidentally spill water onto

the floor, which makes her

shake her head

and scribble something down

on my chart.

something that she quickly

hides from me.

who are you

depending on who you talk to

that seems

to be who you are

to them.

cynic,

a romantic, an easy going

person,

an anxious soul

twisting in the wind.

the blue side,

the light and sunny side

up side.

the grim,

the grin.

the one with laughing

eyes,

or tears

falling out.

perhaps who you are,

is all

of them.

getting off at the last stop

we get to the last stop

and get off.

the bus is empty except for us

and the driver.

he tips his hat as we

depart

and says

have a goodnight.

the door squeezes shut,

as we step out

into the rain.

hand and hand we go

to the corner, we kiss

goodbye

and go our separate ways.

not all things work out

the way

we hoped they would,

the way the began.

disposing

as i pour the milk

down the drain

watching

the white waterfall

cascade,

i think how easily

it is to dispose

of things you no longer

want or desire,

having lost your taste.

it just takes the muscle

to do it.

the switch in the mind

to be turned, not

listening to the heart

which screams what

a waste.

experienced

the plumber has

no fear

of a pipe, his tools

in hand.

his light with him

as he bends

to fix a leak.

and the same goes

for the electrician,

as he leans

into the circuitry,

twisting

wires, snipping,

unafraid of the shock

he might get.

they know what they

are doing.

like you do when

you lean over to kiss

me before we sleep.

eggshells

do me a favor, she says.

i roll my eyes.

what?

it's nothing, i just

need you to do something

for me, but

not right now.

later,

maybe tomorrow.

what is it?

i can't tell you right now.

well then,

why are you asking me?

i don't know,

i guess i just wanted to

make you

nervous and walking

on eggshells 

for a while.

it's what i do, you should

know that by now.

what's for dinner?

when i look

at a cow

i don't think of steak,

or milk and

when staring at a chicken

i don't think for one

second about drumsticks,

or even eggs.

same goes for fish,

when i see it on the line,

it never crosses my

mind to put

it in a pan for frying,

but when it comes

to you, well

that's a whole other

meal altogether.

i'll do me

i've reached a point

where i really don't care

about a lot of things.

what people

think or do,

how they behave or

what they believe

as long as none of their

nonsense doesn't

involve me.

go on and do as you

please. i really

don't care who

you vote for,

your religious beliefs,

or your dietary

needs. you want to save

the world, better

save yourself first.

just leave me out of it.

you do you and i'll

do me.

it was better back then

it used to easier 

to meet people.

face to face was how

we did it.

friends of friends.

a party.

a bar.

a picnic.

someone has a boat

and we all go

sailing.

the neighborhood too

was how we

met a love

or two, or three.

and now.

it's this keyboard. this

cold hard way

of typing

is what we do.

it's all about the picture,

a resume of quickly

written words.

it's rare that

chemistry

ever comes through.

ten cents

it's a day

full of dimes.

everywhere i turn there's

another one

on the ground.

one in my pocket

between the cushions

of the couch.

there's two

in the dryer that were

spinning

around.

clean and hot

in my hand.

i stack them all

together.

friends, probably never

to be spent. most

are wilson,

but a few are mercury,

my favorite

kind.

friends without benefits

i'm waiting for the right

man

to come along.

it's only been forty

years

since my husband passed

away. i'm looking

for someone

true,

someone kind.

someone

who loves me for who

i am.

i'm not going there

with anyone,

i won't sleep around,

so get that off your mind.

no friends with

benefits. no way.

i'm only eighty

five,

there's still plenty of time.

someone i actually know

i keep the frames.

the wooden ones, 

the clear

acrylic

ones visible on two sides.

the metal frames

with glass.

i slide out the old

photos. all fake,

the glamor shots,

the posed,

the air brushed,

and put in one of you.

normal

and natural.

a real person, 

someone i actually 

know.

why don't they call me?

she asks me

why do men say

they'll call

and then they don't?

why ask for my number

if they aren't ever going

to use it?

i put my hand into my pocket

and feel the small bundle

of papers holding

a slew of numbers.

i shrug and look at her,

and say, i don't know.

small portions

you take a break from falling

in love.

somehow not eating bread

and pasta

is connected.

getting skinny, less fat

seems the right

move to make.

carrying just you along.

with small portions

of affection upon your plate.

carrying the weight

there are those

around you 

who make you a better

person

by their wit

and smile

their upbeat manner

and then

there are those

who carry the weight

of the world

and all their mistakes

upon their shoulders

and want to put

them onto yours.

benign judgement

our eyes fall onto 

others

with benign judgement.

one looks well,

the other doesn't.

the gain of weight.

a missing ring,

that harried look of

overworking,

of staying

up late with drink.

unshaven

unkempt.

the mismatch of clothes.

the grey parted roots,

we take note,

but say nothing,

for there is our own

selves to contend with.

i'll come up to see you

i'll come up to see you.

soon.

wait for me.

after winter, perhaps,

when the roads

are clear

and the snow melts

when the weather

is more suitable

for travel.

but i'll come, i promise.

don't give up on me.

i love you.

you're all i think about.

and if i don't make it

in the spring,

i'll make it the following

year, maybe early june.

i'm coming. no worries,

be patient,

i'm coming soon.

two sides

there are days

when i can be 

the most forgiving

and empathetic

soul

on the earth.

willing to let go

and let live,

and then there are other

days when

a darker side takes

over.

bitterness sets in.

and the blood boils

with revenge.

strange how these two

forces live

within me, 

each fighting

to be heard.

the best day of his life

the boy on the swing

knows little of the world,

not yet.

he just wants the push

from his father,

who's home at last,

to go higher and higher

over the sand pit.

his legs kicking,

his hands wrapped

tightly around

the chains.

flung forward

as if into the trees,

into the sun

which shines 

fiercely into his eyes.

there is a smile upon

his face.

he lets out a joyful

scream, not wanting

it to end.

he's yet to realize that

this may be 

the best day of his life.

her death

her death,

a blessing,

comes late in life.

the flesh finally surrendering

to what comes

to us all.

the bones

brittle

the hair white.

they close her eyes with

two fingers

gently pulling down.

there is no

more struggle,

just us standing at

her bedside.

wordless in the awful

light.

the orphan sky

the sky has

a desperate look

about it

tonight.

a bruised bundle

of clouds

she looks as if she's lost her

way

looking for direction.

it's an orphan sky.

the wind is no help

whipping the trees.

the cold air

stings.

the front moving in

has arrived.

we look up for answers.

isn't that where God

is?

long black cadillac

it used to be

if you had a Cadillac 

it meant you had arrived.

you had achieved

some sort of social status

and earnings.

your ship had come in.

with leather

upholstery and all

the trim. how you'd

drive it slowly

down the street.

the long white or black caddy

in the driveway

said everything there was

to say about who you

were.

and about what wasn't

within.

it wasn't always this way

there are many things

i won't do for you.

the list

is growing longer

each day.

all the things i used

to do are written down.

it's a shame, because

it wasn't always

this way.

three a.m.

into the night we'd

talk.

warm

in the deepest

part

of couch.

the moon outside.

the stream

holding it

like silver melting.

the conversation

would slip

easily

into any direction.

each wanting

to know more

before

the morning light.

hearts becoming

one.

neither tired, neither

wanting to say

goodnight.

best friends

there used

to be a handful of best

friends.

some men

some women.

people that your best

interests at heart

as you do theirs.

years can go by without 

speaking

and yet

the love never wanes.

some are gone now.

passed away,

some still around but

have fallen from that elite

status.

because of politics

and a variety of other annoying

topics.

i can count a few

on one hand now.

some don't even know  they

are best

friends with me.

which makes it safe, keeps

them around

a  lot longer.

limited editions

i tell everyone

i see

that there is a ten book limit

to each customer

\

when they purchase my modest

slender book

of poems.

then i laugh.

i mean really,

who reads poetry

anymore, or ever.

the high schools have ruined

it for us, dragging out

walt whitman

each dreary cold september.

robert frost.

shakespeare even.

you need a dictionary

and a degree

in greek mythology to

understand

half of what these honored

scribes

have written.

rilke and willian blake

and the eternals.

please, my eyes are bleeding.

will it change your life

what will change your life

for the better.

a speech you hear,

doubtful, maybe in

the moment, 

but then you move on

to who you were

before you heard it.

what book

what song

what piece of art,

what poem.

what thing written

now or a thousand

years ago will change

your life, alter

the course of your

destiny.

very little.

if you find faith in god

perhaps.

or if you find true

love.

one that will last,

that could be

another.

a bag of salt

it almost feels like

spring.

even the birds look confused.

the squirrels

too.

it's hard to decide

what to wear.

it's fifty five degrees

in january.

the snow

is nowhere.

my new shovel, red

and shiny

waits at the door with a bag

of salt.

things i bought

last year.

the king size bed

touching is good

in the beginning

of sleep.

curled together,

arms and legs entwined

after making

love.

but when you're about

to doze off

into dreamland

and the sweat dries off

you need a little 

separation.

a foot or so, although

there's no rule of

thumb to go by.

six inches is okay too

if there's no

tossing and turning.

ideally a king size

bed solves the problem

quite easily.

welcome to the neighborhood

bertha stops

by

with a pan of meatloaf.

she says.

welcome to the neighborhood.

i tell her i've been

here for fifteen years.

i know, she says.

i've been here for twenty

years.

i just haven't had time to

stop by

and say welcome

and to introduce myself.

i'm bertha. i live 

around the corner next

to the basketball court.

nice to meet you.

i tell her, staring at the heavy

pan

covered in foil.

here she says. i take it from

her and smile.

don't lose the pan. it's one

of my favorites.

bye for now. when you're

done with it

leave it on my porch at

6524 or just knock.

launching the ship

i pop the cork 

on the champagne

i've had on the shelf

for three years

or so.

the green bottle

from france.

i wipe it clean

and set out a glass.

will it still bubble,

will the cork fly

and make that noise

they do?

will i drink enough

in celebration

to dance across the room?

the answer being yes.

i will launch this

ship

and toast it's journey

into the unknown.

if i had another fifty years

once out into the world.

the ink

dried.

the book finished,

i shake my head and

worry.

there's not a rhyme

i wouldn't change,

a comma

or word i wouldn't remove

if i had more time.

say another fifty

years or so

with a blue pencil

in hand.

sifting through the lines.

maybe then

i'd be finished,

maybe then

everything would be fine.

an honest glass of water

just ice water please.

a slice of lemon.

crushed ice.

a clear glass, tall.

that's all i need for now.

that's

all i ever wanted in anyone

to be truthful,

an honest glass of clear

cold water

with a slice of lemon

on the side.

i could drink that all day.

all night.

all summer long.

the dry martini

the x-rays come back

and the doctor

holds them up to lighted

screen

oh my, he says.

hmmm.  and hmmm, again.

i say what?

what is it?  how long

do i have?

give it to me straight doc.

i can take it.

oh nothing he says.

shrugging.

nothing important.

but after seeing all these

green olives in you

i thought that after

work i too might have

a dry martini.

we've been around so long

is that shadow still

there, a part of me,

not giving up.

the dark side

perhaps

lingering behind,

quiet and careful

in form.

i can hardly hear his

footsteps,

his breathing

as we walk along

beneath the sun,

we've been around

so long.

changing culture

the word culture

is everywhere.

what we need is a new culture.

to change

our way of thinking,

our way of doing things.

politics,

sports teams.

businesses. all crying out

we need to change

this culture

that we have here.

did the ancient greeks

ever

say such a thing,

the ming dynasty,

or the roman empire?

no.

who decides these things?

what price to set

on a gathered group of poems

in a thin

book

thrown out into the world.

eleven ninety five,

perhaps.

or six dollars

and change.

or free. maybe that will

build up readership

more easily.

is canada less or more.

who decides 

these things?

i can think of two

i can think of two.

two women who i once loved

that i no

longer love,

or even talk to.

significant others.

important as stepping stones

along the way.

but the rest

are fine. a dialed number

from them or me,

takes us

back to another time.

friends forever,

as it should be.

the child leaving home

it's not overnight.

although it

feels like

it as i click the tab to publish.

there it goes.

a childhood dream

of sorts.

one book out

there into

the world.

a thousand words collected

and named

numbered.

and then sadness

sets in.

strange how that is.

not unlike a child leaving

home,

for his life to

begin.

this is a better story

tiring of the old story.

i'll make up

a new one about you.

how you

robbed banks.

how you carried a gun

and wore

steel tipped boots.

the hidden knife up

your sleeve.

i'll tell everyone

about the scar on your neck.

the booze

you drank.

always with a cigarette

dangling

from your pouty lips.

i'll tell them about

your tattoos,

your earrings, how you

cursed and whored

like a drunken

sailor

on leave.

i'll paint a dark picture

of you.

and that will explain

everything about what 

happened between you

and me.

did i miss your call

did i miss your call.

did i miss

your knock at the door.

i was out for awhile. so if

it was you.

call back.

come again.

i saw your footprints

in the snow.

i won't be gone long.

i checked the mail

but there was nothing

there from you.

no card, no letter,

no package.

i know the mail is slow

lately,

so that's a good excuse.

but it's fine, no worries.

i'll leave

the light on for you.

come soon.

now it begins

after school

is when real life begins.

the books

don't matter anymore.

the grades, the hours bent

towards

learning.

that's over.

now you learn the real

lessons

as you punch the clock

pick up a shovel.

find a desk

and dig in. forty years

to go.

good luck dear boy,

begin.

not with your kind

take your woes

and go.

pick up your dirty laundry,

wipe

your bloody nose.

depart with gossip

and lies.

bundle up your troubles

and take the nearest

door

and fly.

we don't want you here

anymore.

we can't live

a happy life with the likes

of you,

your kind.

as the headlights appear

as she drives home

in the cold

the roads wet, the wind howling.

her dog

waiting by

the window.

she's full.

she's happy in the moment

with the making

love behind her.

the highway clear as 

sleep awaits,

the dog

more happy than anyone

could imagine,

as the headlights

appear.

the weight of work

it's herculean

at times.

this work, this life

of mine.

the climb gets steeper

with every day.

the steps

getting harder,

the weight

of hours heavier

with each lifting

of another bale of hay.

but it's not for money

anymore.

not at this age.

it's not for bread

or shelter, or ale

when it's time to close.

it's for something else.

something

that i don't even know.

burning bridges

we came up for air.

bloodied and bruised.

we stopped fighting

for a moment and went

out for a walk.

it was a sunless day in march.

we knew the end was near,

but the right words had not

been said, just the wrong ones.

all the evidence was in.

the jury, the judge.

we were just waiting

on the verdict.

the walk meant nothing

but a stretching

of our legs. fresh air

in our lungs.

no hands were held.

no tender moments stopping

to kiss on any bridge.

they had all been

crossed and burned

a long time ago.

juggling skills

bored with life

i take up juggling.

i start off light and easy

with

rubber balls

then work my way up

to small animals,

frogs and gerbils.

i work in a few knives

and chain saws

as i get better,

then go with burning

torches.

shards of pointed glass.

people are amazed

at my juggling skills,

especially sally, and betty

and thelma,

knowing how poor i was

at juggling them.

party of one

party of one

i say to the hostess as i enter

the restaurant.

well, hello again,

she says. long time

no see.

no date?

what happened to your girl?

you're bride to be.

long story,

i tell her. trust me.

you don't want to know.

it involves

exorcism, demonic

possession.

things like that.

hmmm. she says. i see.

your usual seat

at the bar? is that okay.

no, let's try another

the last one was bad luck,

let's see if we

can change that

today.

i'm in big trouble

according to the last

five phone calls i've received

from unknown numbers,

i'm in deep trouble with the irs,

about to be arrested

any minute now.

the cops are on their way.

social security has suspended

my accounts

and my credit cards

and identity have been stolen.

my computer is infected with

a virus, and someone 

on amazon has ordered 

an expensive camera

using my password and my name.

not to mention that the warranty

on my car has expired 

and i'm about to lose my chance

to renew if i don't call back

right away. i used to worry

about library books being overdue, 

my how things have changed.

passion

it's not about 

the check list.

the qualifiers,

the attributes,

the wants and desires

of your heart.

it doesn't matter

where you're from

or what you've done.

beauty

in the long

run is just a distraction.

it's not about what you

want in another

person,

in the end it's about 

enthusiasm

for each other.

the rest is okay, but

at the end of the day

give me passion.

the cold beach

the beach is cold

this time

of year.

the sand is rough

and dark,

a wash of pebbles

line the surf,

broken shells,

a coat of armor

wet

in the sun.

the wind cuts.

the salt is in your eyes.

but you keep walking,

your feet sinking

with each new

step.

the pier is miles

away.

the past is never far

behind.

staying in shape

it's not too late

for breakfast, is it?

i yell

up the stairs.

it's twelve noon.

french toast?

or eggs?

nothing for me she

says.

i'm on a diet.

maybe i'll stop for

a donut or two

after my run.

okay, pick me up

a pie if you could.

i'll be at the gym

when you get home.

old friends

we have favorite

coats.

favored shirts and pants.

shoes

and hats.

we pick them over so many

others waiting

on the shelf.

hanging in the closet.

five sweaters that are black.

grey jeans.

the right color. the right

size.

they are who we are.

they have what the others

lack.

how to dance

she teaches me 

how to dance.

listen

to the music, she says.

open your heart,

and breathe,

become what you hear,

relax and move.

feel my body

against yours,

put your arm here.

take my hand, now let's

glide across the floor.

there you go. 

there you go, i could

dance all night

with you,

you have it my dear.

small rewards

funny

how a new pair 

of shoes

makes you feel good.

puts a spring in your step.

a fresh coat of paint.

that feeling you get

the hour after the maid

comes

with everything clean

everything in its place.

small rewards

can make your day,

put a smile on your face.

one dark piece of chocolate

will do the trick or

an ice cold martini,

or better yet, 

a sensual kiss.

road kill

i'm on the fence.

i'm

undecided.

i'm

leaning both ways.

i'm the squirrel

in the road

going nowhere

fast.

darting

left

then right.

it's so hard to decide.

the pressure on,

eyes growing

bigger

in the oncoming

lights.

who are these people

i find another way home.

a wrong

turn

making a longer trip,

but i'll find my way out.

how long has

the back road

been here.

it winds in and out of

shadows

and light.

these trees, that pond.

i see an old barn 

in red beyond the field.

i see a tractor

with a man in a straw hat

upon it.

he waves.

i see his wife in a

pale blue dress

coming through

the corn,

bringing him

water.

she waves too.

who are these people?

working hands

my hands

curled around tools all day.

the knife,

the scissors, the brush.

they are thick with

use

calloused and raw.

cuts

healing, some new.

they bring home the bread.

they

pay

the bills.

these hands awaiting something

softer

to hold them

one day.

the first draft

i read the first draft,

then the second.

it's horrible.

what was i thinking trying

to get

a book out of any of this.

babbling

all the time about me,

for the most

part.

self indulgent to the nth

degree.

but what the hell, what

are we

living for.

why not throw it all out

there into the world.

and if no one cares, or likes

any of it.

so what.

i'll write more and more

and more.

until there's nothing left,

not a word

not a thought

inside the well.

the same story

it's the same story.

over and over

and over

again.

the long marriage.

how trapped they all 

are.

no love.

no longer friends.

the kids keeping them

together,

the house, the dog,

the cats.

the neighbors

the in laws.

and money. with no

way to make it end.

sleeping in separate

rooms.

living separate lives.

keeping secrets.

telling lies. he has a

mistress, she has a friend.

a long life

of pretend.

not knowing how

to escape.

it's same story

that i hear,

over

and over and over

again.

hearing the news

i find her

on the front steps crying

when i get home.

i sit down beside her.

her face

is dark

and wet with tears.

she's shaking

in the cold.

i put my arm around her.

and tell her

in a whisper.

i know.

i know.

tickets torn in half

i keep no

keepsakes. no receipts,

no half torn

tickets

or playbills

from what we've seen.

i'll save no pictures

of you

and me. no cards

or letters,

or love notes

left behind.

there is no reason

to remember

anything, there never

was a you

or me.

i'll leave it at that

as i try to be kind.

i'll meet you there

i'll meet you there

my love.

i'll meet you where the bridge

is below

the hill,

across the slender

stream,

before 

the bluff. at

the bench where we first

met.

where we fell in love.

i'll meet you there

once last time

before dark,

before we say what must

be said. before

we change our minds,

before we part.

i'll meet you there.

mid century parenting

get up, you're going

to be late.

take a shower. use

soap. brush your teeth.

get dressed.

get your books,

your lunch box.

behave in school.

wipe your feet,

don't let the screen door slam.

close the refrigerator.

lower the tv.

use your inside voice.

don't make me pull

this car over.

go wash your hands.

pull up your zipper,

comb your hair.

wipe your face.

eat what's on your plate.

don't talk with your mouth full.

get your finger out

of your nose.

do your homework

quit teasing your sister.

go walk the dog.

take the trash out.

go brush your teeth.

say your prayers.

now go to sleep.

the law of attraction

i give the law of attraction

a shot.

i think hard about someone

i'm enamored with

to see if they

text of call.

i concentrate on their face,

their voice,

their essence.

i sit and wait with my eyes

closed, believing there

will be an answer.

and then the phone rings,

i'm startled out of my trance,

but it's not her,

it's my mother

asking me why i never visit.

i need more practice at this.

i'm a little off.