the blind heart

the blind

see and hear what we don't.

cautious in their

walk,

tapping their cane.

an ear

to the road, to each

soul

they come across.

they touch

and taste

beyond our capabilities.

we are too

distracted with beauty,

or worse

the ugly of things.

and yet,

they too have their

hearts broken.

lightness of foot

there is a lightness

of foot

when things begin, 

and yet they

bounce even higher

when there is 

a grateful end.

balloons are released,

confetti floats down,

your heart is lifted up,

and suddenly

the world once more

starts to go around.

the rain day

there were the scars

of course,

the sullen repose against

the window.

each day

a rain day,

how she embraced blue.

both arms around its

welcoming 

dark hue. in constant

pursuit of hunger,

her life long friend.

each wrist

having two thin threads

across a vein, two seemed

better,

more balanced then one.

there were scars of course.

but most

remained unseen,

tucked within,

those she kept to herself.

sharing them

would be too hard

to explain.

Maybelline

you read about the elephant,

the old elephant

in the circus, Maybelline,

who goes wild and stomps

it's handler to death

as she stampedes

out of the big top tent.

who can blame her.

disgusted with her treatment.

peanuts, really?

who hasn't wanted to do that

at one time or another.

for the queen

strange, how the bee stings,

regardless

of who you are.

it matters little that you mean

them no harm.

you will not touch

a single one,

you will leave the honey,

the cave like hive alone.

but they don't care. you've

gotten too close.

and as you rub the new welt

upon your arm.

scratching at

the itch of a sting,

the bee flies off to die.

as we all do so often

for a queen.

all the love there ever was

there is a point

in each relationship where

you suddenly

feel

the cold air around you.

there's the dark

eyes.

the less said. the distance

one keeps

when lying

in bed.

it's as if a window

has been

left open and all the love

there ever was

has slipped out.

south beach christmas

we spent a week

in south beach between 

christmas

and new years.

the pink hotels

around us.

the white sand,

the crystal blue water.

seventy five degrees

on a cold day.

no clouds as we lay out

on our chairs

to sunbathe.

merry christmas, she said

to me,

taking her bikini top off,

like everyone else had,

merry christmas i told her

and took a sip of

my pina colada.

where to put them

there is the problem of money.

so much for so little.

what to do

with the elderly.

the ones left behind.

where to put them, where

they feel at home.

close enough to visit.

a room with a view.

a cafeteria with food.

new friends to sit around

the table and play cards with.

nurses in white

in case you fall, or don't

answer when someone 

comes to call.

chasing a chicken

if i had to kill an animal,

like a chicken,

for instance,

i probably wouldn't eat one,

same goes

for a cow,

or pig.

there would be no bacon

frying in the pan.

no lamb chops.

no stew on the stove.

i wouldn't be wearing

these alligator shoes,

or this bear skin coat.

i'd be hungry and cold

staring at the ground

waiting for cotton and

potatoes to grow.

a mere forty years

when young,

at the first job, the first desk,

the first boss

upon you,

you think, how much longer do

i have to do this.

forty years more?

impossible.

and then forty years passes

and you leave 

to go home.

at last you are done.

you remove you shoes,

take off your clothes,

you turn off your phone.

you lie down to rest.

and you miss it.

nothing changes

carefully we enter the cave,

tendrils

of wet light slip down

the rock,

we hold the flame up to

the etchings.

war paint, arrows

and spears.

animals and men

facing death.

does nothing change, or

just

repeat itself.

we know the answer to that.

internet dating 101

when i binged dated

after

getting a divorce from cruella one

and two,

licking my wounds,

i learned

a lot about

women out there on the sites.

no matter how much money

they made,

no matter how

feminist they were,

no matter how successful

and rich

they had become

with alimony and child support,

they almost

never helped pay

for a drink or meal

when you met them.

as soon as the check came,

they ran to the bathroom

to powder their nose.

i saw cobwebs on their purses.

i didn't mind

paying.

but after a three course

meal, three glasses

of wine and dessert, plus tip,

i couldn't afford

a hundred and twenty dollar

night very long,

every week of the month.

the women kept

getting bigger

and i kept getting poorer

in my search for my

next cell mate. whoops,

i mean soul mate.

money from heaven

as a kid i delivered

the washington post.

a hundred and twenty

newspapers rolled

into tight batons

and thrown onto porches

up and down

the streets of the projects.

mostly running.

my dog beside the wagon.

four in the morning,

done by five.

and back in bed,

covered in sweat despite

the snow and wind.

it was money from heaven.

i still have the IOU note

from my mother 

for the time

she borrowed forty dollars

to buy groceries 

for thanksgiving.

it took a while, but eventually,

i let her slide.

we make a toast

we toast the day.

each other.

we clink glasses together

and give

thanks for all we have.

we salute

the moon, the stars.

we hold our

glasses high

and toast those near,

those far.

we pour and toast

until there is no more,

then we stagger up

the stairs

and she says with

a kiss, let's wait until

morning,

as i begin to snore.

bemused

there are the poor

and then there are the poorer.

having been

both.

a truth sticks with you.

a dime

means something.

a pair of shoes

bread.

the heat on.

a bed to sleep in.

and when you dream, do

you dream about

not having

what you have.

no wood for the fire.

no milk?

and yet if you tell another

soul,

a son, or father,

they look at you bemused,

they'll deny it ever happened.

liar.

all is else is forgotten

when she speaks 

of dancing

you can hear it 

in her voice

that this is what she loves

to do.

she's a fish in water 

once the music starts

and she spins 

across the ballroom floor.

she's in her element.

everything else 

is forgotten.

life now

feels way too short,

it comes naturally

it comes naturally

or it doesn't come at all.

the flight, the spin,

the arc

of the ball,

thrown and caught.

nothing to it.

it happens easily,

without nary a thought.

the motion of

the arm,

the twist of body.

you either have it,

or you don't.

i try to keep her there

we smooth things out

with a few

drinks

and a night on the couch.

it gets

better as the night goes on.

she doesn't

bother me about my

lack of gifts

or flowers on valentine's day.

not even a mushy

card from the drugstore.

she's in a good mood,

and i try to keep her there.

you need to go to kansas for a real pie

people take pride

in where they're from.

texas,

or kansas,

michigan.

they take it with them

wherever they land.

within two minutes

they're bound to tell you

where they were raised,

and where you should go

before you die.

you don't know ribs

until you

get to carolina, they say,

or you never had chowder

until you've been to maine.

you want maple syrup,

go to vermont.

up north we do things

differently with a pot roast,

down south fried chicken

is our claim to fame.

they're just lines on a map,

but it sticks with them

from the cradle

to the grave.

the tax lady

her wig

askew. her glasses fogged

with the work

of doing taxes in her

tiny cubical,

she greets me at the door

as the bell settles down.

how are you?

so good to see you, we've

been talking about you.

wondering

when you were coming in.

please don't tell me

you made the mistake again.

everyone laughs, 

and laughs and laughs.

i slide her my books,

my papers across the counter,

i imagine that this joke

will never end.

harmonica time

i don't know where 

it came from,

or how it got here,

but there it is,

this silver harmonica

in my drawer.

i pick it up and blow.

finally an instrument i can play.

all morning

i keep it going. accompanying

bob dylan on the radio.

i've got this, i think.

until i hear banging on

the wall.

it's how they roll

you can tell where

someone is in their life,

mentally and

spiritually by how they

drive their car.

it's a dead give away.

ignoring

the rules of road.

taking stop signs as

suggestions.

going too fast.

everyone is in their

way and going to slow.

always lost, always

making a u-turn

and never asking for

directions.

they believe they can

make every yellow light.

beat every train

across the track.

it's how they roll

both in the car and out.

we take nothing with us

we own nothing.

not really.

everything is borrowed.

rented.

leased.

we take nothing with us.

not even

love, or heat ache.

it all goes away.

be patient.

be kind.

don't hurt anyone today.

taxed again

the dining room table

is the war zone.

the tax papers stacked

in clumsy order.

the adding machine

out and plugged in.

a pot of coffee on.

sharpened pencils.

a magnifying glass

for the pesky small print.

receipts and the debris

of paper work collected

throughout the year.

insurance

and debts, fees.

spent money, money earned,

a record of all the good

and bad deeds.

slowly i sift through

the piles,

filling in numbers.

then coming to the point

where i find the box

that asks

filing separately or

married.

or single. i put

a giant check there

and write the word happily

next to that.

sacred sages

with the tip of a candle flame

i light

the smudge stick and begin.

the scent of sage

and lavender fills the air,

sweet grass.

slowly i walk

around the house, starting

at the front door,

to each room, down to the basement

and up again.

to the kitchen,

the living room,

up another flight to the bedrooms.

i let the smoke fly

in soft ribbons.

erasing the dark memories.

the lingering negative

vibrations of someone

who once lived here.

no one was there

there was no one pacing

outside his door

as he slept

in intensive care.

a day away from Christmas

the day he would

die on.  i saw no flowers.

no cards.

there were no children

gathered at bedside.

no mother no father,

no siblings.

no wife.

i didn't see a single friend

of his

as i stood there

listening to the machine

give him air.

no one else was there.

they were doing their 

mourning, their waiting

elsewhere.

the saved

will we gather in heaven?

will there be loved ones

and the others,

the ones who broke our back.

will peace be made, or will

it go on as it is

here on earth.

is the bible right?

is there a house in heaven

for all that believe.

is it a mansion.

a split level.

something along the lines

of frank lloyd wright,  perhaps.

clean angles with windows

overlooking the sea.

will there be a choice in colors

of angelic sheets?

sandals or sneakers?

can you be alone, 

if you want to,

or will you have 

to participate in singing

and clapping of hands.

i hope not.

i won't like that.

i just want to be me.

mingo

i remember his hands.

brown leather,

his face worn with sun.

with life

and time

passing. always in his yard

reaching.

a garden hose in hand.

his white hat tipped

to hide the sun.

the grapes across

the trellis.

the sunflowers taller

than a man. tomatoes

and corn,

lettuce translucent

and green.

everything would grow

under his kind words,

his gentle command

each seed pushed down.

as a child how could know

who he was,

what this was all about.

but now as you kneel

to ground, and wait,

you understand.

she's still sick

she's still sick.

still bent over on the side

of her bed.

a pan

there.

a bell to ring.

is it monday yet?

who knows.

she waddles to the bathroom

in her bare feet.

avoiding the mirror.

she stands in the shower,

the shower

where she used to sing.

she'd like

to end things, but she's

not sure how.

tomorrow will be better,

she says

to herself

crawling back into bed,

still wet,

now cold and shivering.

tomorrow, tomorrow,

she whispers to no one.

a promise

she keeps putting inside

her head.

a reminder

i find the head

of a dead rose behind

the table.

left over from a bouquet 

flowers, bought

for an apology,

or holiday, i guess.

the petals

are a browned

burgundy now.

still soft as silk.

at some point

the stem

from lack of water

bent and

broke its neck.

dropping the head quietly

to the floor.

i think i'll leave it there.

Saint Anthony

you feel as if you lost

something,

it's just a feeling that

there is something

you can't find,

something

you may need later.

you have no clue

what it is, what it looks

like, or where it could be.

but you know it's lost,

and at some point you'll

be on your hands and knees

looking for it.

saying a prayer to 

Saint Anthony.

a clue this is not going to work

there was a time

when i came home from work

and my wife at the time,

lulabelle

had packed all of my books

in boxes,

stacked them on 

the living room floor.

there they were, updike

and cheever,

john irving, bukowski

and plath,

salinger and philip levine,

biographies, essays,

poetry. all of them

ready to go out the door.

books i've had and loved

since i was in college.

why, i asked her, as i unpacked

them, giving her hell,

why are you getting rid

of my books,

and she said, you've already

read them, and i need

more room for my collection

of porcelain pigs

on the shelves.

the lost weekend

the next door

neighborhood forum reports

that tucker

has been found.

alive.

he was in the woods for

three days.

apparently he met

another dog, fifi,

who was lost as well,

and they had a little

rendezvous of sorts.

he'd lost a little weight,

and his eyes

were blood shot.

he was panting and in

need of liquids.

he seemed weak, but happy

as he found his way

home and barked

at the front door.

who hasn't been lost like

that before?

stewed tomatoes

the worst

food, was the school cafeteria

food.

although

i've made my share of bad

meals too.

stewed tomatoes

tops the list

of incredibly bad thinking.

why?

the little soft cup

of smashed tomatoes

cooked to a frothy red,

then filled up to the lip.

never in my

life have i seen it anywhere

else in all my

travels.

never on a menu.

never a fine or dull

dining choice.

never did my mother

or even an angry wife,

as punishment,

tell me, that's what

we're having for dinner.

working on my triceps

do we need muscles anymore.

tapping

keyboards.

pushing pencils across

a sheet of paper.

clicking the mouse.

do we need these legs

to take us anywhere

when everything under

the sun is delivered.

there are just a few now

breaking

a sweat and keeping

this doomed world going.

swinging hammers

and actually making

things with their hands.

plowing fields,

killing things for us to eat.

the rest are driving around

for an hour looking for a closer

space to park because

it's raining.

feels cold in here

feels cold in here.

must be a window cracked,

a door ajar.

or she's back.

looking for something

she left behind.

need to get

those locks changed,

string up some

barb wire,

put a moat in,

a guard on the tower.

can't be too safe

these days,

with a scorned ex lover.

all in the game

call it street ball,

playground, pick up.

four on four 

half court and full.

switch at six.

go to twelve.

call your own fouls.

grass is out.

no threes, just old

school, take it to the

hole, or jump shot.

the bank is open.

rebound, pick and roll,

fast break, or walk

it up. mouse in the house.

a sweet shot, trash talk.

little man with a hook.

big man from the corner.

no cherry picking.

hand check, self check,

he can't go left.

play some D, is that

all you got?

home court, back court.

all day, all weekend long,

until the sun goes

down and the lights

go on. jurassic park.

take two of these and call

me in the morning.

black top.

high tops, shirts and

skins.

win by two.

ball in, check it up top,

and when it's done,

we'll run it back again.

waiting to get out

i can peel about two

potatoes

before i sigh with boredom.

the long line,

is not for me,

to be put on hold,

to wait

for someone to get to

the point

of a rambling story,

or the punch line

in a joke, just slays me.

even in my mother's

belly, i was kicking

and complaining,

trying to get out a month

or two early.

what others are up to

once curious

about what others are up

to, i no longer

care.

it doesn't matter anymore

and didn't

when it did.

who cares?

go do what you do,

and be you,

as crazy as that is.

what's the rush

i wake up and wonder

what should i do with my life.

ignoring the fact that my

life is well past half over.

it's a mid life crisis,

but only if i live to be

a hundred and forty.

what new job could i do.

where should i move.

should i lose weight,

gain weight, get a toupee.

should i buy something

shiny and new. maybe

grow a beard, or one

of those fancy mustaches.

get a new girlfriend

who reminds me of you.

maybe a dog. maybe a cat.

what about a garden

in the back yard.

or a hike to california

and back. take a night class.

a morning class.

take a class online.

study to be a doctor

or a lawyer, a chef, or

a detective.  yes. i say.

why not. there's still time

to do all that.  but first i'll

lie here for a while, i feel

a nap coming on.

what's the rush?

the apology card

i read my apology card

that i keep

in my wallet.

it's very worn.

the edges yellowed

with age.

the words barely readable,

the ink smudged

from sweaty hands.

i'm sorry, it says,

forgive me for whatever

i've said or done

to anger you and make

you not want to make love

anymore.

please forgive me

and let's move on.

i should of had it laminated

back when i was young.

i had no idea

how many times

i'd have to use it from

one relationship

to the next.

cold soup

the cold soup

surprised me.

i'd never had cold soup 

that was meant to be cold.

i'd had plenty

of cold meals growing up.

two slices

of bread with something

found in the fridge

between them.

a swipe of peanut

butter perhaps. cold

chicken

still on the bone,

but cold soup? in the dead

of winter.

what will they think of next

i thought.

saying nothing and feeling

bad for her, not yet

mastering the art

of soup.

cheer up

get back on the horse

she tells me, trying 

to cheer me up.

but i don't have a horse,

i tell say.

you know what i mean.

pick yourself up by your

boot straps.

what boots?

it's like riding a bike.

answer the bell,

it's not the end.

it's not over until it's over.

the sun will come up again.

you're making it worse,

i tell her. please stop.

beyond words

she spoke several languages.

but none of them

mine.

french and german,

italian,

which was fine.

we found a way to laugh.

to say the things

we needed to say

for sleep and food,

drink

and love.

we used our hands,

our lips, the way

we moved.

there was nothing we

didn't understand.

no whisper, no shout

strange how

we walk into the fog

and never

come out.

once friends, now

strangers

lost and fading.

never to be heard

from again.

no whisper.

no shout.

fresh fish

i see the well lit sign,

in blue neon,

on the store front.

fresh fish.

that's good.

the alternative

could cause health issues.

five day old fish.

stale fish.

rotting fish.

shrimp gone bad in the sun.

open oysters.

all you can eat fish,

caught a month ago

from a nearby pond.

fresh fish is good.

jack hammer time

dumbly, like a child,

in the heat of so called

love i carved her name

into the cement

on the sidewalk.

it's a reminder every

day i come home,

almost impossible

to scrape off.

i need a jack hammer, 

or explosives.

a chisel and mallet.

some muriatic acid.

it could have been worse

though, i think, rubbing

my clean ink free arm.

pandemic patty

proud of her shot

patty shows me her arm,

the swollen

bee sting

bump of where the needle

went in.

i'm good to go, she says.

what say we hit

the beach,

go have a drink or two,

go out to eat.

go dancing.

she's wearing a big V

patch on her dress.

her dancing dress. 

short and black with

shiny heels.

she's got

the music on, 

she's no longer

pandemic patty,

she's happy again,

she's back.

too many choices

too many choices.

too many

tiles and floors,

fixtures.

too many selections

of colors

and styles,

fabrics and textures.

too many

ways to go with this

paint, 

this room, this furniture.

which art to choose?

the lighting.

it makes

you miss the futon

days, a mattress

on the floor,

the wooden box table

and metal 

folding chairs

a poster of jimi hendrix

on the wall.

the dark side

i prefer the dark side

of the moon,

the under belly of things.

what lies

below the rock

imbedded in the stream.

i like the forest

at night, the shadows

the mystery of words.

the strange silence of you.

i like the bitter sweet,

the tears, the melancholy 

sigh of the world

when things are blue.

two shows per day

the dinner theater

is full of stars yet to be

discovered.

they sing, they dance,

they know their lines,

they know where the lights

are pointed.

where to stand,

when to move.

two shows per day.

they are practiced in

the art of acting.

but the crowd is hungry,

seniors bused in from

new jersey.

they want dessert now,

more booze.

they are impatient for

this act to end, to have

the lights go up

and find their way to

the bathrooms.

too early to decide

it's too early to decide

such things.

i need coffee and some time

to wake up.

a walk perhaps.

a book to read.

there's no rush in

deciding on what to do

or say.

i can wait on that, or maybe

you can surprise me

and just leave.

there will be tears

you hear the talk

of those no longer enthused

with the work they do.

the day in day out job

they attend to.

the punch of the clock,

the lunch at noon,

the drive home.

soon, they say, i'll quit.

they don't appreciate me here.

i'll leave this job and

sit around the house all

day. perhaps i'll travel,

i'll fish, i'll plant a garden

in the yard, i'll read all

the books i've meant to

read throughout the years.

you'll see, i'll quit this

job one day, i'll be gone.

and this place won't be the same.

i'll be greatly missed.

there will be tears.

bring on the babies

at a certain age

women begin to like 

small children

again.

babies, toddlers.

they can't go a block

without stopping to pinch

the cheek of some

little pink rascal in a stroller.

they want to hold

the babies,

bounce them on their knees.

have pictures taken with them.

have them spend

the weekend.

suddenly babies

are fun again.

strange how we lose our

memories as we age.

cat suit

the friend remedy

is the same one

you give when

someone is under the weather.

get some rest,

sleep,

drink a lot of water

and tea. hot soup.

stay home in bed,

watch tv and read.

take it easy.

but sometimes you need

more than

chicken soup.

you need

something spicy and

fun to pull you out of

this doldrum.

you need betty to come

over in a cat suit.

just come on in

i take the black cat in,

because

it's cold as hell out there

and i don't want

her life to end,

finding her in a snow

bank frozen solid.

i know about stragglers

and victims.

those without a means,

the looney ones,

the strange, the ones

in therapy

and once in chains,

those without friends.

there's a sign on my

forehead, saying all

are welcome, 

give me your tired,

your weary,  your weak,

your wackadoodles,

just come on in.

a bumpy ride

the crunch of ice

makes you realize how little

you are

in this world.

your boot slipping

and grinding

to find balance. it will

snow.

it will sleet.

that wind will cut

you to the bone.

the world goes on

and there is nothing

you can do to change things.

so buckle up

it's going to be a bumpy

ride.

sorry that i'm not more sorry

i'm caring less and less

about being on time.

about being late.

feeling guilty about a

plethora of things.

no flowers, no gifts,

no cards, no valentines.

i'm sort of done with

beating myself up

about what i say or write,

or do or don't do.

i could blame the church

for such long standing guilt

ridden angst, or parents,

or crazy wives, but enough

is enough.

sorry, is just a word i'm

saving for the big stuff now.

in the beginning

the knife in drawers

is beyond dull. it's old.

it's lost it's cutting

ability, so what good is it?

why is it still

in your life, taking up room.

lying there, with no purpose.

another lesson perhaps

as to how you can hang

on to things and those

that no longer benefit you.

waiting for them to change

and go back to who they were

in the beginning.

she wants a full time man

she wants a full time man.

not a part time lover.

a texter,

a once in a while thing,

or fling.

or whatever it's called these

days.

a booty call?

she wants more. the diamond

ring.

the name change. she wants

to hear the words, i do.

not maybe. she wants

a shared home.

she wants 24/7.

she wants you to meet

her family, walk her dog.

leave your shoes under her bed.

she wants to cook and clean

together.

make hearts in the sand.

she wants what so many want.

she wants the 1950's

to come around again.

a pot stew on the stove.

the black and white television.

the radio telling us a baseball

score. she wants the christmas

tree, a plate of cookies.

colored lights on the house.

she wants a family.

but all of it just makes

you flee.

been here before

i lost track of the hour.

my money.

where my car was parked.

i drank too much.

said things i didn't mean.

i never even knew your name.

i found myself lost.

i looked up into the sky

for the north star

to find my way home.

i started walking with my

hands in my pockets.

it was cold. there was snow

on the ground.

i got that deja vu feeling again.

there's no doubt

that i've been here before.

finding light

there were times.

lying in bed.

and knowing that it was over.

that there would never

again be sex,

let alone a kiss.

never a vacation, or walk,

or long

talk into the night,

or laughter.

all the joy between you

would never again exist.

there were times when

lying in bed,

that you knew that

this was as bad as things

could ever get.

and that gave you hope.

do you have a minute

it's hard to listen

to other's troubles, their pain,

their broken

hearted stories.

the small or large bruise

they obtained

in the course of a bad day.

it's difficult to feel what

they're going 

through, for what is there

to say, but it doesn't

stop you when it's your turn

to speak about

what's happened to you.

a sea without fish

life without laughter

is a sky

without stars,

a sea without fish,

no birds

which fly.

there would only be

a dark heart beating,

a grim blue sigh.

i don't like people

she said to me once,

i don't like people.

which made me laugh.

which ones, i asked her.

any in particular, or all of them.

not all, but most of them.

so many are mean, 

just horrible human beings.

look at how they drive,

how they drink and eat.

selfish and full greed.

so little compassion

and empathy.

i'm tired of people.

i'm tired of how they look, 

of what they say.

there'd be a lot less people

on this planet

if it were up to me.

and i agreed.

even hearts change

are we not 

just passing through.

our feet in sand.

everything ephemeral,

a stop along

the way.

look at how the clouds move.

how nothing stays the same.

are we not just

passengers on a train,

rolling through a town,

hear the whistle.

hear the church bells,

the clock ticking 

on your hand. and yes,

even hearts will change.

raising the white flag

if one listen's to their own heart,

the gut

the wisdom that lies

within all of us,

they'll have no problem

with knowing

what or who is a lost cause.

you just know

when to raise the white flag

and go home.

no need to fight this battle

any longer.

it's over, it's done.

it's time to let go.

chopsticks

the piano teacher

next door

has new students. i can hear

them playing

chopsticks through

our shared thin wall.

their small fingers plunking

eagerly at the keys.

and when i see the children

leave to their parents waiting

in idling cars,

i observe the teacher.

waving to them to them all,

smiling broadly.

she seems happy.

she seems relieved.

undeveloped film

i find an old camera

full of film.

full of pictures

taken years ago.

when everyone 

was younger.

i take the camera 

to the drugstore

then bring 

the new photos home

carefully i spread them

out the table,

beneath the light.

where are they now?

i wonder, smiling 

at the memory

of who then 

was by my side.

a simpler time

we want what was

as if it was better.

we say things like remember

when,

or there was a time

when things

were different, a simpler

life than it is now.

we lament

the past as if it's an old

friend gone

to the grave.

we remember the smiles

the laughs

of yesterday, and in the process

we lose today.

the new world

typing gets tiresome

after awhile.

the fingers on the tiny keyboard

of the phone.

half sentences,

misspellings.

no grammar or punctuation,

just a flurry of disconnected

thoughts.

most misunderstood.

so much lost in translation.

i remember the days.

when you sat down together.

and looked into each

other's eyes and spoke

to one another.

making time to be there.

to talk, to laugh or cry.

home before dark

i could take the short cut home.

but instead i take

the long path through

the snow laden woods.

it's an hours walk from

here to the stream where

i'll have to step across

the rocks.

from there it's up the hill

over fallen trees.

i'll be cold when i get home.

i'll be hungry, and i'll be

missing you 

even more than usual,

but i'll be home before dark,

i promise.

the home run

as the large boy

swings the wooden bat

and the ball flies off it 

with a loud bang,

the other boys

watch with open mouths

and wide eyes.

it sails and sails beyond the field

and arcs towards

the houses

where the ball shoots through

a window.

shattering glass like they've

never heard before.

it's a home run.

one they will talk about until

they're old and grey.

but that's not on their mind

at the moment

as they scatter and yell,

all of them running away,

except for the batter who

rounds the infield, making

sure to touch every base.

the hippy chick

in her mind

she's a hippy chick,

a girl from the sixties

with flowers in her hair

full of radiant sunshine

and goodness.

peace love and all

the other fairy tales

and nonsense

that were never true.

it's a myth, a mirage

no different than who

she pretends to be.

a figment

of her own imagination.

lost and confused,

a new age blanche dubois

avoiding the light

of who she really is.

kidney pie

i find a fork

lying

in the ice, half buried

in snow,

the prongs sticking upwards.

silvery clean in

the sunlight.

the literal

fork in the road.

should i take it, or leave

it where it lies.

perhaps the owner

will need it

at some point when

sitting down to dinner,

ready to carve and

eat his kidney pie.

the serious talk

we decide to sit down

to have a serious talk.

the tenth serious talk this week.

i ask her to sit

by the window facing

the woods, but

she wants to sit in the kitchen

and drink her tea.

i suggest twelve noon.

and she says no, that's

when she's going for a walk.

what about tonight, she asks.

i shake my head, 

but reluctantly agree

to her terms.

we're progressing slowly.

not surprised

i'm not surprised

very often.

living long enough

will do that to a person.

i scoff at the news,

and say pffft.

what, another war,

another election,

another pandemic.

crime and fraud, oh my.

another cold front moving

in.

they've been moving in

for centuries.

relax.

there's nothing you

can do.

the anniversary

i celebrate the anniversary

of the rope being freed 

from around

my tender neck.

a miracle of sorts,

having escaped

the hang man's noose.

i bake a cake.

i buy champagne.

i throw confetti into the air,

then toast my lucky day.

i get a chill down my spine

remembering how

close i was to that

marital grave.

you can't live without them

in the battery drawer

are all

sizes of

batteries.

squared, small

cylinders, thick blocks

of energy,

for where i have no clue.

flashlights, and

smoke alarms,

remote controls,

i presume.

i wait for the beeps to

tell me where they go.

it's a kitchen drawer

nearly full of them

but other

things have found 

their way in as well.

a bent fork, a ball of

rubber bands.

matches made of wood.

paper clips,

tags from a shirt

i may one day wear.

but the batteries

are what it's all about.

life as it is

cannot go on

without them.

below the ice

teeming with

life

the stagnant pool,

green

and shallow below

the ice

is unstirred until spring.

but

there within are

things

with spirit,

full of energy,

alive from

a source

we seldom believe.

fleeting

the store bought roses

don't last

very long in the vase

of water.

what does?

i see the petals falling

one by one

onto the counter.

the stems gone limp.

silk petals

dropping quietly

in the morning light.

beauty is

fleeting, but you knew

that already.

you didn't need

a rose

to tell you.

more rocks

they find more rocks

on mars.

more red dust.

more nothing.

no air, no water,

no life.

but if we keep going

long enough,

who knows.

let's throw another

billion or two

to find out,

while the poor go hungry,

the sick die.

the jobless

lie on steam grates

and stare up at 

an empty sky.

what's keeping you

it's the chicken wire keeping

the chickens in their coop,

the long fence

corrals the horses, the cow,

the trough of pigs.

a latch on the door is keeping

out the thieves,

the dog is on a leash,

the wife has her ring,

what's keeping you?

that new car smell

i like the new car smell.

the low mileage on the odometer.

the clean mats

and seats, the tank

full of petrol.

not a spec or crumb yet

from anything i'll eventually

eat.

it's pristine.

it's beautiful.

those curves, those headlights,

how the rear end

rises with tires that grip

the road.

the warranty is long.

she'll be a loyal ride.

low maintenance.

everything is factory installed.

it's the car of a lifetime

the one you've been waiting for

forever,

where do i sign.

i'd like to make her mine.

what's the deal here

where are we,

she says. are we friends

with benefits,

are we lovers

are we in a relationship.

is there a future

in all of this for us?

what's the deal here?

what?

did you say something

i didn't hear you,

say it again, but this

time in my good ear.

being good is hard

for some 

being good is hard.

being truthful,

being kind.

helping others

less fortunate.

for some it's easier

to just stay alive,

to ignore the tears

of others,

not bend

to those in need, but

to just walk by.

the replica

after you rub

the coin hard enough 

between

thumb and fingers

and the shine has

lost its luster,

you realize that she was

never gold to begin with,

but a cheap thin replica

made of copper.

falling forward

when you stumble

up the stairs, not down

with a load of laundry 

in a white basket

you think of

when you could leap

two steps

in a single bound

with a grown woman

in your arms.

you laugh.

at least you're still

moving forward

and not backwards,

losing ground.

how easy it was back then

there was a day

when a dime found 

meant something.

a dollar bill

on the road

and you were rich.

an old pair of shoes

tossed from a car, 

that fit

made your day.

the ball sailing over the fence

after you swung bat,

a passing grade.

a hot meal in front of you.

how easy it was back then

to find happiness

and joy.

unworried about

such things as love.

saltine crackers

it isn't quite the feast

you imagined

you think

as you spread peanut butter

onto a saltine

cracker with

a quick brush of grape

jelly.

there is no filet mignon 

no leg of lamb,

no pheasant under glass,

but this will do

on a cold winters day.

you've survived on less,

and this will

be more than enough

to fill your belly.

the weight of parents

how strange

these balloons are.

blown up in greens and reds,

pink.

all tethered to a child's

hand.

larger than the moon

in the pale sky.

will he float away?

perhaps.

but not yet.

the weight of parents

will keep him here,

until

it's time to leave.

knowing more

knowing more

leads

to understanding how little you

do know.

not just

from books

but from the eyes and deeds

of others.

the surprise

you find is often

unkind

as you peel back the layers

of smiles

and charm.

not a bad place to be

i remember thinking

how sad

that his or her life is coming

to an end.

how unhappy she must

be to wake

up and suddenly be old,

not far from the grave.

sitting

with a paper or book

in hand.

a cup of tea. 

the quiet of the house.

watching snow fall.

a dog perhaps or cat 

by their feet.

how long those days

must seem, with so many

friends gone,

then you arrive

and see that it isn't such

a bad place to be.

some say

some say you're lucky.

you dodged

a bullet.

you were saved by the angels

who watch over you.

some say it wasn't

your day, your

time to die.

you were saved.

how perplexed

we are

when trying to understand

our fate.

this is the sea

this is the sea

you know,

and then it isn't,

ever changing color,

and depth.

we can embrace it

but not

too far out.

there is only

so much air within us

to withstand such

beauty below

its crush of green

and salted stars.

best stand ashore and let

it wash upon

our golden calves.

admired from afar.

my primary care doctor

i email my kaiser so called

primary doctor

and ask her

when can i get the vaccine.

three weeks later she replies.

i don't know.

will it be two shots or just one?

i don't know.

where should i go 

when it does become available?

i don't know.

why aren't they making more,

like three hundred million gallons

of the stuff?

i don't know.

when will you know?

i don't know.

should i register at other places,

counties,

states,

cities?

cvs, walgreens, gas stations,

coffee shops?

i don't know.

do any other doctors, nurses,

or custodial worker know anything

that would help clear

up all this confusion?

i don't know.

how many more people will die

because they're not making

enough

and distributing it properly?

i don't know.

but my guess is ...at least another

hundred thousand.

by the way,

the office is closed until further

notice.

don't call us, we'll call you.

tom cat days

there were days.

tom cat

days, out all night chasing

butterflies

under the strobe lights

and haze,

dancing

and drinking,

finding alleys to convince

them of love

ever lasting, all lies.

strangers becoming

lovers

then back

to strangers once more

in the early morning light,

in the blink of  a

bloodshot eye.

this shoe doesn't fit

i should have tried 

these shoes on

before buying them.

they're tight and stiff.

i should have sat down

with a clean pair of socks

and slipped them on while

in the store, found a stool to

take off the old

and do a cat walk

up and down the aisle

i should have strolled around

and looked into the mirror

angled at shoe level.

but no. i liked them too

much, how they looked

in the box and out.

not unlike you, my dear,

my ill fitted dear,

before i found out.

two coats please

if this room gets painted

a brighter color,

she says, then

life will be better.

it will change everything.

this gallon of paint

will embolden me to move on.

yesterday won't matter

anymore with these old

walls brightened.

fix me, the label says.

fix me white and make

the world right again.

two coats please, 

i don't want the past

to bleed through.

the relic

the relic

in her black dress,

a walking antique.

still

intent on catching the eye

of each man,

each woman passing by.

those better days

are pages turned

in a book written

long ago,

which doesn't

seem to bother her.

a splash of perfume,

a wig for hair,

a stripe of lipstick

go a long way

in masking the fear.

delusion is a grand

thing as we age

and slowly disappear.

before the first cup

some things we know

before we know them.

mystery solved.

by opening our eyes.

there are no surprises

when you do.

everything is revealed

and the truth is known

before that first cup

of coffee goes down.

the field mouse

the cat comes in

from the cold and stares

at her

empty bowl.

her mouth bloodied

with a field mouse

she's left

at the door.

all night she's hunted

and this is her

reward,

bitterness sets in,

and she becomes

more aloof than 

ever before.

there is no other story

we want to believe

in little green men. we want

the loch ness monster

to be swimming

below the water.

giants in the woods.

elves upon our roofs.

we want conspiracies

and half truths,

we need to imagine beyond

this reality,

because this is hard.

this simple life.

everything being what

it appears to be.

there has to be a man

behind the curtain.

the real story

out of view,

another meaning

to the words. can everyone

be lying,

or just those close to you.

twilight too

we have our colors.

the shade

or hue

that brings us some sort

of elusive

peace.

i pick blue.

indigo.

the sky at night.

an azure haze.

the stream beyond

this window.

a spring sky

ready for

what's new.

twilight too.

behind the old house

i see her with her

satchel,

in her high boots,

carrying

a small broom, 

a shovel,

the instruments

she'd dig with.

a fine tooth comb,

and into

the dirt she'd go.

on her knees,

gently prodding

the silt and dirt,

seeking another man's

tooth,

a woman's hair clip,

or bones, not

worried about silver

or gold.

sweeping away

the time

which covers us all

before long.

when it's time to go

the dog, a friend of sorts,

a warm voice

when you enter the door.

the tail wagging in joy.

how sad

it is. and yet

how kind, to let them go,

to hold them

as they've grown old,

gone blind.

the muzzle white.

no longer

jumping onto the bed,

running up the stairs,

chasing whatever

it is that thrills them.

but it's time.

and with it goes those years.

those nights.

those days.

a life well lived

and loved,

impossible

to not shed tears.

some faces

some faces

you remember. even years

away from them,

the picture is clear in your mind.

the strike

of eyes, whether blue

or brown.

the length of chin,

or nose,

the shape of cheek.

the hair,

if it's short or long.

you've held that face

in your

hands before.

you've visited those lips,

never really letting it go.

canned peaches

there are canned peaches

on the shelf.

in light syrup no less.

pitted olives,

black and large,

tuna fish in water,

one in oil.

canned soup,

clam chowder and chicken

noodle.

black beans,

tomato sauce, tomato paste.

canned salmon,

canned peas, a bright green.

where have all these cans

come from.

who's been shopping

for me?

post card

her red cheeks

are cold, like apples.

but her lips

are warm against mine.

we'll stand in this

nook of woods

and kiss awhile, wrapping

ourselves in each

other's arms.

this is what love is

all about.

craving

it's not attachments,

but craving

that causes suffering,

desire for what you don't have,

or what you have

and wanting more.

the insatiable need

for something out of reach,

or someone,

that longing is what

destroys you.

leaves you on the floor.

a disposable world

i used to have a raincoat,

with a belt.

i used to have real boots with buckles.

i used to have a tv

with rabbit ears wrapped in foil.

i used to have a push mower,

heavier than me.

i used to have an ice tray, made

of metal with a pull up

handle to break free the cubes.

i used to have a milk man

bringing me milk and eggs,

leaving them on the porch

each morning.

i used to get the mail twice a day.

i used to have neighbors that i knew,

that would stop and say hey.

i used to have a photo in a frame

that i kept on my dresser.

i used to have dog.

i used to have a wife.

i used to have hair,

my eyes were once clear,

and i could hear out of both ears.

the only thing i've kept

throughout the years are books.

all the books i've read

and will read again.

i keep them near. 

in time i've learned 

what's disposable

and what i hold dear.

some many choices

some choose to live out

their life

and leave the world against their

will by

disease

or accident or

some unfortunate slip on the ice.

while others take

matters into their own hands,

with rope

or knife, a bottle of pills,

a ledge or bridge,

to leap from 

in a great swan dive.

but others choose 

a slower way

with smoke or drink,

enormous amounts

of food, another wife,

finding some vice that will

kill them,

but more slowly,

taking their time.

heard it through the grape vine

as more close friends

and relatives

die

the news is traveling slower

than normal

down the pipe line.

the grape vine

has rotted.

if you can't say anything

nice about someone

come sit next to me.

gossip ain't what it used

to be.

i've lost touch

with the dark side,

the nosy side,

the fun side of life.

where have all the blabber

mouths gone?

unoriginal sin

what is original

sin,

the apple?

for God's sake, it's just

an apple

or is it a metaphor

of sorts.

temptation

taking its course.

bite this

and go to hell.

is it that simple?

from where i sit

it seems that

sins have become

less unique,

less original.

the best medicine

you can laugh too hard

or not enough

or not at all.

it's a funny thing,

this thing called laughter.

but when it's real,

sincere,

you can hardly stop

and even a week from now

you'll be bent over

remembering the moment

and in tears.

sediment and sentiment

i save the day, mark

it on my calendar

to clean out the boxes,

the bins

that are stacked

in the high closet.

there is no order to things,

piled upon each other

by my thoughtless hand.

it's an archaeology dig

of sorts.

the layers of years.

sediment and sentiment,

some losing luster

others gaining.

old bills and letters.

unopened mail.

pictures of ghosts

stuck to one another.

each holiday card scattered

as if some wind

had brought it all together,

which it has.

pieces of you

there are pieces of you

lost

down through the ages.

small

slices of your heart

and soul.

hair and bone.

blood

and skin.

so much of it lost

in the pursuit of love,

in trying to stave

off another

bitter end.

the unmarked grave

when her mother died

she began

to count the money

almost in hand.

emptying the tea pots,

the jars,

shaking each book free

of dollar bills.

she begged to know where

it all was.

her inheritance.

where did she keep

her mad money.

buried in the yard,

stuffed in some attic box?

surely there must be more.

she thought,

standing over the unmarked

grave, still warm.

the senses

which sense would you

give up

if need be, if forced by some

dark god

to surrender.

your sight,

your sense of smell, or taste,

or touch,

your ears

perhaps. empathy?

compassion?

which could you live

without

and still go on as 

if all is well, as many do.

taking count

even if you tried

could you count the stars,

the rain drops,

the leaves that fall.

the steps you've taken

with your feet,

each beat of your heart?

could you count

the true loves of your life?

of course you could,

there's a task

that isn't hard.

the janus mask

as we look through

the glass

we see the moon 

more clearly.

the pock marked face.

that janus mask.

the stars are more certain

of their place.

the trees,

each leaf etched

in winters ice.

we see the limbs 

bare and grey,

heavy and wet.

we see as far as we

can see.

but she's not there.

not yet.

the ice pond

this ice pond, 

so blue,

mirroring in

a distant sun.

a smile of winter

that we best not walk upon.

though tempting

as all things are

that appear beautiful

from a distance.

the history of man unkind

while i stir this pot,

watching the dark stew boil

i see into it the history

of man unkind.

it's not good.

but what is there to do.

what changes

can be made at this point.

people being people

now and forever more.

you can only stir.

you can only eat.

you can only find good love

and bolt the door.

the borrowed coat

it feels strange to borrow

another's coat.

to slip your arms

down the long sleeves,

with more room

to it than you need.

to button and clasp

it to your chin,

but it's cold out,

it's winter and we do what

we must do

in times like these.

another love in kansas

slowly they drag

the brown pond between

the houses.

her note left on a pillow

suggested

that drowning may 

be possible,

but there is nothing to be found.

no one dead

resides here.

she must be somewhere

else someone says.

and she is

somewhere else, asleep

on a bus

in a state of calm,

going to kansas

where she may or may not

find another love.

it feels like nowhere

it feels like nowhere, 

but it isn't.

the clapboard shack

riddled by wind,

softened with moss

and mildew.

the unhinged screen door.

a shutter askew.

one crutch leaning on 

a broken porch beside

a pair of outside shoes,

the chimney with its

slender flag of smoke

whipping against 

the sagging roof.

there are so many clues

that you are not nowhere,

but somewhere.

a place quite familiar to you.

both cruel and kind

what is this face

about,

a study

of life lived.

a soft world

of deepened lines,

laughter

and tears somehow

finding

themselves together.

woven

into who we are

under this light,

both cruel and kind.

the more i know you

the further

i travel, the more miles

below my feet,

the more turns of the clock

that awakens me

from sleep

the more i know you.

all becoming less

of  a mystery. i see clearly

who you are. what wasn't true,

there was nothing there

to keep me.

the more i piece together

the fog of you

the more i realize

how strange and true

it all was

and that it had nothing

to do with love or peace.

mail and the milk

more careful at this age

we are

as we step

down the icy stairs

gripping a frozen rail,

we shuffle to the gate,

searching out

tufts of green grass .

cautious

as we bend for

the newspaper, a baton

of ink under melting glass.

how quickly the time

has passed,

closing in on

a whistle around our neck.

the cane by the door.

the neighbor

seeing to our mail

and milk.

rising early

without alarm,

each day earlier

than the day before.

rest here

rest here, 

you tell the child

come home

from

being young

now growing old.

rest here

and tell me what's right,

what's wrong,

what  path you're on.

rest here

and let us talk 

until the sun has gone

until  the moon appears.

rest here,

we'll eat, we'll drink,

we'll talk some more.

then we'll go up to our beds

and sleep,

we'll sleep until sleep

awakens us, and then

we'll carry on.

what learned book

what brings one man

to the knife

and another to 

the cloth.

mother, father,

nature running its course?

how can answers

be found

below the skin,

deep within the well

of thought.

what learned book

will help.

but as we often find,

over time,

that what isn't fixed 

will soon be lost.

save yourself

there is no one 

coming to save you.

no one

on a white horse.

no wishing upon a star.

no mother

or father.

no friend, no relative,

no angel 

from the sky.

save yourself.

it's the best you can do

in the worst of times. 

take hold of the reins,

it's your life,

your ride.

bee stings are fine

i'm thinking about getting a

push up bra,

betty tells me over the phone.

okay.

i tell her. good idea. beats

the other options.

i just want my clothes to fit

better.

right, i tell her. of course you do.

no really, when i look in the mirror

i'm like a surfboard, i got

nothing going on in that department.

men always look at women

with big bazooms.

i sigh.  bazooms?

well, do what you have to do.

it's your decision, your body.

stuff some kleenex in there if you want.

so you're saying no. stick to what

i have.

which is small case A cup

i got zero cleavage. zero.

pfffft, so what.

men don't really care,

i tell her.

whether you have enormous bazooms

up there, or bee stings.

it's who you are inside that matters.

what kind of person you are.

oh my god, she says.

who are you?

how many martinis have you had

tonight?

wait for book three

she tells me 

i'm going onto amazon

and give your book

the best review 

in the history of reviews.

seven stars.

i tell her,

there's only four stars possible.

and besides you don't even read poetry,

you hate poetry

until i write something about you.

that's true, she says, i'd read more,

but you haven't written about me

in years.

what does a girl have to do 

to get a poem written about her

these days?

please, i tell her, don't go there.

perhaps in book three

you'll appear.

the unmended heart

people like to pull up 

a pant leg

to show you a scar,

where the leg broke

in a fall.

there's always a story

to go along with it.

they roll up a sleeve 

and say look, 

look at the teeth marks.

sand shark off the coast

of the florida keys.

they show you a broken tooth.

a bent finger. they point

to where a bullet went in 

and never came out.

at last they get to what

they really want to say,

putting a hand over 

their heart, while

speaking softly about

the love they once had,

and then lost.

going dark

when the bulb expires

making a soft

explosion within itself,

going black

making the room dark,

you sit there for a moment

and ponder

this new state of affairs.

you could feel your way

to the shelf

where the new bulbs lie.

you could turn

on a light to help you

across the room,

but you sit there

and wonder if there's

a reason for this sudden

darkness. is the world

trying to tell you 

something new?

the cold water well

we dip

the cup into the well

to quench a thirst

that's never quenched.

tomorrow

we will want more.

and the next day too.

no matter how cold

and sweet the water

is going down,

how it feels and fills

us with lifes waters,

there is always

the need for one more.

one more cup

to see us through.

unchain my heart

i remember in the cold night

with a thin saw

in hand

cutting myself free from

the iron clad

shackles that bound

my feet and hands.

the dust of metal piling up

beside me

as i furiously sawed

against the chains.

not stopping until they were

off and i was running

free and happy once again.

the bittersweet

the bittersweet

often arrives after the too

sweet

has been licked clean

from your

mouth, your lips, the essence

of hope

erased from your eyes.

the bittersweet

has its moment.

a kind slap

against your cheek

awakening you to the reality

of what you were

never meant to keep.

a thin coat of ice

it's just a thin coat 

of hard ice

that spills

me in the early morning 

as i make my way

to the mailbox

at the end of the yard.

upended but unharmed

i lie there

and stare up into the sky.

a flat grey sheet

of nothing,

wringing out more rain,

more sleet,

the cold wetness dripping

into my blinking eyes.

i could lie here all

day, i think

if i wasn't so cold

and didn't have other things

to do.

something black and silky

i fear a woman with

hands on her hips

when talking to you.

they mean business.

there's no fooling around.

they've taken a stand,

holding their ground.

you're in for a long day

when you see a woman

like that standing at 

the end of your bed

holding something

black and silky in

their hand, not hers.

peanut shells

there's a trail

of peanut shells in the living room

going up the stairs

to the bedroom.

i have no one else to blame.

i rub my lips,

salty and dry.

i'm very thirsty.

i look at the calendar

and see that it's twenty

more days until

the maid comes again.

i wonder where the vacuum

is. did the ex take it with her

when i asked her

to leave and never contact

me again.

no. there it is in the basement

closet covered in

dust and spider webs.

i could go out and buy

a new one, i suppose.

it's what i do. 

get rid of the old.

replace it with new.

don't look at my groceries

the clerk, cheerful, because he

was told by

the day manager in the early morning

meeting before

the store opened, to be cheerful,

to be friendly,

smiles

and comments on my

groceries as he slides them

across the belt.

making a cake today, i see,

he says.

he places the flour and sugar

into the bag together.

the eggs. the oil.

the icing in its round tub.

a box of candles.

i like cake too. my mother made

me a cake for my birthday, he says.

then looks at me for some sort

of response.

but i give him none. i don't like

people looking at my

groceries.

the waiting room

in the waiting room

we sit

side by side, or across from one

another

with our quiet ailments.

we sift through

the magazines

on the table.

it's not quite our time

to go in

and spill our troubles

for a swift fifty minutes.

some twitch, some sneeze,

some wrap their arms

around themselves.

others stare off into a place

where only they can see.

everyone looks as if

they're on the verge of

tears, or a breakdown.

tapping their feet.

keeping a beat to a

drummer only they hear.

second hand smoke people

when you're with

people

who are out to lunch, off

the chain

abusive and cold, full

of despair, dysfunction

and disdain. you get sick

with them.

stay in the room long

enough with such souls

and you too

will go off the deep end.

they are like second smoke,

and soon you too

will be coughing, 

choking,

unstable with the same.

toll booth woman

the toll

booth woman, in drab grey.

grey hat.

her hair as red

as red can be,

bunched in a brillo

like style,

a color not found in any

crayon box,

or in nature.

but she's civil in

the way

her hand reaches out

for a dollar.

all day.

her civility never fades

with almost a smile

on her weary face.

almost.

the lemon

the lemon fools you

into thinking

of something sweet.

how could such a 

sunny piece of fruit

have such a bitter taste.

what a strange twist 

of fate it is,

for someone  to appear

to be one thing

and then to find out

they're another altogether.

the waitress

how do you like your eggs,

the girl

asks me

as she stands with a notepad

in hand.

she's very pretty,

which she doesn't know quite

yet.

which is the best pretty

to have.

over easy, i tell her.

she marks that down.

coffee?

yes.

toast?

wheat, i tell her.

bacon?

of course.

she jots that down and away

she goes.

i watch her turn the corner

of the diner

and disappear.

i wonder about her happiness.

not mine.

with me it's all clear.

with nothing else to say

with nothing else

to say she says

the weather,

is quite cold.

we may get a storm

by the weekend.

it's too early to tell.

but it feels like snow.

it's going down well

below freezing and a cold

front is moving in.

we both look up

into the sky.

we don't talk for awhile.

what more is there to say.

and when

we  get home, we look

out the window.

and she says.

it's starting to snow,

and i agree, going down

to the cellar

for the shovel.

feeling lonely

being lonely

is natural. wanting to be with

another.

the absence of a hand,

the touch,

the kiss.

desiring a warm body,

a kind voice

beside you. it's natural.

normal.

we want companionship.

we seek it out for most

of our lives.

but there is no

worse feeling, no deeper

loneliness than when with

someone you don't

love or like, or 

even lust anymore.

those are long, and the nights

unbearable.

rare love

when we talk about love

we often

include intimacy,

as part of it.

sex.

the act of love.

two bodies entwined

in the spirit

of success.

but of course there's more.

the world is full

of sex without love,

love without sex.

finding both at the same

time

is rare. 

say yes

i need a couple of yes people

in my life.

everyone else keeps saying no.

no you can't eat that,

no you can't buy that,

don't read that, don't watch that,

don't write that.

no you can't do that. no, take

your hands off of me.

not tonight. not now. not ever.

no, you have to wait. no, no, no.

i need to hear yes once in a while.

maybe something like,

of course, sure, why not. let's do it.

that sort of thing. yes. yes. yes.

life would be so much easier

and fun, at least for me. yes?

i want to bite her neck

i don't mean to bite her neck,

my vampire friend Vladmir

tells me

as he adjusts his cape

sitting near the fire.

it just happens

in the heat of the moment,

something comes over me

and i just can't help myself.

she has such a nice neck.

so slender and sexy.

the veins, so blue and enticing.

her perfume, the way her

hair hangs down.

i shake my head and hand him

a napkin to wipe the blood

off his lips. i point at his chin.

he dabs at it.

maybe you should just

nibble a little, kiss. not bite.

show a little restraint 

on the first date. cool your jets.

now you can't get rid of them.

they're all down there

pale and weak waiting

for the sun to rise, hanging

around your crypt.

no sugar tonight

someone tells me 

that they haven't

had sugar

in any form for

over twelve years,

no a single spoonful,

not a packet,

not one lump to sweeten

their day.

and they're all 

the better for it.

i look at them and smile

and think to myself.

maybe we should have

a parade.

it's been twelve minutes 

for me, i say, 

wiping the crumbs 

of a donut

off my shirt, the chocolate

off my face.

one of many watches

i shake the watch

one of many tossed 

into the drawer.

unworn.

keeping time.

it's on the job.

i put it to my ear

and listen.

it still ticks.

still reminding me

that the end is always

near.

the vines

the vines are relentless.

up the fence,

the brick wall, they 

are grow. invasive,

gripping all that we own.

wrapping tightly

around our throats with

their hard knit bones.

see how they get

under your skin, right to

the heart they go.

who is your vine

today?

the green ice

the water, green, settles

into an icy pond

behind

the garden, where the statue

stands.

the birds will come

when the sun rises

and warms up

the world,

melts the ice.

we are all waiting for that

to some degree.

the love machine

i used to save things.

sentimental things.

cards and gifts.

photos signed with a kiss.

small things seemed large

at the time.

but then i bought this crushing

machine that i keep

in the yard.

it burns things too.

it has a button, called the

insincerity button.

it's red. one push of the button

and all that junk

given to you in the guise

of love is gone.

come valentine's day

it's a busy little machine.

patty the plumber

i go to plumbers dot com

to find a suitable

plumber to come and fix

my leaky toilet.

it runs all night and all day

no matter how much

i jiggle the handle.

i swipe left, then left again

on a dozen or so men

in overalls and jumpsuits.

bearded men with ample

bellies. men with glasses

on, men with bald heads

and a glint in their eye.

men holding up pipes

and wrenches, men standing

by their trucks painted

with logos and images

of commodes and sinks

beside them. finally i

settle on Patty the Plumber.

she has a shamrock on

the side of her white van.

and she's wearing a short

plaid dress with long boots.

her is black as night

and her greens eyes

are smiling

i swipe right. but she's booked

six weeks in advance.

i can wait.

the final draft

instead of a poem

i bake a cake instead.

so much easier.

much more likeable

in the long run.

lets stress and wringing

of hands.

in a mixing bowl is where

i'll say what needs

to be said.

with butter and cream,

oil and eggs.

it's the oven that will

make it rise

and grow, bring it to

fruition.

once gone i won't have

to go back

to read it again, to edit it.

this cake will be a final

draft.

the apples

all day the man

stacks apples on 

the square board

in the well lit store.

they grow

into a pyramid.

one by one, he puts a

shine on their red skins,

then carefully finds

a place for each of them.

he's wearing a store shirt.

blue with yellow

birds upon it, but

he's not a company man.

it's just a job.

making pyramids out

of apples.

and at night when he goes

home and lies

in bed, alone.

he thinks about his apples.

how quickly the days

of his life are going.

the new bruise

when bruised 

we study the bruise.

we touch it 

in wonder

at it's new color. 

it's stiff mound of pain.

the blue

and violet of it, 

turning green, tomorrow

a sunrise yellow.

we show it to others. 

we say

look at this.

pulling up our shirt,

and they say, how did you

do that?

and you shrug, and say

i'm not sure,

but it hurts.

cat woman

i wouldn't 

call her a cat woman

mainly for the reason

that she didn't have

any cats,

not to mention 

that she didn't

even like cats.

they were too much

like her, aloof

and distant, self

centered

with a head of straw

like hair,

but besides that 

she really was a cat

woman with all 

the loony quirks

attached.   

already?

i negotiate with the sun

rising

through the window.

a yellow stream between the slats.

i say soon.

a few minutes more of lying

here.

it's a quiet discussion,

mostly in my head.

the sun is silent as always.

it can't be that early i plead.

how quickly the night went

by. i still have so many

dreams left

in my head.

time sits still

when someone passes

and time

sits still

for a while we wonder

why others are unaware

of how fragile

this life is.

we want to shake 

them to stop

what they're doing and

listen to what you

now clearly know.

how temporary all things are.

but sorrow is holy

ground, full of dark wisdom

and you can only

stay there so long

before you to go back

to it, back to whatever

life is left,

your feet once again

on the ground.

the fallen tree

no one can get over 

the fallen tree

in the yard.

the great oak

that's been there forever.

they stand with hands

on hips

and shake their heads.

they take pictures.

they call to tell others,

saying remember that tree,

well, it fell last night.

you have to come and see.

the men are cutting it

into pieces and taking 

it away. i'll never forget

that tree, they say,

the shade that it gave.

but they do.

bring you, to me

don't bring me whisky

when i die

lying

still on far side of

life.

don't wet my lips 

with anything,

but yours.

let your face be the last

one i see.

your voice the last

one i hear.

don't bring me whiskey

as i take my last breath,

bring you

to me.

through the alley

so rare we turn

into an alley on our own,

in twilight,

by mistake, but there 

is something

magical and dark, old

about a long stretch of

wet brick and muck,

of cans turned over,

of those lost

unconscious against barred

windows.

the rotted doors.

boys with knives,

and women

waiting with open arms

and legs for who's next.

careful of the rats as

we transverse

this hollow

with its echoing sound

of sirens and screams.

we wonder if we can get to

the other side,

through this unmapped cut

to another street.

in song and wine

we soothe ourselves

in song

and wine,

in the rapture 

of false love,

the thin

disguise

of fame, the gold

in our hands

that turns green.

we ease our pain with

prayer,

with food.

with the comfort

of ignorance, allowing

us to sleep.

fashion choices

who wears checkered pants.

bold striped

shirts.

pink ties

or polka dots.

suspenders?

not I.

give me black,

blue,

or grey. and on a special

occasion

white.

don't humiliate me

with an orange

jumpsuit

when they catch me

and i have to do the time.

the running man

the running man,

at his finish line,

at such a young age.

i see him now

barefoot in the rain

going forward.

his feet splashing against

the pavement.

strange how life ends

so soon,

too soon for our liking.

but he keeps running,

leaving a trail

behind him

as he continues on

without us,

lighter and faster than

he ever was before.

scratch biscuits

her apology comes 

in the form

of scratch biscuits

hot from the oven,

a pad of land of lakes

on a cold plate,

a flat knife

to break them apart,

the swipe of butter

melting in the crumble.

she says nothing.

but it's an apology of sorts.

i don't ask her why,

i don't ask her 

what she has done.

it's over now 

whatever it was.

eat them, she says, 

eat them

while they're still warm.

in another town

I look for the squeak,

that lingering noise,

neither pleasant

or unpleasant

but keeping us awake

into the wee hours.

i rise in the dark

my feet on the cold boards 

and seek it out, 

this noise this pest of

sound reminding me 

of a night

in another room

with someone else,

in another town.

infidelity

there is always 

the danger of desire,

of lust,

like wind removing

apples from a tree.

they fall to rot

in the heat

of infatuation,

to be hollowed out

by worms,

then turned sour

in the tiny mouths

of secrets.

in times of need

you imagine money,

enormous bundles of green,

more than you'll ever need.

suddenly it's in every drawer,

in every pocket.

there is money in the toilet,

in the oven, in the ice-box.

it is piled up in your yard

like leaves. you take your wife

and hold her in your arms,

you squeeze her.

money comes out of her mouth.

neighbors press their faces

against your windows.

the phone gets hot in your hand.

the door bell plays on.

relatives parachute in out of

nowhere. they drop from the sky

with smiles on their faces,

fruit cakes clutched

in their trembling hands.

the sick rise and come forward.

even the mailman winks

as he brings you word from afar.

you imagine burning money.

the parents below

out the window an orchid moon

opens violet and blue, a flower

lush in sorrow, planted in the crib

of youth. the moon spills

its sour milk down me. it curdles

in my belly as i listen

to the argument burn below.

the gases rise up the stairs,

seep beneath my door,

they singe my moonlit lungs.

their liquored curses stain me

like the wet sheets, yellow

and cold in the morning.

the bright pinch of ammonia,

its memory simmering up, even now

at this age, into vapors of shame.

in a cool room

here i lie, twisted in my bed,

surgically cut from here to there.

belly up in the lather of shaved ice

behind the slant of glass,

my cheek limp where the hook went in,

jelled eyes, a stiffened spine.

i can still remember the ocean,

the wind of water in my fins,

the easy bend of body

through warm, then cold shadows,

a turquoise wash of light

upon my scales and skin.

i was perfect in form and color,

in purpose. my life laid out before me.

now as they come in white schools

and point, checking their lists.

i imagine a black numbered sign

staked near my head,

marking me up or down,

dollars per precious pound.

houdini

under layers of light

and water, you think

about sinking,

of opening your mouth

and drinking

the world dead.

you think of escape.

the danger of losing touch

with air.

this is what you dream of

before you arise,

before you begin

in the shallow waters 

of morning

to pick the locks

that fill you day.

where they find you

you enter the room

and find a chair.

it is not the one

you would have chosen

had the room been empty.

it may not even be

the most comfortable chair,

but it's the closet one,

the one available.

and so you sit.

the chair becomes yours

before the day is over.

it is the one you pick

when you return again,

then again.

as time goes on,

it is where others expect

to find you.

it is the place

that will be empty

when you die.