the ink pen

i remember dipping a pen
into an inkwell. i liked
the color of that blue,
almost black, but most
certainly a blue, like
the deepest part of
the atlantic ocean, or
the sky when there is no
moon. i liked the scratch
of that pointed pen, full
and heavy with fresh ink,
on real paper, paper with
weight, paper that could
take the pressing fist
of a small child as he
tried his hand at cursive.
making the new found loops
and breaks, trying
to find the right words,
as the pen leaked
and stained his palm, his
fingers, with ink that
would be his blood,
and never wash out.

3 a.m..

i don't want the phone
to ring at three a.m.,
it's a bad hour and can
only mean that something
horrible has gone wrong.
no one ever calls to say
they are in love at that
hour, or to tell you that
they found a good deal
on a pot roast or a dress
from sak's. no, it's never
hello, i missed you, or
marry me, or i found us
a house on the beach, and
i've won the lottery. it's
more like please come
down to the police station,
we'll explain when you
get here, hurry, bring
a credit card or a check
book and an overnight change
of clothes.

magic

it's easy magic,
to watch him, with
cards in hand,
or silk flowers
unraveling from
a black sleeve,
and birds suddenly
appearing in one
palm, and fire in
the other. it's
easy to sit and
stare and wonder
at this small
delight of slight
of hand, but not
nearly as mesmerizing
as it is to sit
and watch you,
don't disappear.

central park

i took the long
way, cutting through
central park, it was
early fall, and the
leaves had turned to
fire. i could feel
the new cold of winter
in my lungs, bright
with the pain of my
run, and of you, what we
had become, the summer
romance turned so soon,
and what little there
was left to say, or
show, or even kiss.
all of this, like leaves
had fallen, shaken from
the dark thin branches
of the park, where we
had met in the bloom
of promise and sun.
there was no need to
hurry, and yet i did.

her voice was like
scotch at the end
of a friday night.
she lit each new
smoke with the last
one, and she used
to be dancer, which
left her legs, long
and still lean,
although the rest
of her was shot to
hell. but she could
catch an eye or two,
in the dim light,
as the piano played,
and her friend,
the bartender kept
her lips wet with
another one on the
house. she wanted
to be an actress, to
sing, and dance, but
it didn't turn out
that way. she met a
man and started to
have babies, stopping
at four. she liked
to keep a kleenex
in the cleavag of
her dress, and when
necessary pulled it
out for effect if
the right man walked
by and gave her a
look that hinted at
interest. but she
knew that her time
was running out, more
women, younger women,
smart women were
coming in more and more,
they sneered at her,
laughed in front of
her when she sang
softly to herself some
song that played.

green men

there was one night
when an amazing ball
of green light
streaked across
the summer sky, still blue,
lit with sunlight, as
it fell off in the
distance. and my friend
ernie ran into the
house to call the
pentagon, the police,
the authorities, thinking
that finally they had
arrived. green men
in a green lit craft
about to land and change
everything as we knew it.
the rest of us kept
playing ball, we didn't
care, the score was tied,
it was getting dark
and soon we'd be called
in. we had to finish
the game, but not ernie.
he had other things on
his mind. god bless him
wherever he has landed.

the horse

you put the gun down,
remove the bullets,
your horse is tied up
outside in a cold sweat.
the sun is flat
and hot on the horizon,
melted onto the mountain
range. this is where
you've landed. in a two
bit hotel, with the clothes
on your back, your boots,
your dust lined hat.
it doesn't matter that
they'll find you here
asleep in your room
with no way out,
you can't keep running,
it wouldn't be fair for
anyone, especially your
horse. you love that horse.

there is

nothing on the menu
that appeals to me.
i've lost interest
in food, in you,
in the fruits that
i used savor when
in season, like your
lips, juiced and open,
ready for whatever
knife i might provide,
or teeth. i can't
eat a thing right now.
nothing on my plate
appeals to me,
no meat, no bread,
there's not an egg,
or slice of cake
that my appetite craves,
i see the weight fall
off my frame, i am
bones, i am slender
again, like i was in
my youth, when i was
without love and starving,
i don't know how
much longer i can go
on like this, on this
foodless binge, on this
island without you.

dry

sometimes the well
is dry, the spring
that runs deep
within the ground
is cut off and rain
hasn't fallen in weeks.
but you drop the bucket
down just the same
to hear it hit dead
bottom, hoping for that
splash, but there
is none, just the empty
echo of a dark cauldron
without water or light.
this doesn't stop you
though, you pick up the
pen and begin to write.

dinner

she brings me
a steaming hot dish
of pasta and red
sauce, the ribbons
of heat rising to
the ceiling, with meat,
sausage, as spicy
as the look that
sparkles in her
brown eyes. she opens
the wine and puts
the bread, soaked
in garlic and butter
onto the table,
she lights a candle
or two, she touches
your hand and lets
her knee find yours
beneath the table.
this is how you find
love. it's this simple,
or so you'd like
to believe.

making contact

is good, but foul
after foul ball
decides nothing.
it's the swing
and miss that
warrants sighs
and small nods
of oh, he's out.
and the game
ends on a
whimper, as
the patrons
rise and stretch,
to file out
towards the cars
and the lines,
the traffic,
onto the freeway
which will lead
them home to
greater
swings and
misses, but
on occasion a
day will strike
a bat and over
a fence your
life will go, but
in quiet,
and to very
light applause.

love at first sight

i met melinda at a club in
the nineteen eighties,
in prince georges county,
over the wilson bridge,
right off of branch
avenue, near the drive-in.
she was a star jello
wrestler in a country
western bar with sawdust
on the floor and a juke
box in the corner. most
everyone had a knife or
gun, or something to use
as a weapon in case a brawl
broke out, which it
normally did every weekend
night. but melinda,
the girl i fell in love
with, was wrestling
in a baby pool full of jello,
under the soft blue lights,
while the band played 'lying
eyes', by the eagles.
she was wearing a shredded
black bikini that was
almost off, and the red
jello was in her hair,
in her eyes, in the crevices
of her curvaceous body.
it was hard to tell who
was winning or losing,
as the crowd cheered
back and forth, but it
didn't matter. the band
played loudly and badly
as the two young women
slipped in and out of the
pool, pulling each other's
hair and bathing suits.
finally melinda was caught
in a headlock, and our eyes
met as she gasped for air
and her eyes bulged,
i knew at moment, as we
stared at one another,
that she was the one for me,
and as she recalled later
when we went back to my
trailer to clean the jello
off of her, that she
felt the same way too.

a summer dress

little slips by me,
even at this age of
ninety-two. i have my
wits and wisdom
and cane to rely on,
to defend and offend
those that need to be
dealt with. my body
is my prison. it reeks
with old age, the bones
crumbling below the
sagging skin now a
horror of splotches
and sun driven ravines.
ah, but i still like to
see a woman in a dress,
as she strolls down
the sidewalk on the
first day of summer,
of course she doesn't
pay me any mind, or
even steal a glance,
those days are far
gone, and if she does
notice me, it's out of
pity, like seeing
a dog stuck on the median
of a four lane highway,
stranded with no way
out, no hope of survival,
but i bark just the same.

i remember

that there was a point
when she had become
an undeveloped country,
wreaked with natural
disasters, crushed by
unseen or unforecasted
catasrophes, swamped
in a sea of debt by
careless handling of
her resources, and
spending sprees at
nordstroms, she was
living on the fumes
of soon to end alimony
and child support,
completely bone dry
of her half of equities
and a meager torn
asunder stock portfolio.
she applied for permanent
victim status to the united
nations and got it.
she wore black and
rubbed ashes onto her
face as she carried
the weight of her sorrow
on her back. her flag was
set half mast in surrender,
until the troops
surprisingly arrived
and now she's back on top
and won't even take my calls.

on the corner, near an
abandoned school, there
is a woman curled in
a jumble of blankets,
and rags, a shopping cart
turned sidways to block
the wind, the weather.
sometimes you can see
her black eyes catch the
sun, or the headlights of
cars as they ride by.

you can smell the earth
burn on the wind, as it
sweeps through the dry
brush of california, the
waves of fire taking
everything in it's path.
nature finds a way of
bringing us not only to
our knees, but to put
us on the run, humbled
and fearful of what we
can't control or
understand. in time, all
of this and us are dust
and ash, and yet we cling
to the notion of forever,
because otherwise there is
no point and the fire has
no memory of what it takes.

mexico

this love thing
has taken a turn
for the worse.
she has run out
of pills to keep
her calm, and she's
getting on my last
and final nerve.
i should have never
told her that i
loved her, and wanted
to marry her, but
i was in an amorous
mood, she was a good
dancer, and the martinis
made me careless.
i don't know how
her name got tattoed
on my arm, or when
we ordered room
service. but she's
still asleep, and she
looks so different in
the daylight. if i can
get this ring off
with enough spit,
maybe i can slip out
the door and down
the back steps to
freedom, catch a cab
and get the hell out
of mexico.

travel tips

she tells me
over the phone
that she is leaving
for cairo in a week.
in two weeks
she'll be on
a camel in the desert
with the hot sun
beating on her
pale skin. i have no
advice for her
except bring water,
sun screen, a camera,
a map, perhaps,
and sunglasses.
that's it. i don't
even know what she
could possibly bring
back for me, so i
don't even ask.
maybe a magazine
from the plane.

venus

i've fallen in love
with venus. it's distance
and light on the low
sky. i'd like to imagine
that she is waiting,
this silver drop of light,
behind the sheer curtains
that catches a spring
breeze that lifts your
spirits into another year.
i've have no need for
the other planets, not
even this one. i'm done
with this one. it's all
about venus at this point.
i'll find a way, don't worry,
just wait, i'm coming.

date night

it's the chase
the hunt, that gets
the blood going,
seeing the big
cat through the trees
in the jungle, black,
and slick as night.
his green eyes
flashing, as his
muscled haunches
rise, poised for strike.
there is nothing
you can do at this point,
but give in, and let
him have his way.
pick you up at eight?

changes

all
the trees
have worried
off
their leaves
and left
them
like tears
upon
the cold, hard
ground.
perhaps
we need
a new season
too.

voice mail

so i saved the message
on the voice mail.
her voice, clean and clear.
it wasn't what she said,
but the sound, the rythmn
of her, captured. and
sometimes, late at night
when i no longer can
remember exactly what
she looked like, or the
smell of her perfume, i'll
dial up the message
and lay back down upon
the bed, with the phone
to my ear, and listen.
sometimes i can even fool
myself into thinking that
it's almost enough.

lifting weights

each year, no, let
me rephrase that, each
month, i see the
difference, the casual
slide of self, the slow
and easy crawl towards
the other side, the big
and endless side, so
unknown, despite what
you may hear each sunday
from the pulpit. you may
actually have to get
there, to truly know.
but you feel it in
your bones, your legs,
when you go up the stairs,
or lift the weights
that sit upon the bench
in the cellar. the mirror
holds you in the moment,
and let's you know on
a daily basis what's
coming and you can't stop
what's coming. instead
of thirty reps, you do
twenty, that's enough.

art

it's relentless
this vine that
grows beauty along
the side of brick,
from the ground up,
it's fingers becoming
thick arms, running
everywhere at once,
gripping the mortar,
weakening all that
we stand for.
spreading it's notion
of life and art,
it will bring the
building down if
it's not stopped. we
must declare war
on it, cut it off
at the roots, it's
them or us.

your mother

let's pretend to be
happy, sing and dance,
drink the night young
again. put on your red
dress, your heels and
lipstick, throw open
the windows and turn
the music up. let's
forget the days gone
by, the days ahead,
let's invite everyone,
even your mother, yes,
let's pretend to be
happy once more and fill
the room with laughter.

a reason to leave

i'm nearly asleep
beside you, as we
listen to the rain,
and the radio on low.
you are reading from
a book you stole
from the public
library, a poem by
mark strand, called
pot roast, and it's
about the memory of
meat, the memory
of youth, and i love
that poem, and wish
you hadn't stolen
it, because now
i have to leave
and i'll never again
think of that poem,
or you, in the same way.

St. Elizabeth's

so many trees
are leaning
sideways from
the heavy snows,
their roots are
pulled out of the
ground and they
lean towards
the roads,
or into the cold
streams that are
full and blue
and holding
the open sky,
the power saws
are coming
to take them down,
to sever the broken
branches, the men
in white coats,
are there to lift
and push them
upright, if that's
possible, to get
them through
another winter,
another year of life,
to give them
reason to go on.

dust

unattended,
the dust rises
as if by magic,
as if sprinkled
down in dry clouds
while you sleep.
in a thin layer
it lies upon
the sills, the tops
of dressers,
tables and vases.
you drag a finger
through the fine
silt and realize
that this is just
one of many things
that you are
letting go without
attending to.

the lost shoe

it's a worn shoe
i find in the alley,
just one, brown,
the polish dulled
and the tongue ripped out,
a thin layered hole is
at the point of contact
of foot and pavement,
but there is only one
shoe, not the other,
the left and not the
right, i look around
and see nothing, only
this single tattered
wing tip and so i take
it with me, under my arm
as i start the day, going
about my business,
but on the lookout for
the person with only
one shoe on, and not
the other. it has become
as much my problem
as it is his, or was.

let's be fair,
be honest.
we don't agree
on most
of what we
believe,
but i can sit
here and have
a drink,
a cup of coffee
and not dislike
or think
you are fool
who will never
see the light
or be anything
like me.
and likewise
you feel the same
and won't
draw the sword
to kill me
where i sit.

the calm

there are no maps
to get you there, no
road signs along
the way, no traffic
cop, or guru in a gown,
standing front and
center with a golden
staff to lean over
into the window and
say, stop, you are
there. it's not
easy, the trip, and
most don't arrive,
or even begin to
start, but those that
do will know when
they have made it to
a place where nothing
can disturb the calm
that resides within.

don't look back

despite the years
of being together,
things find their
way into boxes,
books, shirts, shoes,
an album of photos,
all of it packed
to be taken to
another point of
view, and it suprises
you that the sun
still comes up on
cue and the seasons
pay no mind to the
movement of your life,
and suddenly there is
another address
to remember, another
phone number, and so
you position the couch,
the bed, the table
without compromise
this time and choose
a color for the wall,
most likely another
shade of blue and it's
not for her, but for you.

light

don't turn off
the light
just yet,
leave it on,
let me see
what i need
to see,
the parts of you
that are hard
to show,
the inside out
of you,
uncovered,
bare in the pale
bloom of yellow
light from
the lamp upon
the table.

the other side

the lanquid sea rises
above my knees as i walk
out into white lazy waves
with arms of green, it's
colder as it gets deeper,
and the sun is warmer
as it lives and jumps off
the flat sweet ocean.
it seems perfectly within
reason to dive down, and
swim, to hold one's breath
in the dark depths, until
reaching the other side
of whatever might lie
beyond the sea, beyond me.

the price you pay

i got hit by an arrow
on valentine's day, it
zipped right through
the heart. it partially
splintered and went
through a lung,
collapsing it and sending
me into shock. it nearly
severed an important
artery. i was told later,
although to me they all
seem important. when they
finally brought me back
into consciousness,
the arrow was still protruding
through my chest, the point
glistened with my own blood,
a love note was still attached.
i asked the doctor what
the deal was, why couldn't
he remove it, he said no,
it has to stay this way, this
is the price you pay for love,
i'm sorry, there's no other way.

april 15th

i hear a dog barking
outside the window, and
there's someone knocking
at my door with a registered
letter from my mother, that's
how we communicate now, but
i can't be bothered.
i'm shuffling papers,
taking notes, getting organized
for what's coming. tax time.
i've got the calculator out
and i'm all set to pound
the keys to see what i made,
what i spent, what i need to
give the kid, the ex, and an
assorted short list of tax
deductible charity organizations.
money arrives in glass fulls
and swims out like a stream
bursting over the levees
and sending me to high ground.
but it comes down this, a bed,
a roof, food, a good book,
a blank sheet of paper to do
this on, and i'm good. vodka
helps too and someone with a
name like marla, but i'm getting
distracted, i've got work to do.
where's my pencil sharpener?

faith

i keep sending in money, my
ten per cent and more
to the guy on tv, jimmy
the evangelist who wears a slick
black suit with white stripes,
and has hair to match,
his eyes bulge and his voice
screams and pleads from the pulpit.
i can tell that he's speaking
directly to me, he's a wild eyed
man who promises me blessings
if i'm faithful and keep the money
coming, but nothing happens.
i still have that goiter on my
neck and when i i look out onto
the driveway there sits my old dodge
dart that still won't start. i write
another check and send it off,
but my kids still hate me, my son
has a circle of me tattoed on his
arm with a line through it,
and my wife is still asleep
in the bedroom with a box of
oreos beside her and two cats
sleeping on her back. i buy
the bible, i get the beads,
the hat, the sweatshirt, the video,
i get the gold cross, the piece
of wood sworn and blessed to be
the real thing, but nothing changes,
my job at the cigarette factory
makes my skin itch and my boss wants
to fire me, my dog bites me
on a daily basis, and the IRS
won't leave me alone for back taxes,
so i send in another offering, a
check, a larger check and i go
kneel by the television, adjusting
the rabbit ears, and i squint
my eyes tightly together and
pray the prayer pastor jimmy
is telling me to pray,
i even say it in that same deep
southern accent that he uses, i
muster up all the sincerity
i can find within me, oh sweet
geeeeeesus hear my prayer, my eyes
well up with tears, but still
nothing, i don't know how much
longer i can keep this up with
no results. maybe this is God's
test for me, maybe it's God's will
that my life remain a total
shambles with no way out, yeah,
that might be it, so with that
in mind i send in another check,
i don't even put in a number, let
jimmy decide that for me.

no horse to ride out on

it's a dry spell
here, the land
is coarse and brown,
my boots throw up dust,
and the slight wind
is soft. like a warm
whisper holding the sun's
breath. there is nothing
green as far as the eye
can see, no blue either,
but a white quilted sky
of long tired clouds.
the memory of water
sits like sand pebbles on
my parched tongue. nothing
is coming up the road,
or on the rails. this is
the way things end, slowly,
without rain, without
hope, with no horse
to ride out on.

tonight

i don't expect
heartbreak when i
see you standing
there in a crowd,
dark and beautiful
as the day i met
you. but it's there,
and i linger,
i mingle, i feel
stranded. i am
reminded of what
love is, the absence
of you hurts. and
i want to stay,
i want to gather
you in my arms,
and make it right
again, but it's
raining, it's cold,
i am intruding
on the life you lead
without me. and so
i leave so that
you can't see
the tears that burn.

water dreams

i dream best,
most vibrantly
when alone, when
it's cold, and the night
is long, and the wind
scratches the earth
with the long nails
of trees, and scattered
cans, the lost dogs
who howl and move
through the woods
on broken legs.
i dream of death
and dying, of love
and leaving, and being
left behind, of things
i can't get my hands
on, no resolutions.
it's a dark world,
a world of water,
deep and bruised,
blue and endless,
where the waves cup me
in thick arms and toss
me from side to side
before i find the shore,
and morning arrives
just in time.

the artist

my paintings
are everywhere,
they have become
my friends,
my companions,
they line the walls
of my house,
stacked one against
the other,
in the kitchen,
they even crowd
the bathroom.
i can almost hear
their chatter
in the night,
bickering about how
cramped it's becoming.
i've run out of space
for them, but i
can't stop myself,
my hands each day find
a new color, a fresh
white canvas and a face
to bring alive with
my strokes of gold
and blue, titian red,
raw umber, lamp black,
i am on a subway
of faces that
never change,
i'm hanging onto
the strap as this
life i lead rolls on.

red wine

there is that fog
of feeling, the gauze
of wine when it hits,
and things soften to
an easy glow, and your
lips are present too,
that makes so much
of the hard day
disappear. of course
there is always tomorrow
to deal with what's
about to happen,
but that seems so
far away, so distant,
and unimportant
as you pour another
glass, and move like
a cat with nails
unhinged towards me.

bon appetit

her stories, were long
and repetitive, alot like
my poetry, or so called
poetry. she found a theme
to rely on and wrapped
each tale around it like
bacon on a water chestnut.
it made no sense, but it
tasted good, and you had
another. and another,
until full and finished
with the sound of her
voice. after four months
of this i realized that
there was no room for me
in her stories, just her,
and so i took my toothpics
and left.

whistle

your constant whistling
disturbs me, but not so
much as silence. because
i know what that means.
with the whistling, i don't
have a clue, happiness,
perhaps, insanity is more
likely, but this too shall
pass, so for now, i'll
listen to you whistle,
like a bird with the key
to come and go from cage
to cage, from tree to tree.

the idling life

i'm waiting here

with the engine idling,

my hands on the wheel, 

sitting patiently in the car 

at the light, 

waiting for red to turn green. 

i'm on the bus, the train, 

making stops along the way, 

waiting for others to get on,

to get off,

i'm waiting for water

to boil, for toast to brown,

for the tub to fill,

for the phone to ring, 

i'm waiting for a letter

to arrive in the mail, 

i'm waiting for snow to melt,

i'm waiting for spring, 

for the rain to stop,

for flowers to bloom, 

for paint to dry, 

for the check to clear, 

i'm waiting in line for food,

for stamps, for a flu shot, 

i'm waiting for the end of things, 

the beginning,

of the next thing.

i'm waiting like a cat 

on a window sill,

ready to pounce.

i'm waiting for love 

to stick and be done with it.

unfinished

my father when he left
was in the middle of
many things, a bottle
of bourbon being one
and another being
the woman next door,
the avon lady, my mother's
best friend. but he had
started to finish
the basement, the tiles
half down, the ceiling
lights half in, paint and
nails, boards and sheets
of drywall, all still there
collecting dust in the
darkness, awaiting his
return. but he didn't come
back. he took a harder road,
one he would never recover
from. he left it all for
her, left the unfinished
room, and seven unfinished
lives, his children.

quietly

you gave me what you
could, and i accepted
the pebbles from your
hand as gems, as bright
and priceless stones,
i mistook your kisses
for love, your smiles
for promises. there was
so much i didn't know,
the light of you being
so bright, that i couldn't
see the knife you were
holding to remove my
foolish heart.

with ease

i lift the moon
with my hands
and hold it up
into the cold
night air. it's
a silver bowl of
stars that i've
come to know and
possess with a sweet
sad wonder on these
nights i live alone.
i haven't
conquered much,
but this i have,
this moon, this
pen and blank sheet
of paper on which
to write.

this bird outside my window.
busy with her life, one twig,
one thread of grass at time,
and there is all the time in
the world for what she does,
or so she thinks. slowly,
endlessy, with delibrate finds
and flight, so much hope
before the eggs appear that
won't, because it's too late
in the season, too far into
the winter months, and her
hair is turning silver,
and her walk is no longer
with wings, but a crawl towards
darkness, and ebbing light.

moon man

during my years as an astronaut,
landing on the moon, walking in
space, there was nothing but
the joy of weightlessness,
and purpose. who needed love.
but things have changed and
i've come to my senses, nothing
compares to how i feel about
you, here on earth. the moon
holds nothing when held up to you,
it's dust, the silky powder
that my boots stirred up,
the rocks i carried
back to the ship, a billion years
old, worth nothing, no value,
no gems to be found, but back
here on this planet, feet firmly
on the ground is you, and pretty
much that's why i came back
and didn't stay. come see me
when you're not busy, i think
we can work things out. i am
no longer weightless, but ready.