leche cake

the cake is
white and square
and sits in
sweet milk
and is soft and
covered in a
bright whipped
cream icing.
the body of it
vanilla, a deep
dense yellow like
sunlight through
a church window
in mexico or spain,
and it melts like
powdered sugar
in your mouth,
and it warms you,
makes you want
for more. makes
you lean forward
with your small
silver fork
and take another
bite. always
more. and that's
the secret of
your madness
right there.
always wanting
more of
everything
than you
should have.

milkman

when i was a
milkman in 1963
we'd deliver
quart and gallon
bottles all
morning. setting
them on the stoops
with eggs and
bread, sometimes
bacon, or butter
too. and the bottles
would clink and sing
like a sweet
boy's choir,
as the truck drove
along the quiet
streets, dark as
the other side
of an untouched moon.

compromise

you try so hard
to get the spot
out of your shirt.
you pride yourself
on your appearance,
on how you look when
in the presence
of others. but
it's your favorite
shirt, and this
red spot won't
go away. it's a dot
the size of a
quarter that won't
disappear. you try
everything from
over and under
the counter. magic
sticks and such, it's
still there though
when you pull it
from the wash and
spin it in the
dryer. you can't
erase this blemish.
and yet you love
this shirt, so you
decide to wear
it despite of
how it looks. you
have compromised
your life in so
many other ways,
so why not this,
you reason.

when the sun goes down

she used to say
to me, when blue,
when under
the weather
of the season,
when the sky was
low and light and
grey, she used to
say, i'm no friend
of daylight anymore.
i'm invisible to men
my age, or more,
or even less. my
curves aren't what
they used to be, i
don't walk or look
the same way. the
way i did when i was
young and they'd
blow their horn,
or whistle, and wink,
or ask me for my
number when in line
at the grocery
store, or in a
laundry mat folding
tomorrow's clothes.
give me the night,
she'd say. at least i
have a fighting chance
when the sun goes down.

winning the lottery

you win the lottery
and vow that it won't
change you, but it
does. the first thing
you do is buy a diamond
ring the size of a
walnut and put it
in your ear. now they
know that you have
arrived. then you get
a white car. maybe
a mercedes, or a
cadillac. you get a
shiny black cane with
a golden knob at the
top so that you can
knock the littles out
of the way when you
are passing through.
you find a bevy of
women who will worship
and admire you while
you walk about being
rich and suddenly
handsome. but that's
it, that's all you do,
you haven't really
changed after all.
it's who you've been
all these years anyway.

Ravioli Madness

the waiter brings you
a hot plate full of
small soft squares,
with scalloped edges,
plump like little
pillows covered
in a deep dark red
sauce, the steam
rises up like
heaven into your nose
your eyes, your soul.
the pasta is fragile
and subtle like a
sensuous kiss as it
hits your parted lips
and your tongue folds
around the spices and
the flavor of cheese
and sauce together.
you almost faint with
happiness, and grab
the table, as your fork
gets another, and then
another, you can't
stop yourself,
as the sauce begins
to splatter onto
your white shirt.
the wine spills down
your throat. you
are with someone, but
you've stopped
listening to her
a long time ago, she
babbles on and on
about herself, telling
you things you don't
care about. if she
removed her dress
and stood there in
her black silky
underwear and said
i'm yours, i love you,
take me now. it wouldn't
matter. because it's
all about the ravioli
now. it's too late,
much too late for her.

Elvis in a box

she used
to carry her
dog, elvis,
in a little
pink box,
with rhinestones
embedded in
the side.
it had a handle
so that she
could carry it
like a suitcase
around town.
and elvis,
this white poodle
with dripping
black eyes would
whimper and cry
while everyone
came up to peek
in and pet him
and would say,
poor little elvis
oh, my.

the swimmer

you wave goodbye
to her on the shore,
and tell her that
you love her, that'll
you'll be back soon.
you kiss her on
the lips and hand
her your clothes,
your shoes, your watch.
wait for me on
the beach, you tell her.
wait right her, i'll
be back. just wait.
and you dive cleanly
into the glistening
waves, you begin
to swim, the ocean
is calm and inviting,
it is the color of
the sky, egg blue
and sways like a
sheet of silver foil
as far as the eye
can see. a warm
morning sun, just
rising whispers
like a siren, to
come in, to come on.
go, and so you do.
you swim out, one arm
over the other, your
strong legs kicking
up white in the gentle
waves, further and
further you swim out
until the water is
no longer blue, but
grey and dark with
the bottom and what
lies beneath, you
have gone too far,
and your arms and
legs are weary, and you
can taste the salt
of breaking waves
in your mouth, your
lips are raw, your
eyes burn. your heart
is about to burst
with something like
sadness, you
have gone too far
and you turn towards
shore to see if you
can see her, but
she's not there. she
is gone, perhaps
she was never there,
but you look back
and hope just the same.

light and easy

write a sweet
poem, she says,
offer up something
light and easy,
fun, soft hearted,
kind and breezy.
no angst attached,
no grim reminders
of what's to come
or what lies buried
in the past, just
feed me a dessert
strand of lines,
all meringue, all
icing, all deep
without the dark,
and candy sweet.
just touch
the surface of
our hurried
unexamined lives
and go no further,
please, tell us lies.

the winter red fox

she was thick
with fur, red
with fringed bursts
of gold throughout
as she darted and
stopped and stared
before nightfall,
as i rolled through
slowly, taking
the cold into
my lungs, feeling
the sting of stars
of winter wind
upon my face, and
ice was on the ground,
and patches of
grey snow. and the red
fox as quick and
light as love
can be sometimes
was still and more
still as i approached
and when i blinked
as i went from sun
into shadow, she
was gone.

her birthday

you appear to be
angry today.
was it something
i said, or did
to make you fold
your arms and have
your pretty face go
red. what is it now
that has you in a
snit, has steam
coming out of your
ears. i'm running
through my mental
list of possibilities
but i can't think
of anything, nothing.
zippo. so what gives,
have i forgotten
something, have i
let you down in any
way. you know that
i love you, i show it
and say it all the
time. so what's
the deal. why the
long face baby, why
are you soooo mad
at me today and
pointing at the
calendar?

the oatmeal blues

i settled on
a bowl of oatmeal
for dinner. the one
minute kind. boil
the water and a
minute later, dinner
is served.
it's all i have
except for the cans
of tuna in spring
water. but there
are no onions to
be found, or bread,
or tomatoes on
or off the vine.
no lettuce. well,
what used to be
lettuce is in
the crisper, but
it's stuck and
i can't get it open.
so it's oatmeal
tonight. i even have
some brown sugar to
sprinkle on it and
make it fancy. i'm
not complaining,
i'm just saying.
oatmeal, for god's
sake is all i have.

the mansion

the light
in the foyer
sizzled
and crackled
for a second
or two, before
it popped and
burned
out, it was
just one bulb,
enough to
dim the room,
but it's
twenty feet
up in the air.
almost
unreachable,
and it's
a special bulb
the kind you
have to order
online, from
china,
i hate
this house.

just for tonight

kiss me
slow and easy.
take your
time. pretend
that you love me.
just for tonight,
whisper words like
i'll never
leave you,
i'll always be
yours, my heart
beats just
for you. i
love you more
than anything,
or anyone. even
chocolate. say
crazy things
like that,
but just for
tonight. if it
goes on any
further than
tonight,
i can't see
you anymore, it
just wouldn't
feel right.

everyone

how sickness
betrays
the body, that
wants so badly
to keep going,
to stay pink
and fresh, forever
in some state
of being young,
but that shadow
or lump, or
wound that won't
heal defies logic,
or reason and
puts you on your
knees, or sends you
reeling in despair.
there is no
fairness in any
of it, no one,
as they say, gets
out alive, everyone
will find time,
when it's time,
to be done,
and die.

what tomorrow brings

and as he
goes out
to cut the grass
that never
stops growing
despite how
short, how often
it gets mowed,
no matter how
deep the winter
snow.
he wonders
what tomorrow
will bring.
and he pulls
the rope
to get it going,
the rusted mower,
it's engine
belching out
a small
cloud of blue oil
and steam, and
coughing. churning
the blades for
one more spring,
and once again, he
pushes it down
in long straight
stripes across
the yard. from
east to west, then
north to south.

Argentina

a woman sends you
an e mail, she's from
south america and her
name is esmeralda.
she wants you to come
and make love to her.
she sends you pictures
of herself on the beach
in a white bikini.
her legs are long and
her black hair is wet,
glistening down
her back. she is
smiling. she is full
of moonlight. so without
blinking you board
a plane and head for
argentina. you have
never been there, but
you suspect that it's
very hot, so you buy
a white suit and
a white fedora to
shade your eyes. you
have all of your money
in a suitcase. you
have sold your house,
your car, cashed in
your savings, sold
your furniture, all of
your belongings are gone
except what for what
you carry, and what you
wear. you have told no
one where you are going.
no farewell notes have
been written. it's
better that way.
you are free to start
a new life, here, in
a country that you
don't know the language,
that you don't have
a clue as to where
you are, or how to
get around. you feel
like you've done this
before though,
many times. you get
off the plane and look
for her, but she's not
there waiting, she's
no where in sight, so
you wait and wait, but
the day turns into night
and she is not to be
found. and so you
begin to walk, you
notice how blue the
sky is as the sun sets,
how green the trees are.
it's a strange world
of exotic birds,
and dark eyes,
but it's very humid
and your suit is wet
on your skin, you
are suddenly tired
and lost. you feel
that once again you
may have done the wrong
thing, fallen in love
with an ephemeral woman
and given up everything
to have her.

through the night

close the window.
it's cold
tonight. turn
the heat up, put
a fire on. we
might need another
blanket. come to
bed, get close
and keep me
warm. the winters
are getting longer
as we get
older, i'm glad
that we have
each other though,
to get us through
the night.

friendship

over eggs
and coffee i
hear your
confession.
i listen, i
eat, i drink
from my hot
cup and nod.
i leave my
sins out of
it. they would
only confuse
you. it's best
for you to
think that
i'm good, that
i'm pure and
without fault.
i won't tell
you what to
do or how
to save yourself,
or how to get
your life
back on track.
there is
only one
savior, one
cross. but i'll
listen, i'll
pray, i'll
be there for
you, do whatever,
almost, whatever
you ask. i'm
your friend
to the bitter
end.

the man within

you leave
the room to get
away from yourself.
but you follow, you
have no choice.
even sleep cannot
rid you of who
you have become.
your life is
beyond your grasp.
the things you say,
and how you behave,
disgust you.
you want to tell
others though,
that this is not
you, that you
are better than
this, that your heart
is soft, that
your love for others
and the world is
large. you want
everyone to ignore
the words that come
out of your mouth,
and how you behave,
and to see the real
you, the person within.
but they can't,
you've been at this
too long, you
are too far gone.
you are lost and
can't be found. it's
much too late.

mai tai

i'm sitting
in a strip mall
chinese restaurant
sipping on a mai
tai with a pink
umbrella and
smattering of
cut fruit biting
the rim of the
short glass. i'm
waiting for my
order of fried
rice, egg rolls,
and crispy beef.
i only had a hot
dog for lunch today
from the seven eleven,
so i'm woozy from
the rum. i feel
like a sailor in
port, on liberty.
looking for some
quick and easy
fun. i've got
my cell phone out
and i'm almost ready
to dial some trouble
up. but thankfully
my order is ready,
they're swinging
that white plastic
bag in front of me,
and i've made it
through another day
another night without
doing anything
too stupid.

blowing bubbles

she loved to chew
gum all day and all
night. snapping it,
clicking and chewing
like a cow out
to pasture, she'd take
it out when she ate
though, giving
her jaw a break
and stick
it onto the side
of her dinner
plate, or a cup,
saving it for later.
even when we kissed
she tucked it into
her cheek, a wad
of topps, the hard
square kind with
the comic and
fortune inside
and when we made
love she'd blow a
big fat bubble, pink
and round and at the
approriate moment,
well at least for her,
she'd pop it loudly
in my ear and say
something like wowza!

winnebago

i'm saving up
for a winnebago
my friend tells me.
i'm retiring in five
years, i'm going to
travel the country,
see things, live
on the road, eat
at diners, smell
the forests and touch
the wheat fields
with my eyes, hear
the roar of the colorado
river, touch the sky
over montana, i'm
gonna ride the rails,
surf the pacific ocean,
i'm gonna live and
breathe and be free.
i'm gonna read and write,
and visit rome, see
the ancient ruins. i'm
gonna fall in love,
maybe find me a french
girl. i'm gonna find
my inner child, paint
and make music, eat
and drink, crush grapes
with my feet. i'm
going to finally get
a good night's
sleep. and i ask him,
so what was stopping you
the other forty years.

why bother

she tells me
from her bedroom
window, elbows
on the sill, throwing
her hair back,
she says, why bother,
there's nothing
new, nothing.
no orignial thought
or sin, or unique
point of view,
it's all been
said and done,
and sung and written,
and painted on
a wall. what's
the point, why
go on, why give
it any thought. i
don't know, i tell
her. i just
do. i can't help
myself, i keep
going, but i know
one thing, i could
never live the way
you do.

the time of your life

from my second floor
balcony at the brinkley
house garden apartments
you could see the dome
of fog and bright lights
over the dark horizon,
and you could hear
the races being
called at the harness
track that was through
the woods, and over
a great expanse of
parking lots. rosecroft
raceway. the calls
of the races were
shrill, high pitched
and echoed with crazy
urgency by the time
they reached me,
sitting on my balcony
with crystal, whose real
name was christine,
but she changed it
when she became a
professional dancer.
and she used to ask
me all the time to
go to the track with
her, to bet on the
ponies, but i said
no, you go honey,
take your stack of
ones and have fun, and
she said but it's more
fun with you there. i
like doing things with
you, and she'd smile
and wiggle her assets
a little, and i thought
about it as we sipped our
mateuse wine in plastic
tumblers, swatting
mosquitoes from the
nearby creek. nah, i
told her. i can only
bet on one bad horse
at a time, but you go,
have fun. have the time
of your life.

making love

she lies
here, in the
warm shadow
of summer. her
brown skin
glistening
from sweat, her
heart still
racing, and
she smiles,
with her arm
across you.
as the ceiling
fan goes slow,
and it's as if
we are drifting
on a raft beneath
a canopy of trees,
along the shores
of a strange land,
somewhere you've
never been before,
and in a place,
you never want
to leave.

summer job

having never
pushed a wheel
barrow full of
anything, you
thought, how hard
could this be.
and the man,
the old man, black
as an iron rail,
and as strong,
said to me, go
ahead son, put
some bricks in
there and push
it across the yard.
i made it three
feet before it
toppled and
crashed, but
he hired me anyway.
and for the next
nine hours i hauled
brick and cinder
blocks and pushed
wheel barrows full
of grey wet cement
for the masons.
and the next day
i quit. i've never
been as sore before
or since then. every
muscle and bone
in my body ached
for days, but i
had my check for
thirty six dollars
and ninety seven
cents after taxes.

washington dc women

i once saw
her with money
in her hand.
i was shocked.
despite the fact
that she works
more hours than
the president
of the united states
and is busier
than congress
in session,
this was a strange
thing. it was an
accident though.
it fell out
of her purse
which i had
never seen open
before. a bat
with sharp black
wings flew
out of it when she
did and i could
see the cobwebs
break and a cloud
of dust like one
sees on the discovery
channel when they
open up a pharaoh's
tomb. i only
have a five, she
said, do you mind
getting the check
for this dinner,
i'll get the next one,
i promise. cross my
heart, really,
i will. i know
you always pay,
and that we are just
friends, with
benefits, but i
feel guilty about
you paying all
the time. seriously,
the next one's on
me. oh, and do
you have some change
for the meter, i
am completely out
of quarters.

forever young

you decide one
day to never grow
old. you vow to
exercise, eat right,
drink in moderation,
you wear shorts
in the winter and
a ball cap like
a twenty year old.
flip flops, no socks.
you take vitamins,
you send away to
india to get the latest
generic drugs to
keep things in
working order, you
wear sunscreen,
get plenty of rest,
drink lots of water.
you keep up on the
latest music and
gizzmos that keep
you in touch with
your 'peeps'. you
try to keep up with
the hipster language
of the day. and yes
you realize what
a fool you appear
to be, but so what.
you've got a spring
in your step, you
call women babes,
your male friends,
brother, yo.
and say things like
that's what i'm
talking about, or
it is what it is,
or not so much. you
stay current, you've
got your gold
starbuck's card,
and an ipod wire
dangling across your
fifty push ups a day
chest. you're
not over the hill
but on top of the
hill and no one
needs to know that
you're listening
to frank sinatra
sing the summer wind
in your plugged
in ear.

exit

i see you
in your black
dress, your black
shoes, and pearl
necklace, going
off into the fog.
a slow exit
towards your life,
leaving where
mine begins and
yours has always
been. no dancing,
no song, no words
needed to be said.
no one is right,
no one is wrong.
it's just life. it's
just life. now go.

the close shave

i soap over
my skin, my face
is lathered
below my nose,
around my cheeks,
onto my chin.
and i can see
my eyes in this
mirror, this
reflection of
another day gone,
and one
beginning. i take
the razor and
with slow
deliberate strokes
smooth out and
shave what has
grown when
night was here.

dead trees

the peach tree
is empty.
barren. the fruit
is on the ground,
at the mercy of
the earth, of
insects, animals
that wait
their turn. my
desire is gone
for this fruit,
this once sweet
peach that i needed,
and wanted. this
stark grey tree
won't show fruit
again. not with
me, not in my
yard. i tear
it down, pull it
out by it's roots.
enough with peaches,
with false, and
forbidden fruit.

breakfast lunch and dinner

she could eat.
that girl could eat.
three squares a day
and a snack or two
with coffee inbetween.
i used to sit there
and watch her go at
it. she'd pop a meatball
into her mouth like
a circus animal.
the plate was
sparkling when she
was finished, taking
a folded slice
of bread to wipe off
that last puddle of
red sauce. she'd
give a little burp,
swig down some red
wine, rub her belly
and sigh, oh my,
she'd say, that was
great. then her fork
would reach over
into my plate, just
a taste, she'd say.
i'm trying to lose
weight. i'm on a
mission this year to
drop twenty. i slide
the plate in front of
her. it's all yours
baby, it's all yours.
but she was fun too.

the mailman blues

i saw the mailman
the other day. he was
slouched over with
his heavy bag, the
leather strap cutting
into his pale blue
shirt and shoulder.
he was sweating,
and out of breath,
leaning against a
hydrant before moving
on to the next row
of houses to deliver
mail. i'm done, he
said to me as i
approached him.
i can't do this
anymore. it's
not the junk mail
and the ads, or
circulars, it's my
wife, i think she's
cheating on me with
another mailman who
does my route. the
other day she had
a postage stamp stuck
to her thigh, and
there was an imprint
of an overseas
stamp inked onto her
lower back. she's
distant and distracted.
she's no longer doing
her bills online.
i don't get it. i
love her, i really do.
i shake my head and
hand him my letter
to my ex wife with
her alimony check inside.
hang in there, i tell
him. the load will
get lighter with time.
so what it's in the bag
for me today, jimmy?

dessert

you come
over with
your slinky
sexy self
carrying a
sweet dessert
in a nice
box with a bow,
and being
one. and i'm
at a loss
because i
don't know
which
one i want
a slice
of first.
perhaps one
before, and
one after.

new year purge

you start the new
year off with purging.
first the refrigerator,
condiments and things
wrapped and forgotten.
then the closets,
sweaters that have
lost their shape, pants
that sag and hang on
you. then the cupboard
full of chipped
dishes and glasses.
that bent fork in the
drawer, dull knives.
the magazines that lie
flat and curled over
the edges of your
nightstand, unread, just
glanced at with a polite
nod at the cartoons,
and then skimmed.
then you open
your phone and begin
to delete there. one
after another. lost
connections, old loves,
near loves, some likes
and lusts tossed in
there too, forgotten
friends, that neither
return your calls or
press one letter of
hello, how are you,
what's up, and hit send.

early to rise

it's raining.
but it's warm,
and there is no
snow on the ground.
you can see straight
through the woods
because there are
no leaves, the
branches are bare
and grey. the stream
appearss to be
silk as it moves
with hardly a
ripple. no one
is up yet, except
for those sleepless
ones who are up
at five, or six,
and walk their dogs.
they've got a head
start on worry.
you watch them
meander through
the woods, stepping
through puddles,
thinking. thinking.
speaking mindlessly
to their dogs, as
the leash gets tugged
this way and that.

sleeping well

there came a
time when you stopped
reading newspapers,
watching the television,
ignored the news.
and others, your friends
and neighbors in
conversation would ask
you questions about
the war, and you'd say
what war, or ask you
about the economy and
the jobs disappearing
and you'd shrug and say,
i'm sorry, but i know
nothing about that.
or when the votes were
counted and so and so
won, or lost, so what.
and when a storm was
coming in, you had no
clue, no idea what was
going to happen.
the elephant escaping
from the zoo, or the
trains going on strike,
had no effect on your
life. and none of it,
as you always
suspected made a damn
bit of difference, you
were sleeping well,
and leaving the worry
to others, who also
could do nothing to
change things.

the new tenant

a new tenant moves
in next to you.
she is beautiful.
her hair is long
and brown, it shines
in the elevator light.
she is angelic
as she carries up
her yoga mat, and
exercise ball, a
box of kitchen
utensils, and other
assorted girl stuff.
she is alone. she
doesn't even have
a cat, or a child,
or a plant to get in
between you, if it
ever came down to
that. you think
about what you can
say to her, what
clever words you
might have saved up
from years of
experience
of bothering
attractive women.
you can tell her
that you write poetry,
or pull up your sleeves
and open a jar of
olives to show her
your strength, or
perhaps you can sing
loudly in the shower
that is next to her
apartment and impress
her with your vocal
abilities. but
of course, you do none
of this. your wife
would not approve.
she would know that
you were up to
something again, and
would put a stop to it.
she is always
getting in the way
of your fun. you blame
everything on her
that has gone wrong
in your life.

the splinter

your mood is dampened
by the splinter
you have encountered
in your foot, walking
across the floor of
her apartment. it
bleeds at first and
then stops, but you
can feel the jagged
edge of it buried deep
within your flesh,
but you have no time
to fool with it, to
get it out, you have
the day in front of
you. it's easier to
go on, and deal with
it later. but by night
fall, it's red and
festering and sore,
and walking is
difficult. you feel
that you have learned
something here.
but you can't quite
put it into words
or understand. you
think about what she
said, before you left.
putting her own
splinter within you.
and ignoring that too.

the allergy

i'm
allergic
to your
sweater.
do you
mind
taking
it off,
thanks.
that's
so much
better.
i can
breathe
now.

wilbur the blind cat

your blind cat
moves slow and
easy across the
room as the boxes
are filled, and
set ready for
the movers, all
packed. he rubs
his black shoulders
onto the edges,
the hard corners
and speaks, and
purrs, and wants
to know who has
fallen in or out
of love, what
makes this all
happen, this move,
this journey to
another place, to
another set of rooms.
when will the last
place happen, what
end is there with
these human
hearts, so fragile,
so indifferent
to the needs of a
blind and loving cat.

don't worry about me

don't worry,
don't fret, or
lose sleep, or
wring your hands
over me. this too
shall pass, this
love or lust, or
whatever you make
of us. just dust,
just pebbles
rolling in the wind,
here and gone,
stretch out your
arms, and say
good bye, say
hello to someone
new, the next new
heart to come
straggling along.
but don't concern
yourself with me,
i'm fine with or
without you, i
always am. it's what
i do. i was born
into this and will
see it through,
until the end.

nothing changes

it doesn't feel
like a new year,
i tell her, from
the shower, i've
got a new bar of
soap and i'm sudsy
and warm, scrubbing
off last night's
new years eve
debris. what? she
says, she's standing
at the sink brushing
her teeth. what
do you think the
new year should feel
like, she gargles
and spits, and
pulls her hair
back to look at
her face and pluck
at any eyebrow.
i don't know,
i tell her,
pulling the shower
curtain open. i just
thought it would be
different, that's
all. whatever, she
says, hurry, i'm
starving. i need
food, or i'm going
to be cranky. nothing
changes, i tell
her, rinsing in
the hot steamy flow
of this year's water.
nothing changes.

the real thing

you are not surprised
at what you find
when you open the
book and begin to read.
when you begin to unravel
the pages of her.
you know this story,
this tale, this plot.
you've lived it many
times. so you read
a few chapters and
then toss it across
the room into the pile
where the other books
have landed that you don't
believe. you have no
more room in your head
or heart for fiction,
for pretend romance, for
false notes and a thin
pale tale of love,
you want the real thing.
you need something
you can bite into and
have the juices
run down your chin.

get out of town

my passport
needs more stamps.
needs to be bended
and pulled open
by strangers with
badges and guns
in foreign lands.
i need to be
searched and stared
at, have my eyes
looked into for
deception. i need
to have my pupils
dialated, be
a suspect. i need
to board a plane,
get on a ship,
ride all through
the night on a long
black train. i need
to get out of town.
you can come if you
want to, but be
prepared, you might
go home alone.

she's waiting

she's waiting
for me, i have
to go, she's
wearing a white
dress and has
nothing in her
hand.
can you give
me a boost up,
just grab
my foot and push,
put me up onto
the horse, okay,
now which
direction is home.
i'll ride all
day and night
if i have to.
it was fun, but
i've got to go.
i have to ride out.
she's waiting
for me there. she's
past that mountain
ridge, that
river, that
long flat plain
of nothing. i can
almost see her
waving in the
sunlight. she's
waiting for
me there, she's
always been there.
she's waiting.

bacon, baby?

and what would
you like for
breakfast dear,
she says while
standing in the
kitchen still in
last night's high
heels. over easy,
or scrambled,
she whispers in
her deep sultry
voice. don't do
that i tell her,
don't talk like
that. she's wearing
an apron and
nothing else, and
holding a silver
spatula in her
egg flipping hand.
she still has lipstick
on and is swaying
to the music of
the top one hundred
countdown on the
radio beneath
the cupboard, honey,
it's too early in
the morning for
stairway to heaven,
can you turn that
off. sure she says,
and kills the music.
bacon, baby?

january

untie that balloon
from you wrist,
let it fly upwards
towards the new
sun, the first day
of this new year.
this year of promise
and getting things
done that you have
neglected for so
long. no need to make
a list of what to
do, you know what
to do, and now it's
just a matter of
staying focused,
letting go of what
is holding you down,
and be true to
yourself and others.
let all of those
balloons go and fade
into that golden light
of january. it's time.

cowboy boots on new year's eve

don't talk to me,
don't even look
at me or turn
that light on.
what is that
grinding noise,
oh, it's my
teeth. why did
we have to open
that last bottle
of pinot, and
why am i wearing
cowboy boots.
it's only 7 a.m.,
who are you?
i'll untie you
in a minute, as
soon as i get
these boots off.