heartbreak

i find you
slumped over
a box of glazed
donuts.
a smudge of
milk on your
upper lip.
the single eye
of a cup
of cold coffee
is near your
sticky hand.
you'll feel
better one day,
i tell you,
hand on your
shoulder, there
will be other
loves, other
women that will
find a place in
your life. but
not if you keep
eating all
these donuts.

the blue suit

your memory
of her is
a blue suit
that hangs
stiff in your
closet.
the closet in
the other room
where you've
put a shelf
of books
you'll never
read again.
and those shoes
that you'll
no longer
wear. the room
stays cool
all year round,
the trees
following
the seasons keep
sunlight at
a distance.

the starless nights

you are being followed
as you walk home.
you put your hands
deep into your pockets.
your fingers are cold.
a bloom of warm air
paces you as you breathe
and stride under
a starless night.
you are being followed.
but you don't care. it
doesn't matter. you
are used to welcoming
strangers into your life
like this. this is what
you do now. some take
your hand when they
arrive and others keep
going. they make no
sound as they pass.
no greeting or farewell.
and in this way
your world keeps moving.
keeps you walking
under the starless nights.

amnesia

dizzy from
the fall, you
stumble around
the streets,
shaking your head.
your memory
which once served
you well is
now flickering
in and out
like a loose
bulb in an
empty attic.
you have rid
yourself of all
that's worried
you, and this
is a good thing.
you can start
fresh now, at
least until
they catch on.

it's easy

it's easy to curse
the day sometimes,
but lightly so,
to argue with oneself
over life's choices,
those roads taken
and untaken. how
the traffic backs up
for miles and miles
each night keeping
you from home, from
dinner, from what
else you are unsure
of. and the cloud
of what ifs hovers
over when you want
to see a moon, with
a sky full of white
stars. having
everything is not
what you want,or
ever wanted and that
wish has been
granted.

lobsters

you buy two
whole maine lobsters
from slavin's fish
house up on glebe
road. it's just you,
but you are very
hungry and you
haven't had lobster
for a long time.
wrapped in wet
newspaper,
they have struggled
in the ice chest
to get out, to get
back from where
they came, into
the deep cold
atlantic. they are
a thousand miles
from home, at least.
and you wonder
if they are missed.
if their places
have been taken on
the sea bottom to
do whatever it is
that they do all day
and night. you open
the lid and see
a claw waving at
you. but you have
to be strong. you
have to ignore their
watery whispers.
you put a large pot
of water on the stove
and turn it on,
you get out
the butter. you put
on your bib.

the book review

THE GIRL WITH THE RUNNY TATTOO

this is a cautionary tale
of struggle and triumph,
of affection
and infection,
as a young woman
attempts to deal
with an unfortunate
tattoo stamped
with cheap indigo ink
upon her lower back.
read with terror
as she consumes seven
beers, three shots
of red bull
and is being double dog
dared by her also
inhebriated friends,
shake your head
and bite your lower
lip in dismay
at what happens
on that fateful night
as they ride around
in their parent's minivan.
follow her as she tries
to apply for jobs while
holding up her skinny
low riser jeans with one
hand and filling out
application forms with
the other. you'll
weep at her attempts to
remove the tattoo which
resembles a lobster
or a scorpion, no one
is quite sure which.
wince at her failings
as she uses bleach,
hot wax and a potato
peeler to try
and make her skin
clean from the stain
of her mistake. but
yes, the sun eventually
does come out.
after much pain and soul
searching and scabbing
she goes to a doctor
who resides in the same
strip mall as
the tattoo parlor.
he is a young handsome
man named erik with
a cleft chin and his
laser skills are only
surpassed by his quickly
developing love for
the girl with the runny
tattoo. it's a must
read for all romantic
hearts out there, whether
they are tattoed or not.
have a box of kleenex
on hand and save
the bag it came in.
you may need it.
this incindiary page
turning tale is quite
graphic. reader
be forewarned.
it's soon to be
in paper back
and a major motion
picture in 3 D.
look for the sequel
too, THE GIRL WITH
STICKPINS IN HER EYE
BROWS AND OTHER
HORRIFYING PLACES.
Oprah's best friend,
betty, says, "This book
will change my life,
if only I could find
the time to read it."

the road not taken

if you take a left
and go down
two miles, you'll
see an old
gas station. there's
a man in there
who goes by the
name of george,
he's a marksman
and likes to
hunt and stuff
his kills.
he'll tell you
where you can find
shelly. it's his
daughter. okay,
okay, but what if
i go right,
well, that's were
kelly lives.
she's lives alone,
only married twice,
and bakes a mean
apple pie.

i'm not a horse

i like horses
she says, slapping
me across the arm
with her riding
crop. plow horses,
race horses,
stallions,
horses out to
stud. good for
you, i tell her.
now stop hitting
me, i'm not
really a horse.

dashboard

the dashboard light
flickering red
and yellow,
a silent warning,
to change a filter,
replace the oil,
it's something
to tell you that
things aren't
quite right, but
do you pull over
and stop and
solve the mystery,
no, why bother when
you can just look
in the other
direction, at
other lights.

gold

your knees in
the cold mud,
hands in water
with your screened
pan. shaking
the silt out,
panning for
gold, while
the blue
stream takes
itself where
it has to go.
where it can only
go. it's rare
to find love
these days, but
you keep
bending towards
the water
with hope.

more of you

you no longer
measure days, or
mark a calendar
with an x
to show the point
at which you are.
you are no
longer in the middle.
you are well
past that imaginary
line and yet
there is more of
you despite
having less time.

big ears

you have nothing
good to say, do
you, she says
while cutting my
hair. hey, be
careful, you almost
cut my ear off
last time. well,
you have big ears,
she says, snipping
away at my long
luxurious quarter
inch of silver
hair. i have big
ears because i
spend a lot of
time listening to
you, i tell her.
you're a pretty
blabby woman, i
must say.
my ears have grown
large from overuse.
do you want me to
trim the hair
that is growing
out of your ears,
and nose,
she says, smirking
in the mirror.
yes, i say. but
be careful and
don't forget the
eyebrows.

the beginning is near

the bright blue
words, spray
painted upon
the wall, across
from the theater
where you walk
everyday on your
way to work, says
the end is near.
and it makes you
wonder, the end
of what. the end
of me, of us,
of work, of leisure.
what end? and
if something
ends, isn't that
the beginning
of something new?
so the next day
you bring your
can of spray paint
and you write
below the end is
near that
the beginning
is soon to follow.
be patient.

amen

you hear
the silent
whisper, amen.
from the dead
that crowd
both yesterday
and tomorrow.
amen.
from the living
that crowd
today. amen.
you hear it
from the animals
on wing, on
foot, below
the sea. amen.
amen. you hear
it in the church
bells. on
the street
corner. amen,
it's sung quietly
in the alleyways.
amen.
it's in the first
snow, the ice,
the wind.
amen. it's in
the leaves
shuffling
on branches as
april comes.
amen. it's
in the first
breath you take
and the last.
amen.

to the curb

i'm not judging you
she says, but
your lifestyle leaves
something to be
desired. when was
the last time you
dusted this
house. i could do
an archealogical
dig on the shelves
themselves. i
can't find my
duster, i tell
her, and my maid,
cecilia was deported
back to sweden.
do you have a dog,
she asks me.
no, not anymore,
well, maybe you
should get one,
or even two just
to clean up all
the crumbs and crusts
and popcorn scattered
about the couch
and floor. you're
hurting my feelings
i tell her as i
pop a can of pabst
blue ribbon,
slinging the extra
suds off my
hand as it foams
out the top. i don't
think that's possible
she says. i really
don't think i'm
girlfriend material
for you, i have to
go now. no problem,
i tell her, but
hey, on your way out
can you take these
two bags out to
the curb, the shrimp
shells are killing
me. whew.

vote for me

you decide to run
for office.
first dog catcher
then sherriff,
then delegate.
all the ways up
to mayor. your
sights are on
the white house
eventually, but
it's an uphill
battle, because
of your sordid past.
you've confessed
all of your sins
before your adoring
public, at least
the sins they
know about,
and have asked for
forgiveness. they
too have sinned
and feel your guilt
and shame. they
are you, and you
are them. but they
ask you for one thing
and one thing only,
to change your
slogan. apple pie,
the flag and
blondes. they feel
that the blondes
part should be
changed to
something else.
i'm open for
suggestions. i will
compromise. it's
who i am. your
candidate for
office.

the pond

the stone
thrown to
the center
of the pond
makes
the water ripple
out in concentric
circles. first
large then
decreasingly
smaller waves
prevail.
and where are
you, she
asks, just
where are you.

my new dog

while i was
climbing
out a window
the other night
hanging onto
the fire escape
with a bag
of watches
and jewels,
there was a dog
tugging at
my pant leg.
there was a
ball snug in
the corner of his
mouth and his
tail was waggin.
he wanted
to play before
i went off into
the night
with my loot. so
we did. we played
for an hour or
so until i heard
the lock on
the door turn,
i put my ski
mask back on
and headed out
the window.
unbeknownst to
me the dog had
slipped into
the bag that was
now over my
shoulder, and as
i eased down the
fire escape steps
he popped his
his head out
and gave me
a long lick
across the face.

tea and lemons

under, but not
completely under
the weather, you
take your sniffles
and slight
congestion, and
stuffy nose
to the local
grocery store
to peruse the aisle
for some sort
of relief.
a crowd has
gathered, like
you, coughing
into their hands,
some worse than
others. reading
the print on
the backs of
boxes while they
sneeze and wipe
their eyes
and mouths with
their sleeves. it's
an ellis island
of communicable
diseases,
it's not good,
and you back away
slowly, then run
towards the tea
and lemons.

sand

sand in the bed.
infinitely small
beads of rock
scattered like
stars across
the sheets. there's
not a place you
can roll to
and find your peace,
to fall deeply
into that elixir
place you cling
to, called sleep.

vacation

but i am
on vacation,
your mother says
as you ask her
why not take
a trip, go somewhere
while you can.
and she laughs
and stirs
the pot. the steam
rises up into
her pink face
and white hair.
there is nowhere
i want to go
she says. i am
here, and that's
good enough.
you go, and tell
me all about
when you return.

nothing changed

the house left
as it was
when she
departed. her
purse on
the chair.
the lone plant
leaning towards
sunlight.
a dish in
the sink.
the sofa, with
a pillow
just so,
remembering
her weight
and curve
of her.
everything
waiting as
if she'll
be right back.
nothing
changed.

the dance of light

unwatched
at six a.m.
stepping out
into the bay,
feet sinking into
the silt of a
summer's green
soft wash below,
the water was
quickly over
my mouth, my
eyes, my nose,
and i could
see both ends
of my life in
that brief moment
at five,
the dance of
light, from water,
and sky.

drive thru liquor

i see you under
the palm trees
a coconut
in hand, cracked
open, the cool
slender liquid
white and dripping
on your chin.
biting into
the meat, like
sugar against
your teeth. i
don't see the box
you lie in,
the rags, the hair
a nest. the eyes
as blue as blue
can be, in
blue hawaii
i see
you under
the palm trees,
not here below
the neon. open
all night.
drive thru.

bones in the road

you can't
shake your
yesterdays.
they stick
despite your
smile, your
cover up of
joy and content
ment. there they
are, bones
on the road
you must travel
and step over
each day.

the elms and others

you can hear
them breathing.
the trees
as they sigh
between the rain
and sun,
moving towards
their own death
without remorse
or regret. they
swim gracefully
with hands
toward the sky,
rooted in
the blue earth.
their faith is no
faith. they just
are. alone
and yet together,
not unlike us
at all.

the doer

i'm going to egypt
in the fall
she tells me
over coffee, but
after a few nights
in venice. i'm
learning italian
while i sleep,
i put a plug in
my ear and it tells
me over and over
the phrases i'll
need to know
to get around
and buy things.
last night i
was in new york
and saw
the producers.
you'd love it, you
should go sometime.
my yoga instructor
is amazed at
the poses i can
do now after
only three
thousand classes.
she calls me
her favorite student
over the age of
fifty who still
eats cake.
this scarf i'm
wearing, yup,
it's true, i made
it while riding
the subway to work,
saving gas
and the environment
so that generations
after us can live.
it's biodegradable
and you can eat
it in a pinch.
i turned one of
my rooms into a garden.
i filled it with
two feet of black
top soil and
planted tomatoes
and peppers. you
should taste them.
i'll make you some
vegetarian lasagna
one night. oh,
and did i tell
you, i'm reading
every book on the
ny times best seller
list. and, now you'll
love this, i'm
writing a book too.
it's all about
the things that i
do, that others
don't do, but should.
it's been so
nice chatting, she
says. but i have
to go now. i'm
reading for the blind
at the library and
then i have to
drop off bread
at the shelter before
going to my church
to play the bells.
bye for now, stay
in touch. be a doer,
don't be a couch
potato little mister.

blue stones

you know these
trees
these stones
along the stream.
blue and grey
against
the color of a
new born sky.
you know them
all by name, by
the wisdom
of their quiet
voices,
in grief or joy,
they are
weathered wise
and like you,
they remain.

white onions

these onions
are making
me cry, i tell
her, as i stand
in the kitchen
peeling and
cutting, dicing.
i've never
seen you cry
before she says,
dabbing my
cheeks from
the hot tears
that roll down.
i love a man
who can open his
heart and cry.
but i'm not
crying really,
i insist, look,
i'm cutting onions.
i'm making a stew.
white onions.
look at me chop
chop chop.
go ahead she
says, patting
me on the back.
get it out
of your system.
there is nothing
to be ashamed of.
i knew you had
a sensitive side
hidden in there
somewhere. a heart
beats in you
afterall.

dancing fools

do you dance,
she says
licking
the end of
her milkshake
straw. pffft,
what, are you
kidding me, i
say. i love
to dance.
i take lessons
three nights
a week. oh, do
tell she says,
getting
excited. leaning
her chin
into her hands.
what kind of
dances are
you learning.
rumba, congo,
the watusi,
the twist, that
sort of thing,
i tell her.
oh my, she
says, aren't
you a pistol.
you have no
idea, i tell her.
do you hear that.
she puts her
ear up like
a dalmation,
hear what, she
says. that tapping,
that's my feet
below the table.
those feet
are on fire,
baby. she peeks
under the table
where my feet
are flopping
around, heel to
toe, etc.
you are something
she says, then
sucks the rest
of the milkshake
out of her cup
with one giant
slurp.

your tea is ready

your tea
is ready.
hear the whistle.
i watch how
you drop
in the lemon
the honey. then
blow on the lip
of the thin
hot water, as
brown as
the last leaf
fallen from
the tree. i'll
miss that too.

the slide

as you slip
down the silver
slide, buttery
smooth, for
the first
and last time,
it's a short
sweet glide to
the other side
of your life,
now isn't it?

the debate

they should wear
costumes to denote
who they really are.
standing up there
in expensive suits
and ties, well groomed
and pancaked up
with rouge. give newt,
and his chubby jowls,
a fork and knife
and a bib. for mitt
a beanie for his
head, and a bag
of marbles, all his.
for the other guy,
who's name escapes
me put a cape on
him, and a question
mark on his chest.
and the elder fellow,
a staff and a white
robe, and a tablet
of a story told
long ago. the best
and brightest are
smart to stay away
from the likes of this.

the pebble

the pebble in her
shoe, is her soul
unhappy at
the movement of
her feet across
the floor.
the pinch
of stone on heel
tells her each
day that things
aren't right. that
she needs to stop
and shake free
whatever it is
that's making her
sad, making
her angry. but
then what. what
will there be to
hold on to.

someone is missing

someone is missing.
it's in the news.
you lose track of
all those that have
lost their way or
who have been
snatched out of
their shoes and taken
someplace,
into the dark.
there's a baby
left in a car.
a mother crying.
the scenario rarely
varies. there is
weeping. there is
remorse. there is
confession and a trial.
a three act play.
someone is missing.
you read about it
as you drink your
coffee, eat your breakfast.
you try to shake
the words off
the newspaper, but
they cling tightly
with their small
ink black hands.
someone is missing.

the oak tree date

i'll be right back
you tell your
date whom you've just
met. you've abruptly
interrupted her
story about her
mother's hip
replacement and
the ramp that's
being built to
accomadate her
condition. there's
a tree in
the way, she tells
me, an old
oak tree that her
grandmother had
planted when she
was a little girl.
excuse me, you
say, and get up
and head towards
the bathroom.
when you get in
you throw cold
water onto your
face, you look
at your hands, they
are trembling. you
look into the mirror
and shake your head.
you can't do this
anymore. there is
a small window
above the sink
that you think you
can crawl out of
if you can get up
there. you manage
to climb up and
jimmy the window
open, but as you try
to pull yourself up
the sink cracks in
two and down you
go, breaking
the porcelain basin
into pieces, which
in turn snaps the pipes
spewing water like
a fire hydrant all
over you. the room
begins to spin
as you flail on
the filthy floor.
there is a knot on
your head, and you're
soaked. finally you
get up, collect yourself
and quietly leave.
you go back
to the table, your
shoes squeaking
on the floor, and
sit back down at
the table. what
happened your date
says. your head, it's
bleeding, why are you
all wet? it's nothing
you tell her. i'm
fine, now where were
you with that story.
the oak tree that was
in the way of your
mother's wheel chair
ramp? oh yes, oh yes,
she says, sipping her
margarita and chewing
on a calamari ring,
they chopped it down
and made a coffee table
out of it. if you ever
come over to my house
i'll show it to you.

understanding

there is room.
you find
the space.
you bring home
another bird
with a broken
wing. a cat
with one eye.
a three
legged dog.
you make them
comfortable.
there is
everything
here that they
need. you
understand
them. you don't
want their
love, their
affection.
you want them
to be free of
such things
that burden
us as humans.
they can come
and go as
they please,
the window
is always open,
the door ajar.
you understand
them.

without sleep

unable
to sleep
or stay awake
locked
somewhere in
between
while
the radiator
clangs
and neighbors
make love
against the wall.
there is rain.
there is
someone on
the street
just getting
home. he's
singing.
there is
someone telling
him to be quiet
it's late.
you close
your eyes
then open them.
morning is so
close, so
far away.

claw marks

those claw
marks on
the door,
are you
trying
to get out,
or get into
another
place or
perhaps
both.

the zombie next door

you suspect that
your neighbor may
be a zombie. she's
very very pale
and has dark circles
under her eyes.
she's incohorent at
times, with the hic
cups and always
seems to have smeared
lipstick, and
her clothes are
often on backwards.
on occasion she is
carrying her shoes
in her hands when
getting out of her
car. of course it's
three a.m. and i'm
just getting home
too. i may be wrong.

driven

behind the wheel
she's a dictator
in a foreign
country with no
red lights, all
lights mean go.
as her white
knuckles wrap
around the wheel.
these cars in
front of her,
or to the side
are her minions
that better heed
her horn and voice,
the gesture that
she waves while
on the way to
whole foods
to get some hummus
and organic
apples.

a feeling

you've left
something behind
or have
forgotten
something. an
iron on,
or light,
or the burner
on the stove.
perhaps the door
is unlocked
or a window
unlatched.
milk left on
the counter.
it's just a
feeling, like
the one i have
when you leave
without a kiss
goodbye.

notes on the door

where is this
relationship going
the note on
the door says. it's
stuck there by
a pen knife
right next to
the peep hole
which you looked
out of before
retrieving it
in your slippers
and pajama bottoms.
there's actually
several notes.
one from your
mother about
sunday dinner,
another from
your neighbor
about picking
up after your
dog, and one
from your son
who wants to know
your atm pin
number just
for emergencies
while in LA.
what's up with
all these hand
written notes, you
wonder out loud
to your dog.
doesn't anyone
text anymore,
e mail? we both
shrug simultaneously
then go fix
breakfast.

ch ch ch changes...

i admit, i'm slow
to change, if i
change at all.
reading a book
on an electronic
tablet, or having
all my music
plugged into my
ear at one time,
doesn't melt
my butter.
and speaking of
butter, it was very
hard to give
up my butter churn,
not to mention,
my wind up watch
and stereo with
speakers in
the corner.
the horse, had
to go, obviously,
it was too hard
on him as well
as me, living in
a highrise.
i no longer hunt
or fish, or trap
though. ever
since safeway
began carrying
fish and meats
i put away the bow
and arrow,
the fishing rods
and lobster pots.
so that's good.
i am evolving.

shopping for jeans

you need a new
pair of jeans, so
you go shopping.
you want something
stylish and hip,
but not too hip.
after all you
just hit your
fiftieth birthday
for the eighth
year in a row.
the ones you have
are baggy in
the butt, but
tight everywhere
else from eating
too much christmas
pie. they are
getting thread
bare from a
thousand washes.
you like the new
skinny jeans, but
they are so tight
that parts of
you turn blue,
you can't even
button them despite
the tag saying
that they are
your size. they
squeeze your kidneys
so much that you
suddenly have to
run to the store bathroom.
that done, you
go to the next pile
and find the ones
with embroidery
on the back pockets.
fancy stitching
in various colors.
you think that maybe
you have stumbled
into the teenage girl
department, but no.
they are for men,
but perhaps not
so manly men. there's
another stack where
it looks like
someone has taken
a cheese shredder
to the fabric, you
look for a sales
person to report
this vandalism, but
there's no one around.
then there's the
dirty jeans and the ones
that are faded, as if
bleach had been added
to the mix. where
are the lee's,
the wranglers, the
levis...oh, there
they are, where
those farmers and
heavy machine
operators are
flipping through
the stacks. it's
really over, you
think to yourself
it truly is.

new ice

it starts with
a blink,
a forgotten
name or place
you've been to.
the lost key,
the parked
car. the missed
appointment.
the place you
were to meet
your friend, what's
her name?
a meal you
had just
yesterday. what
was it?
steak or fish.
linguini?
your feet
have suddenly
found a thin
coat of ice
beneath them,
as you hold
on and try
to remember
dry land
in spring.

bug world

you read about
a bug in national
geographic
that is going
extinct. there
might be one or
two left in
the entire world.
both were last
seen in africa,
somewhere along
the ivory coast.
so you decide to
go there, to save
these bugs. put
them into an empty
jar with holes
in the lid so
they can breathe.
you will keep
them alive until
they breed more
bugs. you will
be the one to keep
the species
going. you google
africa on
your computer as
a stink bug crawls
across the screen.
he's very very slow.
with his grey
medallion back,
and long spindly
legs. his friend
is hanging onto
the curtain where
you flicked him ten
minutes ago. moving
along at a snails
pace. you knock
the one on your screen
in the same direction
but he hits the wall
with a muted thud.
this doesn't seem
to injure him at all
as he shakes his
head, rolls over,
and begins his long
trek back up the leg
of your desk.
at this point you've
lost interest in
the bugs about to
go extinct. you're
thinking that maybe
it's okay. maybe they
had a good trillion
year run, and that's
good enough. you
see how far away
africa is and realize
that's it's way
too far to go anyway
and you don't really
have that kind
of time, or luggage.

Portland

she pokes her
head
outside
the box
and stares
at me,
sitting
on the couch
across
the room.
what are you
doing, i ask
her. she's
cut a hole
into the top
with which
her head
protrudes.
i'm thinking
she says.
i'm
thinking.
you've changed
margaret, i
tell her.
somehow since
your trip to
portland,
you've changed.

part time

i look out my
office window
and see a man
walking down
the street
wearing my clothes,
he's hand in
hand with my
wife and children.
my dog is on
a leash in his
other hand.
he's wearing
my hat too,
and shoes.
the watch i got
for christmas
is on his wrist.
he looks just
like me, but not
so tired
and worn. i cross
the street
to ask him
how he does it,
how does he
manage to live
so stress free
with my family
when i'm not
around. he
laughs and pats
me on the back,
it's only
part time, he says.
just part time.
i'm just filling
in until you
get home.