two sisters

two twisters
dark
with teeth
burrow in
towards
you on
the wind
scattered
streets
and you
seek
a shelter
below
ground before
you are spun
towards
an unknown
place
with a
perilous
landing.
there is no
place to hide
so you
begin to spin
yourself
as fast as
you can
and join in
on the fun.

blue shoes

she slips
into her blue
shoes, shrugs
as she looks
into the mirror
and says, why
not. and
everyone loves
them. the whole
day, it's where
did you get
those shoes,
i want a pair
just like that.
and when she
goes home that
night, sits
on the edge
of her bed
with the stars
across the window,
and takes
off her shoes,
she wonders
what else in
her life
could she take
a chance on
to make
things brighter.

the unseen

with your
headlight
cracked and
dark, one
beam showing
you a skewed
notion
of highway
and the deer
on the side
standing
still chewing
on something
green you
turn off
the radio
and listen
head tilted
for what isn't
seen.

what i want

sugar poured
in a line
and the ants
find it.
one by black
one
towards the
source.
they by pass
the spilled
wine,
the opened
milk, the fruit
cut and left
in morning
light. it's
the sugar
that they want,
as i do
with you.

mountains in the distance

let's go mountain
climbing today,
your new girlfriend
says over a bowl
of oatmeal. it
was a good night,
so you are prone
to giving in to
bad ideas, for
a moment.
you try not to
roll your eyes
but they flip
slightly back into
your head and she
sees you. are you
rolling your eyes
at me? well, yes,
i am, you say,
blowing on a hot
spoon of oatmeal.
we can drive over
to that mountain,
that one out the window
and go climb it,
she says.
let's be adventurous.
you look out the
window and see
the blue ridge
mountains about
two hundred miles
away. but we don't
have any ropes
or pick axes, you
tell her, or
sherpas to carry
up our lunch
and oxygen tanks.
do you love me,
or don't you,
she says, standing
up at the table.
hands on her hips.
of course i do,
you tell her.
these last three
days getting to
know you have been
the best three days
of my life, in fact
i would climb
the highest...umm,
well, let me rephrase
that. i get it,
she says. you were
just using me
for sex, weren't you.
that's it, she says.
we're breaking up.
you're not who i
thought you were.
okay, you tell her.
hey, don't forget
your girl stuff in
the bathroom, your
toothbrush and
those creams and
whatever, but she doesn't
hear you as the door
slams and she drives
away towards
the mountains
where the snow
clouds are descending.

holy water

she had a statue
of Jesus
in the livingroom.
about three
feet high.
it lit up with
a white light
emanating from
his blue eyes.
in the hall
was mary,
gleaming
in porcelain,
then the saints
in the bedroom
and the palm
leaves
nailed to the wall.
the rosary beads
on the counter,
next to bowl
of holy water.
so it surprised me
when she yelled
out from the
kitchen, kicking
off her high heels,
how i wanted my
martini, dirty,
dry, or extra
dry.

chasing the dime

you drop
a dime
and it rolls
away.
you see
the silver
edge in
the overhead
store lights.
rolling,
it's just
a dime, but
it feels
like a sin
or something
akin to that,
that makes you
give chase.
but away it
goes, around
the produce
section,
down each aisle
past the milk
the meat,
the magazines,
where you stop
for a minute
and pick up
newsweek. the dime
waits for you
and then keeps
rolling. rolling.

when you get
your social
security
check you go
down to the bank
and cash it in for
for quarters
placing them
all into a red
tin bucket, you
call your friend
irma, tell
her to put her
knitting needles
down and come
on, let's roll.
then you get on
the greyhound
bus and go to
atlantic city.
it takes all
day, two packs
of cigarettes
and a half a
dozen gin fizzes
but finally all
the quarters
are gone.

go south

i'm cold.
my bones ache
with
night. the white
of winter
has set
me down
and holds
me in
a shiver.
i need
a warmer place
to be,
a different
point of
view, the brim
of white
sand on
water,
come
with me.

louise

i named a star
after you, you tell
her one morning
in an apologetic
mood. oh really.
she says. i didn't
know you could
even see the stars
coming in so late
last night smelling
like a bottle
of christmas gin.
no sweetie, you
whisper, there was
one big star brighter
than all the others
that was right above
me, shining down
into my eyes, it
was brilliant. and
i said, i name
this star louise.
the love of my life.
that was the hall
light, she says.
i found you on
the floor last night
when you stumbled
in and passed out.
and who the hell
is louise?

a new day

you begin
your own religion.
it's simple
and clean
based on a glass
of water.
drink it and
believe, you
tell your
congregation
of one, which
is you. no
kneeling, no
throwing oneself
onto the floor
with self pity
and guilt.
just drink it
down. and be
good. today is
a new day.

the neighbor's mail

your neighbor
the one you
seldom talk to
brings you mail.
and says here.
this is yours.
they made a mistake
and delivered it
to me. i'm sorry
that i opened it.
then you hand
him his, also
opened, and
say, hey,
i'm sorry too.

snow falling

she sits
and feeds you
builds a
fire with her
lips. her
hands across
the waters
of your soul.
she sits
and tells you
stories. tells
you things
and you listen
as she moves
towards you
like untouched
snow.

the singing dog

i came home from work
the other day and heard
a guitar being strummed
in the back room. there
was some low howling too.
i took a look and it
was my dog, buster,
sitting up in the chair
plucking out some
chords and singing about
how his wife left him
on account of his drinking
and smoking and chasing
french poodles all over
town. he nodded at me when
i came in and i nodded
back. i stood in the doorway
and listened as he sang
about how a pit bull
killed his mother
when it hopped a fence
one cold winter's night,
and how his father,
a guard dog,
worked in the railroad
yard until a head on
crash of propane cars
blew up nineteen
men and one woman
who everyone thought
was a man. she went
by normam, but her real
name was norma. it's
a pretty good song,
and when he finished
i had a tear in my eye.
i gave him a few claps
then said, okay boy.
ready for your walk?
which made his tail wag
excitedly and his tongue
flop out. so off we went.

google her

i know where
you live, she
says over the phone.
i googled you too.
i know everything
about you. it's
horrifying. so
what, you answer
back. much of
what's on there
is untrue and pure
fabrications
made up by my mother.
your mother, she
says. why we she
do such a thing?
google her, and
you'll see what
i'm talking about.
friend her on
facebook. and like
her on linkedin,
tweet her on twitter.
it's no longer
just rotary dial
up with her. i
forgot her birthday,
and well there
were severe
repercussions.

dressed to go

blue
is my color.
and black
a second
choice.
but i could
live with
white as
well if
the weather
was warm
enough. i
can't wear
red, or
green. yellow
does nothing
for me either.
keep me away
from plum, or
orange, please.
so remember
this when
it's my time
to go
and you need
to dress me
for that party.

youth

the puppy
in the yard
wrestling
with a stick,
a ball, his
tail. he
finds his
shadow
fascinating.
a bird,
a bug, a turtle
under shell.
everything
is new
and fun
mysterious,
you'd like
to go
back there
too,
perhaps undo
so much that
is done.

at three a.m.

the rain startles
you awake.
the windows
are open.
you feel the cold
wet drops
on your face.
there is a light
on in the hall
and someone
walks by.
it's not a dream
you think.
this is real.
someone says
go back to sleep
everything will
be fine
in the morning.
but nothing is
wrong you answer
back, she stops
to look at you
and smiles, but
she doesn't answer
as she turns
off the light
goes down the steps
and disappears.
you don't know
who she is, and
yet you miss her
already.

protest

you see a man
in the park
with a sign.
you look closer
and see that there
is nothing written
on either side
so you approach
him and ask him
what gives. what
is he protesting.
nothing, he says,
i'm fine for
the moment, but
give it time,
give it time.

the cheese channel

what's with all
the cheese you ask
her as you look
in the fridge for
something good to
eat, like a slice
of pie, some thin
mint cookies. there
are wedges of cheese,
everywhere, blue,
yellow, red.
all of them sealed
tight in plastic
and named after
small towns in france.
you're killing our
budget with these
cheeses, you say.
but she's not paying
attention as she
cuts a wedge onto
small triangular
crackers. i saw them
do this on tv,
she says. now just
a little mint
jelly and voila!
here try one.

the importance of sports

your shoe lace
snaps as you run
to the subway.
your briefcase
opens and papers
fly. you dribble
coffee onto
your clean white
shirt. you forgot
to let the dog
out, water
the plants and lock
the front door.
you didn't kiss
your wife goodbye
because she didn't
come home last
night. but all
is well. you read
in the morning
paper that your
team won with
a last second
shot from the three
point line. it's
going to be a
very good day.

i made this stuff up

they line up
around the block
for your new
book of poetry
called 'i just made
this stuff up'.
you've changed
the face of poetry
with this powerful
new book. it's your
masterpiece,
the one that you
will be remembered
for until the end
of time. walt whitman
has nothing on you.
sylvia plath, emily,
both of you, go
to your rooms.
charles bukowski, pfft.
and when they ask
you to sign the cover
you oblige, after all
they are your
adoring fans and love
you and every word
you write. you haven't
decided yet who
will play you in
the movie, it's a
toss up at the moment,
clooney, pitt, perhaps,
some unknown with
incredible hair, tall
and lean like a lion,
although lions aren't
really that tall,
or lean, so maybe
someone a regular size.
poetry, who would
have thought
that anyone would
have read or even
cared. okay, i need
a nap now.

more work to do

you get your statement
in the mail.
you have enough
money. enough to ride
out the rest of
your years with relative
ease. you are done.
finished. all the hard
work has paid off
and now you can rest
easy. but suddenly
your eye twitches,
you have an itch along
the side of your
neck. your mouth
goes dry. you get up
from the table and put
the statement away
in a drawer and pretend
you never saw it.
you set the alarm,
you go to bed. tomorrow
you have more work
to do, more miles
to go before you sleep.

possibly happy

you come home
to your gold fish,
she swims gently
through the stone
castle set
at the bottom
on white stones.
the green leaves
blow and sway
underwater.
she doesn't ask
how your day
was, what's on
your mind, or
what's for dinner.
she just rises
to the surface
with an open mouth
and waits. she
doesn't question
where you've been,
or your love
for her or ask
you to do something
fun this weekend.
she's very content
and possibly
happy. you get
along so well.

the birthday card

your mother
sends you a birthday
card. it's a week
late, and there is
a red sauce stain
on the envelope.
but that's
okay. there's
a ten dollar
bill tucked inside
and she's drawn
little hearts
next to the words
love mom. with
seven children
it's always been
tough for her to
remember each
birthday, but it's
even harder now with
the light fading.

the internet blues

you met a woman
once who chewed
tobacco and played
the banjo while
sitting on her
front porch. she
wore high
laced boots which
may or may not
have been her mother's,
she liked to tap
them loudly
while she sang
in a high falsetto
voice and strummed
out a wild song
about coal mining
and a tragic cave in
which she blamed
the government for.
she handed you a
harmonica, wiping if
off with her long
red hair, saying it
was her uncle's, who
died of lupus last
spring. he's buried
right over there
by the well, she said.
she tells you to
sit down and join
in. so you did,
blowing your lungs
out until you
blacked out and
rolled onto the porch
where her hound
dogs licked your
face until you
woke up. she nudged
you with her boots
and said, wake up
boy, i got biscuits
in the oven that
are ready to come
out. it seems
you should have
read her profile
more clearly and not
just looked
at the cute freckled
face photo.

you attempt

to live the day
without metaphor,
the ice you scrape
off your window
does not represent
the small
difficulties of
your life. and
the flowers on
the side of the road
confused and up
in strange warm
weather are not
hope, or love.
and the moutains
in the distance,
blue and folded
over into grey are
not places, or
heights that you
will never reach.
they are just
mountains. the
bridges that you
cross, are just
that, too.

butter

you are
drawn
towards her
like a knife
is drawn
towards
butter,
hoping that
it's soft,
not cold.

she climbs
aboard the boat
wearing slippery
new shoes
and grabs
hold of the rail.
it's cold and windy.
he's wearing
a captain's hat.
a black robe
and smoking
a long white
cigarette. two
glasses of
champagne wobble
on the table as
the boat sways
from side to side.
he takes her
hand and leads
her to a small
table on deck.
the galley
is below, he
says. as is
the stateroom,
the library and
the head. she
smiles politely
turning her cheek
as he leans in
to steal a kiss.
you'll get your
sea legs
shortly, he says,
and smiles.
the boat thuds
against the pier,
metal squeals,
pipes bend. a flag
ripples hard
behind her. let
me bring dinner up.
please sit, and
relax, he says,
then goes below.

before hand

you start
with the books
picking them
up from
the floor,
the tables,
the bathroom
one even
on the kitchen
counter.
van gogh's
letters. you
toss the dead
flowers
that droop
in a vase.
then you sweep,
you mop.
you spray
the mirrors
and the glass
you wipe.
you put a shine
on things,
a lemon
smell into
the air.
you shake a
throw rug
out onto
the porch.
you fluff a
pillow. you
change the sheets,
pour a glass
of wine.
then you wait.
but she's
always late,
so you still
have time.

her flowers

she protects her
flowers.
obeys the seasons
of when to
plant
when to water
or prune. when
to leave them
alone. she
knows too when
to cut
them in bunches
place them
in vase upon a
table in
her favorite
light filled room.

tropical island

you dream
of an island.
of palm trees,
coconuts tumbling
to the white sand
while women
in bikinis
bring you tropical
drinks and act
like they like you.
you dream of the warm
blue ocean rolling
up onto your tanned
feet. you take a bite
of pineapple,
you sip your drink,
you sigh as you
feel a pair of
long soft hands
rubbing lotion
onto your shoulders,
then you get out
of bed, get dressed
and go outside
to scrape the ice
off your windshield
before heading
to work.

not far

not far, you
say. that's
how far, not
very far at all.
we are almost
there. look
ahead, it's
coming. it won't
be long. not
far. keep
looking.

indelible love

the road taken

if i could write
a poem for
the man below
under the street
wiping dirt from
his brow
with the dirt
on his hand,
or the waitress
in pink bringing
coffee, or
the salesman
with his satchel
of bibles, or
cleaners. if i
could say a word
or two for
the woman at
the register,
the man driving
a bus, or weeding
the lawn. a single
word to bring
something more
something that inches
them towards
and easier road.
i would, as i
hope someone would
for me.

detroit blues

you remind me
of detroit, she
says, holding
my hand in
a farewell
gesture. a place
i want to
leave. but she
doesn't let
go just yet.
in the old days
the city was alive
and dirty but
the wheels
turned. the streets
were filled with
new chevrolets.
it wasn't hope,
but it was
food on the table.
a sunday free.
but not now.
so much is boarded
up and bullets
rain, there is
a chalk line
on every corner.
you remind me of
detroit, she says,
before the factories
closed, before
the exile. she
let's go. you need
to move she says
if you want to see
me again. you
need to move.
someplace sunny,
where you can
close your eyes
and breathe.

at the window

she stays
near the window.
waiting
for another
season
to make
the flowers
rise, to melt
the snow,
to fill
the tree
with leaves,
she waits
for something
like love
to arrive.

carrots

your neighbor has
a beautiful garden.
roses, and flowers.
bushes. birds of
all stripe and
feather fly in,
bees from a far
come to kneel in
a buzzing way at
the altar of her
yard. it's eden
without the fall.
then you look
back to your
yard where you
have a line of
carrots planted
in dry dirt.
and you see a
rabbit sitting
on a stool,
filing his nails
yawning, waiting
for them to ripen.

zoo

you decide
to free all
the animals in
the zoo. you
find the keys
in the zoo
keeper's office
and one by one
you open each
cage, each pen,
but nothing
moves, they
smile and say
no. unlike you
we want
to stay. we
are content.

painting

you can't explain
beauty. what
colors work
upon the canvas.
the shape
of someone's lips,
or nose, or
chin. the length
of an arm, or leg.
no description
can define how
this works. how
someone
can stand there
under a moonless
night and look
this way.

sometimes
between the lines,
the words
spoken, when
sil

you leave
some words
on the table.
some things left
unsaid. a portion
of your meal
left on plate,
the glass
not empty.
you'd rather
keep things
unfinished,
a light kiss,
a brush of hands.

broken sky

the sky with her
open blue arms
and billowing
white dresses
turns away
as you walk
into a darkening
wood. it knows
nothing of the loss
you carry.
everything
goes still when
you snap branches
underfoot, splash
through
the thin creek,
the snow rabbit
round like the rock
it sits behind,
the fox, angled
still before
his dash
towards red brush.
you look up
through the hands
and fingers
of grey trees
to the broken
blue glass of
sky, and you too
stay still,
breath, and sigh.

birth day

nothing slows
down, but you.
it all has
speeded up.
the earth
has circled
the sun once
more and you
are still here
in your
diminished
way. the cake
has more
candles. the
lines are
deeper. the step
more cautious
in the rain.
but it's still
good to eat,
to sleep,
to make love
and to live
in the mystery
of another day.

you wake up one
morning with a mole
in the middle of your
forehead. out of nowhere
this brown circular
somewhat flat mole
has a appeared. you
can't believe it and
immediately rush to
your doctor mr. web
md online. you type in
how to remove moles
at home and come up
with suggestions.
as you peruse the
variety of methods
with which to remove
it, the doorbell rings.
it's your cleaning
lady maria, who gasps
when she sees the mole.
i thought you were
catholic she says. what?
you say. what are you
talking about. have you
converted to hindu?
it's a mole, maria. any
suggestions on getting
rid of it. yes, she
says. my cousing can
do that for you, he
fixes dents in cars,
but he also removes
moles. he ties a string
around it until the
blood supply is cut off
and then he pours acid
on it.

reading

in the sleep
browned
afternoon
of trees
swaying
against
the may sky
that rises blue
with cathedral
clouds, before
the playground
below the window
as the teacher
turns off
the light,
opens
the book to
read and says,
put your heads
on the desk.
and she reads slowly
at first delving
deep into
the old papered
story turning
pages in our
ears, our lives
still not quite
our own, we
disappear
into the tale
as it unfolds.
and that memory
as sweet and
mournful as it
is, comes back
again, then
again.

i must tell
you, as you
draw a chalk
line in
the shape
of me upon
the floor.
the lint
you find
on me.
is mine
and mine
alone.
the blonde
strand,
the red
curl,
well, that's
a different
story.
and the perfume
that you smell
is not yours.
i'm confessing.

your hand
with blue veins
below the pale,
across
the bow of me
in morning
light, your
breathing
more like
secrets being
whispered
as i blink
myself awake.
your hand open
awaiting mine
to take you
across
the sea of night.