it's not about that

your phone
is not ringing,
but it doesn't
mean you're
lonely.
sure, it's
raining,
and the cat
is under
the bed and yes,
you can
hear the buzz
of laughter
and dancing
in the
apartment
above you, but
what do they
know?
this is not
about being
lonely,
or being
alone. it's
about something
else.
you swear it is.

waterproof

you remove
your hat and toss
it aside, heavy
with rain.
you take your coat
off next,
hang it near
the front door
so that it
drips against
the linoleum
tiles, puddle
where you can mop
up later, then
you sit on the
steps to take
off your expensive
water proof boots,
unlacing the strings
that burn tight
against your chins.
your socks come
off next. you ring
them out in
the kitchen sink.
soaked.
such are promises
unkept.

too big

surprising you
for your birthday,
in the dark,
in bed
you nearly poke
your eye
out on something
plastic
and hard where
it used
to be soft
and sexy.
the light goes
on and she
says, oh my,
i'm so sorry.
can you see,
there's a bruise
there, right
below your eye.
i guess i should
have told
you about
my surgery.
are they too big?
i need ice,
you say,
lying back
onto the pillow.

the long day

a chill
in the air.
stiff
wind.
ice on
the rail.
step gingerly
down
the steps.
open
the mail box
and take
out the flyer
for
chicken
wings on sale.
cottage
cheese,
flu shots,
half price.
the electric
bill.
grab
the rail
and go back in.
oprah
is on at four.

the parade

a few years ago
lost in a traffic
jam in washington
dc. you took a wrong
turn and another
wrong turn and ended up
at the front of a
barricade where a cop
on a horse
put his leather
gloved hand out
and told you to stop.
you can't move
until the parade
is over, he said
behind his dark
sunglasses, his
crazy big horse
staring you down too.
what parade you said?
searching the streets.
and then it began.
cowboys
and indians,
whooping it up
with drums and cap
guns. men in long gowns
and wigs, sashaying
to and fro,
like marelene dietrich
and greta garbo.
men in diapers holding
bottles,
sucking on binkys,
craddling teddy bears.
men dancing on the back
of flat bed trucks,
gyrating to donna
summers, shaking it
in short cut
off jeans.
then the leathered
men arrived in shiny black,
muscled with mustaches
and goatees,
the boas, the sequins.
the sassy screams
and chants.
it was a long parade.
interesting, but not
your cup of tea. perhaps
next time you thought,
you'd take the
rock creek parkway,
around.

the bribe

have you met
my friend,
mr. lincoln
you say to the bouncer
at the door,
waving the five
in front of
his beaded
chops,
hoping
to get in sooner
so as not
to stand in line
in the cold
with the other
neer do wells.
he laughs.
then spits.
lincoln, ha,
he says, get back
in line, and
find another
president
in your wallet.

in the night

you've taken
to wandering
the streets
late at night when
most everyone else
is asleep.
you get to know
the drunks staggering
home thinking
about tomorrows
drink, and dealers
counting their money,
yawning,
the strippers
going home
to put clothes on.
the alley cats
and rats, stop and
tip their hats
when you pass, for
a moment taking a break
from what they
do. even the full moon
has a twisted smile
on his face as he
watches you wander
through the night
neither coming
or going.

the lover's quarrel

enough with these
words, she says,
and pulls a sword
out of nowhere.
she tosses you one
and says, get up.
en garde. let's finish
this, one way
or the other.
so you kick the chair
aside, catching
the sword, and taking
your stance.
till the death, you say,
touching yours
against hers.

listening

no one
listens anymore.
they wait,
until
you're finished
then tell
you what's
on their mind,
then ask
you a question
about what
you just told
them. you
do the same
sometimes,
bored with what
you hear,
turning it
off in your
mind, like
a drip drip
drip of the
bathroom faucet,
squeezing
the knob
closed.

to thine own self

to thine
own self be true
and yet
which self
are we speaking
of.
the morning one,
half awake
with
words
or thoughts
entangled by dreams.
or the day
self, wrapped
tightly
in the gears
and springs
of work.
or perhaps,
the night self,
the tired
and weary one
from the long
hours since waking,
hungry for love,
for food,
for rest before
the next
begins again.

here's one for you

write me a love
poem,
she says
from the bed
her hair
draped
across the pillows.
tell me all
the things
you love about me.
tell me why
i'm so wonderful
and perfect
in everything
i do.
tell me how soft
my kisses
are, how sweet
i smell,
the kindness
of my touch,
tell me, tell
me please, in a
poem how much you
love me
and can't live
without me,
can you do it today
after you
take the trash
out, and make
me breakfast
and tea, then scrape

the ice 

off my windows

please. oh pretty

please.

the white flag

the white
flag goes up.
you keep ten
in your pocket
to raise
throughout
the day.
there is no
fight left
in you,
no stand you
need, or want
to take.
you throw
your hands into
the air
and say look.
i surrender,
let's just go
our separate
ways.

football prayers

in the hard
and desperate
times
of illness,
or broken heart,
of poverty
and confusion,
you seek god.
you get
on your knees
and bow
your head.
you petition
him for answers.
for quick
deliverance, but
he's busy,
it seems
with football
season,
guiding the ball
left or
right
depending on
his team
that sunday.

kindness

how kind of you
to not say
what you really want
to say.
to bite your tongue
and look the other way.
how gentle and sweet
your heart is,
to swallow whole
your true feelings
and look the other
way. how kind it
is as friends, true
friends, to keep
hidden what lies
below the surface.
how kind of you
to be this way.

no moral code

the worm
at work
is silent in
his ways.
moving slowly
through
a fallen apple
to be where
he needs to be,
and the moth
does
the same
upon a leaf,
and the caterpilar
has no
moral code
to speak of,
nor the bee
who stings
a hand,
or a bird
who pecks
and pecks
towards a
home within
a given tree.

points of view

when you wrote
in the first person
someone told
you to try another point
of view, and so you did,
and when you wrote
in the third
person, again you
were taken
to task and asked to
try another way of
saying what you want
to say. you are slowly
losing points
of view, but never
ever out of words
or things to say.

who doesn't?

you want
to lick the spoon
of love. bake
a cake
not measured
short
in tablespoons
of non fat
butter,
saccharine,
or saltless
salt.
you want a
real cake,
you want to see
it rise
in the oven.
you want to take
it out warm
then iced,
and feed
it to your
lips and mouth
with your bare
eager hands,
you want love
without a fork,
without
a knife. you want
the real cake.
who doesn't?

the brights

the brightness
of the sun
conceals life
more thoroughly
than darkness
ever can. it
layers the day
with what we see
in colors.
the truth is
hidden, tucked
neatly away
in the prisms
of our eyes.
wanting yellows
to be more
yellow, reds,
and greens,
the bright
palettes of love,
likewise.

the names

names
are checked
off,
people fired,
new
faces hired.
click, click
and
click again.
the paper
crumbled then
tossed
across the room.
it circles
the can
and falls softly
onto
the bottom.
how quickly
we move on.

the closed book

she is
a closed book,
a latched window
with the shade
drawn.
she's the cellar
you can't
get into.
the attic door
that won't pull
down.
she is the lock
that the key
can't turn,
the car that
won't start.
she's the oven
of varying
uncertain degrees.
a horse that
won't break,
she's an impenetrable
fog over
the depths
of an ancient sea.

jail bird

you visit her
in jail
and she says
in a hoarse
whisper, you've
got to get me outta
here jimmy, you
don't know what
it's like.
i'm dying in here.
dying i tell you.
i slept with
one eye open
the whole night,
and i made
a shiv out of
a chapstick tube.
look in my mouth,
i'm hiding it
under my tongue.
well maybe, just
maybe, little miss
you shouldn't be
driving like
a maniac on the highway.
how many speeding
tickets have
you had this year.
five, six, seven.
she looks down
at her shoes
that flop open
because they don't
have shoelaces.
i'm a changed woman,
honest, jimmy.
when i get out of
here, i'm in the right
lane for now on,
just like you.
just like you jimmy.
but you have to bail
me out, you just
have to. don't make
me beg. i'll cook
you a pot roast when
i get outta here, i'll
bake you a cake.
anything, anything,
just throw down
my bail.
mashed potatoes?
sure jimmy, gravy
too. promise.

vagabond poser

out of work
again
you roll up a
bag of
clothes
and tie them
to the end
of a stick.
you hop on
a box car
rolling slowly
south.
you figure you
can pick oranges
in florida
for a few months,
but your grande
starbuck's cup
of extra
hot vanilla
latte,
skim, with
your name
scribbled
on the side
gives you
away and the other
vagabons cheer
and laugh
through their
broken teeth
as they shove you
off into
the gravel,
holding your cup
high so as
not to spill
it's contents.

settling

as the box lowers
into the fresh
cut grave
and the dirt
settles down
upon it
she remembers
the chair she took
as a child,
wanting one by
the window, not
in front
near a door.
she recalls
the boy she married,
not tall,
or attractive,
or even smart, but
just kind enough
to be hers
and be liked
by others.
then there was
the house not on
the water, but
further into town,
near the train
station, where
her dishes rattled.
the job she worked
at for a lifetime
was good enough
as well,
the money short,
the hours long,
the work itself mundane,
she could have
done much more.
and the dress she
wanted, not the green
one she wore,
but the one
in the window,
blue and bright
as an april sky.
it's still there,
forevermore.

cut and rewind

the story ends
the way you wanted
it to end.
the last franes
of the film
holding the final
kiss. the guy
gets the girl
the bad guy dies.
they ride away
on horses into
the sunset, but
cut. rewind.
go back and tell it
more like it really
is. the bad guy
gets the girl,
because he is more
interesting,
he has a scar
and a story
that won't put her
to sleep,
the good guy goes
to jail for things
he never did
but wanted to.
there are no
horses either,
there are sled dogs
maybe
because of
global warming.

angry at something

you're angry
at something,
or someone,
but you don't
know what
or who it is.
something's not right.
there is a bruise
on your soul
that you don't know
how it got there.
it's black
and blue, pulsing
as you sort backwards
through your day,
who you spoke,
or listened to.
it weakens you,
this anger,
makes you limp
down the street
with the others
who are limping too.

sphinx

it remains
a mystery,
the silence
that women can
hold within
them.
you can't even
scratch the surface
to reach
the place
where they reside.
the truth
will not set
you free
with them, but
confuse you
even more.
they carry more
words
than we as men
could ever
lift
and yet when
they want to
they can turn
into a stone
like sphinx,
silent
in the desert
sun.

witches

with her
cat
she delves
in black magic
with a boiling
pot to stir,
sticks pins
into vodoo
dolls
and throws
spells
without blinking
a green
crossed eye, she
pulls hexes
out of thin
air.
she rides on
an old bent
broom across
the dark cold
sky,
silhouetted
by a harvest
moon, she's
not the kind
of girl
you make long
term plans
with, but she's
a great kisser.

stepping on a nail

you step
on a nail
and as it slides
through
your boot,
and punctures
the soul
of your soft
foot,
passing
through a
to be bloodied
sock,
you think if
only i had
taken a
different route,
another
path in my
life,
this would not
have happened.
but the wound
will heal,
it always
has before.

new kitchen

you want a new kitchen.
a new stove,
one that has a
magic button,
so when you push it
a turkey dinner
arrives
in minutes,
and a new fridge
with all the bells
and whistles.
something with two
swinging doors
and a freezer
below, you want
music coming
out of it, martinis,
or red wine
from the door,
you want it to make
ice cream for
you on a hot
summers day.
you want a new kitchen,
and someone
to keep it clean
like a svelte french
maid.

thin ice

you are cautious
with your words,
your tone of talk,
walking gently
across the blue ice
of her.
you don't swim
well in cold
water and there's
no one around
with a warm rope
to save you
when it all cracks
and down you go.

the laughing buddha

someone brings
a crying
baby into the room of
the long white
restaurant with
soiled red carpet.
she looks to be
at least five
months
pregnant, her
face is red,
blotched with
raspberry spots,
a stroller is pulled
behind her,
a bag
of diapers, small
blankets and a
bag of bottles are
draped over
her shoulder.
the father
is not far behind,
squared jawed
with a cap on.
three small
boys of
decreasing height
are in front
of him,
touching
each chair and
kicking one
another.
they are seated
at a table in back
of the chinese
restaurant.
where they loudly
sit.
the children
drumming and poking
one another
with chopsticks.
there is no music,
no joy, or conversation.
just the sound
of knives and forks,
the clinking of white
plates, glasses full
of pink flowered
drinks, called zombies.

drunk by noon

drunk by noon,
she staggers into
the room
where you hang her paper
and sits.
she lights a
cigarette
and says, want one,
do you smoke.
you look back
at her and say no.
drink? she says.
i can fix you a bloody
mary if you want,
i'm having one,
i like them spicy.
she laughs.
i like everything
spicy. she takes
out a celery
stalk and gives it
a long slow lick.
my husband's not
coming back
for a few days.
can i fix you lunch?
i bet your shoulders
hurt after a long
day of hanging
wallpaper, don't
they, she says,
blowing smoke
in your direction?
you shrug and say,
no, not really,
it's what i do.
well, i'm going upstairs
she says, if you
need anything,
just holler or
knock on the door,
i'll be taking
a nap. nice job,
she says, pushing by
you, her hand
touching your back.
nice job.

the long drive

it's a long drive
home in the rain,
in the fog,
on black
empty streets,
with your headlights
on, your hand turns
the dial but
all the stations
are wrong,
you settle on
silence, the sound
of your tires
grabbing the hard
wash of road.
the thump
of wipers against
the windsheild.
farmland
rises on either
side, as you
hug the right
lane, in no hurry,
letting everyone
pass you by,
the winter fields
are barren and cold
with black cattle
lying in the dirt.
you see someone in a
blue shirt staring out
a window in
a farmhouse.
it's a long
drive home,
in the rain,
in the fog,
alone.

the quiet

a dog who
won't bark, or
beg,
a cat
without claws
or any
meow
whatsover,
makes it hard
to know
what they want.
the same goes
for you, when
you turn
your head
and keep silent.

apple pie

you bake
a lovely
apple pie
and set it on
the sill
to cool
as you change
your clothes
and get ready
for your date.
you think how
wonderful you are
baking a pie
for someone
you almost care
about,
how thoughtful
and kind
you must be.
you are very
happy with yourself
before she
arrives.
clueless of
her disdain for
any kind of
sweets, especially
apple pie.

the dmv

you go to the dmv
to get your driver's
license
renewed. a new photo,
a new card.
black and white
this time.
they tell you
not to smile
before they click
the button.
it's not a good
shot, you look
five years older
than you really
are. a mug shot,
you think, pinned
against the wall,
accused falsely
of things
you've never done.
they laugh when
you tell them you
want to do it
over. go away
they say. we are
done with you.
next.

the energy

when your ex
finally
remarries, the sky
opens up
and sunight suddenly
is everywhere
with a warm
bright smile.
you are no longer
the reason
she stubs her toe
or gets into
a fender
bender, or loses
her way from here
to there
during her nights
or day.
you can almost
feel the energy
of her anger make
a left
hand turn
and go towards another
unaware soul.

leaving work

under the violet
sky, a line
of blackbirds
sway on the thick
electric
twine with
their
slick oiled
feathers
and knotted
shoulders.
they are still
in the way
old men stand
on the platform,
turning heads,
from side
to side,
leaving work
in dark overcoats,
waiting
for the train
to take them
home.

the engagement ring

you hear her
screaming into the phone
with excitement,
dancing in a circle
as the dog barks
at her feet.
i'm engaged, she
hollers, he finallly
proposed to me. i'm
staring at the ring
right now. it's on
my finger. what?
how big?
i don't know?
a carat or two, i
suppose, but can you
believe it, i'm getting
married...what?
how much did it cost?
i'm not sure, mom.
he didn't tell me.
yes. i guess i could
go online and find out,
but aren't you
excited? i'm getting
married. what?
no, he didn't steal it.
and no his grandmother
didn't die and leave
it to him. i'll show
it to you tomorrow.
it's not zirconia, mom.
and i'm not going to get
a piece of glass
to see if it cuts.
i'm sure it's a diamond.
i know you hate him, so
i won't bring him
with me for dinner.
but you just have to see
this ring. it's gorgeous,
it's absolutely beautiful.
i have to go now,
i have ten other calls
to make. yes, mom,
i'll find out where
he got it and what it
cost. promise, and
i won't give it back
no matter what happens.
i give you my word.

tossed aside

tossed aside
are lost souls,
the grieving,
the mentally ill,
the aged,
the unhealthy.
you see
them on
the curbs,
the jobless,
the worried
and worn,
the drifters.
politicians
have no answer
for what to
do with those
tossed aside, only
hoping that
the merciful
plow of time
will push them
out of sight,
out of mind.

crimson rose

the woman
loved white.
pale blues and greens.
red
meant sex
which she abhorred
and made her hiss
at the television
screen when
just the hint
of it arose.
she loved life
when it snowed
and the world
was sinless and
frozen,
without color,
without even the soft
petals
of a crimson rose.

daddy

she was nearing sixty,
but she still liked
to call her father
daddy in a sweet
little girl like voice,
as syrupy as melted candy.
daddy this, daddy that.
and he was
her daddy. each divorce
was met with
cash or check, a
new car when the wine
spilled
her into a pole.
another house
close by to daddy
when the old one became
ruined with dogs
and men,
and the wayward
children, inked up
and drifting
bleary eyed through
school after school
as he picked
up the tabs of
their ambivalent
existence. daddy, oh,
daddy, why are you
so good to me,
she'd say as he drifted
into senility,
forgetting her name.
oh sweet daddy,
she'd say putting a
pen into his hand
to write another check
to save herself again.

forgive me...

you go to confession
finally
after so many decades.
you've written
down all the sins that you
can remember.
you wheel barrow
them into
the confessional.
you have an assistant
with you
with a wet sponge
to moisten your fingers
and tongue
as you turn
the dry pages.
the priest listens
patiently, ordering
out for pizza
as he sits behind
the metal screen
and curtain. go on
my son, he says.
continue. you can smell
the pepperoni
and cheese wafting
through the darkened
booth. you hear him
sipping a nice
chianti. this makes
you angry and jealous
of him. you have
your assitant write
that one down too.
it never ends.

don't ignore the kiss

stars falling
unwished upon,
a ticket won
but uncashed, left
in a drawer,
a number never
called, a job
untaken.
the roads not
taken, are many.
so what, but
don't ignore
the gentle touch
or kiss
it's worth more
than all
the others left
unattended to.

fixed

just seeing a needle
makes the back
of her throat
drip, drip
drip. the gentle
tap along the arm
searching for
a thick blue vein
makes her mouth
water, her heart
skip, the feeling
in her stomach
grows soft and sexy
as the spike
plunges deep
within and
the colors of the world
bleed outside
the lines.
she's left it all
behind for ten
years, but it hasn't
left her. nor
the fear of going
back.

sheep

the bleating
of sheep
rising like fog,
coming up
from the gravel
stretch
of road
where cars wait
for them to pass
in the blue
clouds
of fumes.
the grey white
wool
knotted tight
against
their skin.
even now, in
this day and
age we all
a season of being
needed.

green cheese

you remember
how anxious
the mice
were
when we
landed on
the moon.
their tiny hearts
beating,
giddy with hope,
waiting to hear
the news
finally of what
it was made
of. their
little finger
like paws
were
laced together
across
the cellar
floors
around the world,
and then the dust
flew up
when the first
boot hit
and you could
hear the echo
of cats
laughing
in the alleys.

the moon settles
in for the night.
unmoved
by what goes on
between us.
it doesn't pay
attention to us
at all.
the tossing
the turning,
the secrets that
we carry.
the moon wants no
part of us,
our business.

love finds a way

you've gone green
because the girl
you love
is green. she's
all over the green
thing.
saving the earth
one tin
can at a time.
nothing is wasted
with her.
string,
or lids, foil,
plastic bottles.
those orange
peels
and apple cores
are reborn
in the compost
pile
behind the log
cabin
in the woods
where a cold stream
runs.
she smiles sweetly
at you
as you beat
a pile of
your dirty clothes
against the rocks,
no bleach
no scented detergents,
love finds
a way.

open for discussion

i don't believe
in god she says.
the bible, pffft.
a bunch of made up
nonsense.
old folk tales.
who was this jesus
character anyways?
moses, my foot.
lost for forty years.
that sounds like
my uncle driving
around manhattan.
can you really believe
that jonah was
swallowed
by a whale. give me
a break, buddy.
hmmm. you say.
so what do you
believe. nothing,
she says, i'm
an independent thinker.
i'd like to believe
that life is a random
mix of happenstance
events. suddenly
a lighting
bolt crashes across
the sky. sizzling
the black clouds.
however, she says.
i'm open for
discussion.