there is no fire

someone pulls
the fire alarm.
but there is no fire.
it makes no difference.
everyone files out
in polite lines
just the same.
they go to the field
across the street
then turn back to the
building, looking for
smoke, or flames.
but there is none.
there is only
the constant
ringing of the bell.
so much of life is
like that, there is
no fire.

going home

no reason
to go home again.
this is home.
no need to return
to where you
were born.
where you first learned
to walk.
or sing
a song, or read.
this is your
home.
this is where you
lie down
to sleep, where
you sit
near a window
with a book
to read. it's the
place where you make
love, and find
comfort
in the woods outside
your window.
this is your home,
or so you've talked
yourself
into that belief.

a grey pair of shoes

tired of brown
and black
shoes, loafers
and those with
laces.
the same shoe
over and over
again you
without thought
purchase.
so it surpises
you when you take
home the grey
pair this time.
who are you now?

following the crowd

how do birds
know
which way
the flock will
turn. it's beyond
reason
how this crowd
of gulls
or sparrows
rise and fall
in rhythm.
are we too
of one mind set,
following
unknowingly
the crowd?
you see it
in fashion,
or flavor,
what's
believed to be
true or
false, almost
all giving chase
in that direction,
only the genius
few refuse,
and they are left
outside
the maddening
crowd.

the apple fritter meditation

you fast
for almost an
hour, no food,
no water, no
nothing, but your brain
won't let go
of an apple fritter
you saw the other
day on the bakery
shelf.
no, you say silently.
no. you focus,
breathe in
breathe out. you
close your eyes
and make quiet
your brain as
best you can,
but you can't
free yourself
from the apple fritter.
it's a runaway
train this thought.
you can taste it in
your mouth,
the sweet crispy
dough. and then you
have an epiphany.
the only way to rid
yourself of temptation
is to give in
to it. so off
you go.

corporate clown

you were never
happy being a circus
clown. dancing
for the bosses
in your floppy shoes,
with a bulb red
nose. you never
liked smiling
when you didn't
want to. or being
funny and clever
when you wanted
to step
back and just
listen, observe,
or leave and go
into another room.
there's not a clown
bone in your body.
you have no pies
to throw.

stuck outside

the lock on
the door won't turn.
it's old,
there may be rust
inside.
the key
goes in,
but it sticks
and will hardly
move despite
the jiggle
and push, the
pull of your
hand. how
can you not
go home again.
get inside
where it's safe
and warm.
how can such a
simple thing as
a key
keep you outside
in the rain.
if only there was
someone inside
to let you in.
perhaps you've been
wrong
about things.

what they find

your life long
friend
may be dying.
they've found
the beginning
of an end
cramped painfully
within him.
a solid
mass of disease.
you don't see him
that way.
old
and grey, thin
beyond thin.
grappling with
words
to say, trying
to explain
how this may
have happened.
you still see
him in the apirl
of his life.
you want to shake
the sky
and set things
right again.

higher ground

you don't need
to be an emotional
isaac newton
to understand
the gravity of
things when,
the world is
falling down
around you,
striking
your head
repeatedly. you
know what
you need to do.
to get up
and move,
to higher ground.

inked up

you get a tattoo
that says
maybe, next to
the one that says
baby. oh baby.
below that is
a rocket going
into space,
circa 1950,
on your shoulder
is the moon,
or mars, you can
go either way
with that, although
you wish you
had inked saturn
there with the rings.
you are telling
a story with
this ink, but you
aren't sure what
it is, or
where it's going,
you hope to finish
it before you
grow up and come
to your senses.

blue or pink cotton candy?

a rollercoast
car derails
killing
seven and injuring
three others
on the ground
waiting their turn.
the park will be
closed until
repairs are made
and the problem
resolved the
newspaper article
reads. that part
of the park will
be closed to
the general public
until further notice.
however the ferris
wheel is fine.
half price tickets
go on sale
today, plus
a free hot dog
and cone of cotton
candy to the first
one hundred
riders. blue or
the pink kind,
your pick.

being boys

you watch the boys
breaking
the ice
along the edge
of the lake.
using rocks, or
sticks,
they move to the
rim and pound
at the blue
thin layer
of frozen water.
it possesses
them. stamping
their christmas
boots onto the white
frosted circles,
stepping
out a little
farther and farther.
and from
where you sit
you can see it
crack, you can hear
it crack
and their loud
delighted screams
as one slips
down into
the mud. there is
a part of you
that wants to join
them, still.
show them how
it's done.

you really listen

when she made love
she was very
talkative,
expressive,
using her hands
to speak with.
she chewed gum too,
spearmint, mostly,
blowing bubbles
and popping
them in my ear.
she was fun
like that.
she liked to go
on and on about
her laundry, and
how the dog chewed
up her sandals,
and the time her
ex-husband put a knife
in the side of her
tires the day
she got divorced.
and afterwards,
lying on the pillow,
sweat on her brow,
she was silent.
having said,
everything thing
there was to be said
about her world
at large. even the gum
came out as she
said in all
seriousness, i like you.
you really listen
to me.

a dozen roses

you see a small
truck
on the side of the road
whenever you
drive
south towards the bay.
there is a hand
made sign
sitting in
the back, propped
up
by other signs.
plywood, black letters
painted on,
some smaller letters
are squeezed
in after spelling
corrections have
been made by those
with stronger vocabulary
skills.
sharks teeth the sign says
today.
yeserday it was
hubcaps and rabbits.
the day before
that it read hot crabs,
females, and some
large males.
with valentines
day approaching, i'm
waiting for the twelve
ninety nine, a dozen
roses, to make my stop.

the new red car

climb into my new car.
it's cherry red,
because it fits my
sparkling personality.
here, let me
get the door.
take your shoes off
please, and
don't touch anything.
in fact, here put
these gloves on,
one size fits all,
sit back and relax.
we're not going
anywhere, but
close your eyes
and imagine that
we were. to the shore,
the mountains
perhaps. a sunny
sea side cottage
where we could park
on a long
gravel drive way
and be able to see
the car
from any window.
are you chewing gum
in my new car?
here, spit it into
my hand. i'll dispose
of it. okay, ride's
over.

well water

your hand
pulls up the bucket
from
the well
slowly so as
not to spill.
your mouth
already
tastes the cool
flush
of water
quenching your
parched soul.
and it doesn't
dissapoint,
hardly ever,
unlike those
you thought you
knew.

what life should be

you leave a small
trail
behind you,
like most others,
words written,
love
endured.
the meaningless
ness
of work
and money
visible in
what you own,
or owe upon.
even the free
seem to be scratching
with a stone
time
on a wall,
imprisoned by
what they think
life
should be.

the worst lie

like a cloud
casting
a shadow over
you, you sense
the need
of a dear friend
and call.
the air gets cold
when he
answers
and everything
you feared,
is true,
the worst lie
of the world
is that we will
stay young
forever
and not die.

the orphaned tuba

the tuba
as large as
an elephant's
ear, tarnished,
turning
away from its
silverish
color into
a green blue
metal sat
in your parent's
basement
for years.
left there
by someone your
father knew
in the navy.
you remember
struggling
to pick it up
every now and then,
trying hard
to blow a note
out of its
small mouth,
emitting only
a strange sneeze
of a sound.
you have thought
often of that
orphaned tuba,
whose hands were
around it
making music.
whose lips,
whose cheeks ballooned
and carried
it from place
to place until
it ended there.

children

she plants
the seeds in spring.
and when
the flowers
come up
she waters them,
nutures
their growth,
trims out
the weeds.
she admires
them in the summer,
telling them
daily how
fine and beautiful
they are.
in the fall
she cuts
them clean,
letting them go
from stem to
ground, places
the memory of
them in a vase
by the window
and waits
once more
for the snow
to melt
and for them
to visit again.

limping towards the fire

i want to grow
old with someone, she
says, looking
at a sunset, giving
it some romantic
meaning
beyond words.
i want someone
to love me,
and i love them.
to grow old with.
you don't know
what your saying, you
tell her
limping towards
the fire to stir
the flames.

paper lives

into
the fire
you shovel
boxes
of what you've
written.
wanting to be
done with them.
and as the papers
curl
blue
then red, towards
yellow, a full
frank
moon watches
between
the fingers
of bare trees.
you remember
sweet
days
of youth, both
yours and
others. how
fast your pen
moved, and now
at this age, you
see
how time burns
quickly
our paper
lives.

falling trees

in time, even
the strongest of trees
bends
and loses
its leaves, then
withers, becomes
brittle
awaiting the wash
of wind
and rain to take
it down. sometimes
others fall
with it, taking
down
the ones nearby,
those with
roots tangled
in yours.
just the thought
of this
at times, keeps you
from getting too
close, or falling
in love.

the new you

you've changed.
you're different now.
yesterday
you were another
person, but you've
shed that skin,
and awakened
the inner you,
the new and improved
you.
people will take
notice, and hold you
in their arms.
they will welcome
the new person
you've become.
they will introduce
you to others
as if you are a stranger.
they will give
you a new name.
they will forget
the past and all that
you've done.
there is only
today, for the new
you, and tomorrow.

divorce court

you see
a mountain
of turnips
outside
the courthouse.
then
another
one comes
flying out
the window
into the growing
pile.
you take a closer
look,
they all appear
to be bleeding.

the beautiful silence

an old man, well,
much older
than you are,
backs his car
into yours,
banging bumpers
in the mall parking
lot. you get
out and study
the damage
as he gets out,
shaking his head.
his wife climbs
out as well
and begins to curse
him. all three of us
stand there,
hands in our coats,
in the cold and wind,
staring
at our bumpers,
examining them
for any dents
or bruises, scrapes.
but there aren't
any, much to
everyone's relief.
so you nod and
wave and say it's fine,
and as they climb
back into their
car, you hear her
go after him with
a barrage of curses,
and i told you so's,
her angry lips are
still moving
as you look into
the rearview mirror,
pulling away,
alone,
you sigh
and inhale
the beautiful
silence of
your world.

omar?

in the heat
of the moment,
when the stars
and planets are about
to align,
when the cake has
risen, and the eclipse
is about to occur,
she screams out
someone else's name,
her finger nails
digging into your back,
nearly drawing
blood, she says it
not once, or twice,
but three times.
omar, omar, omar.
somehow you go along
with this, trying
hard to figure out
who the hell she's
imagining you to be,
but you say nothing,
not wanting to spoil
the moment for her,
or for you, for
that matter.

the map

bored,
north seems
like a nice
destination
to travel to,
expect for
the snow.
then there's west,
but the winds
and tornados
scare you.
east, well, you're
there already,
then there's south,
but the heat
and lizards
don't appeal
to you. nor does
that twang
and syrupy way
of talking. you
realize that you
need more
directions in
which to go, or
just stay put
and quit whining.

girl with a bull whip

there was an exotic
girl from hawaii
who lived next door
to you as a kid.
she was the same age,
as you,
thirteen at
the time, but she
was stronger, faster,
bigger, and
she carried a bul lwhip
around with her.
she would take it
out into the street
and snap coke cans out
of your hand as
you stood there like
a scarecrow in a
field. she was
feared and loved,
but all the neighbor
hood children,
admired and not to
crossed.
she kissed you once
on the forehead,
like the queen bee
she was. there are times
you almost believe
that you still feel
the tingle of the spot
where her lips
touched your skin.

wild life

bending over
the sign that says
keep the wildlife
wild, please
don't feed the ducks,
a group of people
throw broken pieces
of wonder bread
into the shallow
man made pond.
the kids spit
to bring the fish
up too, hoping
for something
more.
it's hard to stop
human kindness
sometimes
no matter how
misguided.

he had this look

an ambulance
pulls up on your
street late
one night, the red
lights pulsing,
the scream of it's
siren dulled
for a moment. people
go out to their
porches in their
robes to see
whose turn is,
whose time has
come. and when
they see the stretcher
being pulled
out over
the curb, the grey
faced body
slipping into
the bright
mouth of the truck,
they whisper
to one another,
you know, he
didn't look so well
when i saw him
the other day.
i kind of saw it
coming. he just had
this look about
him.

can't get there from here

the rhythm
and rhyme of you
is out of sync.
it snows
on a sunny day,
rains
with a full
moon
up in the sky.
you kiss
when you oughta
wave,
walk, when you
should be
running.
you're drifting
in circles,
like a one
oared boat. you
can see the shore,
but you just
can't get there,
from here.

a man of his time

he had a good life,
the preacher says,
standing near the grave,
but not too close
as to fall in.
jimmy was a funny guy,
a wise man, a smart
ass, some might
say. caustic and
sarcastic towards
those around him,
but he was a person
who loved women and dogs.
i understand, he
even had a steady girl
friend once in high
school. and yes, i
know that he didn't get
along with his
mother, or anyone
else in his family
for that matter, but
who really does. jimmy
boy, we'll miss you,
a woman sobs while
texting on her phone.
yes, he didn't like to work
too hard at anything,
but managed to get
by. figuring out how to
work the system to his
advantage. yes, i know,
i know, he had a tendency
to bend the truth,
and lie a little, okay,
all the time to
manipulate his friends,
but let me say this
about jimmy,
he enjoyed his down
time and wearing
sweat clothes and
flip flops in all
seasons. he knew how
to relax. we could all
learn something from that.
amen, amen, the small
crowd murmurs.
yes, he was quirky
sometimes, saying
things that made you
shake your head,
so random, at times.
and yes, he loved his
video games and wall
to wall plasma tvs. from
what i hear,
he had every phone
and gizzmo you could
think of. 2 G, 3 G,
4 G's, he had them
all and stayed in constant
touch with his peeps
on facebook and twitter,
and linked in,
and my space, and
on sites we best not
mention here with
children present. yes
he was a constant texter.
two thumbs, i understand,
going at it furiously.
he was a man of
his time. we didn't quite
know him that well,
because he liked to
stay in his man cave
in his grandmother's
basement, and have food
delivered, especially those
spicy chicken wings,
but when we did see
him, we all greeted
him with love and affection,
loaning him a few bucks
for beer and nachos.
may he rest in peace,
our good friend jimmy.
he was a man
for his time.

decisions

you settle
on something.
it's taken a while.
but you understand
now completely.
you've had
a moment of clarity
as they
like to say.
epiphany is a
word you
like much better.
it's clear
though, what you
need to do.
why the muddle
and fog
for so long, you
don't know. but
now,
strangely, and with
confidence,
you do.

the late night commercial

she can't stop
smiling, or talking,
or oozing
with positive
thinking and vibes.
she's thrilled
to be showing you
this one step
spray that will
remove carpet
spills, embarassing
stains from
your clothing,
lipstick from your
collar, unwanted
hair from
your ears and nose.
this spray will
change your life,
she says, standing
there like a long
slender ray
of sunshine.
it makes you
want to throw
your shoe at
the television.
these happy people,
what drugs
are they on?

the chew toy

curling up in
a corner,
like a dog
with a bone,
or his favorite
unbreaklable toy,
there are things
you like to think
about, over and over
in your mind.
unable to let
go, and give it
a rest. drop
it to the floor.
take you for
instance, and how
it ended.
i'm chewing on
that thought
right now.

winter bitters

go away snow.
leave me alone,
take your
flakes and your
pretense
at pretty
and melt.
ice too, i hate
you most of all
with your
stuck and hardened
ways.
your personality
stinks. and
wind, take
a break and
relax, we
get it, you can
blow things
around, knock
down the power
lines. big deal.
aren't you proud
of yourself?
frost be
gone with your cute
name, nobody
likes to be called
cute at your
wicked age.
in fact winter
with all
your darkness,
take a hike.

happiness is a leaky pen

are you on board
with this
your boss says,
pointing
at a graph
image projected
on a wall.
do you understand
what these numbers
mean. you have
to hit them,
and soon, or
else we might
need to make
some changes.
you stare
at the chart,
edging up
in your chair,
rubbing your chin,
then at a blue
ball pen
leaking in
the pocket
of his white
dress shirt.
you nod
and smile.
funny how little
things like
that can make
you happy.

fall of the roman empire

she says on the phone,
calling from her job
at the white house.
so what are you doing
home all day, writing,
goofing around?
you tell her that you
have no work. it's finally
all dried up. if any thing
the economy is worse than
it ever was. the election
certainly didn't help
things one bit. oh, fiddle
dee dee, she says, don't go
blaming the economy on
him. he's doing the best
he can. it's the last guy
who caused this mess
we're in. that was five
years ago, you tell her,
taking out a magic marker
to write on the cardboard
sign you're making.
it takes time, she says,
rome wasn't built in a day.
rome? and where exactly
is the roman empire today,
you ask her. i don't know,
she says, i'm not good
with geography. Italy?
well, tell me this,
you ask her, what sounds
better? will work for food,
or I will work for food.
also, should i say god bless,
or will that offend
the atheists and agnostics?
hmmm, she says. not sure,
but i would use colorful
markers and a white board,
seems like everyone is
going with that old
black marker on brown
cardboard, be inventive!
got to go, lunch time. bye!

self improvement

you begin a daily
regimen of lifting weights
and eating
only healthy foods.
you are tired of women
taking your lunch
money and calling
you a sissy boy.
within weeks
the veins and muscles
are popping
out of your skin.
the buttons on your
shirt spring off
in the middle of
the day, when you
flex, or reach over
to grab a handful
of granola and raisins.
people begin to take
notice and say
things like, oh my,
aren't you a strong
boy. you begin
to help people with
stuck pickle jars, or
opening anything
vacuum wrapped. you like
the reaction you are
getting. so you lift
more and more weights,
soon, your head looks
like an apple on top
of a coke machine.
you go to a tanning
salon to get that
rotissiere chicken look.
wet and greasy,
the muscles gleaming.
people can't take
your eyes off of you,
grown men say excuse
me and go to the other
side of the street when
they see you coming.
before long there are
no longer any store made
clothes that fit
you so you make ponchos
out of bedsheets.
you can no longer tie
your shoes, unable to
bend, so you wear
sandals or flip flops.
finally you have achieved
the first stage
of the new you.
now it's time to buy
a book and read one.

the birthday cake

i have some bones
to pick with you, she
says, sitting
at the kitchen table,
hands folded.
only the light
over the stove is
on, which seems ominous,
that soft low wattage
bulb, the kind you
see in the movies
when detectives
are questioning
the suspect. pick away,
you say, opening
the refrigerator
to drink from a
quart of milk.
use a glass, why don't
you she says
not even turning
her head to see.
okay, you say, and
place the carton
back in, taking out
the last piece
of birthday cake
hardened like a slice
of cheese on
a cold plate.
you sit down next to
her and nibble
on the cake. no fork?
she says, nah,
this cake is so hard
it might bend.
so what's wrong, you
ask her, shoveling
pieces in, crumbs,
icing, cascading
onto the table. oh,
i'm sorry, did you
want the last piece?
it's your cake.

no sugar

you are not
normally the jealous
type, but
when you don't hear
from her for a few
days or so
you imagine
the worst. an old
boyfriend back
in town, a new
lover from the internet,
a neighbor
who needs a bowl
of sugar.
why doesn't anyone
have their own sugar?

our lives in boxes

cleaning out
the basement
you get stuck
for an hour
leafing through a box
of old letters,
photos and poems
you wrote in a workshop
when you were in
your twenties,
your son's age now.
slowly you turn
each picture over,
with a few you
remember the place,
the time,
exactly where you were
and with who,
while others
seem like a mystery
without any clues,
the poetry
is bad. but you
always think it's bad
even when it's
praised as gold.
the letters, still
in envelopes with post
marks from the various
places your
infatuations, or loves
had gone. it's hard
to throw away
such things you
think, stretching
a fresh piece of tape
along the top
of the cardboard flap,
strange how so much
of our lives
eventually finds
its way into boxes
in the basement.

her dancing

the woman who lives
above you
in apartment
3 G likes to dance
late at night
in her stocking feet.
you hear her
as you lie in bed
staring at the ceiling,
her feet moving
gently across
the hardwood floors,
a jump and twist,
a turn perhaps
and leap
onto the soft throw
rugs, then off
again. and when you
see her on the elevator
the next morning,
going to work,
you smile and say
hello. you don't
mention to her
the dancing.
you don't want
things to end
that way.

a naked woman runs by

standing at the window
you see a naked
woman running by,
pale as a sheet
of paper,
with only her shoes
on. they look green
and glittery.
she may be drunk
as she teeters
and stumbles
forward. it seems
as if she's being
chased, but you don't
see anyone, there's
not even a dog
at her heels. she's
going someplace
in a hurry. it's
beginning to snow.
there seems to be
more to this story,
but you lose interest
when you see
the mailman at your
door with a package
from amazon.

self help books

every now and then
you hit the book stores
for another round of self
help books.
you need some screws
tightened, feeling
a little loose and
jiggly in the brain
department. you need
a little tune up
because the direction
of your life seems to have
a zig zag pattern to it.
you've done the whole
live in the moment
thing, you tried that.
and the Now lasted for
about a cup of coffee
up until the point
when the cannister
which is supposed to hold
the half and half
was completely freaking
empty. you can't walk
around like a zombie
and pretend that nothing
or no one bothers you.
it just doesn't work
that way. hey, hey,
you are out of half and half!
okay, where was i,
right, self help books.

the butterfly

your friend jimmy
is into eastern
religion now
after he lost his
life savings
at the racetrack.
you see him sitting
on a bar stool
at the neighborhood
pub chanting quietly
in a lotus position.
he has a beer in front
of him and pretzels
with a small jar of
hot mustard. he hears
you coming, sitting down
next to him, and motions
with his hand to wait,
one finger in the air.
he chants a few more
times, lets out a deep
breath then opens his
eyes. hey, he says.
you should try this,
man, i feel good after
i do that. you really
should get in touch
with your inner self,
you know, he says,
crunching down
on a pretzel. you
have to free the
true self that is
buried deep within
your ego. we are all
caterpillars trying
to become butterflies.
shut up, you tell him
then order a gin and tonic.

this riddle

i'm smart, you think.
i can solve
this riddle, this
girl who has me
in knots.
i can figure it out,
i always have
untied the strings,
worked at it
tirelessly,
loosened
the ends and gotten
free, but the knife,
sitting there,
is tempting.

she was dessert

she was dessert.
not a meal.
a slice
of cake, a scoop
of ice cream.
she was
creme brulee
burned just so
to harden
its shell.
she was an eclair
waiting to
be bitten, a
brownie warm
uncut in the tray.
she was
dessert, not
a meal. and
it was never
going to be any
other way.

the icing

the child
licks
the spoon
from the mixing
bowl.
slowly
taking his
fingers along
the iced rim
of the yellow
dish.
the joy in his
eyes
will seldom
be so sweet
so pure,
as his mother
watches,
and doesn't
scold.