news to me

you stop
getting the paper.
looking
at the news
on tv.
you avoid
the updates
online.
you stay away
from small
talk at the coffee
shop.
you are news
free for a week.
and suddenly
things don't
seem so
bad.
it's a livable
world
after all.

the big dog

the big dog,
brushed blonde,
floppy eared and soft.
heavy
and happy
with weepy brown
eyes,
a tail
not yet done
wagging despite
the years.
more love, more
affection.
more petting
she seems to plead.
throw the ball,
go ahead, i'll get
it for you.
it might take
awhile, but
be patient, i only
want to please
and know that
you love me.

this side up

you feel
a little battered,
a little bruised.
set aside and banged
against,
misused and abused.
the crate of you
is loose and shaken.
you can hear
the broken
glass within.
they take you off
the belt, place
you in the truck,
then without any
ceremony ring the bell,
toss you
onto the front
porch, not caring
who's home, or
whose package you
are. not a soul even
has to sign
for you. you are
on your own.

take two everyday

you try to read
the small print
on the label stuck
to the back of the
bottle, but
you can't. it's
too small.
you can make out
words like death,
coma
and blindness,
kidney damage and
loss of libido.
squinting,
you hold the brown
bottle up
to the light, but
that does no good.
you see a few more
words like if bleeding
occurs, or vomitting,
or shaking,
call a physician.
on the front though.
the words are clear
and in large
bold print.
you could even
read them from across
the room if you
had to.
take two, everyday.

the masseuse

she weighed
almost nothing.
which you liked.
because then she
could walk across
your back,
stretching
the muscles,
making the bones
along the spine
sing, and crack.
she was like
a bird without
wings with wide
arched feet.
slowly she moved
along your sore
and tired muscles.
it wasn't like
making love, but
it was close.
very close.

another town

when you ride into town
looking for a clean
room to lie down in.
a square meal and a drink,
a stable to feed and
water your horse, everyone
stops to take a long
look at you.
they don't like strangers
around here.
they don't need
new friends, or new
enemies for that matter.
you see the brooms
stop sweeping, the barber
stop snipping hair.
you see the sherrif
putting bullets
into his gun and spinning
the chamber. even
the dogs, mad as they
are, stop barking
to size you up. but you
don't care. it's been
that kind of year.
and as the mayor looks
out the window from
the brothel, you tip
your hat and smile.
each town is the same.
one nights sleep is
all you need and you'll
be out of there.

your valentine girl

as a kid
you always wanted
a valentine
from glenda,
the big
haired
blonde who
blocked your
view
with her broad
shoulders
and nordic
skin.
she wore
pig tails
and plaid skirts,
had legs
like an olympic
skier
and eyes as blue
as sapphires.
just one valentine
from her would
have changed
your life,
put the wheels
in motion
for all good
things to have
come your way.
but no.
sylvia, with her
whooping cough,
behind you,
was your
love and valentine
of the day.

self employed

being self-employed
you sit down
and have a talk
with yourself,
the boss in you.
you are unhappy
with the hours,
the conditions,
the short lunch
breaks. you could
use a raise in pay.
but there is silence
on the other end.
we are doing the best
we can, your
boss tells you.
be thankful for
what you have. now
get back to work,
the clock is ticking.

unplanned for

as brothers
do, and sisters,
together in
conversation,
about the
state of health
of parents
in their eighties,
the talk
of death comes
up like
an unwanted weed
in the garden
that was their
life.
it can't be
planned for
like a wedding,
or birthday
gathering, but
somehow it's
on the mental
list of things
yet to do.
and even then,
do what?

speed of light

there is
the speed
of light,
but darkness
seems even
faster
when things
don't go
just right.

splinter

a splinter
wedged
tightly
between
the skin
on the bottom
of your
foot changes
everything.
at least for
now, until
the tweezers,
the antiseptic
and cotton
are found.

in the garden of eden

we were singing
songs
in the smoked
filled car
taking a road
trip to nowhere,
looking for girls,
searching for a sub
sandwich to
eat. we were young
and red eyed
from inhaling
an illegal
substance.
old beatle songs,
the eagles.
only songs by groups
named after
bugs, or animals,
was the rule,
no matter how
badly
they were spelled.
the byrds, the turtles,
three dog night,
although
we unanimously
hated them,
so we moved on
to the monkees,
which took an
hour of singing.
iron butterfly's
inna godda da vida
was endless as someone
beat out the drum
on the dashboard,
by the time we
got to cat stevens
we were delirious
and starving.
so we stopped
and ate.
on the way home
we stared out
the window
and said nothing,
smiling blissfully
into the starlit night.

think positive

if you think
positive,
your friend shelly
tells you,
as she clips
her toe nails
on the end
of the bed.
everything
will be fine.
so stop griping
about having
no work
and think having
lots of work.
you'll see.
the world brings
abundance
to you
when you focus
on that.
it's a vibration
thing. i saw it
on an infomercial
on pbs the other
day. the tall
bald guy was
talking about it.
by the way,
could you stop
tossing
and turning,
it's shaking
the bed.
i almost
cut my toe off.

candyland

she loves board
games and can sit
with a bowl of popcorn,
or chips,
a pitcher of
margaritas
and play all night.
the game
of life,
candyland, risk,
and scrabble.
she knows all
the rules and the
ones you don't know
she makes up or
bends to her favor.
her eyes light up
with the spin
of the wheel,
the roll of the dice.
you can't beat
her, she knows
every q word by heart,
and when she wins,
crossing
that final
home square of
monopoly, owning
every piece of
property, from
baltic to park
place, she's happy,
throwing her hands
triumphantly into
the air,
and when she's happy.
well. the world
is a good place
to be in.

lost button

a lost
button finds
its way
loose
and spins
off onto
the floor.
a breeze
blows warmly
like a kiss
against your
skin.
it seems
as if an
even trade
has occured.

ice skating

mittened and in
love
they adored one
another, holding
hands
as they glided
across the ice
on rented skates.
the moon, full
and pink
with hope
above them.
how she loved
the wind
in her face,
her hair, the breath
of fresh
new love
filling her
lungs. how she
wanted
to skate and skate
her life
away with him
on this frozen pond,
but she knew
deep within,
that the seasons
would make life
and love unfair.

snake dinner

it tastes
like chicken
she says,
eating
a plate
of rattlesnake
with small
potatoes
and asparagus.
pass me the mint
jelly. thanks.
a little
gamey perhaps,
but not bad.
not bad at all.
i think i'll
have me another
helping.
suddenly
she sticks
her split tongue
out, and hisses.
baring
what appears
to be needle sharp
fangs. her
eyes get beady
as her neck
stretches
ready to
strike.
quickly you
get the rake.

the vase

she sees
the ancient
italian vase
in the air
as she tugs
at the far
corner of the red
hall carpet,
pulling straight
a wrinkle,
but there is
nothing she
can do.
and in the slight
span of time
that the vase
jumps
and tumbles to
break onto the
floor she relives
a love
so long ago,
with her in
venice.
that too
broken beyond
repair.

a part of this

a shallow bowl
of rain
water catches
the sky
and world
in a circle.
you lean
towards it and
see your
reflection.
somehow despite
how you feel
so often,
you must be
a part of this.

misty the therapist

you go to your first appointment
with your new therapist
misty. you are her very first
patient. she is hanging her
certificates on the wall
when you first arrive and taking
the plastic off the couch
where she asks you to sit.
she needs help with centering
the picture of dr. phil
on a white horse, so you help
her. she stands back as you
move it down a little on
one side. perfect, she says.
thank you. now what can i help
you with today. i'm just getting
organized here. i'm
a massage therapist too, and i
have a client coming in
right after we're done,
so we need to talk fast.
she moves around the room
lighting candles and incense.
so, she says, what is it,
your mother? let's start there.
oh, can you help me with this
massage table, it's so heavy.
did she not love you when you
were a child. oh, thanks,
those table legs stick sometimes,
you have to really yank
on them. there we go. great.
now let's talk about that mean
old witch mother of yours,
shall we? don't even get me
started on mine, you see
that scar right there,
she says, pointing at
the outside of her leg.
she burned me with a hot
iron, i'm not kidding.
so, okay, your turn.
i'm listening.

white swan at solomon

a white swan
swims into view
like a feathered
wedding cake
hardly ruffling
the waters
of the cold lake.
she shines like
a bright light
against the grey
of winter. alone
she moves
with gentle turns.
the small ducks
and gulls are
seemingly amazed
and stunned
as you are by
her presence,
keeping their
distance, not
wanting beauty
to flee.

don't sit under the apple tree

bored
out of your mind.
you take up
archery.
you buy a
bow and arrow
set
and a target
that you
place in your backyard.
but your
yard
is only thirty
feet long,
so it's an
easy shot.
you hit the red
bullseye
nearly everytime.
you need more of
a challenge.
you hear your neighbor
mildred in her backyard,
sweeping pine needles
and singing an
andrew sister's song.
when she looks over
and says, oh my.
what are you doing
young man?
you tell her
to get a couple
of apples
and come on over.
you make her
stand with an
apple on her
head and one in
each hand at the back
fence, as far away
as possible.
she's trembling,
but smiling too
in that sweet way
that she does.
aiming as best you can
you shoot your
first arrow at
the apple on her head,
sadly, you miss.
when you arrive in
your cell at the prison
after a speedy trial
you look out the mesh
wire window
looking out over
the prison yard.
not much is going on,
you are bored, again.

sasha

you develop
a fever
for sasha.
a cat like woman
with black hair
and green eyes.
she writes to you from
the ukraine.
she sends you a picture
of her standing
in a wheat field
wearing a bikini
and work boots,
holding a rake.
a long piece of straw
dangles from
her pouty lips.
she's in love with
you and you
are in love with her.
she's seen your
photos on an
international
dating site
and wants to come
and be your wife.
your e mail exchanges
have been
confectionary
and fun.
the whole village
where she lives
is excited for
her. they are having
a farewell parade
before she
travels to finally meet
you and live
forever in marital
bliss. she promises
to learn english
better. more better,
she says on
the phone, bubbling
with laughter.
i am at the airport
now, she says, in moscow,
but there is one small
problem. i've been
robbed and i need
airfare now. if you
could be so kind
as to wire me some
money, 3,597.00
us dollars should
cover everything.
here is my bank account
number. i love love
love you and will
see you soon my sweet man.

cookie salesman

your friend tells
you a story
of the time
he was in new
york city on a business
trip. he was
a salesman
for cookies
and airline snacks.
angry at his wife
again,
for her spending
and lack of affection,
meaning sex,
he felt lonely
and beat,
he struck up a
conversation
with a woman at the bar.
young and lovely, a
farm girl from iowa.
lipsticked,
and heeled.
she drank, he
drank, they moved in
closer to one another
along the rail,
talking kids
and family, work
and the world.
how hard it was to find
love, real love.
by midnight, she
said i'm going up,
but handed him a
note, her room
number and name
freshly inked.
she left an imprint
of her kiss on the paper,
then left.
when he got to
his room he took
a quick shower, stepped
into clean
clothes, he put
on a dash of cologne,
brushed his teeth,
then called wife
to say goodnight.
trembling with
excitement he called
the woman's room.
she asked him first,
sweetly in a midwestern
whisper,
if he was a cop,
then gave him the prices
for what she
would perform.

reset the clocks

the clocks are all
wrong, by an hour
or so.
each blinking
frantically
asking to be reset
after the late night
storm.
you blink your eyes
in that same way
sometimes, when things
aren't exactly right.
when the shutters
have come loose
and bang against your
house.
you know the feeling
of losing power.
darkness and cold.
so you turn the clock
over,
pressing the button,
one finger on set
and the other
on hour.

blood suckers

you go down
to the lab
on king st.
to donate blood.
take as much as
you can, you tell
them, unrolling
your sleeves,
i could use the
money.
i'm down
to drinking instant
coffee
and defrosting
things
from my freezer.
yesterday i even
ate some hummus
that someone left
over the holidays.
so go ahead,
take a gallon,
you tell them,
but hold my hand.
and i want a cookie
afterwards. not oatmeal.
some juice too.
i hate needles,
but i really need
a cup of strong
coffee, so find
the needle nurse
and drain me dry.

cold milk

as you turn
the carton of skim
towards your
cereal in the morning,
you remember
when you were a child
and could not get
enough milk, pouring
it into a cup
from the cold
glass bottle that
was left on your
front porch. how
thick and white
it was. heavy
going down, filling
you, quenching
that thirst. but
now, it's thin,
translucent. hardly
milk at all. making
perhaps the heart
and arteries happy,
but certainly not
your soul, or you.

the fire

with the fire
gone out, you
stir the embers,
seeing the black
wisp of
grey ashes rise.
you find
the room too cold
when she
leaves, too hot
when she stays.
you turn up the
thermostat.
twist it
a little higher.
you are walking
around in
wool socks,
a sweater
and a coat.
you've even
put a hat on
as you search
for gloves
and a long scarf.
come back soon
you phone her.
you are
the kindling
to my fire.

winter moon

the moon
so white
it's almost blue
coming into
the shadeless
room
where she sleeps
beside
you, her black
hair
on the white
pillow.
quiet in her
dreams.
you want to wake
her, to tell
her about
the moon,
pristine between
the leafless
trees, but
you don't, not
knowing if where
she is,
is just
as sweet.

maybe he'll call

she sits by
the window
with a cat
in her lap
and waits patiently
for him to call,
not sure
at this stage
if it's brewing
love, or lust,
or like,
or nothing at
all. he may come.
he may arrive
when she puts
her night clothes
on. he may
knock on
the door as
she climbs
into bed wondering
if something's
right or something's
wrong.
it's late, but
he still may
call.

snow stew

you stir and stir
the stew
as it cooks slowly
on the front
burner.
you lift the lid
and lean
your head down
to smell the onions
and beef tips,
carrots and
potatoes.
you smile at
the mushrooms floating.
love, like stew
is best cooked slowly,
served hot
on a winters day,
such as
this snowy one
is with you.

his identity

his identity
was all about money.
cars, a home,
property
and clothes.
women were mere
objects, bought
and sold.
the more, the merrier
and secure he
was about his status
in the world.
cracking his cane
against the underlings
that served him.
so when the market
crashed and he
banged his
hands and head
against the wall,
being greedy
by putting all of
it on the table,
he shrunk into
the mean and poor
soul that he was
before it, not
unsavable, but as
close to richard
corey as one gets
without the gun.

lost and found

you leave
a pair of black
leather gloves,
newly purchased,
in a men's room.
getting to
your car you
remember where
you left them,
so go back in,
hurriedly.
they fit so
nicely and had
the felt tips so
that you could
touch your phone
and dial a
number. you
had bonded
with those gloves,
the price
not yet paid,
through
the mail, so it
hurts a little
when you return
and see that they
are no longer
there. but they
are easily replaced,
and somehow
perhaps you have
given a gift
to someone with
cold hands
or perhaps a cold
heart for
not leaving them
at the customer
service desk, as
you surely would
have, being
the catholic boy
that you are.

sunday e mail

she sends you
an e mail, asking if
are you married yet.
have you tied the knot,
and i don't mean
around your neck.
are you madly
in love, or just
still mad?
are you still unable
to talk about
your feelings,
blocking out those
around you, only
showing love, when
you get love. well,
tell me, i'd love
to know the status
of your situation.
i have an opening,
next week, some free
time on my hand.
perhaps we could get
together and have
dinner, catch up.
what do you think?
love mom.

beware

beware of those
that whistle
happily.
the soldier
going to war,
the cop
on his beat,
the barber with
a straight razor
in his hand,
the dentist
with a drill
approaching
the chair.
beware of the
happy go lucky
souls, who
skip down
the street
whistling.
the doctor
holding your
x-rays to the light.
the minister
walking through
the graveyard.
they don't want
you to know
what they know.

stranger in town

when you travel
and stop for coffee
in a strange town,
you feel
out of place, and
you almost think
that everyone
knows that you
aren't from there.
they can smell
the out of towner
on you. the way
you carry yourself
and look around.
you think differently
than they do,
say things
in a different
tone of voice.
you ellict stares.
and can almost here
them murmurring,
hands on their guns,
hey, there's a
stranger over there.

big game

you've loosened
your belt
for the big
game.
you've doctored
a hundred
chicken wings
with texas
pete hot sauce
and loaded
a dozen sliced
deep fried
poatoes with
cheese and bacon.
you've baked enough
brownies to fill
a bapist
preacher
on his pot luck
rounds.
you pour a bag
of fritos
into the big
bowl. pop a beer.
put on your sweat
pants
and lucky gold
underwear.
in three hours,
they'll stop talking
and the game
will begin, if
you don't fall
asleep first.

a place for everyone

few of us
await death with
such anticipation
as do
the vultures
on limbs
and wires
staring
towards the cold
ground,
patient
for the demise
of others.
ambivalent
in their bundled
black
feathers
and blood
red beaks.
strange how
the world finds
a place
for everyone,
and thing, then
lets it go.

you'll see

when i retire she
says, in another
ten years, god
willing,
i'm going to do
nothing all
day.
maybe i'll go
fishing, or read
a book
in the sun,
i'll take long
walks in the woods,
i'll be worry
free and happy,
i'll do
nothing unless
it involves
self indulgence
and fun. things
will be different
then, she says,
you'll see.
you'll see.

the right peach

selective with
your peaches,
you stand
in the grocery store
for an hour
at the peach bin,
holding each fuzzy
piece of fruit
in your hand.
turning it over
and over, looking
for discoloration,
or soft spots.
you hold it up
to the light,
gripping it
for firmness,
tempted to check
its sweetness
by taking a bite.
which is the only
true way to know.
it's very hard
to find just
the right peach,
for yourself,
despite what
everyone
thinks about you.

a new itch

you have an itch.
several
in fact that you
can't reach.
located just
at a point in
the center of
your back, beneath
the skin.
if you can only
stretch your
arm and hand
a fraction of
an inch further
you could
scratch them
with your nails.
that would be
pure bliss
and make you
happy.
at least for
now.

alice

missing your
own dog,
you dream
of finding a dog
lost in the street.
so you pick him
up and carry him
everywhere
you go
asking if it's theirs.
the dog is white
and has a black
spot on his head.
he licks your face
when you speak
to him.
no one seems
to know whose
dog it is.
they've never seen
this dog. finally,
you see a collar
underneath his
fuzzy neck. you
slide it around to
read the tag.
yours, it says.
when you awaken you
reach over
to pet the dog,
but someone
who goes by the name
of alice slaps your hand
and says, hey.
hey. i'm sleeping,
here, cut that out.

the new you

tired of being who you
are you decide to change
your hair style.
grow a few strands
and dye them black,
comb them over from
one ear to the next.
you buy a new set
of clothes, shoes,
a bolo tie perhaps
will become your trademark,
a pinky ring.
you even practice
walking
differently.
you grow a mustache
and talk in a deeper
voice. you give yourself
a nickname. only
answering to mr. big.
it's a silly name,
but you are going
to force people to use
it, or ignore them.
you are taking control
of your life.
not settling for luke
warm coffee, or
burned toast.
the new you will get
things done, no more
being pushed around
by children and the women
folk, or men with
badges. this could
be exhausting.

mice in the cupboard

a box of saltines
is all you find
on the top shelf.
the cupboard
is almost bare.
you get the stool,
and peek up into
that deep dark
area where you
never go. you see
a bunch of mice
standing around,
with their paws
on their hips.
they have a list
of grievances
written out on
a shred of paper.
an old grey mouse
is writing one last
thing at the bottom
as he rests his
elbows on a table
they made out
of a wild mushroom.
they hand you
the tiny scroll,
making squeaking
noises, pulling
on their whiskers.
more cookies,
the note says,
more open boxes,
more bags
of dried fruit,
a bag of sugar,
white and brown,
and fruit juice
packs with the easy
zip opening.
one of them has
written down cheese
three times.
you read through
the list, and nod
your head, okay, okay,
you say. i'll see
what i can do.
geez. anything else?
you hear one of
them squeak loudly,
tooth pics, we
could use
some tooth pics.

the nudist colony

i want to join
a nudist colony, your
wife tells you,
standing there
naked in the kitchen
stringing garlic
cloves onto a rib
roast. you watch
her slide the pan
into the hot oven,
her breasts brushing
up against
the parsley.
i think that naked
is my true being,
she says, licking
her fingers.
watch the splatter,
you tell her looking
over the top your
newspaper.
i feel free when
i'm naked, i feel like
a child again.
like i'm back at woodstock.
have you seen the size
of that mole
on your butt lately,
you tell her,
wincing. no, what
mole. it's right
there, you take a long
wooden spoon and tap
the mole.
is it symetrical,
different colors.
no, you tell her. it
looks like a fat black
gum drop. oh.
well, so what. maybe
i'll wear granny panties
at the nudist
colony to hide it.
so what do you think,
should we join or what?
it might be fun.
no, you say. i feel
free enough as it is, but
go right ahead sunflower,
do your thing.

family reunion

some of your relatives
are not participating
in the family renunion
this year, in fact most
have made other plans
to spend their day.
there are grudges,
and differences, slights
and miscommunications
that have added up
to cause a breech
in the loving bond
of everyone.
of the fifty or so
cousins and cousinettes,
uncles and aunts,
brothers and sisters
it will only be you,
and your mother, who
calls you by your
father's name,earle,
a second cousin jimmy,
with his new wife,
a pole dancer from ohio
and a nine year
old hindu boy, yak,
someone adopted
along the way. sadly,
there won't be a potato
sack race this year,
and no potato salad
for that matter.
but your mother made
an apple pie, so
that's good.

a cup of crazy

there was a time
when crazy people
were just
that. crazy.
there were places
like
st. elizabeths
were you could see
them in the wide
stretches
of green lawns
talking to no one.
having conversations
with theodore
roosevelt,
or god. mad dogs
in the sun.
perhaps, we all have
a little cup of crazy
in us, some more
than others.
but like candy
from heaven the new
medication, the sharp
edged pills
are swallowed
as perscribed.
it hasn't taken
the crazy away,
but it has made it
easier for everyone,
to get through
the years,
blended us all
numbly together
as one.

the first cell phone

in a strange
neighborhood,
when your car
broke down,
you searched each
corner for
a pay phone
and then you saw
a man
in a green dumpster
digging through
the wet slop
of what people
had eaten
and discarded
throughout
the week.
you could hear
him talking
to someone.
and when you
peeked in,
you saw that he
was on a cell
phone. this gave
you an epiphany.
you had to get one.

the factory

your boss
is mean. he spits
when he talks.
telling you how
worthless you are.
how you can be
replaced by half
a man, or even
easier by a machine.
don't talk, he says.
do your work
and keep your mind
on the job
at hand. you're
lucky, he says to
be here. there are
men on the street with
more brains than
you that would take
this job for half
your salary. he
laughs as he leaves
the room. and as
you grind the next
piece metal down,
you wonder what
keeps you here.
what fear within
holds you to the fire
of this. making
you less a man
than those out there.

the love song

when you go home
from work, there is a man
standing
in your kitchen.
he has a wife
and a small child
who sits at the table
eating an apple.
the man and woman
are dancing
along the checker
tiled floor,
gleaming black
and white.
their arms are around
one another.
they kiss lightly
and smile at each other.
the radio is on,
an old song, a love
song. a song you
know the words to
by heart. you take
your hat off and watch
them, saying nothing.