cell phones

i counted my dead
cell phones the other
day, so far eleven,
not counting the one
that still works.
i truly loved them
all when they were new.
sassy and bright, full
of life. they would
light up with a simple
twist of my hand.
i keep the spent ones
in a drawer now
in the kitchen, next
to the matches, the
rubber bands, a phillips
head screwdriver,
white out, and other
assorted junk, all
of them still sleek, plum
colored, red as cherries,
black like the ice
on a winter's night.
stone blue, of course
none of them work
anymore, shorted out
from water, dropped
on the street, batteries
gone south. i threw
one into a lake once
after a bad conversation
with someone i'd rather
not say, okay, linda,
and another i dropped
into a vodka tonic, icy
cold with a lime wedge
floating on top, accident,
that one, mostly though,
all of their failures were
my fault, if i had been
more careful and caring,
more attentive and gentle
with them, if i had
properly plugged them all
in when they needed it,
well, mabye they'd still
be working, but no, and
it really doesn't matter,
they were not meant to last
and the new ones are always
so much more fun anyway.

paper route

when i was a kid
i delivered newspapers.
i had maybe a hundred
houses, maybe more,
less on sundays, and
i'd walk with my dog,
and sometimes the cat
would follow too, but
a half a block behind,
too special to be with us.
i had a wagon or a shopping
cart i'd borrow from a
grocery store, but i'd
be up by five thirty
in the morning, the
winter months were
the hardest, the ice
the snow, the wind, but
i'd trudge on, sometimes
it was so cold, the dog
wouldn't leave the
house, nor the cat, but
i would, i'd do my route
in the dark, always dark
or just enough sun to
turn the morning pink
and pale blue by the
time i got home, my hands
black with ink. in the
summer months i'd run
the entire route, pushing
myself, trying to beat
a time, but mostly i'd
walk, just me, in the
quiet. the world smelled
different then at that
hour, there was a serenity
that i've never felt before
or since then. but i was
of the age when i delivered
the war news, vietnam,
kennedy and king murdered,
woodstock, and i remember
standing there over my
stack of papers, reading
the headlines, sometimes
sitting in light of a
street lamp trying to absorb
it all, before tossing
the rolled papers onto
the porches of my neighborhood.

a fresh start

i was thinking that
in the next life i'd
be a divorce lawyer
or a therapist, or
perhaps a funeral
director, i'd choose
something to do that
was unaffected by the
economy, or by natural
disaster, war, or a stroke
of bad luck, no,
these calamities, in fact,
increase business.
there are no down times
with these jobs.
strangely they all have
something in common,
something to do with
the end of things,
and also strangely, but
in a different way, they
offer new beginnings.
a clean fresh start.

it's moving fast,
this life

pearl

pearl lives above me,
right up the steps,
she's in three o one,
i'm in two o one,
she used to have a boy
friend, sam, who would spend
the night, and they'd
play records and dance,
and then i'd hear them
in bed, above me, the
symphony of springs,
she was a screamer
and sometimes i'd wake
up in a sweat startled
by her yelling out, like
a wounded animal, i'd hear
the headboard clanging
against our shared walls.
my ceiling is her floor.
sam left at some point,
they borke up, and she's
alone now. she broke her leg
in the snow two weeks
ago, shoveling, slipped,
on the ice and went
down, i remember looking
out the window and seeing
her lying next to her
pale green prius with
a pair of dice hanging
from the mirror. the dice
sam gave her when things
were good, now when she
walks around, i can hear her
crutches on the hardwood
floor, sometimes she puts
on an old elvis record
and i'll hear her trying
to dance, by herself,
the banging of the crutches
and her cast rattling
my lights, and then she'll
go to bed and i'll listen
to her crying, softly
through the vents, until
one of us falls asleep.

behind the school

it isn't true,
it's a lie, a
fabrication of sorts
about me and you,
our love affair,
our secret
rendezvous behind
the school, when
the lights go
down, the sun
subsides, the animals
come out and watch
with bright
wet eyes. but
no, it isn't true
at all
although, i wish
that weren't so.

dinner at eight

she insists on dinner
despite having never met,
having never talked on
the phone, having never
stood within inches of
one another, or having a
clue about who or what each
other is all about, and
yet the persistence to
get a table, to make
reservations and to plan
a meal together, as if
we were both old friends,
or lovers, or something
else entirely that i'm
missing continues through
communication. finally
a flurry of e mails confirms
the date, but i hedge on
dinner and i say no, let's
meet just for a drink, a
drink the first time and go
from there, she says ok,
and i wait, i wait and
i wait, and she doesn't
show. insulted that i would
not feed her sight unseen.
she writes that she is
dinner worthy and would not
be humiliated, to be judged
in her mind, in such
a way, ah, there is a
sadness in the world that
goes beyond the depth
of any cold ocean.

valentine's day

there are days
when you just start
cleaning, you don't
know why, or what makes
you go at it like
you do, but off you
go, with bucket
and mop, vacuum
buzzing on every rug,
all of those cleaning
liquids and sprays,
come out from under
the kitchen sink,
you've got the rags,
the broom, the polish,
dirt has no chance,
you even clean the oven,
pull everything
out of the fridge, those
hot sauce bottles
sealed shut with
their own goo, you toss
the meat wrapped
in foil that you'd
never eat anyway, bruised
fruit, brown lettuce,
bread like concrete
on the counter.
you break it up and toss
it into the woods for
the birds and squirrels,
and then the bathrooms,
the tub, you are on
your knees for an hour
in each bathroom,
you give the tiles, the
toilet, the sinks
the whatfor, it's like
in church when you were
a kid, getting the sin
out, the dirt and grime
off, it makes your knees
hurt, you make the beds
toss the sheets down
the steps, you do a load
of whites, smelling
the bleach, a load of
coloreds, you dry
everything, you fold
everything and carrry
the baskets up the stairs
to be put away, not
tomorrow, but now,
and finally you're
finished and you gaze
out the bright shiny
window that you just wiped,
you stare at the melting
february snow, and she
still hasn't called to wish
you happy valentine's day.

being late

the snow,
the rain,
traffic, my
daughter called,
work phoned,
flat tire,
my ex blocked
me in the drive
way demanding
remorse,
a gust of wind
blew a trashcan
under my car,
i ran a hole
in my stocking,
a powerline
went down across
the highway,
code orange,
i left the iron
on and had
to go back,
i forgot to let
the dog out
and the cat in,
i forgot my
purse, my phone,
whoops, my
breath mints.
i needed gas,
i got lost.
i lost your number,
forgot your name,
i went to the
wrong address.
i'm sorry
i'm so late.
again, are you
still there. no?
raincheck?

surrender

eventually you come around
to thinking that there is no
point in worrying, agonizing
over life's little things,
although anyone that i've
ever known that has owned
the book don't sweat the small
stuff is usually sweating
profusely over the small stuff,
they are helplessly locked
into a perpetual state of worry,
but you do reach a point of
exhaustion with many things,
like cars, and kids, and work,
and pets, and the house,
parents and the food you eat
or don't eat, and you sort
of let it all go, you toss
it out the window and take
a break from the madness of
trying to control your life,
the world. it's impossible.
you surrender, and in that
brief and wonderful moment,
you feel like you've finally
reached an understanding
of the world and life and
you wish you could hang onto
that instant forever and ever,
or at least until the phone rings.

the last word

my ex wife told me, she
said, i gave you the best
years of my life, and i
laughed. she said why
are you laughing and i
said because you're only
thirty four, give
yourself a chance, you
might just be peaking.
that didn't help matters
at all, and she picked
up a bottle of spring
water like she might
throw it at me, but took a
sip instead and said,
i would have done it all
differently if i hadn't
married you, and i said,
what, what would you have
done, gone to college,
got a degree, perhaps
then a job? she said no,
i would have married
a doctor, or a lawyer,
that's what i would
have done. oh, really,
i said, and then there's
quiet as happens in
every pointless arguement,
you are in the eye
of the hurricane,
it's that point in time
where you have to walk
away, there's no sense trying
to get the last word in,
it's done, it's over, it's
like driving a nail through
concrete using your head.
so you say something completely
useless like, well,
good luck with that. ten
years later i see her
driving down the street in
her husband's, dr. jimmy's
black mercedes, she beeps
at me, rolls down
the window and yells
as i'm walking alone down
the sidewalk pushing a
shopping cart holding
everything i own hey,
she says, good luck with that!

downstream

when she
died
i used to
go down
to the stream,
find a rock
to sit on
and watch
the water
for hours
roll blue,
roll
green
towards
the ocean,
where all
water goes
given time.

monkeys

i was lost the other night,
i got turned around leaving
Marla's house at three in
the morning. she lives
in an apartment complex
off Georgia Avenue, but
in leaving, i forgot how
we came in, and missed
the exit. i ended up
down by the zoo, off
of Rock Creek Parkway.
There are no street lights
down there, it's pitch
black and the place
is loaded with deer
and fox running wild,
and the roads
wind through the trees
and gullies, one false
turn and your in a ditch
or the water, and a tow
truck needs to come
in the morning to drag
you out. it's never good
when that happens. so
i pulled over onto the grass
to get my bearings. i
thought about calling
Marla, but i knew she'd
be fast asleep and i didn't
want her to know how stupid
i was getting lost
like this. it might affect
the next date, so i rolled
down the window to get
some air and turned the car
off, listened to the woods.
i was close enough to the zoo
that i could hear the animals,
especially the monkeys,
still going at it, so
early in the morning.
chattering up a storm in
their cages, happy as clams
swinging around those bars,
getting three square meals
a day, plenty of social
activity and free medical care,
that's the life, i thought.
no driving around at three
in the morning, trying to
get home in the dark, jesus,
now that's living.

flourish or perish

i believe that given
time, the seed you
buried in your
yard will find
a way to surface,
of course
providing enough
water, tending
to the weeds
and bugs,
and whatever else
might keep it from
growing and finding
sunlight, will have
to be done.
but a day will come,
a morning when you
stand at the door,
you may be old,
or you may still
be young, but
you will be looking
at the yard
and you will see
the hope and dream
within you fulfilled.

kitty kitty

she's like a cat
in the alley, purring,
the way she comes
and goes, stealthy
in her lace covered
paws, her dark eyes
flashing in the bits
of light that my heart
gives her. with ease
she slides into my door,
finds the bowl of
milk i set out,
then goes up the stairs
and finds the keys
to me, and what i
adore about her
and her feline ways.

small things

there are small
pleasures, like putting
your hands near a fire
when you are cold,
or getting a sweet kiss
on the lips from someone
you care about, the taste
of a well cooked meal,
ice water on a summer day,
clean sheets, cool
and crisp on a bed with
the window open,
perhaps a hand written
note from a friend,
or the sound of someone's
voice that you miss.
these are the things
that keep you afloat,
keep you going in the
night, through winter.

putting things off

i have a client, a woman,
who lives alone, no pets,
no husband, no one that can
be visibly seen living with
her, who calls me every two
months or so to give her
another estimate
to paint her walls, patch,
repair, caulk, strip the
paper, and i walk through
the condo with her, patiently,
taking notes as she tells
me about what she wants done
and needs done, the sooner
the better. i've done this
four times now,the last time
i didn't even open my book
or pull out a pen while gave
me the run down on what had
to be done. the sooner
the better, and that she'll
give me a call in a few days.
it's a very small, cramped
place, full of old furniture,
boxes still unpacked from when
she moved in five years ago.
in some ways, it's so dirty
that it looks like no one
could possibly live there,
and yet, there could be
ten people making this
mess. she asks me if i have
any plastic, and drop cloths
to cover things up, and i nod,
i tell her, of course. good,
she says, i'll call you soon.
i'm ready this time, and i
tell her okay, fine, i look
forward to your call, but
i know i'll never do this job.

natasha

she called herself natasha
but her real name was gladys,
natasha was her internet name.
she said she was forty-nine,
but i'd bet my eyes and ears
that she was at least fifty-six,
mininum. her profile said average
weight, perhaps this was true,
but you couldn't tell because
of the black raincoat she was
wearing that matched her black
lipstick. things didn't go well
at first, but we ate, and drank,
and told each other enough tall
tales from dating that we
actually liked each other by
the third drink. maybe it was
the martinis. i don't know.
so in the end i walked her to
her car and she tried to pull
me in for a hug and a goodnight
kiss, but i held my ground and
stiffened which made her slip
in the light snow that had begun
to fall. she snapped off one
of her heels and went down
like a wounded animal,
hitting her head on the side
of her jeep wrangler making
a bloody gash, jesus, i said,
natasha, are you okay? you're
bleeding. it's gladys,
she said, i'm really gladys.
you don't listen, do you?
i was carrying the doggy bag
of pork chops that she had half
eaten, and put the bag gently
against her head to stop
the bleeding, then helped her
up and into her car. i feel
dizzy, she said. go straight
home, i told her, and if
you feel like you're going
to pass out pull over, okay?
she shut the door and drove
off, holding the bag of chops
to her head, gladys, not natasha.

betting on the horses

my friend jimmy
called me up the other
day and asked me
for money. i told
him that work was
slow, times were tough
between the weather,
the economy, business
wasn't what it used
to be, plus i had
alimony and child
support to the first
wife and a cat
with a liver condition
who needed a special
diet of rice and lamb
and a bevy of pills
to keep him alive,
the cat was killing me,
i told him, but maybe
i could spot you
something, so i asked
him how much
he needed. a thousand
dollars, he said. i knew
that he liked to bet
the horses, and that
a big race was coming
up soon, so i was
certain that that's where
the money was going. How
will you pay me back,
jimmy, i asked him.
i'm good for it, i'll
give it back to you next
week. so i lent him
the money. why not. we
both had bet on so many
things in life, and lost,
lost big and often.
his way was the track,
while i took a different
route all together.

while she lay dying

i noticed that
there is a distant
port that the dying
sail towards, without
them knowing, but the
boat is in the water,
it's in their
speech, the movement
of their bodies,
an instinct to flee
the world that they
can no longer
particpate in,
and the feeling
is strangely mutual,
though unadmitted,
for the two cannot
coexist, the living,
the healthy must press
on, while the soon
to die, must raise
the white sail and
shove off towards
unknown shores. it's
not sad, or wrong
in any way, it's nature
separating what must
leave, what must stay.

seaglass

she wants to say
that there is so
much seaglass among
us, not just dark
and clear shards
of broken bottles,
or windows, or plates,
but the rare colored
glass that you find
along the shore
when the moon and sun
align on the same
side of earth,
and the tides recede
or rise at their
greatest levels,
but she believes
that the sparkle
of amber, of cobalt
blue and torquoise,
the rare red glass,
are on our own dry
shores, waiting,
to be discovered,
and held to the light.

lisa's cars

my friend lisa begins
almost every conversation
with a story about her
car, or her son's car,
or truck, or jeep, or
the car that her ex is
lending her until her
car gets out of the shop,
or because it drives
better in the snow, better
than her small, older
car with the peace sticker
on the back window.
i've known lisa for years
and have never seen her
in the same car, and
each story involves
a tricky situation with
the garage, a tow truck,
an expired sticker, or
a blown engine that is
or isn't covered under
warranty, and she has
to get on the phone to
talk to an insurance agent
or mechanic by two o'clock,
before friday when her
son has to go to ohio, but
pittsburgh first,
and her husband has to
fly back to Iraq, but not
before he returns his
rental car to Hertz. so
she met me for breakfast,
but walked, because
the car she has been
using throughout the week
is buried under three
feet of snow, and the
shovel is in the trunk
of her son's car who may
or may not be on the road
back to school in his
girlfriend's car, because
his car has a flat and
the jack is in Lisa's car,
the one with the peace
sticker on the back window
parked in front of her house,
buried under snow.

i think that

having less as a child
does not guarantee
virtue or wisdom, but
it gives you a head
start. feeling
the pavement
through the hole in
your shoe, or shivering
from the cold that blows
through a thin pane
of glass as you try
to sleep beneath a
thread bare blanket
does not discourage
goodness within you,
and that hunger,
that rolling ache
in your belly from
lack of food
won't pave the path
towards righteousness,
or enlightenment,
but sometimes i think
it has helped.

bliss

with glee, she says,
we're getting married,
while shoveling snow,
her man beside her
in his red wool hat,
to match hers, and his
shovel going strong,
his face perspiring
from carving out
her car, her sidewalk,
her driveway,she says
again, and points
with her thumb, as if
hitching a ride, we're
getting married. he
doesn't look over
at me, but nods
his head. he keeps
digging, keeps at it,
the dense snow
getting heavier
with each deep push
and lift of the blade.
she moves out
of the way so
that he can shovel
where she stands,
the sun on her face
showing relief
in the unmelted snow
that is no longer
just hers. she tells
him where to put
the salt and the sand
when he's done digging,
and folds her arms,
and smiles, unable
to contain her joy.

within these walls

i can get out
if i wanted to.
these walls can't
hold me, i'm an
innocent man, i'm
not guilty of the
crimes they say
i committed, i
can dig, i can leap
the wall, the barbed
wire, defeat these
guards, the dogs,
the siren, the
searchlights won't
find me in the
shadows, i'm too
quick, too innocent,
too right to be
held down and out
for long. i'm
biding my time,
you'll see, you'll
hear about it, read
about in the paper,
my great escape.

public service announcement

i was reading in
the paper,
sunday morning
about how over
six hundred thousand
men and women die
each year
in this country
alone because of
cigarettes. but wait,
i'm not preaching,
i'm not telling
anyone to stop,
but in one year
alone more people
will die from
inhaling tobacco
than all the soldiers
and sailors, airmen,
and marines died
in world war two.
oh, please, i'm
not telling you
or anyone what to
do. i understand it's
an addiction, one
i've never flirted
with, and it must
be hard to stop,
otherwise, the price
the stains, the
yellowed teeth and
wrinkles before their
time and horrid breath
would be enough for you
to do that. and the young
people, i think about
those young pink lungs,
absorbing tar, setting
off the flames of
god knows what inside
their precious bodies.
okay, okay, it really
does sound like
i'm preaching, but no.
i'm just saying
what if terrorists
killed over six hundred
thousand people a year,
every year, hmmm,
perhaps someone might
try to stop them. but
i'm just saying.

sunshine

when it's cold,
and ice cakes
the ground and
the wind is frenzied,
you won't find me
there, or here,
i'm on the road
to an undisclosed
destination, a place
warm, where the sun
cradles my face with
the long soft hands
of a lover who
promises to never
leave, to never stray,
to stay loyal no matter
how long the night,
how short the day.

bread and butter

sitting at her table,
she'd put out a tray
of cups, and saucers,
tea in a porcelain pot,
hard butter and blueberry
jam as black and blue
as midnight without
moon and with deliberate
strokes, i watched the
roped veins, long
and bruised beneath
her skin, down her arms
and hands, she'd butter
a slice of thick bread,
all the while thinking,
her lips pursed, forming
a thought about what
she had read, there was
a slowness to it all that
made my feet tap, i had
faster things to say,
young thoughts, but i
couldn't lead, i had
to follow, and listen
to what she thought of the
poem i had given her to read.
and in this way we'd
spend the morning, her
house still needing to
be painted, the drop cloths
covering her furniture,
all of which could wait.

shoveling home

it is a very slender thread
this life, these days
where we tread on fallen
snow and scattered ice
that gleams in a small sun.
we find winter hard, and
the spring less so. the
latter years being nets
for those memories, however
vague or brilliant in each
mind's eye. it's important
to bundle up, to wear
a cap, thick gloves and
boots to keep the wet
out, the warm in when
removing what's left
of this ice cap world, one
shovel at a time.

barcelona

my father, at eighty-two,
on the phone, coughs and clears
his throat before telling me
again the story of when we
were in barcelona in nineteen
fifty nine and a horse
and wagon were hit by a car,
and how the man, bleeding
from his crushing wounds
was loaded into the back
seat of his torquoise chevy
impala brought in all the way
from philadelphia. the wonder
in his voice always amazes
me, the clear vision of that
dying man in the back seat,
speaking in spanish, groaning
as we rushed him to the hospital.
i can see the blood, see his
dark brown eyes staring into
mine as he approached death,
our lives impossibly crossing
paths, and me just six years
old. but my father goes on
with the story even though
my mind is way ahead of him.
and as i let him tell me the tale
again over the phone i wonder
what he's trying to say really,
what message this story might have
if one at all. but he never
remembers turning my head away
when the policeman comes over with
a gun to put the crippled horse
down as she lies on the side
of the road. i remember hearing
the shot, and feeling my fathers
large hand gently holding my head,
trying to keep me from the brutality
of the world for just a short
while longer, but it was too late.

parenthood

slowly, delicately,
after turning up the music,
she leans over the table,
sits down, and takes
out a small bag of an
illegal substance, weed,
grass, pot, whatever,
and without so much as
a glance to the door,
the window, or me, she
proceeds to roll herself
a fat joint, sprinkling
the dirt brown weed,
vaguely green onto the
thin piece of paper.
expertly, she licks the
ends and twists, before
lighting up and taking a
long hard toke, holding
the sweet, acrid smoke
inside her lungs until
she turns pink, then
exhales it towards my face,
here, she says, and i
shake my head no, suit
yourself, more for me,
she taps her chest, and
coughs, then takes another
deep hit, sliding back
into her chair and closing
her eyes. finally exhaling,
she looks at me and says,
i don't know what's wrong with
my kids, they don't listen
to me, they seem to be out
of it half the time,
they're doing badly in school,
they hang around with
the worst crowd, i think
they both have tatoos
and shelly came home with
a stick pin in her eyebrow
last night. i found an empty
pint of southern comfort
in jimmy's closet. jesus,
the car has more dents in it
than i can count, i try
to be a good mom, i really
do, she takes another
long drag from the now small
joint, then picks up a pair
of tweezers on the table
to relight the small butt,
inhaling it from under her
nose. i need to go talk to
the counselor at the school
tomorrow. these kids are wild
these days, they don't listen.
i actually have to hide my
stash now, because i know
they'll be in it.
can you believe that? it
just seems like yesterday
i was pushing them around
in strollers.

crazy fire

on this early
february morning,
while it snowed,
there was a crowd
gathered around
the burning car
in the back parking
lot, a pillar
of black smoke rose
from the willowing
waves of flame, people
were too close,
not thinking that
it might explode
like you see on
television almost
every night.
they wanted to be
near, to be a witness
to this wild blaze,
awestruck with the power
and craziness of fire.
still, at this stage
in the history
of life a primitive
and strange wonder.

the swing

there was a time
when my son would sit
on the swing for hours,
and i would push him,
higher, then higher,
feeling the small weight
of his back in the tips
of my fingers,
his small pink hands
curled tight around
the chains, he would
laugh as the sun fell
off behind the rows
and rows of so many
houses and very little
trees, there seemed to
be so much time, so many
days more just like that
in the warm summer,
hearing his voice calling
me to push, to push him
even harder before
darkness fell and a
chill set upon the air.

five a.m.

in the morning
when he wakes up,
he shakes the dream
of her out of his head.
he finds the bathroom,
shuffles to coffee,
lifts a cold paper
from the stoop
while it's still dark
out. the dog is asleep,
he's got time. and
then the hot shower
and he dresses, he
finds his watch, his
wallet, his phone
and keys, lets the dog
out back, then back
in to a handful of food,
some water, pats him
on the head and locks
the door behind him.
and while he drives
the almost empty
road, hot coffee in his
hand, he goes back to
the dream of her, and
how it might have been.

you can leave your hat on

i see you've come around
to my way of thinking, i
like the tilt of your
pill box hat, the sway
of your hips in that
summer dress,
the color of your lips.
you've got a glint of
mischief in your eyes,
don't deny it, i can
hear it in the snap of
those heels coming across
the hardwood floor. just
give me a moment to cross
myself and ask for
forgiveness in advance.

is there anything else i can do for you

they ask politely
before you hang up,
before the final
thanks and goodbye is
said, they ask you
if there is anything
else they can do for you.
and it always surprises
me for a second.
i think about what else
can the bank do for me,
the credit card woman,
the phone company,
or the cable guy, or
the girl ringing up
my groceries.
yes, i found everything
okay, what do you mean?
what are they talking about?
what can they possibly
do for you once they've
done what they have been
paid to do?
you just changed the oil
in my car, i think that's it.
that's all you can do,
or that i expect you to do
for me right now.
of course later, i often
think of things that i could
have said, please
come over here, and clean
my house, rub my shoulders
and make me a drink,
walk my dog, wash
my car, buy me that
winning lottery ticket.
yes, in time i can think
of plenty of other things
that they might want to
do for me since they sound
so helpful and sincere.
oh, and on a side note,
it's okay if they stop
saying hello to me nineteen
times wile walking through
the store. this friendliness
is really having the opposite
effect on my buying habits.

trouble in a dress

i've shaken free
of keeping in my
life those that weigh
me down. it was a hard
place to get to, but
i've arrived. and
the silence is sweet,
like fresh mango
pulled and cut, and
bitten. and yet,
they still come,
sometimes they are
at the window, on
the phone, flying
overhead on broom
sticks, shouting out
their discontent,
laying out their case
against me, but it's
too late, i've already
moved on, i don't
need trouble in a
dress, and i'm coming
around to understanding
this whole monk thing.

the dinner

she made her phone calls
throughout the day, asking
her old friends, good friends,
those that had made her life
brighter and perhaps better
with laughter and work, in
troubles and pain, all being
a part of who she was, who
they were, giving each of
them an invitation, and
so they came to dinner,
alone or in pairs, from places
far, places near, and they ate,
they drank, it was all on her,
it was her idea, she missed all
of them, and the night went long,
with conversation and laughter,
kisses on the cheek, warm
embraces, embellishments of years
gone by, under the dim lights,
and music of the restaurant
that she loved. she insisted
that everyone, everyone have
a wonderful decadent dessert
before they left and went off
into the cold darkness, and then,
that night, she went home, put a
bullet in a gun and killed herself.

the cigarette

she says i'll be right back,
i need a cigarette, i nod,
she stands there for a moment
to measure my mood, my possible
discontent with her grabbing
a smoke out on the sidewalk
in twenty degree january weather,
but i smile politely, and say go.
i want to say that i'm sorry
that you have to, but
it's not me, it's you that
needs to do what you do, and
if we loved one another, if
we were to share a life at some
point, perhaps i'd touch your hand,
gently hold your arm and say
something like, i wish you
wouldn't. i love you, and wish
for your life to be long and
healthy, but i don't, and so
she goes, quickly to the door,
her hair in the wind, her long
bare legs shivering in the night.
and i see the bright orange glow
of her cigarette burning
at her lips while she inhales,
deep and hard, as if the smoke
was oxygen, and was needed to go on.

blue stars

the island of sleep
is a warm and sweet
refuge from the world
that sparkles bright
with sharpened edges,
the moon and the blanket
of blue stars beg you
to lie down in slumber,
to sink softly into
the womb of where
you started and where
you'll go, to let go
of the day, of many
things and dream.

shadow

the earth wobbles
on it's axis, the times
have indeed been
changing, faster than a
spinning top on a smooth
wood table. it's hard
to imagine what's next,
and yet, there seems
to be less illumination
and hope as to how to
fix what's gone wrong,
love exists, but there
is a darkness that is
beginning to overshadow
the light that shines
upon the world.

journey

her soft hand
on my hand,
her lips
against my lips,
the legs
touching beneath
the table,
wine and candles,
the food done,
the dessert
still sweet
inside our
mouths, but we
can't leave
just yet, it
took so long
to get here.

confusion

it's so easy to be
misunderstood these days,
through the written
word or in conversation,
the wink is taken as
a slight, the poem as
a rebuke, silence is
a quiet roar of disapproval,
that voice mail or email
is twisted into something
that it was never
meant to say. it seems
as if the world is on
thin ice, on edge and
so easily upset over
virtually nothing. our
egos have run aground,
thinking that each wave
that crashes upon them is
on purpose, and not just
nature taking it's course.
i'd like to think that
it's raining, not because
of me, or snowing, or hailing
or that lightning is
spitting across the black sky
not because of something
said or unsaid.

the wallpaper

the wallpaper
was difficult
to hang, a wild
pattern of geese
and wagons, a sunrise
and a forest of thin
trees in the distance.
all of it a milky blue
and green. twelve rolls
of paper, to be pasted,
and smoothed upon
the diningroom walls.
and the woman
who hired me cried
in the kitchen, talking
on the phone while
i worked. she whispered
harshly, her face
was dark, and the tears
moved quickly down
her cheeks, but i kept
working. she never said
a word as i struggled
up and down the ladder
with the soft fragile paper,
the inks smudging with
the lightest of touch,
the paper that was so hard
to cut, so difficult
to smooth out the wrinkles.
when she got off the phone,
she placed a check onto
the table and said thank
you. please lock the door
when you leave.

decision

i have made a decision,
i'll sleep in today, i'll
rise late, i'll drink coffee,
i'll get a paper, and browse
the internet, i'll dash off
a few e mails, then go to
the store for milk and
bread, something for dinner,
i'll pay some bills, get
to the bank before it closes.
i'll make a few calls,
sort through the new mail,
discard some of the old,
at some point i'll put
a load of clothes into
the machine, fold the dry
ones on the chair, then carry
them up the stairs. and before
the day is done, i'll read
for awhile, perhaps
see what's on television,
fix dinner, then take a long
walk down the empty streets,
through the trees and woods.
then i'll take a long, hot
bath before heading off to bed.
yes, i've made a decision today.
i won't be calling you.

what falls away

what falls away
is this,
the sun and moon,
a handful
of pointed stars
and tears from
a love you once
knew, the snow
that surrenders
beneath a sun
too bright
and warm
to keep it down,
the birds that
sweep through
trees like
a dark hand.
an ocean
that rolls like
memory,
immpossibly deep
and lonesome
in it's blue
cold self,
finding that
tomorrow is just
like yesterday.
what falls away
is this,
me and you.

less being more

she loved the mirror
and told me unblushingly
that people often
mistook her for grace
kelly, when she was
younger, when they were
both younger. it didn't
matter to me, but there
was an ache in her
to prove, or show that
she was still beautiful,
still desired, and in
passing she would mention
the men who went out
of their way to say hello,
or to ask her out.
single men, married men,
young and old this happened
all the time, she said.
on the bus, in the grocery
store, when she went
running in her tight shorts,
or walking through
the streets of old town
in her summer dress. none
of this mattered to me,
in fact it pushed me to
the other side of beauty,
wanting less, in order
to have more.

obituary

this friend of mine,
not really a friend, an
acquaintance, not even
that really, but someone
that i knew through work,
passed away. i found
out a year after he died,
so that tells you something
right there about our
relationship, which was
no relationship, in fact,
i didn't think too highly
of him, but now in death,
i can suddenly paint a rosy
picture of who he was,
and how he treated people.
i find myself saying
to others, and laughing
to myself, that he was
a character, but to be honest,
if i saw him coming down
the sidewalk, i would cross
the street before he'd
see me, or take another
direction altogether.
yeah, i guess i never really
liked him, but having found
out that he died, i feel
funny about it all.

in waiting

while you answer
your wife's question
about how you want
your eggs this morning,
i'll be in my back yard,
on my knees, digging
the hard ground, planting
seeds. i need to nourish
something, and eventually
see results. when she asks
you to rub her shoulders,
her neck, her arms, her
legs, or to zip up her
dress, before you both
go out to dinner, i'll be
opening up the fridge
to find something sweet,
leftover from when you
were last here. and at
some point, i'll delete
all of your e mails, again,
and addresses, and phone
numbers where you can't
ever be reached anyway,
and i'll break those martini
glasses, stepping on the
shattered glass, and feel
the cut on the bottom
of my feet. i'll look
at that crimson bloom
of blood as a portent,
for a dark moment, and
then run, without
hesitation to the phone
when i hear it ring.

family

it's not easy
being family,
despite the blood,
the history,
the endless collage
of childhood
days, now permanent
distortions
locked in memory.
but not every
one is in love,
or loved, or
equally cared
for or betrayed.
it's family,
it's dark, it's
wonderful at times,
it's inescapable
and crazy.

she was

not unlike
a flower
dried on
the window sill,
once fresh
and vibrant
and fragrant,
stem in the water,
bent towards
the sunight
and the hope
of tomorrow,
but now flat,
and done, a life
lived short,
cut from the field
and plucked out
to decorate
the life
of a stranger,
who never
really loved
or adored her
for the flower
that she was.

the local news

stay tuned, we'll be
right back with that story
about how doing this one
simple thing can save not
only your life, but the
lives of your entire family,
your pets, and perhaps
the whole population
of the human race, yes,
you won't believe it.
we will be right back
with this exclusive
information that you won't
want to miss after this
station break, the weather,
the sports and a round
up of our headline story
on locusts and how they
can get into your ears
while you're sleeping and
make a nest. as you might
imagine, the buzz is
horrendous, stay tuned.

perfection

during my former life,
when i was a plastic surgeon
for the rich and want to
be famous on connecticut
avenue in northwest, i used
to love my work. i would
sometimes sit on the park
bench by the zoo and watch
the people passing by,
examining their faces from
afar. that nose, i could
fix that, those bags under
the eyes, gone with a mere
slice of my razor sharp
scalpel, the paunch on
that otherwise slender woman,
a few suction treaments
and she'll be in a size
two the next morning. i
could vaccuum out those
scones in a heartbeat. and
that man with that huge
bump on his forehead,
bring him in, lay him
down and watch it go away.
voila. sometimes i'd
wander over to the zoo,
but there was nothing
i could do about them,
the animals behind bars
and glass, there was nothing
that i wanted to do, they,
yes they were perfect.

3 a m

it's clear now,
at this hour, 3 a.m.,
that i can't sleep
and that the dreams
i keep having are not
the ones i want, but
there is no flipping
through the menu
to find a better one.
i'm stuck, and will
go back to bed once
the fingers tire,
and the muse is in
the corner, snoring.

on the subway

i bit my tongue
the other day
and like a vampire
was dripping great
drops of brilliant
red blood from
my lips. it was quite
a sight, riding the
subway with blood
oozing out of my
mouth. i was wearing
a white shirt and
a black raincoat,
with shiny boots.
i saw a teenage girl
grab a crucifix out
of her purse and hold
it up to me, which
got a big laugh, until
i turned into a bat
and flew the hell
out of there at the
next stop.

maintenance

i'm going in for
new hips next week.
the old ones are shot,
worn down from too
many years of running
up and down a concrete
basketball court.
the knees, both of them,
need a scoping too,
after that i'm
having my eyes done,
just a nip and a tuck
around the chin too,
some lasix surgery and
some spots taken off
the top of my bald head.
when this all heals,
i'm going in for
some consultation to
discuss my manhood,
and to get a perscription
for vitamin V.
sure, it could make
me deaf and blind,
and cause me to go into
cardiac arrest, but
what the hell. after
all of this is said
and done, i figure
i've got a few more
years left in the tank.

trust

it's like this, she says,
flipping through my wallet,
checking beneath my bed,
examining the history on
my computer, this shouldn't
bother you, unless you have
something to hide. then
she flips over the mattress,
empties a drawer or two
onto the floor, checks
the pockets of my pants
and goes through my receipts
stuffed in the little
box on the counter. if
i could trust you i wouldn't
have to do this on a weekly
basis. what i'm doing is
saving our relationship,
then she picks up my phone
and goes through the calls
missed, received, and dialed.
i'm keeping you honest,
and keeping our love in tact.
now give me your car keys,
i need to check the trunk
and the mileage on the odometer.

thin disguise

this disguise you wear,
the one where you smile
and act happy all the time,
concerns me, and as your
doctor i don't recommend
that you continue it for
too long. others will
find you strange and think
that you're crazy or
on drugs, or hitting
the gin bottle on a regular
basis, or that you have
found the woman of your
dreams, your one and only,
and she is keeping you
on cloud nine, as they say.
so, as your confidant
and friend and physician
who knows your deepest
and darkest secrets, which
is it, what or who keeps
that smirk upon your
beaming, cheerful face.

bonjour

i fell in love with
this french girl, marie,
who struggled with her
english, but tried hard
to make a joke, i never
knew when to laugh,
and she was annoyed
when i laughed too soon,
or too late. i did a lot
of nodding, and grimmacing
at her puns that hit the
floor like lead baquettes.
she knew everything there
was to know about cheese,
about wine, about truffles,
and paris, art and life,
and about tiny portions
of food that take four
hours to make, and five
minutes to eat, but
thankfully, she also knew
about making love. we won't
get married, ever, and i'm
certain that it will be a
horrible end at some point,
but until then, i'm eating
and sleeping well.

the long way

i'm taking the long
way home tonight, not
the straight line, point
A to point B, B being
home, i'm stopping by
your lips for awhile,
point C and D.
i don't remember what
they feel like, taste
like, and i need a
reminder to go the rest
of the way. i'm not
a camel, or a woman,
i'm thirsty and want,
no, need to drink
deeply from your well,
and then i can go
on and make it home.

princess

the house was crawling
with cats and strange birds
when they found
her dead on the couch,
the television was still on,
dr. phil telling people
to stop hurtin one another,
the stove was on too,
a pot of canned chili boiled
over, burning what was left
of the beans, which set off
the smoke alarm and made
the neighbor next door, who
hated her and always wished
for this to happen, to call
the fire department, who
with one mighty swing cracked
the unlocked front door open
with an axe. the cats, most
of them, and the birds,
all came running and flying out,
like a jail break, escaping
the smoke. but there she lay,
in her satin blue robe,
her leopard skin high heels
and a tiara on her head.
a Life picture book about lady
di was in her lap, and one
pink coconut snowball cup
cake was still in her hand,
half eaten, but not unlicked.

digging

i remember some
of those jobs, at
nineteen, digging
a trench around
a house to find
a crack, to parge
the walls and bury
it back up in the heat
of summer,
the bleak frozen
mornings of winter.
i remember the pick
ax breaking, the shovels
snapping, it was that
cold. climbing into
the car to warm
up with my friends
who also had the luck
of digging, but we
were strong, young,
our backs could do
anything. we lived in
the nights, the day was
to make enough money
to allow the nights
to happen. but dig
we would, deeper,
around the footers of
hastily built homes
that leaked, that
had streams running
through the basements,
built on swamp land.
their misfortune
was our sweet luck.

the phone call

she used to call me
every night before
she went to sleep. there
was nothing of great
importance to talk about,
work, the kids, the weather,
when we might be getting
together again.
but she wanted to hear
my voice and i wanted
to hear hers before
the day ended. her voice
was soft and whispery.
it was a sweet way to end
the night, before the lights
went out. it was a nice
way of showing affection.
and then one night she
didn't call, and then another
went by, and another.
the fourth night
i waited and waited,
i put my hand on the phone
almost ready to dial
her number, but didn't.
another night went by,
and then it became a week,
months passed and the phone
still didn't ring. finally,
late one night, after twelve,
i found her number on
a scrap of paper in the dresser.
and called her, it rang
a few times before a man
picked up, and i could hear
her voice, in a whisper, in bed
next to him, asking who
it was, who was calling at
this ungodly hour of the night.

division

after the lawyers
got what they wanted
and saw that there was
no blood left in us,
we divided up the rest.
she got the toaster
oven, i got the coffee
maker. the juicer was
hers, as was the food
processor and most
of the kitchen implements.
i got the tv.
she got the big bed,
i got the couch, the
coffee table and the
enlarged black and white
photo of the grand
canyon. she took the mynah
bird, i got the dog,
the cat was hers before
we were married, so
she kept the blind
and deaf cat and
the aquarium full of fish.
the linens were all
hers, i got two
pillows and the new
electric blanket. she
wanted the dressers,
and the lamps, so i
took the wing chair
and the lava lamp. i
rolled up the oriental
rug and took that, while
she bargained for and
got the dining room
table and chairs, but
just four, i got the
other two. the books
were easy, the ones
i bought i took, and
the single one that she
bought but never read,
she kept. i was amazed
at how well we were
getting along in this
process of dividing
things. it made me feel
good about life in general,
and put a hope in me
for future relationships.

flood

it rained for days,
then weeks, months,
the stream rose and
flooded the streets,
there were no birds
in the sky, no dogs
roaming the parks,
the rain fell hard,
it pummeled the roof
tops, the cars, the
windows. the wind
made it fierce, and
it seemed as if it
would never end, that
there was no sun,
no blue sky behind
it all. no one
ventured out into
the rain, they ate
what they had on
the shelves, drank
all the liquor,
listened to the news,
wondering when it
would all stop.
but it didn't stop.
it kept coming,
and the houses
began to float away,
no babies were born,
entire towns were
swept into the
ocean, buildings
that had been there
for a hundred years
crumbled into the
soft ground. there
was a sudden outburst
of religion,
those who felt guilty
confessed, repented,
and those who felt
righteous blamed
the sinners for the
rain, for the flood.
it didn't matter,
the rain kept coming,
it filled the cities,
all of the flat
land as far as the eye
could see until
there was no more.

it was a long night,
my guest, my neighbor
and her soon to be
husband stopped by
to tell me the news
of their pending nuptials.
we had some wine,
something small to
eat, and put on some
music. we talked
through the night,
while they held hands
on the couch across
from me, they were
both over fifty and
yet, this love that
they had found had
uncreased their faces,
lightend the load,
put a careless smile
onto their lips.
we finished the bottle,
as they unwound
the story of them,
i had nothing to say,
but that i was glad,
happy for their love,
before they got
up to leave, their
hips touching each
other, neither
leading, neither
following. this was
a good start.

baking instructions

it's easy, she says,
easy to fall in love.
kiss me, do this, do
that. follow these
easy bake instructions.
stir and mix, measure
and pour. a pinch of
salt, a spoon of sugar,
grease the pan, some
heat, a little more,
and watch it rise.

oranges

she sends me a photo
of herself, this stranger,
and a bowl of oranges.
she's wearing a black
sweater, against the white
of her kitchen, she laughs
and says that she doesn't
know where they all came
from, but here they are.
and they look fat and juicy
in the bright lights,
held in the crystal bowl
by her long slender hands.
she is smiling, a soft
smile of tenderness, perhaps
a glimpse of the sweetness
and light within her, but
i'll never know, like
an orange tree, she's too far
away, i can't reach that
limb, that branch to pull
one off into my hands.

the cab driver comes,
he waits, he leans on
his horn, but gently,
there may be a tip
involved at some point,
so it's short, but
makes the point, we
hurry and we wave as
we come down the stone
steps dressed for dinner
in white on this warm miami
christmas eve. he
weaves his way to the
hotel where we are
to eat, and he tells
us the same story that he
has told a thousand times,
who lives where, al capone
lived there, he looks
into the mirror for our
eyes, to see if we
believe him, but it
doesn't matter.

cats in the street

my sister, who
lives florida,
the one i get along
with, called me
the other day
from the golf course,
i could imagine
her lean, tanned
arms and legs, dressed
in white.
she was peeling
a banana, waiting
her turn to tee
off, she wanted to
know how things
were back here, up
north where the winds
were blowing,
and the snow
was falling,
where cats
were dying in
the street, frozen.
she wasn't rubbing
it in, i was glad
for her, glad
for her new marriage,
her volunteer work,
her ability to change
directions in her
life and find a warm
place to rest
her weary bones.
okay, she said,
like that, i
gotta go,
and i could hear
her grabbing
her driver from
her bag before
sending a ball
flying through
the blue sky.

the diet

i am eating oranges
by the bagful, and
bananas, apples too.
i'm on a mission to
stop with the red meat,
the donuts, the drinks
full of sugar. i should
be on an island full
of coconuts and grapes,
a place where only
pineapples can grow.
and when this last bag
of potato chips is
done, i'll be free
and clear. this should
last a week or so.

another

there is always
another door.
another season,
another window
to crawl out
of, or into,
another you
to kiss,
at least this
is the mantra
that i possess
and whisper
on those nights
when i'm not
quite sure
if it's true.
and a cold breeze
has found a way
in to give me
a shiver
of doubt.

circling

it's easy to circle
around and around,
and never ask a question
as to where one is going.
no map, no gps, no googled
search printed out and sitting
on the empty seat beside you.
there is no need to roll
the window down and ask
the beat cop, the stranger
with a bag, or woman
with a child in tow.
this is the way birds do,
they just know, and the
circling is only temporary,
getting one's bearings
on what lies ahead, where
to land, which tree to light
on, before nightfall,
before hunger, before
wings begin to weary, before
the next nest is made.

ice cream

in this one photo
that i keep in a box
with a hundred others
i see my father sitting
in the center of a row
boat, holding the oars
in his muscled arms,
and four skinny children,
smiling into the lens,
awaiting the trip
across the bay, without
life jackets, without
a clue as to where or
how, or the danger
that might lie ahead
in the green deep swirl of
water. but there is
the promise of ice cream
on this bright summer
in cape cod. but even
with that i can see that
i'm holding my breath
just in case.

sample this

put anything
at the end
of a tooth pick
in this country
and a line
will form,
a charred tip
slice of beef,
a tid bit
of white fish, or
apple, or a chunk
of free range
chicken, add on
a plastic flag,
or smiling face,
or a snappy song
and they will
come in droves
to sample
the samples,
mostly because
it's free,
but also
because a very
handsome or pretty
celebrity has said
go ahead, eat it,
try it, buy it.
pick it up
and put it in
your mouth.
wrap it in bacon
and a riot
may start.

the new poor

the bed is hard.
the night is long
and cold.
the fire is weak
and bends
in the wind
that flys through
the barren trees.
there is only broth,
bark, tough
salted meat, and
just a few rounds
of bullets
to keep the wolves
at bay.
the mattress
we lie on is
torn and soaked,
the blanket thin,
but at least
we have cable,
where's the remote.

In the Garden

be careful
where you
reach
and step
the bed
of roses
is full
of thorns.
no surprise
there.
every love
poem
will tell
you that
at some
point. but
you are
prepared.
this time
you have
stocked
up on
tweezers
and neosporin,
cotton balls
to swab
the leaks
of hand
and heart.

arrows

sometimes the smallest
wound of words, like
silver arrows, build
up and kill whatever
hope there was of
winning this vague
war of lust and love.
you have dropped
the armor, the helmet,
the sheild and
the flurry of points
brings you to your knees.
you want out, you want
the horse, the path
that leads away, cold
mystery is better
than this could ever be.

steps

the ancient steps,
long, deep, crumbling
grey ruins
beneath your feet
and the weight of you,
but they remain,
even long after their
true use has ended,
and now tourists, like
you, like me, carry
our lanterns, our books,
our guides to try
and discover something,
that will lead us
towards our own steps
that may or may not lead
us downward
or begin to rise.

secrets

in each shadow,
of each soul
there is a secret
life, a story
that most likely
will never get
told, and often
it's best
to keep it that
way, in the dark,
away from
the judgement
of light and eyes
that don't quite
see things
the way you do.

ticking

I say go left,
she says no, go
right. I try to kiss
her on the lips, she
turns to give me
her cheek. She wants
red wine, I want
a gin and tonic
with a slice
of lime. She
prefers to sleep
in. I get up
early to walk
the dog, make a
run for coffee
and a paper. Cake
or pie, we differ
there too. Yes,
even the simple
things. It's too
hot for me, too
cold for her. I
save, she spends.
I want the beach,
she longs for a
mountain. Our
vote on every
issue cancels
each other's out
She wants to sing
loudly with the
music, I want to
hear the song. There
is no middle
ground for us to
stand on, just this
small island of
discontent and
the ticking clock.

cathedral

there is a small
cup of moon
over the snow,
a brilliant
piece of white
china that showers
light between
the pine trees
and unlit houses,
and this is where
you go to pray,
to exhale
the trouble
you gathered
during
the sunlight hours,
in the dark
hollow of day.

flood rising

the sadness
of love
is that it can
end so quickly,
the differences
running over,
like water
from a storm,
flooding
the streets,
bringing
the debris
to the surface,
to float
aimlessly
on the current,
as you go
under,
and under
gasping for air.

memo

i haven't heard
from you in awhile,
not a word, a peep,
as they say, by
phone or e mail,
or text or cans
tied together with
string. i'm
pondering the quiet.
i've built a
hundred scenarios
explaining it all,
and then tore them
down. it's probably
something i said,
or did, or didn't
do. it's hard to
know exactly with you.
i try to hand
out apologies at
the first of each
new year to cover
the mistakes i'll
surely make as the
days go by, but
perhaps you didn't
get that memo.

charity

your kisses
are charitable.
i have known
stubborn
and selfish
lovers
but you
are not one
of those. you
give till
it hurts, you
bend like
the trees
do when a storm
blows in.
you are the
red cross
of lovers,
healing all
of those
in need.

exhale

it's nice to let
it go, to let the battery
die out. switch it all
off. no beeps, no buzzes,
no voice mails, e mails,
or knocks at the door
with a special delivery.
it's calming to put your
feet into the ocean, to
breath in the salt air,
to exhale the year,
before the next one begins.
it's nice to let it go.

at sixty

please, don't tell me
that i'm old. can an old
man do this, i say,
and reach down like
a dancer to touch my toes.
can an old make love
in the morning, and again
at noon, and finish off
the night with one more
round of passion
beneath the white sliver
of moon, no, don't tell me
i'm old just yet. the old
don't sing like i do, or run,
or climb trees to shake out
the fruit in season. yes,
the hair is gone, the
vision blurred, the memory
weak. yes, there are more
wrinkles from the sun
and worry, and there is less
and less interest in what
the world is up to, but
please, please don't call
me old. now come here, take
my hand and let's dance.

survival

i am stacking wood,
storing supplies, food,
meat of sorts, stocking
up, as it were, for
what's next. blizzard,
depression, the market
plunge, the unringing
phone. i have been here
before, in childhood,
in every age i have felt
the pangs of hunger,
of thirst, of being alone
with a small fire
to keep my hands warm.
i have felt the cold
in my feet, the wet
socks, and the dull
ache of bones as they
pushed forward through
the deep, unflinching snow.

january

there is a myth
that the woods
are quiet, silent,
the animals gone
shy, especially
under snow,
the stream
affected too,
slowed beneath
the ice above, but
it isn't so.
everything keeps
moving below
the frozen
surface, but in
a different way,
life, as does
love, adjusts,
just under the pale
of january.

on ice

the thick ice
will be around
for awhile, it
snowed too hard,
too early in winter
for it to find
enough heat
and sun to melt
away, and our shoes
will slip, we will
curse beneath
our breath where
we have let this
relationship go.
we are so in need
of an agreement
of hearts, of a truce
found only in
a season like spring.

moving

having packed
all of my belongings
into cardboard
boxes and marked
each as to the room
where they should be
set when i arrive
at my next destination.
kitchen, bedroom,
livingroom, etc..
the heaviest boxes
holding the many books
read and kept throughout
the years, i stand in
the hollow rooms and
watch the movers carry
them out. all of my
possessions so neatly
sealed and condensed.
i give the house
the once over before
turning off the lights,
before locking the door
one final time,
before thinking
about the love made,
the loves the lost,
the dog.

A Dozen Warm Cookies

the taxi pulls up
with doreen in the back,
black dress, a winter
wool hat, gloves,
scarf, she is prepared
for the worst of winter,
and yet smells like
a flower, wrapped
in faux fur, with boots
to her knees.
she holds a plate in her
gloved hands, an offering,
covered in shiny foil
that catches the glow
of street lamps bathed
in falling snow,
she has made me a batch
of cookies and has come
all this way to drop
them off before going to
see someone else,
and sadly the first bite
tells me they are oatmeal.

christmas eve

in the brittle cold
of christmas eve, on
a walk with little in
mind, but to sweat out
and stretch, to breathe
in the fresh air of an
old year at it's end,
i saw that the lights
of the church, at seven,
were on, and the parking
lot half full, so
i went in, into the place
where i had been so
many sundays and holy
days in my childhood.
and there was the altar,
the crucifix, the hard
pews of blonde wood,
candles burning and i
knelt alone with the small
gathering, finding
the remembered prayers
and the new ones that i
let fall from my lips,
confession of sorts,
thankfulness, gratitude
and a general all
encompassing prayer for
others. i have to admit
that it felt good, and
then the priest began
to speak, in spanish, of
which i had no clue, but
i stayed until the end
just the same.

black socks

new socks
were not
on my list,
but i got
them just
the same,
black,
both dress
and casual.
i am
very fond
of black
socks,
and obviously
it's well
known
throughout
the world,
otherwise
why would i
get so many
each christmas
morning.
and i would
be remiss
if i failed
to mention
the plaid,
red and green,
dishtowels
that were
also,
not on
my list,
but now
adorn my
kitchen in
holiday wonder.

meow

she likes to kiss.
like she's doing now.
to lie on the couch
and breathe softly
into my ear, no words,
just her warm breath
like a small cat
who needs something
from the kitchen,
but i'm sleepy
and tired, and all
the purring and pawing
that she does won't
get me to move an
inch east or west,
but those are not
the directions that
she's concerned with.
she's been into
the catnip.

photos

there is great difficulty
in the sorting of photos,
taking them one
by one from the big box
where they have been for
years, some sticking, some
black and white, some
unremembered, but most hold
a memory, an instant when
the camera flashed and a
permanance was given to the
temporal, or so it seems.
for who are these people,
these young, unlined faces
with heads full of ungrey
hair, their slenderness,
and quick smiles,
the absence of so much
that weighs down the old,
the relentless movement
of time, so clear,
so amazing and bittersweet
in one's hand.

the light

the light of you
is bright. i feel
it's warmth, absorb
it's heat. i welcome
you, this friendship
that comes so easily,
it moves to every
corner that was once
dark, shadowed with
indifference and
yesterdays unsolved.
i am ready to move
everything
to the middle,
to let you see what
i have seen. i think
that much about you.

the absence of you

for so long
she followed me
down the steps,
through the woods
to where a cold
stream ran
over broken rocks.
this was what we
did when we were
in love, and it
was natural to hold
hands and kiss
upon arrival, or
departure, but now
i go alone,
and the steps are
dark and wet
from the fall
rains, where
the leaves
have emptied from
the trees,
and the sleeve of
water is blue
like steel,
dangerous
and different
in her absence.

Bacon

feeling desparately low
on nitrates when i woke
up this morning,
the day before christmas,
i asked myself just how
badly did i need bacon.
was i willing to brave
the holiday shoppers
and traffic, the speeding
mini vans full of coffee
crazed moms and children
fighting for the last
spot in the already
packed lot at the whole
foods, was i patient enough
to negotiate the iced
roads narrowed by the walls
of plowed snow from a week
ago. it was all a cup
of crazy this notion of
getting bacon, but i
wanted it, no, i needed
the sizzling taste of
grilled fat to go along
with my eggs and hash
browns, my toasted english
muffin with blueberry jam.
so off i went in search
of a pound of thick cut
bacon and four hours later
my hunger was satisfied.

resolutions

ah, the new year's
resolution. let's start
with something simple like
no carob or lima beans,
or tofu, or sugarfree
anything, and then work
our way up to no
standing in lines
for anything. how about
no phone calls longer
than three minutes, no
texting beyond three
communications, no
listening to lectures
about politics, God,
or global warming.
and on the more positive
side, more sleep, better
food, more kissing,
more exercise.
more love. more listening,
more giving, more reading.
more writing, more meditation
and quiet, more cake,
more fun. forgiveness.

keep going

another mile
run,
another sit up,
another press
of the weights,
the lifts,
the stretching
and pull.
another sprint
on the bike
through the woods,
up the hills,
another step
onto the scale
to measure the
weight gained,
the ounces lost,
another peek
into the mirror
to witness
gravity and time,
the years
and daylight
racing away
like horses
in the late
summer sun.

at this stage

the notion of you
is this, that you
need to stretch your
limbs like a sleepy cat
and seek out
love under every
rock you come upon.
i understand and have
great sympathy for
your plight. it's not
an uncommon one, this
need, this desire
to be in love, although
i have met a few
that have fought past
it, and found a place
of content and comfort
within themselves, no
longer needing physcial
pleasure, or someone
to have around to converse
with or to share a thought
or fear, or meal, or simple
cup of joy. i have
yet to determine though
if it's age related, or
just the way it is now,
this modern life, or
when and if it will own
me too, and you.

the parking lot

there was a lot of grumbling
about the snow while the
shovels went at it, clicking
and clanking against the ice
and pavement when it was
finally reached, where
were the plows, the salt, someone
to get this mess out of here.
of course these were all
adults grousing, the children
were on the hill throwing
snowballs, sledding, rolling
like puppies in the deep white
flakes. but we lifted, and
huffed, sweating in our
layers as we cleared the
paths for our cars and trucks
for the next day. a work day.
we carried load after load
of ice and snow to the end
of the parking lot while
the children screamed with joy.
these two worlds were
oblivious to one another.
the glee of youth untouched
in smiles and laughter, not
hearing the grunts, the groans
or seeing the worry of tomorrow
folded in our brows.

yesterday

a book of poems arrived
in the mail from a friend
of mine. every line ryhmed
and talked about flowers
and love, God and sunshine.
they were heartfelt poems,
full of family and religion,
faith and the beauty of
nature. thankfulness. they
were fine poems. i liked
them for what they were,
and for the true emotions
felt and expressed so
simply. they were poems
that i couldn't write even
on my best day. unlike him
i need to scratch at something,
to find the itch, the scab,
the dark cloud, the blood,
the edge, before finding
redemption in the bright
light of summer. i want
to feel the cold in my
feet and fingers. i need
to walk on ice before this.

Medical Marijuana

I saw Santa in the sky
the other night, a week
or so before Christmas.
His sled was zig zagging
back and forth between
the clouds, with toys
and gifts tumbling out
of his enormous bag that
sat perched at the back
of his sleigh. He had
his radio turned up
really loud and was
snacking on a plate of
sugar cookies. Crumbs
and spilled eggnog were
all over the front of his
fuzzy red suit, but he
seemed very, very happy
despite having no memory
of where he had been, or
where he was to go.

everything is everywhere

everything is

everywhere.

i can see that 

from the door.

to the ceiling, spread

out on each floor.

the death of an ancient

loved one

and suddenly there are

seven clocks, 

more art than the walls

can hold. vases enough 

to break one per day. 

all of it has felt your touch, 

your hands, your fingers 

each with some dusty

memory attached,

but it does nothing 

for you, not even 

the flush bank account

matters. no exotic travel

will bring them back, 

no car, no dress, 

no lavish meal, 

or piece of gold 

can save the heart 

from missing.

sailor

the black sea
rolls forever
below the white
stars, and on
this ship i wonder
what will become
of me and all the
sailors who sail
this ocean, from
each port, to each
sea. where will
i plant the flag,
set foot high and
dry upon green
land, when will
i give up
the sextant, the
sail, the oars,
the treasure map
that promises love
and the holy grail.
where will i see
you waiting
with arms aloft,
your face in the
new sun, waiting
high up on the rocks,
your green eyes,
like stars, showing
me the way home.

cup of sugar

my neighbor, alan,
who happens to be
a professional circus
clown, stopped by
the other day
to borrow a cup of sugar.
brown or white, i asked
him. and he said why
on earth would i want
brown sugar. baking, i
said, perhaps you're
baking some cookies
or a cake. he was grumpy
and a lit cigarette
dangled from his lips.
traces of fake tears
were still painted on his
whitened face. i could
smell whiskey on his
breath. there were bags
beneath his eyes
and a fresh scratch on
his cheek from what
looked like fingernails.
i'm brewing a pot
of coffee he said,
and i need a few
teaspoons of sugar.
he still had the remants
of his clown make up
on, but it was smudged
and greasy looking, as
if he had started with
the cold cream and then
gave up. his hair was
matted down from the red
wig and derby that i've
seen him wear when he goes
to work. no floppy shoes,
or big red ball nose. only
his billowy clown costume,
which was a radiant
yellow, with big green
dots. there looked
to be a gravy stain
down the front of it.
rough night, i asked him.
he nodded, still holding
out the bowl that he wanted
me to put sugar into.
yes, he said. i broke
up with my girlfriend, lulu.
maybe you've seen her, she
rides the elephants, short
girl, cute. he indicated
her height with a shaky hand.
no, i said, i don't go
to the circus. the smell.
i don't like the whole
deal. it makes me nauseous.
he shrugged. she ran
off with Reginald,
the strongman. weightlifter
guy. bastard. she sent
me a text message
during the show to tell me.
i was in the clown car
with nine other clowns
when i got the text. damn,
i said, then poured
some sugar into his bowl.
enough? that's good,
he said, thanks, then
went down the steps, back
to his house in his bare feet.

On the High Seas

i understand that
the boat won't go
down if we all paddle
and pull together,
put our fingers
and hearts into
the hole where
the cold water rushes
in and aims to sink us.
it's a group effort
this survival, although
at times i wonder,
and wish to swim
alone, take my chances
on the high seas
without the boat,
the person next to me,
and those who seek
to captain. i especially
dislike the group sing
alongs as we pull
those wooden oars
towards shore.

I find

it is the soft
kiss and light
caress in
the morning
light,
upon the cheek
or lips
or hand that
gently touches
the arm
or hip that
let's the day
unfold
with a much
greater ease,
than in
the absence
of such
subtleties.

let them eat cake

i find that in times
of stress that i go
to the cake. that slice
of deep dark chocolate
is where i find my solace,
my comfort, my sweet
redemption and peace,
my happy place,
and when i'm tired,
or sad, or lonely,
or the stock market
has dropped five hundred
points, or even after
a lusty session
of unbridled passion,
once again i need that
big fat slice of cake
to calm me down, to bring
me to my senses. i want
that flour and sugar
and eggs to rise from
it's sweet batter
into a globe of golden
warmth and wonder.
bundt, or pan, layered
or even the little
cupcakes will do, it
doesn't matter. just
pour me a glass of milk
and cut me a nice healthy
slice, please hurry,
i'm feeling blue.

google

we really don't need books,
or schools, or teachers, or
anything or anyone, we have
google. type in your need,
your question, your desire
or problem and there it is
in spades. all you need
to know is waiting for you,
like magic, on a when you
need to know basis. why fill
up the mind with so much
useless information. just
learn the answer when you
need the answer. yes. it
is the end of civilization
as we know it, but those of
us who have yet to learn
how to type on the tiniest
of keyboards without looking,
using our fat thumbs, we are
dinosaurs clilnging to our
books and newspapers, awaiting
extinction. when, i don't
know. but let me google that.
i'm sure there is an answer.

when the eggnog runs out

as i stand outside
the house i used live in,
where others now reside,
shivering and cold
in my wet shoes, a pint
of southern comfort at
my blue lips, foreclosure
papers still in hand,
i can't help but wonder
at the turn of events
that have taken place.
the economy is the simple
answer, but it's not
enough for me to know
that so many others
are suffering the same
fate. bad planning, the
wrong job, not enough
education to keep the
money rolling in, divorce,
or children gone off the
deep end, sickness,
the swine flu perhaps.
it could happen to anyone,
but still. it was once
my house. it was the place
i put up the christmas tree
and gathered the children
around, some of them mine,
and the second wife, i think
her name was marsha, the dog,
the cat, my neighbor jimmy
and his boyfriend, bill.
it was where we would all
sing, and dance the night
away until the eggnog ran out.

No, please, I've got It....

she loves chinese food,
get out of the way
and watch the chop sticks fly,
deep fried and spicy, or
bring on the italian, white
sauce or red. oh yea, steak
and potatoes go down
like nothing. Yum. and garlic
bread, roast her up a lamb
with some mint jelly, or
a slab of chilean sea bass
blackened and tender to
the touch or tongue. did
i hear maine lobster?
wine, keep it coming, pour
her another and another,
no sweat, oh what the hell,
leave the bottle, she's not
driving, she's not paying,
her purse hasn't been opened
in so long it has cobwebs
on it, but it's okay. a
salad, dessert, oh perhaps
an appetizer. it's queen
for a day, a night,
they line up without a
hint of guilt, it's the
world we live in. if you don't
pay, well, then sadly you
probably won't play. Be a man
and step up. Stop your whining
and open that door. hello.
what all that bra burning
was about, and marching
in the street to make us
all equal, i have no idea.
It's nineteen sixty three
all over again my brother.

NYC

My left shoe has
given out first, failed
me with a round hole
worn straight through
from walking the streets
of New York City with a
hot pastrami sandwich in
in one hand, a map of
the subway system in the
other. I have a bright
yellow swab of mustard
down the front of my coat
and seven dollars to get
me back to 56th street
and 6th avenue where I
have a warm room at the
Belvedere. I am amazingly
happy here in the city,
without a clue, a buck,
or the love of my life,
past, present or future.
I think I'll take in the
Zoo before the sun sets
and Time Square lights up
like a Christmas tree
on crack. I've got time.

Truth in Dating

The new dating site
will be called Sodium
Pentothal Dot Com. An
hour before you meet
the perspective love
of your life both of you
will receive a shot
of truth serum from a
qualified nurse, who then
will also apply a nice little
bandaid on the pricked
point where a spot
of blood may eek out.
And in the course of the
evening, with very little
prodding from wine or
martinis,or flirtation
of any sort, each person
will begin, without
reservation, to reveal
their true age, weight,
height, religion, marital or
relationship status, plus
any diseases past or present
that may lurk in their blood
stream, or sit itchingly
upon the skin. Your
financial status will
be revealed, hidden tattooss,
or piercings, will all come
to light. the criminal
records, genetic predispositions,
not to mention the number of
children, wives, husbands
that may have occurred along
the way will all be known.
One might as well own up
to the dogs and cats, boas
and birds, or other exotic
beasts, or insane relatives
that may litter the landscape,
or cohabit your home, or the
backseat of your car.
And finally, in that moment
of pure revelation and
enlightenment, each person
will have to say what their
true intention is with
the person who sits in
front of them all prim and
proper and formerly smelling
of roses. It should really
save alot of second dates
from ever taking place.

the best

not all the cream
rises to the top,
sometimes the best
get stuck near the bottom
or at some point in
the middle. you see
it all the time,
in the creative fields,
or science, teachers.
someone has to drive
the buses, ladle the
soup, shine the shoes.
the best singer
is on occasion behind
the counter, tending
the register, the
greatest athlete
might be mopping
the bathroom floor.
it might be luck, or
lack of it, fate, or
a purpose, who knows,
but it doesn't mean
that the light is not
shining within them,
it's still there, but
the shades have been drawn.

snow storm

the movement of the trees,
slight in the autumn wind,
it's a heavy cold arriving.
you can feel it in your bones.
the weatherman swears snow,
or sleet, or both, the warnings
come often with the urgency
of doom. the rush is on
for shovels and salts,
hats and gloves, where are
they, the ones from last
year, and the stores are full
as the essentials are purchased.
but the snow is never deep,
not anymore, not like i
remember when i was a kid,
when it would climb fences,
cover the cars, and schools
would shut down for a week,
but the slight panic is still
on, even now as the earth heats
with too many of us. nature
will eventually find a way
to balance it all out, but
until then, bundle up, an inch
or two is about arrive.

Fear of Flying

I'm not fond of being up
in the air, above the clouds,
soaring in the so called
silver bird that speeds
through a gaggle of
fluttering geese. I think
of everything that can go
wrong, despite the wonderful
bag of nuts and soda that's
been provided, the inflight
magazine, chock full of
insightful tips and the top
notch films starring goldie hawn,
or snoop dogg, I am full
of doubt and fear. Of course
I admire and respect
the professionalism
of the attendants and crew,
so neatly attired in white
and blue, so starched
and proper, and yet still,
it's unnerving, the mere
mention of the fetal position
makes me want to go into
one and yet, that is what
one must do before the swift
plummet into the earth below.
They quickly train you on
how to exit down the slide,
and to inflate that orange
life preserver around your
trembling body, or the rubber
raft to float upon in an endless
ocean full of sharks and killer
whales, if you survive the impact
that is. I feel cramped
and helpless in the hands
of the captain. What if he
had a bad day, what if his
wife burned the toast just
that morning, what if
the mechanics had a wild night
out in a bar drinking tequila
with the captain's wife,
and forgot to tighten up that
one bolt that holds the whole
thing together. And just being
stuck in a metal tube, elbow
to elbow, breathing the same
fumes for hours on end with
complete strangers, or worse,
relatives with the flu,
the coughing, the sneezing,
the scratching of arms and
necks covered in welts. Not
to mention security,the removing
of shoes, the searching of bags
holding your very very personal
toys and what nots, the tags,
the x-ray machine, the long
walks from here to there
in a crazy zig zag of signs
and ramps, escalators and
moving sidewalks. No, keep me
on the ground, it's greyhound
for me, although those bus
stations are nothing to shout
about either. What's that puddle
I'm standing in and sorry, but
no, I don't have a quarter.

Out of Reach

The gloves I wear
have a hole in them,
and so does the next
pair, and the next
that are buried in
the boxed pile of
winter wear. Moe,
the recently departed
pup made his mark
on everything, and
rarely does a day
go by without feeling
his warmth beside me,
or in me putting my
hand through the torn
leather hole of a shoe,
a glove, or coat. Moe!

Don't Quit Your Day Job

she says in retreat,
a thrust of the critical
knife, but strangely
there is no wound, no
blood, no harm done,
and I think about
this wonderful cliche line
that is so often used
when there is a dislike
either real or percieved,
it doesn't matter which,
but the line is one of deep
feelings. I like those
lines, the short ones
that have a ring of truth,
a point of clarity. It
does make me think about my
day job, and how much
I enjoy the sweat and
exertion of it all, the
satisfaction of completion.
So little in this life
allows that on a daily
basis. It's a struggle
as middle age takes over,
and yet a blessing in
many ways. So, no, I
won't quit my day job,
just yet. I'll let nature
take it's course and when
time allows I'll write
and write and write to
my heart's content.

Patience

I can't help you anymore.
My skills are limited.
I've listened time and time
again to your troubles,
but I have no answers, no
clue as to how to ease
your burdens, get you on
the right track. I could
steer you towards prayer,
or a self-help guru with
a shelf full of books to
read and ponder, or I could
suggest meditation, yoga,
or exercise to clear your
brain, settle your soul.
Perhaps a therapist who
deals in such matters is
best. For this goes much
deeper than what I'm
capable of saying or doing.
I can't deliver you, or
save you. The problem is
that you like being where you
are and really don't want
to be helped. You just
want to be heard, to tread
the water of feeling sorry
for yourself, to remain
this victim of life. Chaos
is the house you live in,
and I'm sorry, I just can't
visit anymore. I have to go.

Lovely Rita

I see her waiting patiently,
so I dip into my pocket
for a few permissable coins.
But the meter maid still hovers
like a jackal. She sits in
her crazy half car, squeezed
tight into the glass box
that rides upon the tiny
wheels. A pad of tickets
rest in her hand, the pen
perched in her paw. Her bent
badge adorns her as does
the black baton, and cannister
of mace, the radio hooked
to her sleeve in case she
needs to call for help.
She's just doing her
job and doing it oh so well.
The scone crumbs on her
issued shiny coat does not
impede her efficiency one
bit. I respect that. I feed
the hungry meter, that pants
with a red tongue,
a few quarters, then give
her a wave. She scowls
and shakes her head, making
her fuzzy hat tilt even
more, before giving me
a laugh. She moves on.
The sun is hardly up
and the quota longs to be
filled, so she cranks
the engine of her little car,
lights a fresh cigarette
and rolls slowly up the block
to where the line of grey poles
of meters flicker expired
and red. It's feeding time.

A Winter's Night

The lake is frozen
and the skaters, in
mittened groups of twos
and threes, gather
to glide along the blue
lit ice beneath a winter
sky. I'd love to join
them, to toss up the dust
from the silver blades,
to cut through the shadows
of the bare trees on
this moonless night,
but I am old. My legs
have seen the walk
of eighty years, and my
gait is broken, but my
heart is young, like
theirs. I am still in love.
I am still in the wind,
my hands are still entwined
with hers, and I will skate
out my years with joy.

Oh, really now

All readers are welcome,
I say, amused at the point

of view that what I write
is cynical and self absorbed,

or misogynist. Lovely, I am
delighted. I embrace

the broken hearted, the laid
low, those caught in the undertow

of life, the bruised, the abused,
the lost and lonely. Who hasn't

been there for a moment at some
point, and if not, they are blessed

beyond belief. If they want
nursery rhymes about flowers

and love, then open just about
any book on the shelf. It's

usually covered in dust
and hasn't been touched in decades.

Bring a dictionary to look up
all the words you won't understand.

If you want pretension and posing,
if you want to dance around

the point trying to be made,
then it's all there for you.

How do I love thee, let me count
the ways. For God's sake, stop

the babble and just say it. I like
your lips, your legs, the way you

bite my neck when we make love,
I love the way your hips move

and your toes curl when you
melt in my arms. Please.

Poetry should not just be for
all the little girls in school.

The Train

i do want to believe
in it. marriage. i had it
and when it was good
it was very good, but
when it went south
it was a living hell
that saw no end, each
dark day lined up one
after the other waiting
for it's turn at sorrow.
but i want to believe
that it can work, and yet
i only see the lying,
the onslaught of boredom,
the cheating, the deception
in each and nearly every
one of these marriages.
the fights over money,
children, control.
i don't know the answer.
i guess you have to work
at it, like a job, and
then there's the glue of
religion, common interests.
love and family, trust
and respect. i get it.
i really do understand,
but i step through the
debris of these train
wrecks everyday and see
the carnage and i just
can't see getting on
that train again. same
sex, opposite sex, no
sex. go ahead, give it
a shot, i wish you all
the best in your endeavor.
but when i hear that
whistle blow and the rumble
of the wheels about to
cross that trestle, i step
aside and let it roll by.

jelly beans

are sweet.
i keep a large
bowl of colored
beans always
within reach, the peacock
blues, the passion
pinks, the whites,
and greens, the
licorice black.
my dentist loves me
as i put his kids
through school
and pay on the new
lexus that he leases.
i can't stop myself
from dipping into
the bowl jelly beans,
one after another.
i seem to have that
problem with other
things as well.