the ghost dog

the ghost dog
is under my feet.
he's barking,
he's into the
trash, chewing
shoes and rubbing
his wet nose
on the window,
growling at squirrels
and the lady next
door sweeping her
walkway. the ghost
dog is in bed,
diagonally, leaving
me no room, the
weight of him has
doubled the second
he fell asleep.
he's unwalkable,
the ghost dog,
like walking a fish,
a trout caught on
the line, in water,
he goes everywhere
but where you want
him to go. the ghost
dog is on his back,
with his tongue
out his brown eyes
sharp and young,
flashing bright
in the morning light,
awaiting my scratch
upon this smooth belly.

catholic girls

she never missed church.
not a holy day would go
by without her attending.
i'd see her standing out
in front, with her sunglasses
on, smoking the last
of a cigarette before
crushing it beneath her
white high heels. sometimes
she'd still be woozy from
the drinks and late
night activities that
got her in at four a.m.,
but she'd never miss mass,
or communion, or confession.
despite what she did
the night before.
she was determined to be
good no matter how bad
she was. and i admired her
for this and i couldn't
wait to see her again
the next saturday night,
washed clean and forgiven
and ready to start all over.

last night

sleep was rough
water as i swam
through the night
in the cold blue.
there was no
bottom, nowhere
to climb out, the
waves pushed me,
and the sky was
violet as i drifted
and dived around
the edges of my
life, waiting
for morning.
waiting for light.

plan B

she calls me
in the middle
of the day, while
i'm up on a
ladder about
to climb onto a
roof, and in
a hoarse whisper
she says come over,
right now. i'd like
to see you naked,
i'm in the hot
tub with a glass
of wine, wearing
that little red
bikini that you
like and drool
over. but i'm
working, i tell
her, i'm in the
middle of something
that i just can't
leave, i'd like to,
but i really can't.
i'm thirty miles
away, an hour
in traffic. sorry.
and this doesn't
make sense to
hear at all. i hear
her hand hit the
water with a splash.
she doesn't even
say goodbye, she
just hangs up and
goes to plan B.

the late bill

in haste to get
a check out for
the electricity
before they cut it
off and left me in
total darkness, i
cut myself on
the clean sharp edge
of the bill. it was
a slight flesh
wound. a paper cut
at best, with a trickle
of blood that burned
and stung more than
it should.
i licked it, i put
some kleenex on it
to stop the bleeding,
finally i got a bandaid,
out of the medicine
cabinet, but it still
wouldn't stop. i wrapped
a bath towel around
the tiny wound and
still the blood came,
it was worse, it was
pouring out and i
could feel myself
getting weaker, then
i fell to my knees
into the puddle of blood.
my life was flashing
before me. i lay down,
holding up my arm, trying
to wrap a belt around
my bicep to stop the
flow, but it still
came, i could feel
myself about to faint
as the blood raced
through me when
the overhead
lights flickered
and dimmed before
going out. i could hear
the faint beeping
of clocks and things
throughout the house
as they turned off all
at once from
the lack of electricity.

it's all fiction

i tell her. there
is not a word of
truth in any of
this that you read.
it's all a mirage
a figment of my
skewed imagination.
lack of sleep,
raised by wolves,
underfed, under
nourished and
deprived of love,
okay, sex too. but
none of it is true.
it's not the world
i live in, walk
through on a daily
basis. i'm inventing
all of it, of course
unless it has
somethng to do with
us and then you
might discover a clue.

the landlord

my landlord
won't fix
the plumbing.
there is no
hot water, at
least hardly
enough to sit
and soak in his
rusty tub. there
are bugs too,
and i've found
mice chewing
on the phone
wires, getting
into the
cupboards.
my landlord
says that he
needs to raise
the rent if he
fixes the leaky
roof and paints
the stairwell
where the kids
have written
graffiti and
drawn crude
pictures of
men and women
having sex.
there is absolutely
no proportion,
or perspective in
the art. i
can hardly have
anyone over
for dinner with
that in the hallway.
my landlord
tells me that
i'm lucky to have
a place to sleep,
a place to live
in this city. he
says that i should
be thanking him
for all that he
does for me. he
laughs as he takes
this month's rent
out of my hands.
what are you writing,
he asks, pointing
at my desk.
keep the noise
down with that thing,
he tells me
as he leaves the
apartment, people
are complaining
about you. i shut
the door and go
to my typewriter.
it's my only form
of revenge. you'll
see i whisper
you'll see, and i
begin to type.

us

she says, i've come
a long ways, a long
ways in understanding
who i am. no, i tell
her, you haven't, and
if anything you've rolled
backwards on a few important
issues. such as. she says,
sipping her martini. us.
i tell her. you have no
sense of who we are
together. we aren't
together, she says. i
know that for a fact.
ridiculous, i tell her,
we'll always be together.
that's the nature of us,
and pain is the foreplay
of poetry. you got that
right, buddy, she says,
and if we stay together
your well won't be dry
for a very long time.

girl from iowa

she was from iowa,
somewhere. i don't even
remember her name anymore,
but i imagined
her driving
on a dirt road
that was carved out
between endless fields
of wheat and corn,
perhaps on her father's
tractor, in a cloud
of dry yellow dust,
dropping her
off at the interstate
with a small polka dotted
black and white suitcase
full of t-shirts and more
cut off shorts and jeans,
where she would catch
a greyhound bus that would
take her to the train,
that would go to the
airport and from there
to north carolina where
she would borrow her
sister's 69 firebird
that burned a quart of oil
every hundred miles
to drive to meet me
at nag's head, where i
was borrowing a friend's
beach house on the bay
side for the weekend.
she liked to make a grid
of ketchup on her egg
omelette and talked
really loud as if she
was deaf or thought
perhaps that you were.
she had been in a motor
cycle accident years
ago that left her
with long worm like
scars imbedded in
her arms and legs
where the bones broke.
they looked like shark
bites. she didn't try
to hide them and said
that it was just a one
time ride around
the block with her high
school friend ernie.
he went too fast trying
to impress her and skidded
out sending them both
flying into the street
against the curb and
a fire hydrant. she made
it through, but ernie
didn't. for months the
town put flowers out next
to the hydrant where he
smashed his head. she told
me all of this while tapping
the end of the ketchup
bottle to get the lines
just right, straight across
and down in a quilted
pattern on her plate
of eggs. not unlike the
aerial view of farms
in iowa.

to the moon alice

after sex and she
goes into the bathroom
for an hour to do
God knows what, she
comes back when i'm
a second from slipping
into dreamland
and says move over
i'm getting in,
why are you hogging the
whole bed, and the good
pillows, turn of that
light, and what's with
all the clocks
blinking red and green,
it's christmas in here,
how can you possibly
sleep like this, with
that fan going, the window
open, the blankets, so
heavy. is your dog really
going to sleep with us.
this is when i reach
over to my imaginary
eject button and visualize
her springing through
the roof, cartwheeling
into space and orbiting
the moon without me.

over coffee

over coffee
serious things
can be discussed.
there is no
room for frivolity,
mirth, or mush.
no fooling around.
it's too early
in the morning
for that. it's down
to business time.
what's to become
of us, she says.
and this leads
to more coffee, more
staring into space
out the window
at the dog chewing
on a leg of the new
lawn furniture.

persistence

my left foot
doesn't know
how to dance,
but my right
foot does.
this is a
problem, a
big problem
when the music
starts. it's
not pretty
what happens
next and yet
i try. i make
a bold attempt
to find the beat,
to get in rhythm,
and shake
it up as
my partner
grimaces and
tries to stay
clear, avoiding
injury. there's
never a second
dance with the
same person,
but i'm not
offended or
embarrassed, i'm
back out there
before the next
song even
starts. i feel
that i have an
obligation to
my right foot.

hello

when the seventeenth
person said hello
and smiled at me
and then scurried
in the opposite
direction
in his and her
matching orange
smocks i was weary,
i was tired despite
it only being eight
o'clock in the morning.
and none of them knew,
not only in their
language, but in my
language too
where i could find
the right size screw
for the mailslot on
my door, follow me
they said, and i'll
try to find it. and
so i followed as
they spoke into
their crackling phones
trying to locate
the screw
specialist, through
the aisles of the
cavernous hardware
store, the overhead
lights bearing down,
lighting up the slick
slab floors painted
a bright citrus orange,
maybe i didn't need
a mailslot after all.

on the train

you wait for
the train,
it's what you do
this time of day,
early morning,
with the sun low
and barely
coming through
the station windows.
a briefcase is in
your hand,
perhaps a cup
of coffee,
the paper
holding yesterday's
news. you may
nod to those
you recognize from
all the months of
riding on the same
line. sometimes it's
raining and you
mention that,
or if it's cold,
or the humidity has
already gotten under
your suit, you talk
about that, but not
too much. it's the
train, that's all.
life and death will
follow, but none of
them will know, or
care or look for you
when you are gone,
and you'll do likewise.

where are you going?

jealousy seeps
in like a green
fog, a poison
gas that leaves
you on the side
of the road
of love gone bad.
or has it?
it's hard to
shake this hot
wave of suspicion,
this peek into
the soul,
through a glass
darkly. and
despite no tracks,
no clue, no
numbers, names
or photos, you
just know.

go easy on me

i see you
flex your arms,
show me your
muscles,
gleaming
and slick
out of the
shower. it's
round and
hard like
a rock,
unusual for
a girl, your
biceps. i'm in
love with your
biceps. don't
hurt me.

love bugs

as the two
get closer,
and begin
to lean on
one another,
almost melding
into one,
i see a grey
sadness on
their faces,
leaving one
life for
another,
chair by chair
and dish by
dish, they
parade the
boxes of one
house into
another, and
as the wedding
day looms,
gets larger
as the day
apporaches,
they no longer
wave, or say
hello in passing,
they are too
consumed with
what they have
done and where
they might be
going.

dazed

sometimes you
steer blindly
into traffic
not seeing what's
in front of you,
flying fast.
your mind is in
a different place,
a place not
safe for driving,
or say walking
on a pitched roof,
or rewiring
a socket, or even
dicing carrots
in the kitchen,
and it might be
love or the end
of love that has
you in a fog, or
maybe it's money,
the lack of it,
or maybe you took a
long look into the
mirror when you awoke
and saw that you
suddenly resembled
your parents.

her lean long
self beside me
is not what i
expected. her
subtle but sure
kisses are a
pleasant surpise,
so much so, that
i resist the
chance of making
love, of going
further, in order
to presrve the
sweetness of
this moment.

the clock

it ticks slower
and slower each
year. it's
losing minutes
on a daily basis,
an hour a month,
time seeping out
like air from
a hot balloon,
the bands and
wires, the coils
and springs have
lost their
tensile strength,
the wood is
tarnished, and
the glue that binds
the casing is
brittle from
the sunlight,
the exhale of stale
air, and when it
comes time for the
red bird to leap out,
and coo with the
new hour, it's
weak, sometimes
limp. instead of
three times, you
might get one
if your lucky. it
hasn't lost it's
desire to make
time, no, not
at all, it's just
getting older, like
all of us.

white moon

i don't imagine
i'll be slipping
through the eye
of a needle
soon, but i have
enough. enough
forks, enough food,
knives and spoons,
in fact i can
think of nothing
i want for, not
even you, although
that would be sweet
icing on this
cake i've baked
and set out in
the chill of night
beneath a wonderous
white moon.

for theresa

she wants to let
go of him, but
finds it hard to
push off from
the pier and set
sail and let
the wind take her
to where she needs
to be, which is
anywhere, but here.
and yet he holds
the rope, he won't
let her lift anchor.
he says he has
the map, that he
knows the way, he
knows the tide
of her, the rise
and fall of the sun
in her. he knows,
he says in a kind
sweet whisper how
to navigate the stars.
and as she stands
on deck with her bags
packed and stowed
away, she listens
to the sway of
the water beneath
her feet and stares
out across a velvet
sea. she knows
she needs to leave.

blue jello

i won't eat
the blue jello.
i refuse. it's
not a color
that i consider
safe as food.
but you go right
ahead, indulge
yourself. have
some whipped
cream on top to
make it even
sweeter. take
your hard silver
spoon and go
for it. but not
me. i'm happy
just to watch you.
content with red,
with green,
with yellow, but
never, ever blue.
are we okay
with that?

in the night

left alone
she finds a
way to silently lift
and bend the
pages of books
she shouldn't see.
left alone,
she's in the
trash, the checkbook,
peeking under
beds for something,
something she's
not even sure
she's looking for.
left alone,
she'll turn
the house upside
down and leave
her prints in your
most guarded
secrets. she's on
the computer, into
your phone. it's not
money, or valuables,
or hidden treasure
of any kind she seeks
to take, she just
wants to know your
heart, your true
intentions and that
she'll never find.

awaken

the story of your
life starts here.
when you arise
from the fog of
night and enter
the light of morning.
forget everything
you've done, or
knew or learned
along the way.
stop counting each
sorrow, each slight,
or disappointment.
this is the new
day, the beginning.
lift your self
from your bed,
your place of
routine and shadow,
and go stand by
the window. where
the sun breaks
through and enters.
let all of it go.
begin now. the story
of your life starts here.

making a point

i drop my face
into the tub
of icecream
and don't come
up until it's
almost gone.
i can hardly
breathe in the cold
thick goo of
mint chocolate
chip, but i
manage to dig
out a few air
pockets with
my tongue and
teeth, it takes
awhile, but i
finally hit the
cardboard bottom
and stand up
with the box
stuck to my
face and head.
i'm very
proud of my
accomplishment
and happy to have
proved you wrong
when you said
that i couldn't
do it. let that
be a lesson to
you sweetie,
and maybe you
should tell this
to your new
boyfriend, that
you're not
always right.

beneath the tree

if you find
me asleep
beneath the tree
in the calm
and low heat
of may, if you
see a smile
on my dreaming
face, my arms
at my side, my
shoes off,
and the blue
open sky above
me. just let
me be. let me
stay like this
for as long
as i possible,
but don't leave,
whatever you do,
don't leave.

i love you

don't fall for
this. the flower,
the poem, the kiss,
any number of things
that i can give you
which won't put me
out. don't even
blink if i mention
the word love, or
affection, or have
your name mysteriously
appear in ink on some
part of my body. ignore
all of this and
listen to your heart.
run swiftly out
the door, trust me.
i'm no good for you.

work

each day
i go down
into the mine
and dig for
coal. it's
what i do.
into the shaft,
with pick
and axe, a shovel,
down into
the black
night of day,
out of the blue.
there is no
end to this
mountain, it's
what keeps
me alive,
it's what's
killing me.
at night i
come up for
air, to eat,
to go home and
wash away the
soot of the day.
i sit on the
fronch porch
in silence
as the stars
come out
and wonder to
what end this
will come to,
and when i make
love to you,
with my brittle
hands upon your
soft breasts,
you can feel
that i'm not there.
that i'm still in
the mine, deep
below the earth.
in a place that
seems like nowhere.

survival

there are days
when you can't
stay clear of
them. the dark
unhappy ones
who invade your
space like alien
zombies out to
get you. the
unhappy client,
the tailgater,
the angry clerk,
or neighbor. all
at once they try
to pull you in,
pull you down,
clawing at you
on the phone, at
the door. they
want a piece of
you, a bite of you,
to infect you with
the world they
live in and
can't understand
how you don't.
so you spend your
nights sharpening
stakes, making
crosses, gathering
bouquets of garlic.
whatever it takes
to keep yourself
alive and happy.

each time i go
down into the mine
i look up at
the blue sky right
before it all
turns black and
work begins. the
pounding, the
drills, the hauling
of coal out onto
the winding track.
it's a dry under
water world of
dust, clouds,
the eerie low
lights and with
each rumble your
heart speeds up
and you stay still
until the moment
passes and life
goes on and on.

the paint spattered radio

there comes a point
when you are saturated
with music, mostly
old stuff that you
can sing to at the mere
sound of a note or
two. the radio stations
can't help themselves
but to repeat and repeat
the same songs over
and over, decade
after decade as if
nothing new has been
created. beatles, the
four tops, elvis
and elton, but the needle
hits full in your
ears and you turn
the dial to talk stations,
which doesn't last long,
then to the spiritual
ones that make you feel
guilty about something,
and this finally leads
to silence, where you
pull the plug, or click
it off, but then you
begin to whistle a song
you know, one that is
imbedded within your
brain. an oldie. you
have become the radio.
the radio is you.

pink booties

she tells me
on the phone
that jimmy gets
on her last nerve.
that if it wasn't
for his retirement
and pension, his
social security
and ability to
keep the car
running and the
house painted, she'd
leave him just
like that. fifty
years means nothing
to her, she tells
me while sipping
on a fresca and spitting
out the shells
of sunflower seeds.
i can hear her rocker
squeaking on the
dry sun baked boards,
while she knits pink
booties for no one.

the middle of the road

having come a
long ways,
i need to lie
down for awhile.
to catch my
breath and to
reassess things
right here in
the middle of
the road that
runs like a
black ribbon
through the white
sand of this
desert. and
the coyotes come
close, the deer
and lizards,
the praire dogs
on their hind legs,
the toads and
turtles all appear
to see me lying
in the road.
even the vultures
fly down on
great black wings
to stand on their
nervous yellow claws.
they don't know
what to make of
me, but leave me
alone. they inch
in closer though
to watch, they want
to see how this all
turns out.

flush with money

i place a bet
on black and
the wheel spins
and spins then
slows to a stop
on red. i place
another bet, but
this time on
red, and again
off goes the
wheel around
and around to
finally stop
on black. this
repeats itself
until i am
homeless, without
a car, or clothes
or food, not
even a watch to
tell me that
i've run out
of time and luck.
and as i leave
the casino
with nothing,
and walk out onto
the street, naked,
barefoot
and penniless,
the first bum
i meet shakes
his head at me
with disgust,
pulls his tin can
away, angry
that i have
nothing to give
him, upset
that i could have
done this
to my life.

empty street
and sky
the low bark
of a lonely
dog left
outside to
find his own
way home, or
be welcome
in somewhere
he doesn't
belong. a warm
a bed, a bowl
of food and
water. to just
make it past
this night
where the rain
won't end
it's cold
harsh hand.

the elephant
so grey, so
large and dirty,
with eyes too
small to fit
his bulky size,
those flappy
ears like
canvas, and wired
tail, a whip,
tree trunk
legs and flat
soled bottoms,
that sound out
each step. lost
in this world,
no place to
run, be what
you were meant
to be.

the marriage

i see you in the water,
arm over arm, kicking
your legs, breathing
when you can, snatching
air as you turn your
head out of the breaking
blue, and i ask you
what you are doing, why
are you swimming like
this. where are you
going. i row beside you,
steady in the ocean
froth, but you don't
answer, you are busy
as the waves chop against
your wet hair, your sun
burned brow. your green
eyes are glazed over
with salt and fatique.
you are persistent and
try to ignore me and my
pleas to stop and get in.
you just want to get
to the other side though,
beyond me, me in my
safe boat with a life
preserver and fresh water,
food, and a map of what
we thought our lives
would look like, where
they would lead when
we were on dry land
so long ago.

that other world of dream

this heavy cloak
of fatigue sets
in like low clouds,
leaden, empty
of rain and lighting,
but still unblown
to their next
destination. to be
tired with a night
of sleep before
you, is a wonderful
thing. and as
each light goes
out and each star
goes on, it's so nice
to sink into
that other world
of dream.

maelstrom

she couldn't help
herself. the books
and boxes stacked from
floor to ceiling,
newspapers, magazines,
porcelain pigs and cows
from all fifty states
including puerto rico,
five dogs, a herd of cats,
a barrel of empty cans,
a goat tied up out
back beside the shed
where she kept even
more things that had
no value. each year
brought in more,
another animal, another
stranger who might
be a lover or the next
husband. a maelstorm.
and yet to sit with
her, away from it all,
she'd be fine, pretty
and sweet, careful
with her words, and
manners. not one hint
of the insanity that
lurked within, until
she opened her purse
for a stick of gum,
or a cigarette,
and a mouse would crawl
out across the table.

the moon floats

the moon floats

like a piece of hard 

candy 

on this chilled spring 

night, and i wish to reach

up and grab it

for a sweet quick bite.

it's how i feel about you

as we walk

along the river

arm in arm.

the lions are leaving

the great ones are
leaving us one by one,
sometimes on the same
day as if to say
another page and
chapter has gone by,
the lions of my youth
are all in winter,
or have gone to
the other side.
updike, and bellow,
mantle and unitas,
monroe and elvis,
mcqueen and newman,
lennon and sinatra.
a list too long
to ramble on
about here. but you
can feel a shift in
the world as each one
leaves with no
replacement in sight,
and it's not a good
thing, this change,
no, not at all.

pinot noir

would you like
a glass of wine
to go with these
cheese and crackers,
here, let me pour
you some.
no thank you,
i'm trying to quit.
but why,
wine lowers my
inhibitions. and
what might you be
inhibited about.
you mostly, if you
want the truth.
it's from france,
it's really good.
the label says
california, i know,
but the seeds
are from france.
hmmm. so what
are you afraid of.
you. but why. i've
heard things, read
things. was it linda?
it doesn't matter,
well, don't
believe everything
you read and hear.
take a sip, no
thank you. did i tell
you that you look
lovely in that dress.
yes, you did. twice.
you smell good too.
why, thank you. okay,
maybe a small glass,
a sip or two. fine.
is that light bothering
you, it is kind of
bright in here.
let me get the light.
some music perhaps,
is marvin gaye okay.
sure. come over
here, grab that pillow.
yes. that's nice.
i have another bottle
when this is gone.
i don't think we'll
need it.

birds

it doesn't seem like
your everyday bird gets
lost or confused about
what they are doing,
and i don't mean
the ones that form a V
and fly north or south
in formation with the
changes of the season.
i'm talking about your
sparrows and blackbirds,
your cardinals and finches,
your basic everyday bird
you see fluttering around
in the woods.
they seem to not have
a real plan as they
fly about during the day,
sure they have a nest,
eggs and all of that,
and they need to dig
up some worms or bugs
for food, but once that's
done, they don't appear
to have any real plan
about what they're doing,
but they're not bothered
by it all either, not one
bit, the past, the future,
pffft, they seem content
and happy to just to fly
about. i can relate to that.

stranger in the attic

you think you know
who your grandmother
is until she dies
and you have to crawl
through the attic to
get her junk out. who
knew she liked sex
and booze, whips and
chains. what the hell?
it's all there in
the attic, the magazines
and negligees, the wigs
and stilleto heels.
it amazes you the
secrets she kept, but
then again you suddenly
like her a little bit
more. she was not
just a cookie baking,
knitting old lady
watching as the world
turns with her three
cats, and going to
church every sunday
bringing her waldorf
salad to the picnic.
she actually had
a life at one point
before she bought
the baby blue carpet.

i give up

if it came down
to torture i'd give
up in a heartbeat,
the second i saw
the blowtorch, or
the needle or the
pliers dipped in molten
lava i'd sell my mother
down the river.
i'm not ashamed to
admit to this either.
i have virtually no
willpower when it
comes to pain
and suffering. i just
want it to end.
so don't even bother
putting me on the
medieval stretching
machine, or showing
me the rat cage,
or a bag of nickels
that you might beat
me with, just hand me
a sheet of paper and
a pen. i'll tell you
everything you need
to know. just put
that buzz saw away.

the red shirt

i buy a red shirt,
a shirt i'll never
wear, i realize that
the second i get it
home and take it out
of the bag, i know
it's not for me, but in
the moment when perusing
the racks and stacks
of pants and sweaters,
socks and shorts, i see
the red shirt, and
as the muzak cascades
down making me
feel strangely happy
inside, and i can smell
the perfume down wind
of the men's department,
with cookies and pretzels
baking in the mall,
that the color red seems
fine, it almost feels
like it could be my new
color this season, but
no. i'm a fool for
buying this red shirt.

runaway train

it is the runaway
train, the rumble
of it's wheels on
the glistening
steel tracks, and
you are in the engine
room, blowing
the whistle
with your silly
engineer hat.
you don't even
see me tied to
the rails in the
near distance, arms
and legs twisting
to get free. you
throw in more coal,
more fire to speed
it onward. it even
looks like there
might be smile
on your wild eyed
face as you blow
the whistle and
throttle full
speed ahead.

D

before
she came
upstairs
to die
in her sleep,
in her bed,
beneath the warm
white linen
sheets, a
final time,
she folded
a load
of laundry
in
the basement,
locked
all the doors,
made her
lunch for
the next day,
turned off
her phone,
and wrote
nothing
in her
diary, that
i know of.

the double wide

my sister called me
the other day and
wanted to borrow ten
large to put down on
a double wide so that her
and her husband when
he gets out of jail
could have a place
to stay. and cosign
the note. without
hesitation, i said no.
she asked me why, and
i told her that i
was mean, and cheap
and that i didn't have
that kind of money to
put down on jail birds.
i actually used the
words jail birds. which
may not have been used
this century. she told
me that jimmy would
catch wind of me saying
no and that it wouldn't
go down easy. my memory
of the sentencing was
that he was convicted
of murder, drug charges,
kidnapping, and crossing
state lines with a trunk
load of weapons. he got
four years, but was out
on good behavior, having
joined a bible study
immediately upon
incarceration. so i
told my sister, how about
five large, but i can't
cosign. she said okay.
that'll be fine, jimmy
will be very happy with
that. thanks. love you.
see you at thanksgiving,
we'll save you a drumstick.

naked in the snow

i see you outside
my window, pacing,
and wonder what's up,
what brings you here
in the dead of night,
in the middle of
winter, without a coat,
a hat or scarf, not
even gloves to keep
you warm. you are
naked in the snow,
pacing, your lips
are blue, your pale
skin makes you almost
invisible against
the snow covered hill.
you see me looking
out at you, but you
don't come in, you
don't knock, or make
a move to get out of
the cold. i'm sure it
was something i said,
or did or didn't do.
all of which escapes
me as i sip my hot
chocolate. i pull
up a chair and throw
some wood onto the fire,
i grab a book
and settle in, still
watching you on
the street, shivering
in the cold night air.
i hate when you do
things like this
to upset me.

i go outside

at night, i put my ear
to the ground and listen.
i think that what i'm
doing may be symbolic
of finding my way, or
by discovering who has
come before me, and left.
but no such thing occurs.
the ground is cold
against my ear, the dirt
is soft and wet, as
is the grass and i can
feel the tiny infinite army
of unseen bugs trying to
get in. there are some
things best not knowing.
so i go inside and find
the red wine to help
with that new knowledge.

the summer wind.

in an effort to
understand some other
side of life, and song,
i turn the radio up
and listen for as long
as i can to dr. seuss
on crack making nursey
rhymes. rap. but it's not
working, the longer
i listen, the faster i
want run from what i
don't get and never will.
quickly i pop in a cd
and find the track i
want to hear, sinatra,
singing gently about
the summer wind that
comes rolling in from
across the sea. much better.

the dating mom

she smiles
and says
that the laundry
never ends, or
the cooking, or
helping the kids
with homework,
and sports, and
driving them
everywhere they
need to be. the dog
needs shots and
the grass needs
cutting, i
love being a mom
she says, and
sighs, she sips
her wine, nibbles
at the cheese on
the over sized plate,
her dress is twisted
beneath her folded
legs, her lipstick
slightly off, she
scratches at the grey
roots, the inch
or two that have
pushed out the blonde.
there's no time,
she says. she's tired,
and yawns and stretches,
looks at her watch,
you need to go
i say, and she
says i need to go.
i told the sitter nine.
i have to work
in the morning,
i'm sorry. i see
her touch her
finger where her
wedding band used
to be, then let go.
i walk her to her car,
we shake in the cold
night, a friendly hug,
she waves with
a stiff open hand
and forces a smile,
you were nice,
she says loudly, goodbye.
goodnight, i tell
her. drive safely.

the bank teller

my bank closes
it's drive in window
at seven and so there
is usually a small
rush to line up for
those of us who fear
online banking, atm machines,
and such. and so we
sit and wait in our
cars as the line crawls
through the empty lot
to where the green
lit sign says open.
and behind the glass
the man who works
this shift, who is nearly
always there, an older
man with a white beard,
wearing an orange turban,
smiles pleasantly. his
face is deeply lined,
and his eyes are a soft
brown, the color of dark
wet sand, perhaps
the color of blood. his
hands move paper and punches
keys with calm deliberation,
there is no rush in him,
none whatsover, and the cars
behind in line,
honk their horns, rev
their engines, it
seems like forever with
this teller, and they need
their money, now. their
day of work is over
and they need to eat
and drink, to pay their
bills and get on with their
lives. they loudly curse
him from their windows,
but the teller
is somewhere else. he
is alone in his little
world, safe behind
the pale green glass
enclosure. he dismisses
their anger with a nod,
a wave, and the lollipop
that he slides into the metal
drawer with their transactions,
all in good time.

one small thing

each day at noon
i leave the office
and come to the park
and sit on the same warm
bench facing the sun,
to eat the lunch my
wife has made. sometimes
it's tuna, sometimes ham
on rye, with cheese.
occasionaly turkey
on slices of white bread
with mustard. nothing
fancy. and there is
always a cookie or
two, to be found, plus
an apple or plum,
and a note at the bottom
of the bag, a fresh
hand written note
with the words i love
you tucked inside. it's
folded neatly and
sealed with a lipstick
kiss. and this alone,
this one simple thing
that she does makes me
go home, and to not
stray, or to jump
in front of a train,
and to love her
equally in return.

in mid air,
the wire taut
and strung between
two towering
buildings above
the city street
where they look
up in awe at me,
i move my bare
feet slowly
to the other side.
i wonder not if
i will make it, i
always do, but if
i'll do it again,
and again to prove
something not just
to me, but perhaps
to you, as well.

life

the blue
curve of
water being
the waist
of the world,
in a slow
soft turn
above the sun,
below a moon,
tilted,
and spinning,
this way
and that in
a balance
that keeps
it all together.
and the sparkle
of tinsel
stars, them
too, a reason
to be, and it
makes you wonder,
perhaps
that we might
have purpose.

the smallest of things

you find the day long,
the nights longer still,
this is the way it has
been and will continue,
you have moved past your
childhood and into the
middle phase of life,
the end is not far in
front. in fact there is
more behind you, than
ahead of you, but you
find no pain, or joy
in any of this. you sit
content in the sun with
out thirst or want, you
are there, finally, and
pleasure comes in the
smallest of things. you
want to share this place
with others, but they
don't understand, they
are still struggling,
unable to see or hear
what they truly know within.

cold spell

this cold spell,
this slight wind
holding the memory
of winter, heavy
with the blue bruise
of february and
march, is a surprise.
the soul wants
sun and warmth,
the sweet kiss of
spring and the sultry
heat of none too soon
summer to follow. if
you call, i'll forgive
the weather too.

poetry

it's not that i
hate poetry, not
all of it, just
most of it. every
now and again, you
find a piece of
work that awakens
something inside you,
and you connect,
you get it. you
feel what the poet
has tried to convey,
and it sinks in
like the warm sun
on the first day
of spring. there is
hope. but most
of it i disdain. and
writing as i do,
it's blasphemy
to utter such words,
hipocrisy, perhaps,
but i find so much
of it tedious and
boring, reaching
so hard to be
poetic and smart.
clever and so
politically
correct. maybe i do
the same, i hope
the hell not.
i'd hate to have
to stop writing,
but i would if
became one of them.

mr. bishop

if you were in
the shower too
long, he'd turn
off the hot water
and send you scrambling
out of the tub.
if you left the light
on, he'd take a broom
and break the bulb
so that you'd walk
on the broken glass
in your bare feet.
if you forgot to
take the trash out
it would be in your
bed, beneath the blankets,
old food on your sheets.
when you returned home
from school. the dog
you loved for
ten years, before your
mother married this
stranger, would be gone,
driven away to somewhere
in the dead of night,
let loose on some dirt
road. and this is how it
went and how it still
goes for my mother,
who can't see outside
her prison walls. we
are all older now,
and he still lives, i can
still see him if i choose
to, but don't, a cigar
stub in his crooked grin,
unshaven, standing in
the livingroom on christmas
day in his underwear
for everyone to see,
working on his fifth
pabst blue ribbon, belching
and getting into
the holiday spirit.

the new wife

you find when you
awaken that the door
is open, the windows
too, but no one has
entered and no one
has left, everything
is just as it was
before you went up
the stairs and fell
asleep in your bed.
you think about trying
it again the next
night and the next,
hoping that soon
this will all change,
that she will arrive
and you will find
her asleep next to you,
her clothes in the
closet, her shoes
beneath the bed, her
hand resting on your
shoulder.

the salad girl

she could eat
lettuce all night.
some artichokes
cut up and thrown
in, cranberries
and nuts, tomatoes
and onions, goat
cheese. toss in
some sliced cucumbers
and a radish or two
for color and she's
chowing down like
nobody's business.
she won't touch
a slice of red meat,
or even sniff a
dessert, bread,
forget about it. even
at this stage of
the game she refuses
to have fun and
satisfy her appetites,
any of them.

the heart

i'll give you almost
everything, but that.
no one gets that. it's
the only thing i possess
that won't be lent out,
or given away. it's got
some cracks in it, some
bruises, some serious
leakage from love and
death, but it still
works and is intact.
i'm saving it until
i know and even then,
there's no guarantee
it's going out.

rodeo

my days in the rodeo
are numbered. i can't
keep bucking these
wild stallions
and broncos, breaking
the ponies in as they
come off the green
pastures. i'm sore
and my bones are
weary from the battle.
i'm covered in dust,
blistered and calloused.
it's been fun, but i
see the sun going down
on this profession,
time to ride slowly
and gently into the
cool blue night with
just one good horse.

take care

usually when
you get that
valediction,
pack your bags,
delete the
number, and
move on. don't
even try to
break out the
flowers and
the chocolate,
or the david
yurman bracelet,
take care,take
a hike, take
the e train
out baby. it
ain't happening
between you
and me. nothing's
shaking, or
baking. don't
let the door
hit you on
the way out.
adios, see you
don't want to
be with you.
i'm not only
busy tonight,
i'm busy
and booked
for the rest
of my life.
good luck with
your search.
take care.

one last chip

i'm scheduled for
surgery in the morning,
some minor cosmetic
adjustments to make
me more beautiful,
as if that would be
possible, by dr. jane,
who is going to give it
a shot for a mere
few thousand dollars.
she's very optimistic
about the bags under
my eyes, the hair weave,
and the lipo that will
suck the fat out of
my waist and thighs
and big butt.
i'm eating my last donut
right now and a bag
of chips, before i have
to fast before the
operation. i told
her that i didn't want
that rhesus monkey
look with the skin
pulled back too tight.
i wanted to look relaxed
and young, vibrant
and sexy. she says,
no problem. you'll
be back in the game
in no time.

damn cat

there was this
cat in the
road, a fat
striped tabby,
running
from side to side
of the street
with a peanut
butter jar stuck
on his head.
he couldn't see
out of it
because of the label
and the peanut butter
goo, and was
banging into
the curbs and parked
cars. i nearly
ran him over, but
stopped and got
out, chasing him
into a yard where
i grabbed him
and slowly twisted
the jar off
of his sticky head,
then he scratched
me and jumped out
of my arms and
ran off, hopping
over a fence and
disappearing into
the highway, where
i'm sure he didn't
last long. my arm
had three deep, long
scratches that
were bleeding badly.
which put me into
the hospital for a
series of painful
shots. it's not
been an easy thing
explaining the story
to everyone.

cashmere

we were married
forty-five years,
he was just
driving, she told
me. he was at the
wheel and the light
was red, the radio
was on, he had a
cigarette in his
mouth and was
telling me about
a new deal he had
just made at work,
you know how
excited he was
about his work,
using his hands
as he does, and
then the light
changed to green,
but he didn't go.
i looked over at him,
hey, go, i said,
and his hands were
on the wheel, but
limp, his eyes were
open and his head
had fallen to one
side. the cigarette
was somehow still
in his mouth, but
he was gone.
the cars behind us
began to beep, they
began to yell, and
curse us for not
moving, but there
was nothing i could
do. nothing. he
was gone. what size
coat do you wear,
he had so many coats.
very nice business
suits too, you should
come over. try them on.
you like cashmere,
don't you?

there is
the temptation
to cross the frozen
lake on foot,
to take a shorter
path to your
destination.
to carefully step
onto the icy sheet,
blue with sky
and sun, the soft
powder of snow,
and risk your
life. will it
crumble and crack,
and swallow you
at midpoint, or
will it hold and
let you walk on
water. sometimes
it's best to just
go around and not
be the fool.

blue

there is
a darkness
in some souls
that can't
get out,
or be lit
up with any
kind of good
news, or words
of cheer.
they linger
in the mud,
martyrs to their
twisted cause.
they like
the rain,
the umbrella
of shadows,
nightfall
chills them
with a pleasnat
fear. they
are only
truly happy
when they are
unhappy, and
there is nothing
you can do
to change that.

marie

she sighs alot
on the phone,
my mother, and i
can feel her
in the kitchen
stirring not
only something
in a pot, but
everyone else too
who's on speed
dial. she's a
trouble maker,
no doubt. but
there is no
lack of love,
in either direction.
the wounds heal,
the memories scar
over and are soon
forgotten. it's
all about now,
these moments.
at eighty two,
she needs that.

geography

when in kansas
i stand in an
empty field
and stretch my
arms. i try to
touch both coasts.
no luck. my arms
don't reach that
far. and this gives
you an idea of
where i am, how
unreachable you
are, how limited
love is with
so many miles
between us.

hunger

it's late
and i've only
had a salad
for dinner when
what i wanted
was a turkey
sandwich with
gravy, cranberries
on the side,
stuffing nearby.
all of it warmed
up on a hot
plate. a
decision based
on vanity, not
hunger. once
again settling
for less
when what i want
is more.

i believe

there is no
bad luck,
or bad
karma. there
are no mistakes,
no misteps,
or true
misfortune.
the gyspy
holds
no curse,
the black cat
crossing
means nothing.
broken mirrors
are only that,
just broken
mirrors, but just
the same
i take no
chances and avoid
them all.

april snow

like snow
she falls
on me, across
the lawn,
the broad street,
the roads of
me. she
blankets me
with flakes
that fall
from a deepening
sky like
whispers.
i don't
move an inch,
i embrace
the warmth
of her sweet
winter
and let it
happen.

lunar musings

around
the moon,
on the dark
side, there
is nothing
but more
moon. it
took so long
to learn that.
we had to go
there to be
convinced.
like all
of us, there
is light
and dark,
but one moon.

a new season

summer sun
and sand
the soft
lap of surf
on golden
toes. sweet
mystery
of love, how
easily it
swims over,
and puts
joy into
your life.

nurse jenny

she was an unregistered
nurse who had lost her
way. at some point she
had given the wrong pills
to the wrong person or poked
a needle into the wrong
backside of an ailing
patient which sent them
off into an unreturnable
dreamland. but she was cute
and sexy in her white
uniform that she'd wear
out onto dates. the white
shoes, the white hat, white
nylons, florence nightingale
style, not the new style
of flowery jumpsuits that
look like pajamas. she was
old school with the nurse
get up. sometimes she'd
carry a purse that looked
like a medical satchel,
with the red cross
on the side. every now
and then she'd pull
out a tube of chapstick, or
lipstick or some perfume to
dab onto her wrists that were
strangely heavily taped.
she had some great crash
cart stories, tales from
the ER that would make your
hair stand on end if you
had any. occasionally
she put a stethscope around
her neck for the full
effect. it was all quite
fetching for awhile, until
they took her away in
a straightjacket, ending
our already tenuous and
fragile relationship.

things change

every neighborhood,
or street, or building,
or floor has a boss,
a mayor, an unofficial,
unelected leader
of the pack. a furher.
someone who has lived
there longer than
everyone else
and feels that she
or he has the right
to rule. mine likes
to post notes upon
your door, manifestos
of your sins,
if you haven't shoveled
your walk properly,
or not at all, or if
your trash has been
put out before sundown,
or if the dog barks
too much, too loud,
too long. perhaps your
parking sticker is not
visible or up to date.
she'll write you up
and tape her greviances
to the door on a large
sheet of white paper
so that everyone can
see as they get home,
including me. there is no
wave in her, no hello,
no greeting whatsoever.
just a grim nod, a vague
acceptance of your
existence. but this has
changed. the other day
i noticed that her head
was shaved. she was
completely bald and had
lost considerable weight.
she didn't look well
and when seeing me she
smiled, she waved, as if
we were suddenly the best
of friends she yelled out
pleasantly, hey steve,
how are you? how are
things going?

no secret

there is no
secret. not one.
despite what
you may think.
there are no
words whispered
that will show
or provide you
with special
knowledge or
insight on
how to live
your life. but
some things seem
certain and good
such as, go to
work if you have
work. be in
love, if you can
find love,
be at peace
with everything
you don't have.
don't hurt
anyone. forgive.
i'm sure
there's more,
alot more,
like sleep well.
which i'm about
to do, but that's
enough for now.

pink babies

i live in a neighbor
hood full of babies.
pink round babies
with fuzzy blonde
heads, and blue eyes
like marbles. they
are in strollers,
in the grass
with fat diapers
dragging them down.
some tethered to posts
like balloons that
might fly away. they
are crying, spitting,
laughing, happy chubby
babies who only want
food and sleep. some
are up on their tiny
feet, or penned in by
cages near the playground,
others are crawling
trying to escape what
they can't escape,
or stuck in the slings
of back and front
packs. the parents are
bent over from the
weight of it all,
exhausted, blank eyed,
despite the sunny smiles,
it's a long road with
babies. a very long road.

next

my former friend
glenda, no relation
to the good witch
of the north, has
set sail. she packed
her bags and took
a taxi out. my last
look at her was
her in the back seat
holding up a hand,
giving me a wave
with one finger. it
didn't end well
with this one. but
i wish her well.
she is basically a
good person. smart
and fun. it just
wasn't meant to
be. the shelf life
once again has
expired. next.

not bats

strange how
these birds
so black
with large
spread wings
linger in
the trees
like silent bats.
maybe they
are bats who
deny the sun,
and have
developed
vision to find
their prey,
the warm
rodents that
scurry across
the lawn,
through
broken woods,
but i doubt it.
i think
they are just
moody birds,
quiet, pondering
something,
their lives,
their marriages,
how their
children went
off some deep
end. contemplating
their dead
end jobs they
somehow got
stuck in.
if they
had hands,
they'd be
folding them
over and over
wiping the beads
of sweat from
their brows.

speedracer

like a fast
car, red and sleek
she caroms down
the road, inches
from the rail,
a hairpin turn away
from flying off
into a wall, or
worse going airborne
into the valley,
against the cliffs,
into the river
where it won't be
good. but she likes
the fast lane,
the speed, the danger
of living on the
edge. there's no
stopping her,
there isn't enough
self help books
or therapy, or pills
to get her foot
off the pedal. thank
god, i got out of
the car.

why does the caged dog bark

because he's
trapped,
he's stuck,
he's in a cage
with a dried
bowl of
food and a
knucklebone
to chew.
wouldn't you?

oh well

it's not easy
being at peace with
everyone, at least
all at the same time.
no matter how hard
you try, someone
picks a fight or
has a problem with
you. all it takes
is the beep of an
anxious horn, the
misread e mail, or a
glance taken the wrong
way. a snub, a thought,
a sneer. everything
counts towards a
misunderstanding of
sorts. i've reached
the point though, where
i don't care, i don't
let it bother me.
i know the truth
and i rarely lose a
moment of sleep worrying
about it. life is
too short, but not
for them. i'm kidding,
but i'm sure it
will be taken the
wrong way. oh well.

when we were kids

behind the bowling
alley we painted
a strike zone with
a can of white
spray paint and bought
a dozen rubber
balls. someone had
a bat, a few gloves.
and we'd throw,
and swing for hours
until our arms were
sore and the sun had
burned our faces into
roses.and there we went
the entire summer,
and the next one too,
living in an imaginary
world as real, if not
more real than the
one we were born into.
a year ago i rode by
there. the bowling
alley was gone, but
the building stood, the
wall still there, and
our strike zone somehow
visible, though faded
awaited the next pitch
from our young and
wonderous arms.

i feel

i'd like to
have a new
dog, a fresh
puppy, smooth
and shiny like
the last one
when he was
born and bought
and carried home
with joy. i'd
love to feel
the new dog
next to me,
have him under
my feet, in my
way and needy,
his tail wagging
his nose cold,
his eyes bright
and shining,
looking into mine.
the bark as clear
and sharp
as the north
star in winter.
i'd love to have
the new dog.
but i can't, at
least not now.

the cell phone

the beauty of
the cell phone
is the dropped
call, or the battery
running low
and then dying.
it can save you from
some excruciating
conversations.
painful ramblings
and calling outs
by those that
have your number.
sometimes you can
fake the dead phone
with a quick
hang up in mid
chat, it's almost
undetectable when
you time it just
right, in the middle
of your own sentence,
it just goes silent,
and suddenly you can
hear the birds
chirping,the breeze
ruffling the leaves
on the trees outside
your window. that
stream moving along
the banks, against
the rocks. ahhhh.

what's in a name...

you don't hear the name
mildred much anymore,
or for that matter, midge,
or madge, prudence. those
names seem to be a thing
of the past. when was the
last time you called up
esther and said, what up
girlfriend? violet? nope.
edwina, not a chance.
it's not happening anymore
to anyone under the age
of fifty. and that goes
the same for elmer, or
dexter, or lynn or leslie
for a man. lester or carlton?
melvin, just take their
lunch money now. agnes,
how many people do you
know with the name, agnes?
i count zero on my hand.
not to say that they aren't
all wonderful names, they
had their day, but now
it's gone. maybe they'll
be back, everything
seems to come back around,
given time. jimmy though
seems to be here for good.

the yellow corvette

she rolls up
in a yellow
corvette, blonde
of course,
earrings a glitter,
some peach
lipstick on and
a pair of pink
sneakers nestled
on her little
feet below the
denim cut offs.
get in she says,
i'll take you
places you've never
seen before and i
tell her that
i doubt that. i've
been around girl.
she laughs and
revs the engine,
kicks open
the door and says
get in sailor.
so i do.

sometimes

it doesn't
take much.
a cup of
coffee. a
kiss. a
soft chair
to rest in.
a good book.
a poem,
a song,
watching
the yellow cat
stretch
and yawn,
the sun on
your arm
as it rests
on the sill,
with
the street
below. it
doesn't
take much
to exhale
and then to
let it all go.

home

when i get there
i'll know, i have
already imagined
this place, slept
in it, eaten meals
at the table,
stretched out my
arms and embraced
the walls, the roof
the floor. at times
i can almost see
it, right over the
next hill, into
the next day, then
the next, perhaps
just one more and
i'll be home, these
fingers on this
keyboard will take
me there. will
carry me to a place
i dream to be.

sundae

this giant bowl
of ice
cream won't
ease the sadness
that lurks
within, but
with nuts,
and cherries,
deep dark
chocolate,
heated and poured
like lava on
to the mound,
and whipped cream,
all of it
will sure help
things, at
least for now.

the rose

you'd think that
the small wounds,
the slight bright
red cuts from
thorns would add
up, but they don't
make a difference.
it's worth it to hold
the rose, embrace
it's fragrance,
touch it's silk
petals at
least for that
one moment and feel
the necessary
pain of love found,
and soon to die.

a line in the sand

my friend jimmy
who works downtown
for a brokerage firm
wears a nice suit
and puts a little
color in his
hair to hide the
grey. he's always
well tanned and
works out at the
gym. he's a nice
guy and we meet
for a late lunch every
now and then to shoot
the breeze. sitting
outside i notice
how the women give
him that sly
glance as if they
aren't looking, but
really they are. he tells
me as he adjusts
his sunglasses and
sips his late afternoon
martini that he's done
with women over the
age of fifty. we
are about the same age
and i ask him what's up.
he says that they have no
libido, most of them,
that is. they have
no desire or need
for sex. menopause, he
says, something about
hormones or something.
i don't know. he says
that he's tired of
working so hard on
his dates, the theater,
the opera, the concerts,
dinner and museums.
he's tired of being
a companion, which is
what they really want.
walking in the park,
hiking old rag mountain.
jesus, he says. one woman
the other night said
that she doesn't have
sex on school nights.
i shake my head. damn,
i say, that's a shame.
he continues on his rant.
i go home after dropping
a couple of hundred
bucks and i might get
a lousy kiss, maybe a hug
too. he shrugs and
shakes his head. i'm
done with fifty, he
says. they wonder why
we older guys want to
meet younger women, well
i'll tell you plain
and simple. he takes
off his sunglasses
and looks me in the eye.
sex. he says. younger
women want, love and
need it. i'm not
dead yet, he says. i
nod, but don't say
a word. i have no
idea what he's talking
about.

dream on

i fall asleep
on the cool
clean sheets
and drift off
into a dream
about a girl
i once knew when
i was young
and thin, a puppy
off the leash.
we couldn't keep
our hands off
one another,
or stop kissing,
or go a day
without an hour
on the phone.
the dream is
sweet, the dream
is almost as
good and is not
diminished one
bit by the fact
that i wake up
all alone.

the ax

after being let go
from your office job
they walk you out
with your box of personal
belongings and perhaps
a stapler that you've stolen
and some pens, paperclips
and stamps. they
take your card key
and someone opens the
heavy metal door that
leads to the parking
lot where your car is
baking in the hot friday
sun. you feel the slap
of farewell on your back,
someone says hey, we'll
see you around, they
reach out for a lame
handshake but you have
the box in your hands
and can't so you nod
and try hard not
to say anything like fuck
you people and your ridiculous
company which produces
nothing that the world
will every keep. but
you don't, you might need
them as references at some
point down the road. so
you wave, you smile,
you have your box in
your hands and you're
squinting into the hot sun,
into the realization of that
you have no job, no income,
no place to go in the
morning. and this gives
you such joy, like striking
oil. it gushes happily from
the deepest part of your heart.

the ride is over

this ride is fast.
i'm loopy from
the twists and turns,
the swift curves
that pull us back
into our seats.
i'm white knuckled
from it all, holding
on to the metal
bar, my feet stiff
in place so as not
to slide to the left
or right. it's a
scream, a joy, a
frightening spin
that makes my heart
race with fear and
happiness all at the
same time. i want
it to end and to
never stop, but it
has to. it really does.

i remember

back in nineteen eighty five
when i was a slave
on a roman galley ship
and was whipped for
not rowing hard and
fast enough, for being
distracted, or day dreaming.
i'd look out the tiny
porthole as the sting
of the metal barbs cut
into my flesh
and i'd watch the porpoise
swimming along side
us, jumping in their
sleek grey skins with
joy and life. they almost
seemed to have a smile
on their blunt nosed
faces as they swam beside
us. occasionally
i'd point them out to
the new slaves, but
after awhile, most
of them lost interest,
but not me. i knew there
was a better way, another
world outside this ship,
and i found it.

join the club

i belong to the bookstore
club now, i show my card
and get a discount
whenever i buy the next
horrible book by dan
brown. when i need milk,
two per cent or whole
from a cow, unlike soy,
i punch in my bonus
card and save a few
more pennies there.
the hotel is reduced
with a membership
card as well, and
i have a shoe club card
that eases the pain
and price of a new
pair of wing tips.
where i buy a sandwich,
smoked ham on rye with
swiss, they also want
me to be part of their
plan. after thirty
sandwiches i get one free
and a bag of chips,
and a coke. my credit
card offers exclusivity
to any number of deals
and products, like a pen
flashlight when a storm
arrives and knocks out
the power. for every
fill up of gas, i get
a penny or two. within
two years i will have
enough pennies to get
my one free gallon. when
i need a new button down
dress shirt to go out
on my date with shirley
who lives in triangle,
virginia, i show the
department store my card,
my special bonus laden
card and voila, i save
three dollars. having never
belonged to anything, i
have suddenly been swept
up into the gracious arms
of life and belong
to everything. i'm so happy
with all my club cards.

a change in the weather

there is no pulse
sometimes when the
mood has waned, no
putting jeannie
back into the bottle
once out and on
the move, it's so
easy to have it all
slip away, the fish
pulled from the sea,
the keys that slip
from the hand, the
glass that spills
and slowly lets out
the drink you wished
to dry your thirst.

the dead

the gravestones,
are tilted and thin,
concrete wafers
with engraved
script names
and numbers
smoothed out by
time and weather,
fragile in the wind.
they lie in a narrow
shaded parcel of
land in odd rows.
but take away
the preserved
church, the trim
painted gloss white,
the brick sidewalk
swept and clean,
and manicured
lawn, take away
the rose bushes that
line the way and the
priest in his satin
black robe and
you see that it's
a bleak place to lie
below the ground.
with the traffic
so close, the buses,
the stores,
the rush of life
cutting through
the cemetary
to save time,
paying the dead
and their eternal
graves no mind.

i find that

it's good to
be home, to come
back to that easy
chair, your own
soft bed, to find
your books and
things just the
way you left them,
as if they had waited
patiently for you
to come in the
door to be embraced.
yes, the trip is
fine, the overnight
stay can be sweet,
but there is nothing
quite like the quiet
and comfort of being
in your own content
and happy place.

mad man

this middle aged,
overweight, crazy man enters
the bar, sunglasses on,
ball cap pulled tight
on his head, shadow boxing
to whatever music is
entering his brain
from his ear phones, he's
talking to himself and pulls
out a wad of money, maybe
a thousand dollars
which he places on the bar.
he's obviously in another
world and tries to make small
talk or eye contact,
and yells out at whoever
looks at him, looking for
a fight. cursing, turning
red faced at whatever wrong
he perceives within his
coconut head. he's out of
control and spinning
quickly in the direction
of madness, if he isn't
already there. you can
feel the black aura of
pain and fear that he lives
in and that he wants to
share with whoever crosses
his path. and you realize
that there is this side
to life that is out there
in the shadows, in alley
ways and there is little
you can do about it, but
stay clear and watch your back.

i watch

the blind black
cat with blue
eyes like winter
frost, disappear
nicely into
the dark cool
shadows beneath
the shrubs on
the brick patio,
where he can't
be reached.
carefully he leans
his head into
the shallow pool
that bubbles
brightly with
old water,
nearly as black
as him and sips
with a sharp
pink tongue,
what he shouldn't
sip, nothing
is lost or missed
by the absence
of vision. he
is still a cat.

smart guy

i try to act
smarter when i'm
around really smart
people, like my
friend fran, she's
a medical research wiz
of some sort. a germ
chaser, and often
has to explain to me
what she does for a
living, about five
minutes into the
explanation i begin
to scratch some part
of my body and stare
off into the distance
at a plane going by
or a squirrel jumping
from tree to tree.
she rolls her eyes
and stops, pours me
another glass of wine
and then i think about
how nice it would be
to kiss her, although
we aren't in that kind
of a relationship,
at least not yet, but
the thought crosses my
mind. the thing
about her being so much
smarter than me, book
smart, just making
that part clear, makes
me cautious with her.
being prone to often
saying and doing dumb
things on a daily basis
has me on my toes
with her. i'm going
to the library right
now to pick up a book
to help me get smarter.
they still have libraries
don't they? fran would know.

high finance

my stock broker mindy
called me the other day
to review my portfolio.
it's at the stage now
after the ex carved
out her half, by law,
where i can envision
the double wide trailer
i might be living in
somewhere in central
florida with a dog
chained to the bumper.
she's always pleasant
when she calls, we talk
about the weather, work,
your basic friendly chit
chat that doesn't amount
to much and then she
gets down to business
and says that i'm doing
fine, i'm right on track,
but that maybe
i should make a few
adjustments, sell my
shares in coca cola
and buy up some buster
brown shoe shares, or
something along those
lines. i have no clue
and she knows that,
but plays along
as if i might. she could
suggest delorean cars,
or some shares in pan
am airlines and i'd say,
sure, why not. go for
it mindy, you're the
expert. great she says
and i hear her manicured
nails clicking against
her keyboard somewhere
in lancaster, pennsylvania
where she works. the
conversation ends with
me always saying, i just
don't want to be living
in a cardboard box
in a patch of woods
behind the liquor store
off of route one, which
always gets a big
laugh out of her. she
snorts, oh don't worry
hon, you're doing just
fine and on that note
we hang up and i go fix
myself a gin and tonic,
go out the back porch
with a fly swatter
and try not to worry.

what's shaking

i have enough
money, but i'd
like a little more,
okay, maybe
alot more. enough
to stop working
completely. enough
to pay off the bills
and buy a cadillac
convertible. enough
to walk around
in a shiny
suit with a big
hat, and shiny shoes.
i'd give myself
a nickname, like,
like, ummm, i can't
think of any right
now, but something
clever, maybe i'll
let my pals think of
a nickname for me.
i'd pay them for
the name. i'd have
a wad of cash in my
pocket at all times.
spreading happiness
and twenty dollar
bills everywhere i
went. mr. happy, yeah,
that'll be my new name.
hey mr. happy, what's
shaking, and i'd show
them what's shaking.

snow cone

this girl i met
from texas has
big hair. it's blonde,
it's shiny and sits
like a cloud of cotton
candy on her pale
white head. her eyes
are a soft blue, like
the texas sky in june.
if not for the thin
stripes of pink lipstick
she'd be invisible,
she'd be a ghost in
the wind. i feel like
putting her on a
float and parading
her about town, for
no reason other than
that that is who she
is, the homecoming queen.
i could be her king.
perhaps her prince, or
at worst the foot
soldier who lays down
his life when the vikings
storm the castle.
okay, i'm dreaming, i
drifted off for a
moment thinking about
the girl from texas. i'm
okay now. she's tapping
me on the shoulder
and says that she's
in the mood for an icy
snowball cone, cherry
flavored. i think i'll run
off and get that for her,
after all, she is the queen.

on the road

the oil needs changing,
the lights are all flashing
on the dashboard,
the engine is running
sluggish, it's getting harder
to climb the hills
or hug the curves with
any speed, and those tires
are getting thin and slick,
the tread is nearly gone.
the wipers blur the glass,
the filters are filled
with the soot of hard driving.
i'm nearly out of gas,
and the warranty on this
heap is expired, but i'm
going to try to get at least
another ten thousand miles
out this once sleek machine,
just hold on, let me take
a shower and shave, do
some push ups, let me
get ready to roll, beep
the horn and i'll be out.

mrs. barrett

the husband
long gone,
ten years perhaps,
the kids out
and older, now
on their own,
and she at home,
on the side porch,
with a cup
of tea,
some toast,
a book of well
worn poems
in her lap, an
afternoon alone,
a cloudy day,
a dream, a siamese
cat on the table
who waits
patiently for
love, for
the shallow
bowl of cream,
so i see
her as i pass
by, with a fly swatter
in her hand,
and let her be,
no need to stop
and break
the spell, so few
sweet moments
at any stage
of life, like
these.

different

my favorite fish
was the one with
three eyes. i didn't
notice it at first,
but then i did and
came to like him
or her, whatever
the case me be,
the best. it was
different, unusual,
defective in a pleasant
and strange way, which
made me adopt the dog
with three legs, and
then in turn the cat
without a tail,
the bunny who couldn't
hop, the turtle without
a shell, the parakeet
with a bent wing and
the macaw who couldn't
whistle, or mimic my voice,
or sing. and eventually
this is how i found
you. my one true love.

it comes

despite the careful
arranging of things,
the furniture well
polished, the dusting
done, the flowers
watered and bent on
their mindless own
towards the glow
of a soft yellow sun,
the skirt and blouse
warmed out of their
creases with a hot
iron, despite the clocks
still moving with
the steady click of
time, the digital red
numbers glowing onward
without care, despite
all of this, it comes.

the gift basket

leave your shoes
on, this won't take
long. i'm good with
the break up now.
no dinner, no drinks,
no long winded discussions
about why, or what
could have been, if
only this, if only
that. i'll even validate
your parking and
show you to door
with a farewell mint
and a parting gift of
that partially drunk
bottle of wine. take
your cheese too. i
don't like cheese.

i needed that

a swarm of hot
bees were abuzz
at my foot as i
stepped into
the thick ivy
on a shaded hill
with nowhere to
run to without
feeling the fury
of their stings,
just one apiece,
but enough welts
to make me woozy
and stumble
away into the sun
where they lost
interest and
returned to the
grey wafered bun
they lived in.
and when i came
to with an IV
in my arm, and
a nurse hovering
over me, who reminded
me of two sweet
scoops of vanilla
cream, i felt as
rested and as
relaxed as i've
ever been in my
entire life.

blue monday

you
are my
mondays.
my blue
hard monday.
you are
the work
i don't
have the time
for,
the energy
to get to
it all done
before
the stars
arrive,
before the
moon lights
up to replace
a setting sun.
you are the
day i want to
sleep in,
the cold rainy
day that puts
a chill in
my old bones.
you are my
monday, and
ain't that
a crying shame.

a world gone mad

they had somehow
managed to make
a horse the size of a
small dog, genetics
and money, donations,
grants and foundations,
all involved in the
breeding, fooling
around with test tubes,
the biology of it
all, just because
they could. and the horse,
was tiny, the smallest
horse that had ever
lived. the years
that it took, the
science and intelligence
to make something
so unnatural, freakish,
was astonishing, and
as the news cameras
rolled you could see
the homeless men and women
who lived in the park
on their carboard beds
and straw, beneath
the willow trees where
they had brought the
horse to run, staring
in wide eyed wonder too.

more

the rain will fill
the earth, engorge
the streams that
lead towards rivers
and oceans that lie
awake at night and
wonder where more
will come from. no
need to worry. the
sky provides, or God,
or whatever your faith
or lack of faith,
encourages you to
believe, either rightly
or wrongly, but more
will come, it's been
this way for nearly
all of time, or at
least as long as i
can remember, and for
me, that's the only
thing that counts.

initials in a tree

i see your intitials
carved into the tree
down by the stream
which is full and rolling
with dark water, breaking
white upon the rocks
and fallen limbs,
the thick columns of trees.
of course it might not
be your initials, it
could be anyone's,
anyone at all, but i
know they are yours,
because i took the edge
of a sharp rock and
pressed into the soft
wet bark unitl they
were there. and now
six years later, the light
broken skin, is darkened,
calloused with each day
gone by, as it should be,
no one can live with that
much grief.

the waterfall

don't blame me
for the blues
you swim in.
or the world,
or the weather,
or your neighbor's
barking dog. don't
curse the day,
the night, or
the dreams you've
left behind. i
can't help you
there, but if you
want to talk
about other things,
dial me, let's
eat, let's drink,
let's find a new
path to the waterfall
and be done
with yesterdays.

shadow boxing

the shadow boxer
never gets cut
or goes down, never
takes the pummeling
of punches that
rattle the brain,
loosen teeth.
it's easy to face
the mirror in
the low lights,
behind the scenes
and dance and bob
and weave your way
through one fight
after another, never
losing, never
tasting leather,
or your own blood,
or hearing the
eight count, the jeers
and chants of the
crowd. each swing
and jab, each
uppercut touches
nothing but air, all
of them misses,
and you realize that
at some point
you have to get into
the ring to win
or lose, or else
stay in the shadows
unknown.

sometimes

you feel you have
to take the low
road, the hard but
worn path of anger
and resentment. it's
a bursting point
and you let loose
with a rain storm
of slings and sharpened
words, you pummel
your object of
derision until it's
done. and it's never
good, always ends
badly. but then you
can move on, take
the high road.

as you may well know

i don't do well
with crazy, or
sad, or lonely
or perpetually mad
or off center
with life and
money, those that
keep the tornado
spinning. the sand
storm of their
lives stings my eyes
and makes me run
for cover. there
is not a camel fast
enough to get me
off the hot and
waterless desert
and into the cool
sweet oasis of calm.

steps

i am quietly
but surely
taking steps
in the right
direction,
disregard the
stumble, the
occasional slip
and fall.
but with
each step,
i have learned
something
about where
i have been,
where i might
be going, but
it would be
nice to have
someone to
go along
with me
to hold the
map, the light,
and lend a
sweet kiss
or hand along
the way.

the artisan sandwich

in my white chef's hat
i am making myself a sandwich.
yes. an artisan sandwich, hand
crafted with artisan bread.
bread i baked with my bare
hands in my own oven,
and the ham is home grown,
i raised the pig from scratch,
hand carved him in my kitchen.
gently though so as not to
make the other pigs angry.
an angry pig makes tough meat.
that fluffy green lettuce grew
right in my back yard right
next to the tomato plant.
plucked with my own hands.
i churned the milk
to make the cheese that you see
in slender slices,
so yellow and pungent on top
of the ham. i can hardly stand
to eat this sandwich, i am
so proud of it, the art work
and creativity that it took.
so i take a picture of it, with
the light behind it, black
and white, color. i'm going to
wash it all down with the artisan
beer i have fermenting in my tub,
also hand crafted, a brew unlike
any other, but with the slight
taste of soap.

cat friend

retract your claws
dear cat friend, unarch
that spiney back,
and let the fur down.
you only hear what
you want to hear and
take off running with
untruth as if wasn't.
close those sleepy
brown eyes, and
tart sweet mouth. find
the sun, find a sill.
have a bowl of milk,
breathe in, exhale.

in the light

it's simple
and clean
this love
you bring to
the table,
unwrapped and
fresh. it
awakens me
to who i am,
who you are
and what we
can be
together. i
see that now,
i savor it,
and fear
the worst.

the weight

i've noticed lately
the weight carried
by those who work,
not in the limelight,
but in the produce
section lining up
tomatoes, or the man
sweeping the street,
the mailman,
the teacher next door
who teaches piano
at night to make ends
meet. it's a weight
that shows on their
face when no one is
looking. the struggle,
the pull of life
getting heavier. the
beat cop, the plumber
laying pipe. there
is no real getting
ahead, they are as
far ahead as they can
go, and deep within
their souls they
won't say it out loud,
but they truly and
sadly have surrendered,
and know.

chances

my father
who actually
won the lottery
and kept it
hidden from us
for as long
as possible,
has spent none
of it. not a
single one of
his children has
had a taste of
his new found
riches. and it's
fine. i asked
him what he was
going to do
with this money
and he said
that he would pay
off his car, fix
the washing machine
which squeaked and
rattled during
the spin cycle,
he said he might
buy one of those new
flat screen tv's.
and that's it.
he has no need
or desire to travel,
there is nothing
shiny out there
that he needs to
possess. there is
no new fashion
trend he needs
to set. he'll just
buy more tickets,
more chances, but
none of it will
cancel out or ease
the distance between
him and the world,
his children, and
at eighty-two,
his life of regret.

the new wife

the new wife
wants to make
things her way.
new carpet, paint
and wallpaper.
all of the art
has to go, even
the poster, the
self portrait
of the earless
romantic, van
gogh. and who
can blame her.
that vase from
italy, to the
attic, the mattress
of course, goes
without saying.
it's a scorched
earth policy
for the new wife.
it's best to
start of fresh
and new she says,
and doesn't for
a second feel
the slightest
crack in her
new found love,
she doesn't
have a clue.

chasing tails

the dog
can spend an
hour on
chasing his
own tail in
the laundry
basket, slippery
and white
and full of
socks. it
doesn't seem
to tire him,
or bother him
that it can't
be done. it
won't be caught.
i can think
of several
parallels
for this that
relates to
my own personal
life, but
it's too
embarassing
to speak of.

keys

so many keys
on the ring.
some without
a lock to turn,
but stay on
just in case.
the house,
the car, the truck,
the bike,
the shed, a
lock box with
papers for when
death occurs,
an old trunk
full of things
you wrote when
you were young.
full of fire,
full of
resolute hope
that somehow still
remains, gold
keys, silver,
tarnished, worn
and rounded.
keys that open
cans and turn
screws when
the screw needs
turning. keys
that scrape
off the soft
grey tissue
from the face
of lottery
tickets
that never ever
match. there
is only one key
missing. and you
know which one
i mean.

it's here somewhere

it's an easy
thing to lose
a car. a watch,
a pen, a set of
keys, to not
remember which lot,
which letters or
numbers fit the place
where you so
carefully pulled
in and parked.
was it left,
was it right.
and you wonder if
it's the beginning
of the end,
that slow slide
that the elderly slip
so easily but not
so suddenly in,
the start of winter
and fog, the sharpness
dulled, the life
once led with pride,
and clarity
now frightfully
humbled and stalled.

any direction

it was the wool
hat pulled down
tight over curls
of silver hair,
the three full bags
of clothing,
at her side,
the tennis shoes
and long grey coat,
still buttoned up
to her chin,
that set her apart
from the dining
crowd. she held
a cup of soup,
that she blew on
with thin unpolished
lips, to cool
the broth, and her
ringless fingers
broke a snow of saltines
onto the top, a
glass of iceless water,
sat still,
to quell the heat
as she sipped
with two hands,
trembling the broth
into concentric
circles of life.
her calm blue eyes
questioned nothing,
asked for no one, and
when i asked her which
way could i walk her
home or to her car,
into which direction
she needed to go, she
said simply, i can
go in any direction.

light

the rare
star, brighter
than most.
comes along
and startles
you, blinds you
for an instant,
makes you lean
back and admire
the view from
here, on this
cliff, with an
etched deep
earth below.
you want to
reach out
and grab it,
to feel
the sparkle
in your hand,
and hold it
to your heart
and see what
she sees.

hard times

honesty is
a thin coat
these days.
worn uneasily
in winters
such as these
when the cupboard
is bare.
tattered, a hole
here and there.
pockets full
of lint,
debris from
days gone by
a dull penny
at the bottom,
hard against
cold fingers.
how easy it would
be to stray
over the line,
to enter that
bank and ask
politely for
a very large
donation
while wearing
a mask.

blessed

is
the fine
slender
point
of thread
that finds
the eye
of a needle
in a sea
of needles
that weaves
the cloth
to make
the blanket
that covers
your life,
your love,
your bed.

enough

enough brooding,
analyzing the past,
the one i loved
who got away,
enough with the long
walks in the woods,
through the brush
where there is no
path. enough with
the grey skies, and
rain, and cold,
and avoiding donuts.
that's right,
donuts. i want one
right now. it'll
make me feel better.

why i listen

when she calls
and i hear her
voice, i cringe.
i find a seat,
pour a cup of
coffee, or make
a drink, depending
on the day, or
hour of the day
she calls on.
but it's trouble.
a kid gone
wrong, a dog
in the highway,
an aunt or sister
with lupus.
uncle jimmy lost
everything in
the market, and
the neighbors house
burned down
and showered her
garden with ashes
and soot. but i
listen. she doesn't
want advice, or
comfort, or for
me to pray for
her. she just wants
my ears. to hear
me on the other
line, giving her
the time of day.
and that's enough.
she won't be around
forever.

candy

she says,
i like candy,
sticky lolipops,
gum and bars
of chocolate,
things to lick
and savor
the sweetness
or sour
sugar nature
of it all, to
turn the bag
upwards for that
last m and m,
to shake the box
free of that
final junior
mint. i want
something to make
me pucker,
or crave for more
when the last
chew is swallowed,
i see her
swoon and her
eyes roll
with just one
glance at
the long sweet line
of boxed candy
in the drugstore
rows. i'm jealous.
so very jealous.

a night out

he was married,
she wasn't. but
they bent the rules,
went home after too
many drinks, loud
music, dancing,
flirting, parking
lot kissing and
unzipping, unsnapping,
and they fell into
her bed, his ring
still on, mumbling
about, how he'd never
ever done such a thing,
and when round two
came around he stopped
with the whimpering
guilt and just had
fun before fallling
asleep and then leaving
in the morning as if
he'd never been there.

the laughing man

the man
on the bench,
dark with
a devilish
grin, angular
as if made
out of sticks,
with bright
eyes, white
bowls of mirth,
a tilted
hat on his
scruffy head,
that is no
longer blue,
a homeless bag
at his side,
is laughing.
not at me, or
anyone, not
at the squirrels,
or traffic,
or the sirens
that scream
throughout
the city.
he's just
laughing. i am
across from
him on my own
bench eating an
icecream cone
and i fear
for the world
because of his
strange and
wonderous joy.

fort knox

it would be like
breaking into fort
knox, i tell my brother
about my date, my new
love, my new soul mate.
i'd have better luck
with a water pistol
standing outside
the national treasury,
trying to get a bar
of gold, than to make
love with her. she is
that distant, that cold,
or maybe it's me. maybe
she doesn't trust me,
thinks i'm a player,
a cad, a scam artist
trying to score. o ye
of little faith. i am
a sheet of glass, as
transparent and as deep
as this morning's rain
puddled on the hard
black street.

laundry

the line sags
with clothes,
bleached white,
the dungarees, the
t's, the dresses
pink and blue,
ready to be pressed,
or folded, put away
into dressers
for monday morning,
school. three lines
of clothing for
seven children, and
her hands are
raw from being
in water. her feet
sore from standing
on dirt, inching
down the line with
clothespins in her
mouth. it's a long
ways from here
to there, but i
remember.

under the weather

illness confounds,
it's not an easy rain
to go through, every
thing gets wet,
everything gets
heavy, and a foot
away is sunshine,
but you can't get
there, not yet. it
has to rain some
more, and more, and
there is the possibilty
that you may drown.
there is hope,
there is prayer, there
are doctors who wave
their wands, but
nothing quite quells
the fear, until it
stops, and you're
dry again, out from
under the weather,
with your feet
on the ground,
at least for now.

cheese

she's in love
with cheese,
sharp or cheddar,
brie,especially
blue, soft hard,
french or domestic,
makes no difference.
she wants to marry
a man that is
the equivalent
of cheese. tart
and tasty, unusual,
satifying with
a glass of pinot
or chardonnay.
a deck of crackers
and a dollop
of raisin jelly.
i see her eyes
glaze over as we
walk through the
store with all
the samples. i don't
stand a chance
with this way
of thinking.