cotton candy nightmare

i'm not fond
of cotton candy,
as you may well know.
the pink or the blue
kind. having once
caught my arm
in the machine
as it spun wet dry
sugar into furious
hairy cones of
stickiness. i am
scarred for life
with that memory,
and often wake up
in the middle of
the night screaming,
no, no, not again,
as the carnival
roustabouts bang
their mallets
against the motor
in an effort to
save my life.

accountant by day

her job, well, her
night job was to keep
them on the line, the
men with their husky
voices and low quick
pants, like animals
trapped in corners,
caught up in something,
or someplace they
shouldn't be. she had
a day job too, and
three kids in elementary
school. please don't
answer, don't every
answer mommy's special
phone she would tell
them when the beep
beep beep of the line
rang through the house.
it's mommy's work, so
let me take this call
in the bathroom, where
she would place a rolled
towel at the bottom
of the door to dull
the sound of her talking
to these strangers, these
men with dark and not
so dark needs of a
sexual nature. please
give me your credit card
number, she'd politely
ask, and your three
digit code on the back
and your expiration date.
and then the clock would
start. sometimes she'd
be in the middle of
folding clothes and
would bring them into
the bathroom with her,
or mixing up a cake
for her daughter's birth
day party the next day,
and she stir while talking
the men into imaginary
bliss. she said that
the money was amazing,
much more than her day job,
but it was taking a toll
on her soul. she was
beginning to hate men.
all men. everyman and
their needs, their secret
desires and lives. once
i get my new car, i'm
done she said. and maybe
a pool for the kids out back.

the day off

you need the day off,
one day of rest
of doing nothing,
going nowhere, just
finding a spot in
the sun and stretching
out like a cat on
the window sill. so
you make the call,
you cancel the job,
delay it until monday,
you push appointments
to the side, the favor
you were going to do
can wait. you tell
the cable guy not to
come, the neighbor
sees you and wants
to know what's
up. your son calls
and gets nervous about
next year's tuition.
your mother sees you
online and wants an
explanation as to
why you are home in
the middle of the day
and if you're free,
why don't you come
over for lunch.
and finally you just
give up and go to work.

italiano

she told me over
wine, in a restaurant
about to close,
while discussing
pasta and sauces,
that meatballs bored
her. i laughed and
said what. pfffft.
meatballs. she said,
throwing her hair
back and taking
the last sip of
wine. as i do
with my men, i'd like
a more complicated
meal, thank you.
and at that point i
knew i was in trouble.

the long goodbye

she tried several
times to get to
the other side. pills,
a razor, a leap into
the river from a too
low bridge. but the
efforts were weak
and she promised
wearily to do better,
as did sylvia or anne,
or countless others
awash in the brackish
waters of their
minds. she once
wrote a letter in
a car, in a park
overlooking the grey
river as the rain
turned the windsheild
into one large tear,
it was a long farewell
to everyone that
mattered, though not
enough to stay. but
then the sun came out,
and the rains stopped,
and she lost her
nerve, her enthusiasm
for death dwindled,
at least for that moment,
and she put the gun away.

in the woods

the sky can't
make up it's mind
shifting from sun
to clouds, from
breeze to utter
stillness, but the
trees don't mind,
nor do the red fox,
or deer that lean
out in the shadows,
getting ready to
step towards the place
where we once were.

bon voyage

i need a vacation.
somewhere warm.
someplace fun,
whatever fun might
be. i'm not so sure
anymore. i think naps
are fun at this stage.
but you can come along
if you'd like. don't
bring much. some money,
some clothes. no watch,
no maps, no phones.
we can linger on
the beach and make plans
to do nothing, but
make love, eat, drink,
sleep. repeat and rinse.

gone fishing

i laughed when
he told me about
the fight the fish
put up at the end
of his line, a
steel hook embedded
in his numb hard
lip, his body
in shock at the
tug and pull of
biting into the
fake red worm
that wiggled
delightfully just
beneath the shimmering
blue. for the fish
weighed three pounds
and he weighed
in at two hundred
ten and while dressed
in camouflage he
carried a knife,
and an electronic
underwater tracking
device. next week
he'll be hunting in
the woods, hiding
in some bushes,
with his high powered
scope rifle,keeping
still, eating beef
jerky and awaiting
the big bambi kill.

separate nests

i married young,
then in the middle,
i'm deliberating if
a third and final
ending to this three
act play can happen.
i doubt it, although
i'm not immune to the
possibilites, just
as i'm not immune
to leaping into
the air and flying
about like a bird.
i lean now towards
the exclusive thought,
with separate nests
in separate parks,
with very high trees.
i don't find reason
anymore in having
a business contract
for love. where is
the trust in that, in
clipping one's wings.

retail

when an old
shirt dies,
and the buttons
go, the sleeve
gets torn,
and the fit
mysteriously
mishapened, you
go out and buy
another. this
is how it works
in retail and
in love, or so
i thought.

the one

in the photograph,
behind the others,
lined in subtle rows
of choosing, those
on their knees,
or center, or standing
tall, having gone
there for a reason,
you are on the edge,
nearly out of range.
your smile quietly
being the light.
and this is what
i like about you,
there is no push or
pull, no trying to
find the middle and
be the one, you are
that without effort.

take hearts
for instance,
how fragile
how much work
they do over
time, from start
to finish.
they don't
complain, they
don't need
a vacation
or a retirement
plan. they
either work,
or they're
done.

dr. seuss in the house

none of your
poems rhyme
she says while
slowly licking
an icecream cone
and sitting back
on a hill of
marshmallow
pillows on the
white sheets
of my bed. i'd like
it better if you
tried once in
awhile to rhyme
a few words. just
give it a shot,
i'd like it alot.
that's when i kiss
her and say okay.
maybe i will, if it
gives you a thrill.

preparation

before it rains
i need to go
to the store,
buy some stamps,
write you a
long letter and
mail it. before
it rains i need
to plant some
tomato seeds in
the back yard,
prune them,
brace them for
the hard times
ahead. before it
rains i need
to save some
money for when
the day comes
that i no longer
have the strength
to do what i do.
before it rains,
i need to find
the hole, to
to fix the leak
that drains
the love between
me and you.

in the drawer
that you once used,
i noticed that it
still had a few
of your things
in it. a blouse,
a ring, a pair
of sandals. your
suntan lotion,
and matches. i
could drop them
off, or send
them, or you
could come by
and pick them
up on the porch.
i'll put them
all in a box, i'll
even place the box
into a plastic
bag in case it
rains.

for the kids

the first bank
i robbed was so
easy. no gun, just
a bar of soap
carefully carved
to look like one.
i was nervous,
of course, my
mask was soaked
with sweat, but
it went well. i
disguised my voice,
made it deep and
gravelly, like
my ex wife shirley's,
who put me up to
this to help
with chld support
and alimony. she
planned the whole
thing actually
and drove the get
away car, well,
mini-van. we even
stopped for some
drive thru
burgers and fries
on the way home.
her home now, i
have a studio
apartment over
the liquor store.
we're on our third
bank now and i'm
almost caught up
on my back payments,
so she's happy,
i'm happy, but it's
exhausting. strangely
we have been getting
along alot better
since we started
robbing banks. in fact
we once pulled over
after doing ninety
on the freeway to
escape the cops
and made out for awhile
in the park where
we ate our lunch
and split up the dough.
i'm only doing
this for the kids
i told her while
in the back of the
van. i know sweetie
she said, i know.

cleopatra

i see you lying
on the couch
like cleopatra,
with a snake wrapped
around your long
arm. overflowing
bags from nordstoms
and neiman marcus
are everywhere.
your dark hair
is gleaming
in the late
egyptian light,
your eyes and lips
are black, and wet.
a small boney man
is in the corner
playing the lyre,
while a schoolboy
drops grapes into
your mouth, and fans
you with palm leaves.
and this is what
you do all day
while i go to work
and slave. putting
blocks of granite
on top of one another,
building our future
home, the one we
quietly call a grave.

one summer
i was flipping
burgers, dropping
baskets of frozen
fries into the
deep boiling
oil, having it
splatter up
and scar me for
life. i had a
little nehru
hat, a white shirt
with stripes
like a teenage
convict about
to break big
rocks into little
rocks. a whole
summer in a hot
broiling kitchen
for about
five hundred bucks
the hard way.

there was no
water when i woke
up this morning.
nothing for blocks
and blocks. a water
main had burst
somewhere nearby.
the spigots held
hardly a drop.
no showers, no
toilets to flush,
no hose in the
yard to spritz
the azaleas. no
coffee or tea.
the house was
dry, my lips were
parched, i could
feel that life
from here on out
would be hard,
and different.
and then the rains
came and we went
outdoors to cup
our hands, to hold
our hats, we put
buckets in the
driveway, pots and
pans on the lawn.
it suddenly became
understandable
how things like
light and darkness,
and rain could become
gods to worship.

the game

she confronts you
on a sunday afternoon,
back from mass, hands
on her hips, still
wearing her white
shoes, and carrying
her tiny pink purse.
you're insensitive
to the needs
of others, she starts
with. you're callous
and cruel, you are not
a good person. she's
pointing now with the
church bulletin rolled
up into a tight baton.
no wonder bad things
are happening to you.
all you care about
is yourself, your money
and your time are all
yours. you have no need
for someone in your life.
no room for love, no
sense of family. it's
all about you, what
you need and want. why
do i bother sticking
around. why, she asks.
why. and you want to
answer these things,
address them all, but
instead you say, honey,
please, your blocking
the game, you're standing
in front of the t.v.,
move just a little to
the left, yeah, right
there. now what
were you saying?

please

step up
on the scale,
breathe in
breathe out,
bend and swallow,
arms up
arms down, gargle
and spit. close
your eyes
and touch your
nose. open
your mouth.
does it hurt
when i do that.
how about that.
follow my finger.
focus and blink.
just a little
pinch and the
blood will come
out. how long
have you been
lost and unable
to remember
your name. say
your prayers,
the worst
is yet to come.

i went to see the gypsy
about a few issues
i was unsettle on.
i had heard good things
about her, how right
she was, half the time,
not bad. the weatherman
would like those odds.
so i went to knock
on the door
but i could see through
the window that she was
asleep on the couch with
her black cat and her
crystal ball, clear
and shiny on the coffee
table next to a box
of ritz crackers and
velveeta cheese. i was
very surprised that she
didn't know i was coming.
i had cash too. i thought
about ringing the bell
that hung from the porch
ceiling, but i didn't want
to disturb her, she
was dreaming, smiling
in her sleep and i felt
it best to leave her alone.
no sense in having a
gypsy on your wrong side.

her new love
could not stop
bleeding. and
she loved him
still, or at
least leaned
in that direction
as trees do
with a strong
wind of fresh
infatuation. it
was too early
to tell. too
soon on the
road to see any
curves ahead.

falling

on a whim
i leaped
out of a
plane over
orange county
above the quilted
fields, and
cows. the clusters
of trees, and
blue ribbons
of water.
i was sick
with fear
that the chute
wouldn't open,
that i would
plummet
to earth
like a stone,
and yet it
did, it bloomed
like heaven
above me and i
floated
painlessly to
the ground
with limbs and
heart in tact.
now that i've
gotten that out
of the way, my
next leap might
be you.

three wishes

given three
wishes and blown
through two,
i realize now
that the
the cadillac
and the blonde
twins from sweden
were big mistakes,
now i sit on
the pressure
of having one
wish left, and not
knowing what
to do, perhaps
i'll heal the sick,
feed the hungry,
clean up the oil
spill, raise
the dead or grow
hair like a movie
star upon my head.
i might need to
sleep on this one.

shadows in the park

old dogs
in the park
on last legs
and light
chains with
weakened
barks. once
kings who
slept with
queens.
still dapper
in their
suits that
hang on
brittle bones,
the few with
hats are
older still,
and the polished
canes are worn
from striking
steps and doors
to get in,
to get out.
they are ghosts
before dying,
shadows from
the past.

summer is a kiss
of a season.
a sultry hot
embrace of full
trees and warm
oceans. summer
is not to be
dismissed without
at least a passing
thought at love.
and even if it
doesn't happen,
at least you
thought it could
and that allows
alone is enough
to welcome in
the fall.

slow

kisses,
soft
caress,
the light
snore
after sex.
the glass
of water
on the dresser
beside you
still rippling
from the
after effects
of what the
earth does
when you
touch me
and i
take a deep
breath.

these steps

these hard steps
of concrete that
lead up to your
door, the black
railing, laced
in ivy, i've seen
a thousand times,
but after tonight
no more. i know
each crack, each
crumble of soft
cement, the clouds
of moss that grow
in dark corners,
and say farewell
with my shoes that
gently tread
upwards to see you.
i'll miss these
steps, for each
one at one time
meant i was another
step closer to you
and sweet, though
fleeting joy.

i celebrate alone
the new moon as
she rises over the
soft blue curve
of earth. the purity
of white is an
illusion, a point
blank shine of sun
upon rock and sand,
a place without a
soul and has no
pretensions of being
what it isn't. come
visit me, she says,
and i'll give you
nothing in return,
but write about me,
stand in awe of me
and my orbit, my pull
upon your water, i
am here for a reason.

my personal
guru, jimmy,
told me the
other day over
gin and tonics
that the way
you drive
is a mirror
of your soul.
your impatience
or discontent
is reflected
in your speed
and lack of
compassion
in dealing with
life's traffic.
your refusal to
use a turn
signal is a
sign of internal
unhappiness.
rebelling at life's
cofining set
of rules.

waking up

suppose one
morning you
woke up
and saw that
you had to work
for next forty
years at a job
that you didn't
love, but you
had to pay the
bills, feed
yourself, your
wife, your
children. you
had to keep a
roof over all
your heads.
and suppose you
got two weeks
vacation to
the jersey shore,
and that you
were able
to buy a new
car every few
years. suppose
you woke up
and drove to
the train station
to get on
a train that
took you into
the city, where
the other million
or so fine
souls were doing
the same thing
as years turned
into decades.
suppose you woke
up one morning
and said no.
what then?

it's the gleam
of silver, of steel
and the bright floors
that you notice first.
as the grey ones
the shine almost gone,
move slowly from
room to hall, towards
food or sleep, or
bingo. television
becomes the fire
they sit around to
tell the fading
tales of when they
too were young. and
those that care for
them are in pastel
clothes, like easter
bunnies, soft and warm,
but only on the job,
there is nothing there.

language

i'd like to know
another language,
perhaps french
or german, maybe
even tagalog,
but truthfully,
at times, i struggle
with this one, it's
difficult in finding
the right word or
words to express
my love or anger,
my disgust or joy
in the day to day
existence between
sleep. even with all
the books read, the
words written,
sometimes the simple
word, the so called
curse word is the only
one that fits.

a woman's lips

you discover in the midst
of slight inebreation
that the woman you've
been seeing likes to
kiss women as well as
you. it's something you
decide on the spot
that you have in
common. a bond of sorts.
you understand completely.
it's a shrug sort of
moment that slips
away like a sliver of
moon beyond the clouds,
but you won't forget.
she says that it's mostly
out of curiosity, it's
not as if she's switched
to the other side, it's
nothing like that at all.
she won't be marching
in any parade with her
kissing friend, or
hair cut shorter than mine,
or shocking her family
with a trip to a friendly
state to get married.
she just likes how it
feels, a woman's lips
on her lips. i have nothing
to say to this, but smile
as if i've discovered
something shiny and
interesting along the beach.

TKO

i was disappointed
at first that my
mother could no longer
put up her dukes and
brawl, that she had
lost several steps,
and was on the defensive
for the first time in
her mothering career.
she was eighty-one
though and had had
a good run with that
left handed jab,
and mean uppercut
that came out of
nowhere. i waved
the referee in to stop
the fight. there was
no sense in it anymore,
she was woozy
and tired, done. she
had forgotten what
the fight was all
about, and her corner
threw in the towel
and finally, once more
i was ten again
and she was thirty
four, the way it always
should have been,
not us in the ring.

clouds

when you sigh
and move
like a white
cloud in
spring, above
the green.
i see the
possibilities
of us, although
i have been
wrong before.
but for now,
in this
sweet moment,
it's nice
to believe in
more nights
like this and
to dream.

the long line

it was a long line
and yet i had to
get in and wait
my turn. the hours
turned into days,
and the days into
seasons. luckily
i brought a change
of clothes as the
weather went from
warm to cold, and
when the rains came
i had an umbrella.
slowly i inched
ahead in the line,
patiently awaiting
my turn. i even had
a sandwich or two
in my pocket. some
mints, a cookie, a
bottle of water.
as time went on
and the line grew
longer, i thought
i could see the front,
the back, but it
always seemed like
i was in the middle.
i read a book, i
counted the stars,
i lifted my spirits
by sleeping. my hair
went grey, my posture
suffered under the
weight of my bones.
i grew heavy in
the middle and my
eyes grew blurry, yet
i stayed in line.
i needed to know
what true love was,
i had heard so much
about it and was
willing to wait and wait
until it was my turn.

true story

it's not all
fiction, once
in a while
a real story
happens that
you want to live
in, to last,
to linger on,
and be a part
of. you want
the pages to
turn slowly, like
leaves drifting
off an autum
tree, you want
the hero to
win the day,
for the romance,
teetering on edge,
to end happily,
you want to hold
the book
for another
night in bed,
with the light
on, and everyone
but you asleep.
while you breathe
in the sweet
folds of a tale
well told.

foreplay

sometimes
the meal
won't do,
sometimes
you need
to skip
the salad,
the appetizers
of shrimp
or crab,
say no
to the bread,
the fish
or steak.
the pasta.
or even a
hot bowl
of soup,
sometimes
you need to
go straight
to dessert,
to know
the meaning
of life, or
at least
what's next
on the menu
for me
and you.

less being more

small
wonders
are
the best.
i don't
need
mount
rushmore,
the eiffel
tower,
or a grand
canyon
view,
just a
simple
wink or
kiss,
or whisper
into my ear
from you
will do.

the green light

you can't go
until you see it.
oh sure, a yellow
flashing might
permit a kiss,
but you are in
risk of the light
going red in mid
move towards
lips. don't even
try the red.
you'll hear the
sirens, you'll
pay a fine, it
will set back
on points. you
might even get a
slap. the light
has to be
green. you have
to keep your foot
on the brake,
hands on the wheel,
and be patient.
and when it's
your turn, she'll
go green and there
will be no mistake
about it as your
foot hits the
pedal and you take
the open road.

she is fresh,
like wind,
like an ocean
wave, like all
the cliches you
read in every
card you might
receive from
the drugstore.
with brown
eyes, and a smile,
a youthful
spirit.

these plates

they were all once
new, but i'm finding
more cracked dishes on
the shelf. i have
no one to blame this
on, but me. the
son is away at school,
the dog is running
free in his version
of heaven, so it can
be only me who is
chipping and cracking
the dinner plates. i
rub my finger along
the rough edge of
porcelain and shake
my head. i don't know
what goes on behind
the closed door of
the dishwasher.
i never see the pieces,
i never seem to
hear it when they
break, but it doesn't
stop me from putting
them neatly away.
after all they still
shine. i can't help
but feel that it's an
extension of me, these
plates, although i'm
probably wrong. not
everything holds meaning.

listening

i remember as a kid
sleeping outside in
the yard in sleeping
bags with my friends.
and we'd talk through
the night about baseball,
and girls, and the stars
that were as endless
and deep as we thought
our lives would be.
it was hard to sleep
as we listened to the
crickets, to the silence,
to the light sounds
of televisions flickering
black and white in
the houses nearby.
the ground was hard,
and often wet with dew.
and when all of the lights
went out, and the dogs
stopped barking we'd listen
to adults making love
in their darkened bedrooms,
the strangeness of their
voices, their whispers
haunting as we lay
with our eyes wide open
our hearts finding another
speed, unknown up until
that point in time.

once garden fresh

the frenzy at
the salad bar
is beyond me.
the thrashing
at lettuce
and eggs, hard
boiled, the
round balled
burgundy colored
beets afloat
in what, beet
juice? carrots
shredded and
ignored along
with celery
and cabbage,
why bother. but
the croutons
are everywhere,
as are the bacon
bits, so soft
and gravely,
the blue cheese
is ripe and dug
into like ice
cream scoops,
diced tomatoes,
and little baby
corn from some
strange world
of tiny things,
creepy little
stalks to say
the least. red
onions, white
onins, sliced
olives, whole
olives, all of
it floating in
a moat of grey
soup. and
then the bottles
of sauce, the
oil and dressings
lined up like
barber shop
bottles. it's a
mess, the sneeze
guard is dripping,
the carnage. it's
a roman orgy of
food, the caligula
of the grocery store.
i just want to
find my plastic
spork and begone.

belated wishes

it's her birthday
today, or wait, was
it yesterday. i wrote
it down somewhere,
someplace, on a napkin
perhaps, or the inside
of a book on the history
of cupcakes. but i
know i'm close. it's
this month for sure.
i'll get her a card
tomorrow, one of those
belated wishes cards,
something funny, hmm,
no, maybe something
sweet and gooey, with
a picture of clouds
and birds on it,
maybe some flowers,
a small gift. a bottle
of red wine. who
doesn't like a bottle
of red wine. maybe a
thirteen or fourteen
dollar bottle, nothing
under ten for sure.
i can't believe i forgot
her birthday again.
these birthdays
are killing me.

deep fried

i'm living
on scrambled
eggs and bacon,
toast and potatoes.
i'm on the edge
of gout, the edge
of a culinary
cliff of fried
and greasy food.
i've got the jones
for popeye's
extra crispy
spicy chicken,
i'm eyeballing
that mc D's
third pounder
like a hungry dog
off his chain.
i've worn out
my frying pan
with vegetable oils
spitting and
splattering all
over my kitchen
walls. if i don't
get a piece of
fruit in me
soon an artery
is going to pop.

1959

i remember those
hot nights in barcelona,
the bullfights, the wine
and the sweet green sea
that stretched forever
along the coast of
spain. i remember the
music, the dark eyed
women dancing on the
tables, their castanets
clicking away to guitars
and song. their feet
stomping out the rhythm.
i remember the hot bowls
of paella steaming with
fish and rice, the bread
and oils, the wind of
change holding all of
it in a precarious balance.

orphan annie

it's a blue wednesday
when you get the call.
if it's late it's
never good news. or
the text, short and
sweet. beeping in
the kitchen as
the phone recharges.
sorry, it's
just not working out.
live by the e mail,
die by the e mail, and
text is quicker. it's
the lethal injection
of breakups. the
swift drop of the
blade, the guillotine
ending of a fragile
relationship. i've
killed and died in
all such ways, ah
yes. but a hot bath,
a steak and cheese
sandwich,
a cold drink and a
good night's sleep
and the sun will come
up tomorrow as that
little red headed
scamp annie sings.

avoiding thelma

go around back
and knock twice
on the door
that says no
entry here by
order of the
fire department,
that's where
you'll find me,
i'll be on a
stool, in the
ice room, avoiding
thelma, and the
heat that she
brings, trying
to stay cool.
it's too long
a tale to tell,
and you won't
believe it anyway.
i'm prone to
embellish and
expand on things
lace the lining
with little white
lies. some of it
is true, some
isn't. you decide.
but it's really
all my fault,
always is. thelma
is just a symptom
of some bigger
issue.

the list

there is not
enough time
in the day to
do all of these
things that you
say are so
important to
the continuance
of life as you
know it. it's a
long list
of people to
stay in touch
with, of friends
to commune with,
of lovers to
mend fences with
in the hope of
more affection.
not to mention
work, and family,
the dog, the
bills and general
upkeep of nearly
everything that
moves and breathes
within your little
circle of life.
there is not
enough time, and
yet, it doesn't
really matter
most of the time.

compromise

i let you drive my
car, sleep in my bed.
take my credit cards
to nordstrom's for a
binge. i cook you
salmon on a daily basis
and buy you grey goose
vodka for your
cold martinis. i let
you watch the lifetime
channel all night,
even when the game
is on, and sit in my
spot on the couch. i
let you use up all
the hot water for your
two hour bubble baths.
if it wasn't
for the one thing
that you do, i'd
seriously consider
ending this relationship.

you are getting sleepy very sleepy

i've been practicing
my hypnotic skills
these days on norma.
she doesn't even realize
that she's clucking
like a chicken, or
barking like a dog,
but everyone else does.
it's lots of fun, well,
for me, not so much
for her. when i snap
my fingers three times
and she comes out of
it she is often on top
of a table gnawing on
a pork chop, or under
the bed trying to claw
her way out of an imaginary
hen house. i know i'm
going to hell for doing
this to her, but she
should have seen it
coming when she met
me and i told her that
i was a magician. instead
she was impressed and
offered herself up
to my hypnotic whims.
oh well.

he calls infrequently
but when he does, leo
needs a favor. he's often
short of cash, or needs
a ride to the metro,
or a bus station. he has
long nails and a bushy head
of hair not unlike art
garfunkel from the sixties,
but without the angelic
voice. we met so long ago
that i don't even remember
the circumstances. sports,
perhaps.

guilt no more

in an attempt
to assuage guilt
i begin to clean
the house, starting
with the upstairs
rooms and working
down. so much dust
beneath the beds,
on the dressers,
the sheets need
changing, the
tub scrubbed, floors
need sweeping and shine.
each window needs
a spray and a wipe.
by the second room
i feel a little
better, by the time
i go downstairs, i
need a beer and a
short break, i've
almost forgotten
the reason for my
cleaning binge, but
then it comes back and
i begin to vacuum,
i haul out the trash,
i remove everything
from the fridge,
including all three
ketchup bottles,
toss most of it out
and put the milk
and the vodka back
on the shelf.
a fresh start. that's
what i'm aiming for.
i finally squeeze the
mop full of pinesol
one last time, and
give it a swirl
across the glimmering
kitchen floor. done.
i've completely
forgotten what's
her name.

the white flag

do you see the white
flag. yes. that's my
hand holding it up
in the breeze. i am
hunkered down behind
the dunes, behind
the barbed wire i've
constructed to keep
you out. no need
to be angry anymore,
no need to bleed or
bore me with your
volley of words
and accusations.
let the bullets stop.
accept the flag as
a fond farewell and
let's call it a day.

flowers

quck sand
being a swift
way to sink
and be swallowed
whole is not
a good way
to go. i much
prefer the slower
path of work
and work, and
more work,
and hopefully
finding
small sweet
flowers that
grow between
the cracks.

trials

so you don't believe
anymore. your faith
like fresh snow, so
pure and clean, so
deep and bright has
melted under fire.
enough pain and death
has stung your nights
and days that
the cross means
nothing to you. fables
is what you mumble
as you walk past the
church. mythology
for the weak, for
those who need to lean
on a God they cannot
hear or see, or touch.
so where does that leave
you. no longer do you
doubt, for now you
claim to know, and your
life has become a grave
that you will not
rise from. pity. i
don't know, sometimes
i'm unsure myself.

sunlight

as you lie
next to me
asleep, your
skin so pale
and warm in
the morning
sunight. i try
to remember
what it was
like before
you, before
this, before
passion
and what i'm
finding out
could be love.
i'd rather
not remember.

the disagreement

it's not okay
to win every
argument, what
fun is there
in that. so
sometimes i just
stay quiet
and let you
ramble on and
on as if you
have a point,
as if you've
logically thought
out what you
are saying and
the words that
leave your
mouth are
not like
wild bees
escaping from
a hive when struck
with a stick.
sometimes a tie
is good. i feel
like that's the
best way to end
the fight,
the disagreement
that we have
about everything
under the sun.

i fell in love
on mars, it was
a long trip
there, very hard,
but we made
it through
the van allen belt,
some meteor
showers and bad
food all
shaped like
animal crackers.
the turkey tasted
like turkey.
the carrot cracker
like carrots.
the beauty of science
never more evidence
than in our diet.
but as i said.
i fell in love
on mars. in fact
all six of us
male astronauts
did. there was
only one woman on
the trip.

tornado alley

my new friend
francis is a
scientist of sorts.
she tracks germs
across the country
and makes a chart
and a graph
as to where
the measles have
surfaced or
a rare but deadly
case of bubonic
plague, or scarlet
fever, or even
where the mumps
might be lurking,
it's a weather
report of death
and illness.
she is a tornado
chaser of infectious
diseases that are
swirling towards
a neighborhood
like yours. she
takes her work
seriously although
knows that eventually
the twister will
visit you and her,
and everyone that
breathes. there is no
cellar with which to
grab your little toto
and go to. you
can't stop what's
coming, she says
with a sweet nice
smile fluttering
her big brown eyes,
then puts another
check and number
upon her chart
when you tell her
that you have
a scratchy throat.

the girl next door

a new girl
moved in next door,
although woman
is more correct.
i know. don't
brand me as evil.
i saw her lifting
weights in
the back yard,
doing squats with
a dumbbell, clean
jerks, and presses.
curls. she has
a marine flag decal
on her car. she
nodded at me
while she was
carrying in
her sofa by
herself. i don't
think i'll be
going over anytime
soon for a cup
of sugar. i'm
keeping the music
down.

the new job

the first day
of any new
job is important.
it's in your
best interest
to dress nicely.
dark suit, white
shirt and a not
too flamboyant
tie. you can't
take too many
coffee breaks,
or talk it up
too much at
the water cooler.
it's best to
tone down your
interest in the
receptionist
and her friend
buffy who works
in accounting.
it's better that
you don't ask
about happy hour,
or the christmas
party and bonuses,
or when the
company picnic is,
yes. the first day
you actually have
to do some work.
be a part of the
team, earn your
keep and prove
your worth, do alot
of firm handshaking
and smiling, but
on the second day,
all bets are off.

the art of the nap

i'm busy
these days
with perfecting
the nap.
you might laugh,
but it's an
art form that
is very under
rated, under
used and mis
understood.
my recipe goes
as follows.
try four p.m.
if you are
lucky enough
to be home from
work. take off
all your clothes.
get in bed.
all the lights
are off, the
phone's off
the hook, the
shades pulled
down, the overhead
fan is in motion.
okay. you're
ready now.
put your head
on a pillow,
close your eyes.
see you in twenty
minutes, you'll
awaken refreshed
and ready. you
will be good to
go until midnight.
repeat this on
a daily basis,
and by week's
end, you'll be
calling me up
to thank me, or
sending me flowers
and gift
certificates to
morton's.

pennywise

i'm saving
time by
taking the
shortcut
around traffic,
i'm saving
money by
buying pecans
in bulk.
gallons of
milk and vodka,
instead of
quarts.
i'm saving
energy
by turning
down
the thermostat
or up
depending on
the season
and which
way the wind
blows. i'm
waiting for it
to rain to wash
my car, to
take a shower.
i'm living in
the dark, reading
by flashlight.
i'm getting a
cat, instead
of a dog, one
that doesn't shed.
i'm cutting
coupons,
gathering bonus
points with
each purchase.
i'm going slower,
staying
in the right
lane, i'm
wearing clothes
that have
gone out of
style, shoes
that are worn
thin. i'm
cutting my
own hair,
doing my own
dentistry,
using webmd
to determine my
fate. but most
important
of all, i'm
saving my
saturday nights
just for you.
aren't you lucky.

the accident

when i see you
limp in on
crutches, your
head bandaged,
and your arm
in a cast, i ask
you why, or
who, and what
happened. you
manage a small
wry smile and
say, you should
have seen the
other guy, but
then you sit
and tell me
that it's your
heart that will
never mend. all
of this will
heal, you'll get
better. she was
the one you truly
loved and now
she's with someone
else. by the way,
you tell me,
never ski at
night while
drinking.

black and white

in the photo
of you
in a dress
where you
can't contain
the smile
and your legs
go on
forever. it's
that photo
that wins
me over.

windows

a small window
is still a window,
a place to
go through
or even out
if circumstances
don't turn
your way. the
window is
different
from the
door, the front
door or
the back door,
it's too
obvious of
an entrance or
exit. i much
prefer the
window and
the secrecy it
might provide
until things
are more clear.
let's say that
right now, we
have a nice
window, the two
of us to,
climb through.

adrift

it was a small
leak, a hose
worn, come loose
where it connected
from the pipe
to the washer,
but the puddle
grew and soaked
the rug, the clothes,
the boxes full
of things i don't
remember. all of
it was wet though,
and ruined.
the water rose
and when i stepped
into the room
it was ankle deep,
then higher, before
i knew it, before
i could find
the cut off valve
it was up to my
waist, then i
was swimming.
it pushed me
out the window in
a rush, with a wave
that took me
to the stream,
that flushed
me down the river,
and finally swept
me to the bay which
put me into
the atlantic
ocean, adrift,
which is
where i am now.
but i am not alone,
there are others
here who also had
small leaks in
their lives that
led to this.
we wave to one
another, but there
isn't much to say.

take care of my bird

i see her
in the morning
with that look,
my wife of ten
years,
and the day
hasn't even
started. she's
biting her
nails, putting
too much sugar
into her cup
of coffee. she
doesn't even
stir or add
cream. the news
paper is in front
of her on
the kitchen
table. i ask
her what's up
with that oil
spill, pointing
at the paper
and she's says, what.
oh yeah, right. i
heard something
about that. but
listen, she says.
she puts her hand
on the suitcase
that sits next to
her rolled up
yoga mat, and
blow dryer.
i'm going away
for a few weeks,
i met someone
and want to see
how it might go.
can you feed my bird
while i'm gone.
i study her for
a minute, then pour
myself a cup
of coffee.
i'll think about
it, i say. i'll
think about it.
but i really don't
know much about
birds. i can't
make any promises.

green lights

sometimes
the lights
go on,
and stay on,
a whole string
of green
lights against
the night sky,
the road
is open
and there is
no need to brake.
the kiss
is good,
the moment
just right.
you want to
stay on
the open road
a little
longer, hit
the pedal,
hug the curves,
take the long
way around,
and enjoy
the wind, the
view. you
want to see
what lies
ahead on this
new road
you've taken.

trust

you said that
this would be fun.
that no one would
get hurt,
handcuffs and
whipped cream.
so you cuffed me to
the bed in my bvd's,
but it's been three
hours now, and you've
taken the key.
i heard the car
start as you pulled
out of the driveway.
you even took the
whipped cream.
this is no way for
a relationship to
start out. in fact
i would say that
the trust i had
in you has been
broken.
it may even be
irrepairable if you
don't return soon.
the wedding is
definitely off, and
if i ever get out
of here i'm cancelling
the cake, the band,
the hall. i'm losing
circulation in my
arms and legs and
other places.
it's not good.

new rain

under the
flash of
lightning
the rain
is a delicate
wash on this
heated soil.
it shimmers
up in soft
waves of steam
as we walk
barefoot
and soaked,
going down
to where the
rush of new
water fills
the stream.
we want love
to be like
this. warm,
and dangerous,
always fresh
and taking
us somewhere.

no more parades

the parade moves
slowly through
the empty streets.
it's not a good
parade, a few cars,
a couple of delegates
with ribbons and sashes
sitting in the back
seats, their knowing
faces grey with tight
lipped smiles.
a beauty queen or
two, pale as death
itself, with frozen
lips and a dozen
roses perched
up on a convertible.
nobody cares. behind
her a few motorcycles
rumble on, loud
and leaving a cloud
of fumes. flags line
the way. a band
of old soldiers
missing the beat,
playing on and on
into dusk. no one
gives a damn. they
just want this war
to end, and the next
one to never start.
please, no more parades.

it's all over now

she doesn't
drink anymore.
or smoke, no more
lines of coke,
or random sex
with guys she
meets in bars.
she's been
to driving
school to get
her points down
and in rehab to
dry out for 30
days with some
rich celebrities
that she can't
talk about. she
has to blow
into a tube
to get her car
started, and can't
even have a teaspoon
of cough syrup
without setting
off the alarm
and locking it up.
she tells me,
between coughs,
about all the fun
she used to have.
the cough is bad,
the kind that rattles
your bones,
sears your lungs,
makes your eyes pop
and water. i used
to be alot of fun,
she repeats, and
winks her baby
blue eyes. lots
and lots of fun.
i play softball
on tuesday nights
now, she tells me,
and rolls her eyes.
she shows me a black
and blue bruise on
her leg that's
going green. i'm
the catcher, she
says, just shoot
me, would you.

moving time

lately there has
been a man
standing outside
my house all day.
right by the door
near the dying rose
bush. he's holding a
sign made out of
a folded piece of
cardboard saying god
bless, thank you,
please help me.
and in the
other hand is a
red can full of
change and bills. when
i leave to go to
work, i put a dollar
in the cup and he
smiles and says
thank you, but that's
about it. have a good
day, i tell him.
see you tomorrow.
he nods, and says if
you're lucky,
maybe you will.

these boots

i don't own
any boots. not
real boots.
i used to when i
was twenty
and had hair
down my back
and dressed
like a hippy
cowboy in a flannel
shirt and tight
blue jeans, i was
out on the range
riding about
in my 68 camaro,
looking for girls
who might want
to kiss me. i
had lots of
boots, ridiculous
boots, black
leather, brown,
crazy fake snake
skin boots. i
think i even
had a butterscotch
colored vest, god
help me. the
boots i have now
are rubber, or
vinyl, and i
bought them from
LL Bean, out of
a catalogue. i put
them on now when
it snows and i
need to dig
my car out. no
longer a camaro.

giving blood

ah ha, she says,
hands on her hips,
standing over me
after i've fainted
onto the kitchen floor
from giving blood to
the insurance man
who sits there
filling out a chart,
checking off some
box that will increase
my rate tremendously.
ah ha, she says
again, my funny
happy wife, so pleased
to see me weak, and
out like a flickering
light. i can feel
the cold linoleum
against my cheek,
as i come to, and
hear her whispery voice
as she laughs and says
would you like some
juice and a cookie.

fire

i like what i see
in this fire,
how it burns and
won't go out.
it's been too low
for too long,
it's time for heat,
for the flames
to reach out and
lick the sky.

some words i've never heard

you'll catch cold,
here, be a good
boy, put this on,
wrap this scarf
around you.
where's your hat,
your gloves,
did you do your
homework, don't
forget your lunch,
milk money, it's
on the table.
did you take the
dog out, comb
your hair, you
can't go to school
like that. did you
brush your teeth.
wait for your sister,
hold her hand
when you cross
the street, hurry
now, don't be
late. be a good
boy. behave.
don't fight. watch
out for cars, don't
talk to strangers.
listen to your
teachers, come
straight home. be
a good boy. dinner
is at six. we'll
all eat together
when your father
gets home from work.

deep water

my sad friend.
the one who
rarely calls
anymore has gone
under, she is
in the deep
end of some
dark water and
can't get out,
she doesn't want
to get out,
but is content
to stay put
in the cold
swells of
despair. i
surround her
with floats
and rope,
i extend my
hand, the wooden
oar, but no.
she won't even
look me in the
eyes anymore.
there is nothing
i can do for
her, but watch
her sink, sink
slowly into
the depths of
where she resides.

it's a long
fly ball in
the air, you
started back
as soon as you
heard the crack
of the bat, you
caught a glimpse
of the white ball
streaking toward
center field,
rising, gaining
speed, it might
go over, it
might die in
the breeze, in
the thick summer
heat, but you pivot
and go, to the fence,
your cleats cutting
deep into the grass,
then feeling
the gravel of the
warning track,
and you glance
back to see
the spinning white
ball about
to go over, but,
you stride hard
and long then leap
and throw your
glove to where you
hope the ball
will be, you are
in the air, free
from the earth,
above the grass,
above the field,
in the moment. if
you have done
everything there is
to do.

crumb cake

your refusal to bake
me a cake is disheartening
to say the least.
how many more letters
must i send, how many
more e mails and texts,
and voice mails must
i leave for you to
understand my needs, my
desires. my life is
nothing if not about
cake. but you're falling
way short in this
department of pleasing
me. i fell in love with you
because you were a
baker, and off you go
to work every morning,
and late nights, baking
rolls and muffins, pies
and bread, coming home with
the sweet smell of flour
and salt, eggs and sugar
in your hair, but never,
not once do you bring me cake.
when i drink my coffee
in the morning, and my
hand is empty, it's a
reflection of us, of you.

the end

i don't quite
understand the word
retirement. it's
a strange concept
at any age, especially
this one. are there
enough eggs saved.
enough gas in the
tank to get you to
the checkered flag,
probably not, and
where in florida
would you like to
prop your feet up
and nap the day away
with old people you
don't know. i want
to be around the ones
i do know, and when
they're gone, well,
that's enough.
retirement, i don't
think so, i'd rather
let the candle melt
all the way to the
bottom, every drop
burned and melted,
shedding light in
this strange dark
room until the end.

happy birthday

when i turned a hundred
years old the newsman
and his crew came down
to interview me. someone
baked me a cake with
a hundred candles and asked
me to blow them out,
bite me, i said into
the camera, putting my
teeth back in for a slice
of cake, are you trying
to kill me, i don't even
blow my nose anymore. all
of which got edited out
for the six o'clock news,
but it's on you tube if you
care to see it. others
brought me gifts, things i
didn't need, i pretty
much have everything
at this point. i don't
need another watch right now.
i know what time it is,
and it's the end. they asked
me if i had any secrets
to my longevity. i told
them, drinking, smoking,
staying up late,
pulled pork sandwiches
and sex. lots of wild
monkey sex, which made them
all laugh, but it was true.
i did what made me happy, to
hell with all of them.
i showed them my scars
from the world war two
where some nazi shoved
a bayonet into my gut
in the black forest.
i showed them how i could
still open beer bottles
with my teeth and crush
a can with my forehead.
they all liked that and
laughed and shook my hand
gently as if i might crumble
like a cookie in milk.
bastards. i'll outlive
them all. they asked me
what i thought the biggest
thing in my life was,
airplanes, the moon landing,
computers, television, perhaps
the cure for polio, but i
said no, none of that. what
then, they asked, what were
you most amazed by and excited
about in your lifetime.
nylons, i said. the first
time i saw my girlfriend sheila
in a pair of sheer black
nylon stockings and high
heels, well that
was big. not much else
really mattered from that point
on. that was it for me.

i fell in love
with this lemon
meringue pie of a
girl. a soft
and fluffy top,
sweet and neat
with a nice
tart filling.
of course she
doesn't know it
yet, but i find
my self needing
another and another
deep slice.

have a nice day

if you don't
read the news
there is no news.
it's all good.
so i stopped
the paper, cancelled
my subscription
to newsweek and time,
turned off
the television,
ignored the internet
and stayed away
from the windows.
i don't even answer
the door anymore.
so far so good.
it's been a nice day.

below darkness
where we wander
and wonder, where
we make due with
what we have, or
have been given,
or taken and claimed
as ours, we make
our bed. we have
planted the seeds
of tomorrow, each
day plowing
the field, pruning
the weeds.

this place you find
yourself in, where
you stand with key
in hand, and pockets
empty from the night's
mischief, is vacant,
just a bed, a phone,
a place to sleep
and go on to the next
day. everything is
just as it was six hours
ago when you left. you
hesitate before
going inside to dream.
taken off guard by
a soft sigh of warm
wind, the first true
kiss of summer. so you
stand there and wait,
you take off your shoes,
you inhale, you exhale.
what time it is no
long matters.

wonder bread

she told me over
coffee that she saw
her life long therapist
the other day in
the park. in his long
black coat and top
hat. he was walking
in a slow wide circle
with pigeons crowded
around him as he
dropped small pieces
of white bread for
them to eat. more
and more flocked
around his black polished
boots as he dropped these
tid bits of food
from his educated
fingers and the pigeons
cooed, they fluttered
their dark wings,
they let him get closer,
trusting him a little
bit more with each
morsel of bread,
but not too close,
there was only so
far both he and them
could go with this
process, and at some
point they'd be on
their own, for better
or worse, and they'd
have to fly away and
bake their own bread.

bad boy

she sends me a one
line e mail in response
to my dating ad. she
says, and i quote.
i'd like to spank you.
that's all. her photo
shows her standing
next to an american flag,
a large polished walnut
desk, and she's wearing
a dark blue dress with
another flag pinned
to her lapel. she's
not unattractive, but
rather owl like and
too happy with her smile.
her arms are folded
tightly over her chest.
i get the feeling that
she interviews well
and loves her job, her
position of authority.
i stare at her e mail
and ponder my response.
should i delete, and
ignore her request to
spank me and move on.
or not. so i write
back and say why, why
do you want to spank me.
have i been a bad boy.

the doctor will see you now

i never enjoyed
my life as a surgeon.
taking things out
that had gone bad
was fine, depressing
and frightening for
the patient, but
fine, i was helping,
relieving them of pain
and possible death,
but it wasn't enough.
i wasn't fulfilled.
and then things changed
and more people wanted
things put in to
improve their lives,
to enhance their
appearance. cheek bones,
fat lips, new curves
like crescent moons
to their rear ends,
breasts, and this was
where the money was. it
was an easy procedure,
for the most part,
and it made women
happy, it made
their husbands happy,
it made men and boys
alike happy when these
women walked down
the street throwing
shadows were there
once was none. i was
now in the business
of happiness, not
sadness, and life
was suddenly very good.

sleep walking

i leave the house
in the middle of
the night, i get
dressed, i take
nothing with me,
no keys, no phone,
no hat or coat,
no shoes, just pants
and a shirt. i am
still asleep, but
i feel i need a
walk in the cool
night air. i feel
that i need to get
things done. i go
and don't return
for eight hours,
i find things to
do, i blend into
the shadows, i
disappear in the
lights of cars
going by, i make
small talk and
pretend that i am
busy. i am
nowhere and i am
sound alseep, it
is not unlike what
i do every day,
except that i
stop for coffee.

hopping off

the scale, i
decide that
i want to eat
more fruit, but
i can't. i prefer
cake. the donut,
the scoop of mint
chip icecream.
the melon or
berry just isn't
working for me.
my taste buds
have been to the
other side of
the grocery store
and they refuse
to go back. so i
waddle past the
apples, the pears,
those fine ripe
peaches and grapes
and put my head
into the cold
clouded shelves
of haagen daz
and find comfort.
and then there
are the wet walnuts,
in their tiny jars,
and the chocolate
sauce and cherries
sticky in some
wonderful cherry
goo. and whipped
cream, of course.
as an after thought,
i settle on
bananas as my fruit
of choice today.

the lost button

i lost a button
on my shirt
the other day.
my favorite blue
dress shirt.
a single pearl white
button in the
middle disappeared
without a trace,
i never even heard
it hit the floor,
if it did. but
i could feel
the breeze find
a way in, against
my skin. the cold
air making me
realize how easy
and quickly, and
without notice things
can fall apart, not
unlike what has
happened between
me and you.

O.C.

there was a time
when route fifty
ran two lanes
in each direction
from the city to
the shore, through
cambridge and kent,
through salisbury,
annapolis. and there
were stops along
the way for pancakes,
or frozen custard,
or bathroom breaks,
the radio up,
the windows down
and the trunk stuffed
with chairs and
clothes, and towels.
you could taste the
salt air long before
you could see
the ocean, the small
town of ocean city,
with it's old boardwalk
full of characters and
bums, families, and
teenagers on the look
out for summer romance.
the food was greasy
and salty, hot and
cheap, the carnivals
ran all night, and
the pinball machines
clanged their bells
in the breezy air.
it was before the
highrises overshadowed
the sand, before
the chain stores came
in. it was all before
we grew up and we could
find a room for twenty
dollars right on
the beach, facing
the ocean, the windows
open and life about
to start.

when she comes

it is a keyless
entry, silent,
and through the
back door, up
the stairs on
soft feet, with
shoes removed.
in the dead of
night she comes
and plants her
self beside me.
but the bed,
doesn't move,
no sheets are
turned down, no
bedspread ruffled.
there is no
imprint of her
head upon
the pillow.
although
at times i swear
i can smell the
sweet scent of
her perfume.

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.