rising waters

i see you go, but
don't. i feel your
passing before i know,
before it's told to me
on the phone or was it
in a letter. the lines
are blurred at this
point. but i remember
you. as round and strong
as any man, snug in
your red beetle car,
your one arm always
burned from hanging it
out the window on a
day trip to the beach.
i see your big swing
standing at the white
plate, the sun and
everyone so much younger
than we are now.
and it's your wife,
whom i've never met
that sends the note.
i remember. i
remember. and it's
unsettling, the passing
of childhood friends.
the dark water rising
so quickly.

the ferris wheel

since we broke up.
i'm sending a package
to you in the mail.
it's got everything
you left here inside.
a half eaten box
of candy covered almonds.
a tattered copy of
catcher in the rye,
a book of poems by
robert frost with all
the lines important
to you underlined. a photo
of me and you in happier
days. on the ferris
wheel where you threw up
after eating all of that
cotton candy and three
moon pies. oh and your
underwear that you left
hanging in the shower.
i think that's it.

kneeling

i want to blame
the church
for the condition
of my knees
at this stage
of life. all
of that kneeling,
and praying,
asking for
forgiveness in
advance for what
i was about to
do that night.
it ruined me.

distance

what distance
there is between
us means nothing.
it's land, it's water,
hills and valleys,
all of it passable
by rail or boat,
or sky. there are
bridges too that
will help us get
there, but it's
not the miles that
concern me, but who
we are between
the pages of our
covers, between love
making and the quiet
that ensues.

the follow up e mail

hey, how are you?
my arm and hands are nearly
healed from the fourth of
july accident. The bandages
come off next week, and
i might not need skin
grafts after all. i never
should have lit that sparkler
after drinking five shots
of tequila and washing it
all down with beer, but i
didn't see the lawn chair
or the grill full of white
hot charcoal. i'm glad
though that you threw me
into the baby pool to put
me out. that was nice of
you. it's amazing sometimes
the strength we have when
fear is inovlved. from what
i remember you seemed like
such a small girl. i hope
this doesn't affect
our second date. it was
shirley, right?
let's get together soon.

bliss

you want less,
i want more and
as newly weds
we find a place
somewhere in
between where
we can smile
and ignore
our differences.
the thermostat,
the window open,
a dog, or
cat, two boys
and a girl,
or none, where
do we go for
christmas. all
of these simple
decisions, not
discussed or
breathed upon
in the heat of
love, or romance
that has fallen
under the wheels
of the wedding
train. but
they will undo
what's been
done. trust me
on that.

we need to talk

i can't get out
of this cab. the
doors are locked
tight and the meter
is rolling red,
flickering like
christmas lights
in rockefeller
center. it smells
like three day old
pastrami back here.
the driver is behind
the glass and won't
talk to me. he just
keeps driving,
going nowhere in a
circle, uptown,
downtown, to battery
park then up
the FDR around to
harlem, then back
down the hudson.
i'm dizzy with
manhattan, trapped
in this yellow taxi
that won't stop. i
bang on the window,
but he doesn't budge.
he raises his middle
finger and presses
it against the glass.
i don't understand
why my son is so angry
with me and won't
pull over to let me
out. we really need
to have a talk.

action flix

she likes the gore,
the blood and guts,
the roar of guns
and cannons, the cars
in mid air with the
hero unscratched,
unscathed by flames
or arrows. she likes
the way the screen
lights up when things
blow, when the building
falls and the earth
opens and creatures
with fangs and wings
come flying out.
she likes the muscled
heros lathered in brave
sweat, the look in
their eyes as they save
everyone, the child,
the woman, the friends,
and even the little
house cat who leans
precariously on the
edge of a volcano.
and when the movie
ends, i like the mood
she's in.

the movie did not
bring tears to her
eyes, in fact it
made her roll
them and say things
like, pffft, i
can't believe he
did that. what a
dope. and i'd
have to agree, it
wasn't the movie
to pick for a
romantic night on
the couch, and the
popcorn had too
much butter and
the wine was warm.
but we made it
through, as
the rain outside
in the woods
poured down and
winds picked up
breaking limbs
and moving things
unseen. she said,
let's watch an
action film next
time.

leave that for tomorrow.
leave the dishes
in the sink. don't
worry about the wine
or locking the door
or putting the cat
out. leave all the
lights on if you want
to. and those clothes
you are slowly removing,
leave them as a trail
to where you'll be.
i'll be right up,
i'm right behind if
you decide to stay
and don't leave.

i am

stranded. i have no
where to go. the trains
have stopped. the roads
are flooded, trees are
down. all the lights
are flashing red.
everyone is nervously
staring and clicking
into their phones for
an answer, for a way out.
a way to work, or home.
the water is rising,
it's ankle deep and cold.
soon, it will be time
to swim, or float, or
move to higher ground.

she wants
what she wants.
and gets it
most of the time,
queen bees
have a way
of doing that.
but she does
it with a smile,
a laugh, a flash
of her sensual
side, and there's
nothing wrong
with that.

transparency

let's put a light
on it, put the light
of day on what we are
dealing with right
here. turn on the
overhead, break out
the flashlight, point
the highbeam in
this direction.
no need to keep
in the dark what
everyone already
knows. what possible
thing could go wrong
when the truth
is revealed. when
the curtain is pulled
back to see you
quivering at the
controls.

a shout out

i haven't given up,
at least not completely
on the idea of prayer.
i admit to going there
when the chips are down,
when light has dimmed,
and the heart has sunk
to an all time low, but
sometimes you'd like to
see or feel a sign that
someone is listening.
just a whisper, a tap
on the shoulder, a dream,
a burning bush will do
too. but some kind of shout
out to get me back on
track, to get me through,
would certainly be nice.

throwing stones

in the air you
see the stone
thrown from a distance
removed from the
hand that held
it tight and
tossed with
a curse towards
the window where you
sit behind the glass
on a couch relaxing
with a can of beer,
the game on, the
dog in your lap.
is the stone aimed
at you for what
you have become, or
is it just kids
being crazy, throwing
stones, having random
and mindless fun.

lost in the mail

i lick the stamp.
i fold the paper,
i seal the envelope
with your name
on the front. i drop
it in the box. i walk
home. i wait. i wait.
and eventually in
a week or two,
sometimes less, it
comes back. so i do
it again and again.
hoping that one day.
what is over between
us won't be true.

taking a break

there is a pause
in the end of the
world as we know it.
it's a slow night
here, on earth.
nothing truly bad,
or catastrophic has
occurred for nearly
twenty four hours.
all of the religious
and non religious
fanatics have taken
a breather. thank God
they were too tired
to kill today. we
appreciate that.

up early

i get up early
and don't walk
the dog. the dog
is gone, but i
grab his leash
just the same.
i make coffee,
i toast a bagel.
i scramble up
and egg or two
just for you,
just the way
you like them.
but you aren't
here either. but
i'm up, and what
else is there
to do.

tax decuctible charity organization

give, give.
and give more.
your blood,
your money,
alms to the needy
alms to the sick
and invalid,
the poor. give,
like the ocean
producing waves
one after another
with no end
in sight. give.
give, so that
we all can breathe
freely and live
guilt free
and sleep straight
through the night.

keep sailing

let's row together.
it's easier that way.
do we really need
a destination, a place
to go and finally hit
dry land. why can't
we just stay out
and enjoy the wind,
the stars at night,
the smell and pull
of the open sea. let's
row together, we
have all the time
there is, just you
and me away from
the treacherous shore,
away from the sharp
rocks that can sink us.

the map

i found the map of you
tucked safe between two
books on the shelf.
mileage and distance,
terrain and possible
weather scenarios are
all there. x marks the
spot, and i am already
on my way, but so are
others, they are in
pursuit. they know gold
when they see it, when
they taste it and bite
gently into the soft
sweet folds of the
treasure that is you.
but i have the map
and they are flailing
in dark without a clue.

the slap

i haven't seen you
in a while, where have
you been, you don't
come around here much
anymore. was it something
i said or did, or
didn't say or do,
i can't quite remember.
how long has it been,
a month, a year.
are you still upset over
some silly little
fight we had about
absolutely nothing. you
look different is
it your hair, did you
lose weight, did you
take a vacation, you
look great, you really do,
in fact i've never seen
you look better. perhaps
we should reconsider,
patch up our differences
and give it another shot.
okay, okay, i get it.
you could have just
said no, you didn't
have to slap me.

labella

your garden is beautiful.
it's warm and rich and
reflects the love you
have put into it. your
long mornings kneeling
in the dirt. kneading
the soil, nurturing
what comes up. i admire
that in you. teaching
is not for everyone,
but you embrace it
with a love of the land.

so, which is it

do you feel that,
right there. that
soft lump beneath
my rib cage.
it rolls against
my fingers when
i press just so.
it's been there
for quite some time.
i should have a
doctor or my nurse
friend emily
check it out
at some point to see
if it's serious, if
it's a good lump
or a bad lump,
and isn't all of
life like that?

wait for me

if you fall asleep
first. wait for me.
i'm on my way. i just
need to think about
a few things first, sort
through the troubles
that came today, but
i'm coming, i swear,
just wait. wait there
in your summer dress,
with your sweet sweet
smile. wait for me,
i promise this won't
take but a little while.

dance

let's dance now.
break loose and lose
ourselves in the music.
the wine will help
with that and feel
free to kiss me
when you get the urge.
put your arms around
me, and let's move
across the floor
as one, let's find
the rhythm, the beat,
it's like making love
this dance, this swaying
to the sounds from
the red hot band that
blows a mean blue horn.
let's dance, let's dance
some more.

the doorman

i am the doorman
in the red uniform.
pressed and braided
with false gold.
my black brim hat
reflects the lights
that always shine
bright and glow.
i know everything
there is to know about
all of you. when you
come and when you
go. your tips do
two things. they keep
me happy, they keep
me quiet. all of
your secrets are safe
with me. you can trust
me. i am the first
national bank of trust
and discretion.
every leak in this
building is under my
watch. every flame,
every whiff of smoke.
i see all, i know all.
i am the king of
the front door, the
protector of your
lies and deception
from morning until night.

309 dorchester st.

i lived there
once before.
in another life.
i hear the voices,
i smell the rooms,
the food and sweat,
the cats and dogs.
brothers and sisters
packed together, alone,
without direction. i
lived there once
before. a long
long time ago,
but can fall asleep
and be back there
in an instant.

there is no clock
to punch, at least
not for me, nor am i
tied to the plow,
or in an office with
a set salary, or
grade or position,
or rank. i'm a
riding the range,
and have been for
quite sometime.
i don't need much
to keep going and
don't quite understand
those that do, but
it doesn't bother me.
i like the sweat,
the dirt of the world.
i like the tumbleweed
and the cattle that
stray, the wild
ponies that need to
be broken. i'm
lucky that way, to
have little, to ride
in and out sunsets
and sunrises, each
and every day.

lovers

i bury leftovers
in the fridge never
to see the light
or heat again, never
to be warmed up and
savored as they once
were. they have gone
into the deep end,
frost bitten, snowed
under. they have
been their last meal.
i've lost the taste
for what is wrapped
and put away. the idea
at the time seemed
good, with nothing
going to waste, how
strange to think
that way.

i bite the hand
that needs me.
and she falls back
with a scream.
but it's best for
the both of us to
run in opposite
directions, there
is no good in this,
it seems.

i'm saving up

for a rainy day.
a new car.
something fast
and sleek,
that growls when
i push the pedal.
a few days at
the beach
and nyc.
some david
yurman trinkets
for you, that
is if you behave.
my son's
college tuition,
just one more
year before
reality sets in.
a new crown
in my mouth
to replace the
one that isn't
new, an ac unit
to replace
the forty year
old one that's
still miracously
ticking and
blowing cold.
a deep new
mattress to sleep
on when it's all
said and done.

no title

as the earth
is full
after a hard
rain, so am i
in leaving you
until we meet
again. as
the clouds
are exhuasted
of all their
showers, so am
i, in leaving
you, for just a
few long hours.

tides

the slight quiet pull
of the moon shifts all
the water and blood
that we here call our
own. we are victims of
the tide, on paths
taken by slight tugs
and pushes from the
unknown. everthing is
a secret, even me and
you. staring out into
the stars will tell
that every night, every
day, nothing is as true.

save me one

i see that you
are fond of donuts.
there were twelve
in the box, and now
there is one and
a half left over.
i see the powdered
sugar on your lips,
the chocolate frosting,
everywhere, a dab
of jelly on your
little pert nose.
if i didn't love you
so much, i'd put you
on e bay and find
you another home.
despite all of that
tail wagging,
nuzzling beside me,
and never once talking
back, it wouldn't
break my heart to
be dogless once more.

arriving

at some point
surrender comes
to mind. to lay
down the arms,
raise up the white
flag and admit
that there is a
better way. there
is a road more
smooth, less
narrow, and well
lit along
the highway and
it's not about
love, although
that is a fine
destination, but
it's more about
peace and
contenment,
arriving, and
not leaving.

your cat

i wake up with
your black cat
upon me, her
paws pushing one
after the other,
kneading me as
it were, wanting
me to wake up
and hear her purr.
but it's your
cat and i don't
know what to do,
so i put my hand
on her, then
you, to see if
any of this is
real, then fall
back into the
dream from where
i came.

july

july is a yellow
dress that blows
in the warm summer
wind showing
off her legs
so long and tanned,
and perfect as
she walks along
the shore, leaving
soft imprints
in the endless sand.

set it down

that bag you carry
over your shoulder,
worn and weathered,
torn and sewn back
together, is heavy.
the trinkets of your
life and places that
you've been have
weighed you down.
love gone bad
is in there,
doubt and denial,
fear and betrayal.
all of the postcards
of pain from every
stop along the way.
you think that
everything
in there is you,
and without it you
are nothing, you
are wind, you are
thin of spirit
and left to wander.
it's not true. you
must set it down.

satisfied

jealous are the trees
that see you walk
about with careless
grace and ease,
for they must stand
still forever, with
arched backs and limbs
that reach out as
far as they can see.
but even in this state
they gather themselves
around each other in
thick green numbers,
and dance when the
winds come and wish
for nothing more,
than rain, and rich
soil and to be a
harbor for those
that fly in need.

with the wire
stretched taut
across the city
below, twenty stories
up or more, a wavering
line, coiled tight
as tight can be,
but still catching wind
and quivering, he
mounts with soft feet
and a balance pole
to get from here
to there, no other
reason, than to do it
and say he did
without falling
and dying a pointless
death.

arise

when waking,
come up for air,
rise slowly
from the deep
water, kick your
legs gently
and spread your
arms like wings
of an angel
swimming towards
the light of God.
breathe in,
breathe out.
arise this way,
and all days
will be yours.

summer rain

it washes up along
you, the banks of you,
across the soft
mounds and curves
of you, this rain,
this storm that brings
steam to the air,
and a cool kiss
to the earth, it
brings me to my knees,
beside you, and the
summer skies will
finally darken and open,
will echo with cold
thunder, and the waves
of wind, fresh off
the sea will find us
entwined on the shore,
both agreed that
this is good.

road trip

we decide
on a whim
to go to mars,
to pack our
bags, put the
cats and dogs
in the kennel
and just go.
it may take
a few months.
so turn off the
water, the heat,
douse the lights,
pay some bills
and reset the
voice mail
and e mail
connections
to tell them all
we'll be gone
for awhile.
i don't know
what to do
with the plants.
maybe put them
out back and let
them survive
on their wits
like we are
doing. notify
the post office,
and paper to
cease delivery.
bring shorts
and sandals, i
hear it's
warm there.

the flow

the night
is a lazy
river with
you beside
me, a slow,
soft journey
downstream
to the sea.
no need
to row, or
set the sails,
we just need
to hold on
to one
another
and go with
the flow.

the cook

i like the way
you stir the pot
over the stove,
in your white
apron, leaning
in to lick
the spoon.
the steam rising
in your face.
strands of hair
curled along
your cheeks.
your lips blowing
gently on the
heat. i can't
wait for this meal.

fatique sets in

i can't do this
anymore she told
me the other day
while lying in bed.
i am the statue
of liberty of internet
dating. give me
your tired your poor,
etc., she said.
oh, i said in response.
so why don't you stop.
i'm looking for my
next cell mate, i mean
soul mate she said. i
want to be in love,
or at least find
someone fun that i can
have sex with and
leaves early in
the morning so that
i don't have to talk
to him about his ex
wife and how strapped
he is paying alimony
and child support.
we're setting the bar high,
aren't we, i told her.
she shrugged. i'm
getting old. look at
the roots in my hair,
i wear sunglasses all
the time to hide my
wrinkles. i don't
want to hear another
person's life story.
i'm up to here with
all of that dating
chit chat, being
interviewed by an
endless parade of
balding penquins with
twitches and sausage
fingers. yikes, i
said, is it really
that bad. no, she
said and smiled,
kissing me on the
cheek. i did meet you
afterall.

the headlilne news

there seems to
be very little surprise
these days
when the mighty
fall and the small
stand up and rise.
it's that kind of
world now. what isn't
is, what's to come
has gone. uncertainty
reigns free, not
faith or wisdom,
experience and truth.
the whole world
is on a sheet of
thin ice, and the ice
has cracked and some
have already slipped
into the dark cold
depths of despair.
oh well, i'm hungry
where should we eat
tonight? chinese?

turning over a new leaf

i told my life
coach, jimmy,
that i wanted
my money back.
things were not
working out the
way he told me
they would, and
i have done
everything he
insisted that i
do. i'm
even flossing
now after every
meal, no matter
where i am,
and have come
close to
recycling
my empty gin
bottles and
men's magazines,
i can't
do every thing.
he says that i
have to try harder.
to set goals,
have boundaries,
treat others
as i want to be
treated. no
more white lies,
no more chat rooms
and forays into
places that i
shouldn't be. he
even wants me
to stop with
the late night
snacking. what
the hell. pffft.
jimmy. he's living
on borrowed time.

i'm flying in fro

fate

there are moments,
split seconds of
time that often
can define so much
of one's life. a
wrong turn here,
a broken shoelace
there, that stalls
you from what awaits
on the open road,
whether good or bad.
we don't know.
but we want to feel
some hand of fate,
or call it God
that is moving it
all about like
chess pieces on
a board. i don't
know for sure and
question those that
say they do.

i smell what you're cooking

do you smell that
coming from the kitchen,
that's me cooking.
right. and you didn't
know that i could also
cook in that room too.
well, here's a headline
for you, we're not
going out to dinner
tonight, no mike's
american, no pizza,
no chow mein from
hunan west. no sloppy
joes, or half smokes
off the spinning grill
from seven eleven.
hang up the phone, tell
morton's to cancel
those reservations, i've
got it going on right
here, right here in
the kitchen. pots and
pans, spatulas. and
in case your wondering,
that's a cheese grater
right there. i even have
an electric beater with
nine, count em, nine
speeds. salt and pepper?
no problem. so tell me
and don't be shy, how
exactly do you want
those eggs?

selling out

while i was sipping
a hot cup of java at
my local coffee shop
the other day a woman
approached me speaking
with a russian accent.
she had long black
hair and a pair of red
lips like ruby slippers.
a small tattoo of
a bear was on her left
hand. i want you to
work for us, she
whispered while
sipping her extra hot
decaf skinny soy vanilla
latte. the foam
gave her a not too
sinister mustache.
i'm busy, i told her,
painting houses. nyet.
go away. but hear me out,
she said, looking furtively
about the room,
a half a dozen strollers
and moms were in line
ordering donuts and
frappuccinos. she handed
a toddler his binky when
it fell out of the pink
pout of his drooling
mouth and rolled
towards us. i can
make you rich, she said.
i can give you more money
than you could ever make
painting houses. i stopped
reading the paper, took
a sip of my grande
americano, and said. how
much are we talking here?
millions, she said,
arching her black eyebrows
in rapid succession.
i stared at my paint speckled
sneakers and my legs
scratched from thorns
and swollen from bee bites.
there was a large hunk of
dried acrylic caulk on one
knee. i took another sip
of my drink, then said, okay.
what do i need to do.
i'm in. she smiled
and touched my hand.
all in good time, she said.
all in good time, comrade,
we will contact you soon.
sweet, i told her. sweet.

inspiration

what's wrong
with you, she
says. you need
to grow up and
stop all of this
craziness. these
poems, your
silly ways. you
are a grown man
with responsibilites
and a job, and
there is death
and trouble
throughout the
world. i want
you to be sad
and depressed
like me. look at
me. this is how
you should be,
the fun you are
having has to stop.
and there was
alot more that
she said, some
really good stuff.
but it was all i
could write down
before she slammed
the door and left.

the fly must die

with a rolled up
newspaper,
i've been chasing
this one fly for
an hour who found
his way between
the screen and window
and decided on his own
to venture in. there
was no invitation
given. he's large
and black with
green luminous flakes
of what i think
might be skin, his
wings are clear
and relentless.
he never sets for long
but when he does he
rubs his little feet
or hands together
as if devising a plan
for more annoying
flying. he is spirited
in his loops and zig
zags throughout
the room, sometimes
i can hear the buzz
right at my ear,
but can do nothing
about it. boldly
he will even land on
my arm or leg,
there is not a violent
bone in my body, but i
would not hesitate
in an instant to end
his life if given
half a chance.

time out

behind the drugstore
where i grew up
there was always
a man or two, and
on occasion a woman,
half dressed,
sleeping in the brush
with an empty bottle
of gin, or rum, not
far from their open
and still curled
hands. sometimes
there would be a
used syringe nearby,
and their pale arms
would still be strapped
tight with a belt,
or rope, and despite
it being twelve noon
with the sun high
and hot above us,
they slept as if in
the finest of beds,
soundly and without
a trace of discomfort.
but it was where
we played stickball,
with a strike zone
painted on the wall,
and so we did,
and when the ball struck
the wall, or the bat,
and with our chatter
becoming louder
they would awaken.
we'd call time out,
and stop to watch them
rise, slowly, as if
from the dead, then
stagger off to whatever
worlds they came from.

don't change a thing

i've shed this
skin before. reviewed
and remade the me after
tragic scrapes and
falls. repeat and
rinse and start again
is the battle
cry of self improvement.
at some point i'd
like to finish with
this project and be
certified as done,
patted on the head and
told enough, you are
okay, don't change
a hair on your head.
well, okay, bad analogy.

surrender

despite how delicate
and soft you are, how
tender your spirit is
on a cold day, i love
how you growl and purr
when the heat goes on.
i fall back in surrender
when i see you bare
those sharp fangs while
batting those pretty
little lashes on
your tea brown eyes.

falling love
in rome is easy.
the sunlight
and the architecture
makes it so,
as does the
wine and food
that you can't
get enough. i'm
thinking of
going there
in winter, to
see the colosiuem
the cats, to
sit on the
steps of
history and try
to make love
my own.

a bad sign

when slowly riding
through the old
neighborhood
the other day,
i noticed
the sign outside
her house,
formerly my house,
saying beware of
dog, meaning me
of course, and i
don't even live
there anymore,
but have been
off the chain for
quite some time.
i hit the pedal
and quickly got
out of there.

my friends

in the jungle,
quick sand
is everywhere,
and it's just
by luck that
you don't mis
step and slide
in, to be slowly
sucked under and
soon to drown
in the dry wet
muck where you
once believed it
was all safe
ground. but
fortunately you
have nine
hundred and ninety
nine friends
on facebook,
and surely one
of them is bound
to stroll by
before you're dead
and toss you
a strand of
jungle vine.

the wedding

she shows me
three pairs of
high heels, all
black, all
fetching in a
seductive sort of
way, but i try
to calm my
response and
tell her that
they are nice,
that they will
work, especially
in that dress.
and she laughs,
and sees right
through me
and my vision
of us in a coat
closet while
some wedding
goes on.

slipping

he is in
the shadow
stage of
life, when
things
get cloudly
when they
would be
ordinarily
bright.
he forgets
the day,
the appoint
ment, to
turn off
the stove,
and put on
pants.
there is
no memory
of dinner,
or where
all things
should be.
in vague
inches he
is slipping,
slipping
and fading
into a world
where he
can't be
seen.

bring flowers

in baskets and
vases, cut fresh
from the fields,
bushels of roses,
of petunias and
daffodils,
bring daisies
and lillies,
carnations
of every color,
orchids and
morning glory,
bring them all
in full bloom
and let them
see what true
beauty is
when you come
into the room.

the visit

with your
wet nose
up against
the window
as you hear
the car
approach down
the road,
up the hill,
and your tail
begins to wag
with happiness,
i want you
to know that
i feel the
same way too.

up ahead

even when
there is no
sun, no light
for us to
make our
way in the
world. when
death comes,
when sickness
overtakes,
when trouble
like a river
floods the
shores of your
normal day
and sends
you reeling
for someting
to hold to
onto, be
patient, there
is dry land
and light
up ahead.

tequila and cake

i fell asleep
in the cake,
full face
frontal slumber
into the plate,
it was german
chocolate and
it was soft
and sweet,
the cherries
stuck to my
forhead and it
was hard to
open my eyes
from the
frosting, but
what a good
sleep it was.
never again with
the tequila.

my number

when i
become
king no
one will
have my
cell phone
number.
let them
reach me
via
voice
mail on
my land
line. all
with the
exception
of you,
of course.
with legs
like those,
you can
have my
number
and a
sandwich
too.

wasp

it only takes
one black wasp
to give you a
fierce sting for
you be utterly
aware forever
of any that might
buzz in their
silky way around
you. swift with
an uncanny
stealth they
can move
and land and
pierce with
a sharp pin
point stinger
and yet look
beautiful in
flight.

no bugs here

you might want to
know when doing
your checks and
balances with respect
to our relationship
that i don't
have termites. the man
came with his little
flashlight, wearing
his pale grey uniform,
and red hat, and did
the walk around,
peering, poking,
getting in behind
things, going places
where termites might
find it nice to go.
sort of like old
people and florida.
he had on gloves, and
a little canister
of spray that he
would nuzzle the
nozzle into cracks
and openings along
the floorboards,
but no army of ants
or termites came
crawling out in a
stupor. he even
gave me certified
letter stating as
such that i am
termite free. i will
fax it over to
you promptly, and
hope that this will
affect your possible
overnight visit in
a positive way.

most hippies
that i knew

the safe

i've put all of my
money in the bank,
not the local
branch, but the
main one, downtown.
it's safe behind
the giant round
metal door with
a big handle,
that takes two
people to close.
it has locks
and combinations,
it's nearly
impossible to drill
through or blow
up with dynamite.
and i know what you
might be thinking,
that i do that with
my heart as well.
that my love
and affection
is tucked away in
a safety deposit box
deep within the
confines of that
vault with limited
withdrawals.

the heat

a strange heat
has overtaken us,
mostly me and you,
and it has nothing
to do with the
weather, or sun
spots or global
warming. and it
makes us remove
our clothes beneath
the fan, within
the arctic igloo
of this room.
why go outside
and melt when we
can build our own
fire right here.

sirens

i remember running
home from school
during an air raid
drill at the age
of nine. the sirens
wailing with the fear
that the world as
we know it could go
up in flames at
any moment. and so
i ran in my striped
polo shirt, my hair
parted on the side
with brylcreme and
a short black comb,
my jeans rolled up,
and my high top
sneakers slipping
and sliding on
the green grass,
trying to get home
before everyone
was dead.

acceptance

as the boat
sank and tilted
towards the bottom
of the ocean,
everyone prayed
and moved
in a panic towards
the life boats,
but not you.
i saw you
standing in the
moonlight with
a drink in your
calm hand, brushing
sea mist from
your brow, as if
nothing in your
life had ever gone
wrong, and this
was just one more
example of how
you've learned
to survive.

the leap

the risk
is in
not
taking
the risk,
she says
while
removing
her clothes
and leaping
in her
pale
nakedness
into the
waterfall
with a
smile
upon her
angelic
face.

when lost in
the desert without

fireworks

i don't want
to be like those
flowers in the sky
alive with color
that sparkle but
for just a moment
in time. fleeting
beauty aglow
against a black night.
i'd rather us
find something
more celestial
and permanent to
rely on, to show us
a way to be. i'll
let you choose
which star or
moon for us to follow
and take your
hand and go.

the move

the move
is hard.
the packing,
the boxes,
the rolls
of tape, and
the magic
marker writing
in bold black
letters where
each should go.
but you
can't take
everything. alot
must end up
in the trash
at the end
of the driveway.
you've lost
interest in
the pool table,
the old enormoous
television, that
too tight suit
you wore five
years ago to
a funeral, or
was it a wedding.
you wonder
why you kept
so much junk,
those tires,
and computers,
a handful of
old cell phones,
wall phones,
vhs tapes, and
cassettes.
layers of decades
now lay to waste
by the move.

sea voyage

she had a boat
and a cooler
full of ice
and beer, tuna
sandwiches for
the trip to
nowhere. it was
her idea of a
first date.
and she was so
proud of her
boat. a red
motor boat
with two
seats and a
little windshield
so that the
river water
wouldn't splash
you in the face.
i had seen
the small fish
that she had
reeled in
on other dates
that happened
on her boat.
she held them
up for the
camera with
her sunburned
shoulders
and arms, with
her hair pulled
back by the
wind and salt
and a rubber
band. i met
her at the dock
on a sunnny
saturday morning.
our first date.
she was chopping
up worms for
bait on a
wooden board
on top of the
cooler full
of beer, but i
just couldn't get
on board.

a few moments

let me collect
my thoughts
and ponder what
you just said
about me. about
us. let me rake
the yard
and sweep,
get all of the
dead leaves
and tree debris
of broken
branches, twigs
and fallen nests
that lie about
the tall grass.
i need a few
moments alone,
to figure out how
i will be alone
once you decide
to flee.

the parade

i saw you in
the parade last
saturday, you in
your pink poodle
skirt and white
gloves and black
shades, your hair
puffed up, brown
and shiny as you sat
in the back of a
baby blue cadillac
and waved. i was
in the recyling
float behind you,
the one made out
of tires, and shoes,
plastic bottles,
and assorted junk
made out of toxic
chemicals that you
just can't throw
away. it was love
at first sight.

not complaining

she is exothermal,
so she says.
if i touch her
she gets hot.
if i pour my
love onto her
she erupts like
mt. vesuvius.
and i'm frozen
like the slow
moving villagers
of pompeii. it's
not a good
look, embarassing
to be stuck like
that for centuries,
but i'm not
complaining.

the midnight hour

it's okay
for a kiss
to miss it's
mark once
in a while
and find it's
way upon
your cheek
with a pat
on the back
and a pleasant
smile, but
it won't
get it done
if you want
me to
love you.
to ravish
you and have
you beg for
mercy in
the midnight
hour.

the runner

one step
after another,
over the miles,
in the rain
or cold, the
runner presses
on. he needs
the buzz, the
high, the
feeling of tired
joy at having
once more
beaten back
the years that
pile up like
old shoes
in the hallway
closet, the
laces broken,
the tread
so bare.

towards peace

i see him
on the corner.
unwashed,
with hands
on his ears.
his mouth sewn
tight with lips
and a ragged
set of chops.
his shopping
cart is full of
nothing, full
of everything.
and his hair
has no reason
to be so thick
and wild, but
it is, as are
his blue eyes.
bluer than hope,
bluer than the
sea or sky.
a dollar won't
help, nor a
sandwich or
drink. it may
only prolong
his journey
towards peace.

the new field

you are the new
field that stretches
green for as far
as my eyes can see,
right up to where
the earth curves
blue and i like
from my window what
i see in you. what
could grow, what
could be found in
each new season
that we plant
and harvest.

the distance in
miles seems
forever when
you begin to
fall in the
direction of
a new heart
found. the space
of time between
kisses and
making love
stretches on
for weeks, or
so it seems,
the second
that you leave

a slice of pizza

i'm not good
at the next level
whatever that
might be, is it
exclusivity, yes
she says, nodding,
chewing her gum
even harder as
she leans over
her computer
pressing on the
innocent keys.
why don't you
write a poem
about me. something
sweet and soft like
you do for
the others, is that
too much to ask.
what, i say,
while getting
a slice of pizza
from the still
warm box.

rusty and marge

way over there
across the street
are the bad neighbors.
the ones with the
pit bull and the
chevy nova still
up on blocks since
1979. it used to be
blue, but now is a
rusted red color,
and orange when
the sun swings
around to brighten
the view. i should
clarify, they aren't
truly bad, or bad
in the good sense
of the word bad, but
bad in a way, that
those who cut their
grass see things.
the occasional party
is fine, they invite
everyone, and the
fireworks that they
shoot into the air
three days before
the 4th are fine too,
as are the following
three days setting off
firecrackers. they
are fun people. they
are our neighbors and
i would give them
the shirt off my back,
that is if they wore
shirts. rusty and marge.

washing ashore

i get the nudge
in the middle
of the night,
when i'm swimming
in the deepest
part of sleep's
ocean, and she's
treading water.
i get the gentle
push and tug with
hand or elbow, hey
honey, you're
snoring. an hour
later, i'm awake
and she's asleep
and i give it
back to her.
i touch the curve
of her shoulder
and whisper her
name. i steal
a kiss along the
warm coast of
her lips. that's
all it takes.
and this is how
it goes, from
night into day.
with gentle nudges.
and in the morning
we wash ashore
together.

familial guilt

my mother
is on injured
reserve, leg
up in a cast
having fallen
going to the
basement to
get a tupperware
container of
frozen spaghetti
sauce, and a
tray of meatballs
she made three
months ago.
they are wrapped
in foil, and in
plastic,and tucked
inside a freezer
burn bag
marked meatballs.
and this has led
her to call me
to ask me for dinner.
the call comes
on my cell phone,
which shocks me,
not knowing that
she had that number.
i give her a maybe.

off the rails

don't follow
me anymore. you
won't like what
you find. i have
deep secrets
about things
that have occured
in my ill spent
adulthood. my
youth is clean,
white driven
snow kind of clean,
but then all hell
broke loose.
i have nothing
to say about it,
no apologies, or
remorse, i have
no excuses to
explain my
behavior.
the train
just went off
the track for awhile.
so it's best that
you don't follow
me, unless of course
you have better
tales to tell.

together

asleep in the arctic
that is my bed, the
white sheets, a blanket
of cold snow that
rises and falls like
drifts, cover me,
cover you. we are after
the same thing beneath
the ice and winter
that is the world
outside this room. let's
stay warm together.

survival

when i was twelve
we had seven kids
in three rooms,
four boys, three
girls and a mom
on the couch.
one bathroom. no
ac, a few rattling
fans from the
barracks with a bowl
of melting ice
set in front of
them. and yet we
all had a pet,
a dog or cat,
a gerbil, a rooster
that crowed in
the back yard.
goldfish that lasted
a week and tiny
green turtles
that had even
shorter lives.
on a good day the
church would leave
a basket of
canned goods on
the front porch.
food was scarce,
quiet and peace
even more so.
it was 1968 and
the world was a
black star
collapsing
onto itself. but
somehow we survived
and landed a
million miles
away.

what love is

lower, a little
lower, that's it,
right there, scratch.
oh my, yes, please,
a little more. oh.
you've got it. hmm.
don't be afraid
to dig. go over,
down, around, yes.
your nails are so
long, perfect. a
little harder, you
found the spot.
to the left just
a little, now
right, up, up.
yeah. okay. whew.
can you make
little circles?
that's great, now
go round and round.
just like that.
oh baby, a few
more minutes.

she's come undone

words taken out
of context, or
whispers that poison
the air with un
sweetened gossip
can ruin even the
best of friendships.
as i well know, when
one that you love
slips away, bitten
by some strange
bug that has turned
her against me. i
have no cure, no
apologies to give
to a mystery. i
can only grieve
such an untimely
ending to us.

God's Bling

as long as
one star keeps
at it, our star,
then we are good.
we are warm and
safe, at least
it seems that way.
let the rest
blow out. we
don't need them,
they are frill,
they are fluff,
sparkling gems
tossed out like
an after thought.
they are what
you buy after you
have everything,
they are bling,
just God in his
playful way
showing off.

harvest

this fruit,
these apples,
and grapes,
these pears,
so sweet and
full of summer,
held in the
hollow of
the sky's blue
hand. they
fall gently
to the earth
where you
are so kind
to share them
with me.
i taste a
part of you
with each
delicate
moist bite.

the trees shake
under the warm
wind, cupping hands
to catch

firefly

they
are barely
in flight
these amber
lights
with wings
on this soft
summer eve
near a rippled
sleeve of stream.
they almost
seem heavy
with love,
dipping
in and out
of darkness,
managing
a slow
but bright
strange glow
for all of
us and them
to behold.
they almost
want to be
caught and
held, and
smiled upon.

my dog used
to spend much of
his day burying
things. using his
paws and nose
to bury bones
anywhere he could.
his nose was
raw sometimes
from nuzzling
moving pillows
and cushions, or
if he was outside
dirt and stones.
and these things
would remain
buried for maybe
five minutes, and
then he'd get
the urge to dig
them up and find
a new spot, a
better place.

friends

can't we just
be friends, she
says, putting on
lipstick, spritzing
her neck with
perfume before
heading out
for the evening.
can't we
just be pals,
buddies, have heart
to heart talks
and have dinner
once in awhile
without the
complications of
intimacy. i tell
her, okay, i
guess so, but
what will we tell
the kids.

water off a duck

it starts
with the slight
bump on the edge
of a table and
the vase, the gift
vase that you
treasured goes
toppling over
into a dozen pieces
and a plume of dust.
and then you
dribble coffee onto
your clean white
shirt, creased
and starched and
ready for a tie,
for a day at work.
the cell phone
dies, a nail finds
your tire and goes
flat, your dog
is suddenly limping
and foaming at
the mouth, your
son calls with bad news
about his girlfriend,
you get to work
and they tell you
to sit down before
they give you the
low down about
the layoffs,
on the way home
you take a different
route and see your
wife going into
a motel six with
jimmy, your electrician
who installed your
ceiling fans. it's
not a good day, but
you find the time
to stop and grab
a donut just the same.

bed time stories

when my son
was young
i'd read to him
the same stories
over and over
and over again
until both he and
i knew the next
line by heart.
so i began to
mix it up, to
change the plot,
the dialogue, make
it crazy and
outrageous. he
resisted at first.
but then joined in
and got the jist of
it. and now,
many years later,
when we talk,
and tell the tales
of our lives, we
try to figure out
if what we are
saying is real
or imagined, or
embellished and
polished to a
nice shine, like
we did so long ago.

puppy love

you're squeezing
me too hard, she
said, my ears
just popped,
and the bones
in my back cracked
like sticks.
i know you love me
and care about me,
but ease up on
the bear hug and
those sloppy kisses.
i love the puppy
dog in you, but
honey, just give
it a rest, and
please stop doing
that to my leg.

wedding pictures

i adopted highway
sixty-one the other
day and now i patrol
the median and off
ramps, the emergency
pull off lane, picking
up trash wearing my
plastic gloves. perhaps
you've seen me out
there in my orange
overalls and my nail
stick. it's not an
easy job, dodging cars
and trucks, avoiding
the still wiggling road
kill. but what the hell
is wrong with you
people throwing
trash out your windows?
beer cans and underwear
are everywhere. who
are you people running
around without under
wear and how did you
get them off while
driving in a car. i
don't want to know.
but stop it. and stop
with the bags,
the cigarette butts,
gum wrappers, bottles,
the books and magazines,
the sad and used debris
of your day. wedding
pictures? really? okay,
i can understand that.

hmm hmm

the older you
get, the more
nodding you do.
the more shaking
of the head
and letting the
small wry smile
ease onto your
dry lips. no need
for words. you've
used so many
during younger days
in one way or
the other in
defense of an
issue or in an
expression
of passion, or
in dismay at what
goes down daily
in the crazy
world's day. yup.
sometimes the slow
nod will do
just fine.

armadillo

above the bar
sat a stuffed
armadillo, his
bean brown
shell still glossy
and hard, even
after decades of
smoke and drink,
juke box music
and brawls
over women and
politics. he had
no opinion on
any of what
transpired, silent
with wisdom,
his roadside
death and
subsequent
embalming
had made him
a saint, a calm
above the crowd.
nothing could shake
that knowing
stare from his
black pebbled eyes.

deep inside

we know that
given time
most of what
we make will
go down, subside,
disappear like
sand in wind.
caught into
the air and gone.
blown away.
whether it be
love or fortune
or fame, all
of it will fade,
as it should
be. don't hang
your hat on
any of it as
tempting as all
of it may seem.

the garden

each morning
in bed,
with coffee
and paper beside
you, the flower
that you are is
in bloom, your
touch like a cool
fresh rain is
upon me. i enjoy
the garden
that we have, and
love to see
what comes up
with each new
seed we plant.

june

june
has left
so soon.
with hardly
a note
or memo,
it melted
into july.
but wait,
there is
you. this
new flower
in the window,
wet and
in bloom.
i like how
it tilts
towards me.

the fight

don't count
him out just yet.
he can take
a punch, i've
seen him in other
fights take a
beating,
his eyes and nose
bleeding and go
down for the
eight count,
his legs quivering
on the canvas, but
he always gets up.
he's never not
risen from the
ashes and won.
just wait you'll
see, you'll see.

new muscle

i'm lifting
weights to
gain your approval,
veins are popping
out of my head
and arms. i am
a spaghetti mill
of sinew and cut
muscle, i am
tanned too,
glistening
with body oils,
butters, assorted
ointments and
enhancing
goos. the mirror
is my friend again.
i'm almost in love
with me and totally
losing interest
in you.

you know

i'm onto you
and your cat
like ways, sly
with those brown
eyes and sultry
twist of hips.
i know what
your thinking,
before the wink,
before the first
kiss, before
your shoes fly
off and land.
i'm onto you.

in the end

you'll find
me, when things
subside, and the
day is done, the
sun a yellow melt
along the coast,
beneath the palm
tree on white sand.
i'll be stretched
out in lazy bliss,
a cold drink in
hand, shoeless,
shirtless, aglow
in a warm and
well earned tan.

the high road

it's best sometimes
to walk away, no
need to argue, or
debate what can't
be solved with words.
not even time makes
a dent in the disagreement,
the schism that divides
you. call it what you
may, oil and water,
right and wrong,
black and white, but
there is no grey.

marital debris

despite ten
thousand
hours of
meditation
and candles
burning
and emptying
your mind
to a blank
page, there
is still no
light on
within you.
equating
love with
money is a
path not of
rose petals
but of sharp
tacks that
i'll never
walk on. you
are truly
only happy
when you
cause
unhappiness
in others.
sorry to
disappoint
you with that
oh learned
one.

welcome

it was not an
easy decision
moving in to
the retirement
home, well, i
should rephrase
that and say the over
fifty five community
condos with gated
fences to keep the young
out and the old
from escaping, but my
reluctance quickly
ended when i
smelled brownies
baking down the
hall, and the hot
smell of chicken
and dumplings
wafting up the elevator
shaft causing my stomach
to rumble with hunger.
i caught a
glimpse of my new
neighbor thelma
in her pink bathrobe
and matching fuzzy
slippers dropping off
a superb bottle of pinot
noir when i was carrying
in my boxes, and before
i plugged in my t.v.
there was a sheetcake
from norma, orginally
from arizona, with
a sweet script of
icing telling me,
welcome to your new home,
i live in two nineteen
if you need anything.

go there

if the beach
brings you sadness,
if the waves
and salt, and sand
are too much
for you to bear,
don't go there,
if the city streets
are hard on you,
and brings you
to your knees
with struggle,
the buildings too
tall with darkness,
then move. and if
you find the
heartland of
kansas just empty
fields of wheat
and wind, and
dark funnel clouds
of despair then
pack up and go.
and if the mountain
is too high,
too cold and steep,
then that too
might be a place
to take off the
lists of where
you need and want
to be. find that
place that makes
you content, not
happy, for there is
no such thing,
and go there.

front moving in

i'm in the mood
for wind. a fast
hard wind on
the lips of a cold
front moving in.
i'd love to see
the blue roughage
of clouds,
billowing with
whites and violets,
low and thick with
thunder, laced
in lighting. i'd
like to feel
the first cold
drops of rain
pouring down,
and all of it
with you tucked
in my arms.

racetrack

i used to make
love with a woman
who went by the
name of sheila,
up on a hill
overlooking the
glow of a harness
racetrack in maryland,
back in the early
nineteen seventies.
we maybe had a
blanket, a bottle
of cheap wine,
and that was it.
and as the horses
galloped around
the dust bowl
of a track,
and with the stars
somewhere above
the haze of a
clouded light, we
listened to
the hooves pound
the ground, the crack
of whips, the
roar of the small
but vocal crowd,
half under with beer,
their small dreams
riding on a ticket
stub, we would find a
way with each
other that was both
fast and as
as furious and empty
as the race
was itself.

navigation

the soft hand,
or kiss on a bad
day can do wonders
to set the soul
sailing back in
the right direction.
just a touch on
the heart's wheel,
some stars or sun,
or silky moon to
align with, and
the sea is yours
again.

out of the aquarium

and into the sea
she swims underwater
lives and breathes
below the depths
of normal fish that
float with careless
ease. flourescent
and bright, she
never stings, and
just nibbles, never
or should i say
rarely ever bites.
she slips in
and out of your hands
with a smile, her
scales sparkling
in the summer sun.
she wants to show
you a new way as
she bends her fins,
wiggles her tail.

look both ways

before crossing.
nothing is safe.
there would be
no news if that
wasn't true.
there would be
no paper on
the front stoop,
or headline,
or blurb to pause
and say, oh my.
no red scroll
with a warning
on the evening news.
it's in the water,
it's the flea
on your dog, it's
your neighbor, your
kids, the heat
and snow. danger
lurks everywhere.
it's a persistent
fog. don't look back.

milk and bread

suppose i run out
to get milk and bread
but don't come back.
i get onto the freeway
and head west with
my sack of groceries
and the clothes i'm
wearing. suppose i
toss the phone, i
gas up and go without
a word, i just drive
and drive until i get
to the west coast where
they seem to accept
this sort of behavior,
and never return. but
i don't. instead i
drink the milk and
eat the meal that
has been served me.

snowed under

when the trees
went down in
the storm
onto the power
lines and blackened
homes for miles
and miles and
the snow piled up
and the trucks
couldn't get
through. it didn't
matter, because you
were here and we
had plenty of
things to do.

blind spot

like the new
car you just
had to have
because it was
shiny and red,
and smelled good,
there is
a blind spot
in every new
relationship.
a thing or place
that you just
can't quite
see as you drive
fast and fancy
free down the
highway of life.
but it's there.
it's unnerving
and you can
choose to ignore
it or crane your
neck out the window,
but sooner or
later you'll
relax and forget
all about it, and
then you'll hear
the sirens.

tequila sunrise

i woke up
the other morning
in bed with a
vampire, but the
sun wasn't quite
up, so she hadn't
turned into dust
or flames quite
yet. i shook her
awake and pointed
towards the window,
held the clock
up to her blurry
eyes. i could still
smell the tequila
on her breath,
just five
more minutes she
said, and hit the
snooze button. she
lay her head back
down as the sun
began to creep
slowly over the
horizon, shooting
soft trails of new
light into the room.
but still she kept
sleeping, and even
after she began to
smolder a little
there was nothing
i could do but
get the fire
extinguisher. it
was a great date
up until that point.

the wagons are packed
the horses fed and rested
we've loaded the weapons
in case of attack by
indians or banditos, or
your basic villain along
the way. we're trying
to get to missouri, maybe
further if the weather's
good, the food holds
and the horses are still
alive, not to mention us.
we'll sing and camp beneath
the stars, circling the
wagons, we'll pray and
read from scripture, we'll
keep the faith and follow
the map.

jersey girl

across the field
i see you rise
in the distance
like a cumulus
cloud moving across
an emerald sea of
blue grass. you
are several inches
off the ground,
arriving as if on
the small wings
of birds in song.
it's so beautiful
that i'm willing
to forgive even
the jersey accent.

you can have that,
and that, and that.
and please, don't
forget this. box
it all up, wheel it
away, bag it, take
it, trash it if you
feel like you don't
want it when comes
time to put it all
away. but i don't
need any of it anymore.
i have no attachment
to things. i am
beyond that now.
here, let me get
the door, i'll hold
it open while you
decide on what more
there is you need to
take.

change

if the sun
decides to move
a little closer,
not much, just
a smidgen or
two in our direction,
then pack yourself
in ice. it's over.
and if it chooses
to go the other
way, well, that
too could be a
problem and you'll
be rubbing sticks
together to set
the woods on fire.
another words,
don't change a thing,
because despite what
ever you may think,
things could be
just right.

in the heat

drenched in my
own sweat from a
day out in the sun
working because i
need to, no other
reason than that
can explain being
up on a ladder in
ninety nine degree
heat. but this house
needs me, needs
my arms to cradle
it and smooth out
the wrinkles, fill
in the gaps and
lay a fresh new coat
of love on her boards,
on her abs and lats.

spam, not on the list

my grocery list
consists of mostly
what i'll eat
tonight, or tomorrow.
but if you decide to
come over and spend
the night.
i'll throw in eggs
and bacon, potatoes.
i know how
important bacon is
to you at this stage
of your life. you
can't get enough
nitrates, i always
say. but the list
is weak. some milk,
some butter and
bread, popcorn, two
apples and a slab
of a hanger steak
to marinate,
peanut butter, a
bag of cookies for
those late night snacks.
there's not much
to get, but i like
walking around
the store with
my cart, listening
to the pleasant music,
looking at other
people's cart, seeing
what culinary delights
they are indulging in.
i'll pick things up
and put them back
onto the shelf.
sometimes i'll buy
things that i'll never
cook or eat in a hundred
years. like corn bread
or beets in a jar.

the web

don't move
an inch, i
tell her,
there is a
fat black
spider right
above your head.
he's rubbing six
of his eight
legs together
like cutlery,
as if he's
up to something
or hungry for
a little piece
of you.
he's easing
down on his slender
thread for a
closer look,
then sees me
watching and stops
and winks. he
realizes that
we are both up
to the same thing,
and out of respect,
retreats and goes
back to where
he came from.

a good start

it's her fourth
go round with marriage
and his second, or
third. the cake
is tilted in the
heat, the four white
tiers leaning south
before the first
cut takes place. she
shakes the rice
out of her hair and
he smiles as the band
plays their song,
Proud Mary,
the one he proposed
to while on the dance
floor at Ernie's Crab
House in town. they
dance and dance, as
the guests clap and
drink and eat chestnuts
wrapped in bacon. this
one is off to a good
start.

baggage

i once met
a woman who
showed up for
a date carrying
two large and
full suitcases.
a cab dropped
her off in front
of the coffee shop
in the pouring
rain. she was late
and in a hurry,
as the place
was closing down,
and i was waiting.
chairs were going
up onto tables
and the floor was
being mopped by a
tired girl in a green
coffee splattered
smock. my date,
brushed by me,
pointed and said
my name, then bought
a cup of hot
coffee, the last
from a pot. so,
she said, when
she returned,
and set her suitcases
down beside her.
tell me everything,
she said, what's
your story. what
is it about me
that you liked
enough to want to
meet. nothing, i
told her, nothing
really, i made
a mistake, i'm sorry,
and then i left.

oasis

it's a long
list of hits
and misses, bumps
on the hard road.
but sometimes
there is an oasis
of a girl who
takes you in
and doesn't
interrogate
your soul,
or question
where you've
been or where
you might be
going when the sun
comes up again.
her lips are like
water, cool
and wet on the
driest of days.
she says she'll
wait, and those
words alone
will make you stay.

home

writing this
poetry in the sand
of my screen,
imagining things
some real, or close,
or unseen, gives
me reason to put
more on paper, to
fill out the blanks
of what i perceive
as clues to the puzzle
of this life, with
the intent of getting
home. in the end,
it's all about getting
home, wherever
that might be.

jimmy on the 4th

my friend jimmy
loves the fourth
of july. the carnival
and the fireworks,
the loud guitars
and parade of motor
cycles and flags,
lots and lots of
flags. he enters
pie eating contests,
and watermelon seed
spitting games, he's
all over the fourth
like a roman candle
in the middle of
the drive way.
he likes to take
his shirt off and
proudly display
his tattoos of God
and country, the
vietnam MIA's and
his ex wife melba
on his back and chest,
he's not afraid to
whistle at the girls
going by, thirty years
younger and wearing
even less. my friend
jimmy is fun to be
with on the fourth
of july, well at
least until the ninth
beer goes down the hatch
and then there could
be trouble.

kickstart

i am a tourist
in my own town.
a stranger
amongst friends.
i have lost
my way despite
being found, i'm
treading water
in the shallow
end. i've cut
my ties with all
my blood relatives
and set goals
that i'll never
reach. i'm walking
backwards to work.
eating in bed,
sleeping in
the kitchen. i've
decided to start
my own church,
and disown it at
the first high
mass. i'm trying
hard to kickstart
this malaise with
a leap forward
leaving all the dead
weight behind.

the drive in

i met her one
summer, no, not
the summer of love,
we were too young
for that, it was
more the summer
of angst. of learning
things the hard
way in the back
seats of old cars
at drive ins
with tin speakers
gargling out of
sync dialogue on
a techno color
screen so far
away against the
woods. it was as
if we were under
water, as the windows
steamed up and our
hearts raced with
indecision and hope.
and even after
three full length
features we
went nowhere fast.

wine

i know
nothing
about
wine,
neither
red
or white,
and less
about
women,
but it
doesn't
seem
to stop
me, or
dissuade
me from
taking
the next
sip,
even
when i
stumble,
trip
and fall.

careful

over time
this too will
heal, will stitch
itself right up
and the wound
will fold over
onto itself and
be a soft hard
ridge of skin
protecting skin.
and you will
almost forget
about that broken
heart, that mistep
or fall down
the stairs, but
the next time
you'll grab
the wall, hold
the rail as you
descend once
again towards her
or someone that
resembles her.

towards the light

these bugs
want in. they
are clamoring
at the window,
biting at
the metal screen
with tiny jaws
and fins,
they are
presistent
with their wings,
in their
stuttering flight
to get in, to
swim towards
the soft
white light
and what they
percieve as
happiness.
i completely
understand.

a place to lay your head

it is a fine
place to lay
down your head
and rest. this
new house that
you've found.
the previous
owner has done
well to keep
it up, freshly
painted, the wood
nailed tight,
no squeak in
the floorboards
or squirrels in
the attic. the
gutters are free
of leaves
and limbs from
the overhanging
trees. the
fountain in
the yard is full
of fat golden
fish that
splash in the
sunshine, even
the grass is
trimmed to
perfection
stretched like
the emerald skin
of a drum
from fence to
neighbor's fence.
so much time
put in to make
and keep this
gem just right.
it makes
you wonder about
why they would sell,
divorcing one
another like
that, perhaps
they had no time
for each other.

sunscreen

okay. stop the train,
stop everything. today
will be a fun day.
don't give me that
look. no fighting, no
smallness, or
churning of old digs,
let's just pack a
bag and go to the
beach. forget work,
forget school, let's
run straight into the
ocean without even
testing the water.
let's dive into that
deep blue and begin
again, start over,
find ourselves in love
like we once were.
don't forget the sun
screen, oh and can
you pack a lunch,
where's my towel,
my flippers and
snorkle gear? the
umbrella, where is it?
you had it last, you
should know.

she says this

you bring me flowers
as if flowers will
stop the flood of
dismay and sadness
that i feel towards
you at the moment.
you bring me flowers
as if to say, here,
look what i grew
for you, knowing
all along that you
would never put
your hands in dirt
or bend over to
nurture anyone or
anything. you bring
me flowers, and yet
i put them in a vase
and take that as a
first step, a very
pale sign that
there could be hope.
but deep inside
i know better, and
this too will fade
as will those sharply
cut flowers.

a glass of water

just a clear
glass of cold
water i feel
will wash away
so much of
this day. and
if i could
have a wand,
i would, with
the water
invent a world
where i could
take all the
hurt away
and make things
right, not just
with you, but
for all that
came before
and those that
are yet to
follow.

war children

during war, the children
knowing from the adults
that there is one, play
at war. they hardly know
what it means, but it's
fun and keeps them
busy throughout the days.
and as the war goes on,
and so many don't return,
the young ones grow
older, waiting, and knowing
that one day, as always,
they too will have a turn.

just go

go with it, take
your leave and be
gone. pack your suitcase
full of sorrows,
your jealous knives
and forks, stuff it
all in your sea bag,
take it off the walls
those memories,
those plates of no
meaning. my ears are
full of consequence,
of your voice crying
out for what i can't
give you. leave
your curses, your
disillusion and sadness
on the curb. i've
had enough and need
for you to go. i need
to see the back of
you, to hear your
footsteps echo out
the door.

a good cause

i'm taking a collection
for a very good cause.
the cause being me.
my hand is out, my
cup, my hat, my shoe,
i am on the street with
my carboard sign and a
bottle of water.
i'm not sick, or lazy,
or lame of foot, i just
would like a handout.
a free ride for the final
years. i'll be here all
day until i get my million,
no wait, why not two
and then i can find
a bed and sleep all day.

every now and then
you look up into
the sky at night
when the lights
have dimmed, and
the world is asleep
and you see the
white streak of a
meteor zipping
brilliantly through
the stars, it's
rare and wonderful
to see something
so surreal and far
away, and magical,
and this is how i
feel about meeting
you.

sunday school

on the way to church
the other morning
this policeman
in his blue
uniform and shiny
badge who was
directing traffic
into the parking lot
pulled me over and
asked me if knew what
speed i was going
in the school zone.
i said no, i didn't,
but why don't you tell
smarty pants. it's
sunday anyway, i said.
this didn't bode well
with the officer.
you ever heard of
sunday school, punk,
he said and reached
in to hit me with his
nightstick. when
i tried to roll
up the window
to get away, he
peppersprayed
me making my eyes
water. i let out a
scream as he dragged
me out of the car
in front of the
entire congregation
and cuffed me to
a statue of Mother
Mary. and this is
why i don't go
to church anymore.

finding inner peace

in an effort to
cleanse my soul
and be a better
person i shaved
every follicle of
hair from my body
then scrubbed
myself with mint
soap. i turned the
lights off, lit a
candle then soaked
in a hot bath. i let
go of everything.
i took deep breaths
and slowly released
them, repeating
sounds like ahhh,
ohmmm, hmmm, things
like that, but to no
avail, the second
i got out of the
tub i called you
and asked you to
come over in your
little black dress.

on the road

go easy on this
road. tread lightly.
it's narrow, it's
full of stones,
i don't want you
to trip and fall.
it's a long way
down to the bottom.
watch your step,
keep your balance
and shade yourself
from that hot sun.
take some water
along, watch out
for snakes and
wolves, watch out
for everything, be
careful, i want
you to make it to
me, in the shade,
where i wait
with open arms.

you, in the air

please don't point
out my faults
anymore. i have
the list, the one
you left on my
front door
written in red
ink to resemble
blood i suppose.
hopefully not mine.
i'm scared of you
more than just
a little, scared
of your mystical
ways, your long
hair and dark eyes,
and that cat you
carry while you
sweep across
the moonlit
skies, on a broken
broom. i know who
i am, and feel bad
about that, you don't
have to keep
reminding me with
those well aimed
poison darts.

in the well

i fell deep
into a well last
week, leaning
over to drop
a coin to hear
it splash, making
an absurd wish
about me and you.
and down i went
straight to the
black bottom,
where i landed
in the coldest
water i've ever
felt. i was waist
deep with no
way out. trapped
as i often am
by bad decisions.

i could use
a frozen drink
right about now.
do you mind
walking across
the pool area
and asking the
man in the white
jacket to whip
me up some exotic
icy blend of rum
and coconut juice.
why thank you.
you are so kind
when wearing a red
bikini and having
every man's eyes
on you. take
your time, don't
trip on those heels
we might need them
later.

one yard

you lower your
shoulder, tucking
the ball tight
against your body,
not waiting for
impact, but causing
one, you need the
next yard to have
a chance to win
this game. your cleats
dig into the wet
grass, your legs
tighten and spring
forward as you heave
yourself into
the arms and heads,
and hands of the
line that wants you
down, and as you
spin at contact
you see the blue
sky above as you
are lifted upwards
and over, no longer
tethered to the
earth but free in
this small infinite
moment of youth
and possibilities,
and this memory
will strangely
carry you forever.

no return

i'm trying
to think
of a place
i've visited
that i want
to go
back to,
but can't.
and i'm
sorry if
that includes
you.

carnival

from the window
i can see that
the carnival has
gone up over night.
appeared like magic.
it's tinsel colors
of green and red,
the circus blues,
and shadowy whites
glow in the near
distance, a smudge
of a child's mirage.
the music a jumble
of disconnect, noise
trying to be a
melody without
success. and the
ferris wheel that has
risen from the flat
dry earth swings
slowly around and
around going nowhere
and nowhere.

set sail

lie down here
beside me. let
yourself go. find
sleep, find me
in your new
dreams. cut loose
the ties that
bind the ship
you are on. let
it sail, let
the wind fill
those billowing
sheets and
take me with you.
the night is
dark, but there
is a moon, find
faith in that
small light.

black ink

with a sharp
shovel you dig
to find the words
to slip out
from under the
guise of a normal
day. you want
the ink to spill
like blood,
bringing it all
to bear witness
to what you see
and feel, no
matter how true
or false it might
be. the pen is
your sword, your
saviour, your way
in and out of
the black night.

plow the field

another cup
of coffee goes
down. another
morning, another
day of work, of
plowing the field.
i don't even read
the newspaper
anymore. i know
what it says
before it hits
the porch. it's
all bad news.
i bang my boots
onto the dusty
planks, put
on my hat and
head out. the heat
will have
me soaked in an
hour, i've got
a field to plant,
and then pray
for rain. pray
for the crops to
get full and
plentiful
and then hopefully
have a harvest.
it's that simple.

like the moon,
you have another
side. it' dark,
it's cold, it's
hidden from
the light. i try
to never travel
there, never go
around to the other
side. i'd prefer
that the moon
was flat,
with one side,
light and soft
accepting of
my gentle landings,
but it isn't
that way, is it?

night trains

give me what you
can i tell her,
parcel out the love,
the affection, the
daily or weekly
dose of contact as
best you can. it's
all that we can do
now. this modern
love at this late
age is a rolling train
with schedules
that run all day,
and when it can pulls
into the station
at night with the
rails hopefully
still hot and willing.

the broken foot
with heavy
cast, blackened
on the bottom
from street
and sidwalk wear,
is part of her.
and weighs her
down, like guilt
or heartache,
not knowing what
to do with it.
steps are a
burden, and work,
and play, of which
there is none
are places she
can't go. even
love is hard
for now.

i'm thinking that

i need a new suit.
black perhaps, a
new pair of shoes
to match and a red
tie, like a flame
across my white
shirt. i need some
bling, some cuff
links and a watch,
maybe a diamond ring.
i could use a shave,
a haircut and a rub
down, a shot of booze.
i need a dab of polo
cologne across
my cheeks, a flower
in my lapel. i need
a brassy brunette
with flashing brown
eyes and killer legs.
i need to step out,
get off the ranch,
away from all these
chickens and mooing cows.

pull the shades

it's a cold day.
a day of quiet,
a day of staying in
and letting all
that is out there
go on without you.
it's time to burrow
under, regroup
and find a peace
you can live with.
better days will
surely follow.

i see you limp
towards me, still
not healed from
the cut of the
surgeon's knife
to fix your broken
foot. it's a heavy
walk, a lean, a
cautious stroll
with a crutch
across the street
to greet me. it's
taken the fun
out of you, this
injury that won't
quit. and i have
no magic wand,
no words or tenderness
can ease you of
the pain. it worries
me more than you know.

a new bridge

with heavy
winds and rain
in the night
the largest tree
in the woods
went down
with hardly a
sound, the other
trees lessened
the fall, catching
it with soft
hands one by one
until it was
gently eased
to rest across
the stream, a
new bridge for
us to tip toe
over before the
waters take
that away as well.

read to me

read to me
and let me
fall asleep
with your hand
touching mine.
your heart
so close.
read to me
a tale where
good things
happen, and
in the end
all is well.
read to me
and watch me
go gently
into that
good night,
knowing that
you'll be there
when i awaken.
read to me,
that's all
i need
right now,
to hear a
story where
no one ever
leaves.

unlike us

there is no visible
fret in nature, no
sighing, or heaving
of hearts among the
trees or wildlife,
the stream doesn't
sag in sadness at no
rain, or at a deluge,
their is no grief
in snow or heat,
or sheets of ice
that find a way
to cover everything.
it all just happens,
death comes, life
goes on, everything
on it's own merciful
clock, so unlike us.

theology

she tells me that
she believes every
single word in the
bible, straight through,
from moses, to
jonah and the whale,
to noah and the ark
to jesus and mary,
the water and the wine,
and of course
the ressurection.
there is not a hint
of doubt in her faith,
and she gets none from
me in return. she
asks me if i'd like
another beer as she
puts her cigarette out
in the can of the one
she just finished.
the doorbell rings,
that's the chinese
food, she says, i've
got it. and so we go
out to the patio in
the garden and drink,
and eat peking duck
with plum sauce,
and discuss salvation,
damnation and dinosaurs
and natural selection,
limbo and the aborigines,
and when it's almost
midnight we go to her
bedroom for a moment
of silence, well,
not exactly.

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.