selective memory

she left
the stove on
and the pot
boiled over
setting off
the smoke alarm.
she left
the water
running,
and the pipes
froze. she
forgot to
close the door,
and the dog
ran away,
and the room
filled up
with birds.
she locked
her keys in
the car, she
lost her cell
phone,
she forgot
to take her
medication and
couldn't find
her way home.
she forgot
her purse,
left it in
the grocery
cart, next to
the bag of
groceries.
and yet,
despite
all this,
she remembers
every single word
and thing
in detail
as to what
i did and said
to make
her mad seven
years ago.

slow is best

slow is often
best. the slow
cooked meal,
the long dinner.
the trip across
the sea, to linger
on the rail
and watch as
the cathedral
of clouds pass
by. slow is
often best,
the sunrise,
the sunset, when
finding someone
you care about.
no need to rush,
or push towards
what's next.
slow and easy.
start it with a
kiss and go
from there. no
need to hurry.
yes. slow is
often best.

the siamese cat

where are we
going with
this, she asks
me. with what
i say. i'm busy
at the moment
cleaning a flesh
wound that her
husband gave
me when he took a
shot from the
window winging my
arm as i dashed out
of the house
with no clothes on.
with our relationship,
she says. standing
over me with
cotton balls
and tweezers and
alcohol. good thing
he's not a good
shot when he's angry,
she says, dabbing
the wound. i shake
my head. i don't
know i tell her.
maybe you should
have a talk with
your husband and
tell him that you
don't love him
anymore, that you
are out and about
dating, just maybe
get a divorce.
just maybe have him
move out of the house.
geez marie.
i look up at her
and she is slowly
nodding her head.
yup. she says.
you might be right. i
know that he still
loves me, but it's so
hard cutting
the strings, we do
have this siamese cat
that we got
at the mall together,
she was really expensive.
i really like you
and don't want
to lose you though,
she says. be a damn
shame if he
killed you, good
i tell her, i'm
glad you care
so much. now
wrap the bandage
tight honey. i
think the bleeding
has stopped. i
don't want this
to get infected.

can you hear that

my friend randi, who likes
to go by the name of
the great randini,
calls me from the open
road, from route
17 on her way through
the carolinas, i have
no idea where she's
going, but she's always
going somewhere and
she likes to stick
her phone out the
window when a truck
rolls by, and say,
did you hear that,
that was a semi
doing ninety about
a foot away from me
in the slush. crazy,
huh? i could have
been killed, or when
a flock of geese pass
overhead, dipping low,
out goes the phone, do
you hear that, geese
honking. cool, huh?
when she comes to
a red light at some
desolate intersection,
near a field full
of cows swinging their
stiff tails, she'll
say, can you hear
them. can you hear
that mooing, those
are cows, steve, cows.
so i do the same.
i unzip my jacket and
put the phone next
to my heart and i ask
her, randi, can you
hear that, can you
hear my heart beating,
no, she says, i can't
hear a thing. it's
silent, almost like
there isn't one there.
exactly i say. exactly.
nothing. it's all gone,
not a single beat. i
think i'm back to normal.

nip and tuck

i'm fighting
gravity, she says.
aren't we all,
i respond back,
picking up a fork
i just dropped onto
the floor. i do
the pinch
around the waist,
to see if i can
have dessert
tonight, and another
glass of wine. i'm
good for both.
she pulls the skin
back on her face,
towards her ears,
with her thumbs,
i should have this
done, don't you
think. just pull it
all back, erase
fifteen years.
sure i tell her,
why not. if it makes
you feel better,
go for it monkey
face. what? she
says, did you call
me monkey face, well,
that's what they'll
call you behind
your back when you
have your face done.
oh, really, she
says. yes. i tell
her. think rhesus
monkey. how about
a slice of banana
cream pie, cheetah.
it's all about
lighting from this
point on, i tell
her, meet people
in dark places
with friendly
lighting. change all
the bulbs in your
house to forty watts.
you'll see, well,
sort of, but those
little tiny lines
that you have around
your lips and at
the corners of your
saggy eyes won't
be as noticeable.
what about twenty
five watts, she says?
even better, i
tell her. even better.

the importance of staying busy

when you
observe the insect
world and you
haven't had
a drink in a while,
but you are in
a pondering mood,
picking lint
off your black
sweater that you
were going to
wear out tonight,
you can't
help but notice
how busy the ants
are, moving tiny
pieces of crumbs,
from the kitchen
floor into a hole
near the baseboard.
the movement is
constant, and when
you lean really
close to them, put
your good ear
to the floor, you
can hear them
say, almost in unison,
with little ant
voices, i'm so busy,
i'm so freaking busy.
they roll their
little bead like
eyes and shake
their heads.
i've got to slow
down, this pace
is killing me. i
don't have a moment
to myself, i haven't
even had time to
pee the whole day,
and then the bees in
the hives, coming
and going, outside in
the bushes, making
honey, pollinating
all day and being
a nuisance with
their buzzing and
gossipy ways. their
high pitched voices
exclaiming with
exasperated glee,
oh my god, i'm so
busy, i have no time,
not an hour can i
call my own, just
look at my blackberry.
it's booked up solid
until the end of
time. i wake up
and i'm on the go,
from flower to
flower, from tree
to tree, from sunrise
until midnight,
everyday. i have
two hundred and forty
seven bee-mails i haven't
been able to get to.
fourteen more bees
want friend confirmation
on my facebook page.
i'm sooooo busy. dang,
you say, that's a shame
and yawn, and then you
look out the window
and see the squirrels.
and if you want to really
see busy watch a
squirrel for ten
minutes shucking
an acorn. i think
i need a nap now.
i'm exhausted from
watching so much
activity. maybe i'll
get busy later if
she comes over like
she promised.

losing friends

you spend much
of the day
explaining
yourself. untying
the knots
of being mis
understood. and
you wonder why
this happens
so often. is
it the words you
say, or how
you say them,
perhaps it's
the look on
your face, or
the inflection of
your voice, that
causes so much
confusion. so you
decide to stop
talking, to just
smile politely
at everything,
and nod
gracefully. when
there is something
to be said, you
write it down.
you keep it
simple, such as
two eggs, over easy,
a side order of
bacon, and hash
browns. coffee.
thank you.
it seems to be
working. i haven't
lost a friend
all day, but
it's early
and maybe the
next thing i write
will cause me
to lose another.
oh well.

the sear's fireplace

before she
died, she talked
longingly
about buying a fake
fireplace from
the sear's catalogue.
she tore the page
out and circled
the price, the
cost of shipping,
and how long delivery
would take. she
read the details
for me by candle
light on the floor,
lying naked on her fake
bearskin rug, before
we made love in
the watery shadows
of her darkened
house. this was
before i knew
she needed a new
heart. a fake,
heart she would say,
is as good as
real one, if it
keeps you alive.
i didn't disagree.

home by five

being self employed
i often yell and
berate myself when
i've left a task
undone, or have not
done something at
the level for which
i am capable. i write
a memo in bold black
ink and set it on
my desk. it's an angry
note that stresses
production and
responsibility.
but then some time
goes by and i feel
guilty about
how i've been treating
myself and will take
myself out to lunch,
and ask about the
family, my health.
i'll make small talk,
and discuss love
and such things that
employers and employees
do from time to time,
to make work palpable.
it can be a long day
sometimes, but i'm
always home by five.
i see to that.

at three a.m.

they come in
threes, don't they.
loves, deaths,
angels on the street.
three chances, three
crosses, and on the
third day Christ
rose from the dead.
there is something
about the number
three, peter's denial,
before the cock crowed
three times. three
strikes and you're
out. the third
planet out from
the sun. and on the
third day the earth
rose from the water,
three inscriptions
in different languages
were on the cross,
the world, the flesh
and the devil, three
enemies of man.
the three primary
colors from which all
other colors are
formed. three.
division of time,
past, present and
future. and in ancient
celtic lore,
when oak, and ash
and thorn grew together,
that is where faeries
lived. the earth is
divided into threes,
two parts water and
one part land.
and don't forget
the three minute egg.
i should not have
had that third cup
of coffee. i'll be
up all night with this.

blue christmas

she called me
from across town
and because she
was drinking heavily
having just returned
from her office
holiday party,
it was hard to
completely understand
everything she was
saying, but i
tried. i could
hear elvis in the
background singing
blue christmas. she
asked me, between
hiccups, if i wanted
to have an x rated
xmas with her and
that she had a gift
for me that she would
be wearing, and was
in fact trying it
on at the moment.
i listened to her
as she fell against
the door. whoopsee,
she said when
she got the phone
back into her hand.
i'm such a bad girl,
ain't i? yup, i
said, a very very
bad girl. i made
some special eggnog,
she said, and i
can't drive, so you
have to come over
here, okay. okay?
i just love
the holidays, she
said. don't you?

six feet under

drive about
fifty miles or
so, deep into
the woods, make
a left, go right,
make another
right, circle
the lake a few
times. then stop.
get out of the car.
and begin walking.
take water, you
might get thirsty.
tie your shoes tight,
wear gloves, a hat.
make sure you're
not being followed.
it's cold out. go
old school, bring
a lantern that can
swing in your hand
as you walk along.
bring a shovel too.
there's digging
to be done when
you get there. before
dark is best. this
broken heart of yours
is long overdue
for a burial.

hello, are you still there?

pencil me in
for friday. no,
wait. i can't do
friday. what about
saturday morning.
eight a.m.? can
you do that.
we could meet for
coffee. there's a
starbuck's in
olney, or reston, or
herndon, or
reistertown. i'll
be on the road all
day. so i'm flexible.
if you can't do
coffee, i can
squeeze you in on
tuesday for a
quick lunch in
baltimore, at the
harbor. no? well,
how about thursday
night. i can manage
an hour around 8
after i put the kid
to bed and walk
the dog. but i have
to be home by nine,
so that gives us about
twenty minutes to
meet and find out
more about each
other in person. i do
want to meet you.
if that's not good.
perhaps after the
holidays when the
smoke clears. in fact
my schedule right now
for late january is
wide open. why
don't we touch
base then. sorry,
i have to go,
someone is trying
to get through on the
other line, nice
chatting though. hello,
are you still there?

the blue dog

i used to have
a dog and i
called him blue.
he was a mixture of
many other dogs,
neither short,
nor tall, not fat,
not skinny, but
medium in size.
there was
nothing unusual
about him, except
the color of his
soft fur.
he was blue.
he wasn't always
this color,
but when i met you
he changed. overnight
he went from red
to blue. i
changed. it got
cold out and i
developed a twitch
in my left eye.
there were no dogs
that you could say,
hmmm. he looks
like one of those,
or one of them. he was
his own dog, true
to himself and he
was blue, as i said,
like the color
of your eyes
when you were crying,
when you're feeling,
well, blue. which
was all the time.
the shade was not
unlike the lake before
it freezes over
this time of year.
i loved that dog, but
sadly, you didn't
love me enough,
and i didn't
truly love you. it
was all make believe,
but at least we had
my dog, that is until
you left him out one
night and he froze
to death. poor blue.

don't look back

close the door
tightly. draw
the shades. turn
the lights out
then slip away,
go out the back,
through an open
window. that's
how you do it.
in the dead of
night. while
she's still
asleep. quietly.
with one bag in
hand. sweating
with joy at
having it over,
being free,
finally. whew.
that was close,
now when you hit
the open road,
run, run, don't
wait for the
lights to change.
savor that dodged
bullet and just
go and whatever
you do, don't
look back.

it's all about you

you can borrow me
for awhile. i'll
allow that. i'll
be your doormat,
your boy, your
go to guy. be
late, be lazy, be
selfish and self
absorbed. i'll
accomodate all of
that for a very long
time. my track
record for that sort
of behavior is
stellar, ask around.
i can be very giving
and kind, you don't
even need to
apologize, or make
amends, or say
sweet things you
don't mean. it's
fine, i'm telling
you, it's fine.
i want to you to
show me who you
are, what you got.
and then i'll
stand up and decide.
i'm learning
the hard way, but
only for awhile.

bar blues

i was in a bar
the other night.
having a panic
attack. the music
was so loud that
i almost couldn't
hear the nine
tv's that were
blaring in every
corner, each on
a different
station. and as
i sat there with
my beer, eating
a pile of greasy
onion rings, i
realized
that just about
everyone was in
their twenties
and thirties or
sadly old and
grey and hanging
on. pretending they
weren't fifty.
it was their home
away from home,
because the other
homelife stinks
even worse than
this does, and
the crowd of smokers
huddled outside in the
cold, sucking on
cigarettes and then
staggering home
alone, or worse
with someone they
just met. i couldn't
wait to leave. i
couldn't wait
to get home, to
be alone, to be with
a book or a friend,
or a movie i've
seen a dozen times.
it's a life i
lived for years
and get chills
at the sadness of
it all. you can't
go back again.

meeting ruby

i see her in
the window as
she waits for me,
ruby, and her soup,
her wool hat
pulled down
tight over grey
locks that curl
like commas at
the worn collar
of her coat.
she looks up with
eyes as thinly blue
as the soup she
sips with a hard
steel spoon. there
is a broken cracker
in her hand and her
lips are tight with
the taste of salt,
of years gone by,
of where she will
be too soon. she
swears she's fifty
four, but that was
twenty years ago,
or more. i go in.
what else can i do?
and i don't feel
sadness for her,
or for me, but for
the world at large
that has brought
us together on
this winter's night.

just in case

all the words
i never said
i've packed into
a brown bag,
and set it aside
on the kitchen
counter. all
the kisses that
we never shared
are in boxes on
the floor near
the door, awaiting
pickup. all the
letters never
sent are in the
hall, in a drawer
beside the fresh
cut key you never
took. all the sundays,
all the holidays
that never happened,
all the nights
you never slept here,
all the mornings that
we never made love
are on ice, in
the fridge, stored
away, just in case.
just in case.

O 69

she told me that
on friday nights
she was a volunteer
who called out
the numbers
for bingo at
the local firehouse.
the patrons arrived
in buses, from
the rest homes,
the senior living
communties, the
assisted care
facilities. all for
bingo. old, and
beaten, tired, and
dishevled, some
as poor as church
mice. in wheel chairs
and walkers, and yet.
bingo stirred their blood.
and when the moment
randomly came,
when my friend yelled
out O 69, in unison
the crowd shouted,
oooooh sixty nine,
and they all laughed
and coughed together
over their cards.
they weren't dead yet.

taxi

the driver wants
a destination, he
wants to know where
he's going, where
he's taking you to.
he flips the
meter on, and he
looks into the mirror
to find an answer,
to find your eyes,
to hear you speak,
but you can only
say, just drive,
and hand him all
the money that you
have. drive until it's
all gone you tell
him. and that's
were you're supposed
to be. and he agrees.
he plays casually
with his beard, and
adjusts his hat. you
see a picture of
his wife and children
taped to his dashboard.
you tell him that he
has a beautiful family.
he nods and says thank
you. he understands now.
and he asks if you
would like to take
the wheel, he smiles,
and laughs. but you
say no. you've done
enough bad driving
for one life, then
he counts the cash,
and off you go.

i am younger now

i am younger now.
my eyes have cleared,
i can hear you
when you stand
behind me as you
do, and whisper.
my hair is thick
and brown, my knees
no longer ache.
my teeth are as
white as paper.
the lines on my
brow have smoothed,
the circles are gone
from beneath my
eyes. i am younger
now. i have unread
all of the books i
have consumed, un
learned every lesson
taught in school. my
belly is flat, my
libido is well past
the clouds, circling
the moon. i know
less than i did
when i was old, my
heart is still
unbroken, unknowing
as to what lies
ahead. i'm happier
for it. everyone
is still alive.
my son is yet
to be born.
i am younger now.

varicose veins

there is no
god, she says, with
her eyes wide open,
over the table,
spooning the
creamed corn onto
your plate, and
a slice of cold
roast beef.
it's her way
of not saying
grace. god, thank
you for making
me work so hard
today to provide
the food, the water
the electricity,
the clothes on
my back. dear
lord, thank you
for waking me up
at five a.m.
to drive in traffic,
to fight the flu,
and get the kids
to school, because
my husband is in
texas with his
girlfriend, and won't
be coming back,
or won't be sending
me my check
as ordered by
the courts. thank
you sweet lord
for these varicose
veins that run down
my legs from waiting
on tables. dear
god, thanks for
all of the years
behind me, where
i've struggled
and all of the years
ahead of me, where
i'll have to work
unitl i'm eighty.
oh, and especially
thanks for our cat
who just had
kittens and needs
surgery for her back.
then she crosses
herself, and says,
okay, let's eat.

three words

it only
takes a mere
three words
to keep me
anywhere i
want to be.
to keep me
with someone
who melts
my butter
on a daily basis.
just three words
will do, i don't
need war and peace,
not ulysses,
not a plethora
of poetry
by whitman or
frost. just
three words,
three simple
words that
will keep me
from leaving,
from getting on
that train, and
getting lost.

other spills

the spilled
wine, does
not upset me,
the pinot
noir or cabernet,
rich with red,
or perhaps
a pale merlot,
in a puddle
on the white
rug, the bottle,
or a fragile
glass knocked
over by your
heel. it will
come out.
it always does.
trust me. i've
known alot of
spills before
you.

woman in a barrel

riding smoothly
along the path
i see a woman lying
half in, half
out of the barrel
in the woods, she
is wearing a
week's worth
of clothing, and
there is a small
fire burning
nearby. she is
neither awake
or sleeping. i slow
my pedaling down,
to see, to wonder,
to ignore, to stop
and find something
to say, until she
rises, until she
speaks and yells
with flailing
hands, and arms,
just leave me alone,
just go away. there
are tears, like
stars within her eyes.

this is your life

i see you up
in the tree, too
high, and unable
to get down. but
you are safe
for now. there is
a part of you that
likes the view,
enjoys the sunlight
and the breeze
that the tree
affords. you feel
young again. the
attention of the
birds and squirrels
falsely warm
your heart.
but it's fun. much
more so than having
your feet upon
the ground.
you neither want
to leave, nor stay,
but eventually
the tree will
decide for you, as
the branches crack
and sway.

crossing the rubicon

and as caesar
pondered the thin
stream, the border
creek of rubicon,
pausing for the
longest of moments,
before sending
the roman empire
into civil war and
his own demise,
as you have done
on several occasions
in your own life,
deciding rightly
or wrongly whether
to make that
crossing, where
things will never
be the same again,
your hesitation
is born of instinct
and survival, whether
it be love or work,
or where you live.
these decisions, still,
at this late stage
seem perilous.
discrimen persists.

ancient ruins

the romans
considered love
to be friendship
gone mad. how
true that is.
and there's
little one
can do about
that, or right
the course, or
go back to where
it was before
madness struck.
and as i stand
here staring
at the ancient
ruins of the
coliseum in
rome, shading
my eyes in the
hot sun, i am
stunned at how
long it takes for
it to finally
turn from rubble
into dust.

almost out

i've been moving
rocks all year,
swinging that heavy
hammer all day,
breaking them in
the hot sun, stacking
them, hauling them
in a wheel barrow
from one pile to
another. and it's
pointless.
and the guard with
his weapon on the
wall, watches and
laughs, his dog
by his side, barking,
waiting for a chance.
and more rocks are
brought in to be
turned into dust,
into gravel. but i
know there will be
an end to this, that
i will get out soon,
and that it's just
a matter of time. she
can't keep me
here forever.

it might be raining

she said it
sounds like rain.
it might be
raining, listen,
and i said
look out the window,
and she said, no,
i'd rather guess.
i'd rather not
know for sure.
let's keep it as
it is, not
knowing one way
or the other
which way things
could go.

a story there

a lost heel
on the sidewalk
has a story.
so does the car
abandoned, running
on the side of
the road. a
balloon, neon
blue afloat in
the sky, set free,
or lost from
someone's hand,
the stray dog
crossing the road
in traffic,
dragging his leash
in the cold.
the unlocked door
left open
when you left
last night
to go home.

the national xmas tree

in a crowd of
hundreds, kids
and old people,
a mosh pit of
humanity bent
on being happy,
i remember you
shivering, wearing
mittens. what grown
woman wears mittens?
and your lips
were nearly blue,
almost as blue as
your indigo scarf
around your neck.
your teeth chattered.
you said that you
wished you had
a cigarette and
a beer while we
stood in line to
see the big tree
downtown lit up
on the mall.
you stamped your
feet with your snow
boots, and said
loudly, what the
hell is going on
with this fucking
line. come on people
move. jesus mary
and joseph. i started
laughing and you
said, what? they
need to look, take
a picture and move
on. you shook
your head and laughed
too. your eyes were
watering from being
so cold, you pulled
your white wool
hat down around
your ears, then said,
you know what, let's
just go. i know
something better
we can do.

seize the day

sleep in,
love often,
eat cake,
swim nude.
indulge and
read and read.
kiss until
it hurts.
lay low,
sing out
loud, roll
the dog over
and scratch
it's belly. no,
not for thirty
seconds, but
longer, like
how you'd
want your back
scratched.
work hard.
save, spend.
give. confess
repent, forgive.
pray for
others.
compassion is
everything.
eat this life
with pleasure,
let it run
from your mouth
and drip onto
your best shirt.
grab it now,
tomorrow it
might be
gone.

moe

i keep the old
dog close. his
wet snout, and
smell beside me
in winter nights.
his dreams of
chasing, his paws
fixed on the run,
where there
is no run no
more. and his
sleepy romps are
of another
year, when we
were both young,
both on a chase,
both new to being
set free once more.

in maine

up north
where the ground
is hard until
late spring,
and the bodies
rest and wait
in the cool
rooms,
for the earth
to soften
before they go
in, she lies.
she is still,
quiet among
the stones that
go on and on,
in the hills.
where snow has
drifted upon
the names
that went before
her and where
more will come
again.

in another lifetime

when i was
married, before
she tapped the
phones and had
me followed, and put
me in a strangle
hold, or started
dating carlos
on the sly, before
she downloaded
and printed every
keystroke on
my computer, before
she bought the
exotic bird and put
it in the livingroom,
before she called
the police because
i turned a light
on, before she took
everything i had,
including my son
and cut it all
in half, we'd make
sweet love all
night long, and
then again in
the morning while
the blue birds chirped
in the tree right
outside our window.

the telemarketer

i fell in love
with a telemarketer
from india
the other day.
i don't know
her name, but
she sounded lovely
on the phone.
her voice was soft
and sultry. she
was patient and
kind, gentle with
me, so unlike the
women i've been
meeting on these
online dating sites.
we talked and
talked for a
long time. i
asked her name,
but she said that
she wasn't allowed
to give it to me.
so i asked her
if i could call
her linda. she
said, sure, what
is your mailing
address? she
offered me her
heart, her soul,
her body if i
would sign up
for ten magazine
subscriptions. she
would marry me,
she would have my
children, hold me
and love me
unconditionally.
how could i resist.
she was so very
patient with me
as i ran out to
the car to get my
wallet and my american
express card. it was
special of her to
hold on so long,
she was my linda.

valentine's day

the doctor holds
up the x-rays
to the light,
puts his hand on
his chin and shakes
his head. i notice
that he has alot
of hair growing out
of his ears. and
that he cut himself
shaving this morning,
a piece of kleenex
is still stuck
to the slice on his
chin, black and
clotted. i quickly
decide not to trust
his diagnosis. it's
not good, he says.
i'm sorry. you have
less than a year to
live, maybe six
months, you'll make
it through christmas
though, and valentine's
day. valentine's day,
i repeat back to him.
what the hell are
you talking about.
who cares about
valentine's day?
aren't you in love,
don't you have someone
to share that holiday
with you? i feel
helpless in the paper
gown, sitting with my
bare feet dangling on
the leather examination
table. that's not the
point, i tell him.
valentine's day is not
some day to be marking
time with, the end
of my life with.
okay, okay, he says,
thinking to himself,
how about groundhog
day, you might not
make it to ground
hog day? is that
better? yes, i tell
him. thank you. that's
much much better.

a simple poem

write a short poem
is her request
followed by a deep
sleepy yawn,
something soft
and light with
no cynical over
tones. fluffy
and bright like
a white cloud
on an april day.
something that ryhmes.
she puts a period
on her thought
with a nice sweet
smile. her lips
are pink, like
candy. she's wearing
pajamas with little
roses all over
them. i pour another
tumbler of scotch,
and put my pen
down. i look at
her on the couch,
i look past her,
out the window.
i see a man on
a tightrope
crossing over
between two
buildings, risking
his life thirty floors
up, for what? he is
holding a long pole
with which he uses to
fend off imbalance,
he has found himself
in this dangerous
act. he is free,
from rebuke, from
love, from
childhood and old
age. he is on
the wire. he
is alone and yet
where he needs
to be. balanced
in mid air. i am
jealous of this man.
envious of how he
has simplified
his life.
well, she says.
can you do that,
can you write me
a poem like i just
described. no,
i say. i can't.

tunneling out

if you lie still
long enough at
night and listen,
put your ears to
the floor
and stop your own
digging for a precious
minute, you can
hear them. the others
with their shovels
and picks, slowly
and quietly tunneling
out from under their
own lives. a bad
marriage, debt, old
age. illness,
depression.
each shovel
full of dirt
giving them more
room to breathe,
a silent hope that
on the other side
there is something
better. but they
know that the
jailer and the inmate
are one and it's
possible that
there is no exit,
no place better beyond
the walls, the fence,
where the dogs await
to give chase.

not funny

my financial wizard,
amy, who sounds twelve
on the phone, calls with
some suggestions.
some possible sell
offs and new buys. she's
carrying the weight of
my fragile financial
future in the palms
of her youthful pink
hands. she rambles
on about carrying
over last year's losses
and realizing them
towards the gains
'we' made in apple this
year. i try not to doze
off. i always tell her sure.
go for it amy, do it, and
then end the conversation
by saying, please, when
i'm old leave some money
for me, i don't want
to be living in a card
board box out behind
the liquor store in
the woods. she laughs
and laughs at this,
and i can hear her spitting
coffee onto her laptop
while her fingers click
rapidly along the keyboard.
oh stop, she says in
her squeaky voice, you
are so funny. but i don't
think it's funny at all.

through the grapevine

i got the news
second hand, or
was it third, it
doesn't matter.
bad news keeps.
you can put bad
news on ice, like
a dead fish,
for a week,
or more,
and it's good
for a long long
time. but
eventually
the news will
reach you. you'll
hear about it.
one way or the other
it will trickle
down from ear
to lips and go
round and round.
i think marvin
gaye sang it best.
i heard it through
the grapevine,
not much longer
will she be mine.

january will be good

everything will
be fine in january.
you'll see, she
says, we'll work
this out, we'll
shovel snow together
and find a new
path to our hearts.
let's get through
these holidays
and have fun.
she's smiling and
her arms are full
of christmas
decorations.
no need to break
up this happy
home, no need to
rush off into
someone else's arms.
we can do this.
we can celebrate
our love with a
new month, a new
year. a fresh start.
and i look at her
while i pack my
bags and take off
my ring to set it
on the dresser. it's
not a good look
i'm giving her,
it's a bad look.
you're right, she
says. i don't know
what i was thinking,
we're doomed.

you can leave the light on

slow down she
says, go easy.
you're moving
way too fast,
i hardly know you
and i'm not that
kind of girl.
i don't know
where you got
the impression
that i was easy.
so, please just
stop for a
minute and let
me catch my
breath, hand
me that glass
of wine and cool
your jets. whew.
okay. now where
were we. hey,
where are you
going, why
is your coat
on, you're not
leaving are
you, was it
something i
said? come
back here, and
kiss me, and
by the way, could
you please leave
the light on
this time?

violet

someone rings
your doorbell
and you look out,
there is no one
there. but before
you close the door
you notice a baby
in a cardboard box
with a pink blanket
wrapped around her.
you figure it's a girl
because of the pink,
but you're not being
judgemental.
you look down both
sides of the street
but see no one. it's
cold, so you take the
baby in. you put the
box on the dining
room table. she
stares at you with
pale blue eyes.
she is pink like
a cone of cotton
candy and her
face is fat. she
has no teeth. the
hair on her head
is wispy and light,
like cornsilk. she
is beautiful.
she stares at you,
as you stare back.
you decide to call
the baby violet.
you've always liked
that name for a
girl. and you begin
to question the
baby. where are
you from, violet,
where are your
parents,
who put you on
the porch. but the
baby is speechless,
that will come later
much later. there
will be a time
when she is grown
and you won't be
able to stop her
from talking, but
for now, she's quiet.
and you wonder if you
can keep this baby,
if maybe you could
raise her. she
could take care of
you when you are
old and feeble, when
you really need
someone to watch
over you and love
you and hold your
hand when it's time
to die. your love
for this baby is
suddenly overwhelming,
but then she begins
to cry. you aren't
prepared for this.
she seems hungry,
she's twisting
around in the box.
the box is wet.
her face is pinched
with tears.
the fingers on her
tiny hands are
clenched tightly
into a fist,
turning white.
you realize then,
that no, you can't
keep this baby.
you call the police.
there's a baby
here, you say, her
name is violet.

an angel on the street

it was strange
how this stranger
approached me
and left a verbal
message, a slight
and short but
insightful note.
why are you wearing
those clothes, he
asked. his blue
eyes were radiant.
his a hair an
explosion of brown
locks. it was cold,
rainy, the wind
rattled my car
and blew in when
i rolled down the
window to see what
he wanted. he had
nothing else to
say expcept, to
nod, to smile,
to back off and
say, have a
blessed day. and
the heat that entered
me when he left
was a furnace of
warmth, it filled
me up for a few
minutes and i
began to cry, not
your normal tears,
but deep, soul
wrenching tears
of joy and
amazement at
this sudden filling
of fire within. it
was strange, very
very strange indeed.
things haven't
been the same
since then.

just once

mention to me
this book or
that, this song,
or melody that
you love, a movie
that you've seen,
a poem you may
have read or
written, a prayer
you just had
answered, and
i'll listen.
speak clearly with
passion about
something other
than others, or
rumor, or scandal,
or dirt from
over the back
yard fence. surprise
me with integrity,
dignity and
class. just once.
is that too much
to ask.

her house

you wish that you
could change this
weather, but
you can't argue
with rain, or
bargain with the
clouds that hang
low, they are
as still and unmoving
as your hand is on
the wood sill,
you have paced
this room before,
when she died,
you walked into
her shadows, and
peered into
the closets where
her clothes still
hung. you didn't
touch her shoes,
her things, this
would be done
by others. but
you sat there, as
you do now, and
watched the rain,
as she did from
the same window,
from the same
chair, on the
same day, minus
seven years.

the holiday spirit

you decide to become
a holiday person.
you buy a red
sweater, a red
tie with little
green wreathes down
the front. you buy
a tree with lights,
and a set of silver
and blue ornaments.
you string multiple
sets of lights
along the front of
your house to best
the neighbor's paltry
attempt at being
festive. you hang
stockings on the
fireplace mantle.
six of them despite
the fact that you
live alone. you toy
with the idea of nylon
stockings, but think
better of it. you keep
putting change into
the salvation army
bucket where the
tired santa's helper
has been ringing that
bell since a week before
thanksgiving. you give
him some advil for his
arm. you begin to greet
everyone with a loud,
merry christmas. ho
ho ho. this
goes on for a couple
of days, or more,
but then you realize
that you still have
three more weeks to
go before christmas
and that keeping
this up would be
a cup of crazy. so
you buy some eggnog
and a good bottle
of johnny walker
black, and you get
comfy in the big
chair, with your cell
phone, your laptop
and your little dog
with his miniature
antler rack
on his head. you
take a swig from
your large glass
of eggnog, point
the remote at the
tv and you
see if there are
any holiday games on.

turning over a new leaf

how's the new
leaf working out
my barrista asked
me the other morning.
that new leaf
you were turning
over? a cloud
of steam was in his
face as he churned
out another latte.
it's not, i said.
i've got a tree
of leaves going
on right now, and
they are all turning
over, back and
forth on a windy
daily basis. gotcha,
he said. extra shot?
sure, i said.
why not.

tangled up in blue

i used to care,
i told her, but
things have
changed and she
said, isn't
that a bob dylan
song, and i said
what isn't. and
i looked her
and said, she
makes love just
like a woman,
but she breaks
just like a
little girl,
oh brother, she
said, then
i said it takes
alot to laugh,
and a train to
cry, and she
winced. another
one, she said,
don't you have
anything original
to say these days,
and i said.
all i really
want to do,
is baby be friends
with you, but i'm
tangled up in blue,
she left the room
at that point.

arrgh!

i'm low
on caffine.
i'm edgy.
this traffic
is annoying.
i can't get
anyone on
the phone.
my doctor
called
and said that
he was holding
my x-rays,
then the call
got dropped.
it's too
cold, too
windy, my
client
is driving me
crazy, which
at the moment
is a very short
drive. am i
complaining,
damn right.
why does that
cop have his
lights on
behind me.
i thought i
made it through
the yellow.
arrgh.

small gifts

small gifts
are often
better
than large
ones,
so are soft
kisses and
a gentle
hug. the
whisper is
heard easier
than the
shout, the
wry smile
more touching
than a laugh.
a simple
loving word,
not a book,
written to
be held
forever
on a small
piece of paper
you can fold,
is better than
keeping love
within,
untold.

on stage

i see him
on stage, this
boy, this child,
this son of
mine and am
amazed at how
fearless he
is, or how well
perhaps he hides
the fear, but
it stuns me,
this bravado,
this chosen field
of his that will
take him far
and wide within
himself if
not to other
shores and cities.
he has cut
the strings so
sweetly of
being young and
on becoming who
he is. my heart
and hands
applaud his life,
and the journey
that he's on.

it's early

and i hear you up
in the morning,
before me. you
have already walked
the dog, put the
coffee on and
done a dozen other
things. your
energy is boundless.
i have no clue
how you go from
one end of the
day until the
other without
stopping. i only
want you to stop,
to come back to
bed, to listen
to the slow soft
beat of my heart
and rest. the day
will take care
of itself, as
will tomorrow.

twelve steps

i've gone twenty
four hours without
a pastry and i'm
shaking, trembling,
look at my hands,
i'm salivating
right now over a
web site called
epicurious dot
com, the bakery
centerfold page.
there is a cake
the size of, well,
a cake, and people
are eating it,
their faces are
radiant with
pleasure. there is
icing dripping
off of their
forks, i have
my sponser on the
line and he is
trying to get me
off the ledge. all
i can think of right
now is biting into
a deep dark slice
of entenmman's
chocolate cake. he
keeps telling me
breathe in and out,
to focus, to let
it go, just let
it go, but all i
can think about
are cupcakes, of
scones, of angel
food cake and
cookie dough. it's
going to be a long,
long night.

in passing

don't under
estimate the loss
of life, for you
or others
you may know,
stand
still in silence
and give room,
no need to make
a sound, for
those in sorrow
and mourning
are on holy
ground.

black sweaters

having purged my
closet of so
many unworn clothes
i stand in line
with a brand new
black sweater
in my hand. it's
not unlike the one
i'm wearing and
the two that are
folded neatly
in a drawer in
my bedroom. in
fact there may
be one more
in the dryer. all
of them black, and
thick and waiting
to be worn. i have
no explanation for
any of this, i just
know that it must
be a desperate
cry for help. yup.

going home

i watch the ship
struggle in the
wind as it moves
up the river, sails
down, powered by
a small engine,
plowing through
the unblue water,
sullen and colored
like iron from
the low sky.
thick with december's
weather. a small
flag is stiff in
the breeze.
there is no one
on deck, it's too
cold, too raw,
it's just an
empty vessel, or
so it seems, trying
to get to port
again. trying
to get home, like
all of us.

spilled milk

spilled milk
but the cat
is happy, watch
her lick the
floor, her
paws wet
within the white
puddle. she
looks up
and smooths her
fur and lips with
a pink hard
tongue. she
is in bliss with
this spilled
milk, but now
for me, not that
she cares, there
is none.

the priest

i find the priest
in back of the rectory.
he is smoking and
walking. he's
wearing black. he's
feeding the pigeons,
a motley grey persistent
flock, from a small
bag of seed in his
coat pocket, they follow
him with nervous
footsteps and i follow
behind them.
i yell out, father,
can i have word. and
he stops and turns.
he is old and his body
sags with the weight of
countless confessions.
his hair is white
and thick, uncombed,
but his eyes are blue,
like one would expect
heaven to be, kind
and gentle. even now,
here in the cold as
he walks, he's ready for
one more. he doesn't
know me. i rarely go
to church despite the
fact that i could walk
there in two minutes,
but i have things to
ask him, things to tell
him, but i don't want
to now. feeling the
calm and trust in him,
and seeing him like
this with me in pursuit
humbles me, and does
more to answer my
questions than any words
he could say.

over time

there is much more
to the story, as is
true with most stories.
there are not just
two sides, but three
or four. there are
edges and ends,
slivers of truth
and half truths with
shades of grey in light
that bends. there is
much more to this
than i could ever sell
but over time, the
story we keep is one
we always tell.

she could sing

the girl
could sing,
her voice
was beautiful
and strong,
and she wouldn't
just save it for
the shower, she
was a songbird,
morning noon and
night. walking,
driving, before
she went to sleep,
her lungs were
full of song,
and this is why
we fell in love
and this is why
we are no longer
together.

red tailights

packed, with
her hands upon
the wheel,
you tap the car
farewell
and off it goes.
the tires churn on
the cold cinders.
she doesn't look
back. dusk is lying
down a soft grey
pallor of light
behind the hills
while slow geese
rise and fall gently
towards water.
and you watch the
red tailights come
and go from view
as the road winds
in and out, down
through the shallow
palms of the land
where the covered
wooden bridge
seems to catch the car
then let it go.
your hands are in
your pockets, your
dog is at your side,
neither barking, or
wagging his tail.
he knows something
isn't right. he
pants gently not
wanting attention,
but letting you
have this moment.
and when the final
flash of red slides
into black, like
stars behind a cloud,
you go inside and
let her fade from view.

show business

i call it the
tap dance of love,
she says and does
a little shuffle
which makes the
cat run for higher
ground. her shoes
click and clink
across the floor
while her arms
are doing some
sort of complicated
waving semaphore.
and i tell her
that she should
have been in show
business, and she
winks and says,
oh but i am in
show business
and lifts her
skirt just enough
to show me what
she means.

love and marriage

you decide on
a whim to marry
the next girl
you fall in love
with. it's a crazy
idea. marriage.
to actually live
again with someone
under the same
roof, sharing
the same house,
throwing everything
into the pot as
one. insane to sign
a business contract
for an emotion such
as love. but you
decide, why not.
why not live
dangerously, throw
caution to the wind.
you're not a young
man anymore. go
for it. weddings
are fun you reason
to yourself.
you love cake and a
good party. not
to mention a fun
vacation that you'll
call a honeymoon.
but then you awaken,
and someone is holding
an ice pack on your
forehead and they
tell you that you've
been out for hours,
dreaming, mumbling
to yourself about
someone, some girl
you used to know.

the dominatrix

she talks about
books, books, books,
writers, fiction
and poetry, she
goes and on through
out the night
about the craft
of writing, about
films and stories
the art of literature.
she is aglow with
hemmingway and plath,
steinbeck and t.s eliot.
she loves it all.
her face is flush
with interest as
we go back and forth
with this discussion.
she tells me she has
lots of books. we
finish our drinks
and dinner,
and then i walk
her to her car,
which is filled up
with paperbacks
and hardbacks, books
are everywhere,
stacked in the back
window, on the
back seats, she
opens the trunk
of her car and
there are boxes of
books. new and old.
she asks
me if i want any
and i begin to sort
through them, but
then i see a large
leather bag, it's
black and stuffed
with something, a
silver zipper is on
the side like a long
shiny scar. what's
in the bag i ask her,
and she says you don't
want to know, but
i insist, and so
she opens it up. pulling
the zipper down with
a hard deliberate tug,
it's full of whips
and chains, cuffs
and masks, things i've
never seen before.
there is a long
spatula instrument.
toys of every size
shape and color.
i look at her, and she
looks me. there
is silence for a minute
and then she
asks me, interested?
and i laugh and say, no
i'm sorry but no, but
i will take a book
if that's okay.

D

she's light
on her feet,
as if little wings
were attached
to them. she
dances like
fish swim, like
birds fly, like
i write. easy
and fast, with
little or no
effort, or
thought given
to what i'm
saying, obviously.

naked man with harley

my friend dawn
from pittsburgh, no
relation to dawn
in lorton, virginia
who found an animal's
heart in her yard
today, just a heart
no body, tells me
the story about
her new date, a man
she met in a bar,
but who was also
on a dating site that
she uses. it's not
a good night, not
a connection, he has
no compassion, no
sense of self, or
humor, no heart,
and later the next
day when she gets an
e mail from this
man with a picture
of himself naked in
front of his harley,
she knows for sure
that they aren't
a match and that
there won't be
a second date.

the droid abyss

it's a blizzard
of lights and buzzes
and pocket dialing,
and missed calls,
and screens that
move from left to
right with the soft
touch of a finger.
it's a christmas
tree in the palm
of my hand.
everyone i know
is there, at the
touch of a lit
screen or button.
it's crazy. but i
like it. i like
getting all of
that spam e mail
at my fingertips.
i like walking
around now like
everyone else, in
a zombie state
of mind at the end
of the world,
staring into the droid,
it's dark abyss.

sunday morning

you need the
two, he says
while lighting
a candle.
faith plus
hope equals
trust. and you
confess what
you know to
be true. your
sins, your
thoughts, your
pattern of
misbehavior.
you are only
human, he says.
God forgives
you. i know
that, i say.
i understand how
weak and strong
i am, but it
changes on a day
to day basis.
i want
consistency. he
laughs, give it
time, give it
time. how much
has this worry
helped you in
your life, he
asks, what has
worry done for
you today,
yesterday. it
has done nothing,
i tell him.
nothing. then
let it go, he
says. let it go.
and trust.

losing balance

she shows me
the scar on her
leg where a horse
stepped on her
last year while
changing a shoe,
and broke the bone
in several places.
it's healed, but
it's a frightening
scar that shows
the weight, the
wild instincts of
animals who don't
want to hurt, but
will stumble and
trip, and lose
their balance
on occasion and
cause unintended
harm, not unlike
us at times.

on the couch

on the plaid
uncomfortable
couch for an hour
with beth, she
charges a mere
hundred and ten
dollars, but she
gives it all she
has. she is kind
and gentle,
compassionate
and yet will give
you a good
spanking when
you need it, when
she thinks you
deserve it. there
are old pictures
on the wall,
behind the couch,
the kind your mother
might have, charcoal
sketches of dogs
and windmills. a
few country mice,
stuffed with straw
are on the shelf.
smiling. and there
is a framed
copy of her degree
under glass near a
window that shows
the highway down
below. there is a walmart
in the distance
already lit up for
christmas, the mouth
of it's white doors
open wide for business.
a blue vase of plastic
flowers bent with dust
sits in the corner. they
almost resemble daffodils
leaning towards
sunlight. there are
boxes of tissues
to the left and right,
at arm's reach in
case you need them.
it is not a very
pleasant place
to be with beth, and
the overhead lights,
old neon, flickering
beneath the thin
vinyl shield of a
dropped ceiling
gives shadowy movement
to the room. but beth
is a good listener,
she doesn't lead
or want you to follow,
she wants you to
be truthful, to tell
all, to come clean.
it's the only way she
can help you. make
you whole again, and
it's working. she's
giving you a good
solid hour and making
you sweat.

new dating rules

no cats allowed,
no dogs, no reptiles,
no kids, we have
rules now. please
check your baggage,
if it fits,
into the overhead
bin and have your
id ready. we don't
want any problems,
or incidents of
any sort. behave.
open wide and say
ahhh, we just need
a little blood now,
a small pinch, okay.
put that cotton ball
on it. there you go.
show me a bank
statement and your
tax return from
last year. oh, and
a divorce decree,
with dry ink.
incarcerations?
medications? empty
your pockets into
the tray and please
step through the
scanner. shoes off.
ever been a member
of the tea party? do
you own any clothing
that says one size
fits all? is face
book the center of
your known universe?
do you twitter, do
you tweet, do you have
calluses on the tips
of your fingers from
texting? no, well
good. move to the
front of the line.
now be quiet,
and all will
be well. we're almost
done here.
be patient and sit
tight. there's
coffee right over
there. someone will be
with you in a moment.
and by the way,
special exceptions
will be made for
well behaved
kids and pets,
so quit rubbing
your hands together
and fidgeting.

the long night

the fire
was slow to
burn out.
the logs
were stacked
high,
and the heat
was fierce,
the flames
roared,
and the wood
and kindling
crackled
throughout
the long night.
and you kept
stirring it,
poking it,
rubbing your
hands close
to the fire, it
kept you warm
for awhile, for
this short winter
in the middle
of your life,
and in
the morning,
you stirred
the cold ashes,
you let them
be. there will
me more fires,
more flames,
a different me.

insatiable

my hunger for words,
like love, is insatiable,
my desire runs wild.
i can't get enough,
my nights are filled
with seducing long lines
of words, of rhymes,
of finding ways to say
what i've already said
a thousand times before.
but it doesn't matter.
i have an appetite to fill,
a thirst to quench.
my hands are full of forks
and knives, they gleam
sharply in the dull
light of my room,
i am carving my soul,
my heart and serving
it up for you, with vodka
and lime. ink runs from
my mouth. i cut a vein when
that well runs dry
and i dip my pen there.
i have to keep going.
there is no other way.

kiss me you fool

in the morning
when you awaken
and quickly go
brush your teeth
and gargle, i know
that you are coming
back for more. so
i do the same
and beat you back
between the sheets.
you are laughing
when you tumble in,
naked and tanned
with your wild hair
and olive skin.
you purr like a warm
soft kitten as you
whisper, kiss me
you fool, kiss me now
and ravish me
some more.

happy ending

you find her
on the front
porch. she is
wearing the blue
dress she wore
when you first
met her several
months ago. she is
smoking a cigarette
and rubbing her arm
as if trying to
remove something.
you open the door
and ask her if she's
okay. but she
doesn't answer.
her cat runs out
to rub against her leg.
she tells me she's
been with
another man and
that she just
returned from
making love to
him. she looks
up at me with tears
in her eyes. i'm
sorry she says.
do you forgive me?
you don't say a word.
you go back inside
and shut the door.
she's on her own
now. you don't do
betrayal well. you
have no compassion
or forgiveness
for that, and she
understands. you look
out the window,
and see her walk
up the street
with the cat under
her arm.
the moon is suddenly
hard on her, and
in this light you
see what you could
not see before.
a car pulls over
and she gets in.
it's another
happy ending.

the caged bird

the ex wife
had a large bird
that didn't sing.
his cage was enormous,
it filled up
the room. and
the bird was yellow
and red, and
couldn't fly. and
as it was biting
your finger,
drawing blood you
couldn't help but
notice how
beautiful it was.
but it ate, and ate
endlessly and it made
a high pitched noise
that hurt
your ears. it gave
nothing in return
for all the sweet
talk that was given.
all the love and food,
the affection,
and attention, yet
nothing came back. it
just stared past you
with it's dark distracted
eyes and waited for more.
i have dated women
like that for years.

starting over

you want to start
over so you decide
to give everything
away. you put your
furniture in the front
yard. your clothes,
your books, your dog.
you tie him to a post
and give him water and
food. you ignore the
look he is giving you.
you carry out
the television and place
it next to the lamp,
the rolled up rug.
you place your dishes
and pots and pans on
the diningroom table.
eventually everything
is there. your shoes.
your pictures. you carry
out the pot roast from
your refrigerator, the
milk and bread.
you take off your belt,
remove your pants and
shirt, you take your
hat off and socks, your
watch, you put them
all into a neat pile.
then you go back
into your house
and stare out the
window. you wait for
life to start again.

you aren't there

when you awaken
you are in a strange
room but you are not
alone. everyone
is there. anyone
that mattered, and
they are dressed
nicely, some have
flowers in their
hands, some are
crying. many are
quiet, awkwardly so.
and they gather
around you and stare,
they whisper things
you cannot hear.
there is music playing,
and everyone is polite
as they move about
and mingle,
you want to join in,
but you can't. you
are asleep and yet
awake. this is not
the end you want to
tell them, but the
beginning of your
life. you want to
comfort their sadness
and sorrow with words,
but you cannot speak.
you have used up
all your words when
you were with them. you
want to put your arms
around them and tell
things they need to
know, but you can't.
you aren't there.

she's come undone

out of gas,
the tire flat,
the sun going
down, it's cold.
rain is not
far away. suddenly
it's fall, when
a few minutes ago
it was summer.
everyone
is now a stranger
in this town.
she puts her hands
into her pockets,
but there is
nothing. no
money, no credit
card to save her.
her phone has died.
she is on the side
of the road.
it took awhile,
it took alot of
miles of carefree
driving on the
freeway, of ignoring
the posted speed limits,
the dangers, the
pot holes, but she
is finally there.
she gets
out and sizes up
the moment. she
looks into the
window and sees
herself in the
closing dark. she
is older than when
she started, she
has gained weight
and her hair is grey,
she is no longer
a young woman,
no longer the first
one chosen. she
remembers what love
is, what love was,
and that there was
someone once, but
she can't remember
his name. but that
means nothing now, on
the side of the
road, without gas,
with the tire flat,
with no direction
home.

this mountain

the mountain
is beautiful and
you believe that
you can climb it
easily. it's lush
and green at
the bottom, there
is snow on top.
the mountain is a
postcard of beauty
against the open
blue sky.
everyone knows this
mountain, they come
to stare at it, to
be in her presence.
and so you begin,
you take nothing
with you but what
you've learned
from other mountains
you have tried to scale,
your ignorance is bliss.
and you climb, one foot
in front of the other,
one hand over the next,
and quickly, before you
know it you are past
the soft start,
the easy part, the worn
paths where others
have come and failed,
the thick cluster
of trees, and shrubs,
the noisy slush of stream
are below you, but
you go further, wanting
more, and the air
begins to thin, your feet
slip. the rocks are sharp,
you look downward when
you reach the halfway point,
but you can't turn around
now. you want more
of this mountain, you
want to embrace and
know her soul,
you want to get to
the top and see the view
from there, to be loved
in return. you want
to know what it is
like to have it all
and isnt that what
love is? so you keep
going, but you are out
of breath, your limbs
ache with cold, your
lips are blue, and
clouds of warm air
escape from your lungs
like poetry. your hands
bleed from the sharp
edges of rocks, your
feet have no where
to stand, they are
numb from climbing.
your face is pressed
hard against the silent
mountain, your heart
beats faster. there is
only the wind that
blows you from side
to side and fills
you with fear. dark
wings of birds hover
nearby, waiting for
you to fall. you no
longer see the beauty
in her. what you thought
about her has changed.
she is dangerous and
cunning, but still you
press on. your head
is in the clouds, you
are delirious on this
mountain, you squint your
eyes into the harsh sunlight
and see that the peak
is still so far away,
the mountain owns you
now, and she knows it,
you can't go up, you
can't go back down.
you have lost your way.

in any direction

you try to remember
where you live,
but it's unclear.
they ask you who
you are, what your
name is, but you
don't know anymore.
and it doesn't seem
to matter.
you are not lost,
you are just here.
they stand you up
and check you for
a wallet, for id,
but you have none.
there is a picture
of a small child
in your pocket, and
a woman who looks
beautiful in a white
dress. they ask you
about them, but you
have no answer. you
have no money.
you've been walking
for hours, maybe
days. your shoes
are worn out, your
pants are torn
at the knees. your
hands though are
clean, they are
the hands of an
innocent man, so
they don't take you
in. they shine a
light into your eyes
and see nothing.
they dust you
off and tell you
to be careful, to
watch where you are
going. you have
broken no laws,
and so they leave
you to yourself.
to go in any
direction. which is
how this started.

the punch

the punch caught me
off guard, i didn't see
it coming, right below
my chin, it was an
uppercut that lifted
me off the canvas, just
a little, but enough
to know that i was air
borne. and the lights
above grew brighter, like
stars suddenly bursting,
silver fires of light,
in my darkening eyes.
and i could taste blood
in my mouth as i went
limp, as my spine no longer
held me up, and my arms
dropped, and my legs
suddenly were no longer
a part of who i was, and
as i hit the floor, the
thud awakened me just
enough for me to glance
around at the melting
faces of the crowd, and
to find you, you in the
first row, smiling, happy,
to finally see that
i had gotten mine.

the trains

before the train
crosses the trestle
that rises over the
hill then lake,
he blows his horn.
i can hear it at night,
when the traffic has
died down, when most
people are sleeping.
when the world has said
enough for one day.
but the trains run all
night, they keep moving,
like dreams, like
clouds, like oceans
pulled from side to side
by the power of a pale
thin moon. and the sound
of the horn gives me
comfort, it lets me
know what i need to know.
that time is moving
forward once again.

where to begin

i want so badly
to see a poetic
tear go down your
cheek, to see that
hardened heart just
break a little, soften
for just a moment.
i want to feel the
warmth, the love, that
is so far buried
deep within, and
has been for years.
but i don't know how.
i don't even know
where to start. i only
know how to end. i'm
not asking you to
break, but just to
find a way to bend.

stay the night

stay the night.
no need to leave,
no need to run off
into the cold.
it's late, so late.
plus you've had
too much to drink.
it's very dark
out and the roads
are wet with ice,
with sleet. stay
the night. i'll
keep you warm, i'll
tell you what you
need to hear. i'll
tuck you in, i'll
even say your prayers.
stay the night.
just one more night.
it's late, it's
cold, no need to
to go back home, to
get on the road,
to leave me here
alone.

half mushrooms half green peppers

if you leave me
i'll never forgive
you, she says while
painting her toenails
with a bright red
color called raspberry
splash. i'll hunt
you down like the dog
you are and file
papers on you. she
doesn't look up,
she's on the tiny
small toe, with that
crazy small nail,
concentrating. i laugh.
file papers. what
are we, married or
something? are we a
corporation. i don't
think so. she starts
on the other foot now.
dabbing the little
brush at her nails,
still not looking up
at me, my cousin jimmy
knows people, she says,
they'll find you and
break your knee caps.
really, i say. i'm
scared. you should be,
she says. you should
be trembling. you don't
know the power of a
woman scorned. that's
not how it goes, i
tell her. whatever.
hey, i'm going to
call in a pizza, what
would you like on it?
she finally looks up
from her toenails
and polish. she squints,
hmmm, half mushrooms,
half green peppers?
i roll my eyes. okay.
okay. i won't leave you.
half sausage and half
mushrooms. call, she says.
make the call.

red wine

get a glass of
red wine in her
and she'd start
dancing. alone,
or not, she couldn't
stay still, she'd
be up all slinky
and cat like with
a smile on her face
and she'd begin to
move, twisting
and sliding, tapping
her heels across
the hardwood floor.
get two drinks in
her and it was
dancing of another
sort altogether,
and that was good too.
and more fun
than the first.

bad connection

i can't see you
anymore, she says
on the phone while
i'm standing in
the phone store
trying to buy
a new phone. what,
i say, i can't
hear you, who is
this. Gina, she
says loudly. i
don't know any
Ginas i tell her.
what are you talking
about, we went out
two nights ago.
oh, i say. i thought
your name was sally.
sorry. so what were
you saying. we're
breaking up. we
were never going
together dope, she
screams. i'm just
telling you that
i don't want to see
you anymore. i'm
not sure why. i
can't put my finger
on it, but we're
just not....what,
can you speak up
i tell her, it's
really really loud
in here with all
of these phones going
off. nevermind, she
says. then silence.
hello, i say, hello,
are you still there,
sally, can you
hear me? sally?

my new phone

i have big
plans to buy
a new phone.
a super phone,
with wings and lots
and lots of colorful
aps and stuff.
i have been
told recently
that i am lumbering
about in this
high tech world
like a dinosaur
during the ice age.
i resent that.
but i understand
completely why
she thinks that
way. staring
at her blackberry
in her hand is
like looking at
chinese algebra,
but i'm game, i
can do this. so
i'm signing up for
the best, the most
complicated, the
most expensive
phone i can find.
and i'll wear it
on a chain around
my neck like a
gangsta rappa just
to prove a point.
it will take pictures,
movies, it will sing,
it will mow my lawn,
it'll take the trash out,
get stains out
of the carpet,
it'll help the kids
with their homework.
it will improve my
love life. it will
send e mails
and texts, and
it will tell me
where i'm supposed
to be every day
of the month. it
will be my personal
assistant, my girl
friend, my bud, my
go to point of
reference when i need
to google a dating
site, or find out
where the nearest
dairy queen might be.
i'll never be lost
with this phone,
not geographically
or spiritually. truly
my life will change.
but okay. how do i
turn it on?

the lost dog named iowa

i get a call
that her siding
is loose, and some
has fallen to the
ground, pieces
are scattered in
the wind, the house
is leaking, water
is coming through
the ceiling, and i
tell her that i don't
do siding, but now
she is crying, she
is telling me about
her life, her husband,
how he's run off with
another woman,
how her dog has run
away. she tells me
that she has posted
signs all over the
neighborhood with
his picture and that
she is offering a
reward. and i
tell her gently again,
i'm sorry, but i don't
know anything about
siding, i'm not sure
if i can help you.
she pleads some more
though, and i give in.
she is crying.
i tell her that i
will be there today,
before it's dark,
i'll bring a ladder
and see what i can do.
she blows her nose and
says thank you, thank
you, you are so kind.
and when you come over,
on the way, can you
keep an eye out for my
dog, he's small and
black and i am so lost
without him. could you
do that for me? he
answers to the name
iowa.

iowa

you decide
to move on
with your life.
you pack a
bag and go
to the bus station,
you buy a ticket
to iowa. you know
no one in iowa,
which is a good
thing. there will
be plenty of
strangers there
who won't be
bored by you
and what you have
to say. it's a
fresh start. and
when you board
the bus and find
a window seat and
the bus pulls out
from the station,
you wonder if
you've made a
bad decision.
perhaps you should
have given things
another chance.
perhaps you should
have done something
that you haven't
thought of yet.
it's foolish, this
kind of thinking and you
fall asleep for a
very long time, and
when you awaken
the windows are
full of fields,
full of corn, wheat
like burning brush
as far as the eye
can see, long
stretches of
green fields with
arcs of water criss
crossing the rows
and rows, and rainbows.
but this saddens you.
you are already
bored with iowa
and it's farms and
endless planting
and harvesting. you
decide that you
hate iowa and
that five minutes
there is four too
many. you realize
suddenly that leaving
is harder than it
looks.

wanda

you want to take
her with you, but you
know better. she
can't leave what
she can't leave.
even if you were a genius
you'd never ever be
able to figure out
a way for this to
work, and you ponder
this dilemma until
you get sleepy
and drowsy, but it's
too early for sleep
so you call up wanda,
who has a kind heart
and is very patient
with problems,
she used to live
next door to you
and baked you bread
when you didn't
want bread and
brought you wine,
when you wanted
something else. but
she was willing.
and now all you
want from her is to
listen to listen to
your problem, to be
quiet and listen.
but wanda wants to
come over, she wants
to talk in person
and says that she
can be there in
twenty minutes or
less, she just needs
to take a shower,
put on some make
up and get dressed,
and walk the dog.
i try to stop her,
but she hangs up.
and now i'm really
sleepy, so i post
a note on the door,
wanda, i'm upstairs,
the key is under
the mat, if you bring
food or wine, put
it in the fridge.

the note

you find a hand
written note
on your door
when you arrive
home from work.
but you don't read
it. you'd rather
not. you'd
rather believe
in what the note
might say. you
are an optimist.
and this makes
you feel good,
not reading the
note. and you
decide suddenly
to live your life
this way, to ignore
all notes, all
forms of
communication that
could take you down
a dark road. you
want the note
to be one of
praise, one of
luck and hope,
one of renewed
love and affection.
so you fold the note
and place it in your
shirt pocket. you
feel that the note
is a blessing of
some sort, that
life has changed
for the better.
and then you go to
your car to leave,
but the engine won't
start. and you take
the note out of
your pocket, unfold
it and read it
and it says 'you
left your headlights
on, we knocked,
but you weren't
home. sorry.'

you don't know me

you don't know
me. not really.
what you see is
just a glimpse,
a mere facade of
smoke and mirrors,
me pretending to
be someone i think
i should be. these
are not even my
clothes, or shoes,
or hat. these gloves
barely fit. i
am wearing another
man's watch. at
night i sleep with
another man's wife
and take his child
to school. i walk
his dog. i am
not who you think
i am. the money
that's in my pocket
belongs to someone
else. my desires
are not mine, but
ones that i have
learned through
reading and
observation. i
have stolen all
of my beliefs from
others while on
the train listening
to men cry and
confess to priests
about their sins
and wasted lives.
i am growing old
in someone else's
body and will
be buried under
another name. you
don't know me,
not really.

inexhaustible needs

you realize
that you have
inexhuastible
needs. you need
food and water
sleep, love
and affection
and sex. these
needs are constant
with varying
degrees of desire
and want. and
you spend so much
of your time
trying to fulfill
these needs
or ignoring them.
but they won't
leave you alone.
they call to you
every day. they
tug at your shirt
sleeve, they
stir you in
the morning, or
late at night.
and with every need
there is a choice,
a good one, and
perhaps a bad one.
and so it goes.

this is where you'll live

you decide that this
is where you'll live.
this is where you'll
open the boxes of
your life, put your
furniture, hammer nails
into the wall for
your pictures, place
your bed against
the wall that gives
the most light. you
decide that this is
where you'll be for
a long time. and you
will drink coffee at
the small table in
the kitchen, and let
the cat sit on the
sill above the sink.
and the dog will lie
on back of the couch
and watch the birds
and squirrels. you
decide that this is
where you'll sleep,
where you'll fall into
dreams deep into
night, when winter turns
to spring and you will
be happy in your solitary
life, you will
find comfort in your
choice living here.
you will embrace
the seasons from your
back window. and you
will lie to yourself
everday, over and over
and say that this
is enough, my books,
my house, my pets,
my writing. you will
try so hard to believe
that it is enough, and make
it come true, but it
isn't so. and
the absence of love
will overwhelm you and
you'll fear that this
is it, that this is all
there is and you'll
question where did
all of that time go.

the world

don't believe
the world. don't
shake your hand
with it, or join.
we are born into
this, but you can
choose. you can
take another road.
the narrow road.
higher ground.
don't believe
the world. it
offers little that
will last and cure
your lonliness,
fill you up, or
quench your thirst.
don't believe the
world, and it's
sweet kiss, it's
sultry whisper
that it can
give you more
and more, as if
that will ever
be enough. it never
is. don't believe
the world.

when they find me

when they find me,
i am alone.
i am who i used to
be when i was
young. i am youthful,
my hair is thick
and brown, my limbs
are lean and strong,
i can run with
the wind of summer,
i have no lines
on my face, my
life is suddenly what
it used to before
time erased so
much of it.
i am alone when
they find me
and i have forgotten
what love is,
how love hurts and
destroys you. i only
see the good in
everything, in
everyone. i only
know the possibilities
not the closed
doors. but i am
alone when they
find me. i am
young until i am
told that i am
dreaming. that i
am an old man
near the end,
and someone
whispers into my
ear as i lie
there in the tall
grass of my youth,
in the ashes
of my spent life,
the future is not
what it used to
be, and i begin
to cry, i begin to
sob, knowing
that it's true
and i reach out for
her hand, but
she's not there, i
am alone when they
find me.

thin ice

i'm in a dangerous
place right now.
i can hear the ice
cracking below my
feet. the weight
of me is shattering
the thin sheet
spread like icing
on a cake across
the frozen lake. my
lips are blue, my
heart has slowed
to a point of near
unconsciousness.
the bloom of hot
air that comes from
my lips are slow
small clouds. i am
bleeding life, as
i stand still,
neither leaving, nor
coming. i am too
afraid to do either.
my life is in
your hands, reach
out and either push
or pull me in. i'm
exhausted at this
point and would be
fine with either.

simply this

i'm willing.
i'm here.
i'm open for
discussion.
look at my
arms. see how
wide they are.
look into my
eyes and see
how clear
they have become.
it's up to
you. no strings
attached. what
this is supposed
to be will be,
nothing more,
nothing less.

another hundred miles

another hundred
miles and we'll be
home baby.
sit tight, relax.
roll the window
down. another
hundred miles
and we'll be there,
we'll be in
each other's arms,
we'll make love
all night when
we get there.
another hundred
miles and you'll
see what i mean.
you'll understand
exactly how i feel.
just hold on,
another hundred miles
and we'll both
be home. it's not
far from here.
believe me, just
another hundred
miles. that's all.
that's all. i
promise this time.
trust me, we'll
get there. another
hundred miles.

sailing

as your ship
slowly sinks
and mine
sails on. i see
you on deck
waving for help.
mouthing the words
throw me a rope.
a line, something
that will float.
and there is a
part of me that
wants to speed
up, to watch you
go slowly down
into the deep
dark sea that you
so casually ignored.
but you know that i
won't leave you
this way,
that i won't
go and let you
drown, that i
will turn this
ship against
the wind, reset
the sails and
come around.

outside looking in

neither kind
nor unkind,
this way you see
the world, this
girl. but there
is a passive
sigh of, oh well,
that rises to
the top like
cream. you have
somehow managed
to step outside
yourself and truly
see what is real
and what isn't
what it seems.

cherry tree

we used to
pick the cherry tree
clean every year
when they ripened
black and fat
upon the fragile
limbs and branches.
and the man and wife
who owned the house
knew, and turned
off the lights
inside so that we
could have are fill
and think that
this stolen fruit
was the best
fruit of all. and
the juices would
run down our skinny
arms onto our white
t-shirts. and when
so many of us grew up
and stopped our harvest,
moving on to our own
trees in life,
we heard that
the wife had died
and that the man
had taken a saw
and cut the cherry
tree down.

not how it works

she wants a clean
jesus. an uncut
savior in white
linen, two feet off
the ground. she
wants a superman,
a man of steel,
a christ without
the suffering, or
blood, the anguish
of the passion.
she wants him off
the cross and in
the clouds, no
crown of thorns, no
death, no why
have you forsaken
me spoken as the
viel is rent and the
earth broken in
two. she wants a
statue of christ
on the dashboard,
one that glows in
the dark, she wants
no sickness, no
sorrow, no sadness
in this world. but
that's not how
it works, is it?

awaiting news

the old moon
comes out yellow
tonight. a harvest
moon over the bland
empty field that
separates homes
from factory, over
the single black road
in and out of
this town. and
the woods on the
far reach, where
the rubble is
stirs with movement,
kids of age seeking
love, or what they
percieve love to be
at sixteen. and a
an old dog howls
somewhere, and a
the cars have nowhere
to go at this hour.
and the blue lit
rooms with televisions
pulse with the slow
heartbeat of old
age and no age
and another tomorrow
awaiting news.

what's new

there was a time
when i wanted new.
a new car, new
clothes, a new watch.
a new set of lips
to kiss. the old
television
wasn't good enough
anymore. i wanted
to move into a new
house, with new
neighbors, get a new
dog after the old
one passed away,
but i've changed.
i've grown accustomed
to the old. gotten
used to the memory
of what is gone.
i've lost interest
in the new. and that's
where i am right
now with you.

bacon and eggs

he was an old man,
who came to the same
bench everyday where
i walked my dog
in the park,
and sometimes we
would sit and talk.
small talk for the
most part. weather,
sports, small change.
sometimes we'd discuss
the poetry i was
writing. but that week
i wasn't in the mood
for talking, and each
day i would avoid
the bench where the
old man was sitting.
i had just come out
of a relationship
with someone that
i loved, or at least
preceived to be as
love, and i was
dragging, tired,
and bedeviled by
this girl who i
had probably no
business being with.
i had no appetite
for life at the moment,
and the old man yelled
at me from his bench,
hey, what's wrong with
you. mr. poet, you can't
stop and say hello to
an old man anymore?
i thought we were friends.
i smiled and went over
and sat next to him
and told him my story,
which by that point
i was tired from
telling. after awhile
the story becomes
you and you become
the story and that
is what all anyone ever
sees in you anymore.
but i told him just
the same. and he smiled,
he gave my dog a treat
from his pocket, as
he always did and then
he said. i was in love,
once, truly in love.
i am eighty seven and
i can honestly say
that it only happened
once in my life. i
was a very young man
at the time. much
younger than you.
he looked far away,
his eyes were wet with
the memory of this woman.
we were like bacon
and eggs, he said.
i'm not sure who was
which, but we were.
he laughed and nodded.
bacon and eggs. and,
i said, so what happened,
where did she go.
it doesn't matter, he
said. none of that matters.
the only thing that
has meaning is that we
were in love and that
is forever, you can't
change that, you can't
erase that, not even
death will take away
what love is, how rare
and wonderful it is to
have and hold. and then
he looked at me and
smiled. embrace your love
for this woman and let
her go. you will always
have the love, right
here. and he tapped
his chest. right here,
he said again.
bacon and eggs. yes.

the endless games

when my son was young
there was always
a game, a place to
be, a jersey that needed
washed. each sport
having it's season
and then some, as they
overlapped into one
another. it seemed
endless at times,
the long saturday drives
to a field far away,
and the games dragged
on in the rain, or
heat, or cold winds.
and for the most part
it was fun, it was
amazing to be there
standing beside him
as he grew up. it
seems like yesterday
those ten years like
that, those sweet
games of youth,
how quickly this
time comes and goes.