working like a dog

you tell others
that you have to
work on christmas
day. that you have
no choice, your job
and schedule demands
it. your employers
have no feelings
for you and your
plight. they will
give you money in
place of the time
that you forefit
in order to survive
in this world. you
know no other way.
you tell others
that you are working
like a dog, but
then change that.
your dog was an
emperor who never
lifted a paw in
order to please
or help you with
your day. your dog
owned you in ways
that embarass you
when pressed for
details about his
his life, his
command over yours.
you envy your dog,
the way he could
sleep through every
problem, his lack
of interest in the
world, the news,
whether good or bad,
he never lost weight
or a minute of
sleep over a dog
he fell in love with.
little ever fazed
him, or kept him
from eating. his love
for you was measured
by the food you
provided, by the lifting
of him onto the bed.
of you scratching
his belly until
he fell asleep. i
have never worked
like a dog, at least
not like the one
i had.

the wallet

you find a wallet,
it's full of money.
soft bills, large
in denominations.
there are credit
cards and papers
with phone numbers
on them. there is
a license. a man's
face, about your
age. there are photos
of his family. of
his children. his
wife. they look
happy. they look
like what you had
once, a long time
ago. you say the man's
name to yourself.
you could be him,
you think, perhaps
a mistake has been
made. perhaps it's
your wallet. you
put the wallet into
your coat pocket.
and you go to his
house to begin
your new life. you
are confident that
they will accept
you. you are full
of optimism that
his wife will greet
you at the door,
and kiss you, and
feed you, and make
love to you that
night. the children
will welcome you
home. even the dog
will jump into your
lap. your optimism
is amazing, but you
know that you are
mistaken and that
this will not turn
out good, but you
go anyway, you feel
you have no choice.

you awaken

in a bed that
is not your own.
the light is
different. you
were married
once, but she is
not with you,
there is someone
else beside you
now, sleeping. her
back is turned.
the color of
her shoulders
is golden, like
apples. she
smells like lilacs.
she is not
the one, but you
are here, with
her. you watch
as the new sun
rises and
empties the room
of shadow. you
have nothing new
to say. no words
can describe how
lost you are. but
you will say
something when
she awakens,
something that will
allow you to
come back again,
and again.

my new pony

thank you santa
for the new pony
that you left for me
this christmas
morning.
i don't know how
you got him into
the house last night,
but it woke me up
with his naying and
walking around in
those metal horseshoes.
he already had his
head inside the
cupboard eating sugar
cubes and oatmeal.
i hope those scuff
marks come out of
the floor, and those
stains from the rug.
it would have been
nice if you had tied
him up though. the
house is a mess. but
i'm grateful, really,
he's wonderful. i
think i'll call him
seabiscuit or rudolph,
it's a toss up right
now. thankfully i have
a snow shovel and a
bag of carrots.
he's already had a
couple of 'accidents'.
i've always wanted
a pony i could call
my own for as long as
i can remember, but
i didn't expect him
this year, after all
those years of asking
and being really good.
maybe i'll ride him
to work on monday
after i get some
chaps, a hat and boots.
this is the best
christmas ever, well
sort of. my list
has changed over the
years if you hadn't
noticed and at the top
of the new list
were the the two twins
from sweden, the runway
models, gretchen
and nicole, but hey,
maybe next year we
can do better, right?
thanks again santa.

communion

she texts me from
mass, as she stands in
line for communion
her hands folded
in front of her,
typing with her
thumbs, her tongue
is about to go out to
get the blood and body
of Christ. it's
Christmas eve and
she's lonely, and
across the country,
and sad and trying
to make sense of it
all, trying so hard
to find peace.
find peace. find peace.
when all along it
rests within her.

i'll meet you there

you're not wearing
that out, are you.
she says to me as
i put on my favorite
long black coat
and ripped jeans.
you look like a
homeless man, she
says. go ahead, look
in the mirror. and
why didn't you shave,
you can't go to a
party looking like
that. look at me,
i'm in a dress, a
red dress, she spins
around to make
a point, we can't
go as a couple with
this disparity in
style. hmm, i say.
okay, maybe we
should drive
separately, you go
on ahead i'll meet
you there.

the science of you

the science of you
evades me. the math
of how you think.
pascal would be proud.
the equations that
make up who you are,
baffle me and keep
me wide awake beneath
galileo's stars.
no theorem can explain
what makes you come
and go, or stay, or
what keeps that center
of you so goddamn
cold. you are an
eternal mystery that
i'll never solve
no matter how many
books i read, or
martinis that i shake
and drink. you are a
star collapsing upon
itself, and i'm pulled
and pulled within.

the empty seat

can i have this
seat, if it's not
taken, if you
don't mind. i'd
like to sit next
to you. it's the
only i seat where
i can sit, where
i can finally take
off my coat and stop
circling the room.
it's time
to stop. and you
are kind to offer
me this place
beside you. i know
that it's only
for a short while,
that you'll have
to leave, but i'm
so glad that we've
met, and sad to
see you go. i'll
try to save yours
while your gone,
but some promises
i can't keep.

your dark hair

your brush full
of hair, long and
brown, dark as
the woods before
the sun goes down.
it's a tangle of
you. and i can see
you in the mirror,
standing there,
stroke after stroke,
easily, calmly,
and knowing that
i'm there, you have
all the time in
the world to brush
your long dark hair.

milk

you lift
the carton
off the shelf
from the bright
cool light of
the refrigerator
and even before
you open the lid
to smell, you
know already that
it's gone bad,
that's it's sour,
that it's
shelf life has
expired. the
occasional smile
and touch
of that
bright light
didn't save
it, nor did the
cool dark air
in which it sat
for so long,
unstirred,
untouched and
perhaps
in some strange
way, unloved.

new year's eve

it was several
years ago, walking
through old town
on new year's eve,
going to dinner,
to where we had
gone before, many
times, and she was
wearing black, as
always, with her
flashing brown eyes,
and silver bracelets,
and she dropped an
earring on the street.
we both heard it
hit and roll away.
but we couldn't find
it in the dark,
although we tried,
in the cold, with
snow coming down,
but we were late.
so we went on. it
was our last new
year's eve together.
but when i walk by
that spot in any
season, years
later, on the
sidewalk where
we were that night.
i'm still looking
down, looking for
that earring, for
her, for what i've
lost and what i
haven't yet found.

the kissing lesson

it's easy
she says.
do like this.
put your
lips together,
that's right,
watch me.
pucker,
press them
tight, now
move closer,
move an inch
away from me.
closing your
eyes is optional,
but i'd suggest
closed for this
first time.
no, no, don't
open your mouth
we aren't
gold fish.
now come in
and press gently
your lips
onto mine. hold
it for a second,
okay, okay.
that was nice.
see, do you see
how this is
done. now, okay.
very good.
let's try
it again. and
later we'll
try something
a little more
complicated on
the couch.

to bed early

you are weary
from the day,
the week,
so you go to
bed early. you
turn everything
off, the phone
the lights,
the tv, the
computer blinking
down the hall.
you block all of
the clocks in
your room with
shirts and socks.
and you lie
there at nine
thirty and wish
there was someone
there to read
to you, to scratch
your back gently
and massage
the kinks out
of your muscles
as you drift
slowly into that
sweet nether
world of dreams.

my new family

i was out
drinking the
other night
and i lost
my credit card,
somewhere between
il fornaios
and a parking
garage. it was
very windy,
so it could
be anywhere.
today i got my
statement and
apparently i've
bought a new
car, and have
adopted a family
of five
from thailand
and they all
should be arriving
within the week
depending upon
visa, passports,
and criminal
investigations.
i have no place to
put them and i'm
low on coconut
milk and basil
chicken. but hey,
i'm kind of excited.
i've got a new
instant family.
shame they won't
be here for the
holidays to enjoy
my tree that i
just decorated and
set on the counter.
with lights
and everything.
i'm in the market
for bunk beds, so
if you have any,
cheap, give a
shout out.

the rear view mirror

there's the hall
mirror. framed in
black. the last
one you see before
leaving the house,
it's in a good place
to straighten
the tie, or to
check for shaving cream
left in an ear, or
a nick from the
razor leaving a
small blob of blood
on your chin. it
happens, but then
there's the bath
room mirrors too, all
bright and shiny,
fogged with steam,
speckled with tooth
paste, so hard to
clean once it hardens.
and the full length
mirror in the bedroom.
leaning behind a
door, rarely used
for anything other
than checking the
shoes, never anything
crazy or obscene,
but it's there
just in case,
and then there's
the mirror at the
top of the stairs,
a decorative sort
of thing, an antique,
which hardly holds
an image,and it's
distorted at best
in the shadowy over
head light, so many
mirrors, and then
the car has them too,
the flip down visor
has one, and the side
view mirrors, powered
and small, just enough
view. but my favorite
of all time, is
the rearview mirror,
the one i've been
staring at for awhile
now, as i drive away
from you.

no one's home

the parentless,
empty house on
the corner
with the blue
shutters loose
and dangling
in the wind,
is still there.
and out back is
the raw dirt
where the dog
ran all day long,
barking, and the
the front door
swings open, never
quite locked,
letting out
the darkness
within. and a
window is
broken on the
second floor where
a small boy
could peer
out. and the grass
never green,
is thick and
high in the front
yard, where the
mower stopped
and still stands,
and a rusted
swing set
sways gently on
the side,
in the autumn
wind next to a
plastic doll
with unshut
blue eyes and one
pink arm.
there was almost
something like
love there once,
i remember it's
absence like it
was yesterday.

someone exactly like you

i was going to
the zoo
the other day,
having a strong
desire to see
the monkeys in
their cages,
i took the cross
town bus and fell
asleep with my
head against
the window.
it was a deep
sleep, and i
dreamed about
someone who
reminded
me of you. she
was just like
you, but with blue
eyes and blonde
hair, and she
was very tall,
which you aren't.
and she spoke
with a foreign
accent, which may
have been french
or german, it was
a dream after all
and this part was
fuzzy. but despite
all the differences
she reminded me
exactly of you.
when i woke up
i had missed
my stop at the zoo,
and the bus circled
back to from
where i began,
and it was too late
now, it was getting
dark and colder,
and it was time
to go home. the
monkeys could wait
for another day.

walking around naked

i admire the way
you walk around
naked. no clothes,
no shoes, no hat,
not even a bullwhip
in your hand,
nothing but the curves
of you so plump
and unashamed at
who you are and what
you look like.
before or after sex,
it makes no difference.
not me. i need a towel
and a robe, and
sunglasses. put a
drink into my hand.
give me an umbrella
and slippers. i can't
show an inch of skin,
i need the lights off,
the curtains drawn,
the sun down. i pull
the sheets right up
to my chin. i'm sorry,
for being so shy,
and secretive, so
reluctant to let
you see me, but you
know that's who i am.

each dog has his day

my death
comes early
in the day. so
it takes awhile
before word
gets around.
i haven't
inconvenienced
anyone quite yet.
most are able
to fit lunch in
before they know,
before their
schedules
are turned
upside down
and need to
be rearranged.
the holidays
are no time
to pass away, to
slip into the
great beyond, it
let's the air
right out
of that balloon.
and i feel guilty
about that.
i don't want
to cause a stir,
or to be the
center of attention,
although it's so
hard not to do.
but so it goes.
each dog has
his day.

no one cooks anymore

they say they
do, and they talk
a good game,
about pasta and
steaks, and lobsters
and souffles, oh,
and the things they
used to bake,
back when the kids
were around, when
the ex's were still
in love with them
and on the couch
waiting patiently
for that dinner bell
to ring. but now,
in this day and age,
of being single
and alone, separated
or divorced, i've
rarely seen a meal
come out of an oven
or off a burner,
or anything mixed
and stirred with
loving care. none
of that hits
the table. now it's
just buy it as it
is. precooked, pre
sealed, preseasoned,
heat it up and there
you go. or call out
for chinese, or
perhaps dominos,
where's the coupon?
oh my, dinner
is served.

mispoken words

it was a tiny
crack, just a
small little
dent, a ping,
a fissure
in the glass,
a word you said,
without thinking.
and it made me
turn my head.
but now i can see
it stretch it's
zig zag way
across, from
side to side, in
front of me
and within.
i remember hearing
the pebble strike
and bounce,
the click of it
and there it
was. the beginning
of an end.

i hate winter

please
take your
cold wind,
your icy
walkways
and brittle
trees, so bare
of leaves
and blossoms.
just begone
with your frost
filled nights,
those broken
copper pipes
now full
of ice and
leave. please
take your snow,
your clouds
so dark and
low, your
arctic freeze.
that blows. i
want no more
of this,
of coats,
and gloves
and scarves
and hats,
and vicks
vapo rub.
i lie here
in a shiver,
and all the tea
and honey
and lemons in
the world
won't make
me be happy
about winter.
i hate it. now
please go.

to the moon alice

dear alice,
my life as
an astronaut has
not been what
i thought it would
be. i'm bored
out of my mind.
i'm typing this
on my new phone,
i hope you get it.
my fingers are so
large though with
these crazy gloves
on and i'm hitting
three keys at once.
the moon is such
a muse for poetry,
and yet i'm tired
of the moon.
the dark side
is exactly like
the light side.
there is no
mystery there.
surprise, a cold
hard rock that
reflects sunlight.
amazing, dust.
craters. that's
about it. i wanted
to join the program
because i wanted
to be free
from gravity,
to float in the air.
that seemed like
fun. gravity has
been keeping me
down way too long.
plus, i wanted
to be free from
you and your constant
nagging. to put some
distance between
us. see how you
like those long
silences. but now
i miss you. i itch
though, from this
urinary tract
infection which
may cause a problem
when i return, that is
if you are ever in
the mood again. sorry
about that last time.
i was a little over
anxious. my bad.
i'm hungry all
the time too. these
turkey and gravy pellets
just aren't getting
it done. i signed
up for the mars
voyage, but i'm
not sure if i want
to go now. it's so
far, and it takes
so long to get there.
and for what. more
rocks, more dust,
more nothing. i'm
constantly afraid of
running out of air.
every dream i have
is about that. being
sucked out of the
window into the
black void of space
gasping for air.
but you'd like that
though, wouldn't
you, wouldn't you
alice. sorry,
sorry, space makes
me a little
crazy sometimes.
well, i have to go
now, there's some
red lights blinking
and a siren going
off, i'm getting
dizzy. i hope to god
it's not the air
supply. i'll write
more later if i'm
still alive.
behave while
i'm gone. love you,
jimmy. xxxooo.

it's not the same

you have
a difficult
time with
words, when
speaking
with her now,
the questions
are odd, there
is no flow,
it's not natural
after so much
time has passed.
whatever love
there was is
gone, at last.
it's not the
same. her
voice is
different,
strange. she
comes from
another place,
she's under
another sun,
another moon.
nothing can
ever be the
same. and that's
a good thing.

Neva's daughter

i see her
in the library
bent over, grey,
and ten years
older, as i am,
since we last met,
since she stood
before the class
and taught the art
of poetry, she moves
between the books,
the tall aisles
that are silent
with so many words,
so many poems
written and unread,
and she sees
me and smiles and
says my name.
and we talk for
a minute or two,
exchange numbers
and e mails, and
she tells me about
the last thing
she had written,
the small chapbook
about her daughter
who was murdered
so long ago, but it
still keeps her
writing, trying to
solve the why of
that, and everything
else that has fallen
softly, like ashes,
inbetween the pages
of then and now.

bossy women

you find yourself
attracted
to bossy women,
some flashy, some
plain, some
somewhere inbetween,
but they are
bold and
smart, independent
and strong
willed. you like
the way they
self start. the
way they take without
asking, all
of them have a
bright red
button that
they push the
moment they wake
up. no need
for help. and you
get lost in
the chaos that
is who they are,
the tornado of
their lives. like
a ferris going
round and round
too fast, there
is a thrill, but
you are just
something
hovering in the
air, as they
spin and spin
with very little
time or heart
to share, and
eventually you
know within, that
you will fly
off the crazy wheel.

like us

some poems
are unfixable,
the metaphors
fall flat,
the lines
are too long
and there is
too much glitter,
too much me,
and not enough
substance,
or flow. like
us, it's best
to give it up,
to delete,
to let it go.

the lovers list

before she
falls asleep
at night, tossing
and turning,
she counts,
as if counting
sheep, all
the men that
she has ever slept
with, some names
she can hardly
remember, their
faces blurred
with time, and
fading memory, so
she calls them
by something
else, a bar,
a place that
they met in, a
season in some
city she may
have visited.
that random crazy
time in a bathroom
at a party, or
in a parked car
on a dark road.
the chance they
took in an
elevator,
she names them
by the cars they
drove. the blue
chevy, the red van.
the boy with
a truck, rusted
orange, in a grey
cloud of fumes.
the married man
with kids,
the man with blonde
hair, and a snake
tattoo. and sometimes
she falls alseep
before she gets
to the end of
her lovers list,
and other times
she dwells on
the one or two
that she truly loved
and wanted more
of, the ones that
got away, that
broke her heart,
then she fogets,
and drifts away in
thought about what
could have been,
and she loses
the count,
the number,
and has to start
all over again.

the red sweater

on sunday,
with the sun
already down,
while folding
clothes
in the basement
where it's
never quite
warm enough
in the winter,
and a bare bulb
hangs simply
from the
unfinished
ceiling, and
the breath
from the open
mouth of
the dryer is
still warm,
and the towels
are hot in my
hand, i think
of you, going
up the stairs
one last time,
with that heavy
basket. your
shirts, your
socks, the red
sweater that
i bought you,
that you'll
never wear again.

fresh bread

you think of
poems as
small loaves
of warm bread
that you are
baking daily,
and then
trying to leave
for her.
wherever she
might be. they
come right
out of the oven.
some sweet,
some sad, some
bitter and crusty,
but many just
meant to be read,
fresh bread
to be eaten, slowly,
to feel the warmth
in your hand,
your heart,
to be savored.
call it small
loaves of
lingering love,
toasted thoughts
of maybe,
some slices are
best served
with blackberry
jam, or butter, but
you decide that.

cowboy up

you don't
like the rodeo
but you go.
you are roped
into it.
you like the
cowgirls who
ride the bulls,
though, and
the stallions,
high up on
the horse as
they gallop
along the dirt
ring,
carrying flags.
they are all
wearing white
boots with spurs.
you like boots.
it smells though.
and there are
alot of cowboys
yelling in that
cowboy yell.
yip yip yip, etc.
everyone
is wearing a
big hat and
suspenders or
bolo ties with
black shirts.
they are chewing
something brown
and spitting
constantly.
there are clowns
who tease the bulls,
who help
the cowboys get
up when they
are thrown like
rag dolls into
the air. you
suspect that there
might be cotton
candy here, and
foot long
hot dogs. you
can't wait to
get home. you'll
never see this
girl again
because she is
one of them
and you are
incapable of
cowboying up.

morning services

on your
way to church,
you slip
and fall,
you break
your ankle
and lie
there in
the snow
as others pass
you by, walking
around your
crumbled body,
they are in
a hurry in
their sunday
best, they want
the front pews,
the choice
seats for
mass, for
communion, they
want to be
where the
action is and
to hear the
message clearly.
i put my hand
out for help,
to be lifted
up, but i'm
ignored. they
pretend to not
see me.
finally a woman
puts a dollar
into my
outstretched
hand, she tells
me that she wishes
she could help,
but she's late,
another man
gives me some
change and tells
me i should get
a hat to put
the money in.
an old woman
comes over
and gives me
a half of sandwich
and says god
bless you mister.
i lie there
in the snow
the whole day.
collecting money,
gathering food
from strangers.
it's sunday.
it's cold. i'm
lying in the snow
between church
and home.

a new shade of blue

the color
chart is open
to blues.
greys and light
whites. my
choices. it's
snowing and
you want me
to paint the room.
you are on
the couch, sipping
tea. staring
at the wall,
looking at chips,
trying to imagine
what colors it
would all be,
without compromise,
without me.

it's ringing again

don't answer
that. just let
it ring.
don't even
look, you don't
want to know.
no need to know
about every
mistake, or
casual fling,
she'll go away,
eventually,
she'll disappear
like the wet
grey snow outside
on the street.
don't pick
it up, let it
ring. let it play
out and then
i'm all yours,
trust me, give
it time, she'll
give up and
surrender,
you'll see.

the weathergirl

she points
at the map
of you, and
says. good
morning, grumpy
with a chance
of sadness by
noon. unless
there is a
bump of coffee
really quick,
like soon.
and then, a
wave of hunger
will hit,
and you will
be overwhelmed
with the direction
or your life,
or lack of, until
you make it to
paneras for a
sandwich and a nice
hot bowl of soup.
things will get
better from there,
but a front of
sleepiness will
arrive later that
afternoon,
and it's best to
stay in, stay
warm and go
into a darkened
room. in twenty
minutes though
you will arise
and be checking
your phone for
news. the sun
is going down,
it's slippery and
wet out there, she
says, dress warmly,
be careful with
what you do.

don't get sick

i'm avoiding
the handshake
this season.
eating vitamin c
like candy. i'm
staying clear
of the cough,
the gagging
in the super
market. i'm
disinfecting
everything
with those
wipes, stepping
aside when i
hear that sneeze,
that clearing
of the throat,
and wheezing
sound, like a
balloon losing
bad air.
i'm limiting
kissing to
just a peck,
cuddling
to no more than
a few minutes
at a time,
which is going
to make it
a long, cold
winter.

just wondering

sometimes
it almost seems
like you
don't care.
perhaps it's
the lack
of phone calls,
or e mails. there
hasn't been
a visit in
so long, i'm
beginning to
wonder if there
is someone else.
i hope not,
that would just
about break my
heart.
i didn't
even get a
christmas card
from you this
year, not a nod,
not a whistle.
not a plate of
homemade sugar
cookies shaped
into candy canes
and stars,
sleighs and
reindeer. not
even a tin
of candy from
swiss colony, just
what's up with
that, mom, you
really need to
step it up.

icecream legs

she tells me
that she's going
to new orleans
for a week at the
end of the year.
eat some jumbalya,
visit a wildlife
park and see
the heron. so she
says. sounds sketchy.
sounds like a man
might be involved
in this scenario
somewhere. she's
in the tub while
she's telling me
this story, or
half the story.
she's smoking cigarettes
with the window
open despite the
temperature being 20
degrees. she's got
an egg nog going
too, shaken with
a healthy dose
of jack daniels.
she tells me that
her legs are white
like vanilla
icecream, she
can't even see
the veins anymore.
the drink is getting
to her, but she
won't come clean
on the guy. she
tells me that she
feels decadent,
she feels like being
a bad girl, but
she says that it's
too late in the night,
and if she wasn't
so damn tired
from this hot water
and egg nog, she'd
be out on the street
looking to get into
trouble. see you
in church i tell
her. behave. do
you hear that, she
says, smoke rings.

Red Meat

i can only
eat so many
walnuts and
cranberries,
and raisins,
and dried fruits,
bananas and
apricots before
i get sick and
almost pass out
from lack of
nourishment. i
need a slice
of red meat
seared on a
charcoal grill.
i know, i know.
the poor
animals, the
cholesterol, and
all of that. but
sometimes i
just need a
big fat juicy
rib eye steak
and have
the blood run
down my chin
like a madman.

postcard from paris

bonjour,
i'm in paris
right now. i'm
in a cafe on
the boulevard
smoking a cigarette
and drinking
coffee from a
tiny porcelain cup.
there's a harmonica
on the table,
next to a pastry
that is stale.
the waiter just
sneered at me.
i'm reading
a book, while
i'm writing one.
i'm reciting
poetry, my own,
from memory, and
some of it i'm
just making up as
i go along.
my shoes, that
are more like
small boots, are
black and shiny,
so shiny that i
can see the eiffel
tower in their
reflection. i'm
distracted by
the women, by
their legs and
eyes. their pouty
lips too.
the scent of them
walking by. they
want to look at
me, but they don't.
pffft, to hell
with them.
i'm trying hard
to write something
different, something
that for once,
isn't about me,
and not about you.
but, you see
the results of that.

wallpaper

don't cash
that check
just yet, let's
see how it goes.
let's see if
the bubbles
go down, or
if the seams
split, or
if the sheets
unravel off
the walls
in a slow quiet
peel during
the night.
don't cash
that check
just yet,
let's wait
awhile, okay,
and see what
things look like
in the morning
light. it's not
that i don't
trust you, it's
just that it's,
well, yes,
wallpaper. but
here are some
christmas cookies
to tide you over.
okay?

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.