festive kind of girl

i see you have
your christmas tree
still up. how nice.
the lights
and everything.
and your st. patty's
day decorations
too, the green
banner of leprechauns
hanging over the door
way. and those easter
baskets in the window.
next to the valentine's
day cards and flowers.
what were they, roses?
that carved pumpkin
maybe the nicest one
i've ever seen, though
it's turning black,
and that fake spider's
web in the corner.
oh my, so scary.
those turkey cut
outs taped
to the kitchen wall
are quite delightful
too, as are
the fireworks
stick ons that you
display on
the ceiling of your
bedroom. very festive
aren't we? i like
your style, girl.
crazy yes, but hey
i enjoy a cup of
crazy every now
and then.

room 1014

there is nothing
worse than
sneaking into
a motel room
in the middle
of the day when
either she
or you are
married and both
of you are
cheating lying
rats. and you've
pulled the shades
down, moved the
curtains from side
to side to keep
the light out.
the whole
thing stinks
of denial
and betrayal.
you are going to
hell, no doubt.
but there you are
sitting on
the edge of a
saggy mattress
in your black
socks and a pair
of white bvd's
putting quarters
into the machine
to make the bed
vibrate and shake
and she's taking
her clothes
off while she's
crying, smoking
a cigarette and
rubbing a blue tattoo
on her arm that
says jimmy.

mint chip icecream

do me
a favor
she says.
don't call me
anymore. don't
write or stop
by, or anything.
just leave me
the hell alone.
then she
slams the phone
down. i take
another lick
of my icecream
cone. mint
chip. there are
little nuggets
of dark chocolate
immedded within.
i could eat
the whole half
gallon. i'm
surprised at
her anger though.
i thought that
things had been
going along
so well up
until this point.

becoming an artist

you decide to quit
your day job
and become an artist.
you're tired of
working for the man.
you feel it's time
to give back to
the world, to let
your talents shine.
you will paint
portraits, cathedrals,
landscapes. you'll
paint weddings
and funerals,
the world will
ooh and ahh
at your masterpieces.
people will be amazed
at the detail and wonder
if they are photographs.
you go out and
get the best of
everything, brushes,
canvases, an easel.
you buy a purple
beret and set it
on your head,
slightly tilted,
you don't shave or
take a shower
for a few days. you pull
on a black sweater
and tear a hole in
the front. you get
into the habit
of making little
squares with your
fingers, giving
everything a frame.
you squint at the light
as you take a swig
of cheap red wine from
a bottle. you take
everything down
to the river, you
are ready to begin.
and then you realize
that you know nothing
about art, about
paint, about how
to sketch even
a cow, but this
doesn't faze you,
you go buy more wine,
you buy a case. your
hand dips the tip
of a brush into the
red paint and you slash
it onto the canvas.
you have decided that
abstract is more
your style anyway.

why we drink

can you bring
the price down. just
a little, she
says, holding
the estimate in her
hand. we're taking
a round the world
trip and it would
be nice to have
a little extra cash
to take with us
when we go. so
could you drop the
bill a hundred bucks
or so. we'll get
you more work don't
worry about that. i
promise you. we love
your work. you're
the best.
she yells out to her
husband who is loading
the mercedes wagon
with gucci luggage.
right dear. aren't
we going to have
the kitchen done next
year? just drop it a
little sweetie
and we'll let you
have the job. okay?

lettuce girl

she doesn't
eat meat, or fish,
or fowl, or
candies, nuts,
cookies, or
icecream. not
a noodle touches
her lips, not
a slice of bread,
or a glass
of milk goes
down the hatch.
no eggs, no cheese,
no chips, no
dip. she'd
rather leap out
the window than
have a slice
of pizza. and yet
she wonders
why she's so pale,
so fragile,
that her skin is
like paper, and
that she often
leans into
a wall before
she almost faints.
where are my keys,
my phone, my coupons
for soy milk
and lettuce is her
often heard
refrain before
staggering out
into the freezing
fifty degree day.

the national zoo

write me a funny
one. short too.
something i can
read in less than
a minute. make it
bite sized, fun
size. brief and
sweet,and make it
about me and you.
pretend we're in
love, that we're
happy, that the
skies are blue,
and we will live
happily ever after
like monkeys
swinging from
their knotted
ropes at the
national zoo.

prayer life

you pray before you
go to sleep, it's a
nightly calling involving
catholic guilt, fear
and blind faith, but
after confessing
a half a dozen things
that cross your mind,
it's the usual prayers
about sickness
and health, work,
relationships, children,
parents. world peace
would be nice too, as
well as a prayer for
the victims of natural
disasters that you
just saw on the eleven
o'clock news.
that sort of thing,
trying hard to cover
all the bases, you even
sneak in a sidebar
about how much good you
could do with your winnings
if allowed to pick
the correct string of
numbers for the mega
million lottery.
basically it's alot
of blah blah blah
that God has heard
over and over again when
you are too tired to put
together something original,
something nice and sincere,
but the hurriedness
of it all doesn't mean
you don't mean it, and
you understand that He
probably gets that too,
He is God after all and
He realizes that you
are tired and need some
sleep after a long hard
day of work and trying
to behave as best
you can in this day
and age of the internet
and dating, being single
and having a martini
shaker on your kitchen
counter. so you should be
good with those prayers,
but feel that you need
to mix it up a little.
you don't want God to
get bored with you,
or punish you with the
plague, or locusts, or
forty years of wandering
around the desert, hmmm,
you think, maybe that's
what's been going on
after all. after this
brief epiphany you are
really tired, and look
at the clock on the
nightstand. almost
three minutes of continual
prayer has taken place.
you are exhuasted so
you unfold your hands
and try to get some sleep.
still feeling guilty.

the barber

the barber
leans over with
his clippers,
his hand gently
moving your
head by touching
your chin. you
can smell
the cigarette he
smoked an hour ago
before you came
in and his cheap
cologne is a dull
cloud around
his chair. his
white tunic
is yellowed
at the collar,
the sleeves cut
short. his watch
has stopped
some time ago,
maybe years, but
it's gold
and shiny, and
he asks you how's
work, how are
things, he mentions
the weather, how
the wind is
blowing and blowing
outside
the large lettered
window, from
which he sees. he's
from another
country, somewhere
you've never been,
and yet here you
are, getting what's
left of your hair
cut, just you,
just him.

eat pray sleep

this book you are
reading, slogging
through, is more
like it, is a best
seller. everyone
has it under their
arm, sitting on
a bench or in a
coffee shop turning
pages as if they
were on fire. and
yet. you want to throw
it not just across
the room, but out
the window and you
want it to circle
the earth until it
hits the author,
lightly, i might
add, in the head.
you can't read this
mass produced jive
anymore. it stinks.
it's boring, it's
predictable, it's
written to be made
into a movie, or
worse for television.
the characters are
hardly fleshed out,
it's plot driven,
you don't care really
what happens, but
there it is. the girl this,
the girl that, the
secret life of something,
eat pray, go to sleep.
where the hell is
carver, cheever, updike
and bellow. flannery.
and salinger. all gone.

what she wants

she wants to pick
blueberries
somewhere out
past front royal,
at a quaint farm that
gives you a basket
and a few hours
to pluck the vines
clean to your heart's
content. she wants
to taste wine in
middleburg, perhaps
shop a little
for an antique vase,
or desk, or rustic mirror
for a wall above
her mantle. she wants
to go to a museum
and sit on a cushioned
bench and stare into
the likes of rembrandt
or van gogh, and ponder
the meaning of life
and art. she'd like
to go see the cherry
blossoms and have a
stranger take our picture
arm in arm beneath
the pink canopy of trees
near the tidal basin,
she'd like to take a
weekend at the beach,
stay at a comfy bed
and breakfast and walk
hand in hand finding
white shells along
the deserted shore
that whisper the ocean
into our ears.
she wants to share a
sunset, a sunrise, an
icecream cone. a poem.
and all of this
is good, it's fine,
you're in. really.
you're there. except
the big game starts
in exactly an hour,
and there's a pizza on
the way. there's cold
beer in the fridge for
you and some cut up
veggies and soy milk
for her. and, well,
you ask her for a
rain check on all of
that and you use words
like honeybun, sugarplum,
my sweet petunia as
she grabs her purse
and heads out the door.

at first

she says that
she wants nothing.
not a single thing.
just clothes, some
jewelry, books,
a pillow to sleep on
and that's all.
the rest he can keep.
i want my heart
back, my life.
i want to start
from scratch.
to go back to who
i was before
marriage, before
compromise,
before promises
were made
and not kept. but
things have changed
and now she wants
more.

buzz off

you want
to let every
fly out
that's buzzing
madly against
your screen,
caught between
the windows
of your life.
you want them
to go, to
stop being so
close, so
annoying and bug
like. we can
still be
friends, yes,
but from a
distance.

doctor

i no longer
make house calls.
my profession is
too large. i've
grown too big for
such time consuming
pursuits. my hours
are limited too.
check the schedule.
sundays i am no
longer open, no
longer taking calls.
it's cash only
from here on out.
no cards, no checks,
no money orders.
bring small bills.
sign in, sit still
and be patient. fill
out the forms and
my assistant will
get to you all in
good time. there is
no need to see me,
to talk to me, but
i'll know you're here
and that's enough.

night swim

at night
you build things.
bridges, structures,
cathedrals.
your dreams are
works of art
without struggle,
or sweat. you
ease into
them like silk
clothes, like
soft warm water
of the bluest
of oceans. you
swim throughout
the night and never
touch the bottom.

the kiss

you can't just
kiss me like that
and walk away,
and never call,
never send me
a note of thanks,
or a thought about
plans for
tomorrow. you
can't kiss someone
and feel it
in your toes,
and just have it
end like that, have
the story finish,
and close. how
about another.
and another, see
where that leads,
see where it
takes us, see where
we might go.

travel light

if you had to,
you could fit
everything you
need or want
into a bag that
fits into the
overhead storage.
the rest can be
left behind.
and what that
says about you,
your life's
accumulations
is that other
things are more
important, hold
more weight. if
you have to
take it with
you, it has no
value. pack up
love, take
friendships,
keep memories,
travel light.

at the fountain

we are to meet
at the fountain
that no longer
works, no
longer sprays
great plumes
of water into
the air. they've
shut if off
for lack of
funds, lack
dollars to pay
for such a work
of art. so
the founatin
is dry, and no
one really seems
to mind, and
bright pennies
with their wishes
still lie along
the bottom
catching sunlight.
and it's here
that i wait for
you, as i'm
early and you're
late, as usual,
feeling as dry
and lacking
in words
as this fountain
is of water.

the milwaukee airport

there are planes
in the air,
shadows with long
arms and blinking
red lights,
circling, and landing
with a screeching
thud, and halt,
the whine of
engines going
down, or revving up
to rise and disappear.
there is
the collaboration
of luggage
and food, and
coffee spills,
babies crying,
and a voice overhead
expressing late
arrivals, or
delays, there is
the wait, the stale
limbo of it all
that keeps you
on edge, nothing
distills and settles
the moment as
you look at your
boarding pass,
your gate, your
flight number, again
and again, making sure
it's where it
was two minutes
ago. you'd
like to be where
you need to be in
your life, to be
at the last place
you land,
but this is how
you get there. this
is the first step.

finding a place to be

as you unload
the dishwasher
again,
as you've done
every other day
for as long as
you can remember,
there is a rhythmn
to the bend and
opening of
cabinet doors,
still hot or
warm, each dish or
spoon holding it's
own idea of heat,
the clink and hurry
of it all,
flat dishes here,
the bowls go up
there, glasses with
the other glasses,
of course, and
cups. the shuffle
of silverware into
the proper bed
of drawers. everything
with a place to
be, and you, when
done, keep moving
towards her.

the white house tour

she wanted
my address, my
social security
number, my age
and date of birth,
my weight and height,
my mother's maiden
name. my middle
name too. she
wanted to know
about any
past arrests,
or pending
charges, if any,
she wanted to
know if i was
a member of the
communist party,
or have ever fired
a gun. no, no,
and no to all
of that. she wanted
to know where
i went to school,
where i worked,
where i kept my
money, at what
bank. i'm in
a dark room right
now awaiting
the water torture
before i'm
allowed in.

honeybee

when she speaks
it's not unlike
hitting the side
of an enormous
beehive, with
a stick. out
go the words,
the thoughts,
the logic in
every direction.
the buzz is loud
and constant,
and you can't
stop them from
flying out of
the hive.
but they are
honeybees for
the most part
with no stingers,
and that makes
it okay. well
sort of.

you are homesick

for places
you've never
been to. you
miss people that
you've never met,
you are hungry
for food
you've never
tasted. there is
something missing,
something
that isn't there,
quite yet. you
are cold when
you should be
warm, and tired
when you should be
wide awake. there
is nothing new
to learn, there
is a world out
there you know
nothing about.
love is difficult
and distant, love
is all you want.

two kinds of people

i like to volunteer, thelma tells me 

while we're getting to know
one another over drinks

at an outside cafe on the boardwalk.
we met on an internet dating site 

called 'bottom of the barrel'.
i read to the blind, she says,

dipping a piece of fried

calamari  into a little tub of ketchup.
i'm a helper, a doer.
i'm in all the marches
for all the diseases, all the causes.
i have more ribbons and t-shirts 

than i can count.
pink ones, yellow ones, blue ones. 

just yesterday
i made a hundred chicken
pot pies and took them
all down to the shelter
in my prius while  they were still hot

i might even have a couple
of them left in there
if you want one. so, what about you?
are you like that too? a helper. 

i always  say, there are two kinds
of people, those that
help and those that stand
on the sidelines and complain

and don't help. which one are you?
i take a sip of my gin and tonic

which is suddenly not strong enough.
i look out to a large grey freighter

plowing slowly across the horizon.
i wish i was on that boat,
hauling crates of chickens or snow
tires to singapore or someplace
far away. to be honest with you thelma, 

i've been kind of busy lately.

so i haven't been helping or marching
for anything too much.
she frowns at me and says,
oh my, you are a bad boy, aren't you. 

what have you been busy with? she says,
sipping her wine and letting out

a sigh of disappointment.

well, what are you so busy with 

that you can't help others? 

i look back out at the boat, 

and feel one of my eyelids start to twitch.
i try to imagine swimming that far.

i think that i can do it if i get a running start.

oh just life, thelma,
i've been really really busy lately
with stuff, yardwork, things
like that. but i plan on helping people

real soon. honest. 

deep inside of me i'm really

a people person. i love people. honest.

by the way,
you have some of ketchup
on your chin.

stay off the rope

the shrill whistle
of the thin tanned
boy, up high in the chair,
white zinc spread
on his long nose,
sunglasses on, and red
trunks. he blows again
the high pitched whistle
making heads turn
to where the trouble
lies, and yells. stay off
the rope and waves with
his long arms urgently
for the children
to stop hanging onto
the blue twine stretched
from one silver hook
to the other. dividing
the deep water from
the shallow. and as
you swim through life
there seems to always
be a rope and someone
blowing a whistle as
you move about the pool.

the deep end

what does it mean to say
that one has gone off
the deep end?

where is the deep end,
are they there forever
when he or she departs.

or is it a short visit.
i had an aunt who had
gone there and never

came back. i remember
my mother whispering into
the phone that her sister

had gone off the deep end.
and as a child i imagined
her springing off a highdive

with her arms spread open,
sailing gracefully
through the blue summer air.

i wanted for a long time
to know where this place was,
would i know it when i arrived.

would i too, someday, go there.

a breakfast chat

you are so so
self-centered, she
says on the phone.
you have such an elevated
opinion of yourself.
it's all about you!
uh huh, i say.
i have my droid phone
cupped between my shoulder
and chin as i listen
to her babble on. i'm
in the middle of making
breakfast, i tell her,
some one minute quaker
oats, so if i lose you,
call back, these touch
screens are so sensitive.
she continues, ignoring
me as usual. you are
self-absorbed and
heartless, she says.
i take a long woooden
spoon and stir up the oats
so that nothing sticks
to the bottom of the pot.
they are so hard to clean
when that happens. hate
that. i turn the heat down
when it comes to a boil,
right before it goes
over the top edge like
volcanic lava. i then
throw some walnuts and
cranberries on top,
sprinkle on some
granulated brown
sugar, a sweet brown
dusting and pour
a little milk in.
you are so narcissistic
and passive aggressive,
she yells with what sounds
like bitterness,
you only care about
yourself, you need
constant attention
and reassurance
and yet give nothing
back to others, especially
me. you hold the phone away
and blow on your hot
bowl of oatmeal, it
needs to cool a little
or otherwise it could
burn your tongue. she
continues, there is
not an empathetic bone
in your cold body. selfish
is your middle name. i
don't know how i ever
got mixed up with the
likes of you, so
just lose my number,
my e mail, i regret
the day we ever met.
hold on i tell her,
as i lean over
and blow on the steamy
bowl. i take a cold
spoon and taste. yum,
i say. hmmm that's
good. are you even
listening to a word
i'm saying, she says.
i can almost hear
her shaking with anger.
what's up, i ask
her. why so blue today?
you seem really upset
about something. come
on over, i made some
oatmeal. there's plenty
for the both of us.

the pie store

there's a husband
and wife pie
store down the street
from me. you can
smell the sweet
scent of baking
in the air, like
a warm wave of
angelic comfort.
all they sell are
pies. no cakes, no
donuts, not even
a cup of coffee.
but on the shelf
in boxes, and under
the glass counter are
rhubarb, peach,
apple, pumpkin pies,
boston cream too.
all of them are deep
dish with flaky
crusts. the dough
is rolled out and
baked right there
in the store. at six
in the morning
i see the husband
leave, covered in
flour, his hat tilted,
his back hunched
and his wife arriving
to open shop and sell
the pies. they say
nothing, but kiss
each other on the lips
lightly, then go their
separate ways. each
doing what needs to
be done to keep
this love alive.

three hours

let me up.
let me go.
cut me loose.
say farewell,
adios.
break the chain,
unlock
the door, kill
the music.
enough is
enough. i can't
take any
more. it was
fun while it
lasted. the best
three hours of
my life, but
i'm done, cooked,
fried and
finished. it's
time to move on,
move out,
go west. get on
that old horse
and ride. i'll
see you on
that proverbial
flip side. yeah.
i know. i've got
nothing but
cliches for you.
and that should
tell us something.

discount lawyer

tied here, staked naked
to the ground with ants
all around, and biting,
and animals coming
up for a sniff and
nibble at my legs
and arms, i wonder
if we can renegotiate
our divorce. your
lawyer was so much
better than mine, i'll
admit that. i should
have searched harder
than the mall outlet
store, but i'm
willing to compromise
now. i see the error
of my ways. i need
some water, just a
sip, and let's iron
out the details before
the vultures fly
down and begin to do
what vultures do. why
is your mother holding
that shovel?

a good start

just because you can
bake a cake,
make beef stew,
and mix a martini
with one hand
tied behind
your back while
wearing high
heels, doesn't mean
that i'll fall
in love with you,
but it's an awfully
good start.

paperbacks

use a bookmark
she says, here,
take mine. i don't
like the way you
bend the page,
dog ear every place
you stop. it's
annoying and it
ruins the book. i
don't like what
you are doing to
that book. i
stare at her while
i crease another
corner with wet
fingers. then close
it. it's not the kings
james bible for
crying out loud.
it's grisham, he'll
have another book
out in an hour.
and besides, it's
paperback. i might
light the grill with
it this summer.
you have no respect
for property she
says and gets up to
get the phone to make
a call. i hear her
telling her mother
about the book and
what a horrible person
i can be sometimes.
i think about never
reading again, but
then jump back into
to where i left off.
it's a great story. i
can't wait for the movie.

complaints

there's alot of
complaining going on
at the water cooler.
i don't have a
water cooler, but
wish i did, just to be
a part of the
complaining, where
should we begin.
traffic, the weather,
the price of coffee.
how about those
'skins'. of course
there's the economy,
and the kids,
the wife, the ex
wife, the dog,
the cat, the grub
worms in the yard.
the price of gas,
the price of gin.
work.

the mole

you don't have a doctor,
you've never had one,
there's never been
a need. you've toughed
out the flu, stitched
yourself up, everything
has been over the counter.
your medicine cabinet
consists of bandaids
and aspirin. ice packs.
but things are starting
to add up, besides the
chronic knee pain,
there's this mole on
the side of your head
that your dentist keeps
poking at when you give
her another two thousand
dollars to replace a
crown. maybe you should
have someone take
a look at the mole, she
says as she takes your
wallet out of your pocket
and counts out her fee.
shave it off with a
scalpel. it's more
of a beauty mark, you
tell her. which makes
her laugh. she has a
beautiful smile, great
teeth, no moles that
i can see.

thai food on tuesday night

alone at the table
with watch
and phone laid
out, a set of keys,
the morning paper,
it's tuesday,
and you're ordering
thai food at
eight p.m., a
cold beer, you have
a window seat on
mt. vernon avenue.
no one is out and
about. a cool breeze
blows in when
the door opens
and the bells rings.
you feel like
something spicy,
maybe shrimp, chicken.
rice. carrots and
basil. another
beer. you flip
through the phone.
seeing what
gives, what's
new. what's gone.
you can't read
the paper in here,
it's too dark
and shadowy.
across the room a
woman is pointing
at her husband,
she yells
at his grey face
in a whisper. her
blue eyes sparkle
horribly, he
can't even look
up. the only
words you hear are
this is the last time,
harold, or else
i'm leaving you for
good. you suddenly
feel much better
about your life.
you order that sweet
gummy rice dessert
and coffee.

the nightmare

my friend claudia
told me in the hallway
of our building as
she was getting
the mail that she was
depressed. why, i said,
what's up with that.
and she said that
everything was going
fine. things were
great. her life
was finally in a good
place and she had
nothing to worry about.
i have money, i have
a nice dog, i have
three fun guys that
i'm dating that don't
want to get married
or have me meet
their mothers.
i love my job, and
my doctor just told
me that i'm in perfect
health. damn, i said.
whew. i don't think
i could handle all
of that. be careful.
i know, she said, it's
a nightmare.

doing the hop

she only had
one leg, but it
didn't stop her
from dancing. no
not at all.
but it was awkward
at best
and sometimes,
if she drank too
much, and i wasn't
there to catch her,
she'd take
an awful fall.

the favorite marble

you never risked
your favorite marble.
the one you treasured,
the one with blue
and silver sparkling
within it's glass
enclousure. a perfect
cat's eye. that
marble never saw
the middle of the
drawn dirt circle.
instead you threw out
the dull, the worn,
the chipped, the
yellow ones that had
no soul, no grip
upon your childhood
psyche. never did
the sweet one get
lost. and you still
have it, even now
within your dresser
drawer, as precious
as a diamond, as
valuable as youth
itself.

only this middle

your left hand
is cold upon
my neck and yet
i don't tell
you not to touch
me. i let it
stay. i let you
have your way
with what you
do. you'll be
gone soon enough.
it isn't love
to begin with, nor
will it be in
the end, in fact
there is no end.
there is only
this middle
where we pretend.

another list

your list
is unwritten.
it's there though.
tucked away
in the shirt pocket
of your brain.
it's not about
bread and milk,
or eggs anymore.
it's something
else. something
beyond what can
be purchased
in a store. it
involves you, your
mysterious
and every present
presence.

staying put

unmoved, you stay,
you sit. you let the sun
fall over
your shoulder. you
swim into the darkness.
let the cool water
of air collect
and take you under.
but you stay. you
sit. you are waiting.
you are tired of
movement. of change,
of disorder. your
hands are folded.
you stay, you sit.
you are done with
doing things the way
they were done
before. you will let
it come to you.
this is how it will
be from here
on out.

it wasn't all bad

you left your blonde
wig on the bed post.
and your whip and
plastic toy gun, that
springs out a flag
that says pop. you
are so clever, so
much fun. shame we
aren't married
anymore. i always
loved your pot roast,
your mashed potatoes,
your lavishedly iced
sweet cinammon buns.

zen and gin

you are feeling very
zen like after two
martinis, the world
has slowed down to
an understandable
pace, after three
you are quite sure
that you are cross
between the dalai lama,
and jack kerouac
and you can speak
easily and smartly on
the order of the universe,
the meaning of life.
after four, you are
the fool you were before
you started, and more
so. no vote needs to
be taken. it's
unanimous as you fall
asleep on the cold
tile of the bathroom
floor.

slim pickings

she can't eat.
not a bite goes
in that doesn't
quickly come out.
she makes sure of
that. she's a stick
figure in high
heels. there is not
a mirror that
she likes or a scale
that registers her
weight just right.
she's melting before
your eyes. no top,
no bottom, not a
single pound to
grab hold of.
everything she wears
doesn't cling, doesn't
fit, it just slides
to the floor like
carnival rings.
she needs a sandwich
and a shake in a bad
way. and with that,
we've only just begun.

heads up

as she flung her
christmas tree
off the blacony
of her ninth floor
condo, she forgot
to take the lights
off, and the star
on top. but it was
march. and the whole
thing at this point
was an afterthought.
she had no idea
though that her
neighbor who blows
smoke through the
vents, because they
hate each other
was down below walking
her dog. it was
an accident and yet,
perhaps not.

hitting the jersey wall

as your car swerves,
because you aren't
paying attenion
and hits the jersey
wall and you see
your life upside down,
you can't help
but notice how
blue the sky
is, how the birds
don't pay you
anymind, and
that in your hand,
your phone is
beeping loudly, you
have another call.

marital advice

your horse looks
tired. i saw her roll
her eyes at my
horse. she thinks
you're too heavy
in the saddle, that
you ride her
too hard, you're
too strong with
the whip, too
frugal with the oats,
the sugar cubes.
maybe you should
ease up on her,
give her some room,
some love, wash her
down and whisper into
her ear that you
love her. take
the saddle off and
let her roam the open
field where the fresh
grass is green
and high.

magellan

how far is it,
are we almost there.
we've circled
the known world.
it'll be dark soon
and we're thirsty,
we're hungry, we
haven't slept
in days. where
are we, are we
almost there. i'm
tired, i'm lonely,
i'm scared that we
might not ever
arrive, never set
foot on dry land.
our supplies have
dwindled down
to nothing, the shelves
are bare. how long
can this ocean
hold us up, keep us
moving towards
the promised land.
our eyes strain to
see a shore, any shore
will do. it's not
a good place to be.
it's exactly the reason
that i ended up
with you.

she purrs

she is a lean
feline on the sill
purring with
a lilt and quiet
flash of blue
eyes. she arches
her back, and
smiles. she knows
more than you
know. and
everything,
everything is up
to her. patience
is not one
of your many
virtues.

frozen clothes

while i was hanging
my laundry out on
the line the other day,
i was humming a song with
clothespins in my mouth,
up went the shirts
and pants, socks.
the blouse that you left
that said dry clean only.
it was sunny and warm.
there was a nice
breeze blowing, birds
were chirping, carrying
sticks, making nests.
the sky was blue like
an egg and blown clean
of clouds. the world
had taken a sharp turn
towards good, towards
spring. so this snow
and string of frozen
clothes still on
the line this morning,
surprised me, to say
the least. nothing has
changed, quite yet, except
the size of your blouse.

pressure

in a minute you
tell her, just give
me one more minute.
i need to think
this over. i need
to ponder my answer.
just give me a
few more seconds.
don't rush me, don't
push me into making
a rash decision,
there are so many
choices, so many
roads to take. okay.
okay. i'm almost there,
i'm ready. okay.
i think i know what
i want. french vanilla.
one scoop in a cup.

the wig store

she shaves her head
completely bald and takes
the strands down to
the store where they
construct wigs for
those without hair.
she's not only making
a statement about who
she is, but she's
doing a good thing as
well. but they tell
her no, we can't use
your hair, sorry, it's
been overprocessed and
it's not good enough
for our wigs. so she
leaves and puts the
bag of her long blonde
hair into the trash.
she rubs her head,
feeling the smooth
soft bristles of her
scalp. she puts her
hat on. it's snowing.

up all night

as the neighor goes
out to get her paper
at the end of the
sidewalk, she is in
curlers and flip
flops, a half open
robe. she is pregnant
and smoking a cigarette.
i heard her get in
at two a.m. last
night, waking me
up with her customary
saturday night fight
with jimmy, or someone.
she sees me on the
porch and waves,
smirks and says, up
early, ain't we. she's
still wearing lipstick.
yes, i say. we are, in
fact some of us have
been up all night.

writing

the sudden knock at
the door, or the phone
ringing interrupts
the thought, the
almost hatched
phrase nearly out
of it's shell,
with wings. so
close, but too
late though. it's
finished without
a finish.
the dream, so
smooth and full
and going everywhere
at once, is over.

betrayal

what isn't ruined
by love, is made
whole, if both have
agreed to travel
as one down a
certain road, but
once one veers off
and strays, there
is no going back,
no words, no
repentance, or
remorse that will
find it saved.

chips

take this bag
of chips away
from me, please.
i can't stop eating
them. one after another.
each salty taste
leading to one
more dip of hand
into the bag.
another, then
another. it reminds
so much of you.

the note

the needle
that was
in your arm
lies on the
stained rug
it's tip
still glistening
wet with
drug, your
doll black
eyes vacant
and large,
your lips, so
ruby red, still
inviting even
in this stunned
state of
final silence.
you have
found the train
to go under,
the tower
to leap from,
the correct
dose to sleep
and sleep
and sleep
and sleep.
and there is no
note. your
life was
that.

lost in the funhouse

i see you
in the fun house,
holding onto
the rails, ducking
the cobwebbed
ceilings with bent
mirrors and spiders
that drop and rise.
i see you navigate
the oblong corridor
and short door,
a window slanted
sideways. i see
you in the puff
of false smoke,
the giggled echo
coming out of nowhere
as the retractable
clown swings
out to scare no
one. i see you in
the fun house.
it is neither fun,
nor a house. it's
just another place
you can't be
reached, where you
are safe from
the outside world.

pot roast

when you come in
the door, and throw
your hat down, take
off your coat
you smell something
in the kitchen, cooking,
in the stove. you had
forgotten that you
had a stove.
a dog comes up wagging
his tail. you don't
remember having a dog
either. you go into
the kitchen and open
the oven door to see
a pot roast almost
done, with potatoes
and carrots, onions.
a wave of heat and
the scent of succulent
meat rises
into your face. you
are suddenly warm
with memory. you are
at home. you are
loved afterall. you
are hungry and ready
for dinner. you see
the rolls on the counter,
the salad in the bowl.
there are plates on
the table. then you see
a stack of mail.
you pick up an envelope
and begin to open it.
but you see that it
is addressed to
someone else. your
heart sinks, you are in
the wrong house, but
you don't leave. you
wait for dinner. you
have been waiting
a long time for a meal
like this.

everything almost

i have enough of
everything i really
need. i have
enough food in the
icebox, enough forks,
and spoons, enough
plates with which
to eat off of.
there's enough
gas in the tank,
enough water
and heat, the roof
is good. i have
shoes and shoes
and shoes. socks
too. there
is plenty of money
in the bank,
there's change
in the bowl,
cash in the drawer.
i have two books
of stamps. i have an
egg beater.
i even have a frozen
pizza which i
will never eat. all
i need is a phone
call or two. okay.
an e mail, a text.
a smoke signal,
some sort of message,
even a whisper
from you, will do
and then i'm good.
really good.

i'm all in

as you tip
your hand,
showing me
a card or two,
but not
all of them.
i can see
the trouble
we might get
into if the
game goes on
late into the
night, and we
open up
another bottle
of wine,
putting
everything
on the table,
including us.

april snow

she has no cat,
no bird, no
goldfish in
a bowl, but her
bags are packed
and she's at
the curb waiting
to find out
in which direction
she needs to travel.
she blinks
her blue eyes
in the april snow.
soon, she says, very
soon, i'm sure i'll
figure it all
out. i'll awaken
from this dream,
and then i'll know.

parking hell

your version
of hell involves
parking garages.
deep dark tunnels
of dimmly lit
ramps and tight
spaces, with locked
doors and a maze
of signs leading
somewhere, nowhere.
the narrow turns,
going down and down.
you can't find
your way out,
the ticket won't
work, there is no
one around to help
you. even your phone
won't pick up a
signal as you walk
and walk and mumble
was it B-2, or C-2,
or has it been towed.

every blue moon

it happens, you want
more, you want
to read the last
page first, have
dessert before
dinner. you want
to know the heart
before you've kissed
or even held hands.
you want spring
without winter.
you want her
to be summer all
year long. you want
to stay despite how
little you know.

she's in the bushes

i see you outside
the house, in the bushes.
peeking in, but i
pretend that i don't
see you. i let you do
your secretive thing,
moving from window
to window checking up
on me. your ear to
the wall, to the glass,
the door. it's okay. i've
been there, and know that
jealous feeling. it's not
a good way to live,
but it will pass. you'll
heal and move on and
eventually see the
foolishness of your ways,
meanwhile, i left a plate
of cookies and a glass
of milk out for you on
the back porch when you
make your way around,
over the fence and onto
the deck. shame things
didn't work out between
us. blow on the cookies
first, they're still warm.

childhood

fast asleep, he
is, in the other
room, his crib,
the mobile
unmoving
above his head,
the clowns
and animals still
dancing on
the walls, his
hair is silk,
his skin as soft
as it will ever
be and soon, this
will all be gone,
the change has
already started.
he has begun to
move to the side
of his own life.
today is now
tomorrow and his
childhood is but
a distant song.

the sun is high

as your feet
go through the cold
stream, your shoes
are off, the sand
is soft, the pebbles
smooth. she waits
on the other
side. it's summer,
her dress is white,
her hair is dark.
she has no name.
she is young, as
you are and it's
the beginning of
your life, not the
end. you have
started over, been
given a second
chance to get to
the other side, you
are careful this
time. you are in
no rush. you want
to do it right.
the water is cold,
the sun is high.

the train finds them

there seems to be
no reason why, these
cars get stuck
on the tracks, or
why without purpose
someone gets hit
and dies beneath
a train. it's roar,
it's whistle is
constant as it
arrives, as it
departs, it's hard
to understand why,
it keeps happening
despite the lights,
the warnings,
the crossing gate,
the signs. the train
finds them one
way or the other.

Best Seller

my friend isabella
told me on the phone that
she is reading a
wonderful book these
days called
dating online 101
and it's full of
fantabulous tips such as
when to give out your
number, when to allow
the first kiss.
where to meet on a
first 'date', what
to say, what to wear,
it's all there in easy
to follow steps with
color illustrations.
how to end the night
when things aren't
going well. the fake
text that your house
is on fire, or a pipe
has broken and you must
get back home, the lukewarm
handshake, the pat on
the back farewell. the
kiss on both cheeks
as if you're in france
or italy, ciao baby.
then there's the tip
about when to get up
and go to the bathroom
to avoid paying any part
of the check. it's all
about timing, she says.
it gives great examples
of texts and e mails gently
telling your date that
you had a great time, but
to never contact them again.
it's truly a wonderful
book, there is
even a chapter on
giving the stiff arm
when the guy full of
wine tries to kiss you
with his mouth wide open
like a flounder, not
to mention how to block
and delete and how
to a get a restraining
order. there's a great
photo of how to
effectively point
your pepperspray at an
over amorous date. he'll
drop to his knees like
a baby seal, she says,
and then you can just
push him to the ground
and run to your car.
the blurb on the cover
says, "how to eat out at
five star restaurants
five times a week
and never spend
a nickel". so where are
you going tonight i ask
her. and she squeals loudly
into the phone. morton's
tonight and cafe milanos
tomorrow. sweet i tell
her. sweet. good luck,
don't eat too much. thanks,
she says, ciao baby!

the great swim

you decide to swim
around the world using
alternate strokes,
the butterfly and
the dog paddle are
your favorites.
you have some free
time on your hands
because work is slow
and your girlfriend
has recently
told you that she no
longer wants to be
in the same room
with you. pffft.
who needs her. so
you start to get ready.
you take vitamins,
spoonfuls of fish oil,
and eat vegetables.
you load up on salmon
and rockfish, tuna.
you consume sardines
like candy. you drink
plenty of milk. every
morning you stretch
and do deep knee
bends, then you soak
in the tub for hours.
sometimes you go under
and hold your breath
for minutes at a time.
you are getting ready
for your swim, your
journey like a fish
across the seven
seas. you stare at
a map of the world
and visualize your
quest. you see that
the world is seventy
five per cent water
and you hope that
someone stops you
before it gets any
further than where
it is.

peppermint patty

let's pretend that none
of this every happened,
okay. let's just roll
back that old clock
on the wall and imagine
that i never threw that
peppermint patty across
the room and struck you
in the forehead, causing
a two inch gash. who
knew that the foil and
frozen chocolate could
cause such damage. but
let's put all of that
behind us, okay. the
stitches won't be in
that long, and the welt
will subside over time.
come here and hug me,
sweetie pie. i promise
to never throw a pepper
mint patty at you again.
no need to make a big
fuss over a little bitty
accident.

short a few bucks

i'm short a few
bucks, a couple
of inches too, i wish
i was taller so
that i could
reach things on
the upper shelf.
i forget what's
even up there
and i no longer have
a ladder. my neighbor
kit kat, i know,
crazy name, but she's
a hair stylist,
borrowed it when
she had squirrels
in her attic and
had to shoo them
out with my broom.
she got married to
a cop who was renting
one of her rooms
and moved and took
both the ladder
and the broom
with her and the
new taller than
me groom. i didn't
even get an invite
to the wedding.
so i'm short a few
bucks, and i can't
buy anything new.
at least not for
awhile.

lie detecter

i carry a lie
detector with me
everywhere i go.
it's battery
and solar powered.
and when i meet
someone of interest
from dating online
and want to know
the truth, i strap
her up and hit
the switch on. it's
best to start off
with the easy
questions, such as,
is your husband still
living in the basement,
how many cats do
you have, do you
have any money
whatsover to pay for
your portion of
dinner tonight,
are you currently
taking any depression
medicine and have
you ever been in a
straight jacket?
those questions seem
to end things
rather quickly.

the bus driver

she had strong
hands, not like a
man, but a pair
of girly hands
that had strength
and jar opening
capabilities.
they were tough
and veined, and yet
she kept the nails
polished like little
strawberries in a
patch. i asked her
how she got such
a powerful set of
hands and she said
that she was a bus
driver, and that
by turning the wheel
of that giant city
bus, driving it
through traffic
and pulling on
that handle to open
and close those
heavy flap doors
made them that way.
on the first date
we arm wrestled and
my hand went flying
into the clams
casino as she easily
pressed my flimsy
grip down.

getting organized

your book keeping
skills are lacking,
writing on the back
of envelopes and
napkins is no way
to run a business
or a social life,
but you do the best
you can. you only
have a few more
years to go anyway.
if your fingers were
smaller and able
to type more readily
onto your stupid
new droid phone
that continually drops
calls, you'd be more
organized. but no.
it's not happening. so
if i don't get back
to you, or lose
your number and you
fall between the cracks
or crevices don't be
concerned, it's
not from a lack of
interest. i could use
both the love and
the money. that never
seems to change.

1961

the sirens blast
loud and long
as you curl and hide
beneath your desk.
you are waiting
for the mushroom cloud
the furnace of fire
that will engulf
your world, but it
doesn't come quite
yet. and they tell
you to run home,
with your books
and the next day's
homework, run quickly,
flee to your parents
and try not to think
too much about war,
about the end of
life, about death.
and please don't forget
to bring your field
trip money to the
planetarium tomorrow,
that is if there is
a tomorrow. those
that don't have it,
can't get on the bus.

the news

the news is uncertain,
this may or may
not have happened.
rumors of war persist,
but they haven't
invaded yet the quiet
of your own life.
you hear about a wave
of sorrow, a fire
of revolution, but
still you are safe,
as you sit and drink
your coffee and check
the scores to last
night's game. you
are untouched, as most
of the world is
but what goes on, by
what makes the head
line news, but you feel
like your day will
come, that no one
will escape for long,
and it's not that you
don't care, it's just
that there is so
much, so much, and so
little you can do
to change things.

at the piano

she sits, back
straight at the piano.
her hands touching
but not pressing
on the keys. her
long slender fingers
unmoving.
her eyes are closed,
her lips pursed.
she is trying to
decide. i am waiting,
i am patient. i can
sit there for hours,
or days, if need be,
before she begins
to play. i have
decided that it is
her music that i
want to hear, to
listen to, dance to.
to fall asleep
and wake up to.
i'm just waiting on
her to play. it's in
her hands. all of it.

prayer

you find the bed
warm, and almost
any bed will
do these days.
you are wet
with rain, with
a life of work.
fatigue pulls
on your aging bones.
you pull off your
boots and fall flat
face first into
a pillow. you
will yourself to
get out of your
clothes. to turn
off the light.
you can barely bring
your hands together
to pray, and yet
you do. there has
to be some structure
and ritual that
you'll bend to
in this life.

apparition

you want to hear
her voice again.
to taste her lips,
to feel the warmth
of her body against
yours. she has become
an apparition that
you want made
whole. it's not
good, this thought.
this longing, but
it comes as quickly
as it goes. it
is a cold wash of
wave upon your soul.
and she fades like
the false light
she was, she fades,
so nearly gone.

the trees are white

the trees are white.
they've never been
this white before,
even after a snow.
they are pale
like bones, like
arms reaching
towards the black
sky, without skin,
without clothes.
the forest is white
with white trees.
they are a cloud
of ashes that won't
rise. they are what
you will be in time,
in good time.

self help

i'm bored i tell
susie, my wednesday
night girlfriend.
and she says, well,
only boring people
are bored, and i
say, where did you
get that. did you
just make it up, and
she says, no. i read
it in my new self
help book about how
to enrich your life
with fun and interesting
people. maybe you
should read it, she
says smartly. maybe
i will, i say, but i
find most boring people,
including you , alot
more interesting after
i've had a few drinks
under my belt.
so why bother with
the book? i hate you
she says. but you're
not bored are you?
i answer back. no,
she says, not at all
as she throws the book
making me duck.

elastic waist band

my friend ellen
told me that she
was admiring a pair
of extended waist
pants in the store
the other day. so
much so that she
bought three
pairs, the elastic
waist band
is a wonderful thing
she said, especially
around the holidays
and with easter just
around the corner
with all of that ham
and sweet potatoes
to be consumed, not
to mention the jelly
beans and chocolate
bunnies, and those
irresistible yellow
peeps, well,
why not get comfy
clothes. the gym
is so hard, so smelly
and dirty with all
of that sweat from
other's grunts and
groans. elastic, yay!

i'm sorry, but

i don't like
to fish, or hunt,
or cajol crabs into
a cage with
chicken strips,
or shoot birds
out of the sky
for sport, or wrestle
sharks, or jump
out of planes, or
climb icy mountains
with a goat. deep
sea diving does
not thrill me, nor
does karaoke, or
playing charades,
but you go right
ahead and do so if
it makes you happy.
i'll be back at
the lodge awaiting
your safe return,
with an ice cold
martini in front
of the fire.

the burke and herbert bank

inside the bank,
in line, waiting
your turn with your
slips and checks
and id. you see
yourself in the
monitor as the
camera swings and
switches from one
angle to the next.
and you see yourself
as others see you.
it's frightening
how old you've
suddenly become.
and it occurs to
you that maybe, just
maybe you should
withdraw all of
your money and go
out and have some
serious fun before
it's too late.

on a different page

with her sleepy eyes,
and soft hoarse
whisper, she says,
move closer, come
near. put your hand
right there.
upon my chest, place
it on my heart
and feel that beat.
my love for you
is enormous. it
fills this room.
it's the sky, the
moon, the sun and
stars. you are
everything i've ever
dreamed of, you are
the one, the only
one. i can't imagine
my life without
you. and you stretch
your arms, look
at the clock and yawn,
then say ditto babe.
hey, i'm starving,
aren't you. what's
for breakfast.

face the music

at daybreak, there is
a long long line
of women at your door
with steam coming
out of their ears.
some are holding torches
in their hands. your
mother is in there too,
and so are a few sisters.
along with your aunt
marie who drove up
from philly. many
of them are holding
what looks like baseball
bats, or clothes hangers,
along with stacks of
e mails that you've
exchanged in the past.
they seem upset about
something you've said,
or written or a
behavioral pattern
that you have acquired
over time. you edge
the curtain to the side,
just a little, to peek
out. you can't even
see the end of the line
as it wraps around
the building. you think
that you can lie there
until they all give up
and go away, but then
you hear someone yell
out, i see him. he's
in there. and then
a shout, we're not
leaving until you come
out and face the music.
you think about how much
food and water you
have in the house. you
begin to board up
the windows with lumber
and nails. you boil
oil in a big vat and
go to the roof.

red sauce

you are dressed
nicely in a crisp
white shirt, a pair
of jeans, black shoes
and socks, shaved
and trimmed, showered
and dabbed with
just the slightest
hint of cologne,
sipping a gin and
tonic at the table,
with wine on the way,
and one in her hand
across from you and as
you articulate your
world views on
literature and art,
sharing your opinions
of the world at large
with her, who works
at the white house,
you spin your pasta
on a fork into a
spoon and don't even
see the red sauce
splatter like fireworks
across the white
broad space of your
once clean shirt.

cigarettes and kissing

i like to smoke
occasionally,
she says, does
that bother you? i
mean is it a deal
breaker if we start
dating? depends,
i tell her, if
kissing is involved,
i think that it
might be a problem,
having never liked
the taste of nicotine
and ashes in
my own mouth let
alone coming from
someone else's, or
the smell of tar
on my clothes, or
hands, or in your hair.
but i can stop any
time i want to, she
says, coughing and
clearing her throat,
while she fidgets with
her pink bic lighter.
she wants to spit,
but doesn't and swallows
politely. it just helps
me to relax when i get
nervous. in fact, i
only smoke after eating,
or if i'm jittery about
something, or someone,
or if i have a cup of
coffee in the morning,
or a drink when i'm out
and about with my friends.
she removes a tiny strand
of tobacco from the
tip of her tongue and
flicks it away,
oh, and sometimes
when i walk the dog,
or if i'm on the
phone, i'll light one
up, or two. the only
other times i smoke
is after cuddling with
my significant other
and walking on the beach,
and driving. i love
to smoke when i drive,
with the radio on,
i hang it out the window
though because i don't
want the inside of my
car to stink or get
ashes on the seats,
or that yellowish
cigarette goo on
the windshield. but
it's hard to text,
smoke and drive
all at the same time
and hold the wheel
between my knees. so,
i could see giving
it up at some point,
it would be easy
though for me, because
i hardly smoke at all.
like i said. i'm just
barely a smoker. i'm
a social smoker, very
casual about it. i could
quit in a heartbeat.
so, what do you think?
me and you. are we good
for friday night?

family

one of my sisters
married a drug
dealer who was shot
up in a gun battle
many years ago.
he survived his
wounds, but not
the other guy,
who died after
he was dragged to
a swamp and had
a few bricks tied
to him. self-defense.
he was shot in
the spine, my sister's
husband, and had
to wear a metal halo
for several months
to keep his
neck in place as
he healed. he comes
to thanksgiving
dinner at my
mother's house every
year when he's not
in prison or on
the run. he always
brings her a fresh
bouquet of flowers.
she loves him. he knows
how to fix the porch,
hammer a nail, tighten
a bolt. get the toilet
to stop running.
he has given her grand
children and he loves
to play board games
late into the night,
charades too. he is
a god to her, but
with that slight
flaw of being a drug
dealer and a murderer.
i'm baffled to say
the least.

let's grow old together

she is only fifty,
but over coffee, on
our first date
she tells me that
she'd like to find
someone to grow old
with. someone who
loves her, and she
in return will love
him back. someone to
share the sunrises,
the sunsets, someone
who will push her
in a wheel chair
when her legs no
longer work and will
change her bed pan
when she can't get
up to go. someone
who will rub lotion
on her back where the
sores are from lying
there so long. clip
the long hard nails on
her blue feet. she'd
like to find someone
who will arrange her
doctor visits, line
up her pill bottles
on the shelf, someone
who will make her
soup and spoon it
to her while she
lies there with her
cats in her lap,
and smiles, with her
teeth out, knowing that
she is loved. she says
a lot more, but i
can't hear the rest
of it because i am
running down the street
as quickly as i
know how.

rain day

it's too
early to get
up, so you lie
there and listen
to the rain
rattle against
the roof, you
hear the roll
of thunder,
the wind push
against
the tall trees.
it's still
dark out, there
is no sun,
and won't be
the whole day.
if you weren't
self employed
you'd call in sick,
you'd call
the boss and
cough into the
phone and say, hey,
i'm not up to
it today. see
you tomorrow or
the next day.
but you are your
own master and
you rise. you
look out the window
at the wet
black street
and go again.

you begin to cry

you have no
water. no food.
no bed, or home.
there is
no car, no bank
account, no bills
to pay, no job
to go to. no wife,
or friends, or son.
no memories. there
are no disappoint
ments, or joyous
moments. you have
not a single worry
in your life.
you have just been
born and things
are about to change.
you begin to cry.

circling a date

you circle a date
on your calendar.
the big calendar,
the one the real estate
agent, that you don't
know, sends every
christmas. there are
two magnets on the
back that keep it snug
on the door. you've
cut off the faces of
bill and marge, the
smiling team of agents
who are smiling so
brightly with such
white teeth that it hurts
your retinas. they
don't annoy you anymore
though because you've
scissored them away.
but you randomly make
a big circle around
a day with your sharpie
pen in black.
no reason. not a
wedding, or funeral
to go to. no dinner
no date, nothing
really planned for
that particular day.
but you just want
to see what happens
just the same.

regrets

she asks me
with her pencil in
hand, notebook
on her lap, glasses
on the tip of her
long educated nose
if i have any
regrets. she taps
her pencil,
eraser end down,
and waits patiently
for an answer, i'm
almost asleep
on the couch, my
feet are up. i can
hear traffic
out on the street.
i see an ordinary
pigeon on the sill,
and the ghost of
him in the reflection.
his rainbow neck
of color bobs
nervously. regrets,
i say out loud.
none, actually. not
a single one.
and she says, hmm,
i think we're on
to something.

into the jungle

the blue sunny
skies of
your desire
outweighs your
intellect at times
and takes you
off track, off
the well worn
and straight and
narrow path
and into the blue
thick jungle
of mistaken
love and lust,
inappropriate
decisions that you
will regret later
and blame on
wine, or the full
moon, or your mother
who didn't love
you quite enough.
hacking your way
out is hard, but you
will find a way.
this nothing new.

children

she moves
the plant
from one window
to the next.
out of the shadow,
into the sun.
raises the sash.
she pours water
into the dark
soft dirt,
straightens
out the leaves
with her hands.
spins the pot
just so. she
thinks about her
children,
now gone,
now grown.

raspberry hair

i like what
you've done to
your hair.
what color would
you call that?
raspberry?
and how did it
get so tall,
and stay there?
anyway, it's
wonderful, you
stand out in a
crowd. in fact
the crowd parts
for you whenever
you're around
with me in tow.

the grocery cart

you've picked
the wrong shopping
cart again,
the one with
the wobbly wheel
that sticks and
spins, but you
push on because
you already have
milk and bread
in the cart, and
a bottle of wine,
you have a
committment with
this cart. and
you remember someone
telling you recently
like last night,
that you have
a phobia about
committment,
so you feel that
you have something
to prove. but
the cart wants
to veer left
no matter how hard
or how much you pull
and straighten
it out. it squeaks
loudly. but you stick
with it, and try
try to deny the thought
that this cart
is a portent of
some significance.
you push on. you
are not afraid.

the game

you draw a hot
bath, as soon
as you get home
from playing
basketball, you
make the water
as boiling
hot as you can
stand it, you take
off all of your
clothes, let them
drop heavy to
the floor,
cloaked in sweat,
and slide in,
you let the heat
sink into your
skin, permeate
your aging bones,
until you are done,
cooked and loose,
able to walk
again with only
a slight limp.
you have twenty
hours or so to
recover and
get back on
the court again.
ibuprofen helps
too, as does a
few martinis
before bedtime.

graffiti dog

as my dog raises
his leg up to
the fire hydrant
and lets loose
a solid stream,
i can't help but
wonder what makes
the arm with can
in hand, at three
a.m. spray paint
a wall, a fence,
an overpass along
the highway with
large cartoonish
names and words
that hardly make
any sense to almost
everyone, except
a few. green and
gold, bright reds
and oranges. so
bold and bright in
their dark, late
night art. and
somehow my dog
still has something
left in his tank,
as he finds another
post to raise his
leg to, he seems
to understand.

the last meal

thanks for
sleeping over,
but before you go,
are you hungry?
i could fix us
something, if you'd
like. i know my
way around a
kitchen. hmmm.
okay, we seem
to have only three
slices of bread
left in the bag,
and all are
nearly hard,
stale, and have
that questionable
yeast like smell,
but i don't see
that green tinge of
mold quite yet,
so i figure if
we toast them
up, we'll be
good to go, sort
of. we are out
of peanut butter,
out of eggs,
out of tuna.
how about a little
sprinkle of
cinnamon, well
actually it's
nutmeg and butter.
will that do for
our last meal?

she's come undone

she calls me from
rehab, somewhere
in florida, or
texas, she's
in a building
with beds, and
bars, and men in
white suits
keeping guard
on who gets in
and gets out.
it's a serious
business. this is
not oprah land
or dr. phil
with a quick easy
bake solution.
what once was having
fun is no longer
a viable option.
it seems that
this time, she's
really gone over
the edge, she's
on the sill looking
down. she's come
undone.

call me, okay

i wrote a message to
you the other day
on a small piece
of paper, rolled it
up nice and neat,
tucked it in a bottle
then tossed it
into the creek.
i'm hoping that
eventually you'll get
it. the creek goes
to the stream, to
the river, to the
bay, etc. look at
a map, you'll
see exactly what
i'm talking about.
it should enter
the atlantic ocean
sometime this summer.
keep your eyes peeled.
by the time you get
it though, my
feelings may have
changed, and i might
not be so crazy about
you anymore. i could
have met someone new
by then, and so could
you, but i hope not,
because i felt that we
really hit it off the
other night. i put it
in the top three first
dates of all time. i
mean that sincerely.
anyway, so text me when
it arrives and we can
discuss this further.
i guess i could call you
on the phone, and i
appreciate you giving
me your number the
other night, but
hey, i'm a man and
this is how we roll.

Gina's got a gun

i asked my new
girlfriend
gina for a stick
of gum the other
day, and she said
well la de da, i
think i do, just
hold on mister.
i stared at all
the junk in her
giant purse as
she shuffled things
around. keys,
kleenex, a cork
screw, some peanut
butter crackers,
perfume and lipstick,
finally she pulled
out a stick
of spearmint in a
foil wrapper and
handed it to me.
then i saw the gun.
whoa, i said. is
that a gun. yikes,
i'm afraid of
women with guns,
i told her. she
laughed like she
does, like a baby
seal on an ice floe,
throwing her wild
red hair back.
she looked around,
then pulled out
the pink pistol
loaded with bullets
and i cringed.
do you want to hold
it. no thanks, i
said. i felt myself
moving away from
her, and not just
in a metaphorical
sense. what's up
with the pistol,
i asked her. it
was pink and shiny
and she fondled
it in her hand,
caressing the
trigger. she smiled
and said pow, pow.
i need it for
protection, baby.
i'm a manager in
a liquor store on
the weekends, and
sometimes i close
up late at night.
hey, maybe we can go
shooting one night.
wouldn't that be fun,
down by the river,
she said excitedly,
shoot up some bottles
and cans, maybe
kill some rats or
something. i chewed
my gum slowly,
thinking it all
through. there are
rats down by the river?
just who are you,
i asked her. i'm
gina she said,
and smiled.

computer virus

the other day
i accidentally typed
in the words
'women with long legs
wearing nylons
and stilleto heels'
into my computer
and caught a trojan
virus. i was doing
serious reseach
for my anatomy 101
night class at
the local community
college and have a
paper due this friday.
i probably should have
left out the words
'women, heels and nylons,'
but it's too late now.
i immediately dialed
the 1-800 number
the second the screen
went wild and they have
assured me in very calm
and perfect english that
i am in good hands.
jimmy, the lead technician
and his family in india
and i have been on
the phone for four hours.
they have me on speaker
phone as they walk me
through the steps to rid
my pc of this awful
contamination.
every now and then i'll
hear a small child yell
out in the room, hold
control c button,
or delete temporary files,
or i'll hear the word
reboot, reboot in a high
pitched voice, i
don't think that it's
going well though.
suddenly my computer
started to shake after,
out of frustration,
i smacked it on the side
with my hand, and
the monitor spun
around and around and
actually rose a foot or
two above my desk. jimmy,
on the other end said,
ah oh, and there was a
long pause. what, i said,
what. ah oh, what?
and he said that
i may have contracted
the deadly 'linda blair'
virus. what the hell,
i said, and he said,
exactly. what do i do
now jimmy, what do i do.
and he said, you have
two options, what,
i said what. i grabbed
a pen and a piece
of paper, go ahead.
i'm ready, well, he
said. you can either
call a priest to come
for a computer exorcism,
you'll need holy water and
permission from the pope
in rome, which may take
months, or you can throw
it away and buy a mac.
you have no other options.
i am so sorry my friend.
is there anything else
i can help you with?

french toast

you decide to get
married again. you
don't know exactly
to who just yet. but
at least you've got
that decision under
your belt. okay, you
think. good. i feel
good about this, now
what. what's the plan
to find this woman
you are going to marry.
but you have none at
the moment. you are
clueless as to where
to start. it hasn't
been processed quite
yet, because you just
thought of it when
you woke up alone
this morning with
your dog snoring
in your ear. the plan
will come to you
in finding this woman,
you'll find a way,
you just need a little
time, maybe some
breakfast first. perhaps
french toast with
some canadian maple
syrup. some canadian
bacon, maybe a canadian
woman will be the one.
perhaps toronto will
be your starting point.

seeking something,

a little bit stressed
and lost with your
life, such as it is,
you go outside
with the full
moon, all silver
and fat and round,
plump and poetic
going nowhere for
awhile in a black
plum sky. and you
think it has
answers, that somehow
staring up,
and deep and feeling
some sense of longing,
that you'll suddenly
have an epiphany of
sorts about where
you are, where you
need to be, but no.
nothing comes to
mind, it's just you
and this round
rock reflecting
sunlight.

vodka and lime

you embellish
the truth, exaggerate
the lie, blow
up a balloon
of myth and wonder
to create a new
you. it's what
you do to survive.
your resume is full
of jobs you never
had, schools you
never went to, things
you'll never do,
but it doesn't mean
that you wouldn't
if you could,
you just couldn't
find the money, or
the time, you were
too busy with bread
and rent, vodka on
the rocks and lime.

i see the light on

you don't come
around much
anymore, do you.
you get your
coffee elsewhere
in the morning,
do your shopping
on the other side
of town.
sometimes when
i walk my dog
we'll go down
your street and
see the light on,
but i don't
knock. he doesn't
even bark for you
anymore. it's
better this way.
silence. i suppose.

a little more

a nice word
or two, will
do, or
the hint of
affection in
a smile. and
sometimes
the slight
touch, or kiss
is all you need
or want to get
you through
the day, but
at night you'd
like a little
more. just
saying.

that breeze

what isn't green
is blue, across
the flat plain of sea,
rising and falling
with a non chalant
moon. the world moves
slow without love.
we need wind to get
it moving. to break
those placid waves.
i'm looking
for that breeze.

drunk texting

broken hearted
and alone after a
night out with your
best friend ramone,
you had one drink
too many and texted
your ex girlfriend
betty, and worse
sent her a picture or
two of a bowl of fruit,
with your phone,
saying that, yeah,
baby, that's me and
you. which didn't
translate well because
you had a bunch of
bad bananas and
grapes in the bowl
and a pear with a
brown dent in the side,
and an orange or two.
she never responded, but
just as well, because
you didn't have a
clue either.

i'm there for you

as you have your nervous
breakdown and your fingers
dig into the edge
of the window sill outside,
sinking your long red nails
into the old soft
wood and your shoes have
found the brick lip to put
some weight onto, i hear a
baby crying in the other room,
not mine, but yours, and
i hear the shrill whistle
of water boiling in an old
tea kettle, and the tv on
as always to dr. phil.
and you want to let go,
but at the same time you
want to climb back in,
you have a book club meeting
tomorrow and you had some
very interesting things
to say about that new larson
book, the girl with the runny
tattoo. and as a crowd gathers
below you wish you hadn't
worn a dress, and perhaps had
on a nicer pair of underwear
and matching shoes, but i try
to cajol you back in with sweet
talk, while i stare at the fine
line of grey that's in your
black parted hair. a little
overdue with the dye job at
the hair cuttery, hon.
oh well. i hold out a bar
of godiva chocolate,
i show you a picture of a diamond
necklace from the sears catalogue.
i tell you that things will
get better, although i don't
believe that either.
i understand your plight.
your decision to hang out
the window trying to
decide which way to go.
the wind blows your hair,
and brushes up against
your skin beneath your
blouse, and you say, ahhh,
that feels good. pigeons
land on the sill to watch
while we wait for
the firemen to arrive
with a hook and ladder truck.
it still could go either
way. i make coffee
for everyone, regardless.

zombie world

i can't stop looking
at my phone,
i can't stop looking
at my phone,
i can't stop looking
at my phone,
no matter if i'm
with my peeps or
all alone. whether
i'm on the street
or walking down
the beach, i can't
stop looking at my
phone. i'm like
a freaking zombie
in a bad movie
with my head bent
down, my thumbs
twitching, my brain
in a strange
strange zone with
all these new apps.
i can't stop looking
at my phone.

scrabble night

we love board
games, my new girl
friend and i. we like
to order chinese food
and open a bottle
of red wine, it
brings us so close
together sometimes
but last night,
the scrabble game
broke out into a
terrible fight,
she wanted to use
pronouns, and
actual names of
real people, words
i've never heard
of and don't believe
are real words in
the english language,
she stood up and
cursed me as i delivered
the word zag, using
z, my final tile,
on a triple letter
and double word score,
crushing her spirit.
she wanted to use
the dictionary to
look it up and i
said go ahead, loser,
something like that
which made her throw
a cold chinese egg roll,
hitting me in the
face, almost taking
an eye out, and then
the board flipped over,
upside down, the pieces
went flying, i told
her that i had won,
and she says, no way
jose, that it didn't
count because she
suddenly and strangely
found a stray h on
the floor and all
the pieces weren't
used and it's too late
now because the board
was scrambled. and
then i told her
that i hated her,
and she said i hate
you more. you cheater.
and i can't stand how
you snore at night too.

franklin roosevelt

my great great
uncle was franklin
delano roosevelt she
says to me while
lighting a cigarette
and blowing smoke
towards the ceiling
fan in the hot room.
the sheets are pulled
back and there is a
plate of chocloate
candies between us.
shame about those legs,
i tell her, polio,
and poor elanore, with
that lucy mercer lurking
in the background.
yes. she says, and
eats another chocolate
candy, nibbling at
the edges as it melts
on her fingers. a shame
he couldn't walk.
she holds one of her
long pale legs up
into the air, like
a candle, how are mine
she says, my legs?
and i say, just fine
just fine.

wedding dresses

she had three
weddings, none
of which worked
for various reasons,
such as lying,
and cheating and
just a general
feeling of malaise
and boredom, but
she loved getting
married, the frills,
the party of it
all. the tall tiered
cake, the music,
the dancing, and
as she carried
all three dresses,
each once worn,
as clean and sparkling
as hope itself,
wrapped in clear
preserving plastic,
to the consignment
shop, she said,
i would do it
all again and again
just as soon as my
lawyer tells me
that the paperwork
has cleared on
the last one.

swan dive

near the zoo, uptown,
off connecticut
avenue, there is a
a bridge where many
souls have lost
and found their way
to the other side
of what lies beyond
this life, so many
took their lives
that they put up a
net, a place to catch
them when they leaped,
or fell, letting
the weight of who
they were carry them
to the ground, but no
more. no more. and
you can't help but
wonder if they went
somewhere else, to
another bridge to
leap, and if they
did, had they passed
the word around.

soft summer peach

this ripe soft
peach rests
in your hand,
with one small
bite taken,
a fallen summer
moon, as sweet
as any love, as
warm as any kiss
you've ever had,
but one, just one,
and in trying to
explain, you realize
that she'd never
understand, so
why try. and you
take another
bite and pretend
that it's enough.
isn't that what
we all do from
time to time.

parking ticket

i have no
coins for the meter.
that metal
pole with it's
blinking red face,
expired.
it says dimes
and quarters only
monday through
friday, and saturday
too. and it's
wednesday.
but i'm out of
the correct change
and have
only cup full
of pennies, and
a handful of
jefferson nickels
that are of no
use. but i have
tape, lots of tape,
so i tape
all of this change
to the meter with
a note that says,
take it all,
and i'll be right
back. sorry but
i hope that
this will do.

dog world

i can't sleep
this way. not with
this dog in my
bed. his tail
wagging in dream
against my face
tapping my head.
his snoring,
his dog like smell.
his barking
when a stray dog
passes by, to
look up and wonder
why he's on the
out and not in bed,
like him, my dog.

timbuktu

you pack light.
you have a ticket
for the seven a.m.
train. you are
going to timbuktu.
you don't know
where that is, or
even if you are
spelling it
correctly, but
you've heard about
it all your life.
you are tired
of the rigamarol,
another word you
don't know how to
spell, you don't even
care where timbuktu
is, or what language
they speak there,
it's where you want
to go. you are going
alone, you haven't
told anyone, not
even your son, or
wife, or girlfriend.
not even your mother
has a clue, but you
are waiting at
the station to go
and see what's new.

warm muffins

over drinks in
a crowded bar,
talking to a woman
you just met, her
name is amelia, or
emily, you aren't
sure, it's so loud
in there, but you tell
her that you have
decided to become
a doctor, hoping
that this will make
her like you more.
you look good
in white, you tell
her. maybe a chef,
or baker,or perhaps
an ice dancer
with sequins.
you could throw
up a ninety pound
girl and catch
her easily as she
twirled in the air.
you flex your arm to
show how strong you
are. you could do
that, but you
can't skate. so
you go back to
the doctor idea.
you could examine
hearts from
the outside
looking in, you are
a very perceptive
person and are quite
familiar with
heartache. you
could ask a a series
of questions that have
no answers. you
could put old
magazines in the
waiting room,
and a water cooler.
then you think
about the baker
idea, you love cakes,
bread. you can
think of nothing finer
than waking up
to a warm muffin
on a cold morning.
you are on to
something now, she
decides you are
ambitious and worthy
and goes home with you,
amelia, or emily, you
still aren't sure,
and you begin your
studies immediately.

as you sink

downward in
this marriage,
you take turns
breathing under water.
feeling the cold,
the pressure as
you sink further
into the debt of
love and air. you
didn't see this end
coming, and still
don't. you are
optimistic by nature,
and still, despite
seeing the darkness
of the bottom, you
find light at the
top, and you know
that to survive
you have to let
go. to unravel
hands and spring
upwards without fear.

the north of you

it is the northern
hemisphere of you
that interests me
most, not those
southern shores
where your pale
beaches, and warm
coasts await my
hands, the sunshine
of my eyes, the
shadows of my
arms. it's else
where that holds me,
keeps me coming
back for more.
that song you sing
without singing,
even the silence
of you, this is
why i travel north.
it's that place
i want, it's there
that i adore.

gone fishing

my friend jimmy
loves to fish, he'll
spend hours and
hours at the edge
of a lake or river
standing in the muck
in his converse
chuck taylor
black high tops
with a rod and reel,
a pack of smokes
in his shirt pocket
and a chinese white
box full of blood
worms. he asks
me to go with him
all the time, but
i tell him no, despite
how much fun it looks
i don't want to,
and don't see
the point, ever since
the grocery store
started carrying fish,
and putting it on
ice with the bones
removed and the
heads cut off, well,
i'm sort of done with
the sport of fishing.
and then he tells me
about the fight this
two pound catfish put
up the other day.
he weighs 195 lbs.
some fight, i tell
him. especially with
that hook in his lower
lip. he laughs as
he loads up his cooler
with beer and worms,
and some three pronged
snag hooks just in case
the herring are running.

chicken breast with wine sauce

i watch you walk
away, in your tall
fur lined boots,
snapping through
the parking lot
after our dinner date.
you are on your phone
already, carrying
in the other hand
a styro-foam container
full of your left
over dinner, a
chicken breast with
wine sauce and
some asparagus stalks,
salted and buttered,
and i see you step
into a pot hole,
buckling your knee,
which will never
be the same, and go
down, rolling over
in the street, the
chicken breast
and asparagus,
and phone flying
in the air,
sliding beneath an
oncoming car, it's
highbeams flashing
in your pretty face,
now caught in a frozen
grimace. and i can't
help but wonder if
things would have
been different if
we had liked each
other, and stayed at
the table a little
longer, held hands,
had coffee and dessert.

a bowl of soup

you sit at
the table with
your hot bowl
of soup. spoon
in hand. you've
opened the window,
but it's not quite
spring, not yet,
and a chilled
breeze fills
the air. and
the heat from
the soup rises
into your face,
and you remember
soup like this,
when you were young,
the smell of celery
and onion fills
the room, and
you remember
when you only
had soup to eat.
a stack of white
bread, thinly slicd
with butter in front
of you on a small
plate. things have
changed, things
haven't changed.

under the weather

uncertain of
the weather, you
prepare for
anything, whether
wind, or snow,
or heat, you
pack back a bag
with hats and
gloves and a
bathing suit,
you are ready
for whatever
the day serves
up. you no longer
trust the
weatherman, who
seems to work
without a window,
with his ever
changing forecast,
his fickle
fronts, his rising
and setting sun,
you are supicious
now of everyone.

we're out of roses

i used to send
flowers, bouquets
of flowers, roses
mostly, crimson
red with a little
note attached saying
something like, i'm so
sorry, or i love you,
please take me
back, i can't live
without you, things
like that. sometimes
i'd ask the girl
at the flower shop
to come up with
something special,
something another
girl would like
to hear. but now
i just send
e mails or texts,
short and simple,
it's much quicker,
more efficient
and leaves me with
alot more cash.