the apple

you cut gently
into the red apple
still wet from
the sink,
the sharp knife
holding the overhead
kitchen light,
and a part of you,
moving. you push
into the bright
slice and cut it
into quarters,
taking out the stem,
the seeds. you
take it out on a
plate to
the back porch,
to where the sun has
risen and warmed
the step where you
will sit. your day
is another apple,
unbitten,
you begin to eat.

flood water

what the flood
doesn't take
away, is left
behind. everything
you don't want.
at least not now.
you've watched
what you valued
float on the low
sea of a broken
dam, the broken
levee, the strong
arm of a surging
storm. your life
is in tact though,
as you sit on
the roof and ponder
your next move.
your first, your
last.

above the earth

you pour
me a cup of you
beneath
the moonlight.
silk is not as
soft as your
shoulder, or
the light coming
in as white,
like milk
as your skin.
you fold yourself
into me,
and the pink
glow of desire
rises, lights
a soft fire.
we are above the
earth, at least
for now.

ham on rye

i dream of
a fat ham
sandwich,
pink and sliced
an inch thick
on rye bread
with the smooth
yellow smile
of mustard.
i dream of milk.
cold and white
in a clear cylinder
of glass,
of a long
green pickle,
like a wand of
seeds and juice,
set beside it.
i see you too,
wanting a bite.
wanting more than
your share,
opening your wide
grin, your
teeth closing
down. wanting more
than half of my
ham on rye, but
fortunately,
by law, in
the state of
virginia, it's
all i have to
give you.

save a whale

i fill
up my glass
with water.
i drink it
down. tomorrow
i'll use it
again. the exact
same glass.
and the same
with my knives
and forks.
i'm recycling.
happy?
now leave me
alone. go save
a whale.

the bluebird of happiness

open wide
sad fellow.
and take
what's in my
hand. let
it flutter
down, enter
the dark
sad place
you've found.
open wide
and let it
fly inside.
this blue
bird of
happiness
that wants
to leave
my hand. it's
that easy
if you
believe.

sick of love

i'm sick
of love.
feel the fever
burn. i don't
need it. i
don't want it.
it's sour, it's
bitter. i'm
coughing up
roses, spitting
out flowers,
it's a cold wet
night without
shoes. i'm
sick of love
and where
it leads, what
it promises,
how it deceives,
i'm on my back,
i'm sore,
i'm broken, i'm
in the infirmary.
and yes.
i'll try
again, being
the fool i am,
but not
with you, no,
never again,
with you.

easter

you are out of
words, out of breath
trying to explain
yourself, bringing
the Christ in you
out of hiding. it's
hard to sin with
a cross upon your
chest, while on
your knees with ashes
smudged black upon
your forehead.
and your faith is as
thick as thieves.
as wound tight around
you as a boa about
to strike. you
hold fire to your
chest and expect
to be saved, and
saved again. and
yes. forgiveness
is seven times
seventy, and for
all of this repitition
of failure and
remorse, repentance
and forgiveness.
your heart sinks
daily but in
the ressurection
you find grace,
and you are relieved
without merit.
undeserved, you
are free.

the high dive

your slow dive
into the silver
bed of water
and desire brings
you out of breath
to the other side.
still wanting more,
the cool wetness
of the swim is
not enough to
quench the places
that you want to go,
the places you have
been. there is more
diving to be done.

turning around

you turn around
and go back, because
you fear that
you've left the iron
on, or the door
unlocked, or the cat
out. maybe the stove
is lit too, or
the window left open,
what if it rained,
and did you put
the phone back in
it's place, did
you leave a light on,
a light off, is
the computer still
humming, and what's
that drip, did
you turn the water
off in case it
freezes over night,
did you leave
the milk out? and
you, i'm turning
around because of you
too, there are things
that i wanted to
say before i got
too far down the
road, too far gone
and away. the other
thing don't matter,
not really.

the daily news

it's a small
hole that sinks
a ship, or a
pulled thread
that unravels
the whole coat,
a bug, a microbe,
a bite, an olive
stuck in your
throat, so tight,
that keeps the air
out, the air in,
that takes
your life.
it's the little
things you
need to fear
and worry about,
not what goes
bump in the night,
although watch
out for that too.
don't leave
the house would be
my advice.

addictions

she wanted me
to go to a meeting
with her.
AA. she had gotten
a whiff of my
mai tai as we sat
and ate crispy beef
and egg rolls and
was feeling tempted.
she needed a meeting
to get her out of
this mood. can
you go with me,
she asked and i said,
huh. why me. i don't
have a drinking
problem. i finished
my drink and nodded
to the waitress
for one more.
i need to go, she
said. you should come too.
they have great desserts.
chocolate cake. i
looked up at her
and shook my head, no.
i'd eat the whole
cake, i told her.
that's my weakness,
desserts. i'm sorry.
but i'll be lying in a
gutter with crumbs
all over my chest,
my belt unloosened,
and icing on my face
if i go to that
meeting. i can't
do it, my hand was
trembling just thinking
about it, and so i
moved the little umbrella
out of the way
and took a sip of
my drink.

not even a house plant

get another dog,
is your answer
to everything these
days. and it' easy
for you to say,
being the cat rancher
that you are. what's
one more cat?
and yet i just can't
do it, at least
not yet. i'm too
selfish with my
time, i don't need
the guilt the worry,
the vet bills. i don't
even have a house
plant at the moment,
and this lack of
life other than me
at least for
the moment, suits
me just fine.

Go Get Your Own

in 1958 i climbed
a steep ridge
up the side
of the himalayas
with a sherpa
and a goat
to meet the dalai
lama, before he
left tibet for good,
and he said
to me when i arrived,
that here is no
such thing
as true happiness,
or being content
and full,
and satisfied
with life exactly
the way it is.
you could
always, given
the chance, make
things a little
better. make
things a little
more right, a softer
bed, a brighter
light, and then again
he said, smiling,
there is always
icecream to take
your mind off
of everything.
his bowl was full
of chocolate chip
mint. there were
melted drops of
green in his beard.
he offered me none,
go get your own,
he said. and i
realized that
his selfishness was
teaching me a lesson,
one that i absorbed,
and have passed on
to others ever since.

the disagreement

when there is
nothing left to
say, or do, and
the long day is
about to extinguish,
and sleep is a
warm bed waiting
in the other room,
you try one more
time to make your
point, to settle
this dispute, but
it's hopeless, so
you untie her and
let her go her way.

apartment 211

park anywhere
you want. there are
no meters, no
pay lots. not a
single garage
with a gate is
waving you in.
park free. but just
for today. just
for tonight, and
from then on,
once you get a taste
of why you came,
you will begin
to pay and pay, and
life will never be
the same.

the white rug

as you wipe
the rug again
of red wine,
scrubbing on
your knees the
debris of cheese
and crackers,
cold shrimp.
you wonder why you
even have a table,
just set it all
on the floor
and start there.
begin at the end.
save the time
scrubbing for more
important things.

surrender, he
says. let go.
exhale the pain,
the problem,
whatever ails
you, release it,
let it fly into
the air like
a balloon set
free from your
open hand, your
open heart. and
so you do. but
it still hurts.

when dogs run free

when i get home and
find the dog, without
his leash running
free, it makes me
wonder. and
when you don't turn
off the light,
when you leave
a room, or lock
the door, or don't
unplug the tub
now full of cold
grey water, when you
leave the butter
out, or the dishes
in the sink, the
wash left soggy,
not in the dryer,
are you trying
to tell me something.
that you can't finish
what you start.

these bees are dead to me

these bees do not
have secret lives,
nor is it sweet
to hear them buzz
about her house,
drilling into the
bare wood of
soffits and sheds,
the lumber unprimed,
at work in
the soft april
sun. she wants
them gone. she
wants them dead. and
as she holds out
her puffed arm,
welted pink and red
from stings, she
aims a can of
insecticide with
an evil grin,
she is tony soprano
holding a gun, and
shaking his head.

the golden egg

golden eggs,
nestled in the crook
of a smooth
barked tree,
hidden in the thick
bustle of green
grass still cold
from winter. or
in the thick wires
of bushes not
quite full, they
hardly keep the edge
of the eggs
from being seen
by frantic children,
who, wild
eyed, are on
a hunt that will
not end soon.

some marriages

they say
that when
the soldiers
opened up
the camps, to
liberate the
prisoners,
they wouldn't
leave. even
after starvation
and torture,
death and
disease, they
did not want
to step outside
the place where
they were still
alive and
breathing. for
what lie on
the outside they
had no clue,
it was a mystery
beyond the barbed
wire. it could
be worse. why take
that chance?
better to stay put
and be safe
and miserable,
and alive.

a change in dinner plans

when i saw
you standing
on the side
of road, with
your small
pink suitcase,
hitchhiking,
your thumb
out and holding
a sign
that read,
anywhere,
well, i knew
then that i
should pick up
dinner for only
one this evening.

the empty lawn

children
quickly forget
the thrown ball
from lawn to lawn,
across the miles
of years, between
the rising and
setting of a
thousand suns,
and all the walks
and strolls
through deep
woods, into oceans
cold, held up
safe as each wave
took a turn
to knock us down.
and they soon
leave, as they must,
to the side
of their own lives,
as you've done
the best you can,
and let go, and
pray, alone on that
same empty lawn,
that none of it,
that love, those
lessons learned,
or unlearned,
were in vain.

protest

during breakfast
at the rest home
cafeteria,
while banging
our walkers against
the linoleum
floor, in protest
to soggy scrambled
eggs and lumpy
oatmeal, it
occurred to me that
it was only
yesterday, or at
least so it
seemed, when we
were marching in
the streets,
clapping and
chanting, in unison,
like now,
against a war. and
yes, i know it's
not the same, but
still, i'm just
saying.

nounless

i'm running out
of nouns, she tells me
in her e-mail, i'm
shaking my canteen
once full of words
and coming up dry.
i used to swim in
the ocean of language,
but now my lips
are parched
and sore with
the sharp points
of letters that won't
form. my mouth refuses
to cooperate with what
i want to say. i'm
buying a thesauras
once i get out of this
conversational desert.
i can't live like
this, in silence, until
the end of my days.

it's not right

does the moon
forget to move
about it's orbit,
or the earth
to spin
upon it's axis,
does the sun
wake up late
and not rise, or
make it's way
in a long wide
swing across
the sky, never,
so how could you
forget to kiss
me before you
leave the house,
this room.

cell phone in the toilet

when she dropped
her cell phone into
the toilet and
brought it back to
the table to take
it apart and dry
it with the candle
burning next to
the salt and pepper
shaker, and sugar
bowl of splenda
and sweet and low.
i decided that this
would be our last
date. the tattoos
and safety pin in
her eyebrow had
nothing to do with
it. nothing at all.

it's easy to wait

it's easy to wait.
just sit by
the window, pull up
a chair. let the sun
inch upwards and
take away the dark.
it's easy to wait
and do nothing.
easier than trying
hard to make things
right, or change
what isn't good
into what you think
it should be.
wait long enough
and everything will
change. just give
it time.

surf's up

during my pioneer
days, while traveling
across the country
in covered wagons,
peacefully i might add,
i couldn't believe
the hostility and
animosity of the indians
as they shot arrows
at us, threw flaming
spears and tommy hawks
as we tried to get
the horses to giddyup
a little faster. we
weren't looking for
trouble, or anything,
we just wanted to get
to california and start
surfing. it was very
upsetting and i've lost
alot of sleep just
thinking about those
days and nights across
the wide plains.

she could dance

this hot pepper
that i've bitten
into reminds me
of anger. jealousy,
bitterness. water
does little to
lesson the heat,
or douse the subtle
strange pain that
hops about in
my welcoming
mouth. as much as
i want to bite into
it, it's that much
more that i want to
spit it out, but oh,
how she could dance
the night away.

what matters

you find that your world
can be contained in a box
or two. a bed, a book,
a borrowed light, or
pillow, having left
yours behind with so much
else that doesn't matter.
and when you awaken in
the middle of the night
and you wonder where you are,
this thought sinks in,
like a lead weight
at the end of a line,
cast out into some dark
lake, this quick life,
what was before is over,
and it's impossible to guess
if this crazy move
without you, will make
things right.

what's unsaid

between the lines
are other words.
the ones not
said, not seen.
those are dreams,
or sighs,
or cups of wind
caught between
the trees as seasons
change and the moon
pulls at the ocean,
making it rise,
making it subside.
it's that whisper
of water, that lingering
hand on hand, or
eye meeting eye.
those are the words
unsaid, those
are the ones that
truly rhyme.

blueberries

your fingers
are full of blue
berries. you've
picked your fill
today. but only enough
for one this time.
your back hurts
from bending over
and you are tired
in the sun.
and you take them
home, wash them
under the cold
water of your
kitchen sink, you
separate the fat
and plump ones
from the bad,
then you pour
them into a white
bowl, with milk,
with a spoon of sugar
sprinkled about.
and you eat and taste
the goodness,
the sweetness of
your day, but with
your fingers, your
heart, just barely,
but still blue.

parallel parking

once at the very
end of our marriage,
hanging on by
the slenderest of
threads, when she
was parallel
parking in a
rainstorm and during
the first fifteen
minutes, with
traffic backing
up and honking
behind us. i
asked her if
she wanted me
to take the wheel
and give it a
shot, and she
said, no freaking
way as she
began to cry, her
makeup running
down her face.
i can do this
she said, and tried
and tried and
tried, until
we ran out of
gas and had to
push it in.

tornado

what does anyone
know about
the weather,
nothing too much.
how that tornado
rises and spins
and sits down
upon wherever it
pleases. it can't
be stopped. and
all the measurements
of space and time,
of pressure, or
or speed of wind,
can only give
the smallest
of clues as to what
is up, or coming
down, or about
to shred the world
around you. if this
doesn't bring you
to your knees,
what will?

the pearl white button

your eye
catches the gleam
of her pearl
white button
left, fallen off
from it's
slender twist
of thread, once
tightly wound.
it sits now
in the sun upon
your rug,
like an ancient
coin with a tale
to tell
behind it's
slippery soft
descent, unbound.

the end of the world

you listen to
the radio preacher
in somber tones
predicting once
again the end of
the world as we
know it. and you
sing the lyrics
to the song, trying
to remember who's
song it was.
nick lowe's perhaps,
they must be giants?
you're not sure,
but you like
the song, it's
very singable with
a catchy tune
that sticks with
you like oatmeal
throughout the day.
but this preacher
who has been on the
airwaves for decades
promises the end is
near. may twenty-first
of this year. his
calculations are
based on biblical
prophesy, mathematical
deductions and
large doses of grim hope
and fear, and you wonder
if it's true, if the
rapture is about to take
place, making all
the living believers
rise into the sky
like ashes in the wind,
and if it is the end of
the world, maybe you
should give that
girl a call you've
been meaning to meet
and have that date. she
sounded so nice on
the phone. time may
be short. and now you
remember, it was R.E.M. .

the houseguest

would you like me
to rub your feet
he asked her, and
she looked up from
her drink and said
huh. why would you want
to do that. you are
old enough to be my
father. and he said.
yes. i am now, but
twenty years ago i
wasn't and she said,
well, i was twenty
years younger then too,
and he said, ummm,
what's your point.
would you like to
have your feet rubbed
or not. and she
laughed and said, if
you touch me i'll
scream and my kids
will come running into
the room and it won't
end good. so i take
that as a know, he
said. and she said.
yes. no no and no.
okay, then, i'm
going to bed then.
goodnight. see you
in the morning at
breakfast.

soft butter

for whatever
reason, hard butter
disappoints you.
pushing the knife
or fork into
the cold solid square
of yellow to slide
it onto a piece
of bread is difficult.
it won't cut, or
spread, it won't melt,
it drops to the side
and says no, not yet.
it won't do the things
you want it to do,
and you can't help
but think that your
impatience with
this butter reflects
a deeper and more
serious issue
about who you are,
what may lie deep
within your soft
butter seeking soul.

guilt

catholic guilt
is not unlike having
little sharp pebbles
in your shoes making
you slightly
uncomfortable as
you stroll around
getting in and out
of trouble with
what you say or
think or do. and at
times you'd like to
stop and shake
them out, but you'd
feel guilty about
that too, now
wouldn't you?

bus ride

move over,
just an inch
or two, i know
it's bouncy and
all, and when the
driver takes a sharp
turn you can't help
but lean into me, i
mean it's okay if
you do, i understand
how hard it is
to hold on when you
have that bag of chips
in your hand and a tuna
sandwich that you
brought from home,
but just an inch,
that's all the room
the room i need
to get comfortable.
it's going to be a
long trip getting to
the city, and truthfully
i'm not used to
being around people,
having them share
my space, enter
my zone, my circle
of privacy. so
just slide over
a tad, and we'll
get along fine,
try not to touch
me either when you
point out the window
and want me to
look at a cow standing
in a field, okay?
so, if it's okay with
you, no talking
and no, i don't want
a stick of gum. you
can't borrow my phone,
and no, we can't
be facebook friends
either.

the sunshine grill

it's a little place
where three roads
converge, out in
nowhere, the boonies,
the sticks, farmland.
even the clouds seem
lonely out here. but
there sits the sunshine
grill made of white
cinder blocks, a tin
roof with an heirloom
rooster on top,
sparsely painted,
the word ESSO in red
on one wall, still
there beneath the peel
and fading wash.
dead gas pumps
stand like ghostly
sentinels, without hoses
out front and in
the only window
sits a fat tabby
cat, licking her paws,
beside a pyramid
of oil cans.
but go inside, and
that's where you'll
find lee and marge
at the grill, below
the yellowed ceiling,
frying up the largest
burgers this side of
washington, dc.
no fries, no fountain
drink, just eggs
and bacon, pancakes,
sandwiches. and if you
need a fly swatter,
or a paint brush,
a loaf of bread, or
a can of beans, tobacoo,
or even earth worms,
it's on the shelf,
or in the icebox.
and they work, unsmiling,
but somewhat happy
and content. keeping
with the times in their
thin surgical gloves.
and if you ask politely
how long have you
been in business they
look at one another,
and shrug, i don't know
marge says, sixty years,
maybe, and lee nods as
he slides your burger
onto an oversized bun,
and says, ketchup?

oil

your country needs
you, wants you, begs
you to go fight a war.
it won't take long.
for the other side
is weak and tired,
and they don't believe
in God, our God,
their arms are old,
their mouths are full
of dust and futile
shouts. they don't
like us anyway, and
nothing will change
their minds, not
even disney, or coke,
come fight this war,
come carry our flag
and plant it
in the ground. come
quick, my escalade
needs gas, needs oil,
i need to drive around.

the other side

he's dying, she
says. my father
is dying, he's
old and sick
and doen't know
where he is.
it's time to let
him go. go where,
i ask. let him
go where. and she
says to the other
side, to where he's
no longer alone, a
place that's not
like here.

found money

how nice it
is to find that
crumpled bill
inside the dryer,
between the toss
of warm clothes,
a five or ten,
it doesn't matter,
but freshly green,
or in a pocket
of a pair of pants
that are rarely
worn, or deep
inside a coat,
that some winter
long ago had
kept you warm,
and then the note.
the number that you
wrote when we
first met, how
strange to find
that too, but
so unlike those
new found bills,
it's spent and no
longer of any use.

the little white ball

my friend loves to
play golf.
and even more than
playing, he loves
to talk about golf,
or watch it on tv.
he loves to yell
out 'in the hole,
tiger', which i make
absolutely no
comment about, but he'll
ramble on and on
for hours about
the greens,
the fees, the wedges,
the front nine,
the back nine, how
his swing is off
and the ball keeps
landing off
the fairway, into
the rough, a bunker,
or worse into a sand
trap. his eyes are
happy and bright while
he talks about his
day, his score,
his handicap,
while mine glaze over.
and his sunburned face
except for the stripe
where his
sunglasses were
is all smiles
as he stands up to
demonstrate his new
swing, his stance
for putting, how he
keeps his elbow straight
and tight,and how
he bends his knees
just so, just right.
he tells me that
i need to take up
this noble game,
i must begin my golfing
life. it's going to
be a long long night.

the closet

i can't get
another coat into
the hall closet,
not another pair
of winter boots
or shovel, or
umbrella. not one
more can of paint
will fit onto
the floor, or pair
of gloves and hat
on the top shelf.
a tangled string
of christmas lights
is stuffed into
a corner.
it's full now.
i'm almost afraid
to open it, everything
might come tumbling
out, including you.

feng shui

it's all about
the placement
of things, an
order, a feeling
of goodness
about where
things are. the feng
shui of life.
moving this
an inch to the
left, a foot to
the right.
a curtain pulled
shut, a drawer
closed tight. you'll
know it when
you get there.
when she arrives
and sits in a
certain way,
in a certain chair.

smaller and smaller

this life,
towards an
end, concentric
circles
of what you
have and friends
growing smaller
with time.
no room left
for the big sofa,
the mirror
over the mantle
that once held
your image,
so young and
new. a single
bed is fine now.
as is a simple
room, a window
with a view.
heat and air,
and food. it's
winding down
now, isn't it.

portents

with that run
in your stocking,
the broken
heel, your purse
left on the kitchen
counter, and when
it begins to rain,
to hail. and
you've locked
yourself out and
can't get back in,
with the keys
left in the door.
and you've dropped
your phone into
a puddle when a
black cat slipped
in front of you.
you wonder
if this is just
the beginning
of your monday,
or a prelude
of what's to come.
but you don't take
any chances,
you call in sick,
go home, climb back
into bed where
it's safe and warm.

small window

she says,
don't bother me
so early, don't
even try to call,
i won't pick up.
i'm not a morning
person. i'm not even
a lunch person. in
fact i don't really
come around until
eight o'clock that
night, after dinner
and a glass of wine
or two, and i've
walked the dog,
try me then. i'm
really at my most
fun at that time.
i've got about an
hour window of
perkiness so
dial me up.

almost untrue

so often you hear
the words, we never
loved each other anyway,
not really, at the end
of a marriage.
it was convenience,
we got along just fine.
we liked the same music.
we felt we were getting
old. we wanted kids,
a home, so we got married.
we put the blinders
on, we went through
the motions, sex
was sexless. joy
was smiling for
a camera, posed.
and the years went
by. and the glue
was schools and kids,
and dogs, and
yards and work, and
barbeques and booze,
a casual affair or
two, and dreams,
and dreams that
would never come. it
seems like another
world, like it really
wasn't me, so far away,
almost untrue.

dress in the window

if she sees
a wedding dress
in a window
across the boulevard
she'll stop
and sigh and
fold her arms
across her
chest and say
oh my, just look
at that, what
a beautiful
beautiful dress,
but you pretend
that you don't
hear her,
you have
crossed that
street before.

it's strange

to watch
how the young
hurry when
they have
so much time
ahead of them,
and to see
the old
go slow,
with so few
minutes left
on the clock.

this world is
getting smaller.
there's no room
for that chair,
or mirror
that once hung
so wide and thick
over the mantle
and caught your
youthful face,
a twin bed will
do now. one suit
two pairs shoes.
black and brown.
you leave
behind almost
everything.

ink well

the ink
of you has
run from my lips,
spilled upon
the floor,
your footprints
are everywhere,
my hands
are covered in
it. my skin
stained, blotched
wet with
the blue of you.
i've dipped
my pen deep
into that dark
well, but
it's tapped dry,
and these words
and desire to
write more
are fading
right before
my tired eyes.

stir and pour

drink deeply this
one go around.
this cup is short.
and life is very
much unsweetened
at times.
bring or make your own
sugar along the way
don't wait for others
to make it right.
avoid the lemons,
the bright gleam of
unripe lime. stir
and pour liberally.

i wonder

when you stub
your toe
at night, why
am i to blame,
when your car
is towed, it's
really not
my fault. and
when your heart
gets broken,
you're imagining
things that
never were.
your world
is not a
bouquet of roses,
it's a crown
of thorns, but
don't blame
me i'm only
passing through.

on your knees

how hard you push
that broom, get onto
your pink knees round
with bucket and brush
and scrub towards
cleandom. how much
dust is there, where
is it coming from?
and between the blinds,
the soot, the curtains
heavy with air
the years have given up.
you want to get to
the bone of everything,
that clean, but it's
so hard to do. it's
about something else,
isn't it?

x-ray

i'm worried
about why they
leave the room
and put a leaden
sheet over you
when taking x rays
of your teeth.
you feel so
exposed, so
radiant in this
strange click
then quiet glow.
and they are all
smiles when they
return, and why
wouldn't they be,
they were hiding
in the other room.

the rebound

she comes at night
in a yellow taxi that
waits for her,
with tears in her
eyes, wearing
a wedding dress
and carrying a knife
with cake still
on it. vanilla. seems
she's changed her
mind, and she wants
you back. she's
tired of being
married and she promises
that when she gets
back from her honeymoon
that she'll be done
with him for good. no
more playing around,
no more with this silly
guy she married,
on the rebound.

always late

you pace the room.
dinner is ready,
the wine is uncorked
and poured, the
salad is on the table.
your cat follows you
across the room.
his tail up
in the air wiggling
nervously. you stop
to look out the
window, but the cat
can't he's too
low on the floor,
because he's a cat.
you pull the
curtain back,
looking both ways
down the street.
the cat looks
up at you and
licks his lips,
or the area
where he'd have
lips if cats
had them. and
you say, nope,
not yet, she's
always late. always.
and the cat lets
out a loud meow or
two, and you say.
yup, i hear that.

measure of love

here's how
much i like
you. i'll
meet your
mother and
maybe your
father too.
yes. that
much. but
only for a
short visit.

late life marriage

your sister calls
with news. it's sunday.
she's making pasta with
red sauce like her
mother used to do.
she wants to say that
she got married again,
but never quite gets
there. instead she tells
you about the weather,
her golf game, her new
part time job at the
hospital. the price
of gas, and of course
our mother. the update
on if she is really
losing her mind, or
pretending so that
everyone will visit
more often. and at
the end of the
conversation,
i say congratulations
on the wedding,
and she says thanks.
let's talk again soon.

the west wing

your trip
to the white
house, was un
eventful. there
was mild surprise
at how drabby
and cold, and
bland the oval
office was, full of
furniture your
grandmother would
love, old, bent,
wallpaper circa
ninety-eighty,
the thick musty
rug. pictures
of ships, sheep
grazing. what
gives? in
contrast to
the secret service,
patting you down,
taking your id,
your name, your
number. young
and strong, with
crew cuts,
in their starched
white shirts
and badges, and
guns. and finally
down the corridor
you go, after
the third check
point. to nowhere,
just to a velvet rope,
and a bored agent
staring into her
i phone, pointing,
look in there,
without even
looking up at us.
no one is home. it's
taken eight minutes,
if that, so
you go have a drink
or three at the
Old Ebbitt grill
and shake your
collective heads.

the least you can do

she is fragile.
if the wind
blows her over
she'll break like
crystal. you'll
hear the tinkling
of her heart
and blue eyes
shatter like
an open sky full
of stars. pieces.
pieces of her.
everywhere. but
you'll be kind,
and gentle, you'll
take a soft broom
and sweep her
up into your arms.
it's the least
you can do.

saturday parade

there is a parade
in old town, so
you go because you
have nothing better
to do. there are no
games on tv and you've
done the laundry, paid
the bills, washed
the car. you've
even made your bed
for the first time
in years. so you have
some free time on your
hands and go down to
King Street to stand
with a cup of coffee
and watch the boozy
grown men in little red
cars wearing fez hats
doing zig zags. someone's
golden retriever has
gotten loose and is
chasing the cars. you are
hoping there's a
crash of some sort, but
no. the owner finally
gets bowser on a leash
and everyone claps and cheers.
a group of men playing
bagpipes and wearing
plaid skirts go marching
by with their beet red
hairy legs. you avert your
eyes and put your hands on
your ears. you are not
a big fan of the bagpipe
or of men in dresses.
there is a tall man stolling
around as if he's the king
of the parade, dressed as
george washington, wearing
a tight blue uniform with gold
buttons and white spandex
pants. he has a long sword
too. there's a woman that
resembles martha washington
or ben franklin, they look
so much alike, so i'm not
sure which is ben and which
is martha. she never made it
onto any bills or coins so
i'm not certain.
george keeps his head up
with his square chin
and blue eyes and looks
out into the distance,
it makes you look into
that same direction
but you don't see anything
of interest except a subway
sandwich shop and so you
don't have a clue as
to what he's looking at.
it's a pretty sad parade,
all in all. a few horses
trotting along, making
the kids laugh when they
have to do their business
right there on the street,
some flags, a high
school band shivering
in their thin uniforms.
a gaggle of giggling skinny
pom pom girls throwing
silver batons up into
the overcast sky, looking
at their cell phones when
they can sneak a peak,
but at least you got out
of the house, and found
something to write about.
next stop, jiffy lube.

58 impala

you buy
a torquoise
chevrolet
and park it
out front.
it attracts
strangers.
people come
from all over
to sit on it
and drink
beer from
bottles
in paper bags.
they like your
car. how it looks.
so bright
and shiny.
you yell out
the window
to get off my
car, but they
laugh and laugh
and take switch
blades out
of their boots
and hold the
gleaming blades
up into
the sunlight.

equals two

you no longer
want to communicate
with words, with
innuendos, shaded
phrases, and
inflections, levels
of tone and
volume, language
has defeated
you, kept you from
saying what you
really mean,
undermined your
true self and
intentions. you
are done with words,
with speaking. there
has to be a better
way. bring me
an equation, a theorem,
a problem only
solved with numbers,
and i'll be happy.
keep it simple.
start with one plus
one and go from
there.

the white flag

occasionally, okay,
quite often you are
misunderstood and
feathers get ruffled,
but there are days,
and then there
are weeks where
each road has a
bump, a pothole
a detour or a
wreck tangled
blocking all ways.
you have no exit.
no way around. and you
reach the various
levels of frustration,
anger, resentment,
and dismay until
finally an exasparated
exhale goes out
and the flag of oh well,
surrender goes up.
the flag is raised
and waving brightly.
i'm coming out with
my hands in the air,
you yell out. please,
dont' shoot.

two circles

the geometry
of us is such
that no two
lines ever
intersect. we
are circles
unto ourselves,
drawn in such
a way, that
we can't escape
who we are,
who we have
become. what lies
within can't
get out,
and what lies
on the outside
can't get in.
so what can we do,
having fallen
in love as
we have,
but roll and roll
along and hope
that that's enough.

carry out

i made us a nice
garden salad, and
some salmon with
dill sauce, she
says on the phone.
i can heat it up
when i get to your
house. i also cut
up a nice selection
of cheeses and made
us a plate with
crackers. is there
anything else you'd
like. and you say,
umm, yes there
is, aren't you going
by Peking West on
the way over?
how about picking
me up some fried
rice and a couple
of those egg rolls,
would you, and
an order of kung
pao chicken, no, on
second thought
make that general
tao's chicken. maybe
a side order of
those teriyaki
ribs, okay, okay,
and a coke. one
of those liter
bottles.
oh, and get
some extra hot
mustard and some
packets of that
duck sauce. i love
that stuff. and
soy sauce. that
should do it.
don't forget
the fortune
cookies. can you
get a mai tai to
go, with the little
umbrellas and fruit,
if so, one of
those too, or two
if you want one
with your salmon.

the storm

sometimes you see
the storm before it
gets here. you feel
the air grow cold,
the wind pick up and
turn the leaves
like cups up to catch
the rain. you see
the dog run in,
the birds as one
go quiet. everything
is on hold as
you wait, and wait,
for what's about to
happen, unfold.
love ending is not
unlike that too.

man on the moon

the knitting circle
with women
clinking needles,
staring down at
the growing blouse,
or sweater,
blanket or gown,
speaking in riddles
about men. if they
can put one man on
the moon, why not
all of them, offers
one woman who is
working madly
on a tri-colored
sweater,
in bold horizontal
stripes of orange,
green and blue, a
gift for her husband,
for his birthday.

do you forgive me?

she's made of iron
most of the time.
rarely have i seen
her cry. but lately,
it's april showers
all day. for instance
yesterday she was
standing over the
tea kettle as it
whistled loudly
announcing it's boil,
the steam rising
furiously from
the small hole in
the black capped
top, and she was
crying. and i asked
her what's wrong,
what's the matter,
why are you crying,
and she said, i don't
know, i don't know.
it's just the sound
of this tea kettle
boiling, it reminds
of a train leaving
the station, something
like that. i'm not
sure why. do you
forgive me?

is today tuesday, or wednesday

good luck,
she says. no
please, don't
walk me to my
car. i can
make it from
here. she puts her
hand out to avoid
the awkward kiss,
she shakes
your hand firmly,
the your services
are no longer necessary
at our company, but
thanks, kind of shake.
she pats you on the back.
she validates
your parking, okay,
not that, but
she would if she
could, it's that
kind of benign sort
of farewell that
tells you you
won't be seeing
her again. so you
get out your little
notebook, the list
of who's in and who's
out and you and make an
x by her name. so
it goes and we seemed
to be getting along
so well during that
twenty minute date.

bad omen

you awaken in an
alley with your clothes
still on. you need a
shave, your eyes are
full of sand. you
remember vaguely
tripping and falling
at some point last
night and this is
where you landed. it
seems that people
have left money. you
are littered with one
dollar bills. someone
has made a pillow
out of your jacket
and put it under
your head. you check
your wrist to find
that you still have
your digital casio watch
still on. your wallet
and keys, and phone
are all still there.
there is even a tuna
fish sandwich wrapped
in saran wrap next
to you. you're hungry
so you open it up
and take a bite,
but spit it out. there
are dill pickles in
it. you hate dill
pickles. so you
throw the sandwich
across the alley where
it breaks against
the wall. out of nowhere
a gaggle of feral
cats come running out
to devour it, but not
the pickles. they don't
touch the dill
pickles. you can't
believe that someone
would do that to you,
to a sandwich. there's
only one person you
know who would have done
such a thing, your ex
wife. you look around
but she's not there. this
has put a large dent into
the whole day. it's a bad
omen and you're
barely out of bed.

the intervention

they are all there,
mr. frost with his carved
mean face, the meanest
man who ever took
a breath, so said
truman capote.
and over there shyly
eating crackers and
cheese is emily,
wrapped tight in her
layers of clothes
and perfectly rhyming
poetry and prose that
can all be sung to
the yellow rose of texas.
t.s. and ezra
pound are there too
solemn and quiet, shaking
their heads. e e has
even showed up, long
and tall, so serious
as he speaks in broken
sentences. half
words, half thoughts,
puzzling and blue.
and over there
in the corner
is elizabeth bishop
talking
about fish and the
gas station, the rainbow
in a puddle of oil,
buenos aires,
mark strand is talking
about the longest party.
near the turned on
oven without a flame
is sylvia and sexton
fighting over who
gets the knife,
and then there's hank
bukowski, drunk
as usual with his
hand up an intern's
skirt. saying words
that have no reason
to be in a poem. i'd be
remiss if i didn't
mention oscar wilde,
being happily
misunderstood flirting
with a busboy, and
philip larkin with
his rhyming british
wit reciting a poem
about mr. feeney in his
rented room. ginsberg
and kerouac smoking
a joint and listening
to dylan babble on
about how it's not dark
yet, but it's getting
there. so many gathered
to give me a literary
what for. to give
me hell for what i'm
undertaking. it's an
intervention of poets
and i'm in the chair,
in the middle, unbroken,
still writing whatever
the hell i want to.

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!