the boiled egg

i'm having plumbing
issues my sister
says at the table
on Easter. do you
know a plumber, she
asks as she peels
away the blue shell
of a boiled egg with
her name on it.
she hasn't spoken
to me in years.
i don't even know
what the fight
was about. but it
seems over now.
i do have a name,
i can give you,
i tell her. good,
she says. good.
then sprinkles some
salt onto the top
of the soft
gleaming egg and
takes a bite.

don't look back

don't look
back, or forward,
but live
in the moment
your guru,
the young
barista with
rings in his
nose and ears
tells you as he
hands you
your four dollar
cup of coffee
and you nod
and say, sure,
whatever and go
off towards
the station
to doctor it
up properly,
and you ponder
what he has told
you, but you do
look back, and
yell at him,
hey, you're out
of half and
half again.
what's up with
that?

keeping order

how carefully
you've arranged
your drawers
and closets.
your shoes,
brown on one
shelf, the other
black. the summer
clothes separate
from winter clothes.
and how you pay
your bills on time,
lined in order
on your desk
as to which is
due first, and
which is last.
there is no dust
anywhere that can
be seen.
it's obvious how
troubled you are.

it's funny

that once everyone
had a camera in
their cell phone
that there
were no more sightings
of alien space
ships, or big foots,
or ghosts appearing
or monsters lurking
in the woods.
no loch ness
creatures swimming
about. there's
not a flying
saucer in the sky.
not even a goat man
scurrying on hooved
feet chasing teenagers
on lover's lane.
coincidence, i
think not.

you look like someone

you look like
someone i used to
know, your mother
says to you
when you visit
her and bring
her magazines.
and you say, it's
me. your son.
and she says no,
someone else.
someone who looks
something like
you, but taller,
a little younger,
perhaps more hair.
she spoons more jello
into her mouth.
and offers me
some. i say no.
and she says, they
put fruit in it.
i've never thought
to do that. she
looks at the cover
of the magazine
in her lap
and begins to cry.
liz taylor, she
says. i always loved
her. those violet
eyes.

coins in the dryer

you hear
the change rattle
in your dryer
as it spins
and spins for
an hour, it's
money, clean
and washed
flushed from
your pockets
that you neglected
to empty,
now shiny coins
rattling
and you could
easily go down
the stairs, turn
off the dryer
and find the coins
that are making
so much noise,
but you don't.
you don't feel
like it and you
wonder if this mood
will continue
into other things
that cause noise
within your life.
perhaps.

handicap parking

you don't see
the handicap sign,
a large tree
in full bloom
has overgrown
and blocked the
blue imprint
of a wheelchair.
there is nothing
painted on
the street to
indicate no
parking unless,
so you park
and run into
the coffee shop
for a cookie
and a cup and
when you come back
there is a hundred
and seventy-eight
dollar ticket
on your windshield.
there is no
fighting this,
no moral to
the story, no
insight or revelation,
just the wonder
as to how they
came up with that
exact figure to
punish you.

it's easy

it's easy to fall
in love you tell
your dog who sits
at your feet
staring into your
eyes, wagging his
tail. just look
at you for instance
you say to her.
if i suddenly
disappeared as
i am known to do
on occasion, someone
else would fill
the void, would be
sitting here,
giving you a pat,
a treat, a bowl of
food, and walking
you happily down
the street. so
just relax and
enjoy the moment.

checking the stove

you take one
last look around
before locking
the door. the truck
is packed and
full of all of
your belongings.
the house is
empty. full of
nothing, just
the way you found
it seven years
ago. you check
the stove once
more to make sure
it's not on. as
usual, it's not.

while sipping tequila

on a balcony
overlooking
the bus depot,
she says
my cup is full.
always at least
half full.
i'm a positive
thinker, a happy
go lucky soul,
i forgive and
move on. i live
and let live.
turn the other
cheek. i am
at peace within
despite
the chaos that
the world brings
daily. i am
content and have
no fear as to
what might
come tomorrow.
i sleep well, eat
well. make love
when love is
present. pass
me the bottle,
would you, i tell
her. save
some for me.

the birth of you

the birth
of you, comes
in a dream.
it's your dream.
you are less
than who you think
you are, and
more than
what others
might believe.
the truth is
always hidden.
the birth of you
comes in
a dream. it's
your dream.

what's next

it's hard to listen
and watch the rain
in a storm, and not
think of it without
meaning, or portent.
you don't need a gyspy
to know or feel that.
spare me the crystal
ball, the horoscope.
you know within
the smallest bone
of your body, what's
to come next.

the waiting

when we were
young, and our
memories younger
still, there
was always a
tomorrow to lean
towards. always
a bluebird
about to land.
a sun to rise,
and make things
right. and now
with the shades
drawn, the window
down, what was
tomorrow has
been taken, and
just the waiting
remains.

burnt offering

toast is your
morning burnt
offering to the new
day. it's charred
woolen bread
stiffend black
will never see
a swab of butter,
or jam, or find
your lips with
tea.

to the other side

it isn't far
to go, from here
to there. you've
known others who
have made the leap,
fell fast and deep
into an unknown
slumber, fallen
into dreamless sleep
in the middle
of something so vital,
so important, but that
suddenly in a single
less heartbeat had
become irrelevant.

setting the bar low

your ten dollar ticket,
five dollar box
of stale pop corn
and three dollar
box of candy, your
four dollar soda, or
water, and the movie
stinks, you feel like
you've seen it before,
maybe a dozen times.
the special effects,
the cliche lines
and jokes and scenarios.
and yet everyone seems
to love it, and are
having a grand time.
you wonder, is it
you. is it the world
we live in now. are
we settling for this.
has the whole world
become a wal-mart full
of marshmallow bags
of peanuts and fried
chicken. bad art, bad
acting, bad writing.
you know the answer
to that, but refuse
to accept it.

serenity now

i get a random
call late one night
from the old girlfriend.
i'm new and improved
she says. i've finally
found my happy place.
i did some one on one
therapy with a wonderful
counsleor who knows
the dalai lama,
and bought all the self
help books i couuld
get my hands on. venus
and mars, dr. drew,
dr. wayne, dr. suess
and dr. phil. i'm
eating well, sleeping
well, drinking eight
glasses of spring water
a day and running.
i take yoga three
nights a week, i'm
in my tight spandex
one piece right now,
you should see me.
and i've learned
not to sweat the small
stuff. so what do you
say we give it another
shot, i'm ready
this time to be a
couple. i pause,
for a second or two,
then say, i'm so
sorry, but i've found
someone else. we're
in love. you freaking
bastard she screams
back, i hate your guts.
loser. then hangs up.

sock sorting saturday

your poems make me
sad, make me cry
sometimes, she says
over her walkie
talkie. she's in
the woods, hiking
rag mountain. a bee
just stung her, and
it's starting to
rain. i wished you
would have come
with me. i know,
i tell her, and if
it wasn't sock
sorting saturday
i would have. why
aren't you using
your phone, i ask
her. i like to use
my walkie talkies
when i'm hiking,
she says. well, you're
crackling, and i
can hardly hear you.
what are you eating.
granola bars, she
says, and i brought
some oreo cookies,
and some juices. so,
as i was saying, she
says. can't you write
me a happy poem,
a sweet poem without
angst and sadness,
about love ending,
and leaving and all
of that junk you
write about all the
time. can you do that
for me sweetie pie?
i'll try i say, i'll
give it a shot. what's
that noise? thunder,
she says, lightning
just hit a tree up
ahead and i think it's
on fire. maybe
the rain will put it
out. oh my, there goes
a raccoon with a
foamy mouth, i think
he's hungry, come
here little fellow,
have a cookie.

don't answer the house phone

it's a number
you don't recognize.
international it says.
it could be anyone,
or someone selling
windows, or love,
or a time share
rental in bermuda.
but you pick
it up anyway.
and it's your mother,
she's selling
steak knives over
the phone. mom,
you say, it's me
your son. why are
you doing this.
i'm bored, plus i
could use some extra
cash for jigsaw
puzzles and yarn.
she's flustered now
and has lost her place
on the prewritten card
to sell her knives.
i have to start over
now, she says. let
me read this. these
knives are fantastic
she adds quickly
you could really use
some new ones, the
last time i was at
your house i couldn't
even cut a piece of
chicken with the knives
you put out. then
she begins to read
from her card. These
fine crafted knives
will last you a life
time. Whether you
are slicing a tomato,
a steak, or a three
tiered cake, you will
be amazed at how smooth
these knives cut. so,
she says, how would
you like to pay for
your order? credit
or check?

Knick Knack Space

there was a time
when i came home
from work and saw
ten sealed boxes
of books sitting
in my livingroom.
mark twain, catcher
in the rye. tim
obrien, bellow,
hemmingway and
carver. updike
and cheever, plath
and flannery o'connor
all tucked away
to be taken somewhere.
most of them i had
read over and over
again and i asked
my former
significant other,
what gives, what
are you doing with my
books and she said
a truck is coming
to pick them up.
you've already read
them and i need
the shelf space for
my knick knacks.
give the poor and
needy people out
there a chance to
read these books. and
i shook my head and
said no. i'm one
of them, and haven't
you ever heard of
the public library.
and she laughed and
said, why are you
so selfish.

cat scratch fever

it doesn't take
long for the claws
to come out,
the teeth to bare,
the hair to rise
along the once
smooth back of a
velvety spine. no
it doesn't take
long for them to turn
on you when you
don't put the milk
out on time, or
not at all.

isn't it strange

isn't it strange
you say to no one
while staring up
into the starlit
sky, how nothing
or no one seems
to be out there.
and as you look
around the room,
and listen to
the clock tick,
and the careful
drip of a faucet
from another room,
you say or in
here either.

tomorrow is today

you can go now.
i packed you a lunch.
your books are
in your back pack,
go quickly
the bus is coming
soon. i'll be
here, at home,
waiting with ball
in hand when you
come back again.
but you can go
now, it's what you
have to do.

the yellow dress

the summer yellow
dress you left,
in the closet
like a flower
on a wire hanger
catches a breeze
from the open
window and slips
easily to the floor.
like i remember.
it's moments like
these that i almost
miss you, and who
i thought you were.

another round

and as the conversation
wanes, and what
needs to be said
has been said, and
the celing
and walls have more
interest than
the person you are
sitting with,
it's best to leave,
or at least tap
the bar, and order
and a round of
drinks.

tuesday night 9:57

bored, lazy on
the leather couch,
stretched out.
the house is a
mess, sunday's paper
everywhere, a dish,
a cup, an empty
bottle of wine.
one shoe on, shirt
off, the remote
in hand. television
truly sucks, as
your son might say.
you can't flip
through the debris
fast enough.
and yet you manage
to go through all
nine hundred
channels. you wonder
what betty is
doing, and text her.
hey. she writes
back. hey.

to hear the splash

your words are cast
out into the world
and yet you don't
hear the splash.
there is the coded
silence of water,
the woods that
lie deep between
you and death. it
doesn't have to
be a big splash,
but to just hear
these stones that
you've carved and
thrown hit, then
sink in and cause
a ripple of wonder
well, that might
be enough.

chain letter

you get a chain
letter in the mail
giving you fair
warning that if you
don't send it back
out to ten or more
friends then you will
be doomed and cursed
for the rest of your
days. it makes you
squirm in your chair.
the idiocy and threat
of it a reflection
of the sick human
condition preying
on weakness and fear.
you ball it up and
light it on fire
then delete the so
called friend that
sent it. your new
mission is clear.

indigo

she doesn't
have the blues,
no it's something
darker, a
richer color,
deeper, some
shade of indigo
a bordering
on purple hue.
you find it about
a mile down
in the middle
of the atlantic
ocean, that exact
tint if the sun
is right.
she won't pick
up the phone, or
text or e mail,
or send me photo
of her in her
garden when
she sinks this
deep into this
depth of violet
despair. she's
floating inbetween
the bottom, between
sunlight and air.

Settling

first of all
you are an
admirer of yoko
ono. you think
that tofu is
really a food.
everything flys
right over
your head.
your politics
annoy me,
as does your
views or non
views on
religion,
spirituality
and parenting.
you have
virtually no
work ethic, or
common sense
when it comes
to money,
and your memory
and knowledge
of history
and world
events doesn't
exist. however
you do clean up
nicely and
have great legs.
so given time
and the right
amount of alcohol
i think
we can work
around the other
stuff.

the good knife

she says
where is
your good
knife and
i say it's
in the drawer
with the other
knives. the
drawer by
the stove,
be careful
sticking your
hand in there.
and she says,
oh, and why do
you even keep
the other
ones, the dull
ones that
don't cut. there
must be a dozen
in here. and
i shrug. i have
no answer
for her
as she slices
a wet apple
into two with
the good knife.
it's hard to
let things go,
isn't it, she
says and hands
me a slice.

King Street

with cymbals on his
fingers, and the glaze
of another world
in his eyes,
messianic musings eek
madly from the street
corner prophet holding
a cup and a sign
saying beware, the end
is coming soon. and at
some point he will be
right, he'll punch
his punchless clock
and stand there at
high noon and the sky
will open and a trumpet
will sound, and all
things hidden will
be brought to light.
but for now, you drop
a coin into his cup
and hope to have lunch
first, sit in the sun,
make a few calls.

in a perfect world

in a perfect
world,
the moment
the phrase,
'it is what it is'
is spoken a
giant red
tomato soft
from being
two weeks off
the vine and
turning rotten
would fall from
the sky, and
land squarely
on top
of the speaking
person's head,
but only
in a perfect
world.

the world is in a hurry

your arrival
and departure
is measured in
minutes. black
swings of
the long and
short hands
of clocks
on the opaque
terminal wall.
the world is
in a hurry
and the trains
are running
late, and
aren't we all.
aren't we all.

worm in the apple

not every
apple has a
worm, although
at times
it seems
that way
and your
determination
to go
through
the whole
barrel to
prove that
point,shows
more of a
gastrinomical
prowess than
it does
of brains.

identity theft

i found the person
who stole my
identity last week.
he was in a
bar, siting alone
waiting for his
date to arrive. he
was drinking an
apple martini,
texting someone
else on his phone,
well my phone,
actually, he had
a splash of grey
flannel on his
cheeks, wearing
blue jeans
and a starched
white shirt. and
he looked up
recognizing me
by the id in his
wallet and shook
his head. how
do you do this
all the time, he
asked. i'm running
out of steam
being you. your
mother keeps
calling, your
kid wants more
money, and your
customers are never
ever happy and
always want things
done on the cheap.
i looked at him
and laughed. sorry.
i don't know you, i
said and grabbed
a beer and left.

Hallmark Holidays

my dog
looked up at
me the other
day, angry,
sad, a little
bitter about
something, i could
see it in his
big brown eyes
and i said, what,
what's up?
what have i done
or haven't done?
and he pushed
the newspaper
into my lap with
his long wet nose,
the headline's read
today is Dog Day.
send him or her
flowers, give
him a card, some
special treats,
more than just your
daily pat,
celebrate his
life with warmth
and love and
gratitude. take
him on a long
walk, get his nails
done, a nice
bath, then
a ride in the car
where he can
stick his head
out the window.
so we did just
that. guilt
is a tremendous
motivator.

cowboy

you sell your
house, you buy
a pair boots,
cowboy boots,
you google horses
online, and pick
one out, a palamino.
you know nothing
about horses, but
you want to be
a cowboy and ride
the range. you
phone in to your
boss and tell
him your plans,
he laughs, of course,
he has no vision,
no clarity about
life in general.
you see yourself
riding the plains,
with your hat,
your feet in
the stirrups, your
hands holding
the reins,
finally.

the elderly

you had to beat
the elephant
to get him
back into his cage,
he's resisting,
and after
all he's done
for you, and you
in turn for him,
standing
on his two legs.
roaring on
cue, throwing
water with his
long trunk. eating
peanuts from your
hand. he's carried
this circus
on his back for
years,but you
had to strike him
hard against
the grey shell
of his prehistoric
skin, to tell him,
please, please go
to sleep, accept
your end, be
gentle, be kind,
don't be like
me, just go in.

don't tell me anything

don't tell
me anything, i
can't be
trusted. i can't
keep a secret.
it last as
long as a piece
of candy in
my pocket. it's
devoured and
gone before
the first ear
is bent towards
me to listen.
it will slip
out my hands
like a wet fish
caught and
begging to be
let go.
so keep it
to yourself, don't
breath a word,
don't even
come near
with what you
know.

your news

your daily news
is more about
the falling leaves,
the wind and hail
the rain as it
tumbles from
soft grey
clouds out of
the north. your
urgency is
all about
the trees, and
how the river
rises and falls,
how the animals
move through
the dark woods
in every season
finding a way
to keep their
secrets. your
news is close
to home. and
closer and closer
with fading time.

the game

as the old men
gather
at the end
of a game, a
game stretched
well into
years beyond
playing well,
but with spurts
of glory still
apparent in the
arc of shots
settling into
rusted rims
and bent
backboards, they
sit and ponder,
talk of yesterday
and maybe lunch,
maybe dinner
some night with
a wife, a girlfriend
or just guys to
go out and
ponder even more.
and you fight
the end, the beginning
of something new
as they do,
as they keep
coming, dribbling,
pounding up and
down the cement
court, it's not
over you whisper
and smile, and
know quite well
the truth.

rib eye

i've had enough
carrots
for one life
time, she tells
me. i'm sort
of done with
vegetables. i'm
sick of lettuce
and cucumbers,
radishes. i
need red meat.
can you hook
me up with a rib
eye one weekend,
grill that
baby medium
rare on the
backyard grill?
i need to
get some color
back. i'm too
old not to
eat anymore.

fork and knife tattoo

while your truck
idles in the lot
and you stand
in line
at the seven
eleven
scratching at
your new tattoo
on your shoulder
depicting a fork
and knife,
with your numbers
written on a slip
of paper, you
place your
bet down
with a six pack
of beer, a
hot dog in hand,
your blistered
feet in flip
flops. and you
wonder if
you win, what
then would change
and why.

goodnight

your frozen
mug, stuck
from stroke,
the edges of
your rebel lips
tilted forever
down, no
smile to rise,
and your eyes,
so horrifically
blue, now
full of fear
where once
there was mutiny
on every deck
of every day.
when once you leaped
each hurdle, or
knocked walls
down, not
now, with
your body
stiffened in
a curl
within this
iceberg of muted
life. the words
you want to
say, now left
behind, the puddle
of you is a soft
quiet candle
that whispers
goodnight,
goodnight.

no ice

stale bread
on the counter,
growing blue, warm
milk, the melting
of everything with
the power out
has taken place.
you have been gone
too long and
the eggs have
warmed within
their white clean
shells, nothing
has survived
this outage,
butter has gone
bad as you've always
suspected anyway.
you go to make
a drink but
there is no ice,
just square soft
ponds of water
divided. and
so you'll start
over. you're used
to that.

attic

each stamp, a
foreign stop
along the way, by
train perhaps
for someone who
was in india,
or spain,
once pressed
by tips
of fingers,
firmly into place.
you had to lick
the glue.
this book found
high in
a wet attic
laced in web,
the curved
carve of wooden
trunks, full
of stiffened
dolls with hardened
skin and faces
built more
towards fear,
than comfort.
a seatless
bicycle, with spokes
bent, the chain
a line of cinammoned
rust, and bolts of
wallpaper saved
only because
they cost so much.
lamps with bad wiring.
bird cages, birdless
of course,
the gates swung
open, a scrap
of newspaper still
on the bottom. some
news that isn't
news now.
and the albums
of lives, photos,
stacked like cords
of wood
awaiting fire. it
all makes you
want to tell someone,
come look, come
see what i have
found.

giddyup

when i was out
riding my horse this
morning, his name
is bukowski, sipping
on a cup of
coffee, just strolling
along some back
roads in middleburg,
i was thinking
about you. by the
way i have a
holder on the saddle
where i can keep
my cup and my cell
phone, and sunscreen,
so it's not like i'm
texting and riding
with one hand on
the reins, so get
over yourself. anyway,
where was i.
i was thinking
about you, and how
you make that
wonderful pot roast
dinner that i like
so much. i'm willing
to let by gones
be by gones, if you
can duplicate that
meal. i can be
over by eight tonight.
i have to get
bukowski home first,
wash him down,
get him into the
stall for the night
and give him a bag
of oats, but i should
be able to make it
once you give me
the go ahead. so
let me know. text me.
giddyup.

a new planet

the new
planet that
they've just
discovered
has been
hiding behind
a cloud of
space dust
blocking the
reflective
light of
telescopic lasers
and what not.
it's looks
just like
ours, but with
less traffic,
and shorter
waits at
good restaurants.
the rush
is on as i
slip into my
space suit
and drop my
visor down.

polished apples

these apples
shine on
the morning sill,
polished hard
to catch
the light
before the
first hand
chooses one,
and takes
a hungry bite.

dark wind

this black winged
flock of birds
that cloud the horizon,
swim the air
almost as one, without
voice or visible
signs of purpose.
like a hand, a
wand of darkened
wind, they find their
way towards
a wire, a rooftop,
the edges of limbs,
from a tree
free from leaves,
still useful even
towards it's end,
holding for a moment
this pause in life
before they fly
away again.

red slice of melon

you have become a
cliche she tells me
via e mail,
a jaded man just
looking to get
laid. you have no
heart, no soul,
you've lost touch
with your humanity
writing the same
old poetry time
and time again
about love gone
wrong, life taking
a left turn when
you wanted it to
go right. what i'm
saying won't even
bother you she says,
men like you don't
care, and never
feel true pain or
sadness, or sorrow,
you are immune to
such human feelings.
it's a wonderful
e mail on many levels.
and i read it over
again, checking it
for punctuation
and mispellings, but
it's a pretty clean
piece of writing.
i want to write back
to tell her well
done, but i'm in
the middle of eating
this wonderful juicy
red slice of water
melon and my
fingers are very
very sticky. she
seemed so nice
when we met. oh well.

same thing only different

behind
someone in
traffic
who is moving
his head
to the beat
of his loud
radio playing
some sort of
gangsta rap,
or something
you don't quite
understand. he's
tapping his
hands upon
the wheel
as if a drum
kit. moving
his shoulders
to the sound
of what he
hears, his
shades on
tight, his
car gyrating
with the weight
and shake
of his large
body. your
windows are
rolled up,
but you can
still feel
the bass,
hear the music
from the turned
up volume. you
are listening
to frank sing
the summer
wind and sipping
on your coffee,
you are humming
quietly to
yourself. same
thing, only
different.

beans

i'm not a big
fan of the bean
she tells me
as she stares
at the menu
shaking her head.
anything but beans.
no kidney beans
for me, or
lima, or baked,
or garbanzo
beans. i've had
it with green beans
too, to tell
you the truth,
she says, eating
some bread and
butter. red beans,
black, navy beans.
get out of town
with your boston
baked beans too.
keep them off of
my plate, thank
you. i look up
from my menu,
and laugh. tough
day, eh? how about
jelly beans?
and she gives me
a thumbs up. i can
do jelly she says.
but not the green
ones.

no parking

there is
no parking here.
or there.
the garages are
full. every meter
taken on
the street. for
miles around
there is nothing.
no place to
put this car
and come see you.
i call it fate,
you call it
something else
that i can't
repeat as i
see you wave
goodbye from
the ninth floor
window.

strangers in the night

when i see you
outside my house,
bent over
the rear tire of
my car letting
the air out,
with a sharp
knife lying on
the ground,
with which
to plunge it
into the side
of my new all
weather radials,
i wonder what
went wrong since
we sliced that
wedding cake
and danced to
the music of
strangers in
the night.

the wish

as you lean
over, holding
back your hair,
and close your
golden eyes, and
purse your
lips to make
a wish, with the
candles lit,
short of count,
light yellow
licks of
flame, a small
tear finds
it's way
down your
cheek, and
you aren't sure
why, or how
it got there.

the business woman

i'm not really into
whips and chains
she says, while
strapping on her
thigh high leather
boots, and cracking
her knuckles.
they're just tools
of the trade.
i'm a kind
and gentle soul
at heart when
i'm not at work.
but this is only
what i do for a
living. now bend
over, and get ready,
this will
hurt more than
a little bit. i
am no different
than most people,
but this is how
i make ends meet,
please, don't judge
me. it's all
business, just
business. it's
cash only and yes,
i can give you
a receipt.

the long way

you take
the long way
home. it's a
nice day, why
not. the clouds
have parted.
the radio
is playing
music that you
like, songs
that remind
you of another
day, another
time, another
girl. you take
the long
way home, there
is no rush,
no one waiting,
no dog,
in the bedroom
window,
barking, awaiting
your arrival,
all things
now changed.

charity

i'm out
of money, bone
dry. just
lint comes
out of my
pocket when
i reach in to
give you
a coin or bill,
or some token
of value.
sorry. but
now you have to
get a job too.
i know, i know.
it's a cruel
world, but
i can't keep
this up
much longer.

the guest room

you can sleep
in the guest room.
the one down
the hall, we used
to call it the
yellow room when
the previous
tenant lived here.
let's fool
around in
the yellow room
tonight, she'd
say and light
a candle on
the dresser. i can
still see the
glimmer of her
small blue plates
hung on the wall,
delicate in
their balance
their measured
place. the plates
are down now, but
you can still sleep
in there. it's
hardly haunted.
hardly at all.

the river's edge

not far from
here, just a mile
or two across
the road over
the bridge, is a
path that leads
down to the river
where we used to
go when school
let out for good
and fish. we
never ate the
fish we caught
those days, but
some were as long
as our short
skinny arms.
the river was in
bad shape, polluted
by the blue plains
sewage treatment
plant upstream, and
by oil and spilled
gasoline, and random
garbage thrown
off of boats. no one
seemed to care.
but we'd stand
in our our tennis shoes
soaked by the
swollen debris filled
water, and cast
our lines over
and over and over
again, with our
small lead weights
and blood worms
cut in threes,
pulling fish in,
cat fish,
perch and carp,
eels, horrible
black eels. and
we'd stay until
the sun started to
fall behind the
trees on the virginia
side, and we'd
make our way home,
hungry and thirsty,
but somehow less
alone.

after the breakup

you satisfy your
urge for candy
by eating more
candy, but this
doesn't help, so
you buy it in
bulk bags and
boxes at
the local wal-mart.
marshmallow
peanuts, jordan
almonds, mints,
and creams,
chocolate kisses.
your hands shake
with anticipation
as you drive
home with a
box of junior mints
in your lap, a
pack of twizzlers
melting on
the dashboard,
you rip open
the top and pour
some mints into
your wide open mouth
to settle you down.
you let out another
notch on your belt,
you drive madly
to dairy queen.

black and white cat

there is a
black and white
cat up in a tree.
she can get
down if she
wants to, but
for now she
is perfectly
content to sit
and lie across
a wide high branch
in the sun and
see what all
the birds can
see. that dog,
the other
cats, a mouse.
she is stepping
outside herself
and being still,
perspective
being everything.

swim out

swim out
to the open
sea. spread
your arms,
kick your legs.
propel yourself
towards
the sun that
rises as if
from the bottom
of that green
ocean. awaken
in the cold
flow of water
too deep to
comprehend.
arm over arm,
keep moving
away from
the safe shore
where you've
stood still for
too long.

when you follow

instead of
leaving, you sit,
you endure,
you break every
promise you've
ever made to your
self to never
stay when you
get bored, but
you're slipping,
you're off your
game with this
one. and you shake
your head, you
swallow, you
take another bite
another drink,
and it comes to
you slowly that
you're not
leading or living
when you follow.

you know better

seasons fool
you with their
trees and flowers,
coming back
after a hard
winter below
snow and ice.
and the sun
rising warm,
finally, on a
late april
morning, that
too is a trick.
those birds
singing, and a
wisp of a white
cloud in blue,
and you can't help
but have your
spirits lifted
by such slight
of hands. but
you know better,
don't you?

everything will be just fine

at the age
of ten when you
see your father
drunk again
twist your
mother's arm
until it breaks,
it sort of does
something to
you for the rest
of your life,
from that point
forward, especially
when you see them
now, divorced
for forty years,
and still pretending
that everything
will be just fine.

car crazy

you can tell
someone's state
of mind, or heart
or spirituality
by how they drive
their car, or
bus, or cab,
or bike.
i truly believe
that despite how
simple it may
sound. the rage
within comes
out when
those hands
grip the wheel.
frightening who's
out there,
driving about.

a bag of chips...

i want to get
married again, she
says. staring at
the television
as the prince and
his bride kiss
beneath the raised
veil. i want a
beautiful wedding,
one with rose
petals scattered
about, and music
and pageantry,
and a horse drawn
carriage to carry
us towards our
beautiful
lives as we depart
the cathedral
where people are
weeping with joy
over our love and
committment. i want
dancing and wonderful
food, and a cake
as sweet and white
and satisfying
as our love is for
one another. hey,
sounds great, i
tell her. i'm heading
out to the 7-11,
for a paper and
some beer,
need anything?
get me a bag
of chips, she says,
standing in front
of the tv crying,
better make it
a large bag.
family size.

dream world

you awaken with
the moon still
in the window,
the curtains parted.
the white sheets
are snow, and
cold around you.
a red numbered
clock is across
the dark room.
it's three a.m.
and this makes you
warm and happy.
there is time to
go back to your
ocean of dreams.
a world of water
where everything
is both deep
and clear and safe.
you find your
pillows and set
sail.

starting point

there is dancing
and singing,
crying. laughter
finds a way
in as well.
four one
act plays
with lights
flickering on
and off to a
captive audience
of friends
and family.
and they wring
out their angst,
their perceptions
of good and bad,
of God and
childhood, what
went wrong, what
went right. and
they know and
yet they don't
know, despite
tasting a little
bit of death along
the way. a hint
of what tragedy
really is.
they struggle
to sum up their
lives as best they
can from this
starting point.

the ladder

don't fall,
she says, as you
climb up your
ladder towards
another window
on another house
in one more
month and day
of your dwindling
years. and
you say, this is
what i do.
if i fall, i fall.
and it's meant
to be, i can't
persuade myself
to look at things
any other way.

unclear windows

the clear glass
window that
you so carefully
sprayed and wiped
clean just
the other day
is blurred now.
the trees outside
are a dulled
black green,
the grass is
thicker than it
should be, those
roses are smudged
in the early
light of day.
people walking by
are unrecognizable.
you have more work
to do to set
things right
again.

the mechanic

your neighbor
who is always
working on his
car, an old wreck
that he's bought
at some auction,
some far away
place where he
had to have it
towed back, is
happiest under
that dark square
shadow with his
hands black and
his forehead
red and sweating,
with a wrench in
one hand, as he
leans over in his
sweatshirt, pulling
things out, putting
things in.
grunting at the
tight screw, the
belt that won't
budge, or filter
that he can't
remove. and i see
his wife looking
out the kitchen
window, wondering
what else will
keep him out so
late in the day,
keep him from
coming in.

she used to fly

but her wings
don't tilt any
more, or flap
or fly, or
take her north
for the summer.
she's in florida
to stay.
she found a nice
condo near
the beach, where
she can walk
alone and be safe,
and a place where
she can play
bingo on saturday
nights. no one
needs know how
wild she once was,
how she flapped
those wings,
flew everywhere
and broke a
thousand hearts,
disturbed a
dozen nests and
left smiles
in the wake of
her frequent
flights.

no moons

there are no
more moon's to
land on, at least
in our lifetime.
and mars is too
far, too distant
and dangerous,
and what would
we do anyway once
we got there.
is it just to say,
we did. is that
good enough to
spend billions,
risk lives, while
so much of the
world is crumbling
like a cookie
in milk, right
before our eyes.
ah, but it's the
human spirit to
reach out, to explore.
to go where no
man's gone before.
insanity, i say.

chainsaw

i borrowed your
chain saw
the other day,
found it in
the shed.
i had a dead
tree in my yard
that was tilting
towards the wires.
hope you don't
mind. i left
it on your back
porch with
this note telling
you so. it
cut so smoothly,
almost with
no effort at all.
amazing how
it sliced through
what was once so
vibrant and strong.
the trunk, those
branches, the roots.
it reminds me
so much of you.

what isn't rare
is this,
let's start
with sand. there's
enough, or so
it seems when
you see it stretched
out along
the barren coast.
and stars. enough,
how many do we
need that we
can't attend to.
they are left out
there with
to do but blink
and shine. they
are too far away
it seems to solve
any of this mystery.
what isn't rare
is us, or so you
seem to think,
how dare you treat
this in such away.
like stars or sand,
when it's so
much more.

i want

i want faster
service,
my water, my
bread, my meal,
my drink refreshed.
i want a quicker
train, a
speedier cab
and bus,
i need you to
hurry, for
the fish to bite
the line,
the bell to
ding, the dough
to rise. i
want everything
now, not
yesterday or
in an hour,
i want
tomorrow, before
today is dust.

slightly ajar

you are
a slip of paper
that i won't
chase,
a white thin
strip caught
in the breeze
of a blue
morning sky.
your name, your
voice,
your slender
life, and eyes.
there is enough
on my plate,
enough to keep
me safe,
keep me home,
with heart
in tact, but
i'll leave
the window
open just in case
for no reason
you decide
to blow
yourself in.

Giants

these giants
come slowly, slow
enough to hear
their foot steps
thunder in
the ground. you
see their shadows
before you see
their legs like
timber rising
in the midday sun.
you've know
your entire life
that they were
coming, and now
they are here,
but strangely
they want nothing
from you. you are
already crushed
and weakened
by your own fear,
instead they want
the ones who
don't, those that
aren't afraid.

house going down

thin as
reeds, bone
thin, like
a blade of
grass, a
shard of
glass. a
sliver of
sun behind
an eclipsing
moon. a
last thin
breath of
air, a
shallow
gasp. life
hinges
on thin
lines, trail,
or trains,
such tracks.
a simple
twist of thread,
or nail
head pounded
down,
the slightest
blink,
the tell tale
hair,
neither
blonde or black
left behind
on a white
clean sink.
a small
lie, a thin
disguise.
the smallest
of cracks.
this house is
going down.

letting things unfold

there are
no more clothes
hangers for
which to hang
these new shirts.
things are getting
tight. each
closet is filled
to the brim
with new shoes,
new pants,
old familiar
things that still
fit just right.
what stays, what
goes. these
are decisions
i've never been
able to make.
i just let them
unfold. i
don't know.

the line

a line forms
and i see you
standing in it.
it wraps
around the block.
you nod at me
as i stop to ask
you why. what's
up. what are you
waiting in line
for, and you say,
i'm not sure.
but it's moving
fast. you'd
better hurry
and get in
or you're going
to miss out.

sick of the gas
prices your wife
talks you into
going out
and buying one of
those tiny little
cars. you feel
that it's a smart
thing to do,
considering the cost
of oil these days.
it's yellow and
looks like a
fat little bumble
bee and rides along
smooth and nicely,
but then a storm
hits and you
are suddenly lifted
into a funnel of
wind. a tornado
is taking you high
above the ground,
above the cadillacs.

bee sting and scotch and soda

her hand is swollen
and red, a small
lobster curled
and about to be
dropped into a
boiling pot of water.
is the stinger out,
i ask her,
and she winces,
i think so, but it
still hurts. i ask
the bartender for
ice as she takes out
a tube of insect
bite goo from her
purse. she lathers
some on while eating
calamari, dipping
the little fried rings
into red sauce and
sipping on her
scotch and soda.
i hate bees she
says, if i pass out,
there's a phone number
on my wrist band,
my daughter will come
to get me. oh,
and do me a favor,
please don't write
about this, okay?
okay, i tell her.
i promise.

to lie down

the man with
the tilted grey
cap, in the woods
along the path,
bent with a stick
in his hand,
moving slowly.
there is no rush.
the rush is
over. he stops
and picks up
a stone, a branch,
a leaf, then
sets it all back
down again, as
if fragile eggs,
things that still
have a life
despite having aged
and weathered,
and now
left alone.
he seems to be
looking for a
place to lie
down too.

sweat

it's a long
night, even with
the windows
open wide
there's no
wind, only
the slight breath
of an overhead
fan swirling
down, but even
that's not enough
to dry and cool
the sweat
from a bad dream.
it's a long night,
here without you.

crossing

this dog
follows you home,
he keeps about ten
feet behind you
though, wagging
his tail and
panting with
that dog like
smile on his
face. he looks
alot like your
old dog, the one
with short legs
and a smooth
red coat.
you can hear
the tags on his
collar jingle
as he keeps pace.
there is a rock,
a bird, or
a bone in his
mouth as usual,
something that
you'll get never
pry loose unless
he wants you
to have it. you
turn around and
look at him
again and see
your son, holding
him on a leash.
he's ten or eleven,
and this makes
you smile, you
turn once more to
say something to
the both of them
as you cross the
street, be careful
you say, but when
you look back
they are gone.

house for sale

this house
for sale, with
the old
furniture
in the yard,
the boxed albums
and books,
and photos
awaiting another
closet to
rest in, freshly
painted
with safe soft
colors, the
doors and windows
pried open,
the floors buffed
out and sealed,
this house, so
warm and you,
now waits for
someone new, someone
young and starting
out, that room
where your daughter
grew, quiet
and empty now.
this house for sale.
you can't measure
the words,
the life,
the beginnings
and endings that
happened here.

championship bout

why do i feel
like i went twelve
rounds with a
heavyweight boxer
when you leave
here. my ribs are
sore, my mouth
bruised, there
are burns on my knees,
my elbows. i'm
dizzy and light
headed, but aren't
they the same.
see what i mean.
i can't think
straight, i'm limp
with fatique,
i don't know
if i can ever go
another round with
the likes of you.
i don't have another
drop of fluid,
or blood with
which to bleed.

surrender

i saw you
in the sky,
caught up
in that wild
funnel of wind.
that tornado
that took down
the power lines,
and sent
rooftops flying.
you were on
your broom,
laughing as
i held on to
my little dog
and tried to get
down into
the cellar.
your skin was
green, and you
were writing
something like
surrender stephen
in the sky. i
can't say that
i miss you at
all. good luck
with the landing.

the wrong kiss

your kiss
on my cheek
means everything.
it's not
the kiss i want.
the way
your hands
hold my shoulders
back, your
stance keeping
my hips at
bay. your kiss
is terrible
and telling, but
i'd rather know
now, then later
when my
heart is all
yours and it's
way too late.

thunder

how strong
the thunder is
in the black
clouds. the silver
thread of
lighting letting
you know
who's in charge,
not you, by
any stretch, despite
all the things
you do, to make
yourself believe
that so. how fast
the rain comes
down and fills
the lake, floods
the ravine,
how quickly life
rises or subsides
when all of it
spins slowly
down a drain. how
strong the thunder
is in the black
clouds.

the waiter trips

and you hear
the first dish
drop and break
and then the next
one and a glass
or two, once full,
shattering
on the sidewalk
at the crowded cafe
and then more,
a cascade of
silverware rattling
down, a plate
of food, the tray.
all in slow motion
as everything
explodes, and
everyone turns
and sighs, and
feels horrible for
the waiter, and
you have forgotten
completely what
you were going
to say. and she
is glad for that.

madmen

at what point
do you stop,
and turn,
and become
a madman
talking in riddles
on the street,
or finding
yourself fast
asleep curled
in the woods,
or on the corner
with a sign
and a cup, or
staring madly
into the sun.
who has to die,
what needs
to happen
what has
to be said,
or not said,
or done
to put you where
the others
have gone and
can't come back.

the farm

your father
in the field, his
white hair
aglow with the two
oclock sun.
you see his arms
go up, go down,
doing what he
has to do to
keep this farm.
you see him
every day, at his
work, back and forth
in the plowed lanes,
planting, watering,
harvesting
not dreams, for
who would dream
such a life as this.
he would.
this world is
enough for him.
the heat, the struggle.
to be so tired that
the rest of what
lies out there,
doesn't matter. and
when your son
chooses another way,
you can't blame him.

let's not keep score

this puzzle
of you, so many
pieces scattered.
the tiles tipped
over, some blank,
some impossible
to ever use with
the board so
full, the night
so long. your
short words are
nice and tender,
and your long
answers are
full of vowels
that wander
searching for
a higher score,
some meaningful
way to say the things
you feel. this
game, i admit,
is hard. let's
start over again
but this time,
not keep score.

renunion

the e mails for
the reunions are
endless. highschool.
every year, twice
a year, every week
a notice in the mail,
come, dance, drink,
we'll reminisce
about those golden
days from forty
years ago. it's usually
two or three friendly,
happy souls who had
their glory days way
back when and want
to keep it going. but
it always gets around
to who's dead. who's
sick or on their
last legs, what
fellow classmates
have checked out,
taking their last
lap around the ball
field, heard their
last late bell
between classes. and
teachers, can there
be any left. mrs. moak
my french teacher was
was a hundred back
then. as usual it will
be at the knights of
columbus hall. there will
be chicken and green
beans, mashed potatoes.
and small round women
in hairnets and white
smocks ladling it onto
your plate which is
on your tray. and there
will be stewed tomatoes
in dixie cups and milk
cartons you push
your straw through.
pink sno-ball cupcakes
for dessert. i can't
wait. well. i can
actually, maybe i'll
make the fifty year
reunion. but i doubt it.

implants

she's pondering
larger breasts.
my friend, amelia.
when she sees
the blonde
across the bar in
a bright red
dress, she decides
that she wants
cleavage, something
along those lines,
a little more curve
of skin for her
clothes to bend
and turn in a way,
which make men's heads
do likewise. like
they do for the cupcake
across the room, but
she isn't sure why
she feels this need,
and she worries
about the sensitivity
of certain portions
that are quite alive,
at least for now,
and she asks out loud,
do you cut, will it hurt,
do you inject, are
the bags slid in below,
or to the side,
under the muscle.
will they leak.
and by the second
glass of wine, she
laughs and gives
in, and says, no way.
i'm sorry, but if we
ever get that far,
this is all you get
and proceeds to stick
out her chin.

she's hungry

she pulls a rotisserie
chicken apart like nobody's
business. it doesn't
stand a chance. she's
that hungry. legs
go first, then
the wings, then a
sharp carving
knife slides deep
into the tender white
meat. skin and all,
goes into her mouth.
she pulls the stuffing
out with her fingers,
there's no stopping her.
she licks the juices off
her lips and hands,
wild eyed, wild hair,
then takes a swig
of wine from the bottle.
finally she stops, satisfied,
and looks at me across
the table, and winks.
ah oh.

sixty years gone down

she puts his bow
tie on the table,
the red one, and
then beside it
the blue and green
one. plaid. those
being his favorites.
she places them
where he sat and
ate his breakfast,
next to the empty
white bowl,
before he put
his stetson hat on,
and took the train
into town. the hat
was on the hook
by the mirror,
by the umbrella,
by the door in
the foyer. sixty
years, sixty years.
gone down.

sign posted

lost cat,
six pounds, black
and white,
a jingle collar
around his
fluffy throat,
a shortened
tail, a scar
on his forehead,
he limps,
and has a very
loud, deep
meow. his name
is pudding, but
he answers to
no one. so
don't bother
yelling out for
him if you see
him in your neighbor
hood. in fact
if you spot him,
get inside quickly.
no reward will
be given upon
his capture.

the passing train

you don't travel well.
you get bored
with looking out
the window. it's
interesting at first.
but after the second
or third town,
with dogs, and people
sitting on their
porches, eating orange
marshmallow peanuts
from wallmart, waving
mindlessly at the train,
with their children
holding dolls, or toy
guns, pointing them.
well it disturbs you,
there is a strange
sadness that you get
when they wave. you want
off, you want it to
move faster, to
burn it's wheels
against these singing
tracks. you want
to get to where you
need to be. and it's
a thought you are
not unfamiliar with.
you make promises to
yourself to never wave
at a passing train. you
close your eyes and
listen for the next stop.

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.