summer streams

in the hollows
of summer
where the stream
lingers
like an after
thought of low
water
moving slowly
towards
a larger home,
and the children
out of school
wading in
the hours
of a warm july,
on their bikes,
to the pool,
brown skinned
and blonde
so unaware of
this beginning
of their lives,
them too moving
closer to
a larger body
of water.

notes to myself

these slips
of paper
with names
and numbers
dates and times,
words
are snow
piles in my
driveway. but
they have
kept the winter
warm.

moving violation

she's unsafe
at any speed,
curve after
curve of her,
a hard road
with soft
turns, she's
a moving
violation when
she walks down
the street,
a blue
highway, the
road taken
when you're in
no rush to get
where you
want to go.

enjoy the lake

you live
on a corner
where it's easy
for people
to slow down
and yell out
for directions
while you're cutting
the grass or
watering the roses,
and you tell
them all the same
thing, make
a left at the light,
go past the water
tower, the gas
station, and then
you'll see a sign
saying, lake,
no littering, or
swimming after
dark. take that
road, but go
slow and easy,
there's lots
of deer. you tell
them this not
because
it's the right
way to go, but
because you want
them to see
the lake and have
an enjoyable
ride with a view
before they
get unlost and
go on their way.

the nail

you step
on a nail,
but somehow
you feel it
go through your
shoe, your
sock and just
touch
the bottom of
your foot.
the skin not
pricked or
bleeding
before stepping
fully down
into the spike.
but you're fine.
and as you take
your shoe off
to pull the nail
out, you imagine
that you might
have an insight
into the nature
of things, but
you don't, you
still are
uncertain
about blind luck,
the mercy of God,
or maybe perhaps
it just isn't
your turn, yet.

i want a cowboy

i want to marry
a cowboy
she says while
sipping
on a martini
at cafe deluxe
with three
bags of new
clothes at
her side
from nordstroms.
she looks off
into the distance,
her eyes narrowing,
as if she can see
montana, or someplace
like that.
the praire dogs,
and tumbleweed.
a cowboy, huh,
i say to her.
so you want to ride
the range,
sleep out under
the stars and eat
beans around
the campfire
with your new
marlboro man?
no, she says,
don't be insane.
i want to marry
the idea of what
a cowboy is.
strong, independent,
unafraid, and
yet appreciative
of a good woman.
a straight shooter.
quit rolling your
eyes, she says,
don't make fun of me,
then smooths on
another slick
coat of cherry red
lipstick onto
her puckered lips.
giddyup i tell her.
i have a good biscuit
and gravy recipe
i could give you.
maybe you could put
it in your saddlebag.

the hat

she shows up
in a hat.
a little alpine
hat, without
the feather,
not unlike
the frank sinatra
hat that he'd
wear when
recording in
the wee wee
hours for capitol
records, or
pehaps bing
crosby singing
white christmas
in a plaid coat
on t.v., but this
woman has
the same hat on
as she walks
through the bar.
she needs
a briefcase,
or an umbrella,
to complete the look.
but it's very hip
and cool, and
all the kids
are wearing them
in adams morgan,
or up by the zoo.
it's neither bad
nor good,
but very interesting
how she gets
away with it,
and never takes
it off.

the soft earth

how the birds
lean against
the wind, a wing
up or down
to glide
them towards a
branch, or point
upon the ground,
they have no
place to go,
but where they
are, no worry
in tomorrow, no
sense of yesterday.
how soft the earth
is after it rains,
and full of life,
is all they need
to know today.

it reminds me of you

the weather,
those clouds,
that roll of thunder
in the distant
hills,
the way the rain
falls into puddles
on the dark
summer street,
reminds me
of you, of us,
of when we were
in love last
year. and that wad
of gum, that you
chewed, spearmint,
our favorite,
then stuck to the bed
post, that too
reminds me of
you, and those shoes
under my bed, not
yours, but someone
else's, well, guess
what, yup, they
too remind me of
you, but not so
much because your
feet were rather
large and those
black stiletto
heels are only
a petite size two,
but still they remind
me of you.

the idea of love

in a bar, late
at night, drinking
scotch i hear
my friend jimmy
say, i want to get
married again. i
really do. he's
not exactly divorced
yet because the lawyers
haven't quite hit
rock bottom with
his bank account,
but he's eager
for the next one,
the next soul
mate, love of his
life. and i say,
but why? your marriage
was a sham. it was
twenty five years
of misery. she hated
you, you hated
her. you took
separate vacations
slept in separate
rooms and she
cheated and lied
to you for years.
and now she is going
to take half of
every penny you
ever earned, not
to mention get alimony
for life.
what's the rush on
the next marriage?
and he says, i don't
know. i like
the romance of it all.
i think that the next
one will be different.
i'll get it right
this time. i like
the idea of being
in love, and bonded
with someone.
bartender, you yell
out, two more scotches
please, and some
pretzels.

doctor's visit

you've resisted
going for so long,
but there you
sit, naked with
a little apron
around you
on a cold examining
table reading
an issue of family
circle from
nineteen ninety eight,
may and the doctor comes
in with a chart
that you filled out.
and the doctor
says, so what's
the problem, what
brings you in here
today. and you say
no reason in
particular. i'm
eating and sleeping
well, everything
seems to be
functioning fine,
i'd just like to be
about twenty
years younger,
you tell him. i'm
losing some lift on
my jump shot, there
has been some hair
loss as you can see,
and i can only go
maybe twice a night,
sometimes only once
if it's someone i've
been dating for
a long time.
and i get indigestion
on occasion
when i eat spicy
food. can you help
me out. he takes
his glasses off
and sighs. what's
wrong with you, he
says, there are
real sick people
out there in that
waiting room who
need me, and you
are sitting here
whining about nothing.
get dressed and
get out of my
office. you will
be charged for
this visit. so, you've
got nothing for
me, you say, but
he's already out
of the room, the
door slamming behind
him. hey, you tried.

two birds

i want a parrot
your wife tells
you while lying in
bed. i'm lonely.
but we just had
sex, i tell her.
i'm your husband
and you want to
replace me with
a bird. no, she
says, lighting
a cigarette and
blowing the smoke
towards the ceiling.
i want someone i
can talk to. and
what do you call
this, aren't we
having a conversation
now. yes, she says.
but i can control
a parrot, teach it
what to say, and
to say it on cue.
you've lost your
mind i tell her
and put a pillow
behind my head. i
want to hear that
i'm loved, and
worshiped, that i'm
adored. you never
tell me those things,
you never want to
talk about things,
about my mother,
or the holidays,
or where we're
going on vacation,
you never open up,
she says, sucking
the life out of that
cigarette. you know
what, i tell her.
get the bird. get
two in fact, one
for you and one
for me, but get me
the kind that can't
talk. okay?

tomatoes

she tells me
that she has to
get up early
in the morning, so
she needs to call
it a night, i'm sorry
she says, but i'm
working at the
farmer's market
tomorrow and we
have a new shipment
of tomatoes
coming in that have
to be stacked. i
have to be there
at five a.m.
to unload the trucks,
set up the table
and that sort of thing.
tomatoes, i say.
you have to go
home because of
tomatoes. hmmm. that's
a first. plum tomatoes,
or on the vine?
a variety, she says
smiling. i may
use that from time
to time if you
don't mind. no, not
at all, she says,
goodbye.

one small scoop

how much
icecream can
you eat, she
asks me
as i lick
another cone.
a lot, i tell
her, a lot.
you should try
one. what's
your favorite
flavor? vanilla,
she says, one
small scoop in
a bowl will
do for me.
no sprinkles,
no chocolate,
no toppings,
no cherry on top.
and i shake my,
head, we're
doomed, i tell
her. doomed.

the nurse

she was an
unregistered nurse
who liked to
walk around in white
shoes and a white
dress, carrying
a little black
bag with a cross
on it. she was
crazy as they come,
but a lot of fun
when i was feeling
blue and needed
some of her
bedside manner.
i heard that she
was arrested a few
years ago for
writing bad checks
and stealing
money out of other
people's accounts,
i always wondered
why my bank
statement seemed
a little low
after she'd pay
me a visit for
a checkup.

summer

the fields full
of young men
in hats and cleats,
the cut grass and
dragged infields
of soft tan dirt
under the wide
arc of lights.
and the parents
in the bleachers,
on the side hills
with dogs and
children, grand
parents watching
the movement of
youth, of sweet memory
so quickly gone.
summer is a cut
melon, juicy and
red. ripe with
promise. take a big
fat bite and let
it run and drip
down your chest
it will not last
forever, but for now
it is everything.

the final frontier

if it doesn't rain,
and it's not too
windy and there
aren't too many
birds in the sky,
today will be
the final voyage
of our one and only
space craft.
no more space
shuttle, what will
we do now? how
will we fend off
those martians
in their sleek
disc like ships
sailing at light
speeds in and out
of our galaxy
like birds
through the trees.
but the shuttle
is limping
out, like grandma
waiting for the rain
to stop before
she can go to
the store to get
a can of tuna,
circling the earth,
barely above
the outer rim of air,
coughing and losing
shingles, round
and round she goes,
looking for a soft
place to land
her ample tush.

blackbirds on a wire

you spend
the day counting
blackbirds
on a wire.
you are distracted
by something
you can't
put your finger
on. so you sit
at your kitchen
table, coffee
in hand, and watch
the birds fly
and dip down
in a straight
line, staring in
at you, as you
stare out at
them. they are as
black as if
they had flown
out of a lake
of oil. gleaming
wet with blackness.
at some point
you'll answer
the phone that
keeps ringing
and ringing and
ringing.

sailing the equator

you want your
mother to be more
like your father,
more aloof and
unreachable, but
friendly and
conversational too.
more superficial
basing every
conversation on
a thin news related
event, or the weather.
how about that wind?
no need to dig deep,
or to talk about our
lives, let's just
keep it clean
and simple. and
you want your father
to be more like
your mother, asking
questions, asking
how's your life,
your work, your
money. are you sleeping
and eating well.
tell me about your
love life. but no.
they are at opposite
poles and i am
sailing the equator.

everything but love

salesmen
at the door.
for life insurance,
windows,
lawn services,
painting
and girl scout
cookies.
the bell rings
and rings.
dog walkers,
church members,
collecting
clothes,
termite inspectors,
roofers,
someone wanting
directions,
or just the time.
firewood,
and mulch.
someone needs
to use your phone.
another wants
to buy or sell
your house.
when was the last
time you had
your furnace
serviced?
they come
for everything,
everything
but love.
that's a whole
other door
to knock on.

the pool

i can't
go to the small
neighborhood
pool anymore.
too many
kids, with
mouths half
open, leaning
sideways, quietly
gazing at a spot
about ten feet
away after
drinking perhaps
their third
sixteen ounce
soda and now
standing
chest high
in the water.

Yo D

i was out back the other
day, trimming some bushes
with a hack saw, getting
ready for my annual summer
party, when i saw
my new neighbor hanging
sheets on the line.
it was the dalai lama.
since the economy went
bust he hasn't been getting
the love donations like
he did in the past and is
now in the townhouse next
to mine. Yo, D, i yelled
out to him. how do you
get keep those sheets
so orange and bright,
what's your secret and
he smiled and nodded. they
are not sheets, they are
my robes and i wash them
down in the creek against
the rocks. my bad, i said.
but they really look good.
you are so off the chain
with this ecology thing,
aren't you? really cool.
i should start washing my
clothes in the creek too.
by the way, i'm having
a party tonight if you'd
like to stop by.
should be some hot babes
showing up, umm,
you okay with that?
yes, he said and nodded,
his brown shaved head
gleaming in the sunlight.
i mean, i'm good no mattter
what. i'm not saying you're
light in the loafers or
anything, but there should be
some nice dudes there as
well. whatever floats
your boat. anyway.
i'm grilling out, so what
do you want. steak, burgers,
dogs, maybe something soy
or hummus. i've got a mean
soy burger recipe that i
found on epicurious dot
com. taste like the real
deal. what time, he said
as he clipped the last
clothes pin to the line
hanging his sheets.
eight o'clock i told him.
bring those little finger
cymbals, or your sitar
if you want. i've got
some bongos over here
if you want to get a little
crazy. chicks dig live music.
he nodded again and smiled.
i will try to come,
he said. hey, one more thing,
i yelled over the fence,
do you need a belt or
something, i have an extra
one, i always see you
with that rope
wrapped around you.
a belt might work a little
better. just saying.
whatever. okay D, i'll
see you later. i need to
get back in to marinate
some chicken. hey, are
you okay, with beer,
a pitcher of sangria maybe.
yes, he said, and
bowed before going into
his house. sweet, i said.
sweet.

social networking

i met my
lifecoach in
line at starbucks.
she was standing
behind me
multi-tasking on
her i pad, i phone,
texting on her
blackberry
and reading a
book while ordering
coffee and running
in place with her
three year old
adopted son,
vladimir from
the ukraine.
i ask her how she does
it all, get so
much done in a
single moment.
and she winks at
me, meet you outside
when i get my grande
soy skim
without foam extra
hot double cup
latte. i can help
you, she says, no
need to be such
a loser your entire
life, and i say but
i'm not a loser while
dripping hot coffee
onto my white t-shirt.
and she puts her
fingers to my lips,
shush, she says,
meet you outside.
i can help you.
you need to live more
social, and you say
what the hell does
that mean? shhh, she
says, outside.
so we met outside
and she says, tell
me about your face
book page, how many
friends do you have?
three so far, you
tell her, and one person
who died recently,
but i've only been
on for a year and i
have two more that
haven't confirmed
yet. i expect to get
more when i go to my
highschool reunion
next week.
she takes a look at
my phone, you
have nothing scheduled,
you have no apps,
she says, and you
show her your hands.
my fingers are too fat,
you tell her. see.
it's hard to press
just one key at a time.
what about groupon,
she says, stretching
her arms over head,
no, i'm worried
about the mercury.
groupon, she says
loudly, not grouper.
and twitter, please
tell me that you twitter.
i don't understand
twitter, you tell
her as she begins to
run in place,
with vladamir picking
up the pace, she's
typing everything
into her phone.
i'm tweeting
right now, she says,
telling all my friends
about you. look, how
old are you buddy?
my real age or my
internet dating age?
and she says, your
real age, so i tell
her and she sighs.
it might be too
late for you, but hey,
keep your chin up. i
took your picture
and will post it onto
my website to use you
as an example in
order to help
others change their
lives. it was nice
meeting you. i have
to get V to daycare.
bye. and as she runs
off i notice a long
strand of toilet paper
stuck to the bottom
of her running shoes,
but i decide not
to tell her.

the fight in you

your cat
lying on his
back with paws
like a boxer's
gloves, held
chin high
to protect
the jab, the
hook, or upper
cut. his one
eye closed,
another fight
in some alley,
you suppose.
but you love
this cat,
the fight in him,
pawing
shadows in
his dreams, while
you do like wise
in your narrow
bed near a
window, where
sunlight signals
another round
to begin.

i'm sorry but

i can't explain
my behavior
to you. it would
take too long,
it would take
you down a road
you don't want
to go, or know,
so let's just say
i'm working on
things, okay?
let it go at
that.

moonlight

you fall asleep
in her arms.
and you dream.
you awaken
and she's still
there. this
surprises
you because
usually it's
the other way
around, with
the window
open, the door
ajar.
and a body of
moonlight
in the place
where she once
was.

boom boom boom

i like the blue
ones you hear
someone say,
and the red
ones too, but
the blue ones
are my favorite.
oh look at that.
did you see that?
and you say yes,
i'm looking
in the same exact
direction that
your are. i saw
that, and the
one before it too.
i'm sweating and my
neck hurts.
someone's dog is
licking my leg.
oh, wow.
those green ones
are nice too,
the way they hang
in the air like
icicles or
something green,
maybe some sort
of plants. are you
grouchy, she says.
oh, look at that,
one right after
the other.
i like when they go
real real fast at
the end, she says,
the climax. boom
boom boom, yes,
me too, i say.
the ending is always
good. are we still
talking about
the fireworks? i ask
her. sort of,
i think so, she
says, giving me a
wink. do you have cold
beer in the fridge
at your house, you
ask. hmmm hmmm, she
says, and pie.
blueberry crumb pie
with little american
flags stuck in it.
vanilla icecream too.
okay, let's go now,
i tell her. let's
beat the traffic.
love the red ones.
ooooh, did you see
that? you missed it.
the best one yet.
it looked exactly
like george washington's
head, or maybe
martha's, hard to
tell in the smoke.
wait for me, she yells.
i can't run in
these flipflops.

the difference between men and women

she sends you
a note.
thanks, she says.
thanks a lot.
and you respond
back, for what,
what did i do.
and she says,
thanks for
forgetting my
birthday, again.
i've known
you for five years
and i've never
ever forgotten
yours, and
you say ah oh
and clear your
throat, and
start pacing
the room. you
have no excuse
other than that
you are forgetful
and have no
memory for
birthdays, or
anniversaries,
or other important
calendar events.
you would even
forget christmas
if not for
the tree and lights,
and constant
ringing of
the bell out in
front of the
grocery stores.
how can i make
it up to you, you
ask her, i can
send you a pony
in the mail. no
thanks she says,
i still have
the one you sent
last year.
think bigger.

cats in space

i read
somewhere,
perhaps in
the dwindling
thread bare
pages of the post
that more money
is spent on
cat food in
this country
than on the space
program. it's
hard to come
to terms with
that, or understand
quite what
it means, but
maybe,
we should
combine the two.
send cats up
into orbit. why
only dogs,
and chimps
and people, throw
in a mouse
or two as well,
let's keep
the program going.

sunday morning

coffee grounds
and egg
shells, orange
peels, the butter
left out,
and toast crumbs,
a pan on
the stove, dishes
in the sink,
the debris
of breakfast
left for
later, much later,
let's go
to the couch,
no need to
rush off, is there?
let's talk
or kiss this out.

the contest

you enter
the hot dog
eating contest
because you want
to prove something
to your new
love, you want
to show her
how strong
and powerful
you are, the skills
that you possess.
you want to woo her
into, well, i
think you know
what i mean, yes?
but you can only
eat two hot dogs
with relish
and mustard on
a potato roll bun,
before passing out.
maybe you should
have skipped on
the chips, and soda,
and potato salad,
they may have
helped fill you
up so soon. and as
you lie there
under the picnic
table you can
see her shaking
her head at
you groaning with
mustard all over
your shirt. the
least she could
do is shoo away
the flies.

missing pages

i set those
flower out
for you.
put them in
a crystal vase
beside the window,
on the piano
where you sat
and played.
i see your
long fingers
gently
pressing against
the keys.
your eyes are
closed,
your music,
your kisses are
missed, there
are pages missing
from this symphony.

a place without traffic

there is no
life on mars,
but wouldn't
it be nice
to get away
someplace
where there is
no traffic
or lines. of
course the lack
of air,
and the heat,
and the wind
storms could
cause some
minor
inconvenience,
but it might
be worth
trip. but
on second
thought, perhaps
iowa would
be more
practical and
closer. i love
corn and
could learn
to ride a tractor,
or even a
horse with all
that extra time.

wallpaper

she wants you
to fix her wall
paper, the edges,
are brittle and hard,
split from top
to bottom up
the staircase.
it's a gold flock
design with crests
and medallions
that needed
heavy clay paste
to get it to stick.
it's impossible to
fix thirty years
later. she is
in a wheel chair
and has a crank
attached to a
rail to haul her
up the stairs.
please, she says,
i need to sell this
house, my husband
died seven years
ago. please, try
to fix it. but you
tell her it's
impossible.
it just won't work.
and she begins
to cry. and i
know that it's not
about the wallpaper,
it's more. it's
the age she has
become, alone in
that house, so much
of her life, now
brittle and hard,
unfixable. and so,
i get a ladder,
i get my tools.
i try.

take a peek, but don't look back

you find
the old photo
album under
the bed where
the tumble weed
dust rolls
against
the hardwood
floor. coyote
would be right
at home under there.
you really
need to get a
maid at some
point, or move.
but you
find an album and
wipe the dust
off. it's
filled with
the photos, when
you were married,
when you had
hair, when you
were young and
stupid as opposed
to now, older
and more stupid.
it seems longer
than ten
or twelve, or
fifteen years since
they were taken.
your son in a batman
costume, your ex
wife with that
constant frown,
so much distance
between then and
now. uncountable
and surprising miles.

relatives in town

your sister
pulls up in her
minivan with
luggage on the roof
and the kids in back.
two of them are
strapped into gooey
child seats
and the other one
is bouncing a ball
against the inside
of the windshield.
she recently lost her
job and broke
up with her drunk
husband, larry
the pharmacist,
and she wants
to stay for awhile.
sort things out.
it was all in the email
that i got the other
day. i need to update
my spam filters.
she beeps her horn
before coming to the door,
ringing the bell
and knocking
with the knocker.
hey, are you home,
are you in there? she
yells. you are, but you
are lying on the floor
with the lights
off, peering
out the bottom
of the last
slat in the venetian
blinds. you hold
your breath, slow
down your breathing
so that she
can't hear you.
then you hear
a ball bounce and
you turn around,
it's her older
kid with the ball
standing in
the doorway. he came
through a window
in the kitchen.
what are you doing
uncle jimmy, he
asks, why are you
lying on the floor?
he throws the ball
at you, and says
catch right before
it goes through
the window.

just one bite, that's all

she doesn't
want dessert,
i'm full,
she'll say and sit
back in her chair,
but when
the flourless
chocolate
waffle cake, with
whipped cream
and a cherry on
top, arrives,
she'll smile
and say, oh my,
and lean forward.
she'll take
a spoon, reach
across the table
and dig into
the dish, just a
bite, she'll say,
one bite, okay,
just a tiny tiny
bite, yum,
that's good,
maybe one more.
do you want
the cherry?
why are you laughing,
she asks, as you
hand her a napkin
to get the chocolate
off her chin.

Nick's Cowboy Bar

black and white
cowboy hats,
and snakeskin boots,
the big trucks
with american flag
decals, spit
polished bumpers
high on their
wheels parked
sideways
out front,
and jeans
so tight
they look
painted on
and string
ties and
white dresses,
with ribbons
and bows,
cut off shorts
and plaid shirts,
a loud garage band
with a twang,
drinking while
they play.
beards and mustaches,
girls with big hair.
and the place
smells of beer
of rum and coke,
and fried
food, as the crowd
dances in
set lines, clicking
their heels, clapping
their hands in
unison, and spinning,
dipping into a tin
of chew, a little
doesy doe here,
and a howdy mamm there
under a sagging
string of scattered
party lights.
get along little
doggies. yee haw.
and when the
band plays a drum
roll then strikes up
the star spangled
banner, everyone
stands silently,
facing the stage
with sombered respect,
they take off their
hats and put their
hands on their
hearts. twenty
minutes from dc.
seven dollar cover.
bring a friend.

internet date number 471

she pulls a knife
on you, the very first
date and says,
stay back, don't
touch me, i don't
even know you. and
you say, hey, i was
just giving you
a hug goodbye. relax.
but she keeps the knife
up in the air.
it catches the reflection
of the pale full
moon above the almost
deserted parking lot
and the taco bell sign
across the street.
a styro foam box
containing her half
eaten salmon salad
that she said was too
salty is in her other
hand. you say, excuse
me, you have a little
bit of crab avocado
dip on your blouse,
she looks down and tries
to flick it off with
the tip of the blade,
but it's dried solid.
crap, she says, i just
bought this too,
then backs away slowly
until she bumps
into her car.
she clicks the key fob
to open the door,
the knife still
raised high in her
trembling hand.
call me she says
as she slides into her
seat. it was fun,
my treat next time.
give me ten minutes
to drive away and don't
try to follow me.
she rolls the window
down two inches.
i'm sorry about
the knife, she says.
i'm not really a mean
person. i don't
think i could
really stab anyone.
you seem like a
nice guy. it's cool,
you tell her, let's
talk soon, text me
next week, and wave
goodbye as she slams
the door and hits
the gas out
of the parking lot
the styro foam box
tumbling across
the roof of her car,
a half eaten slab
of salmon stuck
to the back window.

posted speed, none

no shoes
no shirt
no service.
strict rules
i cannot obey.
no parking.
no smoking.
HOV lanes,
no hanging on
the rope.
the park
closes at
dark.
it's so rare
you ever
see the sign
like the one
above your
bed that says
do whatever
you want. how
refreshing.

unhappy hour

this need
for confession
by others
prompts you
to put a
confessional
booth in your
house. it's
dark and musty
like you
remember, there
is virtually
no light
until the mesh
screen slides
open. you
whisper, please
begin. you post
your hours
on the internet.
you offer wine
and small
snacks when it's
over. it's
an unhappy hour.

blue volkswagon

as your car
stalls and dies
and you manage
to get it to
side of the road
close to guard
rail, and the other
cars and trucks
roar by you,
each rush of wind
a reminder of
how we are all mere
inches from
death, you remember
the time jenny's
blue volkswagon
did the same
exact thing and
how she laughed
and said that
she hated this
car, let's get out
and walk. just
leave it and so
you did. but you
don't do it this
time. you were
younger then, and
falling and staying
in love
was easy, but
things have changed.
you could never
leave the car now.

jane 101

jane is in love.
she's always
in love, so it
seems. she
never falls too
hard, or too far,
or breaks a wing
when it ends
abruptly or
with a whimper,
her resiliency
should be taught
in a class called
life and love
by jane. it
would be an
honors course,
of course and would
help millions.

a lot

she turns
over a napkin
and writes
the word
alot and beside
it she writes
a lot. she pushes
it in front
of me, then she
keeps eating,
she takes a slow
sip of her drink
and smiles.
she says, this
rockfish is
simply delicious.
how's your steak?
i nod and say
it's perfect,
and she says,
strunk and white,
page nine, or
there abouts,
i read it a
lot. more wine?

dust

your finger
along the shelf
lifting dust
does nothing
but make you
wonder, not so
much about
taking care of
the dust, but
taking that
book off
the shelf and
seeing if you
remember it
the way things
were. that book
she gave you,
and never gave
back. you had
to keep
something. so
much dust.

small things

small things
left behind
that you see
through a window,
her purse
on the table,
a shoe turned
to the side,
left just
the way it was
when her
foot slid out
and she went
up the stairs
with a cup
of tea, a
magazine, a book,
a paper, all
the things
she'd never
get to read,
never find
the time.

waiting on a train

on the platform
while she waits
for her train, she
looks up into the stars,
her arms folded,
her lips sore.
a sweet tired smile
on her face.
the trains come
and go she thinks
to herself. let's
see where this one
takes me, how far
it will roll.

dude looks like a lady

on the fourth
of july
you buy a watermelon
and fill it up
with vodka. you
read somewhere
that that's what
ben franklin used
to do while watching
the fireworks
over the river
with his mistress,
lulabelle. a woman
he had met in france
while doing research
on static electricity.
you are feeling
very patriotic and
so make a shirt
out of a giant
american flag. well,
it's more of a
pancho because you
have no sewing skills
to speak of. but
you are ready
for the holiday
with a pack of all
beef hotdogs
and some potato
salad. you light
a sparkler to
get things started,
but let it burn
down too far, mesmerized
by it's sizzle and
bright colors. it burns
the tips of
your fingers, taking
some skin off.
fortunately you have
a tube of neosporin
nearby and a bandage
so you are
good to go. you are able
to hold your insulated
beer can in your left
hand. it feels awkward
at first, but you can
do it. you think about
what soldiers have done
to keep this country
free. so this is nothing.
there are only three
more hours until sunset
and your neck already
hurts from looking up
into the sky. you realize
that you are almost out
of potato chips
and beer and think
about making a run
to the seven eleven,
but you don't want
to lose your spot, it's
a great spot, so you
stay put and turn up
the radio as they do
the countdown of the top
one hundred songs
of the century. 'dude
looks like a lady' is
playing and you turn
it up. number 31 on
the list. you think
about ben franklin.

the golden years

so what do you
plan to do with your
golden years, she
asks me while throwing
another soy burger
onto the grill.
i lean back, sipping
my drink and say,
i don't know. maybe
go up to canada and
get a new hip,
i hear the healthcare
up there is so much
better than ours,
and then get on craig's
list to find a used
a metal detector.
i'm thinking that
i can scour the beaches,
looking for lost
rings and whatnot,
maybe go to some old
battlefields,
look for civil war
buttons and spent
shell casings. sounds
very exciting,
she says, as she
flips the burger.
and you, how do you
see yourself spending
your golden years, i
ask her. i don't know,
she says, maybe i'll
take up ballroom
dancing or oil painting.
i've always thought that
i had the talent
to paint. but i've always
been interested in ice
sculpture too. it just
fascinates me. wild,
i tell her, that's
some wild stuff. i saw
someone carve the entire
last supper out of ice
with a chain saw
up in toronto one winter.
the detail was amazing.
he even had sliced bread
on the table. oh really,
she says, what kind
of bread, whole wheat?
nah, probably wonder
bread, i tell her,
which makes her laugh.
hey, she says,
taking the burger off
the grill and putting it
on a bun, i lost a
watch once on the beach,
it's got my intials
on it. so if you come
across it with your metal
detector, be sure to
get it back to me. okay?
i will, i tell her.
i most certainly will.
but be sure to write down
your intitials before
you leave so that
i don't forget.

doors

each day
with it's key
to turn,
and lock
to open to find
what lies
behind that
door.
the ring is
getting thick
with keys.
and the mystery
is not less,
but more.

i'm done with you

i don't need
another kiss from
you. i can live
without feeling
your skin
against mine,
your hand on
my shoulder,
or hearing
your voice whisper
into my ear.
i don't need to
know when
you'll be home.
i no longer can
lose sleep
over the likes
of you.
no, i'm done
with you. and if
you believe any
of that, well,
you have alot
to learn about me.

the best thrown ball

the best throw
of any ball
is the one not
thought of
while in motion.
and the same
holds true
of each word you
write, or
gift you give,
or call you make.
it's the smooth
spiral of ease
that puts it
where it needs
to be, soft into
the hands,
or deep within
the net as if
it had no other
choice to make
but swish.

pick a color susan

you receive notice
that someone you have
known has passed
away. someone you
worked for, and became
friends with. and
you remember her
laugh as she picked
the wrong color time
and time again, testing
each pink, each
blue, each mango orange
with wide brush
stokes, like windows,
on all the walls.
and this was how she
lived her life, wide open.
every color, every
road a possibility
towards fun. and her
absence, as was
her presence, is and
always will be a part
of who you are.

marriage counseling

i'm so glad that
you both came in today.
i hope that these
sessions will be beneficial
and that we can smooth
out the rough spots
and get you two back
into a healthy loving
marriage. but before
we start there is coffee
and cake over there on
the counter, so please,
help yourselves
while i go over your
applications,
so you get up and go
over and your wife
says, hey, whatever
happened to ladies first,
do you mind, and you
say, but you don't
even drink coffee, or
like cake, and she
she says well maybe
today i do, and just
maybe she has hot tea
there too. maybe she
has some cookies over
there. so you shake your
head and mumble to yourself.
what did you just say,
she says. did you call
me a bitch. no, you
tell her, sneaking a look
over at the counselor.
i said i have an itch.
get the wax out of your
ears. and as you get your
coffee, you put a slice
of crumb cake onto
a paper plate and your
wife asks, why did you take
the largest piece?
and you laugh and say
maybe i'm hungry. well,
with that gut of yours
you shouldn't be eating
cake to begin with.
you never share, she
says, you are so freaking
selfish, this is why
we are here today. and
you look at her and say.
how many times this
week are you going
to wear that same
stupid yellow dress.
good god, how about
some variety. you're
too old to be wearing
a dress like that
anyway. oh really, she says,
and maybe you should try
some mouthwash sometime.
do you ever wonder why i
never kiss you anymore.
no, you tell her, i don't
wonder why, i'm actually
happy that you don't try
to kiss me anymore. it's
like kissing a dead
fish. a dead fish in a
yellow dress. bite me,
she says. you wish i'd bite
you, you tell her then
pour some cream into your
coffee and stir,
clinking the spoon
against the cup. excuse
me, your wife says pushing
you out of the way,
while she rummages though
the shelves looking
for a tea bag. there has
got to be one lipton
tea bag in this dump,
then you hear the door slam,
and you both look over
to the couch where
the therapist was
sitting, but she's gone.
the application ripped
in half on the floor. it's
all your fault your
wife says, as she finds
a tea bag and proceeds
to make a cup of tea.
hand me that spoon, no,
the other one. the one
you didn't lick.

fireflies

you remember
the warm summers
of july. shoeless
in the cool grass
waiting for
the sky to light
up while fire
flies rose
out of nowhere
so easy to catch
that it made you
cautious and
gentle with what
they were. like
lady bugs dressed
for the night
in their pearls
and bright lights
flashing their
modest eyes. and
if the fireworks
were the dreams you
could never have,
the fireflies
were the ones
you could.

potato salad

my son called me
the other day
and asked me, dad,
what do you know
about potato salad?
and i said. alot.
where do you want
me to start. he
had never asked
me for advice before
about anything, not
love, or work, or
school, or saving
money, but this
i felt was a good
start. so i told him
to pull up a chair,
get a pad of paper
and a pen,
and write down
this list of things
he'll need. a bag
of redskin potatoes.
red onions,
red peppers, celery,
boiled eggs and
mayonaise. salt and
pepper. and then i
proceeded to tell
him how to make
potato salad. i'm
happy that we are
getting along so well.

crazy time

i once bought
a girl
a very nice watch
just because i
liked her.
it had a pearl
white face
with little
diamonds imbedded
within. in
the sunlight it
looked much
more expensive than
it really was,
but when i told
her that i had
met someone that
i wanted to start
seeing exclusively
she took it off
her slender wrist,
got a hammer
from the kitchen
drawer and proceeded
to smash it
while we talked
on the phone,
what was that i
asked her, and she
said that was the
watch you gave me.
what do you think
about that? and i
said, i think i
made the right
decision.

put it on the curb

i asked her
what she did with
all of her belongings,
the things she
didn't want to take
with her to her new
condo in the city.
there was so much
to get rid of in that
house. and she
told me that she put
it all on the curb.
one day a mattress,
the next day a dresser.
a lamp went next.
a few blouses that
she never wore anymore,
running shoes and heels,
the old tv from
the basement. and
slowly cars would
stop and load
up their trunks
picking through
the debris of her life
now changing.
one day, she said,
she sat out there
in her dad's
old favorite chair,
with the springs
coming out of
the cushions,
reading one of his
favorite books, for
whom the bell tolls,
and someone picked
up the entire chair
with her in it and she
ended up on a farm
in iowa. she was
sitting on a butter
churn for days,
at the curb until
someone picked it
up and brought her
home, the book still
in her hand.

monkey talk

from her bedroom
window she can
hear the monkeys
across the street
in the zoo making
a woo woo woo sound.
and she shows me
this by making
the sound herself,
forming her lips
into an oval like shape.
and jutting her chin
out. nice, i tell her.
do it again, so she
does the sound again.
i was never
wild about monkeys,
i tell her, all
that crazy chatter,
and frenetic blinking
and head bobbing,
i always liked the seals,
so slick and smooth
and somewhat quiet,
but i'm changing my
mind about that now.

no coffee

why didn't you
make another pot
of coffee? you've
been up since six
o'clock this morning,
she says, holding
up the pot, shaking
it to demonstrate how
how empty it is.
i went out and bought
some donuts and a
paper, you tell her,
and hold the box of
a dozen chocolate glazed
donuts minus the two
you just ate up
to her. the paper says
we might be in the path
of a tsunami, can
you believe that,
you tell her,
pointing at the headline
and a photo of a
giant wave approaching
land. who cares, she says.
what the hell is wrong
with you? but why
didn't you make
more coffee? Jesus.
she says. you know i
need a cup of coffee
when i wake up. you can
be so selfish and lazy
sometimes. why do i
even put up with you?
this is just a symptom
of who you are, you
know that don't you?
if i wasn't here
there would never
ever be a fresh cup
of coffee in this house.
goddamn you. she
tightens the belt
around her pink terry
cloth cotton robe and
slams the pot down.
you hold up a donut,
do you want one?
they're really fresh!

prep and paint one week

it's a drug
house.
the windows
are blackened
out with
curtains and
blinds. the grass
is tall.
paint is peeling,
which is why
you are there.
and at various
points pale
skinny people
emerge from
the house blinking
in the sun,
bent like vampires
lost in
daylight. men
and women with
baggies in
their hands
come and go from
trucks and cars,
vans with faded
art like
washed tattoos
clinging to
the paint. you
hear music,
yelling, strange
arguments about
a dish left
out of the sink.
someone is singing
a song by
journey above
the frey. your
hand moves the brush
back and forth.
back and forth
back and forth
in the summer heat.

the white flag

i see you
waving
what appears
to be a white
flag from
your bedroom
window.
i run in
and up
the stairs
happily, so
eager to accept
your terms
and conditions
of surrender.

the straight line

your shoelace
untied
and broken
making you trip
is not necessarily
a portent
of the day
to come, but
perhaps just
a small reminder
of a weakness
within you,
that needs
to be tied
firmly into
a knotted bow
to keep you
walking in
a straight line.

wild fire

there is
something
burning
in the distance.
a plume of black
smoke has risen
like a tower
and the sky
is smudged low
and grey.
it could be trees,
a field
of brush, there
is nothing
but woods
in that direction,
dry soft fields
warmed in
the summer
heat. there are
ashes on
the wind
and with them,
i can still taste
that fallen
love on the tip
of my tongue.

roads less traveled

aren't you a little
self absorbed, she
says, while scratching
my back and rubbing
oil into my shoulders.
everyday, writing all
of this stuff down,
making up these little
stories and calling
it poetry. for your
information, you're
no robert frost buddy.
a little to the left
i tell her. it itches
badly, right there,
feels like a bug bite
or something,
ooh, ooh, there it
is, oh yeah. yes!
you got it. can
you knead those
muscles a little
deeper and harder,
don't worry about
hurting me, use your
knuckles and don't
forget the legs. i
love having my legs
rubbed. those are
the roads less
traveled. oh my god,
i'm in heaven.
okay, now what
were you saying?

let's go dancing

i just love
to dance, she
says. don't you?
she wiggles her
hips, shimmies her
shoulders and shakes
her arms high
into the air.
i used to, i
tell her. i used
to go out dancing
five a week. i had
to buy a new
pair of wingtips
every other month.
but now i like
to tap my foot
on the floor
and keep the beat.
sometimes i'll
drum my fingers
on the table, or
clink a spoon
against a glass if
i'm really into
the music and having
a good time.
are you saying then
that you won't
dance with me
she says, with a pout
on her face. oh, no
not at all, i
tell her. i can
dance. i just
need alot of room.
alot of space
to dance the way
i like to. this
place is way
too crowded for
my style of
dancing. say, why
don't we finish our
drinks and go
back to my place,
put some records
on the old
turntable. i'll
show you some
dancing then. okay?

your apple

your apple
turned this
way, red
like a cherry
in the light
looks
good. there
is no clue
to the worm
burrowing
with all his
might
on the other
side. and
you do well
to hide him
from me
as you hand
me the apple
and tempt
me to take
a bite.

going to the vet

you take your dog
in for shots.
for teeth cleaning.
for nail clipping,
and to be weighed,
prodded and poked.
it's the jiffy lube
vet visit where at
some point someone will
come out with a chart
and say, you know,
we really should get
him a new kidney.
he's trembling in
your arms, too scared
to even bark, so
you put him down next
to his life long
nemesis, a cat.
he looks at you
with those enormous
brown eyes, saying
why would you do
this to me. i thought
we loved each other.
how could you?
and then the little girl
in pigtails comes out,
the doctor
in a pink baggy
jumpsuit, she smiles
and snaps a leash
around his neck
to lead him off
into the back rooms,
cooing his name, as if
they are developing
a friendship. i
see him making himself
weigh a hundred
pounds, turning himself
into lead, not moving
his feet, being
dragged on his paws
across the tiled floor.
and as he looks back
over his shoulder, he
shakes his head at
me and sighs, i
can see his lips
moving, saying, really,
like what the hell?

in the air

when you were
twelve you believed
that it was
possible to fly.
you read superman
comics religiously.
all you had
to do was suspend
disbelief and then
you would be up
in the air.
there couldn't be
even an ounce
of doubt within you.
you took small
practice leaps from
the picnic table
in the back yard,
you ran as fast as
you could on the lawn,
you put your arms
straight out,
locked your feet with
your keds tight
together, you
took larger jumps
off the front porch
and you waited for
the air to catch
under you and sweep
you upwards, past
the rooftops, the
trees and into
the clouds, free
from this world,
this gravity stricken
world, and so when
you did take off
it was no suprise,
none whatsover, but
what did cause
wonder was that you
have never landed
on solid ground
ever again. you
are still in the air
where you always
believed you
should be.

that was close

on my way out
of dairy queen,
licking the little
pink spoon from
my oreo blizzard
i see irma
my old girlfriend
on the street
carrying a wedding
dress. it's
under a cellophane
wrap, and is
white as white
can be. it's almost
silver it's
so shiny
and glimmering.
and we talk for
a few minutes
on the sidewalk,
how are you, i'm
fine, that sort
of thing. how
about this weather?
we don't talk about
the dress though
as she moves it
from shoulder
to shoulder. you
look good, she
says. so do you,
i say, lose weight?
yup, she says.
ten pounds. do
you want a lick,
i ask her and she
says tempting but
no way. and when
we part we kiss each
other on the cheek
and say, see ya.
her going one way
with her dress,
me going the other
way with my blizzard.

don't tell anyone i told you, but

if you call
up linda, she'll
tell you everything
about everyone.
she's the daily
news, the internet,
the backyard fence.
the hot line,
the grapevine, she's
got the inside
scoop on it all.
and of course,
she'll swear you
to secrecy on
your mother's life
that not a word
can be ever repeated,
and that you didn't
hear it from her.
sometimes i'll make
up things about
myself and tell
her just to see
how far and wide
it goes.

i'm on vacation

she says,
i'm on vacation.
she throws her
long arms up
into the air,
letting her
hair blow in
the summer wind.
i'm doing nothing.
not one thing, she
says. zippo. i
might open this
book, but that's it.
and then she
laughs and laughs,
puts her feet up,
turns her face
to the sun
and closes her
brown yes. oh, can
you move a little
to the left,
she says, you're
casting a shadow
over me and shouldn't
you be at work?
she wiggles her
toes, the nails
painted red
like strawberries.
did i tell you.
i'm on vacation.
it's true, she
says. it's true.

stay a little longer

stay a little longer,
it's raining out.
no need to travel
in the rain. just
lie there if you like,
i'll get us coffee
and toast, the paper.
the trains run all
day, all year, but
we might only have
this moment before
the rain stops,
before the day
begins and the skies
clear.

sheep herding

as the children
pour out
from the wide open
doors of the tired
schoolhouse
when the final
bell rings at
session's end,
the parents with
arms folded
wait on the walk,
at their cars and
vans, their stances
and faces showing
less of joy
and jubiliation,
and more of concern,
not unlike sheep
herders about to
to try for another
summer to corral them
and pen them in.

is it raining

the round stone
whiteness of your
shoulders, cool
as spring ice
as you throw back
your black hair
and lean out
to see if there
is rain and you
see the blotched
road, the slight
silver trickle
against the light.
like slivers of stars
from last night
falling. yes you
say. stay put, no
need to get up,
it's raining.

let the phone ring

she leans
not lightly
on the small
pill, her lips
and wrists
now stitched
like the bedazzled
smile of an unwed
witch. she lies
in her lithium
bed and rises
and falls like
steam from an
unshaken
lake below
moonlight.
and she rattles
the small
brown jar, white
capped with
hope and balance
her name smudged
ink from
her fisted hand.
don't run out of
air, don't go
broke, don't
leap from the bridge
just yet. she is
wired, she is wide
black eyed
and bent like
a hanger, dulled
and stiff in
the closet. there
is no way out,
no way in. let
the phone ring.

the future is not what it used to be

okay. i'm done
with traffic.
with road rage
and angry drivers
and riding bumpers
an inch away
at seventy miles
an hour. the bug
like progression
of cars moving
from lane to
lane. insanity.
i want my transportation
of the future. i
want my future now,
dammit. give me my
rocket pack, my
flying car, my
beam me anywhere
transporter. why
did they trick
us like that. it's
so so depressing.
this horse and buggy
world of four
wheels spinning,
grinding to a daily
gridlock hell.

the dancer

as she comes
on stage
all legs
and hair,
and grabs
the glimmering
pole like
a cat in heat,
and the music
starts,
and the blue
light
shadows her
enough to hide
whatever
imperfections
may be there,
she slowly
unzips, unbuttons
a blouse a skirt
and lets
it all drop
to floor,
and the lights
go round
and round, and
the music gets
louder and the
men inch up
further into their
seats, elbows on
the table
wiping away
the beer on their
lips, their mouths
open, ready to
devour her
before the next
one does
the same. it isn't
money, or adoration,
or love that
keeps her dancing,
keeps them coming
to see more. it's
more pure than that,
more true.

running

you see them run
in the morning,
at night with
glow stripes on
their shirts that
shine in the head
lights of cars
trying not to
hit them. they sag
and move under
the heat of summer.
these runners.
pounding their
feet into the black
streets, along
the roads, mile
after mile. they
are gaunt and tired
looking. worn
out from years
and years of this.
what are they
running from,
running towards.
the glazed look in
their eyes tell
you nothing. reveal
nothing, just a
hint of dread
about the next mile.

leftovers

when there is
nothing left
in the house
to eat and it's
two a.m., you
open the freezer
door and take
out lumps of
frozen boxes
of enchilladas,
a bag of biscuits,
and something
unmarked but wrapped
in foil. you
look at the micro
wave, you look at
the clock.
there is a full
moon in the window
when an hour
ago it was raining.
you turn on
the spigot and have
glass of water.
you toss everything
frozen away that
was frozen.
then go upstairs
to bed. you need
to make some changes.

erotic photos

you've made
some bad mistakes
before, but by
sending out those
tequila induced
photo session
snapshots of
yourself out to
your peeps and
new girlfriend, via
text and e mail
you may have
gone too far. but
you won't resign
from your job
at kfc. you refuse.
you know this job
inside and out.
you are the best
at dropping frozen
chicken legs into
a boiling vat
of oil and pulling
them out right when
they get crispy.
you tell your boss
that even abe
lincoln must have
been tracing out
a charcoal sketch
of himself and
sending it on
horseback to
crazy old mary
todd lincoln when
he was away at
the war. the history
books don't say it,
but she was crazy in
a good way, if you
catch my drift. all
the kids are doing
it, you tell
your manager, but
he says no. it's
a gots to go
situation. you're
a grown man for God's
sake, i'm sorry,
but you can't
be frying up
chicken wings and have
those photos of
you floating around
town. i'm sorry.
but you must resign.
hand me your apron
and hat, you can
have a coke on the
way out, if you'd like.

guilt gnocchi

your mother
calls and says
it's raining. is
it raining there?
i've never seen
such rain before.
i had to close all
the windows.
and you say yes.
i'm five miles
away, it's raining
here too mom.
i'm having lunch,
she says. i heated
up some gnocchi
and sausage
from last night.
i froze the rest
in case you come by
this year, or
the next year. i
hope i'm still alive
to see you enjoy
them. what are you
doing sunday? or
are you still busy,
with whatever it is
that you do with
your life? i made
some pizzels too,
but you have to eat
them before they
go stale. sunday?
five o'clock? i'll
put a plate out.

Peapod

they'd know
within an hour,
she says, nodding,
sipping her tea,
wetting her finger
to lift the last
crumb of toasted
bread from her
china dish, her long
hands are strung with
purple veins, like
vines below the flesh.
i wouldn't die like
that, she says. i
wouldn't lie there,
like she did, unfound
for a week. i have
people. i have
friends. neighbors
who look out for
me and i look out
for them too. my mail
man would know. my cat
would cry. she looks
up from her plate
smiling but with
glassed tears
on her blue eyes. i
have a son in
california. she pauses
and sighs, but isn't
that what this all
about she says.
being loved? i don't
know i tell her.
sign here. i'm just
working for peapod.

blue shoes

you see your
blue shoes
under the bed.
they haven't been
worn in quite
awhile. they
are dusty and
laced with the thin
threads of
cob webs. the spiders
have a home.
but there was a
day, a month, a
season where
all you did was
wear those shoes.
blue shoes. in
the rain when there
wasn't rain. in
the cold of summer.
you were wet to
the bone with her.
so nice now to
toss them into
the bag, and leave
them at the curb.
no more blue shoes.

bad medicine

she shares her
darkness with a small
spoon. a dose
of doom or two a
day, if you will.
and we all have
our bottle of bad
medicine sitting
on a shelf
somewhere. it's
hard to crack
open, take a
sniff, and pour
it out for others
let alone yourself.
it's ancient
history.
you'd like to
be done with that
sickness and
relish in the scars
that show how
far you've gone,
how much you've
healed.

traffic

how slow the traffic
moves and snakes like
a white light beneath
the full summer moon.
it's midnight, too
late for so many cars
to be out driving.
but there you are.
inching forward.
neither leaving, nor
arriving, just sitting,
waiting for things
to break, for the roads
to clear and to get
home, to a place where
you have always
wanted to be.

boy in the window

you like
the neighborhoods
that have
abandoned cars
on blocks
in the driveway.
the broken
screen doors
tilted on hinges.
the dogs
barking behind
chain link
fences. carboard
taped to
broken windows.
you ride slow
through these streets.
very slow and
easy. it's nearly
the same as
when you lived
here and you can
almost see your
young face staring
out of that
casement window
with a cowlick
and comic book
rolled in
your hand.

happiness

is there
anyone happier
than a child
licking an
icecream cone
on the first
day of summer
with no school
tomorrow, or for
months to come.
perhaps not, but
i come close
to that,
very close,
when i know
that tonight
i'll be
seeing you.

this old house

the floor
is tilted,
the window
frames
skewed. the door
doesn't close
all the way,
and there
are shingles
missing
from the roof.
the yard is
full of crab
grass
and the fig
tree is no
longer bearing
fruit. this
marriage
won't last
another storm,
let's both agree
that it's time
to pack,
to leave
separately,
to move.

don't say a word

go easy,
we've all been
there,
done that,
made the same
mistakes
over and over
again. just
relax. let it
go. forgive
and move on.
exhale, let
the sun find
your face,
close your eyes,
don't say a
word. be still.

going out for milk

my friend gina calls
me, she's gushing on
the phone. i'm in
love, i'm in love
i'm in love she
sings. it sounds as
if she's dancing around
the room. that's great,
i tell her. i'm so happy
for you. he just left
and we had the most
romantic time ever.
where are you gina?
i can hear airplanes.
i'm off the interstate
near the airport, motel
six. go on, i tell
her. well, she says,
we have so much in
common, we met at
the coffee shop in
the building where we
both work. now get
this, she says, he
orders a skim non fat
soy latte with no whip.
yes. so. that's my
drink, she screams.
we drink the same
drink, how cool is that.
and his kids all play
soccer. my kids did
too when they were
little. there is one
small problem though,
she says. what, i say.
he's sort of married.
i didn't know that
at first because he
doesn't wear a wedding
ring, he exercises
alot and he says it
pinches his finger.
he told me that he
hasn't had sex
with his wife in ages,
which confuses me because
of the baby seat in
the back of his car, but
they really really hate
each other and are just
staying together because
of the kids, their parents,
their dog, and for financial
reasons. right now i
can only see him every
other tuesday. what
about holidays, i ask
her, will you ever
share a holiday or
anything like that. of
course, she says, in fact
we plan to meet on
flag day and i did see
him on the chinese new
year. we had a blast
ordering in chow mein
and cripsy beef. veteran's
day is a possibility too.
he can be a little
spontaneous though,
he'll text me late at
night and say
something silly like
i'm going out for milk,
care to join me. which
is our code for, well
you know. it's all so
romantic and exciting,
my head is spinning, i
can hardly breathe. so,
so, what do you think.
isn't this wonderful?
yes, gina. it sounds
like fun. but be careful.
keep me posted when
you need that shoulder
to cry on. thanks sweetie,
you're the bestest.

the peace corps

tired of working
for a living
you go down to
the peace corps
office and tell them
that you'd like to
join, that you'd
like to offer
your services to
help the world
be a better place.
and they ask you
what you can do,
what are your life
skills, your talents
with which you'd
like to share. and
you aren't prepared
for such questioning.
but you need an
answer, something,
anything, so you tell
them about your
scrambled eggs, how
good they are, with
cheese, and onions,
little bits of
green pepper, and
you tell them that you
are a god with
a frying pan and
a pair of eggs, but
it has no effect on
them. they tell you
to fill out a form
and go home and wait.
they'll let you know
if they need you.
and you walk away
dejectedly. you feel
that it is the world's
loss to not taste
your scrambled eggs,
the happiness it
could bring to others.

wallpaper

there were layers
upon layers of thin
patterned paper,
like skin woven
upon itself, clouds
and wagons, steeples,
cows bent in pastures
over sunlit still
horizons. everything
a wet grey blue. paper
without memory, now
coming undone, under
my hand, moving
the stiff blade across
and down, tearing
at yesterdays, at
someone's long pondered
idea for bedroom
walls, where they
would lie against
a pillow with someone
they loved or didn't
love, and wonder
if their choices
had been otherwise.

small fry

you catch
the smallest fish
in the ocean.
it's the color
of a dull jefferson
nickel and has
small flat
eyes that are black
and tilt with
the soft light
of a cloudy day.
there is no
weight to this
fish, it lies
in the palm
of your hand
and vigorously
flips about,
stunned by
the recent
events of him
biting into
that silver hook
with a piece
of worm you tricked
him with. and
you stand there
for awhile, pondering
what to do,
what vegetables to
buy, to broil
or pan fry.

the dangers of smoking

she asks me
if i have any
cigarettes. just
one will do,
she says. i need
just a few drags
off of any old
cigarette and i'm
good to go. sorry, i
tell her, i don't,
but there's a gas
station across
the street, run
over there and get
a pack, i'll sit
here and wait for you.
unfortunately she gets
struck by a car on
the way back when
she doesn't look
both ways before
crossing, the
fundamental rule
in crossing any
street. but i get
to her before she
passes out, or dies,
and i light a cigarette
for her, putting it
to her lips, she
smiles and takes a
deep drag, then
blows out a few
smoke rings while
an ambulance screams
on the way. i'm
going to be okay
aren't i, she says,
between puffs,
sure i tell her,
you're gonna be just
fine, here hold
your head up
a little, there's
some more left.
thanks, can you do
me a little favor
if i pass out, what
i tell her, anything.
can you put a mint
in my mouth if i lose
consciousness?
sure, i tell her.
not a problem.

career move

you start a new
career selling
life insurance.
but nobody wants
to buy, or else
they already have
life insurance.
and you plead
with them, use
guilt and tragedy
as ploys, like
your mother often
did to you for
various reasons,
but still no one
wants to sign
on the dotted line.
you tell them that
if they loved
their children,
their pets, their
relatives, that
they should buy at
least a term policy,
it's so cheap, it's
silly not to buy it,
do you really want
a pine box coffin,
some shabby way to
go out, i must say.
but they slam the
door in your face,
they pull the shades
and duck down onto
the floor until you
stop ringing the
doorbell and leave.
by the end of your
first day on the job
you decide to quit.
you throw your brief
case off the bridge
and accidentally
hit someone about to
jump, making him
teeter, and then
slip into the river
a thousand feet below.
he could have been
your first customer,
but it's too late
now. you shrug and
walk away. you need
a sandwich and to
rethink your next
career move.

flowers

i didn't plant
those flowers that
bloom in my
backyard, nor did
i water them
when they came
up so bright and
colorful, out
of nowhere, no
pruning or trimming
away the weeds
or vines.
i did nothing
to cause them to
grow, and be there,
and yet there
they are.
and here you
are too.

delayed

on your way into
town on a steamy
night, before
the sun settled
and cooled the streets
into darkness,
the traffic suddenly
thickened, and the roads
were blocked up
ahead. so you made
a turn, and another
turn, going in a
circle of sorts,
but deeper into
the mix of whatever
was holding things
up. there seemed
to be no easy way out
and finally you
reached a street
where a few cops stood
casually by, leaning
on a barricade
and you could go no
further. and then
the parade began.
it was gay pride day
in dc and you had
a front row seat in
your car as the
flat bed trucks rolled
by full of shirtless men
in wedding gowns
and high heels,
and hardhats, rodeo
cowboys with boots
and chaps, and
whips and chains,
and motorcyle leather.
it was smorgasbord
of sexuality on
wild display with
floats and balloons,
flags and horns
blaring. and on
the sidewalks were
families eating
sandwiches, children
licking icecream
cones, all who had
come to watch, both
straight and gay
couples, laughing,
kissing in the sultry
night air, while
the band played
on somewhere,
somewhere and i sat
in my car, with the engine
off eating marshmallow
circus peanuts that
i had strangely bought
at a gas station two
hours ago when i
started out.

the graduate

dad, he says.
you have no food.
how can you have
absolutely no food.
you have seven bottles
of different salad
dressings and a
bottle of vodka,
a cut lime and
yet no real food.
he's standing at
the refrigerator
door in his cap
and gown, a freshly
printed degree
rolled in his hand.
the ink still wet.
he has no job,
no money, no idea
yet as to what
tomorrow will bring,
and yet he's hungry.
you have nothing
to eat here dad.
i'm going to mom's
house. she's having
pot roast tonight
and potatoes. and
she made a boston
cream pie for
dessert. hold on
i tell him, let me
get my coat. i'm
going with you.

venus

she leans on
the sill
and points upwards
with certainty
and says, that
right there,
the tiny blink
of bluish light
is venus. and i
choose to believe
her, i know so
little about
the stars
and planets, or
love for that
matter here on
earth. i could
maybe fill a thimble
with what i know for
sure about women,
or stars, but i've
always been willing
to learn,
and to believe
everything at first
blush, even a
tiny sparkle of
light in the sky
being venus, or you.

Helga and Her Friends

there used to be
a drive-in
movie theater
on central avenue
where we would
go as teenagers
to watch such movies
as Helga Goes to
Summer Camp, which
showed a middle
aged german woman,
named helga and her
pasty white
friends playing
volley ball with
their blouses off. it
did put a damper on
things when someone
would mention that helga
looked exactly like
jimmy's mom. but they
seemed to be
having the time of
their lives as they
jumped and jiggled
in the austrian
sunshine. it was not
a pretty sight, but
we were young and
desperate and had
maybe three dollars
in our pockets.
the sound was garbled,
as if we were underwater,
and the heavy metal
speaker crackled in
our ears as we dined
on shrimp rolls and
hot dogs from
the concession
stand. sometimes
there would be a dawn
to dusk night, and
at the end of the
five or six horrible
B movies, you got
free coffee and donuts.
but we never made
it to that point.
we'd had enough of
Helga and her friends
and after two or three
subtitled movies
we rolled out across
the hilly gravel lot
and headed home.
still hungry.

chain letter

the letter says
that God will
bless you and great
things will
happen in your life
and in the lives
of your loved
ones if, and only
if, you immediately
send this letter out
to twenty people
within ten minutes
of reading this.
i shrug and disobey
the order, and mumble
something like, God
i hate this kind
of e mail crap, but
immediately i grab
my rabbit's foot
that's on my key
chain and begin
to rub it's velvety
soft fur.

cat's feet

some of us
have disappeared.
not lost,
but chosen
to go under
and away. to
slip into the fog
of time never
to be heard
from again. it's
a strange thing,
this shadow
and memory of those
who chose
to leave without
a word, or
sound on small
cat's feet.

the milk carton

when i
went to pour
the last few
drops of milk
onto my cereal
and saw your
smiling face
on the carton,
even though
you had just
left ten minutes
ago. i knew
i was in
trouble. i was
not only
out of milk.
i was apparently
out of you.

one foot in

it's clear
this pool
of water that
is you. i
can't see
quite to
the bottom
just yet,
but i like
and feel
what i see
so far
with one
foot in. a
younger
man would
have plunged
head first
by now.

nabokov and texting

in a letter to his
wife vera, while
on a book tour
through the united
states, vladimir nabokov
wrote, if it weren't
for you, i would have
gone to Morocco as
a soldier, and as i
read, and pause
and stare out the window
i can't help but wonder
if the romance of
our day can stand
up to the romance
and sweetness of the past.
and so i look at my
cell phone, at my
last text message to my
new girlfriend natasha
in moscow, and it says,
yo, what up girlfriend,
what are you wearing?
and i know that things
haven't changed too much.
well, okay. maybe
just a little.

these clouds

these clouds,
these hills
laid out
across the low
sky, so blue
and full of rain
and thunder.
they look as
if they have
always been
there and will
never leave,
these monuements
of pain,
but trust me.
they will, just
let it rain
for awhile, let
it rain and rain
and rain, let
the sadness
soak you to
the bone. and
in time, not
yours, you'll
come out
the other side.

be careful

careful not
to spill
that wine
on the white
rug. it's
the only
bottle i
have, and i'm
out of stain
remover. in
fact i'm
running low
on lots of
things these
days, patience
being one,
money being
the other.
affection is
on that list
too. so be
careful with
the wine, i'm
not in the mood
for spills.

travelling man

it started by accident.
i was taking some old
luggage out to the trash,
rolling it towards
the dumpster,
when my neighbor spotted
me, and asked me where
i was going, vacation,
a trip somewhere exotic,
where to buddy? and i
hesitated, thought for
a moment, and then told
him the fiji islands
for some needed R and R.
he smiled, and said wow.
how cool is that? take
a bunch of pictures,
don't forget sunscreen.
wow, i am so jealous.
and when he walked away,
smiling, i thought
to myself. hmmm,
and kept going pulling
the suitcase
past the trash pile
on the curb for thursday
pick up. instead i went
around the corner, to
the coffee shop, and
the same conversation
ensued, and i told
everyone bermuda, or
paris, or china. i told
them how i was traveling
the world these days,
exploring, expanding
my horizons.
everyone was so happy
for me, so thrilled to
see me going somewhere.
so now the suitcase
is covered in stickers
of the places i've never
been to, and everyday
i wheel it out the door,
no matter where i'm
going. sometimes i'll
make a lunch and put
it inside. it makes me
happy to make others
so happy.

book by it's cover

she says that
you're too good
looking to have
any depth. it's
a contradiction.
life doesn't work
like that.
i see you as
a shallow, on
the surface kind
of guy. and i
tell her, thanks
for the observation,
but no.
i'm not that good
looking, in fact
i'm quite ordinary
without the botox
and eye tucks,
but you pretty much
have the other
stuff right.

fashionista

these new shoes
i'm wearing
i bought because
of you. they
are italian.
go ahead touch
them, feel that
buttery soft
leather. it
feels like a
piece of veal.
i could eat
these shoes if
i got hungry
enough. but like
i said, i bought
them because of
you, so i won't
eat them. you
dress so nicely
all the time,
i just wanted to
step it up a
little and show
you that i care.
i figured that
you wouldn't
keep seeing me
if i kept showing
up in flip flops
and shorts. i really
hope you like them,
next week, long
pants.

there's something i need to tell you

she reaches across
the table and looks
into my eyes, takes
my hand and says,
there's something
i need to tell you
before we go
any further with
this relationship.
i sigh and take a
deep breath. i've
been down this road
before, with the
married women, the
woman with seven
kids, the woman who
who worked as a sex
phone operator,
the stripper, the
woman who wasn't a
woman, or maybe
there is a disease
lurking or money
problems, kid issues,
a prison record,
a jimmy leg, or
something, etc. etc.
and so i take a sip
of my drink, smile,
and say, so what is
it. and she says,
well, i'm a Quaker.
i thought you needed
to know, which makes me
stand up on my stool,
throw my arms into
the air, and yell out
to the bartender, drinks
for everyone, on me.
keep em coming.

the book club

okay, let's begin,
does everyone have a
drink, some cookies.
there's coffee brewing.
who wants to start.
ginny, yes? i'm sorry,
but what book
were we supposed to read?
breakfast at tiffany's,
by truman capote, oh,
right, i loved that movie.
george peppard, and ummm,
what's her name, the skinny
brunette with big eyes.
wonderful actress.
yes, linda, go ahead.
i didn't have time to read
the whole thing, i had
to take the kids to
swimming lessons all week,
but what i skimmed in
the van seemed
great, the imagery and
dialogue was outstanding.
wasn't he gay, cathy says,
that truman capote. he
had a really squeaky voice.
donna goes to the kitchen
and gets some coffee,
you know, she says,
my sister told me on the phone
the other day, speaking of
gay, that her son is gay,
or maybe he's just
experimenting, but she saw him
kissing the gardener,
carlos out by the pool
the other day.
chelsea chimes in, is he
any good, laughter ensues.
no, i mean as a gardener,
my hydrangeas are dying,
i don't know if it's
the heat or the insects
that are killing them.
so, anyway, about the
book, did anyone here
read it. silence. okay,
who saw the movie,
everyone nods and says
yes. loved the movie,
and that song, moon river.
you can't get that song
out of your head once
you hear it. audrey hepburn
was her name, betty says.
remember the part where
the little kitty runs
out of the cab in the rain,
oh, i cry everytime
i see that part. i loved her.
she's dead now, cancer,
yes, big smoker, like
jackie O. oh, really,
i didn't know jackie
smoked, yup. two packs
a day, every day. that's
how she stayed so skinny.
oh, the tragedy of her
life. can you imagine.
linda crosses herself,
God forbid, then takes
another cookie from
the plate on the table.
what kind of cookies are
these, they are so yummy!
i must get the recipe.
so what are we reading
next week?

pull the shades

just let me sleep
for awhile, okay.
i'm tired, i'm
beat, yes i miss
you too, but
pull the shades
get the fan going,
dim the lights.
you can lie here
next to me, but
no talking, or
reading or moving
around and no making
any moves under
the sheets, i know
your style. just
let me sleep, let
me sleep for
awhile, pull those
shades and come here.

i'm not that lonely

i was feeling lonely
the other day, for
about an hour or so,
and had a mild case
of the blues.
it was raining and
cold, and the power
was out, but there
was nothing on
tv anyway, and
the internet was down,
so i went out and
bought a cat at
the cat store. i got
a box too, and some
sand, a collar
that jingled a little
and some flea powder.
she's in the bathroom
now with the door
closed. i think it's
a she, she's got alot
of hair, one of those
mountain cats that
don't meow but howl.
she's not scratching
at the door but
banging her head. as soon
as the power goes back
on i'm taking her
back. i'm not as lonely
as i thought i was,
i guess.

Mall Surgery

i was at the mall
the other day
eating a cinnabon,
waiting in line
for some liposuction
work around my
hips and thighs
and from that little
pocket of jelly
under my chin
when i spotted
my old boss from
the IT office, he
had a mop and a
broom and was pushing
his janitor cart
towards the food
court for a clean
up. we both nodded
hello, but said
nothing. then i
licked the icing
off of my wrapper,
balled it up and
sent it sailing
towards the trash
can he was pushing,
it went in dead
center and he
turned around and
gave me a thumbs
up for affirmation.

natasha

she finds me
on a dating site.
she's from russia
and sends me photos
of herself in a dress,
in a long coat,
in shorts and a
sleeveless blouse,
and then finally
with nothing on.
she's young, she's
lean and blonde
and beautiful. she
was raised on a farm
milking cows
in the ukraine. she
tells me that her skin
is like butter,
and not the hard
stick butter either,
but the kind in a
little tub
that's always soft.
she says that she's
in love with me.
that she has told
her family about me,
and that they are all
so happy for the both
of us. she sends me
a photo of her
passport and tells
me when she will be
arriving. she is all
packed, her family
is driving her
through the cold
wind swept fields
and snow of russia
to the airport. she
only needs one thing
and then she will be
mine and we will live
happily ever after
despite our thirty
five years in age
difference. she only
needs nine hundred and
eighty five dollars
sent electronically
to her bank account
in moscow. i am so
conflicted standing
here at the bank waiting
for the doors to open.

seven ten split

kissing you
would be a
ball thrown
right down the center
lane, a strike,
knocking all the
pins over in a wood
knocking crash,
but anything
more than that
is a seven
ten split, and
you know how hard
that is, don't
you.

nature

i was working
in my yard
the other day.
likely story, i
know, but i was
thinking about it,
which is very much
like doing it.
sometimes i get
callouses on my
hands with just
pondering a rake
or hoe, or shovel
and what must be
done. i try not
to look out
the window just
to avoid these
very thoughts. i
believe in nature
taking it's
course, sort of
like us. but we
both see where that
leads and it's
not a pretty sight.

saturday at the lake

you see a kid
with a few balloons.
they are pink
like his belly
which sticks out
like a melon
from under his
striped shirt of
red, yellow, blue.
his face is smeared
with some sort of
candy, or icing, you
can't be sure, but
he has these balloons
while his mother
stands behind him
in her white shorts
scraping something
off her shoe with a
stick she found in
the woods, and the lake
is there, and ducks,
and people throwing
pieces of bread from
their hot dog buns
into the water. up
on the hill the band
begins to play something
by john philip sousa,
and the kid lets
go of his balloons,
and screams, and the
ducks take off, splashing
the water, and the mother
keeps scraping her shoe
while talking on
her cell phone, and
in the trees the deer
wait patiently for
nightfall.

request list

my neighbor loves
to sing. she can
sing anything, anything.
from a broadway
show to opera. from
pop to classic rock.
i hear her in the
shower, in the back
yard, walking her
dog, constantly
humming or singing
a tune. it's beautiful
but i wish
she'd mix it up a
little, she seems
to be stuck on just
a few songs, and it's
mostly elton john,
not that there's
anything wrong with
that. but tomorrow
i'm slipping a list
of requests under
her front door and
hope she gets the
message.

shake and bake

standing there
in the kitchen
beating egg
whites
and sugar, butter
and salt in your
white apron
and little else,
reminds me of
why we fell in
love. or at least
one good reason.

what are you doing tuesday night?

she says, i don't
want to be your
B side girl, your
go to last minute
replacement because
your date coudn't
make it on friday
night. i don't want
that late hour
text, or call to
see if i'm available.
i don't want to be
on your back shelf,
on the bench waiting
for a time at bat,
circling in the air
like a plane that
has to wait for
the runway to clear,
i don't want to be
leftovers wrapped
in the freezer waiting
to be warmed up
when nothing else
appeals to you,
are you getting this
message, and no
i'm not available
tuesday! it's
saturday night, and
tell me by wednesday
or lose this number.