a different moon

how this moon
is different than
the other
is that you are
not here.
the same goes
for rain, or wind.
or the ice
that spills
out solid across
the pond.
so much is different
in your absence.

the titantic

there used to
be a stripper down
at goodguy's night club
in georgetown
who went by the name
of titanic for various
reasons that are
best not discussed
here, not to
mention her
mispronunciation
of the name. she
was working her way
through med school
or the local
beautician academy,
i'm not quite sure
which one,
but it didn't make
much difference
when she was
standing on her
head and whistling
the star
spangled banner.
she was able to somehow
spin on top of her
head as if on
a lazy susan plate
and slap her heels
together, keeping
beat to the music.
the place was full of
smoke, broken glass
and hearts littered
the sloppy floor, but
she kept on dancing
and dancing as
the night wore on.
unsinkable, at least
for the moment.

rock climbing

you go rock climbing
with your friend
ethel when you fall
into a ravine
and get your leg stuck.
cut it off you tell
her. quickly, i don't want
to die a slow death
out here in the desert.
take that butter knife
over there and start
sawing away.
but we're on a cruise
ship, she says
and your foot
is just hung up on
the safety net. these
aren't even real rocks.
she knocks on one with
her knuckles, see.
hollow. well
can you get me a drink
or something. i'm
really thirsty.

cat black

i want my room
painted black she
tells me and points
at a color on
the chart that says
black cat. that's
the one, i want
that paint on my
bedroom walls,
the ceiling too,
and the doors
the window frames,
the baseboards.
black cat. i want
the room dark
so that i can sleep
all day on a sunny
saturday and eat
chocolate, drink
red wine alone,
read trashy magazines.
talk on the phone.
so how long have you
been broken up
with your boyfriend
i ask her, writing
down the paint
color onto my pad.
one hour she says,
one hour and i'm not
doing too well. what
about you, are
you taken?

moonlight swim

you take off all
your clothes
and step gently
into the moonlit
lake. you swim
out along
the lane of light
silvery
and soft as
it ripples
with your weight,
the smooth stroke
of your arms,
the kick of your legs.
you are swimming
towards something
or someone,
you aren't quite
sure, but it's
nice to be off
land and free
of the gravity
of your life.

the magic bus

you have a photo
of your sister,
the one you get along
with and her
hair is electrified.
she is sitting
in front of a day
glow poster of
jimi hendrix and her
eyes are red and
blurry and there
is an impish smile
caught on her lips.
she has beads
around her neck.
there is a lit
candle on the shelf
stuck in the mouth
of a mateuse wine
bottle. you can
almost hear the music
in this photo, smell
the smoke. but that
was a long time
ago. now she makes
birdhouses and plays
a nice round of golf.

love or chocolate

i need chocolate
she says.
right now.
if you aren't
going
to make love
to me,
and mean it,
i need a deep
dark
bittersweet
chunk
of chocolate
to ease my
discontent.
you decide.

beauty finds a way

and the next
year comes,
and the roots
of trees thicken,
the grass
finds a way
through cracks
in the pavement.
flowers grow
on the median
of the interstate.
roses bloom
on rooftops,
beauty finds
a way despite
all that we
do to lessen it.
take you for
example.

bonjour mon ami

when my new internet
girlfriend estelle
got off the plane
from paris, she took
off her white gloves
and slapped
me hard across
the face. why did you
do that, i asked
her. that, she said is
for something you will
probably do later.
it is a warning.
but, but, i stammered.
she put her finger
to my lips
and said, no, do not
talk back to me.
i will not tolerate
your insolence.
now feed me, i am hungry.
i am thirsty too and
i do not want a cheap
bottle of red wine
from the grocery store
with a tweest off cap.
i want to go to the
nearest vineyard and
taste their wines. but
we are in springfield,
i told her. what a
silly name, spring
field. i see no springs,
i see no fields. i see cars
and donut shops. obese
people wearing
athletic clothes. okay,
calm down, i told her.
let's get your luggage
out of the car and see
what we can do. how
long did you say you
were staying. don't
patronize me you swine.
now where
can we can we dine
on duck and escargot
i do not want your
american hamburger
with onion rings,
i am hot and tired,
stand near me and
block sun, fan me
with your stupid
baseball cap.

becoming one with the universe

the other day i was
taking a yoga class
when i fell asleep
in the middle of
the session.
the teacher was blabbing
about something that
was really boring
and repetitive, droning
on and on and i
just dosed off.
my legs were crossed
over and they got
stuck together, so
when i came to
i had rolled over
like a stiff pretzel
onto my vinyl mat.
they had to call 911
to help free me from
my pose. they wet
me down with a hot
saline solution then
each of the firemen
tugged on my arms
and legs until i
snapped free. there was
a really loud pop, but
nothing was broken.
despite all of that
i felt pretty centered
and free of my inner
turmoil and was one
with the universe.
the whole class stood
up in a praying mantis
pose and applauded.

the industrial revolution

the sun rises
like a can
of chicken soup
spilling yellow
and thin
across the ragged
skyline. you push
the pillow back
over your eyes.
the sun has mistaken
you for someone
who cares, for
someone who actually
wants to get up
and do something
constructive with
his day.
you look at the clock
peeking out from
the dark cave
you've formed.
you wish you had
a cow to milk, or
a chicken laying
eggs out in the barn
house. it would
be nice to have
a goat or two.
maybe a plow horse
to cut through
the bottom forty
where you could grow
some corn, or wheat
or whatever.
you're sick of industry,
the industrial
revolution. just give me
a horse and cow,
a well to throw
a coin in. a woman
ringing the dinner bell.

bertha mason

you buy a new suit.
it's black.
you pick up a white
shirt and a blue
tie to match.
a new pair of shiny
shoes, and black
socks.
new underwear, why
not.
you get a hair cut.
you shave, you brush
your teeth, you
slap on
some cologne
then go and mix
your self a strong
drink, you keep
the dog off your lap,
shedding and whatnot,
then go sit by
the phone. you begin
to read jane eyre.
you ponder the life
of bertha mason.
crazy as she is.
you are ready. ready
for love or something
that resembles love.
you keep reading.

hazel in space

when i arrived at
the space station i
was exhausted and wanted
to take a nap, but
no, vladimir said.
nyet, you clean up
this pig stye, now.
you have chores to
do, he said, everyone
must do his part to
keep the space
station clean and
running. this is not
some cracker barrel
restaurant in ohio.
i hardly had time
to unpack my bags
when i was given a list
on a flimsly white board
with a string attached.
take out the trash.
water the plants.
feed the white rats
their daily dose of
cheese pills.
and let me tell
you the place stunk
to high heavens.
those cosmonauts
have a different
idea about
deodarants than
we do back in springfield.
bathing and shaving
seem to be vague
suggestions as
opposed to a rule
of thumb. i had to
dust, and make the
beds, see that the
pillows were fluffed.
then there was
dinner for the four
of us. heating up
the swanson tv
dinners, peeling
back the little plastic
windows. olga has
special dietary needs,
so she couldn't eat
meat or fish, but
had to have spaghetti
squash. i'm a
decorated veteran
and a nuclear engineer
and now i'm hazel
in outerspace. i
finally lost my temper
and yelled at leonoid,
hey, you're not
the boss of me, and
he laughed while
throwing back a shot
of vodka. pfffft, he
said, you americans
have no space program
anymore, we are kings
of the sky.

spring cleaning

with a green bag
in hand
you start with
the closets.
the shirts not worn,
the pants that
haven't been
put on for years,
those dust laden
shoes in the dark
corner. ties that
you never wear.
then you bend over
and look under
the bed. tumbleweeds
of dust. a stray
sock, a lost book,
magazines and
a coffee cup.
you go to the windows,
opening each one,
to wipe. you pull
the couch out
and vacuum.
you shake the rugs
out on the porch,
you mop the kitchen
floor. and all
along you hear
the banging up
in the attic,
at some point
she has to go
too.

the last supper

you get word
that you are being
electrocuted on
monday for that fatal
hot air balloon
accident you caused
with your bb gun.
the governor
has denied
a stay of
execution, but you
are okay with
that. you've made
your peace with god
and fellow men,
and now there is only
one thing left to
do, one important
decision to finalize.
what's for dinner
on sunday night.
you ponder all day
in your cell, pacing
back and forth.
you really like
chicken and mashed
potatoes, with some
baby peas, but how
about a nice rib eye
steak, or lasagna
with a fresh garden
salad, but then again,
you wouldn't mind
some spare ribs
on the grill and
a side of slaw
and shoe string
french fried
potatoes. oh, this
is hard. so hard.
maybe a big breakfast
sausage, eggs, waffles,
even though the execution
is a four in the
afternoon. heck,
breakfast is all
day these days.
then again some chinese
wouldn't be bad
either. a couple
of egg rolls and a
mai tai or two to
wash it all down.
but you know one thing,
anything but lima
beans, liver, or pea soup.
you can't stand that.
who eats liver?

three cherry tomatoes

you have
cheese in the fridge.
three slices
of american
cheddar wrapped
in plastic,
some saltines.
a half a glass
of old red wine.
lettuce and three
cherry tomatoes,
and you
stare into
the cold white
abyss of your
empty ice box
and wonder aloud,
when i work
so hard,
why am i still
living
like a vagabond
in a deserted
train yard.

when the train

when the train
turns the bend
at too swift of
speed and jumps
the track, don't
be on it. see
it coming, feel
the rumble and
the roar, too
quick, too fast.
fling yourself
out the door
and roll, and
roll with life
in tact, limbs
still on, heart
still beating,
another day alive,
another train
to catch, to ride.

falling trees

the soft roots
are soaked,
old trunks
hollowed out
gone grey,
gone thin,
leaning towards
the lower
earth, the muscle
to stand
straight is
lessened over
time, with
weather, the pull
of wind, the
cruel of cold.
time is neither
with or against
such things
as trees, or
even us. this is
just the way
it will be.

day one of donut sobriety

while oogling
a box of entennman's
donuts under the serene
buzz of neon at
the local grocery
store, you notice
that you are drooling
and that your
donut eating hand
is trembling. you reach
for a box to put it
in your cart, but
fortunately your
phone rings and it's
your sponser, betty.
don't do it, she says.
put the box back down.
just do it. now walk away
slowly towards the carrot
section. towards
the apples and grapes.
avert your eyes from
that evil shelf. but
i want one so badly,
you say, just one of
those gleaming beauties,
chocolate iced, and some
with sprinkles.
full of all
the ingredients i love,
like butter and sugar,
eggs and all those
chemicals that i
can't pronounce.
they are smiling at me
from behind
the sheer plastic
window where they
await my lips, you tell
her. that's not a smile
she says, it's a sneer.
your knees go weak,
and you lean on your
cart full of hummus
and carob, soy products
and fat free yogurt.
you hate yourself.
why, why can't you
have just one, one fat
donut. it would be
the last one, you promise
her, then everything
goes black and you
fall to the floor.
when you awaken the store
manager is hovering
over you with a salt
stick under your nose,
and he's eating a
bavarian cream.

the good neighbor

you had an apartment
once in a bad
part of town.
a ground floor
unit where you had
to keep a bar
in every window,
every door.
the open stairways
were never swept
or scrubbed,
and the dust
and debris was
part of it. but
you had a neighbor
who stole your
morning paper
every morning,
your milk,
your bread, your
eggs, back when
these things
were delivered.
you asked him about
it once or twice
and he shook his
head and laughed,
so did his wife.
finally you ordered
him everything
that you were
getting and he
had no need to
steal anymore. he
was a good neighbor
after that. but you
soon moved. sometimes
even now, when
the wind blows
a certain way you
can hear the cold
rush of it up that
stairwell.

the lullabye

she kept
the tv on
at night.
it helped her
sleep.
the blue
blur of snow
and static
calmed her,
sang a
chaotic
lullabye of
sorts, not
unlike her day.
a bookend
to her life.

red wine

the red wine
spills
drips down
the side
of the table
onto the white
rug, puddles
into a sheen,
but you weren't
happy with
the wine anyway
and the rug was
old and the hand
that let the glass
drop is now
empty for
you to hold.

wedding bell blues

you decide to get
married again. why not.
it's been ten years
since the last debacle.
why not give it
another shot. you call
up the few women
that you know and
ask them if they might
be interested in such
a thing, most of them
laugh, or curse you
before hanging up
the phone. but you are
persistent. you know
how wonderful marriage
can be. that peaceful
existence, the meals
together, the bedtime
rendezvous, the overwhelming
sense of security
and tranquility.
the mutual sharing of
bills and expenses. it's
a goal, and you haven't
had a decent goal
since that pie eating
contest you entered
last summer and lost.
you get out a pad and
a pen and make a list
of all the qualities
you want in a wife, and
of all the qualities
you have to give.
you put down things like,
i have a job, i'm strong
enough to open olive
jars and i'm frisky
after a glass or two of
wine. good sleeper.
you realize suddenly as
you scratch your head
that this could be
harder than it looks.

planet x

they discovered
another planet.
there's a photo
of what it might
look like in
the paper, a
computers rendition.
it's not unlike
our own, with air
and water, heat
and cold. perhaps
an ocean, a volcano
or two. but yes
we could live there
if it came down
to it. however
it's far far away
and we would
have had to left
yesterday, at the very
least to get
there before this
one ends.

destinations

you draw a line
on a white
sheet of paper
that goes
nowhere. you start
another line,
and then another,
you add a dot
at the end
of the next line
as if
a destination.
soon the lines
all cross one
another. the places
you've been too
remind you of
where you are.
and at the end
of your life
your realize that
there was
only so much ink,
and so much space
with which to fill.

indiana wants you

you wake up one
morning in indiana.
you are not sure
how you got there,
but you look out
the window
and see a cornfield
that rolls along
forever and someone's
head deep under the hood
of a rusted pick
up truck. a harsh
sun obliterates
the cold blue sky.
you hear someone
from another room say,
honey, are you up.
i got some pancakes
on the grill
and fried scrapple,
the way you like it.
you hear this stranger
ring a cowbell and
stamp her boots against
the slab kitchen
floor. get up and
get your sleepy buns
in here pronto, she
says loudly. this farm
don't run itself. okay,
okay, you say, finding
some overalls on
the floor. you chase
a fat cat off of
them, with her
kittens and slip
your legs into the
wide britches. you scratch
your head, wondering
how you got here.
who are these people.
a little flat headed
boy with red cheeks pokes
his head in the doorway
and smiles with missing
teeth and says, hey
daddy, can we go down
to the racetrack after
we milk the cows today.
please daddy, please.
ah, yeah, sure. but
come here kid, who
exactly are you and
where are we. this makes
the kid laugh, and say,
you're funny when you act
crazy daddy. why we're
in indiana daddy,
indiana and i'm your
one and only boy,
your pride and joy.

the end of the fiscal year

i was yellling
at my maid
helena
the other day.
asking her
why she hadn't
dusted the top
of the book shelves.
why hadn't she
picked up
all the loose
popcorn kernels
around the couch.
she smiled
at me and tapped
me with a duster
on my nose. you
mister are just
a frustrated
artist. you are
a man without
an island, a
city without
lights, a painter
without linseed
oil. i don't
know what any of
that means, i told
her, but i
think you're right.
what did you do in
russia before you came
here, i asked
her and she said,
i was one of the top
neurologists in
moscow, but i wasn't
making any money, so
i came here. i see.
well, the end of
the fiscal year is
coming up and if
you can make me a
pot roast for dinner
there will be a bump
up in your salary.
i will try, she said.
i will give it
my best shot my
sensitive artist.

love

love is
an ocean
of immeasurable
depth. blue
and serene.
the end
of love
is a forest
full of trees
on fire,
be careful
where you step.

dog without a bone

you take up
the banjo
and begin to
strum, sitting
on your front
porch in your
ripped overalls
and boots. you put
a piece of straw
between your lips.
you don't know
what the hell
you're doing,
but you like
the sound of
your strumming
and the croaking
noise you think
is singing. you
make up some lyrics
like i'm broke,
my doggy died,
my woman left me for
the cleaning guy.
you repeat this over
and over and over
again until you
think of something else
to sing like,
nobody loves me, and
since you up and
gone i'll probably die
alone, like a dog
without a bone.
you tap your foot
keeping the beat,
this goes on well
into the night
until the police arrive.

the muddy shoes

you are running
out of things to write
about, she tells
you as she scrapes
mud off the bottom
of her shoes.
you're repeating
yourself. i've read
the same poem
nine times, the
one where she says,
he says, etc. etc.
i'm getting bored.
she continues to look
up at you in the morning
sun, her shoes now
off and on the porch,
wet and soaked with
creek water
and mud. i don't
care, you tell her.
i write what i want
to write. i write
for me not you,
and now i refuse
to even write about,
as i once was,
your pink feet and
those muddy shoes.

what went wrong

my brother
who works as a clown
for kid's parties
likes to drink
after the day is
done. he goes
with his costume
on. a silky lime
green jumpsuit
with a zipper
down the front.
he has on big
floppy blue shoes,
a red ball nose,
the exaggerated
make up of white
and orange. give me
a scotch he says
to the bartender,
then another.
sometimes i'll
join him while
wearing my chaps
and cowboy hat
and boots with
silver spurs and
we'll talk about
our childhood,
what went wrong.

music to my ears

the woman above
me, on the second
floor walks with
heavy feet. she
plays the piano too.
all day she teaches
children with
lesser skills
the keys, the pedals,
the chords. her
voice is soft
and patient through
the air ducts.
try again, she says,
try again sweetie
and sometimes they
get it right. which
is music to my ears.

cake and sex

you tell her
that you love cake.
chocolate
layered, thick
with a creamy filling
oozing out the sides.
i know that
she says. you
talk about it
all the time. and i
also know that you
use that word
as a metaphor
for sex. you arch
your eyebrows and
make a startled
face. so untrue
you say, licking
clean the fork
full of icing.
so, untrue. you have
me all wrong.

being followed

a man follows
you through town.
he's half way
down
the block but
you can feel
his presence.
he's almost
in your shadow
at times.
you quicken
your pace,
but he keeps up.
you turn a corner
go up an alley,
but there he
is again.
finally you stop
and wait until
he catches up
with you. what?
you ask. why
are you following
me. i'm sorry,
he says, but you
seem like a man
who knows where
he's going and i
don't. there
is something
of purpose
in your stride.
you've mistaken me
for someone else,
you tell him. i'm
just as lost as you.

the five and dime

you go to
the five and dime
for some
things.
minor things
that you need.
you remember
reading comics
at the counter
swirling on
the red top
stool, whiling
away hours with
superman and batman.
sipping on a
cherry coke.
so you stop
at the counter
for a malt
and a grilled
cheese sandwich.
you grab
a few magazines
to peruse
as you eat until
the man
in the little
cap wiping
the counter says
you can't
read those here
unless you buy
them first. not
much has changed
at the five and time
in all these
years.

easter eggs

you find
a red egg
in the crook
of a tree.
unearthly in
color. so
much so
that the birds
have gathered
to talk about
it. to wonder
together
what this egg
could mean.
then a green
one is found
hidden
behind a rock,
and yellow
one as bright
as a butter.
purple and pink
ones lying
in the tall
grass like
lights turned
on in
the april sun.

open windows

the windows
left open
throughout
the night
brings in
the noise
of the woods
the wind
the crackle
of stars
the low hum
of a brilliant
moon
you shiver
in your dreams
and awaken
to a cold
floor needing
more sleep.

get me out of here

you are at the zoo
one day
eating a candy
apple pointing at
two gorillas behind
the bars. they are
picking fleas off
of one another
and scratching
their heads. looking
dumb and large,
and scary.
they sit in
the sun across
the moat when suddenly
one of them leaps
towards you and
grabs your arm.
he takes a bite
of your candy apple
and whispers
into your ear, please,
mister, you have to
get me out of here.
he hands you
a note with his cell
phone number on it.
call after the lights
go out. i've got
a plan. can i have
the rest of that apple,
he says, his brown
eyes shifting back
and forth looking
for the zoo law.
sure, you say, go
ahead, i was done
with it anyway. call
me he says, then
scurries back across
the moat.

doctor's visit

you go to the doctor
for a checkup.
you are way over due
and you have this
black mole that
used to be brown.
you imagine that it's
the first sign
of impending death.
you sit and wait
with the others.
the sniffling kids
with cuts and bruises
like eggs on their
wide foreheads,
the coughing moms.
the limping grand
parents. you've
filled out all
the forms. your life
history in brief.
coming from a long
line of mutts, not
too much has been
chronic or gone
wrong. so there is
a lot of N/A being
written down. it's
the longest two
hours of your life
and you begin to itch,
and scratch. you
pick up and put
down each and every
magazine. some that
still have liz taylor
on the front asking if
she can keep the weight
off this time. i
suspect she will.
you see the dust on
the plants, you count
the number of buzzing
neon lights that
are out. you watch a fly
banging softly against
the sealed window.
you listen
to the water cooler
bubble and gurgle.
you fall asleep until
the nurse taps you
on the shoulder and says
the doctor will see
you now. thirty
seconds later he says
you're fine. once again
you've cheated death.

parking ticket

she is the judge
and jury,
with her uniform
and pad. her
small toy car
with blinking
yellow lights,
she is
without mercy
as she shakes
her head and says
no. too late,
your meter has
expired. there
is no pleading
your case, your
honest mistake
of leaving
the meter light
with change.
the line was long
you were without
warning delayed.
but no. she's
heard it all
and slaps the
ticket harshly
beneath the wiper
blade. you almost
think she's being
insincere when she
tells you to have
a nice day,
then drives away.

the apple

she offers
you an apple.
it's red.
it's shiny.
it's lovely
in the palm
of her open
hand. and with
the sun hitting
the uncut
peel, you
are distracted
and don't see
the worm
crawling out
the other side
until you take
a bite.

between the lines

you begin to leave
every other line
empty. then two, then
three until she
says what are you
doing. this looks
crazy, the way you're
writing now.
there is so much
space between
each word and each
line. what does this
mean. there are just
some things i can't say,
you tell her. some
things that are best
left unsaid. pretty
soon the entire
page will be blank
and you'll be happy
again.

the rebate

you have forty five
days to send it
in and get your money.
but first you have
to fill out the form
on one of the seven
slips of receipts that
are stapled together.
you must first
read the fine print.
address an envelope,
find a stamp,
mail it to the right
place, you have
forty five days to
save fifty dollars.
this will make your
purchase worthwhile.
it's day forty one
and counting. how
badly do you need
this rebate.
the burden of it all
weighs on you,
night and day.
you toss and turn with
this chore you must
do, you have to do
before day forty
five says no more.

butter brickle

your tongue is sore
from licking
icecream from
the pockets
of sugar cones.
lick lick lick
all day long.
there's not enough
icecream in the
world to satisfy
your hunger, and
it doesn't stop
with butter brickle,
or icecream
for that matter.

the boat

you both get on
the row boat.
it's red with streaks
of yellow paint, peeling
along the sides.
there are two
oars, two small
planks to sit on
and the floor is wet.
it's wooden
and heavy, but
moves easily through
the still lake
once under way.
she points in
the direction
of a small island
in the middle of
the lake and says
let's go there,
but it's too late,
you're already
rowing towards
a distant shore,
and so the silence
begins between
the splash and
clink of oar into
water and the ache
of creaking wood.

old bones

they find a bone
in the dirt
near another bone
in the dirt
and they construct
from these two slender
ancient pieces of
petrified bone
an entire animal
or mammal
that fits the bill
to prove a point.
and likewise i have
made up even larger
tales from lesser
bits of fossils.

the empty field

you have no
field to harvest
no crop to bring
in. there was no
planting of seed
this spring, or
watering the land.
nothing is coming
up to fill the barns
to chop and bundle
for market. you have
no field to harvest,
but you do have words,
and stories,
and that's enough
to fill the coffers
of your day.

the parade

you are not fond
of parades.
they bore you.
you would never
be in one. riding
in an open car
waving to strangers
as they waved back.
switching
arms when one
got tired. your
smile no longer
a smile by a
grimmace as the tuba
section bellows
behind you.
the flag waving.
the floats
and girls with
batons. you don't
understand how
they even came into
existence, these
parades. you shake
your head and say
what. say why.

uncertain weather

how unsure
the sun is coming
up over the trees
half in half out
with clouds.
uncertain weather.
the wind
undecided as to which
way it will push
the sea. how i
feel your heart
is like that with
many things, and
possibly with me.

election year

if you vote for me
and i'm elected,
every night
i'll put a chocolate
mint on
your pillow
and tuck you in, read
you a bedtime story
and turn the light
off when you fall
asleep. i'll lower
taxes too, and the price
of gas will tumble.
i'll put a windmill
on every rooftop,
a chicken in every pot.
if elected i'll protect
you and serve you
and lower your children's
tuition. i'll turn
swords into plowshares,
i'll keep the highways
safe and clean.
if elected, i'll
take us to the moon
again, to mars, i'll
cure disease and
walk on water.
if elected i'll save
the whales, save
the babies, i'll
save you from yourself.
i'll turn your frown
upside down. i won't
overuse cliches
like that last one
that i used.
i'll protect your google
searches, i'll
decriminalize sin.
i'll keep the wrong
fools out, and the right
fools in. if elected i'll
put a mint on every pillow
before you go to
sleep at night. if
you vote for me
all of your wildest
dreams will come true.

before dark

you go to a magic
show and sit in
the front row, which
is a mistake.
the magician
grabs you by the arm
and pulls you
onstage to applause.
he sits you down, has you
stare at this ticking
watch as it swings
back and forth,
back and forth.
he tells you that you
are various farm
animals, a chicken,
then a pig, a goat,
a cow and finally a horse.
you make all the noises.
and then when he claps
his hands you snap
out of it. you have
no idea why the crowd
is laughing, and
clapping wildly
when you come to.
the clapping is tremendous.
it startles you,
and makes you buck up
and run through the
aisle like a stallion.
the magician keeps
clapping frantically
to bring you back,
but its too late,
you are out the doors
onto the highway
you leap the guardrail
and set out for the
high grass. you
break into a full
gallop as you reach
the flatlands that
lie before the mountains.
you can be in the trees
before dark.

you wake up
and find yourself
invisible.
your arms are gone.
your legs are
there, but you can't
see them. you go
to the mirror,
but nothing. no
mouth, no teeth,
no hair. you
can hear your voice,
hear your
footsteps down
the hall, hear
your fingers tap
against the wall,
but you are nowhere
to be found. you
go to work, sit
at your desk and
do your job, no
one seems to notice
your absence, or that
the work gets done.
you have lunch,
you take the subway
home. you throw
yourself onto
the couch.

separate checks

i don't want
my peas to touch
the potatoes
she tells the waiter.
please take it
back and try again.
and the meat,
keep it away from
the bread, and
bring the gravy
separate. lay
the salad out,
the lettuce, the
onions, the tomatoes,
each with a small
plate. and put
the water right
there, with a
different glass for
ice. okay, she
says, now where
were we. you just
smile as you finish
off your dinner.
you grab the waiter
by the arm
and tell him,
separate checks
please, you have
to run.

fisherman

you decide you want
to work on a fishing
boat and so join a crew
heading out into
the north atlantic
to catch cod and
flounder. it's a stinky
job, to say the least.
lots of swearing
and drinking and
smoking. everyone
has a beard and a lazy
eye or limp, and smells
like a barrel of
anchovies. they make fun
of your black knit
crew sweater from
calvin klein, and
chinos, but you
ignore them. you're a
fisherman, damn it.
they have a rookie
initiation which you
don't know about until
you have sailed fifty
miles from shore. they
string you up from
the mast with fishing
lines and swing you
around the boat, dunking
you into the water
when a school of sharks
appear. it's fun for
everyone, although you
can feel that your
sunscreen is being washed
off with each dip into
the salty ocean. your
favorite pair of black framed
raybans with polarized
lenses ends up in
the mouth of a tiger shark.
they finally
let you down when you toss
your breakfast and it
goes everywhere like a
busted pinata. it's
a long hard day, and
the hull is full of iced
down haddock, but you
learned how to filet fish,
tie a knot and tell stories
about your conquests of
women, although most of
those stories are made
up and embellished under
the influence of rum
and jugs of wine. you
like the camraderie of
your crew mates, singing
billy joel songs
on the way home as the
sun sets into the sea,
sharpening their knives,
letting out gas,
but you feel like this is
your last day, maybe
this job isn't for you
afterall. your hands
are bubbled with blisters
and your penny loafers
are covererd with gills
and something yellowish
and gooey. maybe there's
an opening at barnes
and noble.

to rise

you rise
you rise
you rise.
it's has to
be this way.
the other
options
are too harsh
to comprehend
or live with.

the vase

when the vase
falls
and a cloud
of dust rises
in the room
and the soft gray
particles of
italian mud
older than
you drift
into the air,
a part
of you cries,
another part
laughs.
and somewhere
another vase
spins on
a wheel with
hands gently
at the task.

sleep

don't
worry so
much about
sleep.
there is a bank
full of sleep
waiting at
the end
of tomorrow.

being young

let the dog
chase his tail
around the tin
drum. let his
feet slip and
slide along
the shiny rim
of his new found
world. let him go
for now, before
things change,
let him be young.

these things

you have leaned
in close and heard
the voices of
the dead. yes, you've
done these things.
you cupped
your ear to the floor
and walls and
listened to
the sound of feet
no longer walking.
you've done such things.
you've bent sorrow
like a rose
and held it in your
blood soaked hand,
breathed in
the life once
whole. you've done
these things.
but no more.

tells me about
her parrot.
it's way of echoing
words she
repeats into it's
cage. she tells
me

george

they say
when he died
the youngest
of the four
the quiet one
that his body
upon separating
from his spirit
caused an
illumination.
going further
from the path
he was on
into the unknown
other side.
leaving for good
this material
world.

the day

there is no
winning
no losing.
there is the day
to day
shuffling
of papers.
the morning
cup of coffee.
a bagged lunch.
a peach, perhaps.
the ride in,
the ride home.
there is the cat
on the sill.
waiting, as
always for food,
for milk.
there is dinner
to be cooked. a t.v.
turned on
in the corner
and the sun
bending in a slow
arc behind the high
rise, almost
down, there are
tomorrows clothes
laid out and sleep
is upon you
once more like
a warm soft cloud.

the spider

when you fall
down the steps
and lie there for
a few moments.
waiting for pain,
or no pain
to come around,
the laundry
you were carrying
all over you,
you stare up at
the ceiling
and see a spider
looking down.
he swings closer
to get a better
look, dangling
on the thin
clear thread that
he weaves. no
words are said,
for what words
could he say, if
he could say
them. you seem
to understand one
another in this
silent moment.

polka dots

it's not a pattern
you see too much
of, but she can
get away with it.
the large hat,
the blue polka
dotted dress,
the matching hand
bag, and heels.
she carries polka
dots quite well.
as for me. give me
black. give me
white. give me
grey or dark blue.
i don't need to
stand out in a
crowd. it's the same
for a wedding or
a funeral. or lunch.
she can be the canvas
and i can be
the easel.

the new car

your neighbor
buys a new car
and washes
it every day.
sometimes
he goes out
and sits in
it, looking around
at the knobs
and playing
with the wheel.
i can see him
inhaling, and
exhaling that
new car smell.
i hear his wife
standing
on the step
yelling at him
to come in,
it's time for
dinner, but he
doesn't
move. he's
somewhere
down the highway
in his new
car and thinking
about even
newer things.

getting in line

you enter the store
to get in line.
and there is one
man standing about
twenty feet away from
the one register, so
you ask him, excuse
me, but are you in
line, he looks at
you, insulted and says
yes with a sniff.
he folds his arms
across his chest and
plants himself harder
into the linoleum floor.
well, what's with
the twenty feet
gap between you and
the counter, you
want to say. but
you don't want to die
over something
like this, and so
you get behind him.
and say nothing.

icecream cone

you buy a hundred
dollars worth
of lottery tickets.
and when the numbers
are drawn you have
exactly no numbers
that match. not a
single one. it's
reverse luck of
some sort. so you
abandoned all of
your ideas of how
to spend your money.
the houses, the cars,
the trips, the fun
things you would do.
not to mention
the philanthropic
endeavors as well.
but you haven't won.
so there it is.
instead you go and
buy a double scoop
of icecream and lick
it slowly as the sun
sets just as slow
beyond the man
made lake below
the condos.

so many words

you only have
so many words to use
in one day.
and some days
you finish early
and so resort to
silence, or knowing
nods, or small
smiles that tell
all, or maybe
nothing. she
understands
completely,
although she's
never run out of
words herself.

she sells pants

she sells pants
all day
and into the night.
black and tan,
short and wide,
slim and tight.
she folds them
into stacks onto
shelves. sorted
by sizes, by styles.
by design.
the seasons change
outside the window
as another year
spins by
and she feels
the heat or cold
when the door opens,
the bell rings,
she sighs.
she sells
pants all day.
some short, some
wide.

the ninth decade

they are old.
older than you
by decades.
her hair is black
as a baby seal's
and he is wearing glasses
thick like bottles
they waddle like pink
bowling pins
about to fall
laughing in unison
at something
they just said,
or ate, or struggle
to remember.
she rubs his head
like a favorite
doll. he blushes
and shakes his jowl,
putting up a finger
to correct a point
he almost made.
they want you to stay
forever, or at least
through lunch.
they have things to
do, places yet to be,
on cruise control
and happy in their
ninth decade.

the prayer

you bend
your knees and
say a prayer
you learned
when you were
ten.
you say it
before you sleep
and when
you awaken.
has it made
you a better
person or
your life
easier. who knows.
but why stop
now. it could
be worse.

the swing

the playground
is full
of birds
where the swing
once swung above
the sand and grass.
the shadows of
the trees are
longer now
where i pushed
him into the air.
the old fences are
older still, some
down. i can
hear him say,
higher, go higher
dad, and his laugh
flying in the
autumn air.

in God's hands

in an attempt to
develop a green thumb
you cut it
on a thorn in your
yard. who knew
you had a rose bush.
you suck the blood out
of it and shake it.
then a bee, out
of nowhere, with no
provocation whatsoever
stings you on the face,
then another and
another. why are
these bees so angry?
you see your reflection
in the brand new
steel shovel
that you bought to
dig with. you look
like a monster, or
charles bukowski, but
you plow ahead. you turn
the hose on to water
the tomatoes that you
just planted, but
it leaks and sprays
wildly at the faucet
soaking your new
planting khaki pants
just purchased
from L.L. Bean.
you reach down
to pick up a long
stick that some kids
must have thrown
into your yard. it's
not a stick though,
but a brown snake,
who rears his head back
and sticks out his split
pointed tongue. his fangs
are dripping with green
venom. you throw him
like a rope over the
fence where you hear
a dog suddenly yelp.
cautiously you walk
backwards
into the house.
stepping on a rake
which smacks you in
the back of the head.
it's over. you tried.
the yard is in god's
hands from here on out.

carnival job

you decide one day
to join a travelling
carnival. you have
no carnival skills
to speak of, but you
have some psychic
abilities that are
largely untapped.
often you have tried
to guess the ages
and weights of complete
strangers at the
airport. dress
sizes and pant sizes
are harder because of
the discrepancies between
manufacturers, but
you can come close to
the ages and weights
within five to ten years
and ten to twenty
pounds. so the carnival
boss, jimmy, gives you
a booth and says that
he'll split the income
fifty fifty. you tell
him that you knew he'd
say that, which makes
him laugh. the first day
a woman punches you
in the face for thinking
that she was much
older than she was.
and despite the fact
that you are dead on
with the weight guess,
jimmy feels like he
has to let you go. his
quaker sensibilities
don't jive with violence.

under the weather

i'm feeling under
the weather, she
says, while fanning
herself with a
magazine. what does
that mean, you ask her.
aren't we all under
the weather, how can
we not be. you are
a fool sometimes,
she says. it's just
an expression. well,
it's a dumb one.
maybe we are under
sunny skies, under
a full moon with a
warm breeze in the air.
maybe the expression
should be my head
is full of rain and
a cold wind, thunder
and lighting. she
gets up and throws
the magazine down.
where are you going
you ask her. out,
i feel better she
says, when i'm not
under the same roof
as you.

long and short

she sells pants
all day. long and short
black and tan.
slim cut,
wide and not so
wide. she folds
them neatly
stacking them
on the shelves,
then refolds them
as the seasons
when rumpled and
moved. spill by
the large window
that looks out
onto the boulevard.
she sees the trees
change color
as she reaches
up onto the high
shelf. she feels
the warm air swim
across her
arms when summer
spreads it's long
months before her.
the door rings
when someone enters,
when someone
leaves. she sells
pants all day.
long and short,
black and tan.

the note

under the umbrella
at days end
while it rains
waiting for
the bus to take
you to a train.
you take out
the note once
more that you found
on the table
before you left
for work
that morning.
it reads
eggs, bread, milk,
and wine.
i love you.
and this keeps you
going, this note.

plant in the window

you bend
towards light.
you are a green
plant on
the sill.
kisses water
you. the touch
of a hand
gives you hope.
a kind word
or two means
everything.

the carpet stain

the stain
on the carpet
won't come
out. it's been
there since
the last tenant
lived here
twelve years ago.
coffee, wine,
who knows.
maybe blood.
it's part of the
room now, as
are the lines
on your face
a part of you.
no need to know
how they got
there, they are
just there, like
the stain
on the carpet
that won't come
out.

space travel

you join
the astronaut
program.
you have the hair
for it.
you flew a kite
once and enjoy
staring up at
the stars.
but you are
afraid of flying.
of heights.
of not having
air with which
to fill your lungs.
burning up in
a ball of flame
worries you too,
but, you have
nothing else
going on at the
moment and give
it a shot. it's
just pushing buttons
at this point
anyway. chimps
could do it.
you feel you
are at least
least equal to
a chimp despite
what your ex-wife
may say. you mark
venus on your
application as
a possible destination.
you buy some gum
to chew so that
your ears don't pop.

spilled milk

things spill
and get
wet. take milk
for instance.
a glass turned
over at the table
streaming
in white rivulets
towards your
legs, against
the sleeve
of your arm.
there are things
we can prevent
and others
that just
happen, finding
out which is
which is difficult.

the play

you go to your
son's play
at the elementary
school. Ginsberg's
School for the Arts.
he's got a starring
role as a pumpkin.
a talking pumpkin
mind you in a patch
full of other
talking pumpkins.
it's a long
night and at
the intermission
when the band
strikes up there
is wild clapping
and cheering,
parents yelling out
the names of their
children, go zach,
go buffy, go tyronee.
you rock abdul mohammed.
you go to the bathroom
and negotiate
with the miniature
stalls,
you get a drink
of water at the tiny
fountain. a small
arc of water
softly falls onto
your dry lips.
you buy some cookies
at the bake sale.
two bags for three
dollars, four bags
for five, but you
can't bring them
back into the auditorium.
so you eat some
and throw the rest
away in a metal
trashcan. a woman frowns
at you and shakes
her head. you have
no idea who she is,
but you immediately
don't like her. she
points at your zipper
which is down. you smile,
and shrug,
but she shakes her
head some more.
you see the lights
dimming in the auditorium.
it's time for
the second half.
your son is a wonderful
pumpkin, but you
feel like you need
a drink.

fat clothes

you turn
the heat off
because it's
ninety degrees
out in the middle
of march.
you find your
shorts and t-shirt.
you take a long
walk and do
some situps.
the next day
it's thirty degrees
with frost
on the flowers,
so you turn
the heat back on.
you close the
windows again
and throw another
blanket onto
the bed. you buy
an apple pie,
and put on
your fat clothes.

smoking a pipe

i started smoking
a pipe the other day
thinking that i needed
to raise the ante
on sophistication.
making a point
with a pipe, holding
it in your hand
and waving it about
seems to make
the point more viable
and interesting
as opposed to motioning
with a chicken drumstick
or a lollipop.
but there were
complications.
it's hard to smoke
a pipe and wear shorts
and a t-shirt,
tennis shoes.
it just doesn't
seem right. so i
needed a whole new
wardrobe of long pants
and smoking jackets
with a crest
on the front.
then there was
the equipment, the pipe
cleaners, the stems
and what not.
there's a lot
of tapping, and poking
at the pipe, getting
the bowl clean.
it's work being
sophisticated. lighting
and relighting,
spitting out the little
bits of tobacco stuck
your tongue. this may
last a day or two, if
i can get past
the choking and sneezing,
the watery eyes.

the line

there is a line
leading outside
a wide dark door,
down the sidewalk
and around
the corner. you
can't help
yourself, but
get in. you tap
a man on
his shoulder
in front of you
and ask how long
is the wait, has
the line been
moving, and he says,
it's slow today,
but we will all
get a turn,
be patient. so
you set down
your briefcase
and open your
newspaper.
you begin to read
and shuffle forward
as another
person disappears
into the dark
wide door.

rainy days

you hear
the rain filling
the tin
cans, the jars
and bottles
left standing
upright
in the yard,
the rush of
water down
the drain.
weather jazz
with no rhyme
or real reason,
or tune to tap
one's foot.
and you know
that life is
more and more
like that, than
the sunny day,
or symphony.

waiting

when you were
younger you waited
as if at a
train station
for life to start,
for something
to begin. and
now when you are
older you wonder
about the other
trains you could
have boarded,
the destinations
unseen.

the loose shutter

you stand
firm on the wet
grass staring
up at the torn
blue shutter
fluttering in
the march wind
like a stuck kite.
can you fix that,
she says, pointing
upwards
as if you can't see
or hear the problem.
but you don't answer,
your mind is on
other things
that you can't fix.

one glove

one glove
is yours
the other mine.
one shoe
belongs
to you,
and my foot
fits
the other.
you stopped
reading
the book
in the middle
and me
near the end.
it's hard
to unravel
love and go
our separate
ways, and
stay just
friends.

all day

the fog, a grey cat
on the inlet stretched
and yawning
where wintered boats
rest with sails
unwrapped.
the easy sing song
of metal clanging,
the slap of water
against hulls.
you cannot wake
this day, nor us,
the morning
is the same as noon,
as dusk. curled and
asleep into night.

on the moon

when you were
on the moon,
standing on soft
floured sand
of endless time
you could see
how far you were
away from home,
from those you
loved, and loved
you in return.
the moon is no
place to be alone
and neither
is here.

muddy shoes

your shoes
in mud across
the wide wood
floor and once
white rug, should
have been left
outside the door,
but other things
more important
were on your mind,
things that soap
and water could
not clean or
make whole, make
once again divine.

a glass of water

you watch
the black and white
movie late
at night.
it's raining
and cold.
the windows
are all open
and you can
hear the wind
pushing
trees from
side to side.
but the movie
is about a man
lost, stranded
in a white
desert with
an ominous
blue sky above
each rolling
dune.
you feel his
thirst, his
dreaming of a
glass of water,
him seeing
the mirage of
trees swaying
and the fresh
blue pool before
him. you watch
him crawl,
rolling on the soft
baked hills
that give way
like flour
under his legs.
you taste
the sun on his
scorched face,
the blood on
his lips parched
and split.
you turn the movie
off though before
you know the out
come. you go
to bed carrying
a cold glass
of water with
you and thinking
that it's just a
movie. just a movie.

no sugar for me

i dont eat red
meat she says,
faintly while
chewing a dry
unsalted almond
in the morning
light. no pasta
or eggs for
me either, she
sighs and wipes
her brow with
a slender vein
etched hand. my
diet is strictly
organic and pure.
i feel wonderful
she says, i've
never felt better.
at that point she
slips out of her
chair and falls
to floor
passing out.
i put a cold
compress on her
forehead and
when she comes to,
i hear her whisper
no sugar for me
either.

your luck

changes
with the penny
found
glimmering
along the curb.
the whole
day
is full
of parking
spots right
where you
need to stop.
the rain
ends
as you take
your walk.
the subway
is on time.
every line
you get in
is the short
quick one.
you play
the lottery
and win
ten dollars.
perhaps it's
time you gave
her that call.

the penny
moon
lanquid
on this
warm summer
night
leaving
a copper
band of
stripe and
glowin
tinsle
in the trees
that
hold
the april
bloom.

titantic

at first
glance
the black ship
red rimmed
and white,
forever afloat,
upright and still,
it's stacks
smoking long
into the starlit
night, and the
crew rushing
from deck to slipping
deck, it's new
angle strange
and telling.
the well
heeled men,
burdened with
tomorrows,
and women weighted
with life's
jewels, saw no
justice in
dying as they would,
cold, then colder
still, their
lungs embracing
eternity.

freshly fallen

words
are water
to your soul,
you bathe in
the warm rain
of letters,
falling down
into puddles
of poems.
the sleet
of punctuation,
the snow
of thoughts
freshly fallen,
then found.

lost love

when her father
died, she said little
and hardly
cried, or felt
the wave of sadness
that grief brings.
it was more about
what now, what do
we do with him,
with his things.
having never gotten
love, now none
was coming back, at
least nothing
that could be seen.

inventory

your right ear
is weak and you
find yourself leaning
towards a voice
to listen, but your eyes
are good, strangely
better than they
were last year.
reading a menu is
no problem.
your knees hurt,
but not so bad that
you can't get done
what needs to be
done. the shoulder
is tight, but giving
what you do with
your life, it's fine.
and the random trips
at night to the bathroom
keep you up, as does
the snoring. but
besides that, she isn't
complaining, too much.

the wind

you've lost track
of days, of hours.
you can't find
the time for all
you have to do.
you are a hamster
in a cage. a mouse
in a maze. you see
no way out. tomorrow
comes too soon
and the yesterdays
are ripped from
the calendar in
a harsh unrelenting
wind.

the owl

you were an owl
at the top
of the stairs
listening
wide eyed
to the rumble
and roar
of parents under
seige of their own
crazed war. no
love, or photos
on the mantle.
such pretensions
never gathered.
and you listened
and listened
for some clue
to what brings
a house down,
to what would put
you in the dark
trees with your
wings so tightly
bound, until now.

more stars

the pulse
you bear
a subtle tick
of your own
quick heart
beats towards
an end, not
soon, not
now, but when.
from start
to finish
more questions
than answers
fill the sky
like stars
uncovered by
darkness.

another season

teaching is not
unlike
the yard full
of plants
and flowers,
thorns and roses.
some leaning
towards the light
while others
wither and die
despite how hard
you try, how much
you water and nurture,
choked on the weeds
they surrounded
themselves with.
but many will
bloom, will go
on, will brighten
any given room
with color.

to read again

you moisten your thumb
and finger
to turn a stubbornly
dry page of a book
one you've read before.
the cover is wrinkled
from tub wash
and wet hands.
you fall in love
with books and feel
sad when the end
draws near, slowing
down the pace,
eeking out the story
before it slips
away again.

before you go

kiss me
before you
go. plant a
soft one
on my lips
and watch
my heart
bend and grow.
be the sun
the rain,
be the full
moon, be
all of that,
but especially
be yourself,
and kiss me
before you go.

men on harleys

is there anything
as needless or
necessary as middle
aged men with grey
pony tails revving
the engines
of their harleys
at stop lights
and through
the hollow tunnels
and overpasses
they ride upon.
their beards growl,
and their eyes
hidden behind dark
glasses, are focused
somewhere up
ahead. a place they
either can't
get to or have been
once and now left.
let them roar
and rumble, tomorrow
comes too soon.

cats and dogs

i think i was a cat
in another life, she
tells you sleepily
while she scratches
your back with long
fingernails. meow she
says in a sexy whisper.
a cat, you say, alright,
i can buy that. you
do like to stretch
and linger in the sun
and i've seen you drink
milk from a bowl
when the lucky charms
are gone. and what do
you think you were in
another life, she says,
drawing circles now
with one nail. i don't
know, you say, maybe a
hound dog. i love
to howl at a full moon
and chase you down
the alley.

the borrowed book

some thirty years ago
you borrowed a book
or was given one,
the details are fuzzy
at the moment, but
you never returned it.
how to become spiritual
and rich was the title.
two destinations
at an early age
that seemed
reasonable to reach.
but you were
lazy, or careless,
with it, never returning
it to the well
meaning owner. you
never even liked
the book, or finished
it, but there it sits
on the shelf next
to real books, books
you've read and loved
and will read again.
and whether you
suddenly become poor
or despondent
you are determined
to never read that
borrowed book.

writing in the sky

you see her
one day
on her broom
writing in
the sky your name
and the word
surrender
in black smoke
and you know
at that point
that it might
be time to get
a lawyer, or an
exorcist, but
instead you pull
out a lawn chair,
fix a drink
lie back
and see what
happens next.
your curiousty
wins out nearly
every time.

changes

you move
your bed to
the corner.
then push it back
to where it was.
you slide
the dresser
to another wall,
but that doesn't
work either.
you take
the curtains
down, but there
is too much
light coming
in. you buy a
gallon of red
paint called
oriental red.
you open the lid
and immediately
hammer it shut.
you put everything
back the way
it was, expect for
the dried white
roses on the dresser,
which you move
an inch to
the left. then
you leave the room
mumbling to yourself,
what was i thinking.

hammer and nail

when the hammer
strikes your
thumb and you
curse, and try
to shake it free
of pain as it
throbs red,
goes numb,
you see the danger
in taking
your eyes off
the moment, of
pressing
forward to the
next board, the
next nail, the
next day
you will build.

stop looking

you've looked
everywhere, but
can't find
them. on
the couch,
between
the cushions,
the table,
the counter,
pockets, coats
and pants,
under your hat,
in the bathroom.
under the bed.
they are no
where to be
found until
you stop looking
and close
the door. you
hear the jingle
like music,
glimmering
in the lock.

the poetry book

the door unlocked
lets someone
in with a bag
who wants money
and jewels, or
a laptop or phone.
but he sees a book
upon the shelf
that interests
him, and so he
sits, and fixes
tea and reads
an anthology of
poetry from
from frost to plath
to bukowski.
and he stares out
the window
with these words
fresh on his lips,
and suddenly
thinks differently
for a moment or
two, but then he
sets the book
down and fills up
the bag with
all that he can
carry. and before
he leaves he puts
the book back
exactly where he
found it.

the arrival

a driver
brings the car
around.
he gets out
and opens
the door. you
climb in back
and lie
down.
there are
flowers to
the left and right
of you.
you lie in a
silk bed as
the driver takes
you to a strange
quiet place
where all your
friends
have gathered.
they seem unhappy
and you want
to reassure them
that you are
no longer thirsty,
or hungry or
in need of anything.
your wounds of
childhood
have healed.
you understand
it all.
you have arrived
to where you were
always headed.

flight

you dream
about flight.
of lifting off
the ground
effortlessly.
arms and legs
swimming in air.
no fear.
the trees are
below you,
as you skirt
the silk soft
clouds. you dream
about flight.
that's how
you make it until
morning.

cold macaroni

i've had enough
so i'm going south
for the winter.
packing up
and leaving.
hopping on
a freight
train down
at the railway
yard.
taking my dog
with me.
we plan to stay
at a cheap motel
on the beach.
white sand.
cold drinks.
an umbrella.
not living large,
but living easy.
i'll be leaving
my phone behind,
my laptop
and desktop,
my heavy coat
and boots.
there's cold
macaroni and cheese
on the top shelf
of the fridge.
it's all yours.
help yourself.

carnival

you see
the carnival rise
across the road,
it's the glow
of light,
the kaleidoscope
of color
and music. the clang
of wrench, and
iron being
stretched in wire
as a tent goes
up, the scrambler
is born anew.
and the ferris
wheel in slow
motion swings
it's empty
chairs, waiting
for those much
younger than you.
it makes you count
your summers
like sweet
blessings.

fallen trees

fallen trees
crossing
the creek,
grey arms
and legs upon
one another.
their day has
come and
gone, or so
it seems
and yet there
is enough
life in them
to sprout
buds, and as
the waters
take them away,
show glimpses
of what used to
be, full,
in green.

it's getting dark

i still have
a rotary phone,
black, on the kitchen
wall with a twenty
foot twisty cord.
the milkman brings
me milk. the mail
man brings me
life magazine.
i write checks
and put a stamp on
the envelope
to pay my bills.
i defrost my icebox
with a butter knife.
i wind up my timex
watch and put it up
to my hear to hear
it ticking.
i have a record
player and a transistor
radio, a black
and white zenith
tv with rabbit ears
that sits on
a dinner tray
in front of the coffee
table. i spoon
instant coffee
into hot water.
i remember jfk,
ike and elvis,
paul and john, frank
and sammy.
marilyn and raquel.
micky mantle
and johnny u.
i yell out the window
and tell the kids
to get off
my lawn after i pushed
the mower across it,
but then go out into
the street to throw
the ball around
with them. it's
getting dark, but
it's not dark yet.

going for milk

while your mother
would steer the big
wheel of the car
she had no license
to drive, she'd
turn her head
just slightly
to the side and say,
stop with that
racket back there,
we are not on a
secret mission and
those clouds are not
castles, and indians
are not giving
chase. this is
not a tank with
turrets and a flame
thrower spewing
fire into the enemy,
just relax turn
it off and be quiet
for awhile,
we're just going
for milk.

the jog

you bend and stretch
drink your vitamin
water, take a bite
of your power bar,
adjust your wrist
bands, tighten
the laces on your two
hundred dollar shoes,
zip up your green
silk sweat suit.
you twist and turn
your head, jog
lightly in place,
attach more water
to your water belt,
take your pulse,
check your watch,
plug in your ear
phones for music,
then you begin,
your one mile jog
around the neighbor
hood, you go quickly
because it's almost
time for lunch.

33 and a half rpm

when you hear
the song, decades
later on the radio.
you feel yourself
almost getting up
to move the needle
off the vinyl
where it's scratched,
and skips. you lean,
and listen waiting
for the repetition
of words and chords,
the music stuck
until you decide
to move the needle
further into the song.

blue kite

a blue kite
with white
cloth tail
on a tethered
string
sails against
a shelf of clouds.
and the boy
below feels
the tug of wind,
of moon
and oceans he's
yet to see, but
knows, like love,
it's there.

clarity

the lines get
crossed. like
branches set
hard and fast
in pollack swirls
against the sky.
a tangle of
thoughts, of
charcoal lines,
and maybe leaves
are the words
yet to be said,
to say things
more clearly.
how winter pushes
us back, makes us
long for clarity
and green.

butter brickle icecream

depressed and blue
you run out and buy
a gallon of butter
brickle icecream
and a jar of hot fudge
with which to heat
up and pour on
top of the bowl.
you throw in some
walnuts and shake up
a can of whipped
cream which you spray
on top, making a
wavy white foamy
mound. you throw
three cherries onto
to that and dig
in. it goes down
quck and easy,
and feels like the
kind and compassionate
hand of a well
intentioned therapist,
but then the phone
rings and it's betty.
she's changed her
mind. she doesn't want
to break up afterall.
you let out a small
burp, and loosen
up your belt by two
notches. when you
can get up, you'll
go for a long run.

waiting

your computer
is sludge,
traffic is backed
up as far
as your eyes
can see.
there are ten
people in line
at the post office
twenty, with
special needs,
at starbucks.
you realize how
much time you
spend waiting,
and waiting
for things to
arrrive, for
things to change.
for the sun
to melt the snow.
for you to get
here and stop
saying no.

the simple story

sometimes
the story is
simple and easy.
boy meets girl.
they both fall
in love and
live happily
ever after. and
then there are
other stories.
boy meets girl,
but the girl
is married
and has three
kids. she
has the tattoo
of a dragon on her
back and wears
black lipstick.
then she gets hit
by a car running
across the street
because her husband,
a professional
wrestler who goes
by the name of dr.
death, finds out
about her cheating.
she survives but
she needs a hip
replacement.
the husband
makes a vow to god
to find you
and break
both your legs.
boy moves
out of state
with an unlisted
phone number and
glues a fake beard
to his face.

the easy question

she brings a lie
detector into
the kitchen and sets
it on the table.
what's that for,
you ask her, looking
up from your
bacon and eggs,
the newspaper
in your hands.
give me your arm,
she says, i need
to ask you a few
questions before
we get married.
who said we were
getting married?
no one, she says.
but in case you ever
ask me, i need to
know a little bit more
about you.
well, i think we're
jumping the gun here,
you tell her, but sure
go ahead, i've got
nothing to hide.
i'm an open book.
give me your arm,
she says, so you roll
up the sleeve on your
bathrobe and give
her your arm. why
are you shaking, she
says, attaching
the velcro band
and turning
on the machine.
sweat drips down your
face and you feel
a little seasick. i'm
not shaking, it's
the coffee, caffeine
makes me nervous.
pffft, she says, okay,
lets get started
with a simple
question. a yes or
no answer will do.
are you in love with me?
suddenly the needle
starts fluctuating
wildly across the roll
of paper. smoke rises
from the machine as
it vibrates violently
and crashes down.
i thought we were going
to start with the easy
questions, you tell
her slipping out of
the sleeve. oh well.
hey, are we out of
orange juice, i
couldn't find any
in the fridge?

pbs

you want to
go to bed
but you can't
turn away from
the pbs
program on
tv. you linger
on the couch
with popcorn
in a bowl.
it's late, but
dr. dwyer is
telling you
things that you
don't quite
understand, but
seem important
or worthwhile,
and he's got
a handful of books
and tapes,
and dvd's to
straighten
out the mess your
life may be in.
you are determined
to hang in there
and go to bed with
one clear thought
or practical idea
that he can give
you. but it's
impossible.
despite his
sincerity and calm
demeanor, it's so much
mumbo jumbo that
you give up and quit.
you stand up
and stretch, letting
the popcorn that
missed your mouth
roll onto the floor.
you'll get that
later. you head
to bed, clicking
the tv off in
your sleepy wake.

there is
a trail
of bread crumbs
to your
house. someone
has followed
you home
and is sitting
on your porch.
she looks like
someone you
used to know.
she has a small
suitcase
beside her.
a yellow bird
in a golden
cage flutters
it's wings.
can i stay here
for a while
she says.

you scramble
an egg
in butter.
but you can
find a spatula
so you use
a spoon.
you brown
a slice of
toast while
bacon burns
in the black
pan. you
wave a dish
towel at
the smoke alarm
as it goes
off. you
open up
the milk and
give a smell.
good.
breakfast
is served.

rusted bicycles

no one home,
the window
frosted
with your own
breath peering
in. a worn
green couch
in the middle
of the room.
a cup on
the table where
you once had
tea. a shutter
swings from
a single hinge.
a rusted bicycle
in the yard.
how bliss
changes so
quickly into
this. empty
rooms that once
held three.

being a man

to prove your
manhood you buy
a horse and a hat.
you ride the range.
and practice
the art of lassoing.
you aren't sure
how to spell it or
even if it's a word,
but you move on.
you're a man now
and can't be
bothered with spell
check, or the webster
dictionary on your
desk. so you have
this horse that has
a tremendous appetite
for oats and carrots.
you'll decide later
where to keep him,
but for now you are
riding the range.
you sit up high, and
squint into the sunlight
out at the mountains
in the distance
which may or may not
be montgomery mall.
but it doesn't matter.
you are on a mission
to become a real man.
so you yell out
giddyup, and give your
horse a little wack
on his hind side
with your new white
hat, which makes him
buck, throwing you off.
it's not easy
being a man these days.

what tomorrow brings

beware beware
of three witches
at the bidding
of Hectate
in the moors who
want to tell you
what tomorrow
brings. turn
the other way
and run. don't
pick up the sword
to gain the crown
and be king. beware
of what you think
must be already
written. it
isn't so. it's
better, despite
the whispering
of loved ones,
that you never know.

mouse trap

you walk past
an alleyway
when you hear a little
squeaky voice going
pssst, pssst, hey
buddy, can you help
a brother out? you
stop and look down
the narrow, brick
lined alley full of
trashcans and weeds.
it's wet and it stinks.
but there it is again,
psst, hey, hey, what
are you deaf, look
down. right here. you
look down, and it's
a fat little mouse
wearing a hipster hat
and sunglasses stuck
in a mouse trap.
could you lift up
that little metal
bar, it's holding
my tail. he has
cheese all over his
furry mouth and
lips. roquefort, he
says. american cheese,
sharp, cheddar and
i'm walking away, but
roquefort on a cracker
with a little pear
sauce, well they
got me. i was lucky it
didn't snap my head
off like my cousin
louie. you step in
closer and lean down.
come on, he says.
get me outta here.
how do i know you
won't bite me, have
rabies or something,
i tell him. maybe
you're spreading
the bubonic plague.
what are you a child,
he says. you're scared
of me. i'm a mouse for
god's sake. look at
my teeth. he bares his
teeth which are full
of crackers and cheese.
it takes me an hour
these days to chew
through a telephone
wire. and we got a bad
rap on that bubonic
plague thing. read your
history books. it was
those damn fleas catching
a ride on us that did
it. at this point he
has his two little pink
paws together, pleading
to be helped out so
you pull the bar off
his long grey tail,
freeing him.
thanks, he says,
tipping his hat back,
then suddenly he takes
a nip of your finger,
drawing blood. he scampers
away, laughing, looking
over his shoulder. hey
better go to a doctor
and have that checked
out. you might have
the bubonic plague.
you start chasing him,
kicking over trashcans
and throwing lids
but he zig zags
down the alley,
finally disappearing
between two bricks
in the wall where
you hear him high
fiving another mouse.

i can't read this

i pick up
the book
the one i've
tried to read
three times
and made it
to page ten,
never further,
the girl with
the runny
tattoo,
and i throw
the book
across
the room.
it hits
the window
cracking it
and goes flying
through
landing in
the creek
that runs beyond
the fence.
i watch it as
it sails away,
still open,
still stuck
on page ten.

good fences

you have one
neighbor
that you can't
stand. he
is poison
ivy to you.
and it's not
that he's evil,
he's just
nosy and
intrusive and
always, always
with the
questions. what'd
you buy,
where are you
going, who's
that who came
over. and
you try so hard
to stand there
and hold a
conversation
with him, but
then he says
something like,
have you gained
weight,
your cheeks
look fat, or
are you tired,
you look much
older lately.
what's wrong,
money problems?

the numbers

you see
the math
in everything.
the numbers
etched
like stars
across
your horizon.
you can
add the days
behind you,
the hours
that you slept,
the money
spent or
saved. you
can see
the mileage
that you've
driven,
the weight
of you upon
a scale.
you can count
the times
you've been
in love.
there are
numbers
for everything,
some being
smaller
than others.

what you don't forget

the white
curve of her
back lingers
on your finger
tips. the kiss
against kiss.
the shoulder
turned in light.
her black
hair, heavy
and wet against
the blue
sky, your
memory, selective
as it is,
won't forget
this.

black shutters

you spend
the day in black
paint.
shutters mostly,
lined up against
a brick wall,
a door removed
from it's hinges.
you stand
with arms moving
from side to
side in a trance.
mellow in
the methodical stroke
of your hands.
tomorrows come
and go. today
slips from your
fingers. these
shutters, black
and glistening
in many suns
that you won't see
will be around
for awhile.

love for sale

you can't buy
love, she says
as she stands in
the doorway
with the rain
pelting her
leopardskin hat.
but it helps, i
borrowed your
credit card
and will be back
in a couple
of hours, nordstrom's
having a sale.
i'll let you
know later about
me and you. if
it's not love,
perhaps affection
will be good
enough.

doing the twist

i want a man
who knows how to
dance. swing,
the shag, someone
who can waltz
and two step.
i want a man
who can glide
across the floor
like a gazelle
with me in his arms.
someone who can
tango. can you do
that for me?
tell me what dances
you can do?
i got the twist
and the mashed
potatoes down,
you tell her.
that's all i got.
take it or leave it.

just oranges

you cut
a fat orange
in half.
then quarters.
that's enough
cutting. you
set two slices
on a plate
and slide them
across the table.
she looks at
you and shakes
her head. why
are your pieces
larger then mine,
she says.
you don't love
me like you
used to, do you?

her mirrors

she used to
have a mirror
in the hall
and i'd catch
her glancing,
pausing for a
moment to fix
her hair,
to pucker her
lips, put her
hands upon her
hips and stare.
turn and give
herself a long
last look.
that mirror
is gone. so
is the one
at the top of
the stairs,
the round one over
her bed though
is the one i
miss most of all.

angry knitting

i spent
the day on
the front porch
knitting
an afghan
for your bed
she said.
i was still
angry at you.
i rocked
all day,
and knitted
until my hands
turned pink,
the balls
of yarn
unspooling
beside
the black cat.
but by the second
bottle of wine
it wasn't
my finest
piece of work.

someone just like you

she reminds me
of you.
the way she
speaks, the way
she laughs.
the way she
makes love.
but she's not
you. and i'm
glad for that.

waiting

you wait for
your life to begin.
you stand
outside and let
each season
roll over you.
you have no
memory of
yesterday,
of the years
gone by
when you were
someone else.
the slate is clean.
you wait for
your life
to begin again.
this is the only
way you can go
on and find
tomorrow.

in her black boots

she whispers
sweetly
into your good
ear, nuzzles
her face
against yours,
then takes out
a cube of sugar,
a carrot,
from her
deep pockets.
she winks then
gently, by
the collar
leads you
to the barn.

spare parts

you are fond
of spare parts.
it's obvious.
the drawers are
full of them.
wheels and pins,
screws and hooks,
gaskets,
things that
have long lost
rhyme or reason
in your day to
day life, but at
one point
they made all
the difference.

the wooden spoon

you take out
a long handled
wooden spoon
and bring it
upstairs
to bed.
you take off
your clothes
after turning off
the lights
then lie there
in the dark
and find the spot
in the middle
of your back
that she used
reach. it's
not the same
of course, but
the results are.
the itch is gone.

when the neighbor's
house blew up
from the cigarette
being lit and
the gas leak having
filled the room,
you remember seeing
the dog flying
in the air, and
the grandmother in
her pajamas sailing
towards the trees
with melba toast
and tea in her hand.
you were glad for
both you and her
that she was dressed.

kind to the unkind

you have no patience
for impatient people.
which makes you one of
them. but you try
not to think about
that, because it's
too confusing and
gives you a headache.
tomorrow you will
try to be kind to
the unkind, forgiving
to those who won't
forgive and silent
when others insist
on talking.

come to bed

come to bed
she says,
you're
tired.
look at you.
with eyes half
closed,
your limbs
like wet
laundry
on a line.
come to bed
and lie
beside me,
let's sleep,
today's
story has
been told.

what you know

she says
you have a mean
side in you,
i can see it
in your writing
at times,
but you don't
not really.
it's something
else. it's
a way of staying
safe, of
keeping love
at bay, of
protecting
your soul. and
how wrong you are
in doing that
is obvious.
you know.
you know.

needs

you want things.
you are not unlike
a child
stirring in a crib.
you've learned
to cry
to get them too.
what parent
won't bring a
bottle, or hold
a rattle in
the air. or lift
a child to
comfort him.
you've learned
fast what works
and it's hard
to change
your way.

with your foot

asleep and your arms
crossed
against your chest,
the lights still
on, the television
hums like a blue
bird before you.
your bed is
a floor above,
but this feels good,
not moving.
sometimes doing
nothing is an
answer.

willpower

you buy a bag
of candy
and open it on
the way home. it
sits in
the front seat
of your car.
just one, or two
you say
to yourself.
but you're
hungry and two
becomes three
and four. the
phone rings
and so you answer
cradling it
in your chin
and neck while
you reach for
more candy.
you lose count.
your hand
is deep into
the bag at this
point, and so
what's the difference.
you wipe the chocolate
from you mouth
with your sleeve
as you continue
to eat and talk
on the phone. you
realize as the bag
empties that you
have the pathetic
willpower
of a new born
baby, but then you
think, why not.
if i want to eat
the whole bag
why can't i.
you stop at
the next light,
finally off the phone,
and a woman
motions to the circle
of chocolate
around your
mouth. you look
into the mirror
then give her a
thank you wave.
tomorrow you'll
try to do better.

repent

in pieces
your car breaks
down.
the windows
won't
go back up.
and rain
like bee
stings pepper
your face.
the car wobbles
as you drive
down the turnpike.
then a light
goes. a tire
loses air.
the radio
picks up only
am stations
with religious
brodcasting.
you stop the car
and go out
to bend the
antenna, but
to no avail.
the word of god
is upon you.
you feel more
guilty than
you usually do.
you are reminded
of sins long
forgotten
while an amber
light flashes
on the dash.

the circuit breaker

when you turn
on the microwave
you can't use
the toaster
oven at the same
time because it
blows a circuit
and then you have
to go downstairs,
to the basement
and out to
the shed where
the breaker box
is and flip
the switch to get
the power back
on. sometimes
it doesn't bother
you, and other
times you curse
like a drunken
sailor on liberty.

what are you wearing

your friend
lorraine
at one in
the morning
under the soft
red haze
of pinot noir
texts you
and says
so what are
you wearing.
you can smell
the booze on
her lips
from here
thirty miles
away.
so you respond
back and say,
plaid, i'm
wearing all
of my plaid
clothes at
the moment,
including my
underwear. i
even have a plaid
hat on. hound's
tooth i
believe it's
called. and what
about you,
you ask, as you
hear her
gagging on
the other end.
i'll be right
back she says.
i think i drank
too much and ate
too many pieces
of fried calamari.

a bird

without wings
to flaunt
on wind, finless
fish, and dogs
without a bark
or tail to wag.
what is it in
you, that stolen,
makes you less,
of who you need
to be.

ferris wheel

you are reluctant
to climb aboard
the ride, call it
love, for sake
of this poem.
it looks like fun
from here, the
wheel turning
slowly into
the carnival sky.
the ticket is in
your hand, but
you stand there,
slow to move,
while she smiles,
waiting patiently
and says come on,
come on, it
takes two.

there was a time
when you'd
let the pages
of the bible
fall open, then
place your finger
blindly upon
a line.
and strangely
it would have
meaning. it would
be a light,
a guide to what
you needed to
know.