seamstress

i forget about the tear
in the pocket
of my favorite jeans.
and money falls
out on a daily
basis. keys, and a pen,
hit the floor,
roll away
and spin,
a note i was going
to send. i forget
about the hole
and think perhaps
that it will seal
on it's own.
not by my own hand,
with needle and thread,
but by divine
intervention, or by
someone like you
who knows how
to sew and mend.

without light

unsleeping
awake at midnight.
slipping
out of clothes
going to a window
to listen
to what the woods
have to say.
there is no
silence like
the subtle
speaking
of life
in the darkness.
the mole,
the fox, the mice,
the scramble
of soft feet
finding a
way, like so
many others,
to live
without light.

dinner for two

stir the pot
it's boiling over
take that long
wooden spoon
and slide it
to and fro
from side to side,
touching bottom.
stir the pot
then take a taste,
blowing gently
on the heat,
bring it to your
lips and see
what we have
cooked tonight.
see what delicious
meal we have
yet to eat.
come closer
and stir the pot.

in her summer dress

i see you roll
down the green hill
like a ball.
you are five
somewhere
inside your still
limber limbs
that know sixty
years. and the bumps
and bruises
you'll endure,
the burrs caught
in your hair,
the grass stains
on your dress
you'll pay no mind.
it's worth each dizzy
turn down
the summer slope
with so few
seasons left.

the narrow road

you are aware
of your own
weaknesses.
sweets and
sex. sleep,
another pair
of shoes, sports.
so many things
that begin with
the letter s.
but you digress.
moderation in
all things says
every wise soul
to wear a collar
or a robe,
so easy to say,
and yet harder
each day to follow
that narrow road.

going green

i'm going green,
turning
over a new leaf,
lighting candles
instead of using
electricity,
i'm walking
to the liquor store
instead of driving.
hugging trees
and separating
the plastic
and the glass.
my garden is full of
carrots and green beans.
i'm playing my banjo
instead of listening
to lp's. i'm making
a compost pile
of eggshells
and lettuce leaves.
i'm shaking hands
with daffodils,
embracing raccoons
out in the street.
now i'm getting
rabie shots
in my stomach,
but when i recover,
i'll be back at it,
going green.

we used to lie
in our foxholes
and talk about girls.
while the red
flares sprung
like flowers above
the black sky.

the dark train

i see you on the black
train. the trail of smoke.
the slight rumble of
wheels. the chug and
pull, the whirr of pistons,
the choking of
the engines throat
i see you in the window
with a hand up.
tears in your eyes.
tears in mine. tomorrow
has become today.

throwing stones

i  brought back
the stones you threw
at me. here they are
in this sack. do with them
what you must.
throw them again
if it makes you feel
right. but wait until
the morning. at night
i like to sleep.

the exit

no one is saved
not really.
the dead nod
this truth
from the gallows
before they swing,
from the chair
before the switch
is pulled..
the sinner
on his knees.
there is no saving
anyone
from the door
we all must pass
through.
the doors of life
are wide, and of
your choosing,
the exit is just
one.

phillip

someone, i suspect
a boy. perhaps a young
boy, has carved his name
into the the table
where you sit and wait
your turn. the time it
took to carve
out the letters
one by one, the strength
it took to push
quietly into the soft
wood a name given
to him at birth is strange.
to be that young
and still unknown
trying so hard to
be so. finding the knife
his only way, at
least for now.

not pants

you press your face
to the glass
hands cupping your
eyes to see inside.
waiting for the store
to open. there are
things you need, that
you already have.
there are others
there too. waiting,
looking at their
watches, their phones,
waiting for the doors
to be unlocked
as if it was bread,
or water, or love,
that you are all
desperate for,
not pants.

knitting april

she likes
to knit
while having
a glass of
white wine.
the rain
pouring down.
the dog at her
feet.
music playing
somewhere
down the hall.
there's a candle
on the table
with the white
glow of a flame
willowing.
she likes to
knit and let
sunday have
it's way with her
in the sleepy
chill of april.
connecting
her yesterdays
with today.

swimming upstream

you see a dog
swimming up stream
with a bone
in his mouth.
he is paddling
with all his might.
you whistle
and call him
to the side, to
dry land, but he
shakes his head no.
like you, i
like to do things
the hard way
he barks and
continues on his
journey.

quick fix

she says
can i borrow your
religion for
a day or two.
i'm going through
some things
that meditation
and carrots won't
fix. can i steal
a prayer,
those rosary beads
and a book.
just walk me
through it and i'll
take it from
there.

earthquake

a small fissure
across the land
leading to the quake
and rattle
and roll of deep
seated crusts
scraping and biting
hard against
each other
reminds me that
nothing, not even us
can stand
on solid ground
and that we must
take hold
of one another
to wait it out.

pablo

picasso, at a certain
point in his life
never carried
a purse, or money
when out and about
at the cafes. drinking
and eating all night.
he never had to pay.
instead he would sketch
the horns of a bull
the obscure curve
of a woman's hips,
a breast turned sideways
onto a napkin. then
he'd add a box,
a circle perhaps, or
a line drawn through
it all. he'd hand
it to the garcon and say
with a wry smile,
keep the change.

the dripping faucet

drip drip
drip all night
the shower faucet
leaking
onto the chrome
drain below.
drip, drip
drip. it would be
easy to rise,
get up and
go down
the hall to tighten
the handle,
but no. perhaps
it's telling
you something
in a strange
watery world
of  morse code.
you'll give it
another hour.

to be or not

you learn
to speed read
and memorize antony's
soliloquy following
caesar's death,
impressing no
one but those
few elite readers
of the bard.
you conquer
the cobwebs of
hamlet and
macbeth. taking note
of lines that you
can use throughout
the day.
it  doesn't serve you
well, speaking
in these tongues.
but you have fun
with it just the same.
you throw back your
robe, adjust your
crown of leaves
and order coffee
while saying loudly,
to be or not to be.

more to this

is the tornado
spinning a house
in midair,
an act of God.
the tsunami sweeping
away the land.
is the missed kick,
either left or
right, or one made
of his concern.
the broken cells
burning hell
through lungs
and veins.
does life and death
come from
a throw of his
dice, or whim,
or payment due
from lack of faith,
or sin.
or is there more
to this than
we can fathom.

eggs in the basket

so, did you find everything
you were looking for,
the clerk asks as i set
the carton of eggs onto
the moving belt.
one dozen brown eggs,
fresh from the farm.
at least there is a sketch
of a farm on the carton
with cows and chickens
playing together in a
sunlit field. there may
be a horse there too.
yes. i say to the clerk.
i found my eggs quite easily,
they were in the egg
department.  thank
you for asking. is there anything
else i can do for you,
she says, smiling.
ummm, i don't know, i'm
unsure, i say.  well, is plastic
okay, she asks.. yes. i answer.
nodding not unlike benjamin
in the graduate, plastic
will be just fine to carry
my eggs home. i give her my
money and she gives
me change with a
receipt that she marks
with a bright pink marker
on one side. please visit
our website and tell us
how wonderful your visit
was with us today.
there is a twenty point
questionaire. i'd appreciate
it if you mentioned my
name. she points at her
name tag that says
Janice. but i only bought eggs.
i tell her. yes, she says,
i see, and do you
need help getting those eggs
to your car?

blue

then blue again.
then red,
the color of
your lips
at night.
then green
the soft unfolding
of leaves
on the stems
of trees.
then blue again.

blue

blue then blue again, then red. the color of your lips at night. then green. the leaves wandering on the stems of trees. blue, then blue again.

to land

like a small plane
you sputter
and spin through
the low sky
just over the green
hands of reaching
trees and the black
whips of power
lines. you just need
to reach the ocean
the blue arms of
sea and sand.
past the houses,
the highways.
you've been circling
out of gas
for sometime now
and your
heart is ready,
is willing
to land.

gone fishing

you wake up
and find sand in
your bed, it smells
of wet salts
and seaweed. there
are fish too.
flounder, rock fish
the size of cats
and small dogs.
hooks and sinkers,
litter the sheets.
there's a map
of the chesepeake
bay and a net
lying next to you.
scales like thin
shiny coins
are scattered
everywhere. a blue
shelled crab
is perched
on your headboard.
a seagull sits
at the bottom
of your bed with
black bean eyes
staring at you.
it's been a long
cold night
of dreams and
the fish were biting,
your hands are
raw and red from
the take.

the phone call

your father can't help
himself. he's a joke machine.
what do you call a blonde
standing on her head,
he says over the phone,
but he can't stand the three
second pause by you before
answering it himself
and laughing
with a loud cough into
the other end of the line.
a brunette, he says.
you hear the snap of his
bic lighter, firing up
another cigarette.
so, what's new he says?
how's your love life,
work. how about them
cowboys this year.
the conversation rarely
varies from this set
pattern. it's friendly
and light, and non invasive.
talk of tomatoes in his
garden, a book you sent
him. how much it rained
or didn't rain. you talk
warmly for twenty
minutes until you begin
to hear him fade and feel
cornered with nothing
left to say, so he clears
his throat and says, hey,
i got one more for you.
okay, shoot, you tell him.
and he says, a tree fell
in the forest but no one
heard it, because someone's
wife kept talking.
you laugh despite having
heard it before from him.
you make your laugh new and
fresh, thankful for all
that he has done, despite
how small that is.

warm bread

bread rises
on the silver
tray behind
the glass
warmly becoming
what it
should be, until
it's ready
for your hand
and lips
and the calm
slice of knife
to let
the heat out.

fishing

below the soft
skin of sea
the schools
of slender
fish bend
like prisms
in a rainbow
of discontent.
they swim
carelessly
away and
towards me.
the boat
rocks gently
as each
one rises and
falls without
memory
or concern
for what happens
next below
or above
this wet land.
they know little
of what i'm
doing with this
silver hook
i've readied.
so bright
so sharp, so
deadly.

the rug

you see her
standing
in the yard
beating a rug
with a broom.
the dust rises
and falls like
brown clouds
around her.
she turns it
to the other
side. this is
not over.
life will
change at
some point.
she beats it
harder.

election year

sometimes you
have to swallow
your pride
nibble down
your dignity
reduce your
principles to
mere rubble,
eat your ideals
and ignore
the heartburn
of injustice
done. turn
the other cheek
to every thing
you once
believed to
be true
and bury
the hatchet
in someone else
not you, then
run.

the pollen
falls like pale
saffron
from the sky.
a light seasoning
on all.
dust

m m

she had six
toes on each foot,
marilyn monroe,
taken
off as a child.
but few
seem to know,
they'd rather
ponder
her nude,
her breasts,
her hair,
and eyes. her
whispery voice
making her life
meringue
with no depth.
i'd like to think
that her strange
slight differences
meant something,
something
not gotten to
quite yet.

the sky is falling
like shaved ice
or feathers from
a bird that no longer
needs to fly.
the sun has melted
into white,
the moon a distant
memory. the sky is
falling, and it
doesn't matter
that the day has
turned over into
night. let it snow
and be full of april
fools.

the raft

you go mattress
shopping. it's taken
days and a hundred
or more test lie downs
in the middle of
a neon lighted store
to say yes to this
one, the beauty rest
shakespeare firm
and yet with a pillow
top to sink into.
but when you get home,
you have second thoughts.
maybe there is a
better one, one more
suited to your back,
your curves, your
dreaming of oceans,
after all you will
be spending the
next third of your
life upon this raft
and it should be one
to sail upon under
those starless nights,
or full moons when love
is far away, or
with you.

april rain

she leans
on the sill
elbows up
rubbed raw
and red
from the cold
and wetness
that seeps
in from an
april rain.
an hour passes.
what are you
doing i ask
her. and she
says, i'm
not sure, but
this feels
good for now.

marching orders

bring me
this, do that.
don't forget
to pick up
the things
i told you about.
and don't wear
that shirt.
i hate it.
don't be late.
arrive on
time. don't say
anything dumb
or that might
embarass me
or you. another
words don't
be yourself,
be someone else
and all will be
fine.

botox

i went to my doctor
the other day for
a diagnostic on my
health and appearance,
trying maybe to turn
back the clock a little.
he did the usual
once over, turning me
around, and saying
things like hmmm.
and then hmmm again.
what, i said. what?
quit being so damn
mysterious. i'm not
a mind reader tell
me what's wrong.
oh, he said, nothing
serious. but i'd like
to start you on some
treatments. oh, yeah.
like what i said. pulling
the stiff cold tissue
paper i was sitting
on around my buttocks.
why's it so cold
in here. i'm shivering
like a penquin. i think,
he said, with his
finger on his chin, that
i'd like to dip your
entire head into a vat
of botox for starters,
maybe get rid of some
of your wrinkles. but
i earned these. whatever
he said, if we are to
turn back the clock
we must start there.
and then we will work our
way down. we have
methods now of tying off
the extra fatty skin and loose
muscles. he pinched me
around the waist and
the back of my arms.
ouch, easy doc. don't make
me slap you. he laughed
and then pulled a needle
seemingly out of nowhere
and suck it between
my eyes, right above my
nose. yikes, what the
hell. it is just a sample
injection, see how
the lines fade away.
already you look fifteen
minutes younger.
now go fill out the forms
and slide your credit
card into the machine.

message in a bottle

walking along
the beach you see
a green bottle floating
among the waves
thrashing the
shore. it rolls
to your feet,
so you pick it
up and see that
there is a note inside.
you take off the cork
and unravel the scribbled
sheet of paper.
it's not for you
though, someone
needs help, someone
is lost at sea,
stranded on an island.
it's a desperate
plea, but there is
little you can do.
you look out across
the shimmering
ocean, shading your
eyes from the sun.
you see no one. so
you write on the note
a message back,
asking where they
might be, then throw
the bottle back
into the ocean. if
there was a way
you could help, you
would, but you can't.
not everyone can
be reached.

spicy

i ate a chicken
sandwich the other
night and thought
of you. skinny,
boney, white meat
with no hot sauce.
i'm done with chicken
and heading over
ben's chili bowl
for some meat and
beans, potatoes
and something
a lot more spicy.

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.