soccer mom

she left her cat
of nine tails
behind her.
her pointed
hat, and green
striped stockings
too. they come up
to her boney knees
when she wears them.
her broom, pathetic
as it is for sweeping
rested against the door.
next to a pot of boiling
water with a wooden
spoon. then there was
the note, that said,
be right back, taking
the kids to school.
it's not easy being
a witch, these days,
with soccer and the
minivan, the pta.

the living

she would
pull over onto
the grassy slope
where there were
no graves, not yet.
and say, wait here,
i'll be right back.
sometimes there
was rain,
or a light snow
falling, and the markers
most low and uneven
stretched out across
the rolling
plain, no one
that the world
deemed important
seem to lie here,
no angels stood high,
no marble statues,
or headstones,
but, she came
each year because
blood was
quite enough to pay
respect.

puzzles

there are things
you can't change,
can't undo,
it's too late
to take back
the words spoken,
the note sent,
the call made.
a slip a fall,
a gesture that meant
no harm, but
does. your life
is a puzzle of
misteps, and yet
somehow, every
now and then
a piece slides in
just perfectly to
make sense of
a jumbled board.
that's where you
come in.

holidays

you open up a candy
store on main street.
the world needs candy
and flowers and more
sappy cards. you invent
a series of holidays
to push your products.
guilt is your main
motivation. you have
be a good neighbor day.
hug a cop day.
barista day and women
with blonde hair only
day. red and brunette
days follow in the next
month. ex in law day
is in october. dog day
of course is in august.
there is no holiday
for cats though, they
don't seem to care one
way or the other.
you like that. some of
the holidays though
are just hours. holiday
hours. such as for
your cable guy. he
gets between nine a.m.
and two o'clock on
the day that he may or
may not come. liquorice
is his candy.

the cold night

the fish that slips
from your fingers
as the small boat
rocks in the twilight
water, splashes in
and swims away
with new life. it
wasn't meant to
be, this catch, but
another day will
follow this cold
and hungry night.

the open door

nothing is where
you've left it.
someone has come
into your house
while you were gone.
the bed is made.
the clothes are picked
up and washed,
ironed shirts hang
in the closet.
even the dishes
in the sink are clean
and stacked neatly
on the shelves.
a pot roast is in
the oven,
you can hear the carrots
and potatoes simmering
in garlic and onion.
fresh flowers are
in a vase on the table
where a hand written
note sits waiting
for you to read.
it smells of lilacs.
it says you left the door
open. i hope you
don't mind.

in the sun

your  father,
the navy
master chief
petty officer
turns eighty four
come june.
he's had more
fights than joe louis,
more lovers than
errol flynn,
and more miles
at sea than
columbus. a few
wives and nine
kids are far behind
him. like distant lands.
the grandchildren
uncountable, as
the stars are.
but now he rests
easy in his
lawn chair,
sunning his
cross stitched face.
a thick book
rests half open on
his  browned belly.
he lifted weights
earlier in the day,
swam a few
miles at the club
then stopped
at krispy kreme
for a cup of coffee
and a boston cream
donut. he flirted
with a waitress
no older than
the shoes he was
wearing. desire
and a wink  still fresh
in his blue eyes.
his garden stretches
out beside him.
corn and peppers,
tomatoes and melons.
tall loping sunflowers.
his thumbs still as green
as they were when he
was raised on a farm
in nova scotia. he has
circled back to where
he was. alone and in
the sun.

the dance

with music playing,
she liked to take
her clothes off,
pull the blinds up
and toss open the curtains.
she'd turn all the lights on,
then fix a glass of wine
and dance across the room.
beyond the courtyard
the windows full of
lights in the building
that had her in view
would go dark,
their binoculars would
clink against the glass
as she danced and
danced crazily amused.

last day of school

on the last
day of school
on the last bus
ride before going
home for summer
many of the kids
would throw their
notebooks and papers
out the windows
creating a snowstorm
of loose leaf
paper and binders
and pens, and erasers.
most of these kids
were the ones
who never studied
anyway, so it was
strange and symbolic
how they ended
the year the way
it started and carried
through.
very little went home
on any day.

be who you are

i got a message the other
day about someone
wanting to friend me
on facebook. i was rather
surprised since
we hadn't been getting
along very well lately,
and the fact that he
disappeared for a week
without any explanation
was rather odd.
i had no idea
that he could even get
up on the chair and use
his paws to get online.
i was suspicious every now
and then, coming home
from work and seeing
a 'cats gone wild in cancun'
site up and streaming on my
monitor, but i thought it
was a strange glitch of
some sort. there have been
a lot of doggy treats
crumbs on the desk too.
i don't know.
he's a very difficult dog
at times. walking him is
like walking a trout on
a leash, and the incessant
barking and special
dietary needs. who can eat
fried chicken every day?
being friends
at this point on facebook
seems to be pushing
things a bit too far. i just
want him to be a dog
and go chase a ball, or
a squirrel, not be online.
is that so bad?

the dentist

she starts off pleasantly
enough, how are you,
you look well, vacation?
but then it quickly turns.
you haven't been flossing
have you. i can tell.
you should floss more,
i gave you some,
remember?
then the cardboard slots
go into your mouth
for the x-rays. that mole
on your head, i thought
you were going to take
care of that last year. i
gave you a number.
what happened? are you
going to your mother's
for mother's day? she asks.
but you can't answer on
account of the cardboard
pinching hard against
your gums. so you
shrug. you only have
one mother you know,
she says as she slips on
her lead vest and hides
in the adjoining room
before pressing the red
x-ray button. we all just
have one mother, she
repeats coming back into
the room. she pulls out
the cardboard, as the drool
and blood drip down
your chin in strings.
she mops it up with a
cotton ball, then holds
a syringe
up in the air. you
can see the steel tip
glistening wet. your
eye begins to twitch
and your hands tremble.
i'm not drilling today,
she says, but i'm going
to give you this shot
anyway for not flossing
and for being mean
to your mother.
open wide.

coffee and clouds

it's a day of coffee
and clouds
of reading a page
turning a page
and day
dreaming
it's a day of low
lights, of a clear
calendar,
a day of looking
no further
than the length
of your own hand
reaching
for the cup.

inspection

as you
sit within
the confines
of your car.
waiting to be
waved closer
by the man
at the garage
so that he can
inspect the wipers,
the lights, the brakes,
the tires
and belts,
you think how
worn down
your own bones
are and
wonder if they
too could
pass inspection.

the red dress

you arrive
late for you own
funeral. traffic.
but you have
no way to apologize,
you can see the ones
who have always
grumbled at
inconvenience
grumbling again.
the ones who cared,
still caring,
and the ones just
touching base. you
see her in the red
dress. it's funny
how you know so
many things. how
the light has gone on.
the answers
to why this, why
that. seems silly
in retrospect,
the worry,
the sweats,
the anxious moments
of your life.
how simple
it all seems from
this vantage point.
how only you understand
the red dress.

the strawberry

let me know
at some point,
would you please
what your intentions
are with me,
the plans or no plans
you have in store
for us. let me
know at some point
where we are
going. don't leave
me to die on
the vine, waiting for
you to decide.
i am ripe and sweet
ready to be plucked
and eaten.
don't walk away
and never know
the taste of me.
let me know at some
point if you are willing
to bend and take
me in your hand.

the vamp next door

a vampire has moved
in next door.
or at least she appears
to be one. pale
skin, long black hair,
with red lips.
i've never seen her
in daylight.
she drives a prius,
but i don't think that's
connected to her blood
sucking ways.
at night
she has friends over
i can hear them
singing around a piano,
gershwin, cole
porter that sort of thing.
i see her blue recyling
bin in the morning,
put out by the curb.
it's full of
tomato juice bottles,
and vodka, mostly.
some red bull cans too.
they stay up late, late
into the night, sometimes
when it's a full moon
i can hear some howling,
or some action
going on in the upstairs
bedroom. we share
a wall, and a rather
thin wall at that.
i want to go over and
tell them to keep the noise
down, tell them that i
have work in the morning,
but i don't
want to get bitten.
i'm not sure that my
health care provider would
cover such wounds. so
for now i just lie
there with a wreath
of garlic around my neck,
a sharpened wooden stake
in my hand and listen
to them sing late into
the wee hours.

before the race

the riders
calm
in crimson
silk and yellow.
like exotic birds
with white caps,
jamaican greens
and bluebell
blues. upon the horses
thick with
muscle, gleaming
in the sun.
they sit
placidly upon
their steeds, each
in a hurricanes
eye waiting for
the gun
and their life
to begin.

the rain

things were said
that ended it,
and then it rained
it rained for days.
the water rushed
down the black
streets, never ending,
you could hear
the roar from three
floors up
you could see
the people bent
over in the wind,
with black umbrellas,
their pants wet,
their dresses
soaked and stuck
to their legs. it
rained and rained,
there were no birds
to speak of, no
stray dogs that week,
the world seemed
to be waiting for
the rain to stop,
for the silence of us
to end.

charity

frail
birds on
the sill
clicking beaks
at the glass.
one claw
out, one holding
a sign
saying please
help.
the world
is unfair.
there are not
enough worms
to go around,
not enough
seed.
not enough
trees to make
nests upon.
just get us through
the night.
any bread will
do, but please
not stale,
or white.

barren land

what grief
there is in soil
that won't
take seed, won't
hold a single
plant, or flower.
what good is
land when tilled
that won't give
back. i have
farmed such land
and walked
away with
empty coffers,
and dust
laden hands,
still none
the wiser.

the wind

the wind
has it's way
with everything.
each tree
each stream
lifted
by it's strong
hand
towards
something else
that it wasn't
meant to be,
pushing things
in directions
unknown,
or at least
so it seems.
and how
different are
we
with such wind
upon us.

banjo music

she surpises you
by bringing a banjo
to your house.
everything was going
so well for so long.
the sweet kisses,
the tenderness of touch,
the highbrow
conversations and long
looks of what
could eventually
resemble something
akin to love,
but then there's this
instrument in her hand,
a pic in her mouth,
and she wants to sit
out on the back porch
and play for you
a song she wrote. she's
put her hair into
pigtails and is wearing
a checkerboard dress
with boots.
you steady yourself
with a drink, and say
okay, but already
you know
that the worst
is yet to come.

not the half of it

your watch is right
just twice a day.
the sour cream
has gone bad.
the eggs  bought
a week ago
have hatched
chicks after
leaving them
in the trunk of your
car. you pulled
a bit of cork from
a wine bottle
pinot noir, and
tomorrow you'll
go see the dentist
about a cap. your
watch is right
just twice a day,
but that's not
the half of it.

pink sheets

the red shirt
has turned
the white sheets
pink. miles
davis said
that there are
no mistakes,
but i think
he's wrong in
this case.

amazon

you go online
to buy shoes.
you've searched
and searched
driving the county
to add one more
pair to your
multitudes, but
with no success.
so you go to
store in the sky
to browse
and click off
the numbers on
your card. free
delivery in
the five to ten
days or less.
this could be
the beginning of
a long and
dangerous
relationship.

safe harbor

she likes the rain.
the overcast sky.
the full shadowed
streets of heavy
green trees,
darkened with
by a storm passing.
she can sink
into this safe gloom
this  harbor of sorts.
she can live there
untouched by
what the sun brings
each new
unfolding day.

the leak

despite what you know,
the leak surprises
you, the curled script
of a yellowed line
where it seeps out
and onto the black table
below. haven't you
done so much to keep
things in order,
eating right, exercise,
reading for knowledge
as well as pleasure,
don't you use your signal
making a turn, either
left or right.
isn't gratitude ingrained
within. it doesn't matter.
the leaks will come
regardless, as you well
know, having
brought the bucket up
from the basement
on many occasions.

a glass of water

gently,
without asking,
she brings you
cold water.
clear and clean
in a glass.
she drops an ice
cube in,
a cut of lemon.
without words
she sets it
on the table
by the window
in reach
and the light
that pours
through it
is hers.

full moon

the moon is never
closer than
this night.
it leans fat
and whole,
beyond the whitest
of whites.
you can almost
reach out and
feel the cool
silt wrinkled
on its ageless
brow.
it makes you wish
it had never
been touched,
but had been left
for lovers,
for poets and children
for all those that wish
upon stars,
and dream too
much.

dog town

it's a dog town.
you see them
in tow, on leashes.
the quick and nimble,
the old and slow.
they bark
and sniff, they lean
and mark
where they've
been where
another dog will
come along,
and go. it's a dog
town.
they bring humanity
to those who
otherwise
would not stop
to speak
and say with
kindess, what kind,
how old.

sunday at the zoo

the animals
in the zoo seem
tired this sunday
as the tourists
invade the paths
and trails
with strollers
and cones of
cotton candy.
sodas and sandwiches
in hand.
they lanquish
in slouched poses
behind
the old bars
caught and waiting
against their
will. but fed
well too, like those
on the other side.
the apathy seems
mutual.

black boots

i like her in
boots,  long
boots made of
black leather
from toe to
thigh.
she knows it
too.
the way her
hips swing
from side
to glorious side
when strolling
down
the boulevard.
i hear them
clicking
in my sleep
on the hard pavement
as i wait.

hot soup

behind every
fortune
lies a crime
balzac said
and you aren't
sure if it's true
or false
but it reads
well in ink
and is an easy
quote to
remember
and savor
when standing
in line for
a job or
a bowl of hot
soup.

mashed potatoes

they slide a small
plate of indistinquishable
food in the slot
below your cell
door. it's white
and mushy and reminds
you of mashed
potatoes. the kind
they used to serve
at a restaurant near
where you lived.
next to it is a small
slice of grey meat.
the white stuff though
looks like
an old gym sock.
shredded with pebbles
and dirt
sprinkled about.
you are truly sorry
for your crimes.
you would do anything
to break out of this
prison and be back
eating mashed potatoes
covered in butter
and gravy and mushrooms.
your heart aches
for potatoes,
and then you feel
a hand smacking against
your head, hey, hey,
what are you dreaming
about, you're dooling
on me and biting some
sensitive areas.

home run

you take a hard
swing
and miss.
the bat ripples
against
the summer
air. heat rising
against the green
acres of oufield.
you can see
the fence from
home plate. the arc of
seats with sleepy
fans  waiting, wanting
something to
happen.
the next pitch comes
and your hips
turn, your
shoulders tighten,
your eyes narrow
as your heart
triples its beat.
you swing, extending
your arms with bat
in fisted hands
and once more
and miss.  but then
you see the pitcher
smirk and smile,
relax his stance,
and shake his head.
that's all it takes.
the next pitch is yours
and you drive it
deep deep deep
into center field
and over the neon wall.

no vote

on board
with nothing.
no platform seems
to ring your
bell melt your
proverbial butter.
which direction
do you go,
which switch
gets pulled to
make this
world as you
think you know
it whole.
say something
you want to yell,
say anything
that makes sense.
clear and sharp.
why do these voices
warble
year after year.

fish within fish

you pull in a large
fish, he's taken the hook
and bait and swallowed it
whole, but when you
reel him aboard you
see that he has swallowed
a smaller fish and in
that fish is another fish,
and on and on again.
you don't know where to
begin, which one to eat,
which one to throw back.
your life is built on
consequences that you
have no power over.

getting away

your sister
in florida
sends a picture
of her on a
raft in her pool.
she is happy
in her calm
waters
wearing her
shades with a
cold drink in hand.
it took awhile
but she found
her way
by getting away.

time of the season

my friend jimmy recently got
religion. he's converted to a hybrid
set of  beliefs which he calls
the book of jimmy. he's working
on a mission statement, and some
commandments, or suggestions,
as he likes to put it. he starts off
his book by saying there is a time
for drinking wine and a time for
drinking wine in great abundance,
like when his ex wife calls him for
another bump in alimony,
or he loses another bet on one
of his favorite sports teams.
there is a time for grilling he says,
and a time, for ordering chinese
delivery. there is a time
to take a nap, and then there
is a time to not take one,
which is rare.
there is a time to spend
money on dumb things like a new
car when you don't need one,
and another time to dig
through the couch cushions to
find change in order to buy a cup
of coffee from seven eleven.
there is a time to look through
someone's medicine cabinet,
and a time to not to look and just
cross yourself and your fingers
and hope for the best.
in jimmy's new religion,
there won't be any of that up and down
business that churches put you through,
like a monkey on a string. all that, okay
kneel, sit, pray, stand, chant
and hit your chest confusion that goes
on constantly, but instead you can
lie down in your own pew
with a little pillow and
stare up at the ceiling where there
will be big screen televisions.
every pew station will have a box
of remotes too. and wi-fi.
and a box of chilled junior mints.
and when it's time
for collection and the basket is
passed around, you'll be able to
sift through the bills to break down
a twenty, or a five if you don't
feel like things are going great
that week with the all powerful.
you can even leave a note, like
sorry, but i'm tapped out right
now, catch you next week, brother.
his commandments such as thou
shalt not text during a big game,
or when on a hot date, or thou
shalt not ask your friends to help
you move again, or drink tequila
and try to jump off a motel
balcony into a swimming pool
are all kind of weak,
but he's working on them while
meditating and eating
chips and salsa. i can honestly
say that he's not really
a changed man, but there
is some clarity
now that he's written
these things down.

over the fence

you see the kid
next door
climbing over
the fence. she can
barely make it, still
at that age of being
a gumdrop in shape,
but manages
to slide over
the chain linked
stretch that keeps
the woods at bay.
when she sees you,
she stops and moves
the hair out of her eyes,
adjusts a band around
her wrist
and says, oh. hi. i was
just taking a short
cut. the quick blush
on her face hints that
she may have been up
to something, but it's
fine. we all are to
a certain degree.

witchcraft

you don't know how,
but your hand or hands
have hit a button
or two on your keyboard
and now everything is
suddenly different
and strange. what's
that blinking, you don't
know. the large icons,
the odd font lifted
somehow from the font
file. the extra large filled
screen that takes away
your ticking clock
your favorite spot.
a voice appearing out
of nowhere, apparations
of places you have
been, or are being begged
to visit. it's all witchcraft
in it's most devious
form, this computer.

knitting

you see them
in the coffee shops
their eyes down,
the clinking sound
as they sit close to
one another.
the yarn ball moving
with a life of it's
own, growing
smaller while the
sweater, or scarf or
hat becomes what it
will be. they talk
and wander in their
conversation, the needles
moving rapidly
over and over and over
as the morning wears
on. it's a meditaion
of sorts. making
something out of nothing.

moon string

you see a string
dangling in the night air.
and so you pull it gently.
the moon moves with it.
you tug it closer, then
walk it about the lawn.
it's light as air, as white
as white can be.
this makes you happy
having charge of the moon,
having so little else
to be tied to. you like
this string attached.

on ice

you don't necessarily
like hockey.
but you like ice,
the idea of a blue pond
indoors, frozen,
and watching people
skate.
the blood and violence
is no fun,
but it's interesting
just the same. the zip
and zoom of the puck,
black as coal
carroming off the glass,
the pipes that ring
out, the legs and arms,
and even heads of
hot faced men.
the desperation of it
all is all consuming
to those banging
against the glass.
the bells chimming,
the buzz and organ music
adding to the chaos
of the game.

wild fire

the smoke
from her fire
makes you blink,
rub your eyes.
it fogs the present,
hides the past. she
is two sticks rubbed
together over
kindling and dry paper.
you can only imagine
if the flame grows
higher, spreads
like wild fire.

water and love

not unlike love
water
turns into
steam
after a summer
storm, or into
ice, or snow
perhaps when
winter comes.

the fear

you see the nannies
together with a gaggle
of children, small,
just walkable with
arched eyebrows and
open mouths surprised
at everything they see.
they are walking
in a tied line down
the street, linked together
for their own protection.
only able to go so
far left or right, unable
to stray from the pack
and explore what the world
holds strange
and  mysterious.
and you think as you
ride by, that this is
maybe where it starts.

getting directions

you can't get there
from here, the man says
as you roll down
the window and ask
for directions. he
shields his head with
a newspaper as
the rain falls. you
have to go all the
ways around, go back
to the light and make
a u turn, then go left
and circle. but it's
a one way street, so
you have to go one
more block make a
right, then another
right and then you
are going in the right
direction. you want
to go north, right,
he says.
the rain is dripping
down his face,
there is a piece of
lettuce or brocolli
caught between his teeth,
and his feet are in
the gutter as water
rushes over his shoes.
no you say.
south. oh, well, in
that case, keep going
straight, you're
almost there.

a man calls

a man calls
you on the phone.
he needs work done.
he tells you that you worked
for him twenty years
ago. he says his name.
you remember him.
he had nylons and garter
belts and long leather
boots, all his,
always hanging in
his shower, drying out
from some escapade the night
before. he was drunk
or near drunk quite often
by mid afternoon. white wine.
sometimes he wore nail
polish, or had forgotten
to take off his lipstick
when he came to the door
in his shiny robe.
sometimes there were
people sleeping in
the tub, or on the balcony
slouched over
in a yellow lawn chair.
everyone seemed to have
had a mustache.
he would often hand me
a check and sign it.
just fill in the number of
what you want, he'd
say, then go back to sleep
as you rolled out a ceiling,
or hung another strip
of flock black wallpaper
onto the dining room walls.

the bird wouldn't sing

the bird
wouldn't sing
for her as it
clutched
her thumb
rattling it's
jungle green
plumage. it
never mimicked
her words.
no, hello sweetie.
hello.
it liked to bite.
instead
and caw
and caw
and caw.
the only way
to silence
it was by throwing
a blanket onto
the cage
to make it dark
but then there
was the cat too
who owned
the patience
of centuries
of being a cat.

when you were young

when you were young
you stretched out in
the soft dry grass at night
and stared into the sky.
for hours on end, alone,
and watched the stars.
the meteors in thin
quick flashes go by.
you realized how
impossibly large it all
was and how you too
were a part of it
in some strange way.
and now when
you are old, and lie
back to stare up at
the same sky, you see
how nothing has changed,
or is understood more,
not even you.

you hear a siren

you smell something
burning, leaves perhaps.
a small fire in the dry woods.
you see the plume of blue
smoke rising through
the trees. you hear a gun
shot and see people
running. a woman scream.
you hear a siren
in the distance. the world
is full sirens, all being visited
in their own time.

no secret

no secret
lies still for long
having a life
of it's own
in the dark.
growing
fingers to pry
away the boards
that inevitably
when cracked
bring light.

picnics

you have relatives
who don't
like you and the feeling
is mutual.
you don't quite
understand why
it's this way, but
it is. it's seasonal
for the most part,
picnics seem to be
easier. passing
the potato salad
out in the sun
with the wind blowing
when you can
hardly hear what
anyone is really
saying and you
have a common
interest in keeping
the ants away.

simplify

you bend over
in the rain
rushing to the bus
to tie your shoe.
the shoelace
breaks
when you pull
it too tight,
it's been worn
and wet
so often
that the threads
are bare.
you knot
the broken
ends together
making it
short and hard
but it works
well enough
to get you through
the day. you
ponder a life
with just loafers.

another way

i am flat
broke of ideas
to break free.
i can hear
the squeak of
the wheel i
am on
in my own
self constructed
cage.
there is water
there is food,
there is
the occasional
reach of a kind
hand through
the bars
to pet me. there
has to be
another way.

small town

in a certain light
even this town
with it's broken
windows and shut
factories
has a quaint
charm. a quiet
sense of dignity.
but you can't shake
it quick enough
and get on the rail.
you know enough
about the facade
of homes and store
fronts. the park
and school.
the tree lined boulevard.
the roses in full bloom
to move on.
you feel the chill
in the sinster smile
of the pastor
as he stands on the steps,
in the shadows
of the spires.
even the dog
wagging his tail
seems to have a bite
forthcoming.

the rattle

you hear the rattle
before the strike,
before the teeth
sink in,
the thunder
before the tree
splits and catches
fire. you see
the glance of
her eyes, feel
the slight hollow
of silence
in her thoughts
and you know,
just know that
everything is
not quite right.

such darkness

the single pop
and flash of bulb
gone black
surprises you
as you turn
the switch to bring
light into the room.
it tells
you something
of tomorrow,
that's better left
unsaid. it's best
to just get a
new one and twist
it into place.
don't dwell too
long on such
darkness.

fallen stars

you are given
the task to sweep
up. to collect the fallen
stars, the ones
no longer wished upon,
or that have lost
their luster, having
worn out their
welcome and energy
sky relics of the past.
they fall softly onto
the streets, without
a sound, without
a whimper. in bits
and pieces, shards
of colored glass.

the storm

how unearthly
the sky is
before the storm
the grey hands
and rolled fists
of what's to come.
how the breath
of air
roils across
the ground spinning
what it finds
loose and untethered.
how quickly
the day changes
when the front
moves in, how
heavy
and tight your
grip must be to
hang on.
and see it through.

blue fish

blue fish
jumping
across the bay
bright and shiny
like coins
skipping
across the surface
with wishes
made.
life is good
uncaught,
untethered by
the lines
that seek them out
not unlike
us on dry land.

iron will

you decide to go on
a diet immediately. no more
chocolate, no more chips
or icecream. no
chinese food. no crackers
or cookies. no more late
night pizza deliveries.
you hold your breath
and make your stomach
small, inhaling until your
ribs show. you see how
you will look after a few
weeks of starvation. not bad,
you think. then you let out
the air and pop a button
on your shirt. this makes
you even more determined.
you begin to flex your legs
beneathe the table.
one two. one two. then
you push away from
the table leaving the last
bite of rib eye steak
on your otherwise clean
plate. a dollop of
mashed potatoes is under
it, but you resist.
you are made of steel now.
your will is unbreakable.
but you've forgotten
about the dessert you just
ordered. chocolate waffle
cake with whipped cream.
the waiter brings it to your
table smiling, happy with
what he's bringing you.
you change the start of
your diet to tomorrow
morning. eight a.m. sharp.

coffee, cream?

she says, hi
hon and flips a page
on her pad
pulls a bic pen
from her tilted blonde
stack of hair, perhaps
a new wig, watcha
gonna have hon.
blueberries just came
in. so did
the salmon.
breakfast bar
is about to close,
so. hon, do you
need another minute.
she taps you on
the back leaving
her hand there for
a long friendly
minute. french toast
is good too, she says
and snaps her gum.
scratches her arm
where a red bump
lies next to another
red bump. she
moves her lips
from side to
side, straightens
her slip beneath her
pink uniform and
says. i'll be back.
coffee, cream?

sailing time

slippery shoes
and wobbly
knees, hanging
on to the rail
of the tilting
small boat
as the sails catches
wind and blows
out white like
kleenex from
a violent sneeze.
a tumbler of
vodka in one
hand, a small
cap to cover
the ruddy face.
a short sleeved
shirt embroidered
captain.
somewhere a
pint of blood
worms has
spilled on
deck. it's sailing
time.

the end of the world

after the snow
storm and
with the power
down
for days on end
you light a few
candles
put on your
monk robe
tie a rope
around your
waist and
pour yourself
a cup of soy
milk. your
neighbor comes
over with
some hummus
and whole
wheat
crackers. i'm
glad you've finally
joined us,
she says. later
i can show you
a few yoga
stretches
while you empty
your mind
of steak and eggs.

on the clock

keep it short
she says.
get to the punch
line. i have
no time for
the likes of you.
spit it out.
tell me
in as few words
as you can
what the deal
is. time is money.
and the clock
is ticking.

just a test

this is just a test.
that buzzing noise
you hear in your ear
emanating from
your radio or tv
is just
a warning signal.
in the event of an actual
emergency
you'd be on your
knees praying and
asking forgiveness
to someone who you
believe may have
some power over
this situation. or the next
one after death occurs,
but it's only a test, so
feel free to continue
to go about your day
as if everyting is okay.
there's still time.

alien abduction

my friend andrea called me
up the other day and said that
she wanted to have a chat.
so we met for coffee. she was
not too happy and struggled
to get the words out as we
sipped on our lattes. i think,
she said, i think i might be
pregnant. i put my coffee down
and threw my hands into the air.
i had nothing to do with this.
sit down silly, she said. we
haven't fooled around in years.
well, who then, who's the lucky
dad. i wiped the sweat beads
from my forehead with a
brown napkin. i don't know she
said, and here's the really weird
part, look at this. there was a
a couple of small puncture
wounds on her stomach and hips.
what do you think of that,
she said. yikes. i said. i've got
some neosporin in the car
if you want some. they look
infected. how did that happen?
dunno, she said. but don't think
i'm crazy, promise me you won't
think i'm nuts. what, i said, what.
and stuffed some crumb cake
into my mouth. i think i may have
been abducted by aliens
and one of them impregnated me.
i spit out the crumb cake hitting
andrea in the forehead with a
wet glob. whoops, sorry.
she wiped it off. seriously, she
said. last night i saw this green
glow pulsating in the room
and there was this strong
vibration shaking the whole bed.
i couldn't wake up.
and i was having these sort of
sexual feelings, ya know.
i took a sip of my coffee and nodded.
go on. well, i felt like this
creature was on top of me,
sort of bald and white
with really rough skin. he or
whatever it was had this ghoulish
look on his face. and
this was last night, i asked.
why would you think you were
with child? it hasn't been
twenty-four hours. women just
know, she said. we just do.
wait a minute, i said. are you still
dating jeb who works at the airport.
mechanic? yes, she said.
and did you go out for a mexican
dinner with hot peppers.
have a few margaritas,
some of that blue tequila...
yes, she said, a few shooters too.
and did you stay at
the little rat hole  motel near route
one, the one with the vibrating beds.
maybe, she said, her eyes getting
wide.but how do you explain
the green glow and the puncture
wounds all over me.  pfffft, i said,
there's an adult movie
store right there, with a
big green neon sign that flickers
all night long. and those mattresses
are thirty years old. every now
and then the springs pop out
and jab you in the side. whew. she
said. thanks. i just couldn't
see myself bringing up some
little alien monster. Awww, i bet
he'd be cute, i said. just like you.
sit tight,  i'll go get that neosporin.

pre-marital counseling

i was walking down the street
the other day when i was suddenly
accosted and thrown into the back
of a moving van. a bag was
thrown over my head and before
you know it i was unconcious
from a rag full of ether. when i came
to i was blindfolded and tied to a
chair. a hand was gently tapping me
on the cheek, hey buddy, you okay,
wake up, wake up. who is that, i said,
it sounds like tony. do i know you?
yeah, it's me big tony. what's that
smell?  that's baked zita, little tony
is in the kitchen making us lunch.
what's going on, why did you kidnap
me? long story, kid, he said, but it's
for your own good. he took off
the bindfold and untied me. what's this
all about, i said. he put his hand on
my shoulder. sit still, he said,
hear me out. i sniffed the air
and could see little tony in the kitchen
over a hot stove, stirring sauce
in a pot. have we ever steered you
wrong, tony said, lighting a cigar.
in the few weeks that we've known
each other, what have we done for
you? winning tickets at the track, right
nothing but winners. we like you.
well, now we want to help you some
more. little tony said he saw you the other
night at the movies. yeah, so.
well, he said the dame you were with
had a ring on her finger and you two were
pretty chummy. so what. i took my
girl to the movies. The Artist. it was
a great movie. whatever, he said.
i'm done with silent movies, i prefer
the talkies. doesn't mattter. what matters
here is this. you and her are engaged to
be married, right? yeah, so what's
it matter to you, i love her.i looked around
the room. on the table were buckets of
water. what's with the water? you're not
going to water board me with those are
you? he started laughing, hey little tony,
did you hear that. little tony raised
the wooden spoon with dripping red
sauce and shook his head. nah kid. you
got no worries from us. that's for later.
we're doing some pro bono work for the
feds down at the port authority.
so back to you. what happened when you
got divorced the last time? i shrugged my
shoulders, i don't know. crying, misery,
sadness. it was horrible. okay, and what
happened to all your money, your house,
your savings, your retirement? where did
it go when you got divorced? she got half
i said. half of everything. not to mention
alimony, child support, the nice
car. exactly my point, he said, and for what?
was she crippled or something, no.
did she work, did she save, did she
contribute? don't answer that, i can see
by the look on your face that the answer
is no. well, we're here, me and little tony
to tell you don't do it. don't get married,
we don't want you to lose half again.
we don't even have those kind of percentages.
we might get thirty or forty per cent,
but never half.  never, he said, using his
cigar for a pointer, never sign a business
contract over an emotion. emotions
are like the weather. you're in love,
you're out of love, its cloudy, it's sunny.
but, but....no buts jimmy, we are here
to help you. but why are you doing this
for me, why are you telling me these things?
we like you and maybe we'll need a favor
some day. but listen to what i'm saying.
live with her, don't sign anything.
you ain't having kids no more and that
house with the picket fence and the little
dog in the freaking window, that
boat sailed a long time ago. okay, okay,
relax. get up, straighten your tie.
you might want to change your pants,
they look a little wet. you can go now.
think about what we said. he folded
a slip of paper and put it in my hand.
here's a number, that's the winner at
the track in the fifth race. rosebud.
go make some money. have fun.
little tony is gonna wrap you up
some ziti to take home. hey little
tony, put some garlic bread in there too.
and maybe some meatballs in that
little tupperware container on top
of the icebox.  he put his
hands on my shoulders and said,
look at me jimmy. don't do it. don't
get married. you're getting plenty of milk,
ain't ya? well, no need to buy the...well,
you know what i mean. now get out
of here kid, sorry if we roughed you up
a little, but we like you. he looked at his
watch, little tony, let's go. we have to
get down to the port authority before
rush hour. little tony handed me my
bag of baked ziti and bread, then
they showed me out.

some day

i put my dreams
there. in a small box
that i slide underneath
my bed.
the dream about
you is there,
the one about us,
about tomorrow
and the next day.
i won't let them
slip away, i keep
them under lock
and key. safe below
the bed where i
sleep. maybe i'll
show them to you
when the time is
right, when the sun
is up, some day.

don't think twice

you remember
how she used to sing
in the morning
brushing her hair
in the mirror.
you can see her
standing there,
the pale curve
of her legs, her
back, the soft round
of her shoulder
like hills
in the sunlight.
you can close
your eyes and
hear her now.
singing, singing,
don't think twice,
it's all right.

farmville

you decide
to raise chickens
for a living.
you buy a few
from a farmer up
in purceville,
some brown hens.
a few white ones,
some roosters
too. you make a
little barn for them
in your back yard.
throw some straw
down, a pail of water
and scattter
some kernels of
corn about for their
lunch. you give
them names, like
norma and madge,
billie jean, and
cindy loo. you call
the rooster jimmy,
and his friend
clayton, farm
names. before
long they start
laying eggs like
nobody's business.
you're eating scrambled
eggs, egg salad
sandwichs for lunch.
poached eggs,
over easy and
eggs benedict.
you can't hard boil
them fast enough.
pancakes, french
toast. you have a
pile of eggs five
feet high in the yard
and they keep rolling
out of those chickens
like coins from a vegas
slot machine.
you check your cholesterol
count and it's out
the roof. your
doctor tells you that
it's time for the chickens
to go, but you can't
fry them up, you've become
close to them, so you
chase them out of
yard and wipe the tears from
your eyes as they
disappear into the woods
where you hear the foxes
cllinking their forks
and knives togther,
but you love the farm
life, and you wonder what
next. you go online
and investigate pigs.
you'd love a pulled pork
sandwich right about now,
so you give a call to your
bud up in purceville to
see if he can hook you up
with some fat porkers.
sure nuff, he says.
sure nuff. i'll bring the truck
around tomorrow.

just one kiss

i can't bite into
just one chip
or eat one m
and m, or have
one kiss, or
one lick of
your icecream
cone. i need
more. stay
a little while
longer,
don't  leave me
this way.

the congressman

i watched the blue
jay, like a congressman
for life, bully
the other birds
away from the feeder,
thick and loud
he ordered them around
with his hard
flapping wings
and thick beak. i
could almost imagine
him at the Palm,
red faced with
martini in hand,
a rare piece of steak
in his mouth, a
wad of ill gotten
cash in his blue
shiny pants.

no justice

you stop for a quick cup
of coffee and a donut, parking
your car for a mere five minutes
in what seems like
a very legal spot. you don't see
the blue handicap sign behind
the sagging branch of a leaf
covered limb. the road is freshly
paved so there are no marks
saying don't park here unless
you are limping, in a wheel
chair, or closing in on death.
you pull the ticket off your
windshield and spit out your
coffee and glazed donut into
the wind. one hundred and
seventy eight dollars it says
in smeared cheap small town ink.
you say something like what
the hell, but not using the word
hell and instead choosing a
more colorful word that
rhymes with bad luck.
you decide to fight this injustice
with your own quick wit
and sense of freedom.
you go home to watch
court room dramas, to
kill a  mockingbird. you
are atticus finch. perry
mason, you are paul newman
in the verdict. these people
can't handle the truth. you will
sway the jury with your
knowledge of the legal system,
if a man can't buy a cup
of coffee and a donut in
this town without being
harrassed and gouged by
the man, well isn't that an
indictment on all of society.
isn't that saying the world
as we know it is coming to an
end. but you sigh and write
the check. it's hopeless, and
it wasn't even a good donut
to begin with. should have
bought the bear claw.

i'm in the market
for you my dear
i'm out of pocket
but don't you fear
i'll get a job some day
you'll see
and maybe then
when i ask,  you'll
say yes and marry me.

the jello poem

i made you jello
she says proudly,
strawberry,
shaking the red bowl
in front of you.
it jiggles, catching
the white of
the overhead light.
i have whipped
cream too, she
whispers.  she
puts one hand
on her betty crocker
hips and smiles.
your cooking skills
astound me, you
tell her, pulling
at the bow on
her apron, but let's
forget the jello
and bring the
can upstairs.

her flowers

she pours
herself another
cup of black
coffee
let's her dark
wet hair
fall down
to her shoulders.
she feeds
the dog, then
waits for the sun
to rise a cloud
higher
then goes
outside to attend
to her children,
her flowers.

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.