cherry bombs

you buy your
fourth of july
fireworks early.
you don't want
to miss out
this year on
the roman candles
and rockets.
the fire crackers
and cherry bombs.
you stand in line
at the wooden
makeshift
store with
a  host of others
with missing
fingers
and eye patches.
everyone seems
excited and happy
about the oncoming
celebration
of our nation's birth,
but it could be
the jack daniels
they drank for
breakfast.

the baby

your friend has a baby
and you go see her.
it's round headed
and pink like a balloon
without a string.
it smells like oatmeal.
when she cries her face
turns old,
it pinches everything
together, the blue
eyes like colored
lights, the tiny nose,
the red ears flushed.
she picks it up
and holds it in her arms.
swinging it gently back
and forth. she sings
to it, moving her
shoulders to mary
had a little lamb.
would you like to
hold her, she says,
pushing the baby towards
you. it's squirming like
it's trying to get out
of being a baby. i would,
you say, but i might
drop her, plus
i'm double parked
out front. i have
to get going before
i'm towed. maybe
next time.

one for the road

i've gained weight
she says, pinching a small
roll above her
waistline and it's all
because of you and
your cooking, your
stews and bread,
your cake and ice cream.
pasta and meatballs.
i can't see you anymore
in this condition.
i need to work it off,
get some water
and yogurt in me.
okay, you say, holding
out a bag of chips,
one for the road?

the watch

you left your
watch behind.
it's slow. the hands
are behind
what time it
really is. i shake
it, reset it,
then listen
to the slight
tick, like a heartbeat
that the world
keeps.

the next show

while eating
popcorn on the couch
you watch
a show
on grizzly bears
attacking people
at glacier park,
which is followed
by a show
on sharks,
eating swimmers
like marshmallows.
then the snake
program comes
on and in slow motion
captures
the snap and strike
of teeth bared
copperheads
spitting their
venom into arms
and legs.
you keep eating
your popcorn, but
lifting your feet
off the floor
and tucking them
under a blanket.
the next show
is about marriage.
you get up and
bolt the door.

warm water

the ice water
of this world
is death.
is disease, is
anger.
it isn't sipped
or swallowed
but splashed
upon your face
startling you
into awareness.
it's the warm
waters of love
that we all want
but can't always
have.

what you wanted to say

you don't always
find the right words
at the right time.
so you stumble
towards a response.
usually it's later
as you lie in bed
with a fan spinning
above the warm room
when you find
the exact  phrase to
tell someone what
you really meant
to say, and it's usually
perfect, but way
too late.

sweeping

you find solace
in the quiet broom
sweeping
the swish and slap
of bristles against
the hardwood and tile.
the dust and dirt
that moves towards
the pan all because
of you. you miss
the dirt of him,
and the black padded
paws of his dog,
you miss your son,
his shoes
bringing in the world,
he walked in.

words

words
like stones
can build
a wall.
a long tight
wall
where one
can't get in
or climb
over. but
words like
stones
can be steps
too.
where one can
rise and meet
at a higher
ground.

copperheads

at dusk they crawl
out and wander
crossing the stone
paths, the dirt
and grass. slithering,
out, lean copperheads
like smooth rope
patterened
and perfect. there
is no evil, you'd
like to believe, but
there are snakes
and that makes you
think differently.

xmas lights

despite how
much you want
to keep
things simple,
the tangle is there
like christmas
lights in a box,
impossible to
unravel. life
blinks
and unblinks
and some bulbs
are dark. it's
almost easier
to start over
again, each new
season.

commerce

you get requests
in the mail
for money.
religious zealots
and anarchists
alike,
the phone rings
for old new clothes
and shoes.
even the president
wants a few bucks
to keep his stay
in office.
someone wants
to put in new
windows for
you, another wants
to rid your
house of ants.
you can hardly get
a good nap in
anymore with
the commerce
at your door.

the nudist colony

there they are
with nothing on
but skin,
and sunglasses
a hat or two
and flip flops,
the shoes, not
the body parts
although you could
say the same
for them as well.
flip flops.
some are pink
and burned,
some bronzed
and tanned
except for the
white apple shaped
bottoms
or breasts.
it's strange and odd.
this nudity
without care or
shame it makes
you turn away,
not stare.

meditation

there are times when
your fingers
curl in your hands
from overuse,
the repetition
and stroke
of the brush causing
the tendons to cramp
and freeze into place,
so you use the other
hand. but that too
stops working. so you
run them under water
and shake them out.
you go stand
by the window
and wait for them
to relax and unbend.
you see the metaphor
in everything.

potato salad

there was a time
when you looked
into your
refrigerator
to find seven
styrofoam boxes
full of leftovers
from the week
of going out
and eating bad
food in expensive
restaurants.
soggy noodles,
hard steaks,
crabless  crab
cakes, and buttery
beans and potatoes.
but now, there
is a giant
bowl of potato
salad that you
made just for me.

in the morning

your neighbors
are  noisy when they
make love
in the morning.
you can hear
through the wall
and open windows.
later you will hear
them argue
about whose turn
it is to take out
the trash, or mow
the lawn, or take
the car for an oil
change. it's small
bickering, but
constant, like the
birds in the woods
chirping and meaning
no harm. it's all
about getting
to the morning.

books

you can't imagine
a world without a book
in your hand,
the print, the ink
the warm feel of pages
turning, the hard
cover against your thumb
the dog earred
corners, the coffee stains,
and food, the crumbs
fallen between
the creases. underlined
words and
phrases. you can't
imagine such a world
despite how close
it is.

swinging like a monkey

you swing
from your chandelier
like a monkey.
side to side
making monkey
noises.
it's saturday
night and you feel
like you have a right
if not an obligation
to break loose
and free your
inner self
from the structured
life you live,
but the wires don't
hold, nor do
the bolts and screws
and plate it all
depends upon to stay
put and down it
goes in a sparking
crumbling heap
of glass and plaster.
but it was worth it
you think, it's a story
you will tell
the boys at the water
cooler on monday.

sins

you keep
your sins in
a box
beneath your
bed. venial
sins for the most
part. you
haven't committed
any mortal
sins in a while
but the night
is young.
you take them
all to a confessional
at the church
nearby and one
by one tell
the priest darkend
on the other
side by a screen
and curtain
your litany
of wrong doings,
bad thoughts
and continual
disobedience.
you've tried so
very hard to be good,
but like a man
with slick shoes
you can't make
it across that
frozen pond
without falling.
you tell him to give
you penance that
will cover you for
the whole year.
give me a few
gallons of holy water
to bathe and get
clean, but he says
no. once a week
is enough, just try
to be good, for
once just give it a
shot.

cup of rainwater

you catch
all the rain
that you can
in a cup
you hold
out and up
in your hand.
it's precious
this clean water
that miracuously
falls from the sky.
i think of you
that way.

the note

you find a map
in the glove
compartment
of your car
with an x circled
on a spot out in
a field in red ink.
it's deep into
the woods where
the power lines
stand in a long
stretch of nothing.
so you go there
with a shovel
and a compass,
looking over your
shoulder to see if
anyone is following.
you pace out
the steps from
north to south,
move a large white
rock, then dig.
finally you pull up
a small box
and open it.
there's a note
folded over and it
says, i love you.
if only it was that easy.

no more money

there is no more
money in the bank
you tell your wife,
your bride of ten years,
so please stop
spending for a while.
but more will come,
she says, lifting
her finger to spoon
a dollop of cake
icing into her pursed
lips. more will come,
right? she asks again
with a yawn, stretching
her legs out on
the rug. won't it?
you worry too much.

moving fast

how fast your feet
move when necessary.
take a building
on fire, for instance,
or the sound of gun
shots over head.
perhaps a storm
whipping down
black and hard with
rain like diamonds
against your skin.
there is something
that makes your heart
move quickly too.
sometimes it's love
sometimes it's lust
and desire,
sometimes it's
just the simple smile
or the presence of
another person, who
is, or at least
resembles you.

the bath

unfastened,
her dress
falls to the floor
like flowers.
she steps
clear and slides
into the hot
water she
has drawn.
she slips down
into the heat
and warmth
of her bath.
lighting a candle,
she ignores
the phone,
the bell of
the door.
the dog barking
and closes
her eyes
and sighs, the
world won't
leave you alone.

the saucer

unearthed,
the broken
shell of a saucer
is in your hand,
buried for a century.
perhaps tossed
away, into a yard,
no longer of use
once dropped
and cracked,
but when rubbed
in todays sunlight
there is a shine
to the porcelain
as clean and white
with blue flowers
dancing on it's edge
as the day it was
first formed by
clay and fired
for a shelf
or the pouring
of a calm hand
with milk.

taste this

she puts the spoon
out and says
taste.  tell me what
you think. so you
lick the spoon
smack your lips
and say, hmm,
i don't know, seems
to be missing something.
but i'm not sure what.
more salt, more pepper,
oregano. i'm making
a cake she says.
what did you think
was in the bowl,
beef stew?
i don't know, you tell
her. but i'm so hungry,
i'll eat whatever it
turns out to be. keep
at it, i'm sure it will
be just fine.

squirrel brains

somehow the brains
of millions of people
have been infected
by squirrel brains.
you see them on
the highway, zig
zagging, unsure
of which direction
to go, what speed
to drive at,
confusion and
craziness abounds.
you see their heads
and eyes all over
the place, chattering
on their phones,
honking their horns,
swearing at the tops
of their lungs, bug
eyed and red faced.
they just want to get
home, to their tree
and curl up with an
acorn or two, but
someone may die
in the process.

mystery

you hear
the rattle
of the snake
before it strikes,
see the lightning
before it's
rumble. you
smell what's
burning on
the stove
or the scent
of rain
before it falls
into the small
hands
of upturned
leaves. you
know by living
many things
that you cannot
see, but not you,
that remains
a mystery.

when you arrive

when you arrrive
you will unpack your
small bag, having taken
only the things that
you need, and stand
by the window. you
will see the city that
you've longed for
spread out before your
open eyes. when
you arrive you will
tell no one that things
have changed, that
you have made it
to the place where you
want to be. only
those you love, and
love in return will
be aware of your absence
and arrival. when
you arrive you will
finally stretch out on
the new made bed
and wait for nothing
or no one, but first
you must leave.

taking out the trash

when you take the trash
out late at night
and see a fat possum
sitting near the hydrant
on his crazy hind legs
munching on somone's
already eaten corn husk.
you slowly drop the bag
and walk away, the full
moon casting a shadow
on your pajama clad
legs, and shirtless
torso. you imagine
the news in the metro
section telling the sad story
of your demise
with pictures of you
covered in possum bites.

oui oui

sometimes
as you listen to
a crazy person
your mind tends
to drift and wander.
you leave your
body and float
above the conversation.
staring down at
yourself and this
person who goes
on and on about
nothing in particular.
every other
sentence begins with
so, my therapist
thinks that i should
do this or that,
or. when i lived
in france, i was happy.
they live differently
than they do here.
i am more french
than i am american.
look at this scarf
i have around my neck.
i bought it in paris.
do you like it, hello,
are you even listening
to me?

new bike pants

you tear a muscle
in back of your leg
while squeezing into
your new bike
shorts. they are blue
with lightning bolts
down the side. they fit
very tight and snug.
embarassingly so,
but now you are limping,
nursing a torn tendon,
hopping on one foot.
you have to go to
the bathroom, but you
can't slide them off
because they are so
tight, very tight.
they are squeezing
your bladder, pinching
at your kidneys.  so you
crawl to the kitchen
and manage to stand up.
your leg is throbbing
with pain. you take a pair
of scissors and carefully
cut them off.
as you slice
through the shiny
frabic, you lose
your balance
and fall over, hitting
your head on
the floor, but you're okay,
you still have your
bike helmet on. it has
lighting bolts too.

unknown

you lose your
memory
and can't find
your way home.
you've lost your
wallet and keys
and don't remember
your name.
you wander
the streets for days.
you stop strangers
and ask them
if they know
who you are.
but even the ones
that do, say no, not
really.

alice the cat

lonely in some
strange way,
the goldfish
in a bowl
not being quite
enough fun,
she bought
a cat
at the pet
store. she signed
the papers,
got a pink leash,
with a rhinestone
collar, a bed, a cage,
a toy mouse with
catnip inside.
a ball of yarn,
six cans of
tuna cat food.
she named
the cat alice
then took her
home. the cat
peed on her
rug and scratched
her face when
she picked it
up to kiss.
an hour
later she took
alice back.
when she arrived
back home she fed
her goldfish
who seemed giddy
about something.

saturday

you see him
every saturday
when it's
not raining
washing his
red truck.
it takes all day.
he opens
the doors,
the trunk
and hood, rubbing
wax into
the metal,
vacuuming
the carpet.
wiping vinegar
against
the glass,
checking the tire
pressure
and the dip
stick for oil.
it gleams, it glows
and when he's
done, 
as the sun begins
to set, he folds
his arms,
steps back
and nods to
his wife
in the house,
waiting at
a window.

touching

you like
being touched.
a hand
in yours, on
your shoulder
as you drive.
you like the feel
of a leg against
your your leg,
knees bumping
as you sit in
the movie
theater, an arm
across your
arm,
fingers running
down your back.
you like the feel
of lips upon
your lips,
a nuzzle against
your neck.
the comfort of
closeness after sex.
but when it's time
to sleep, you
need some room.

they like me

you wake up
and find that one
leg is longer than
the other.
a growing spurt.
all day long
you are walking
in circles.
the next day an
arm has grown
an inch or two
in length
and you pinwheel
down the street.
but people seem
amused, they
seem to like you
more this way,
with a problem
or two. finally you
are one of them.

don't look back

don't come back
she says. it's over.
i don't love you anymore,
in fact i never did.
what we had was a joke,
a sham, a make believe
world of nothing.
i've given you the best
weeks of this
month, and for what
i ask you. so take your
hat, your shoes,
your barking dog
and go. just go.
get on your harley
and leave.
i'm having your name
taken off my arm
as soon as i save some
money. you're dead
to me.
what about saturday,
you ask her, we had
tickets to van halen?

k

i'm talking
and texting on my
phone while walking
down the street
driving my car
washing my hair
in the bathtub
while working
and climbing
on ladders.
i'm falling,
i'm breaking things
i'm running
over squirrels
and old people
in cross walks.
i'm talking
and texting on
my phone. nothing
else matters
but pushing these
little keys. i don't
know if i'm down
or up.
i'm talking
and texting on
my phone. i'm
saying important things
like lol, k
and yup.

the new math

when you
were young
addition was
the math you lived
by, in marriage,
with children,
the things you
owned, but now
as you grow old
subtraction
has taken over
diminishing
the numbers
of those you knew,
the things you need,
widdling down
your life
to just you,
and maybe
an orange cat.

the cat's meow

she unbuttons
her blouse
just slightly
and shows me
her wound.
the slight rise
of skin
now smooth
but pink and raw
where the bump
went out,
where the stitches
frown like a cat's
mouth unable
to meow.

more

it spills.
this life,
out and onto
the floor.
it's not
always
drunk
and savored
and enjoyed.
it spills
sometimes.
the glass
splipping
out of our
hands,
making it hard
to understand
or believe
that there
will be more.

sunday

the men and women
with their long
fishing poles
stuck in white
sawed pipes buried
in the sand, look
out to sea.
they drink and smoke
and listen to
the ballgame on
a  radio. a dog is
tied to a picnic
table, half asleep.
small children, are
waist deep in the cool
water, darkened
by clouds, grey
and wide. when
the fish are reeled in
they are small,
and bright like silver
coins. they hardly
splash when tossed
back. someone
builds a fire before
it gets too dark.
a ship goes by.
everyone waves.

baby crying

there's a baby
crying on the train
right behind
you, into your ear
and there's nothing
anyone can do
to stop it. it's hungry
or tired, or both.
perhaps annoyed
with the heat
and the delays.
if it wasn't plain crazy
you'd be whimpering
and crying just
the same, in fact
the whole train
would let loose
with a primal scream.

words you don't want to hear

don't worry
this will only hurt
a little.
the check
is in the mail.
she has a nice
personality.
the job has perks
that make up
for the pay.
your dentist
whistling
with a needle
in his hand.
i forgot to take
my pill.
a policeman's
siren right behind
you, telling
you to pull
over. but we can
still be friends.
the words
last call.
oops.

packing to leave

when you leave
again,
you pack neatly
with deliberate
calm and mark each
box. kitchen, basement.
attic. bedroom.
everything having
it's place once
more, not knowing,
as you do, the time
or date, or where
these things will
end, on a new
wall, on a shelf
behind a door.
leaving is what
you do,
arriving is another.

the rumor

the rumor goes
around, a thin bare
scandalous whisper,
a thread, if you
will, of maybe.
no one knows
for sure, whether
true or false, but how
juicy it has
become. you
listen and listen
and add your own
imagination
and thoughts
to what it will
become or not.
what strange fun
it is to hear as long
as you are not
the one.

sweet dreams

your dream is full
of sweetness.
no shadows.
it is as light
as a cloud, or
whipped cream
freshly pulled
from a shiny
cold can,
crowning the tip
of your tongue.
playful on your
nose. it's a dream
you can live with
for days to come.

canada oh canada

i met a girl
from canada once
she had a maple
leaf tattooed on
her shoulder
and she was always
bad mouthing
the states.
it was canada
this canada that.
never celebrating
thanksgiving
like we do.
the fourth of july,
who needs it.
they don't
kill each other
with guns
like you do, she'd
say, or behave the way
you do when
driving.
oh, how wonderful
canada is
with it's french
cuisine and
culture and snowy
peaks and pristine
lakes. pffft. i'd
tell her, if not for
the maple syrup
you smuggle over
for me, we'd be done.

the new mailman

you don't trust online
banking.
fearing the click
of numbers
stored away for
anyone's taking.
you'd rather write
the check and
put a stamp firmly
on the corner of
the crisp white
envelope, giving
virginia power
their money that way,
but then
you see your new
mail man walking
up the street drinking
a beer and wearing
flip flops
and you think well
maybe it's time to
join the rest
of the world.

the motel

after the white swing
of headlights
through the thin
curtains,
you hear them
speaking outside
on the sidewalk
unloading a car
or van, you can't
see from this vantage
point, lying in bed
with your lover.
both spent and waiting
for a moment to dress
and leave. you hear
a family of a different
dialect, somewhere from
the midwest, perhaps,
the vowels and consonants
not spoken as you
would, or her, who has
a hand upon your
arm, ready to tap
and say, i have to go.
they are tired
from their journey,
as you are,
the small words
define that. the children
bitter about what
they didn't get
and being so far
from home, from
the things they know.
the parents saying hush
beneath their breath,
that people are sleeping.
people are sleeping,
but not us, not yet.

the tight wire

her feet
on the tight
rope
grip firmly
the taut line
that stretches
from yesterday
until tomorrow.
it feels as if
it's straight across
but no.
there's always
down
as an unwanted
option.
sometimes falling
is what
needs to be
done, to climb
onto another
wire, with another
destination
in mind.

the fire

the fire
you start
in the center
of gathered
rocks
your heart
rises high
under
the stars,
and the embers
your memories
stirred
near the end
float upwards
before your
eyes. the sparkle
of life
and death
together.

seeing red

the two muscled
men, one smaller
than the other. both
strong and athletic,
neither backing down
as they are separated
on the ball court
from heaving fists
at one another.
simple words said
in disagreement,
a finger shaken
in a face. neither
feeling logic, or love,
or reason, there is
only red in their eyes.
striking one another
seems to be the only
right conclusion
to this. how has
the world lasted
even this long you
wonder as the sun
slips under a cloud.

only coffee

you can't
live on coffee
but you try.
food has no
taste, nothing
feels right
on your tongue,
your dry
lips part for
sips and sips
of black
coffee.
the jangle of
your nerves
show in your tapping
fingers, the swing
of foot below
the table, but
you knew this
day was coming.
it's what love
does.

clearing

you stay
unwashed for a day
or two, burdened with
what you see.
the field is wide
and needs attention.
a storm lingers
like anger
over the far clumps
of brown hills.
your small plot
of rolling land
whispers hoarsely
at you, for hands
to mend it's ways,
smooth it's ruffled
brow of brush
and bent trees, but
the first swing tells
you that your axe
needs to be sharpened.

our mistakes

the meal is lost
with too much sugar,
too much salt,
or seasoning.
a heavy hand can
ruin the mix
and make it
inedible. i'd like
to think that
we are different.
that we can start over
without a bitter
or sour taste
in our mouths
and learn from our
mistakes.

to fly

when you were young
full of comic
book ideas and values
being able to fly
seemed reasonable
and it still does, so
you find a way in
dreams to set  sail,
to run along the ground
and lift off. it's more
a matter of will to
stay up, than it is of
skill or luck.  you are
free of what gravity
holds you to. just as
those comics did
at twelve, your dreams
do the same now.

on a good day

on a good day
the mountain
will leave
us alone.
the snow will
stay put,
the oceans won't
rise and take
what it wants
to take.
the trees will
not catch fire
and burn for
weeks.
on a good day
the earth won't
crack open
and swallow up
the city.
on a good day,
you'll stay put
and be there when
i get home.

the green door

she revels
in the plants
she tends,
bending
to her yard,
to flowers.
she touches mint
and brings it
to her nose.
lemon
orange,
the sweet love
scent of
any colored
rose. she lets
you in this way
allows you
to enter
her green door.

throw me that snake i need to pray

my father was a snake
handler, so was my mother
and my sister, lucy jane.
it goes back even farther
than that, both sets of
grandparents loved to jump
around during worship
services yipping
and yapping with a couple
of copper heads in each
hand and a boa constrictor
around their necks.
they'd dance around like
their pants were on fire.
sometimes with
a rattler in one hand
and a bible in the other.
they'd point at passages
in the bible
that suggested such behavior
was reasonable.
they're all dead now
on account of being bitten
by poisonous snakes. so
i'm thinking that maybe,
just maybe there may have
been some small print or
a passage or two left out
of the Bible when those
verses were put in, like,
do not try this at home
with real live snakes,
or perhaps words such as
'poisonous snakes'
was just a metaphorical
reference to car salesmen.

smokes

you are hired by an advertising
firm to help raise sales
of tobacco products.
it's going to be tough though
because of the cancer scare,
heart disease, emphseyma,
and birth defects, and the fact
that over six hundred thousand
people die in the united states
alone from smoking,
but they've seen your work and
find you creative and smart.
they feel that you are the right
man for the job. the chairman
of the board shakes your hand
and says, go to it son, let's
sell some cigarettes. so you
tell him your plan. you turn off
the lights, click on the first
slide  and with a pointer
go through your advertising
campaign.  columbus was
a smoker, you start off with.
showing the santa maria
with columbus at the helm,
a camel in his mouth as he
points towards shore.
the next slide comes up
showing michelangelo on
his back painting the sistine
chapel with a marlboro
tucked in the corner of his
mouth. you proceed, photo
after photo. einstien with
a winston, waving it at a
diagram of an atom, there's
john glenn orbiting the earth
with a wad of chewing tobacco
drooling from his lips. moses
crossing the red sea,
staff in one hand,
a tarreyton in the other.
kennedy and kruschev lighting
each other's cigars with a
bic lighter ending the stalemate
on the cuban missles.
there's joan of arc, smoking
a virginia slim
while burning at the stake.
george washington with
a pack of pall malls rolled
up in his sleeve as he
crosses the delaware.
there's jonas salk blowing
smoke rings as he shouts
eureka when he figures out
the polio vaccine.
finally you end by saying,
all these people smoked like
chimneys. what have you
done lately. don't be a loser.
light up and be someone
special. have a smoke
today! the chairman of the board,
turns on the lights, tears
in his eyes. brilliant he
says, brilliant. here have
a cigarette, ummm, no
thanks you tell him. don't
want to get sick.

singing in the shower

while singing
in the shower, you
believe that you have
the pipes, the voice
to be a star. you
see yourself on a stage
with a worshiping
throng of frenzied
people who can't
get enough of you.
there is no song
that you can't conquer
from dylan to sinatra.
from janis joplin
to peggy lee.
with the shower on
full, your head
and ears covered
in suds and the echo
of your voice you
can hardly hear the
banging on the wall.
their joy has driven
them to this.

thirst

thirsty
you find water
or wait for
rain.
hungry,
well there must
be food
somewhere,
on the shelf,
or in the field.
love, well, that's
a different
need altogether
that takes longer
and is  much
harder to find
and fill.

there was a man
his age unknown
with handfuls of
balloons who would
stand out on the street
at two in the morning
his  tilted hat and
shades on. he'd say
in a deep voice, keep
the kiddies happy,
keep the little ones
happy. flowers, balloons.
and his cart would be
on the street
awaiting you and your
friends, someone
in your arm you
just met.

summertime

summer comes early
with ninety in the shade
even the bees seem
lazy as they buzz
slowly across the yard
hovering on flowers,
and you lounging
in your sleepwear
at three p.m.,
on the couch drinking
a lemonade saying
something like, come
over here and kiss
me, but not too hard
i'm tired and don't want
to get too messy.

there was a time

there was a time
when the mail
came twice a day
when milk
and eggs were
in a silver  box
upon your porch.
a time when
the news was
in the paper only.
there was a time
when you were
young. when
the sun rose
through
the uncurtained
window. when
the rooster crowed.
when your father
came home
from work,
and your mother
welcomed him
with open arms.
there was a time.

the peach

you decide
before you bite
into the peach
if it will be
sweet and ripe,
tender and juicy
on your tongue
and lips.
but it's not
always true
as i have found
when biting
biting hard
into a peach i
thought i knew.

each day

each day is a place
you've never been to,
a town unvisited.
the hours that you
live in are familiar
but new.  yesterday
is hardly visible
out the windows
of the swift train.
even so, you must
go on, for what else
is there to do,
but to live in the now
where you have
arrived, a place you
will soon depart
and leave behind.

the yearbook

cleaning out the attic
you find
a yearbook from
your senior year
in highschool.
it's been decades
since you opened
it and perused it's
black and white
photos, the scribbled
musings of good
luck, best wishes,
stay cool and have
fun. remember home
room says another.
don't ever change,
and you wonder if
you have. you see
the faces of those now
gone, the teachers,
old then and surely
not around anymore.
it's painful in a way.
to be that young,
unwrinkled, before
work and love,
before everything.
how large the world
seemed then,
how small it
has become.

that good night

everyone wants
to know, what's wrong
with bob dylan.
why the long face,
why no smiles as
they give him medals
and accolades
so late in life.
he seems unhappy
they say, after creating
so much. how did he
become the mumble
of a generation
after being the voice. why
doesn't he relax and
take it easy, why go on
the road year in
year out, his back to
the audience. his voice
shot, his songs
unrecognizable.
his hair and face a mangled
tale of fifty odd
years. why not lie
down and  go gentle into
that good night.

the prince of nigeria

you get an e mail from
a nigerian prince
who wants to put a million
pounds into your
account. seems there's
been some sort of
acrimony between
he and his siblings
concerning their massive
inheritance. of course
you'd get a cut just for
being a swell guy,
helping him out as
it were. sure you write
back. but first, as a
sign of good faith, place
a thousand dollars in
cash in a paper bag
under the third bench
north of the reflecting
pool. next to the hot
dog vendor. once you do
that, i'll let you deposit
your money into my
account. of course, this
gets no reply. silence.
so you write back, prince
my dear prince, where
have you gone.

high heels

so what is your
bucket list
your to do list
before you die
amanda asks
while chasing
a fly with
a swatter. napping
you tell her.
i want to master
the twenty minute
nap and perhaps
make a flourless
chocolate cake
that the world
will line up for.
very lame, she says.
there's no mountain
you want to climb,
no underwater
dive to find sunken
treasures. no
jumping out of a plane
to free fall.
nah, you tell her.
i get enough thrills
with just you being
around in those
high heels.

good deeds

she cut her hair
off and sold it
to a wig shop.
it's for others,
she said. mine
will grow back,
but maybe not
theirs. next week
i'm climbing
mt. everest
for the hard
of hearing.
in the spring
i'm building
an eagles nest
with my bare
hands. and what
about you, she
said, what have
you done lately
to help others.
i listen to you,
i said, and don't
ridicule the things
that you do.

run

run and run
and run.
your feet
on fire
from the heat
against
the black
pavement.
run and run.
chase
the years
behind you.
don't look
back.
keep running.
there's only
one true finish
line. first
or last
doesn't matter.

fish and meat

if i had to
kill a cow
to eat it
lay low behind
a tree
with a knife
i wouldn't.
if i had to
pluck a chicken
and wring
it's neck.
i couldn't.
if i had to
filet a fish
and take
him by hook
or net,
i wouldn't.
i'd rather
starve
then kill
the beast.
but i'm so glad
that safeway
cares and distributes
fish and meat.

lonely

aren't you lonely
she asks. everyone
is lonely she
answers for me.
no, you say.
i don't understand
lonliness.
i'm only alone
when with someone
i don't want to
be with, otherwise
i am always, or
at least try to
be in good company.

getting ready

you've been chopping
wood in the back
yard all day.
arms swinging the
heavy axe breaking
logs into two
then spilt. you carry
them to the side
fence and stack
them. winter is a
long ways off. but
you aren't as young
as you used to be
and the seasons
move fast. you're
getting ready for
many things
that you never
thought would come.

already there

in the corner
of an open
window
i see you.
hands holding
a cat.
your eyes
crying, your
blue season
in full
bloom. you're
waiting
for me.
for me to come
back. you
don't hear
me at the door
already there.

parade day

the man
in the leather
vest, grizzled
with beard
and tattoos
is bedecked
in red white
and blue
flags as he
cruises with
a thick rumble
of muffler down
the highway.
a woman with
a pink roll
of skin between
her shirt and jeans
hangs on with
strawberry
nails, and a black
half helmet
where her red
pony tail whips
free in
the air.

your sicks days
are slow days
on your spindly
legs and thinning
hair. it's the pill
that sinks you
into blue, the needle,
that kills and feeds
to see you through,
a mere twenty four
weeks and your
out the door.

the owl

from nowhere
in the blue shadows
of night closing
in, sweeps
the long wide
wings of an owl.
spread open
with hardly
a sound. his
hunt and hunger
bringing him
to life to take
life and keep
his world as
it should be.

your arms
and shoulders
ache from rowing.
the sun is
relentless. you can
see the dark
shadows of fish
against the sand in
shallow water.
white shelled
crabs, safe
and translucent,
skirt about like
wafers.
you see the miles
behind you,
the place you left.
and ahead, where
you need to go.

the visitor

a possum
finds a home
in your garden
in an old
grey pail
turned sideways
full of straw
and grass.
his silvery
head and eyes
blink fear
as you
prod him with
a broom
his claws and
hiss though
make you
stop and turn
away. he wants
to stay a little
while longer,
so you let
him.

one child
unborn
that you thought
was yours
the name
pulled and written
on a pad.
not so.

together

sartre
said that
only the one
not rowing
has time
to rock the boat.
so true.
let's put our
oars in the water
as one
and find
the distant shore
we seek.

the white hat

i'll give you a hundred
dollars she tells you,
if you go over there
and take that woman's
hat and give it to me.
prove what a man you are.
you put your hand
out and she places five
twenties in your palm.
you hide behind a post
then dash towards
the woman, snatching
off her wide brimmed
white hat. then you sprint
back to your friend
and say, here,
put this on. you both
run but before you get down
the street the cops
are chasing you
with guns drawn.
you've  stolen the hat
from the ambassador
of peru's wife. how
could you know.
let's split up you say
and dash into an alley.
she goes the other way.
then you hear gunshots.
you circle the building,
putting on your sunglasses,
changing your shirt.
you meander
around the building
and come out to where
a crowd has gathered.
your friend is lying
in the middle
of the street, bleeding
from a leg wound. still
wearing the hat.
you go over to her
and give her back her
money. she's weeping.
and you say, hey, it was
your idea, but that does
look sharp on you. my
leg hurts, she says.
can you take my picture
and put it on facebook?
sure, no problem.
smile.

abstract

you draw a circle
on the board
with the blue stroke
of a brush.
this is your life.
some get in
some don't.
they have their
circles too.
red, green, grey.
sometimes
the circles over
lap, some are
large, some
small, some are
actually straight
lines that go
nowhere and boxes.
some are splatters
flung from
across the room.
before you know it
what was simple
is now a jackson
pollack painting
and you want
to start over.

chainsaw woman

i never
trusted a woman
with a power tool
in her hand
but she was
different
she knew how
to kiss
and make pot
roast.
and as i watched
her reaching up
to take branches
down off the old
oak tree in her
yard,  i was almost
willing to lose
a limb or
large quantities
of blood
for her. my
foolishness has
not diminished
with age.

mass

she used her
religion like a bar
of soap.
a sunday morning
bath from
friday and saturday
nights roll
in the proverbial
mud. but i
understood her
completely as
she lifted her body
out of bed,
stumbled
into the bathroom
and put on her
white dress
and church shoes,
dont get up, she'd
say, i'll be right back,
it's a short mass.

choices

missing
forgetting
things like
keys and pens
that ring
your number
your name,
the one thing
at the store
you went for.
when and what
time.
the place you
need to be.
it's not a pattern,
but more
of a choice,
selective memory
or so you'd prefer
to believe.

violet mornings

in the morning
when the world
is asleep.
the petals of
a soft violet rises
as the sun just
peeks over
the rooftops
and hills.
the quiet is
magnificient.
the stillness
gold. you
remember those
hours like
old friends
as you rolled
and threw papers
onto the steps
and lawns.
pulling a wagon
whistling for
the dog to come
along.

winter

the snow
dances white
against the road
and lawn.
it falls
into your hair
as we grow
old after we
are young.
we are green
and green
for so long,
but winter, at
last, does come.

the elevator man

you love your job
as an elevator operator.
you have a red suit
with gold brocade
and a hat with a wide
shiny brim.
you have a whistle
too for when you
work the front door
and need to grab a
taxi for someone.
your pockets are full
of cash because you
are so nice to
everyone and don't
resent that they are
wealthy and you
aren't. you imagine
yourself happier than
they are in your apartment
in the bronx, with your
loyal wife and
small dog. your ship
will come in you
whisper to yourself
as your press the buttons
making them light
up. your ship is on
the way. what floor?

swimming the channel

you tell your girlfriend
margaret, that you have
decided to swim
the english channel,
but first you must decide
on what stroke you'll
use. back stroke,
the butterfly, perhaps
a little dog paddle in
the mix. it's cold
and choppy and when
you get there, the cuisine
stinks. so maybe you'll
pack a lunch and
seal it in a waterproof
bag. dried fruits
might be a good snack
along the way. some
bananas to keep you
from cramping.
at night you imagine
the long swim,
you kick your legs in
bed and throw your
arms forward in a free
style motion. this wakes
up margaret though,
and she smacks you
on top of your head
which is covered with
a bathing cap. what
the hell is wrong with
you, she says, breaking
your rythmn.

two cats

the two cats
sasha and kima
would roll
together as one
when young.
one thick
and needing
to purr upon
a lap and
the other longer
and aloof.
different
like we were,
despite the love
we shared.

the stuck window

the stuck window
has been that way for
years. paint and dirt,
dust and mildew
has sealed it to the sill.
you've pried, and
bumped, hammered
at it, and pushed up
as hard as your arms
would allow, but
still it doesn't budge.
you realize at some
point that you will
move before it does.
the breeze from
that view never
pushing a season
against your skin.

getting over alice

your friend jimmy calls
crying the blues,
he wants to come over to
talk about things.
his wife, alice, left him for
another woman and
wiped out his bank
account. she took her
cats too, he says
almost whispering
into the phone.  so you
say, sure come on over.
i'll put some burgers
on the grill and make
some margaritas. there's
a game on too. maybe
we can throw the ball
around before the game
starts. pick up a bag
of ripple chips on the way
over and some onion
dip. and i think i'm out
of lighter fluid in case
you want to throw
that wedding album
onto the flames. cool,
he says, see you
in twenty bud.

duct tape

you try to make
it through an entire
day without saying
or doing anything
overtly stupid.
it's tough, but you
try, avoiding eye
contact as much
as possible and not
looking at those
plastic orange gator
shoes that so many
people going into
wal-mart are wearing.
you hold your tongue
when you want to say,
excuse me young
man, do you need a
belt. your underwear
is hanging out. or miss,
would that nose ring
hurt if i gave it a pull?
but no. you are keeping
to yourself today.
you are monk, a yogi,
a master of your own
tongue. duct tape
seems to help.

St. E's

you drive slowly
past the gates where
the men and women
who are all watched
are digging through
the cans and litter.
like children,
their hats and gloves
have been put on
by someone else.
some are having
conversations with
no one seen.
some are content
to sit and let their
minds silently swim
away. the gates are
thin that keep us out
and them in.

wildlife

living near
the woods can
be frightening
sometimes. the wildlife
is rampant.
you see a chipmunk
lying on your front
porch when you get
home from work.
he's reading a small
paper and talking on
the phone. the sun
is bright against his
chestnut brown coat
with black and white
trimming. you stand
still and take his picture.
but he hears the click
and throws the paper
down. his startled
brown eyes flicker in
the light before
he scampers off into
the hole beneath your
porch.

the ice age

it takes anger
to make it end
the slow hot
burn of love
gone wrong,
or betrayed as
you see it.
then silence
begins. the ice
age of quiet
and no response,
that era starts
and the deep
freeze goes on
and on under
the low winter
sun. it's the only
way to heal.
to get warm
again, and trust
the world
once more.

the rising sun

it used to be
fast cars
fast women
late nights
and lots and
lots of drinking.
you pretended
to dance too
and combed
your hair
for an hour before
going out into
the dead of
night. your belt
was fixed
on the first hole.
you were that
skinny, that
dumb and that
eager to find
not the love of
your life, but
someone who could
fill void
for now, delay
the rising sun.

chicken dinner

as you carefully
shoo a fly out
the window,
then a spider
and a few lady bugs,
you think about
your grandmother,
lina, who used
to wring chickens
by their skinny
necks before plucking
their feathers and
then chopping them
up for dinner. she
thought nothing of
doing this
despite giving all
them names. you
would have starved.

here's your baby

a nurse comes
out and hands you
a bald pink baby.
you assume
it's yours, but at
that age it could be
almost anyone's
baby. fortunately
there is an owner's
manual attached
to his diaper.
you breath a sigh
of relief. there is
a lot of small print
and warnings,
written in english,
spanish and chinese,
etc. etc. in the front,
which you quickly
skim over and get
to the illustrated
guide on changing
diapers. it's a long
ride home.

leaky pipes

sometimes
words slip
out, leak
like water
dripping from
a broken pipe,
things best kept
inside, roll
off your tongue.
it's never good.
and it can't be
taken back
though you try.

turning over a new leaf

her wild days
are over, she tells
you. she reads
and reads
and loves the movies,
documentaries.
she's taken an
interest in the theater.
and works part
time at the museum
for modern art.
she does yoga
and recycles religiously.
she drives a prius
now instead of her
old camaro. she's
had her tattoos removed
and taken out
her piercings.
she doesn't
drink, or smoke,
or curse, but all is not
lost. she likes
to stay in shape
using a stripper
pole in her bedroom.

you are pretty much
a trouble maker,
the kid who is asked
to sit in front of
the room. you carry
firecrackers
in your pocket
and magic markers
for when you need
to write something
onto a wall. you
crack your knuckles
and yawn a lot.
school is not your
cup of tea. it's boring
and simple. old
books, old teachers,
old ideas about
how things should
work, but you're not
buying in. you see
how things really are,
and how they haven't
changed.

carrots and lettuce

you want to write
a poem about
flowers, but you
don't, instead
you wander into
an idea about
fruits and vegetables.
the metaphors
are endless.
take plums for
example, or sweet
cherries, or
juicy melons.
you can get into
a lot of trouble
writing about
fruits and vegetables.
cucumbers and
eggplants. don't even
write the word
fig on the page.
steer clear of carrots
and lettuce.

the fog

the fog
like a hand
grey
and soft
leaks over
the scrub brush
and low
trees, the rocks
along
the sleeve
of a shallow
stream.
it brushes
up against you
as you stand
alone,
waiting to
be seen.

chicken wings

given half a chance
and with the proper
amount of hunger
you believe that you
could eat at least
twenty to thirty
fried chicken wings
in one hour.
this makes betty
laugh and throw
her head back,
loosening her new
wig.  let's make
a bet, she says.
a hundred dollars
says you can't do it.
you're not chicken
are you. which makes
her laugh even more.
not funny you say.
game on. so together
you fry up fifty wings
with a moderate amount
of seasoning.
she wants to eat
some too while she
watches you go at it.
the first twenty go
down easily, but then
you swallow a bone
on the twenty first wing
because you are on
the clock and eating so
fast.  it gets lodged
in your throat.
loser, betty says. loser. no
way you can keep eating
with that bone in
your throat. you realize
that she's right
and motion her
to come around to
do the heimlich manuever.
you can't  breath
and feel yourself blacking
out. the room is spinning
as your greasy hands
grasp at the tablecloth.
she shakes her head,
and says pffff. i knew
you couldn't do it.
she puts her gin and tonic
down and then comes
around and squeezes hard
below your rib cage
making the chicken wing
bone pop out of your
gaping mouth
and fly across the room.
the dog who is on his hind
legs begging, catches it
in midair and runs out
of the room.
you owe me a hundred
dollars, she says,
now pay up.

twelve easy payments

back in the early
sixties you used to
go door to door selling
encyclopedias
or bibles and for
one long hot summer
hoover vacuums.
you were trying
to clean up the world,
or at least give
it knowledge that
they were unaware
of. you'd throw
dirt onto their
carpet and say
something like
don't worry, the hoover
will get it up.
then  hit the switch
as the whirlwind
wheels spun and sucked
up your once bagged
dirt, or you'd ask them
a question about
mt. rushmore, who's
on it and smile, as
they sat slackjawed
without a clue. you've
already put your finger
on that page with
full color photos
and illustrations.
don't let your kid
be a dope, you'd say,
and when it came to
sin and forgiveness,
who didn't need
a brand new bible
with a bookmarker
to help get them off
the bottle and
to leave the sinful
life behind. in
fact you even bought
a couple for yourself.
sign right there, you'd
say, taking out your
best pen. only twelve
easy payments
and you're free
and clean and smart.

seamless

the paper
going up,
measured and
cut from a bolt
smoothed
out from
side to pasted
side.
it slides along
until level,
the bubble even
with the world
as you hope
to be
one day.
straight across
and matching
in pattern and
in dye lot,
seamless,
completing
each other.

flowers

you watch
her lips move
as she reads
slowly
down the list
of things
to do
today.
grocery store.
the dentist.
brakes
for the car
take out
the recycling
bin. buy
flowers for myself
because he
never gets me
any. you
wince
and look at
the calendar.

old years

you read where
married men
live longer,
have healthier lives
when in the midst
of marital bliss
and you ponder
the possibility
of such a move to
extend your life
by a few years, but
the answer is
quickly no, as
you see a new
love coming
up the stairs.
who needs a few
extra old years.

in greece

in greece
you see an old
man up on his
balcony. you
wave foolishly
as tourists do.
it's an island
of rocks and
goats, and weathered
faces huddled
in small
white churches
blue capped
scattered along
the roads
like stones.
the man doesn't
wave back.
he's lifted  his
arm enough
for one life
to strangers,
and who are you
to ask it of
him again.

in sand

there are
many things
you don't
understand
and the few
you think
you do, even
they change
over time.
they shift
like sand
from the pull
of a new
moon on
wide blue oceans
side to side.

over easy

when the cupboard
is bare
and freezer is
empty,
when the shelves
lack of
anything to eat
that isn't in
a box or can,
you find two
eggs over
easy will just
have to do
and you ignore,
or at least try
to, the snickering
sizzle of  butter as
it melts in the pan.

snake handlers

handle snakes
and you will
eventually
be bitten
and the venom
will curl like
smoke through
your blood
and lay you down.
easy advice,
not so easy to
listen to and obey
though.
we are all snake
handlers at some
point in our
lives.

jelly filled

craving for sweets
you wake up
in the middle of
the night and go out
in your robe
looking for an
open donut shop.
there are noises
in the shadows of
trees, miscreants
whistle at you
from alleys.
you are wearing flip
flops and carrying
a five dollar bill
in your hand.
you know how
strange you must
look, out so late,
wandering the dark
roads alone. but
you don't care.
you have dietary
needs that need
to met. your mission
is a jelly donut
and getting home
alive.

everything on red

you decide to become
a full gambler.
you quit your day job
and cash in all that
you own.
the house, the car,
the coin collection
that you started when
you were ten.
you put all the money
in a brief case like
you see so often in
the movies and go to
vegas. you put
the suitcase on the table
and say red.
i'm putting it all
on red. double or
nothing and then
the wheel spins and
leaves you with
nothing, landing
squarely on black.
it was a bad
idea. you
hitch hike back
home with the clothes
on your back
and a written apology
to your boss.

in your sleep
you look up
and see yourself
in the window.
you see the curtain
tilted open
and the light
on. it's three a.m.
and she's
sleeping there
beside you,
dreaming of horses
pale as pale
can be
without sunlight.

i don't want to know

i'm going to see
the gyspy today
she tells me.
she's going to
read my palms,
my tea leaves,
look into my eyes
and tell where
i've gone right
or wrong, who
should stay or
leave within
my life. she's
going to stare
into her crystal
ball and see what
lies ahead for
me. it's only
fifty bucks, you
should come too.
she'll shuffle
your cards and
lay them down
reveal to us
our future.

frayed wire

like a light
with a frayed wire
you come in
and out of sleep
with static
thoughts of
her. keeping
you awake
keeping you
from sleep.
keeping you
in and out of
darkness with
sparks of
memory.

before the thunder

you hear
the horses
coming
before you see
them, the rise
of dust from
the road
that curves below
the field.
you see the hats
of the men
tilted down
to shadow their
faces from
the high sun
leaving
before the storm
moves in.
you hear
the horses
before you
see them.
the lightning
before the thunder.

the wheel

the hamster
in his cage
on his wheel
up all night
going somewhere.
his little hat
on, a map
in his hand
a small overnight
bag at his side.
he's pedaling
hard and fast.
he going
somewhere
you can tell by
the look in
his eye. he
believes he'll
get there soon
enough.

the silence

i don't believe
in god, she says.
how do you explain
pain and suffering.
injustice. how do
you justify bad
overcoming good.
where is god in
that. where is god
in war, and death
and disease. where
is god in heartache
and in broken
families. where
is god in poverty
and mental illness.
explain to me
so that i can believe
too. tell me the reasons
for all of this
sadness, darkness
and evil that
exists in the world,
please tell me,
so that i can believe
too. tell me, she
says, dont stay
silent like he is.

stuffed shells

you call your mother
to tell her that you've
won the nobel prize
for literature and that
you are travelling
to sweden to pick
up your medal and
substantial award money.
that's nice she says.
i'm happy for you, but
i feel bad for the losers.
are you sure this isn't
a mistake. why you?
maybe you should share
the award with them.
you pause, and clear
your throat. maybe,
you say. so when
are you coming over,
she says. if you can
go all the way over
to sweden, maybe you
can cross the wilson bridge
sometime and visit me.
i'll set a plate out.
sunday, at five, okay?
i'm making stuffed shells.

working out

you have been working
out to impress
lulu, the woman who
lives down the street.
she likes to wash her
sports car while wearing
her bikini and high
heels. she uses a big
soapy sponge and has to
lean way up high to get
to the roof. her poodle
is tied to the fence and
barks while the radio
plays. you take your
shirt off, remove your
glasses and go for a
walk. flexing your muscles
in the sun. when you
get to lulu's house
you stop and bend over
to pet her dog. hello
lulu, you say, balling up
your new biceps. she
stops washing the car
for a moment and says,
hello irvin. working out?
maybe you can help
me change this tire.
it's flat and i have a
date tonight. he's a
doctor. smart guy.
you tell her that you
don't have time, and
that you are on your way
to the library. your book
on quantum physics
is way overdue.

how it ends

my friend bob
came home from work
the other day
and everything was gone.
the bed, the couch,
the tables. the dishes
and silverware too.
his clothes were in a pile
on the floor. he opened
the refrigerator
and that was cleaned
out too except for
a jar of pickles. he
fished one out and
crunched down on it,
reading the note
she left on the counter.
i met someone else
it read. don't try and
find me. good luck
with everything. i
left you some pickles
on the fridge door.

the trampoline

feeling down and blue
you think that
you need some
excitement
in your life
so you buy a trampoline
and put it in your
back yard.
you put it together
and three days
later you are jumping
on it with your shoes
off. up and up
and up you go
bouncing higher
with each spring
of your legs.
the birds  swoop
in to take a look.
the squirrels in
the tree hesitate before
zig zagging away.
you see your
neighbors in
the window next
door getting
dressed, startled
by your waving
and smiling face.
you love your new
tampoline.

the line
outside your
door has grown.
each day
you lick
a stamp and
send out news,
send out
money to keep
the lights on,
the water hot,
a fan turning
in your room.

cab ride

the cab driver
has nothing to say.
not hello
no how are you
or where to.
he just looks
in the mirror
with his red
eyes and waits
for you to speak,
and when you
do he clicks
the handle down
to make it three
fifty for starters.
you've had days
like his too,
and so you sit
back and let
him be. sorrow
being holy ground.

winter birds

feeling the first
cool draft
of winter
they drift in
from the north.
birds, birds
more birds
than you can
count. they sit
in long still
lines along
the wire in
front of your house.
your bags
are packed too
with white zinc
on your nose.

necessary evil

is it evil
of the black
snake
to slither
up the tree
to eat
the pale blue
eggs
or is it
necessary
and right,
to keep things
the way
they need
to be.

the north pole

i want to go
to the north pole
she tells you as you
sit licking an
italian ice
in brooklyn. sure,
go, who's stopping
you, you tell
her. the strawberry
juice is running
down your chin
and onto your
white t-shirt. she
points it out to you
and you dab at it
with a thin napkin,
then shrug. i'll bleach
it when i get home.
let's both go to the
north pole, she says
again excitedly.
maybe, you tell her,
tipping the paper
cone to your lips
to get the melting
syrup.  oh come on,
you never want to do
anything fun. but we
don't have any sled
dogs, or back packs.
i think we need ice
picks and stuff too,
right? maybe a compass.
she begins to cry.
you never want to
do what i want to do.
it's obvious you don't
love me. do you?
what flavor did you get,
you ask her,
give me a taste.
what about the south
pole? is it warmer there?

temporary solutions

your pants are too
tight, so you buy
bigger pants.
your house is
full of junk, so
you move. your
wife is angry all
the time about
something you did
or didn't do, so
you sleep in
the other room.
your dog has fleas,
so you get a cat.
the cat claws at
your couch, so
you get a bird.
the bird won't shut
up. so you open
the window and
let him fly away.
you don't smell too
good, so you lather
yourself in perfume.
you're getting old
so you take
the mirrors down.

snapshot of a day at work

while you paint
the bathroom
two boys
in the other room
scream.
operatic screams
that rise and fall
and start again
all in the same
breath of air.
one is striking
a pot with a large
metal spoon.
while the other
is tearing sheets
of paper into
small white pieces
and tossing them
into the air.
the mother is
on the couch
eating oreos
and watching
jerry springer,
the phone,
unaswered,
hasn't stopped
ringing.

shined shoes

out of work
you go occupy
a line
for coffee.
others are there
too with their
lap tops
making notes
of jobs in
oregon, or
florida. they
need window
replacement
salesmen in
philadelphia too.
you could be
there in a few
hours with a new
tie and a clean
shirt on,
shined shoes.

beauty

sometimes in a crowd
you see a face
and the beauty of him
or her stuns you in
a quiet bright way.
it's not about sex,
but about the lines,
the curve of lips,
the nose, the angle
of a jaw or cheekbone.
the impossible color
of their eyes, whether
blue or green,
or just brown.
flowers growing
in cement,
a strange beauty
in bloom
between the ordinary
dandelions that so
many of us are.

car hell

you get a note
in the mail from
your car manufacturer.
bring it in now, it says,
or your car may
explode in a firey
ball because of a
defective spiral cable.
there may be complete
failure of your automobile
at any moment so be
warned,  do not drive
your vehicle one inch
until this is repaired.
so you a wait a few
weeks until you have
a day off from work
then drive it in.
oh yeah, sure, we can
fix that, the guy says
at the service  bay.
he might be twelve
or thirteen, he has a
skateboard under his arm.
fill this out then go sit
in there. free coffee
and donuts, he
says, smiling, showing
his braces full of chocolate.
the room is littered
with absorbent
cloth chairs that have
the history of spilled
beverages upon them.
a mr. coffee machine
buzzes on the counter
where a box of donuts
sits open to the flies
and the greasy hands
of mechanics who
come in to eat them
with one bite.
richard burton
and liz taylor are on
the most recent magazines,
as is the corvair, america's
newest and most safe car.
you hold your hands and
arms up in the air like
a surgeon before he operates
then carefully sit down next
to a woman who is crying
and blowing her nose
into her sleeve. her
leg is rattling against
the chair like a butter
churn. everyone
waiting looks dazed
or drugged.
kelly and regis are on
a tv that sits in the corner
next to the unisex bathroom.
the volume is set
on high as they
discuss the musical genius
that is justin bieber.
dante's inferno has nothing
on this place.
you have landed
in hell, car hell.

in the morning

you can go away
just leave.
pack it in as they say.
no note, no calls.
take the next
train out.
but then who will
water your plants,
dust your shelves,
keep track of the birds
out on the wire.
kiss you in
the morning. don't
answer that.

the ashtray

i don't like to drink
alone she says,
punching out a cigarette
in an ashtray
her son made in
shop class. he got a
D for it, she laughs.
it's a little cave
with a chimney
for the smoke to
go out. crude and
primitive, but it works.
i think a C would
have been a more
fair grade. what do you
think. fine, you tell
her. my mother stills
has the potholder
i made in shop although
the pegs fell out
when i dropped it
getting off the bus.
pour me another would
you, she says,
funny how quickly
they grow up.

what else

you take a casual
inventory of your aches
and pains.
starting from your
blistered feet, then
work up to your knees
that click like
drum sticks
keeping an erratic beat,
that plum bruise
on your thigh is nothing.
nor is the hip burn.
the lump though,
well. it's there.
hard as a rubber ball,
but small. it might
go away if you'd stop
touching it.
and the shoulders.
the right one mostly.
as long as you don't
put weight on it when
you sleep or reach for
something like
a can of beans
on the top shelf.
what else.

will i win

the little girl
with flushed
cheeks and dolls
eyes, finished her
tap dance
in her pink
chiffon dress
before the music
ended, and when
it stopped. she puffed
her lips
red like cherries
and said, well,
how was i. did you
like it. will i win.
it's going to be a
long hard life.

old men

old men
rolling cigarettes
down by the water
sipping on
bagged cans
of beer,
tossing bread
to the gulls
with yellowed
wings and the
burrowed grey
rats in the grey
rocks peeking out
with long tails
and jittery whiskers
patient with their
hunger.
all wanting
the same thing,
over and over.
each day like
the next.

the fields

the blonde fields
that swim
in moonlight
before us,
will stay uncut
for now,
for our harvest
is mostly in.
the barns full
of what we
could do with
the hands we were
given.  this new
field will shine
awhile longer
before it falls
under another
hand's scythe.

the flood

go down now
and stand
by the river
see how wide
and dark it has
become, it's
long and furious
sleeve. the sky
has emptied itself
and the rain has
taken what it wants.
go down
now to the river,
to the flood,
and tell me what
you belive.
if your faith is
lessened or
gained by what
you see.

the bird feeder

all birds on wing
can gather there,
or so you'd like
to believe in
the democracy
of the bird feeder
that swings
at the top
of the window.
they come,
but many
are  not allowed
and must flee
from the force
and fury of those
with power,
with sharpened
beaks and wings
that beat the air.

the belly dancer

she used to belly dance
for the lunch crowd
down at the fifth avenue
deli. they put her in
the window next to
the cured hams and
lambs on skewers.
she didn't mind
the comparison though,
and she loved
the attention.
the young boys would
come and stare
longingly at her, while
the men would come
in for their subs and
gyros and to look at
her from behind.
her hair was as black
as oil and when she
smiled it was obvious
that her sultry lips
were made for sin.
and when she danced
shook her hips,
and rolled her tight
tanned belly,
well, this was very
good for business.
hot pastrami on rye
and pickles flew
out the door.

buyer beware

the promise
was not kept.
in sickness and
in health, till
death do us part,
but one size
does not fit
all either.
nor does warranty
for life
mean exactly
that. there are rules
and caveats
to everything,
loopholes
and small print,
buyer beware.

into my ear

when we make love,
she says shyly,
i'd like you
to whisper things
into my ear
that excite me.
be creative.
okay. you tell her
and so that night
in the midst
of a romantic
interlude, you gently
kiss her neck
then put your lips
up to her ear
and whisper, there's
a two for one shoe
sale on at nordstrom's
until the end of
the year, which makes
her scream for joy.

man at the door

on a rainy monday,
the doorbell
startles you.
carefully you dog
ear the book
you are reading
and set it down.
like henry james
it takes you
a long time
to finally cross
the room and peek
out. it's no one
you know.
a stranger with
a black bag.
he rings the door
bell again.
he's wearing a grey
raincoat and a hat
like your father used
to wear. his eyebrows
are long and dark,
his lips are pursed
as he looks at
his watch, pushing
back the wet sleeves
of his coat.
he stamps the water
from his shoes
and rings the bell
a third time.
but you are in no
need for bad news.
or good news for that
matter. so you go
back to your book
and let him leave.

warm bread

the bread rises
in the heat
of the old oven.
the smell of
dough baking
floats and settles
throughout
the house. it
is the scent of
memory. of
being young
and then old.
you could do
worse than have
warm bread
on your table.
in some small way
it feeds a part
of you
that's empty.

before dark

you walk
into the woods
before dark.
there is the rattle
of a moon
stuck in
the thin unleafed
branches
of winter trees.
ice is underfoot.
a bloom
of air
comes from your
open mouth.
the circle
of blue sky
is dimished with
each step you take
you walk
into the woods
before dark.
there are many ways
in. few
ways out.

the letter

you write yourself
a letter
of recommendation.
and put it on
your desk. you
may need it someday.
everything that
she said about you
is not in the letter.
all the wrong
things you may have
said, or even thought
are not in there
too. it's a bluebird
of a letter,
singing your praises.
it's a very short
letter, in fact it's
more of a note.

quicksand

you sink slowly
into sleep
a quicksand
of a night,
slipping down
ward into
salty dreams
that make you
twist and turn.
there are no
vines to grab
onto and pull
yourself out.
a new
morning is your
only hope.

the hunger artist
is on
the bus. on the train
too. with
wheat crackers,
and small tubs
of low fat
yogurt
in her hand.
pale, and wobbling
in heels
when she stands,
but slim
and slender and
a size two or
less. but the mirror
screams more,
more must be
carved off
the husk. it's a
gift being hungry
and resisting
what each spoon
and fork holds.
it's an artform.

super powers

given the chance
she says, as we sit out
in the backyard sipping
long island ice teas,
what super power would
you like to have. it's a good
question, because you've
often thought about it
as you waited in
traffic or had a waiter come
up to you as you put
the first bite of food into
your mouth and asked
you how everything was.
heat vision comes to mind
first, where you can
melt anything in your
line of vision.
turning what you see
into ashes. uh huh, she
says, cool. i'd like to have
super strength she says,
as she tries to open a
jar of cashews, with
the lid not budging.
super strength would be
good right now, here,
you try.

the leopard

you grew
up with a kid
named dexter.
he was always
double daring
everyone, and
taking chances.
he once put
a handful of
poison ivy leaves
into his mouth
laughed and said,
see, this won't
hurt me.
the next day
he was in
the hospital
and couldn't
breathe. you're
not sure whatever
happened to him
as time went on
and you parted
ways, but you
are almost certain,
like a leopard
with it's spots,
that he hasn't
changed.

a penny

inflation
has caught up
with a penny
for your thoughts.
it's a dollar now.
so here's one,
now tell me
what goes
on inside
that quiet head
of yours. i
can wait, i
have lots of
dollars, lots
of time.

health club

with your half off coupon
in hand you go and
visit a health club.
you want to be healthy.
it seems to be the way
to go these days. they have
a yoga class there and
a steam room where
you can lie around like
a roman senator and sweat
the wine and pork
out of you. the floor
area reminds you
of a boiler room
in the hull
of a freight ship.
there are lots
of complicated black
machinery.
the faces have that
don't talk to me look
about them as they
huff and puff
on the treadmills,
and cycling machines.
a class of spinners are
in the corner being yelled
at by a drill sargent
who seems angry
about something.
everything has a goo
about it as if it rained
cholesterol and something
is in the air. you wish
they had windows
that opened to let out
the latex sweat soaked
smell. this might not be
for you afterall you
think as you squirt
sanitizer gel onto your
hands, rubbing them
together, and as you leave
you hand your coupon
to a woman
coming in, licking
an icecream cone.
she's wearing a headband
and wristbands, and
pink shoes. her glutes
are being stretched.

the brick wall

you push the first
wheel barrow full
of bricks around
to the side of your yard.
you mix up cement
and carefully, with a
level, lay out the first
line of bricks into
the gouged  and
flattened dirt. you see
your neighbor in
his window, holding
a drink in his hand.
he salutes you with
a smile. you
wave back with your
wet trowel. when you
bring the next load
of bricks around
your neighbor is standing
there on his side of
the adjoining yards
inspecting your work.
what's up, he says,
building something?
you nod, and keep
working. my grandfather
was a brick layer, he
says, sipping on his
drink. did i ever tell you
that? he pulls a lawn chair
closer and watches you
work, laying brick upon
brick. no, you say. you never
told me that. it's true, he
says. after world war
two he came back
and needed work, he
was wounded in iwo jima....
excuse me you say, i need
more bricks. you go
back around for another load.
finally as the sun begins
to set, the wall is high and
solid, thick. you can hardly
hear your neighbor
still talking. your work
is done.

when we were young

she tells me
as she bends over
in her yard
to pull a few weeds
that are encroaching
her petunias
that when she was
in highschool, she
and her friend greta
used to ride around
the beltway naked
and wave at truckers.
at some point
they'd remove
their dresses and take
the silver spring exit
and head north,
which soon became
south towards
richmond.
of course drinking
was involved
and perhaps other
substances that are
now used strictly
for medical purposes.
it was so much fun,
she says, sweating,
and rubbing a
cramp out of her calf.

regret

you invent
a time machine
that takes you
backwards ten to
fifteen minutes
at a time.
and instead of
saying the things
you just said,
you sit there
silently,
bite your tongue
and wipe your
sweaty brow.