the office

with a hammer
you decide to build
something.
anything constructive.
tired of pushing
papers on
a desk, of typing
on a keyboard
a numbing
flow of words
and figures,
you'd actually like
to pound a nail
into a board at some
point and make
some difference
in the world.

bliss

worn shoes
following the same
path.
down the same
steps.
into the same
day.
hearing the same
voice.
you've made
it this way,
bliss becoming
boredom,
but tomorrow
you'll use
a window,
climb out the back
and escape,
or so you like
to say.

she's blue

blue is her color.
the way she dresses.
the ribbon
in her hair.
her nails and shoes.
all blue.
she paints
her bedroom blue.
the color
of eggshells.
her dog's name
is blue. occasionally,
she says, she
feels blue.
she talks a blue
streak at times
when not in a blue
mood. the sky above
her, the water
in the distance.
both blue.
she points at a vein
in her arm and asks,
what color is that
and before you
can answer, she
smiles and says,
that's right, blue.

the dance studio

you open up a dance
studio and begin to give
lessons.
you only know
the twist, the mashed
potatoes, the jerk
and the fly, but it's a
start. oh, and freestyle,
which is your favorite
after about three
long neck beers.
you can teach slow dancing
too, but that's more of
an advanced lesson.
at first no one comes.
so you paint the room
purple and put up some
black lights. you
open the door
to the street and turn
the music up.
the temptations, the doors,
jimi hendrix,
and janis joplin.
it's hard music to dance
to, so you throw in
james brown,
some beach boys
and the ventures.
who doesn't like beach
music. before long
they start pouring in.
you have a cooler full
of beer in the corner
for those who want
to learn and practice
free style. you're in
business. feet don't
fail me now.

train surgery

you meet a stranger
on the train,
and have a friendly
conversation
about the weather
as you both hang
onto the overhead
straps. so, she says,
how long have
you had that mole
on the side of your
forehead. she takes
a sharpie out
of her purse with
the deftness of a thief
and circles it. hey,
what are you doing.
is that indelible ink?
i can take it off
for you, she says.
i'm a registered nurse
in south carolina.
she pulls out a
gleaming scalpel
and puts on a
surgical mask.
the train is going
to hit a stretch
of straight rails
soon, i'll cut it
out then, she says
pressing her
gloved fingers
against your head.
it might bleed a little,
but don't worry,
i have some cotton
balls and astringent
in my purse. okay,
here we go.

lonely guy

your lonely neighbor
larry, calls you.
i have two tickets
to wolftrap he says.
it's a blues concert
and it might be fun.
sit out on a blanket
under the stars
have a few beers
and enjoy the music.
but larry, you tell
him, what about your
wife, doesn't she
want to go with you.
i don't really
roll in that direction.
if you know what i mean.
oh, it's nothing like
that he says, i just
need someone to hang
out with. she's no
fun anymore, we're
basically roomates.
maybe we can ride our
bikes together,
or go camping
sometime too. larry,
please. i'm not into
the brokeback
mountain thing at all.
me either, he says.
but it does seem like
they had a lot of fun
up there herding sheep
and camping out.
larry, i have to go,
you're making me
nervous. what about
dinner and a movie
sometime. my wife
hates the movies.
larry, i have another
call coming in, i think
it's this hot babe
i've been seeing, plus
the line is really
full of static. i have
to go now and lift
some weights, or
something.

the locked door

the locked door
is always
the door
the intriques
you. what's in
there that you
shouldn't see,
what secrets
are in a box
upon the shelf.
what has
happened that
this door needs
to be locked
and secrets
kepty hidden
from other's eyes.
it's better though
that you don't
know. just
walk away with
that crow bar
and hammer.
forget the bobby pin
that you rattle
and spin
in the slot.

that's why i love mankind

god smiles
and laughs.
he scratches his
chin and throws
his head back.
i burn, i kill,
i send floods
and plagues
upon them, but
still they don't
give in, or up.
i spin the tornado,
crack open
the earth, unleash
a new
disease, i
toss the dice
with their lives
and yet they don't
give up on me.
how can i not
love them,
who else is
there to turn to,
they need me,
they really need me.

what's gone away

pretend that you love
me. say the words.
hold me. kiss me.
adore me. play the role
of a loving kind
and wonderful soul.
whisper sweet
nothings into my ears.
it doesn't matter
that you are acting.
i can ignore that and go
along with the play.
it's better than nothing,
better than what's come
and gone away.

carrots

the cut carrot
almost reaches
your open mouth
but slips from the fork
and falls to the floor,
rolling like an
orange wheel
towards the door.
down the steps
it goes. buttered
and salted,
a thin coat of
black pepper on
it's gleaming
soft back.
there is no chase
though, in you,
you shrug and
take a stab at
the greenbean
in the bowl. always
more where
it came from.
no sweat.

the ladder

with all
the strength
you can gather
you push the forty
foot ladder
upright
against the house
and pull
the rope to extend
the upper
half. it clanks
metal against
metal as it gains
height. each rung
another pull,
until finally
it's as high as it
will go.
you set the feet
into the soft
ground, steady it
finding a balance.
wiggle it to see
if it's secure,
take a deep breath
and climb.
you do the same
with her.

silence

the monk
upon the stone
hill
in silence
for decades
neither seeking
or wanting
the sound
of his own
voice, or that
of another.
the wind
is enough,
the birds,
the cry of a
wolf upon
the snow.
and yet to what
gain.
what secret
has he learned
that won't
be told.

some birds

some
unwelcome
birds
flock to
the feeder
flapping
violent
wings
at one
another.
the fitful
life
they lead
is less
about love
and more
about what
they need.

the blue trees

her knees
know her garden,
where the stones
are, the briars,
the thorns,
the rabbit who
finds shelter
in the shed.
her hands move
against
the dirt, and dark
soil, taking out
what needs
to be gone,
planting what
pleases her.
she chooses
the cool hours
after the sun
has left the curve
of what the earth
gives it.
the rake and hoe
in hand,
the sweeping
of her hair,
her eyes looking
up into
the darkening
blueness of trees.

the house

the house slips
quietly
into the blue sea,
the water rising
and etching
out the cliffs
of soft
dirt, and sand.
it was no
place to plant
a home, but
the view was
great for a while.
remember me
when i'm
gone too.

clock watching

the minute
hand is relentless
in its pursuit
of an hour,
and the hour
sober and humorless
as it turns into
a day. the calendar
page is alive
with the wind
of time.
it's strange how
quickly tomorrow
becomes
yesterday,
how the body bends
to it.
how the grey
blooms
upon you.

heads or tails

i'll flip you for it,
she says,
holding a half
dollar in her
hand. sure you
say. go ahead.
i call heads.
so she flips the
coin and slaps
it down onto
the back of her
hand. if you lose,
you know how
hard this is
going to be,
don't you? are you
sure you don't want
to change your mind
to tails?  heads
you say again
shaking yours.
i'm sure it's heads.
she shows the coin.
it's tails.
off we go to
the opera house.

the lightning bolt

your grandmother's version
of heaven and hell,
was vastly different
than the biblical account.
she'd say things like you're
going to burn in hell with
your father if you don't finish
your breakfast. which confused
us, because your father
just patted you on the head
as he took the trash out
and went to work.
when billy graham came on
the tv, she had us on our
knees touching the screen
praying for our salvation
and forgiveness. forgive
these bad children she'd
say, blowing smoke from
her tarreyton cigarette
into the air. they know
not what they do.
don't stand near the window,
she'd rail when it stormed.
lightning will strike you
and if you haven't
been saved, well once
again you'll be sent
to the lake of fire to swim
with all the evil people
that ever lived, especially
that catholic monster
john f. kennedy.  if he's
re-elected, she'd say,
as God is my witness,
i'm moving to canada.
she was a lot of fun
to be around and i think
of her everytime
i see a lightning bolt
crackle across the sky.

is there a horn?

you hop into the new
car and start down the road.
what are all these buttons
for you ask the car salesman
as you begin to push them.
he rolls his eyes and pushes
your hand away from
the console. eyes on
the road he says. those are
for bluetooth and xm, and
the internet, and over there
is your nav system, back
up camera and blind spot
alert. the red one starts
and stops the car. that button
there is for the automatic
moonroof and back door.
the green button saves
you gas. and the orange
one puts you into all
wheel drive. if you pull
that lever you turn
on the lemon water spritzer
that comes out of the overhead
light for really hot days.
oh, you say. hmm. i like
it. what about a horn, is
there a horn? i like to beep
my horn sometimes.

aloe

you look so much
younger you tell her
as you put your
arm around her
shoulder and lightly
kiss her on the neck.
aloe, she says.
every day i take
a leaf off of that aloe
plant in my living
room, squeeze
the juice out of it
and rub it all over
my face and body.
nice, you tell her.
it's working,
i don't see
a single wrinkle
anyplace on you,
although my
inspection
is incomplete. will
it work for me,
you ask. she leans
you into the light
and smiles. i think
we're going to need
a bigger plant,
she says.

the old dog

the old dog
was once the new
dog.
fresh and limber
jumping onto
the bed,
eyes bright,
his bark
loud and strong.
the old
dog sniffs
at his food,
sleeps fitfully
and stares
out the window
neither waiting
or wanting,
his eyes blurred
blue.
the old dog is
sweetly fading
into memory
as one day so
will you.

the open road

the car behind you
is in a hurry, he needs
to get to where he's
going quickly.
he must be a doctor
or a scientist,
or perhaps a member
of an elite squad
of security needing
to save the world,
or maybe 7-11 is
having a two for one
deal on slurpees.
he flashes his lights
at you, then gestures,
inching up towards
your galloping bumper.
but you are boxed in.
he has to go around
in order to get in
front of you, and he
does at racecar speed.
his little hyundai
finally rattles
into your lane
and he gives
you an unkind salute,
and wave, pleased
with what he's done.
those slurpees must
be good.

the country club

next door they have
a pool.
you watch them
putting it together.
wire mess and
a plastic sheet
that stretches round.
it might be four
feet deep and ten across.
they drop a hose
over the side
and let it run for hours,
filling it to the brim.
they gather around
and stare at the clear
water gurgling,
then they all jump
in. little billy, susie,
mom and dad.
even the dog is helped
over the sagging
side.  a mother in
law appears with
potato salad, and
grandpop brings in
a tray of hot dogs.
together, they eat and
frolic, get pink and
washed in the hot july
sun.

tweet

you give your mom
the weekly call to see
how's she doing.
oh, i'm really really
busy. did you see
my tweets this week.
what? my tweets.
i'm having my bunions
looked at by
a podiatrist in elkridge
on monday, and i
won at bingo on saturday
night when i went
to the firehouse
with beth and myrtle.
hmmm, you say. how
much. fifty bucks, she
says and if you
had been following my
tweets, you'd know
all this. sorry, you tell
her. hold on, she says.
i'm putting a blueberry pie
on the window sill
to cool and i have
to tweet this. there.
i have over ten followers
she says. do you want
to follow me too
to see what your mom
is up to? no mom,
that's okay. hold on
she says, i'm tweeting
that you are joining
my account.

sunday morning

you hear the neighbors
argue across the yard,
across the street.
their voices carrying
in the quiet
of a sunday morning.
there is cursing, vows
of departure. threats
of finality. you hear
a door slam.
something break.
silence. then you see
them in the car, backing
out with the children
in tow, off to church.

can of beans

a can of beans
sits in your cupboard.
everyday it stares
you down when
you reach for a pack
of sweet and low
or a jar of peanut
butter. sometimes
you turn the can,
or slide it behind
a box of uncle ben's
rice. you get tired
of looking at that
can. year after year.
you try not to think
too much about it,
or think that it's
a metaphor
for marriage.

haircut

you can carve out
the phases of your life
by the look of your hair.
the cowlick early years.
think dennis the menace
or the beave.
the parted on the side
boy next door look
came next.
television had it's effect
on how you combed your
thick locks.
elvis came along
and you had the wave
with a strand pulled out
and down for sex appeal.
but you were only eleven
at the time. then the beatles
forced you to grow it long,
to your shoulders. but you
were saved by disco,
you had it styled
for fifty dollars by women
wearing heels and lots
of makeup who danced
while they clipped
and blow dried
it into shape.
the punk and new wave
era made it short
and spikey, full of goo
to keep it in place as
you danced to the clash,
if you can call it dancing.
and now as you slowly
drag the electric clippers
across your clean scalp
you remember fondly
those golden years.

the five dollar cat

there is a picture
of a cat
hand drawn
with crayons
posted to the pole
outside.
lost cat,
it says,  a five
dollar reward
will be given
to anyone who
helps me find
my cat.  she doesn't
answer to any
name though,
she's a cat
and doesn't care
what you call it.
although i call her
precious.
dont' try to pick
her up, because
she'll bite your
hand, really hard,
and scratch
your face.
she's black and
white, but i only
had the colors
blue in my box,
so she's not
a blue cat. thanks.

take notes

turn to page
one.
start there.
now read
and learn,
go slow. absorb.
remember.
there will be
a test later.
in fact there
will be many
tests along
the way.
some spot
quizzes
too. take
notes and underline
what seems
important,
what doesn't.
it all matters
despite your
indifference
at the moment.
carry it with you,
what you've
learned, tomorrow
will hold more.

what is it that you want

the shop keeper
has turned his sign
to closed
right when you
put your hand
on the door.
he shakes his
head, sorry his words
mouth, but no,
we're closed, come
back tomorrow.
you plead with
your eyes, showing
him money
in your hand. he
looks at it for
second, but takes
his fingers off the
key and says
tomorrow. we open
at nine. you take
out a picture of
your son, your family.
your dog.
you smile and beg
with your body
leaning forward
arms open, please
you utter. so he
shakes his head,
giving in
and opens the door
just slightly, what,
he says, what is it
that you want?

not her

the stick you
pick up is a snake.
the rock
a groundhog
with sharp teeth.
the diamond
a shard of broken
glass. the water
oil, the air,
fumes. the song,
opera. but i'm
happy that you
are you
and not her.

therapy session

your therapist believes
that you are making
nice progress and that
one day you will be
able to say that the glass
is either half full, or
half empty, not spilled
across the rug staining
it beyond repair, causing
you to go online and
shop until two in
the morning to find
a quick replacement.
you're coming along
nicely, she says. your
spending is down,
this week you've only
purchased two new
pair of shoes, necessary,
you tell her, and a half
a dozen t-shirts, also
needed. you've
managed to reduce
your intake of ice cream
to just one dairy queen
blizzard a week.
i feel that we are making
progress, she says,
smiling from across
the room, chewing
on her glasses.

ocean city, maryland

the pale line
of bodies, stretched
on the wide swath
of hot sand.
umbrellas tilted
full of ocean
wind, drilled down
giving just a
petal of shade.
the smell of
pizza and fried chicken
filling the air.
a sputtering plane
with a red tail
saying eat here
plows through the
blue sky.
you've come here
most of your
life and done
the same.
the chilled waves
always a
surprise, as is
the passing of
another year bringing
you to this age.

the hunter

your friend loves
his guns,
he talks about them
like they are women
he is seducing.
loading the chambers
taking them
apart, the oils,
the rubs, the adjustment
of sights. how
he holds them in
his hand, stroking
the long leg
of a barrel, spinning
the chambers.
slipping in a bullet,
firing a round
then another, awaiting
the hunt
the pheasant, a deer,
something
quick to die as he
sits and hides
in a tree, or blind.

shaving in the morning

shaving
in the morning
is a ritual
of lather
and water,
the sharp razor
starting slow
against the spread
face. how
the steam
fills the mirror
and your balled
fist let's you
be seen. around
the chin, up
to the ears,
below the nose.
the etching
of steel
against the stiff
bristles
that have grown.
this mirror holds
a thousand
mornings
maybe a thousand
more.

the church of caffeine

the line
is long at
the coffee shop
thirty deep
to get their morning
fix. it's the only
store in town
with power.
it is the church
of caffeine.
the temple
of whipped cream.
the pantry full
of sweets.
they wait, and
wait, sagging in
a zig zag
line, staring
longingly at those
exiting with
their lips
pressed to communion
cups, the crumbs
of wafers
on their chins.

the green dress

it's green on green
with light airy fabric,
cotton or polyester,
or a blend of
modern ingenuity
you aren't sure,
but it looks
swell on her.
the way her
legs exit the soft
petal like folds
at the bottom,
the way her shoulders
slip out at
the thin top. you
smile at her ballet
swing of arms
as she twirls
in the mirror
of the changing
room hall. i want it,
she says, and so
do you.

chewing gum in class

your hand begins
to cramp
as you write on
the blackboard
a hundred times
i will not chew gum
in class.
you are still chewing
gum, but without
enthusiasm.
the chalk makes
you sneeze
and your small
fingers are white
with the soft dust.
you have been
caught and punished,
but you have
not surrendered.
this will be the pattern
of your life.

the subjective case

you fall in love
with an anonymous
person who
comments
on your poetry.
she writes, at least
you hope that she's a she,
and if not, what then,
about nouns
and pronouns
and proper usage
of verbs.
she is incisive
and right in her
comments. it pleases
you to no
end, that someone
cares that much
to rid your hurried
work of superfluous
prepositions, she or he
shows you where
to dot the eyes,
and cross the tees.
i'm leaving those
words for her,
hopefully,
to fix too.

truce

you spot
a squirrel
on a bench
lying down.
his small grey
head
on an acorn.
it's hot.
the sun is a
white balloon
that won't burst.
he doesn't
care, this thin
squirrel. in his eyes
are the words,
go ahead dog
come kill me.
but the dog too
is tired.
he is in the shade
on the porch.
dumb
with indifference
his head
almost in his
water. his tail
is still, his ears
down.
he likes having
a reason to not
give chase.

the box lifter

in his eyes
you see beyond
the work
the sweat, the grime
of day on his
collar. you
see his wife.
his bills, his children.
you see him
lift each box
onto the truck.
another, then
another. there is no
end to the boxes.
even when he
sleeps,
they still come.
they will be
waiting for him
in the morning, but
what other way
is there.
this is the life
that has chosen
him.

pizza night

the stove catches
fire while
you prepare
another gourmet
meal for yourself.
how hard is salmon?
the flames leap
up though the air
like dante's inferno
and it smells like
oil burning,
perhaps bacon
from last week.
a piece had fallen
through the
circular electric
grill. you let
it burn out,
splapping at the big
flames with a dishtowel
your mother gave
you for christmas.
but the fuzzy end
that resembles santa's
beard, catches fire too
so you run that
under the spigot.
with the room full
of smoke you turn on
the fan, open the windows
and the doors, hit
the smoke alarm with
the end of the broom.
knocking free the battery.
the dog runs out the door
and you give chase.
when you return
the salmon is black
and thin, charred
beyond recognition.
how hard is pizza?

it's the heat

i can't talk
to you now, she says.
i'm too hot.
i'm lying on the sofa
with a cold
dishrag on
my head. my
feet are in a bag
of ice.
i'm in no mood
for your silly
banter
and childish
observations.
why don't you
leave me alone
until september.
take a trip
somewhere
and tell me all
about it when
you get back.
right now i've got
nothing. if you were
here in fact
i might just
slap you and blame
this weather
on you. you can
do one thing for
me though. bring
me some ice cream
and leave it at
the door. one
knock will do.
you aren't coming in.

nothing new here

your lover
leaves out her diary,
you hesitate for
about a millionth
of a second,
then take a look.
it's on the bed
where she made
her last entry.
meh. it says.
not so much.
followed by your
name with only one
star. a small star
at that.
your heart sinks.
you just made
love to her eight
hours ago.
you thought
everything had gone
fine. her toes
curled and she
said some things
that she reserves
specifically
for that special
moment when her
eyes roll into her
head and she summons
God. you turn
the page, but it's
blank. you sit on
the edge of the bed
and you realize
that it's not all about
you. maybe you
should kiss next time.
go slower.
five minutes, perhaps
is not enough
time. you sigh.
and the day was going
so well.

a little up to the left

it's an itch
in the  middle
of your back.
you can't quite
reach it
and spend
much of the day
rubbing your
spine like a cat
in heat against
the corners
of walls, door
edges, and poles
along your way.
some people
smile and nod,
they understand,
you see
them reaching
with their briefcases
and hairbrushes
to get to their
itch as well. it's not
quite the same
or as satisfying as
a nice pair
of hands with nails
scratching at
your direction
as you lie there
in the cool room
against the sheets.

asleep on ice

are they sleeping
my son would say
from the steel
grate seat of the shopping
cart, twisting his
head to see
the limber lines
of rockfish
and flounder
on chipped ice
that glistened
behind the glass.
are they sleeping, dad,
he'd ask. his
small hands gripping
the red vinyl bar
where a hundred
other kids sat this
weekend,
and i'd say, yes, but
just for awhile,
like me, they like
to take an
occasional nap
before dinner.

community pool

you don't like
that far away stare
that the children
have in their
beady eyes
when they become
still in the shallow
end of the pool.
slowly moving
their yellow
water wings from
side to side
for balance,
but you are prepared
with flippers
and goggles,
an air tank to help
you swim
quickly away
to the deep end.

the pear tree

your pear tree
has grown
apples.
the grapes
are pumpkins,
the daffodils
have become roses.
you run inside
to look at yourself
in the mirror,
but sadly, or
perhaps happily
there is no
change.

electric eels

being in the middle
of storm season
and having the power
go out so often
you decide that this
time you will be
prepared. you won't
be left in the dark.
so you go out
and buy a hundred
electric eels from
the eel store
and put them in a tub
in your basement.
now you are good
to go. the next part
you haven't quite
figured out, by hey,
it's a start.

birthday girl

feeling unloved
on her birthday.
cardless and with
the phone silent
she sent herself
a dozen dog roses.
then took out
the photo album
to peruse happier
times. how the sun
did shine back
then. how everyone
was young
and smiling. a glass
of wine, a pill.
a pulling of the shade
to keep
the sun away
from mirrors.

roman candle

you pour a little
jim beams into your
flesh wound, the burn
that runs along
your arm where
the roman candle
tilted and fell
shooting a hot spray
of melted goo
onto your skin.
then you find a
little kid in a white
t shirt, give him
a dollar and take
the it to bandage
your weeping wound
ahhh, you say.
okay, who wants
a hot dog. smells
like they are ready.
no, someone says,
that's your arm.
ten more minutes
on the dogs.

endangered species

you see on tv
there is a line
of endangered species
marching
and carrying picket
signs in front
of the U.N. building
in new york.
squeaking and barking,
making their own
peculiar noises.
elephants and turtles
together.
my dog moe,
my fat red daschund
who loves tv
sees the protest
and says that he wants
to go. i'm feeling
endangered, he says.
i'll take the bus
up. but you tell him
no, they don't
need agitators up
there. this is a peaceful
march. here
go chase this ball.
pffft, he says
and goes into the other
room to get his
overnight bag and beret.

hoodoos

like hoodoos you see
them in the park.
still or slow afoot.
hands deep
in the litter basket.
eyes bleary, red
with cheap wine
and stale bread.
sleep  doesn't
evade them. it
encircles their
minds and gives
them peace until
another sun reminds
them of what is,
what isn't.

the bird feeder

birds pecking
at the feeder
daily, resourceful
and persistent.
you see
your reflection
against theirs
in the wide
window.

fast friends

they disappear.
fade. they become
memories with swift
feet. apparitions
like balloons rising
between the clouds
in summer
heat. faces
and names obscured
in the smoke
of times quick
fire. here today.
there is no tomorrow.

the meeting

you remember
the pentacostal
meeting in a large
hall, the circled
chairs, the lights
flickering. the cold
winter air
seeping in from
the snow covered
streets outside.
there was screaming,
falling, fainting,
hands raised
to the ceiling.
it was frightening.
it was like no religion
you recognized
in your eighteen
years. the speaking
in tongues,
the twirling dance
of loose limbs
and wild hair. you
only wanted to
leave, to flee with
self in tact. then
they all grabbed
hands and you could
feel the strange sting
of something,
something not right.
a dark vibration
that would keep you
from ever going back.

frosting

when you
were five
your finger
found
the cake icing
thick and sweet
as it scooped
up a lick
full and entered
your mouth
open to its
stolen
wave
of chocolate.
your eyes
would dart
around the room
hearing
the shoes come
down
the stairs.
and as you do
now, one
more taste
is what
you want.

your life

the current edition
of your life is under
revision. you've selected
various chapters
to delete. there are
characters littered
throughout the manuscript
that also must go.
facts that seemed like
facts must be removed.
photos must be cropped
and airbrushed.
no need to tell everyone
everything.
it has to be thinned
and lightened.
the tragedies
diffused, the fun times
embellished. in time,
nobody will remember
what is true or what
is false, so let's just
print the good stuff
and let it be.

friend me

a stranger finds you
on facebook. he says
his name is george.
remember me?
no, you tell him. i don't
know any georges.
but we were best
friends for a while
in highschool.
lab partners in biology.
remember that frog
we disected together?
we pulled his tongue out
and stuck a pin in
it to hold it down.
no, you say again. well
can we be friends
now, he says, can
you friend me? no you
tell him, continuing
with your theme of no.
but you signed my year
book, and said, i'll never
forget the fun times
we had in shop class.
let's stay in touch.
no, you repeat and if
i said that, well, i've
changed my mind.
but before you
delete and block him
until the sun expires
you ask him whatever
happened to that girl
mary margaret puglisi
with the big brown
eyes and dark hair
who used to sit behind
him in third period
english and always wore
that purple sweater?

still life

the museum
is full of
paintings
of pears
and oranges.
assorted fruit.
a bowl of grapes
as purple
as purple can be.
sunlit plums
with angelic halos
and yes, they look
like pears
and oranges
and fruit, but
it does nothing
for you.
you shrug
and nod and move
on, walking
away, still
hungry.

outlaw

after robbing
the local bank
you go on the lamb.
you buy a fake
mustache and an
old beat up
car. you criss
cross the country
being chased
by the law. but
they can't catch
you. you are too
smart for them.
you are slick
and smooth
staying in off beat
motels and
hiding out in
the desert. you
never stay in
the same town
more than one night.
it's lonely this outlaw
life. sometimes
it almost feels
like they aren't
even looking for
you. like they
don't even care that
you took a dozen
ball point pens
from their counter.

the seventies bush

your neighbor
wants to cut down
the bush in front
of your house.
it's ugly, she says,
i'm sorry, but i think
you should, or we
should take it out
of the ground
and replace it with
something more
up to date.
it's so seventies,
that kind of bush.
she brushes strands
of hair out of her
eyes from the blonde
loaf that tilts on
top of her head.
she scratches
at a tattoo of a pink
tongue on
her tanned
and surreal sized
breasts. she squints
at you, waiting
for a response.
the seventies,
you say out loud.
you think
of polyester, and
disco. of white
suits and blue
eye shadow. you think
of kc and the sunshine
band. you
aren't sure why your
bush is from that
era. to you it's green
and bushy, full
of bees and bugs.  but
sure, you tell her, go
ahead, cut it out and
put something hip
and modern in.
i'm nothing
if not a hipster with
my foilage,
and i'm
certainly willing
to change with
the times.

the wind

at the mercy
of wind
we lie under
the roof
and hope
that the trees
stay upright,
that the fires
from a tangle
of power
lines twisting
on the road
stays clear of us.
the churches
get full
after such winds.

the cook

more salt she says,
now more pepper,
a little pinch of
this, a sprinkling
of that. hmm. let
me stir and taste.
hold on, i'll pour
just a tablespoon
of this into the mix
and then i think
you have it.
before you put
the lid on let me
chop up another
onion and toss
it in. there we
go.  i just love
the way you cook,
she says. you really
know what you're
doing in the kitchen.

the move

you have a friend
who moves often.
he calls and says
i need your help.
through the years
he has gone from
downtown, to across
the river, to the burbs
and back. it's always
a break up, or a new
job, or money issues
that makes him
put everything into
a truck and go.
you can't count
the times you've
carried his boxes
of albums, the big
chair with the hole,
his rack of ties,
and bags of shoes.
there are less friends
now to join in,
they have disappeared
into the years,
grown scarce since
the first truck
was loaded, but
not you.

the little things

one tire loses air
a little everyday
depending upon
the speed and twist
of the wheel
in your hand.
you notice
its slow eeking
of air out to from
it came. you can't
hear it, or see it.
it's hardly
discernable, this
loss, but in the end
it all adds up. it is
the little things
that can put us
on the side of
the road, over time.

snake hunt

there is a note on your
door when you get home
from work. your stomach
drops when you see it.
it's never good news.
it's never, i won the lottery
and want to share it
with my neighbors.
it's crudely written in block
print. maybe a crayon
was used. the professor
at the local university
wrote it two doors up
from your house. there is
a snake in our adjoining
yards, it says, so we
need to band together
and find him. we are meeting
at noon on saturday
with pitchforks
and torches to hunt him
down. bring a burlap
bag if you have one,
and a pair of long tongs.
oh,  and don't wear flip flops.
it's a copperhead.
mindy is making coffee
cake and a pot of french
roast, so bring a mug.

what to do with the space shuttles

the judge, removing his
glasses, sits sternly
on the bench with a
grim face and says
pointing to those
accused
and found guilty of
horrible and unforgivable
crimes against
humanity the good news.
you are now all
astronauts, he says.
you will be
leaving the planet
earth tomorrow morning.
rest up. free tang and
power bars for all. it's a
one way trip, so say
your farewells, and don't
forget to wave
as you pass mercury
into the sun.

hot fun in the summer time

you awaken in a ball
of sweat,
there is a mushroom
growing on
your chest,
birds have taken to
making nests
in your hair.
spiders have spun
webs between your
legs. you have been
without electricity
for two days
in a hundred degree
heat. you don't
have the strength
to get up and
cut your self with
a sharp knife.  you look
out your window
and see the low
spiral of vultures
circling. you've
missed two days
of news cycle.
what has happened
with tom and his
wife. has alec slapped
another camera man.
who's getting out of
their car not wearing
underwear.
you have a thousand
spam e mails
to sort through.
you have fond memories
of ice. cubes and
cubes of ice. slowly
you arise peeling
yourself from
sheets you will burn.
you begin to sob
into your hands
as you hear the random
beeping of everything
you own blink on.

a new planet

a new planet
has been discovered
and scientists are
wetting there
collective pants
with excitement.
it's past pluto
and saturn
in fact it's beyond
our solar system,
so far out that you
can't actually see
it. but they know
it's there because
a small tiny shadow
appears on
jupiter when the sun
swings to an
exact point of
alignment. i'm getting
sleepy with
this new planet.
is there a starbuck's
there. a pool.
perhaps a nice
steakhouse with a
juicy ribeye?
air conditioning.
why go there if they
don't have these things.

making myself taller

a new neighbor moves
in across the courtyard.
a swedish stewardess
who goes by the name Lenka.
she is about six feet tall
in her heels
so you try to make yourself
taller by stretching
your legs and hanging
from a bar you've
secured in the doorframe
of your laundry room
with potatoes strapped
to your ankles.
you do this for weeks on
end, but it makes your arms
hurt after about ten minutes.
you measure yourself
after two months of stretching
but it seems that you
might be a little bit
smaller. you put on your
jeans and now you have
to cuff them. people are
calling you shorty, hey
shorty, watch where you're
walking, i couldn't even
see you over the hood
of my car. you start getting
calls from the circus
and stunt double movies
involving small cars
and clowns. this has not
worked out the way you
thought it would. sadly you
look out your window,
and there's Lenka
walking to her car. she has
a date with her and
her arm is lowered
around his shoulders while
she pats his head.
i can see by his shoes
that he has lifts and cuban
heels.

shoes

you grew up
sliding cardboard
into the holes
of your worn
sneakers, so now
you have many
shoes. there
is a pattern
as to which ones
you purchase.
black or brown.
walking or running.
then there are the
basketball shoes.
high tops. you
know why you
keep buying them,
but it's the stopping
that's hard.

mirage

in the desert
you can make
yourself believe
that there is water
and trees,
a blessed oasis
not far beyond
the next dune
as you crawl
on hands and knees.
driving into
work on
a monday,
is not unlike
that at times.

on a sugar cone

i feel
the same
way about
a double
scoop
of ice cream
as i do
about you.
cool and pale
round
and soft,
sweet
and refreshing
on a sugar
cone.

the clean slate

the heat today
caused all of my
tattoos
chronicling
my loves
and losses
throughout
my life
to melt
and run down
my arms and legs
into my shoes.
the warm blue
green ink
squishes when
i walk, but
i'm a clean
slate once
again.

weaknesses

you have
weaknesses,
you know that.
they are often
pointed
out to you
during dramatic
exits and breakups.
no one ever leaves
and says
you were a wonderful
lover and cook.
you were so much
fun to be around.
i loved the way
you whispered
in my ear. no.
instead, you hear
those other awful
things. you try to
defend yourself by
saying, i'm sorry.
i'm a work in progress,
but to no avail.
that only causes
squinting eyes,
and silence before
the door slams.

the monkey in the other room

in the other room
between bites of bananas
there is a monkey
typing. i can hear
the printer going wild
all night long.
i shut my door, annoyed
at his prolific
production. finally
i go in and look at
what he's done, what
he's written. there
are stacks of neatly
piled papers on
the floor. all of it is
worthy of shakespeare,
of updike and boyle,
of austen and hardy.
the poetry is sweet too.
full of love and mystery.
dark and light. his prose
will change the world.
i hate that monkey.

going down with the ship

as the sun sets
your ship has
run aground
against the rocks.
the bottom
compromised
with a long tear.
it sinks slowly
as you secure
your life
perserver. but
you aren't worried.
you've survived
many sinkings,
many ships,
many cold nights
in  deep water.
you  go down
quite well with
the ship.

the long list

clever
how the stars
come out
and shine
how the blue
and sun
subside and lets
us see what else
there is we
don't know about,
the list being so
long.

the yellow ball

a yellow
ball is in your
yard.
a kid must
have kicked it
over the fence.
but the gate
being locked
it couldn't
be retrieved.
you line it
up and drop
it to your foot
which swings
and sends
the yellow ball
high into the trees
where it sticks
between
the branches.
there must be a
moral to this
somewhere.

chickens and roosters

riding up king street
you are struck
by the yard
that is full
of chickens,
fat with feathers,
white and brown,
and a rooster
with a crimson
neck. you slow down
to take a closer
look as they peck
steadily at seed
spread on the grass.
you laugh and ride
on. it has made you
strangely happy
to see them.

identity theft

someone steals your identity.
you've been careless online
with your browsing and lack
of a complicated password
to keep the predators out.
when you bought
a heating pad for your leg
on craigslist last week, that
may have been the little door
they crawled through.
and now they, or he
or she, or perhaps a very
smart dog with flexible
paws has become you.
angry at first you breathe
out and in, letting it go.
your extensive yoga training
has prepared you for this
very day. through bills
in the mail you follow
the path of the new you.
it is one of travel and fun.
luxuries abound.
a new car, a rolex. a fur
coat. you see the restaurants
that they are dining at.
new york, south beach.
london and rome. you
are envious of the new
you. you wish that you too
were doing all the things
that they were doing.
it makes you sad to think
how you have wasted
your life by not having fun
like they are.

the quiet war

the long train
is full of soldiers
coming home.
there are many
empty seats
in this quiet war.
the train has
been running
for a very long
time, before me,
before you,
and long after
the next born child.

a child drowns
in a lake
going out too
far. his mother
is on the shore
reading a book
out loud
the her child.
she doesn't
hear him slip
under into
the next world.
no one sees
him. she reads
and reads
then looks up
to see her world
has changed.
she'll never
read that book
again.

counting steps

i know the number
of steps from
the curb up the stairs
to the elevator
then down the hall
to your door.
it's the same
number leaving.
i've counted them
both ways
so many times.
but the last count
was the hardest.

you take a pawn
with a pawn
a rook,
a bishop
crossing paths
with a queen.
the castle
short and squat
running wild
across the board
but his day too
shall come.
and the king
hiding on
the back row
while the war
goes on
and the blood
spills. there is
no fun
in winning
when it's this
quick and easy.

open windows

slipping out
of shoes
out of clothes
and gloves,
a hat
removed.
the cold floor
against your
toes.
the moon
in a window.
the sheets
pulled back
and the pillow
cool. the
windows
wide open
for any bird
that calls.

one hundred degrees

it's a very hot
day so you take
off all your clothes
except for your
underwear
and go out into
the back yard
where you spray
yourself with your
garden hose.
your neighbor
looks out her window
and sees what
you're doing
and comes out too.
spray me, she
says, taking off
her clothes. before
you know it the
whole block is in
your yard in
their underwear
getting sprayed
with your long
green hose.
soon drinking is
involved. someone
makes a nice clam dip
with chips. another
person brings jello.
it doesn't take long
before everyone
has forgotten how
annoying everyone
else is and squeal with
delight as a gush
of water hits
them in the head.

time for a change, maybe

a young woman
calls you and wants
a contribution
for the candidate
that you voted for
last time. but you
hesitate. i'm on
the fence this year
you tell her. she
laughs nervously,
and has no where to
go with that. no
answer, no promises
of we'll do a better
job. the economy,
the wars, immigration,
healthcare and
social security
will all be worked
out. she says nothing.
only that if i wanted
to match what i sent
nearly four years
ago, she just needed
a credit card number.
i don't know, i
tell her. it's going to
be a game day
decision this time
around. i'm still
waiting for the change.
call me back in
november.

the flat tire

you get out of your truck,
hearing the tap tap tap
of a nail in your tire.
you see the silver head
gleaming in the sunlight
which makes you say
a word that rhymes
with truck. you
get a pair of pliers
out. you pull the nail
halfway and hear the air
sssssing out. you push
it back in and call triple
A. you've been giving
them two hundred dollars
a year for thirty years
which amounts to
six thousand dollars.
when they show up
the man says that they
don't cover tires with the
nail half out and the tire
not flat, but we'll fix
it for thirty dollars.
he just had his wisdom
teeth pulled and his
beared face is swollen
on both sides. he's a
very large chipmunk
in greasy overalls.
drooling and almost
incoherent
he askes his assistant,
a kid in flip flops to pull
the nail and plug
the hole so that he doesn't
rip out his stitches.
the kid pulls the nail
and plugs it in about
one minute. you give
him thirty dollars.
everyone is happy.
you go in to take a nap.

the lunch box

in the third grade
the lunchbox was
plaid, red and white
green squares
with wavy dizzing
stripes. there was
a thermos inside
with milk, just
slightly cold. then
the tuna sandwich
neatly wrapped
in saran wrap,
a small bag of
potato chips,
two oreo cookies,
an apple. who wants
an apple? it was
very hard to trade
up with a tuna
sandwich on white
bread with onions
and mayo. just once
you wanted to open
that steel box
and pull out a ham
on rye with brown
mustard. a brownie
and an ice cold
nehi orange soda,
or a budweiser.

peace and love

you can smell
the marijauna
burning. still
in their lungs,
relics from
the sixties.
peace, love
and no war.
marching and
protest no
longer on their
minds. valet
parking seems
more important
now. glucosomine.
hot tea.
pony tailed
and hanging
on. awaiting
that first
social security
check while
the records
still spin,
hendrix and joplin.
ten years after
the who. it's not
over, but it's
getting dark.

the loose thread

it's only
a loose thread
you tell her,
white and thin
waving in the air
as you walk along
discussing
an argument
you had a year ago.
what harm in
pulling it off,
and pulling
and pulling.
don't she says,
i'll cut it off
when we get
home. but you
pull some more.
you can't
let things go
can you, she says.
watching the shirt
fall into your hands.

answered prayers

you open
the door and
see two neatly
dressed young men
in white shirts
and ties. black
pants, holding
bibles and pamphlets
proclaiming the truth
and salvation.
they want to put
you on the right
path. how did
they possibly know?
they are so
young, so bright
and so far removed
from real life.
but you listen
to them while
you hold the door
ajar, just enough.
then it begins to rain,
and your prayer
is answered, they
have to leave.

the small stuff

my therapist
marge told
me many years
ago that
if you see
the book don't
sweat the small
stuff on the shelf.
it's a red flag.
be forewarned
and tread
cautiously
before you
proceed
further in this
relationship.
i gave her
a double fee
after that session.

two goats

you go around
the room
and say your piece.
what's new
in your life.
what plans do you
have for the summer
as vacation begins.
and it's the same
for most, a new
book, a trip
to the shore
or mountains.
perhaps a garden,
or the rooms painted
with a fresh coat.
but then someone
says that
she's acquired
two goats.
which makes
everyone both happy
and amazed.
what more is there
to say.

you live next door

you slide the key
into the lock
but it doesn't turn.
it's stiff and tight,
unmoving
the tumblers
and latch
won't budge. it's not
your house, and
your neighbor
comes to the window
and waves
and tells you through
the screen that
you live next door.
and she's right,
you know that, but
you just needed
a change of scenery
and gave it a shot.

lap dog

when she wears
her high heels
she's six foot three
inches tall.
and with her big
hair stacked
high onto her
head, she's even
larger and has
to duck going into
elevators.
but you love her
just the same.
you like
how she pats you
on the head and
pulls you by
your ear. when
she puts her lips
together and
whistles, you
get on your hind
legs and beg
for something
sweet. she owns
you.

paint it white

sometimes
there is a lull
in love, there is
boredom with
work,
in thinking.
the world slows
down to a crawl.
no spice,
no fireworks
in the sky,
it's just another
day passing
by, paint it grey,
paint it
white, savor
it's calm respite.

crab time

let's eat out, you tell
her. let's go down to the shore
and find a place
near the water. sure, she
says, let me get my
flip flops. crabs? she says.
do you want to eat crabs?
sure you tell her, i think
they are only three hundred
dollars for a dozen now,
and some are almost
as big as the palm of your
hand. oh stop she says.
it's a good season for crabs.
they should be free you
tell her, they are the insects
of the waterworld. plus
we have to break them
open with hammers
and pliers then lather
them in butter. it's a lot of
work. quit whining,
she says. holding her
own hammer, chisel,
a stick of butter and neosporin.
let's go eat some crabs.
i'm ready. do they have
those hush puppies, you ask
her. i love those hush
puppies.

the lost shoe

you can't find
your other shoe.
it's gone.
and you have no
one to blame it
on but yourself.
in the past
you'd grab the dog
look into
his eyes and question
him until he broke
and pointed with
his paw where
it was.
but now
you have to crawl
on the floor
and look under
the bed where there
are many things
you also thought
were lost.

the wallpaper

she has all day
to talk
as you position
the paper
onto the wall
brushing it
slowly into
place. setting
the level on
the edge.
she sips her
coffee and nibbles
at  pastry.
her mind
wanders as
she watches
you work.
the husband,
the children
the dog. all things
in the distant
past are
on the table
are in the photos
on the mantle.
her long hands
blue veined
and slender
tremble at the future.
but she likes
the paper. the paper
she says, with it's
roses and trees
and fields
is wonderful.

dinner's ready

you smell your mother's
stew seeping out from
the black casement
windows and hear her
voice calling everyone in
as summer wrings
you wet with running.
you see her at the screen
door, apron on, her black
hair pulled back,
her glasses slipping
on her nose. come in,
come in. she yells, dinner's
ready. now.  you
look and wave and yell
back, just one more
out, one more run,
one more sprint
around the chalk
made bases, one more
stretching of
the day a little longer.

the moon

how isn't the moon
like you.
the moon is cold
and distant,
with craggy
craters to get lost
in. the moon
has no air
to breath when
in its presence.
it has a dark side.
the moon orbits
the earth and is not
the sun it thinks
it is. okay, maybe
you are the moon.

the eighty yard run

you remember
the time you took
the ball and  swept
right in the high grass
turning the corner
arms and legs in motion
seeing the whole
field. seeing
the blue sky,  feeling
the pure energy
of the moment.
your lungs full
of autumn air.
swerving with high
steps, juking,
galloping towards
open field
untouched for
eighty yards.
the memory has
served you well
over the years,
keeping you young.
keeping you
both here and there.

baby world

you see them
out and about
the new moms
the new dads
with ashen faces
uncombed hair
and mismatched
clothes strapping
in the newborn
babies into cars
and strollers,
seats and swings.
straps and buckles
flying loose or tight.
bottles and binkies
rolling down
the streets
and sidewalks
just out of reach
of little pink
fingers and groaning
women and men.
helpless and needy
the newborns let you
know what's not right.
the second one
is always easier
or so i've heard.

poetry on the run

some of these
are done.
some are undone.
some are
in the oven
baking, some
are burned
from being in too
long. others will
never see the light
of day,
some rhyme,
some don't.
a cliche or two
or three may
be seasoned in
at times. i know.
misspellings abound,
wrong word choices.
bad metaphors
spring up like weeds.
repetition,
yes, repetition
too.
but choose to read,
or don't read. i write
not for you, but
for me.

the line up

turn left
now right, face
forward, stand up
straight.
there are nine
of you and
everyone looks
a little bit
guilty about
something.
finally the woman
points at you
and says,
it's him.
that's my son.
he never calls
or comes to
visit. i hardly
recognize
his face it's so
lean, so thin.
are you eating?
sunday, i'll put
a plate out. five
o'clock.

zip me up

he puts his leg
up on the window
sill, lights a cigarette
and opens up
a magazine. i've got
all day he says.
i can wait all
day. five more
minutes she yells
from the bathroom.
i can't get my
hair right, the mirror
is fogged from
your steamy
shower. can you
come in here and
zip me up.
no,  he tells her.
you're on your own
this time.
we'll never get out
of here if i come
in there again.

edit it

the details
of the brush fire
poem
are sketchy,
through instead
of threw,
than and then
confused,
the prepositions
binding
what doesn't
need to be
bound. the tie
in sentence at
the end to make
sure everyone gets
it. this is not
permanent
ink, you want
to scream. i'm
working here.

chalk on the sidwalk

you get word from your
friend lisa, no, not that lisa,
but the other lisa with red
hair and a kid who once
threw a rock through
a window because she was
on the phone with you.
she tells you
that a publisher in nyc
has taken a look at your
work and likes what he
sees, some gems, he says.
keep at it, one day who
knows we might let you
into the clubhouse.
keep writing kid. you tell
her thank you and hang
up. you go into the kitchen
and take two aspirins,
swallowing them down
with gin as you stare out
the window watching a
kid write with chalk on
the sidewalk. it begins
to rain.

the lettuce eater

when you faint, she tells
you, fold yourself over and
slip gently to the floor,
do it slow and easy so that
you don't hit your head.
if you're ironing try to pull
the plug on the way down,
or turn it off before it all
goes black. do this and you'll
be okay. an hour or  two
will pass and you'll wake up.
go to the kitchen and sprinkle
some nuts onto a wedge
of romaine lettuce, you'll
be alert in no time.

the dust bowl

you fall in love
with a woman who
doesn't love you.
but you press on
despite knowing
the end results.
you plant seeds,
you water the sprouts,
you dig out the weeds
and put a small
fence up to keep
the rabbits out.
but in the end
there is no harvest.
there is only dust
and dirt and starting
again.

in your best interest

the first question my
lawyer asked
when filing for divorce
was how much money
did i make and i said,
why, what does that
matter. he answered
with a smile. i need
to know when it runs
out so that we can
wrap it up and call it
a day. of course it's
in the best interest
of all parties concerned,
he said, oh and for
your son too.
the gleam from his
jewelry was like looking
into the sun and injured
both my retinas.

poking things with a stick

i like to poke dead
things with a stick
your friend emily
tells you, picking
one up as you walk
along the shore.
take that fish
for example. dead,
right? watch me
poke it and flip
it over. or that
muskrat over there
near the rocks. i
need a long stick
for that. yup, it's
dead. it has no eyes,
but the teeth are all there.
what's wrong with you,
you ask her, shaking
your head? leave
those dead things alone.
she throws
the stick into the river.
lunch? she says,
my treat. umm, sure.
but let's wash our
hands first.

those grapes, perhaps

you ponder the orange.
the bright glow
of it's skin under
the neon store lights.
you take one from
the top of the pyramid
that the man in
the blue apron placed
just right. balanced
and neat. he eyes you
eyeing the orange you
may or may not purchase.
but it's beyond the skin
that you need to know
if the bite is sweet,
if the bite is cold, should
you buy not one, but
all that your arms
can hold. you put it
back, there are other
things that hold your
interest, those grapes
perhaps.

going mad

going mad
is not so bad.
the three square
meals per
day. the made
bed, the trash
going out
on a regular
basis. no bills
to pay. no
calls coming
in, or going out.
yes, going mad
can be quite nice.
if one plays
his cards
just right.

the summer pool

how divine
the blue pool
is before the first
dive in. how serene
the surface lies
with the sun sprinkling
soft stars upon it.
i can hardly wait
for the whistle to blow
to frolic in its wetness,
to feel the depth
of its cool current.
that's how i feel
towards you as well.

the cut

your hand
feels the cut
of the sharpest
knife that gleams
in the kitchen
drawer. the blood
is rich and red
as it laps
your thumb
and palm.
the cold water
rinses it clean
but the blood
still comes.
and standing there
like you are
you remember
the time your mother,
distracted,
cut her thumb
in the same way,
when you were
a child
and how she
stood there and said,
like you. it's fine.
i'll be okay.

the carnival

in the summer
the bright green and red
lights, the blue tints
and yellow bulbs
go on like a cloud
of translucent and colorful
vapor past the woods
and houses to the empty
lot. the carnival is
in town. you can hear
the music, confetti
in your ears, as the metal
wheels squeak and moan
in motion and the smell
of cotton candy lifts
it's sugary scent
all the way to you.
the ferris wheel rises tall
and swings gently
with children and new
lovers whose hands
still hold the torn
ticket stubs. how the world
evolves you don't
know, but this doesn't
change, rarely does
a summer pass and
become fall without
the carnival blooming
in the hot desert of a small
town night.

the glass is full

unsweetened is her
tea with a bitter slice
of lemon, cut like
a pointed moon,
wedged on the glass
lip. ice clinks
clear and cold as she
sips. the world moves
on without her, but
it's okay. she's safe
from love for another
year, another day.
her glass is full.

the long story

my father is reading
again the book
i sent him last year.
he sits in the sun
with a magnifying glass
a cold beer
on his lawn chair
and swats the bugs
away with a swatter.
slowly he'll scan
the words, lingering
on a page, then turning
it. slowing down time.
slowing down his
own long story.

heaven and hell

you ponder hell.
the possibility of
burning in a lake
of fire. and you agree
that there are those
without conscience
who should swim
there. but what of
heaven and it's cool
pristine lake of joy.
who deserves that,
can earn that and buy
his way in. not one,
or so it seems.

i don't blame
the cat
for the fire.
as i don't
blame you
for my
desire. two
flames
that were
never meant
to be.

the magician

the magician bows
and takes
his time
sawing a woman
in a red  dress
in half who may
or may not be
his lover, or
his wife. but there
is glee on his face
as his arms
work the saw.
he knows
the ending as we
do. we are all in
on the trick, but
still you wonder
if something
could go wrong.
we are all
at the saw each
day, hoping for
the best.

you enter

you enter the room
by leaving another.
the breath you hear
is just the wind
coming and going
from your lungs.
there is no one there
to tell you this, you
just know. it's always
been this way.
the arriving and leaving
of others,
the emptying of
boxes. the filling
of boxes. this is
your life.

catfish

feeling the strike
and waving motion
of the clear filament
along the bottom
of the dark creek
you shake your
head.  you reel
in the heavy fish
and see it's whiskered
cheeks and horseshoed
mouth clamping
down against
the hook. wide
shouldered, it's grey
sleek skin shines
in the sunlight,
it's black eyes
unblinking. catfish,
you say to no one
and get the pliers out.

old news

crisp clippings
of news
yellowed
with bites of
flame in black
teeth marks
on its edges
fall out
from the mantle
when the bricks
come down.
the war is over
it says.
cloudy with a
chance or rain.
strange
how nothing really
changes.

happy hour

she looks at your new
shirt and says, very
nice, where did you
get that. i like it.
blue is your color.
i made it, you tell
her. you made it, you
made that shirt, she
says pulling on the
sleeve. hey, be careful,
i just ironed it.
she pulls the tag out
the back and reads,
calvin klein. right
mr. klein, you made
this shirt. yes, you
tell her. i did, and
i've changed my name
too. should we get
another round?

life saver

once again
peanut butter
has saved your
life, kept you
from passing
out into a
coma from
lack of
nourishment.
it is the only
thing that stands
by, that waits
patiently
in its plastic
jar for you to
come home to.
and jelly,
lets not forget
its close
friend mr.
blueberry jam
in its short
squat jar
with the lid
stuck tight.

rising

awash in dream
you pause
and lie longer
on the white sheets.
the curtain
parts with your
stretched hand
showing the blue
oasis of sky,
the silver leaves
turning in
the shadows. this
could be your
summer, staying
put like this.
nothing changing,
no one leaving.

the white shirt

while eating
spaghetti
wearing a long
sleeve buttoned
down white shirt
you pinwheel
with a fork
and spoon
a thousand red dots
across your chest.
it's not funny,
but she thinks
it is and laughs
and laughs.
the wine
that dribbles
on your sleeve
and collar
as you take a
big drink
is inconsequential
at this point.

telepathy

unable to ever get
your reclusive self
on the telephone
i use telepathy instead.
i lie still
in bed place my
fingers on my temple
and think
the things i'd say
if you were here, or
on the line.
sometimes i say
things that surprise me
and would
you too, but you'll
never know what they
are because, well,
you won't pick up.

the milkshake

i make a milk
shake the old
fashioned way.
i put a few spoons
of sugar into
a cold glass
of cow juice,
a splash of
vanilla, drink
it all down,
then i jump and
jump and jump
until it's all
shakened up
inside my
belly. it's a
pretty sight.

the secret key

the spare key
to the front door
is in a magnetic
black box attached
to the inside
of the window
well out front.
it's the only
secret i have
that i'm not
afraid to tell,
and you?

the photo

you find
a photograph
of yourself
and your brother
tucked in a box
in the basement.
four by four
squared and scalloped
in black and white.
standing
in the barcelona
sun, with school
satchels in
hand, hair combed
and shirts neat
with small
boy ties. how
your memory saved
that moment
as the camera
clicked and your
mother said smile
you don't know.
but you still do
as you hold the photo
and sigh.

stray cat

stray cats
on the fence
pondering
which side
to jump.
hearing
the dog's
bark, the rattle
of a can.
those nine
lives
are lessened
by one, with
each wrong
choice.
how you wish
to be a cat
sometimes.

another song

the distant music
fresh and new
alive in your hips
is your youth.
the record skipping
was yesterday
unable to move
on to the next note.
you wake up
to silence
and put your ear
to the floor,
to the wall awaiting
another song.

the ocean

in separate rooms
you divide
your lives
where once
there was the soft
touch of
hands, of knees,
of thighs, but now
that tide
of love has turned
receded towards
another shore.
leaving both alone
in the ocean
of a house
with long halls,
closed doors.

fractions

you've forgotten
much of the math
you learned
during your school
days. it's in there
somewhere, but
dormant like
locust with no
season to appear.
how hard you studied
and drew the lines
of orbs and spheres,
the fractions
and whole numbers.
the equations
of those days
have slipped and
slipped, like so much
else, away.

the story teller

the story teller
in his beard
and crooked
hat upon a shaggy
head of grey
hair, holds
a light as he
walks his
fares down
the narrow streets
of cobblestone
and wet alleys.
his thin ghost
stories, recieve
no oohs, or ahhs,
just pleasant nods,
and smiles,
while the bored
children stare
at their sneakered
feet.
the world is
different now.
we've seen too
much.

the night

the night went
on and someone said
something
about how the fireflies
were plentiful
this year, and how
bright the stars
were this far out near
the sea. then there
was silence
for a short while
as everyone listened
to the waves
washing up. that seemed
to be enough
to fill the air.

the bee hive

like a bee
hive struck
with a long
stick
her words
pour out and
out in all
directions.
you listen
and try to
connect the
buzzing dots
hoping soon
that a point
is made, to
understand
the swarm of
thoughts
that comes in
waves
and waves,
but either way
it's fine.
she has no
stingers, she's
always kind.

good dreams

how kind
the world is
when
things are right.
when the summer
moon sets
white and fine
upon a darkening
sky. how kind
the world is
when life
is quiet
and the arms
of sleep welcomes
you to good
dreams.

something more

it's not about
the trickle
of water
that clinks
against
the drain
as the night
wears on.
it's not about
the hum
of the air
conditioner.
or the branch
scratching
it's soft summer
nails against
the window.
no, there's
something more
that makes
you turn
the pillow over
and start
again.

the wind

a small breath
of wind find it's
way through
the cracked
window.
it seeps and sighs
as it eeks into
your room and ear.
it's  telling
you things you've
heard before,
but still don't
want to hear.

testing

the new law
and rules say that
we each have to take
a test before proceeding
to the next year
of our lives.
it's a two hour exam
with a number two
pencil. no cheating,
no looking at
the other person's desk,
or talking. it's both
multiple choice
and essay. begin now
the teachers says
as the clock ticks
down. you begin
to sweat, your hands
tremble.  you gulp
and look at the first
question. you wish you
would have studied
more, done more,
read more books
been a better person,
but no. what goals
have you accomplished
the first question
says. show your
work.

the dry trough

careless
the barn care taker
forgets
to fill the trough
with water
and you see
the bite marks
of horses
at the hard bottom,
desperate,
dry mouthed
and hot
they keep leaning
in with hope.
how we do that
to ourselves
sometimes, in
not giving love.

mr. sweeny

mrs. sweeny
comes for tea on
thursday in her
periwinkle dress and
hair in a perfect
bun, she sits
and stirs one lump
into her cup.
one dash of cream.
sometimes she'll
bring her cat,
and place it in
her lap, petting it
in long thoughtless
strokes as we discuss
the weather,
the news, places
she's been to,
and who
she used to be.
mrs. sweeny
comes on thursday
for tea. mr. sweeny
is never mentioned.

you don't know me

how much more
misunderstood
can you be,
or anyone for
that matter.
you aren't sure,
but you'll find another
level before days end.
another word
written, or said.
a nod a glance,
the words you leave
sitting on
the table, unspoken.
there isn't just
one key
that unlocks
the self within
but a thousand.
unlike oscar wilde
who feared not
being misunderstood,
you cringe
and lose sleep.

to what end

to what
end these
birds seeking
seed
and building
nests. in what
circle
of life
and death
are they welcome
to, no different
than the rest
of us, with
or without wings.

what kept you

a wave
or two
laps
warmly
upon your
feet
as you
position
your chair
in the sand.
you lift
a seashell
to your
ear and it
whispers
sweetly,
what kept
you.

save the last dance for me

the senior social group
invites you to come
to their annual summer
kickoff event.
it's at the community
center near the big pool.
a nurse from the local
hospital will be on
hand so that
you can have your
blood pressure
taken. colonoscopies
for men
and mammary gland
inspection for women.
they will be serving
turkey sausage
and hummus,
whole wheat bread
and free range chicken
on the grill. jimmy
who lives in section
L at the Arbors will
be doing his famous
magic act.
dancing till nine
with a dj,
and there will be
paramedics on hand
with defribulators
in case anyone
can't get up.

the rebate

you see on the bold
red sign,
with letters a foot
tall, that it's a steal,
a deal at this price.
the rebate is
a hundred dollars
after the item
is already
marked down
to holiday prices.
how can you resist.
all you need
to do is follow
the vaguely inked
receipt instructions
that are on a scroll
three feet long
and send it in
within thirty
days of purchase.
your hundred
dollars will
come flying back
to you in the form
of credit to that store,
if you've
signed and dated
somewhere
on that elusive
dotted line.

temptation

a black car
circles
the block
slowly
with darkened
windows.
you mow
your lawn
and watch
it ride by.
on the second
or third time
around
it stops
and a window
eases down.
a woman
leans her
pretty face out
and asks
you what you
are doing
with your life,
mowing the lawn
like you do.
stop and come
with me, she says.
but i have a wife
and children
you tell her.
a job, a 401 K,
and my dog
would miss
me. what would
people say?
i don't know she
says, tell me,
but make it quick
i have other
stops today.

youv'e got no hazel

finally low
on clothes
you go down
to the laundry room
and gather all your
clean ones off
the big chair you've
designated as the clean
clothes depository.
it takes three trips
up the steps. some
in your arms, some
in a big white plastic
basket that you reserve
mostly for socks.
white and black.
a few crazy  brown
ones too.
you pile the small
moutain into the middle
of your livingroom
floor and begin to
fold them as you watch
tv and answer the phone.
sometimes you take a
break to eat a sandwich.
you have a system.
it's a simple system,
but just the same
it works for you.
in neat, but wobbly
stacks you put them
all in rows ready for
the flight up to their
empty drawers. you
hate doing laundry, but
what are the options.
you've got no hazel.

things will change

the blue light
twinkles
like a prayer
coming
through the blinds
despite being
a neon sign
selling
liquor and beer.
but still it's
good as she
lies in bed alone.
with the clock
ticking ever
so slowly
towards dawn.
tomorrow things
will be different
she tells herself.
things will
change.

bikini car wash and God

at the start of
summer
a bikini car
wash opens up
in front of
the adult sex
shop down the street.
it's located across
from st. bernadette's
catholic church.
the women are in high
heels and bathing
suits as they suds
the cars, then hose
them off in the hot sun.
the traffic stalls
in both directions
as the options on
which way to turn
at the light
becomes
overwhelming.
cleanliness being
next to godliness.

at the blood bank

standing in line
at the blood bank
someone says
to you that it's raining
out and that it's
cold. you nod
in agreement. then he
says that yesterday
was nicer than today.
you can't disagree with
him on that. if it wasn't
for the wind, it wouldn't
be so bad, but next
week, he says, opening
his eyes wide, will be nice.
in the sixties. sunny
all week. that's great
you say. hey, i think
it's your turn. thanks
he says and rolls up
his sleeve to give
blood. have a good one.

hipster coffee shop

the hipster coffee
shop on the corner
of king and north
patrick is full of people
on typewriters
clicking and banging
away, some
wearing red berets
or a bing crosby hat
and smoking
cigarettes. they are
lanquid and sleepy
despite the caffeine.
they are not beautiful
people, but maybe
average looking at best.
when the bell rings
as the door opens
they all look up to
see who it is, then
pretend that they don't
really care. there's
a chess game going
on at one table,
a game of solataire
at another. a woman
with orange hair is
in the corner sketching
her coffee cup with
a charcoal pencil.
some bloodshot eyes are
staring out the window
looking at the cars
go by as the hours
wile away. there's
flies in the pastry
case and a dog
tied up to a bench
out front wearing
a plaid scarf around
his neck. the bongo
music makes you tap
your feet and
nod your head
like a bobble doll.
it's cool, you're cool,
we're all cool here.

the bookcase

placing a book
onto the top shelf
of your bookcase
is one too many,
it creaks and groans
then falls upon
you. you are stuck
and can't move.
war and peace,
ulysses have weighed
you down before
but not quite like
this. thomas hardy
has your leg,
grisham and tom
wolfe your arms.
sylvia plath and anne
sexton are
digging into your
thighs. mary oliver
is in your ear,
along with salinger
and the complete
works of william
shakespeare. there
is nothing you
can do to move,
so you read and read
until the pain
subsides.

when it rains

it rained
last night
and the frogs
are happy.
you see them
on the sidewalk
jumping
to and fro.
some are wearing
little hats
and holding
canes
as they tap
dance
and sing their
way down
to the stream.
you too want
to be a frog.