flood and a scrub brush

if and when
i get to heaven
i have a long
list of complaints.
nearly every day
i add to it and at
some point, hopefully,
i'll be able to
get some answers.
disease. what's up
with that.  crime.
pain, suffering.
poverty, starvation,
reality tv.
those are just
for starters.
what's up with
all the road construction.
and politics.
why is it so hard to
find one honest
and sincere man or
woman to vote for.
war. no.
guns, what the hell.
cotton candy. no.
it's almost as if
whoever is in charge
has the greatest
sense of humor
or is a very devious
and spiteful
individual. and i know
i know. freedom
of choice. we
are free to choose
the world we live in,
but hey, how about
stepping in sometimes
like in the old days
and wiping out the bad
guys. like the great flood
but add some detergent.
the world has reached
a point where it
needs another good
scrubbing.

the winery

you go
to the winery
and taste
some wines.
there are many
noses in the air,
sniffing before
sips are taken from
small cups
of red, of white
grapes
culled and grown
and eventually
picked and squashed
right there
on the grounds,
fresh off the vine.
there is spitting too.
you have been spitting
since you were ten,
this is something
you can do,
but they are not
amused when you
ask if there are
any wines that taste
just like vodka
with a twist of lime.

the wages of sin

the bible says
that the wages
of sin
is death.
but sometimes
it seems that
the wages
of this life,
as meager
as they are
in the breadline,
the ditches,
the grind
of the factory
is an even
slower
path towards
the end.

the cake knife

when i see her
with a cake knife
in hand, raised
high into the air,
icing still on
the sharp edge,
her shadow
on the wall,
the arm, the blade,
her head reared
back, i wonder
what i could have
done differently
to have avoided
this untimely death.
flowers, candy,
perhaps a kind
word or too. maybe
if i had just
listened just once
to what she had
to say, but no,
i was too bored
and sleepy
with her voice.

driver take me home

you don't enjoy
driving.
but you do it.
for work
for pleasure,
for convenience.
you are always
on the road.
fighting traffic,
gasing up,
getting oil
changed. you
are a reasonably
good driver,
rarely angry,
rarely honking
your horn
at others.
you use your blinker
religiously.
however
you'd love
to have a driver
pick you up
at your front door
and take you
where you want
or need to go.
never touching
the wheel again.
you could look out
your darkened windows
and sympathize
with those less
fortunate.
how sad it is
that you weren't
born rich,
or have come into
money by now.

birthday candles

her birthday
not unlike the day
before,
the day to come,
but unique
in its marking
of time
come once more.
how quickly
the leaves
fall, how the years
gather.
how love
and joy return,
and fade,
as does
spring. as does
the sun
each morning.
and how strange
it is that
more mystery
comes with each
new candle
added.

bellows

in bold
slashes of color
broad landscapes
political
and benign,
dense
bodies, nude
upon the pier.
boxers in liquid
violence
leaning
towards
one another.
the city of
new york
at the turn
of the century.
some field
somewhere.
an armless
soldier.
or a girl on
a pedestal holding
flowers.
bellows
tells you
the story.
gives you a
reporter's look
into what
goes on.
embellished
with his brush.
and he too
in the corner
bald and
wide eyed
taking it all in
for the next
time at the easel.

the kiss

the kiss
soft and wet
upon your parted
lips
says more
about
the tomorrows
yet to come
than it does
of the moment
you are in,
although
that will
be a memory
too.

the shadow

your shadow
tired
of following you
takes a
seat on the bench
when you stop
in the park,
the leaves
now falling.
the sun low
in the winter sky.
what gives, you
ask, as it slides
and slumps
beside you,
trying hard to
hang on.
i'm tired, the shadow
says. all day
on the ground
being stepped upon,
taking different
shapes, different
forms. curling
hard on a corner
diffused by
the sun through
the trees. it's not
easy being me.
when you wear
a hat, i have to
as well, even if i
don't want it.
everything you do
changes me.
is this what love is?
maybe, you say.
just maybe.
 

your heart

your heart
sometimes
is the size
of a thimble
unable to fit
another smidgen
of symapthy for
the world at
large
and other times
the ocean could fit
into it. every bird
with a broken wing
could have a place
to heal
it expands and contracts
like metal.
which has you
worried at times
considering
the flesh and bones
of your makeup.

the book club

your friend ruby
was into things that scared
you.
take the sex swing for
example in her basement.
and the chains,
and the whips,
and the metal cage
with straw in it.
but she loved to knit
too, and she had
a book club
where we would all
gather and read
the latest works that
oprah would recommend.
but the whole time
you were discussing
the da vinci code
or grisham's latest
lawyer tome, you could
only think about the squeaking
hinges of her swing
in the cellar
and what went on,
once the book club
adjourned.

fresh eyes

when you remember
tomorrow
before it happens.
then you know it's time
to leave. to pack up
and get on the bus,
to find an ocean,
or a prairie full of nothing
but uncut wheat
and the cornsilk
blue sky, with clouds
like cathedrals
along the horizon.
you needa  fresh set
of eyes. a cleansed
soul, a new  tune
to your old song.

the quiet day

do not dismiss
the quiet
day. the lukewarm
handshake
of hours
with no ups,
no downs.
no news is always
welcome.
kiss this sister of a
day gently on
the cheek and
hold it near your
heart for things
will change,
indeed.

the apparition

your dog
barked furiously
at  a point
somewhere close
to the ceiling.
but there was
nothing there.
he continued
to bark though,
the hair on his
back raised
and bristled.
his tail wagged
and his eyes were
full of fear.
so you stood on
a chair
and waved your
arm around
the area
where he was
staring.
your hand went
into a cloud
of cold wetness.
it was a frigid
sleeve of air
surrounding
your arm, so you
quickly pulled it
away and out.
which made the dog
stop barking.
you reached up again
waving your hand
around. it was gone.
so you went back
to watching your show
on tv, the dog quietly
curled in your lap.

bon appetit

there is no use
in pretending your love
for her cooking.
she can't cook.
it's that simple.
she burns eggs.
she spills milk,
the fish are still
alive on the plate.
but how do you tell
her. and what will
this do to your sex life
which causes you
to have a religious
out of body experience
with her. perhaps,
you should say
nothing. yes. silence
is the best course of
action in this matter.
bon appetit.

moving muscle

can you come
and help me move
she says.
i have boxes
and tape,
and a magic marker.
all i need is muscle
 i have
a truck rented
for the weekend.
i found a nice garden
apartment on the third
floor overlooking
the pool.
can you help
me, she says
and smiles.
but you move
every year, you tell
her. and every
year you ask
me to help you move.
i know every piece
of furniture you own.
the blue bean bag
chair, the old
tv in the bedroom.
the coffee table
with the broken leg.
i know the shoes
you wear, i know
whats' under
your sink, what's
under your bed.
so, she say, well it
should be easy then,
right? are you in?
sure, you say, what
are friends for?

i can't believe i said that

you say many
stupid things
throughout the day.
you bring up
hitler at odd times
and get looks
that aren't good.
you do poor imitations
of other ethinicities.
mimicing their language
and expressions.
it's pathetic and
insensitive.
you are basically
a tenth grader
needing a good talking to.
a smack in
the proverbial mouth.
and while lying
in bed late at night,
pondering these
revelations about your
immaturity, you
start to laugh and think
of the time
you got a wad of
gum stuck in vivian
shalloway's long black
cheerleader hair
while dancing to
sgt. pepper's lonely
hearts club band in her
parent's basement.
 

back into the egg

it's not your stop
but you decide to get
out anyway.
you pull the cord
and the bus slows
at the corner.
you are tired of
the same routine,
the same day
repeating itself
over and over again.
you want
a new face, a new
voice, a new frame
of mind. you are no
longer who you
thought you were,
or who you were
trying to become
all those years.
you want to go back
to day one, back
to the beginning,
from scratch. you
want back into
the egg and start
over again.

apple pie

with no one
around
you stick your
finger into
the hot apple
pie and pull
it out covered
in baked
soft apples
and crust. you
lick it clean.
then press
the little hole
closed so
that no one is
the wiser.
and then you
turn to see
the spatula
coming towards
your head.

sleep walking

she used to walk
in her sleep
and go down
to the corner bar
and meet men.
sometimes she'd
come home to
finish her sleep,
and other times
she wouldn't.
i forgave her
though. she was
asleep. who's to
know what one
does or doesn't
do when in a dream
state. i was asleep
when i married
her and it took
years to awaken.
i'll never fall
asleep like that
again. no, i'm up
all night now.

a love poem

instant coffee
one minute oatmeal
ten second bacon,
the drive
thru, the atm
online banking.
the quickie mart
instant credit,
the bullet train.
wi fi and fiber.
the world is
moving faster,
so why can't we.

do the hustle

i was born too late
she says.
i should have lived
in another era.
do tell, you say,
flipping through
a food magazine.
you pull out
the centerfold
of a pot roast and say,
o my o my.
would you look at
those potatoes.
i am more of a
seventies girl, she
says, ignoring me.
disco and make up,
polyester dresses
and big hair
like farrah,
blowed dried
into a nice frosty
meringue. i know
the words to all
the songs, donna
summers is my idol.
i even know how
to do the hustle, then
she gets up and
starts dancing. come on
she says, you know
this dance, you're old.
my hip hurts, you
tell her, plus i'm hungry.
maybe later, okay?
 

the car wash

the man
with a bucket
of water and soap
goes after
his car as if
there was
something else
on his mind.
he is chasing
something, not
just dirt away.
his thumb
presses against
the nozzle
of the hose
forcing out
the water into
a hard hurtful
stream. his
expression
never changes,
he is
deep in thought.
he goes from
wheel to wheel
with a scrub brush.
he has much to
say, you can see
that, but the car
keeps him
quiet, at least
for now
and he refuses
to look up
to see her
in the window.

credit card blues

your spending has
exceeded your earnings
again this month.
you see the future,
and it's bleak.
you imagine
yourself with a
hand printed
sign stating a
case for your poverty
and  homelessness.
too many martinis
and steak dinners,
the mercedes,
the trip to europe.
melinda, need i say
more?
was lipo and a nose
job truly necessary?
please help.
will work for
caviar and champagne,
i want my
corner office back.

your fears

you have a fear
of bridges, so you travel
over one, and back,
again and again
until it subsides.
you have a fear
of raw seafood, so you
indulge in various
sushi until that fear
too wanes,
you fear public
speaking so you join
the toastmasters
and become an orator
of some renown,
reciting your poetry
at large gatherings.
and then there's heights,
so you climb the steps
of the empire
state building and
stare downward until
that fear too is lessened,
and then there's
love.

crossing the rubicon with ginger

can you carry me across
the stream she says
and bats her eyelashes
like a butterfly
in the sun. sure you tell
her hop aboard,
why thank you kind
sir, you are so strong
and brave. i will reward
you handsomely when
we get back to the castle.
more batting of the lashes
occurs and even a wink
and a pucker of lips
assures you of what's
to come. so she hops upon
your back, arms
around your neck
and you step into
the ice cold creek, both
boots find the slippery
round rocks below
the water, and down
you both go. there is
no more batting of the
lashes at this point
as you drag her to the
other side. the lashes
are downstream,
her lips are smeared
with an angry scowl,
her hair too is afloat
like a water lily. neither
of you is what the other
thought you were.

my lips are sealed

it's a misunderstanding
a slip of the tongue
a faux pas, but it
doesn't matter
the milk has puddled
on the floor
and the glass is
broken. best to step
away and tread
lightly, no need
to cause further damage
to what's already
been done. my lips,
are sealed, but a dozen
words too late.

fried chicken

you want
a piece or two
of fried chicken
a rare, but sometimes
irresistable urge,
but it's more
complicated
than that.
do you want
it to be crispy
or not, spicy and hot,
or mild. white
meat or dark. do you
want it to go.
and for sides, rice,
beans, slaw, or
fries. do you want
a drink with that,
bottled or cup,
diet or sweet.
how about a biscuit
or a roll, or
a slice of white
bread with butter.
cash or credit.
stand over there
while we gather
your meal in a box
and bag
to go. you remember
the days when your
mother put a plate
of chicken out,
the condensation still
on the windows
and ceiling of the kitchen
from the heat,
a bowl of mashed
potatoes, a stack of
white bread
and a cord of corn
on the cob stacked
on a dish,
and it was you against
fourteen other hands
to see who gets what.
you sort of miss that.

heads or tails

pondering
on what to do,
a coin
falls from
your pocket, it
rattles and spins
on the floor.
you see
the thin edged
shine of a
wilson
dime in
the light
and you call
heads.
you've made
important
decisions
on less. why
not?
 

the well worn path

you decide to follow
no one
no organized religion
no sect
no way of thinking
beyond your own.
no flag is yours.
you refuse to stretch
and bend and breathe
to buddha,
no jung, or lenin,
no freud,
no pope, or oprah.
no ayn rand or ginsberg,
no guru.
but tell me
more about yourself
let's see what
you have to say,
maybe i'll follow you.
 

the candy bowl

the candy bowl
once full
is now thin
and bare, you can
see the bottom
of the white dish.
your hand
has reached and
reached throughout
the night, even as
you promise to
yourself, one
more sweet piece
and that's it, but
no. you can't help
yourself, you have
the willpower
of a new born
baby. and when
you come to
the last few pieces
you shrug and
say, why not.
what's difference
at this point.
familiar words.

she already knows

you travel light.
a few necessary items
packed in your
small bag,
it's not where you
are going, or
where you are
coming from, it's
the movement
you need, no moss,
no stagnation
in the pool
of you. no rust.
just pick up and go.
don't leave a note.
don't explain,
she already knows.

the circle

it's a circle.
it's a clock,
a round and round
merry go
round. it's
the stars, the moon,
the earth,
the sun.
all in an orbit,
a spin, it's
the same over
and over
and over again.
it's a circle.
just wait
and it will all
once more begin.
 

times square blues

you miss the old times
square. the neon
piercing
signs shaking
the sky from it's darkness.
the hard
eyed women
with legs out, and lips
as shiny as candy apples.
pickpockets and
cops, shoulder to
shoulder, the staggering
smells
of what was eaten
and left behind
blending in with
roasted chestnuts.
a drink, a sandwich,
a fortune teller
one step away.
taxis careening from
curb to curb
their doors flying
open to take you anyplace
on the island,
or beyond. it was before
disney got a hold
of it, before
espn did too, and before
the singing cowboy
in his underwear
strummed his guitar.
they would have beaten
him with it,
back then, back when,
and left him
in an alley.

the sandwich maker

you forget to ask
for cheese
on your sandwich
but the woman
behind the counter
has already
wrapped it up
in stiff white paper,
tagged it with
a piece of tape
and scribbled onto
the side, black forest
ham, no cheese.
excuse me
you say, but could
you put a slice
or two of provlone
on there for me,
sorry. her face gets
red, and her blue
eyes glaze over.
you see her red hands
gripping a knife, then
in one quick motion she
picks up your sandwich
and throws it against
the back wall
where it breaks up
like a flowering
fireworks display,
scattering lettuce
and onions,
peppers and tomatoes
into the air,
then she turns back
to you and says evenly
with the voice of a woman
who needs a drink
and a cigarette badly,
provolone, are you sure?

it looks like rain

the old man turns
his ear
to hear what you
have said, again.
his eyes turn
to the side
in order to focus.
you have nothing
new to tell him,
it's just weather
related chit
chat of no importance,
but he needs to
hear it anyway,
he needs to know
that if it rains, that
he too will
be here, and be part
of that, like you.

code blue

the nurses won't meet
you eye to eye.
they are busied
with the next room,
the next prelude
to death. they are
heavy in the hips,
unable to eat or
walk off the cloak
of sadness that
is there day. no matter
how colorful
their hats and gloves
are, their thin
pajamas belted
around them, they
can't shake what
comes, what goes
here in this strange
and glimmering
sterile place.

sand jars

she keeps sand
in small jars
labeled belize
or barcelona
rehobeth
and miami.
brazil too,
and bermuda.
places she's traveled
with one
love, or the next.
their photos
are down,
but the sand
remains in small
hour glasses
slipping
through
the narrow path
of time.

ink stains

the ink
that drains
from your cheap
ball point
pen finds it's
way out
and leaves
a stain on
your white shirt.
it's happened
before, in fact,
it's happened
a lot. you have
a notion to drive
to the factory where
they make these
crummy
pens and hand
them all of your
pants, your shirts,
and whatever else
has been leaked
upon and stained.
but no.
china is too
far, and they wouldn't
understand, or
even care that
the ink should stay
in the pen
until pressed down
upon a sheet of
paper. and then you
check the tag
on your shirt to see
where it's made.
and now you understand.

retirement party

you've worked hard
all these years
being self employed
but now it's time to step
down and retire.
you make yourself
a cake and buy a nice
gold watch. you go
to hallmark to purchase
a sentimental card
stating how much you'll
be missed. you blow
up some balloons and
string them across
the room. you put some
music on and order
in some pizzas.
you put a little cone hat
on your dog and set
him on the chair,
he let's out a happy bark
somehow knowing
that you'll be home more
often now, which means
more treats, more
walks, more pizza.
 

no doubt

you get a box of candy
in the mail every year
from a mysterious stranger.
no note, no return address,
no sign of a post mark,
so it must be hand delivered.
it's untouched expect for
the fact that all the deep
dark chocolate covered
cashews are all gone,
your favorites,
leaving behind the brown
crimped papery cup where
they once sat awaiting
fingers to pluck them out
to slowly eat, and savor.
truly, there is evil
in the world. no doubt.

blowing bubbles

you are incapable
of blowing
a bubble
with a stick of gum
in your mouth. no matter
how many pieces
you chew
the daylights out
of. you got nothing.
no bubble. sure you can
snap, and stretch it out
all over the place
but you can't for the life
of you blow a bubble.
it was very embarassing
as a child. but you've
gotten over it
without therapy,
and according to betty
there are other things
that you can do
that are a lot more fun.

we're going backwards

you read in the paper
that half the people alive today
were not alive when man
first landed on the moon.
this scares you, in fact you
pee your pants a little
and have to sit down
to catch your breath.
you wonder in another
fifty years what great event
will attach itself to such
a depressing statement.
perhaps someone will say
with big wide eyes that
only half the people were alive
today when the 4 G phone
was introduced.

barking dogs

you find yourself
unconsciously talking
like those around you,.
falling into catch phrases
like, i was literally tired,
or that cloud in the sky
looks literally like
a boston cream donut.
or saying things like,
not so much, when biting
into a carob cake, or it is
what is when at a funeral.
you scratch your head
to ask yourself
what you are even talking
about.  and after a long
day of parroting those
around you, you go home
to your dog, who barks
excitedly, which of course
makes you bark too,
throwing your head back
with him, as if to a full
yellow moon.

love sonnet

you study the sonnet
the fourteen lines
of shall i compare thee
to a summers day
and make a vague
stab at the form,
and rhyme,
but your mind wanders.
you want to get there
more quickly than that,
take a short cut,
write more clearly
how you feel about
the subject and so just
say. come here and kiss
me, don't wait for
the seasons to change.
just make it soon,
perhaps today.

burning hoops

you can't jump
through enough
burning hoops to
please everyone.
so why bother.
let them fall by
the wayside as you
will with them.
enough with
the hoops.

your button broke

don't treat me like
an object she says
with her blouse open
and a long slit
up the side of her
leg, baring almost
all of it to the hip.
she stamps her high
heels then pulls out
a compact and applies
another layer
of red lipstick.  she
tosses back her dyed
brown hair frosted
with blonde and
snarls. i won't be
treated that way.
i want respect
and to be taken
seriously, not as
some sex object.
i'm smart and educated,
i know the theater
and poetry,
literature, why just
today i went to
the museum of fine
arts. what? you say,
did you say something?
i was distracted.
i think one of  the
buttons broke off from
the front of your blouse.

the artist at work

even on a rainy
holiday
the artist is in her
studio, above the insurance
company. jackson browne
plays loudly on
her radio and she sings
along, doesn't hear
you coming down
the hall. she's
gluing together
sea glass onto popsicle
sticks, little legs
and eyes, and strands
of thread to be hair.
beach people,
she says. and you nod
and notice
the price of thirty seven
dollars and wonder
how she arrived
at such a cost. i'm almost
done with this one,
she says, gluing
the feet to another piece
of glass, blue, like an
ocean has never been.
this one is twenty three
she says. after all
it's a holiday. i call it
lost tourists.

waitress under duress

the waitress
can't remember
the specials, so goes
back to get
a list of what
they are, then reads
them, stammering
on the words
sauce and cheese.
she smiles
and tells you
how handsome you
are and how
beautiful
your date is tonight
then she leaves
the table without
asking what you
might want to drink.
the same day,
she returns and says
oh. are you ready.
she tries, she tries
so hard, but there must
be other things on
her mind than
the gravy on her blouse
and the crumbs
that sparkle on her cheeks.
the food is rich with
sauce, the fish fried
too deep with batter,
and the coffee
stays cold even after
the third attempt.
and bitter, but the moon
is full and you too
have other things
on your mind, so you
don't mind too much.

at the barn

the horse in his stall
swatting flies
with his tail
and hoof
stamping at the saw
dust that covers
the square of his
room, and the one
eyed cat, tired
of chasing mice,
the queen, lying
in repose,
in the straight
line of sun
that arcs over the bending
trees, the water,
the flat scrub
brush lay of land.
each awaiting
someone, or something
to come soon.
a carrot, a brush
in hand, a bowl of  milk
with which to wet
her whiskers.
how are we so different.

chinese egg yolks

you get
a you tube
video in your
e mail from china.
it's a woman
sucking
an egg yolk
out of a cracked
egg
that sits on a white
dish.
again and again
she squeezes
the bottle
and up goes the
yolk, no fuss
no muss.
the world has
shrunken
like a white
cotton t shirt
in hot water.

traffic

every road
has a thousand
orange cones
down four lanes
to one.
the country
is broke
but every inch
of pavement
has a man and
a shovel
with which he
leans on
while the cars
slug by. day
and night.
night and day.
interminable
traffic.

the wedding suit

you get an invitation
in the mail
to attend a wedding.
you open your closet.
the two suits that still
fit are dust laden.
the black one less
so because you brushed
it off for a funeral
last winter.
the tan suit might be
the one for this event.
white shirt. yes.
a tie. red, blue, yellow.
this could take some
work. and shoes.
they should be shined.
but its not me getting
married, so what's
the fuss. go and eat,
and drink, and breathe
a sigh of relief.

loose change

you are saving pennies.
dropping coins
into a jar
in the corner
of the kitchen.
there's one
in the basement
too, a tin can
that speaks when
the dime rattles
against the rim.
it sits beside
the dryer that spits
them noisily out
onto the floor.
there are lots of
coins. pocket
change. loose change.
parking meter
change for when
there used to be
meters that took
change.
but things have
constantly changed
and not always for
the better,
and the pennies
don't and won't
add up anymore.

women are musical instruments

your therapist goes on vacation
and turns off her phone, but
she leaves a man named vinny
from jersey to cover for her
while she's gone. she owes
him a favor, and this is what
it is. he feels he has a knack
for solving problems. so you
go see him at your regular
appointment hour. he's wearing
a white jacket, and has on
a gold bracelet and ring.
his hair has a quart of oil
in it and he's sipping on a
highball. come in, come in,
sit down, he says. i've
been looking over your file
and truthfully i'm a little
dismayed at what i'm seeing
here. go lie down on the couch
over there. i hope you
don't 'mind if i pace
the room while we talk.
i see you got a lot of problems
with women, what's up with
that. and i see you don't get
along with your mother. do
you have any idea how you're
breaking her heart everyday
with your wisecracks and
lack of attention. well that's
gonna end right here.
stop doing that. i'm telling
you. it ain't right. you listening
to listening to me cheesehead?
you nod your head as he lights
up a cigarette. women are like
fine musical instruments, he says,
and you have to play them all a little
differently. capiche? hey. answer
me when i ask you something.
yes. capiche capiche. good, he says.
some are violins, some are pianos,
some are saxaphones. of course
there are some tubas in the mix too,
but hey, what are you gonna do.
but each possesses their own
special musical voices.
you nod, looking at him wide eyed.
okay, so treat them gently.
play nice with them. go easy on
them and they'll all be playing you
some wonderful tunes. he winks
and puts his cigarette out on
the carpet with his wingtips.
okay. we're done here.
but it's only been five minutes.
i said we're done. i think we made
some progress. that will be a thousand
dollars. what? you heard me.
if you don't have it, next week
it's fifteen hundred dollars, cash.
he takes his coat off and loosens
his tie.  but i don't have the kind of money.
well, i believe the banks are still
open, i'll give you an hour.
don't make me come looking
for you. now get out of here.
i need to lie down, take a nap.
remember what i said about women
being musical instruments. i called
your mother and told her to call me
if you don't start treating her
right, in fact send her some roses
when you go to the bank.
hit that light switch on the way out.
 

burning leaves

the leaves
in the barrel
burning, sending
smoke
into the air
a smell unlike
any other.
the crackle
of twigs, of the dried
oak, and maple
leaves
before winter,
before
the snow,
the ice. the leaves
were gathered
and burned.
you remember
that and miss that
simple act
of gathering
at your father's
foot, the leaves.
how you circle back
with a scent
born in childhood.

red wine

the river rises
over the banks,
covering fast
and hard the thick
trunks of trees.
they will soon fall
in the night,
absorbing too
much water through
their thirsty roots.
tomorrow, they
will lie across
the stream, broken
and fallen. too much
of a good thing
will have taken
it's toll.

milking the cow

she knocks a glass
over and it begins to rain.
just like that.
the clouds are crying
she says, over spilled
milk. not really you
tell her. we call it rain
around here. and
the grocery store
has lots of  milk. we don't
manully have to go
the barn and milk
cows in this part of
the country. you're
not from around here
are you. nope, she
says. i live in maryland.
oh, you say, well
that explains everything.

dog world

you wake up from
your nap
and think it's the next
day. but it's not
it's five o'clock
in the afternoon.
your dog jumps
onto your chest
and licks your face.
stares deeply into
your eyes, trying
to hold you down
and tell you not
to leave. you say
the word walk,
which makes him
wiggle and snap
his tail quickly
in the air, lifting
his bottom half
off the ground a
little. life is better
somehow with
a dog. it might
be time to ponder
once again,
the barking beast.
but no.

general hospital

you haven't talked to your mother
in a while, or seen her, because
she's been married to a man named
hitler, you've heard of him,
haven't you, and it's torture to
be in the same room with him,
but still, a drive over the bridge
would not be that difficult for you.
a pop in, short and sweet, hey
how you doing visit, some tea,
some stale pizelles, a little
gossip about the sisters, and she
could show you the poison
ivy she's been scratching at on
her leg. she must really miss
you, her second son
and wonder how your life
is going. so you dial her up,
and say hey, being cheerful
and perky. oh, hello, she says.
and takes a bite of a sandwich.
you can hear her sipping on some
ice tea too. you hear a man's voice
in the background, who the hell
is that on the phone. how come
he never comes to visit.
how are you she whispers
between bites. good, good.
you say, so what's going on.
oh, nothing. everyone is good.
everything is fine. she takes
another bite. you sound distracted
you say, and she clinks the
glass against the reciever, oh
no, i'm just watching General
Hospital, just watching my show.
okay, okay, what's going on
there? oh, you wouldn't believe
it, but...oh my god she says. i
can't believe that just happened,
amanda might be pregnant
by doctor woodward,
can i call you back, she says
hanging up the phone. but she
forgets to call. another show
comes on after that. you'll
try again tomorrow. maybe.

is kim joon there?

you get the two a.m. phone
call. it rings and rings
and rings, then stops
and then rings again.
it can only be death
calling at this hour,
a call you don't want
to take. but in order
to get back to sleep
you pick it up and say
haltingly, hello?
is kim joon there?
kim joon? no, you say
into the phone.
you can hear a cow
mooing, and a rooster.
there might be a billy
goat too making
some noise. chewing
on a tin can.  it's
three o'clock in the
morning, you say,
cupping your hand over
the phone to help with
the language problem,
and kim joon
is not here. you are fully
awake now and talking
even louder,
and if he was here, he'd
be in the other room
with his chicken coops,
asleep. so stop callling.
okay, i will call back
tomorrow, the voice
says. no. you say,
this is tomorrow. there
is no kim joon. there
is no keith moon, or
least heat moon.  no
june bugs either.  my name
is jimmy. i am the only
person that lives here.
i will call back tomorrow
the voice repeats, then
hangs up.

she was a good cook

electro shock therapy
didn't work, nor did the pills
or hypnosis, or the
primal scream. nothing
could shake the demons
out of her. not even the priest
in his cloak, with holy
water in hand couldn't
slap the devil out of her.
but boy could she could
a wonderful pot roast
and season those potatoes
just right.

boot camp

you decide to join one
of those boot camp
fitness groups, but they meet
at six in the morning
and you are not a morning
person. there are only
two things you want
to do early in the morning,
and one of them is sleep,
the other involves your
friend betty, or someone
similar to her. but you drag
yourself to the boot camp
location. you've purchased
some new work out clothes
from macy's. a red  nike shirt
with matching nike shorts
and socks, and some nike
tennis shoes. you are a
billboard for nike and wouldn't
that make them mad.
but you digress. you jog out
to where your new peeps are
and high five all the combatants.
you are the oldest one there
by twenty years, at least,
but hey, you are wiser, and the only
one with a headband that
says, just do it. after some
light warm ups, stretching
and bending, the drill sargent,
jennifer, who has a really
cute pony tail and a barbed
wire tattoo around her arms
points at a hill in the distance
and says, okay, run up
that hill and come back.
do it ten times, you fat losers,
then come back and give me twenty.
strangely everyone looks at you.
then she blows a whistle.
everyone begins to run,  you are
in the lead at first, but soon
everyone overtakes you.
but as you said, they are young
and skinny, and you hate all of
them. when you reach the top
of the hill, you look over
your shoulder. you see
that everyone has started
the run back, so you stop,
for a second to catch your breath
and spit up a little.
out of the corner of your eye
you see a starbucks in the distance.
you feel your shorts for that five
dollar bill you tucked away in
your secret pocket, you
shrug and keep going over the
hill. you need some coffee, like
now, and a bagel with cream cheese,
and a paper. boot camp,
pffft. who needs it.

send me some flowers

you want to write
a poem
about flowers,
but you have no
flower knowledge.
petunias, roses,
daffodils and brown
eyed susans come
to mind. but you really
are limited when it
come to flowers.
when to plant, when
to water or how
to cut them.
you used to order
flowers  from
the florist when
your girlfriend or
wife was mad at you
again, but that was
a long time ago.
and it was always a
dozen roses, red or
yellow mostly with
a lame note. sorry.
i love you. please don't
be mad at me, or
something along
those lines. sometimes
you'd send a dozen
in a nice vase for a
birthday, or valentine's day.
you couldn't really afford
to do so, but it seemed
like the only way out
of the mess you were in.
flowers seemed to do
the trick for some reason
and before you know it,
you were back in the game.
weddings and funerals
seem to be big on flowers too.
which seems both ironic
and revealing.
they get you coming and
going.
 

dining out

at nine thirty on a wednesday
you are sitting outside
a chipolte restaurant, the place
that you mispronounce
every time you try to say
it, and eating a giant
fat burrito with the works.
you've already loosened
your belt two notches
before you take the first
bite.you have your
tub of antiacid pills
next to a  mini bottle of hot sauce
and a large coke, that
you suck through a straw.
there's a full moon out
as you slide around
in your metal chair.
it's a beautiful night
to dine out despite being
alone. you feel like you are
in mexico, or some other
exotic place like delray
alexandria, virginia.
it's the moon, the hot sauce,
the romance in the air.
you wish your friend
esmeralda was here to do
a dance for you with her
castanets.

the vegetable garden

you begin to plan your garden
for next spring.
you get out a pad and a pen
and write down all
the different vegetables
you'd like to eat.
but first you go to the kitchen
and get a bag of potato
chips out of the pantry
and a cold coke from
the fridge. something to
snack on while you work. okay.
now for the list. you love
potatoes. that's a given.
carrots, nah, not so much.
string beans, maybe.
corn is a definite yes.
you have enough room
in your yard for  maybe
three stalks. good. good.
cauliflower, pfft, i don't
think so. lima beans, nope.
definitely not. they taste
like chalky smashed peas.
how about tomatoes. no.
so yesterday, everyone
has tomato plants.
how about lettuce, hmmm.
possible, romaine, iceberg,
or that leafy kind that blows
around in your sandwich. you
put a maybe next to that.
okay. that's enough for now.
you've got potatoes and corn.
time to till that soil.
 

mother theresa in the corner office

i'm having a hard time being
the boss these days, she says
over coffee. i've climbed
the corporate ladder,
i have a fab income,
and now  i've finally
been awarded the corner office,
but people are afraid of me.
i want them to like me, to share
their innermost hopes and desires
before i fire them.
they run the other way when they
see me coming. you sip your coffee
and smile, you nod knowingly.
well, you are kind of tough, you
tell her. i've seen you in traffic
driving, cursing, slamming your
fist onto the dashboard when
there's a jam. but i'm really a
little kitty cat inside, she says,
whispering. she moves a finger
up to her face to wipe a tear away,
but there is nothing. maybe
a speck of ice rolls out, but that's
all. she takes a sip of her coffee
and spits it out. Jesus, she says.
i asked that damn stupid idiot
barista to put an extra shot of
espresso in and to make it a skinny
fat latte. what the hell is wrong
with this country today. i'm
going in there and ...and...
why are you laughing, she says.
i'm doing it, aren't i , she says.
tell me, i'm being hard and unforgiving.
i need to be  more like mother
theresa. i really do. i'm going to have
my assistant, that dumb ass maria,
i'm sorry, i mean my sweet
and efficient assistant, maria,
find me everything she can on
mother theresa and have
it sent to my office. i'm going to
be nice, and worshiped if it
kills me. deep inside, i mean way
way deep inside, i'm really a people
person.  by the way that's a
a very attractive shirt you're
wearing, she says
and smiles brightly. do you like
my man suit. i just bought it.
the shoulders are a little big,
but i'm lifting weights at the gym
now, so i should fill it out
by the end of the summer. did
i tell you about my corner office?

time of the season

your friend from highschool,
let's call him jimmy for now
still owes you eleven dollars
from the time you went to
that concert at the community
college. you remember
the day in detail, the army
green dodge dart swinger
you were driving. how you
stopped at the jack in the box
to get food for the drive there.
stitching a p o w patch onto
your jeans before you left
the house, not answering
your mother when she said,
where are you going, i need
the car to go to work
in an hour. hey, i'm talking to you.
johnny winter's brother
edgar was playing. he too
had the stark white skin
and platinum blonde hair.
the music was mindless,
or maybe it was just you, the weed,
the beer, the attitude and
the time of the season. but you
remember clearly jimmy
borrowing exactly eleven
dollars from you for some reason.
it was right before you held
up a bic lighter to encourage
another encore from edgar winter,
and now, forty years later,
you can't even find him on facebook
to get it back.

mystery

the world
is full of mystery.
and you are
one of them.
but i'd rather
have it that
way, than
the other.
keeps me
guessing,
standing on
my toes.
although it
could get old.

there was a boy

there was the boy
who sat in
back of the class
who never said
a word. he
was different.
quiet and shy,
but he was tall
and strong so he
was never teased
outright. but behind
his back they called
him boo, as in
boo radley.
he wore strange clothes,
a plaid shirt,
and a  hunter's cap,
red with the peak
turned up. sometimes
he kept his pants
high above his waist
with suspenders.
he smelled
like a wet dog,
and smoke from a fire.
his laced high boots
were always wet
caked in mud. they said
he lived in a cabin
with his father,
at the top of the hill
where the road
turns, where no one
ever traveled.
he disappeared one
day without a trace.
with no explanation,
he was never back
in school again.
his desk
stayed empty for
the rest of the year.
he was soon forgotten,
but not by me.
i liked him.
 

ships at sea

these ships at sea
crawling
towards a new
port, an old port.
they plow
quietly
as memories do,
through the blue
plain of water,
more grey
in the distance.
they are so far
away and yet
so near. how
everything becomes
like that
over time.

your mind is glass.
hard and fogged over
with time,
and weather.
how the ocean
has beaten it's air
upon you.
the salt and sea
relentless, the ships
at sea, sailing
green and red
lights on each
side. so far, so near.
how everything
becomes like that.
 

the thorn

barefoot
across the lawn
near the roses
that have seen
better days
your foot picks
up a thorn.
it bleeds
rubs deep into
your heel.
there is pain
and beauty in
everything
it seems.

start there

try  for one second
and remember
the little girl
within you.
sitting on the steps.
a ball in hand,
a pair of skates.
your hair pulled
back in the morning
sun, it's saturday,
and the leaves
are bright with fall.
it's a new beginning,
start there.
start there again
and let the past dissolve.

trouble

i am draining
another barrel
of your tears
and sorrow,
pouring them
back into the earth.
emptying
the waste bin
of your
collected woes.
dusting the shelves
of your despair.
i am out of shoulders
to cry on,
to lean on,
my hands can
only lift you up so
far. my ears are full
and can receive
no more.
my mouth is dry
of words.

gone cold

a chill
is in the air,
in my bones.
a storm is rising
along the coast
of my arms
and legs, up
towards
the island
of my heart.
i can hear
the rain, the
sweep of wind
rattling the trees
and shelters
in my mind.
i've gone north
for the winter.
gone cold.

time

time is no longer
a sweeping
hand, gracefully
moving you through
an hour, towards
a day and in and
out of nights.
it's no longer
the slow
rise and fall
of black spokes
around the white
plate of hours
while  a solid
red wand swings
quickly along.
instead, it's a blink
of bright  harsh numbers
made of dashes
and dots
a stuttering
jump from one moment
to the next.
so apropo of
the day we live in.

the rules of life

there are unwritten
rules to life.
and many written
ones too.
we all know them.
they are ingrained
in our blood and bones
our consciousness
through
the teaching
and berating of
mothers and fathers,
teachers, a long
trail of schools,
religion too.
society, culture.
politicians. even
a stranger has wagged
his finger at you.
there are rules.
no need to write
them down, to point
them out. you know
and they know
what they are
and this is why you love
your dog so much.

she likes to drive fast

she likes to drive
fast, kiss on the first date,
whisper into your ear,
run with the hunted.
she likes to leave
the top down, sleep
when it's the only thing
left to do.
she likes to drink
and eat, and make
love until the neighbors
call the police.
she wears red,
she wears blue
she wears nothing.
she has a pair of five
inch stiletto heels
that will bring you
to your knees.
she likes to drive
fast and bite your lip
until it bleeds.
your mother will never
meet her, nor
your  son, or any
living relative you know
she'll be gone
when you reach over
in the middle of the night
to find her, before
the rising sun.
at some point hearts
will be broken, lawyers
will be involved.
she likes to drive fast.

at the diner

at the breakfast
diner, the plates of cars
read wisconsin
and new york,
florida. winnebagos
too, and big trucks.
everyone needs a
couple of eggs and
pancakes to see
them through,
to get them down
the road towards lunch
at another stop
along the interstate,
belts loosened,
buttons freed.
wiping away those
little beads of sweat
that too much to eat
can bring.

for the sake of change

thinking she
needed a change
of scenery,
she rolled the large
stone in her yard
from the front to the back
of the house
then around
to the side, closer
to the fence
to where the trees
would shade it.
finally, she put it
back to where it was,
where it was placed
eons ago, when the glaciers
dragged the moutains
across the wide
plains before melting.
no need to change
for the sake
of change, she thought
and went back in
satisfied for what
she did and did not do.

caught in the rain

everything is wet.
the shoes squeak
with water.
your shirt and pants.
the hat.
the rain made sure
of that while
you walked
hand in hand through
the tunnel
of white trees
still holding onto
their fullness, green
with leaves.
you went too far.
too fast and away
without an umbrella,
but it didn't matter.
there was a place to
get dry and warm
again, together.
 

she loves the rain

she loves the rain.
she loves to ponder
yesterday. with
a cat in her lap
she wonders about
tomorrow. the next
day after that.
she loves
the clouds, the thunder,
the rolling
bloom of sky
dark, and grey
cold. she loves
the rain. this is where
she can stay
when there is
nowhere left
to go.

talk with mom

tell me all about her
your mother says on
the phone, this girl you're
seeing. well, you say,
clearing your throat.
she likes mashed potatoes.
a lot. i mean, she could
eat them everyday if
she could. so she's a fat
girl, your mother says
and sighs.
does she have a heart
condition, does she pant
and can she get up
the stairs? if she has
a heart attack and dies
on you, then what. then
you have to start all over
again. and you're not a
young man.  no, she's fine.
she's in great shape.
she's a runner. she works
out and does yoga.
she can put her foot
over her head like a
pretzel. oh, and she likes
mustard better than ketchup.
i don't trust her, your
mother says. the potatoes,
the mustard. bending her body
like a russian gymnast.
what does she
do for a living. she teaches,
mom, she teaches kids.
she wears glasses, doesn't
she, your mom says.
i can see her now with
thick glasses. mom, you wear
glasses. but i'm your mother.
so when do i  meet her.
when can i meet this miss
wonderful mustard loving
girl you've been seeing.
i'll knit her an afghan.
does she like the color orange
i have seven balls of yarn
from the dollar store, all
orange. i'll start it tonight.
she hates the color orange.
that's the one color she'd
never have in her life.
see, see, this girl is trouble
i knew it. yeah. okay mom.
talk later,  i have to go soak
my head in a pail
of cold water now.
got to go.

the little things

you break open
an ice tray
and pour it into
the plastic box
on the door, but
one cube slips
out, that you forget
and leave it
melting on
the floor.and when
you slip
upon it, as you
carry your
dinner out
into the other room,
and fly
into mid air,
you think about all
the other little
things that you've
neglected in your life
and wonder, if
they too will catch
up to you.

early, too early

you wake up early now
because you are old.
life is telling you to get up.
you're running out of time.
you look out the window
and see the others
walking briskly, striding,
fighting off death
with arms chest high
pumping. wearing
bright green shoes,
and vests. hats
and water bottles
attached to their waist.
you let the blinds
fall back down
and crawl back into
bed. how's the weather
she asks, lifting her
head up. maybe we could
go for a walk.
it's cloudy and
cold you tell he.
you dont' want to go
out there. not yet.

the rules

the teacher
takes you to the front
of the class
and raps
your knuckles
with a ruler.
now spit out
that gum she says,
making an example
of you,
but you refuse
instead you
blow a giant
bubble
which sends
laughter
through the room.
this is something
you won't
easily forget
as your life
unfolds and you
keep trying to
bend or defeat
the rules.

 

stay

lie down beside me
close your eyes
and think of moons
rising, suns setting.
of lanquid seas
lapping the open
arms of sand. lie
down beside, close
your eyes and stay.
nothing needs to
change. nothing bad
can happen in this
moment. stay.

tuesdays underwear

walking your dog
in the woods
you find a pair
of women's underwear
on the path.
black with little
hearts dotted around.
the red script says tuesday.
but today is monday.
the dog gets close
but you pull him back.
you stand there for a moment
and look around.
maybe there's a matching
bra somewhere too.
but no. so you get a stick
and hang them on
a tree, in case whoever
lost them will find them
again before tuesday.

much better

you've gone over an hour
without being angry
at someone or something.
the traffic, the weather.
the news, the neighbor.
something.
okay, not angry, but perhaps
annoyed, dismayed,
disgruntled. you turn off
the t.v., that seems to
help. the computer goes
off next.  then you pull
the shades. you climb
into bed and put a pillow
over your head.
better. much better.

how she drinks tea

with long delicate fingers
she drops a sugar
cube into the cup,
a dollop of cream,
then stirs lightly.
the spoon clinks
against the rim,
then settles onto a napkin.
she lifts the cup
to her pursed
lips and gives
the hot rim a blow
to cool it where her
lips will follow. this is
how she drinks tea.
this is how she does
everything in her life.

misunderstood

not unlike oscar
wilde, you too fear
not being
misunderstood,
for what then.
you are just like
all the rest.
an open book
unread because
you already know
the beginning
the middle and end.

night train

when you sleep
you snore.
not just a light
breeze, a  mild
exhaust
of lungs through
throat and nose,
no, it's a freight
train coming down
the track with whistles
and rattles. deep
rumblings
and gasping
for air. it startles
her at first
and she taps you
on the shoulder,
then shakes you awake.
what you say, i
was sleeping.
well your snoring
is keeping me
awake. well, i'm
sorry you say. there's
another room
down the hall, go
there. good.
i will. good night.
night you tell her,
shut the door,
i have another train
to catch.

the sex talk with your son

you sit your son down
at the age of thirteen
or fourteen
to have a serious
conversation, you rub
your eyebrows
and bite your lip,
but he knows already
before you open your mouth
what this talk is about.
i know about sex already
dad, he says, tossing a
baseball from hand
to hand.. ask me
anything.  go ahead
anything. you nod, then
nod some more. okay. okay.
you say. well, when a woman...
dad, let me stop you
right there. i said i know
about sex. i didn't say
i know anything about
women. oh, you say. well.
ummm. great. that makes
two of us.  good
talk son, good talk.
play some catch?

late night call

i know where you live
the hoarse voice says
on the phone
whispering and laughing
banging a wrench
against  his radiator
like a madman.
that makes two of
us you say, staring at
a coupon for tuesdays
five topping pizzas.
hey, if you are on your
way over, pick me up a pie
and a liter of coke.
grab a slice for yourself
if your hungry.
leave it at the door,
you can't come in.

two worlds

your dream
about not being able
to wake up
despite being awake
happens often.
which world
are you in, or is
it both. are you
stradling the clouds
and street.
does it matter.

the story

the story starts like this.
a man, in a hurry,
rushed by time, by work,
by the spinning
wheels of life falls
after feeling faint,
he tumbles down
a flight of steps leading
to the subway.
unconscious he lies there
for most of the day.
his pants are wet from
a puddle. his hat is beside
him, near his hand.
there is a cut on his chin.
by five o'clock.
the hat is full of money.
there is book beside
him. a set of rosary beads.
a bag of food. water.
someone has left him
a small dog, which
licks his face until
he awakens, he
travels home with the dog
under his arm. he is
less angry for the moment.
overcome by the kindess
of others.
tomorrow, things will get
back to normal. he will
forget everything that has
happened, not even
the dog barking will
remind him of that day.
that too
will make him angry.
the story ends like this.

in venice

the pigeons
in saint mark's
square are clouds
of grey wings, sharp
yellowed beaks. they have
seen what they have
seen for generations.
they float and float
upon the tourists arms
and hats, as photos
are snapped. their
claws gripping
tightly, for bread,
a morsel or crumb.
they play their part
so well.

fishing

after packing
a lunch, and drinks,
and driving to
the river
you go fishing
with your son. sliding
the worm onto
the hook. helping him
hold the rod,
casting out
with his hands
and yours
at the bottom.
the worm and hook
and weight plunks
out into
the still water,
rippling in circles
as the lead sinker
sinks. and he turns
to you, out in
the middle of nowhere
and says, dad,
i need to go to
the bathroom. now.
like really bad.

the playground

like insistent flies
buzzing against
the screen, wanting
out and in
all at the same time.
their blue wings
at work, their
short slender
legs and sticky
fingers
gripping, then
letting go.
indecision is
the heart of who
they are, impatient
and full of
energy and buzz.

henry

when he got out
of jail.
he'd sniff glue.
drink
mouth wash.
he'd do everything
but take
the needle again.
at least for a while.
he was staying
clean as he
broke into houses
and walked down
the road with
a shopping cart
sellling his newly
stolen wares.
you'd see him
over the hill
in the moonlight,
his hair shining
across his shoulders.
walking up
the same street
you'd seen him
walk before, when
you were kids
and he was coming
to play ball
with you.

cowboy

i haven't seen you around
here lately,
the waitress says, pouring
you a cup of coffee.
where you been honey?
riding the plains, you
tell her, rustling cattle,
roping steer. you
set your cowboy hat down
on the table and rub
your upper lip where
you might grow a mustache.
you're a cowpoke now,
huh? she says, smirking.
you nod, because that's
what cowboys do.
they stare off into
the distance, thinking about
that one poor calf that
couldn't be found,
and is out there being
eaten by coyotes.
you haven't been taking
your meds, have you
pardner, she says,
putting a new bottle
of ketchup onto the table.
you squint out the window
where the sun is rising
over the hills,
where the land
stretches out forever
and a man can ride his
horse in peace
without no medication.

waiting for more

i lift
the long strand
of black hair
off the sink,
it's brittle
white shine
holding
no secrets
of your stay.
i leave it there,
turn off  the light
and wait
for more.

things left behind

when you climb
a ladder
forty feet
into the air
and lift yourself
over the hot
black edge of
the tiled roof.
with nothing to
hang onto,
you stop thinking
about falling
and killing yourself,
or pondering
what you'll
leave behind,
your will that hasn't
been notarized
that magazine
under your
bed, and that one
dvd hidden
in the closet. that black
whip riding
crop and blonde
wig. those handcuffs.
and blindfold.
you no longer think
about the money
you'll leave
to others or the bills.
or the dog
looking out the window
awaiting your
arrival home. you stop
thinking about all
of that and go
back to work.
 

strawberry jello bath

i see her pouring boxes
of stawberry jello
into the bathtub.
the hot water is
boiling as it tumbles
from the spigot
rising pink against
the white porcelain
sides of the tub.
whatcha doing
honeybun, you ask
politely, as she
chews the corner
off another box
of jello and pours
the granules into
the steamy water.
taking a bath. what's
it look like, she says.
with jello? there's a
pause and she turns
to look at me.
that's right einstein.
with jello. now if
you want to be any
help at all, go get the
whipped cream
and take your clothes
off. we need to liven
up this relationship.

the fallen leaves

you see the admiral
without his sunken
vessel,
the mega church
minister, fallen
from the pulpit
the ceo from
the fortune
five hundred,
pockets empty.
a king deposed
a senator voted out
on their hands
and knees, clipping
weeds along
the sidewalk.
raking leaves
in their autumn
days. you wave
across the street
as you clip and rake
your own, as
always.

poetry workshop

i think this poem
is unfinished, the man
in back of the room says.
he scratches his
beard along the collar
of his black turtleneck
sweater.
it's a missed
opportunity to be more
than what it is.
it's hurried, rushed.
as if no care was
taken to word choices
end rhymes and such.
but it's a very nice
try. he directs his
comments to the whole
room, but it's your poem,
and you twist the pencil
in your hand and for
one moment understand
what primeval rage is,
and you wonder how
accurately you could throw
your sharpened number two
pencil with a flick of
your hand into his forehed
but you don't. his poem
his next, and you will
crush it like a grape
in the palm of your hand.

the angels

it's raining, she says.
the angels are crying.
you shake your head
and take the bottle
of red wine from her
hand. and the thunder
is the result of angels
bowling, i suppose.
she laughs.
no, its from the mexican
food they're serving.

loafers

you surround yourself
with shoes.
new shoes still
in the boxes.
brown, black,
a light colored pair
that you'll
never wear.
sandals for that one
week at the shore.
boots with thick
treads for
the two winter
storms. tennis
shoes that will never
touch a tennis court,
but will be walked
around in with kahki
shorts. but it's mostly
loafers these days.
easy to get in
and out of. like
love. you like that.

i'm sorry

bad with dates,
birthdays,
holidays,
anniversaries, the sadness
you cause.
the grief you perpetuate
when the flowers
are not in hand,
the bracelet from
the mall, or sweater
that won't fit.
the book from
the bookstore.
a gift certificate
off the grocery tree
where the tomato sauce
ailse ends. the hurried gift
is never enough. never
quite right, or meeting
the sentiment
of the occasion,
or the sincerity you wish
to convey. so here's
a card telling you.
i'm sorry.

clean clothes

the tumbled dry
clothes
still hot
in the white
machine have
no idea where
they might go next.
what spills
they might endure,
what tears and rips
could occur along
my clumsy way.
the ink stain
that won't come
out, the ketchup
still pink
on the white shirt.
the sock who
won't give up
despite it's growing
hole. all loyal
to a fault, clinging
to their importance.
smiling with
cleanliness, to
be worn again.

a room with a view

your needs
are simple.
a bed.
a house,
food. a job with
which to earn
your keep without
asking others for
money.
a comfortable pair
of shoes,
and jeans.
another good book.
a good movie.
love is in the mix
too, but it's too
elusive and complicated
to even understand.
but on the list
it goes. someone
to kiss and who
will kiss you in return
without regret.
friendships, of
course.
maybe a nice
dog who doesn't
bark too much
and thinks the world
of you.
a strong cup of coffee
with which to drink
while pondering
it all.
a room with a view.

rock bottom

you hear the phrase,
well, once they hit rock
bottom, then they'll
see the light and change
their life, begin the climb
back out. it's true,
sometimes, and other
times, there is no bottom.
there is only the fall
the slow descent into
darkness and despair.
with no ropes or
ladders to reach them
even if they wanted
to be reached.

the code

if everyone
behaves,
is quiet
and doesn't fight
we'll stop and get
ice cream
your father says,
looking into
the rearview mirror.
it's been the code
by which you've
lived by your
entire life.

true love

i have a new boyfriend
she tells
you over coffee.
we're movng in
together this weekend
but what about us,
you ask her,
nibbling on your
bagel, trying not
to let the butter dribble
onto your clean
white t shirt. there never
was an us, she says.
but you've only known
him for a week
you tell her, is that
enough time to know
someone enough to move
in with them.
i like his little kids
and his dogs, she says.
we can make this work.
and besides, he needs me.
he doesn't have a job
and he broke his
leg in a bar fight a few
nights ago. i can help him.
well, okay, you tell her.
you must know what
you're doing. i guess we're
broken up then.
i love him, i really really
love him she says,
and takes a sip of her
vanilla latte, leaving a
nice coat of foam on
her upper lip.

the carnival worker

the carnival
worker, with missing
teeth and a tattoo
of a skull
and crossbones
on his chest,
bared by his oily
denim vest
takes your three
year old child
into his hands
and places him in
the tilt a whirl.
straps him into
his sticky seat.
it's a kodak
moment, one that
you wished you
would have snapped
if you didn't
think that the man
would have
taken a wrench to
your head.
instead you hand
him two tickets
which he tears
in half and grins.
it's as if he can read
your mind. stand back
he says as your son
waves with his
tiny hand,
and the machine
sends him high into
the air,  oblivious
to the world
that awaits him.

cat and mouse

your cat
comes in from
being gone
for several days
and brings
you a mouse.
you tell her thank
you as she lays it
at your feet.
you go get her
a treat and bowl
of cold milk
which makes her
purr and stare
into your eyes
longingly. but
this is as far as
it will go.
she's a cat
and you, well
you're not a cat.

you are here

you are here.
for now.
later you will be
someplace else.
with someone
that you don't
know yet.
you take nothing
with you, you leave
nothing behind.
your memories
are their memories
too, but yours
are better.
you  embellish them
before they occur.
but for now you
are here, it's where
you need to be
before you go
to the next place.
everything is
known, nothing is
known. everything
is new. everything
is old. you are here.

write me a poem
she says on sunday
afternoon
while she sits in her office
fingers at the keyboard.
typing, adding numbers,
her eyes on a graph
the red line going up
then down again.
hoping to put things
in the black. write
me something sweet and
nice she says, as her
other phone rings,
and she says hold on, no
wait, can i call you back.
write me that poem,
she says, then hangs up.
so you go out into
the field to lie in the sun
and see what shapes
the clouds have, or lack.

the beauty

confused
the bird sails
into the window.
her beak pinging
against the glass,
then drops
like a wet rag
to the pavement.
suicide never
crosses your mind,
but you wonder.
with the weather
changing, the clouds
and cold
inching in closer
that perhaps
this bird has had
enough of worms
and bugs,
nests and finding
shelter
when it snows.
if only she had stopped
to see the beauty
in her own reflection.

oregano drops

you buy
oregano in
liquid form.
you have a small
brown mole
you'd like to be
gone, as in out
damn spot.
and the vitamin
store clerk,
all eighteen
years of her
explains and promises
that yes, this
will work.
three drops per
night and voila
it's gone.
but you can't
stop the drop from
doing what drops
do accroding
to the laws
of physics. gravity.
and it rolls down
the side of your
face, stinging
and staining along
the way.
and as your day goes
by, each person sniffs
in your direction
and asks you
what you had for
lunch. italian?

what comes along

not a small wonder
the leg
entering or
leaving
a room, a door,
down a step
or in rythmn
in heels
clicking down
a long
corridor,
what man can't
resist
looking at such
a sound
to see what
comes along.

the circle

the women
both young
and old sit
in a circle
needles out, balls
of yarn
at ease in soft
rotation
as the yarn
slips up into
a scarf or
hat, or something
undetermined
yet. there is
a pause
for sips of coffee,
for words
said.
then back to
the clink and clink
of metal
on metal, the rock
of chairs.
the wind.

between the shores

the wind surfer
glides
swiftly across
the grey blue
chop of the inlet.
his bright
green sail is
full of an early
autumn wind
as he twists
and turns, bends
his body
and mast
to where he wants
to go.
he's alone out
there. no ships
to beware of,
between the shores.
at an age
when he can do
this. alone.

the coal mine

when in the mine
you shake your head
at how hard
the work is.
the darkness,
the damp floors
and walls.
the endless chipping
at a mountain
from the inside
out. and when
the work ends,
how you long
for it again,
to feel the weight
of the hammer
in your hand.

a new lamp

a new lamp
sits upon your night
stand. bright
upon the book
page.
its blue glass
shines
under the bulb
and white
linen shade, as
white as a cloud
on a fresh
spring day.
small things
can change
everything,
sometimes.

pushed
and pulled
like hot taffy
in the sun.
stuck your
shoes,
your teeth
your
gums
you can't
shake the love
you lost,
your heart
undone.

all roads

all roads
have an end
of sorts.
whether it be
a mountain,
or an ocean,
or a valley
each path
finds a stopping
point.
and that's why
there are
other roads
to take
and travel
on your way.

a good dream

as the branch
in the wind
paws
at the glass
window
where you sleep
you make it part
of your dream.
the window
is your shoulder
the branch
her fingers
tapping\
softly, trying
to wake you.
it's a good
dream.

bacon and eggs

you miss the mornings
when you could roll
out of bed, go down
to the kitchen and fry
up some bacon
and eggs, toast and jam,
maybe a couple of
waffles with real
butter and canadian
maple syrup. a pile of
hash browns and
a cold glass of orange
juice on ice.
now it's a half a banana
and a dry slice of bagel.
what the hell has happened
to the this country?

mind reading kiosk

you suddenly wake up
with the power
of reading minds,
so you set up shop
at the airport, a little
kiosk next to
the cinnabon store.
you only charge
five dollars for a full
reading, two dollars
for a passing thought.
the first customer
is a woman in a hurry,
dragging her suitcase
through the bustling
airport. she's biting
her lip. close your
eyes you tell her,
relax, then you place
your fingers on
her temples,
but that's just for
show and effect.
you can do this across
the room if you had
to. hmmm, you say,
let's see.
you are angry and full
of anxiety over
your children, you tell
her. they don't
appreciate you.
your husband takes
you for granted and
is selfish in bed,
his snoring keeps you
up all night.
you are thinking of leaving
when the kids get
out of school, leaving
him for your secret lover,
louise, your
best girlfriend, but
you are afraid of what
others might think.
and how it would effect
your status on the PTA.
that will be five dollars
you tell her. no advice,
she says. that's it?
advice is extra you tell
her and i only do advice
on fridays, come back then.
but, i'm flying to kansas
today. sorry, you tell
her. that's a shame.
good luck.

time clock

when you slid
the card into the time
clock and heard
the thump of the date
and hour being
imprinted onto
the lined weekly
sheet, you had a way
of counting days,
seeing years
unfold.
the hours marked
on your meager
paycheck. it was all
there, where you were,
where you had
to be. it's  been nice
without the clock
all these decades.

touch stones

she throws nothing away.
her third grade
valentines are in
a box at arms reach.
that riding crop,
a book on planting seeds.
the shoes she ran
a race in two hundred
miles ago. these are
touch stones.
necessary to keep
her heart and mind
linked to the memories
of her life. she's no
different than me,
i see, as i stare at a closet
full of shirts and shoes
and things i'll
never wear or need.

the astronomy of love

the astronomy
of love
 is complex.
it involves
timing, being
at the right place
at the right time,
like an eclipse
with the moon
shadowing
the earth,
or the orbit
of a meteor circling
the galaxy
and finally making
it's way back
into view.
the stars and planets
need to align,
but you don't when
it's coming
you can only
keep looking
upwards with your
eye pressed to
to the glass, your
heart not obstructed
by the clouds.

botox for cars

i can fix that
he says, leaning out
his window.
i can fix that dent
in your car.
one hundred dollars.
you'll never
know it was there.
i can smooth
out that crimp
in your fender,
polish and repaint
the spot.
you'll be like new
again, a hundred
dollars, what do
you say mister.
but you smile and
say no. that's okay
i kind of like
my dents.

leopard skin pill box hat

she really
did have
a leopard skin
pill box hat
and shoes
to match.
but it wasn't
why i loved
her, no,
it was much
more
than that.
although
it strangely
helped.

the dive

the boy
drowning
screamed
in the middle
of the pool
thrashing his
arms as if bitten
by a shark.
despite not knowing
how to swim
he gathered his
nerve and dove off
the board into
the  deep end.
a lifeguard jumped
off his chair
and pushed
him three feet
to the side.
then moved his
fifty pounds
up and over
onto the concrete
apron.
children gathered
to look at
his white face
in shock
his eyes lit up
twice their
normal size
and at his mother
yelling at him,
what are you
crazy, or something.

the summer catch

on the short grass
of summer
we'd take
the ball to the field
and throw
and throw until
our arms hurt.
each year
a little faster,
a little longer
he would become.
his hands
more sure.
his moves quick
and fast
as he dodged
invisible defenders.
soon, it was he
outlasting me
as it should be.
but we stayed
until the last
light. we'd run,
we'd throw
on the short
summer grass.

quiet moon

quiet moon
untouched
by what we do
or don't
do. our motions
mean little
to it's position
and movement
in the sky.
we will
live, we will
die, and it
will forever,
at least as far
as we know,
hang luminous
in the silk
black sky.

the island

that's you
swimming
with
hard swift strokes
arm over arm.
kicking
your legs,
turning your
face side
to side
breathing.
you'll swim
all night
if you have to
to get
to that island
where the palm
trees sway
where the hula
girls hula,
where
there's  no more
work,
just play.

say cheese

here let me take
your picture by the water
stand over there.
perfect. wait, what
are you doing with
your hands. nothing.
well, put them down.
but i'm pulling my
skin back, making
my face tight so that
you can't see my
wrinkles. no one wants
to see wrinkles.
whatever. okay, pull
your sagging wrinkly
skin back, here, i think
i have a rubber band
to tie it all behind
your head, that way
you can free up
one hand to place
on your chin for
that pensive model look.
okay. good. better
hurry, that rubber
band is not going to
hold for long. say
cheese.

flying by

if you listen
long and hard enough.
put your head
out the window
lean against
the hard bark of a tree
put your ear
to the railroad
track, you can hear
the whistle of time
flying by.
flying by.

chickens

there was time
growing up when it
was nothing to see
a flat bed truck
full of chickens
stuffed in their
crates. feathers
flying, squawking,
as they went off
to their final resting
place. you don't see
that anymore.
at least not around
here. but there are
a lot of places selling
chicken, just not
the traveling kind.

barcelona

as a child
you remember
barcelona
where melons were
growing on the wide
beaches.
trees swaying
along roads.
the clear arc
of the sea, a velvety
green lying
before you.
and the burlap
bag, full of new
born kittens
being carried
by a  man
to the water.

the lost war

she calls you
a name. a bad name.
you're having a fight.
but she's using
sharp weapons, words
of swords, bullets
of memories.
poison darts
of promises broken
and remembered.
it isn't a fair fight
at all. as you throw
a marshmallow
or two
of affection
in her direction.
you duck the flame
thrower
of jealousy, run out
of the line of fire
from the cannon
ball of her broken
heart. it's a lost
war.

the apple core

you toss
an apple core
towards
the basket
in the corner.
it hits the rim
and bounces off
onto the floor.
you pray
that it isn't
an omen
before you
start your day.

training bras

you have no
experience
with basic training,
or driving a
train, or even seeing
once, a training
bra. what is there to
train. what tricks
are they to do.
once they graduate to
the full sized bra.
confusing to say
the least. and my dog
never got a moment
of training.
in fact he's on the couch
sleeping next to
a bra he chewed
in half and it wasn't,
as far as i can tell
a training bra at all.
it appears to be
a full sized
regulation bra
that he found
somewhere
and ripped apart.