making it whole

you see the brush
of the archaeologist
smoothing the dust
off a skull, the bleached
thin curve
of bone. carefully
he sweeps away
the dirt of centuries
to get to the inch
of remains, then from
there he builds
what he wants to
claim. and i do
the same with you,
taking your simple
kiss, or one kind
word and making
us into one whole
being.

the troubles

in passing
you hear the troubles
of others.
the words
half whispered
fall into your ears
like metal
shavings. the illness,
the loss of a job,
or love,
the child
who has wandered.
you don't want
to hear them
and yet you listen.
you listen as a
way to learn
perhaps in how to
avoid
such troubles
of your own.

being men

during a romantic
evening around
the campfire
you test yourself
with a feat of skill
by seeing how many
marshmallows
you can stuff into
your mouth. it's
ten and nearly
eleven  before you
start to choke
and spit them across
the room, but
she's not impressed
as she nibbles
gently on the edge
of one. she says
nothing, but shakes
her head and mumbles,
pffft, men.

the game delay

you saw a baby
being born once in
the back of an ambulance
a half sheet
raised
over the screaming
woman's knees.
it was when
ambulances
were long cadillacs
with sleek sides
like cars
with a slide out
ramp in the back.
you remember it
was painted cherry
red and white
with one fat bulb
on the roof circling
madly
as the siren wailed.
you can still see
the frantic pain
in the woman's eyes
as every kid
on the block stood
with glove and ball,
or bat
in hand to watch,
eyes pressed
to the windows in
frightening wonder.

the apple

a cold apple
fell from
the tree
and rolled
to my door.
red delicious,
green, or
fuji, it doesn't
matter.
and the worm
that found
it's way in,
that too,
means nothing
to me. it's
more about
the kindness
of nature, the giving
arms of
your tree.

your wife the nun

you come home
from work one day
and your wife
is wearing a nun's habit.
the robe, the hat,
the cross. what's up,
you say opening
the refrigerator
to get a piece of cold
chicken from last
nights dinner.
i'm becoming a nun
she says. i've given
my heart to god.
what about me, you
say, sitting at the table,
buttering bread,
and nibbling on
a drumstick. what
am i supposed to do?
i don't know, she says,
adjusting her large
white brimmed hat.
whatever happened to
till death do us part?
you ask her.
dunno, she says, i
guess it died, but
can you zip me up?
i've got a seven o'clock
mass tonight and i've
got to get a bunch
of candles going, pour
the wine, iron
some robes, etc. etc.

tears

how careful
she is
with tears.
the melt of her
green blue
eyes is startling
to see,
so rare
a sun as these
that sparkle wet
and grieve.

the field

the field
you and your son
sat in under
a warming sun
is still
there, but the snow
is gone,
the brush
different
shorn and woven
into something
else.  trees
have fallen
others once lean
are thick
with years
now passed,
but you and
him remain.
love being
the only
constant
to rely on.

coffee

sitting outside,
in no rush
to leave or stay,
the clouds
are in the coffee.
pitched
soft
against the black
smooth
pool that rises
to your lips.
you drink
each cloud
tasting
the meringue
of the day
you live in.
not all days are
like this, how
well you know
that.

queen jane

your neighbor jane
who thinks she is
the queen of england
is at your door.
she is old, she is ancient
like the wallpaper
dress she has on,
but she needs
a cup of sugar, and
she thinks that you,
of all people might
have some. she's right,
so you ask her in
for hot tea
and a cookie or two
while you pour
the sugar into a cup.
she sets her crown
upon the table, puts
her black thick shoes
upon a chair. she
lets her hair down.
dropping carelessly
her scepture to the floor.
tell me, you say to her
kindly, this isn't really
about the sugar is it?
what's on your royal
mind?

cut fiowers

cut flowers
that never make
the vase.
blown kisses
that don't reach
a pair of lips,
unanswered
prayers
that rise, but
fall before they
get there.
don't let it happen,
don't let us
be like this.

i got your politics right here

i wrote a letter
the other day
to my congressman.
jimmy schister.
dear sir.
what the hell are
you doing.
you've been
invisible since
you got into office
on my vote.
where is the tax
break. the jobs.
the mopping up
of street crime.
the teacher's raises.
i don't want to see
you this year
on the median
with your wife and
kids,  waving
and smiling as i
drive by
to my low wage
nine to five job.
we're talking flying
tomatoes here,
and my aim
is true.

the blue bench

the smokers
on the blue bench
in del ray
are crusty  men,
disheveled
women on the boulevard.
without work
by choice or
economics, it's hard
to tell. but they
all seem to let
their hair go grey
and long, and
their teeth bad.
they are milky eyed
in their stupor.
cigarettes sucked on
like air, like
life itself, keeping
them thinly
tethered to a fast
blurred world.
 

the spell

when she was a little
girl witch
she started off slowly,
 a small spell or two
on a teacher, or a
boy that pulled
her hair, a rash,
a pimple on the nose,
an uncomfortable
itch would do
the trick. but as she got
older, she developed
more skills, more
intricate spells,
the most devious one
of all, was the one
she cast over me.

because it's there

you are the kind of person
who sees a moutain peak
and shrugs and says, nope,
not for me, i'm not going
up there.
the thin air, the wild bear,
the slippery rocks,
wind, and the bones of
others who also thought,
why not. no, bring me
my hot toddy and a chair,
and when others ask why
i'll say boldly, stretching out
my legs, warming my hands
by a fire, because it's there.

the long grey lines

you hate the dmv.
the post
office. the garage
where you
get your car
inspected.
you hate your
dentist,
your tax lady,
your doctor
who checks your
blood pressure
once a year.
you despise
the courthouse
where you
get your stickers
or pay your ticket.
the vet with his
dirty scale
and pet rabbits
in a cage.
they are all grey
lines
forced
against the abstract
colors of
your life.
 

the polka

she says she loves
to polka.
it's her dance.
it's carefree
and jubilant.
she likes the sound
of the accordian,
the beer
and clothes.
the men with
mustaches and
women with strong
thick legs.
she can dance
all night, she says,
with the right
band. and i believe
her as she skips
across the room
in pigtails, pretending
no longer
to be married, but
with another
man.

selfish plants

you are selfish
in the way
that plants are.
potted on the sill,
rooted
in the soil
where they sit.
taking space
where a clock
or vase
could go, never
tending to others,
never speaking
a word,
but bending
towards the light
or kind hand
that bears
water, your green
presence being
enough.
 

carnival lover

your carnival lover
bends her
legs over her head,
her arms
locked around
your neck.
she's able to smile
and kiss you
in this position,
which pleases
you beyond words.
it makes you happy
that she's in town.
 

rare earth

so much to tend
to when
death pays a visit.
the cost
is great.
arms and legs
fail.
there is a river
that runs
cold up
your spine.
tears are made
of glass. the wind
scratches
at the window.
words fall
empty, like ashes
from your
mouth. sorrow
being holy
ground, you step
lightly
on that strange
rare earth.
 

the dry season

the famine
of love struck
hard.
the farmers
sat on their porches,
staring into the fields,
up at the white skies
but it was a dry
season.
the earth cracked.
you could almost
hear the sigh
of the wind
as it blew through
the fields
of corn stalks
and hearts.
the plows sat
rusted in the dirt.
there was no
moving forward,
there was no
going back.

hot water

unboiled eggs
too
soft and cracked
in the water
leaking
yellow
and white
wisps
how
fragile we
are under
pressure,
when
the heat is on
and the shell
breaks.

the seeds you bury

shoeless,
not hardly.
without food,
quite
the contrary.
water and shelter.
whiskey
too. there are
no needs
you truly long
for or go
without for
very long, and
yet you plow
the field each day
as if
the sun won't
ever come up
again, and the
rain won't
press wet lips
upon the seeds
you bury.

the rising sea

your fingers
turn the dial. this
is where your life
has ended.
the remote in
your hand searching
for another
channel, another
place with which
your mind
can land.
no more is the song
you want
to hear,
the images you want
to see, that water
is under
all of your bridges
and spent
within the rising sea.

columbus day

you've got nothing
for columbus
day. no special meal,
for what would that
be? no tree, no decorations,
no songs to sing,
no cards to send.
what's the point.
land ho. big whoop,
as they like to say.
they being those who
say such things. but
the bank is closed,
and the schools
are closed, and the
government is closed
too, although how
would you know. but
i do like the less
traffic. thank you for
that, christopher
columbus. thank you.

falling out

a hole
in your pocket
has let
so much
fall out.
a note.
a pen,
the coins,
the keys,
you see them
rolling
towards
the gutter
as you walk
down the street.
while the hole in
your heart has
let go of
entirely different
things.

friends

you hate
the fact
that you
are such good
friends.
it keeps you
from telling
him
how you really
feel, starting
with that
shirt, those
manners,
the politics,
that grin.

tide

your detergent
has let you down
again. the ink stain
from a broken pen
remains, the grass
scuff still on the knee,
chocolate mousse
on the cuff, blood
from a bitten lip
on your sleeve,
the lipstick on
your once clean
collar.

the land of you

the land of you
is circled
by me.
i have pushed
ashore upon
your soft
sands. planted
my flag
in your heart.
it's not victory
or an occupation,
but more
of a romantic
visit, a promising
start.

the long night

you can't sleep.
you can't stay awake.
you visit
your dreams like
a stranger
in a strange land.
you have
the wind in your
ears. the trees
brushing up
against the clouds.
tomorrow is so far.
tomorrow is so close.
you can't sleep.

the pearly gates

your money
is no good
here, st. peter
says at the pearly
gates
which aren't
exactly pearly
white, but
more of a bone
colored shiny
arcylic paint..
but have you met
my friend mr.
lincoln you say,
reaching for your
wallet. as a matter
of fact yes, he says
and points over
a distant cloud. i
have met him
and like i said, your
money is no good
here. you're going
to have wait
your turn like everyone
else that has the jury
still out.

roadside pumpkins

the pumpkins
are fat
this fall. hooligans
and baby boos.
cushaw greens
and golds.
lines of them
dot the field
in their bright
daytime glow.
and the gourds
surreal
with silly
long necks
and strange
colors
lean out of their
straw baskets
with an
askew smile.
cheap as gourds
should be
in any season.

 

being prepared

you go camping
in the woods
with amy.
she has a tent.
a back pack.
a flashlight
and batteries,
water, matches,
a survival
kit and canned food.
she brings
a blow up mattress.
a compass, a map,
and flares.
a sharp knife
is on her belt
and bug repellant
too
she is more
than prepared.
you bring
marshmallows,
two wine glasses
and cologne.

 

the first date

don't go he pleads,
holding onto
her ankle
as she drags him
through
the yard, his body
a plow
against the dirt
and leaves.
i love you i love
you i love.
he says, then takes
out a small pen
knife. look, he
says, i'm cutting
myself, i will
bleed to death if
you leave me.
but the knife is
dull and leaves
only a purple bruise
against his wrist.
please, he says,
let's have a second date,
just one more try.
i promise you'll
learn to love me.
 

the newspaper

your neighbor
steals your sunday
paper on a regular basis.
you've never caught
him red handed but
you see him with
it in his backyard.
he sits in his green
lawn chair and suns
himself as he turns
the pages,
chuckling lightly
at the stupid comics,
something you'd
never do. he seems
delighted with
his stolen newspaper,
so you order one
for him, in fact
you order a whole
months subscription,
including sundays.
the next sunday,
you wait on your porch
in your robe
waiting for the paper
to arrive,
and for your neighbor
to open his door
and be surprised,
by what awaits him,
but he pretends that he
isn't surprised and leans
over to pick up the paper
as if it was normal
thing to do.
you wave and smile,
and say, hey check out
doonsebury  this morning
very very funny.
he nods, arching his
eyebrows. he has no
idea who he's dealing with.
 

how the story begins

on the second floor
is where our story
begins.
on the third
floor is where it
ends. there is a
stairway in the middle
which is quicker
to climb
or descend
instead of waiting
for the slow
elevator. you are
wearing a pink
chiffon dress
with berets in your
hair. i am in my bathrobe
holding a newspaper,
a toothbrush in
my mouth.
there are windows
and doors
where people come
and go and peer out.
a small dog plays
a small part
as well. take note
of his barking at
certain hours of the day.
there are others
involved too,
a jealous ex wife,
a  mailman,
a woman who lives
on the first floor
who can't 'mind
her business. there
are innocent bystanders
as well. the mormon
boys at the door.
the insurance salesman
with a hole in his shoes.
i'd be remiss in not
mentioning the gun found
on the mantle,
and the black and
white photographs
taken at awkward angles.
lies are told.
truths are revealed.
there is more
than one ending.
one happy, one sad,
and one unresolved,
that leads you to believe
that there will
be another story soon.

on the other side

tired of nine to five
in your cubicle
you plan your escape
over the wall
under the gate
you dig and dig
for months,
then you go in
the dead of night
when the watchtower
light swings right
then left. you crawl
to the fence and snip
the wires,
then run and run
with the hounds
at your heels, barking.
they are on you
so quickly. the bullets
fly near your ears,
but you keep going.
your boss
yells at you, what
about the christmas
party, your bonus,
but you are no longer
a part of his world.
you strip down to
bare skin, throwing
the shoes away.
the coat and tie,
the briefcase. you only
keep one thing,
a red stapler, shiny
and bright, that reminded
you for so many years
that there was life
and imagination
on the other side.

two drinks and out

you can't drink
anymore.
not like you used to.
where once it
sharpened your wit
and the words poured
out like oscar
wilde and dorothy
parker melded
into one, but alas
no more, now
you blather and
bore, with a stain
on your tie.
the white
flag is up, your
zipper down.
you've said
all the wrong things
at all the wrong
times and at this late
hour of eleven
thirty-five
sleep seems
like heaven
after a mere two
glasses of wine.

neon youth

black is not
your favorite color
but it's close.
dark blue
finishes second
by a slender
margin.
there is no orange
or neon green
or torquoise
in your palette
of clothes
or shoes, or
rugs. no vase
is violet and
the lamps are white,
thank you.
it's taken
time, but with
age you've retreated
gladly from
the neon colors
of your youth.

marshmallows

careless
with her affections
she threw
her kisses
everywhere
like marshmallows
from a bag,
and they
skewered
her in the fire,
before leaving
without  a word.

the good ear

she whispers
what i don't
want to hear
or know into my
bad ear.
it's a muffled
wind
of mystery.
the other ear
she saves
for only the good
things
that she wants
to share.
she's kind
like that.

but not that

if you are
lucky
there is work.
there is
food and a
bed to lie in.
you have
your health,
but if you are
extraordinarily
blessed
there is love.
luck or
unluck can acquire
the rest,
but not that.

if you're lucky

measured,
and cut
you smooth out
a sheet of wallpaper.
slowly
egging it
into place.
wet in
shadows, fluid
and slippery
in your hands
a limp fish,
tired from the fight,
it scales and wrinkles
still unsettled
with memory
of it's journey.
then the cuts,
down
and above
with a blade
and a straight
edge.
another sheet
goes up, then
another.
until the room
is complete
and you can go
home, to eat, to
sleep.
then start again
when morning comes,
if you're lucky.

the ties that blind

they are a couple.
just look at them
walking side
by side on
this gorgeous day.
each on their
cell phones.
soul mates,well
perhaps not,
more like cell
mates on a haunted
ship going
nowhere.
they share things
like a slice
of lemon, or
a drink of water,
the time,
despair.
they are less
tied together
than they are
entangled like
a heavy load
of laundry
in the washer.
she keeps a close
watch on him,
while he turns
and looks
the other way. this
will not end well,
but end it will,
hopefully before
the children not
yet there.
 

rhonda?

you pick up the phone
and say hello,
nothing, so
you say it again,
hello, hello, is anyone
there. silence and
then a steady stream
of crying, sobbing.
gentle wheezing
and blowing into a
kleenex. mom, you
say? no, she says,
stuttering. gina, you
say again?  no you dope,
she replies back.
this is not gina,
whoever the hell that is.
ummm, melinda?
i hate you she says.
you don't even
know who this is
do you?  jackie?
that's it, she says.
her crying now stopped.
her voice clear
and strong. she's pulled
herself together.
don't ever call me
again, she says.
then hangs up the
phone. you amaze
yourself sometimes
at how helpful
you can be towards
others.

smart guy

einstein
said that god
does not
play dice
with the universe.
but he said
that while
stading in las
vegas
with a fast
blonde
at his side
and a dirty martini
in his hand.
he was clever
that way.
and now they
have his brain
on ice,
sliced neatly
like meat from
a deli.
nothing good
comes out of being
that smart.
 

the gold coin

tomorrow
is a  silk purse
full
of hope
and happiness.
a parcel
of gold coins.
if we can
just get through
today,
and get to
tomorrow
then things will
surely
be right.

the cut

you cut your chin
shaving
and see what
you are  made of.
blood, it seems
is one of
the main ingredients
it has no
mind of it's
own to stop
once the cut is made
and it finds
an opening
to leave. this
reminds me of you,
but without
the kleenex
and the slow
red drip
into the sink.
 

a house with no doors

without a word
she takes
a screwdriver
and removes
all the doors
in the house. when
you come home,
the wind is blowing
from front to back
and there
are birds on
the table. sheets
of paper
fly about like
kites off
their strings.
her hands are raw
from twisting
at the deep
wound screws.
you almost get
the feeling that she
has something
important to tell
you.
 

tired of being me

i want to be
someone else
she says, sighing
at the mirror,
her white legs
folded
onto themselves
like scissors
without gleam
or edge.
we would like that,
you tell her,
ignoring the sigh
in her voice,
the martyrdom of her
words.
we're tired of you
too, you tell her.
the world is on it's
knees with
fatigue from your
presence.
you don't know
what i go through
to be me, she says,
i don't want to know,
you tell her. now
get dressed,
your disillusioned
public awaits.
 

the red car

the slender line
of snake
at dusk, pale
and chalked,
sliding towards
the ivy
pays no mind
to you.
despite his size
and lack
of girth
or height, he
has no fear.
how unlike
the animal
world we are,
in a red car,
making noise
and bursting
with ourselves
to seen,
to be heard.

the work shoes

your father
would place his
shoes on the steps
when he came
home from
work, the day done.
so you'd put
yours next to his.
small and narrow,
not touching,
but close enough
for him to know
that he had a son.

hot air balloon

you see
on the news
the hot air balloon
dangling
between
the power
lines. the bold
stripes of
green and orange
seem strangely
out of sorts
as the sparkle
of wires
and heat
fill the air
at dusk.

feng shui

i move a chair
against
the wall away
from the window
because i want to.
i am stirring
things up,
living
dangerously
in this late
stage of
my life.
the chair has been
there for years,
perfectly positioned,
comfy in the corner
by the floor lamp,
just right
for watching
tv, or to read in.
i'm willing
to take a chance,
to see things in
a different light.
but this only
last for an hour or
so before i
move it back.

the two slice toaster

you think that
by removing
scales
and mirrors,
photos of
you from years
ago, that you can
delay
tomorrow from
coming.
but the toaster
betrays you
as you sit at
the kitchen
table,
buttering toast
and drinking
your morning
coffee.

night owls

too tired to sleep
you go out
into the night
and walk the streets.
the others are there.
the taxi drivers,
the women of
the night, the priests
and politicians
doing what they
can't do in the light
of day. you wave to
them and smile,
glad to not have
that problem. your
problem goes
beyond that.

chekov and the ashtray

you dream
of chekov in
the livingroom
smoking,
drinking
a small glass
of absinthe,
his hat tilted
on his head.
he's picking
up an
ashtray
and pondering
his next
story, holding
his beard
in his hand.
his fingers damp
with
black ink.
you tell him
nicely,
as you come down
the stairs,
put the ashtray
down anton,
that story's
mine.

the night zookeeper

when the zoo
closes at night
and the animals run
free. i see you
there with snacks
and books
making them
happy.
you go to their
cages and
give them a  pat
and rub
on their furry heads.
you let the seals
swim up
to you
and throw them
a fish or two.
the gorillas
like to read so
you give them
chekov and carver,
salinger and oates,
short stories
they can peruse
and read before
the sun comes up
and you have
to pack up and leave.
even the snakes
get a stop by, and
a hey slim, from you.
the monkeys, of
course are in your
pockets taking
everything they can
eat and chew.
monkeys. pfffft.
but you love them too.

the pebble

a pebble lodged
in your shoe
is with you all
day. its sharp
edge taking turns
with the curve
of the gravel
stone. hour after
hour you feel
it underfoot
unable at any
point to stop
and remove your
shoe to shake
it out. like so
many of your
wonderful
attributes,
your patience
goes unnoticed.

no magic

there is no
magic
in the world
however
there are
seeds that
will grow
when buried
beneath
the ground.
isn't that
enough wonder
for one life?

1962

you run home
from school with your
books under
your arm.
a tin lunch box
with an empty
thermos and
a noisy handful of
cut carrots inside.
the sirens wail
behind you,
screaming madly
from the red speakers
set high upon a pole.
even the pigeons have
scattered from the field.
death and destruction
await, so you run
fast as you were told
calmly by a teacher
in a yellow sweater
with a nervous tic,
you listen with
child's ears,
watching with small
eyes for the inferno
the mushroom,
the blast.  trying to
get home to die
with your family.

she wrangles

she wrangles
words from you
like a cowboy
on a bronco
not yet broken.
it takes time and
she gets saddle
sore and bruised,
thrown into
the dirt,
but by days end
she is stroking
the side of you
and you tell her
everything
she needs to know.

broken glass

broken glass
on the floor,
the shards
of mirror
thin
and nearly invisible
except in the light
or felt under
foot and
imbedded
in the skin.
it's hard to shake
the reflections
of the past.
warm water
helps,
a soothing
heat of new
love, a hot
deep bath.

without your
keys
shiny and
jangling in
your hand
you are nothing.
you can
go nowhere,
you cannot enter
your home
without breaking
a window.
the keys open
your lockbox
at the bank,
your door,
the back gate.
there are keys on
the ring
that are less
important though.
they had their day
of turning locks.
but no more.

moon river

the trees in your
dream
keep  falling.
long thick trees
tumbling across
the stream. breaking
in half as they tilt
and lean, then crash
onto other trees.
you are in the middle
of this thunder.
this confusion
of wind and branches
snapping in your ears.
the icons of your youth
are dying.
when you awaken
you go to the window
and look out at the woods.
it's still dark,
but the moon is bright,
high above the stream.
it's the same as it was
the day before, nothing
has changed.

only now

you awaken to sobbing.
others are in the room observing
you in your bed.
your eyes are open.
your eyes are closed.
there is a shroud of grief
across their faces. you want
to yell and tell them
not to worry. this too shall
pass. you are here, but you
have left. there is more
traveling for you to do,
but not quite yet. others need
you here to grieve.
to place their hands
upon you, to whisper
things into your hollow ears.
they take you where you need
to be taken. there is no
fear in you. there is only
knowledge. something they
can't possess by being alive.
you are smiling. your face
is hard to their touch. you are
beyond the limits of your
body. you are free from
everything. there is only
time now, which has no
end. no beginning. it is
where you want to be,
there is no going back
despite how happy it would
make them. there are no
tomorrows, there is only now.
 

the milk box

you  go
to the front porch
as the sun
comes up
and reach down
for a quart
of milk
in a glass
bottle.
but you lift
the silver lid
of the silver
box and find
nothing. it's
no longer
nineteen sixty-six.
where has
the milk gone.
where has
the time gone.
who is this person
in a robe
and slippers
expecting milk.
his reflection not
unlike
your father's
in the glass storm
door.
 

the gravity of love

you can't
see it
but you can
feel it's pull.
insisisting
that apples
fall
from the tree
that rivers
empty
downstream
into the ocean.
it's a constant
in our lives.
the tug
and pull,
without it, like
the absence
of love,
we are floating
aimlessly
without wings.
 

pirates

at the hardware store
you see a group
of men and women
who appear
to be pirates. but it's
the middle of town,
and the sun
is shining. you are
buying a bucket
of paint
to freshen up
a room. they are
buying shovels
and rope, wire
and nails.
they are dressed
in leather, with eye
patches and one
has a spindle leg.
the women are busty
wearing vests
and large hoop
earrings. there is
gold fillings
in their teeth.
when one of them sees
you standing in line
he looks at your bucket
of paint and says,
get the eggshell
instead of the flat
finish, it cleans up
more easily,
especially blood,
which makes all of
them laugh and laugh.

the elephants

an elephant appears
in the room.
it's crowded
now from all the other
elephants.
there is so much you
don't want to
talk about, nor
does she.
you throw some
straw down,
some peanuts.
you get a pail
of water. you make
yourself some space,
pushing your chair
into the corner
where you can sit
and read the paper
in silence.

the borrowed book

a woman
brushes up
against you
as she gets up
to leave
the bus
she says i'm sorry.
you look up
and nod. she
smiles and goes
on her way.
unfolding her
umbrella
before stepping
down into
the street,
and rain.
there
is  a borrowed
book
in your hand
it's a slow read
you don't know
why you took
it, but you did.
you'd rather
stare out the window
at this woman
that you don't know
than read
these pages, but
as the bus
lurches forward
you begin to read
again.


 

in the rain

your brother
once,
not getting his way
stood out in the rain
when pouting.
you were a year
apart, twelve
and eleven.
he being older
and wiser, this
seemed strange
and foolish
to stand in the rain,
in the cold.
and yet it
was brilliant
too, i want to
get sick and die,
he said. which
brought your
mother running,
stepping right
past your happy
self, ignoring
you.
 

seven minutes

you have set your
clocks forward
seven minutes.
you are always
ahead of schedule
this way.
it makes you strangely
happy to know
that it's not that late.
you are simple
minded in this way.
tricking yourself
so foolishly. but it
keeps you on
time. and it doesn't
bother you
by being seven
minutes late
for everything.
 

the next thing to happen

you enter the room
and find
no one there.
but you are willing
to wait. you have
the time.
so you sit
and fold your arms
across your
chest. you cross
your legs.
there is nothing
in the room of
interest.
the walls are white,
and clean. there is
only one chair,
and it's the one
you are sitting on.
there is a window.
the sky is white,
so is the ground
as if coverd in snow.
you feel as if you've
been here before,
but you havent.
it feels like a dream,
but it isn't. it's
the past. it's the present.
you are waiting
for the next thing
to happen.

new years eve

champagne
drips
on your red
lips
bone dry
and chalked
like
your kiss
on new years
eve.
the ball
drops
and the long
year ends
like me
on bended
knee
with a futile
plea
for more time.











 

sunrise

bliss
is best
at night.
the last
kiss,
the last
heavy
sigh
of you
after making
love.
bliss is
best at
night
although
sunrise
has it's
moments
too.

the earth says yes

i see her out
the window
pulling bags of rich
dark soil
to the side of her
yard. her hat
tilted to avoid
the sun, her dog
blonde and slight
asleep on the warm
stones. i see her
on her knees
as if in prayer,
her hands deep
into the dirt
with seeds.
she has found a way
of life
that pleases her
and brings her
joy, she has pared
down her world
to this and the earth
says yes, in spring.

toll booth

coin after
coin
wrinkled
bills
and torn,
going from
hand to hand,
yours
to the toll
booth woman.
not enough
time to talk
to say hey,
to say goodbye
or ask
about the weather.
it's just
this. this passing
of currency.
to get  from point
A to point B.
no more, no
less. from her
booth to yours.

the other side

in her small
apartment
with her cat
and plant
leaning towards
the sun
on the window
sill
she likes
to listen to her
neighbors
fight
by placing a glass
against the wall
and her ear
onto the glass.
the muffled
words of
their chaotic
world gives
her a sense
of what life can
be like
on the other
side.

fingerprints

your finger
prints
are everywhere.
on the glass
in the kitchen.
the mirror
in the hall,
the spoon
against the dish,
on me.
i see them
throughout
the day
and miss the touch
that they
belong to.

get moving

you have to get up
and get going,
get in the shower
and brush
your teeth. you have
to shave and move.
get some clothes,
on, slip once more
into those old
shoes. you have to
get to work.
you have to open
the door and get
in the car and leave.
but how nice it is to
sit here, to drink
coffee, to listen
to woods outside
and watch the falling
leaves.

asterisk

after she died
you found
a list of names
on the back of
an envelope
of all the men
she ever made love
to. it wasn't a long
list or necessarily
a short list either,
still there was
a tinge of jealousy,
of wonder
and suspicion.
you were only
saved from further
grief by
the asterisk next
to your name,
second from
the bottom.

october

you've been
married
in this month
and divorced too.
you've moved
five times
exactly on halloween
day. there is candy
in this month
and then there's
the witch on
a circling broom.

worries

your worries
are like
sunflower seeds.
that will never
bloom.
you can't
stop with them.
one after another.
getting stuck
between your
teeth. you want
to spit the whole
bag out,
but you can't.
keep your hands
from going in,
for more.

the pumpkin

you buy
a pumpkin.
a large orange
pumpkin
and set it on
your porch.
people
walk by and
smile at your
pumpkin,
they tell you
how nice it is.
how well
you've carved
the face
within its
thick yellowed
skin. who is it
they ask, who's
face have you
carved in your pumpkin,
it's very very
scary, especially
with that candle
burning bright
within. oh, it's me
you say, a self
portrait, which leaves
them only to nod
and go quickly on
their way.

the fire

place your hands
near the fire
as it roars
in a golden rush
out the tunnel
of the chimera.
pull up close
and watch the embers
burn. stir
the logs, arouse
the sleepy flames
again. the moon is
over our left
shoulder, the stars
are sprinkled
across the plain
of blue. the cold
front has moved on.
it's just the fire now.
and me and you.

the ice box

the ice
box is out
of order
the ice cream
has become
cold milk,
the cubes
are wet
shells of
what they want
to be.
the frozen
vegetables
are soft and
ready
to be boiled.
and you,
you too have
defrosted
when i'm
around.

bad news

i hear you
crying
in the other
room.
your
voice a
flock of
scattered
birds
on the phone.
black wings
on
soft air.
nothing prepares
you for
death, your
own, perhaps
the easiest
to digest.

roll the dice

she says,
with a drink
in her hand
smelling of
cheap perfume.
roll the dice,
baby, toss in
your hat and keys,
your shoes.
why not.
working nine
to five
is taking so
long to get to
your promised
land, whatever
that might be.
put it all in
the middle of
the table and roll
the dice.
what do you have
to lose, but
everything,
which ain't much.
she's right,
but i'm not that
brave or
stupid, not yet.


 

sleep will have it's day

sleep evades
you.
it's in the corner.
a dark
cool pillow
awaiting
your face
and head.
but not yet.
your fingers keep
moving
across the keyboard,
stroke after
stroke.
there are more
oceans to
cross. more
seas
to dive into.
sleep will
have it's day.
and more, but
not yet.
 

the apple with a worm

you're the apple
with the worm,
the lane that slows
down, you're
the rain cloud
on the weekend,
the riptide
in the surf, you're
the bad check
that won't cash,
the ring
that slips off
a finger, you're
the dream that
ends too fast,
you're the girl
who won't linger.
you're the broken nail
on a hand,
the rusted pipe
and the radiator
that goes bang,
you're the sign that
reads danger.
you're the drip
in the faucet,
you're the noise in
the night. you're
everything gone
wrong, you're
everything that's
not right. but don't
leave, i'm not through
with you yet.
 

singing

she likes
to sing
in the shower.
badly.
it echoes
and falls
against the tiles.
but singing it
is. you don't
discourage her.
you've been
in enough
rooms where
there is no
singing,
only
the cold rub
of silence
to greet you.

purple mountains

you swallow
hard
in the dry
desert air
your tongue
has rolled
up like a dust
mat
in the sun.
the cacti
look tempting
as do
the brush
and lizards
that go nowhere
but under
the sweet
shade of
a hot rock.
the desert is wide
and deep.
the sand
as white
as a beach.
those backs of
mountains
in the purple
distance
is what you're
shooting for.
barefoot
and alone, like
how you
were born.

the close of day

as you lie
in bed,
the book
down,
the light
off, a vague
prayer
or two
sent skyward,
you can hear
the small patter
of feet
in the attic.
it's day just
beginning
as yours
comes
to a close.
 

the dotted line

the black ink
on your fingers
will come
off in time
as you sign
on the dotted
line
again. but
there will
be more. there
is always another
dotted
line to sign.
your life
is a serious
of signings.
a pen
moving across
the page
saying yes
to something,
or no
to something
else. it frees
you, or it
can bind.

your closets

your  closets
are full of clouds
and rain.
thunder
roars when you
open a door.
the boxes
are full of yesterdays.
no one is allowed
in, but you like
to take a peek
every now
and then, just to
remind yourself
of how things
could have been.

the golden age

everyone
has a golden
age.
some when they hit
ten
or eleven
for others, high school
was the pinnacle
of success
and glory.
college, or the new
job
is the top of the
hill for many,
or marriage,
or when the kids
are born.
or an age is reached.
the ones
that haven't found
it yet, that have
not arrived
are the ones
most interesting,
they still have hope
that something
is about
to happen.

hot air balloons

i want to live
more dangerously
she says
spraying a can
of whipped cream
into her mouth.
the x-rays were
negative. she's out
of the woods
as far as death
goes, but now
she's chasing it.
what say we take a
hot air balloon ride
this weekend.
fly high into the sky
and see the world
from a different
angle.  two words
you tell her, slowly
stirring
half and half
into your coffee.
power lines.
safari?  she offers?
bungee jumping?
no, you say
and sit back, sipping
your coffee. it's
not for me.

box of photos

you find a box
of photos. random
stacks, crimped
some stuck
to one another.
faces and arms,
places you've
been to.
faces still young.
they never
made it
to the album.
things changed.
cameras
and computers
changed.
your life
changed.
but the box
held them
like folded arms
for you to find
again when searching
for something
else in the closet,
a flashlight
perhaps, or a
hammer, but
not them.

no friends

all day
you walk around
with spinach
between your teeth
a strand of
toilet paper
stuck to your shoe,
your zipper down
and your
shirt misbuttoned.
at days end
when you get
home and look
into the mirror
you realize that
you truly have
no friends.

the turkey cutter

when she carved
a turkey, she carved
a turkey.
the zen of it.
focused in on
the moment.
while her hand
guided
the slight soft
buzz of the electric
knife. she pursed
her lips
and blew
out with concentration.
two drumsticks,
the breast
sliced evenly,
white meat
and dark.
second street deli
would be proud
to take her on
one day,
and when she
was done,
the wings
last, the stuffing
out. she passed
the plate around
and sighed,
saying
that another
year had passed,
and she hadn't
lost a thumb.

the sugar cookie

if she was
a cookie,
i'd say a sugar
cookie
would suffice.
easy
to dip and
nibble on,
not too large,
or too sweet,
but leaving you
happy
with the crumbs
she left
behind,
and longing
for another
bite.

the run

the first half
mile was all about
warming up.
getting the joints
loose
and limber for
the run.
there were no
k's involved.
it was just a run
through the woods,
maybe a few
miles or so.
you had no costume,
no radio
in your ear,
no special shoes,
you never took
your pulse, or kept
a record of your times.
there was no finish
line, or
someone handing
you a dixie cup
of water along
the way.
you woke up,
put on some shorts
and tennis
shoes, looked out
the window,
then left, telling
no one.
 

salsa

she wants
to go dancing.
salsa.
you cringe.
and rub your forehead.
tonight? you say.
no, she says.
saturday.
eight o'clock.
susie's husband
takes her all
the time.
they took lessons
together when
they were on
a cruise.
how you hate him
through and through.
 

one night stay

the cleaning
fluids try
to mask
the thousands
of travelers
that came before you,
but fail.
you can almost
see them
sitting on the edge
of the bed, like you,
taking off their
shoes, and socks,
removing their
pants.
opening a suitcase
on the chair.
the thin walls
let you in on the laughter
and coughing
that goes on next
door. a t.v. is on.
smoke comes through
the outlets
into your room.
it's a cell.
without a guard
or bars. it's hell
with a stale donut
and a cup of coffee
in the lobby
when morning comes.

making the turn

you have
to make the turn
so you slip
your car into the gap
between the long
line of cars. the man
behind you
flips you off and shakes
his head.
he's angry at being
another twenty feet
away from where
he wants to be.
this is how you start
day, inches from
his bumper, his
red face and hands
gripping the wheel
of his unconscious
life.

the owl

roll up your sleeves
the woman says,
this marriage
can be saved.
she is an owl
on a limb
in the darkened
woods of us.
her wide round
glasses do nothing
to ease this
notion of how she
looks. we
are  mice in her
claws. trust
and communication,
she says,
respect and love.
she uses her finger
as a small thick
wand. pointing
at me, pointing
at her. you know
it's lost though,
but this what you
do when the boat
sinks. you tread
water until your
arms and legs
grow weary.

but this

the goose
pimples
that line
your back,
running
down the curve
of your pale
shoulder
rise and fall
at the touch of
my hand,
my lips. i
have no power
over you,
but this.

what you remember

it surprises you, what
you remember.
how far back you go.
it's scary, the decades
under your belt.
the sirens,
kennedy and cuba.
the yankees
and marilyn.
how is it possible
that you are not on
that stoop at twelve,
blonde hair
in the sun, tanned
arms and legs,
broken shoes,
and striped shirts.
you can still see
the gleam of color
in your father's
torquoise impala.
the imaginary hose
in his hand as
the sunight sprayed
happily through
the water.

death is sleep

i don't believe in god,
she says. there is nothing
out there. we are alone.
when we die, we die.
your prayers are wishful
thinking. smoke going
up into the air, then gone.
there are no ears
up there, no ledger of
right and wrong.
no hand of wisdom or
forgiveness. there is no
god she says. no savior
no messiah. there is no
life beyond what you see
and feel. we are less than
stones, less than stars.
there is no grand maestro
to this universe. death is
sleep. this makes you
cross yourself and pray
that it's otherwise.

raccoons in the trash

a raccoon
has stumbled out
of the woods
and found the gathering
of white trash
bags set out for
tomorrow's pick up.
another
raccoon joins
him. they slowly
pick through
the broken
bags with small
child like hands
decorated with long
curled nails.
they stand on their
hind legs, making
them tall and fat,
almost prosperous.
their whiskers
are straight
black sticks
below their bandit
eyes. they don't budge
as you approach
to put your  bag down.
cautiously
you drop it near
the curb,
keeping your eyes
on their eyes,
like gunslingers
out in the street.
as you back away,
you point to your
bag and say, hey
that one has chicken
in it, still warm too.

car vultures

the man inside
the cage, a trailer
the shape of a rusted
egg slides back
the confessional
screen and says
i need to see your id
and a credit
card. your car,
towed deep into
the night
down a gravel road
sits there
unreachable behind
the chain link fence
and barbed wire.
the fault is all yours.
neglecting the sign
that said employees
only. there is nothing you
can do, but pay
the man
and go home.
he unlocks the fence
while eating
a sandwich. his
hair is thick and black
like a bird,
his nails are chewed
down to moon rims
and lined with grease,
there is no eye contact,
no thank you's,
no have a nice day.
you hear the snap
of the padlock to keep
the other cars in
as you drive away
towards the rest
of your life
and away from his.

when the world was different

write me
something.
a poem.
something clear
and simple
like a glass
of cold water,
no ice, no lemon
wedge
no tea darkening
the liquid.
keep it real.
keep it easy.
make it about us.
about when
we were lovers
and the world
was different.

the roman emperor

you wrap
a large
bath towel around
you when
exiting
the tub.
it drapes
across
your shoulder
and brushes
against the floor.
in your mind
you are disposed
roman
emperor
about to make
a peanut butter
and jelly
sandwich
on white bread.
those sirens you
hear are not for
you, not yet.
 

hammer and chisel

the sculptor
claims
that he is just
freeing
the form
that already
exists
within
the block
of marble,
bringing to
life
the soul
and limbs
the beauty
with a hammer
and chisel.
you are not
quite there
yet, you hope,
as you listen
and feel
the scrape
and  ping of
each new day.

on the corner

the deaf
woman holds
a red
bucket out
on the street
corner.
you drop in
a dollar
or two
on occasion
when feeling
benevolent.
hopefully
God is  more
charitable
than you are.

great falls

the rocks
have no
choice
in the matter
it's the rain,
the surge of water,
the relentless
passage of time
and weather
that defines
their shape,
sharpened
and smoothed,
crumbled
and broken.
they have
no way to
respond
as we do,
having no excuse
for who we
become
or don't
become.
 

winter food

i can't eat
another chicken
or slab
of salmon.
don't bring
that lettuce
leaf near me.
i need
some red meat.
a potato
and a few
string beans
coated
in butter.
look out
the window
the leaves
are falling.

can't trust that day

monday, can't trust
that day
the radio plays
loudly on your
alarm.
what does mean.
you don't know but
you like the old
song anyway.
and now it's in your
head the whole day.
you try to think if
there are any other
untrustworthy days
out there.
tuesday, can be a
little suspicious
at times too.
monday and tuesday
need to be watched,
no doubt.

the book of you

you find the book
of you
on the table.
it's been left there
accidentally.
it's a permanent
record of your
life. your memories.
it's all there.
your mistakes,
your careless words.
all of it in ink.
there are pictures
too of things you
didn't want to see again.
your thoughts
unfiltered are all
listed
from lust to greed
to anger.
the jealousy and gossip.
the book is full
of you. there is some
good too, but not
enough. you flip
to the end of the book
to see how many pages
are left to be filled.
there are some.
and that's enough you
think to turn this
story around.
 

run into the light

your friend
has saved enough
food and water,
dry goods, dry ice
and batteries to last
a year or so
when the big one
hits. he's ready
with his guns, his
bows and arrows,
his survial books
and gear.
he's ready for the end
in his concrete bunker,
ready to contiue
his life after all
others have gone.
he laughs when i
tell him, that i'd rather
run towards the light
than go down
into the dark with
him.

snow days

the red
boots
by the door
are wet
with snow
and ice
from being outside
for hours
and hours.
they sit
side by side
on a folded
newspaper
dripping
dry near
the vent.
the child
who wore them
and his pink
feet have
gone up the stairs
to sleep.
how wonderful
the snow is
at this age.
 

the lost and found

the world wants
to save you.
save you
from yourself,
from going to hell
in a handbasket,
they want to
save you from
being cold
in the winter.
too hot in the summer.
they want to save
your body,
your soul
they want to reach
way down deep
into your pockets
and save you time,
they want to pinch
your pennies,
but give you
the best.
it's a world of
saviors and you are
one of the many lost
waiting to
be found.

 

when the power dies

when the power
goes out, the house
let's out a sigh.
relaxed in it's bones
and brick.
the blood gone
from it's veins.
it's just me and you
now it says.
the walls
and floors,
the concrete,
all stopping
for a breath of fresh
air as the windows
go up and the curtains
blow wide.

straddling the abyss

you like the idea
of jackson
pollock in his
garage standing
over a canvas
with a cigarette
in his mouth,
his lean tired body
straddling
the empty
white abyss,
splattering paint
like a mad man.
house paint, no
less. brushes
and stir sticks like
tongues of demons
dripping with oils,
reds and orange,
black and peacock blue,
all slung as if by a
demented
drunk man, which is
entirely possible.
it's the genius of
this. of this lawlessnes
this anti-art, this rebellion
towards things in
order, that gives
you hope and keeps
your own canvas wet.

the denist

in traffic
you see the side
of a bus beside
you.
there is a large
colorful ad
for a dentist.
strangely enough
it's your dentist.
a man is in
the chair with
his mouth
wide open, his
white teeth
are the size of your
head, a woman
wearing a white
smock is smiling
while she holds a
gleaming syringe
in the air,
the pointed tip wet
with
novocaine.
as the bus moves
down the street
her eyes follow you.
this makes you
roll down
your window and
spit your gum out.

the happy pain

when your father
came home early,
early for him, he would
come into the room
and kiss you goodnight.
you felt the rough
bristles of his cheek,
smelled the whiskey
on his breath like a
dangerous cloud.
he'd rub his fingers
together near your ear
and pull out a dime.
those were the good
nights.  he'd say
goodnight then
leave, closing
the door. but you
could still hear
the clinking of glasses
in the livingroom,
the playful chase
and then your
parents bedroom
door close gently
against the frame..
the sighs and noise,
the flesh on flesh
was muted by walls
and wood, but enough
seeped under the door
to hear
your mother's voice
enduring and enjoying
some sort of happy pain.
or so it seemed.
the other nights,
involved a different
kind of pain altogether.

mormons at the door

as soon as you get home
you make yourself
a highball, then
you unbutton your shirt
and throw it down
the steps to the basement
you unbuckle your
belt pull down the zipper
and step out of your
pants, they too go in a ball
down the steps towards
the laundry room.
your underwear follows,
as does your socks.
you take a long gulp
of your drink, letting
the ice clink against
your teeth,
and standing there
naked without a thread on
you see two mormons
at your glass storm
door in their
coats and ties, white
shirts. they shake their
heads with their little boy
haircuts and keep
knocking. they have
the look of determination
on their faces, as if they
really have some work
to do.

shades of grey

you see them gathered
in the coffee shops,
in the park with
the strollers, sitting
in groups talking
in whispers, smiles
on their flushed faces,
excited, knitting
in circles, talking
in hurried turns about
their favorite parts
of the book, how
secretly that they too
wished their man
would do this, do
that, and then
nervous laughter as
they stare at one another
for that knowing look,
each holding a copy
of the trilogy of fifty
shades of grey
in their warm
and stirring laps.

let's say

let's say that the story
is a good one
with a happy ending.
no one gets hurt.
there are only blue
skies and birds
chirping. let's say
that no one ever
dies, that nothing goes
wrong, that you can
always fall asleep
and wake up with
a smile and something
like hope on
your lips. let's  say,
for this storys sake,
that there is a happy
ending and leave
out all of the bad
things that are true
and eventual in our
lives. let's just say
that for now, and leave
it as it is.

stage fright

you have stage
fright.
fear of  being found
out
for the fool
you really are.
sweat grows
beneath your arms,
your throat
constricts and you
can hardly swallow.
your heart beats
like a snare
drum at the mercy
of buddy rich.
or ginger baker.
you can't face
the audience,
you've built
a house of cards
with your days
and nights. you can't
go out there and
be found out,
for then what?
it's best to stay
put behind the screen,
hidden in the shadows
with the curtain
never raised.

at night

at night
you walk the streets.
no one is around.
it's quiet.
it might be winter.
there may be
a moon, there may
be stars, it doesn't
matter.
it's dark and it's
quiet. you can
think this way.
being alone.
you can figure things
out. your mind
clears of the days
debris.
it's not dreaming
but it's close.
the long walk
in the dark
at night.

animal house

you leave your door
open all night.
you have gone
to bed and not locked
up. when you come
down the stairs
the livingroom is full
of animals.
they have come in
and made themselves
at home. a raccoon
is on the couch having
a cup of coffee,
the badger has the remote
and is searching
for animal planet.
a few birds are on
the shelf in a line.
three grey squirrels are
trying to open up
a jar of planters nuts,
while a small black
bear is in the fridge
licking clean a butter
tub. what the hell,
you say, which makes
them all laugh.
you shake your head,
grab your briefcase
and head to work.
lock up when you leave
you tell them,
and clean up after
yourselves.

california dreaming

in your mind
you buy a surfboard
and move to california.
you start slowly
to change your diet.
nuts and berries
replacing potato chips
and red meat.
tea instead of coffee,
white wine
instead of vodka.
you buy an old
vw bus and paint
the sides with wild
colors. purple and blue,
red and orange.
you begin to drive
across country and pick
up a hitchhiker.
her name is amber
and she has long
dark hair, and green eyes.
she's wearing a leather
vest, and a headband.
you ask her which direction
she is going and she
smiles and says any
direction you go, i want
to go too. which makes
you smile. she lights
an illegal cigarette
and passes it too you.
in a short while you pull
over and make love for
what seems like hours.
then you hear a voice and
feel a tapping on your
shoulder, someone is
telling you to wake up,
wake up, my parents are
coming over today and you
need to cut the grass
and clean up after
the dog.
 

the soup line

the bread line
runs parallel
to the soup line
which is next
to the  gourmet
coffee shop
where its line
runs out the door.
the haves
and have nots
have suddenly
come together.
now they both
sit and ponder
life on their
laptops, almost
indistinguishable
from each
other.

politics

you fall asleep
in the middle of dinner.
someone is talking
politics. you are out
for a few minutes,
face down in your
plate. there are mashed
potatoes in your eyes.
gravy and steak sauce
on your cheeks.
no one seems to notice.
someone says something
about the economy,
and another about
immigration, the woman
to your right says
she needs to go to
the bathroom and wants
you to move. she points
at the food on your face
and hands you a napkin.
the man at the end of
the table says that he has
enough dried goods,
fresh water
and ammo to last him
at least a year if things
go wrong in the next
election. someone asks
you a question about
where you stand on the
issues of the day, and they
all stop talking and turn
to look at you, but you
don't hear the question,
you are busy trying to get
a snow pea out of your nose.

the found wallet

you find a wallet on the street.
it's full of money and credit
cards, there's a library card too.
green and glossy, unused.
there's a picture of a woman,
a glamour shot. blonde hair
and lipstick, she's staring off
into the clouds as if in
love, or about to fall asleep.
there is another picture of her
in a  bathing suit, showing
off her long tanned legs.
there's a man's driver's license
inside with an address.
the man's face is a pale
pink smudge, a mug shot
of a photo. undeserving
of the queen bee you
judgementally think, but
maybe he had a bad day.
maybe they don't get along.
she's high maintenace needs
a lot of new shoes, and he
drinks to soothe his anxiety
about his job, his wife who
is too beautiful for him.
those legs, that smooth skin.
he can't sleep, look at his
eyes, half mast.
and the lines etched
in his forehead. he's too
young for that face. he
appears worried.  maybe
she's cheating
on him while he slaves away
at work, trying to keep her
in the things she loves. those
shoes. what the hell is wrong
with her being so needy.
you look at the address again
on the driver's license, you
could be there in an hour
on the subway and then
the cross town bus. maybe you
should take the wallet there
yourself and give that woman
a piece of your mind, but no.
it starts to rain. you see a
mailbox on the corner and
drop it in. who's got time
for these people.

the wet cat

why are you so
mean to me
she says
pouting, staring out
the window at
the grey rain, the black
streets, a soaked cat
slowly slinking across
the lawn. but i'm not
mean, you tell her.
i'm aloof and distant
at times,
i'll give you that,
but there are no mean
bones in my body.
i think you
misunderstand me.
i want a cat, she says.
still looking out the window.
i know you hate cats, but
do you mind if i have
a cat. sure, you tell her,
i love cats,
why not, in fact just
to show you how nice
i am we'll go to the cat
pound and pick one
up today, just as soon
as it stops raining.
no need, she says
and goes to the door
to let the wet cat in.

the fish are jumping

the fish are jumping.
you don't
know why, but you
can see
the silver splashes
along the lake,
there's something
going on below
the surface that you
don't know about,
there's more to
everything than
meets the eye.

nothing changes

nothing changes.
not really.
but everything is
different.
the clothes you wear.
the bed you
sleep in.
the work you do.
even the food
you eat is new.
the moon, as old
as it is, is fresh
against the sky.
the lips that press
against yours
are also new.
but nothing changes.
not really.

the next train

there are times
when you feel
like you are living
in between
the lines.
inbetween
the breaths that
you take, in that
small space
before the next
heart beat
takes place.
you are in limbo
waiting, waiting
for the next
train, the next
change of seasons.
the next love
to slip in and put
her arm
around you
even though she's
already arrived.

your new free phone

your old phone would
neither turn on
or go off.
it repeated incessantly
for two hours the word
droid.
droid
droid.
so you take it in
to the horizon center
and the twelve year
old technician
holds it up to the light.
what's that he says,
what's that goo all
over it.
gravy, you tell him.
maybe some mashed
potatoes too.
oh, he says and
removes the battery
with a twist of his
hand  and puts it back
in. it stops saying droid.
finally.
there you go mister.
just like new. but,
he says excitedly,
if you want a
new phone, we
have free ones today
on that shelf over there.
free, you say,
raising your eyebrows
like groucho marx.
(don't ask)
as in no money,
nothing. it's free.
yes, he says smiling
showing the tacos
he had for lunch
stuck in his silver
braces. yes sir, he
says. free.
so you go over to
the shelf, pick one up,
shrug your shoulders
say pfff, and
get a new free phone.
of course you need a
car charger, a home
charger, a case,
an insurance plan,
and a upgrade on your
minutes, and data, so three
hundred dollars later,
you have your new free phone.
and it's gravy free
so far.

 

cat love

she went in
for a new
kidney
a new heart
a new hip
and a lobotomy.
her knees
needed
scoping too,
not to mention
the cataracts
and liposcution.
but other than
that, she was
good to go.
you love
your cat,
and would do
anything for
her. the parakeet,
not so much.

the live wire

when touching
a wire
wet
connected
to the switch
and outlet
a stream
of harsh
electricity
runs through one
arm,
through
your heart
and out
the other hand.
it rattles
you, and
makes you dizzy.
you fall
back, free
of the sting,
but more
cafeful now
of what love
can do.
 

rip it off

like a bandaid
just pull
it off in one
quick motion
and tell
him the truth
she says,
friend to
friend in front
of the fire.
rip it off.
it will hurt
no doubt,
but not as much
as the slow
tear against
the wounded
flesh.
be kind, and
rip it off. it's
the best way
to end
things.

the snowflake

a flake
of snow,
a grain,
of sand
a kiss,
a smile
a hand
laced in
a hand.
the seasons
that we share,
the moments
that are
ours,
the moon
is laid
bare by
the absence of
stars.
come here
and stay
awhile
don't fade,
don't leave,
don't melt
away.

we are alone

moon dust,
martian soil,
meteor crumbs,
all probed
and pulled
dissected
to the point
of molecules.
they want
so badly to find
life beyond
this planet. they
point telescopes
out into the
stars, radar
dishes
rotating and pulsing
with our buzz.
and yet.
another war
breaks out,
another child
starves,
another act of
violence occurs.
no wonder
they stay hidden. 

what's her name?

the doctor comes into
the room
and places
a stethoscope
against
your bare chest.
it's cold. he listens
and nods. fast, he
says. it's beating
very fast.
he touches
your forehead,
you're warm too,
stick out your
tongue, oh my
he says, here
put this in your mouth
and in goes
a glass
thermometer.
he knocks on
your knee making
it tremble
and kick out,
hmmm, he says.
you look tired,
very tired,
but happy, he says.
so tell me,
what's her name
and does she have
a sister my age.

bus ride in mexico

in mexico
once. not knowing
the currency,
you handed
the bus driver
a bill. he gave you
change.
you took your
seat not
knowing that
what he gave
you back
was play money
from a children's
game.
he knew that you
had no clue,
and smiled
happily
as you took your
seat
and stared out
the window
at the vast wasteland
that was cancun.

the ocean

the ocean
speaks to you.
it whispers
it roars, it screams.
it's silent
and blue.
it's your wife,
your husband,
your children,
a friend
an enemy.
the ocean is every
one you
ever knew
and have
forgotten.
it's a place
between
far away shores.
it's where your
dreams lie,
where your failures
have risen
and sailed away.
it's the beginning
of your life.
it's the end
of your life. it
welcomes you
with a cold
embrace
that warms.
 

things borrowed

things borrowed
get lost
or forgotten
and a calm
but blue bitterness
sets in
about the book
you loved
and lent, then
never returned.
soon you resist
the good
giving side
of your nature
and become one
of them, but it
passes
and before long
you are giving,
things away,
though less
important,
once again.

the snake woman

the woman,
a street artist
with the snake
wrapped around
her shoulders
and neck, and arms
is a study
in insanity
you think while
you lick  a
strawberry italian
ice on
the sidewalk
of new york city,
but then again,
you had a pet
cricket once, so
to each his own.

sleep like nobody's watching

everyone's a buddhist
now. going to
their happy
place and
living in the moment.
dancing
like no nobody's
watching,
and hopefully nobody
is, especially if
it's me doing
the dancing.
being baptist
or lutheran just doesn't
cut it anymore.
the sermon,
the preaching,
the guilt,
the begging for money.
people want a
more portable
religion or philosophy
to live by. they want
the pain gone,
the suffering to
end. you can hardly
blame them.

the nun

the nun
with her ruler
and black
shroud
rimmed in white
haunts you,
every mistep
along the way,
every left turn
you've taken
when you should
have gone right.
she's standing
at the front of
the room,.
slapping a ruler
against her
pink hard hand.
her black eyes
shadowed
by the cross
and the altar,
the centuries
of evil disguised
as good.
 

the secret to everything

yesterdays
are dried leaves
falling
on the lawn.
don't live there,
the green is
gone.
they're done.
lost loves
are trees
fallen in the storm.
let them lie
and rot
and float
away in the flood
of days
turned into years.
here's the secret
to everything.
let it go.
.
 

salt water taffy

i'm a traveler, she
says. i just love love
love to pack a bag
and go whichever way
the wind blows.
i've been to tunisia
and cambodia, she
looks up to the ceiling,
and bangladesh,
counting off countries
with her fingers.
thailand, what about
southeast asia,
have you ever been
there, or the ivory
coast. no, oh my,
you don't know
what you're missing.
brazil, what about
brazil or columbia.
nope, you tell her.
never been there
either.  have
you have ever been
to china, or taken
the tansiberian railroad
across russia? no?
well, it's a must, i
tell you, i went last
summer and had a ball.
australia, please tell
me you've been there.
i just love those little
kangaroos.
or london, or berlin.
you shake your head,
chewing on a salt
water taffy. so where
do you like to go then,
she says, exasperated,
what's your go to vacation
destination.
ummm, you say,
unsticking your teeth
from a banana flavored
taffy. i like ocean city a lot.
the french fries there
are to die for, not to mention
the taffy. here, have one.
it's only a year old.

the autum game

you remember the feel
of the leather ball
spiraling off your hand
down field, effortlessly
across the grass
below the blue sky,
the air cool and fresh,
an autum ritual with
childhood friends still
at it in mid life.
you can still feel
the burn in your lungs,
the hard muscles
of your legs churing
churning towards
a goal line, in another
game. you remember
this and smile, you
remember the days
that would never
end, and don't.

the small print

the small print
tells you everything
you don't want to
know and they don't
want to tell you.
so they whisper
it in tiny letters,
hardly readable
with a light or
good eyes.
the small print
is everywhere.
it's on the back of
a perscription
bottle, on a contract
for a house, a car,
a can of food.
the small print will
save your life,
or take it, if
only you could read
what it says.

 

clouds too

how grass continues
to grow.
no one needs to tell
it what to do.
how high, or what
color, where to stop
and stand
it just keeps coming
up green
and green again.
there is something
beyond what we
see, what we want
to believe or
disbelieve. and clouds
them too.

your hair style

you thought about
joining the army
or the navy when you
were younger.
but you didn't feel
like dying at the time,
or cutting your hair.
things were
different then.
patriotism was
measured in other
ways, besides
putting on a uniform
and going to war.
it was more about
marching to end
wars, but there
was only one going
on at the time so
it was easy to focus
and the government
couldn't be trusted.
i guess in many ways
nothing has really
changed, but your
hair style, or lack
thereof.
 

this can't be good

in another life
you were an indian
standing on the banks
of the virginia shore
as the first ships
approached,
the white sails
billowing against
the blue sky.
you remember
shaking your head,
while you snacked
on a roasted squirrel
and saying, what
the hell, this can't
be good. little dog
go get my bow and
arrows, and tell
the others we got
company.

cake poem

you nibble away
at the edges
of a cake.
a small bite
here, a knife left
on the dish
for that late
night sliver
as you stand in
the light
of the icebox.
you lift it
to your open mouth.
the icing on
your lips.
a trail of cold
sweet
crumbs follows
you up
the stairs.
and when you
awaken
in the morning,
wanting more
you suddenly
realize
that's how you feel
about her.

faith

the broken bone,
the busted heart
the twisted
tree, fallen.
the spent night,
alone,
the empty
glass, a cross
stitched snake
looking for
a leg to bite.
the water rising.
but things,
despite all of this
are alright.

rinse and repeat

a row
of blue houses
on a one
way street.
a square of green
grass,
shutters and doors.
fences
and chimneys.
a dog
in the yard
a kid
in the window.
a car in the driveway
a roast
in the oven.
fifty years come
and go.
rinse and repeat.

read books

read books.
sleep in.
let go and love.
smell
the roses.
eat well,
laugh.
listen and
touch. don't
hurt anyone.
read books.

the pink house
nestled in a ridge
along the steep
wintry hill
a slip of smoke
eeking
from a chimney
in the torn roof.
a pale
round face
in the window.
a rusted bicycle
in the yard. a moon
scattering
light across
the snow crusted
lawn. a dog
running along
the chain link
fence, barking
at a car moving
slowly up the street.
with a man
driving. he's
dressed in a red
felt suit, there
are bells on his
sleeves. his beard
is white
and glistening
with jack daniels.

camping out

let's go camping,
she says.
but i don't like
beans, you tell her,
not in a can, not over
an open fire. plus,
the ground is too
hard, i can't sleep
like an animal.
no, no, she says.
we have air mattress
and quiche,
and i'll fry us up
some pork chops
on the grill
and roasted potatoes.
it will be fun to be
out in the wilderness.
what about the game,
you tell her, i'll
miss the game.
oh no you won't
she says. i have
a generator that will
provide us with
heat and electricity.
we'll bring the small tv.
we'll have all
the comforts of home,
she says smiling,
packing utensils
into her backpack.
what about grizzly
bears, you ask her,
rubbing your eyebrowns,
shifting your feet.
pffft. that's why i have
this rifle, and this
stun gun and this bear
away spray. come on,
don't be a girly man
sissy, let's go.
then she holds up a
bag from victoria secrets.
and raises her eyebrows
up and down.
new camping sleepwear
she says. and i have
heels to match.
let's go you say.
let me get my hat.

marshall hall

the wooden roller
coaster at marshall
hall in southern
maryland
was on wobbly stilts
with peeling paint.
it appeared ready
to collapse at any
given moment
under a breath of wind.
the rusted metal cars
screeched
and screamed
along the worn
glistening rails.
how many died,
no one knows
for sure,
the death count
was never revealed,
but it was an act
of courage to get on,
strap in,
and scream as it
clicked and clacked
slowly up that first
steep hill. struggling
to rise to the top
of the park before
plummeting into
the dark abyss of hell
where you could see
a mechanic tightening
a screw or two
beneath the boards.
it then whipped
you around like
a rag doll for
another five
frenzied minutes.
prayer was mandatory.
and whatever you
had eaten
was often left behind.
and then you went again.