around the corner

love is right around
the corner she tells
you over coffee.
i can feel it.
i think it's in
florida to be specific,
on the coast,
near a beach. maybe
miami. i think love
might be there. that's
not exactly right
around the corner,
you tell her, not wanting
to burst her love
bubble of hope,
you're right she says.
but i feel drawn
to florida. i see
a lawyer in my future,
a rich lawyer with
a white mercedes
and a mansion with
palm trees. you
lean over and take a
sip of her coffee,
what exactly have
you been drinking?

tuna sandwich

you find an old
sandwich between
the cushions
of your couch,
tuna
wrapped in plastic.
it's green
on the edges.
you give it
a sniff
and shake your
head. you dig
deeper
into the sides
of the pillows.
some chips
are there,
a half of brownie
from when
your neighbor
came over with
a plate of
food at
thanksgiving.
you find a stick
of gum too,
which is still
good for
chewing, you
you realize
as you blow
a bubble that
this is why you
need another dog.

travel

you don't travel
well, whether
by train
or bus, or car.
the plane
is a long tunnel
of cramped legs,
stale air,
and pain. you'd
much prefer
to walk somewhere
to visit and
then leave when
the bottle is
empty, the plate
clean.

finished

she leaves her
watch
on the table.
you wrap it up
and give it
to someone else
for christmas.
it's a nice
watch.
all night you
can hear it
tick tick
tick inside
the silvery
paper with a
red ribbon around
it. this is how
you finish
your shopping.

i am not a racehorse

your friend from
germany
who used to visit
every blue
moon wore
prada
and gucci, leather
boots
and a feathery
boa
wrapped around
her tanned
neck, even at
high noon. i am
not a racehorse,
she used
to say to you
in the heat of
a romantic
moment, don't
slap me and you
listened because
you were afraid.

standing on his head

there used to be
a blind
man on the boardwalk
in ocean city
maryland
who stood
on his head
and sang
elvis songs for
money. his
hat was
full of bills
and change
beside his inverted
ears and face,
dark sunglasses
still hanging
on his nose.
being blind
and singing
wasn't quite enough
he must have
thought and needed
to do more.

sign here

no salesman
will call, or come
to your home.
today only.
this free sample
will do more
in one day
than an army
of maids. it will
change your life,
make you
younger, more
virile, make
you smarter and
stronger
overnight.
it will save you
time and money.
no salesman
will call,
try it, it's free.
it's a one time
deal. today only.
guaranteed
to not fail
or your money
back. sign here,
no salesman
will call.

looking for something

she used to rummage
through
your things when
you weren't home.
emptying pockets
of pants
on the door,
lifting
desks, opening
drawers, flipping
through books
waiting for something
to fall out.
some sort of note
or message that would
tell her the truth
about where we
stood, she never knew
that her looking
was what said
it all.

her christmas list

you make a list
of the things she
needs, or at least of
the things you think
she needs for xmas.
first a tv
and a cable package
so that you can
catch all the games,
then a lamp for her
nightstand
so that you, not
her can read,
because she's asleep
by nine. a few
large bath towels
would be nice too
instead of those
dainty little
ones that can barely
wrap around you.
and some man soap,
some bars that smell
like musk or tree
trunks, the scent
of leather.
you can't walk around
smelling like
lavendar all day.
a few tools, a screw
driver and a
hammer would be nice
for her too.
maybe a cook book
on rib roasts.
oh, and lingerie
and heels.
black and sheer,
shiny. she really needs
that too.

the gift card

you are a bad
gift wrapper.
you know that.
you're willing to
admit this
one fault
you have, or at
least that you
are willing
to admit to.
it's ugly
what you do with
paper and scissors,
scotch tape. crude
and crazy are
the folds
onto one another.
people laugh
when you hand
them a package,
and cringe.
it's gift cards
for all
next year with
one of those
sticky ribbons
attached.

her tears

her tears
are broken glass
upon the floor
shards
that you step on
and bleed.
the trail
of you is on
the white
carpet.
footprints
of guilt
and remorse.
her tears,
your blood, it's
not a good way
to start
the holidays.

after the first

after this last
cookie
you will go on
a diet.
after this egg
nog and one
more slice of
pie, after this
chocolate
in a foil,
right after this
pile of mashed
potatoes
covered in gravy,
after this
mound of stuffing,
right after
dinner and
dessert.
immediately following
this midnight
ham sandwich.
right after the first
of the year,
for sure, the
diet will begin,
again.

frosty the snowman

the man across the way
has inflated
a giant cartoon
snow man which is
tethered to his roof.
he does this every year.
it floats above his
house lit up in
neon bright white
with a red scarf
and tall black hat.
his face is a curved
line with a drawn
pipe sticking out
of his grin.
it can be seen
from outerspace
and it will
be there until
after the first of
the year. yesterday
you saw his third wife
getting into a cab
with lots of luggage.

a distant third

you ache
from work, your
back is sore,
your legs
feel the weight
of the day.
your eyes burn.
your feet steam
as your shoes
come off.
you stare
at your hands
still curled
with the tools
you held all
day. food and
sleep is what
you want and need,
that's all for now.
love is very
distant third.

no really, it's all delicious

when she would
bang the pots and
pans in the kitchen
and the dishes
went away
with loud clangs
against one
another, you knew
that something
was amiss.
and when the aspirin
bottle came out
and she put on
her prairie night
gown before going
to bed, well
you knew even
further that you
never should said
that the potatoes
were lumpy and that
the meat was
overcooked.

ducks at the lake

you decide to sleep
in on the day
the world is supposed
to end according
to the mayan calendar.
you shave and shower,
you fix some coffee
and go sit out in
the backyard, you
stretch your legs
read the paper.
the headlines are
in bold black ink
saying, the world
will end today, maybe.
it's a pleasant day.
blue skies with some
nice soft clouds
lingering about.
you think about some
things you could do
if the world
doesn't end. there's
a movie you'd like
to see. it's early
and they're still
serving breakfast
at the diner. maybe
you'll take a walk,
feed the ducks some
bread down at the lake.

eight ball

you shake
your mystical
eight ball
and ask it
a question,
the answer is
maybe, too
early to tell.
you shake it
again, and ask
the same question,
this time it
reads, yes,
most definitely.
you give it
one more shake,
and it says
quit shaking me
and go figure it
out yourself.
i'm just a silly
eight ball.

the others

on less
than one
hand
you count
the true loves
of your life,
on your
other hand
and toes,
and those
of riders
upon the bus
you count
the others.

your mistress

work awaits you
at the end of this
hot bath,
at the end of this
cup of coffee,
work sits patiently
for you to arrive
at the end of
your morning drive.
she is your mistress,
your friend
with benefits. you
fear her running
away and leaving
you empty with nothing
for your hands
to do.

harp music

someone is playing
a harp
in the building.
you can hear
it come up through
the vents.
rising like wisps
of musical smoke
into your ears.
the angelic
strings make you
lie down and listen,
your heart beats
slower, a smile
erases the frown
upon your face,
you rise somehow
to another level
of consciousness.
you don't want it
to end, you want
it to play all
night long, but
then the police
arrive to make
it stop. not every
ear is happy.

book marks

slips
of paper
between pages
of books
stopped
in mid sentence
holding the
point of
boredom
and disinterest
in tact,
but i hope
it's not
why you left
that blank
note upon
my pillow.

the old house

before you leave
the old house,
you take a seat
on the empty steps
and listen
to the pipes
creak, to windows
seep with
winter air
you hear the trickle
of water
from the faucets.
the shutters
bang against
the siding,
there are ghosts
in the attic
mice in the cellar
you'll miss all
of this and them,
but it's time
to go.

the prodigal dog

gone for
several days
the dog limps
home,
more slender
and dirty
than ever,
but happy
to be back.
you don't ask
him
where he's
been or what
he's been up
to. you are just
glad to see
him home
and wagging
his tail,
sleeping
in the sun
spot at
the window.
you place a bone
in his
dish and make
sure this
time you
lock the gate.

fading fast

a big part of me is
sad, she tells you while
lying down on the couch
with a cat
on her belly.
i feel a general
malaise about
my life, about
my future. i even
question my own
sanity at times. it
feels like i'm
becoming invisible.
she strokes the grey
cat and sips
from a long straw
poking out of a
fresca can on the floor.
i'm going to the store,
you tell her.
we're out of chips,
do you need anything?
pick me up a life,
would you, and some
sleeping pills.
how about some ice
cream you tell her,
rocky road. perfect she
says. get some
whipped cream too.
it's that bad. hurry,
i'm fading fast.

no orange

your friend ernie
who is a welder
at the ship yard
likes to dress up in
women's clothes.
this doesn't bother
you too much,
to each his own,
but what does
bother you
is his choice
of colors and hues.
there should be a
rule, no orange,
no lime green
no cranberry
shoes at least
on men pretending
to be women, and
perhaps for women
too.

delusions

the taste
of your own
blood
caused by
nipping the
tip of your tongue
with your
teeth
when stepping
off an
unseen curb
is salty
and warm, not
what you'd
expect from
someone so sweet
and wonderful
as you are.

making plans for retirement

so where would you like
to retire
she asks you over
drinks at the lizard
lounge near the airport.
what's your plan
for your golden years.
i have no plans,
you tell her. maybe
i'll get a job
here as a bartender.
don't you want to golf
and fish, spend your
time walking the beach.
nah, not for me.
i hate golf, it's a
stupid game and fishing
is for losers. safeway
has fish, in case
you haven't heard.
and i can't lie on
a beach anymore for
more than three minutes
without being bored.
so what's your plan
then she says, sipping
her pink cosmo and
inching away from you,
i'd like to keep things
exactly they way
they are, but maybe
move somewhere with
room service and a
maid. i'd be happy
then.

sweet dreams

she sleeps
through the storm,
the wind
and hail,
the rain that
beats a drum,
she's in a
sweet dream
as the dog
barks and
sirens wail
somewhere down
the road,
but snore for
a second and
she's on you
with a hair
against your
shoulder.

cat and mouse

hardly a peep
comes out of the mouse
hole, but you
know he's in
there watching
you place
cheese onto
crackers, drinking
your wine.
making small talk
to your date,
listening to
music. he has all
the time in
the world, waiting
for you to make
your move
and for her to
say yes.
he doesn't see
the cat
on the sill, with
more time
and patience
than all of you.

raking leaves

again
you rake
the leaves
and more fall.
again
and again.
your arms
sweep them
into piles
to burn or
haul away.
you savor
the agains
in your
life, even
this. this
simple
act of nature.

death has no
disguise.
it appears and
takes
when and what
it wants
and leaves
a space
where you once
stood.
no words
will heal,
nothing can
change the darkness
found,
sorrow
being holy
ground.

the day off

your regular
doctor has taken
the day off,
so has your barista,
your coffee is
a shot short
and your doorman,
is gone,
someone named
franz is holding
the door open,
but not wide
enough. each has
decided to take
a mental health
day. your mechanic
too, he can't change
your oil
and plugs this
morning,he's gone.
you call your
mother, but she's
not in either,
a temp is
standing in,
stirring red
sauce at the stove.
call back tomorrow,
she says
and hangs up
abruptly.
you throw your
hands into the air
and sigh, you take
a walk through
the park, where
you see all of them
feeding bread
to the pigeons.

in a cold sweat

you wake up
in a cold sweat, you
are shaking
with fear, your
legs tremble
and you have a twitch
in your eye.
what is it, she
says, what's wrong.
i had a bad
dream, you tell
her, a nightmare.
what was it,
she says, wiping
your brow with
her hand. you're
pale, and cold.
oh my, look at you.
i was standing
at an altar, you
tell her in a hoarse
whipser, trying
to calm down,
and i was getting
married again.
to who, who was it?
i don't know, you
tell her.
does it matter?

the art world

do you like my
art, he says,
pointing
towards a tin
fish can
with a ripped
label, it's
ummm, interesting,
you tell him.
moving on to
the next piece
which is a dried
smelt
on a stick.
it's yellow
and you can see
beneath
the skin stick
like bones.
that took a year
he says,
i started first
with catfish,
then trout, then
finally found
my muse
with smelt.

anything green

the weather
has been unkind
with it's grey
hand slinging
ice and snow.
giving you
a whip of wind
across your bow,
the trees laid
bare and brown.
you shiver
and cringe
as the temperature
drops into
the teens. you
have no room
in your life for
this sort of
behavior. not
anymore, your
bones want warmth
and spring,
a smile of sun,
anything green.

peanut brittle

you buy a box
of peanut
brittle for a gift.
a small
gift, a stocking
stuffer if you will.
and it sits on
the table unwrapped
for a few days.
it isn't long
before it's opened
and you take
a small bite
off the end, who
will know?
but by nights
end, you have
peanuts and brittle
crumbs
all over your shirt,
you'll have to buy
another one.

the race

you see the runners
coming around
the lake, with their
numbered bibs
flapping
in the breeze,
sweating and red
faced, checking
their watches
for time,
and you notice
one woman eating
a brownie as she
runs at a leisurely
pace. you like
her style and want
her to win, but
she won't, she
doesn't care,
she's just doing
this for the cookout
at the finish line,
and for the brownies
she has tucked
in her hoodie. you
have to admire
that. knowing
what you want out
of life.

greg's list

you go on to greg's list
to sell a few things,
a table with a broken leg,
a fat heavy tv that works
perfectly fine expect
that it's as thick and
as heavy as a refrigerator,
and a lamp with frayed
wires. after making your
posts you wander a little
into the personals
where more frayed wires
are found, with pictures
too. women looking for
women, men looking for
men, man and women looking
for women, etc. it's
a buffet of sexual
choices and liaisons.
you can see by
the provocative listings
that it's all
about the photos
which makes you go
and set your lamp up
by the window, with
its crooked shade,
tilted towards the light
and you take its picture.

driving nails

you find pleasure
in driving a nail
into a thick
hard piece of wood
and seeing it go
flush against
the board.
you like the sound
of it. bang,
bang, bang.
you aren't a
carpenter, but
you know how to
hold a hammer,
how to hold
a nail steady
between a thumb
and finger
and then tap
hard again and
again against
the nail head
until it's set
and shines
with the small
dents of your
striking it. writing
can be like
that and while
others are building
books you keep
hammering away
at this.

just a few tweaks

sometimes you
pretend
that you know
nothing, and ask
questions you
already know
the answer to.
sometimes you
really do know
nothing, but keep
quiet, not wanting
others to
know how dumb
you are. you
confuse yourself
at times
and wonder if
it's a lack
of sleep, or
a bad diet, or
the absence of
true love
in your life
that causes you
this anxiety.
maybe you just need
to tweak a few
things, like
sleeping on
the other side
of the bed,
or adding
more fiber
to your day.
it's hard to say.

o little town of bethlehem

around the manager
scene, with
the baby jesus
lying in a bed
of straw
made of string,
and mary
and joseph, the assorted
farm animals
and the three
wise men bearing gifts
your mother would
set up an electric
train set with a small
town surrounding
them. apartment
buildings with
lights within,
a police station
and a water tower
overlooking
the bridges and
mirrored rivers.
she'd put
small smoke pellets
into the stack
as the train
moved around
and around the metal
tracks. then she'd
put on some frank
sinatra and fix
herself a highball
as we stared
at the little town
of bethlehem in
manahattan.

the domino effect

it's the domino
effect,
a new pair
of shoes leads
to a new
pair of pants,
a new coat,
and hat,
a shirt and tie.
before you know
it
you're wearing
a new watch
and ring,
your parting
your hair
on the other
side,
you've moved
to another part
of town,
you've
left your wife.

the christmas party

why are you always
looking at my bosoms
your office mate judy says
to you at the company
christmas party.
you shake your head
and point at yourself,
spilling eggnog
from your plastic
tumbler onto your red
sweater, what? me?
huh, what are you
talking about?
whenever we have a
conversation, your eyes
are staring directly
at my chest. you do
it all the time. all
the men in the office
do it too.
she adjusts
her dress so as to
hide her cleavage.
she's enormous
and it looks like
two large white
balloons trying to bust
out of her skin tight
black dress. it looks like
at any moment she could
go airborne.
i wasn't looking at
them, honest, you tell
her. i don't even like
breasts. i hate them.
i have this crik
in my neck and sometimes
i feel more comfortable
when i lean my head
down, like this. you
look downward to the floor
to demonstrate. like that,
you say. pffft, she says,
men! you men have a one
track mind. not true,
you plead, not true,
she shakes her head,
turning to go across
the room. you take a sip
of your drink
and watch her as she
slowly sashays away
in her red high heels.

civil war buttons

your friend jimmy
spends many
of his weekends
looking for civil
war buttons out
in the rolling
fields of virginia.
who was sewing these
buttons on, you ask
inquisitively,
and how many buttons
were on each soldier's
jacket? seems like there
are a lot of them
still out there.
didnt' they have
strong thread back then?
hey, he says, sternly,
don't be mocking
the civil war. you'll
see, my friend,
the south will
rise again.
whatever, you say,
and touch the button
on your l.l. bean shirt.
those buttons
are sacred, they come
off the uniforms of
brave men who died
in the service of
their country.
you nod, not mentioning
the slavery thing.
i have to run, he says.
i've got a reenactment
this saturday.
i'm going to get shot
at gettysburg. take
a look and tell me
if this looks realistic,
a canonball is going
to hit me in the head.
watch how i fall backwards
and tell me if it's okay.

cranberry cakes

the end
of the world
is coming soon,
your barista
tells you as he
fixes you
an extra hot
grande vanilla latte
with whipped
cream. you sort of
believe everything
he says now
because of his
forecast of rain
the other day.
it poured.
don't say
i didn't warn you,
he says, adjusting
his lip rings
and santa hat.
are you having
any specials that
morning, you ask
him, since
it's the end of
the world and all?
i'm not sure, he
says, but it makes
sense. my manager
comes in at
five, i'll run it
by her and let
you know the next
time you come in.
by the way, those
cranberry cakes are
two for one today.

the mistloe

her cold
is now my cold
we shouldn't have
kissed beneath
the mistletoe,
or in the hallway,
or on the stairs,
or in the subway
car, or
on the rooftop
and before we
went to sleep
and when we
awoke. her cold
is now my
cold, or is
it the other
way around, but
i blame it
on the mistletoe
for getting
the whole thing
started.

jingle bell blues

she's blue,
she's so blue
and down.
she's under water,
about
to drown.
her eyes are
half
open, her
mouth is empty
of words.
even her heart
slows
to the point
of nearly
stopping, it's
christmas time
again
in the city.

start again

can you finish
this for me, you
ask her, typing away
at the keyboard,
can you find an
appropriate ending
to this poem,
this story, this
stretched out piece
of writing that is
going nowhere.
let me see what you
have so far, she
says, read it to me.
so you do, which makes
her cringe and laugh,
it's junk, she says,
delete it all.
erase it and start
again. you're good
at that, aren't you.
you do it every
few years, or less.

nine days left

lost in
the garage
parking lot.
it looks familiar
this level,
those spots,
but there is
no sign of
your car, was
it blue or
green the painted
number
on the wall.
were you
up or down,
near the ramp
that leads in,
or out,
was the sun
on this side,
or that, it's
been so long
now, carrying
these bags,
clicking and
clicking at
your key with
only nine days
left to shop.

life on other planets

life on
other planets
is doubtful
because of
the absence
of water and air,
but more of
a worry is
that intelligent
life here
seems to
be waning with
the turn of
each new
year. something
in the water
perhaps,
or
that packaged
food, or
the ozone layer
seeping
out into space.
the effect of
gamma rays.
who knows,
who cares.

dog hotel

at the beach
there is a dog
hotel. it faces
the water
and up on
each short stone
balcony is a dog
of a different
size and color
barking.
they have a hard
time taking
a few days off
from being dogs
and just enjoying
the scenery,
the wash of
ocean upon
the sand,
the blue jewel
of sky before
them. they are not
unlike the men
and women
in their chairs,
with phones,
and laptops
in hand, unable
to let go.

at twenty five

in the darkened
bar, with music
filling
the smoked air,
you'd fall in love
with someone
who was equally
young and unaware,
there was so much
wisdom yet to learn
about the world
what it gives
and takes away,
but that wasn't a
thought that came
into your mind,
instead it was who's
place would you
both return to, would
it be hers, or
perhaps, if
the distance was
closer, mine.

it's just so

coins
fall from
your pockets as
you reach in
for bills or keys.
they roll
with a clink
and spin
off through cracks
or behind
impossible
things to move
or bend, to see.
like friends,
they come
and go, slipping
out beyond
your reach,
no purpose
to their dropping,
it's just so.

the portrait

patient
strokes of luck
from the painter's
hand
has made the portrait
just right,
catching
the royal wry smile,
the winkless
eye, about to,
the tense leg
pressing
towards the floor
and anxious
to leave, to be
anywhere but here,
posing,
pretending to be
so much more.

ordinary things

when an ordinary
thing,
such as a vase
on a table,
or knob upon a door,
or a person
staring into
the rain as he
sits and smokes
waiting for
it to cease to
pour
catches your eye,
it or they are
no longer ordinary,
but strange
glimpses into
the beauty of a
world that so often
passes us by.

fresh secrets

she tells
you a secret
whispering into
your ear.
you cup
your hand
across
the warm
words
holding them
there for
as long as
you can,
but over time
your arm
grows weary
and like
petals from
a cut flower
they fall
out onto
the floor for
everyone
to see.

lessons learned

others aren't
but you are always
surprised
when you make a mistake
or do something stupid.
it keeps happening.
you'd like to think
that you've wizened
with age, with each
wrinkle a lesson has
been learned. how many
more lessons could
there possibly be.
how many more wrinkles
can form on your
brow? an infinite
number appears
to be the answer.

visualization

the bartender sees you
walk in and sets up
your usual drink
of a dry martini
with an olive.
you throw it down
and tap for another.
tough day, he says.
tough life, you reply
back. but things will
change. you sip on
the second drink feeling
the quick spin of
the first. i'm reading
this book about
how to get everything
in life you ever
wanted. it teaches
you how to visualize what
you want. and poof,
you've got it. just think
it and voila, there
it is. i've been visualizing
a mercedes and a million
dollars lately.
sounds like a great book,
the bartender says,
mopping the bar with rag,
can i borrow
it after you're
done with it. i need
a new lawn mower. sure, you
tell him. the pages
might be a little crimped,
i like to read in the tub.
you finish off the rest
of your martini. another,
he says? sure, you tell him.
hey who's that blonde
in the corner over
there putting on lipstick,
never seen her
in here before.
yeah, she's new. she's
from texas, look at the hair.
i could introduce you.
nah. i'm going to close
my eyes and visualize
me and her together, you'll
see how this all works.
okay, he says, i'll
leave you alone for
a few minutes while
you do that.

without

without a mop
the floor stays dirty.
without a brush
the walls
go unpainted,
without a spoon
the soup
is unstirred
and sticks to
the bottom, without
your lips,
i go unkissed
for another day.

sweet oranges

we have sweet
oranges
here in florida
she says, warm beaches
and blue skies.
there is no
snow or ice, come
see me in florida
for the winter.
it would do
you good to get
away and relax
for awhile.
pack lightly
and leave your
cares behind.
it's a short flight,
you'll be here
in no time. tell
your wife
and children it's
work and you'll
be home before they
know it.
we have sweet
oranges here
in florida, she
says, come see me.
it will be fine.

the plow horse

you were
there building
the pyramids.
you were there
in the cotton
fields, there
in the barrel
of a ship
with an oar in
your hand.
you have been
a plow horse,
a slave,
owned by others.
made to work
for nearly
nothing but
the continuance
of life. you
were there,
when food was
out of reach,
and at times
you still feel
the whip, hear
the click
of gun pointed.
you still see
the sun
through a broken
pane of glass.
it's hard to get
away from there,
but you're trying,
you're really
trying.

melted cheese

like melted
cheese you fall
into bed
and sleep
draped
across the blankets
and sheets.
your head
sinks into
the pillow,
you are giddy
with exhaustion
and want nowhere
else to be
but here,
like melted
cheese, asleep.

botox for pups

when you get home from work
your dog, moe, is on the couch
watching tv with the remote
curled between his paws.
he tries to flip it
off before you see him
but it's too late.
what in the world are
you doing? you say to him.
he wags his tail
and points to the tv,
and then to the laptop
sitting next to him.
it's a dr. phil show on
botox. not just for people
is the title of the show.
animals too can get it.
they have an iguana
and a wild turkey on there
with before and after
photos. they definitely
look a lot younger.
moe shows me online that
pet smart is having a free
one time botox injection
for pets. but, but you
stammer. he sits up on
his hind legs and puts
his little paws out. i'm
at that age, he says,
where other dogs are
looking right through me,
like i'm invisible.
you check the wrinkles
around his eyes and
mouth. okay, okay, i
guess you could use some
adjustment here and there.
i'll take you, but no
more tv and internet
when i'm not home.
the last time you were
goofing around on
here, i got a virus
from you looking
at parisan alley cats.
i'm going to check your
history right now,
give me that laptop.

back to the basics

getting back
to the basics
you quit your
job and grow
a beard.
you sell your
car and buy a horse.
you get a butter churn
at a yard sale
in pennsylvania.
you make a shirt
out of a burlap
bag and build a
shanty on the edge
of town. you cash
in your retirement
fund and get some
hay for the horse.
you buy some chickens
too and a goat.
you like cheese.
you like milk too
so you get a cow
and some buckets
to squeeze the milk
into. by day two
you are exhausted by
getting back to
the basics and
realize that you've
made a big
mistake. day three
you shave your
beard and go beg
for your job back.

you have a dream
that you are
full of arrows
and that someone
is trying to
remove your scalp
with a hatchet.
you are not general
custer, but a lowly
soldier who followed
him into battle
because that is
what soldiers do.
they are loyal despite
the stupidity
of their leaders.
there are lots
of hollering and
whooping in your
dream, and when you
awaken you feel
someone poking you
in the side with a
fountain pen, hey,
hey she says, wake up.
it's just a dream.
you shake your
head and slide
your hand across
your scalp, where
your hair used to be.

that new car smell

despite
being used
with years
of miles
she had that
new car
smell, right
off the factory
lot.
shiny and fresh.
all the gadgets
pulsing
to go.
the windows
clean, a sparkle
to the headlights.
all the dirt
had been washed
away. all the
dents and dings
fixed and
buffed down.
she was perfect,
until you
got her on
the highway,
got behind the
wheel and then
she stalled
and the smoke
belched out.

your meal

teacups
full of tears
plates
full
of anxiety
and fear,
dishes
stacked
with left over
dreams.
sadness for
dessert.
a bitter
after dinner
drink
to wash it
all down.
you choose
the meal
that you eat.

the stockbroker

you blow on
your fingers as
you crouch
in the dark
tomb
of a bank vault.
a flashlight
is on the dial.
slowly you turn
the numbers
listening
to the click
click click,
then back again,
then forward
until it opens.
you pack your
satchel with
stacks of fresh
crisp bills.
all neatly
counted for you.
other people's
money.
it's a good life,
until you're
caught.

let it rain

she prays
and prays for
rain.
her field
is dry.
her lips are
parched.
the dress she
wears
holds the dust
of years.
she prays for
the clouds
to break
for the water
of love
to fall,
to make her
life green
again.

smoke signals

you read in an old
dust laden history
book about an indian
warrior who
breaks up with his
girlfriend
by sending her
smoke signals. this
does not bode
well for the indian
princess,
indignant, she
smoke signals back,
you couldn't get
on a horse and come
talk to me
and tell me why
you don't want to
see me anymore. oy
vey. some brave
warrior you are.
you are like so dead
to me now. she wants
to say more, but she
runs out of wood
for the fire, making
the warrior sigh
with relief.

your father

gradually
over time
the brick wall
leans
and falls,
the weight of
the earth
is too much
for the curve
of bricks
along the road.
it gives
way, and you
can almost
hear the sigh
of the ground
as it breaks
free and slides.
it only took
him eighty three
years to get
there.

have you been flossing

your dentist
is stalking you.
it's all about
the flossing.
you've been lazy
with the flossing.
she brow beats
you every time
you go in for
a cleaning.
you see her
peeking into
your bathroom
window. catching
her face in
the mirror.
quickly you grab
the thin string
and like a violin
play between
your molars, your
bicuspids,
your eye teeth
and crowns.
you see her
shaking her head
and motioning
how to do it
better. she
hangs from a tree
branch
in the yard,
her mouth open with
a perfect set of
piano teeth
shining annoyingly
in the moonlight.

write me a letter

write me a letter
like in
the old days.
with pen and paper.
sit down
with a lamp
at the desk,
crack open the window
and think
about what you
want to say.
crumble it up
and start again
if need be.
start with dear
followed by
my name. say
everything you
need to say, and
leave out words
like however, or
but, or we're not
on the same
page. don't say
i wish you luck,
or i'll never forget
you. i don't
want that kind
of letter. don't
send it if it is.

potato girl

you fall in love
with a potato
eating irish girl
with blue green
eyes and hair
as black as a night
without stars
or moon.
but you can't tell
her that, because
that would
change everything.
it's better to
keep quiet about
such things
having traveled
that road many
times before.

the mind reader

i can read your mind
she tells
you, staring
crazily into your
eyes. okay, you
say, what am i
thinking now.
right this second.
you are hungry,
she says,
hungry for love,
for affection,
for respect.
and what else,
you ask her, what
else? hold on,
she says, putting
her hands onto
your head
moving her nose
into your face,
her forehead
touching yours.
you are thinking
about....about.
chicken, fried
chicken, she says,
with mashed potatoes
and gravy.
got it, you say.
you're good, really
good.

trash day

before you can
run
the trash bags
out into
the rain in
your underwear
and tennis
shoes the truck
speeds backwards
into your court
and the olympic
sprinters in
orange jumpsuits
leap from the back
of the groaning
truck and pull
and throw the
gathering of
bags near the hydrant.
you are left
standing there
with there with
your own weeks
worth of garbage,
on your porch,
your eyes catching
glimpse of
the laughing men.

her hands

as a child
you would stare
at your
grandmother's
hands, bewildered
at what
age does. the wrinkles
and brown spots
along the skin,
crimped
like dried
paper, once wet
and left in
the sun.
the nails
were hard and red
buffed like
candied almonds,
the rings, a gold
band, a diamond
set, clustered
like melted
snow, aglow in the
overhead light.
she played the piano
with those hands,
moving easily across
the keys. you
never learned to
play, but
they are your
hands now.

the babies

in the dream
there is a baby
drowning.
no one moves,
but you.
you dive in
to save
the baby.
but when you
feel the cold
rush of
water around
you, you see
that there are
more and more
babies, that need
your help.
but your arms
are quickly
filled,
who gets saved,
who drowns
what water is
this
so full of
babies.

penguins

penguins
on the move
you see them
at dawn
at dusk,
in and out
of the subway.
down into
the tunnels,
briefcases
like fish
in their hands.
plodding
towards
the icy ocean
of time.
work giving
purpose.
family and love,
not
far behind.
penguins on
the move.

daylight fading

your daylight
is fading
as you move
through
the winter
of your years.
the snow
is deep with
memory.
the trees,
are bare of
leaves, those
you knew
for so many
summers.
across the white
lake
and into
the woods
where warm
arms await you
is where
you need to
go, where
you've always
been heading.

the long haul

she wants to talk
things out.
she says sit down,
i have a few
things to say
before you leave
today. what?
what is it, you
say, rubbing
your forehead.
i need to know
where this relationship
is heading.
are we both in
this for the long haul.
the long haul?
you repeat back.
this makes you
think of a tractor
trailer, hauling
lumber in
the great northwest.
rolling down
the highway with
trees tied down
behind you.
she snaps her fingers
at you, hey, hey.
are you listening
to me, you seem
to be drifting off.
no, i'm here, you
tell her.
so, what do you have
to say then, she
says. her hands are
folded under
her chin and she looks
like she's been
crying, or cutting onions
in the kitchen.
you sniff the air.
what's cooking you
say?

the expiration date

the expirtation
date is on
the bottle
and the can,
the box of
noodles
the carton
of milk,
nearly every
thing, but
us and spam.

the fresh grave

fresh flowers
on a fresh
grave. the dirt
still
overturned
without green.
the mourners
gone, out of
the morning rain.
back to what they
do. drinking
tea, having lunch,
doing laundry,
and bills, all
of the things
that are never,
unlike this,
quite done.

friendly lighting

you wake up
and revaluate your
body while
standing over
the bathroom
sink, looking
into the mirror.
when did that
wrinkle show up?
you grab your
stomach, maybe
some crunches today.
tighten that
belly up. you open
your mouth, checking
out your teeth.
how long has that
spinach been
stuck in there?
you look
at the mole
on the side
of your head, looks
the same as it
did a month ago.
but you could
be dead in a week
according to
web md if it's
the wrong kind of
mole. maybe later
you'll make a call
see if you can have
it scraped off
for the holidays.
the light is way
too bright in here.
you make a mental
note to put lesser
bulbs in over
the sink. friendly
lighting is the way
to go in this room.

a puddle of goo

you don't believe
in evolution,
the timeline
of monkeys into
men. dinosaurs
into sparrows,
and the magic
of god saying poof
there it all
is, is amazing
too. but lightning
striking a puddle
of goo and making
the elephant
and me, and you
seems more absurd
than the later,
at least from my
barely educated
view. i am quite
open for other
options.

one more

sit here.
next to me.
what's your
hurry,
set your bag
down. throw
that ticket
out the window.
no need to
go just yet.
stay another
night.
one more
morning, one
more everything
before
your flight.

the rub

she rubs you
the wrong
way.
she's an
itch you can't
reach,
a wound
that won't heal.
she's the pebble
in your shoe,
the inflammed
corner
of a broken
nail. she's
the nerve
below the tooth,
a twitch
in your eye.
she rubs
you the wrong
way. she'd like
nothing more
than to pinch
a nerve and see
you cry.

lunar voyage redux

they are planning
another trip
to the moon.
they need more
rocks. the moon
has rocks. no
air, no water,
no gravity to speak
of, but plenty
of rocks and dust,
silt and dirt
not unlike my backyard,
in fact i've got
dust on my bookshelves
they can have
if they want it,
free, no need to
spend another tax
dollar. take that
money and do something
useful with it. jobs,
education, food,
shelter, disease.
anything, but another
trip to the moon
for more rocks.

go to sleep now

you want someone
to tuck you in
when you go to bed
at night. to fluff
the pillow and
bring the sheet
and blanket up
to your chin. someone
to read you a story
and bring you a warm
mug of cocoa
with a marshmallow
on top.
you want someone
to sit there
while you ask them
questions like
where is god right
now. what's he doing.
why is there
death and disease.
wars and pestilence.
okay, okay, maybe you
don't want to know
any of that.
but just someone
to tuck you in,
kiss you on the forehead
before they leave.
someone to turn off
the lights
and say goodnight.
sleep tight.

your stupid relatives

you hate most
of your relatives
except your aunt
betty who is
in a coma, no
fault of her own,
but the rest of
them you could do
without.
they are all
big mouths
and louts for
the most part.
they cheat on
their taxes,
their wives, step
out on their
husbands,
throw trash out
the windows
on the highway.
they eat too much,
drink until
drunk, they tell
bad jokes,
and are prone
to making
inappropriate
noises at
the dinner table.
they chain smoke.
they are
disgusting
and rude, crude
and unsavory.
they haven't
read a single
a book between
them, but it's
christmas
and you are forced
to shake their
hands and hug
them as if
everything
is okay. somebody
please open
a window.

say what

you have a way
of saying the wrong
thing at the wrong
time, especially
after two martinis.
it's a knack
you have. a honed
and skilled talent
of being awkward
in situatiions
that demand sauveness
and politenees, but no.
did you gain weight
you say, or i think
i see a strand of
grey, bend towards
me into the light.
oh my, have you ever
thought of botox?
you should really stay
out of the sun.
how old are you
anyway?

another night

i'd like
another slice
of cake,
another
drink, another
kiss
from you
before
the morning
light comes in,
who wouldn't?
i'd like to
stay longer
and sleep
beside
you, listen
to you breathe,
feel your
skin against
mine. i'd
like another
night like
this. who
wouldn't?

the garden

you stake a fence
around your garden.
tomatoes, some peppers,
a few carrots
and radishes.
nothing to write
home about.
it's a small garden
in a small
yard, and you really
don't know what
you're doing.
but you want to see
what gives. what's
possible with a few
seeds and water,
some tending of
weeds, and an effort
to keep the rabbits
at bay. it's a
start. everything
is a start before
it ends.

sorry for whatever i did

when you were younger
you could manage
a fight with a bundle
of store cut flowers,
or a cheap bling ring
from the mall.
perhaps a box of lame
milk chocolates and
a poem with each line
a ryhme at the end.
the word love and sorry
would be sprinkled
about like seeds
hoping for rain
and forgiveness. but
now, at this stage
of the game,
you shrug and let
the storm roll by.
you take a nap and
hope that they just
get over it, whatever you
may have said or done.

the short line

there are two
lines out
the two
doors.
above one
it says
unhappy
and discontent
with life,
nothing ever
goes right.
the other one
says. i'm good.
you get in
the i'm
good line, but
it hasn't
always been
that way.

the white horse

you pick
the pretty white
horse,
on the merry go
round, with
a red saddle,
and painted
bright blue
eyes.
it's clean
and shiny.
you climb aboard
but it only
goes up
and down,
only circles
around and
around
going nowhere.
this disappointment,
you learn,
is only
the beginning.

keep going

i've done enough
you say.
worked long
and hard
throughout the years.
you turn your hands
over to show
the calluses
that you've earned.
you show them
your feet,
you tell them
to look
at how bent you are
from work.
enough you say.
i am old now.
i've done my time.
but they shake
their heads
and say, i'm
sorry, but there
is more to do.
keep going, keep
going. this is a
different day
and age.

dear jimmy

you begin an advice
column for the local paper.
dear jimmy, the first
reader writes. i think
my wife is cheating on
me. she doesn't like to
camp, hunt, fish or drink
beer with me and my
buddies. suddenly she's
gotten into great shape
at the gym and is buying
all new clothes
and lingerie which she
never wears for me.
i am enclosing a photo
of her with this letter
to show you how beautiful
she is. i just wished
she wanted to bowl,
or go down to the shooting
range with me sometimes.
it would bring us closer
together. signed,
mr. worried in georgetown.
you put the letter down
and stare at the photo.
hmmm, you say, then
begin to type.
dear mr. worried, please
have your soon to be
ex wife call me when
the ink dries on your
divorce papers, i think
i need to talk with
her in person.

see you soon

she begins
each day
with a prayer
before
she goes to work
at the office.
please help
me not to kill
anyone today,
she says.
then tells
her cat goodbye
see you in eleven
hours, use
the cat box
please, i left
you a treat
on the counter.

it begins to rain

you can't sleep, so
you drive all night
around the city,
out into the hellish
suburbs and back,
with most of the world
asleep.
truck drivers and bored
cabbies
cruise up next to you,
and nod.
the traffic lights
keep changing for
no one.
a few junkies
are on the corner.
a hooker or two
getting one last trick
in before the sun
comes up. the homeless
are on the steel
steam grates, head
on their concrete
pillows dreaming
of childhood. you keep
driving, into
the moonlight, away
from the moonlight.
the shadows are dark
hands, the pink street
lights are pale
and without hope.
the trucks drop off
their bundles of paper
onto the corners.
the cops are asleep
in their squad cars,
black brimmed hats
tilted down over their
bloodshot eyes.
it's the amnesty
of early morning. a
truce between good
and evil although each
is not far from
being the same. you
drive all night,
turn on your wipers,
turn down the radio.
it begins to rain.

the peach

you find
a peach in
your hand.
firm
and fuzzy,
yellowed
just right
in the sunlight
with a broken
stem
at the top
of it's curve.
it's soft
in your hand,
yet solid.
your mind
has already
told your lips
and mouth,
your tongue
what to expect.
which leaves
you with only
one thing left
to do.
and how
is this not
how i feel
about you.

in threes

sometimes
bad luck
comes in
threes.
the broken
lace, the flat
tire, the spilled
drink upon your
sleeve, but
good things
too can arrive
in threes,
like when
you kiss me,
then again and
once more
just before you
blow a kiss
and leave.

the reunion

they hold your class reunion
at the sunset lodge recreation
room. they use the ping
pong tables for the dishes
of food. chicken with the bones
removed. jello, three colors,
with fruit. mashed potatoes,
and kale. it's a healthy
meal. someone pins a photo
of you which looks like
your grandson onto the lapel
of your jacket.
the walkers clang against
one another as hugs are made
and greetings such as you
haven't changed a bit since
home room, are spoken.
there is a medical
staff standing by with
defribulators and gurneys.
your class song was in a goda
da vida, which is playing
loudly over the PA system.
several people yell out to turn
that music down for crying
out loud, i can't hear myself
think. the cheerleader, mandy,
you had a crush on has fallen
on the floor and somenone
is pounding on her chest
trying to get a piece of chicken
out that has lodged inside
her throat. the class
president gets up to make a
speech. he is wearing a powder
blue suit with white shoes.
he thanks everyone for coming
and tells the story about
how mindy liefer once drove
a driver's ed car into
the library. he tells that
story every ten years, so no
one laughs. mindy has stopped
coming to these things because
of that. she might be dead,
because no one can find her
on facebook. things wind down at
nine o'clock. they have to
get the room ready for bingo.
you grab a few brownies
off the table before they
fold it up. you wink at mary
sue ellen maggliano, the class
snitch and mother. she is wagging her
finger at you. you haven't
change a bit, have you little
mister she says. you either,
you say. you either.

the open door

a crowd gathers
over you
but you aren't there.
you've left
your body
and have healed.
there are lights
and police,
someone holds
your head in his
hands and asks
you if everything
is okay, he is
the man that has
run you over,
can you hear me
he says, but
you don't answer.
your lips
don't move.
the life of you
seeps out into
the cold night.
your blood rises
in steam as it pours
from your veins.
strangers cry at
the sight of you
lying there in the
street. once alive.
you suddenly
understand
everything and find
peace with
what you've done
with your life,
with your death.
it seems so simple
now, but you can't
tell them, they need
to find out on
their own. you want
to comfort them
with their grief,
but you are gone,
you have passed through
the open door.
there are no more
tomorrows, there is
now just today.

no health insurance

the doctor comes
into the waiting room
and curls his finger
at you, you're next he
says, come on in buddy.
he's eating a donut
and smoking a cigarette.
my trust in him
has slipped over
the year since losing
my health insurance.
take off your shirt
he says, i need to
listen to your heart.
better yet, just unbutton
the top three buttons,
there we go.
he puts the cold
stethescope against
your skin,
and says, okay. sounds
good to me.
open your mouth,
let's take a look
in there. whew. onions,
what'd you have a
tuna sandwich before
coming in? i don't see
nothing. looks good.
so what do you think
about the game on
sunday, he asks.
who's your money on.
you shrug your shoulders.
i don't know, you
say. i've got no dog
in that hunt.
huh, he says, writing
something down on
your chart. what the
hell does that mean?
you button up your
shirt and hop down off
the metal gurney.
that will be
three hundred dollars
he says, cash like
i said on the phone.
you pull out the money
and count the fifties
out for him, which
he puts into his
pocket. high five he
says, and you put
a hand up, which he
smacks, before leaving
to get another patient.

the gypsy next door

a gypsy woman moves
in next door
and plants a neon
sign in her yard.
it pulses bright
red and green.
she will read your
plam and tell you
your future,
if you have one
for a mere
twenty dollars.
for fifty you'll
get a full
reading plus
a back massage
by her assistant
candy.
she's a new age
gyspy wearing low
cut jeans and boots,
a button down white
shirt and a nice
casual red jacket.
i see her carrying
groceries in
when i get home
from work,
and she yells over,
hey, we're having
cornish hens tonight,
stop on by if you'd
like. we might play
a game of scrabble
too, unless you're
chicken. which makes
her laugh out loud,
showing her gold tooth.

change in the weather

changes come
fast, sometimes
without warning.
the weather for
instance, it's sunny
one moment and
raining the next.
affection can be that
way too. right
before sex, then
right after. funny
how that works
sometimes.

left over turkey

three weeks after
thanksgiving
you open the fridge,
peel off a crinkled
square of foil
and stare at the almost
bare carcass
of a twenty pound
turkey. it's been
in there so long,
you've named it like
a pet. willis, you
say, i think it's
time to go, but then
reach in to strip
off one last shred
of white meat
for a sleepy
sandwich, it's a sad
goodbye as you drop
him into a green
bag and haul him
to the curb.

ms. fort knox

she had a guard
dog behind
the electrified
barbed wire fence
of her little
black dress,
she had an alarm,
a siren, a deadlock
on the steel door
of her soul.
there was a trip
wire that ran
along the curves
of her top and bottom.
there was no getting
in, or anywhere
with this one, that's
why we called her
fort knox.

a summer place

don't let the screen
door slam.
but close it gently
you're letting
the flies in.
turn that fan around
it's hot in here
and it's only june.
when you kids
get out of school
we'll get a pool.
we'll blow it up and
fill it to the brim
with hose water.
it won't be much,
but it will make it
seem as if we
have place to go.
a summer place.
even if it's only
to the dirt worn yard,
with a clothes line
and a dog curled,
panting below.

your first lover

your first lover
was not a lover at all,
but a professor
of english and literature.
preaching in the eight
o'clock hour
of morning, the beauty
of words, of books.
what friends they
will be for life, he
said. keep them close.
put them onto shelves
and touch them, read
them again, and be filled
once more. let each
story seduce you into
reading another, and
another, and perhaps,
if touched by some
glorious miracle, you
too will find one in
you to write and place
upon your shelf, or
that of others.

lost in the sand

a man with a metal
detector, hunched
in the shadows
of a sun going
down bayside,
walks slowly along
the shore,
digging where he
hears the signal.
a small shovel is
in his hand.
you see a watch
go into his pail,
a set of keys.
a pin, a bracelet,
a ring. he has found
an easier way
than most
to get treasures.
but still there is
no smile
upon his face,
he longs strangely
for those to whom
these things
belonged and perhaps
to give them back.

the spill

the water glass
tips over
as the hurried
arm rushes
towards
the cold
silk sides,
and out it slips
from hand
spilling clean
and clear
onto the table,
a water fall
upon
the floor.
it's a quick still
moment before
apologies
ensue, and others
get up
to find a cloth
to soak up
what has spilled.
nothing of
the conversation
will not likely
be remembered
but the falling
glass will.

betty in her fat jeans

sometimes you seem distant
and aloof your friend betty
tells you. i know, you say.
but what's your point. well,
it's hard to figure you
out, i guess. to know what
you're thinking. hmmm. you
say, and stare out the window,
catching sight of a plane
in the sky. silver and
shiny in the sunlight.
there is a part of you
that wishes you were on
that plane and didn't know
anyone named betty.
we should go for an ice
cream, you tell her. how
about that, would you like
that. not really, she says.
i'm on a diet and these
jeans i'm wearing are my
fat jeans. so, no, but thanks
for the offer. okay, you
tell her, well, what should
we do. let's talk about us,
she says. let's define
our relationship and figure
out where we're headed.
you suddenly get quiet
more quiet than the plants
she gets up to water.

the braided key chain

i make my own clothes, she
says, showing me her plaid
skirt. this blouse too.
nice, you say. very nice.
and what about those
shoes. oh yes, she says.
i made those too. it took
a year. but finally i
finished them. leather is
very difficult to work with.
so i hear, you say. that's
pretty much why i don't
make my own shoes. my wrists
aren't that strong to
get the needles through
the leather.
what size shoe do you wear,
she says, i'll make you
a pair. really, you'd do
that for me? sure she says.
why not. okay, size ten.
i could use a new pair
of loafers, casual though,
with rubber souls. she nods
writing it all down.
i prefer a reddish brown,
if you can work that out.
i made a key chain once,
you tell her, did i ever
tell you that? nope she
says. well, i was in shop
class in the ninth grade
and we had to braid a bunch
of plastic colored wire
together. i think i still
have it somewhere. you still
have it? she says, raising
her eyebrows. yeah. i'm
very sentimental that way,
but if you make me a pair
of shoes, i'll give it to
you. swell, she says.
that's great, i could use
a new key chain.

getting the girl

all day
the man polishes
his car.
the sun upon
his shouders.
he rubs
and shines
in circles
the wax with
a clean
cloth.
his mind is
elsewhere
though. he
thinks about
a girl he knows.
and wants.
he believes
that somehow
what he's doing
with this cloth
will help.

the young magician

when young his magic
tricks revolved
around making things
disappear under a black
scarf. with a great
flourish he'd
wave his hand
across the hat,
the box, or table
and say a word like
poof, or voila,
and it was gone,
but now,
in his final years,
in his empty house,
he's trying to make
what was reappear,
quietly in his mind.

take what's yours

before you go,
please don't forget
your watch, your brush,
your coat
and phone. don't
leave anything
behind that keeps
me remembering you.
pick your shoes
up from the floor,
your scarf,
your books, your
dreams. leave my
heart, if you still
have it in your
hand, at the door.

close to heaven

the man
with the black
clarinet
red faced,
his goatee
dripping
with sweat
taps his feet,
squints his
blue eyes
into the spot
light, he
doesn't care
that there
are six people
there, neither
does the drummer
and bass player.
each happy
in what he does,
ignoring the sparse
crowd who
are checking
their watches
or phones,
others staring
numbly into
laminated menus.
it doesn't matter.
there is one
man, up front,
immersed in
the music, as
close to heaven
as he can get
without dying.
they play for
him.

into flilght

what keeps us
in place, keeps
us going to work,
staying put
with the lives
we've chosen or
have been handed
to us. the weight
of life,
the lead feet
of age, the gravity
of all the comes
before us,
where is the balloon
of imagination
that can save us
from who we have
become, take us
into flight.

extra crunchy

you think about
how often
peanut butter has
saved your life,
starving, coming
home at the end
of a hard work
day. staring into
the black abyss
of your cupboard,
the bare
icy antarcrtica
of your freezer.
peanut butter
has been your life
raft, keeping you
afloat, helping
you to continue
on as you do,
in your own way.

a different kind of girl

she was
like
a fitted
sheet,
unfoldable
and never
going on
the right way,
the first
time around.
tag up,
and never
down, but
once on,
she was
wrapped
tight around
the corners
of your
life.

takes one to know one

with no pressure
there is no
diamond
you say in a
moment of
philisophical
pondering
brought on
by a glass
of red wine.
you wait for her
approval of
your wise
metaphorical
statement,
and all that
it entails,
but instead
she says, it
takes one
to know one,
winking,
two drinks
ahead of me.

zoo break

there are murmurs
at the zoo.
the animals aren't happy
with their quarters,
their food.
they are tired
of being stared
at. exhausted from
being spoken to
like fools, like
babies in cribs.
they are plotting,
staying up late
at night concocting
a plan to make a break.
to escape out into
the world and blend
in. clothes
are being made to fit,
the ostrich,
the seals, the monkeys
and the giraffe,
are sewing into
the early morning,
making masks, and
passports with which
to go back from
where they came.

in the now

relax, she says.
go with the flow,
breathe deeply
and exhale.
imagine yourself
on a white sandy
beach with clear
blue water and
skies with long
stripes of soft
stratus clouds.
stretch out your
arms, your legs,
let all of your
cares evaporate
and be whole, live
in the moment.
the now. okay, okay,
alright already.
can't you stop
saying that stuff
for one day and just
take a walk with me.

the lesson

come close.
no closer. even
closer.
okay, just one
more inch
in my
direction. okay.
relax.
that's good.
you can either keep
your eyes open
or close them,
it's your
decision.
now when i
put my lips out
puckering them
together,you do
the same, allowing
them to touch,
lightly
at first. we'll
start from there.
don't come in too
fast, we could
bang teeth and
we don't want that
to happen.
chipping our teeth
and having a bloody
lip is not good.
so, i repeat. go
slow. this is just
the basic
course. it gets
a lot more
complex as we
progress towards
phase two and
three, but let's just
start here.
okay. ready. go.
no. stop. close
either both eyes, or
no eyes. you can't
do one open and
one closed. whew.

the future

someone writes you
a letter, two pages.
it's a list of
what happens in
the remaining
years of your life.
it's your future,
such as it is.
you read down
the numbered
lines. it surprises
you what happens next,
and then follows
the year after.
there are detailed
footnotes that
try explain it all.
you don't see any
of it coming, some
good, some bad.
some forgetable things
too. friends die,
friends are born.
lovers cease to be
lovers and new ones
appear from the sky.
but in truth you don't
want to know.
so you leave it at
page one, and send
it back, marked
addressee unknown.

this game

a line
of black birds
along
the wire.
a blue horizon
behind
them. everything
comes
and goes,
flies off
at some point.
nothing
staying the same.
the birds
retreat
into the night.
there is no
figuring
this game.

fish are walking

fish are walking
dogs
are flying
birds
are dancing
in the street.
you don't
know why,
but you hope
this keeps up.
the world
needs a little
harmless
excitement.

what happened

there's your side
of the story,
and then there's
mine, the right
side.
your memory
of the details
of what we said
and did are blurred
by the fact
that you were under
the influence of
wine. so let me
tell you what
really happened
that night. on
second thought,
i like your version
better, so never
mind, your apology
is accepted, as i
hope you will mine.

the pastry chef

you fall in love
with a gourmet
pastry chef.
it's wonderful
at first.
she's always
covered in flour
and sugar,
pieces of
melted chocolate
and butter
cling to her
white uniform
like medallions.
she smells
like a warm
oven full
of rising
pans of sweet breads
and cookies.
you can't get
enough of her.
and when you make
love
there are sugar plums
dancing
in your head,
and real ones
on the nightstand.
but it wears thin
over time.
it's too much
sweetness
and your eyes
stray across
the room to a butcher
in a tall white
hat, she's slicing
a lean cut
of meat in
the kitchen, you
like the way
she holds a knife.

dating dot com

when her alimony
dried up
and her go to
guy turned gay,
she went online
to find
the next true
love of her life.
she made a list
of the qualities
she was looking
for in a man.
lots and lots
of money was
at the top, then
a boat, a nice car,
a house,
a vacation home
perhaps
in the south of
france. teeth,
and working parts.
then she closed
her eyes, clicked
her heels three
times and joined.

the king of chicken wings

your friend
is the king of
chicken wings.
he won a contest
at the local
restaurant.
over a hundred in
an hour.
he still has
sauce in
his beard, and
laughs as he
pats his
pendulous
belly. he has
found his niche
in the world.
he will ride
his new found
royalty for years
and years
to come.
the king of
chicken wings,
we will bow
in his honor.
we will attend
the funeral of
his early tragic
death.

small things

pieces
of broken glass
on the floor,
shards
so thin
and translucent,
like star
dust,
slip right
between
your skin before
you know it.
small things
have a way
of finding
in.

church time

people that go
to church
like to tell you
that all the time.
i have church
on sunday.
wednesday, i'll be
at church.
i'm ringing the bells
in church
on friday.
i'm making a dish
of shepard's pie
for the pot luck
dinner.
we're lighting
candles on tuesday.
my church
is taking a trip
to china
to smuggle bibles
in. we're having
a food drive,
at my church.
i gave a can of
string beans.
the men's prayer
group is having a
pancake breakfast
at dawn on saturday,
you should come.
and when they've
finished telling you
about all the church
time that they spend,
they put their hands
on their hips, tilt
their heads and
say, so what church
do you go to.

the black shovel

you had a disagreement
once with someone
you were related
to by marriage.
a black shovel
was the issue.
she wanted it.
you wanted it.
and not knowing
how strongly she was
devoted to this
shovel that leaned
against the back
yard fence for so
many years, you took
it with you
when you left.
so it surprised you
when you got
the message that
said, if the shovel
was not returned
soon, there would
be hell to pay
like you'd seen
before.

the rest is easy

life
is about
avoiding
parking tickets
and traffic.
bad food,
and angry
people.
do that
and the rest
is easy.

out in the cold

your bills
pile up like
large flakes
of snow on the black
table. so you sit
down with pen
and check book,
stamps and enevelopes
to grind them out.
you have
been so prudent
and responsible
for so many years.
telling others
of your high
number. your credit
report gleams
with fisical
responsibility.
no late fees,
no finance charges.
you've refinanced
your mortgage
to an all
time historic
low. you've done
everything
the right way.
obeyed the rules
of the financial
road. and yet you
fear the day
when you may
be out in the cold
in a box behind
the liquor store
clutching a book
of poems.

latin

you enroll in a class
to learn another
language.
you're tired of yours.
of your babble.
it's mundane and cliche.
full of slang
and what not.
you want to be more
enlightened
more aware of other
ways of expressing
your self. you want
to feel with another
set of words, to write
and speak in another
man's shoes.
when you order coffee
you want to turn heads
with your fluent
and exotic way of
speaking. you want to
curse in another language.
and smile as you're
doing it, no one
the wiser.
especially you.

the other foot

the other foot
drops
you've been waiting
for a while.
listening
with your ear
to the window.
finally it comes.
a large
hard boot against
the wood
floor.
it's caked in
mud and grime.
it's the last
straw,
the last chance
squandered,
and now it's here.
the other foot.

real estate

the real estate
salesman
promises the world
and gives
you an
apartment next
to the railroad
tracks.
look at the view
he says,
from here you
can see all
the ways over
to there.
he points out
the window to a
patch of trees
and scrub brush
where the remnants
of a hobo camp
lie scattered about.
you like trains,
he asks,
and you say yes.
that you do,
well, you are in
luck he says,
looking at his watch,
you are in for a
treat my friend.
hear that whistle,
here comes one.
now let me get
my pen.

togetherness

missing a tooth,
she'd whistle
when she said
words like
worchestier sauce.
which was cute
for a while,
but you had to turn
your head,
and bring a towel
whenver you both
went out on
the town. this
did not stop
you from loving
her though.
in time
you bought her a
new tooth, and she
in return
bought you a
hearing aid.

the meeting

you call a meeting
with yourself.
your dog attends
too, although not
invited. your cat,
sitting on the piano,
pretends not to notice
as she licks her
paw and rubs
the back of ear.
you read the minutes
of the last meeting.
which are short
cryptic notes that
you can't even read.
it doesn't matter.
you have some things
to get off your mind,
so you stand up
and take your turn.
this makes your dog
wag his tail, hoping
for a walk.
you talk about finances,
and the messy
house, work, and
relationships. your
eating habits. you
mention without
naming names, the coffee
spills on the walls
going up and down
the stairs. dust balls
under the bed.
things need to change
around here you finally
say, then sit down.
you see the cat staring
at you, shaking her
head.

one more drink

one more drink
before we leave
and go out into
that cold night,
tell me again that
story
from so long
ago. bartender
set em up.
the night is young
and we aren't.
one more drink
before we
go. where have
all the pretty
girls gone,
that's what all
of us old men
want to know.
the night is young.
bartender, please,
just one more
drink,
we don't want,
just yet,
to go.

your dreams

you dream in
languages that
you don't know.
you read books
not yet written,
sing opera
on a stage.
you are in flight,
across the sky,
your arms open
wide. you swim
deep below
the ocean, holding
your breath.
you are above
the moon
circling
without a ship.
your dreams cut
you loose from
the tethers
of your parents.
of school
and elders, who
often said no.

wings

the cat
with her muscles
tense,
ready to spring
upon a bird
decides
at the last
moment
to try
a different
approach. instead
she whispers
to bird
and says, come
here.
i won't hurt
you.
but the bird
secure
in her wisdom
of the centuries,
knows that
she has wings
for
a very good
reason.

smart butt

you've got
your smart car,
your smart
phone,
your eating
fish to
enhance
your brain.
you're reading
books
instead of
skimming them
and waiting
for the movie.
you make it
through at least
three words before
getting bored
with the cross
word puzzle.
you're even
dressing smartly,
at least that's
what people say
when they see you
in your hipster
hat.
even your butt
is getting attention.
being called
smart, on a
regular basis.

the dead bird

write a happy
poem,
please,
she pleads
tilting her head,
and attempting
to bat her
lashes,
just one, for
me. one that isn't
full of grief
and sorrow,
one that i can
hold in my hands
like a small
bird that hasn't
been hit by
an arrow.
write a fun
poem. please,
for me.
just one.

strawberries and cream

she takes her shoes
off on the summer sidewalk
and walks
barefoot to the show.
king lear.
her feet are small,
yet wide, but her
new heels,
now in her hands,
swinging
at her side, are too
tight. you don't
mind though.
her nails are like
strawberries on cream.
you like her feet, her
hands. and the rest
of her as well.
such a small thing
it is too remember
this, but golden in some
strange way.

literally it was the best

you had to be there,
it was literally
the best thing i've
ever seen.
we were literally
ten feet from
the stage, and i
could literally see
up the nose
of the woman who
played the queen.
and we lucked out
on parking, we were
literallly only
three blocks away
from the theater.
and since we knew
the ending, having
seen the show
before on tv, we
left early and
literally beat all
the traffic home.
i was literally
estatic about
the entire evening.
literally.

prayer request

your friend kimberly
tells you
on the phone that she's
going in for a procedure
tomorrow and that it
would be nice if you
said a prayer or two
in her behalf.
what kind of
a procedure, you ask
her. it's a girl thing,
she says. that's all
i can say. which half
of the body, you ask her,
trying to narrow it
down to make your
prayer request more
specific. top or
bottom? bottom, she
says. above the knee,
you ask. yes she says.
below the belly
button? shut up she
says. front or back?
i have to go now, she
says and hangs up.

junior mints

you are reluctant
to see
the new movie
about abe lincoln
that everyone is
raving about.
you sort of know
the story. tall,
lanky fellow
from illinois.
a rail splitter.
he wore a big
black hat and had
a crazy, half
beard thing going
on. plus that wacky
wife, mary todd
always bugging him
about something.
tragic and sad
it all is, with that
war going on.
blah, blah, blah,
but it's raining out
and you wouldn't
mind having a big
buttered box of popcorn
and a cold coke
on ice, so you go,
picking up some
junior mints at
the drugstore to
smuggle in, because
they cost nine
dollars inside
the theater.

parisan holiday

on holiday
you pack a bag
and take a train
to the south of
france, where you
meet your long
time friends, pepe,
and louise.
you share a bottle
of wine with them,
overlooking
the rhone river,
some cheese too, and
a baquette.
pepe says things
about chagall that
you never knew,
but also
bad mouthing
van gogh in slight
demeaning ways.
this makes you want
to slap pepe,
but you don't.
he says that van
gogh had blurry eyes
and only painted
what he saw, pfft,
he says, any artist
can do that.
then louise says
look at the cow
over there, how
white she is with
bold black spots.
she gestures towards
the cow throwing
her hunk of cheese,
which makes pepe
shake his head
and get up to go
retrieve it,
when he does louise
leans towards you
kissing you on
the lips quickly.
when pepe returns,
he curses her in
french and says, i
know all your tricks
louise, i know
this cheese trick
that you do, which
makes her laugh loudly,
ha, she says.
you know nothing, pepe.

bird brains

you've known
plenty of chatter
boxes
in your day.
women and men
who opened
their mouths and
words would
fly out
like bees from
a hive struck
with a bat, wild
and going in
all directions.
say the word
red and they'd
take that and
run, red
sea, red grapes,
red rum.
mention birds,
and every bird
they've ever
seen would play
into the next ten
minutes of talk.
a black bird,
a sparrow.
the time a crow
flew into
their head.

no words

no words
sometimes are
better than
saying anything.
small talk
is a slow
painful death
when you
have things
on your mind
of greater
importance.
who cares which
way the wind
blows,
if it rains,
or snows. look
into my eyes
and see that
i am
not here.
silence is
enough
conversation
for now.

they are books

your books
along the shelves
are silent.
you've carried
them far,
as they have you,
once read, some
twice,
a few battered
from
so many reads
late into cold
nights.
but they are
not hands, or
hearts.
they don't sit
at any
table with you
to eat a meal.
they don't
point at the moon
and say look.
they are
books.

the slow burn

you can't cheer
an angry soul.
it's too far
a leap, for that.
there is no
dousing of
the flames.
it's best
to let it be,
let the fire
burn, and come
back, if there
is someone
to come back to.

blackbirds

what bodies
lie
between heaven
and hell
where we
reside
and try
to find a way
to make this
life worth
living. not
all make
it though.
there are cracks
they fall
through,
the ones that
don't or
can't fit in,
and you can
hear their voices
at night,
rising like
blackbirds
into a darkened
sky.

a gentle nod

no different
is the man
with a shovel
bent on the road
moving dirt,
than he in a pressed
suit, walking
to work
in a building.
no different is
the woman who brings
to your
table, eggs
and coffee.
than she who writes
a novel.
each wants in his
or her
world some
notice of respect.
a gentle nod
towards
their goodness
in what they do,
and who they are.

winter is an old man

winter is an old
man. cranky,
brittle and cold.
walking
slowly through
the short
days.
his breath is
wind, his arms
are shadows.
his white hair
is the distant
field brushed
with snow. winter
is an old
man in a long
black overcoat,
this much i know.

holiday board games

you chalk
a line around
where the body lies.
you lift the prints
on knobs
and glasses.
a gun, still warm
next to a slice
of pie.
there is eggnog
spilled
on the victim's
chest. it smells
like rum.
there is a scrabble
board nearly done
on the coffee
table.
with an open
dictionary nearby,
there is a q
in the dead
man's hand
but he has no u
to finish.
and the guilty one
is led out
muttering,
qa is not a word.

the fire

burned fingers
remember
how it happened.
they don't go
back into the fire.
but broken hearts
are different,
they forget
over time,
and let it happen
again and again.

in hard times

a man approaches
you on the street
and holds a knife up
to your face. he says
angrily, give me
your wallet.
you tell him that
you don't have one.
your watch too, he
snarls.
you show him your
empty wrist.
well then, give
me your money. all
of it now, or i'll
stab you. empty
your pockets.
you pull out some
coins and a bill
or two, some lint
falls out and a piece
of gum. chapstick.
which makes
him say, that's it?
that's all you got?
he takes the chapstick
out of your hand
and applies it to his
lips. you work all week
and that's all you
have to show
for your nine to five
job. he laughs,
shaking his head.
he hands back your
chapstick then shows
you his thick wad of cash.
i only do this a few hours
on the weekend and i
have more than you, he
says. he puts his knife
away and walks away
down the dark street,
laughing. next week
you buy a knife
and quit your job.

the dust bowl years

in the beginning, when
first married,
she appeared
in the doorway like
a vision,
with stockings
and heels, a shimmering
web of thin fabric
around her lithe body,
a rainbow of colors,
all sheer.
everything held together
with fragile buttons
and clasps, hooks
that were nearly impossible
to unfasten.
her lips were red
as cherries, her high
cheeks flush.
and we would make love
by candlelight while
it flickered on
the nightstand, a breeze
from the open window
blew against our skin,
hot with passion.
but now, years later,
i see her coming in
wearing a prairie dress
up to her chin. something
akin to what they wore
during the dust bowl
years, wool socks,
a cat in her arms,
and her hair pinned
up in a tight wound bun.
but me, i haven't
changed. i'm still
the same. white shorts
and a faded t-shirt
that says ocean city
on the front.

the first step

stepping gingerly onto
the first step
of a wobbly ladder
to get a box
of christmas decorations
out of the closet
a bottle of brandy
slips out of a stocking
and hits you on the head,
knocking you out.
you fall to the floor with
ornaments all over you,
tinsel too. the bottle
of brandy breaks
which soaks you as you lie
there unconscious
in a puddle of whiskey.
when you awaken you are
on the couch surrounded
by your family, your son,
your physician,
and priest. your mother
is crying into her hands,
your father has a smirk
on his face. your therapist
nancy is holding your
hand, smiling, nodding
as you awaken.
someone has put a cup
of hot coffee
in front of you.
there is an ice
bag on your forehead.
it's going to be okay
she says, we are all
here to help you. first
you must admit that
you have a problem.

i remember her well

i remember she was
wearing a red dress,
and black boots, or
was it the other way
around. i had just met
her a week ago in a
bar downtown, or maybe
we were married for
a few years. the details
are rather fuzzy
at this point, but i
do recall that she had
this very high pitched
voice, very high. but
wait. i'm thinking
of someone else. her
voice was deep, and
hoarse. that's right.
she was a smoker, a
heavy smoker and drinker
too. she had a scar
down her cheek where
she had been in a knife
fight once. or maybe her
cat scratched her.
one or the other, she
did have a scar though.
that i do remember
as fact. she had soft blue
eyes, or green, it could
have been one of each,
but i remember her eyes
were crossed and it
gave me a headache
to look at her.
it was a long night,
or early morning.
there was a moon out,
i'm sure of that.
i used to call
her sweet magnolia, or
petunia, some sort of
flower. gardenia, maybe.
she called me jimmy,
although, that's not my
real name. we were two
peas in a pod though.
so much alike, from
what i remember.

your needs

your needs
are small. a bed,
a plate of food,
some love,
a book
to read. some
sunlight
on your face.
you don't
understand
the wars,
the madness
of the world
wanting so much
of what it
can't have.
your needs are
small.
a glass of water,
a room
to lie down
in, a moon in
the window.
a pen
to write it
all down.

christmas lights

as a family,
you see them, the wife,
the small boy, a man,
with a hammer,
on a ladder leaning
against the house,
the feet dug into
a cold patch of snow.
he bellows out
instructions. get me
this, get me that.
then damn as
the head strikes
his thumb.
she holds the ball
of lights in her
arms, like red and green
thorns, pulsing.
she wipes her nose
with her arm
while the boy rolls
and rolls down the
wet lawn.