who doesn't?

you want
to lick the spoon
of love. bake
a cake
not measured
short
in tablespoons
of non fat
butter,
saccharine,
or saltless
salt.
you want a
real cake,
you want to see
it rise
in the oven.
you want to take
it out warm
then iced,
and feed
it to your
lips and mouth
with your bare
eager hands,
you want love
without a fork,
without
a knife. you want
the real cake.
who doesn't?

the brights

the brightness
of the sun
conceals life
more thoroughly
than darkness
ever can. it
layers the day
with what we see
in colors.
the truth is
hidden, tucked
neatly away
in the prisms
of our eyes.
wanting yellows
to be more
yellow, reds,
and greens,
the bright
palettes of love,
likewise.

the names

names
are checked
off,
people fired,
new
faces hired.
click, click
and
click again.
the paper
crumbled then
tossed
across the room.
it circles
the can
and falls softly
onto
the bottom.
how quickly
we move on.

the closed book

she is
a closed book,
a latched window
with the shade
drawn.
she's the cellar
you can't
get into.
the attic door
that won't pull
down.
she is the lock
that the key
can't turn,
the car that
won't start.
she's the oven
of varying
uncertain degrees.
a horse that
won't break,
she's an impenetrable
fog over
the depths
of an ancient sea.

jail bird

you visit her
in jail
and she says
in a hoarse
whisper, you've
got to get me outta
here jimmy, you
don't know what
it's like.
i'm dying in here.
dying i tell you.
i slept with
one eye open
the whole night,
and i made
a shiv out of
a chapstick tube.
look in my mouth,
i'm hiding it
under my tongue.
well maybe, just
maybe, little miss
you shouldn't be
driving like
a maniac on the highway.
how many speeding
tickets have
you had this year.
five, six, seven.
she looks down
at her shoes
that flop open
because they don't
have shoelaces.
i'm a changed woman,
honest, jimmy.
when i get out of
here, i'm in the right
lane for now on,
just like you.
just like you jimmy.
but you have to bail
me out, you just
have to. don't make
me beg. i'll cook
you a pot roast when
i get outta here, i'll
bake you a cake.
anything, anything,
just throw down
my bail.
mashed potatoes?
sure jimmy, gravy
too. promise.

vagabond poser

out of work
again
you roll up a
bag of
clothes
and tie them
to the end
of a stick.
you hop on
a box car
rolling slowly
south.
you figure you
can pick oranges
in florida
for a few months,
but your grande
starbuck's cup
of extra
hot vanilla
latte,
skim, with
your name
scribbled
on the side
gives you
away and the other
vagabons cheer
and laugh
through their
broken teeth
as they shove you
off into
the gravel,
holding your cup
high so as
not to spill
it's contents.

settling

as the box lowers
into the fresh
cut grave
and the dirt
settles down
upon it
she remembers
the chair she took
as a child,
wanting one by
the window, not
in front
near a door.
she recalls
the boy she married,
not tall,
or attractive,
or even smart, but
just kind enough
to be hers
and be liked
by others.
then there was
the house not on
the water, but
further into town,
near the train
station, where
her dishes rattled.
the job she worked
at for a lifetime
was good enough
as well,
the money short,
the hours long,
the work itself mundane,
she could have
done much more.
and the dress she
wanted, not the green
one she wore,
but the one
in the window,
blue and bright
as an april sky.
it's still there,
forevermore.

cut and rewind

the story ends
the way you wanted
it to end.
the last franes
of the film
holding the final
kiss. the guy
gets the girl
the bad guy dies.
they ride away
on horses into
the sunset, but
cut. rewind.
go back and tell it
more like it really
is. the bad guy
gets the girl,
because he is more
interesting,
he has a scar
and a story
that won't put her
to sleep,
the good guy goes
to jail for things
he never did
but wanted to.
there are no
horses either,
there are sled dogs
maybe
because of
global warming.

angry at something

you're angry
at something,
or someone,
but you don't
know what
or who it is.
something's not right.
there is a bruise
on your soul
that you don't know
how it got there.
it's black
and blue, pulsing
as you sort backwards
through your day,
who you spoke,
or listened to.
it weakens you,
this anger,
makes you limp
down the street
with the others
who are limping too.

sphinx

it remains
a mystery,
the silence
that women can
hold within
them.
you can't even
scratch the surface
to reach
the place
where they reside.
the truth
will not set
you free
with them, but
confuse you
even more.
they carry more
words
than we as men
could ever
lift
and yet when
they want to
they can turn
into a stone
like sphinx,
silent
in the desert
sun.

witches

with her
cat
she delves
in black magic
with a boiling
pot to stir,
sticks pins
into vodoo
dolls
and throws
spells
without blinking
a green
crossed eye, she
pulls hexes
out of thin
air.
she rides on
an old bent
broom across
the dark cold
sky,
silhouetted
by a harvest
moon, she's
not the kind
of girl
you make long
term plans
with, but she's
a great kisser.

stepping on a nail

you step
on a nail
and as it slides
through
your boot,
and punctures
the soul
of your soft
foot,
passing
through a
to be bloodied
sock,
you think if
only i had
taken a
different route,
another
path in my
life,
this would not
have happened.
but the wound
will heal,
it always
has before.

new kitchen

you want a new kitchen.
a new stove,
one that has a
magic button,
so when you push it
a turkey dinner
arrives
in minutes,
and a new fridge
with all the bells
and whistles.
something with two
swinging doors
and a freezer
below, you want
music coming
out of it, martinis,
or red wine
from the door,
you want it to make
ice cream for
you on a hot
summers day.
you want a new kitchen,
and someone
to keep it clean
like a svelte french
maid.

thin ice

you are cautious
with your words,
your tone of talk,
walking gently
across the blue ice
of her.
you don't swim
well in cold
water and there's
no one around
with a warm rope
to save you
when it all cracks
and down you go.

the laughing buddha

someone brings
a crying
baby into the room of
the long white
restaurant with
soiled red carpet.
she looks to be
at least five
months
pregnant, her
face is red,
blotched with
raspberry spots,
a stroller is pulled
behind her,
a bag
of diapers, small
blankets and a
bag of bottles are
draped over
her shoulder.
the father
is not far behind,
squared jawed
with a cap on.
three small
boys of
decreasing height
are in front
of him,
touching
each chair and
kicking one
another.
they are seated
at a table in back
of the chinese
restaurant.
where they loudly
sit.
the children
drumming and poking
one another
with chopsticks.
there is no music,
no joy, or conversation.
just the sound
of knives and forks,
the clinking of white
plates, glasses full
of pink flowered
drinks, called zombies.

drunk by noon

drunk by noon,
she staggers into
the room
where you hang her paper
and sits.
she lights a
cigarette
and says, want one,
do you smoke.
you look back
at her and say no.
drink? she says.
i can fix you a bloody
mary if you want,
i'm having one,
i like them spicy.
she laughs.
i like everything
spicy. she takes
out a celery
stalk and gives it
a long slow lick.
my husband's not
coming back
for a few days.
can i fix you lunch?
i bet your shoulders
hurt after a long
day of hanging
wallpaper, don't
they, she says,
blowing smoke
in your direction?
you shrug and say,
no, not really,
it's what i do.
well, i'm going upstairs
she says, if you
need anything,
just holler or
knock on the door,
i'll be taking
a nap. nice job,
she says, pushing by
you, her hand
touching your back.
nice job.

the long drive

it's a long drive
home in the rain,
in the fog,
on black
empty streets,
with your headlights
on, your hand turns
the dial but
all the stations
are wrong,
you settle on
silence, the sound
of your tires
grabbing the hard
wash of road.
the thump
of wipers against
the windsheild.
farmland
rises on either
side, as you
hug the right
lane, in no hurry,
letting everyone
pass you by,
the winter fields
are barren and cold
with black cattle
lying in the dirt.
you see someone in a
blue shirt staring out
a window in
a farmhouse.
it's a long
drive home,
in the rain,
in the fog,
alone.

the quiet

a dog who
won't bark, or
beg,
a cat
without claws
or any
meow
whatsover,
makes it hard
to know
what they want.
the same goes
for you, when
you turn
your head
and keep silent.

apple pie

you bake
a lovely
apple pie
and set it on
the sill
to cool
as you change
your clothes
and get ready
for your date.
you think how
wonderful you are
baking a pie
for someone
you almost care
about,
how thoughtful
and kind
you must be.
you are very
happy with yourself
before she
arrives.
clueless of
her disdain for
any kind of
sweets, especially
apple pie.

the dmv

you go to the dmv
to get your driver's
license
renewed. a new photo,
a new card.
black and white
this time.
they tell you
not to smile
before they click
the button.
it's not a good
shot, you look
five years older
than you really
are. a mug shot,
you think, pinned
against the wall,
accused falsely
of things
you've never done.
they laugh when
you tell them you
want to do it
over. go away
they say. we are
done with you.
next.

the energy

when your ex
finally
remarries, the sky
opens up
and sunight suddenly
is everywhere
with a warm
bright smile.
you are no longer
the reason
she stubs her toe
or gets into
a fender
bender, or loses
her way from here
to there
during her nights
or day.
you can almost
feel the energy
of her anger make
a left
hand turn
and go towards another
unaware soul.

leaving work

under the violet
sky, a line
of blackbirds
sway on the thick
electric
twine with
their
slick oiled
feathers
and knotted
shoulders.
they are still
in the way
old men stand
on the platform,
turning heads,
from side
to side,
leaving work
in dark overcoats,
waiting
for the train
to take them
home.

the engagement ring

you hear her
screaming into the phone
with excitement,
dancing in a circle
as the dog barks
at her feet.
i'm engaged, she
hollers, he finallly
proposed to me. i'm
staring at the ring
right now. it's on
my finger. what?
how big?
i don't know?
a carat or two, i
suppose, but can you
believe it, i'm getting
married...what?
how much did it cost?
i'm not sure, mom.
he didn't tell me.
yes. i guess i could
go online and find out,
but aren't you
excited? i'm getting
married. what?
no, he didn't steal it.
and no his grandmother
didn't die and leave
it to him. i'll show
it to you tomorrow.
it's not zirconia, mom.
and i'm not going to get
a piece of glass
to see if it cuts.
i'm sure it's a diamond.
i know you hate him, so
i won't bring him
with me for dinner.
but you just have to see
this ring. it's gorgeous,
it's absolutely beautiful.
i have to go now,
i have ten other calls
to make. yes, mom,
i'll find out where
he got it and what it
cost. promise, and
i won't give it back
no matter what happens.
i give you my word.

tossed aside

tossed aside
are lost souls,
the grieving,
the mentally ill,
the aged,
the unhealthy.
you see
them on
the curbs,
the jobless,
the worried
and worn,
the drifters.
politicians
have no answer
for what to
do with those
tossed aside, only
hoping that
the merciful
plow of time
will push them
out of sight,
out of mind.

crimson rose

the woman
loved white.
pale blues and greens.
red
meant sex
which she abhorred
and made her hiss
at the television
screen when
just the hint
of it arose.
she loved life
when it snowed
and the world
was sinless and
frozen,
without color,
without even the soft
petals
of a crimson rose.

daddy

she was nearing sixty,
but she still liked
to call her father
daddy in a sweet
little girl like voice,
as syrupy as melted candy.
daddy this, daddy that.
and he was
her daddy. each divorce
was met with
cash or check, a
new car when the wine
spilled
her into a pole.
another house
close by to daddy
when the old one became
ruined with dogs
and men,
and the wayward
children, inked up
and drifting
bleary eyed through
school after school
as he picked
up the tabs of
their ambivalent
existence. daddy, oh,
daddy, why are you
so good to me,
she'd say as he drifted
into senility,
forgetting her name.
oh sweet daddy,
she'd say putting a
pen into his hand
to write another check
to save herself again.

forgive me...

you go to confession
finally
after so many decades.
you've written
down all the sins that you
can remember.
you wheel barrow
them into
the confessional.
you have an assistant
with you
with a wet sponge
to moisten your fingers
and tongue
as you turn
the dry pages.
the priest listens
patiently, ordering
out for pizza
as he sits behind
the metal screen
and curtain. go on
my son, he says.
continue. you can smell
the pepperoni
and cheese wafting
through the darkened
booth. you hear him
sipping a nice
chianti. this makes
you angry and jealous
of him. you have
your assitant write
that one down too.
it never ends.

don't ignore the kiss

stars falling
unwished upon,
a ticket won
but uncashed, left
in a drawer,
a number never
called, a job
untaken.
the roads not
taken, are many.
so what, but
don't ignore
the gentle touch
or kiss
it's worth more
than all
the others left
unattended to.

fixed

just seeing a needle
makes the back
of her throat
drip, drip
drip. the gentle
tap along the arm
searching for
a thick blue vein
makes her mouth
water, her heart
skip, the feeling
in her stomach
grows soft and sexy
as the spike
plunges deep
within and
the colors of the world
bleed outside
the lines.
she's left it all
behind for ten
years, but it hasn't
left her. nor
the fear of going
back.

sheep

the bleating
of sheep
rising like fog,
coming up
from the gravel
stretch
of road
where cars wait
for them to pass
in the blue
clouds
of fumes.
the grey white
wool
knotted tight
against
their skin.
even now, in
this day and
age we all
a season of being
needed.

green cheese

you remember
how anxious
the mice
were
when we
landed on
the moon.
their tiny hearts
beating,
giddy with hope,
waiting to hear
the news
finally of what
it was made
of. their
little finger
like paws
were
laced together
across
the cellar
floors
around the world,
and then the dust
flew up
when the first
boot hit
and you could
hear the echo
of cats
laughing
in the alleys.

the moon settles
in for the night.
unmoved
by what goes on
between us.
it doesn't pay
attention to us
at all.
the tossing
the turning,
the secrets that
we carry.
the moon wants no
part of us,
our business.

love finds a way

you've gone green
because the girl
you love
is green. she's
all over the green
thing.
saving the earth
one tin
can at a time.
nothing is wasted
with her.
string,
or lids, foil,
plastic bottles.
those orange
peels
and apple cores
are reborn
in the compost
pile
behind the log
cabin
in the woods
where a cold stream
runs.
she smiles sweetly
at you
as you beat
a pile of
your dirty clothes
against the rocks,
no bleach
no scented detergents,
love finds
a way.

open for discussion

i don't believe
in god she says.
the bible, pffft.
a bunch of made up
nonsense.
old folk tales.
who was this jesus
character anyways?
moses, my foot.
lost for forty years.
that sounds like
my uncle driving
around manhattan.
can you really believe
that jonah was
swallowed
by a whale. give me
a break, buddy.
hmmm. you say.
so what do you
believe. nothing,
she says, i'm
an independent thinker.
i'd like to believe
that life is a random
mix of happenstance
events. suddenly
a lighting
bolt crashes across
the sky. sizzling
the black clouds.
however, she says.
i'm open for
discussion.

good manners

you leave early
because
you can't stand the
people you are talking
to. you might say
something you'll
regret as you sit
around the coffee
shop discussing
politics
and sports. your
mind wanders
and wants to say
something along
the lines of
you're a big fat
stupid idiot for
saying that, but
you don't, you are
more civilized than
that, you are
well read, educated
and have manners.
so instead you say
something like,
if you gentlemen
and ladies will excuse
me, i must depart.
i have another
appointment pending.
our discussion
today has been quite
enlightening.

give me the old nurses

the nurse comes into
your room,
she might be all
of nineteen,
she is wearing
a flowered baggy
shirt and loose
fitting pants,
tied at the waist.
this does nothing
for you.
this silly flowered
get up.
it neither makes
you happy
or feel better, in
fact you may
feel a little
worse because of her
outfit. your
fever spikes a
few notches
and you groan with
pain. where are
the nurses from
your youth, from
the old movies,
real women
in white, with hats,
and polished nails.
heels and little
red crosses
strategically placed.
you could get
well soon with
medical help like
that, but these new
nurses are for
the birds.

chicken wing

you slip
on a chicken wing
you cooked the other
day, or
rather barbequed.
somehow it
must have dropped
to the floor
as you transported
the greasy
red dish
to the kitchen.
oh, how you
miss your little
vacuum cleaner
of a dog,
moe.

god bless you

how many boxes
of kleenex
in the world
are there, you ask
hypothetically,
lying in bed
reaching for a tissue,
not enough
is your answer
as you sneeze
and cough
blowing your red
nose for
the millionth
time in an hour.

vacation blues

at the airport
a line of grey
travelers,
burned from
the sun
lean
towards home.
they are asleep
inside
their bodies,
still woozy
from the food
and drink
fatigue
has wet them
to the bone.
luggage
at their feet,
hats and gloves
pulled on.
going from island
hot expecting
cold,
less happy now
in the return
trip home.

keep moving

after her third
divorce, she calls you
and says, can you
help me move, again.
i'm not going far
this time,
just around the corner
to a smaller apartment.
i've already
packed the boxes,
the linens, my
clothes are in
the car. i just need
help with the big
stuff. i'll even
pay you this time.
no problem you tell
her, let me get dressed,
find my shoes,
all of my boxes
are still in the hallway
from when i moved.

black bart

your rodeo skills
are rusty
to say the least,
you haven't
roped a cow,
or busted a bronco
in some time
now. you haven't
been on the range
herding cattle
or steering sheep
since god knows
when. your saddle
sores have even
healed.
you put your leather
chaps on
and your hat,
your bolo tie
and wooly vest,
yank on your boots
and whistle
for your horse,
but you don't have
a horse. you never
did. you do have
a dog though,
a small fat daschund,
and he comes into
the room to stare
at you, looking
in the mirror
at your cowboy self,
pretending to
outdraw the bad guys.

towards morning

the night
slips into her
room
with the cats.
the radiator
clunks and clangs,
hisses
like a cranky
man.
she stretches
and looks
at the clock.
it's a long
journey
until morning,
but she feels
that she can
get there, she
always does,
despite
everything.

the game is on

spending the cold
autumn day
immersed in
games you once played
with fervor,
young muscle
and speed
on the old grassy
fields
of your youth.
now you watch
on t.v.,
you remember,
you can still taste
the blood
in your mouth,
the sore
bones, the aches
that made you
limp and heavy
for a week. sweetly
exhausted in
loss or victory,
now, you reach
for the remote,
groan as
you get up
from the deep
recesses of your
couch, dodging
the dog
and go the kitchen
for one
more sandwich
and beer.

in good time

like a bar
of soap
in your hands,
a rubber tire
on the hot
road,
a cone
of ice cream
being worked
on by
a child's
swift tongue,
it all
melts away
in good time.
the candle
burns bright
for only so
many days.

addiction

there is always
a quiet
monkey ready
to hop aboard.
sex,
opium or gin.
love.
throwing dice
down,
the horses.
cake.
there slways
a sweet
but bitter
joy in life
to taste if
you don't walk
on the other
side of
that thin
invisible line,
if you don't
listen to
the siren's
song of pleasure.

where you were

a glass
of cold water,
but warm now,
with your
lips
still imprinted
on the edge
in red.
a scarf
a heel, a
bar of lavender
soap
you brought
just for
you to use.
the scent of
you, still
in the air.
at some point
i need to get up
and going,
get out, get some
fresh air,
but i like
being here,
exactly where
you were,
so near.

lewis and clark

she wants to
go camping.
go off into
the woods with a tent
and a can
of unopened beans.
she wants to hike
that mountain over
there, the one in
the distance, the one
with a snow
covered top like
an ice cream cone.
come on, she says,
pulling on your ear.
it'll be fun.
it'll be an adventure.
we can spend a
night or two
in the great
outdoors. we can be
like lewis
and clark, canoeing
down the river.
you put the paper
down and stop
reading the story
about how a bear
ate a woman
for dinner just last
week on
sugar mountain.
hmmm. you say.
maybe, but what about
a cruise? no bears,
no beans, no snakes
to snap at our
ankles?

still drawing blood

my mother told me,
she says,
while gently shaving
her slender white
legs, resting an
arched foot
on the white
porcelain
edge of a still
warm bathtub,
she told
me that i had
piano legs.
she says, raising
her eyebrows
in disbelief,
can you believe
she had the nerve
to say something
like that to her
only daughter,
she looks at me
turning her head,
and nicks herself,
drawing blood
in the process. oh
damn, she says.

you miss

you miss
black and white.
elvis
and sinatra.
mcqueen and loren.
you miss mom
and pop
everything.
real diners
with greasy
eggs and waitresses
in pink
uniforms.
a stack of wax
on the stereo.
you miss
a dog
barking.
cats in the alley
knocking
over metal
trashcans.
you miss ink on
your hands
from the sunday
paper, the sound
of it
hitting the stoop.
you miss
milk and butter,
eggs
and bacon
in the box outside
your door.
the mail
twice a day.
you miss licking
stamps.
the sound of
your grandmother's
voice cursing
politicians,
especially john
kennedy.
you miss the sound
of your brother's
and sister's
voices
filling every
room of the small
house.
you miss seeing
your father's shoes
on the steps,
your mother at
the stove always.

bavarian creams

it's three a.m.
when a policeman
pulls you over
and asks you to step
out of the car.
license, registration.
where are you
going at this hour
of the night?
7-11 you tell him.
you're out of donuts.
i understand, he says.
have you been
drinking. no you tell
him as he shines
a flashlight into
your eyes. i had
some nyquil earlier,
maybe two of those
little platic
cups, but that's it.
honest. okay, okay.
you have to watch that
stuff, it's addictive,
he says. you're telling
me, you tell him.
i'm shaking now,
wanting another cup.
well, maybe
you shouldn't be
out driving around
in your bathrobe
and slippers, what if
you get a flat
tire or something.
you nod, you're right
you say. i won't do it
again officer. okay.
well, have a good night.
and try those bavarian
creams. i just had
two when they came in.
will do, you tell him.
i will.

they fall away

you went down
to the stream
once, when you
were madly in
love and carved
her name into
a tree
next to your name.
it took an hour, at
least, the sharp rock
in your hand, the cold
air, your feet slipping
in the soft sand.
the name was long
with many vowels
and consonants.
she may have been
italian, or polish,
it's all blurry,
but you see the tree
has toppled in
the wind now, lying
in the water,
uprooted by time
and weather. staring
ou the window,
you vow to only
fall in love
with women with
shorter names now,
or to maybe just
carve their initials
and be done with it.

the blue earrings

an elderly woman
in central park
is reading
a book, alone
on a bench.
there is scattered
snow around, but
she is warm
in her black coat
and grey scarf.
her silver hair
is pulled up
tight
behind her ears,
he liked it that
way, said it
made her look
elegant. her
earrings are blue.
a small dog
is on a leash
at her side.
patient and still
as the world
slowly goes by.

the devil gets out

being mean,
and harsh,
perhaps even cruel,
you say some bad
things to someone
who has insulted you
for no reason.
and for you
it's easy to use
words to burn
down her house,
to throw a thousand
arrows through
her heart.
you'd like to think
you were beyond
such behavior,
more spiritual
and compassionate
towards others, but
no. as in all of
us, the devil sometimes
has a room
deep in cellar
of your soul,
and gets out
from time to time.

no terror quite like

no terror
is quite like
the banality
of life.
of living
without color
or spikes
in the heart
out of passion.
no slow death
is quite
like the marriage
of two
with no love
or way out.
saving the children
who know
already
what is true,
what isn't.
saving money
which is less
precious than
time will ever be.
there is no
terror quite
like that,
and it keeps
the priests
and doctors running.

the blue jar

slips of paper
in a blue jar,
receipts
from stores
where things
you needed
or not,
were purchased.
with ticket
stubs and coins,
matches and pens,
your pockets
fill the jar
at the end
of each day.
a trail, a
hint of what
you've done,
or where you've
been.
and yet somehow
it's never
full.

sylvia

write a funny
poem
sylvia says to me
as she wrings
her hands
and stares
out into the roiling
purple sea.
write me out
of this glum
dark mood i've
settled in. save
me from myself
with one of your
silly puns
or jokes, the ink
is black,
my heart is
even blacker she
whispers
moving across
the kitchen
towards the sink
to set an
empty teacup
in. tell me
a story with a
happy ending,
before i leave.

the gate

the gate, when new
would swing easily
letting you in or out
for years, you pulled
the latch and
pushed. you came
and went as you
pleased, but
enough winters have
passed that the hinge
has rusted, the wood
has grown soft and
rotted at the bottom
where the ice
and snow rose.
it hardly closes
now, with loose
pins and screws,
it needs a push as
it squeaks, rattles
against itself,
not unlike you.

not one of us

you're not
who you think are
says the fish
to the tad pole
swimming
along side
his golden
stripes. you're
not really one
of us at all.
you'll see
one day how
you don't fit
in, and the tad
pole, happy
with the thought
of that
swims off
and waits
patiently for
his time to
walk away.

brushing her hair

you hear singing
when you
awaken in
the morning,
your neighbor
likes to
sing as she
brushes her
hair in
the mirror
that hangs against
your shared
wall.
she sings
beautifully
songs you've never
heard before.
when she leaves
the house
you see her
walking happily
to her car,
her hair bright
and shiny
in the sun.
this makes you
go to your mirror,
but your
singing is off
key and there is
very little
left to brush.
still, you too
are happy in your
own diminished
way.

breaking easy

captured by enemy spies
you are taken
to a dark cellar
and strapped to a chair,
when they remove your
hood, you see a man
holding a dental drill
and a wet needle
in front of you.
he's wearing a welder's
mask and rubber boots.
we have some questions
that we want you
to answer, he says,
moving in closer.
whoa, whoa, buddy.
you've got me. i surrender.
no problem, i'll tell
you everything. and by
the way, i just went
to the dentist last
week and had them cleaned
and x-rayed, so you
can put down the drill.
okay, where do you want
me to start. when i
was five, and my
mother hid a box of cookies
on the top shelf,
well, i found them...

enough rope

as friends in school
when she didn't
do her homework
or study for an exam
you let her look
over your shoulder
and see your answers.
she was your friend
after all.
then when older
and the ice
cracked and she fell
through while
boldly walking across
the thin blue
pond gleaming
in the afternoon
light, you ran
to the shed
and threw
her a rope.
when she
was short of cash
to pay her bills
and the electric
company threatened
to turn off her power,
well, you chipped in
to keep her going
for another month or
two. and then
there was the flat
tire, and the running
out of gas
in the middle of
the night. then
finally homeless
and living in your
basement. but what are
friends to do.

save the children

you start a foundation
to save the children.
you've become acutely aware
of a serious health issue
for some time now,
and you feel it in your heart
to step up and take action.
so you create a non-profit
organization to help with the
awareness of children who
drink carbonated soft
drinks too quickly
and then, yes, sadly so,
get a bad case of the hiccups.
when they have this condition
it's possible that they
could fall off a skateboard,
or be hit in the face during
gym class as an errant
ball comes hurtling
towards their precious little
heads. even voraciously
eating gummy bears could
create a choking situation
if hiccuping begins.
your goal, and yes
it is a lofty one,
is to get them to drink
more slowly, perhaps to
sip gently out of a straw
as they sit still and not
jump around like monkeys
on amphetamines.
it will save their parents
and teachers that annoying
loud frog like hiccup
noise as they bug their
eyes out, and stick out
their tongues. sometimes
drooling in the process.
you feel that, if you can
raise awareness and a
mere million dollars,
or even two millions dollars
the first year, then perhaps
you can, through this
non-profit foundation,
help these poor innocent
hiccuping, herky jerky
kids. you've got the bumper
stickers ready, the ribbons
which are the color of
rootbeer and cherry soda
and t-shirts, one size fits
all. volunteers will be needed
of course, so see it in your
heart to sign up and make
a contribution of no less
than 200 dollars. let's
save the children from
this awful condition. if you
truly loved them, as i do,
you would reach into you
wallet or purse and help.
let's stop the hiccupping
together. won't you join me
at our first 3k run/walk/limp
this saturday?
make checks payable to me,
but cash is good too.

she's not afraid

she's not
afraid
of the dark.
or of ghosts
or of things that
rattle
in the night,
like chains
or heavy
boots coming
up the alley.
no wolves howling
in the woods
bother her,
nothing scares
her. mice
or snakes, no
problem.
bats swinging
down to land
in her hair,
or to take a
bite of her pale
sweet neck,
she doesn't even
flinch, but
god forbid let her
green beans
touch her mashed
potatoes
on her plate
and she screams
bloody murder.

expiration

you turn around
and the one
you thought you
knew, a friend
of many years,
has changed,
is gone.
she isn't who
she used to be
and neither
are you. it's
fine though, things
move.
a world spins,
even cans
on the shelf
expire.

watercolors

the white stick
legs
of heron,
thin shadows
in the cold
reeds
along the sound
stand
still, awaiting
what comes
towards them
in the lush
wash
of water
along the high
grass.
a sun without
heat moves
slowly,
a white yellow
melt,
drawing blue
shadows
upon you.
the world paints
itself
by numbers,
more than you
can count.

taffy park

pushed
and pulled,
the world
has made taffy
out of you.
your legs
go one way, your
arms the other.
your heart
is a violin
with broken
strings. you
melt in the
mid day sun,
grow stiff in
the wind
that brushes
up against
the snow.
your sweetness
has soured,
you've become
sticky,
mishapened,
weathered
and old.

the old out of olive oil trick

you wrap
a towel around you
as you hop
out of the shower
and go to answer
the persistent
ring of the doorbell.
quickly you slip
and slide down
the steps, cursing
to yourself,
who and what, and
why at this ungodly
hour is someone
at your door?
you peep through
the tiny peep hole
turning on
the porch light
and see that it is
your neighbor
jezebel with an
empty cup in her
hand. you crack
the door open. oh,
she says, did i get
you out of the tub.
sorry. my bad.
you tighten the towel
around you, what,
what is it jezebel
you say. i'm sorry,
but i needed
a cup of olive oil.
you do have olive
oil, don't you?
sure, you tell her,
wait here. i'll get
you the bottle, keep
it this time, so
you don't have to
ask me every week.
she blinks her long
lashes at this, and shyly
smiles. putting her
hand over her
pouty red lips.
is this really about
the olive oil, you
ask her. or something
else?f which makes
her giggle. hmmm. you
say, laughing. using
the old olive oil
trick are we?

moses in the parking lot

you can't remember
where you parked
your car,
or her name, linda?
melinda, kendra?
who sits and waits
inside as you
run in to buy
a heating pad for
your bad knee
and a pack of
cigarettes
and breath mints
for her,
menthol lights,
or was it camels?
is it spring, or
fall, so hard to tell
with the way
the weather is
these days. lot B,
or was it C.
you wander for a while,
with the other elderly
people who are
also wandering.
there is no sign
of moses, although
it wouldn't surprise
you to see him with a
robe and cane
and wintery beard
searching for his oxen
and cart. you nod and
tip your hat as
you pass the others,
their eyes glazed
over and they say hello
in return, nice day
isn't it? nice day to
be lost. oh there she is,
you finally say loudly
to know onem,
as you look
over towards the car
with a blaring horn.
the others follow you
like mice to cheese,
hoping, mistakenly,
that it might be
their car too.

turtles

like old vicars
stepping out onto
the church steps
to feel the sun,
the turtles
with their
plaid backs
of green and black
and yellows
lie pleasantly
on the stones.
their ancient
faces lean out
with hollowed
eyes, blinking
at a world
that goes faster
and faster
without them,
as always
rushing by.

term life

a man has
his hand
in your pocket.
he is singing
into your ear
about tomorrow.
his breath
is sunshine,
his words are liquid
and clean
with hope.
he sweats with
charity for others.
he takes what he
can. the bills
the coins,
a check
and leaves you
with an insurance
policy
that will come
into fruition
at your death.
untimely or not.

old, or unold

in the mirror,
squinting
at the silvery
coiled wires
she pulls
at each one
cursing,
but for every
strand removed
another seems to
move forward
like weeds
unwanted
in the garden
of her dark
and luscious
black hair.
but you love her
just the same,
you tell her,
old, or unold.

the alimony blues

crying, her sharp
elbows on the table,
her stiff face
wet with tears, i
approach her and
ask her what's
wrong, why so glum,
sweet dear. and she
says i'm in love,
so deeply in love,
but i can't get
married again. i would
lose my alimony and
i worked so hard
for so long to
get that life long
check. those were
the best eight years
of my life. i can't get
married and lose
that fat egg,
from the golden goose,
my ex, that drops
into my account
each month
on the first. that
means that i would have
to get a job
and work like everyone
else. she sobs into
her hands as it
begins to rain,
and you tell her
kindly, poor girl,
it seems that the
heavens are joining
in with your pain.

bored with winter

bored with winter.
with sneezing
and wrapping a scarf
around your hot
itchy head.
you think about
taking a greyhound bus
to florida.
you want to sink
your teeth into a
fat juicy orange,
lie on the beach
all pasty white in
your underwear
and sip on a coconut
drink with rum
and a little blue
umberella sticking
out of the top.
you won't bring any
books or phones
or computers with you.
you want to lie
there and look at the
women in their
bikinis sashaying
along the white sands.
you might strike up
a conversation
with one, and say
hey, what's up, or
something like that.
you are bored with winter.
scraping ice
off the windsheild
of your car,
of nodding at your
barista as you get your
daily cup of coffee,
you are tired
of trying to scratch
an itch in the middle
of your back
that you can't reach.
maybe in florida
someone could do that
for you. maybe not.

club free

the mail you get lately
all wants you to join
or rejoin some
club or organization
that you once belonged
to. they want you
to be a part of their
team again. they want
to help you network
and build your business,
increase your love
life, heal your heart
and give back to the world.
they can help you
get rid of that unwanted
fat and see your abs
again. the letters are well
written and tell
you how missed you are
how wonderful
it would be to have
you back in the fold.
for a hundred and
nineteen dollars a
month you can once again
recieve their magazine
and put a sticker on
your car. you can get
monthly updates on what
they are all up to, how
they are going to serve
and protect your life
and your family. but no.
you have made a resolution
this year to be club free.

you don't confirm

an old highschool
classmate
finds you on facebook
and wants you to be
her friend again.
she was captain
of the pom pom squad
and the valedictorian
of your class.
you had an enormous
crush on her,
and could barely
speak in her presence,
you being just
a skinny boy with
with hair in your eyes
and her being
the queen of the school.
you remember
almost bowing when
she entered a room
and asking her if
you could get her a
soft drink or candy
bar if she was feeling
faint. you often
imagined standing on
a pile of thick
text books and kissing
her. she towered
over you, and her blue
eyes almost hurt when
she looked at you
by accident. but that was
forty odd years
ago. her photo now shows
her walking the beach
alone with a metal
detector, barely being
able to bend over
to scoop up a lost ring
or watch. she's no
longer blonde, but grey
like you are, older,
thicker, time seems
to have evened the playing
field, but you don't
confirm.

heading south

a bent wing
of birds heading
south
rises and falls
on course
towards
warmer shores.
no words
are necessary
for this
change of climate,
they just know
when it's time
to stay, or to take
flight and go,
as you do, cold
being not
your place to be.

blue collar

a rented
mule pulls
the load
uphill
with no response,
it's expected
and so it's
done
for food
for shelter, for
a kind
word whispered
into his
grey ears.
he knows no
different way
to live.
this is who he
his, who he
has become.

her name

her mail
kept coming
for years
through the slot
onto the floor.
some bills
and orders for
papers
and magazines.
every day
you'd pick up
the white
enevelopes
as she did
and see her name.
sometimes
you'd say it
out loud, to
yourself
in the empty
house. and when
they stopped
you missed
the mail, her
mail. you missed
saying her name

the earthly things

she believes
in angels.
of spirits soft
and full
of light
that protect
and serve,
that swim
the silent seas
of the unseen
world. she
believes in
the after life,
the life
that exists
beyond day
beyond night.
she believes
in love, in love
ever lasting.
she glows
with her open
mind and heart.
but that's not
why you like
her as you do,
it's something
more. her cooking,
her long legs
her lips
that move slowly
onto yours.
it's the earthly
things
you long for
in her.

the science of love

the study
of love
is not in test
tubes,
or charts,
or equations,
the periodic
table holds no
clue to the chemistry
of me
and you.
it's not science
or biology, nothing
in the stars
either,
no astronomy
can map
how our planets
align.
it's the first
kiss,
the fear of losing,
the longing
to see again.
there is no text
book for
any of this.

the low bar

the world
sits
glum
on a new day.
surprised
that nothing
has changed
with the flip
of a number
on a calendar
page.
rebrith, fresh
starts,
a pound or
two
sweated away,
such unloftly
goals
and resolutions.
no wonder
everythings stays
the same.
the bar
set so low.

you wait

you wait
and wait. you
are as patient
as the grass
is for rain.
your thirst
is unquenched,
the dry
desert of
your journey
is wide
and long, your
footprints
of where you've
come and gone
are blown
away. you wait,
what else
is there to do.

saturday matinee

you go to the movies
on a cold
winters saturday
and people
are coughing
behind you, beside
you, in front
of you. the screen,
thirty yards away
is blurred
with their
sneezing.
you shield
yourself with a
giant box of
popcorn, ducking
when you hear
the gagging,
the rustling of
kleenex as noses
get blown
like french horns.
it's not unlike a world
war one infirmary
full of mustard
gas victims
coming out of trenches
holding
their eyes and
throats. it's
hard to enjoy
the show, as you
lift your feet
and sit curled like
a ball
turret gunner
in a fetal position
waiting for
the previews to end
and the main
feature to begin.
you place junior mints
into the air
passages of your nose
to prevent
the germs from
floating in.
this movie better
be good.

boiled carrots

you start the new
year off
with a bundle of
bright orange
carrots. secretly,
though you hate
carrots. you buy
some kale too,
spinach and beets.
you are going to eat
healthy this year
if it kills you.
you stand at the
kitchen chopping
away for
the boiling pot
of water. tears
are in your eyes
from the onions.
and as you wipe
away the tears
you look out the window.
the yard is full
of deer and rabbits.
other assorted
wild animals.
mr. raccoon has
a fork and knife in
his hand and
a napkin around
his neck. they all
know that his new
diet of yours
won't last long.
they wave their little
soft paws when
they see you looking.

post mortem

the trees
in the forest
are whispering
among themselves,
speaking
in hushed tones
about
the others.
the dead.
the ones with
tinsel
still hung
on dry limbs,
lying now
on curbs
with wreathes
and empty boxes.
they shake
their high heads
in the january
wind,
sad for the ones
gone down, cut
off so young,
watered
and wired with
lights, for
a week or two,
some just
for one night.

let it burn

standing out
in the cold
with your
hands over
a barrel
full of flames.
you watch
the papered
memories of
the last year
burn, fly
softly into
the air,
white ash
against
the black sky.
fire has a
way of cleansing
your soul,
clearing
the brush
and debris
that you once
tried so
desperately
to hold. the fire
is warm.
the fire
is a blessing,
let it burn.

the day after

you spend the day
standing
in line
returning gifts.
that pink
nightie just
wouldn't do,
with the matching
stiletto
heels that are
already coming
unglued,
nor the bright
blue ring
the size of a
beetle that
doesn't fit any
finger. and the book
on the civil
war for your
pacifist brother.
what were
you thinking.
your mother was
insulted by the spice
rack,
and your father
upset by your gift
subscription
to the aarp
magazine. even your
dog ignores
his new rubber
ball and stares out
the window
at a stick
and a squirrel.

out of hands

out of hands
to hold,
too old now
to find
another, too
weak
in the knees
and heart
to let
another love
go, or
have it
mysteriously
end, like
melting snow,
she finds
comfort
in sleep
and old dreams
and in the dirt
where she
kneels each
spring
with seed.

the blue room

the decorator
sweeps her
hands out
and says,
a shade lighter
perhaps
of blue
would work best
on the north wall.
that wall
is dark
and needs a broad
stroke of light
to open up
the room
to enlongate
the length
and space you
rest in. but
you smile
and say,
i'll leave it
up to you,
you choose. i
only need a pillow
and a bed
and to remove
my shoes
to find sleep.

talking cats

how strange it
seems when cats
are vocal,
emmitting sounds
like hoarse
babies,
not quiet
and serene as
you know them
to be on most days.
but hunger
or love is needed
at times,
in all our lives,
and by being
silent is not
the way to get
them, nor is
scratching and
drawing blood
a good way too.

you look best in black

she says things
like, you look better
in black,
which means i hate
that red sweater
you're wearing, i'd
like to rip it off
your back and throw
it into the trash.
but she's not unkind
like that. instead
she'll find a thread
and pull at it
when you aren't
looking, unraveling
it slowly, going almost
unnoticed, making
you into the person
she wants you to be.

the cost of butter

the price of milk
rises,
eggs too and bread,
soft butter
in a tub,
detergents,
all of it inching
up by pennies
each week
or month, who
knows for sure,
there is no
announcing of penny
increases,
you just put it
into the cart
and go on your way
happy not
to be milking a
cow, or churning
butter this or
any cold day.

new art

you tire of the art
on your walls.
the photographs,
the prints
and abtracts.
they have been
hanging there
for years,
centered and
measured just so.
feeding your eyes
with the same
images both
day and night
as the lights go
on, or the sun
comes up.
you need
new pictures,
new colors, a new
city to hang
near the window,
a different point
of view to
move you.

the beard

you grow a beard
to appear wiser.
it's better
than any diplomas
pinned to a wall.
you sit outside
the coffee houses
and stare at a point
in the distance
as if meditating
on the future of
mankind. slowly
you run your fingers
through the bristles,
petting it as
if it's a cat
wrapped around
your face,
white and grey
like wisdom
should be. you
keep quiet. you
have observed wise
men and none of
them talk unless
spoken to, or asked
a question that only
they can answer.
you'll try that
for a while,
be one of them,
keep silent,
until they find you
out, until they know
that it's just a beard.

talk tomorrow

let's talk
tomorrow or the next
day, or next
week perhaps.
let's let some time
pass between us.
let some
snow fall. let
the wind
pick things
up that aren't
tied down
and move them
to another place.
let's talk
tomorrow, or
the next day
after things have
settled down,
and changed. maybe
then, this
can be saved.

middle age

her feet sink deep
into the dark
wet sand, one foot
after the next
avoiding the curves
of waves,
the white wash
of ocean that plays
at her toes,
cold and relentless.
she runs, and runs
alone in the low
sunlight of december.
halfway home,
halfway from the start.
the inbetween
is the harder part.
she doesn't know
that yet but may
soon find out.

why aren't you married?

in tears your
mother calls you to
tell you something
of great importance.
sobbing, she says sit down.
are you sitting down.
i'm lying in bed
mom, you tell her,
i've got the flu
and a fever of a
hundred and three.
i'm using my forehead
to boil water as we
speak. what's up? ohhh,
you don't sound good,
she says. do you have
any chicken soup.
some hot tea with lemon
and honey? yes. yes.
why are you crying mom?
we lost power, she
says. the other day
in the wind storm.
are you achy. do you
have a headache, too?
no mom, but i feel
one coming on. your
voice sounds scratchy.
you sound like your
grandfather did right
before he died.
you need some vicks
vapo rub and a hummidfier.
i'm coming over. do
you want me to come
over? i can be there
in an hour, but i have
to get gas and stop
at the post office
first. do you want me
to pick you up anything?
you stare at the phone,
pulling it away from your
ear. why were you crying
mom. what happened when
you lost power. oh that,
she says. you won't believe
it. i lost all of my
sauces. all of my
frozen sauces that were
in the freezer in
the basement. i called
the insurance company to
make a claim, but our
deductible is too high.
that's it? that's why
you're crying?
i'm coming over, she says.
don't go out. and put
an extra blanket on your
bed. this is why you should
be married. there is no
one to take care of you.
why aren't you married? what's
wrong with you that no woman
wants you. it makes no
sense....why don't you
let your hair grow out
and shave once in
awhile...slowly you slip
the phone back into its
cradle and put a pillow
onto your head.

guns and god

your neighbor bill
has a gun rack
on his truck
and a holster around
his waist. he's
packing heat.
you see him loading
ammo into his basement
before he goes
to his survival
meetings on saturday.
on sundays after
church he goes
down to the shooting
range with his assualt
rifles and shoots
at targets
with his wife mildred
and their sons
billy and elmer in tow.
in the winter
he goes hunting for
elk while she
waits at home
with her skinning
knives, cutting carrots
and potatoes for
elk stew. they are good
people who like guns
and god. who would
want to take such
happines and joy
from their lives.

walking the dog

the police take you in
for questioning.
there was a man fitting
your description
who committed a crime
in your neighborhood
late last night,
the good cop says,
slowly filing his nails
in the corner
of the cinder block
interrogation room.
you laugh out loud.
a crime, what kind
of a crime?
you look towards
the mirrored wall
and wonder who's
behind there watching.
i've done nothing.
i walked my dog
about ten o'clock
and went into the house,
made some popcorn,
a white russian and
sat on the couch,
watching tv.
there was an all night
zombie movie festival.
i love zombie movies.
is that a crime?
i think not.
then the bad cop
steps over, one hand
is behind his back,
like he's holding
something. you flinch
as he moves in closer.
do you know what germs are,
wise guy, he says, filth,
rats, you ever heard of
the black plague,
disease and pestilence?
he puts his nose
close to yours and you
can smell the steak
and onions he had
for lunch. there's
a red pimento stuck
between his teeth. well,
do you punk, he says. do
you have any sense of
responsibility to your
fellow man?
sure, you shrug, but i
don't know what you're
talking about. then he
slowly pulls his arm
from around his back
and puts a sealed plastic
bag onto the table.
is that yours, he says.
i don't know, you tell him.
pick it up, he says, go
on, it won't bite you.
now open the bag and
smell it, take it out.
that's right put your hand
in there and pull it out.
take it out, he yells
in his bad cop voice.
you do as he tells you,
what is that, he says.
i dunno, a piece of bark,
mulch, you tell him. so what.
is that yours, well, buddy.
is it? maybe you say.
i don't know. it looks
familiar. a little.
just a little, huh?
have you been walking around
your neighborhood
with your dog, pretending
to pick up after him
when he does his business
with this fake bag of
dog excrement? you've been
carrying a piece of mulch?
every time you bend over
you put a piece of mulch
into a plastic bag,
and leave his waste
on the grassy areas and
walkways of your own
neighborhood? is that right?
you suddenly hear fists
banging angrily onto
the other side
of the mirrored wall,
the high pitched voices
sound very familiar. well,
the party is over for you,
zombie boy. you're busted.
in the corner, lighting
a cigarette,
you see the good cop
smirking and blowing on his
filed nails. he shakes
his head and laughs,
mulch, he says.

more fiber

you see your friend candy
sitting at the table
making a long list.
she presses a pen hard
to the paper,
concentrating. what's up,
you ask her, pulling
out a chair in
the coffee shop.
what are you doing?
it's my new years
resolutions, she says,
tapping the pen
onto the table.
cool, can i see.
how many do you
have so far? fifty-two
she says, but i'm
stuck. hmmm. maybe
take a little break,
stretch, get some fresh
air, that always helps
me when i'm stuck
writing like that.
she puts her head back,
and stretches her
arms up over her head.
read me some, you
tell her. okay, she says.
well, number one.
i want to get some botox
treatments to get
these lines off my
face. number two, i
want to lose three
pounds, right here. she
pinches her waist.
number three, i want
a new car, maybe a white
mercedes. number four,
wait, you tell her,
this sounds like a
christmas list of things
you want, not things
you are going to change
in your life to make
it better.
whatever, she says.
stop interrupting me.
and by the way,
i do have one of those
life changing things
in here,
number thirty-three,
more fiber.

tough chicken

a woman pulls
a knife on you during
your dinner date and says
i'm warning you
if you make a move on me
later, i'll cut you. so
keep your hands to yourself.
you stare at the knife
in her hand gleaming in
the soft candle light 

and say, okay,
no problem, but can i borrow
that for a minute, this chicken
here is really tough.

the next flag

behind
closed doors
mop up
the blood,
the gristle
of bone
and tissue,
the debris
of livestock
carved
and pulled
apart.
the slaughter
goes unseen
as it
often does
in the swing
and sway
of history,
of dictators,
presidents
and kings,
of the next
flag
going up.

going home

you miss
the exit and end
up in another
state.
things are
different here.
the skies
are clear
and blue.
the water clean
and cold.
people wave,
people stop to
say hello.
you have strayed
from the road,
and it is
a good thing
to take
another
direction home.

banker's hours

taking a rare
chance
you press
your heart towards
another,
feeding a slip
of affection
into the slot,
but feel a cold
wind
across your
skin. your
heart is rarely
open, the hours
are even less
than a banker's
window.
and less now
as you flip
the sign
closed again.

the unkind world

you are amused
and somewhat amazed
at how small
things don't
bother you
like they once
did. the snub,
the angry words,
or rudeness
for whatever reason
seems almost
normal in
this day in age.
the unheld door,
the bump
in line. a car
that cuts you
off or
won't let you in.
how used to
the world you
are now, it being
so unkind.

the coffee house

along the narrow
stretch of sand and road
the sea oats
blow between
the thin pines
and scrub
brush thickly
tangled in dirt
and sand, a coffee
house appears,
once a fishing shack
perhaps, where men
could get their
hooks and lines,
their bait,
leaden weights
and other
assorted boating
needs, but now there
is espresso and hot
tea, and chocolate,
summer reading
upon the shelves
for when summer comes
again, a book on how to
filet a fish is not
far down from a grisham,
an old cheever, a brown.
and the two girls
behind the counter
pacing, thinking of
so much more of
when they can leave
as their nails
tap tap tap against
the machines.
you can see the clock
moving slowly
in their faces,
heavy and freckled
but pretty as only
girls can be at that
age. they wish you
with thin smiles a
happy holiday,
the bell ringing
behind you, over the
door as a december
breeze blows in,
goes out.

on time

a naked man
is seen running down
the street.
you wonder
what led him to
this point,
what possible thing
has happened
to make him
strip down
to nothing and run
through town.
money problems,
love gone
wrong. his health?
who knows for sure.
and as they
play it on the news
over and over again
with a blackened
circle
strategically
placed, you see
that he has a watch
strapped
to his wrist.
he may have lost
him mind, but he will
be on time,
no matter where
he is going.

small change

you take
no money from
strangers.
not a penny to
make your bill
right. you'd
rather go out
to the car
and dig between
seats for
the quarters
or dimes you
might need.
you'd rather not
owe a soul,
be suject to
a debt that will
be unpayable.
you'd rather
give,
than receive,
at least when
it comes to small
change.

passing through

you're nearly asleep 

on the long silver train 

out of town.
your ticket is bent
in your hand.
you travel light.
the rails sing to you
a sweet lullaby.
they moan softly

over the curves
and straights
gaining speed,

then losing it.

you travel past

green pastures,

small towns,

the farms, schools

and churches,
past more stations
where you catch
a glimpse of faces

you'll never know, 

or see again. so much
of life is like that.

passing through.

passing through.

the arrivals

your arrivals
are coming
less and less
with time.
the places that
you have gone
to and need
to go again
are diminishing.
those who
welcomed you
have long
departed, as you
will too.
your arrivals
are not as
important as they
once were.
it's more
about departures
now. the last
time here,
the last time
there. the farewell
tour, if
you will.

the cold

your cold
grabs you by the head
and shakes
you. your eyes
burn. it then
goes for the neck
and lungs,
mugging
the sweet health
from your
bones. it rattles
your arms
and legs,
sends chills
like spurs up
and down your
suddenly warm
skin. your cold
is a thief
in broad daylight
telling you,
no matter how
hard you try,
you can't
keep him out.
surrender, get
some soup,
some tea. get
in bed and let it
happen.

blue birds and daisies

when you were a child,

you hid

under the wooden desk
awaiting the furnace
blast of
the atomic bomb.
you remember
seeing your friend penny,

crouched next to you,

with her blonde

pigtails hanging down

around her neck,

coloring still
in her book, blue birds
and daisies,

her fingers pressing

crayons to the page.

how could the world
possibly end with
such a beautiful creature

as this beside you?

returns

you save
your receipts
for everything.
no one is
ever truly happy
with what they
get, unless it's
a car, or diamonds,
or an exotic trip,
but they
put on a happy
face, a pleasant
smile and say
something like,
oh how nice,
it's just what
i wished for.
it's perfect, thank
you for my window
de-icer spray
bottle.

the silent reply

silence
is deadly.
the harsh
look, the cold
stare, the
unanswered
rhyme to
the fallen
word upon
a page,
the slip of
tongue
or phrase.
silence
is sinister
and deep,
cuts
to the bone
with its
true
meaning, but
it's better
to know
than not
know.
better to hear
silence
than a lie.

oceans

there is no
match for the blue depth
of water.
the stretch
of immeasurable
darkness
and light, wild
with its wings
of waves
shining in old
moonlight
in winter sunlight.
there are no words
no stories
told well
enough to capture
it all.
you have to
keep going back
and back
and back, to get
a small taste
of the enormity
of what it is,
or could be.

the lightning prayer

move away from
the window
your grandmother
croaked
as you leaned
your skinny
sand rough
elbows on
the sill
and stared at
the magnificence
of lightning
scratching
silver across
the plum sky.
it will kill you
in an instant,
it will snatch
the breath out
of you, she said.
come over here
and pray
that it doesn't,
but you preferred
not to, and to
take your chances
with what god
had in store
for your life.

that holiday spirit

your relatives
come over
without notice
for a slice
of pie and a holiday
drink.
you see them
outside the window.
your aunt
and uncle,
your cousin bob,
your sisters
and brothers, all
peering in
as you peer out.
open up they yell,
we see you in
there. come on,
it's cold out here.
they knock and
ring the bell.
they begin to sing
christmas carols
as you hold
your breath trying
to wait them
out, but then
you see across
the room your mother
standing in the hall
with a shiny key
in hand, holding a
fruit cake
in the other.
it was under
the backdoor mat,
she says, then
helps you up.

a lump of coal

you are very
disappointed
in your christmas
gift.
coal. every year
another lump
of coal. you
try so hard to be
good.
but no one
understands
or sees the light
in you.
you are
misunderstood.
your lack of
affection and
aloofness is misread.
deep inside,
really really deep
inside
there is a small
candle of
good burning
bright. this year
for sure you will
turn things around,
you will
make changes and
make sure
that next christmas
everything
will be alright.

the seesaw

a reporter
comes to visit you
and ask you questions
for a feature article
he's doing
on failed poets.
it's going
to run in the kid's
section
of the post. he
takes your picture
first while
you rub your unshaven
face and swat
at a gnat circling
your ear.
so how long have you
been writing, he says,
staring into your
bloodshot eyes.
since i was four, you
reply. not well, but
i started then.
interesting, he says.
and what makes you
write, what makes
a poet tick deep
inside, what are
your inspirations.
i don't know, you say
and look out the window.
two kids are on a seesaw.
you can only
see one of them as she
goes up and down
against the blue sky,
her pig tails blow
in the wind.
a look of pure joy
and exhilaration
is on her face. what?
you say, did you ask
me something?

lucinda

you see
her in the morning
at the kitchen
table
filing her nails.
her hair
is a tumbleweed
of blonde
brush. she is
focused
and determined
with that file,
a silent storm
about to
burst into tears.
you say something
like, coffee?
but she doesn't
answer.
bagel and some
cream cheese,
lucinda? which makes
her look up
and say, oh, so
you finally
remembered my name.
how nice.

under the bed

on the outside
looking in
the place
is clean and tidy.
smells fresh
like pine cones
off a tree.
the books
are on the shelf,
the dishes
put away.
a vase of flowers
is on the table.
there is no
dust, no papers
strewn about.
but take a peek
in any closet
or under any
bed and therein
lies the truth
as to what goes
on here
in this house.

we're even

i like the days
when nothing
happens.
when no one
calls, or writes,
or asks you
to listen to their
problems.
i'm sure they
like not hearing
from me
somtimes too.
so we're even
in that respect.

my own country

you throw up
the white flag
lay down your arms,
put your hands
into the air and
say i surrender.
let them have
it all, the land
the things they
want, whatever
it is they are
fighting for.
the thrill is
gone, the battle
over. it's all
yours, take
it and be gone.
i'm going home
now to rest
and live in peace
raise whatever
flag you want over
me. inside,
i have my own
country.

one more

a kiss is
like a drink
on a warm
summers night.
one leads to another
and then you
have the bottle
in your hand
and you keep
pouring through
out the night
ripping off
the label and
awakening
hungover in
a strange room
in the morning
light.

abstract art

you are jealous
of the abstract
artists
with their
worshipped
splattered
paintings, saying
things like i could
do that. in fact
i do that on a daily
basis. i spill
and splatter, i
drip paint
onto walls and floors,
clothes, hands
and arms. my
shoes alone are
a work of art.
look at this shirt.
it should be
in a gallery. pollock,
pffft, he was
an amateur
compared to the messes
i've made.

sins

the water isn't
hot enough
or the soap
strong enough
to wash away
the sins of
the world away
that you take part
in on a daily
basis. you're
trying your best
to curb your
appetites
and desires and
to seek
guidance of
a higher more
pure power, but
the hot baths
do help
on occasion.

the bird in a cage

the bird
is such a fabulous
yellow and green
reminding you
of tropical
islands,
full mangos
and wild berries,
the sound
it makes is
pleasant to your
ears, it can
almost speak
saying all the words
that others
have to spoken
into his
hidden ears.
so it's a violent
surprise
when your hand
rests upon
the bars and he
bites into your
thumb like a vise
with his curved
steel beak,
and the blood
flows red
and bright.

the game

on the narrow
streets
lined with
chained link
fences
and beat up
cars
where you
grew up,
you chalked
bases
onto the black
pavement
for stick ball.
these days
they are now
chalked with
bodies that
have fallen
from gunshots.
a game of
a different
sort, for sure.

good people

asleep
you do no
harm, your
lips are quiet,
no words
come out to
say bad things
about others,
your hands
are still,
no longer able
to lift
what is not
yours.
your feet no
longer take
you into places
you should
not go.
sleep
makes good
people out of
us all.

quiet

how you long
for quiet.
to hear
the walls
be still.
the cries
of others
silent.
how nice it would
be if the trains
stopped, if
the traffic
became still.
leaving
only the sound
of wind
sighing
in the trees.

the rest of his life

the spoon fed
baby
with doll blue
eyes opens his
mouth for
the next soft
bite of pablum,
and when it
doesn't come
quickly
enough he cries
and holds
his breath
until it
comes again,
more swiftly,
and in this way
he has set
the pattern
for his life.

finding beauty

you make a gouge
on the wall
marking
another day.
you put a check
in the bank
to break
even for the month.
you pour out
the sour milk
and buy a new
quart to place
on the shelf.
you change a light
bulb that
has been out for
a week
then spin it
dark again.
you turn the
phone off when
it rings.
you settle
in to stare
at the yellow stream
outside
your window
holding the moon's
soft face
in its hand.

on the road

you can't wait
to leave
town. to leave
the dust
and debris
of others
behind you.
to leave
the whistles
of wind,
the cold
brushes of
snow and rain.
you can't wait
to lock the
door behind
you and get on
the road
to another point
of view,
to a warm
place where
you can't be
found.

lions

lions
with blood
on their paws
are asleep
in the afternoon
sun.
they are afraid
of no one.
with their stomachs
full,
the dry winds
push their scent
along the plains
and the survivors
hurry
towards the trees.
life goes on,
life ends,

and fear is part

of it.

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.