the bones of others

she liked to save
things. old
calendars
for instance,
scraps of paper.
inkless pens,
empty tomato
cans, magazines
no longer in
existence,
old shoes
without laces,
worn soles.
she liked to stack
up
the books
along the wall,
the dresses
she wore when
she was young
hung in the closet,
below a shelf
of dusty hats.
it made
you wonder where
you fit in,
and where
the bones of others
were hidden.

somebody else

come here
and kiss
me she says
sleepily
on the phone.
drive, get in the car
and come
see me.
i miss you, i want
you. i'll leave
the door unlocked,
bring nothing
but your lips
and arms to hold
me. come here
and kiss me,
she says, come now
before i change
my mind
and call somebody
else.

not a parade person

you've never been
in a parade
or even stood still
long enough
to watch one.
you don't like
being stared at.
you've come to realize
over time that you
are not
a parade person.
you find no thrill
in the floats,
you don't like waving,
or smiling,
or marching
in a band wearing
a glittering
costume.
you own nothing
that glitters,
and you have no horn
to blow. you just
aren't a parade
person.

babies with the bathwater

you see
on any given
day, from
windows
high and low,
the babies
being thrown
out with
the bathwater.
their pink
round souls,
like balloons
of hope,
floating
in the air.
you can't
save them
all. you've
done you're
share of tossing
too, so
you understand
the emotion.

cold creek

you miss the burn
of your
lungs
the heaviness
of your legs
and arms
after a long
winters run.
you're down
to walking now,
deep into
the furrowed
brow
of brown woods,
finding
the sleeve
of a cold
creek to ponder.

how things change

the sky,
blue hinged
along
the flat land
is
the color
of sadness.
the metal
grey of an
old man's
hair
and the blue
of once
sterling
eyes full
of hope and desire
wanting
tomorrow,
more than
today. how
things
change with
age.

under water

you see a turtle
lifting
his head in the shallow
water.
his ancient
blinking eyes
sees you, but
he feels safe
and paddles
about, his
neck straining
to see
around him,
his shoulders,
are mud
brown, hunched
below. it's
a long day
for the turtle,
his life
half under water,
and even a longer
one for you,
watching him
from above.

her list

when she
died you found
her list
of all the men
she ever made
love to.
she put stars
next
those that
she deemed worthy
of having stars.
somewhere down,
near the end
of the list,
there was two
more after you,
you see
your name.
there is no
star beside
it, there is
the curl
of a frown,
with tears.

what you can't have

you want what
you can't have.
you have what
you don't care about.
you are still
an infant
in a man's body.
what comes
and goes is just
out of your
reach.
just when you
think love is
near, it slips
out of
your hand
like a ball,
and your eyes
watch it as it
rolls
down across
the room
bouncing
down the steps
through
the hall
and out the door.

disappearing

one day
you are sitting in
the sun
and you notice
that a finger
is slowly
disappearing,
it continues up
to your hand,
your legs too
are slipping
away
in the sunlight.
your waist,
your chest,
before long
there is
nothing left
of you sitting
in the chair,
you are gone
but you are still
there. this is
the way
things end,
as they began,
something from
nothing,
then into thin
air.

the screaming baby

there's a screaming
baby in the store
and because it's not
your screaming baby
it's very annoying
and you want it to
stop soon. it's
giving you a headache,
and maybe a rash.
quickly you rush
through the store,
passing by completely
the diaper, wipes,
baby food in little
jar aisle, remembering
the ancient past.

the green witch

she arches
her back cat like
in the morning
and squints
at you, her catholic
school girl
glasses are
still on the night
stand, so
she can hardly see.
i had a dream
last night,
she says. i dreamed
that the nuns
were beating
me for something
i did wrong.
i have that same
dream all the time,
you tell her,
was one of them
tall
and looked like
the green witch
in the wizard
of oz. yup, she
says. exactly.
i hate her, you
say. she's
despicable.

paper boy

when you were a paper
boy, you saw the news
first, before most others.
you'd cut the metal
ribbon holding the bundle
together, in the dark
of morning and stare
at the front page
as the snow fell, or
the rain, or the wind
seeped into your jacket.
you can still smell
the ink and crisp
paper straight from
the presses, rolled
to you on trucks
driven by gruff cigar
smoking men, who
waved with stained
fingers, coughing,
as they watched you
in their rear view
mirrors, having been
there too.

for now

your maid
can't reach
the dust on the top
shelf
of the book case.
but you
forgive her
as you wish
to be forgiven
for the things
you don't
or won't do.
the floors
shine, the bathrooms
sparkle.
even the forty
year old
stove
has a glow to it.
and she's
pleasant
and doesn't steal.
the dust
she leaves behind,
is fine
with you,
for now.

slowly around the world

you take the boat
out, securing
the oars,
you push off
from the muddy
shore
and head towards
open water.
it's quiet.
even the geese
are moving slowly
this early sunday
morning.
the smooth glass
plain of water
makes you believe
that nothing
bad ever happens.
your plan is to
row around
the world. slowly.
you have
the time, and
the proper
delusionary frame
of mind.

the big squeeze

my divorce will
be final
in a few years
he says, sipping
on his scotch,
eating pretzels
at the bar.
we are just ironing
out the details now.
i notice a hole
in his shoe
as he crosses
his legs,
the elbows of
his jacket
are worn thin.
he hasn't had
a haircut in weeks.
as soon as my
lawyer gets
back from his vacation
in france
he's going to
wrap this all up
and get us
a court date,
i think i can take
out an equity
loan for that.
i sold my car
the other day to
take care of his
investigative work.
he found out she's
been cheating
on me for years.
can you believe
that?

he's not there

a man
on the corner
with a ruddy
face,
chopped
blonde
hair, like
wheat,
has a sign
and a red can.
everyday
he's out
there on
the median
silently
pacing back
and forth
towards
the nod and
open windows.
his head is
bowed, his
bristled
chin nearly
touching
his chest.
a dollar here,
some change.
all in a days
work.
then he disappears.
you feel better
for some reason
when he's
not there.

the hat

you see a man
running
down
the street,
flushed,
chasing his
wind blown hat.
the hat
seems more
important than
losing his
life
in traffic.
you too have
wrongly
chased
things down
a street,
not counting
the price
it may cost
you.

the new condo

your friend
elaine
excitedly
moves into
a new condo
on the second
floor
of a four
story building
with
sparkling
appliances,
a sunken tub,
maple floors
against wide
white trim
and crown molding.
the sunken
jacuzzi tub
smiles at her
as she opens
the door, pulls
up the blinds.
it's perfect.
when she
moves her
dishes in on
saturday,
the first
day of her
arrival she hears
chanting
in the unit
above her.
a family chanting
loudly
in a strange language
their prayers.
and so the war
begins.

no parking

you try to think
if you
have ever driven
into the city
of washington
dc, and not gotten
a parking ticket.
maybe never.
unreadable meters,
and ambiguous
signs are
everywhere.
the government
that runs
the city, from
the mayor
on down to the
dog catcher
is third world
at best, nepotism
and corruption
runs wild, but
the parking
enforcement
department
is a state of
the art,
ruthless
and efficient
facist force
to be reckoned
with.

imaginary girlfriends

you are amazed
that everyone
is so upset
by the football player
having an imaginary
girlfriend.
like who doesn't?
your girlfriend's
name is sheila.
she's beautiful,
and very quiet.
not an unkind word
ever comes out of her
sweet pouty lips.
you even have
an imaginary dog
named rex
that you don't have
to walk or pick
up after,
and a friend named jimmy
that you blame
everything on
when things go wrong.
you mean to tell me
that there is
lying on the internet?
horrifying! pffft. hardly.
you once pretended
to be an astronaut
for a week,
who went to the moon.
before long you were
invited to high brow affairs
and parties to discuss
your amazing adventures.
the beauty of
the imaginary girlfriend
is that you don't
have to buy her
stuff, or meet her
parents, or eat
the tofu that she
shapes into a turkey
on thanksgiving.
long live sheila
and all the other
wonderful imaginary
people online,
like you and me.

teachers and students

like a chant
they whisper
in unison
as the day
goes on,
more snow,
more cold.
more ice
and frozen
roads.
the kids
and teachers
keep looking
out the window
up at the
grey sky,
finally
both agreeing
on the same
exact
thing.

the end

feeling tubby,
you go on
a crash
diet. no more
chips
or soda,
no more
donuts or
bread lathered
with butter.
no
white russians
before bed.
no more
candy from
a jar
that glistens
on top
of the fridge.
easy on
the pasta, red
sauce only,
the red meat
must go as well.
creme brulee
is a distant
memory,
as is the banana
split.
just shoot
me now.

grudges

you can hold a grudge
pretty well,
but not as well as
most members
of your family.
you have a tendency
to break around
the holidays, being
the sentimental
fool that you are.
your two uncles
on your mother's side
are the masters. they
haven't spoken to
one another for over
thirty years.
maybe longer.
in their eighties now,
they stand quietly
near one another
at funerals, then
go their separate ways.
no can remember what
exactly happened
to cause this rift,
but who cares.
your mother and brother
are doing a nice
job too holding onto
the silence between
them, it's a race
to the death, it
seems. your sisters
are good as well,
two of them haven't
spoken to you in years,
and they won't return
your calls. something
you said perhaps
about a burned pot roast.
as far as your father
goes, no one talks
to him, but you. you'd
like to hold a grudge
against him, but you
just can't bring
yourself to it.
the ex wife, well,
that's a given.
there's enough there
for her to hold two
lifetimes of grudges,
she remains
mute as a melon,
but in time, you
hope they will all let
go of whatever is
bothering them,
and become more
forgiving.

a new team

with your girlfriend
busy with her own life
you feel lonely
on a friday night, so
you go through
your list of possible
people to call
and do something with.
just to shoot the
breeze, grab a drink.
nothing more, nothing
less. betty, nope, in rehab.
shirley, married,
again. cathy, hates
you. regina. hates you
even more than cathy does.
jimmy, doing time.
jeff, working on
his novel about
ben franklin. yawn.
crazy bill, number
disconnected.
frank, boring, puts
you to sleep in ten
minutes when he starts
talking about his
golf game. linda,
doesn't drive
at night anymore.
ellen, nope, this is
knitting night.
kim, in the hospital
for more cosmetic
surgery.
lisa, likes girls
now and wants nothing
to do with a dog
man like you.
esther, moved to colorado
to be closer
to her pyschiatrist.
karen, hmmm. she doesn't
want to leave her
dog alone on a windy
night. pat, nope, he/she
is still healing
from his sex
change operation.
you really do
need a new team.

jersey girl

i'm from
jersey, she said.
you got a problem
with that?
no. you said.
no problem
none whatsoever.
i think we should
dance, she
said,
then took my
hand.
but, no buts,
she said,
dragging me out
into the flickering
mayhem
of a dance floor.
the room pulsed
with
black lights
and strobes.
do you have a
knife she yelled
as she gyrated
her arms
and legs
like a tornado.
the black dog
collar
around her neck
spun like
a carnival ride.
no, you yelled
back. well,
that's okay, she
said, i have extra
one in my boot
in case there's
trouble. thanks
you said and proceeded
to try to duplicate
her dance
as best you could.

king no more

when you were
king
you had things in
order.
there was prosperity
and happiness
as far across
the room
as you could see.
but now,
your robe is in
tatters,
your staff broken
and bent.
the people
have lost
hope in you
and said no
more. your wife
has packed her
bags and left
without a word.
your son has
disappeared.
even your
dog no longer
obeys your command
to sit
and heel.
he laughs at
you and chews
on your fallen
crown.

illness

when her hair
fell out
in clumps.
leaving strands
along the tub
and sink.
she thought,
what else.
an arm
left here,
a leg there.
an ear,
my nose, my
eyes.
slowly
becoming what
i once was,
nothing
and no one,
about to
disappear,
never to be
seen
whole again.

leave it alone

you can't unstick
the rusted
pipe,
no wrench will
do, it may
break before
it turns.
but at least
it's not
leaking,
for now, so
leave it as
it is, old
and worn,
things
could get worse.

the first mile

the first mile
is a warm up,
stretching,
going slow,
getting
the kinks
out of the knees
and ankles,
your spine.
the ligaments
loosening as
your body heats
up. not unlike
the first
kiss.

clean your room

your mother would
often say
things like, why
don't you pick up
your clothes and put
them in the closet
or the dresser drawers.
why do you throw
everything on the floor?
i'm not a maid
for you boys. you
live like pigs
in a barnyard.
and sometimes you'd
look up, or down
from your bunkbed,
depending on where
you were located,
taking your eyes
off the marvel comic
book you were
reading, just slightly
and say, okay. okay.
i just want
to finish this.
ten minutes and then
i'll pick up my stuff.
she'd leave the room
at some point, giving
up, but opening
a window before she
left and saying
it smells bad in
here. wash your hands
before dinner.

peace out

you hear
the children
saying
'peace out'
these days
when they leave
the room,
and want to say
plainly, 'goodbye',
but it's too mundane
and boring
to just say that.
not cool. adios
is fine, or just
'later' has a nice
breezy flair.
short and
sweet. we would just
say 'peace', or
'right on'
or perhaps, 'be cool'
'take it easy' at that
age, adding brother
or sister at the end,
depending on
the gender of
the person who
you were saying
farewell to, or
the politics of the moment.
flashing
the v, two fingers
spread apart,
not in that crazy
star trek way,
but well, you
know what i mean.
and the secret
handshake,
we had that too,
with the shoulder
bump and nod,
the clasp, the grip,
the slide
out of palms.
these days, at
least for me,
it's see ya,
and the regular
old handshake thing,
but not too
long, that's weird.
just shake and let go.

funny bone

the doctor comes out
of the room, holding
several x-rays in his
hand, he sees you pacing
nervously, and asks you
to sit down. it's not
all bad news, he says,
your wife...which you
quickly correct him,
friend, you say, okay,
he says, your friend,
as you can see in this
x-ray has broken her
funny bone. when you hold
it up to the light,
you can clearly see that
it was small to begin
with, hereditary, perhaps,
environmental, strict
education, who knows,
was she a vegetarian?
yup. carrot eater.
religion? was she catholic.
yes, but fallen away.
he nods, thought so.
but it is clearly broken.
so you are going to have
to be patient with her
and explain a lot
of your jokes, and
smart alecky remarks.
in fact, maybe hold off
on joking around for awhile.
no puns, or clever
observations. stay away
from metaphors too.
they can be funny sometimes.
he holds the x-ray up.
as you can see, the irony
bone and the wish bone
are all still there
and fine. we're going
to put her on a donor
list, and hopefully when
some comedian dies we
can transplant their funny
bone into her. risky, yes.
but it's worth a try.
anyone but gallagher,
you tell him, and he
writes that down.

google ernie

you wonder, as you
presume others
do of you, what
happened
to so and so.
like ernie,
the strange kid down
the block who had
his own in house
zoo, of lizards
and snakes, a pet
rat and hairless
cat. what part in
the world's play
do these people
assume, or are they
still under the
stage, howling
at just a quarter
of the moon.

family

your family,
such as it is.
extendend
and related
through blood
or marriage
is not odd, or
different
than most.
divorces and
children, litter
the room,
as does
a minister,
a sailor, a salesman
and a laborer,
and someone
accused of murder,
although
in self defense,
the whispered
story goes.
together, though,
in some
strange way.
they are all of
different breeds
and species.
cats and dogs.
birds and fish.
with their own
language
to be misunderstood
in.

it's not about that

your phone
is not ringing,
but it doesn't
mean you're
lonely.
sure, it's
raining,
and the cat
is under
the bed and yes,
you can
hear the buzz
of laughter
and dancing
in the
apartment
above you, but
what do they
know?
this is not
about being
lonely,
or being
alone. it's
about something
else.
you swear it is.

waterproof

you remove
your hat and toss
it aside, heavy
with rain.
you take your coat
off next,
hang it near
the front door
so that it
drips against
the linoleum
tiles, puddle
where you can mop
up later, then
you sit on the
steps to take
off your expensive
water proof boots,
unlacing the strings
that burn tight
against your chins.
your socks come
off next. you ring
them out in
the kitchen sink.
soaked.
such are promises
unkept.

too big

surprising you
for your birthday,
in the dark,
in bed
you nearly poke
your eye
out on something
plastic
and hard where
it used
to be soft
and sexy.
the light goes
on and she
says, oh my,
i'm so sorry.
can you see,
there's a bruise
there, right
below your eye.
i guess i should
have told
you about
my surgery.
are they too big?
i need ice,
you say,
lying back
onto the pillow.

the long day

a chill
in the air.
stiff
wind.
ice on
the rail.
step gingerly
down
the steps.
open
the mail box
and take
out the flyer
for
chicken
wings on sale.
cottage
cheese,
flu shots,
half price.
the electric
bill.
grab
the rail
and go back in.
oprah
is on at four.

the parade

a few years ago
lost in a traffic
jam in washington
dc. you took a wrong
turn and another
wrong turn and ended up
at the front of a
barricade where a cop
on a horse
put his leather
gloved hand out
and told you to stop.
you can't move
until the parade
is over, he said
behind his dark
sunglasses, his
crazy big horse
staring you down too.
what parade you said?
searching the streets.
and then it began.
cowboys
and indians,
whooping it up
with drums and cap
guns. men in long gowns
and wigs, sashaying
to and fro,
like marelene dietrich
and greta garbo.
men in diapers holding
bottles,
sucking on binkys,
craddling teddy bears.
men dancing on the back
of flat bed trucks,
gyrating to donna
summers, shaking it
in short cut
off jeans.
then the leathered
men arrived in shiny black,
muscled with mustaches
and goatees,
the boas, the sequins.
the sassy screams
and chants.
it was a long parade.
interesting, but not
your cup of tea. perhaps
next time you thought,
you'd take the
rock creek parkway,
around.

the bribe

have you met
my friend,
mr. lincoln
you say to the bouncer
at the door,
waving the five
in front of
his beaded
chops,
hoping
to get in sooner
so as not
to stand in line
in the cold
with the other
neer do wells.
he laughs.
then spits.
lincoln, ha,
he says, get back
in line, and
find another
president
in your wallet.

in the night

you've taken
to wandering
the streets
late at night when
most everyone else
is asleep.
you get to know
the drunks staggering
home thinking
about tomorrows
drink, and dealers
counting their money,
yawning,
the strippers
going home
to put clothes on.
the alley cats
and rats, stop and
tip their hats
when you pass, for
a moment taking a break
from what they
do. even the full moon
has a twisted smile
on his face as he
watches you wander
through the night
neither coming
or going.

the lover's quarrel

enough with these
words, she says,
and pulls a sword
out of nowhere.
she tosses you one
and says, get up.
en garde. let's finish
this, one way
or the other.
so you kick the chair
aside, catching
the sword, and taking
your stance.
till the death, you say,
touching yours
against hers.

listening

no one
listens anymore.
they wait,
until
you're finished
then tell
you what's
on their mind,
then ask
you a question
about what
you just told
them. you
do the same
sometimes,
bored with what
you hear,
turning it
off in your
mind, like
a drip drip
drip of the
bathroom faucet,
squeezing
the knob
closed.

to thine own self

to thine
own self be true
and yet
which self
are we speaking
of.
the morning one,
half awake
with
words
or thoughts
entangled by dreams.
or the day
self, wrapped
tightly
in the gears
and springs
of work.
or perhaps,
the night self,
the tired
and weary one
from the long
hours since waking,
hungry for love,
for food,
for rest before
the next
begins again.

here's one for you

write me a love
poem,
she says
from the bed
her hair
draped
across the pillows.
tell me all
the things
you love about me.
tell me why
i'm so wonderful
and perfect
in everything
i do.
tell me how soft
my kisses
are, how sweet
i smell,
the kindness
of my touch,
tell me, tell
me please, in a
poem how much you
love me
and can't live
without me,
can you do it today
after you
take the trash
out, and make
me breakfast
and tea, then scrape

the ice 

off my windows

please. oh pretty

please.

the white flag

the white
flag goes up.
you keep ten
in your pocket
to raise
throughout
the day.
there is no
fight left
in you,
no stand you
need, or want
to take.
you throw
your hands into
the air
and say look.
i surrender,
let's just go
our separate
ways.

football prayers

in the hard
and desperate
times
of illness,
or broken heart,
of poverty
and confusion,
you seek god.
you get
on your knees
and bow
your head.
you petition
him for answers.
for quick
deliverance, but
he's busy,
it seems
with football
season,
guiding the ball
left or
right
depending on
his team
that sunday.

kindness

how kind of you
to not say
what you really want
to say.
to bite your tongue
and look the other way.
how gentle and sweet
your heart is,
to swallow whole
your true feelings
and look the other
way. how kind it
is as friends, true
friends, to keep
hidden what lies
below the surface.
how kind of you
to be this way.

no moral code

the worm
at work
is silent in
his ways.
moving slowly
through
a fallen apple
to be where
he needs to be,
and the moth
does
the same
upon a leaf,
and the caterpilar
has no
moral code
to speak of,
nor the bee
who stings
a hand,
or a bird
who pecks
and pecks
towards a
home within
a given tree.

points of view

when you wrote
in the first person
someone told
you to try another point
of view, and so you did,
and when you wrote
in the third
person, again you
were taken
to task and asked to
try another way of
saying what you want
to say. you are slowly
losing points
of view, but never
ever out of words
or things to say.

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.