oh really now

lilly half listens
to your windy
wild gossipy
story that you've
been saving
like a nugget of
gold for lunchtime
today.
you heard it from
your neighbor
who got it straight
from her
hairdresser's
mouth. so you
know it has to
be true. but
lilly waits
for you to finish,
she stares
at her nails,
and goes
hmm hmmm. hmm
hmmm. oh my.
shocking, she
says opening
her eyes as wide
as she can.
finally she puts
her hand
up to stop what
you're saying,
blinking her
eyes.
she can't take it
anymore and puts
her fingers
to your lips
and says shhh.
i heard this story
last week. but
you think that's
something, well
listen to this.
you're not going
to believe what
i have to tell
you.

directions

you can't
get there
from here
the old woman
says
leaning into
the cracked
window
of your car.
you're lost for
good, she
says, cackling,
and squinting
her pea
green eyes like
a witch
called away
from her boiling
cauldron
and splintered
broom. go
back to from
you're from,
we don't
like your kind
around here.

early words

you remember
your grandfather's
words of worn
wisdom
when you were
a small boy,
red faced
in overalls,
standing numbly
in the cold
on his beaten rock
strewn
farm. the trees
were blue,
the sky grey,
pitched
over with smudges
of black clouds.
don't make
friends
with these animals,
they are not pets.
they are food,
he said,
then raised
the long barrel
of his rifle
towards
a sullen pink
hog pulled from
the pen.

the argument

the turned over
bucket
of red paint
is in
no rush to puddle
across
the floor,
slowly
taking it's
time to seep
between the cracks,
into rug,
and against
your shoes.
there is no
hurry
in paint spilled
at this
point.
the damage
of angry words
takes time
to clean up.

your crops will rise

turning the dial
on your
old car radio
you come across
the scratchy voice
of preaching.
you can almost hear
the wind
whistling
through the creases
of a thin
boarded church.
salvation
is at hand.
your crops will
rise
again,
your family will
forgive
you.
it's not your
money, it's God's
send it
back to me
and make things
right in
your broken world.
i'll be sure
that God
gets it.

atkins bread

you remember the time
your friend janie
made three loaves
of atkins diet bread
that no one would eat
because they tasted
so horrible. and how
she stood on the deck
at the beach house
throwing pieces of
them up into the air
for the seagulls, and
how the seagulls
would flap their
wings a few times
then spit the bread
out into the ocean
where even the fish
would turn their
cold noses.

small things

he has a short
tale
of woe, but repeats
it every
day, every
chance he can
on the phone.
small things,
small irritants
in the corner of
his eye.
the stubbed
toe,
the cold coffee,
the traffic
jam
on route fifty.
you listen
and listen and
listen,
saying things
like that's a
shame,
too bad. but
he goes on
about how they
bagged
his groceries
wrong. who puts
bananas in with
the bleach?

sales pitch

there was a time
when the door bell
rang all the time.
salesmen mostly.
persistent
and polished
wearing suits
and shined shoes.
the sold
encyclopedias,
telling you not
to let those
children fall behind.
our company sold
the einstein
family it's first
book on mathematics,
and bibles
for the unsaved,
or wavering
and unsure souls.
you want to go to
heaven, don't you?
there were salesmen
for meat. by the whole
or half cow.
don't go hungry
if the cold war
gets hot.
but now it's
just mormons, polite
to a fault
and girl scouts
with chocolate mint
cookies, how can
you resist and
the occasional
truck full of men
from front royal
virginia,
chewing
tobacco and selling
firewood.

blind date

if you could be any
tree in the whole
universe,
or at least on
the planets
that can grow
trees,
she asks you
while drinking her
third glass
of wine, what kind
of tree would
you be. it takes you
a minute or so to
try and decide if
you should even
answer her, or just
pay the bill
and go. you stare
at the exit
sign near
the bathrooms,
but you play
along, because it's
cold out, and
you don't want to
go home just yet,
and there's nothing
good on tv.
oh, i don't know you
say. maybe a weeping
willow, a great big
weeping willow. you throw
your hands into the air
as if you were one.
oh, oh, she sighs,
batting her eyelids.
me too, me too.
that would be my answer
as well. i love
the weeping willows.
i just knew we were
going to get along.
i just knew it.
okay, now what if you
were a bird, she says,
calling the waiter over
for more wine. what kind
of bird...

rhymes with ibleeda

there is a diagram
on a folded
sheet of white paper,
instructions on
how to put this
desk together. the
words
in swedish.
the double consonants
are piled up against
each other.
arrows point
in which
direction to go
next.
thirty-eight
screws, nineteen
plugs.
twenty-four washers
to be turned
counter
clockwise
at some point
along the way,
but not too soon,
or too late.
a heavy stack of
flimsy pressed
wood boards
full of random holes
pinch your fingers
as you set them down.
a picture of a hammer,
a screw driver,
flat head
and a phillips
are on the page
too. tools you will
need.
all of this best
done in a sound
proof room.
they've left out
the liter of vodka
lime and tonic
water. ice cubes

the bar of soap

your hands
move
against the white
bar of soap
under
the cold water
which
takes a while
to warm
from this
faucet in
the house, but
the dirt
does come
off. you see
it in the sink
swirling along
the white porcelain.
you are happy
for such a simple
thing
making not
life perhaps,
but at
least your hands
right
with the world
for now.

pointed out

someone points
at the spot on
your shirt.
a coffee stain.
from the window
of his car
another points
at your tire
and mouths the words,
almost flat
as he speeds away.
a person puts
his finger in his
ear on the subway
to tell you
about the shaving
cream that's still
in your ear.
the toilet paper
stuck to
your shoe is studied
by a woman
sitting across
the asile
from you.
the lint on
your shoulder
is noticed too, an old
woman takes the time
to brush it away
with her hand.
and you say thank you.

on her time

i'll see you
tomorrow, she says.
or the next day,
or the day
after that.
and you listen,
you smile
and say that will
be fine.
whenever you can,
i'll be here.
at least for now
i am on your time.

waiting for you

the bus driver
waits for you.
late again.
he sees you in
the mirror
running
in your heels,
your hair still
wet. buttoning
as you go.
he nods his head,
raising his
hand so that
you can see he's
waiting.
he knows you.
as i do, and wait
as well.

his blue eyes

his blue eyes
are smaller now.
no less
mischievous
at eighty three
then they were
at twenty
four.
sapphire gems
twinkling
in the furrows
of his
sea washed
face.
the sun has found
a way
to map
the water he's
sailed upon,
the oceans
and the stars
he's seen.

the sun

turn away
from the sun
and it's still
there.
it doesn't care
that you
don't care.
it doesn't worry.
it stays
where it is.
allowing
you to come back
when
you're cold
in the dark
and ready.

few, if any

after the day
is finished,
the horses put
away.
the shades drawn,
the dog curled
by a fire.
you think of
what more
you could have
done.
and so it is
with love
when it begins
to fade.
what words
would have changed
the way
the sun goes
down. few,
if any.

for john

he sleeps
and dreams
in his
sick bed.
his wife
is in the other room.
she is lying
still so as to hear
his voice
if he should need
anything.
air, or water
brought to his lips,
or a kiss.
he sleeps
and dreams while
the days of his
life are peeled
off like soft
autumn leaves.

flesh wounds

you don't bleed
for long.
they are just flesh
wounds.
you pull
up your shirt
to show her.
is that you all
got you say.
i've been through
worse,
but you don't
eat when it
ends. you don't
sleep well.
you limp around
like a wounded
bear for a week
or two. you find
solace
in nothing, in
no one else.
at least for now.

march wind

business men
in suits
are chasing
their hats.
the wind
has put
curses
in their mouths
as they run
frantically,
bending over
to retrieve
what's blown
away.

meteorite

you are in the middle
of asking
your sweetheart
to marry you. finally,
she says with tears
in her eyes.
so after being pressed
and cajoled
by her and her
gun toting family
of wheat farmers
you shrug and give
in. you are
on your knees,
in the ice,
the white capped
ural mountains
behind her,
the blue velvet
box opened.
the ring glimmers
in the light,
but it's a cloudy
day.
it's even snowing
a little, what
light could that be?
and then she's gone.

but it's not me

there was a time
when you
had to wait for
an answer
to arrive
in the mail.
a week might go
by with you
looking up
the street for
the mailman
and his leather
pouch holding
the answer to
your future with
this girl
you've fallen
madly in love with.
but not anymore.
you wake up
and open your
phone to see the
hurried, mispelled
words.
sorry. i'm not
feeling it. but
good luck. i'm
sure there is
someone out there
just right
for you. but it's
not me. ciao!

go home now

there will be
long arduous delays
and detours
the sign reads
flashing yellow
along the highway.
take another route
losers
says the overhead
sign near the bridge.
what are you doing
out in this
weather, you
morons, says a placard
being held
by a traffic cop
in winter
gloves and hats.
go home, go home
says a man
on a hill with a
megaphone. get your
milk and toilet paper,
your bags of
potato chips
and go home. what's
wrong with you people
says the banner
being dragged
by a choking
piper plane in
the snowy sky.
even the deer on
the side of the road
with squirrels
and snow covered
rabbits are laughing
pointing with
their furry
paws as the cars
spin and spin
on the black ice.

simply this

when she says
i made you
breakfast
two eggs over
easy with toast,
and coffee.
the paper
is on the table.
it's ready
when you are,
but i have to
go, kiss me
before i leave,
you realize what
love can be.

turning home

on aging knees,
and worn
heels now,
you miss running.
the burn,
the sweat, the feel
of cold
air in your lungs.
the strain of muscles
on the hill.
the fatigue
and challenge
of going an
extra mile, then
turning home.
you miss turning
home
most of all.

idle hands

the world
is getting
smaller.
shrinking
like a child's
balloon
losing air,
seeping slowly.
you can hardly
catch
your breath
at times.
too many
people
in one place.
too many gods
with too many
demands. too
much free time
for idle
hands.

rosie next door

the woman who lives
beside you might be
a robot. one of those
androids you see
in the movies all
the time,
although you see
her sitting on
her patio
sometimes smoking
cigarettes and
drinking beer.
but she's very
mechanical in how
she talks.
good morning
good evening.
have a nice day.
she walks stiffly
too, in that robotic
kind of way.
she's neither
nice, nor not nice.
she's just, how
shall i say,
non emotional,
like your father.
you keep waiting
for her batteries
to die in mid
sentence, or for a
spring to pop loose
from her head.
you've never seen
her out in
the rain or snow.
so you imagine she
must be afraid
of short circuiting.
you can't stop
thinking about her.
sometimes late at night
you put a glass
to the wall and try to
listen to what she's
doing, but the tv is
too loud. one kiss
is all you need, you
believe to get to
the bottom of this.

the judge

the judge
when he
gets home
is tired.
exhausted from
deciding the fate
of so many.
he kisses his
wife hello
then takes
off his black robe
sets down
his gavel
and sits back
in his
favorite chair
away
from the window.
he doesn't
want to see
people for
a while.
they are all
guilty of something,
even me
he says to his
wife. they just
haven't been
caught yet.

in this line

you've been here
before.
in this line.
behind this person.
hands
in your pockets
with too much
time.
you've seen this
play before.
you know all
the actors, the lines,
the scenery
and score.
you've said these
things again
and again.
years ago,
nothing has changed.
everything
is fresh
in your mind.
you've been here
before. behind
this person. in
this line.

february

i'm sick
of february.
valentine's
day. birthday.
snow day.
short days
dark and cold.
slow work
days.
the shortest
month is the
longest month
of all.
i want to crack
the ice
on this month
and get the hell
out. hand
me that hammer,
i'm going
to florida.

the axe

there was woman
in your office. sawed
off at the knees.
squared.
a bull dog with
short hair. she wore
charcoal grey
suits. black shoes.
thick and hard
against
the hallway floor.
the hair between
her eye brows
was plucked clean.
you never saw her
teeth
but you imagined
blood on
them. a meat eater.
raw. her victims
still alive.
when she knocked
on your cubicle.
that was it. you
gathered up your
things as she spoke
in a monotone
voice, telling
you that the end
was here. a guard
will escort you out.
good luck, she said,
but she didn't
mean it, in fact
you could almost see
a smile crawl
across her tight
thin lips.

so you hope

you've lost
your edge,
your mojo.
your confidence
has slipped away.
even your shadow
shakes his head
when you enter
a room.
your shoulders
slope, you avert
your eyes
from others
thinking they
too might know.
you spend a sunny
inside.
only when it rains
do you feel
good enough
to go outside,
feeling deserving
of the wet
cold and wind
that lashes against
you. you've lost
your edge, but
this too shall
pass, or so
you hope.

return to sender

a birthday
gift arrives
on your porch.
a large box
with airholes
in the top.
you look down both
sides of the street.
the truck is gone.
hey, hey let
me out of here
the woman's
voice says from
inside. i'm
cramping up.
you look at the stamp
on top.
new jersey. what's
your name?
charlene, she says.
now open me up.
i'm your birthday
girl for the weekend.
i don't know, you
say. what do
you look like?
i'm beautiful
and very cultured
too. you lean down
towards the holes
and try to look inside.
a horrible smell
is seeping out.
you're gonna love
me, honest. you
won't be disappointed.
hey, i'm hungry
and thirsty in here.
open me up. hold on
you tell her and go
get a bag of m and m's.
you drop in the green
ones. thanks,
she says. you slide
a long straw
through a hole and
let her sip on a soda.
thanks, now let me
out. she's banging on
the sides, cursing.
i've got a cousin in
jersey who's going to
break your legs if you
don't let me out of here
on the count of three.
you think about it for
awhile, then call
the truck back
to haul her away.
you don't need this
kind of trouble.

the dog walker

the man who walks
the dogs
keeps his head down.
his lips tightly
closed.
holding six leashes
with both hands.
you can tell
he's gentle
and kind, but there
may be something
wrong with him.
something not
exactly right. you
can see it
in his darkened
eyes.
but the dogs
don't mind.
they don't
pay attention to
what's missing, or
unsettling to us.
they are kind like
that and we less so,
at times.

a gift she'll love

she hates
the jewelry
that you've bought
in the past.
the blue ring was
too blue,
too big, too much
like the one
her ex boyfriend
gave her.
the sweater
was red and thick.
real wool. yesterday
you saw it in her
trunk holding
oil cans from
rolling around.
it was your gift
for xmas.
you've bought her
shoes
and lingerie.
wrong sizes
both. it made her
cry and go on a two
week crash diet.
so this valentine's
day, you
played it
safe with an
eight speed
electric mixer
from kitchenaide.
white
with a whisk
attachment.

another country

you make a mistake
and go into the local
big store
where they sell
everything from
underwear to tires.
cheap perfume
and paint.
it's crowded.
it stinks.
everyone is talking
loudly under the flickering
flourescent lights.
there's a leak
in the ceiling,
the drips being caught
in buckets with
orange cones
around them.
a man in a blue
smock keeps saying
hello to you.
hello, hello. hello.
he's older than
your father.
it's the kind of store
that makes you think
of other countries
you could live in.

red roses

there was a time
when you left
roses
for her.
at her work, at
home.
you were always
apologizing for
something you
did, or didn't do.
flowers
seemed the way
to go
at that young age.
the florist knew
you by name,
smiling and shaking
her head
as you came
through the door,
looking glum
as you took out
your credit card.
same address, she'd
say. roses?
and you'd nod.
same note?
same girl?
yup, you'd say.
you had to marry
her to finally
end things.

what day is this?

she is a devil
in her vinyl
red cat of nine
tails
her mask
and hood,
her pitch fork
made of
wood.
she sizzles
as she gets near
you
slinking across
the room with
her tongue
out, her
lips wet
and red with
lipstick.
you see her
coming as you
sit in the
big chair holding
the remote,
flipping through
the channels,
comfy in
your striped
flannel
pajamas. ah oh,
you say.
did i forget
something?

your server tonight

your new best
friend, your waiter,
erik, with a k,
will be serving
you tonight.
he's very happy
to see you and wants
to chit chat
about the weather
and traffic
and that new movie
that's out.
he might forget
the bread
and the silverware,
the napkins
and water, but
he's all over
the friendliness
thing. he highly
recommends
the grilled salmon
and asparagus,
his personal
healthy choice,
and the chocolate
decadent cake
is his absolute
favorite. in fact
they have to hide
it from him
when he goes into
the kitchen, he
says patting his
flat stomach.
he'll be by every
five minutes when you
are chewing a
mouthful of food,
or deep in a
conversation to
make sure everything
is still okay.
i'm eric, he says,
beaming, with a k,
i'll be your server
tonight.

skinny jeans

you buy a new pair
of jeans.
your size. the size
you've been wearing for
twenty years.
you take them home
and try to get them
on, but they won't
budge past your thighs.
what the hell
you say, hopping over
to the mirror
to look at your self.
you check the tag
again to make
sure they are the right
size. they are.
the same brand as
always too.
maybe they're girl
jeans, but no.
then you see the tag.
skinny jeans, it says.
you roll to the floor
and try to get them
off, but you can't.
slowly you crawl
and worm your way to
the closet to find
a pair of scissors.
you cut them off
releasing your red
swollen legs.
when you return them
to the store, the clerk
says throw them over
there into that pile
with the other
pairs of cut up jeans.
loose fit are to
your left.

gumption

i like a man
with a fast car,
she says. and muscles.
i like my man
to be able to protect
me. to swat away
the losers
like flies.
i want a man with
a big
bank account
and good teeth.
teeth like a wolf
to bite into me.
someone who will
slap me around
a little if i
speak out of turn.
a man
with gumption
and fortitude.
a man that will last
all night.
i want a man
with ambition with
a full head of
hair like samson.
i want....
hold on you say to
her, what's gumption
all about?

retirement

you see the former
pope
at the coffee shop
after his retirement.
he's wearing jeans
and a sweatshirt
saying notre dame.
a pair of silk
bedroom slippers.
he seems relaxed
and at ease without
the robes and hat,
that heavy staff
they made him carry
everywhere.
he's sipping from
his own cup, white
with a red cross
along the side
as he dispenses
crumbs from his
bagel to the flock
of sparrows at his
feet. he nods
politely as people
do a double take
at him sitting there
drinking coffee.
it was a good run.

for the birds

after several
minor accidents
and one large one
involving
a horse trailer
that ended tragically
for several
horses,
they took her keys
away.
she can no longer
drive to
the dollar store
to get her
yarn,
her skim milk
at the grocery.
her lotto ticket.
she no longer makes
her rounds
from betty
to linda, to her
daughter's house
in upper marlboro.
it was never her
fault she
says, that
car or bus, or
truck came out
of nowhere.
i'm done with driving.
but i'm happy
let them come to
me now. driving is
for the birds.

cathedral

the tree
rotted at the bottom.
a cathedral
of leaves,
of birds
to flock to,
now toppling
under it's own
weight,
full of heavy
rains,
dark needs.
so beautiful
to look at in full
bloom.
but there is
mischief
in the roots.
deception
in the limbs.
all the gold and
silver
won't keep it up
for long,
the trunk
is hollow,
the truth will
set it free
from the ground
it clings to.

a little more

a little piece
breaks
off
the rock
as the water
rushes against
it, a
silver sleeve
in the sunlight
against
the blue stone.
a small sliver
crumbles
and gets carried
away
each day, each
new rain.
down the stream
it goes,
a little more
a little more
until
you're gone
to stay.

sex change

your friend lenny tells
you that he needs to have
a serious talk, that
he wants to confide in
you something that you will
be sworn to secrecy with,
which surprises you, him
knowing what a blabber
mouth you are.
what is it, you ask as you
sit at the coffee shop.
i think i might really
be a woman inside, he
says. i don't feel like
a man anymore. a tear
rolls down his cheek.
you gag a little on your
dried out scone. i took
up knitting, he whispers,
leaning over the wobbly
table. i'm a knitter now.
look at my outfit, my shoes
match my sweater. feel my
hand, see how soft the skin
is. i'm taking baths
with grapefruit body lotions.
yesterday i baked a quiche
with little broccoli heads
in it. hey, hey. you
tell him. you're not
a woman, you're a man
of the, of the...
whatever this decade is
that we're in.
you still like women don't
you, sexually i mean,
you ask, reaching
over to pat his hand.
but you stop when you
see the charm bracelet
around his wrist with
little monopoly pieces.
yes. i like women, i love
women, he says, sobbing,
but maybe i'm a lesbian
woman inside a man's body.
he pulls a tissue out
from the top
of his lime green sweater
and dabs his eyes. i don't
want to get the operation, i
just don't want to do that.
calm down calm down you
tell him, you're not getting
anything cut off.
you're just becoming more
sensitive. you are growing
as a person. really? he says.
do you think that's all it is?
sure you tell him. the other
day in the dentist office i
flipped through an entire
copy of ladies home journal.
i feel better, he says.
whew. i've been so worried.
thank you for listening.
pffft, you say,
no problem buddy.
hey, he says, what are
you doing today,
do you want to go see Les
Miz. there's a matinee show
starting soon. umm.
you know what, i would, but
i have a yoga class in an hour.
rain check?

dance class

bored with winter
you take a free dance
class
at the local
YMCA. you stand
on the sidelines
limbering up, watching
your instructor,
kia, who dances like
a gazelle.
let's see what you've
got she says,
taking your hand
leading you out
onto the dance
floor. have you ever
danced before, she
asks you. do you
know any dances.
sure, you tell her.
i used to do the twist
and the swim,
the mashed potatoes.
in junior high i
mastered a dance
called the fly. in
fact i could probably
teach that if any
of your students want
a lesson or two.
i tried learning
the latin hustle
back in the early
eighties but i injured
my hip. so what dances
will we be doing
here, you ask her?
but she doesn't answer
as she spins away
to the music to grab
another student.

tax season

you hand your tax
lady
your accounting
books for last year.
your w-2's, your
interest numbers,
gains and losses
of your stocks,
you give her your
mileage driven
to get work done,
stubs and receipts,
you bake her
an apple pie and give
her a gallon
of french vanilla
ice cream.
you tell her how
nice she looks.
that she's getting
younger looking
every time you
see her. don't
make me laugh,
she says and i'll
try and keep us
both of jail
one more year.

don't tell anyone

holding a secret,
a bit of hot
gossip
for almost
an hour, the
loose words
slip
out from the mind
onto
the tongue
into the air.
you regret
them before they
reach an
ear. but it's
too late, so
the rest comes
out as well.

superstitions

as a kid
you watched
the ladders,
the black cat,
the crack
on the sidewalk.
you made
a wish
on the falling
star,
or made three
with a coin
tossed
in the well.
you had a rabbit
foot for a
key ring.
your catholic
childhood
didn't keep
you from
superstitions
if anything
it made it worse
as you lift
your feet
while driving
across the railroad
tracks.

inebriated wisdom

abstinence
makes
the heart grow
fonder.
look both
ways
before crossing.
a penny saved
is a waste
of time.
a hard
man is good
to find.
you only live
once
unless
of course
you're
of the hindu
faith
and if that's
the case
go on
and don't worry
about it,
have some fun.

i need some parts

there once
were clock makers.
fixers
of machines.
televisions pulled
out from
cowebbed walls
and the backs
removed
to find the blown
tube or frayed wire.
they were odd
men in greasy
clothes, with
dust in their
mustaches,
their glasses
slipping down
the slopes of their
long noses.
they'd mumble things
like, i think
i see the problem,
as they turned
the washing machine
on it's back,
the wires splayed
open, red and black
electrical
strings. i'll be
back tomorrow,
they'd say,
don't touch anything,
i need some
parts.

two for a dollar

two for a dollar.
one size
fits all.
no salesman will
visit your home.
it cleans
and shines, polishes
with no
waxy buildup.
it's the only
product you
will ever need
and is guaranteed
for a lifetime
or a full refund
will be given.
it will
make you smarter,
taller, skinnier,
more fun
to be around.
it gets rid
of unwanted
moles
or freckles,
unruly hair.
it puts a spring
in your step,
and keeps
the bugs away.
it's not sold
in any store, but
if you call this
toll free number
we can deliver it
by tomorrow. just
two for a dollar.
two for a dollar.

his blue fiat

your friend
is dying.
withered down
to nothing.
bones
and sinew.
eyes and ears.
his teeth
rattle
when he speaks.
you love
him and the history
that you
both hold of
being young
once, so long
ago.
in your dreams
you see
him with a dark
beard,
laughing.
tinkering always
on his broken
blue fiat.

the whistle

she used to whistle
when she
spoke or laughed,
the small gap
between her front
teeth
tossing a spray
of spittle
your way. but
you didn't mind
because she was
so cute and fun,
pleasant to be
around. you miss
her a lot, but
not the extra
wash you had
to do.

out there

on earth
we tend to think
differently
than those out there.
we await
their arrival
in fear of
the impending doom
of their
advanced
knowledge.
how they lust
after our
resources, our
women, our
coffee. but they
don't come.
and they
don't worry so
much about us
going there. they
seem to be so
much smarter
than us, or maybe
even dumber and
don't know we're
here.

smart girl

but you could have
any man in the world
with your beauty
you say to her as she
purrs like a kitten
beside you. so true.
she says. but i used
to have a mercedes benz.
i loved that car
and it was stolen.
i lived in a beautiful
home along the shore
and it was broken into
and everything
was gone. in manhattan
my gold watch was
ripped from my arm
as i walked on 5th avenue.
i was married
to the most virile
and handsome man
in hollywood a long
time ago, and he cheated
on me every chance
he could. so with you
i figure, you'll
be around for awhile.

we're so different

we are so different
she tells you
while driving in
the car. i like
soup and a salad.
you don't. it's
meat and potatoes
for you.
i prefer the beach
you like the city.
you vote red
and i vote blue.
i don't know
how we even
get along.
even the radio
is set differently
to play our
songs. we are so
different in so
many ways, she says.
i can't believe
we've been married
this long.
are you listening
to me? i just
saw you roll your
eyes again
and yawn.

the feeder of pigeons

you carry
a loaf
of bread
around with you
to feed
the pigeons
wherever
you go.
they eat it up
like puffs
of flattery.
it makes
you happy
to make them
happy, whatever
bird happiness
is, or isn't.
it's not
your job
to know. you
are just
the feeder
of pigeons.
no more, no
less.

the social network

the man
with a white
beard
and flushed face,
holding a sign
on the corner
with a red cup
full of change
and crumpled
dollars
has added
another sign
taped to the
bottom.
friend me on
facebook it says.
donations
can be made
there as well.
god bless.

a patch of ice

the foot finding
the patch
of ice
feels quickly
what is
about to happen.
and as the sky
turns
over, your
arms flinging
helplessly
towards
the clouds,
you think about
another
path you could
have taken.

the pin

the pin you
drop
into the thick
dark rug,
that you
can't find,
even on
your hands
and knees,
will
find you
in all
good time.
walk gently
through
the pin filled
world.

temporary fillings

this is all temporary
she says. i'll be moving
out of here soon.
i'm just renting
for the moment
until the rates
go down,
but i'm about
to buy, maybe
something in
the country, or
a condo in the city.
i can't decide.
that car
outside
in the lot. zip
car. i'll be getting
a real one
this spring.
these clothes i'm
wearing i'll
be donating to
the salvation army.
i'm just wearing them
until
i get some new
ones. i can lose
this weight. do you
see all this extra
weight i'm carrying.
holiday pounds, she says.
i am resculpting
my body. what you
see now is going
to be gone
in six weeks, so
take a long look.
i'm about to change.
i even have
a temporary filling,
look, see, she
says opening her
mouth wide.
it's not a real
tooth. but i'm
getting a real tooth
soon. i'm in transition
she says.
everything is about
to change.

salesman

the salesman
has his hand deep
into your pocket
as he asks
you how the family
is, your dog.
you look great
he says, did you
lose weight.
you don't look
nearly your
age, has anyone
told you that?
well, anyway.
we have a contract
drawn up
and all you
need to do is
sign here on
the dotted line,
and here and here,
and once more here.
he puts his
hand on your
back, well, he
says, go ahead,
what are you waiting
for. it's a once
in a life time
deal. you won't
regret it. i promise
you that, he
smiles, trying
to hold back
his split tongue.

i want my future now

the future is not
what it used to be.
we were promised so
much as children.
jet packs.
bullet trains
and time travel.
we should be living
on mars by now.
having interplanetary
relations
with green skinned
women. okay,
maybe we have that.
but most of the future
has not been
fulfilled.
we had train and cars,
even planes in the early
1900's.
nothing's changed,
but our telephones
which change and get
more advanced
every three months.
put those geniuses
to work on other
things, for a while.

call me when you break up with him

my new boyfriend,
she says
excitedly,
is taking me to a
play on saturday.
shakespeare.
then we're
going to dinner
in chinatown
for some crispy beef,
and in the morning
brunch
at la escargot.
that afternoon,
if it's not raining
we'll take
a long walk
around the zoo.
hand in hand.
he calls me sugarplum
and i call him
stud muffin.
we do ice skating
on tuesday and
play scrabble
until midnight
on thursday.
and just about
every day and night
that we're together
we have
lot and lots
of wild sex.
sometimes we dress
up like roman
gods and goddesses
pretending to....
okay, okay,
you tell her putting
your hand up. stop.
stop talking.
i hate the both
of you.
i have to go home
now to walk
my dog. call me
when you break up.

how you doing

you have a neighbor
who looks
like he used to break
legs for a living.
he drives an old
white caddy
with baby moon hub
caps.
what's left of his
hair is black,
and slicked like
a seal
straight back.
he waves to you
with his
thick gnarled
hand, fingers
like pipes
going in every
direction. his
wife does
all the shopping.
you see her come
and go in her
heels and tight
pants, chewing
gum. he's
a good neighbor
though. he doesn't
want to know
anything about you,
and you feel
likewise.

news to me

you stop
getting the paper.
looking
at the news
on tv.
you avoid
the updates
online.
you stay away
from small
talk at the coffee
shop.
you are news
free for a week.
and suddenly
things don't
seem so
bad.
it's a livable
world
after all.

the big dog

the big dog,
brushed blonde,
floppy eared and soft.
heavy
and happy
with weepy brown
eyes,
a tail
not yet done
wagging despite
the years.
more love, more
affection.
more petting
she seems to plead.
throw the ball,
go ahead, i'll get
it for you.
it might take
awhile, but
be patient, i only
want to please
and know that
you love me.

this side up

you feel
a little battered,
a little bruised.
set aside and banged
against,
misused and abused.
the crate of you
is loose and shaken.
you can hear
the broken
glass within.
they take you off
the belt, place
you in the truck,
then without any
ceremony ring the bell,
toss you
onto the front
porch, not caring
who's home, or
whose package you
are. not a soul even
has to sign
for you. you are
on your own.

take two everyday

you try to read
the small print
on the label stuck
to the back of the
bottle, but
you can't. it's
too small.
you can make out
words like death,
coma
and blindness,
kidney damage and
loss of libido.
squinting,
you hold the brown
bottle up
to the light, but
that does no good.
you see a few more
words like if bleeding
occurs, or vomitting,
or shaking,
call a physician.
on the front though.
the words are clear
and in large
bold print.
you could even
read them from across
the room if you
had to.
take two, everyday.

the masseuse

she weighed
almost nothing.
which you liked.
because then she
could walk across
your back,
stretching
the muscles,
making the bones
along the spine
sing, and crack.
she was like
a bird without
wings with wide
arched feet.
slowly she moved
along your sore
and tired muscles.
it wasn't like
making love, but
it was close.
very close.

another town

when you ride into town
looking for a clean
room to lie down in.
a square meal and a drink,
a stable to feed and
water your horse, everyone
stops to take a long
look at you.
they don't like strangers
around here.
they don't need
new friends, or new
enemies for that matter.
you see the brooms
stop sweeping, the barber
stop snipping hair.
you see the sherrif
putting bullets
into his gun and spinning
the chamber. even
the dogs, mad as they
are, stop barking
to size you up. but you
don't care. it's been
that kind of year.
and as the mayor looks
out the window from
the brothel, you tip
your hat and smile.
each town is the same.
one nights sleep is
all you need and you'll
be out of there.

your valentine girl

as a kid
you always wanted
a valentine
from glenda,
the big
haired
blonde who
blocked your
view
with her broad
shoulders
and nordic
skin.
she wore
pig tails
and plaid skirts,
had legs
like an olympic
skier
and eyes as blue
as sapphires.
just one valentine
from her would
have changed
your life,
put the wheels
in motion
for all good
things to have
come your way.
but no.
sylvia, with her
whooping cough,
behind you,
was your
love and valentine
of the day.

self employed

being self-employed
you sit down
and have a talk
with yourself,
the boss in you.
you are unhappy
with the hours,
the conditions,
the short lunch
breaks. you could
use a raise in pay.
but there is silence
on the other end.
we are doing the best
we can, your
boss tells you.
be thankful for
what you have. now
get back to work,
the clock is ticking.

unplanned for

as brothers
do, and sisters,
together in
conversation,
about the
state of health
of parents
in their eighties,
the talk
of death comes
up like
an unwanted weed
in the garden
that was their
life.
it can't be
planned for
like a wedding,
or birthday
gathering, but
somehow it's
on the mental
list of things
yet to do.
and even then,
do what?

speed of light

there is
the speed
of light,
but darkness
seems even
faster
when things
don't go
just right.

splinter

a splinter
wedged
tightly
between
the skin
on the bottom
of your
foot changes
everything.
at least for
now, until
the tweezers,
the antiseptic
and cotton
are found.

in the garden of eden

we were singing
songs
in the smoked
filled car
taking a road
trip to nowhere,
looking for girls,
searching for a sub
sandwich to
eat. we were young
and red eyed
from inhaling
an illegal
substance.
old beatle songs,
the eagles.
only songs by groups
named after
bugs, or animals,
was the rule,
no matter how
badly
they were spelled.
the byrds, the turtles,
three dog night,
although
we unanimously
hated them,
so we moved on
to the monkees,
which took an
hour of singing.
iron butterfly's
inna godda da vida
was endless as someone
beat out the drum
on the dashboard,
by the time we
got to cat stevens
we were delirious
and starving.
so we stopped
and ate.
on the way home
we stared out
the window
and said nothing,
smiling blissfully
into the starlit night.

think positive

if you think
positive,
your friend shelly
tells you,
as she clips
her toe nails
on the end
of the bed.
everything
will be fine.
so stop griping
about having
no work
and think having
lots of work.
you'll see.
the world brings
abundance
to you
when you focus
on that.
it's a vibration
thing. i saw it
on an infomercial
on pbs the other
day. the tall
bald guy was
talking about it.
by the way,
could you stop
tossing
and turning,
it's shaking
the bed.
i almost
cut my toe off.

candyland

she loves board
games and can sit
with a bowl of popcorn,
or chips,
a pitcher of
margaritas
and play all night.
the game
of life,
candyland, risk,
and scrabble.
she knows all
the rules and the
ones you don't know
she makes up or
bends to her favor.
her eyes light up
with the spin
of the wheel,
the roll of the dice.
you can't beat
her, she knows
every q word by heart,
and when she wins,
crossing
that final
home square of
monopoly, owning
every piece of
property, from
baltic to park
place, she's happy,
throwing her hands
triumphantly into
the air,
and when she's happy.
well. the world
is a good place
to be in.

lost button

a lost
button finds
its way
loose
and spins
off onto
the floor.
a breeze
blows warmly
like a kiss
against your
skin.
it seems
as if an
even trade
has occured.

ice skating

mittened and in
love
they adored one
another, holding
hands
as they glided
across the ice
on rented skates.
the moon, full
and pink
with hope
above them.
how she loved
the wind
in her face,
her hair, the breath
of fresh
new love
filling her
lungs. how she
wanted
to skate and skate
her life
away with him
on this frozen pond,
but she knew
deep within,
that the seasons
would make life
and love unfair.

snake dinner

it tastes
like chicken
she says,
eating
a plate
of rattlesnake
with small
potatoes
and asparagus.
pass me the mint
jelly. thanks.
a little
gamey perhaps,
but not bad.
not bad at all.
i think i'll
have me another
helping.
suddenly
she sticks
her split tongue
out, and hisses.
baring
what appears
to be needle sharp
fangs. her
eyes get beady
as her neck
stretches
ready to
strike.
quickly you
get the rake.

the vase

she sees
the ancient
italian vase
in the air
as she tugs
at the far
corner of the red
hall carpet,
pulling straight
a wrinkle,
but there is
nothing she
can do.
and in the slight
span of time
that the vase
jumps
and tumbles to
break onto the
floor she relives
a love
so long ago,
with her in
venice.
that too
broken beyond
repair.

a part of this

a shallow bowl
of rain
water catches
the sky
and world
in a circle.
you lean
towards it and
see your
reflection.
somehow despite
how you feel
so often,
you must be
a part of this.

misty the therapist

you go to your first appointment
with your new therapist
misty. you are her very first
patient. she is hanging her
certificates on the wall
when you first arrive and taking
the plastic off the couch
where she asks you to sit.
she needs help with centering
the picture of dr. phil
on a white horse, so you help
her. she stands back as you
move it down a little on
one side. perfect, she says.
thank you. now what can i help
you with today. i'm just getting
organized here. i'm
a massage therapist too, and i
have a client coming in
right after we're done,
so we need to talk fast.
she moves around the room
lighting candles and incense.
so, she says, what is it,
your mother? let's start there.
oh, can you help me with this
massage table, it's so heavy.
did she not love you when you
were a child. oh, thanks,
those table legs stick sometimes,
you have to really yank
on them. there we go. great.
now let's talk about that mean
old witch mother of yours,
shall we? don't even get me
started on mine, you see
that scar right there,
she says, pointing at
the outside of her leg.
she burned me with a hot
iron, i'm not kidding.
so, okay, your turn.
i'm listening.

white swan at solomon

a white swan
swims into view
like a feathered
wedding cake
hardly ruffling
the waters
of the cold lake.
she shines like
a bright light
against the grey
of winter. alone
she moves
with gentle turns.
the small ducks
and gulls are
seemingly amazed
and stunned
as you are by
her presence,
keeping their
distance, not
wanting beauty
to flee.

don't sit under the apple tree

bored
out of your mind.
you take up
archery.
you buy a
bow and arrow
set
and a target
that you
place in your backyard.
but your
yard
is only thirty
feet long,
so it's an
easy shot.
you hit the red
bullseye
nearly everytime.
you need more of
a challenge.
you hear your neighbor
mildred in her backyard,
sweeping pine needles
and singing an
andrew sister's song.
when she looks over
and says, oh my.
what are you doing
young man?
you tell her
to get a couple
of apples
and come on over.
you make her
stand with an
apple on her
head and one in
each hand at the back
fence, as far away
as possible.
she's trembling,
but smiling too
in that sweet way
that she does.
aiming as best you can
you shoot your
first arrow at
the apple on her head,
sadly, you miss.
when you arrive in
your cell at the prison
after a speedy trial
you look out the mesh
wire window
looking out over
the prison yard.
not much is going on,
you are bored, again.

sasha

you develop
a fever
for sasha.
a cat like woman
with black hair
and green eyes.
she writes to you from
the ukraine.
she sends you a picture
of her standing
in a wheat field
wearing a bikini
and work boots,
holding a rake.
a long piece of straw
dangles from
her pouty lips.
she's in love with
you and you
are in love with her.
she's seen your
photos on an
international
dating site
and wants to come
and be your wife.
your e mail exchanges
have been
confectionary
and fun.
the whole village
where she lives
is excited for
her. they are having
a farewell parade
before she
travels to finally meet
you and live
forever in marital
bliss. she promises
to learn english
better. more better,
she says on
the phone, bubbling
with laughter.
i am at the airport
now, she says, in moscow,
but there is one small
problem. i've been
robbed and i need
airfare now. if you
could be so kind
as to wire me some
money, 3,597.00
us dollars should
cover everything.
here is my bank account
number. i love love
love you and will
see you soon my sweet man.

cookie salesman

your friend tells
you a story
of the time
he was in new
york city on a business
trip. he was
a salesman
for cookies
and airline snacks.
angry at his wife
again,
for her spending
and lack of affection,
meaning sex,
he felt lonely
and beat,
he struck up a
conversation
with a woman at the bar.
young and lovely, a
farm girl from iowa.
lipsticked,
and heeled.
she drank, he
drank, they moved in
closer to one another
along the rail,
talking kids
and family, work
and the world.
how hard it was to find
love, real love.
by midnight, she
said i'm going up,
but handed him a
note, her room
number and name
freshly inked.
she left an imprint
of her kiss on the paper,
then left.
when he got to
his room he took
a quick shower, stepped
into clean
clothes, he put
on a dash of cologne,
brushed his teeth,
then called wife
to say goodnight.
trembling with
excitement he called
the woman's room.
she asked him first,
sweetly in a midwestern
whisper,
if he was a cop,
then gave him the prices
for what she
would perform.

reset the clocks

the clocks are all
wrong, by an hour
or so.
each blinking
frantically
asking to be reset
after the late night
storm.
you blink your eyes
in that same way
sometimes, when things
aren't exactly right.
when the shutters
have come loose
and bang against your
house.
you know the feeling
of losing power.
darkness and cold.
so you turn the clock
over,
pressing the button,
one finger on set
and the other
on hour.

blood suckers

you go down
to the lab
on king st.
to donate blood.
take as much as
you can, you tell
them, unrolling
your sleeves,
i could use the
money.
i'm down
to drinking instant
coffee
and defrosting
things
from my freezer.
yesterday i even
ate some hummus
that someone left
over the holidays.
so go ahead,
take a gallon,
you tell them,
but hold my hand.
and i want a cookie
afterwards. not oatmeal.
some juice too.
i hate needles,
but i really need
a cup of strong
coffee, so find
the needle nurse
and drain me dry.

cold milk

as you turn
the carton of skim
towards your
cereal in the morning,
you remember
when you were a child
and could not get
enough milk, pouring
it into a cup
from the cold
glass bottle that
was left on your
front porch. how
thick and white
it was. heavy
going down, filling
you, quenching
that thirst. but
now, it's thin,
translucent. hardly
milk at all. making
perhaps the heart
and arteries happy,
but certainly not
your soul, or you.

the fire

with the fire
gone out, you
stir the embers,
seeing the black
wisp of
grey ashes rise.
you find
the room too cold
when she
leaves, too hot
when she stays.
you turn up the
thermostat.
twist it
a little higher.
you are walking
around in
wool socks,
a sweater
and a coat.
you've even
put a hat on
as you search
for gloves
and a long scarf.
come back soon
you phone her.
you are
the kindling
to my fire.

winter moon

the moon
so white
it's almost blue
coming into
the shadeless
room
where she sleeps
beside
you, her black
hair
on the white
pillow.
quiet in her
dreams.
you want to wake
her, to tell
her about
the moon,
pristine between
the leafless
trees, but
you don't, not
knowing if where
she is,
is just
as sweet.

maybe he'll call

she sits by
the window
with a cat
in her lap
and waits patiently
for him to call,
not sure
at this stage
if it's brewing
love, or lust,
or like,
or nothing at
all. he may come.
he may arrive
when she puts
her night clothes
on. he may
knock on
the door as
she climbs
into bed wondering
if something's
right or something's
wrong.
it's late, but
he still may
call.

snow stew

you stir and stir
the stew
as it cooks slowly
on the front
burner.
you lift the lid
and lean
your head down
to smell the onions
and beef tips,
carrots and
potatoes.
you smile at
the mushrooms floating.
love, like stew
is best cooked slowly,
served hot
on a winters day,
such as
this snowy one
is with you.

his identity

his identity
was all about money.
cars, a home,
property
and clothes.
women were mere
objects, bought
and sold.
the more, the merrier
and secure he
was about his status
in the world.
cracking his cane
against the underlings
that served him.
so when the market
crashed and he
banged his
hands and head
against the wall,
being greedy
by putting all of
it on the table,
he shrunk into
the mean and poor
soul that he was
before it, not
unsavable, but as
close to richard
corey as one gets
without the gun.

lost and found

you leave
a pair of black
leather gloves,
newly purchased,
in a men's room.
getting to
your car you
remember where
you left them,
so go back in,
hurriedly.
they fit so
nicely and had
the felt tips so
that you could
touch your phone
and dial a
number. you
had bonded
with those gloves,
the price
not yet paid,
through
the mail, so it
hurts a little
when you return
and see that they
are no longer
there. but they
are easily replaced,
and somehow
perhaps you have
given a gift
to someone with
cold hands
or perhaps a cold
heart for
not leaving them
at the customer
service desk, as
you surely would
have, being
the catholic boy
that you are.

sunday e mail

she sends you
an e mail, asking if
are you married yet.
have you tied the knot,
and i don't mean
around your neck.
are you madly
in love, or just
still mad?
are you still unable
to talk about
your feelings,
blocking out those
around you, only
showing love, when
you get love. well,
tell me, i'd love
to know the status
of your situation.
i have an opening,
next week, some free
time on my hand.
perhaps we could get
together and have
dinner, catch up.
what do you think?
love mom.

beware

beware of those
that whistle
happily.
the soldier
going to war,
the cop
on his beat,
the barber with
a straight razor
in his hand,
the dentist
with a drill
approaching
the chair.
beware of the
happy go lucky
souls, who
skip down
the street
whistling.
the doctor
holding your
x-rays to the light.
the minister
walking through
the graveyard.
they don't want
you to know
what they know.

stranger in town

when you travel
and stop for coffee
in a strange town,
you feel
out of place, and
you almost think
that everyone
knows that you
aren't from there.
they can smell
the out of towner
on you. the way
you carry yourself
and look around.
you think differently
than they do,
say things
in a different
tone of voice.
you ellict stares.
and can almost here
them murmurring,
hands on their guns,
hey, there's a
stranger over there.

big game

you've loosened
your belt
for the big
game.
you've doctored
a hundred
chicken wings
with texas
pete hot sauce
and loaded
a dozen sliced
deep fried
poatoes with
cheese and bacon.
you've baked enough
brownies to fill
a bapist
preacher
on his pot luck
rounds.
you pour a bag
of fritos
into the big
bowl. pop a beer.
put on your sweat
pants
and lucky gold
underwear.
in three hours,
they'll stop talking
and the game
will begin, if
you don't fall
asleep first.

a place for everyone

few of us
await death with
such anticipation
as do
the vultures
on limbs
and wires
staring
towards the cold
ground,
patient
for the demise
of others.
ambivalent
in their bundled
black
feathers
and blood
red beaks.
strange how
the world finds
a place
for everyone,
and thing, then
lets it go.

you'll see

when i retire she
says, in another
ten years, god
willing,
i'm going to do
nothing all
day.
maybe i'll go
fishing, or read
a book
in the sun,
i'll take long
walks in the woods,
i'll be worry
free and happy,
i'll do
nothing unless
it involves
self indulgence
and fun. things
will be different
then, she says,
you'll see.
you'll see.

the right peach

selective with
your peaches,
you stand
in the grocery store
for an hour
at the peach bin,
holding each fuzzy
piece of fruit
in your hand.
turning it over
and over, looking
for discoloration,
or soft spots.
you hold it up
to the light,
gripping it
for firmness,
tempted to check
its sweetness
by taking a bite.
which is the only
true way to know.
it's very hard
to find just
the right peach,
for yourself,
despite what
everyone
thinks about you.

a new itch

you have an itch.
several
in fact that you
can't reach.
located just
at a point in
the center of
your back, beneath
the skin.
if you can only
stretch your
arm and hand
a fraction of
an inch further
you could
scratch them
with your nails.
that would be
pure bliss
and make you
happy.
at least for
now.

alice

missing your
own dog,
you dream
of finding a dog
lost in the street.
so you pick him
up and carry him
everywhere
you go
asking if it's theirs.
the dog is white
and has a black
spot on his head.
he licks your face
when you speak
to him.
no one seems
to know whose
dog it is.
they've never seen
this dog. finally,
you see a collar
underneath his
fuzzy neck. you
slide it around to
read the tag.
yours, it says.
when you awaken you
reach over
to pet the dog,
but someone
who goes by the name
of alice slaps your hand
and says, hey.
hey. i'm sleeping,
here, cut that out.

the new you

tired of being who you
are you decide to change
your hair style.
grow a few strands
and dye them black,
comb them over from
one ear to the next.
you buy a new set
of clothes, shoes,
a bolo tie perhaps
will become your trademark,
a pinky ring.
you even practice
walking
differently.
you grow a mustache
and talk in a deeper
voice. you give yourself
a nickname. only
answering to mr. big.
it's a silly name,
but you are going
to force people to use
it, or ignore them.
you are taking control
of your life.
not settling for luke
warm coffee, or
burned toast.
the new you will get
things done, no more
being pushed around
by children and the women
folk, or men with
badges. this could
be exhausting.

mice in the cupboard

a box of saltines
is all you find
on the top shelf.
the cupboard
is almost bare.
you get the stool,
and peek up into
that deep dark
area where you
never go. you see
a bunch of mice
standing around,
with their paws
on their hips.
they have a list
of grievances
written out on
a shred of paper.
an old grey mouse
is writing one last
thing at the bottom
as he rests his
elbows on a table
they made out
of a wild mushroom.
they hand you
the tiny scroll,
making squeaking
noises, pulling
on their whiskers.
more cookies,
the note says,
more open boxes,
more bags
of dried fruit,
a bag of sugar,
white and brown,
and fruit juice
packs with the easy
zip opening.
one of them has
written down cheese
three times.
you read through
the list, and nod
your head, okay, okay,
you say. i'll see
what i can do.
geez. anything else?
you hear one of
them squeak loudly,
tooth pics, we
could use
some tooth pics.

the nudist colony

i want to join
a nudist colony, your
wife tells you,
standing there
naked in the kitchen
stringing garlic
cloves onto a rib
roast. you watch
her slide the pan
into the hot oven,
her breasts brushing
up against
the parsley.
i think that naked
is my true being,
she says, licking
her fingers.
watch the splatter,
you tell her looking
over the top your
newspaper.
i feel free when
i'm naked, i feel like
a child again.
like i'm back at woodstock.
have you seen the size
of that mole
on your butt lately,
you tell her,
wincing. no, what
mole. it's right
there, you take a long
wooden spoon and tap
the mole.
is it symetrical,
different colors.
no, you tell her. it
looks like a fat black
gum drop. oh.
well, so what. maybe
i'll wear granny panties
at the nudist
colony to hide it.
so what do you think,
should we join or what?
it might be fun.
no, you say. i feel
free enough as it is, but
go right ahead sunflower,
do your thing.

family reunion

some of your relatives
are not participating
in the family renunion
this year, in fact most
have made other plans
to spend their day.
there are grudges,
and differences, slights
and miscommunications
that have added up
to cause a breech
in the loving bond
of everyone.
of the fifty or so
cousins and cousinettes,
uncles and aunts,
brothers and sisters
it will only be you,
and your mother, who
calls you by your
father's name,earle,
a second cousin jimmy,
with his new wife,
a pole dancer from ohio
and a nine year
old hindu boy, yak,
someone adopted
along the way. sadly,
there won't be a potato
sack race this year,
and no potato salad
for that matter.
but your mother made
an apple pie, so
that's good.

a cup of crazy

there was a time
when crazy people
were just
that. crazy.
there were places
like
st. elizabeths
were you could see
them in the wide
stretches
of green lawns
talking to no one.
having conversations
with theodore
roosevelt,
or god. mad dogs
in the sun.
perhaps, we all have
a little cup of crazy
in us, some more
than others.
but like candy
from heaven the new
medication, the sharp
edged pills
are swallowed
as perscribed.
it hasn't taken
the crazy away,
but it has made it
easier for everyone,
to get through
the years,
blended us all
numbly together
as one.

the first cell phone

in a strange
neighborhood,
when your car
broke down,
you searched each
corner for
a pay phone
and then you saw
a man
in a green dumpster
digging through
the wet slop
of what people
had eaten
and discarded
throughout
the week.
you could hear
him talking
to someone.
and when you
peeked in,
you saw that he
was on a cell
phone. this gave
you an epiphany.
you had to get one.

the factory

your boss
is mean. he spits
when he talks.
telling you how
worthless you are.
how you can be
replaced by half
a man, or even
easier by a machine.
don't talk, he says.
do your work
and keep your mind
on the job
at hand. you're
lucky, he says to
be here. there are
men on the street with
more brains than
you that would take
this job for half
your salary. he
laughs as he leaves
the room. and as
you grind the next
piece metal down,
you wonder what
keeps you here.
what fear within
holds you to the fire
of this. making
you less a man
than those out there.

the love song

when you go home
from work, there is a man
standing
in your kitchen.
he has a wife
and a small child
who sits at the table
eating an apple.
the man and woman
are dancing
along the checker
tiled floor,
gleaming black
and white.
their arms are around
one another.
they kiss lightly
and smile at each other.
the radio is on,
an old song, a love
song. a song you
know the words to
by heart. you take
your hat off and watch
them, saying nothing.

there is no fire

someone pulls
the fire alarm.
but there is no fire.
it makes no difference.
everyone files out
in polite lines
just the same.
they go to the field
across the street
then turn back to the
building, looking for
smoke, or flames.
but there is none.
there is only
the constant
ringing of the bell.
so much of life is
like that, there is
no fire.

going home

no reason
to go home again.
this is home.
no need to return
to where you
were born.
where you first learned
to walk.
or sing
a song, or read.
this is your
home.
this is where you
lie down
to sleep, where
you sit
near a window
with a book
to read. it's the
place where you make
love, and find
comfort
in the woods outside
your window.
this is your home,
or so you've talked
yourself
into that belief.

a grey pair of shoes

tired of brown
and black
shoes, loafers
and those with
laces.
the same shoe
over and over
again you
without thought
purchase.
so it surpises
you when you take
home the grey
pair this time.
who are you now?

following the crowd

how do birds
know
which way
the flock will
turn. it's beyond
reason
how this crowd
of gulls
or sparrows
rise and fall
in rhythm.
are we too
of one mind set,
following
unknowingly
the crowd?
you see it
in fashion,
or flavor,
what's
believed to be
true or
false, almost
all giving chase
in that direction,
only the genius
few refuse,
and they are left
outside
the maddening
crowd.

the apple fritter meditation

you fast
for almost an
hour, no food,
no water, no
nothing, but your brain
won't let go
of an apple fritter
you saw the other
day on the bakery
shelf.
no, you say silently.
no. you focus,
breathe in
breathe out. you
close your eyes
and make quiet
your brain as
best you can,
but you can't
free yourself
from the apple fritter.
it's a runaway
train this thought.
you can taste it in
your mouth,
the sweet crispy
dough. and then you
have an epiphany.
the only way to rid
yourself of temptation
is to give in
to it. so off
you go.

corporate clown

you were never
happy being a circus
clown. dancing
for the bosses
in your floppy shoes,
with a bulb red
nose. you never
liked smiling
when you didn't
want to. or being
funny and clever
when you wanted
to step
back and just
listen, observe,
or leave and go
into another room.
there's not a clown
bone in your body.
you have no pies
to throw.

stuck outside

the lock on
the door won't turn.
it's old,
there may be rust
inside.
the key
goes in,
but it sticks
and will hardly
move despite
the jiggle
and push, the
pull of your
hand. how
can you not
go home again.
get inside
where it's safe
and warm.
how can such a
simple thing as
a key
keep you outside
in the rain.
if only there was
someone inside
to let you in.
perhaps you've been
wrong
about things.

what they find

your life long
friend
may be dying.
they've found
the beginning
of an end
cramped painfully
within him.
a solid
mass of disease.
you don't see him
that way.
old
and grey, thin
beyond thin.
grappling with
words
to say, trying
to explain
how this may
have happened.
you still see
him in the apirl
of his life.
you want to shake
the sky
and set things
right again.

higher ground

you don't need
to be an emotional
isaac newton
to understand
the gravity of
things when,
the world is
falling down
around you,
striking
your head
repeatedly. you
know what
you need to do.
to get up
and move,
to higher ground.

inked up

you get a tattoo
that says
maybe, next to
the one that says
baby. oh baby.
below that is
a rocket going
into space,
circa 1950,
on your shoulder
is the moon,
or mars, you can
go either way
with that, although
you wish you
had inked saturn
there with the rings.
you are telling
a story with
this ink, but you
aren't sure what
it is, or
where it's going,
you hope to finish
it before you
grow up and come
to your senses.

blue or pink cotton candy?

a rollercoast
car derails
killing
seven and injuring
three others
on the ground
waiting their turn.
the park will be
closed until
repairs are made
and the problem
resolved the
newspaper article
reads. that part
of the park will
be closed to
the general public
until further notice.
however the ferris
wheel is fine.
half price tickets
go on sale
today, plus
a free hot dog
and cone of cotton
candy to the first
one hundred
riders. blue or
the pink kind,
your pick.

being boys

you watch the boys
breaking
the ice
along the edge
of the lake.
using rocks, or
sticks,
they move to the
rim and pound
at the blue
thin layer
of frozen water.
it possesses
them. stamping
their christmas
boots onto the white
frosted circles,
stepping
out a little
farther and farther.
and from
where you sit
you can see it
crack, you can hear
it crack
and their loud
delighted screams
as one slips
down into
the mud. there is
a part of you
that wants to join
them, still.
show them how
it's done.

you really listen

when she made love
she was very
talkative,
expressive,
using her hands
to speak with.
she chewed gum too,
spearmint, mostly,
blowing bubbles
and popping
them in my ear.
she was fun
like that.
she liked to go
on and on about
her laundry, and
how the dog chewed
up her sandals,
and the time her
ex-husband put a knife
in the side of her
tires the day
she got divorced.
and afterwards,
lying on the pillow,
sweat on her brow,
she was silent.
having said,
everything thing
there was to be said
about her world
at large. even the gum
came out as she
said in all
seriousness, i like you.
you really listen
to me.

a dozen roses

you see a small
truck
on the side of the road
whenever you
drive
south towards the bay.
there is a hand
made sign
sitting in
the back, propped
up
by other signs.
plywood, black letters
painted on,
some smaller letters
are squeezed
in after spelling
corrections have
been made by those
with stronger vocabulary
skills.
sharks teeth the sign says
today.
yeserday it was
hubcaps and rabbits.
the day before
that it read hot crabs,
females, and some
large males.
with valentines
day approaching, i'm
waiting for the twelve
ninety nine, a dozen
roses, to make my stop.

the new red car

climb into my new car.
it's cherry red,
because it fits my
sparkling personality.
here, let me
get the door.
take your shoes off
please, and
don't touch anything.
in fact, here put
these gloves on,
one size fits all,
sit back and relax.
we're not going
anywhere, but
close your eyes
and imagine that
we were. to the shore,
the mountains
perhaps. a sunny
sea side cottage
where we could park
on a long
gravel drive way
and be able to see
the car
from any window.
are you chewing gum
in my new car?
here, spit it into
my hand. i'll dispose
of it. okay, ride's
over.

well water

your hand
pulls up the bucket
from
the well
slowly so as
not to spill.
your mouth
already
tastes the cool
flush
of water
quenching your
parched soul.
and it doesn't
dissapoint,
hardly ever,
unlike those
you thought you
knew.

what life should be

you leave a small
trail
behind you,
like most others,
words written,
love
endured.
the meaningless
ness
of work
and money
visible in
what you own,
or owe upon.
even the free
seem to be scratching
with a stone
time
on a wall,
imprisoned by
what they think
life
should be.

the worst lie

like a cloud
casting
a shadow over
you, you sense
the need
of a dear friend
and call.
the air gets cold
when he
answers
and everything
you feared,
is true,
the worst lie
of the world
is that we will
stay young
forever
and not die.

the orphaned tuba

the tuba
as large as
an elephant's
ear, tarnished,
turning
away from its
silverish
color into
a green blue
metal sat
in your parent's
basement
for years.
left there
by someone your
father knew
in the navy.
you remember
struggling
to pick it up
every now and then,
trying hard
to blow a note
out of its
small mouth,
emitting only
a strange sneeze
of a sound.
you have thought
often of that
orphaned tuba,
whose hands were
around it
making music.
whose lips,
whose cheeks ballooned
and carried
it from place
to place until
it ended there.

children

she plants
the seeds in spring.
and when
the flowers
come up
she waters them,
nutures
their growth,
trims out
the weeds.
she admires
them in the summer,
telling them
daily how
fine and beautiful
they are.
in the fall
she cuts
them clean,
letting them go
from stem to
ground, places
the memory of
them in a vase
by the window
and waits
once more
for the snow
to melt
and for them
to visit again.

limping towards the fire

i want to grow
old with someone, she
says, looking
at a sunset, giving
it some romantic
meaning
beyond words.
i want someone
to love me,
and i love them.
to grow old with.
you don't know
what your saying, you
tell her
limping towards
the fire to stir
the flames.

paper lives

into
the fire
you shovel
boxes
of what you've
written.
wanting to be
done with them.
and as the papers
curl
blue
then red, towards
yellow, a full
frank
moon watches
between
the fingers
of bare trees.
you remember
sweet
days
of youth, both
yours and
others. how
fast your pen
moved, and now
at this age, you
see
how time burns
quickly
our paper
lives.

falling trees

in time, even
the strongest of trees
bends
and loses
its leaves, then
withers, becomes
brittle
awaiting the wash
of wind
and rain to take
it down. sometimes
others fall
with it, taking
down
the ones nearby,
those with
roots tangled
in yours.
just the thought
of this
at times, keeps you
from getting too
close, or falling
in love.

the new you

you've changed.
you're different now.
yesterday
you were another
person, but you've
shed that skin,
and awakened
the inner you,
the new and improved
you.
people will take
notice, and hold you
in their arms.
they will welcome
the new person
you've become.
they will introduce
you to others
as if you are a stranger.
they will give
you a new name.
they will forget
the past and all that
you've done.
there is only
today, for the new
you, and tomorrow.

divorce court

you see
a mountain
of turnips
outside
the courthouse.
then
another
one comes
flying out
the window
into the growing
pile.
you take a closer
look,
they all appear
to be bleeding.

the beautiful silence

an old man, well,
much older
than you are,
backs his car
into yours,
banging bumpers
in the mall parking
lot. you get
out and study
the damage
as he gets out,
shaking his head.
his wife climbs
out as well
and begins to curse
him. all three of us
stand there,
hands in our coats,
in the cold and wind,
staring
at our bumpers,
examining them
for any dents
or bruises, scrapes.
but there aren't
any, much to
everyone's relief.
so you nod and
wave and say it's fine,
and as they climb
back into their
car, you hear her
go after him with
a barrage of curses,
and i told you so's,
her angry lips are
still moving
as you look into
the rearview mirror,
pulling away,
alone,
you sigh
and inhale
the beautiful
silence of
your world.

omar?

in the heat
of the moment,
when the stars
and planets are about
to align,
when the cake has
risen, and the eclipse
is about to occur,
she screams out
someone else's name,
her finger nails
digging into your back,
nearly drawing
blood, she says it
not once, or twice,
but three times.
omar, omar, omar.
somehow you go along
with this, trying
hard to figure out
who the hell she's
imagining you to be,
but you say nothing,
not wanting to spoil
the moment for her,
or for you, for
that matter.

the map

bored,
north seems
like a nice
destination
to travel to,
expect for
the snow.
then there's west,
but the winds
and tornados
scare you.
east, well, you're
there already,
then there's south,
but the heat
and lizards
don't appeal
to you. nor does
that twang
and syrupy way
of talking. you
realize that you
need more
directions in
which to go, or
just stay put
and quit whining.

girl with a bull whip

there was an exotic
girl from hawaii
who lived next door
to you as a kid.
she was the same age,
as you,
thirteen at
the time, but she
was stronger, faster,
bigger, and
she carried a bul lwhip
around with her.
she would take it
out into the street
and snap coke cans out
of your hand as
you stood there like
a scarecrow in a
field. she was
feared and loved,
but all the neighbor
hood children,
admired and not to
crossed.
she kissed you once
on the forehead,
like the queen bee
she was. there are times
you almost believe
that you still feel
the tingle of the spot
where her lips
touched your skin.

wild life

bending over
the sign that says
keep the wildlife
wild, please
don't feed the ducks,
a group of people
throw broken pieces
of wonder bread
into the shallow
man made pond.
the kids spit
to bring the fish
up too, hoping
for something
more.
it's hard to stop
human kindness
sometimes
no matter how
misguided.

he had this look

an ambulance
pulls up on your
street late
one night, the red
lights pulsing,
the scream of it's
siren dulled
for a moment. people
go out to their
porches in their
robes to see
whose turn is,
whose time has
come. and when
they see the stretcher
being pulled
out over
the curb, the grey
faced body
slipping into
the bright
mouth of the truck,
they whisper
to one another,
you know, he
didn't look so well
when i saw him
the other day.
i kind of saw it
coming. he just had
this look about
him.

can't get there from here

the rhythm
and rhyme of you
is out of sync.
it snows
on a sunny day,
rains
with a full
moon
up in the sky.
you kiss
when you oughta
wave,
walk, when you
should be
running.
you're drifting
in circles,
like a one
oared boat. you
can see the shore,
but you just
can't get there,
from here.

a man of his time

he had a good life,
the preacher says,
standing near the grave,
but not too close
as to fall in.
jimmy was a funny guy,
a wise man, a smart
ass, some might
say. caustic and
sarcastic towards
those around him,
but he was a person
who loved women and dogs.
i understand, he
even had a steady girl
friend once in high
school. and yes, i
know that he didn't get
along with his
mother, or anyone
else in his family
for that matter, but
who really does. jimmy
boy, we'll miss you,
a woman sobs while
texting on her phone.
yes, he didn't like to work
too hard at anything,
but managed to get
by. figuring out how to
work the system to his
advantage. yes, i know,
i know, he had a tendency
to bend the truth,
and lie a little, okay,
all the time to
manipulate his friends,
but let me say this
about jimmy,
he enjoyed his down
time and wearing
sweat clothes and
flip flops in all
seasons. he knew how
to relax. we could all
learn something from that.
amen, amen, the small
crowd murmurs.
yes, he was quirky
sometimes, saying
things that made you
shake your head,
so random, at times.
and yes, he loved his
video games and wall
to wall plasma tvs. from
what i hear,
he had every phone
and gizzmo you could
think of. 2 G, 3 G,
4 G's, he had them
all and stayed in constant
touch with his peeps
on facebook and twitter,
and linked in,
and my space, and
on sites we best not
mention here with
children present. yes
he was a constant texter.
two thumbs, i understand,
going at it furiously.
he was a man of
his time. we didn't quite
know him that well,
because he liked to
stay in his man cave
in his grandmother's
basement, and have food
delivered, especially those
spicy chicken wings,
but when we did see
him, we all greeted
him with love and affection,
loaning him a few bucks
for beer and nachos.
may he rest in peace,
our good friend jimmy.
he was a man
for his time.

decisions

you settle
on something.
it's taken a while.
but you understand
now completely.
you've had
a moment of clarity
as they
like to say.
epiphany is a
word you
like much better.
it's clear
though, what you
need to do.
why the muddle
and fog
for so long, you
don't know. but
now,
strangely, and with
confidence,
you do.

the late night commercial

she can't stop
smiling, or talking,
or oozing
with positive
thinking and vibes.
she's thrilled
to be showing you
this one step
spray that will
remove carpet
spills, embarassing
stains from
your clothing,
lipstick from your
collar, unwanted
hair from
your ears and nose.
this spray will
change your life,
she says, standing
there like a long
slender ray
of sunshine.
it makes you
want to throw
your shoe at
the television.
these happy people,
what drugs
are they on?

the chew toy

curling up in
a corner,
like a dog
with a bone,
or his favorite
unbreaklable toy,
there are things
you like to think
about, over and over
in your mind.
unable to let
go, and give it
a rest. drop
it to the floor.
take you for
instance, and how
it ended.
i'm chewing on
that thought
right now.

winter bitters

go away snow.
leave me alone,
take your
flakes and your
pretense
at pretty
and melt.
ice too, i hate
you most of all
with your
stuck and hardened
ways.
your personality
stinks. and
wind, take
a break and
relax, we
get it, you can
blow things
around, knock
down the power
lines. big deal.
aren't you proud
of yourself?
frost be
gone with your cute
name, nobody
likes to be called
cute at your
wicked age.
in fact winter
with all
your darkness,
take a hike.

happiness is a leaky pen

are you on board
with this
your boss says,
pointing
at a graph
image projected
on a wall.
do you understand
what these numbers
mean. you have
to hit them,
and soon, or
else we might
need to make
some changes.
you stare
at the chart,
edging up
in your chair,
rubbing your chin,
then at a blue
ball pen
leaking in
the pocket
of his white
dress shirt.
you nod
and smile.
funny how little
things like
that can make
you happy.

fall of the roman empire

she says on the phone,
calling from her job
at the white house.
so what are you doing
home all day, writing,
goofing around?
you tell her that you
have no work. it's finally
all dried up. if any thing
the economy is worse than
it ever was. the election
certainly didn't help
things one bit. oh, fiddle
dee dee, she says, don't go
blaming the economy on
him. he's doing the best
he can. it's the last guy
who caused this mess
we're in. that was five
years ago, you tell her,
taking out a magic marker
to write on the cardboard
sign you're making.
it takes time, she says,
rome wasn't built in a day.
rome? and where exactly
is the roman empire today,
you ask her. i don't know,
she says, i'm not good
with geography. Italy?
well, tell me this,
you ask her, what sounds
better? will work for food,
or I will work for food.
also, should i say god bless,
or will that offend
the atheists and agnostics?
hmmm, she says. not sure,
but i would use colorful
markers and a white board,
seems like everyone is
going with that old
black marker on brown
cardboard, be inventive!
got to go, lunch time. bye!