blue green shutters

it was a small house
ten feet from
the road
with a mud
driveway and a dog
chained to a
mulberry tree
out front.
two blue green
shutters,
the color
of poor, hung
unbalanced in front
of a picture
window
where the curtain
was twisted
from being peeked
out so often
to see who was
at the door.
it was not heart
breaking or sad,
quite the opposite.
it was nostalgic.
you could smell
cabbage
cooking on a stove.

ya'll come back

it surprises you
sometimes, living here
in washinton dc
when you hear a deep
drawl, a southern
accent with flair
and exaggeration.
words suddenly have
extra syllables,
there is a slow
molasses way
of speaking, expressing
oneself. you almost
look out the window
to see if there
is a horse tied up
out front to the
hitching post.
your mind wanders
and thinks about
the civil war. for
the next five hours
you start saying things
like ya'll and
isn't that special,
we'll aren't you just
a peach?
you hug people
a little too long,
and want a piece
of shoo fly pie
with your coffee.

the nail

you drive a nail
into a board.
then pull it out.
you do this over and
over, practicing.
you want to build
something, but you
aren't sure what.
an ark perhaps,
a fence, a wall
between you and
the world. maybe you'll
hang a picture
on the nail at
some point. but it
feels good just
driving the nail.
a common ordinary
nail into a piece
of hard wood.
it keeps you focused.
gives meaning
to an otherwise
quiet day.

staggering home

you aren't sure why.
but you love
zombie movies
and shows.
it's not the blood
and guts,
the amazing make up
that they wear
with rotting
skin and teeth,
or the way they
walk, awkwardly
and slow, never
quite right, wordless
except for grunts
and groans.
but it interests
you, the idea of
the dead coming back
to life and wanting
to eat you.
their appetites
being insatiable,
their quest for human
flesh without
end. they are so
much like us, you
think as you crowd
on to the subway
on your way home.

no fever

you don't have
Olympic fever.
not even a sniffle,
or a runny nose
for the events.
you just don't care
this time around
about who wins
or loses. give them
all medals, who cares.
there are no
losers here. off
they go
slipping and sliding
around in their
day glow outfits.
somehow the games
have lost their charm,
their innocence,
their je ne sais pas.
you switch the channel
on the ski jumps
before they even
land, and the cupcakes
ice skating
are too dramatic
and cold. maybe
it's you though,
maybe it's the snow
outside your window.
you'd like a medal
for making it to
work in that storm.
maybe not gold, but
at least copper, or
tin. something.

birdville

you wonder
if birds gossip
and talk trash
with one another.
do they point
their wings
at other birds
and whisper,
just who does
he thing he is
with those
wings and bright
colors.
he whistled at
me the other
day and I pretended
not to hear.
as if he's
getting any of
this. give me
a bite of that
worm, would you?
and did you hear
that woodpecker
last night,
all night long.
there should be
laws, no pecking
after dark.
I don't know how
long I'm going
to stay in these
woods, things
have changed. the
birds here are different
from where I came
from. less
friendly and apt
to help you with
your nest, or to
point out when a snake
is coming up
the tree to eat
your eggs.
look, here comes
mister show off.
don't look, don't
even...too late.
oh, look, he's got
a cricket in his
mouth. I wonder if
it's for me.

the lunch box

there was something
about the steel
lunch box painted
scotch plaid
or blue
with stars, or
cowboys on horses
riding across its
back. it swung
in your small
hand with purpose
and promise.
the thermos
gave it weight.
a white bread
sandwich wrapped
in cellophane.
was it tuna, or
peanut butter,
or god forbid
egg salad.
three vanilla wafers
neatly bunched
together in a small
clear bag. a green
apple rolling
about, thumping.
there was such promise
in the box, that
almost always
went unfulfilled,
but at least
there were no cut
carrots or celery
stalks.

we can help you get rich

it's rare, but sometimes
you are in an easy mood,
so easy and amenable that
you pick up the phone despite
seeing that it's a private caller.
you are able to listen
to a salesperson who calls
you cold wanting to expand
your business. you fix
some tea and toast
and take a seat at the table.
they talk so fast,
so many in a room,
it reminds you of chickens
clucking in a barn yard.
what's keeping you from moving
forward the saleswoman asks?
I don't know you say. I'm stuck.
sometimes I don't know which
way to go with my life.
to move, or stay put. get married,
stay single. I'm having trouble
sleeping. any advice you have
would be greatly appreciated.
no, no, she says. with us,
what's keeping you from joining
us in expanding your business,
building your brand,
helping you create a web site
that will make you wealthy.
for only four hundred dollars
a month we will make you rich.
you want to be rich, don't you?
not really, you say. I think
I have enough stuff right now.
but she says, we can help you.
you are missing a golden
opportunity. for this month
only we have a special. would
you like to talk to our
specialist. he can assist
you with any questions
you might have.
at this point you sigh, you
have no choice but to slip
the phone back into its
cradle. you stir your tea,
take a knife and smooth out
some blueberry jam in the center
of the browned bread.
you wait for the next
important call.

slow down

you barely see
the woman speeding
in her enormous
suv
through the narrow
streets
with kids
and dogs in tow.
a riot
of sound and music
filling
their sealed
and sailing
metal land
capsule.
you look both
ways at the stop
sign, but she nearly
hits you just
the same.
slamming
on her brakes to
glare at you,
to shake her head
and curse.
to throw her hands
into the air
as if you alone
have created
her world of
frenetic speed
and despair.

to strike

not unlike
the coiled
rattle snake
whose
tail
shakes like
castanets
when preparing
to strike, so
too do I see
the hairs on
your skin rise
up, the blue in
your eyes
go wild,
the venom in
your short
clipped words
drip clear.

go to bed

your mother
who bore seven
children in ten
years
was a machine
with pistons for arms
hanging
wet clothes
to the line on
steel legs,
her laser eyes
could find
anything hidden
or lost.
she could chase
you down
like a fox
on a rabbit.
she knew what
you were thinking
before you
the words
came tumbling
out of your
wise guy mouth.
don't even say
it, she'd say, or
it's the soap.
you remember
asking if you could
feel her muscles,
and she would flex
her arms like
rosie the riveter.
don't mess with me
she'd say,
pick up your clothes,
brush your
teeth go to bed
and pray.

let it happen

you can't worry
about the asteroid
slinging
its hot space
debris
into the planet
causing a cataclysmic
end to life.
you have a book
over due
at the library.
the trash needs
to be set out
by the curb.
your dog needs
a walk.
some things you
can control,
while others
there is nothing
you can do
but let happen.

king no more

they find
the remains,
mostly bones
of king Richard
the third
buried in a store
parking lot.
there is no gold
crown, or jewels
found with him.
he had a bad
back.
curvature of
the spine.
a deformity
that made him
hunch over.
his wounds
were many,
apparently he
was disliked
for being evil,
as it should
be, and tossed
aside once slain,
as if a mongrel
dog. you hear
someone
on tv make
a joke about
whether he
was buried in
a handicap
parking spot.
it's funny, but
it isn't too
funny, for he,
however briefly,
was once king.

the son in law

your ex in-laws
had a way of looking
at you, as if they
were always trying
to determine
if you were
best for their
daughter.
there was that side
ways glance,
the squint of
suspicion. you were
always trying
to keep things on
the up and up,
be polite and
caring. especially
around
the holidays,
you were attentive
to their table talk
about things
you had no interest
in. you smiled
and played along,
but cringed inside
knowing that right
at that moment
there was the biggest
game of the year
going on while
you were chuckling
to a joke about
giblet gravy.
but by the third
year of marriage you
were in the livingroom
with your plate
of food, the game on,
drumstick in
hand, sitting at
a tv tray brought
up from the basement,
while the festivities
went on in the other
room.

i got your bean sprouts

you aren't to be
trusted
with chocolate
in the house.
or ice cream
or chips
or cookies or
anything slightly
resembling
unhealthy food.
you can eat
your way through
a whole cake
or pie in a week.
however put a fresh
bunch of carrots
in the fridge,
some bean sprouts,
or broccoli,
well those things
may be there
until the end
of time.

what's happened to us?

hey, you yell to your
dog who is on
the couch chewing
a rawhide chip
while watching television.
the mail man is coming.
how come you aren't
at the door barking?
he shakes his head.
I'm done with that.
what's the point, it's
not like I ever get
to chase him and bite
his ankles. the other
day I was at the door
barking and scratching
and he dropped
an ikea catalogue
through the slot
onto to my head. I think
I heard him laughing too.
it was the annual sale.
thick as an anvil.
I'm done with mail men.
when are we going for
a walk, he says. making
a sucking sound, trying
to get some bits of
rawhide out of his teeth.
there's absolutely nothing
on t.v. I haven't
rolled in anything dead
in weeks. ever since
you started dating
that prissy girlfriend
of yours I can't
even walk through
a puddle of mud, or
jump into the creek.
hey hey, he says, barking,
are you listening.
are you texting while
I'm talking to you?
I'm tired of being taken
off the bed and put
outside the door like
an animal while you two
are getting busy, or
whatever it is you call it.
I know what's going on
in there, I'm not stupid.
all you do is text her
all day long and send
her cute pictures
of me. no more pictures.
what's happened
to us. you and me? we
used to be so close.

lettuce teeth

why didn't you
tell me
that I had lettuce
in my teeth
you ask her
as you come back
from the rest
room.
because you
have thousand
island dressing
on your shirt
she says,
pointing
with her fork,
and your zipper
is down,
so does it
really matter
at this point?

another candle

you tell no one
that it's your birthday.
men don't believe
in birthdays, so
you obey the rules
of being a man
and stay silent
like a monk.
although, it would
be nice for a slice
of cake, some
candles to blow out,
something to wish
upon, perhaps a pair
of black socks
to join the others
from birthdays past.

the clean canvas

you take a hammer
and strike
the nail. bang,
bang, until it's
in the wall
secured enough
so that it doesn't
wiggle left
or right, or
bend.
then you take
the white canvas
that you bought,
hang it centered
upon the nail
and once more
take your brush,
your paints,
your desires,
to start all over
again.

many interests

she accuses you
of only caring about
one thing.
which isn't true
at all.
there are other
things that hold
your interest.
you have many interests,
it's just that when
she's around
you can't remember
what they are.

inspiration

you dislike
so much poetry.
you shake your head
and curse what
you read.
you use alliteration
and metaphors
to show your disdain
for frost
and Whitman
bukowski and plath.
you read and
read, turning the pages
while soaking
in the tub, lying in
bed, at a red light
in your truck.
how angry you get
at these poems.
what drivel,
what junk, who did
these people sleep
with to get these
poems published?
what devil do you need
to sell your soul
to to get there too.
and yet
how carefully you
put these books back
onto the shelves.
sliding them
safely into places
where they can be
disliked even more,
at a later date when
you need inspiration.

the new dress

she spins around
in her new dress
and new shoes,
holding her chin
up, smiling.
she says,
well, how do you
like it. and you
reply. only you
could get away
with what you're
wearing, only you
possess the charm
and figure to pull
off such an
outfit of color
and style. go wait
in the car, she
says. it will
take me just a
minute to change.

what happened

you want to know
what happened.
you want to turn
to the last
page
and see how
the story ended.
you want the person
speaking
to get to the point
to stop
stopping
to keep going
straight ahead,
to stop meandering
down back roads
through
the brambles
and thickets of
bad story telling.
get to the point,
tell me what
happened,
you want to scream,
but you don't.
you can see how
much pleasure they
are getting by
dragging out.
milking,
massaging, rambling
on to the point
where you
almost don't care.

bending

you bend as
you age.
less bothers you.
you shrug
a lot and say
so what.
it's more about
the nap now
what's for dinner,
the weather
and books,
a matinee movie.
you bend
as you age, and
not just because
your back hurts
and that's how
you walk, you
just don't care
as much as
you used to. you did
most of your
caring when you
were younger
and full of
energy, full of
yourself. but it's
okay now. so much
is okay now.
you offer
no apologies.

babies in hell

are there babies
in hell
you wonder, unbaptized,
unclean
and full of adam's
sin with
no holy water or
blessings upon
their lineless
brows?
are they crawling
through the smoldering
embers
on hands
and knees. who
changes them,
who feeds and reads
to them as they
grow older, forever
unforgiven
in the lake of fire.
is there day
care in hell for
these eternally
dammed babies,
through no fault
of their own,
or do they get a
pass, as you hope
you do, by a loving
and compassionate
god.

ice

you understand ice.
how hard
it can be.
how unforgiving
and cold.
shrunken down
and frigid
in its views
of the world
and love.
you understand
ice, as you
do the warm
hand or heart
that melts it.

the fire

the house around
the corner
catches fire.
you hear the sirens,
smell the smoke.
you take a walk
to go look.
you see the firemen
in their heavy
coats, and helmets,
hoses in hand
spraying great
plumes of water
through the windows.
ladders lean
against the sills,
the crowd murmurs
with wonder, what
happened, how did
it start, is anybody
home, are there pets
inside. but no one
knows anything.
everyone stands there
in the cold,
arms folded, happy
that it isn't
their house.

don't call me that

you wake up, make some
coffee, then go into
the living room where
you hear a loud scratching
noise. hi honey you say.
coffee? you're up awfully
early. whatcha doing?
I don't like it
when you call me names,
she says hunched over
and grinding
a knife into your
coffee table. I am
not a pyscho.
she looks up
with her smeared from
crying raccoon eyes
and waves the pen knife
at you that is attached
to her key chain.
she goes back to etching
what looks like a word
beginning with
an upper case F.
it's no way to have a
relationship by calling
one another names.
that really hurt me last
night when you did that.
you stare at the wood
chips on the floor
below the table. I'm
sorry, you tell her,
taking a sip of your
hot coffee.
you know what, you tell
her gently, you're right.
no more name calling.
I'm sorry. coffee?
I've got some green tea
in there too. English muffin?
did you take your
pills yet? where
are they, in your purse?
let me get them
for you.
oh, and don't worry
about those chips.
i'll get them with
the dust buster.

the investment

you call your stock broker
Elaine to tell her
that you want to make
an investment. you want
to roll the dice
and throw a nice hefty
sum into a product that
you use frequently on a
daily basis. Kleenex you
tell her. put everything
on Kleenex, then you say,
excuse me, put the phone
down and blow your nose
for the tenth time in
an hour. you ball up
the tissue and toss
it into the corner
where the empty boxes
are stacked, rising
to the ceiling.
sure, she says,
anything else? no, you
tell her, that should
do it for now, but i'll
call you back if I
think of anything.

stand up

you read
somewhere
that Hemmingway
liked to write
standing up
at his tall desk.
he tapped away
at his
manual
typewriter,
inserting sheet
after sheet
dispensing
sparse words
and declarative
sentences
onto the crisp
blank pages.
perhaps he had
a bad back
from reeling in
sword fish
off the florida
keys,
or bull fighting
in barcelona
or maybe he wanted
to be ready
and alert
in case he
had to put on
his boxing gloves
and punch
someone for not
being manly enough,
or perhaps one
of his many beloved
cats
was sitting
in his chair,
or his wife
or mistress, or
his twelve gauge
shotgun.

the red cardinal

these red
cardinals against
the white snow,
quirky
in their flight
from limb
to limb.
scarlet against
this wintered
world.
it takes your
mind off of
her, for an instant.
which is
a good thing.

there must be one

someone leaves
a note on your door.
I love you
it says.
you look up and
down the street
seeing no one.
you smell lavender
perfume
on the paper,
you smudge the ink
of the handwritten
words with tears
that fall unexpectedly
from your eyes.
who is this person,
you wonder, you've
always suspected
that there must
be one, but why
does she stay so
hidden, year
after year.

giving joy

you put your
head inside
a lion's mouth,
pressing his jaws
open with all
your strength.
his long sharp
teeth are
glazed with
appetite.
this makes people
happy. they stand
to clap and cheer.
how easy it is
to give joy
you think
in this strange
world.

valentine's day

how well you remember
the fear.
the anxiousness
and trembling
as you arose on that
fateful holiday
rushing to the grocery
store to find
a suitable bundle
of flowers not yet
limp and browned
from winter cutting.
how you worried if
the merry widow
outfit in black
would arrive in time
by UPS,
would she hate you
for that, again
guessing wrongly
at her size.
how you searched
for the right box
of milk chocolates
in a glossy pinkish
hued box shaped
like no one's heart.
how you rummaged
through the card
shelves, searching for
that one card that
said how you truly
felt. your hands
sweating, your
head pounding with pre
pulmonary malfunction.
dearest loved one.
no. to my favorite
wife. no. to my
true love. not even.
only the blank card
red as blood
said what needed
to be said. how
quickly you
scribbled your name
below the word
love, then rushed to
the seafood department
to find two
chicken lobsters
still barely alive,
whispering, help me,
crawling cold at
the bottom of a
sea green
glass box.

nothing happened

nothing unusual or
disturbing happened
today.
it was non eventful
from the moment you
woke up until the moment
you lay your head
on a pillow at
night to go back
to sleep. it was a
perfect day of nothing
happening.
you want more of those
days. a month of them
would be wonderful.

what are you , a doctor?

you like to hear phrases
like, yeah, well people in
hell want ice water, so
suck it up and quit whining.
you try to remember these
things to use them in
daily conversation. you think
it makes you look clever
and smart. yesterday
when someone was defending
your step father, saying
how nice he'd been behaving,
you said loudly, well,
even hitler would pass
you the salt if you asked
him. which made everyone
say, huh. hitler? but you
laughed just the same
and felt good that you
squeezed that nicely
into the conversation.
it was a good day. tomorrow
you're hoping that someone
will ask you, how are you,
so that you can say,
what are you, a doctor?
you can hardly sleep
thinking about this.

uncle johnny won't die

you had an uncle
who wouldn't die.
uncle johnny.
he had been sick for
a long time.
a long list of ailments
could be rattled
off by your aunt
luna, his wife, but
you don't remember
the exact cause
of his death when
it finally came.
sometimes you'd visit
and his eyes would
be closed, the machines
would be beeping,
and humming away,
showing that he was
still alive. his old
feet, like boney fish
would be sticking
out from the sheets
at the end of his bed.
a young doctor would come
in with a chart
and whisper something
like, it's not good.
his circulation worries me.
he's not going to
last through the week.
but then he'd wake
up and say your name, put
his blue veined hand
out to shake your hand.
how are you, he'd
say, how are the mets
doing? then he'd drift
back off to sleep
in mid sentence.
other days, you'd
visit and he'd be
sitting up eating
jello from a plastic
cup, watching television.
I need a haircut he'd
say, holding a spoon
up to see his reflection.
how can I make a move
on these nurses with
my hair like this?
after a few months
of this, he was exhausted.
we were exhausted.
death just would not
come. what's taking it
so long, he said one
day as he was flipping
through the channels
on the tv. why am I still
here. they keep telling
me soon, soon. what the
hell is going on here?
I'm ready for crying out loud.
I'm just laying here.
there's nothing on
tv. three hundred
channels and all I
watch is judge judy.
why is she yelling at
everyone all the time?
what's wrong with her.
she never let's anyone
talk. your aunt would
say calm down johnny,
you're going to have a
stroke. oh really, he'd
say. a stroke, huh?
oh, maybe then I might die.
give me a break. which
is finally to everyone's
relief what happened
three weeks later.

the small print

this pill may
make you dizzy.
you may vomit
and get blurry vision.
your face will
get flush and your
eyes will
turn red.
you might lose
your balance so please
don't operate
farm equipment
if you have any.
if you play the piano
don't. you will
drive yourself mad.
don't cook, don't
clean, don't do anything.
lie on the floor
and be still.
if an erection lasts
longer than
four hours
don't call a physician,
call instead
the rockettes.
here is their one
eight hundred number.
good luck.

the red worm

the fish
aren't biting.
they are nibbling.
ignoring
the plastic
red worm
you've cast
far into
the shallow
pond.
they nudge
it with cold
noses, then
turn to swim
away.
they want
the real thing.

non evloving species

like Darwin
you suspect that things
are evolving
between the two
of you.
what has crawled
from the sea
is walking
on land, and about
to take flight.
but you are fooled
again,
a turtle remains
a turtle, a
fish a fish,
and you, a
simple chimp
are still swinging
alone
in a tree
while the birds
around you fly
out of sight.

the what ifs

the games don't mean
as much as they used
to mean.
win or lose is almost
the same.
the missed shot,
the made shot, makes
no difference in
your day, but it
wasn't always that
way. if your team
lost you wondered
what if. what if
the ball had
gone straighter,
the kick more towards
the center. what
if a pass had been
caught and not dropped.
what if.
not so strangely, this
ambivalence has
entered other areas
of your life as well.
with work. with love.
with roads not taken,
or decisions made.
the what ifs
that used to
keep you awake at
night, turning in
your bed are no more,
and what it means
in the big picture,
you aren't quite
sure.

truth in dating

there comes a moment
in the dating world
when the person
sitting across from
you leans over
and says, before
we go any further,
there's something
I need to tell you.
sometimes it's a
benign confession
of webbed feet,
or the person has
not saved enough
for retirement, or
they have a small
insignificant
tattoo strategically
located south of
the border. these
things you don't care
about. it's just a
date. you are not
going to marry this
person, or have
children with them.
in fact the odds
are that you are never
going to see them
again. but then
there are other
confessions. such as
I'm really a man dressed
as a woman, look, see,
i have an adam's
apple, they say,
pulling down their
pink cashmere turtleneck
sweater. or I'm out
on bail for slashing my
ex husband's tires. he
refuses to move
out of the basement,
or sometimes my dog
tells me to do things
that I regret. when you
hear confessions like
these you tense up a
little and move physically
away, searching
for the bartender to
bring you the check.
you begin to appreciate
alone time.

the end of the world

the scare report,
also
called the nightly
news
says snow
is coming. prepare
for the worst.
six to eight inches
by morning.
stock up.
stay in, pray
or meditate
depending upon
your so called
new age religion.
if you have pets
don't leave them out
at night. fluffy
and fido will
be frozen solid
like popsicles.
wear a hat
if you venture out
for an emergency donut
or pint of vodka
or gin
please, wear gloves
if you have them.
those with
medical conditions
that need attention,
or the elderly,
or those without
cable tv
should just
kill themselves now
by putting their heads
into an oven.
this storm
could last at least
a day or two.
if you have a sled
and a pack of dogs
to pull it,
get them ready.
let's go
to the map now
and see
what Doppler radar
has to say.

game over

you don't want to fight.
so you give in.
let her have her
way. sure, pink walls
are fine.
and no I don't care
if your mother
comes to stay with us
for the summer.
tofu again for dinner,
sure honey, why not.
pass me the hummus.
you don't want to fight.
so you try to be on
time, you don't watch
too many games on
tv when she's around.
you don't try to make
a move on Saturday night
even though it's been
a month since
your last conjugal
visit. you're being
a good boy, walking
the line.
you don't want to fight,
so you take the high
road, being pleasantly
accepting and kind.

singing in the shower

you hear her singing
in the shower.
rap music.
she's making
thump thump noises
with her feet
and hands
as she howls
crazy rhymes
into the hot spray
of water. snoop
dog,ice t, vanilla
ice and
jay z. you only
say those names
because those
are the only
names you know.
hey, you bang on
the door, are
you singing rap
in there, i'll have
none of that in my
house young lady.
do you hear me?
but she can't hear
you, the radio
is up, and she's
saying something
about her mother.

not so eternal

her eternal
flame for you
is apparently not
so eternal.
in fact
it seems to be
out.
your world
together has
gone dark.
you see ashes
in the air.
feel the cold
damp
lumps of coal
that she calls
kisses
upon your cheek.

lost friends

like kites
in the sky, once
bright
and flashing
in the warm
sun, yellows
and blues,
reds. the string
slips
fast from
your fingers
as the wind
pulls them up.
they float away
to their own
lives
to another hand
perhaps,
not yours.

these things

when you moved here
into her house
you didn't know
that you could hear
the stream
that rushes when
it rains
down below, caught
between the sleeve
of sand and rock,
ever changing
its curve.
when you moved
here you didn't know
that you would hear
the trains blowing
their whistles
as they crossed
the trestle beyond
the woods, near
the dam where water
tumbles across
the slant of grey
concrete.
when you moved here
you didn't know that
you could see
the path of planes,
their red taillights
flashing against
the black sky
between the trees.
when you moved here
you didn't know
that you would get
older, and more
grateful for having
known her,
but now you know
these things.

the gold ring

you catch
a large fish
that has
a ring inside.
a gold band,
a wedding ring
perhaps. you
feel bad for
the fish, and less
so for the hand
that took it
off and flung it
into a wide
stretched
sea. how
everything reaches
for what
shines bright.

there are no maps

you can tell
who has traveled
far.
it's in their
eyes, their
voice, the calm
sea of
who they are.
they didn't
get there by
train, or flight,
by walking or
car. their journey
was of a different
sort. one foot
in front
of the other.
one day into
the next.
they've been
there and back.
they carry it with
them. where
they were,
there are no
maps.

ten steps to happiness

you buy a self
help book on how to
be happy.
your friend jimmy
bought it last
week and it seems
to be working.
he had his shirt
tucked in and was
actually smiling
for once.
it's a ten step
sure fire program
to ensure
happiness throughout
the days of
your life.
ten steps. this
alone makes you
unhappy. you want
one step, two
or three at
the most. ten is
just too many.

the baby dog

her dog
is her baby.
she puts him
in a basket
and takes
it everywhere
she goes.
to the store.
on her bike,
to get coffee.
she speaks
baby talk
to the dog,
waiting for it
to answer back
which it does
with a squeak
or squeal,
or a wag of it's
wiry tail.
there is a blue
ribbon around
it's neck,
a jacket for
when it gets cold.
her dog is her
baby, and you
have no
chance here.

in the clearing

the clearing
is beyond the trees,
the scrub brush,
over the meadow.
you can see
the blue velvet
sky settling
with stars.
night slips
softly over
your pale
shoulders
where you wait.
this is
where love is.
in the clearing.

i swear

with arms swinging
wildly and eyes
bugging out
when someone begins
to tell their story by
saying, I swear to god,
this is true,
or I swear on my
children's lives, or
on my grandmother's
grave then you know
you are in for a tall
tale which may or may
not be true. most
likely it involves a deer
with big antlers
crossing the road
in front of their
car, or a raccoon
coming into their yard
to eat an apple, or
two. that's about it.

they can wait

it's easy to put things
off. the dentist, taxes,
taking the dog to the vet.
an oil change, the filter
on the furnace.
visiting the old and sick
at home or infirmary.
but coffee, well, there's
always time to stop
and wait in line for
a cup of coffee. it's so
easy to pull over
and do so. those
other things can wait.
they always do.

pistachio heaven

the boy, haven fallen
from a playground swing,
finally awakened
after being in a deep
coma for three days.
his family gathered
around him in happy
tears. his sister, who
had pushed him too
fast and too hard held
his hand, stroking
it gently. timmy is
awake, she shouted.
timmy is awake. timmy
opened his eyes and said,
why are you screaming?
I'm right here.
how do you feel, the
parents asked pulling
the freckled face
sister aside. I'm fine,
the boy said, but I
think I went to heaven.
it was all white and
shiny. clean and bright
and there was this nice
music, like an ice cream
shop. oh really, the mother
said, the little girl
edged her way back
to the side of the bed.
yes. and there was this
man with a beard
and long hair,
but it was pulled back
into a net and he was
serving ice cream
with a larger silver scooper.
that must have been
jesus the little girl
yelled out. jesus
was giving timmy
ice cream. go on, go
on the father said.
he kept giving me
scoops and scoops of
pistachio ice cream,
my favorite of all time
on a large cone. I hate
pistachio the girl
cried out. that's all
they had? no cherry, no
chocolate? what a gyp
heaven is. that stinks.
I don't want to go
heaven. which made
timmy sit up and say,
from what i heard i
don't think you have to
worry about that.

the frozen pond

unsure
of how thick
the ice
is, you step
gently onto
the blue frozen
pond,
glazed like
a birthday
cake without
candles.
you wonder
if you can make
it
to the other
side. you've
done it
before. in fact
your days
are full
of frozen ponds.

pondering frost

you run low
on patience with people.
you don't want to make
a broad statement
such as
I hate all people,
like that mean
old man
Robert frost might
do while conjuring
poems
in the woods,
but you come close
at times. you understand
the deep
and snowy woods,
the good fence
making good neighbors.
you get it now.

how can i help you today

you call your cable
phone
internet
cell
company to see
if you can
have your bill
lowered
from the three
hundred and twenty
seven dollar
ceiling it
has hit. how can I
help you the robotic
automated voice
says.
you press one
for operator then enter
your ten digit
account number
to speak to a
representative
who barely speaks
your own language.
you say what,
can you repeat
that over and over.
she plows ahead
with a myriad of
deals and options,
additions
and subtractions,
your head spins
with numbers
and channels.
you scribble madly
onto the back of your
current bill.
then the line goes
dead. you stare
out the window for
a few minutes watching
a woodpecker bang
his beak against
an oak tree.
then you call
back. how can I
help you the automated
voice asks.
you begin again.

every body must get stoned

you see the future
and it is bright.
you invest all your
money into pizza
and sub shops across
from the new legalized
pot stores.
there will be
fluorescent arrows
showing the way in.
you will have
bright neon
lights blinking
in the store windows.
food, fast food, hot
and spicy, greasy.
you will have a
room full of water
beds with which
to lie down on as
you eat, with big
fluffy pillows.
there will be music.
Hendrix and Joplin,
the moody blues,
and pink Floyd.
the grateful dead.
every one will get
a cookie.
you see the future
and it is bright.

washer and dryer

you love your new
washer and dryer.
they are Italian.
cabrios. both glossy
white with smart
black trim.
you like the wide
open windows and the soft
slushing noise
the washer makes
when running it in on
the digital soft
cycle. you pull up
a chair and watch
and listen. when it's
all done it tells
you with a sweet
little ding. you give
it a nice pat then
transfer the spun
wet clothes to its
friend and companion
the dyer. it too has
a nice porthole window.
you watch patiently
the clothes go round
and round, happy
and being warmed
to a nice crisp dry.
yes. it has been a
long cold winter,
and you need a life.

texas girl

she said she was
from texas.
dallas to be exact.
not that it was too
difficult to discern
with her loaf
of blonde hair
piled high
on her head, or
the barbequed twang
in her voice.
what do you all
do for fun around
here she said,
poking you in
the ribs with a
sturdy finger.
you all have any
rodeos?
I haven't been to
no rodeo in a coon's
age. I love
to lasso, do you?
sure you tell her.
lassoing is at the top
of fun things
to do in life.
why just yesterday
I roped a steer
on the beltway
and took it home
and ate it.
are you joshing me?
I think you are.

the bloom

the bloom
is off the rose.
you aren't quite
sure what
that means exactly
but you've read
it, or heard it
somewhere before.
it's a well worn
cliché that's stuck
to your mental
ribs. you
plan to use
it all day long
when someone asks
you about Sylvia,
or betty, or
linda or Esmeralda.
you'll shrug and
casually say
in a low whisper.
the bloom is off
the rose, then
walk away.

the dog bath

after months
of mud,
and digging.
rolling onto
the carcasses
of dead animals
you would fill
the tub halfway
with warm
water. find
the squared bar
of dog soap,
place an old
set of towels
nearby, then search
for dog who was
under the bed
hiding, he could
read your mind.

no ez pass

silent fingers.
the quiet
tap. going nowhere.
the false start.
the torn
paper balled and
thrown to the corner
basket.
nothing piques
your interest.
love won, love lost.
you are a toll
booth operator,
taking coins
and cash. no ez
pass today.

sweeping up

you see her sweep
up the glass, crimson
shards
and slivers,
once shaped
like a heart.
the broom scratching
at the dry floor,
the ping into
the dust pan.
with the ease
of her arms
and hands
you can tell
that she's done
this sort of thing
before.

with strangers

the wringing of hands
is constant.
her feet are swollen
no one
visits anymore,
they beat
their chests in sorrow.
they've grown weary
of the sadness
that old age brings.
her feet are swollen.
she cries alone.
they bring her puzzles
and books,
things to write on,
but those days are gone.
she just wants
to die anywhere but
here, with strangers
away from home.

this song

this song
is yours,
the one seeping
out from
the transistor
radio
held in my curled
hand
with bent antennae
and smudged
numbers.
it doesn't matter.
the song is
the same.
it's your song.
it makes
me always,
think of you,
what was and
what never came.

better days

better days
are coming.
this is all
temporary.
the cold.
the ice and wind
crawling
up your back.
the silence.
better days
are coming.
although
sometimes
it's hard
to believe.

searching for a meet up

bored with yourself
and the few friends
you have
you search the web
for a meet up that you
might want to attend.
but you are not a meet
up kind of guy.
what if you don't like
these people
and you're stuck at a
table sipping on cold
coffee talking
about the weather,
or the latest john
grisham novel,
or they don't like you,
which seems nearly
impossible. you're
not a hiker, or
a camper and you don't
knit or crochet.
you like to drink and
eat and have a conversation,
and write. but most
of the meet ups seem
to be full of women
who can't find a date
and goof ball men
with comb overs.
you're not sure if you
want to be lumped
into that category,
just yet. maybe there's
a meet up for people
that are a little grumpy,
or just not into it.
no names, no lame
introductions,
you just show up.
and sit around a table
not saying much. just
things like, hey, are
you going to eat
that last donut, or
does anyone here
have an aspirin?
maybe you can bring a
pillow and take a nap
too while someone talks
about their cats.

zombie bugs

the stink bugs
are back.
you just flicked
one across
the room off
a lampshade
on your desk.
you don't want
to squish and kill
them. supposedly
they smell.
your house has
enough bad smells
as it is
without adding
to it.
they are so slow
and dumb, these
bugs, shaped
like medallions,
grey and zombie
like.
they don't seem
to mind how
you knock them
around, they
recover quickly
and start crawling
back. they are
resilient, you
have to give
them that.

fresh news

you read
the newspaper in
seven
minutes now,
unless you
stop to do the
crossword
puzzle, which
could take
all day.
but you know
the news.
it's not good.
yes.
there is the
occasional
kitten rescued
from a tree,
but it's for
the most part
old news.
bad news.
news you've already
seen
on your computer,
or tv.
you miss the days
when a kid
would stand
on the corner
with a thick
freshly printed paper
shouting
the news. yes.
you're that old.

getting ready

you begin your
valentine's day
shopping
early.
perusing
the Victoria secret
ads, going down
to the local
adult store
for interesting
marital aids,
but nothing crazy
like whips
and chains.
you've mellowed
over the years.
you stop for
chocolates
and flowers,
wine, and a can
of mixed nuts,
those are for
you. it's exhausting,
vacuuming
and changing
the sheets,
spraying air
freshener about,
dimming the lights.
setting out
candles. now for
the hard part,
finding a date.

the years go by

like penguins
they come up
out of the subway
umbrellas
stretched out
repelling rain.
hunched
towards their
destinations
in small quick
steps.
heads down
in the wind.
how the years
go by.

a human head

hungry
you seek food.
a slice
of bread,
even an apple
right now
would do.
thirsty,
water, a drink,
a cold beer,
perhaps three,
or your new
limit. two.
unloved
you scan
the want ads,
in search
of someone
with similar
interests,
a job
a human head,
that would be
nice too.

the music teacher

they wobble
in with thick red
cheeks.
layered in
winter clothes,
holding music
sheets,
and flutes,
dark cases
holding trombones.
parents wave
from
cars, blowing
kisses
as the children
look back
and knock
at the door.
the music teacher
waves
back and takes
them in.
most are hopeless,
never learning
the simplest
of notes.
not caring. they
don't listen
or learn,
they endure,
as does the teacher.
who puts
the cash into a
small bowl
in the kitchen.
surrendering
her life.
it's not about music
anymore.

the rescuer

this is my rescue
dog
she says,
holding him
in place
with a shiny new
leash. he only
had two more
days to live
when I plucked
him out of
the abyss.
don't try to pet
him. he bites.
I have a rescue
cat too.
but she's in
intensive
care with a kidney
problem.
I'm going to
rescue another
one if she dies
and they can't
find a kidney
donor.
my boyfriend is
still asleep. I'm
helping him find
a job.
I updated his resume
and bought
him some new shoes.
showed him
how to be more
confident.
he never sits
up straight
or looks you in
the eye. he had
bad parents, but
I'm helping him
too.

glad to be home

glad to be home.
everything left as
it was.
the glass
in the sink.
the book on
the counter,
the curtain
drawn
just so.
that pillow left
as when you
got up, still
holding your
impression. your
shoes left
in the kitchen
near
the stove.
the welcoming
silence,
just the quiet
hum
of the furnace
saying
its warm
hello.

the magic eight ball

running low on invisible
ink, you browse
through the magic
store with your shopping
cart. you pick up
a new pair of x-ray
vision glasses,
having worn out
the other pair
when you moved into
the high rise building
downtown.
you get a box of
licorice gum,
some red hot pepper
candies
and a hand buzzer,
but then you see
a magic eight ball,
black with a big
number eight on
the glass. you
shake it and ask
if you are going to be
rich and famous
one day. doubtful,
it says in a
floating circle
of letters. pffft.
you say.
will I fall in love
again, you ask,
this time shaking it
vigorously before looking
at the answer.
try again, it reads.
you give it another
shake. is there really
a God, you whisper,
not wanting to
offend God, not
enough information,
it reads back.
then you hear the
store manager yell
from the front of
store. hey, hey.
put that thing down.
either buy it or get
out of here.

be happy

please, don't
shed a tear
because there
are no dinosaurs.
be happy
there isn't a t-rex
clogging up
the interstate.
no brontosaurus
ramming your house
looking for a
snack or pterodactyl
flying off
with your baby.
there's a reason
that animals go
extinct. so quit
trying to save
every bug, every
bird and turtle
snake and mouse.
yes they are all
so cute, but
just let them go.
they had their shot,
now it's over.

when the fun is over

you want to find
an intellectual woman
to be lovers
with. someone
with whom you can share
lively pillow talk
after a romantic
session, but if she's
really smart
and knows literature
and music,
art and film, she'll
have nothing
to do with the likes
of you. so you settle
on medium smart
or lower, but then
they ask you questions
about why there are
lines on a football
field, or which is
larger the earth
or the sun. is the moon
really made of cheese?
this puts
a tremendous burden
on your conversations
and you begin to
question your motives,
which causes guilt
and remorse. sure it's
fun, but you stare
out the window quietly
a lot when the fun
is over.

wilted petals

there used to a family
run florist
up the street
from where you lived.
it was a low lying
brick building
with curved glass
which always seemed
foggy inside.
you probably dropped
a couple of thousand
dollars in there
on flowers sent to
a variety of girls
you dated over
your youthful years.
roses, mums, sunflowers.
whatever was bunched up
into a vase and on sale.
sometimes you went cheap.
other times, if you
were in deep angst
and heartbreak you
went for the dozen
red roses in a crystal
vase. delivered
with a fancy white
card. you used to think
that flowers could save
the thing. keep her
around. put forgiveness
in her heart, give
you another shot.
of course it never worked
you finally stopped
sending them when
the old woman
answering the phone
began to laugh
upon hearing your
voice. what's her name
this time, she'd say,
snickering over stems
of cut flowers and
wilted petals lying
at her feet, and perhaps
her own broken heart.

finding a snake

when you
turn the rock
over with
your foot
you go eye to
eye with a cross
stitched snake
still coiled
and cold
in the wet dirt.
both of you
are surprised
and scared
to see one another,
and both of you
are happy
that you've
dropped it back
in place
and run away.

book ends

like bookends
getting
closer
as the books
get lost
and disappear
the death
of friends
makes you
see your
own beginning
and end, your
shelf life
more clear.

a new job

you need a new job.
something
else to do with
your time. you've
grown weary
of being a circus
clown.
you tire of the gags.
the baggy
costume with floppy
feet.
that big red
nose and orange
hair. it's not
how a grown man
should live his
life. there has to
be more meaning to
life that trying
to make people
laugh and yet
consistently failing.
no one likes
a circus clown
anymore. the times
have changed.
getting hit with
a pie is no longer
amusing, nor
is the flower
that squirts.
ten clowns in a car.
who cares.
you need a new job.
perhaps a human
cannonball, that
might be fun.

don't i know you

you look familiar
the woman says to you
while taking back
a shirt that you bought.
too small
too blue, and not
your style at all.
what possessed
you to buy it in
the first place
is unknown. don't
I know you the woman
says, fixing the tags,
staring at the receipt.
nope, you say.
I don't think so.
do you know my cousin.
phil? he runs the
gas station around
the corner. nope.
you say. waiting for
her to give you back
the stack of paper
work on the returned
shirt. nope.
don't know any phils.
sorry.
you've never met
phil. you don't know
him, she asks.
now staring at you
with suspicious eyes.
finally you give up.
oh yeah. phil,
he pumps my gas and
changes my oil.
we go way way back.
thought so, she says,
then hands you back
the receipts. have
a very nice day.
i'll tell phil you said
hello.

blinders on

you are angry
less
than you used to
be. despite
the fact that
the things
that anger you
are still
there.
the people
who rile you up
still exist
and persist
on being who
they are. but you've
let it go.
let them go.
life is easier
this way
with blinders on.

something new

instead of this
or that
your regular
picks,
you choose
something else
entirely.
but you are
uncomfortable
with change.
uneasy
with a different
choice made.
whether food
or drink
or which side
of the bed to sleep
on.
it's hard to not
be you, despite
how often people
want you to try
something
new.

grumpy ground hog

you see a fat
groundhog crawl out
from his burrow
early in the morning.
he's wearing
sunglasses and a
ball cap.
he has a small,
very small
can of beer in
his claw like
hand. he's smoking
a cigarette. there are
potato chip
crumbs on his furry
front.
no comment, he say,
as he shoos the media
away. get that camera
out of my face
unless you want
to lose it buddy.
no comment.
get out of here.
every year you
do this to me, where
are you people
when I'm down in
the ground, hungry
and cold.
to hell with all
of you, now get
off my property.
are you people nuts
worrying about my
stupid shadow.
go look at your lame
Doppler radar
for god's sake.

you miss your dog

you miss your dog.
his barking
and chewing
of shoes.
and belts.
purse straps
and furniture.
you miss his accidents
on the rug.
his hair
shedding everywhere.
the way he
hogged the bed
diagonally.
you miss his vet
bills, his
over night stays
for gastronomical
issues due to
eating trash
and dead things
in the woods.
you miss your dog.
the way he begged
and whined at every
meal, the way
he chewed through
your computer wires
before you even
plugged it in.
you miss the sound
of your sunglasses
being crunched
upon, the smells
he emitted after getting
into the trash.
oh how you miss
your dog.
you do.
but not enough
to ever get
another one.

possessions

the man in the parking
lot is tying
a ladder onto
his car.
he stretches the rope
from one end
to the other.
straps go from side
window
to side window.
he is out of breath
tying his
ladder tightly.
he sees you and says
with a grimace.
I have five hundred
miles to go.
I don't want to lose
this ladder, I've
had it for most
of my life.
you see that it's
rusted. there are
broken rungs.
the pulls are frayed.
it's an old
ladder, but it
doesn't matter to
him. it's
his ladder and he
doesn't want to
leave it behind, or
lose it. finally he
puts his hand through
his grey beard and
says. I'm ready
to go now, so you
wave goodbye.

far from shore

the world
shrinks when you
are old.
your body gets smaller
and smaller
retreating.
your appetite
for food diminishes,
making love now
is a kiss
on the cheek,
a tug on an arm,
a wink.
your eyes
get cloudy. your
attention
span is short.
each day is
less. each memory
more distant.
we are ships
drifting off
further and further
from shore,
until the bright
colors of
your flag are
no more.

the big game

you wake up early
to begin your
preparations
for your
superbowl sandwich.
you only have
one pound of bacon
so this year you
will have to
scrimp a little
when making your
eight inch
sized burger, cheese
onion, mayo,
pickle, lettuce,
gumbo, shrimp,
sausage, fried egg,
all piled
high on a half
a loaf of French
bread toasted.
you do fifty sit ups
to prepare your
stomach for what's
to come later.
you get the family sized
bag of chips. a gallon
of ice cream.
chocolate sauce
and whipped cream.
you get into your sweat
pants and ketchup
stained football jersey
that your ex wife
gave you fifteen
years ago. it still
fits, which makes
you happy.
it's only noon and
you still have seven
more hours to go
before kickoff, but
you are starving already.
you are not sure
if you can wait that long,
so you start drinking
beer and nibbling
on pork rinds, you open
up a can of nuts,
and get out the celery
stalks. you need
some vegetables to keep
you strong.

monkey

you like monkeys.
the whole
banana thing.
the tails
allowing them
to swing
from tree to
tree.
that monkey noise
they make.
but you don't
want to live
with a monkey.
no matter how
much fun someone
is, it's very
hard to live
with them.

pressing on

you notice
his broken teeth
first.
then the way one eye
won't follow.
he was a child
once.
held in a mother's
arms, sung to
with a sweet whispered
lullaby.
once he was without
this coat
of dust
and soil.
the hatchet lines
of weather
upon his face.
how can you not
put something in his
hand
when passing by.
and yet
you press on.

empty shells

the empty shells
upon the beach,
pink hued
like sunsets,
feathered white
and brown.
lifeless in their
hard beauty.
the sheen
of ocean wear upon
their skin.
unbreathing,
yet not without voice
as you cup
one to your
ear. how often
you understand more
by what's not
being said,
than what is.

self improvement list

you make a list
of how you can better
yourself this year.
you get a pen,
a clean sheet of white
paper, a cup
of coffee. you
move the table
a few inches
closer to the window
for better light
and to see
the birds pecking
at the bird feeder.
then you forget
to put the clothes
in the dryer.
finally back at
your seat you stare
at the paper.
the dog starts barking
though when the mail
man comes up
the sidewalk.
the mail pops
through the slot
on the front door
and hits the floor.
you check that to
see if anyone has
died and left you a
million dollars.
nope, so back to the
table to make
your list. this
is harder than it
looks, you think.
what can I possibly
improve. maybe you
can add more fiber
to your diet. yeah.
that's going on
the list. you write
that down next to a
big number one.
hmmm. what else.
you stare
out the window at
the bird feeder.
a big fat blue
jay is bossing all
the other birds around.
finally
you surrender and ball
the paper up.
you gave it a shot.
you feel
pretty good about
things, being so
perfect.

all is forgiven

I was raised
catholic, she tells
you, rubbing the knuckles
on her hand,
then taking a stiff
drink of
gin to her lips.
but I don't believe
in god anymore. so
what do you believe
in, you ask her.
I'm not sure, but
it's hard for me
to believe
that bad people
can still get into
heaven with a last
second confession
and statement
of faith. that means
hitler oculd be in
heaven, or Charles
manson, or my next
door neighbor jimmy.
jimmy, you say, raising
your eyebrows.
yeah, he was cutting
his grass the other
day and mowed down
all of my flowers
that I planted
last spring.
he could be there too,
she says, shaking
her head with
utter amazement. I
don't want to be
in heaven if he's
there too.

two our father's and three hail mary's

you over hear
the priest at the church
saying to another
priest, is it too
early to start drinking.
which makes
the other priest
laugh and laugh.
you must be
on confession duty,
he says. yup.
just did three
hours. heard
some good ones today.
you won't believe
what's going on out
there. the things
these people are up
to is amazing, although.
I'm not shocked
by anything anymore.
I feel like handing
out bars of soap
along with penance.
I hear you, brother.
we should write a
book. yeah, or do
a reality tv show.
we really should cash
in on this stuff.
it's gold I tell you.
gold.

the clues

when the end
is near
the conversations
get shorter
and testy.
she suddenly hates
what you're reading,
your taste
in clothes
and food are mocked.
she laughs at
the butter in your
refrigerator.
sex becomes an
infrequent favor
with the words
are you finished
yet uttered with
annoyance.
there's no more
honey bun,
or sweetie
pie, no sweet
dreams, or drive
safely,
call me when
you get home.
she leaves that piece
of lint
on your collar.
all that is over.
they are what
we call clues
in the book of love
ending.
a day without
communicating,
becomes two,
then three.
if a week goes
by, you might as
well delete
the number
and take her
picture down.

frozen ta ta's

January is a cold
wet, frozen
white tunnel
of freaking misery,
you tell your friend
betty as you both
sit at paneras
sipping hot clam
chowder, shivering
in your artic gear.
we live in Russia now.
I hate it too
she says. look how
red my nose is.
I never should have
gotten those
implants last summer.
I think they've
frozen. listen,
she says, pulling
back her layers
of clothes and clanging
them together.
yup. you tell
her, they do sound
solid. like coconuts.
maybe you could go
lean under the hand
dryer in the bathroom
and soften them
back up. I will,
she says, I will.
as soon as I finish
this clam chowder,
pass me the pepper.

fruits of labor

someone asks you
when you will retire?
quit, rest on
your laurels.
enjoy the fruits
of your labor
and relax,
go fishing
and play cards
down by the pool
with your new
old friends.
where will you enjoy
your golden
years. florida?
they ask, the Carolina
coast? this makes
you laugh, as
you shake the coins
in your pocket,
finding enough
for a coffee and a
donut.

it's always sunday

your mother could
find everything.
no matter how hard
you searched and tried
to find
that one glove
or boot, or book
or hat, turning
up nothing, she knew
exactly where it
was. so it's painful
now, to ask
her if she knows
what day it is,
having her always
come up with
the same day.
sunday, because
you are there.

unfriending

you begin the painful
process
of unfriending
people.
you don't talk
anymore
let alone see
one another.
and you grow weary
of them
posting photos
of their gooey
kids, and
the meals that
they've cooked,
or places that
they've visited
when out of town
on that rare occasion.
sure, you can hide
them, hide
their ridiculous
posts and updates,
but you want to
make a clean sweep,
find more interesting
people to add
to your life. people
that actually
do have real lives.
you are sure
they feel the
same way about
you as you post
a photo of the angels
in the snow
that you just made
an hour ago.

holding hands

when you first
meet someone,
and you kind of
like each
other, you have
a tendency
to hold hands
a lot. but as
time goes on,
this can fade.
you begin to keep
your distance.
it's not that the
affection has
diminished or died,
it's just too
awkward now. feels
funny. you start
thinking about do
I lace the fingers
together, or is
it palm to palm,
do I put my arm
under hers, or
around her waist,
as we stroll
down the boulevard.
and then there
are things in
the way. fire
hydrants and signs,
do you say bread
and butter
when you split
around something,
or try to squeeze
in together
around one side
or the other
without losing
grip of each other's
hands. whew.
it gets complicated.

security check point

at the gated
building
the security guard
is huddled
in his tiny
brick guard
house. he's too
cold to come out
and take
your id or
your tag number,
the wind is blowing,
and there
is ice
on the street.
he looks at you
and makes a quick
determination
that you aren't
going to blow
anything up
and waves you in.
shivering
he raises the striped
wobbly gate
and nods,
hoping that he's
right about
your innocent looking
face. you
appreciate that.

till death do us part

having a bad
day,
you feel the need
to be loved
so you decide
that maybe you
need a pet, something
that provides
you with uncompromising
affection
and will never
leave you.
something that will
never run
away despite
who you are
as a person.
you settle on a gold
fish.
a bright shiny
goldfish,
something
you can commit
to and show them
that you are not
commitment phobic.
you will feed this
goldfish
sprinkling
the pepper like
shaker of food
over it's little
bowl kingdom.
you'll sing to her.
tell her all the stories
you've told over
and over again
about things you
find funny
that she has never
heard. she'll
love it. what choice
will she have. ha.
she can't go
anywhere, ever.
at night before you
go to bed you'll check
on her, see if she's
in her little
porcelain castle,
hopefully not stuck.
you'll kiss the side
of the cold bowl
and say, night night
sweetie, sweet dreams.

brown sugar blues

someone gives
you a tip on how
to soften
brown sugar
by microwaving
it for a minute
or two.
it has hardened
into a block
of brown cement
or rather petrified
the second
air has touched
it. you have used
maybe one teaspoon
of it three days
ago. the microwave,
not used to such
an industrious task
blows a fuse
putting half of
your house into
the dark ages.
which makes you
throw a robe on
to go out to the shed
where the circuit
break box is.
you should put
shoes on, but
you have socks.
and you are sure
that they will protect
you from the wind
and temperatures
that hover in
the low teens.
with your flashlight
on, because it's
dark already
and it's not even
five o'clock, you
find the metal box,
prying it open
with your fingers.
you see the half limp
circuit break and flip
it back and forth
a few times for good
measure, then go back
in. your skin now
is the color blue.
instead of trying to
microwave the block
of brown sugar again,
you take it to he back
window, open the window
and throw the block
out towards the woods.
out of nowhere
you see a small brown
bear leap up
and make an astounding
catch. this makes
you happy. it is super
bowl week after all.

eleven degrees and falling

your son sends you
a few photos
from southern
California
where he is walking
his dog without a
shirt on, and
wearing sandals.
the dog is wearing
sunglasses.
it's eighty degrees,
blue skies.
the pacific ocean
looms over the horizon,
just a mere snow
ball throw away.
there are palm trees
in one picture,
and women in bikinis
roller blading by.
he texts
you to see if
you got the pics
on your phone.
your response is
two words. succinct
and clear. expressing
exactly how you
feel about his
pictures.

yo yo yo

it's not that you
don't like rap or hip
hop music, it's just
that perhaps
you are too old
to appreciate its
complicated lyrical
composition. not to
mention the varied
thumping of drums
and scratching records
backwards and forward.
you imagine how hard
it must be to find
words that rhyme with
fire truck, and itch,
chicks and rocks.
drugs and thugs.
so what if it sounds
like dr. seuss on crack,
people seem to enjoy
it. you see and hear
these rap afficianados
in their cars
with the windows
rolled down gyrating
like june bugs on a hot
summer day, throwing
their arms about
like a sunday church
choir down at
the first baptist
church. sometimes it
sounds so mean and harsh.
yo, but it's not.
it's just another way
of saying something
like I love you, but
with a twist. you do
like how many of them
have funny names with
the word ice in them,
like Italian ice. yo.
here's a short sample
of his work.
give me some strawberry
while I walk to the
library. gots to check
out a book cause my
kindle got took.

rough draft

this rough draft,
this rambling note
of a non poetic
endeavor is unfinished
and unrefined.
no spell check
done, no working it
to the bone.
no thumbing through
a thesaurus to
find a better word.
you don't even know
what it's about yet,
or what you'll admit
to, but it makes
you feel sad
just the same, so maybe
you'll leave it
as it is and move on.

yellow snow

you are in the season
of shiver.
of cold
feet, trembling
hands.
your eyes are
crossed
with frost
and wine.
you have to pee
badly,
but you are
waiting for the snow
to fall
and make a sheet
to write on.

dark time

knowing
what
is known
and agreed
upon
and yet
unsaid
is a valley
of dark
time.

tell us about the war grandpa

it's a trend now
for young people to
ask older people
what was going on
way back when. to gather
a real person history,
recording
or filming
the answers for
posterity. tell us
about the civil
war grandpa, they say,
hitting the record
button. which makes
grandpa grab
his cane and swing
it around the room
trying to hit
anyone within reach.
I wasn't in no civil
war. I'm only sixty
years old
for crying out loud.
were you in the Vietnam
war, killing defenseless
women and children?
what are you insane,
I didn't go
to no stupid war. I was
a peace nik, a protester.
hell no, we won't go.
ever heard that phrase you
snotty little brats?
we used to chant that
as we marched around the mall,
no not springfield mall
with the jc pennys, but
the national mall.
we had a great time
singing and protesting
men burning their draft
cards and women burning
their bras
until Nixon and his
Nazi youth tear gassed us.
were you a hippy,
grand pop. did you take
LSD and ride around
in a mini van painted
all psychedlic like?
tell us about your trips,
grand pop. did you know
the Beatles? why were
women burning their bras?
did you have hair then?
you know what,
I'm done with you
kids. I've got to get
going I've got a date
tonight, and it takes
me an hour to get dressed.
out of my way.

juggling hens

you decide to stuff
a couple of cute
Cornish hens for dinner,
but you can't get past
how small and compact
these little
featherless hens
are. are they even
hens? what is a hen
exactly? how did they
get so small
and where is Cornish,
isn't that in Vermont
where salinger lived?
these poor little hens.
were they mistreated
when they were chicklets,
stuck in tiny cages,
left without food
because of the other
bossy bigger hens.
but all that aside
you like their little
legs and wings,
and yes, they are
headless, but that's
okay, they are still
rather adorable
for meat that you
are about to season
and bake in the oven.
you hold one in each
hand, then juggle
them in the kitchen,
up into the air
they go, back and
forth, the cold slap
of hen breast hitting
your palms. you are
so glad that you live
alone and that no
one has to see this.

at peace with the world

despite seeing
the slick ice,
surrounded
by pink granules
of street
salt
you slip
anyways
and go air borne.
it all happens
in a split
second.
your world
is upside down,
your feet above
your head
as you
careen back
to the ground,
elbows
and hips striking
the cold
pavement first.
you lie there for
a moment
and gaze
at the brilliant
blue
winter sky,
the brown flash
of birds,
the grey white
trees waiting
patiently for spring.
you are strangely
at peace
with world.
sometimes it takes
a fall
to get you there.

the math club outing

in the snow
you see them playing
Frisbee
golf at the edge
of the state
park. the math
team
against the science
club
from the local
high school.
red faced
with horn rimmed
glasses.
laughing
hysterically at
one another
in their boots
and overcoats,
hunter hats
and gloves.
measuring distance
and angles
with slide
rules and equations.
taking note
of the wind
and barometric
pressure. there
are no girls
around, but in
time, the world
will be theirs.

politics

from your window
you can hear
the firing squad
nightly,
loading their rifles.
shining
their boots,
blindfolding
the prisoner
rebel
to a pole
against the barrack
wall.
then the shots,
all at once, as
one. the slumping
of an idea,
now gone. for
now, nothing
changes, but there
will be more
to come.

the golden moon

how often
have you sat
in trance
under a golden
moon, surprised
by its yellow
hues.
nostalgic
in a strange
way for days
of summer
youth.
how you've dream
of wheat
fields aglow
under that moon,
fields that you've
never seen
in places
that you've
never been,
with lovers you
have yet
to win or lose.

out to sea

you need some rest.
some silence.
you need
quiet, without
working
through the knots
of your life
until your
fingers bleed.
you need to cut
the ropes
clean and let
the ship float
aimlessly out to
sea.

the cold house

this house
speaks. it
creaks and bellows,
grunts
and moans,
the shutters
bang,
the doors
float closed.
this house
wiggles
itself
to sleep
under nights
cold sheet.
is it trying
to tell you
something you
don't already
know.

january sky

frozen for
weeks in snow
and ice
the sky
not unlike a white
wall
where an x-ray
is held
to examine
for shadows
or imperfections
leading no
doubt towards
death and doom
suddenly shifts
to blue.
without reason.
the world
lives
another day.

deductions

the butcher
with his thumb
on the scale,
the broker barking
shady numbers
over the phone,
the itemized
deduction
for lunch with
friends,
everyone is
dipping into
thievery to make
amends
for the man
trying to keep
him down.

alphabet soup

as a child your
mother
would ladle
a hot broth
of alphabet soup
into your bowl.
you remember
staring at
the white milky
letters
floating wordlessly
around, then
onto your spoon.
you didn't care
why or how
such things were
made, but
you didn't
want to waste
the words the letters
could become,
like children
not yet formed
into adults,
with lives
and children of
their own.

a finish line

out of breath,
you lean over, hands
on your knees.
your lungs burn
with winter air.
you've run
so many years away.
you turn
back around
to see who is
with you, who
has kept up,
or passed you by.
the coast is clear,
as usual.
somewhere in
this circle you
hope to find
to each
a finish line.

early morning theater

you cut yourself
shaving.
stare into the mirror
turning
your chin
to see
the slice
now folded in
red droplets.
there is so
much blood
in Shakespeare,
so little,
thankfully,
in your own
staged life.

more spice

you taste
the sauce,
letting the spoon
drip
close
to your lips
over
the boiling
pot.
more salt.
more pepper.
and as goes
your night.
more spice
would be nice.

as in love

as in love,
when
it ends,
there are
symptoms,
the cough,
the aches and
pain,
the fever
and fatigue.
but they are
just symptoms
of something
deeper,
there is
the germ
within
that causes
the disease.
something unseen,
but there,
causing
one to leave.

sinking ships

through the years
you've
sailed
on many sinking
ships.
and always
you threw your
hands into
the sky
and cursed,
wondering how
you'll survive,
but like always,
the water
is rarely more
than two feet deep,
so when it sinks,
who cares.
you can walk
out from
here.

look out, train

it's apparently
easy to get hit by
a train.
you read about it
nearly everyday
in the local
paper, the gazette
or packet, or
journal.
man hit by train
while
looking at
his watch
when car stops
on tracks.
woman slain
by freight train,
while applying
lipstick.
circus clown loses
leg while
juggling
on a rail.
these trains are
large.
they are loud.
you can see them
miles away
crawling slowly
towards you.
there are signs,
cross bars,
red lights
and bells dinging.
you can see the smoke.
it doesn't matter.
when your time
is up.
it might be a
train.

the neighborhood pub

you go to a bar
where everyone is
yelling.
it's a contest
almost of who
can yell the loudest
over the five
televisions
hanging on
the short wall
and say
the stupidest
thing.
the bartender
in a football
jersey is dancing
holding court
with a bottle
of gin.
all of this
allows a woman
two bar
stools away
in a striped sweater
to pick up her T-bone
steak and
eat it with her
hands, sucking
on the bone
and marrow
like an animal.

finding time

a pebble
in your shoe
the whole
day.
you feel
it roll
from heel
to toe.
unable to stop
and shake
it free.
you think
about
it.
you stamp
your foot.
you know
that you need
to just
stop.
sit down,
unlace
the shoe
and shake it
out, but
then what.
what will you
miss.

send me some pictures

your father
tells you to send him
some pictures.
his photo albums
have stopped mysteriously
at the year 2000.
he doesn't understand
that all the pictures
are now stuck
in our phones
and computers.
send me a picture
of that grandson
of mine, he says.
no one sends me
pictures anymore.
you tell him to
buy a computer, which
is not unlike
telling him to
invent a computer.
I don't type he
says. it hurts my
eyes to stare at that
bright screen.
does it cost extra or
can I just plug it in.
both, you tell him.
just send a picture.
why can't you do that.
I haven't had a picture
from you in over
ten years.
you get exhausted
by the conversation.
can you buy a cell phone,
you ask him.
I can send you pictures
that way. I already have a
phone he says, jesus,
mary and joseph,
why do I need another
one. I have an extension
in the kitchen too.
I can pull the long
cord way out to the patio.
I'm doing it now.
you hear things getting knocked
over as he moves
out to the patio.
then he starts talking
to his neighbor.
I've got my son on
the phone, he yells.
he won't send me any
pictures. what?
your's either? what
the hell is wrong with
these kids.

goo goo eyes

at the moment
you don't know anyone
that seems truly
in love.
deep romantic
heart pounding love.
butterflies
in the stomach love.
there is lots
of like going around,
lust, and friends
with benefits,
but love, well
that's hard to come by.
the very young seem
to catch it often,
you see them
trying hard to get into
each other's bodies
with their closeness,
and the very old
claim it from
memories. they can show
you photos of men
or women that they
loved, but the hand
holding, staring
at each other with
goo goo eyes kind
of love you just
don't see much
of anymore. but then
again, you've had
blinders on for
some time now.

hot roasted peanuts

peanuts
the man yelled
walking
down
the stadium
steps, seemingly
limping with
both legs.
peanuts.
get your red
hot peanuts.
he had on a
paper white
hat
and kept wiping
his brow
with a rag
that hung
like a limp flag
from his pocket.
the silvery metal
box was stuffed
with peanuts
in little bags,
so they weren't
hot at all.
a grey strap that held
the box was flat
against his neck,
reddened by
the afternoon sun.
when he heard
the crack of a bat
he stared down
at the field
watching for a brief
moment
the action
on the emerald
diamond. go, go, he'd
say. slide.
there you go.
and then, peanuts,
get your hot
roasted peanuts.

you should write a book

everyone thinks
they have a book in them.
you do too.
but few write them.
it's too hard
sitting there all
day and night
typing.
but they have
stories to tell.
tales that they
tell their friends.
about love
and dating, life
and death. most of
them begin by saying,
you're not going to
believe this,
or guess what happened
to me last night.
you can hear the excitement
in their voice
as they tell in
detail what happened.
sometimes they are good
stories,
polished from being
told so many times,
and other times
you yawn and roll
your eyes before
you accidentally lose
connection on
your cell phone
clicking it off,
before stuffing it
into your pocket.

old birds talking

you wonder
if the birds
in the trees ever
say things like
my how
thing have
changed.
remember that tree
that used
to be right
over there.
the big oak tree.
I loved sitting
up high
in that tree.
I could sit
there all day
with my friends
shooting the breeze.
but it's gone now.
they've
hunted most
of the deer away too.
I haven't seen
a red fox in months.
and this new paved
path for
the bikes and
joggers
is just horrible.
the noise, talking
on their phones,
throwing trash
down.
I miss the good
old days,
don't you?

drunk woman overboard

you were on a cruise
ship once
and there was
a passenger talent
show one balmy
afternoon
between stops.
there were
jugglers,
comedians,
tap dancers
and children
playing trumpets.
all good fun.
then a man
in his early
sixties stepped
up to the microphone
and began to sing
I left my heart
in san Francisco.
he was serious,
holding the microphone
with two hands.
about half way
through the song,
as he sang
I left my heart,
which he was singing
quite well
as far as I was
concerned a drunk
blonde woman
behind me with a
pina colada in
hand yelled out,
and you left your
talent there
too. everyone heard
it, but the man kept
singing. you admired
that,
and as you shot
a look at the woman
behind you, drenched
in make up
and her leathery
brown tan
you couldn't help
but imagine
her going
overboard one night
out in the deep sea.

i'm busy, very very busy

you only have a second
to write this down, but
if you live in a certain
city, say Washington
dc, it's not uncommon
to hear men and women talk
about how hard they work.
nights, weekends,
holidays. on the bus,
on the train, the metro.
standing in line
waiting for coffee.
on vacation.
work work work.
they are working hard
at their jobs,
or working on the next
job where they can
go to work and work
even harder. they are
proud of how hard they
work and when you ask
them when you can
get to together for
a drink or dinner,
just to catch up,
they say things like,
right now I don't even
have time to pee,
what are you doing in
april, hold on, let
me check that, no may.
the middle of may.
but you never hear back.
you don't try.
they are busy, very
very busy. and so are
you. in fact you'd write
more about this,
but the phone is ringing.
you have to go.

i'm joining a nunnery

while sitting at the park
having lunch,
your friend Katrina,
also known as Kat,
kit kat, and kitty
kat, tells you that she
is done with men
and sex. she's sick
of all the pressures
of dating, the exhausting
interview process
when you have to tell
someone new your
complete life story
over a glass of wine
and a plate of rubbery
calamari. I'm joining
a nunnery, she says.
I'm serious. men
just want this, she
says, pointing at
various parts of
her body. pffft,
you say, trying not
to look too hard
at the places she
just pointed at.
men, what are you
gonna do? you sigh
sympathetically.
so, you're switching
to the other side?
no, she says loudly,
scaring the pigeons
away from our bench.
I'm done with sex.
period, men women,
whatever. I'm giving
myself to God.
okay, okay, you say.
calm down mother Theresa.
and how long
do you think this is
going to last?
I don't know she says,
breaking off a piece
of bread for the birds
and tossing it.
a week, maybe two.
three tops.

how old are you?

just to stop talking about
that no talent punk
loser justin beiber, you
occasionally show your
age by saying something
like, I remember
the time I saw Sinatra
at the Copacabana,
man that was a great
show. talk about a
rebel. Dean and Sammy
came out during the encore
all of them smoking
cigarettes and drinking
high balls. Lola
Falana was there too.
talk about hot. She
had legs up to her neck.
at this point everyone
looks at you and says
simultaneously, how old
are you exactly?
someone get the carbon
dating kit.

I want one of those

I want one of those.
that notepad
thing, or I pad,
tablet,
or whatever it's
called.
it looks like
fun. everyone
seems to be hypnotized
by theirs.
I like that glazed
look in their
eyes. I want some
of that.
that far away,
I'm not here look.
I want to stare into
that shiny
colorful screen
and tap tap tap
against the tiny
picture, or icons,
or doo dad things.
I want to be oblivious
to my surroundings
lost in the gizmo
in my hands.
I want to ignore
the people around
me and pretend
that they don't exist.
that they don't matter.
I want all the knowledge
of the universe
at the tip of a button
despite losing
my soul, my personality,
my ability
to communicate
with living people.
yes. I want one
of those and I
want it now.