dry land

if it rains
come over.
pack light.
bring lips.
bring your warm
side.
i'll leave
the door open.
you'll know where
i'll be.
duck out from
under the clouds,
avoid
the lightning,
be careful
in the wind.
i'll be
waiting for you
on an island
of dry land.

elephants

there are so
many elephants
in the room
that it's
hard to
find a seat to sit
and have this talk
with you.
but squeeze
in here
and let's begin.

start with zero

having nothing at
one point
in your childhood,
being hungry
and cold
with holes
in your shoes
makes the rest
of life so much
easier.
everyone should
start
with zero.
even when it comes
to love,
when or if It arrives
you will feel rich
beyond measure.

what fish want

it's hard to
imagine
what fish want.
they swim so
fluidly and free below
the line
of air,
but you can guess
that being tricked onto
a steel hook
is not high
on their list
of fun things to
do today.

over due bills

the world is full
of ultimatums.
each bill with a date
on it.
the water
will be turned off,
the power doused,
your television
and phone will go
silent. even you,
now, have put a stamp
of expiration on
us if love isn't
received on time.

she calls to you

as you lie
on your bed near
death
you hear someone
calling
you in.
saying your name.
standing
at a door way
in an apron.
she's young again
and you
are even younger.
is this
how it goes.
is this the place
you'll
be, or is it
what you remember
most
about her
as you prepare
join her in
forever.

the fog

the world grows
white as
a fog seeps over
the hills,
caresses the trees,
arrives
at your door
step. you go out
into
the morning.
your skin is white,
the bones
of you, your eyes
are white.
you cannot move
the fog with your
hands, or
blow it away.
there is nothing
that can be
done about this
even if you wanted
to.
so much of life
is like this.

marrying for money

the next time I
marry it will be
strictly for money,
you tell
your friend betty,
who throws back her
head and laughs,
almost losing her
wig in the wind.
ha, she says.
money. what about sex?
what about love?
how about a nice
pool? you answer.
a mansion in the country,
a condo
in the city, a beach
house, at the beach she
says, finishing
your sentence.
fine, she says, fine,
but be careful
what you wish for.
tonight I'm going
to pray for you.
you have me
worried.

a bar of soap

like
a bar of soap
parts
of you
are disappearing
slowly
down
the drain,
but you
stay smooth,
and you smell
nice most
of the time,
so that must
mean something
to you,
doesn't it?

awake

right about now
you are usually sleeping.
sound
asleep in the middle
of a dream.
you might toss and turn
a little, or
wake up and take
a sip of the water
that sits
in a glass on
the end table
beside the red numbered
clock.
right about now,
you are usually under
the covers, head
on a pillow, done
for the night.
but not tonight.
something is bothering
you that's keeping
you here, awake.

give me time

i'll get
back to you, she says,
on that love thing.
give me
some time to find
the right words
to say no.
to let you down
gently.
I need a phrase
a statement,
a sincere regret
to be your parachute,
dropping you
safely back
to earth without
me by your
side.

forging love

you need to cross
over
at some, get past
your fear.
dispose of doubt
and disguise.
just leap,
jump forward
and let
the wind, the earth,
the moon
and stars
decide.

forgetting your pants

sometimes
you are in such a hurry
that you forget
to wear pants.
all day you walk
about in your calvin
klein black
boxer briefs
until a cop on
horseback sidles
up to you and says,
what the hell
do you think you're
doing?
luckily, you are quick
on your feet
and dash off into
the park, zig sagging
between the trees
as the cop and his
horse try to chase
you. but because
of your speed
and agility, they
can't catch you.
you make a mental note
of what just happened.
pants.
how could you
possibly forget pants?

the stand off

the ticket
that you insert
into the metal box
that holds
the cross bar
that sits in front
of your car
preventing you
from leaving
won't work.
it keeps spitting
the ticket back
out into your hand.
someone comes over
and tells you
that you have
to pay for a new one,
which you refuse
to do, making
the line of cars
behind you angry.
the entire underground
garage is a cacophony
of horns being
pressed on.
you are willing
to wait until hell
freezes over.
you have already paid
once.
five dollars being
five dollars.
it is literally a
Mexican stand off.
finally,
someone with a fist
full of keys
comes over and opens
the gate.
it swings up as you
smile and wave farewell.
the night is off
to a good start.

that special feeling

you make it clear
that in the morning
you have to get up
early and go.
you have a very
busy day ahead of you.
no monkeying around.
maybe a short
little embrace, but
that's it. okay?
no time for coffee
breakfast or small talk.
shower, get dressed
and adios.
sure, she says.
you're making me
feel so special.
should I go now,
so that I don't
delay you?

piano legs

her mother
who died recently
at the age of ninety
seven
used to tell her that she
had piano legs.
she never forgot that,
even thinking about it
as the coffin was
lowered into
the grave.
piano legs, she said
to herself.
her whole life
is over
and I stand here
thinking this.
how strong words are
when they ring
true.

voice mail

a fender
bender on the side
of the road
slows
traffic
almost to a stop,
which
gives me
a chance
to call you
and ask how you
are.
but the voice
mail comes
on.
and I hesitate,
unable to
find the words.
so I say
nothing.
leaving an
empty space,
a void
for you to fill
when you get this.

every man

with men
there is no hierarchy.
every man
a king,
a warrior,
a knight without
a horse.
the woman walking
down the street
in her summer
dress
knows that.
even without a shot,
they whistle,
they
shake their heads
and howl
at the mid day sun.
the men
no matter what
their status all
have exactly
the same thought.

the white flag

you surrender.
raise the white flag,
put your
hands into the air
and step
out of the trenches.
the long week
has beaten
you. take me
anywhere, you
yell out, anywhere
but here.
I am your prisoner
to with what
you want.
but be gentle,
I'm feeling fragile
at the moment.
a cold refreshment
would be a good
start.

the workers

the workers,
emptying
out of dark
white vans
start early with
their hammers.
tapping away,
you hear
the slam
of metal ladders
against
the houses.
the gutters
are being replaced.
tiles are
patched on the roof
tops.
they are not tired
yet,
stoked on coffee
and
egg muffins.
their radios
blaring salsa,
still a spring in
their booted
steps, the sun
not quite high
enough to make
them sweat.

where's your betty crocker

no one cooks
anymore.
they heat things
up.
order in, order
out.
they make call
ahead calls,
reservations.
they'd rather
stand in line
for a salty
sandwich then
boil a pot of
water at home.
grandmothers
are rolling in
their cold recipe
graves, shaking
their collective
heads as
they thumb through
a well worn
betty crocker
cookbook
that keeps them
warm.

bargain hunters

the sales weasels
all want
a deal, a special
friendship price.
a lowering
of the bill, just
because.
give me a break,
they say, let
me have it for
a little less
and you'll never
go hungry in this
city again. so
you give in and knock
off a few bucks,
which makes them
happy, as they
wave rolling away
in their black
Mercedes suv.

tossed aside

early in
the morning
the street
cleaners
come out
into the city
to sweep up
the broken
hearts.
the glass is
everywhere.
shards, like
diamonds in
the rising sun,
torn tickets to
flights
that won't be
used,
luggage discarded
on the curb.
cheap bundles
of flowers tossed
onto
the road, never
thanked for,
never held
with a smile,
or brought up to
a nose.

the legal system

you show
ginger your speeding
ticket, shaking
your head.
can you believe it?
a hundred dollars,
and points.
ha, she says.
I've never gotten
a ticket
she sticks one
of her long
legs out from
under the table
to show you why,
then proudly
pushes her
chest out
almost busting
a button on her
flimsy blouse.
these here are
ticket busters, she
says, trying
to shake them
like moroccos
and laughing.
whatever, you tell
her. the legal
system in this
country is so unfair.

joining the band

politely,
you go next door and
ask your neighbor
to please stop
playing
his banjo.
he has his whole
band over
every night practicing.
sorry, he says.
it's okay you tell
him, I'm just trying
to sleep, that's
all.
you look around the
room and see
someone on a washboard,
a skinny man
with no teeth
mouthing a harmonica.
a fat woman
blowing on a half
empty brown jug.
you wouldn't happen
to play spoons, would
ya, he asks.
spoons. nope.
we'll we need a spoon
player if you want
to try. taint that hard.
but I'm in my pajamas.
no problem, he says,
here, have some chew
and some pork rinds
and sit over there
next to maybeline.
jethro, hand my good
neighbor some of them
spoons and let's make
some music. pass him
a sip of that white
lightning to loosen
up him up. he seems kind
tightly wound.

blue skies

the sky is a blue
bottle
of sun
and clouds, a wishing
well of
good feelings.
even the birds,
with wiggling
worms dangling
from their
beaks seem to
have a spring
in their wings as
they fly about,
not quite ready
to fly south.

the contract

she gives you
the silent treatment.
the cold
shoulder,
the no eye contact
I'm pretending
you aren't
here stare, it's
hard to believe
you ever had
a fun moment
when she goes dark
like this.
and people wonder
why you're
cautious
about love
and marriage,
about
signing a business
contract
that says til death
do you part.

the slowing

the young,
with their life
in front of them,
run and run,
everything must be
done now, in
a hurry. they have
little patience for
this world they
were born into,
while the old,
have slowed down.
in speaking, in
eating, in driving
and arriving
at a destination
that gets closer
with each day.

and what else?

to punish you,
she stops reading what
you write.
she throws her hands
up dismissively
and says,
I can't read it anymore,
it's all the same.
about this girl
and that girl or some
trivial complaint
about something
ridiculously small.
no one cares about
this stuff, but
you. pffft, she says.
keep talking you
tell her, furiously
taking notes.
go on, go on,
and what else?

song and dance man

you are amazed
at how many words you
know
to so many songs,
and how well you sing
when alone
in the car, or
shower.
it doesn't bother
you that it
makes your dog
howl, putting his
paws over his floppy
brown ears, you
like to sing,
you are a song and
dance man, okay,
maybe not so much
the dancing, but
with a bar of soap
in hand you
are on stage at
Carnegie hall.

pain and pleasure

what pleases you
goes quickly,
the long
kiss, the summer,
a beach
visit, the book
in your
hand.
a night full
of stars.
pleasure is
fleeting, while
pain
tends to hang
around.

a bag of chips

it's hard
to believe, but
sometimes
you tire of eating
potato chips.
your hand
grows weary
of placing it
into the bag
and pulling
one out and
letting it crunch
into your salt
starved mouth.
how many can you
eat in one sitting.
how many stars
are in the sky?

her ankle

just a glimpse of
her ankle
made you weak
in the knees,
your heart
skipped a beat
when she raised
her leg
and placed it
next to yours.
what next?
god forbid
she kissed you.
how could live
with that?

he had no ears

he had no ears
she said.
he was born that
way, but
they were able
to take some skin
from some part
of his body
and make an ear,
sort of.
but he could
hear really well,
better than
you, as a matter
of fact.
are you listening
to me.
hey, hey. you have
two ears,
but what's the point
of me telling
you this story,
if you don't listen.
I'm listening, you
tell her. I'm
listening. what about
a nose, did he
have a nose?

my love for you

my love
for you is
a tsunami.
a tidal wave.
okay.
I exaggerate.
perhaps a small
wave,
a crest, a lapping
of water
upon
the shore, or
maybe just the wake
of a passing
boat.
or better yet,
a cool glass
of water,
half full,
that I sip on
when I'm thirsty.
that's it, my
love for you
is a glass of
water,
half full
with crushed ice
and a slice
of lemon.

three hail marys

sometimes your sarcasm
gets the best of you.
after telling the priest
for over an hour
all of your sins, he
whispers through the
meshed screen,
say three hail marys
and go and sin no more.
what?
you say, what?
you think that will
do it. three hail marys?
were you even
listening to me,
hello. you rap
on the window
with your knuckles.
god will forgive me
with that? geez,
I didn't know it was
so easy. did you even
hear half of the stuff
I've done, what I've
been thinking lately
about the rockettes?
but he doesn't answer
back. there is stone
silence. yo, you
still in there father
o malley? yeah, I'm
here. I'm waiting for
you to go away.

the double burger with fries

did you see my
picture on face book
your friend wanda
asks you, as she takes
another selfie,
of herself drinking
coffee.
no, which one, you
say. the one where
I'm eating a hamburger
at five guys.
the sunset was coming
over route one,
and the sky was
so pink and fabulous.
no, i'll have to log on
later and check it out.
I had the double
bacon burger
with fries. I got
that picture on there
too before I took
a bite.
wow. i'll have to go
look. take a close
look at the melted
cheese on the burger.
sounds crazy, but it
looks like the last
supper by da vinci.
squint a little.
you'll see. okay,okay.
will do.

rodeo clown

your days
on the rodeo circuit
were long
and hard.
busting broncos,
lassoing
wild cows
and branding
bulls.
when the ring
clown
got sick, who
stepped in to
to fill his floppy
orange shoes,
you did.
sometimes the smell
hardly bothered
you as long
as you had
three handkerchiefs
tied about
your mouth
and nose.
you never did
get those rattlesnake
boots clean,
so you tossed
them into a can,
like the midnight
cowboy going
to florida
on the greyhound
bus. do you miss it,
no, and the broken
hip has
almost healed.
but you do miss
the cowgirls, tipping
your hat and saying
things like,
howdy.

the rain

the rain
is shaking
the leaves
out of the trees,
as you have
shaken
the joy
out of me.
stop it.

the lemon pie

innocent,
despite all
the evidence wrongly
arranged
to convict you,
you stand
on the gallows
awaiting
your fate.
but that's not
what truly
bothers you,
in the audience
you spot
your aunt Helen
holding a lemon
pie, she baked
just for you,
but she came too
late.
you smile
as your mouth
puckers
and the trap
door swings open,
oh well.

the last act

there is no
curtain call, no last
bow
upon the stage.
there is no rise
in the audience
hollering
for the players
to return
just one more time.
no shouts of
bravo, or author.
the last note
has been played,
the final word
spoken in the last
act. the theater
is dark, the lights
gone, the seats
empty.
it's best to go
too, take your
broken heart and don't
look back.

conception

it is easier
working
with your hands.
the mind
free
of inconsequential
things,
free from
the small
details of
the world
that make it
devilish
and hard to
comprehend.
a poet without
a job
or money
is rich beyond
belief.
lacking love
is even better.
it's the hunger,
the struggle,
that allows
a poem
to be conceived.

some spice

a roll
of undeveloped
film sits in your drawer.
you have no
idea when the pictures
were taken.
or who took them.
what year, what
decade is
uncertain.
you like the mystery
of that roll.
it's good to have
some mystery in one's
life.
some strangeness.
some weird people
too,
some spice.

a fresh bandage

you seem
jaded sometimes,
she says,
almost cynical
in your ideas
about love,
marriage, dating
in general.
it's almost like
you've been
wounded,
and the wounds
have never healed.
what's up
with that?
you smile and nod,
perhaps, you
say.
could you please
help me
with this bandage
around my heart,
it's time to unwrap
and put a fresh
one on.

no up or down

abstract art
appeals to you
in so many ways.
the spilled
paint,
the loaded
red lacquered brush
slung across
a white
canvass board.
the mad randomness
of it all.
drinking helps,
as does a sense
of humor
and a lack
of sleep. there is
no right or wrong,
no up or down.
museums
are full of such
pieces. give me
ten minutes let
me make you one.

she isn't here

you don't hear
from her for weeks
on end.
the phone has gone
silent.
she could be sick
or dead,
or on a trip
to Europe, or
florida.
who knows.
maybe she's on
her horse
galloping across
a field.
you can only guess
where she might be,
but one thing you
know for sure,
after checking
the closets
and under the bed,
she isn't here.

the factory

it's no longer
a factory
now. the workers
are
no longer in
overalls
and hats,
boots and gloves,
no longer
a leathered
life of
grease
and dirt,
other countries
can do
that for us.
the factory
line
now involves
sitting
in a cube
with a coat
and tie,
shined shoes,
fingers on a
keyboard,
a small leafed
plant
reminding
you of a world
you can't
see
as the years
pass by.

the light on

she keeps
the light on,
just
in case
he arrives,
comes home.
all night
it glows.
all her life
she stands
in the mirror
brushing
her hair,
waiting
for someone
she'll never
know.

things have changed

politics
make you sleepy.
when you were younger
there might
have been anger,
or elation
at one
politician or
another.
each stirring
your blood
with whatever it
was they stood
for. you
pulled the lever
with conviction,
wanting
change,
wanting the world
to be better,
but it never
did. so now, you
yawn in the face
of each new
face. each promise
proclaimed
under the waving
flag.
you really used
to care,
but things have
changed.

the fork in the road

you look
on the map
and see her
name in bold
black letters.
she is
the fork
in the road
where two
streets converge.
you need to go
in one
direction
with her, or
travel in another
alone,
there is no
other way
to go.

the patient mouse

the mouse
is patient.
waiting
in the shadow
of the hole
for the cat
to sleep,
for the house
to settle,
for the moon
to rise
and shine
across the floor,
stepping
quietly out
towards
the yellow
gold.

blue laws

there was a day when
the state of Maryland
had blue
laws.
no stores were open.
there was no way
to get a can of beer
or a gallon of milk.
even a pack of gum
was hard to come by,
which made you resort
to old gum stuck
to your headboard.
only the churches were
open. so you just had
to suck it up
and go pray.
get your wafer and wine
that way.
you had to do your shopping
on Saturday.
but now, there are
no blue laws, no real
holidays that close
everything.
there is no storm either
that will shut down
a 7 11, no nuclear
warhead that will
stop the chili dispenser
from working,
or keep those
hot dogs from spinning
greasy on the grey
grill.
we are godless
and living in Shangri la.

delete, block, report

because she has
become increasingly
caustic
and needs an
adjustment with
her crazy meds,
you have to block
her.
delete her.
eliminate her
from your life.
you do a full
electronic
sweep of all
the sites you
share.
your phone, your
e mail,
your ridiculous
face book
friends. click,
click click
making her
disappear.
in the old days,
you just hung up
the phone
and that was
the end of that,
but times have
changed.

home movies

you love
scary movies.
horror movies.
movies that make
you twitch and squirm,
sometimes even
scream.
when you were
a child your
parents called
them home movies
and would
project them
onto the wall,
on a white sheet
that was used
as a screen.

your destiny

it's been said
that
there are no
mistakes.
no errors,
no wrong turns,
no wiggle room
in the hands
of fate.
it's already
been planned out,
your joy,
and sorrow. your
destiny has
been decided.
so relax and enjoy,
or bear the moment
as best you can.
it'll all be over
soon, some say
in the blink
of an eye,
although you
prefer not to go
along with that,
and believe
otherwise.

romance saturday

the couch needs
to go three inches more
to the left,
then back about
a foot.
easy, go easy on
those hardwood
floors,
good, now let's roll
this rug up
and take it upstairs
to the bedroom
where I want to move
the bed down
into the basement.
once that it is
done, do you see that
tree out there,
I want to cut it
down, pull
the trunk out with
your truck and plant
some flowers
there. oh,
and the shutters
did you bring your
paint brush, i'd like
us to put a fresh
coat of paint
on them. okay. let's
get going, we
don't have all day
and it might rain.
why are you frowning,
don't you love me?

not enough

you see your doctor
getting out
of his Mercedes
and going into
the local
porn emporium
along the seedy
section
of low rent
strip malls
featuring
nail shops,
tattoo parlors
and all
you can eat
kabob delis.
it gives you
the willies, your
doctor, your
physician, your
wise old
healer needing to
see more
naked bodies.
wasn't today enough,
but you know
that's not what
it's about,
it's something
else.
you need a new
health plan perhaps.

she screamed

there was the time
when you
were in high school,
slow dancing
to a day in the life
by the beatles
with Vivian
the captain of
the cheerleaders
in her parents
dimmed rec
room and a wad
of gum fell out
of your mouth
and into her long
black hair
with a ribbon
in it.
the music kept
playing as you
tried to bite
the gum back into
your lips,
but that made it
worse, as the wad,
pink and sticky,
maybe three pieces
in all got further
and further
into the nest of
her beautiful well
brushed and shiny
hair.
at some point
she screamed,
making her
parents come down
to chase you out
like a dog. the next
time you saw her
in the high school
hall, her hair looked
like it had
been cut short
with a soup bowl
which made her look
funny because of her
really large nose that
you never noticed before.

a new leaf

she gets religion
and stops
drinking,
she stops staying
out late
at night
with the likes
of me
and others
of similar mischievous
ilk.
she stops
swearing like
a drunken sailor
on a sinking
ship.
she won't even
kiss
anymore unless
there's a future,
a destination,
a ring
and a date.
things were going
so well
until
God got in the way.

the empty chair

you enter a room
and find
a chair,
it may not be
the chair you
wanted, but it's
the one available,
so you sit.
it's the chair
you return to
everyday.
in time it's
where others
expect to find you.
they know where
you are,
who you are,
your life is
defined by where
you have chosen
to sit.
when it's empty,
as all chairs
will be, they
will try to remember
your name,
they will ask,
who was it that
sat there. who
was in that
empty chair.

the dead

the dead
stick with you.
sometimes
staying quiet
in the attic
of your mind,
then there are
moments when
they sing,
and give you
joy, remembering
a day
you shared.
but it rains
too, their missing
hands on
your shoulders,
the feeling of love
not lessened
by a ruthless clock
that brings all
together
in time.

what's missing

without legs
life
finds a way
to swim
with fins
or fly on wings,
or slide about
as snakes
upon a rounded
earth,
what are you
missing
that makes you
who you
are?

the light within

they tyranny
of life
is neither work
nor love,
or poverty.
it's less
about who governs
you,
who decides
your fate,
whether wrong
or right.
the tyranny begins
within, it's
you who hold the
key, the
candle of your
soul, it's
you must choose
to live
in darkness,
or live in light.

when the cows come home

there's something I need
to tell you,
she says, whispering
across the table
with a flickering
candle between you.
she takes your hand
to ease the moment,
what you say, what,
thinking the worst.
you take a sip of
your drink, then
another.
you've heard it all.
I'm sick and dying,
I'm married, I'm
really a man wearing
a woman's dress.
I'm not fifty, I'm
seventy one.
my left leg is made
of wood.
what is it you say,
please tell me.
I'm, I'm a knitter
she says,lowering
her eyes. I love
to make quilts
and cross stitch.
it's what I do.
I love to rock
on the porch and knit
until the cows come
home. pffft, you say,
knitting. not a problem,
but cows? you say.
you have cows?

the bus stop

you see
a group of children
twitching
nervously
at the bus stop
on the first day
of school.
they are bent over
with their full
back packs.
they look like
Himalayan
hikers about to
climb the summit.
their hair is
brushed or combed
in place.
their skinny arms
and legs are still
bare in the summer
heat, they stare
down the empty
road waiting for that
awful orange bus
while the parents
with arms folded
and tears
in their worried
eyes stand close
to one another,
waiting too.

every man a king

because we are
a country without
royalty
every man must
find a way to
be his own royal
highness, have
his own palace
his own carriage
with which to travel
about and survey
his own imaginary
land. our royalty is
found in our mattresses
now,
the king size bed,
the queen,
the twin, the standard,
the thin and hard
proletariat.
or in the food, we eat
with king sized portions
at burger king,
or things that
we buy like
the princess phone.
every man a king,
says huey long.

our days are numbered

the measuring
begins at birth.
how long is
that baby, how many
pounds, the date
the time,
the age of parents.
from there it gets
even more
complicated.
you might be the second
son of a family
of five,
walking at three,
talking at four,
stand still,
let me measure
your height, stand
by the door.
and then it's grades.
it's sat's,
how many years of
school. how long
have you worked here.
it's how much you
weigh, how tall you
are, how old
you are.
everyone needs a
number to let them know
who you are.
how long married,
how many times.
how long divorced,
how many children,
how long have
you lived here. how
much money do you
make, and finally
how long have you
had this illness.
when you die,
all they numbers are
added up
and carved into the
tombstone.
from start to finish,
solid proof
that you were once
alive.

my oh yeah guy

while squinting
at her watch,
looking for an early exit,
she sips her tumbler
of rum and coke, and says,
I'm looking for
my oh yeah guy.
which means
soul mate, cell mate,
the one and only love
of my life that adores
me, and will never
leave me for the rest
of my years. it's
the same sad dream
women have from the first
time they've seen
snow white as a little
girl.
men shrug at such talk
and shake their heads.
relax, they say.
enjoy the moment,
the night. have another
drink. at this age
honey prince charming
ain't riding in on
a white horse, and
if he is, he's strapped
to that horse so he
doesn't fall off.

negative nine

I've got your number
she says with a smirk,
meaning, I know you.
I know who you are and
what you are up to
buddy boy.
but what is that number?
which number are you
exactly. is there
a Chinese menu
of numbers describing
that person, a
category numbered
telling everyone
exactly who you are?
are you a number
25 or 11, or 58, but
at least she didn't
say zero. she didn't
call you zero, or
worse yet a negative
nine.

the blood moon river

your grandmother
who smoked Taryeton
cigarettes
was about five
feet tall
with fierce blue
eyes.
her mouth was
a scythe cutting
down
whoever was
in her path.
her hands were
like crocodile
paws,
against the white
and black
keyboard,
with blood red
nails.
but when she played
the piano, usually
moon river, she
was a different
person.
she almost forgot
who she was,
and became nice,
only occasionally
stopping to stomp
her feet
if you weren't
paying attention.

fear

we are all
afraid.
afraid to fail,
afraid
to succeed,
afraid of love,
the choices
that we make.
we are afraid
of growing old,
getting sick,
being poor.
fear is in
the news.
it's in the sky.
the bible
is full of fear.
the ocean too,
who knows
what lies
below.
fear is everywhere,
almost,
because I have
to see it
in you.

over looking the racetrack

you and Sheila
used to climb the steep
grassy hill
that overlooked
the racetrack.
the glow of the lights
far enough away
to keep you hidden.
she'd bring a blanket
some wine,
you'd lie upon
the hill and stare
up at the stars
in the summer heat,
you listened to the call
of the races.
between the beating
of your own hearts
against one another.
you heard
the thunder of the hooves
as the horses
rounded the hard
dirt track.
you knew that what
you had wouldn't last
forever, but it
didn't matter.
it was just a race
when you were young
and strong,
able to run and run
with the wind.

what's his name

she calls you
by your first name
when you meet,
then sweetums
throughout
the seasons of
the first year.
honey bunch
is popular
the second year.
sweetheart is
spoken
the third year
in addition with
my love, my life,
my one only
soul mate.
but in
the fourth year
she begins
to call you
by your name
again.
by year five,
you are
the defendant
on a sheet of
paper, by
year six, you
are referred
to with rolled
eyes as my ex.
in year seven you
have become,
what's his
name.

marching onward

a line
of pale soldiers
marching
going
forward
to the front
lines.
weapons
in hand, boots
tight.
the helmets
strapped
strong
against their
brows.
all hell is
about
to break loose.
they know that
but keep
marching
keep marching
into death,
into blood,
into bones
exposed,
into a limbless
limbo,
obeying the orders
of those
back home,
those safe
and warm, cozy
in their
protected
wombs.

the cake

today
you will make a cake.
a layer cake.
a yellow cake with
vanilla
frosting. you will
sprinkle the top
with
multi colored
candy sprinkles.
you will let the cake
cool on
the window sill.
you will ask the kids
to not touch it.
to keep
their fingers out
of the icing.
later you will
cut a slice out
of the cake,
sit by the window
with a glass of milk
and think of your
mother.

do you smell gas?

we need to talk
your lover says, we
need to discuss
a few things about
where this relationship
is going, we
need to define
what exactly we're
doing here, with
one another. are
you listening?
sorry, did you say,
something, I had
my head in
the oven trying
to find out where
this gas smell
is coming from.
forget the oven,
she says and look at
me. striking at match
at this point
seems to be the better
option, but you don't.
you take a seat
and say, okay. what?

flight

she used to fly
from coast to coast.
across
the ocean.
coffee, tea,
perhaps a cocktail
or two
to get you
through
the turbulence.
no more.
now she kneels
in her yard,
bending to her
garden,
hands deep into
the rich soil, her
dog
and cats
beside her.

your mail man

your mail man
is neither friendly
or unfriendly.
he's focused
with his bag
his handful
of mail.
the numbers
rattling through
his head.
he nods a lot.
never mentions
the weather, or
sports, or
anything.
he's like a
fish in water,
moving, moving,
folding
the magazines
in his hand,
gripping
the envelopes,
stashing them
into the slot.
perhaps he's
thinking about
the end of the day
when he can
take off his
shoes and read
his own mail.

the sick fox

the sick
fox
comes out
of the woods
still
and red
a phantom
with wet
eyes.
his mouth
dropped
open.
he neither
charges
to bite, or
runs
back into
the brush, he
just stands,
brazen
in the daylight
dazed by whatever
runs through
his broken
veins.
the world
is full
of such
confusion.

cup half full

your friend,
Sheila,
is a cup half
full kind of girl.
which
makes her angry
when she
sees other
women with implants
and surgical
enhancements.
no one cares,
you tell her,
trying not to look
at her
as she tries to
brush
away a few
scone crumbs
that have already
rolled easily
down the front
of her blouse.

the pebbles

all day
you carry a sharp
pebble
in your shoe.
not having
the time to stop
and take
it out.
your life is full
of sharp
pebbles you think
as you finally
find
a bench to sit
on and empty
it out.
perhaps it's time
to shake
the rest out too.

cold water

like a fish
she takes the hook
out of your mouth,
gives you the once
over, then tosses
you back into
the stream.
this is how love
ends. in cold
water, one of you
swimming away
in whatever
direction
the current takes
you.

bernice

your friend
ernie, who sometimes
likes to be
called Bernice,
fancies
women's clothes.
it's all very strange,
but you like
him, and there's
no funny business
going on.
but sometimes
it's weird
when he watches
football with you
in his stockings
and dress,
his white pumps,
lipstick
and all the rest.
when a team scores
he jumps up
and down,
waving his purse
about.
then you have to help
him find
the backing to an
ear ring that
inevitably falls
out.

she could run

she could
run
forever,
plodding along
through
the ice and snow.
one foot following
the other.
on sand,
through
the woods, ongravel
at the side
of the road,
her face reddened
by the cold
or heat,
her hair pulled
back
beneath her cap.
she would run
and run,
alone,
while you stood
at the window
and waited
for her
to return.

friends with benefits

on their
way to jail
you see the governor
and his
wife smiling,
surrounded by
the sharks.
they look shiny
like coins in
the sun.
it was fun
while it lasted.
but they don't
seem bothered
by the verdict,
by the prospect of
trading in their
Gucci clothes
for cotton stripes.
they look into
the cameras
and give a wide
broad smile
as if they are still
in office,
welcoming any gift
you can give
them out of the goodness
of your heart.

they know everything

some people
know everything
and its hard for
them to be quiet
about it.
they know art
and music.
they know what
every celebrity
is up to.
they want to help
you with
your taxes, your
car,
your relationships.
that mole
on your face,
they've got a
guy for that.
lickety split
that say, he takes
a scalpel
and voila, it's
gone.
they speak French
like that
sometimes,
and you want to hit
them over their
head with
a baguette.

some down time

the world
needs a day off.
a day of complete
rest.
no arguing,
killing,
no murder, rape,
pillaging,
no fighting
in general. a
time out, if you
will.
the world needs
some quiet time.
down time,
to exhale and find
its inner child.
just for a day,
then it can go back
to its mayhem.

no fish

I can't eat
fish,
you tell her, so
please, no tuna,
no salmon,
no cod filet.
but, she says,
you haven't had
my fish. I grill
it and ladle on
this sauce
I've made.
it's all about
the sauce.
I can't eat fish,
you tell her
again.
no swordfish,
no catfish, no
trout, nothing
that has ever
been swimming in
water.
what about shrimp.
I make this
wonderful shrimp
and pasta dish?
no fish, you say
again, what about
pizza. okay, okay.
I get it, no fish.
what about anchovies
on our pizza. will
that be okay?

first day at work

it's hot
in this coal mine.
you tell
your work mate
jimbo, on your
first day
on the job. it's
hot as hell in here,
you say, taking
out a grey
handkerchief
to blow your nose.
jimbo looks at you
as your head lamp
hits him
in the face.
hold still you
tell him, hold still,
you have a smudge
on your face,
it's black,
it might be coal
or something.
you wipe his
face and pick up
your shovel.
why is it so hot
in here, you
ask him,
as he swings his
pick axe
at a wall.
wouldn't it be
cool if we found
some diamonds in
here. he stops
whacking at the wall
to look at you.
let's make a pact,
you tell him,
if either one of
us finds some diamonds,
we won't tell
anyone and split
the money? okay?
jimbo shakes his head,
and goes back
to hitting the wall,
but harder now,
like he's mad at
the world.
jim, jimbo. yo,
my man, what time you
got. I'm starving.
isn't it close
to lunch time?

your life back

someone hacks
into your life
and becomes
you. he uses
your name,
your credit.
he calls all
your friends
to hang out with
them.
he goes to your
work and does your
job.
he takes your
dog on a walk.
he sleeps in your
bed and drinks
from your
milk carton.
he calls your
girlfriend
and takes her out
on a date
or two.
a week goes
by and he knocks
on your motel
door where you
now live.
he returns
you to yourself
and apologizes.
I had no idea,
he says. I'm so
sorry, I hope
things turn out
better for you.

a spoonful

a spoonful
of your
sugar
goes a long
way
when stirred
into my
day.
it sweetens
the brew,
keeps me
close,
wanting
never to
stray.

the same

her new
house is similar
to her old
house.
her new boyfriend
looks a lot
like the old
boyfriend.
her dog that died
has been
replaced by another
dog of the same
breed.
she eats
the same food,
buys the same clothes.
she says
the same prayer
before she goes
to sleep,
but nothing ever
changes.

what is it?

you leave
the house and try
to think
what you might
be leaving
behind.
you don't want
to get out on
the road
and have to turn
around and come
back.
what is it?
your book, your
phone,
money. you tap
at your pockets
for anything,
but nothing
comes to mind,
not even the hot
cup of
coffee that sits
upon your roof.

thirty square feet

you prefer
not to disturb
the dirt
and weeds in
your yard.
you choose
to let things
grow, as they should
and want.
god is your
gardener and
you are not
one to criticize,
but from appearances
he seems to
be lying down
on the job at times.

beware

beware
of the do gooders.
the righteous
ones
who keep attendance
and mark
down
when you are
absent.
the ones that give
and give,
and tell everyone.
beware of the well
read,
well schooled,
well bred
and mannered,
you will never
be equal
to them.
you will remain
a step below.
beware of those who
rise early
and go to bed
early, they are usually
mean, and tired,
they can't enjoy
their lives.
beware of those always
in a hurry
they will never be
on time.
beware of those
who have a lot
to say, they will
never hear a word
you say.
beware of those who
save and save,
keep everything
of no value.
they are holding
onto the world
as if it was a cliff
they might fall off.

family intervention

she's got her
whole family
involved now
in your business.
her sister, her
mother, her brother
and father,
her uncle
and her grandmother.
one by one they
call you up and ask
what your problem
is? you think you're
some sort of romeo?
you think you can
do better than my
daughter? you must
be out of your mind.
now get over here
right now and
apologize to her.

wrong delivery

your mail order
bride
from Russia finally
arrives,
but she's not
exactly what
you ordered.
you let her out
of the perforated
box and ask
her to turn
around a few
times. nope, she's
definitely
not what you
ordered.
hello, she says.
shaking
the packing
peanuts off of
her. I'm hungry
she says.
you rub your forehead,
looking at
the order form.
she's not a red
head, she's not
tall, she's got
short legs
and is kind of
on the boney side.
I'm really hungry,
she says, in perfect
English.
are you from Russia,
you ask her,
handing her a half
of the sandwich you
were eating when
the package arrived.
no, she says, wolfing
down the burger.
ohio. I'm from ohio.
close to Cleveland.
anything to drink?
this burger is like
really really
salty?

the flower

a delicate
flower
hardly,
the thorns
say
otherwise.

your best clothes

your best
clothes are the ones
well worn.
you treat
them kindly.
folding them
right out of
the dryer, or
onto a hanger
they go.
comfort clothes.
clothes
you feel good in.
feel like
you in.
it's heartbreaking
to see a tear,
a rip,
a button gone
or a zipper
that will no longer
zip.
like a good
friend, these clothes
you want
to keep forever.
they are
hard to replace,
hard to imagine
your life without
them.

carry out

you over hear
the argument
at the table beside
you.
a man and a woman,
middle aged
and well dressed.
the man
is angry.
his fists are
clenched on
the table, his
face his ruddy.
their food sits
there going
cold.
the ice melts
in their drink.
you hear her say,
I can't do this
anymore,
but I love you,
he says.
you're married,
she says. you'll
never leave her.
he reaches
for her hand,
but she pulls away
knocking
a glass
over.
I have to go, she
says. I'm done.
finished.
he starts to get
up, then puts some
money on the table.
he stands and watches
her leave,
walking quickly across
the street.
he pulls out his phone,
hi honey, he says.
i'll be home early
tonight.
are you hungry?
i'll pick something
up.
the waiter comes
and brings two boxes
for the food on
the table.
he never looks over
at me, nor I at him
as he walks
away with his carry out.

staying warm

I rub my
hands over the barrel
fire
on the gravel
lot at the edge
of the woods.
others come
around and share
the heat.
shoulder to shoulder,
together with
our hands
in and out of
the flames
we stay warm.
it's all that
matters sometimes.
staying warm.

asking for little

you don't ask
for much
from anyone.
being left alone
from time to time
is high on
the list.
love and affection.
a few laughs
every now
and then.
but no grief.
no trouble.
pack lightly.
leave your worries
at home
when you visit.
relax, take your
shoes off.
let your hair
down.
it's not the end
of the world,
it's not the end
of anything,
it's just a place
to be quiet
and still.

the hot trap door

a room
full of strangers
wait in hard
back plastic chairs
to be called in
to see
if they are
approved
for heaven.
some have long
lists of thing
they've
accomplished.
awards
and diplomas.
photo albums.
attendance
records for church.
some are nervous
unsure
if they'll make
it. while others
are confident,
and smile
sitting there
unworried, believing
they have done
enough to
warrant entry.
one by one they
go up to the front
desk
as their name is
called.
some glide into
the white cloud
room
while others fall
abruptly through
the hot
trap door.

looks like rain

looks like rain.
she points
to the roll of
violet clouds
gaining
ground on the
horizon.
it's coming.
her arm is white
raised
into the sky.
she knows so
much about
the weather
and nothing about
me.

green pastures

the sign
reads retirement
community, fifty
five and over.
there is a picket
fence
around the guard
house
that has no one
in it.
there are flowers
and pruned
bushes.
a speed table
greets you at
the front. it
slows you down
as it does
the ambulances
that visit every
curb over time.
from a distance,
the land looks
like a cemetery
freshly groomed,
lush green with low
square houses,
tombstones
without inscriptions,
all with the same
shadows, bending
away from
the sun.

no rust

you are made
of steel.
there is no rust
in your bones.
this is what
you tell yourself
as you build
your life.
each day a brick,
laid upon
another.
shielding yourself
from storm
from rain,
inclement weather.
inclement
people.
up goes
the building
of you.
the glass windows
of you.
the lightning
rod on top
so that when
it hits, nothing
is ruined. you
are made of steel.
there is no
rust in your bones.

the mask

the mask of
false love.
the mask
of confusion
and ill will.
the mask
of compassion,
of lying,
of leaving.
the mask
of staying put.
or giving
up.
the mask of hope,
of joy,
of surrender.
the mask
of sorrow when
things
don't turn
out right.
how you long for
sleep
to remove
them all and put
on the mask
of dreams.

cats and dogs

cats cannot
be dogs.
you can't make
them beg
or fetch,
or stand on their
hind legs, or
play dead.
they go their
own way
in time.
I can't make
you love me
either.
that's just
the way it is.

down the road

I've been down this
road before,
so don't worry
about me.
in fact I've improved
this road,
widened it,
leveled it off
and took the divots
out. I put guard rails
up and signs
telling you were
the curves are,
where the road
veers off. i've
installed lights.
you see that water
fountain over there?
I put that in.
those benches
where you can sit
and enjoy the sunset,
those too
are my idea.
so don't worry about
me going down
this road again,
I could walk it
blindfolded, in my
sleep. alone, that's
the best way to go
down this road.

the symphony

through your
wall
the adjoining
one
to your neighbor's
house,
bedroom
against bedroom
you hear
her making
love
with her new
boyfriend.
there is a violence
to it that
makes you worry
about how
it might turn
out. it's
a symphony of highs
and lows.
drums
and violins,
trombones,
and a cymbal
crashing in the end.
you are as
exhausted as they
must be
when it's over.
at this point
you'd get up
and light a cigarette
if you smoked,
instead you lay
there, listen
to her front door
close and for
his car to start,
then pull away
in the dead of night.

the slamming door

the woman's son keeps
slamming the door
as she tells you what
needs to be painted.
over and over again,
he slams the closet
door. she ignores him,
saying nothing
in the empty room.
you keep saying what
to her. you can see
the future of people
sometimes,
like in this moment.
and it's not good.

get up and go

you repeat to yourself
you will not be late
for work, you will not
be late for work,
you will not be late
for work. this doesn't
help because you are
still sitting there
listening to the radio
and waiting for the mood
to strike to get up
and go. soon, very soon.

meeting mindy

starving for love
and affection
you make small talk
with the waitress
at I hop.
she calls you sugar,
you call her
mindy, because
that's her name, at
least on the tag
embroidered in her
pink uniform.
more coffee, mindy,
asks, bending over
just enough
to give you a glimpse
of her suntan.
sure, you say,
keep it coming.
let me tell you
about the specials
she says, which makes
you say. no need.
I can see what's
special from here.
this leads to the
manager coming out,
and telling you
to wise up.
you now have a new
waitress, or rather
waiter. Jerome.
he tells you the
specials and tops
off your coffee.
you try to hand him
a napkin with your
phone number on it
to give to mindy,
but he says no.

the long boat

your friend lives
on a boat.
a sail
boat. narrow and long.
the cabin
is small. he hits
his head
on the rafters,
bending
over
all day to go
from side to side,
front to back.
it wobbles in
the harbor, swaying
to the waves and wash
of other boats
as they go by.
he knows
his ship terminology,
fore and aft,
bow and stern.
the main sail,
the jib.
the anchor.
he has a sextant
too.
let me go down
to the galley he
says and make you
a sandwich,
or the head is
over there if you
have to go.
he doesn't take it
out much,
with gas prices
being what they are,
but he likes
telling everyone
that he lives
on his boat.
he carries a picture
in his wallet
of his boat
when he took it
under the bay bridge,
there are photos in
his phone too.
the boat is his girlfriend.
he wants you to come
out and spend a weekend.
plenty of room
he says, sleeps five.
come on, it'll be fun.

bittersweet

some fruit
is bitter sweet
to the taste
and left
alone
after one
bite,
thrown
to the ground,
and so you search,
hoping
that there
there might
be sweeter
fruit
around.

bad luck

you have no
use
for superstition.
no black
cat, or ladder
opened
on the sidewalk.
you have no
rabbit's foot
to rub,
how lucky was
that rabbit
anyway.
broken mirrors
don't bother
you, nor does stepping
on a crack.
the only one you
truly
believe in is
throwing onto
a bed, a hat.
if done it's a
promise
of bad news.

the canary

in the morning
you hear her singing
brightly.
she's a yellow
canary
in the shower.
you see the steam
floating
out at
the bottom of
the closed door.
how sweet love
is when one sings
and the other
listens.

beauty wins

how happy
she is in her
new coat
in her new car
with her
new boy friend.
how happy
she is with
her pearls
and rings,
her blue pool
that sits
in the far
corner of
the long green
yard.
how happy she
is with life,
having won
the prize,
and never once
having to put
up a struggle,
a fight.

no room for words

a blank page
speaks volumes.
silence
even more
so.
it's an uneasy,
but
deep conversation,
saying
nothing.
speaking
is unnecessary,
the empty heart
has no room
for words.

small drips

you can only
watch
a small drip
from
the faucet
for so long
trying to fill
a tub.
at some point
you want
to reach over
and turn
the knob,
see the stream
of hot
water
fill the basin
with a rush.
you are running
out of time
for drips
and drops,
listing on
a chrome edge.

vultures

how quickly
the vultures gather
around
the side
of the road,
a beast of some
size
meeting an untimely
demise.
how black
and slick they are,
tall
in their small
bird way.
sharp clawed
and beaks
curved
for eating,
as it is
nature's cruel
but kind
way to keep
things going
in the right
direction.

un kissed

to be
unloved
while loving
is crushing
to the soul.
to be untouched,
un kissed,
unwelcome.
you can hardly
stand
to sit
and wait,
and wait for
anything to
change, for
tenderness
to rearrange
your thinking,
for love
to somehow bloom,
for that seed
to fight
it's way
to the top
and grow.

the pool

the sun
is a blistering
white
ball of heat
making
the lawns shimmer.
the water
shine
with the last
days
of summer.
hardly a splash
is made.
you can barely
move out
of the shade
to dive into
the warm blue
pool,
where even
the lifeguard
in his chair is
weary of his whistle,
his skin melting
brown in the thick
September
air.

some distance

you need
a little space,
arm's length,
not shoulder
to shoulder,
touching.
you need a gap,
some air between
you,
a stone wall,
or fence.
you need
a foot or two
of distance
to be a good
neighbor
or lover,
of friend.

camel girl

camels
do not store
water
in their humps.
it's fat.
not water.
so the idea
of plugging in
a hose
and taking
a drink
wont happen.
they just have
a knack
for going a
long time
without something.
you can relate
to that,
can't you?

the new drones

you get a desperate
call
at three in the morning
from a window
salesman
in Arizona.
I'm on a no
call list you tell
him, how did
you get my number,
and why are you
calling me at this
hour of the night.
well, he says,
you are the only
person in America
who still has not
bought new windows.
you still have those
old wooden ones
that are drafty
and are hard to open.
how do you know that,
you ask him,
sitting up in bed,
looking at the clock.
we have a satellite
photo of your house,
he says. you should
really consider
the new triple
panes, slightly
tinted thermo
dynamic, easy open
and close state of
the art windows.
we have a one time only
offer if you buy
them now and will
throw in a new furnace
that we also see
is very old.
but the furnace is
in the house, in the
basement. we know that
sir, we have small
bumble bee drones
now with cameras.
we know everything there
is to know about you.
by the way, when was
the last time you cleaned
your refrigerator?

bad sex

you prefer
to have no art
hanging on the wall
instead of bad
art.
no pet if it's a
wild and barking
pet that sheds
and isn't house trained.
no girlfriend,
even if she's pretty
who complains
and nags
all the time,
no booze
if it's a rail
bottle,
no food if
it's tasteless
or stale.
you prefer no
sex if it's bad
sex, well, okay,
some compromises
must be made along
the way.

shedding a skin

your friend
Roxanne,
who is covered
in a bright
menagerie
of tattoos,
used to be
a stripper
in a night club.
but during the day
she was a personal
assistant for a
motorcycle gang
called the Pagans,
chapter two.
she says that she
used to cook
them hot meals
when they came
back from a gang
fight, or a drug
deal gone bad,
or a long hard
ride on the road
terrorizing tourists
and women with
babies. she'd sew
up their torn
denim clothes,
and tend to their
wounds,
sometimes trimming
their mustaches
and oily hair.
but she's over
that now. now
she's an x-ray
technician
and works in an
office at the metro
plex. she bakes cookies
and writes
sweet poetry, she's
got some great stories
too.

the ice age

her cold
shoulder means
little
to you at this point.
it's the other
cold and icy
parts that
concern you.
there is no way
to defrost
that girl.
no personality
anti-freeze,
no hot pill she
can take
to awaken whatever
heat might
lie at the center
of her heart.
you just bundle
up and press on.
staring at the sun
for hope.

how wars begin

one very
tall man slaps
the other tall
man
across
the face with his
open hand.
the game has stopped.
the sound
of the hit
freezes everyone.
blood rushes
out the nose
of the struck man,
while the other
takes a fighter's
stance, ready
for retaliation.
no one moves.
this is how
wars begin.
but it doesn't,
at least not this
time.
the bloodied
man cleans up,
then the game
continues.
you get the feeling
that this is
not over.

your studies

ferocity
and anger is often
due
to a lack
of self
esteem, an
insecurity based
on not being
held or
loved
as a child.
your studies
at the Helsinki
institute
have proven that.
and the fact
that you keep
making all of
this up, proves
what as well?
boredom, perhaps.
a search
for light
in a darkened
world.

the melting ice

the ice
melts in the glass
against
your hand, it
trickles
downward
into what
it used to
be.
no longer
shiny
and cubed,
no longer cold,
but finding
a place
where its most
likely
at home.
let's do
the same.

at one with nature

you are not one
with nature.
in fact you like
your nature
with a paved path
and a coffee
kiosk at
the end of it.
you have no
interest in
climbing that rocky
ravine
or fording a river.
you bring
an emergency
sandwich
with you,
when you cut
through the woods
on your way to
the store.
you worry about
the animals though,
their eyes lighting
up at night
when you swing
a flashlight
out there.
you wonder
where they might
be hiding during
the day
and will they try
to invade your
home at some point
and bite you.

the new torture

the government,
being a kinder and
more gentler nation,
has taken away
the extreme measures
of torture
and abuse. they have come
up with another
plan to get
the captured enemy
to talk and reveal
their secret plans.
they bring in a baby
with a full
diaper and order
them to change it,
without a mask
or gloves. one sick
baby after another
is set before them
on the changing table
until they break
and talk.
it's effective
and nearly fool proof.
you'd give up
your mother under
such adverse conditions.

fashion plate

your father
had a pair of white
shoes, loafers,
that he loved,
there may have
been buckles.
he'd wear
them with shorts
and a matching white
belt.
sometimes he
draped himself in
a plaid
shirt, or a tropical
blouse with
pineapples on
it, or myna birds.
you said nothing,
of course.
the look had been
working for him
for decades,
why stop the fashion
roll that he was on.
now it's your son's
turn to take a shot
at your wardrobe,
such as it is.

the dead mouse

when the cat
brings you a dead
grey
mouse, leaving it
on the steps
for you to find,
you wonder
how different you
are, putting your
briefcase down
upon the table,
taking off your coat,
your shoes, your
tie.

love for sale

the woman
with long legs
and hardly
a stitch on,
leans into your
car window
at three a.m.
and says tiredly
love for sale.
how much, you say.
how much you got,
she says back.
a dollar,
you say.
I spent it all
on dinner and
dessert, wine
and small talk,
now I'm heading home.
too bad, she
says, you should
have seen me
first

the time clock

you remember
the bad jobs.
the bad
bosses.
punching the clock
with your card.
the low wages
and hard
conditions.
how you had
to wait in line
for your check.
how
the sun came
up regardless
of how you felt.
you remember
the callouses
on your hands,
the bruises,
the cuts,
the ache of muscles
at the end
of a day.
the half hour
lunches.
you remember counting
your money,
the hours times
whatever pitiful
amount per
hour you were being
paid, minus
taxes and fica,
minus
fees and penalties
for being young
and unmarried.
you remember it all
like it was yesterday,
but now,
no one would
believe you.

the moon struck night

we never
pondered our future
much
as we rode around
in a dodge
dart
with friends
at the age of 16,
pounding
the dashboard
to in na goda da vida.
i had the drum
solo
down pat, and
then Santana
would come on,
singing about
her evil ways,
and the chorus
in the back seat,
would hit
the high notes,
playing
their air guitars.
we mostly circled
our ten mile
world looking for
stray girls
who might need a
ride somewhere,
anywhere and then
we'd eat,
out of luck
and hungry at
some greasy joint.
occasionally
we'd roll a window
slightly down
and let some air in,
some smoke out.
at some point, we'd
all find our
way home,
tapping the car
farewell as
we went up the sidewalk
in the moon struck
night.

a missing link or two, or three

there are no
fish
with legs.
no birds
with
hands,
no octopus
wearing
glasses
and reading a
book.
there are no
gorillas
painting
the Sistine
chapel
no chimps
writing the great
American
novel.
and yet this
evolution
thing
seems to be
taken
as fact.
you aren't so
sure, you
say, running as
the shoes
fly towards
you.

the math of her

the math
of her is complex.
taking
the chalk
into your hand
you scribble
on the board
and add
the weight
and age of her.
you place
an x and a y
where needed.
you divide by two,
placing
an equal
sign somewhere
close by.
you draw a pyramid.
a sphere.
a cone.
you figure out
the area of
each.
you take the square
root of
her and divide
it by her
moods. you pull out
an abacus
a slide rule,
a scale.
it's impossible
to figure her
out.
there are no
real numbers, no
answer that you
can safely rely
upon.

an answer

everyone is looking
for fair
it's not fair
they say,
this thing that
happened.
why o why
was it me, or her,
or him.
why so young,
so beautiful,
so promising.
but there is
no fair.
it doesn't work
that way.
there is no
rhyme or reason,
that we can
fathom. no justice
that we can
see.
if there was
the priests and yogis
the spiritual
masters
would be running
through
the fields with
an answer.

downtown girl

her radiator
would clunk in
the night.
cold or hot.
it didn't matter.
people in the hallway
would slam
their doors coming
home late.
it would
wake you
up, but not
her. she could
handle loud
noises better
than you could.
the sirens
on the street,
the squabbles
outside
the bar below
her building.
taxis beeping
their horns. even
the animals in
the zoo across the street.
the lion's roar.
she slept soundly.
while you lay there
wide awake,
missing the sparrows
in your tree.

moving on

you used
to see her zig zagging
across the sky
on her broom
writing your name
in black smoke.
surrender it said.
you could
hear her cackling
even from that high
up, see the sun
glistening
on her green skin.
but then she met
someone and got married.
she's glinda now,
the good witch
of the north
and you're so happy
for her, for
you and for all of
those crazy
flying monkeys.

it will change your life

someone gives you
a book. it's a thick
book. a self help book.
a well read
and tattered book,
they obviously
read and reread this
book over
and over.
they've signed
their name inside
and dated it.
it's dog eared
and underlined
with yellow high
lighter.
here, they say, take
this book and read
it. you'll absolutely
love it, keep it,
i have a new copy,
it will change your life,
but it doesn't.
it's new age pablum.
you can't get through
the first ten
pages without
tossing it across
the room
where it lands
in front of the door
that keeps
swinging closed
because the hinge is
loose. the book
has found a home.

i am batman

your son,
when he was four
or five
wore
superhero
costumes all
day.
batman,
spiderman,
the mask,
the cowl and
cape.
the boots.
he would use
a different
voice, depending
on who he
was that day.
at the beach,
in a
grocery store,
people
would stop
him and say hello,
to which he'd
say in a deep
gravely voice.
I am batman.
so now when you
see him on stage
you understand,
this has been
going on for
a very long time.

the ox

the ox
pulls the plow
through
the sun and rain,
he knows
only where his
feet
must go.
he ignores
the pain
in his shoulders,
the tremble
of his legs
down to his
hooves.
neither for love
or money does
he pull
and split
the hard earth
open.
this is what
he knows.
he pulls
and goes where
his master
wants him
to go

cream

one
dollop of
cream
two lumps
of sugar,
a spoon
to stir
it with it
and your
lips
against
the hot cup.
how
simple
love can
be
in the morning
before
life
starts.

planting seeds

all day
she kneels
in her garden
planting
seeds alone,
her children
have gone off
to gardens
of their
own.

friends

the earth
has
wobbled
making me
nearly
fall off.
I was so
glad you
were nearby
to grab
and hold
onto,
keeping me
aloft.

not funny

you wish
she had a funny
bone.
a sense of mirth
and mischief,
a giggle
or laugh that
would bubble
up
out of nowhere.
just a little
hint
of humor.
a small bite
of sarcasm,
a pie
in the face,
something
like that
would mean
so much.

old clients

an old client
tells you that he is
moving to new Orleans.
if you're ever down
there, look us up,
we'll have plenty of
room, we'll show
you around bourbon
street, we'll go down
into the French quarter
for drinks and food.
sure, you tell him,
as you load up your
truck. it's the last
time you'll work on
his house. twenty
years, now over.
you shake hands.
come visit, he says.
handing you a check.
sure, you tell him,
but both knowing
you'll never see
each other again.
you give the house
a final look as he
closes the door,
then you roll away.

don't worry

don't
worry are not
good words
to hear.
no sweat either,
and if they are
whistling.
run.
run fast.
get out of there.
don't worry
says the doctor.
don't worry
says the priest
don't worry
says the billboard
on the highway.
call
this number
if you're in trouble.
we can help.
don't worry.

still time

it's about
five o'clock.
the sun is still
up. some shadows
falling
about. the leaves
are still
in thee trees
but fading
into yellow
and orange,
some with no
life at all,
a flat brown.
but there's still
time.
still time for
me and you.
still some hours
left on
the clock, but
it's ticking,
it's ticking
it's ticking.

where's the money?

on her
bed, dying,
or feigning death,
one can
never be sure,
your mother
sighs
and takes
your hand
while
your sister
leans towards
her and whispers,
she asks, do you have
any hidden
money. where
is your stash
mom.
this makes
your mother
live a little
longer, sitting
up and taking
in a spoonful
of hospital
tapioca.
the meters jump,
her heart races
and her vital
signs
stabilize,
all the lights
go green
for a while,
until the
next sister
arrives with
her son and his
trombone.

the early years

the boy
in the bmw,
the new car as
red as a fresh
picked cherry,
with his ball cap
on backwards,
the silver
lenses of his
sunglasses
making him
appear to be
from the future.
how he dodges
in and out
of speeding
traffic,
no signal,
no sign, just
his foot
on the pedal
with disregard
for his life
and mine.
so good to be
young
and believe
that death
can't happen.

the next kiss

let's go backwards
start over,
pretend
we never met
that the next
kiss the first
kiss. let's
put the genie
back into
the bottle
and start anew.
you forgive me.
and i'll try,
but I can't
make any promises,
i'll forgive you.

trash day

as you sit here,
wet in a towel,
undressed,
sipping bad
instant coffee
you hear the trash
truck back up
with the beeping
horn, the grinding
of the barrel
metal mouth,
it's engine
straining under
the weight of garbage.
once again it's
trash day and your
bags that sit
in the kitchen
are not going to
make it out.
you would have put
them out last
night, but the mean
witch of a woman
down the street
keeps putting
notes on your door
about the raccoons
getting into
your trash when it
goes out
too early. you can't
even deny it's
your trash because
she sees the empty
vodka bottles and
the torn in half
phone bills with
your name on them,
among other things.

baby world

women
are fascinated
with babies.
even after they've
had a few
of their own.
babies light
them up, make
them giggle
and swoon.
they lean down
into the crib
or stroller
and take inventory
of the little
pink or brown
baby, saying
things like
oh my, he's a
cutie, or
look at those
blue eyes,
the hair on
that kid.
can I hold her?
can I take
her home,
make her mine?
and the mother
is all smiles,
standing there
and thinking, yup.
I made that.

where you stand

button
me up, she says.
leaning down
for you
to find
the infinitely
small
clasp
at the top
of her
dress.
what would
you do if I
wasn't here
to do this,
you ask,
squinting
and finding
the hook.
pulling
the zipper
up
tight
against
her neck.
there would be
someone
else, she says,
without hesitation,
then winks
before waving
and saying
ta ta.

the news

the news
is not good.
never
good.
since you were
a child
it's war after
war, death
following death,
earth quakes
and floods,
murder
and
politics.
you are full
of bad news,
in black and
white and peacock
color.
you are done
with it.
take your
walter cronkites,
your rathers
and sawyers,
your local
news,
your frenetic
reporters and go
away, find something
good in the world.
look harder.
I'm tired
of turning the other
way.

the christmas tree

you stop
hanging the ornaments
on the tree,
aligning
the lights,
putting the star
at the top.
dropping tinsel
onto the branches.
no matter what
you do it's
not right, it's
an inch or two
to the left or
or right, you're
off.
so you give up
go back to the couch
and stare out
the window
at real stars,
real lights.
and wonder
what love might
really be like.

lint trap

the lint
trap is full.
what is this
thing
called lint.
where is it
coming from.
why is there
always a
big wad
of it stuck
in your belly
button.
what's up
with this lint.
has it always
been a problem
down through
the ages?
did Roosevelt
have his
own personal
lint trap,
st. Peter,
Marilyn Monroe?
I could help
her with that.

the white swan

strange to
see
a single white
swan
in the small
blue lake
beside
the highway.
like
seeing an
angel
fallen from
the clouds.
all wings,
graceful
as it glides
about
the smooth
rippling
sheet of
water, sensing
its own
beauty,
the head held
high,
killing time.

a bag of rice

you have some extra
money lying around
so you go out and buy
one of those new fangled
cars that drive themselves.
all you do is hit
the start button,
type in your destination,
buckle up and off
you go. no braking,
no gas, no turn signals,
nothing to do but
relax, lean back
and maybe have
a chicken dinner,
or read a book.
you love your new car
and all of it's computer
wizardry. but
then you forget to
close the moon roof
one rainy night, or rather
your car forgets and
the entire dashboard
gets wet, which
causes everything to
go haywire. the horn
is beeping.
signals are flashing,
it's going backwards
when it should be
going forward.
in a panic you call up
the dealership,
and chip, the head
mechanic calms you down.
here's what you need to
do, he says. do you
have a garage, or
a giant cardboard
box? or better yet
a big plastic tent?
great, a garage.
fill the garage up
with rice, preferably
white rice, after
pulling the car in
and shutting off
the ignition,
cover the whole car,
the entire car
with rice. keep pouring
and pouring it on
until you can no
longer see any of
the car. now
wait 48 hours.
that should dry out
all those little tiny
computer parts that must
have gotten wet.
do that, and you should
be good to go. if that
doesn't work. drive
it in and we'll have
a look see.

bad hair day

my life is in tatters
maria tells
you in her heavily
accented voice,
Spanish, Italian,
something. she lives
in Miami, perhaps
Cuban. what? you say.
yawning. what happened.
I got caught in the rain
and my power went
out. my hair is
a tangled mess, I have
to go the photo shoot
and I look like
a wild rooster.
you can hear her
breathing heavily,
sobbing, dragging
a brush through her
hair with grunts
and groans.
that's a shame you
say. take a picture
and send it to me.
see what I can figure
out. does your oven
work?

the medicine cabinet

you wake
up and find the
aspirin
bottle. it's next
to the salt
and pepper shaker
and vanilla extract.
three drinks
is a killer these
days.
you rub the sand
out of your eyes
and feel
your face for
bruises.
you try to remember
why she took
a swing at you
then clawed
you like a rabid
raccoon.
you look in
the mirror. it
looks like you
were in a cat fight
and lost.
some cold
water helps a
little.
you slap a palm
full of Neosporin,
which is next
to the foot powder
and cinnamon shaker,
you swab it
over your cheeks
and chin
and use that to
shave with.
you make your sunday
morning vow
to never drink
again with raccoon
women, then make a cup
of coffee,
which is for some
reason
in the refrigerator.

mother of invention

you think
deeply of something
to invent.
scratching your head
as you sit
on the front porch
widdling a stick.
something
easy and fun,
but useful, or
perhaps
not too useful,
something along
the lines
of a pet
rock or a cabbage
doll
baby, the hoola
hoop, or
a slinky.
a yellow smile
button.
something the
world would
buy in droves
because it wouldn't
cost too much.
some piece of
junk that will
make you
stinking rich,
but you got
nothing.
it seems like
all the worthless
stuff has
already been
invented.

pour me a drink cowboy

you make her a stiff
drink
with the intent
purpose
of getting a kiss,
or perhaps,
the long goal, of
having her clothes
magically fall off
in the middle
of a conversation
about saving
the whales,
but she can
outdrink you,
she's an outlaw,
a witch, she's
rosy the riveter
and joan of arc
all in one.
so by midnight,
she's still wrapped
tighter than
a deep fried egg
roll gone cold
on the plate.
and you, you're
asleep,
snoring soundly
against the dog
with your boots
still on.

reading of the will

how quickly
they circle
high above, black
stripes
that feed
on what is
left behind.
aunt Martha in
her flowered dress.
brother bill
smoking
on the veranda.
a lost son
twitching nervously
in a rented suit.
a neighbor
who once, when you
were ill,
brought you a bowl
of hot soup.
shadows circling
lower and lower,
the beaks
and claws
open for the feast.
and what is left
behind?
everything.

oops!

the doctor
left a sponge in you
the email
says, and we need
for you to come
back in
so that we can
take it out.
it may cause
some issues down
the road
if we don't
remove it soon,
like death, but
it shouldn't take
long since
the stitches are
fresh. we have
to put you under
again,
so don't eat
anything today
or tonight.
and we'll see
you at 9 a.m.
tomorrow.
so sorry. sincerely
your discount
health care provider.
jimmy, and as you
know, we're
in the yellow
van near the mall.

a failure to communicate

your text messages
are too cryptic
she says in a long
three ding message
to me.
you say half a
sentence and leave
me hanging. I don't
know half the time
if you're joking
around or being serious.
if you could just
be a little more
clear and write
in full sentences
we wouldn't be having
this failure to
communicate, to which
makes you reply
in the only you can
by typing.
cool hand luke

it needs to stop

you forgot once
to get your mother in
law
a card on mother in
law day.
you didn't even know
there was a mother
in law day.
it sort of sneaked
up on you.
she hardly spoke to
you for months
for that horrible
infraction,
which you didn't mind
at all.
you can hardly keep
track of flag
day, or arbor day,
or ground hog day.
there are so many of
these days that dot
the calendar.
hallmark is making
a killing on these
dumb holidays.
it needs to stop.

the screen door

the screen
door with a broken
spring used to slam
a hundred and one
times a day.
the bottom corner
was ripped
open by the dogs
which came and went
in small
herds. one following
the other
to the kitchen.
but that door.
slamming over and over
again, was
a constant. bang.
bang and bang again.
your mother screamed
at the top of her
lungs, quit letting
that door slam.
stay in or stay out.
the flies are getting
in. how do you possibly
control seven children
and all of their
friends from letting
the door slam.
you don't.
the day ends and
it finally stops.

you look familiar

it is strange
seeing people out
of context.
the school teacher
in line
with milk
and bread,
a copy of
the enquirer on
the belt.
your neighbor
who you've
only waved to
from a distance
of a hundred
feet
suddenly
next to you
at the post office
buying
stamps
for a small box
she's holding
under her arm.
then there's the
dancer from
the gentlemen's
club
on the other side
of town,
in church
getting communion
not wearing
her heels or
platinum blonde
wig.

monkey bars

there are days
when your wisdom
matches Solomon's,
wise as a hoot
owl in a tall tree,
and there are other
days where you
are a five year
old child
in the playground
hanging upside
down on the monkey
bars over concrete.
you never know
from day to day
who exactly is going
to show up.

under the hood

she had
low mileage on her.
nice
bumpers.
a lean curve
to her body.
a horn
that went beep
when you
pushed it.
the tires
had tread,
the seats had
hardly a stain
upon them.
she was still
smooth in
the turns,
fast on the
straight away.
but you hadn't
looked under
the hood
quite yet,
so the deal
was yet to
be made.

this poem is for you

this poem is for
you.
these words
I've been thinking
about for
a long time.
all night in fact
as I rolled
about dying
from the fumes of
the tub I
tried to
reglaze with a
can of epoxy spray.
this poem is for
you, as I type
in my daze,
my brain cells
evaporating
in the foggy haze
of chemicals
and particles afloat
in the air.
this poem is for
you, while
I sponge bath myself
in the sink,
unable to use
the tub for god
knows how many days.
this poem is for
you, writing down
just one of the many
homeowner mistakes
I have made, with
many more to come.

the late late show

you like
the part in the movie
when the hunchback
of notre dame,
quasimoto,
jumps onto
the ropes
and rings the bells
like a madman,
which he is
with his face turned
sideways,
his ears like
cauliflower,
but he's a sentimental
madman trying to save
his true love
who has been
falsely accused
of murder
and now held in
the bell tower,
and even better
is the part
where he spills
the boiling
oil over the side
onto
the torch bearing
towns folk
down below
who are trying
to use a battering
ram to get inside
to save her too.
it's a mess
of a movie, but
that quasimoto
is something
to be behold.