starts wtth an itch

it starts
with an itch.
you take a stick
and ease
it down your shirt
along your back,
you scratch
and scratch
but you just
can't get to it.
you can't
find the sweet
spot of
the itch. just
missing again
and again with
this tree branch
stick.
so you ask a stranger
on the street
if they could
help you.
a woman with an
umbrella. sure
she says, lift
up your shirt.
around and around
she goes
with the point
of the umbrella
and then finally
with her long
nails she finds it,
making you sigh
with satisfaction.
in time you get
married,
you raise a family.
you have a dog,
a nice house
outside of town.
you grow tomatoes
and set them on the sill
to ripen.
you grow old together.
in love
until the end.
this is how it starts,
with an itch.

the hug

she says
that she gives you a
B maybe a B minus
in hugging.
you need to work
on that.
perhaps start
with a pillow,
put your arms
around it, squeeze,
but not too tightly,
imagine it's
me, full of feathers
soft and sexy.
the hug is important
to me.
but what about
all the other
stuff, you ask her.
oh, that's fine,
she says, in fact
maybe you should
stay after
school today so that I
can give you an
extra credit
assignment, see
if we can raise
your average, but
meanwhile work
on the hugging.
it shows you
might care.

duck sauce

while waiting
for your kung pao
chicken to arrive
it occurs to you
that you have no
Chinese friends
except for the waitress
at the hunan
west and the bus
boy who smiles
and shakes your hand
like you are a long lost
uncle bringing
him a gift.
the waitress, who
was skinny once,
has been eating well
since the last
time you saw her.
the beef proper
has filled her ribs,
widened her hips. she
smiles as she
pours your tea
and brings you a bowl
of white rice.
you wonder what you
would say to them
if you met them out
on the street.
you have the feeling
it might be
awkward, but maybe
not. you finish
your meal and read
your fortune
while using the steamy
hot towel
to get duck sauce
off your face.
love will come soon,
it says.
be patient.

a bowl of soup

the soup
is too hot.
so you blow on
it,
dip your cold
spoon
into the mix
and stir
a little.
you put your
lips
to the edge
of the white
bowl
and try
again. still
too hot.
you sit back
and eat a cracker
and wait.
sometimes it's
all you can
do in life,
is wait.

i need a husband

I need a husband,
she says to you,
making you squirm in
your chair and look
towards the door.
for what, you ask
her. why do you need
a husband?
I'm just tired, she
says, of doing
everything alone.
the throws her
head back and closes
her eyes as if
she's having stomach
cramps. I want a man
in my life to help
me with things.
money? you say.
no, no, I've got
a job and money.
I just need a man
around the house, you
know what I mean.
nope, cant say that
I do, you tell her
scratching a dry
spot on your shaved
head.
my life would feel
more complete with
a husband. a partner
to share life with
is all I want.
what about the other
husbands you had,
aren't you afraid of
that happening again.
no, she says. not
at all. life without
risks is a life
without...without..
without pain? you
say filling in the blank
of her unfinished
sentence. no, no.
joy, life without
joy. oh, right.
that's what I almost
said. well, go get one
then. I will she says.
I will. after the first
of the year and I lose
ten pounds, plus
I need to get my
hair done and my
daughter's wedding
is coming up, but
after that, I will.

ho ho and ho

you have an extra five
minutes on your
hands so you decorate
your house for Christmas
before betty comes over.
this involves reaching
into the drawer and
pulling out a string
of lights which have
been there since last
year. you delicately
lay them across the buffet
and plug them in. then you
go into the basement
and carry up your already
lighted and tinseled
white tree made out
of Chinese plastic.
there are several silver
balls still hanging
onto the flimsy limbs.
it stands about two feet
tall, so it's easy
to carry.
you plug this in too
once setting it on a side
table. you have a red
candle that smells
strongly of cinnamon,
making you sneeze,
but you like it, so
that goes on the table too,
next to a bowl of mixed nuts.
you take the wreathe of fake
cranberries that has been
hanging on a nail
in the laundry room
and you hang
that on the front door.
finally you tack in
lots of mistletoe
over each doorway
entrance. you can never
have enough of that.
then you pop in some andy
Williams music,
followed by dean
and frank, mix up
some egg nog, heavy
on the rum, then
sit down in the big
easy chair. you are
ready for Christmas.
you wait for betty
to arrive who loves
Christmas almost as much
as you do.

annie got her gun

your friend
annie
buys a gun, but
for personal
use only.
she takes the test
down at the gun
emporium, then
goes to the shooting
range and
blasts away
at the paper
cut outs of
bad men
with circular
targets on their
sketched out
bodies.
she's happy about
her gun.
the bullets,
the grip, the way
it sounds
when it goes boom
boom boom.
you didn't see
this coming, her
being so prissy
and gentle.
you never know
these days,
the book
by its cover.

the romance novel

you think about writing
a romance novel.
on the glossy cover will
be a wind swept
panting couple
wearing what looks like
pirate costumes,
although the story
has nothing to do with pirates.
biff, or maybe brad
and jennifer fall in love
on a cruise ship,
on a trip to help
them forget their
former spouses who
both died mysteriously
in a train wreck,
maybe they were on
the same train, as
it crossed Siberia,
or Montana. the details
need to be ironed
out. maybe they aren't
really dead, and just
pretending to be dead
so that they can
get married under new
names, living
a new life in Moscow
as goat herders making
goat cheese,
or in Denver as ski
instructors, someplace
cold though so that
you can write lines
like her breath was
a fresh bloom of hope
as they kissed
under the winter moon or
his manhood was aroused
like an icicle
as she wilted like
a flower in his arms
waiting to be watered.
it will be the first
of a trilogy of books,
that will get steamier
with each new volume
so that readership
doesn't diminish on
account of the lame
plot and writing,
but the third volume
will have maps
and a geneaology
so that you can keep
track of who's who.
following the books will
come the movie,
and a whole line of
pirate costumes,
although the story has
nothing to do with pirates.

my date with a vampire

you meet a girl
who nearly sucks a
hole into your neck.
she's had three too
many drinks
and thinks she's in
love after a cold
plate of calamari
and pretzel sticks.
when you get home
you pull your shirt
off and stare at
the purple bruise
on your neck.
it throbs with pain.
what's wrong people.
sucking on your
neck like that on
a first date?
you can't help
but wonder what
kind of upbringing
she had, how absent
her parents must
of been. the lack
of discipline.
it makes you have
second thoughts about
ever seeing that
vampire again.

just a dollar

you give a dollar
to the bum
on the street.
he shrugs as if to
say, that's it.
that's all you got
for me.
I can't buy
a pint rum with
a dollar.
you understand,
but you just
worked fifty hours
on the night shift.
grinding pieces
of metal into
smaller pieces of
metal.
all you can think
about is going
home, eating
then falling asleep
before that next
day starts.
so the bum gets just
a dollar. you'd
give him more,
but he'd never leave,
would he?
he'd never take
the life that you
have. he's too
smart for that.

a red hot gun

close
the door.
close your eyes.
open
your mind
let me step
inside.
open
your heart,
open
your arms,
let me
discover
all of your
earthly
charms.
it doesn't
have to be
this way.
to end
what has just
begun,
it doesn't
have to go
away, this love
that started
like a bullet
leaving
the barrel
of a red
hot gun.

while you slept

some trees fell
during the night.
the wind
being fierce
unrelenting.
you see them out
the window.
the thick trunks
round as barrels,
grey as the sky
leaning into
one another,
some have rolled
down to the creek
now pushed
by the cold
current.
so much happens
when you fall
asleep, but even with
these trees down.
things don't seem
quite as bad
in the morning.

going for a run

you liken running
to writing.
how the first few
laps, or mile
warms you up,
gets the coughs
out of your system,
then you begin to
fly. the legs and
arms churning easily
as you find your
stride. you put
the awkward
self conscious
lines behind you.
the metaphors
that don't work.
the energy is heightened
as you speed along
without a thought
letting your
fingers move
briskly across
the keyboard. you
could run or
write this way
for hours.
there is no finish
line, no crowd
cheering you on.
it's just you on
a cold November morning
running through
the park.

birth control

you have a dream
that your daughter
comes home
late one night
with her new boyfriend
zeke. her face
looks like it fell
into a tackle box
with hooks and
weights dangling
from her lips
and eyebrows. the whites
of her eyes are red.
what happened to
the pretty little girl
who left the house
three hours ago? you
ask yourself.
there is a tattoo
of a snake running
up her leg. it's
a cobra which is
also zeke's nickname.
we're having
a baby she giggles,
not unlike how
she used to giggle
when you read cat
and the hat to her
just yesterday.
she pats and rubs
her exposed belly,
also with a ring
swinging from her
belly button.
in the dream you
run to your gun
locker to find
the shotgun and a
samurai sword, but
you can't open
the case. frantically
you jiggle the key in
the lock, but it won't
turn. it won't turn.
you've never owned a gun
in your life, or
a sword, but
it's a just a dream
you keep telling
yourself, just
a dream. suddenly
your wife shakes you
awake and says, honey
are you okay. you were
screaming in your sleep,
you're sweaty,
what's wrong.
we can't have any
children, you tell her
breathlessly,
grabbing her shoulders.
you have to promise me
that tomorrow we
go down to the clinic
and get ourselves fixed.
okay? promise me.
promise.

she says

you can't get
younger, so stop
whining
about it
and do some sit
ups.
quit drinking
so much
and eating
donuts for dinner.
lathering your
face in
creams won't help.
you just look greasy.
take that
spandex off
and put that
cigarette out.
buy some man
clothes, for
god's sake.
you can't walk
around in khaki
shorts
and sweat shirts
all winter,
can you?
flip flops?
it's 37 degrees.
no wonder the world
is going to hell
in a hand basket,
whatever that means,
are there any
real men out there?

leopard spots

they try to change
you,
but your leopard
spots
stay in tact.
you can't go left
when your
hand says right.
this is how you
eat, you
sleep, you speak,
how you bleed
and write.
it's who you are.
the dye is cast.
the mold
set and thrown
away. every cliché
so worn and tired,
is true.
take it or leave,
but don't try
and change me
and i'll try,
but no promises,
to do the same for you.

a modeling career

the rumor
was, that the man
in
the bowling alley,
middle aged
and squinty
in his red vest
and bow tie
would give
you five dollars
if you let
him see you in
your underwear
in the men's room.
ernie who was
thirteen at the time
told you this.
he pulled out a
wad of fives,
and said,
see, I'm not lying.
he wants me
to model
for him downtown
in his studio.
of course
you told your
mother this as soon
as you ran
home, who told
Ernie's mother
which ended his modeling
career.
he never forgave
you although
sometimes when you
open up a sears
catalogue and see
men's clothing,
specifically underwear,
you wonder if it's
him.

escape

even the dog
wants out.
he scratches at
the door
and howls,
waiting for
his chance
to escape.
the birds,
knowing what's
up, gather
together in bird
silence
and all at
once wing south,
you can hear
the inmates
gnawing
at the bars,
behind prison
walls,
digging tunnels
with spoons,
even us on
the outside,
never content
with where
we are, or what
we have,
stare longingly
at the far
away, full moon.

howdy, i'm from texas

she had texas
hair, a big
blonde cactus
sized doo,
and made
texas toast
with her oversized
texas breakfast
of five eggs and
a steak.
she was all about
texas
and sometimes
yelled out
things like yippie
kai ay or
yahoo, for no
reason other
than
something came
in the mail
like a coupon
for new cowboy
boots.
she had a state
of texas
tattoo
at the edge of
her red
bikini.
I'm from the lone
star
state she
told anyone within
earshot, howdy,
and would show them
the state
inked in her
pale white belly.
she was from texas,
did I mention that?

these morning people

these morning people,
these happy
and perky,
these smiling
and chatty morning
people need
to quarantined.
they need to be
kept away from
the rest of us.
out of sight,
until we awaken.
until the first
or second cup
of coffee has
gone down.
these people need
to be quiet with
their cheerful
busy minds. they
need to go
to another part
of the room.
to another part
of the street until
we too are ready
to participate
in the world. please.

too dark

it's too dark
for me,
this room you've
painted
with bitter
words. the
slights
and bruises
of past
love bumps
and detours
that you've taken.
I need you to
turn the light
on for me.
I need a fresh
coat of white
paint.
I need new
furniture,
pictures on
the walls of
sunrises and beaches.
I need a plant
in the corner,
green with hope.
I need you to
leave the room
until you're
better, until
the sickens of
lost love is out
of your system.
until then, your
room is too dark
for me, but maybe
i'll spend
the night, just
one.

survive

the hawk
circling, a dark
stripe
broken
in two by
wings,
a coiled beak,
descending
slowly with
a pin
pointed view
of what's
about to die.
it's obvious
that the world,
much to your
dismay,
needs to kill
to survive.

flesh wound

just a flesh
wound
you whisper
to no one
as you lift
your heart
from
the floor
and stuff it
back into
the cave
of your chest.
I'm fine
you say
bending in
the wind
of the open
door, the wind
of tomorrow
and the next day.
just a flesh
wound,
don't get up,
I'm only
passing
through, I
never meant
to stay.

the north shore

you prefer the north
shore
where the jagged
rocks
cut through the earth
like ancient
teeth.
where the blue
shale
water, bites
the coast
with cold armed
waves,
punching without
mercy.
you prefer this coast,
this bitter
landscape
of iced hills,
green skies
and grey suns,
you prefer this when
you need to go
under, when you
need solace,
when you need
to brood.

big fat turkey

you ponder the fat
turkey.
ignored for the entire
year. despite ben
franklin wanting it
to be the national
bird, it is
a meaningless and
inconsequential bird
that no one
seems to want
until thanksgiving.
how would it make
you feel
to be that way.
waiting, always waiting,
frozen solid.
and when it is time
it's not good enough
to just be cooked
and eaten, no. it has
to be stuffed and basted,
surrounded by a dozen
other colorful dishes.
still the center
of attention, but
not really.
it's a sad life,
this turkey life.
I don't want to be
a turkey, please don't
call me that.

comfort clothes

your sense of fashion
has changed.
there was a time
when you dressed sharply.
pants neatly pressed,
a dress shirt,
polished shoes,
everything crisp and clean,
new, or almost new,
even in jeans and a sweater,
there was a sense
of style and class,
but things have
changed, you went from
brooks brothers,
to early morning shabby,
that grey homeless
look with a baggy
well worn feel. a hole
in the sleeve, who cares.
you've entered
a comfort phase
of fashion in your life,
shuffling about with
a mug of coffee,
minus the tin cup
with which to beg
for spare change.

the cold light of day

she doesn't
communicate well.
sometimes when you
ask her
a question, she'll
ignore it
and turn her head
to look out
the window,
or go back to reading
a book.
an hour later, she
might say yes,
or no, or shrug.
it's hard to be in
love with a flower
that is silent,
and sad,
wilting in the sun
of her fading
youth. the shadows
are long
and icy when near
her. how can you
love someone so
distant and absent
of empathy or
humor. sexless. how?
you aren't sure,
but it happened.
which says as much
about you as it
does about her.

morning kiss

just her leg,
a glimpse
of skin
appearing from
the sheets
bound
and piled
liked snow
was enough to
send you
back
to bed.
her lazy
arms
together
as her green
eyes opened
to first
sunlight, made
you find her
lips,
to quiet them
with yours,
as you both
found warmth
and pleasure
as one.

the fire barrel

a fire
barrel, raging
with
flames,
its hot
throat
carving leaves
into ashes
that rise
and float
across a harsh
blue
sky stirs
memories of a
younger day
when this was
permissible,
and there
were no
sirens coming,
circling
in echo,
speeding your
way.

for now

the man
with a chamois
rag in his
hand, leans
against
his new
car, angled
at the curb,
red as a cherry.
the small cloth
rubs a spot
in a circular
motion. he is
content
with the metal
and rubber
that he has
purchased.
its value
slipping even as
the sun
rises
in the sky.
but for now
that worry,
after all the struggle
before
this, seems
small
in comparison to
what he now
possesses and shines
with pride,
waiting to
be noticed.

mercy

religiously
you pray,
your moral compass
though bent at
times,
is still at work.
your catholic
knees
still feel
the wood where
you bowed
your head,
kneeling,
burdened with sin,
and asked for mercy
on your
ten year old
soul.

the quiet heart

there is an
emptying
that we all reach.
the sky too.
spent
of rain, or
snow.
it's evil
twin
sleet.
how nice it
is
though to
surrender under
the non
negotiable terms
of exhaustion.
to lie
prone, legs
splayed,
arms
behind your
head, the lungs
of you
resting, your
heart quiet,
empty,
at least for now.
love ending
can do this to
you.

thank you very much

you liked elvis.
not the old
fat drug addicted elvis,
even though he
never made
it to 50,
but the young
elvis.
the slender
in shape carefree elvis.
the slick black
hair,
the blue eyes.
the deep
sexy voice.
you liked him.
not in a sexual way,
of course,
but in a man
crush kind of way.
you remember where
you were
when he died, when
he fell off a toilet
in his bathroom,
clutching his artery
clogged heart,
but that didn't
matter.
what mattered was
how he sang, how
much fun he was in those
dumbo movies,
how he loved cadillacs
and his momma.
his lack of musical
ability
also didn't matter.
you remember
when he died,
you were in the kitchen
making a sandwich,
not a banana
peanut butter sandwich
which he loved,
but a ham
sandwich with lettuce
and tomatoes,
onions. the radio
dedicated the whole day
of his music to him.
playing one song
after another,
and as you ate your
sandwich,
you gyrated in your
kitchen, wearing only
your socks
singing along,
knowing every word
to jail house rock,
then teddy bear,
then love me tender.

your checkout cart is full

you go a little
crazy on
amazon, buying things
you don't really
need. but it's fun
and easy to do.
they bring it all
to your door,
just like that.
it's Christmas everyday.
so maybe the plunger
dent remover didn't
work for your car, nor
those stick on
stair treads that
keep slipping all
over the place, not
to mention those
non prescription
pills to make you
more virile and turn
back the clock
to when you were
twenty.
but hey,
that lava lamp
you bought
sure is fun
in the bedroom.

staying in

you decide to stay
in on
a Friday night.
you are weary of prowling
the streets
like a stray
cat looking
for love
and attention.
this makes your wife
happy.
she suggests
a pizza and
a movie, to which
you reply,
sounds good to me,
pepperoni?
yes, she says,
but only if one
half is mushrooms
and extra cheese.

body language

most of time
you are trying to read
minds
to figure out
what someone is
really thinking,
really saying.
usually it's
not about the words
coming out of
their mouth.
that's mostly
white noise.
you have to listen
and stare
into their eyes,
look at the body
language, the tilt
of head or
shoulder. the folding
of arms.
the tapping of
a foot.
sometimes you just
need to look
down and see
the suitcase at
their feet,
the ticket in
their hand to understand
what's going on.

her big sweater

when she put
on her big sweater
she got
a lot of attention.
people
walked
into walls
and stumbled
into tables
and chairs
getting a glance
of her.
it was as if
everyone was
drinking, or that
we were suddenly
on a boat
swaying in
rough seas.
you can't wear
that sweater anymore
you told her
before you broke
up. but she
did of course,
and when you saw
her the other day
out on the street,
you walked straight
into a lamp post.

i want my sherpa

halfway up
the mountain, you
turn to your Amazonian
friend
sally
and say why exactly
are we doing
this?
I'm cold, dizzy,
and I have a headache.
not mention
I can't breathe.
I'm afraid of heights,
did I tell you that?
oh, sally, can you
hear me? where are you?
you hear your voice
echoing down
the mountain side
as your teeth chatter.
I think I may have peed
my pants, sally.
I have an icicle
cutting into my leg.
if I take
another step
I might
throw up
those crackers
we ate for breakfast
at the camp commissary.
where the hell is
my Sherpa?
sally slams her ice
pic into the solid
wall of
the frozen cliff
and swings over
to you on a rope. here.
have a piece of gum.
it might settle
your stomach.
then she blows a
bubble popping it
while climbing to
the next jagged
rock with which to
sit on and take
another picture
for her facebook page.
you don't care.
you throw up.
much to the dismay
of the thirty seven
other climbers coming
up behind you.

knitting needles in eyeball

let's go do
karaoke tonight she
says to
you
while scanning
the paper
for places
to go.
I'd rather
stick knitting needles
into my
eyeballs
you tell her,
cringing at the idea
of singing
anywhere except
in the shower,
alone.
oh, you say that
about everything.
I'd rather stick needles
into my eyes.
no I don't. just
to things
that I really
don't want to do,
like going to your
mother's house,
or that indian
restaurant around
the corner,
and it's knitting
needles, not just
needles.
oh I see, she says.
I stand corrected
let me go
get my yarn
bag.

the back shelf

the back
shelf where
the brown sugar
is. hard
as a red brick.
the baking
powder,
the sea salt
and muffin
mixes.
you could be
alive
for another
fifty
years,
and they would
still be
there.
sprinkles for
cookies
that wont get
made,
soups in cans
that are waiting
to opened
and boiled
to finally have
their day.
please, don't
put me there,
put me anywhere,
but not on
the back shelf.

the attic

the cradle
in the attic,
the rocking horse,
the red
ball.
a small pair
of shoes.
a box of soldiers.
the stacks of
papers,
homework
and tests.
the books he
used.
the first word
written.
the finger
paintings in
blue,
the drawing
of the dog.
how quickly
this clock turns,
for the both
of you.

new set of knives

you buy
a set of knives
on tv.
it's three
a.m.
you have to
turn a light
on to read
the numbers
on your visa card,
then
the three
strangely
printed security
numbers on
the back.
you read
off the expiration
date.
4/17.
do you need new
knives, probably
not, but
they can cut
through
metal,
or a radial
tire, skin
a potato, or
slice a tomato
smoothly,
not once,
not twice
but every time
for the life
of you
or the knife.
whichever
ends first.
they promise to
arrive before
thanksgiving.
maybe you'll roast
a turkey this year
and use them.
that would be nice.

change

instead
of this,
do that,
do things
differently.
easy
to say,
so hard
to do.
especially
when it's
them that
sees
the need
for change,
not you.

the morning star

she is the land
of milk
and honey.
she's a palm tree
swaying over
white sand.
she's the sun
inking the sky pink
as it sinks
into the sea.
she's the morning star.
she's the cold
drink in
your hand.
she's just out
of reach,
the one you've
never had.

gin and tonic therapy

you see
your therapist
in a bar,
but she doesn't
see you.
she's been
drinking.
you can see her
talking to her
other therapist
friends.
they are laughing,
engaged in conversation,
so she doesn't see you
sidle up
and listen.
you dip your ear in
as you sip
your gin and tonic.
and then he says
something about
his mother,
she laughs.
his mother didn't
show him
any love or attention
when he was little.
can you believe it?
boohoo. poor baby.
hahaha.
they all start
laughing
and laughing.
some of them are
spitting out
their drink they are
laughing so hard.
his mother, can you
belive it
what a loser.
I can't help him,
he's lost, but
I can't tell him that,
I need the money,
I'm going
to alcapulco
this winter
with this other patient
I met. he's
got a yacht the size
of, well, it's big.
slowly you ease
away. you walk
outside and call
your mother,
you tell her
that you'll
see her on sunday
for dinner. meatballs,
right mom? should
I bring anything?
you forgive her,
finally.

the land line

I can't let go
of my land line, which
makes people laugh
and throw
their heads back.
but you don't understand
you tell them.
my life has
revolved around
the land line.
the kitchen phone
growing up.
with the long
black cord that
reached the basement
steps.
I've always had a
land line. I like
the clear connection,
the sound
of it ringing
even if it is only
a telemarketer.
if I got rid of it
what next?
online banking?
internet dating?

civility

you bore
easily at long
winded
stories
whether written
or told
to you in person.
you are the
master of the sigh.
your eyes
roll
with the best
of them.
but you sit and listen
or turn the page
to see what happens.
you are painfully
polite despite
wanting to leave
or throw the book
across the room.
you've been
trained well
by someone, who
you aren't
quite sure of.

the earring on the floor

I can't get
away from you.
you're the gum
on my shoe.
the spinach
in my teeth.
you're the burrs
on my socks.
the bird
that won't talk.
you're
the song spinning
in my head.
the shoelace
with a knot.
you're the lid
that won't
close,
the cold in
my nose. you're
the one that
got away.
the one that
won't stay.
you're
the key stuck
on the keyboard,
you're someone
knocking
at the door.
you're
the earring
on the floor.
I can't get away
from you.

the color green

color me happy
she says
cheerfully over
the instant
messaging system
of cyber
space that connects
you with
complete strangers
from all over
the world,
most that you
will never meet
or hear their
voice, or know
what their lips
feel like
when a kiss appears,
color me happy
she says.
and you reply with,
what crayon in
the Crayola box
would you be using
for this happiness.
the color green
she types firmly
in bold letters.
just green.
would that be the green
of a cat's eye,
you reply
or bottle green,
or perhaps the green
of the open
sky when a hurricane
arrives ready
to blow everything
away.
or maybe green
like jealousy,
full or anger and
envy. is it that sort
of green, you mean,
or perhaps
like grass, like all
the grass that lies
between us, cool
to the point of being
blue, almost blue,
like me, sitting here
typing to a complete
stranger who lives
a thousand miles away,
who is you.

mac and cheese

she wasn't
a great cook, okay.
not even
a good cook.
you knew when dinner
was ready
when the smoke
alarm went
off.
sometimes there
was too much salt
and pepper, sometimes
not enough.
but it was
the thought
that counted,
the time and love
it took
to make that
macaroni and cheese.

runners

runners,
of which you were one
when the joints
and bones
were younger,
like to tell you
how far
they've gone.
the distance,
and the time it
took.
they'll even put
a sticker
on their car
to let you know
how far
they've jogged,
there is always
a 5 K, a half
marathon, a
century run
across the state
to train for.
they keep time,
they write it down
and measure how far
they've
gone, how far
they've yet to go,
even in the rain,
even in the heat,
even in the ice,
even in the snow.

unhinged

unhinged
the door creaks
and won't
close.
the screws
are loose, one
has fallen
into a crack
on the floor.
you'll get to it,
eventually,
but for now,
it tells you more
about where
you are.
it's nice to have
a concrete
metaphor like
a half opened,
half closed,
broken door.

it never ends that way

the play
is fine. the dialogue
crisp
and relevant,
hardly had a lag
in the script
or plot.
it keeps moving,
there are snickers
and laughs
throughout
the crowd.
some old, some
young some stuck
in the middle,
like you.
there is talk
of sex
and love,
loveless sex,
and sexless love.
you've known both.
neither
lasting very long.
but the play
moves on,
you go with it.
you want the right
thing
to happen, for
the ending to be a bow
tied neatly
when the final
scene is played.
but nothing, as you
well know,
ever ends
that way.

the ace of hearts

she shows you
one card,
the ace of hearts.
these other
cards
are not for
you. you're not
even in the game,
not at the table.
but she shows you
this one card.
the tease
card, she waves it
around so that
you will see
just a part of
what her hand
could be.
the other four
cards
stay down.
those are the ones
that never
get turned over,
at least not
for you.

we have oranges

a postcard
from florida says
come soon.
a pair of lips
have kissed
a spot
below the words,
love,
june.
we have oranges,
it reads,
we have
sun.
we have beaches.
take
off your boots
get out
of the snow,
pack lightly,
we'll make room.

the skipping stone

you showed her
once
how to skim a stone
across
the pond.
how to hold the slender
rock in her
hand, how
to lean back
and toss it sideways
above
the grass, the sand
across the water.
how pleased
she was to see it
skip skip skip
before it sank into
the shallow
blue depths
holding an april
sky.
you showed her
once how to do that.
you wonder if she
remembers too.

the lullaby

there is no
love
like a mother's
love for a child,
whether
young or old,
or about to be
born,
the lullaby
she sings
into the crib,
will never end.
the worry
and care will
never diminish.
it will never leave,
and yet deep
inside
each one of them,
are the unspoken
words,
what about me.

this feeling

you go to her number,
scrolling down,
your finger
stops
before it presses
against her
name.
what possibly
would there be
to say.
nothing that would
change a thing,
so you close the phone,
you set it
down.
staring at its
amber blink,
and wait for
this feeling to pass
away.

cut flowers

the cut flowers
though
fresh and fragrant,
full
of color.
beautiful
in the vase
that rests
on the table,
there is price
to pay
in time.
beauty lasting
just a day,
as anyone
of age
well knows.

the brick wall

the graffiti
is a wild spray
of black
paint against
the brick wall.
it might be a name
or someone's
initials,
or a sign
of some kind
indicating what,
who knows.
but the small
woman with her
wire brush
on a step stool
works at removing
it each day
only to have
it return
that night.
she wonders who
will get too old
first,
to stop this.

the delivery

the men, laughing
over something,
come to your door. it's
been a long
day. their shirts are
out.
five o'clock shadows
on both of them.
they may have
been drinking. it's
seven o'clock
at night.
one has food
on the front of his
overalls.
their hands are greasy.
one has a screw
driver in his paw
while the other
holds your 50 inch smart
tv on his shoulder.
it wobbles like a
sack of grain
he's carried from
the field.
we have your tv
mister, the one with
the screw driver
says. but it's broken.
they show
you the opened box,
both
pulling back scotch tape,
see, see. it's broken,
they say together,
pointing at
the cracked screen.
there is a hole gouged
out in the frame.
you can see inside
the tv. the wires,
the works.
you still want it
mister? we can plug it
in to see if it lights
up and makes sound.
you tell them no
thanks. which makes them
happy. their day is
over. okay. no problem
they say, waving as
they back the truck up
and drive off.
laughing again at
something.

someone like you

someone like
you
was on the street
the other day.
I almost
tapped her on
the shoulder
to say hello.
but it wasn't
you.
I was disappointed,
which told
me something
about us.

your life

there is no
soundtrack to your
life.
it would be
nice if there was.
lights,
and cameras,
a make up
artist on the side
to keep
you young and
pretty.
there is no
pre written script,
or book
from which
the movie
is culled from.
no, it doesn't work
that way.
no second takes,
no cues, or
shots at flubbed
lines.
you just get out
there
and go, letting
your own
tale of life,
both woe and joy,
unwind.

every one good gets in

let's find a new
religion your girlfriend
candy
tells you, as she
polishes her
toe nails black.
we need a new fun
religion with a happy
go lucky God.
I'm so tired of
fire and brimstone.
guilt. aren't
you tired of guilt?
you look up from
the newspaper and nod.
yup.
I am.
so, she says, maybe
we should invent
a religion of our own.
sure, you tell her
as you scan the box scores
from last night's game.
I'm right there with you
honey.
no more guilt. anything
goes. have fun, be
happy. that's our
motto. she says, everyone gets
into heaven, except hitler
and Obama, people like
that. you look at her
over the tilt
of the paper. you mean
Osama, not Obama.
whatever she says.
bad people don't get
in. instead of wine
and wafers, we can
have mixed drinks
and little crackers
with shrimp on them.
maybe watercress nuts
wrapped in bacon.
no more kneeling either.
it's going to be a
dancing church. but
no snakes or crazy talk.
sounds good you tell
her, rolling your eyes
behind the paper.
amen sister.
I think you're on to
something. amen.

the dogs are barking

the dogs are
barking.
someone's in the yard.
prowling around.
the hair is up
on their backs
as they run
from window
to window,
snarling
in the darkness.
you think about
getting up,
getting out of
bed,
grabbing the al
kaline baseball
bat out
of the closet,
but you're so
warm and cozy
lying here.
you've already said
your prayers.
you're tired. plus
the floor is cold.
you have nothing
really good
to steal,
no safe in the wall.
no art
hanging on a hook
by Renoir
or van gogh. but
if they get in,
they might steal
the pot roast you
were going
to cook in the morning.
so you slide
your feet to the side
and get up
to see what
the commotion is
all about.
if it's those Mormons
again handing
out their leaflets,
you aren't going
to be very happy.
you slap the fat part
of the bat in
the palm of your hand.

marriage counseling

the room is
full elephants, you
can hardly
sit down.
she squeezes
in beside you,
smiling
nervously.
I hate talks
like this she
says.
I wish we could
just ignore
our problems,
not speak
of them
and live
miserably together
until
the end of time.
so do I you say,
standing up.
let's go
and be unhappy
forever,
pretend we're
both okay.

a glass of wine

she loves
wine.
red or white.
doesn't matter.
warm
or on ice.
who cares about
the label or
where it's from.
the sound of a
bottle pouring
sets her
lips apart,
she can taste it
before it splashes
on her tongue.
she sinks
into the comfort
of it's soft
wash.
warming her
lungs, giving hope
to her
addled mind,
finally still,
almost content,
almost happy
in a blue sort
of way. she
exhales her tired
world
with her first glass
of wine.

the bouncing ball

it's a busy
season.
a busy
world.
it's a hive
shaken
and struck
with a stick.
the air
is a buzz.
there is no
time.
there is no
second
not filled
with rush
and hurry.
it's a race
without
a finish line,
a marathon
of sprints,
it's a blur
of circles,
a ball of stretched
and knotted
twine
bouncing down
the stairs.

public affection

when you see
two people kissing
passionately
in the park
you stare
for a moment, so
rare
a thing to
see, but then you
turn your head,
somehow jealous
and wanting what
they have.
lips against
lips with the promise
of more.
you imagine
their lives
together, that this
is the beginning
of a life
long love affair.
that they will
be forever joined
by this kiss
and passion
that they so openly
share.
your imagination
runs wild
sometimes.

when i was young

they know
things that you don't
know.
not yet.
these old people
with their
wisdom,
their walking
sticks
and shaking of
heads.
grey pigeons
in the park,
content to sit
and tell you
stories that wander
all over
the map of their
lives,
sometimes, finally,
getting
to the point,
or close.

what's left behind

in the rear
view
mirror
everything looks
different,
slanted
with the distance
it acquires.
wobbles in
the puddled shadows
of dark
and light.
the road
bends forward
with
your foot on
the pedal
leaving behind
what
you thought was
love,
but didn't find.

everyone is home, almost

sometimes
in the shadows
of your mind
you see your mother
on her knees
in the kitchen.
there is a metal
bucket beside
her, a rag,
a brush she pulls
across the bright
yellow linoleum
floor.
her black hair
is tied
back.
she has the radio
on.
it's the platters
singing
her favorite
song. she sings
along, heavenly shades
of night are falling...
she is at peace,
the children
in bed.
the world is quiet
and still.
everyone is home,
almost.

when to duck

anger
is always a
defensive
response.
you know that.
so you say nothing
but let
the words
and temper
rise
in heat
and fervor
out of his mouth.
you become
gandhi
standing there
in silence,
nodding
as you listen
with neither
approval
or disapproval.
at some point
though, you need
to remember
when to duck.

the fast ride

time
is slipping
not out
of your hand
but off and
around you
like a swift
wind.
place your
hand out
the window
of a fast moving
car.
it feels like
that.
cool and brisk
against
your aging
skin.
there is no
stopping it,
best to roll
all the windows
down
and enjoy
the ride.

breathe deeply and say ummmm

each journey
begins with one
step
your yogi master,
tiffany,
tells you
as you stretch
and listen
to your own
breathing,
which is on
the wheezy side
on account of
this stinking
hay fever attack
you're having
this fall.
yes, master
you say, blowing
your nose, and
sticking
the tissue
back into your
manly black
tights.
you open one
eye to see if
she's staring
at you. she is.
what? you say.
I'm listening,
but its hard
to breath.
calm yourself
she says in that soothing
condescending
way she likes
to speak.
breathe deep
and center yourself.
you start to gag
a little,
because your nostrils
are completely closed
and you have to
breathe through
your mouth
like a beached
blue whale.
center yourself
and imagine a field,
a lush field
of green grass,
and leaves falling.
you scratch your
nose then raise
your hand,
what? she says,
what is it?
can we think of
a snow covered field.
or maybe a placid
lake of blue
water. I don't want
to think about grasses
and rag weed.
sure, she says. your
vision is your own.
you are the master
of your mind and body.
join them together
and...
at this point you
let out a giant
sneeze, but
before you can
put your kleenex to
your mouth,
it showers the front
row of yoga women
who all scream
and start running
around like chickens with
their heads cut off.
quietly you bow
and slip out the back.

cat detective

how long has your cat
been missing.
two days.
what's his name.
joe.
joe?
yes joe.
you named your cat
joe?
yes, it was my
father's name.
I see.
does your
cat have any
enemies, anyone
that might want to
harm him.
there is a dog
around the corner
that barks at
the window when
he passes by and sees
joe on the sill.
what kind of dog
german shepard,
mix maybe. he has
big teeth and growls
a lot.
I see.
and your husband,
is he a cat
person?
not really, he'd
prefer a dog,
I think, but he'd
never harm joe.
where is he?
he's gone too.
are you going to look
for him as well?
no ma'am, just the
cat, that's not my
job here.
does your cat like
to get out
of the house, cat
around,
howl a lot?
sometimes, yes. but
he always comes
home after a night out.
I understand. he's
a cat, it's what
cat's do.
so, can you find him.
I miss him so much.
we'll see what we can
do. but if we can't
are you willing
to accept another cat,
adopt a stray
perhaps.
sure, maybe a black
and white one,
but declawed
and one that doesn't
howl as much
or tear up
the furniture. he'd
have to be potty
trained too.
do you think
you're husband may
have driven your
cat out to the country
and dropped him
off.
possible, she says,
closing her robe
and sitting down.
would you like to come
down to the station
with me and take a lie
detector test?
am I being arrested,
no ma'am, we just
need to ask you
some questions,
and your husband too.
but, he was a mean
cat, she says,
beginning to cry.
he pees everywhere,
and yesterday he tore
up the curtains.
look at them, they're
shredded.
turn around ma'am,
I need to put these
on you.

support group

your life has been
getting out of hand.
you realize
this as you do your laundry
and look at the pile
of socks sitting
in an enormous
pile on the floor,
black and white,
a few with stripes,
some brown, some
tan, but mostly
as I said, black
and white. dress
and athletic socks,
some are the little
ankle high socks,
some come up
to your calf.
others rise someplace
in the middle.
many are old, worn,
torn, holes.
shredded with loose
threads that get caught
on your toes.
some are bleach splashed,
with white dots,
others are still
dirty despite the
heavy duty cycled
wash. but many are new
too. bunched in
their wrappers,
four for the price
of three. tags
still in place.
you finally break
down and go to a support
group to help you.
you need someone to
talk to, to come
clean with your problem.
you stand up,
nervously in front
of the congregation
of other lost souls,
your head bowed down,
chin against chest.
you say your name
softly, and say
I have an addiction.
I can't stop buying
new socks.
they welcome you warmly
with cheers
and applause,
taking off their
shoes to reveal their
socks, holding
their feet in the air,
finally
someone that understands
you.

the unpromising land

it was a break up
of biblical
proportions. forty
nights
and forty days
of back and
forth negotiations.
you almost
built an ark,
the tears were
so frequent.
she cursed you
with plagues upon
your home,
then forgave you
in a fit of compassion,
even folding
a pile of
your clothes.
at some point,
exhausted, you
took a nap
together, during which
you made your
move with a closing
of spoons, causing her
to say, what do you
think you're doing?
are kidding me?
to which you
replied, this has
nothing to do with
our break up argument.
I just thought
maybe we could use
a little fun,
some relaxation.
men, she screamed
and ran out of
the bedroom
to find her suitcase.
finally, the sea
of our love had
been parted
and she was crossing
from the unpromising land
without me.

self help manuals

needing more shelf
space
on your set of shelves
holding
so many of your books,
you evaluate what can be
tossed, or
given away. you go
to the self help row
and find a dusty
array of possibilities.
divorce for dummies,
a fat yellow book,
that describes in easy
to follow step by
step instructions of
how to get a lawyer
and send your soon
to be ex packing,
or vice versa.
there is a diagram
on how to saw furniture
in half. another chapter
advises on what kind
of candy to give
your children to make
them stop crying.
then there's the venus
and mars manual and
dvd attached. telling
you how men and women
are different. shocking
revelations.
such enlightenment
one never knew.
how to boil an egg,
is another book,
containing that
and other after
the divorce recipes,
toast, how to get it
right the first time
and every time. nine
things to do with
lunch meat before it
spoils. you'll
save this book.
how to meet girls, is
another, post divorce,
manual. step one being
revamp your wardrobe,
discard anything plaid,
or with holes in it.
step two, shave off those
mutton chops and
the hair from your nose
and ears. step three,
go easy on the cologne.
another piece of
good advice.
so many books that got
you through those tender
and frightful early
hours of being single.
it's hard to throw any
of them into the fire,
just yet.
maybe you'll just buy
more shelves.

we're sending a man out

you by a new smart tv.
it has a degree
from Columbia
and a phd from
MIT.
it will connect you
to worlds you've
never been before.
you will be a cyber
space traveler
traveling at warp speed.
able now to watch
old reruns
of leave it to beaver,
the love boat,
and dallas
at the hit of a button.
the trouble is
you barely made it
through high
school without cheating.
the print on everything
is so small.
smaller than black ants.
so many wires,
and directions.
cables
to plug into
so many little colored
cubby holes.
you call the hot line
to get help. it's the only
thing with big
black numbers.
the first question
they ask
is how old are you?
when you tell them,
they say. sit down,
hang tight
we're sending a
man out.

i'm here now

you don't love
me, you don't care
about me.
would it kill you
to pick up
the phone once
in a while.
we are hardly
even friends, I
don't hear from
you for weeks on
end. you come over
and eat. and leave.
our relationship
has deteriorated.
perhaps we should
take a break,
and see where we
are at the end
of it. okay?
mom, you are so
over dramatic
sometimes, what's
in the fridge.

a name by any other name

your friend mike
tells you one day
that he no longer
wants to be called
mike, he prefers
Michael now.
people think I'm
illiterate, he
says, when they
hear my name is mike.
they think I'm just
a regular joe
with a monkey
wrench. okay.
you tell him.
Michael it is.
hey Michael, you
say. let's go
get a drink.
what, you talking
to me. yes.
I called you
michael. oh
right right, I
guess this will
take some getting
used to jimmy.
call me james, you
tell him. maybe add
a mister on to that
too. Mr. James.

the new town centre

it's a dead
night.
quiet on the streets.
of the boulevard
with freshly planted
trees. it's
littered
with strangers
in nice shoes,
lingering
on the corners
waiting for
the apple store to
open,
smoking E cigarettes.
brooding.
looking at
their phones and
you as if you
don't belong.
hometown is not
what it used
to be.
everything has
changed. everything
is new, but already
feels old.
you miss the smell.
not a stray dog
to be found.
all the dumpsters
hidden
somewhere behind
the façade
of progress
and money.
how you long to see
a rat
scurrying scared
at the sound
of footsteps
as you cross the street
towards a greasy
spoon,
not the gourmet
sub shop next to old
navy.

making choices

the juggler
with his chainsaw
and bowling
ball
and hatchet
throwing them
all up into the
air at once
is missing a few
fingers,
there is a scar
across
his nose,
and one foot is
bent like
the letter z.
his hat on
the ground is
full of coins
and dollar bills.
job applications,
from worried
people, hoping
he'll try something
else. but
he keeps at it.
this is his
dream.
the life that he
has chosen.
so unlike yours
as you sit
an hour away from
work, stuck
in traffic.

guilt ridden

you don't vote
all the time.
these politicians
bother you to no end.
you don't recycle.
you don't
pick up after your
dog when you're
in the woods.
you don't hang
your parking sticker
on the mirror.
sometimes,
you put the trash
out a day early,
or after the truck
has rolled by.
you don't eat
all your vegetables,
or drink
bottled water.
you don't have
a compost pile, or
give your old
clothes to the church.
you don't send
out Christmas
cards, or birthday
cards, or get well
soon cards.
sometimes you go
weeks without visiting
your mother, or
calling your father,
or your son.
when the clerk asks
you if you want to donate
a dollar to the st.
judes fund, you
say no. hell no.
you're a bad man.
bad to the bone.
and you feel bad about
it, for a few minutes.

in the rough

no matter
how hard you try,
or she does,
neither of you can
squeeze this
relationship made
of coal
and make a diamond
out of it.
so just throw
it on the fire
and let it
burn away.
it's okay.
dig deeper next
time, squeeze
harder, or longer.
or find it lying
in the rough.

new wing tips

you get a new
pair of shoes in
the mail.
boots actually,
ankle high.
they are brown
with thick
soles. leather,
and rubber
combined into
a nice wing tipped
pattern.
you put the boots
on. and walk
around the house.
they go clickety
clack on the hardwood
floor.
they make you
wish you had a
horse, and a hat,
maybe a holster
with a six
shooter, perhaps
some clothes on
besides these black
socks. you are
happy that the
blinds are down
on the front windows
and that there are
woods in the back.

a symphony

without a plant
or pet,
or child
you listen
to the splendid
symphony
of silence
that plays
it's strings
and percussions
throughout
your house.
the drip
of the faucet,
the bass roar
of the furnace,
the wind
whistling
gently through
the parted
window.
only her fingers
tapping
against
your door would
make
it perfect.

the splinter

high on a thirty two
foot ladder
a splinter
finds
it's way
beneath
your skin, along
the fat
of your thumb
as you push
sandpaper
across a
ragged board.
there is blood,
some pain,
but not enough
to stop
what you are doing.
you pull
the splinter out
with your teeth
and spit it away,
you suck
the blood with
your mouth
slowing
the bleeding.
you wrap
a rag
from your back
pocket around
the fresh wound,
and keep
going. the sun
is low
in the sky.
it will be dark
by five.
you think about
the time she said
to you, why are you
so worried
about money,
you'll just
paint more
houses.

red stockings

you find an
unopened pair
of red sheer nylon
stockings
in your dresser drawer.
medium size.
you turn
the package over.
then back again.
you scratch your
head,
you look in
the drawer for
what else might
be there.
just socks though,
your socks.
you put the stockings
back into
the drawer and close
it. you are
optimistic about
so many things
in life, beyond
reason.

three nights in richmond

weary from travel
you book three nights
in Richmond.
a room
near the airport,
because
it's snowing
and cold
ice is on the road,
icicles are
hanging
from the tip
of your nose.
you flop down
in the bed, watching
the red neon
shimmy in the window
from the bar
across the street.
you lean over
and slide a quarter
into the machine
to make the bed
vibrate.
you are a human pin
ball
machine.
you are weary from
travel,
you wait patiently
for the phone to ring.

don't worry about it

there's more
fish in the sea
people tell you after
a break up.
you'll be fine.
you'll meet someone
new, you'll
upgrade and find
a better person,
someone that suits
you, someone that
you get along better
with, you'll see.
there's more
fish in the sea,
they say, smiling,
telling you
to shrug it off,
there's more squirrels
in the trees.
don't worry about it.

cooking together

we should cook
together one night, gina
says, jumping up and down
in her new
chef's apron
with embroidered
loaves of baguettes
down the front.
she slaps you playfully
on the head
with a new pink spatula
she picked up at home goods.
sure, you tell her.
that might be fun.
whoo hooo, she says,
spinning around
like a top.
i'll start making a
list, we can do it at
your house, okay?
why not. what are you
thinking? burgers,
fries, I've got some
frozen drumsticks
in the freezer.
oh fiddle dee dee,
she says.
we can do better than
that. do you have
a garlic press? no.
how about a milk frother,
or a digital
candy thermometer?
ummm, nope. a rotary
whisk, or a potato
ricer? nope, not
the last time I checked.
cheese grater, you
must have a cheese
grater? for what,
I just peel back
the plastic from the
slice of cheese and put
it on my sandwich,
why would I want
to grate it?
food processor?
what's that?
I see she says
sadly, so, does
your oven work?
of course silly.
okay, okay she says.
let's have burgers then.
fries, i'll make
a nice chopped salad.
do you have any
mixing bowls?
voila, you say
pointing at the floor.
I'm not a cave man
for god's sake.
it's right there
on the floor,
I use it sometimes
when the dog needs water.
you can fit a lot
of lettuce in that bowl.

you forget

you forget
how beautiful she
was,
how strange
and soft
her whispery
voice was
as she tried
so hard
to say something
meaningful
and smart.
how fragile
and other
worldly her
essence was,
always trying
to please by
taking her clothes
off, submitting
to men
and their
desires, not
hers.
you forget how
quickly
her life passed.
never getting old.
how tragic,
how bittersweet
and easily
she slipped away
in her bed,
dreamily
in her sleep.
MM.

the plaid shirt

the plaid shirt,
heavy and itchy,
forest green on red
squares on
yellow. it's
partly wool
the label reads,
wool and other
assorted
blends of fiber,
made in Minnesota
with large wooden
buttons from
pine trees.
it has two pockets
that are
oversized.
perfect for lures,
for bait,
and chew, perhaps
a swiss army
knife.
you say, oh my
when you open
the box. well would
you look at this.
do you like
it, she says. try it on.
my father has one
just like it.
he says it keeps him
toasty when he's out
ice fishing.
try it on try it on.
you reach for your
eggnog
and knock it down
after a healthy
shot of scotch.
gets pour into
the mix. I love it,
you say.
what choice is
there, but that?

a walk in the park

it's gravy
from here on out.
most of the hard
work is
behind you.
keeping your
nose clean
and avoiding
pain is your
motto now.
so that eliminates
many people
from your plan.
it's not a race
anymore, it's
a slow savoring
walk through
the park, feeding
the ducks,
making love
and writing this.

blue notes

the cheeks
of the sax player
expand
with air
as the notes
fly
out in a syrupy
blue
mix of bitter
sweet love
and mystery.
he doesn't
need words as
his body bends
and aches with
his tale of woe.
this
instrument
doesn't need
lyrics or a
voice. it's
more than enough
to wail
sexily
in the soft
blue light
from
the corner, that's
all you need
to know.

she's an animal

jimmy asks you
about your
new girlfriend,
the one he's seen you
with at the grocery
store,
and out having
dinner. what's up
with that, he
says. tell me about
her.
you shrug and say
something along
the lines of
she's an animal,
dude. (this is the stupid
way grown men talk
now)
which makes him
give you a high
five. yo bro, he
says. you the man.
he slaps your hand
hard enough to
make you wince.
you try to rub
the feeling
back into it,
shaking the sting out.
he never asks
what kind of
animal she is though,
a zebra, a mountain
lion, a cheetah,
or maybe a minx,
which makes you
glad, because you
aren't quite sure
yet, instead he
asks if she has any
sisters, or friends
who might want to
meet him.
to this you say.
no. sorry dude, but
i'll keep my eyes out
for you.

half vague

you see
them
leaving, scraping ice
off the cars.
coffee cups
set
on the roof tops
as the blue
exhaust
chugs from the tail
pipes.
the briefcases,
the lunch
boxes.
the children
already on the buses.
the dog
walked,
the key under
the mat for a
maid or plumber.
the spaces
emptying, as
everyone drives
off into
their day.
feeling Monday
in their
bones.
half blue, half
vague.

the conversation

if you could
go back,
if you could have
one last
conversation with
her. to
sit down
and face one
another, to see
what went wrong,
taking
her hand in yours
if she allowed
it. looked her
in the eye,
you'd still
have nothing
to say, nor
would she.
the silence
would say everything
for the both
of you.

the little king

the fat
kid
red faced
blown
up with candy.
already over
sized
for his age,
big
boy boots
and pants,
shrugging at
his young world,
already
in charge
of his mythical
kingdom.
you see him
holding
court
in the school
yard,
making his
demands
on the littles,
asking
and getting what
he wants.
the red ball
in his hands,
held high,
knowing
that this is
how it will
always be.

how it ends

you can see
that she is dying.
it's in
her eyes.
in the slouch of
her thin
body,
she takes in
little food,
her face
brightened
by mascara, her
wig
at a silver
tilt, like
an odd shaped
moon.
how soft her
voice is,
hardly heard
behind her teeth
which
show when she smiles
and asks
how are you.
when you take her
hand
you can feel
the whole
weight of
her being pulled
towards you,
the bones
in her back
are brittle sticks
as you press her
body
to your chest.
you can hear
the air
leaving, her
life nearly over.
her death about
to begin.

what must be done

it's an endless
task.
this folding.
this
washing, this
repeat
and rinse.
this drying.
shirt upon shirt.
the hot iron
sliding across
a sleeve
on the propped
board.
the clothes
being
neatly stacked.
the pants,
sheets
and towels,
assorted socks,
all going up
up,
to where they
need to
be, some
resting in
a spare room
on a bed
that isn't used.
the smell
of starch
and bleach,
the cleansing
of what we wear.
a small
portion of
your life, that
no one else will
do.
you are blessed
in this small
thing that must
be done.

the field

how little
has changed in
the field.
the grass, trees
all grown and cut,
or gone.
new stones appear.
the fresh turn
of dirt. new
fences
where the old
ones fell,
rusted,
bent by late
night kids
with bottles
of southern
comfort.
places to make
love.
the hollows of woods
a sanctuary
for those still
alive.
how wide the field
is. the gentle
slope
always the same.
the crosses,
the crucifix,
the marble,
a star of david,
plain slabs
imbedded in the ground,
inscribed.
my dear one.
my beloved.
how beautiful
the field is.
how lovely in any
season
it sits, hardly
changing.
the gentle slope
always
the same.

the yellow bus

you remember
the gold
mustard colored bus,
it's hard
green seats
of vinyl.
how cold the rails
were, the window
always stuck.
the heat never
reaching the back.
you remember how
it chugged
up the hills,
as the driver
who also
served food in
the cafeteria,
still in her
hair net, smoked
a cigarette,
grinding out
the gears,
staring into the long
wide mirror
to yell
at someone running
down the aisle,
or throwing
pencils like arrows
into the air.
you can smell
the bus, you can hear
it in your sleep,
feel it's bounce,
it's sway.
see the bobbing
heads
of half asleep
children as it took
you towards school
and the rest of
your tomorrows.

this wind

the children run
in circles as the leaves
rise in cylinders
of wind,
fresh and cold.
they are bugs with
wings clipped
trying hard to rise
above the playground,
brimming with strange
happiness of what
life can be.
not knowing yet what
love is, what
joy there is in small
things, the vast
array of pain and pleasure
still unknown
within in them, but
they run, they circle,
their joy is
immeasurable,
they know that something
is about to happen
in their world,
something that lies
beyond this playground,
this wind.

where are you?

her car
won't start.
the engine whirrs
and whirrs
clicking
in the cold.
she says a few
words
normally
reserved for
conversations
with her
ex husband, she
presses on the pedal,
but nothing.
now it's silent.
she can smell
gas.
she shakes
her head, takes
out her phone
and calls
you. it's seven
a.m.
do you have jumper
cables,
she says.
beginning to sob.
maybe,
you tell her.
maybe I do,
maybe I don't. why?
I'm making
pot roast tonight
she says.
home made
bread. salad.
wine.
so, where exactly
are you,
you ask her,
hopping out of bed.
let me write
this down.

it's a latin thing

explain to me
this zumba
thing you're doing
on Saturday
morning, you ask
your friend
selina
as she slips
into her tights,
which may not be
called tights
anymore, but
that's the only
word you know
that describes
the red body suit
that squeezes
her together like
the casing of a pork
sausage.
zumba, she says.
is a latin thing.
there's a beat,
a count, a
mathematical
progression that we
dance to.
one two three four,
she says, throwing
up her hand
and fingers. one
two three four
and five.
this goes on as
she shakes and
jumps, bounces
around. throwing
her enormous head
of hair around.
okay, okay.
you tell her.
I think I got it.
it reminds me of when
I used to do the hustle,
and the bump
back in the day.
quite a work out
those dances were.
so what time are you
coming home?

breakfast in bed

a plate of you
would be fine
this morning.
with gentle
cuts
of the fork
and knife,
easy
nibbled bites,
the cupping
of a cold,
soon
to be warm,
spoon.
a plate of
you would be
nice
this morning,
breakfast
being such an
important
meal to start
the day right.

keep running

you hear
the mother in the store
screaming
at her son.
the son,
keeps running.
she screams
louder, calling
out his name.
she threatens him,
she throws
a handful
of coins at
the child. stop,
she yells, but
he keeps running.
you can't
help but believe
that he'll always
be running from someone
or something.
he's learned
how so well.

the easy vote

it's easy
to vote for war
when you
don't have to fight
one, or send
a son
or daughter
to die in one
or come back
mutilated and
changed for life.
it's easy
to cast a ballot
from a behind
a desk, a flag,
an idea
and say go,
go over there and
kill. go over
there and die
for us.
we must preserve
our freedom.
it's easy.
let me know how
it turns out.
we'll be here,
waiting. we've
voted and wish you
all the best.

whatever works

sometimes
retail therapy works.
sometimes
you just need a stiff
drink,
or to throw
things away
that she gave you.
sometimes you
can go on a long
run, and sweat
the angst out,
or sleep, sleep is
always an option.
other times you call
up Sheila
and tell her
to come over, you
need a shoulder
to cry on.
you try all of these
ideas, then finally
you sit still in front
of the screen,
hammer at the keys,
and decide to
write it through
to the bittersweet
end.

wanting to say more

your father,
approaching
eighty seven
calls and leaves
a message.
he asks where are you.
makes a joke
about an approaching
storm,
ebola, and marriage.
all dangerous
and eventful
scares.
call me he says.
coughs, then waits, as
if you might be
listening, then says
goodbye.
you hear the phone
jostling in
it's cradle,
you hear
the empty cloud
of his voice,
breathing, his
wanting to say more.

in the fog

there is genius
in her silence.
the white canvas
of her heart
is open
for interpretation.
you take
your pen and scrawl
out a few
scenarios, none
of them make
sense.
she baffles you
by her sealed
lips, her distance.
her stance
in the fog of lost
love.

we are all renting

the world does not
love you.
it tolerates
your presence.
makes room for
you as others
leave
against their
will.
we are all renting.
there is not
room enough
for everyone
to live forever,
so some must
go. either
by their own
hand, by old
age,
accidents
involving trains,
or cars,
disease.
there are so many
ways to die,
to depart
to make room
for those not
yet born,
or conceived.
they are approaching
the place
where you stand
this very moment,
to take it
for their own.
the world does not
love you.

waiting

unsmiling,
you stick a foot
out the door
to check
the weather.
cold, wet.
slight wind
blowing. you
shiver and
bring it back
in. only
four more months
till spring.

where are my keys?

stay the night
she says,
holding you down
in bed,
crawling on top
of you.
I won't let you
leave.
sleep over,
stay with me,
please. but you
say I can't.
the dog is waiting,
the cat,
the plants,
I may have left
a window open,
the oven on,
the iron too,
now that I think
of it.
I can't stay, but
next time,
maybe next time.
did you see
where I put
my keys?

not just me

without
the sun
this cold morning,
there are no
shadows.
no shine upon
the leaves,
no glimmer
in your blue
eyes.
the world is
grey
as far as I can see.
we need to build
a fire
to keep this
thing going,
to stay warm,
it'll take two
this time,
not just
me.

a man in uniform

oh my,
she says. I
love a man in
uniform,
as we pass
the toll booth
holding
a slouching
man
in a grey
shirt
and tie.
i throw a
quarter
into the metal
basket
making the
light go green
and the gate
rise.
it stirs
my inner girl,
melts my
butter, she
coos, leaning
in closer
to kiss
me while I drive.
you hit the pedal
speeding
through
the next five
miles, ignoring
the exits
before another
toll.

the first freeze

you'd give
a million dollars, if
you had that
sort of money
lying around in
cash
to stop sneezing,
and blowing
your nose.
your physician,
mr. web md
says it's hay fever,
pollen,
grasses,
invisible dust
and mites
floating
in the air.
you get on your
knees and
pray to mother
nature, father
time, and any
other assorted lesser
gods to please
bring on the first
solid freeze
so that you can live
again,
and breathe.
right now you are
staring at brochures
for real estate
in Alaska.

three bags of candy

you wake up
and stare at three
bags
of candy
on the table.
where are the children?
what happened?
where were
the goblins,
the witches,
the skeletons
and ballerinas?
what happened
to satan's
minions,
the little red
cloaked
demons
and devils
with their pitch
forks
and tails
dragging along
the sidewalk.
the dogs and
cats, with fur
coats and whiskers.
the cowboys,
the Indians,
the vampire
bats.
these kids got nothing
these days.
and now they don't
have my candy.

fly fast

she says I'm coming
in December.
we have some
things to talk about,
to wrap up, catch up.
we need to clear
the air, reminisce
perhaps eat,
drink, steal a
nervous kiss.
your legs go weak
on the phone, and
you say, what, only
one night? it might
take longer
since it's been so
long since our
last eventful tryst.

getting hip to that

you don't want a turkey
made and shaped
from soy beans, you
tell your nervous
girlfriend, who
hasn't eaten real
meat in a decade.
you want a turkey.
for dessert
you don't want a cake
that looks
like a chocolate
cake, made
from carob beans, no.
you want a real
cake. three layers
with icing, dark
chocolate. and milk.
a cold glass of milk.
you want cow milk.
not soy milk.
there is no milking
of the soy bean.
and when she gives you
a kiss, you don't want
a peck on the cheek,
or on the head,
or a mere quick touch
of lips.
you want a kiss ala
francais. can you dig
it? are we yet on
the same page yet?

the quiet sign

you put
a no talking sign
up
in your house.
it lights
up with red
letters, quiet
it says,
and you point
to it
when you want
someone to be
silent,
and if they
keep babbling
on and on
about something
you have no
interest in, you
ask them to
come to the window
and look
at that cute
kitten
out in the street,
when they
are standing
where you want
them to stand,
peering outside,
you push a button
which releases
a trap door
that sends them out
with a whoosh
to the sidewalk
on a slide.

good work

look, there's betty.
she had some work done,
shelly
whispers to you
behind her
latte cup, watch,
watch her when
she comes out
of the bathroom.
she's got that
monkey face thing
going on, all
the skin pulled
back and knotted
behind her
blonde hair.
blonde, right,
she adds in,
licking the foam
of her gingerbread
latte off
her lips.
wait, wait, here
she comes, don't
look, don't look.
okay now.
last week I swear
she was thirty
pounds heavier.
someone stuck a hose
in there and pulled
those scones
right out of her.
unless she had a baby.
this makes
her throw her
head back and she
chokes a little
as she laughs.
I'd never ever have
that kind of work
done, she says.
look at my face, do
I need work done.
hell no. say hell
no. hell no, you
answer, but then turn
your head back around
to check out betty
who looks
pretty darn good
from over here.

unwritten

they too slouched
in their
easy
chair on a Friday
evening, staring
numbly
at the tv
with a cat on
their lap.
once full of Shakespeare
and wordsworth,
Ginsberg
and Miller,
now this.
these fallen stars,
these rising
moons,
these setting
suns.
each wandering
at midnight
into grocery stores
lit like
tinsel
easing a cart
down
the sterile
aisles.
searching
for something,
anything to fill
them.
all words they
were to write
gone unwritten,
the poems
and plays, the novels.
the years fallen
away too quickly.
the tree empty
of leaves
with one quick
harsh wind.

the widow and her child

the widow
and her child.
who will always be
a child.
prepares
the meal.
stirs the pot.
warms
the oven.
sets the dishes
out.
the ghost
of her husband
is in
the chair
across the dining
room.
you can see
him sitting there,
staring
not at you,
but at a place
we are all going
to be one day.
but for now.
the table is set,
his wife,
the widow,
is spooning food
onto your plate,
she's
pouring wine,
and the child
with her hands
together, ready for
prayer, sits
quietly,
and waits.

the lesson

a clean slate,
washed free of chalk.
all the lists
you've made
are gone.
the diagrams of
what love
is or shouldn't
be.
the necessary
elements to make
things work.
now dust, chalk
beaten against
the old school wall.
but you'll
try again tomorrow.
you'll press
your hand
and heart
to the board
and begin the lesson
over, one
more time.

the quiet storm

a calm
before the storm.
a lull
in the wind
and rain.
a quiet respite
from
her anger.
she's too tired
to come
ashore.
too exhausted
and sick
of love,
to say, or do
anything more.

sexy costumes

the costumes
are quite sexy this year.
at least
the ones for
women and girls
of all ages.
the hooker
waitress is fun,
the hooker maid,
the hooker
teacher, and let's
not forget
the hooker
secretary, student
and nun.
all that marching
has to come
this on Halloween.
I'm still
waiting for the
hooker feminist
carrying a placard
proclaiming,
in her stockings
and heels,
women's lib.

tight lipped

words
to her are
diamonds
found
in the rocks
of her quiet
cave
like mind.
but when
they do get
forced out
into the light,
some,
though flawed,
have a nice
mercurial
shine.

tickets please

the amusement park
tries
so hard
to woo you.
its colors of red
and green,
bold blues
and yellows.
the arrows showing you
the way in,
the way around.
the funhouse,
the wheels
that spin.
the gypsy wants to
guess your weight,
your age,
your future.
take hold of the water
gun, throw
the rings, the ball
into the hole.
swing the hammer
and strike
the bell.
let the cotton candy
stick
to your cheeks,
the splintered
candied apple
wedged between your teeth.
how the sawdust
smells,
rising like some
distant memory.
someone old you used
to know with a cigar,
and bad shoes.
the sad
elephant in the small
cage, with
a girl on top
wearing pink slippers.
the fat lady
on a stool, on a
stage, behind
a curtain that
never closes.
the string of tickets
in your hand,
with always some to
take home.
always.

where ships go

when you cried
at his
bedside.
him unable to speak.
his body
wrecked
wrecked as any
ship
struck over
and over,
slipping, ready
to sink, ready
to go where ships
go.
he waved you
away.
he pulled a tube
from
his stiff grey
lips
and said, get him
out of here.
so you left.
rowing, rowing
to shore,
alone with what
you've seen.

the eel

with her eyes
open, unable
to close
like an eel
bent and curved
under the green
water
of night.
she is tired
of everything
that she
has made,
or unmade,
but cannot
sleep.
she is coiled
in her bed,
waiting
for another
life to happen,
waiting for
another skin,
to shed.

undone

unsure
of what this pain
could be,
so early in months,
she stood wet
and limp
against
the cold
tiles
of the shower.
the blood
in rivulets,
like thin screams
down her legs,
puddling pink
at the drain.
why would she
even
tell him,
what was to come,
or end.
he had so little
to do with this.
and now.
pale, limp,
crushed under
the weightlessness
as it
leaves her
body in broken
pieces. so much is
solved, so much
will always be
unanswered.

a nice guy

for his entire
life
he hid in
his closet
the secret
that he
was really
a nice guy.
the shame
of it was,
was that
no one
knew, not even
the few
who came to
his funeral
after he
died.

babies in the window

because
she never had
babies
her dog
and cats
are her babies.
they get
all the baby
treatment.
the goo goo talk.
the little
gifts and toys,
the photos
hung on the walls,
and secured in
wallets, or
phones.
I have to get
home to my baby,
you hear
them say.
she has to pee.
she has to eat.
she's waiting
in the window.
or at the door.
she knows
when I'm coming
home, and we
do miss each
other so.

gift cards

when you were a school
boy
you made things
in shop
class to give
as gifts for the holidays.
pot holders,
that looked
like tea pots.
shaved flat wood,
jig sawed from paper
templates, then
sanded and glossed
with stains
and sealers, small
pegs slotted
in for hooks.
then there were
the key chains, twisted
plastic,
braided in red
white blue.
or the ashtrays
ball peen
hammered by your
small hands for hours
at the thick wood
benches, beating
the metal
into small
shallow bowls.
how you still have
fingers and eyes,
is beyond you.
thank god those
days are over.

the nudge

it's a small
turtle, squared
green, that crawls
on top
of the bent
beer can
floating
in the dammed
lake, two feet
deep across,
but still not
without
a photographic
beauty
when the sun
is just
right and the trees
are mirrored
in blue water,
but it's the turtle
that strikes
your interest.
how his life has
come to this,
to be stranded
at such a young age,
his neck
twisted outward,
in a place
he knows nothing
about.
nothing has
prepared him for
this, or the nudge
that you give
him with a long
stick, knowing
that we all need
a nudge at some
point.

lola's red dress

the party started slow
the music
turned down,
being careful not
to annoy
the neighbors.
the chatter stayed
mostly in
the kitchen,
a tv buzzing
in the corner
for a game
someone needed
to watch. the finger
foods were passed
around, someone
stirred the fire,
and warmed
their hands before it.
there were polite hugs
and handshakes,
old friends,
new friends being
found, small talk
was had about
books and movies,
trips to be taken,
or just arrived
from,
and then lola
showed up
with a bottle
of tequila
in her red party
dress and her own
music.
no one remembers
much
after that, but
the sense was
that it was fun.