we used to talk
about the moon. describing as
we saw it from where we stood
on the same night
at the same time
so many miles away.
it's beautiful, she'd say,
yes, you'd reply.
silver and white,
a clock without hands.
a destination,
an orb without a string.
you'd say how much more
interesting the moon is
than the sun, and she'd
agree.
that's what lovers do
under the same moon,
on the same night so
many miles away,
they agree.
Wednesday, March 23, 2016
lemon tart
you pace back and forth
staring out the window.
waiting for her to pull
up and put a small bag
of easter cookies
between your storm
and door.
she makes the best
cookies. you have
the pot on for tea,
cold milk ready.
a small plate, a knife
and fork in case
there's a lemon tart
or a blueberry pie
left too.
she's late with her
cookies. how cruel she
can be sometimes.
staring out the window.
waiting for her to pull
up and put a small bag
of easter cookies
between your storm
and door.
she makes the best
cookies. you have
the pot on for tea,
cold milk ready.
a small plate, a knife
and fork in case
there's a lemon tart
or a blueberry pie
left too.
she's late with her
cookies. how cruel she
can be sometimes.
wrong turn
the cop fills out the ticket wrong,
saying you turned
left instead of right a minute
after three pm on a rainy
afternoon.
he was sitting there with his
friends in blue,
the party lights on, getting
each car who did the same.
making their end of the month
quotas to stuff the local bank
with money.
so you go to court, but the judge
is not amused by your self
defense, he says that the cop
made an honest mistake, it
was later, it was cold and windy,
he says, rainy.
anyone could have done
the same. exactly you say,
exactly. to which he says
is that sarcasm I hear coming
out of you?
small town, small brains, large
fine.
saying you turned
left instead of right a minute
after three pm on a rainy
afternoon.
he was sitting there with his
friends in blue,
the party lights on, getting
each car who did the same.
making their end of the month
quotas to stuff the local bank
with money.
so you go to court, but the judge
is not amused by your self
defense, he says that the cop
made an honest mistake, it
was later, it was cold and windy,
he says, rainy.
anyone could have done
the same. exactly you say,
exactly. to which he says
is that sarcasm I hear coming
out of you?
small town, small brains, large
fine.
your movie
who would play you in a movie
she asks as she
breaks off a piece of sourdough
bread she just baked,
and hands it to me.
hmm. i say, biting into the soft
warm doughy bread.
would it be a documentary,
or a feature film?
black and white? I love black and white.
an indie film? I prefer those.
mysterious and only shown
in small venues.
the kind of movie where you
walk out and shrug, saying,
it was good, I think.
and of course
no loud music or special effects.
she shakes her head
and looks at me. who, she says
maybe an unknown, I tell her,
maybe I could
play the role,
but with lots of make up
for the transitional aging parts,
and a stunt double
for the action scenes.
and you, I ask her, who would
play you?
Angelina Jolie, she says,
without hesitation.
she asks as she
breaks off a piece of sourdough
bread she just baked,
and hands it to me.
hmm. i say, biting into the soft
warm doughy bread.
would it be a documentary,
or a feature film?
black and white? I love black and white.
an indie film? I prefer those.
mysterious and only shown
in small venues.
the kind of movie where you
walk out and shrug, saying,
it was good, I think.
and of course
no loud music or special effects.
she shakes her head
and looks at me. who, she says
maybe an unknown, I tell her,
maybe I could
play the role,
but with lots of make up
for the transitional aging parts,
and a stunt double
for the action scenes.
and you, I ask her, who would
play you?
Angelina Jolie, she says,
without hesitation.
your movie
who would play you in a movie
she asks as she
breaks off a piece of sourdough
bread she just baked,
and hands it to me.
hmm. i say, biting into the soft
warm doughy bread.
would it be a documentary,
or a feature film?
black and white? I love black and white.
an indie film? I prefer those.
mysterious and only shown
in small venues.
the kind of movie where you
walk out and shrug, saying,
it was good, I think.
and of course
no loud music or special effects.
she shakes her head
and looks at me. who, she says
maybe an unknown, I tell her,
maybe I could
play the role,
but with lots of make up
for the transitional aging parts,
and a stunt double
for the action scenes.
and you, I ask her, who would
play you?
Angelina Jolie, she says,
without hesitation.
she asks as she
breaks off a piece of sourdough
bread she just baked,
and hands it to me.
hmm. i say, biting into the soft
warm doughy bread.
would it be a documentary,
or a feature film?
black and white? I love black and white.
an indie film? I prefer those.
mysterious and only shown
in small venues.
the kind of movie where you
walk out and shrug, saying,
it was good, I think.
and of course
no loud music or special effects.
she shakes her head
and looks at me. who, she says
maybe an unknown, I tell her,
maybe I could
play the role,
but with lots of make up
for the transitional aging parts,
and a stunt double
for the action scenes.
and you, I ask her, who would
play you?
Angelina Jolie, she says,
without hesitation.
a new pair of shoes
maybe a new pair of shoes
will brighten your day.
a pair of pants
to go along with them,
a shirt of course,
a top hat and tails,
a cane, yes. something
fancy and debonair.
maybe you need a sleek
dog with which to have at
the end of a leash,
a driver, a man at the door
to say good morning to
you as you leave your estate
to go about your day.
maybe a maid named Isabel
who will wave from the window
with her duster.
all of this comes to mind
as you chase the trash
truck down the street
with a bag of shrimp shells,
in your boxer shorts
at seven a.m.
will brighten your day.
a pair of pants
to go along with them,
a shirt of course,
a top hat and tails,
a cane, yes. something
fancy and debonair.
maybe you need a sleek
dog with which to have at
the end of a leash,
a driver, a man at the door
to say good morning to
you as you leave your estate
to go about your day.
maybe a maid named Isabel
who will wave from the window
with her duster.
all of this comes to mind
as you chase the trash
truck down the street
with a bag of shrimp shells,
in your boxer shorts
at seven a.m.
a new pair of shoes
maybe a new pair of shoes
will brighten your day.
a pair of pants
to go along with them,
a shirt of course,
a top hat and tails,
a cane, yes. something
fancy and debonair.
maybe you need a sleek
dog with which to have at
the end of a leash,
a driver, a man at the door
to say good morning to
you as you leave your estate
to go about your day.
maybe a maid named Isabel
who will wave from the window
with her duster.
all of this comes to mind
as you chase the trash
truck down the street
with a bag of shrimp shells,
in your boxer shorts
at seven a.m.
will brighten your day.
a pair of pants
to go along with them,
a shirt of course,
a top hat and tails,
a cane, yes. something
fancy and debonair.
maybe you need a sleek
dog with which to have at
the end of a leash,
a driver, a man at the door
to say good morning to
you as you leave your estate
to go about your day.
maybe a maid named Isabel
who will wave from the window
with her duster.
all of this comes to mind
as you chase the trash
truck down the street
with a bag of shrimp shells,
in your boxer shorts
at seven a.m.
Tuesday, March 22, 2016
steerage
because of your lame
health insurance
that covers nothing except
amputations
and heart
transplants,
you stop by the minute
clinic
for some prescription
medicines.
something for
the fever, the headache.
the onset of
flu.
you sit in a small plastic
chair,
in a small enclave.
a water fountain
hums next to you.
you listen to the coughing,
to the rattle of bones
shaking. you pray.
finally,
a nurse comes out
and points at who's next,
saying a name
as best she can.
all eyes are on her.
this Florence nightingale
in a mustard stained white dress.
it's the steerage section
of the health care world.
health insurance
that covers nothing except
amputations
and heart
transplants,
you stop by the minute
clinic
for some prescription
medicines.
something for
the fever, the headache.
the onset of
flu.
you sit in a small plastic
chair,
in a small enclave.
a water fountain
hums next to you.
you listen to the coughing,
to the rattle of bones
shaking. you pray.
finally,
a nurse comes out
and points at who's next,
saying a name
as best she can.
all eyes are on her.
this Florence nightingale
in a mustard stained white dress.
it's the steerage section
of the health care world.
steerage
because of your lame
health insurance
that covers nothing except
amputations
and heart
transplants,
you stop by the minute
clinic
for some prescription
medicines.
something for
the fever, the headache.
the onset of
flu.
you sit in a small plastic
chair,
in a small enclave.
a water fountain
hums next to you.
you listen to the coughing,
to the rattle of bones
shaking. you pray.
finally,
a nurse comes out
and points at who's next,
saying a name
as best she can.
all eyes are on her.
this Florence nightingale
in a mustard stained white dress.
it's the steerage section
of the health care world.
health insurance
that covers nothing except
amputations
and heart
transplants,
you stop by the minute
clinic
for some prescription
medicines.
something for
the fever, the headache.
the onset of
flu.
you sit in a small plastic
chair,
in a small enclave.
a water fountain
hums next to you.
you listen to the coughing,
to the rattle of bones
shaking. you pray.
finally,
a nurse comes out
and points at who's next,
saying a name
as best she can.
all eyes are on her.
this Florence nightingale
in a mustard stained white dress.
it's the steerage section
of the health care world.
new hours
i'm changing my hours,
just to let you know.
I will be working from ten a.m.
until 3 p.m.
from this point forward.
after that
i'll be taking a nap.
at noon,
i'll have lunch.
in the early morning i'll
be reading the paper
and drinking coffee,
writing
stuff like this.
I know it will seem like
nothing has changed,
but I just needed to post
it, so that there
are no misunderstandings,
and that you don't
call or bother me
before or after
work hours.
just to let you know.
I will be working from ten a.m.
until 3 p.m.
from this point forward.
after that
i'll be taking a nap.
at noon,
i'll have lunch.
in the early morning i'll
be reading the paper
and drinking coffee,
writing
stuff like this.
I know it will seem like
nothing has changed,
but I just needed to post
it, so that there
are no misunderstandings,
and that you don't
call or bother me
before or after
work hours.
new hours
i'm changing my hours,
just to let you know.
I will be working from ten a.m.
until 3 p.m.
from this point forward.
after that
i'll be taking a nap.
at noon,
i'll have lunch.
in the early morning i'll
be reading the paper
and drinking coffee,
writing
stuff like this.
I know it will seem like
nothing has changed,
but I just needed to post
it, so that there
are no misunderstandings,
and that you don't
call or bother me
before or after
work hours.
just to let you know.
I will be working from ten a.m.
until 3 p.m.
from this point forward.
after that
i'll be taking a nap.
at noon,
i'll have lunch.
in the early morning i'll
be reading the paper
and drinking coffee,
writing
stuff like this.
I know it will seem like
nothing has changed,
but I just needed to post
it, so that there
are no misunderstandings,
and that you don't
call or bother me
before or after
work hours.
the horses
they love horses,
these women. why, you aren't sure.
it's one of
differences between you
and them.
men and women that
you can't explain.
they hang pictures of them
all over their house.
the ribbons won,
the calendars of horses.
saddles and boots
are scattered everywhere.
they give their horses sweet
names.
they can't wait
to get to the stable
to ride them,
feed them, see if they have water,
or wash them slowly,
check their teeth, their hooves
in old age.
I have to go see my horse
today,
they tell you, throwing
carrots and oats into the trunk.
i'll be there for a few hours,
maybe later
we can get together,
watch the derby.
these women. why, you aren't sure.
it's one of
differences between you
and them.
men and women that
you can't explain.
they hang pictures of them
all over their house.
the ribbons won,
the calendars of horses.
saddles and boots
are scattered everywhere.
they give their horses sweet
names.
they can't wait
to get to the stable
to ride them,
feed them, see if they have water,
or wash them slowly,
check their teeth, their hooves
in old age.
I have to go see my horse
today,
they tell you, throwing
carrots and oats into the trunk.
i'll be there for a few hours,
maybe later
we can get together,
watch the derby.
the horses
they love horses,
these women. why, you aren't sure.
it's one of
differences between you
and them.
men and women that
you can't explain.
they hang pictures of them
all over their house.
the ribbons won,
the calendars of horses.
saddles and boots
are scattered everywhere.
they give their horses sweet
names.
they can't wait
to get to the stable
to ride them,
feed them, see if they have water,
or wash them slowly,
check their teeth, their hooves
in old age.
I have to go see my horse
today,
they tell you, throwing
carrots and oats into the trunk.
i'll be there for a few hours,
maybe later
we can get together,
watch the derby.
these women. why, you aren't sure.
it's one of
differences between you
and them.
men and women that
you can't explain.
they hang pictures of them
all over their house.
the ribbons won,
the calendars of horses.
saddles and boots
are scattered everywhere.
they give their horses sweet
names.
they can't wait
to get to the stable
to ride them,
feed them, see if they have water,
or wash them slowly,
check their teeth, their hooves
in old age.
I have to go see my horse
today,
they tell you, throwing
carrots and oats into the trunk.
i'll be there for a few hours,
maybe later
we can get together,
watch the derby.
lost hours
you find
the lost hour
between the cushions of
your couch.
there it is,
stuffed down,
under the paper,
a plate of food,
a drink
balanced on
the side.
the remote still warm
from your hand
watching what?
reruns
of another era.
maybe it's more than
just an hour
down there, it could
be half a life time.
the lost hour
between the cushions of
your couch.
there it is,
stuffed down,
under the paper,
a plate of food,
a drink
balanced on
the side.
the remote still warm
from your hand
watching what?
reruns
of another era.
maybe it's more than
just an hour
down there, it could
be half a life time.
lost hours
you find
the lost hour
between the cushions of
your couch.
there it is,
stuffed down,
under the paper,
a plate of food,
a drink
balanced on
the side.
the remote still warm
from your hand
watching what?
reruns
of another era.
maybe it's more than
just an hour
down there, it could
be half a life time.
the lost hour
between the cushions of
your couch.
there it is,
stuffed down,
under the paper,
a plate of food,
a drink
balanced on
the side.
the remote still warm
from your hand
watching what?
reruns
of another era.
maybe it's more than
just an hour
down there, it could
be half a life time.
the wonder
whatever you've chosen
to do
with your days,
no matter the work,
there is a point where
you stop,
take a small moment
and wonder
how it is that you got here.
no epiphany, no
great awakening of spirit
or heart,
just plain
wonder at why
and how, you got where
you are. then back
to work you go.
to do
with your days,
no matter the work,
there is a point where
you stop,
take a small moment
and wonder
how it is that you got here.
no epiphany, no
great awakening of spirit
or heart,
just plain
wonder at why
and how, you got where
you are. then back
to work you go.
Monday, March 21, 2016
yelling
there was always yelling.
loud pitched voices,
the higher decibels of the young.
seagulls we
were in the small house,
batting our wings
against one
another,
flying towards the table
for crumbs.
always yelling coming from
one of us,
at the top of the stairs,
from the basement,
from outside in,
from someone
about clothes, or toys,
the unasked borrowing
of everything
we possessed,
and the neighbor with his shoe
banging against our
shared wall,
he didn't stand a chance.
loud pitched voices,
the higher decibels of the young.
seagulls we
were in the small house,
batting our wings
against one
another,
flying towards the table
for crumbs.
always yelling coming from
one of us,
at the top of the stairs,
from the basement,
from outside in,
from someone
about clothes, or toys,
the unasked borrowing
of everything
we possessed,
and the neighbor with his shoe
banging against our
shared wall,
he didn't stand a chance.
sideways
you go forward,
the clock says so.
the sun falling, the moon
rising.
the calendar too.
the roads all have arrows
pointing that way,
although it doesn't
seem like forward anymore.
sideways is more
of a direction.
you move on though.
it is what you do with your life.
feeling each day
go through your hands
so easily.
if there is one,
is the next life like that,
you wonder.
the clock says so.
the sun falling, the moon
rising.
the calendar too.
the roads all have arrows
pointing that way,
although it doesn't
seem like forward anymore.
sideways is more
of a direction.
you move on though.
it is what you do with your life.
feeling each day
go through your hands
so easily.
if there is one,
is the next life like that,
you wonder.
the fiftteen minute appointment
I spend a few hours
trying to make a doctor's appointment
with a physician
assigned to me
by my new health insurance carrier.
it takes awhile to get
a live person on the phone.
I've repeated my insurance number
so many times,
I almost have it memorized.
they ask what the issue is.
I tell them, it's a long list.
night terrors, allergies,
my left foot falls asleep,
a headache if I don't get coffee
in the morning. i'm afraid of heights
and Indian food.
i'm getting older and want
to stop it, or at least slow it
down.
okay. okay. the person says.
i'm sure the doctor can address
all of these ailments.
we have a Friday, three weeks
from now, eight a.m. i'm
putting you in for a fifteen
minute visit, so limit your questions.
sure, I tell them, sounds good
to me, but if I suddenly get healthy
again, i'll call and let you
know.
trying to make a doctor's appointment
with a physician
assigned to me
by my new health insurance carrier.
it takes awhile to get
a live person on the phone.
I've repeated my insurance number
so many times,
I almost have it memorized.
they ask what the issue is.
I tell them, it's a long list.
night terrors, allergies,
my left foot falls asleep,
a headache if I don't get coffee
in the morning. i'm afraid of heights
and Indian food.
i'm getting older and want
to stop it, or at least slow it
down.
okay. okay. the person says.
i'm sure the doctor can address
all of these ailments.
we have a Friday, three weeks
from now, eight a.m. i'm
putting you in for a fifteen
minute visit, so limit your questions.
sure, I tell them, sounds good
to me, but if I suddenly get healthy
again, i'll call and let you
know.
i work for windows
the delightful man on the other line,
who says his name
is sam Jackson
living in Malibu California
wants to help clean up my computer.
he says he works
for windows, and has noticed
a large sampling of error reports
coming from my system.
he doesn't seem to know my name,
but does have my land line
number, so it must be legit.
he sounds like my friend who
owns a Pakistani restaurant
in the city. the same cadence
and accent to his words.
he tells me to put one finger on
the control key, the other
on shift, another finger
somewhere else.
I ask him about my feet, I tell
him that I am limber enough
to use a big toe on my keyboard
if need be.
he repeats his instructions,
but is getting impatient. he wants
to know why I'm laughing.
I tell him that I just thought of
something funny
that my cat did the other day
and that it has nothing to do
with him.
he doesn't believe me, and curses
in English and a few other languages.
you are wasting my time, he says.
then hangs up abruptly.
it was going so well, my computer
was that close to being fixed.
who says his name
is sam Jackson
living in Malibu California
wants to help clean up my computer.
he says he works
for windows, and has noticed
a large sampling of error reports
coming from my system.
he doesn't seem to know my name,
but does have my land line
number, so it must be legit.
he sounds like my friend who
owns a Pakistani restaurant
in the city. the same cadence
and accent to his words.
he tells me to put one finger on
the control key, the other
on shift, another finger
somewhere else.
I ask him about my feet, I tell
him that I am limber enough
to use a big toe on my keyboard
if need be.
he repeats his instructions,
but is getting impatient. he wants
to know why I'm laughing.
I tell him that I just thought of
something funny
that my cat did the other day
and that it has nothing to do
with him.
he doesn't believe me, and curses
in English and a few other languages.
you are wasting my time, he says.
then hangs up abruptly.
it was going so well, my computer
was that close to being fixed.
your big chair
your neighbor
likes to borrow things.
a cup of olive oil
for instance,
sugar, eggs,
two slices of bread,
once.
she needed a garden hoe
one spring day,
but you never saw
the flowers,
or the hoe in return.
as she packs
to leave, move on
to another city
you see the movers
carrying out the things
you've lent to her.
you see the pictures
you've set out on
the curb for trash,
a coat you once wore.
books, magazines you've
tossed.
a big chair with a rip
that she
sealed with duct
tape.
you hear her telling
the movers
to be careful, not
to drop it. you loved
that chair and feel
strangely happy
that it's found
a new home.
likes to borrow things.
a cup of olive oil
for instance,
sugar, eggs,
two slices of bread,
once.
she needed a garden hoe
one spring day,
but you never saw
the flowers,
or the hoe in return.
as she packs
to leave, move on
to another city
you see the movers
carrying out the things
you've lent to her.
you see the pictures
you've set out on
the curb for trash,
a coat you once wore.
books, magazines you've
tossed.
a big chair with a rip
that she
sealed with duct
tape.
you hear her telling
the movers
to be careful, not
to drop it. you loved
that chair and feel
strangely happy
that it's found
a new home.
the sunday paper
you have the intention
of reading
the entire New York
Sunday Times
today. this Sunday,
the day it's bought and carried
home with coffee
and a warmed croissant.
you plan to
do the puzzle, at least
try the puzzle
without cheating.
the magazine first,
then backwards
into the news. sports.
commentary,
but it sits for the most
part on the couch,
partly read,
skimmed, pages turned.
it's too much.
maybe as the week goes on
you'll get to it. dip into
arts and leisure,
book world. city life,
things that
have happened so
long ago.
of reading
the entire New York
Sunday Times
today. this Sunday,
the day it's bought and carried
home with coffee
and a warmed croissant.
you plan to
do the puzzle, at least
try the puzzle
without cheating.
the magazine first,
then backwards
into the news. sports.
commentary,
but it sits for the most
part on the couch,
partly read,
skimmed, pages turned.
it's too much.
maybe as the week goes on
you'll get to it. dip into
arts and leisure,
book world. city life,
things that
have happened so
long ago.
the sunday paper
you have the intention
of reading
the entire New York
Sunday Times
today. this Sunday,
the day it's bought and carried
home with coffee
and a warmed croissant.
you plan to
do the puzzle, at least
try the puzzle
without cheating.
the magazine first,
then backwards
into the news. sports.
commentary,
but it sits for the most
part on the couch,
partly read,
skimmed, pages turned.
it's too much.
maybe as the week goes on
you'll get to it. dip into
arts and leisure,
book world. city life,
things that
have happened so
long ago.
of reading
the entire New York
Sunday Times
today. this Sunday,
the day it's bought and carried
home with coffee
and a warmed croissant.
you plan to
do the puzzle, at least
try the puzzle
without cheating.
the magazine first,
then backwards
into the news. sports.
commentary,
but it sits for the most
part on the couch,
partly read,
skimmed, pages turned.
it's too much.
maybe as the week goes on
you'll get to it. dip into
arts and leisure,
book world. city life,
things that
have happened so
long ago.
i'd like to buy a pie
you see them up
ahead.
dressed in black, a horse
and buggy.
a man, a woman, a child
or two.
you hear the hooves
against the pavement,
as you drive slowly
behind them.
the man waves you past
with a whip,
so you
maneuver around
to the side of the wagon.
you wave and smile,
to which you get nothing
in return.
you're hoping there might
be a pie stand
up ahead,
so you yell, pies?
out the window.
they shake their heads,
pies?
you yell again, is there
a pie stand
up ahead. i'd like to
purchase a pie or two.
this seems to anger them
as the mother,
in a white bonnet, black dress,
takes out a shoe fly pie
and flings it
towards your head.
ahead.
dressed in black, a horse
and buggy.
a man, a woman, a child
or two.
you hear the hooves
against the pavement,
as you drive slowly
behind them.
the man waves you past
with a whip,
so you
maneuver around
to the side of the wagon.
you wave and smile,
to which you get nothing
in return.
you're hoping there might
be a pie stand
up ahead,
so you yell, pies?
out the window.
they shake their heads,
pies?
you yell again, is there
a pie stand
up ahead. i'd like to
purchase a pie or two.
this seems to anger them
as the mother,
in a white bonnet, black dress,
takes out a shoe fly pie
and flings it
towards your head.
i'd like to buy a pie
you see them up
ahead.
dressed in black, a horse
and buggy.
a man, a woman, a child
or two.
you hear the hooves
against the pavement,
as you drive slowly
behind them.
the man waves you past
with a whip,
so you
maneuver around
to the side of the wagon.
you wave and smile,
to which you get nothing
in return.
you're hoping there might
be a pie stand
up ahead,
so you yell, pies?
out the window.
they shake their heads,
pies?
you yell again, is there
a pie stand
up ahead. i'd like to
purchase a pie or two.
this seems to anger them
as the mother,
in a white bonnet, black dress,
takes out a shoe fly pie
and flings it
towards your head.
ahead.
dressed in black, a horse
and buggy.
a man, a woman, a child
or two.
you hear the hooves
against the pavement,
as you drive slowly
behind them.
the man waves you past
with a whip,
so you
maneuver around
to the side of the wagon.
you wave and smile,
to which you get nothing
in return.
you're hoping there might
be a pie stand
up ahead,
so you yell, pies?
out the window.
they shake their heads,
pies?
you yell again, is there
a pie stand
up ahead. i'd like to
purchase a pie or two.
this seems to anger them
as the mother,
in a white bonnet, black dress,
takes out a shoe fly pie
and flings it
towards your head.
Sunday, March 20, 2016
stay with it
some things never come
clean.
no matter the soap
or bleach,
no matter how hard you
scrub
and wash.
the stain won't come out,
the dirt remains.
the white
will no longer be white,
the blue
faded, the greens
a pale memory
of when it was bought.
but still
it's folded. it's hung
in the closet.
it's worn despite all.
clean.
no matter the soap
or bleach,
no matter how hard you
scrub
and wash.
the stain won't come out,
the dirt remains.
the white
will no longer be white,
the blue
faded, the greens
a pale memory
of when it was bought.
but still
it's folded. it's hung
in the closet.
it's worn despite all.
stay with it
some things never come
clean.
no matter the soap
or bleach,
no matter how hard you
scrub
and wash.
the stain won't come out,
the dirt remains.
the white
will no longer be white,
the blue
faded, the greens
a pale memory
of when it was bought.
but still
it's folded. it's hung
in the closet.
it's worn despite all.
clean.
no matter the soap
or bleach,
no matter how hard you
scrub
and wash.
the stain won't come out,
the dirt remains.
the white
will no longer be white,
the blue
faded, the greens
a pale memory
of when it was bought.
but still
it's folded. it's hung
in the closet.
it's worn despite all.
no love here
jokingly I called her house
the no fun zone.
a place of work,
a small eastern bloc
country,
grey, surrounded by
barbed wire and fence.
into my hands would go
a shovel.
a bag of dirt or stones.
I listened
to what the birds were
saying
struggling on the feeder
for small bits
of seed.
I stared up at the tall
trees that whistled
in the wind.
I hammered nails, turned screws,
painted doors,
gathered fallen leaves
for the fire,
I then rested in my
own arms
at the end of another
hard day.
the no fun zone.
a place of work,
a small eastern bloc
country,
grey, surrounded by
barbed wire and fence.
into my hands would go
a shovel.
a bag of dirt or stones.
I listened
to what the birds were
saying
struggling on the feeder
for small bits
of seed.
I stared up at the tall
trees that whistled
in the wind.
I hammered nails, turned screws,
painted doors,
gathered fallen leaves
for the fire,
I then rested in my
own arms
at the end of another
hard day.
life continues
your mother would
disappear
and go off, driven
by someone
to have a baby. within a
week or so
she'd be there again,
bringing home
a new boy or girl. she'd be
back at the stove,
back at the clothesline,
hands on
the vacuum.
pushing her black
framed glasses up over
her nose.
saying
something to the neighbor
as you leaned
on the sill
staring out the window.
disappear
and go off, driven
by someone
to have a baby. within a
week or so
she'd be there again,
bringing home
a new boy or girl. she'd be
back at the stove,
back at the clothesline,
hands on
the vacuum.
pushing her black
framed glasses up over
her nose.
saying
something to the neighbor
as you leaned
on the sill
staring out the window.
life continues
your mother would
disappear
and go off, driven
by someone
to have a baby. within a
week or so
she'd be there again,
bringing home
a new boy or girl. she'd be
back at the stove,
back at the clothesline,
hands on
the vacuum.
pushing her black
framed glasses up over
her nose.
saying
something to the neighbor
as you leaned
on the sill
staring out the window.
disappear
and go off, driven
by someone
to have a baby. within a
week or so
she'd be there again,
bringing home
a new boy or girl. she'd be
back at the stove,
back at the clothesline,
hands on
the vacuum.
pushing her black
framed glasses up over
her nose.
saying
something to the neighbor
as you leaned
on the sill
staring out the window.
a place to stop
the broad field.
the empty stretch of land.
a boarded house
at the edge,
where the road is.
an apple orchard gone bare.
a swing
on one strand still
blowing
back and forth,
no trees to lessen
the wind.
a rag doll, a rusted bike.
the remnants of
a family
in flight. this property
condemned.
not a place you'd think
to stop
and eat your lunch.
but you do.
it seems important
to remember all of this.
the empty stretch of land.
a boarded house
at the edge,
where the road is.
an apple orchard gone bare.
a swing
on one strand still
blowing
back and forth,
no trees to lessen
the wind.
a rag doll, a rusted bike.
the remnants of
a family
in flight. this property
condemned.
not a place you'd think
to stop
and eat your lunch.
but you do.
it seems important
to remember all of this.
sunday mass
full of Catholicism
at the age of twelve,
the incentive of fear and guilt
in full bloom,
I used to wear
a button down short sleeved
shirt to Easter Sunday
mass. canary yellow.
it seemed right.
loosely tucked into
my khaki pants,
a brown belt to match
brown shoes.
hair combed, shiny
with brylcreme, parted
evenly on the side.
catechism in hand.
an envelope with four
quarters rattling around
in my pocket.
church was after the cellophane
was ripped
off the easter baskets
that my mother set out on
the dining room table.
seven. all different colors,
glimmering, translucent
in the overhead light.
chocolate rabbits,
and yellow peeps,
jelly beans,
easter eggs dyed
by our hands the day before.
by the time we got
home from church there
was a ham
in the oven, filling the house
with warmth, my mother,
excommunicated by divorce,
was busy with scalloped potatoes,
unsmiling at the stove,
asking how church was.
at the age of twelve,
the incentive of fear and guilt
in full bloom,
I used to wear
a button down short sleeved
shirt to Easter Sunday
mass. canary yellow.
it seemed right.
loosely tucked into
my khaki pants,
a brown belt to match
brown shoes.
hair combed, shiny
with brylcreme, parted
evenly on the side.
catechism in hand.
an envelope with four
quarters rattling around
in my pocket.
church was after the cellophane
was ripped
off the easter baskets
that my mother set out on
the dining room table.
seven. all different colors,
glimmering, translucent
in the overhead light.
chocolate rabbits,
and yellow peeps,
jelly beans,
easter eggs dyed
by our hands the day before.
by the time we got
home from church there
was a ham
in the oven, filling the house
with warmth, my mother,
excommunicated by divorce,
was busy with scalloped potatoes,
unsmiling at the stove,
asking how church was.
sunday mass
full of Catholicism
at the age of twelve,
the incentive of fear and guilt
in full bloom,
I used to wear
a button down short sleeved
shirt to Easter Sunday
mass. canary yellow.
it seemed right.
loosely tucked into
my khaki pants,
a brown belt to match
brown shoes.
hair combed, shiny
with brylcreme, parted
evenly on the side.
catechism in hand.
an envelope with four
quarters rattling around
in my pocket.
church was after the cellophane
was ripped
off the easter baskets
that my mother set out on
the dining room table.
seven. all different colors,
glimmering, translucent
in the overhead light.
chocolate rabbits,
and yellow peeps,
jelly beans,
easter eggs dyed
by our hands the day before.
by the time we got
home from church there
was a ham
in the oven, filling the house
with warmth, my mother,
excommunicated by divorce,
was busy with scalloped potatoes,
unsmiling at the stove,
asking how church was.
at the age of twelve,
the incentive of fear and guilt
in full bloom,
I used to wear
a button down short sleeved
shirt to Easter Sunday
mass. canary yellow.
it seemed right.
loosely tucked into
my khaki pants,
a brown belt to match
brown shoes.
hair combed, shiny
with brylcreme, parted
evenly on the side.
catechism in hand.
an envelope with four
quarters rattling around
in my pocket.
church was after the cellophane
was ripped
off the easter baskets
that my mother set out on
the dining room table.
seven. all different colors,
glimmering, translucent
in the overhead light.
chocolate rabbits,
and yellow peeps,
jelly beans,
easter eggs dyed
by our hands the day before.
by the time we got
home from church there
was a ham
in the oven, filling the house
with warmth, my mother,
excommunicated by divorce,
was busy with scalloped potatoes,
unsmiling at the stove,
asking how church was.
dinner adventure
I feel a little queasy
I tell her, as she spoons
another helping
of Indian food into my dish.
rice and what not. buffalo?
this goat
might be undercooked, i
say politely,
taking a fork
to break the crust of skin
from the pink white
meat.
oh no, she says.
that's the way to cook it.
eat up. there's more
in the kitchen.
have you tried the kale, she says,
reaching across
the table
with the bowl of a green sea weed
looking vegetable.
I boiled, baked and stir
fired it,
after about thirty chews,
it should go
down.
I tell her, as she spoons
another helping
of Indian food into my dish.
rice and what not. buffalo?
this goat
might be undercooked, i
say politely,
taking a fork
to break the crust of skin
from the pink white
meat.
oh no, she says.
that's the way to cook it.
eat up. there's more
in the kitchen.
have you tried the kale, she says,
reaching across
the table
with the bowl of a green sea weed
looking vegetable.
I boiled, baked and stir
fired it,
after about thirty chews,
it should go
down.
the two o'clock appointment
bottled up
they sit in the waiting
room
on plastic chairs,
drinking coffee
browsing
old magazines, home
and garden,
cosmopolitan,
hunting and fishing,
men's health
and shape. psychology today.
some twitch, some have
already
begun to cry,
some have notes in
their hand
documenting the abuses
of husbands, or wives,
parents
long gone. children
and work. everyone there
a little bit
out of their mind.
the place vibrates
with anxiety and pain.
finally the door
swings open
and a woman with owl
glasses
in a grey suit,
looks around the room,
calls out your name.
batter up.
they sit in the waiting
room
on plastic chairs,
drinking coffee
browsing
old magazines, home
and garden,
cosmopolitan,
hunting and fishing,
men's health
and shape. psychology today.
some twitch, some have
already
begun to cry,
some have notes in
their hand
documenting the abuses
of husbands, or wives,
parents
long gone. children
and work. everyone there
a little bit
out of their mind.
the place vibrates
with anxiety and pain.
finally the door
swings open
and a woman with owl
glasses
in a grey suit,
looks around the room,
calls out your name.
batter up.
Saturday, March 19, 2016
dancing killer whales
the water zoo decides
to no longer train the whales
to jump
and spin, to make whale like noises
to delight
the crowd.
we have a heart now they announce,
breeding wild animals
as circus clowns seems wrong.
putting hats on
them, and little dresses,
teaching them
to slap their fins against
each other
will no longer be done.
sometimes they eat
the workers, but we expect
that from time to time.
they are killer whales after all.
and we, in our
wet suits, look like fish.
stupid fish,
or prawn.
to no longer train the whales
to jump
and spin, to make whale like noises
to delight
the crowd.
we have a heart now they announce,
breeding wild animals
as circus clowns seems wrong.
putting hats on
them, and little dresses,
teaching them
to slap their fins against
each other
will no longer be done.
sometimes they eat
the workers, but we expect
that from time to time.
they are killer whales after all.
and we, in our
wet suits, look like fish.
stupid fish,
or prawn.
dancing killer whales
the water zoo decides
to no longer train the whales
to jump
and spin, to make whale like noises
to delight
the crowd.
we have a heart now they announce,
breeding wild animals
as circus clowns seems wrong.
putting hats on
them, and little dresses,
teaching them
to slap their fins against
each other
will no longer be done.
sometimes they eat
the workers, but we expect
that from time to time.
they are killer whales after all.
and we, in our
wet suits, look like fish.
stupid fish,
or prawn.
to no longer train the whales
to jump
and spin, to make whale like noises
to delight
the crowd.
we have a heart now they announce,
breeding wild animals
as circus clowns seems wrong.
putting hats on
them, and little dresses,
teaching them
to slap their fins against
each other
will no longer be done.
sometimes they eat
the workers, but we expect
that from time to time.
they are killer whales after all.
and we, in our
wet suits, look like fish.
stupid fish,
or prawn.
a new house
bank of
America calls you with a fraud
warning.
it seems
that someone in china
is trying to buy
a new house
with your card.
is that you, they ask.
what part of china,
you ask them.
near a waterfall, I hope.
if it was me i'd like
a nice view.
hardwood floors,
thatched roof,
three bedrooms,
maybe a little bamboo,
walking distance to coffee
and food.
a carport too.
America calls you with a fraud
warning.
it seems
that someone in china
is trying to buy
a new house
with your card.
is that you, they ask.
what part of china,
you ask them.
near a waterfall, I hope.
if it was me i'd like
a nice view.
hardwood floors,
thatched roof,
three bedrooms,
maybe a little bamboo,
walking distance to coffee
and food.
a carport too.
fax me
who doesn't have
a business card?
even my dog has one,
a stack
of embossed cards
with his
picture on the front.
a stack of chewed bones.
will bark for free,
it reads.
even people without jobs
have cards.
their name
and number, saying nothing,
but that.
maybe a silhouette
of a tree,
or house, or bird.
you have a stack of cards
with a rubber band
holding them altogether.
lawyers, doctors,
massage therapists, firewood
salesmen.
cell phone, home phone,
fax.
does anybody fax anymore?
a business card?
even my dog has one,
a stack
of embossed cards
with his
picture on the front.
a stack of chewed bones.
will bark for free,
it reads.
even people without jobs
have cards.
their name
and number, saying nothing,
but that.
maybe a silhouette
of a tree,
or house, or bird.
you have a stack of cards
with a rubber band
holding them altogether.
lawyers, doctors,
massage therapists, firewood
salesmen.
cell phone, home phone,
fax.
does anybody fax anymore?
toast
like burnt toast
the argument hangs in the air.
the blackened edges
of bread,
charred
and leaving crumbs
along
the counter.
no use in scrapping off
what's done, inedible,
you throw it away
and open the window,
knowing that
the day will be long
in front of you.
the argument hangs in the air.
the blackened edges
of bread,
charred
and leaving crumbs
along
the counter.
no use in scrapping off
what's done, inedible,
you throw it away
and open the window,
knowing that
the day will be long
in front of you.
toast
like burnt toast
the argument hangs in the air.
the blackened edges
of bread,
charred
and leaving crumbs
along
the counter.
no use in scrapping off
what's done, inedible,
you throw it away
and open the window,
knowing that
the day will be long
in front of you.
the argument hangs in the air.
the blackened edges
of bread,
charred
and leaving crumbs
along
the counter.
no use in scrapping off
what's done, inedible,
you throw it away
and open the window,
knowing that
the day will be long
in front of you.
Friday, March 18, 2016
we were young once too
we were young once too.
our music
misunderstood, our hair
long,
our clothes,
laughed at
by those older,
the way we spoke
and carried ourselves.
we believed in change
and revolt.
no different than now.
we were young too
once upon a time,
marching like
they are,
studying the ways of
elders,
so as not to repeat
what we did and become
so tired, so blue.
our music
misunderstood, our hair
long,
our clothes,
laughed at
by those older,
the way we spoke
and carried ourselves.
we believed in change
and revolt.
no different than now.
we were young too
once upon a time,
marching like
they are,
studying the ways of
elders,
so as not to repeat
what we did and become
so tired, so blue.
we were young once too
we were young once too.
our music
misunderstood, our hair
long,
our clothes,
laughed at
by those older,
the way we spoke
and carried ourselves.
we believed in change
and revolt.
no different than now.
we were young too
once upon a time,
marching like
they are,
studying the ways of
elders,
so as not to repeat
what we did and become
so tired, so blue.
our music
misunderstood, our hair
long,
our clothes,
laughed at
by those older,
the way we spoke
and carried ourselves.
we believed in change
and revolt.
no different than now.
we were young too
once upon a time,
marching like
they are,
studying the ways of
elders,
so as not to repeat
what we did and become
so tired, so blue.
late again
my father
coming up the stairs
in hard boots
was heard
throughout the house,
as was his
voice,
his whistle, or cough,
red faced with weather,
the barrel of him full
of smoke
and whiskey.
how on edge we'd be
waiting
for the smile, or growl,
an equal chance at
both when
he came home late at night,
with supper
cold.
his pockets empty, limp
flowers in his
hand
as he wiped the pale
remnants of lipstick
from his jowls.
coming up the stairs
in hard boots
was heard
throughout the house,
as was his
voice,
his whistle, or cough,
red faced with weather,
the barrel of him full
of smoke
and whiskey.
how on edge we'd be
waiting
for the smile, or growl,
an equal chance at
both when
he came home late at night,
with supper
cold.
his pockets empty, limp
flowers in his
hand
as he wiped the pale
remnants of lipstick
from his jowls.
sailing home
from the window
of the plane she can make
out the fields.
the straight lines, the grids
of corn
and wheat, green rows against
the ruffled dirt,
yellowed tractors,
red barns and silos,
silvered thumbs along
the flat plains.
this once dust bowl,
this land
of despair and hope.
all prayers revolving
around rain
and harvest, the farm
homes,
white as cathedrals
with clouds of life
that come and go beneath
their roofs.
of the plane she can make
out the fields.
the straight lines, the grids
of corn
and wheat, green rows against
the ruffled dirt,
yellowed tractors,
red barns and silos,
silvered thumbs along
the flat plains.
this once dust bowl,
this land
of despair and hope.
all prayers revolving
around rain
and harvest, the farm
homes,
white as cathedrals
with clouds of life
that come and go beneath
their roofs.
the wind in the courtyard
you can feel
the circling of things.
paper thin
survivors.
people you haven't seen in years
appearing,
remembering, sharing stories
of when,
each to his version
of what really happened.
the parents gone, or nearly
gone. the children
no longer children.
the old neighborhoods
still there,
but less some how
than what they were.
you can feel it in their
voices,
having traveled this far
through the calendared years,
caught in this strange wind,
the small wisdoms
learned, collected
and turned into one.
the circling of things.
paper thin
survivors.
people you haven't seen in years
appearing,
remembering, sharing stories
of when,
each to his version
of what really happened.
the parents gone, or nearly
gone. the children
no longer children.
the old neighborhoods
still there,
but less some how
than what they were.
you can feel it in their
voices,
having traveled this far
through the calendared years,
caught in this strange wind,
the small wisdoms
learned, collected
and turned into one.
Thursday, March 17, 2016
ladder work
the aluminum ladder
pulled longer by the blue rope,
leans
up against the brick house.
there are windows
to be painted.
trim, siding, a dormer
or two.
since falling though
three years ago
you are more careful,
more thorough
in setting the feet,
checking the ground,
the wall,
wind. you fill your lungs
with imaginary courage
then climb.
you can only escape
death so many times
before it's your time.
pulled longer by the blue rope,
leans
up against the brick house.
there are windows
to be painted.
trim, siding, a dormer
or two.
since falling though
three years ago
you are more careful,
more thorough
in setting the feet,
checking the ground,
the wall,
wind. you fill your lungs
with imaginary courage
then climb.
you can only escape
death so many times
before it's your time.
ladder work
the aluminum ladder
pulled longer by the blue rope,
leans
up against the brick house.
there are windows
to be painted.
trim, siding, a dormer
or two.
since falling though
three years ago
you are more careful,
more thorough
in setting the feet,
checking the ground,
the wall,
wind. you fill your lungs
with imaginary courage
then climb.
you can only escape
death so many times
before it's your time.
pulled longer by the blue rope,
leans
up against the brick house.
there are windows
to be painted.
trim, siding, a dormer
or two.
since falling though
three years ago
you are more careful,
more thorough
in setting the feet,
checking the ground,
the wall,
wind. you fill your lungs
with imaginary courage
then climb.
you can only escape
death so many times
before it's your time.
notebooks
my notebooks.
each dated, each full of information
for work,
or pleasure, numbers,
addresses,
times and names.
sketches and ideas.
each book the same, the covers
either blue
or grey, cheap spiral
notebooks.
dozens of them fill
the bin.
reminders of my immediate
past, never to be thrown
away by my
hands, someone else
will have
that to do, their task.
each dated, each full of information
for work,
or pleasure, numbers,
addresses,
times and names.
sketches and ideas.
each book the same, the covers
either blue
or grey, cheap spiral
notebooks.
dozens of them fill
the bin.
reminders of my immediate
past, never to be thrown
away by my
hands, someone else
will have
that to do, their task.
small pleasures
I could barely contain my joy
when pulling up into the driveway,
arriving home from work.
tired and sore.
a cardboard package was squeezed
between the front door
and the glass storm.
special delivery, overnight,
urgent, express mail,
the wrapping read.
I ran inside to open the box,
taking a steak knife out
of my cutlery drawer (I like that word)
to cut the thick tape to view
my long awaited order,
two days of pacing, tapping
my feet, staring out the window
for the brown truck to pull up.
listening for the siren of it's
diesel engine.
there it was finally.
three four pound bags of
eucalyptus mint Epsom salts.
quickly I ran upstairs and hit
the hot water in the tub,
carefully pouring out two
cups of the white salts
into the steamy heat. as I did so,
I realized that
the small pleasure in life
have somehow won over the larger ones.
and strangely
i'm okay with that.
when pulling up into the driveway,
arriving home from work.
tired and sore.
a cardboard package was squeezed
between the front door
and the glass storm.
special delivery, overnight,
urgent, express mail,
the wrapping read.
I ran inside to open the box,
taking a steak knife out
of my cutlery drawer (I like that word)
to cut the thick tape to view
my long awaited order,
two days of pacing, tapping
my feet, staring out the window
for the brown truck to pull up.
listening for the siren of it's
diesel engine.
there it was finally.
three four pound bags of
eucalyptus mint Epsom salts.
quickly I ran upstairs and hit
the hot water in the tub,
carefully pouring out two
cups of the white salts
into the steamy heat. as I did so,
I realized that
the small pleasure in life
have somehow won over the larger ones.
and strangely
i'm okay with that.
the small bird
your grandmother's cuckoo clock
from the black forest
never worked
unless she reached up
and spun the hands
to get the bird
to come out of his dark
wooden box
to make his sounds.
the long chains held
the cone weights
and there were sentries
at the door
of the bird.
in time she grew shorter,
no longer
able to reach up.
her hair became white,
her skin pale.
bent over,
but she could
point at the clock
smile,
and remember.
from the black forest
never worked
unless she reached up
and spun the hands
to get the bird
to come out of his dark
wooden box
to make his sounds.
the long chains held
the cone weights
and there were sentries
at the door
of the bird.
in time she grew shorter,
no longer
able to reach up.
her hair became white,
her skin pale.
bent over,
but she could
point at the clock
smile,
and remember.
get me out of here
did you find everything
you need,
the clerk asks, coming over
to your aisle to respond
to the blinking light
and your loud
cursing. is there anything
more I can do
for you., he says, swiping
his id card
across the red register
light.
yes. I say.
help me find the code
for these apples
so I can get out of this store.
you need,
the clerk asks, coming over
to your aisle to respond
to the blinking light
and your loud
cursing. is there anything
more I can do
for you., he says, swiping
his id card
across the red register
light.
yes. I say.
help me find the code
for these apples
so I can get out of this store.
get me out of here
did you find everything
you need,
the clerk asks, coming over
to your aisle to respond
to the blinking light
and your loud
cursing. is there anything
more I can do
for you., he says, swiping
his id card
across the red register
light.
yes. I say.
help me find the code
for these apples
so I can get out of this store.
you need,
the clerk asks, coming over
to your aisle to respond
to the blinking light
and your loud
cursing. is there anything
more I can do
for you., he says, swiping
his id card
across the red register
light.
yes. I say.
help me find the code
for these apples
so I can get out of this store.
the stew of faith
she mixes new age
with old
age in her stew of faith.
part catholic,
part
Buddhist, one part
common sense
and breathing.
she has an orange mat
with which to roll
out on, and in a lotus
position, pray.
she's sketchy on sin,
on life
after death,
sex before marriage,
Darwin, but this mix
of beliefs
work for her,
gets her through
the day.
with old
age in her stew of faith.
part catholic,
part
Buddhist, one part
common sense
and breathing.
she has an orange mat
with which to roll
out on, and in a lotus
position, pray.
she's sketchy on sin,
on life
after death,
sex before marriage,
Darwin, but this mix
of beliefs
work for her,
gets her through
the day.
Wednesday, March 16, 2016
the new personal trainer
my new personal trainer amy,
all one hundred and twelve pounds
of her, shows up
bouncing like a bunny
in her pink tights
and new lime green work out
shoes.
okay, okay, she says
cheerfully, clapping her hands.
let's start
with some stretches,
she turns on some music,
lively urban music with rhyming
curse words and says, let's
reach down and touch our toes.
why, is my response. for what?
they're very far away, I tell her.
i look down at my black
high top chuck taylor's.
can we start with knees,
I suggest. after all it's
the first day. she's still bouncing
on her toes, not one
ounce of her is jiggling,
which is disappointing.
have you had your coffee yet?
I yell out over the music.
I can warm us up
some cinnamon rolls if you'd like.
she comes over and puts her
hand on my back, then pushes
me forward,
my arms dangle towards my
feet, further she yells, go
for it, feel the pain.
which i do. it sounds like
sticks crackling in a barrel fire.
somehow i make it, my fingers
touch my toes. great, she says,
as if something wonderful
has just happened.
mt. Everest has been climbed.
okay, let's run in place now.
let's get the old heart going.
i begin to run, but not in place,
i run around the room,
the dog comes down after hearing
all the commotion
and starts running too.
he begins to bark and nip
at my heels. okay, okay, amy
yells, enough running. let's
do some more stretches. let's
lie down on our backs and breathe.
I got this one, I tell her.
but would it be okay if we changed
the music. I've got a Sinatra
record over there by the stereo.
all one hundred and twelve pounds
of her, shows up
bouncing like a bunny
in her pink tights
and new lime green work out
shoes.
okay, okay, she says
cheerfully, clapping her hands.
let's start
with some stretches,
she turns on some music,
lively urban music with rhyming
curse words and says, let's
reach down and touch our toes.
why, is my response. for what?
they're very far away, I tell her.
i look down at my black
high top chuck taylor's.
can we start with knees,
I suggest. after all it's
the first day. she's still bouncing
on her toes, not one
ounce of her is jiggling,
which is disappointing.
have you had your coffee yet?
I yell out over the music.
I can warm us up
some cinnamon rolls if you'd like.
she comes over and puts her
hand on my back, then pushes
me forward,
my arms dangle towards my
feet, further she yells, go
for it, feel the pain.
which i do. it sounds like
sticks crackling in a barrel fire.
somehow i make it, my fingers
touch my toes. great, she says,
as if something wonderful
has just happened.
mt. Everest has been climbed.
okay, let's run in place now.
let's get the old heart going.
i begin to run, but not in place,
i run around the room,
the dog comes down after hearing
all the commotion
and starts running too.
he begins to bark and nip
at my heels. okay, okay, amy
yells, enough running. let's
do some more stretches. let's
lie down on our backs and breathe.
I got this one, I tell her.
but would it be okay if we changed
the music. I've got a Sinatra
record over there by the stereo.
what's happening
she scared you
with her screaming. her long
nails
digging into you.
the way she kicked
her legs high into the air
and spoke
in another language
to a God you never heard of.
her eyes rolled in her head
like bing cherries
on a one armed bandit.
this went on for some time,
as you lit a cigarette
and thought about
baseball, what
was in the fridge.
with her screaming. her long
nails
digging into you.
the way she kicked
her legs high into the air
and spoke
in another language
to a God you never heard of.
her eyes rolled in her head
like bing cherries
on a one armed bandit.
this went on for some time,
as you lit a cigarette
and thought about
baseball, what
was in the fridge.
what's happening
she scared you
with her screaming. her long
nails
digging into you.
the way she kicked
her legs high into the air
and spoke
in another language
to a God you never heard of.
her eyes rolled in her head
like bing cherries
on a one armed bandit.
this went on for some time,
as you lit a cigarette
and thought about
baseball, what
was in the fridge.
with her screaming. her long
nails
digging into you.
the way she kicked
her legs high into the air
and spoke
in another language
to a God you never heard of.
her eyes rolled in her head
like bing cherries
on a one armed bandit.
this went on for some time,
as you lit a cigarette
and thought about
baseball, what
was in the fridge.
thin sliced please
the guy behind the deli
counter with the hair net
and blue smock
leans over
with a slice
of Virginia baked ham
offering it to you.
you've already made him
go in back for a new rump
of boar's head ham,
not the store brand.
he rattles the brown tissue
paper that it lies
on, and says, here take
it. you say no. but that's
good. that's fine.
no, he says,
here, it's for you now.
take it, taste it. I cut
it for you.
you refuse, you hold
your ground, which makes
him angry, throwing off
the weight of the half
pound that he's already cut.
he restamps the package,
hands it to, reaching
awkwardly over the counter
between jars of pickles
and olives. he yells
cheese? perhaps a nice waldorf
salad to go with that?
no thanks, i'm good you say,
leaving with your ham.
counter with the hair net
and blue smock
leans over
with a slice
of Virginia baked ham
offering it to you.
you've already made him
go in back for a new rump
of boar's head ham,
not the store brand.
he rattles the brown tissue
paper that it lies
on, and says, here take
it. you say no. but that's
good. that's fine.
no, he says,
here, it's for you now.
take it, taste it. I cut
it for you.
you refuse, you hold
your ground, which makes
him angry, throwing off
the weight of the half
pound that he's already cut.
he restamps the package,
hands it to, reaching
awkwardly over the counter
between jars of pickles
and olives. he yells
cheese? perhaps a nice waldorf
salad to go with that?
no thanks, i'm good you say,
leaving with your ham.
Tuesday, March 15, 2016
this size
some babies sleep all night.
your son was like that.
a sweet smile
on his thin lips.
his blonde hair.
his brown eyes closed.
the smell of his life
still with you.
the blue room,
the mobile above his crib.
you remember
feeling sad
for tomorrow. for him no
longer being this size,
innocent, safe
before the rest of the world
gets inside.
your son was like that.
a sweet smile
on his thin lips.
his blonde hair.
his brown eyes closed.
the smell of his life
still with you.
the blue room,
the mobile above his crib.
you remember
feeling sad
for tomorrow. for him no
longer being this size,
innocent, safe
before the rest of the world
gets inside.
this size
some babies sleep all night.
your son was like that.
a sweet smile
on his thin lips.
his blonde hair.
his brown eyes closed.
the smell of his life
still with you.
the blue room,
the mobile above his crib.
you remember
feeling sad
for tomorrow. for him no
longer being this size,
innocent, safe
before the rest of the world
gets inside.
your son was like that.
a sweet smile
on his thin lips.
his blonde hair.
his brown eyes closed.
the smell of his life
still with you.
the blue room,
the mobile above his crib.
you remember
feeling sad
for tomorrow. for him no
longer being this size,
innocent, safe
before the rest of the world
gets inside.
i don't care
it's mostly fiction,
seasoned with the salt and pepper
of truth.
some good,
some bad.
all of me and none of me.
I don't get defensive
or feel angst
about any of it.
I write what I want.
what's down is down,
inked.
written. to be read or not
read
makes no difference to me.
it will all evaporate when the sun
burns out, so
read or don't read,
I don't care that much,
if something bothers you,
move on.
turn the page, hit the button.
let it be, go watch
tv.
seasoned with the salt and pepper
of truth.
some good,
some bad.
all of me and none of me.
I don't get defensive
or feel angst
about any of it.
I write what I want.
what's down is down,
inked.
written. to be read or not
read
makes no difference to me.
it will all evaporate when the sun
burns out, so
read or don't read,
I don't care that much,
if something bothers you,
move on.
turn the page, hit the button.
let it be, go watch
tv.
i don't care
it's mostly fiction,
seasoned with the salt and pepper
of truth.
some good,
some bad.
all of me and none of me.
I don't get defensive
or feel angst
about any of it.
I write what I want.
what's down is down,
inked.
written. to be read or not
read
makes no difference to me.
it will all evaporate when the sun
burns out, so
read or don't read,
I don't care that much,
if something bothers you,
move on.
turn the page, hit the button.
let it be, go watch
tv.
seasoned with the salt and pepper
of truth.
some good,
some bad.
all of me and none of me.
I don't get defensive
or feel angst
about any of it.
I write what I want.
what's down is down,
inked.
written. to be read or not
read
makes no difference to me.
it will all evaporate when the sun
burns out, so
read or don't read,
I don't care that much,
if something bothers you,
move on.
turn the page, hit the button.
let it be, go watch
tv.
new friends
annoyed by another
sales call,
unwanted and persistent,
i hang up
without a word.
he calls back
and leaves an angry message.
all day
he's at it.
doing what he does,
making new friends
like me.
sales call,
unwanted and persistent,
i hang up
without a word.
he calls back
and leaves an angry message.
all day
he's at it.
doing what he does,
making new friends
like me.
new friends
annoyed by another
sales call,
unwanted and persistent,
i hang up
without a word.
he calls back
and leaves an angry message.
all day
he's at it.
doing what he does,
making new friends
like me.
sales call,
unwanted and persistent,
i hang up
without a word.
he calls back
and leaves an angry message.
all day
he's at it.
doing what he does,
making new friends
like me.
not enough
tilting the carton
towards
the cup
you see that you are
out of cream,
a few drops
fall out, hardly
making a difference.
a small thing
like that becomes
part of something
bigger, the whole
day begins and ends
with not enough
of something
that you want.
towards
the cup
you see that you are
out of cream,
a few drops
fall out, hardly
making a difference.
a small thing
like that becomes
part of something
bigger, the whole
day begins and ends
with not enough
of something
that you want.
making the move
I was talking with my friend jimmy
at the local pub
the other day when he asked me what I
thought about dating again
at this stage of life. lonely and
freshly divorced, he wants to get
back into the game.
I looked at him and shook my head.
it's crazy out there, I said.
I had to get a part time job
just to cover all the chardonnay
and calamari I've been buying.
what do you mean, he says. don't
the women pay half.
I smiled and took a sip of my
gin and tonic. some do, I said,
but most run to the bathroom as
soon as the check comes.
hmmm. he said. so, tell me,
is there kissing on the first date?
does that ever happen.
yeah, sometimes, sometimes though
you get slapped if you make
your move too quickly, or pepper sprayed.
I look up into the light and tell
him to look into my eyes. see that?
yeah, he says, I can see the redness.
so, be careful, some of these
women are hellcats. just because they're
knitting these days doesn't mean
they aren't dangerous.
i blink and drip
some eye drops into my eyes.
so what's your move, he asks, I used to have
a move back in high school, but
that's a long time ago.
I mean, do you go with your
left arm around the shoulder,
or across the front. what is it these
days, buttons, snaps, Velcro? I used
to have a hard time with those hooks.
hooks, whew, I say. four hooks
was like cracking a bank safe.
my move? depends, I said. sometimes my
shoulder hurts, so I have to make
my move with my right arm,
reaching slowly around the back,
maybe gently playing with her hair
if it isn't a wig.
or if my knee is stiff, or if my allergies
are acting up, I do
this nuzzle thing with my head,
like a cat, into her neck area.
women love cats.
jimmy takes out a pen
and starts writing all this down on a napkin.
it's best though, I tell him
to wait until you get the green light
from a woman. let them tell you when it's
okay to make a move, if ever.
the green light, he writes down
in capital letters, underlining it.
a nod, a wink or if they go into
another room and come out a few minutes
later with a body stocking on,
teetering on a pair of stiletto heels.
something like that
is what I call a green light.
so how many dates before...?
before what I say, tapping the bar
to get a refill. put some alcohol
in there this time I tell the bartender.
how many dates before what?
you know, before you're spending
the night with one another.
spending the night? I say, wide eyed.
whoa Nellie.
unless you want to get married again,
you want to avoid that as much as
possible. it's best to take a quick
cat nap after it's all over
then quietly get dressed and go
home. put everything in one pile
so that later that night you
aren't scrambling around looking
for your shoes and socks, keys
and phone.
jimmy grabs another napkin
to write more of this down.
you want your visits to be timed
so that you avoid family, parents and kids.
ex husbands, etc. once you meet all of
them, well, it's game over.
jimmy taps his pen on the bar,
dang, i'm out of ink.
I need another pen he says,
it's okay, I tell him.
I think that's enough for one night.
at the local pub
the other day when he asked me what I
thought about dating again
at this stage of life. lonely and
freshly divorced, he wants to get
back into the game.
I looked at him and shook my head.
it's crazy out there, I said.
I had to get a part time job
just to cover all the chardonnay
and calamari I've been buying.
what do you mean, he says. don't
the women pay half.
I smiled and took a sip of my
gin and tonic. some do, I said,
but most run to the bathroom as
soon as the check comes.
hmmm. he said. so, tell me,
is there kissing on the first date?
does that ever happen.
yeah, sometimes, sometimes though
you get slapped if you make
your move too quickly, or pepper sprayed.
I look up into the light and tell
him to look into my eyes. see that?
yeah, he says, I can see the redness.
so, be careful, some of these
women are hellcats. just because they're
knitting these days doesn't mean
they aren't dangerous.
i blink and drip
some eye drops into my eyes.
so what's your move, he asks, I used to have
a move back in high school, but
that's a long time ago.
I mean, do you go with your
left arm around the shoulder,
or across the front. what is it these
days, buttons, snaps, Velcro? I used
to have a hard time with those hooks.
hooks, whew, I say. four hooks
was like cracking a bank safe.
my move? depends, I said. sometimes my
shoulder hurts, so I have to make
my move with my right arm,
reaching slowly around the back,
maybe gently playing with her hair
if it isn't a wig.
or if my knee is stiff, or if my allergies
are acting up, I do
this nuzzle thing with my head,
like a cat, into her neck area.
women love cats.
jimmy takes out a pen
and starts writing all this down on a napkin.
it's best though, I tell him
to wait until you get the green light
from a woman. let them tell you when it's
okay to make a move, if ever.
the green light, he writes down
in capital letters, underlining it.
a nod, a wink or if they go into
another room and come out a few minutes
later with a body stocking on,
teetering on a pair of stiletto heels.
something like that
is what I call a green light.
so how many dates before...?
before what I say, tapping the bar
to get a refill. put some alcohol
in there this time I tell the bartender.
how many dates before what?
you know, before you're spending
the night with one another.
spending the night? I say, wide eyed.
whoa Nellie.
unless you want to get married again,
you want to avoid that as much as
possible. it's best to take a quick
cat nap after it's all over
then quietly get dressed and go
home. put everything in one pile
so that later that night you
aren't scrambling around looking
for your shoes and socks, keys
and phone.
jimmy grabs another napkin
to write more of this down.
you want your visits to be timed
so that you avoid family, parents and kids.
ex husbands, etc. once you meet all of
them, well, it's game over.
jimmy taps his pen on the bar,
dang, i'm out of ink.
I need another pen he says,
it's okay, I tell him.
I think that's enough for one night.
beat the horses
some whip their horses
to get them
to perform, run faster,
get around the track.
they live their
lives with a whip
in hand, heels dug
hard into the side,
children feel its sting,
husbands and wives
even friends have felt
it upon their
backs. in the end
they never win.
to get them
to perform, run faster,
get around the track.
they live their
lives with a whip
in hand, heels dug
hard into the side,
children feel its sting,
husbands and wives
even friends have felt
it upon their
backs. in the end
they never win.
beat the horses
some whip their horses
to get them
to perform, run faster,
get around the track.
they live their
lives with a whip
in hand, heels dug
hard into the side,
children feel its sting,
husbands and wives
even friends have felt
it upon their
backs. in the end
they never win.
to get them
to perform, run faster,
get around the track.
they live their
lives with a whip
in hand, heels dug
hard into the side,
children feel its sting,
husbands and wives
even friends have felt
it upon their
backs. in the end
they never win.
things you can't change
most of what
you've worried about
has never happened.
and yet,
you still do, but
maybe a little less
lately, having gotten
older, slightly wiser,
careless with caring
too much
about things you
can't change.
you've worried about
has never happened.
and yet,
you still do, but
maybe a little less
lately, having gotten
older, slightly wiser,
careless with caring
too much
about things you
can't change.
things you can't change
most of what
you've worried about
has never happened.
and yet,
you still do, but
maybe a little less
lately, having gotten
older, slightly wiser,
careless with caring
too much
about things you
can't change.
you've worried about
has never happened.
and yet,
you still do, but
maybe a little less
lately, having gotten
older, slightly wiser,
careless with caring
too much
about things you
can't change.
Monday, March 14, 2016
fresh milk and eggs
where are the milk
men.
the paper boys,
the girl scouts with
cookies
at the door.
where is the fuller
brush man, the avon lady,
the encyclopedia
salesman?
what happened to door
to door, the time when
the mail came
twice a day, where are
the men in short sleeved
shirts and thin
ties selling bibles,
selling salvation
in colored pictures.
where is the delivery of
fresh milk and eggs,
juice
in the metal box
set on the porch?
where is anything you grew
up with,
and used to know?
men.
the paper boys,
the girl scouts with
cookies
at the door.
where is the fuller
brush man, the avon lady,
the encyclopedia
salesman?
what happened to door
to door, the time when
the mail came
twice a day, where are
the men in short sleeved
shirts and thin
ties selling bibles,
selling salvation
in colored pictures.
where is the delivery of
fresh milk and eggs,
juice
in the metal box
set on the porch?
where is anything you grew
up with,
and used to know?
the fight
the blood
of the fight is on the canvas.
the skin
split over
eyes and lips,
the rising of dark lumps,
a cracked tooth,
a bent bone.
the crowd roars
at unconsciousness.
it's what they paid for.
what they
came to see. men
and women
searching within for
some kind
of relevance, a strange
sort of peace.
of the fight is on the canvas.
the skin
split over
eyes and lips,
the rising of dark lumps,
a cracked tooth,
a bent bone.
the crowd roars
at unconsciousness.
it's what they paid for.
what they
came to see. men
and women
searching within for
some kind
of relevance, a strange
sort of peace.
the fight
the blood
of the fight is on the canvas.
the skin
split over
eyes and lips,
the rising of dark lumps,
a cracked tooth,
a bent bone.
the crowd roars
at unconsciousness.
it's what they paid for.
what they
came to see. men
and women
searching within for
some kind
of relevance, a strange
sort of peace.
of the fight is on the canvas.
the skin
split over
eyes and lips,
the rising of dark lumps,
a cracked tooth,
a bent bone.
the crowd roars
at unconsciousness.
it's what they paid for.
what they
came to see. men
and women
searching within for
some kind
of relevance, a strange
sort of peace.
never for long
we walk past
the iron wrought rail,
twisted black,
the steps leading
down to a basement door,
concrete
crumbling, a stained
glass
window
in an empty church,
the one white cloud
between the trees,
a peeling board.
so much
around us, so much
beauty
in what we don't
see.
even you get ignored
from time to time,
but never for long,
and never by me.
the iron wrought rail,
twisted black,
the steps leading
down to a basement door,
concrete
crumbling, a stained
glass
window
in an empty church,
the one white cloud
between the trees,
a peeling board.
so much
around us, so much
beauty
in what we don't
see.
even you get ignored
from time to time,
but never for long,
and never by me.
never for long
we walk past
the iron wrought rail,
twisted black,
the steps leading
down to a basement door,
concrete
crumbling, a stained
glass
window
in an empty church,
the one white cloud
between the trees,
a peeling board.
so much
around us, so much
beauty
in what we don't
see.
even you get ignored
from time to time,
but never for long,
and never by me.
the iron wrought rail,
twisted black,
the steps leading
down to a basement door,
concrete
crumbling, a stained
glass
window
in an empty church,
the one white cloud
between the trees,
a peeling board.
so much
around us, so much
beauty
in what we don't
see.
even you get ignored
from time to time,
but never for long,
and never by me.
a new talk
it's an alarming
conversation
that I have with my son.
now filled
with full grown angst
and wonder, we talk.
we speak no longer about
how far
a ball was hit,
the run
the tail back made,
or the catch
against the wall
in the bottom of the ninth.
this is a different
conversation,
one of quicksand holes
in life.
referring to jobs and love.
how did it get to this
so soon, him
no longer on my knee,
him becoming unsure
about tomorrow,
becoming me.
conversation
that I have with my son.
now filled
with full grown angst
and wonder, we talk.
we speak no longer about
how far
a ball was hit,
the run
the tail back made,
or the catch
against the wall
in the bottom of the ninth.
this is a different
conversation,
one of quicksand holes
in life.
referring to jobs and love.
how did it get to this
so soon, him
no longer on my knee,
him becoming unsure
about tomorrow,
becoming me.
a new talk
it's an alarming
conversation
that I have with my son.
now filled
with full grown angst
and wonder, we talk.
we speak no longer about
how far
a ball was hit,
the run
the tail back made,
or the catch
against the wall
in the bottom of the ninth.
this is a different
conversation,
one of quicksand holes
in life.
referring to jobs and love.
how did it get to this
so soon, him
no longer on my knee,
him becoming unsure
about tomorrow,
becoming me.
conversation
that I have with my son.
now filled
with full grown angst
and wonder, we talk.
we speak no longer about
how far
a ball was hit,
the run
the tail back made,
or the catch
against the wall
in the bottom of the ninth.
this is a different
conversation,
one of quicksand holes
in life.
referring to jobs and love.
how did it get to this
so soon, him
no longer on my knee,
him becoming unsure
about tomorrow,
becoming me.
what to say
he calls to tell you
that his mother died. seventy-nine.
heart disease,
unable to walk, to get up
out of bed.
she liked camel
cigarettes
and good scotch you gather
from what he says.
it's an odd conversation.
finding clichés
that sort of fit.
sort of don't.
awkward things are said
about how she had a good life,
a long life, whatever
that might mean.
she was a good mother,
but all of it sounds empty,
hollow and weak.
you hardly knew here,
or her you and you finish
off the talk
by saying, she loved baseball,
didn't she.
that his mother died. seventy-nine.
heart disease,
unable to walk, to get up
out of bed.
she liked camel
cigarettes
and good scotch you gather
from what he says.
it's an odd conversation.
finding clichés
that sort of fit.
sort of don't.
awkward things are said
about how she had a good life,
a long life, whatever
that might mean.
she was a good mother,
but all of it sounds empty,
hollow and weak.
you hardly knew here,
or her you and you finish
off the talk
by saying, she loved baseball,
didn't she.
never alone
there is spell check
to help you along,
math check
with your tax product
download.
there's the mirror
to fix your tie in, or
find the lettuce
between your teeth, friends
will often point
at what might be stuck
to your shoe.
there are neighbors
to tell you about your
yard, they want to help
you get rid of weeds,
or point at something
your dog left
on their lawn.
there are police warning
you to slow down,
directions being read to
you as you
drive, on your phone.
the mortgage company
that keep calling
to help you save money
by refinancing your loan.
the world has found a way
to take care of you,
to embrace and know
everything there is to know
about you
so that you hardly ever
feel alone.
to help you along,
math check
with your tax product
download.
there's the mirror
to fix your tie in, or
find the lettuce
between your teeth, friends
will often point
at what might be stuck
to your shoe.
there are neighbors
to tell you about your
yard, they want to help
you get rid of weeds,
or point at something
your dog left
on their lawn.
there are police warning
you to slow down,
directions being read to
you as you
drive, on your phone.
the mortgage company
that keep calling
to help you save money
by refinancing your loan.
the world has found a way
to take care of you,
to embrace and know
everything there is to know
about you
so that you hardly ever
feel alone.
the new dog
the new dog
is not like the old dog.
he doesn't watch tv,
barking at each and every
animal he sees.
rushing the screen
to bite elephants,
whales, birds
and chimpanzees.
he's not at the window
growling
at the sweet old neighbor
as she plants
tulips in her yard,
on her knees.
this dog isn't chewing
holes
in my pockets
where gum or candy, or
a single honey cashew nut
might be,
no. he's more like a dog.
a real dog, dumb
and sleepy, wagging his
tail when I come home.
he not hiding for doing something
he doesn't want me to see.
when in a cage
he's not sliding the bolt
with his nose to get out,
not going through my mail,
or dragging his bag of dried
food to his dish
and pouring. the new
dog is not on my desk
late at night
browsing the web
for other dogs
he'd like to meet. truthfully,
this new dog is boring.
is not like the old dog.
he doesn't watch tv,
barking at each and every
animal he sees.
rushing the screen
to bite elephants,
whales, birds
and chimpanzees.
he's not at the window
growling
at the sweet old neighbor
as she plants
tulips in her yard,
on her knees.
this dog isn't chewing
holes
in my pockets
where gum or candy, or
a single honey cashew nut
might be,
no. he's more like a dog.
a real dog, dumb
and sleepy, wagging his
tail when I come home.
he not hiding for doing something
he doesn't want me to see.
when in a cage
he's not sliding the bolt
with his nose to get out,
not going through my mail,
or dragging his bag of dried
food to his dish
and pouring. the new
dog is not on my desk
late at night
browsing the web
for other dogs
he'd like to meet. truthfully,
this new dog is boring.
out to pasture
it took a while,
but you may
finally be broken.
ready to ride
into the sunset.
fit to be tied.
ring worthy and waving
the white flag,
obedient, loyal,
no longer
answering to the call
of the wild
but ready and willing
having sown
all your oats,
for the far field,
the slow life, out
to pasture.
but you may
finally be broken.
ready to ride
into the sunset.
fit to be tied.
ring worthy and waving
the white flag,
obedient, loyal,
no longer
answering to the call
of the wild
but ready and willing
having sown
all your oats,
for the far field,
the slow life, out
to pasture.
out to pasture
it took a while,
but you may
finally be broken.
ready to ride
into the sunset.
fit to be tied.
ring worthy and waving
the white flag,
obedient, loyal,
no longer
answering to the call
of the wild
but ready and willing
having sown
all your oats,
for the far field,
the slow life, out
to pasture.
but you may
finally be broken.
ready to ride
into the sunset.
fit to be tied.
ring worthy and waving
the white flag,
obedient, loyal,
no longer
answering to the call
of the wild
but ready and willing
having sown
all your oats,
for the far field,
the slow life, out
to pasture.
time travel
she loves the nineteenth
century.
the wooden spindles
and rail,
the thick wide frames
of blonde oak,
the plaid
curtains. a narrow piano
with a bench is
against a bricked wall,
church music
neatly stacked.
her long dress touches
the floor,
covering her boots. she
shows you her quilts and rugs,
the butter churn
in her kitchen.
a crocheted pot holder,
the words love
and home, both framed,
stitched above the door.
there is a shelf over the stove
where bread
is warmed, she shows you
the box where baby birds
once born
are incubated, a pipe
to inhale heat,
to keep them warm.
she points out
the bottled glass of a window
pane, marred
with chips and
cracks and says, there's
Elsie, i'll fetch us
some milk in a little while,
but first have a seat,
let me stitch up
those pants.
century.
the wooden spindles
and rail,
the thick wide frames
of blonde oak,
the plaid
curtains. a narrow piano
with a bench is
against a bricked wall,
church music
neatly stacked.
her long dress touches
the floor,
covering her boots. she
shows you her quilts and rugs,
the butter churn
in her kitchen.
a crocheted pot holder,
the words love
and home, both framed,
stitched above the door.
there is a shelf over the stove
where bread
is warmed, she shows you
the box where baby birds
once born
are incubated, a pipe
to inhale heat,
to keep them warm.
she points out
the bottled glass of a window
pane, marred
with chips and
cracks and says, there's
Elsie, i'll fetch us
some milk in a little while,
but first have a seat,
let me stitch up
those pants.
weather hope
the sun
teases us, slipping
out with a warm
face
to lighten up
the grey,
the sleeve of green
water that runs between
empty trees,
reaching to be more.
we believe
in the weather to
guide us.
to allow us a different
point of view.
to give us hope
as winter
fights to hang on.
teases us, slipping
out with a warm
face
to lighten up
the grey,
the sleeve of green
water that runs between
empty trees,
reaching to be more.
we believe
in the weather to
guide us.
to allow us a different
point of view.
to give us hope
as winter
fights to hang on.
Sunday, March 13, 2016
free cycle
the neighbor is moving.
she set her bike
with flat tires out
on the sidewalk
with a label
saying free cycle,
a chair
beside it, a stack of cookbooks,
a lawn mower
and some fishing gear.
by morning
it was all gone.
in the darkness
someone walked away
with everything, finding
it all a new home,
a new basement or
a garage for these dusty
things to dwell in.
she set her bike
with flat tires out
on the sidewalk
with a label
saying free cycle,
a chair
beside it, a stack of cookbooks,
a lawn mower
and some fishing gear.
by morning
it was all gone.
in the darkness
someone walked away
with everything, finding
it all a new home,
a new basement or
a garage for these dusty
things to dwell in.
free cycle
the neighbor is moving.
she set her bike
with flat tires out
on the sidewalk
with a label
saying free cycle,
a chair
beside it, a stack of cookbooks,
a lawn mower
and some fishing gear.
by morning
it was all gone.
in the darkness
someone walked away
with everything, finding
it all a new home,
a new basement or
a garage for these dusty
things to dwell in.
she set her bike
with flat tires out
on the sidewalk
with a label
saying free cycle,
a chair
beside it, a stack of cookbooks,
a lawn mower
and some fishing gear.
by morning
it was all gone.
in the darkness
someone walked away
with everything, finding
it all a new home,
a new basement or
a garage for these dusty
things to dwell in.
soul mates for an hour
I felt cheated
by the last love of my life,
my nineteenth soul
mate in
three years.
I felt like she didn't
give me
enough attention, she never
wanted to hold
my hand,
scratch my back,
whisper sweet nothings
into my good ear.
I never got the hallmark
card signed, with love,
never a wink,
a pinch, a flirtatious
touch.
she was always a arms
length away,
like we were soldiers
marching
off to war. but sometimes
I miss the loneliness
of being with her,
and wonder
what she's doing now.
by the last love of my life,
my nineteenth soul
mate in
three years.
I felt like she didn't
give me
enough attention, she never
wanted to hold
my hand,
scratch my back,
whisper sweet nothings
into my good ear.
I never got the hallmark
card signed, with love,
never a wink,
a pinch, a flirtatious
touch.
she was always a arms
length away,
like we were soldiers
marching
off to war. but sometimes
I miss the loneliness
of being with her,
and wonder
what she's doing now.
soul mates for an hour
I felt cheated
by the last love of my life,
my nineteenth soul
mate in
three years.
I felt like she didn't
give me
enough attention, she never
wanted to hold
my hand,
scratch my back,
whisper sweet nothings
into my good ear.
I never got the hallmark
card signed, with love,
never a wink,
a pinch, a flirtatious
touch.
she was always a arms
length away,
like we were soldiers
marching
off to war. but sometimes
I miss the loneliness
of being with her,
and wonder
what she's doing now.
by the last love of my life,
my nineteenth soul
mate in
three years.
I felt like she didn't
give me
enough attention, she never
wanted to hold
my hand,
scratch my back,
whisper sweet nothings
into my good ear.
I never got the hallmark
card signed, with love,
never a wink,
a pinch, a flirtatious
touch.
she was always a arms
length away,
like we were soldiers
marching
off to war. but sometimes
I miss the loneliness
of being with her,
and wonder
what she's doing now.
a new tube
you'd rather throw
the tube
of toothpaste away
than
roll the bottom
up nice and neat
in little folds
to squeeze out
those last few dollops
of crest.
you like the new tube.
the unopened one.
right out of the box,
before
it gums up at the mouth,
hardens
and stiffens
from not putting
the cap back on.
you like everything new.
the shelf life
of things in your life
have grown
shorter and shorter.
it's inexplicable,
something your therapist
needs to address
real soon.
the tube
of toothpaste away
than
roll the bottom
up nice and neat
in little folds
to squeeze out
those last few dollops
of crest.
you like the new tube.
the unopened one.
right out of the box,
before
it gums up at the mouth,
hardens
and stiffens
from not putting
the cap back on.
you like everything new.
the shelf life
of things in your life
have grown
shorter and shorter.
it's inexplicable,
something your therapist
needs to address
real soon.
too much
they give you too much
food these days.
the dish is filled,
overflowing
with pasta
and meatballs, bread and salad.
a bottle of
wine.
the oil poured in a shallow
dish.
more pepper, the waiter
asks?
lifting the long pepper mill
above the table
to crank out
a shower of black specks.
dessert? sure, why not.
you can hardly move
at the end,
barely able to get
your wallet out of your
back pocket
pocket to pay
the bill. please come
again,
the girl at the front says
as you waddle home
to sleep it off.
food these days.
the dish is filled,
overflowing
with pasta
and meatballs, bread and salad.
a bottle of
wine.
the oil poured in a shallow
dish.
more pepper, the waiter
asks?
lifting the long pepper mill
above the table
to crank out
a shower of black specks.
dessert? sure, why not.
you can hardly move
at the end,
barely able to get
your wallet out of your
back pocket
pocket to pay
the bill. please come
again,
the girl at the front says
as you waddle home
to sleep it off.
the short drive
madness
is a short drive away.
who hasn't
veered
off the road,
crashed through
the detour sign.
we sometimes need a wreck
or two
to find the road
again,
to show us
that we need to keep
two hands on
wheel,
stay buckled up
and to keep our mirrors
fixed
to see what's
left behind.
is a short drive away.
who hasn't
veered
off the road,
crashed through
the detour sign.
we sometimes need a wreck
or two
to find the road
again,
to show us
that we need to keep
two hands on
wheel,
stay buckled up
and to keep our mirrors
fixed
to see what's
left behind.
the morning walk
up before daylight
arrives.
peeking out the window
at the wet
street.
the small dog
being walked, the woman
with a red
umbrella,
walking slowly
in the fog.
she's there every
morning at this time.
her life
is on a clock, as
most lives are,
the minutes giving
way to hours,
folding into days.
it's good to have a
routine
to save you from so
much wondering
about what to do next.
arrives.
peeking out the window
at the wet
street.
the small dog
being walked, the woman
with a red
umbrella,
walking slowly
in the fog.
she's there every
morning at this time.
her life
is on a clock, as
most lives are,
the minutes giving
way to hours,
folding into days.
it's good to have a
routine
to save you from so
much wondering
about what to do next.
the morning walk
up before daylight
arrives.
peeking out the window
at the wet
street.
the small dog
being walked, the woman
with a red
umbrella,
walking slowly
in the fog.
she's there every
morning at this time.
her life
is on a clock, as
most lives are,
the minutes giving
way to hours,
folding into days.
it's good to have a
routine
to save you from so
much wondering
about what to do next.
arrives.
peeking out the window
at the wet
street.
the small dog
being walked, the woman
with a red
umbrella,
walking slowly
in the fog.
she's there every
morning at this time.
her life
is on a clock, as
most lives are,
the minutes giving
way to hours,
folding into days.
it's good to have a
routine
to save you from so
much wondering
about what to do next.
Saturday, March 12, 2016
faults
when someone points
at your tire
from another car
and you roll down your
window to say what,
they say, your tire,
it looks flat,
you shrug and say I know.
I know all about it,
then roll the window up.
you are not good
with people pointing
out your faults.
at your tire
from another car
and you roll down your
window to say what,
they say, your tire,
it looks flat,
you shrug and say I know.
I know all about it,
then roll the window up.
you are not good
with people pointing
out your faults.
champagne love
it was a champagne
love affair,
the loud pop
of infatuation,
followed by
fizz
and bubbles,
the rising
of poured glasses
to each set of lips,
but by morning,
the bottle had warmed,
gone flat,
there was little
left to talk about.
maybe too much was
now known.
love affair,
the loud pop
of infatuation,
followed by
fizz
and bubbles,
the rising
of poured glasses
to each set of lips,
but by morning,
the bottle had warmed,
gone flat,
there was little
left to talk about.
maybe too much was
now known.
champagne love
it was a champagne
love affair,
the loud pop
of infatuation,
followed by
fizz
and bubbles,
the rising
of poured glasses
to each set of lips,
but by morning,
the bottle had warmed,
gone flat,
there was little
left to talk about.
maybe too much was
now known.
love affair,
the loud pop
of infatuation,
followed by
fizz
and bubbles,
the rising
of poured glasses
to each set of lips,
but by morning,
the bottle had warmed,
gone flat,
there was little
left to talk about.
maybe too much was
now known.
being busy
because
you are so busy, you
prefer
instant coffee, instant
quaker oats,
in the bag steaming
of vegetables,
Velcro.
you hardly have
time
in your important day
to take a call
so you let
voice mail
do that.
you'll get it later,
no time
to talk, just a wave
will do.
you skim books, skim
the paper,
take a short cut home
to avoid
traffic.
you are a very busy person.
who's at the door?
who cares.
you need a nap.
you are so busy, you
prefer
instant coffee, instant
quaker oats,
in the bag steaming
of vegetables,
Velcro.
you hardly have
time
in your important day
to take a call
so you let
voice mail
do that.
you'll get it later,
no time
to talk, just a wave
will do.
you skim books, skim
the paper,
take a short cut home
to avoid
traffic.
you are a very busy person.
who's at the door?
who cares.
you need a nap.
case dismissed
you have a dream that
judge judy
is yelling at you.
telling you to quit waving
your arms
and to look at her when
you speak.
you try to show her the evidence,
the Nordstrom bill,
the photos of her kissing
your son's karate teacher
behind the strip mall.
the piles of laundry in
the basement,
the dishes in the sink.
the pad lock on
the bedroom door.
she slams her gavel down
and keeps asking
you the same
question over and over
again to which you have
no answer.
you have no case she says.
your wife is right.
you need to give
her everything.
your son, your dog, your
copy of catcher in
the rye. you get nothing.
that's it she yells,
case dismissed,
i'm done with you,
now go.
judge judy
is yelling at you.
telling you to quit waving
your arms
and to look at her when
you speak.
you try to show her the evidence,
the Nordstrom bill,
the photos of her kissing
your son's karate teacher
behind the strip mall.
the piles of laundry in
the basement,
the dishes in the sink.
the pad lock on
the bedroom door.
she slams her gavel down
and keeps asking
you the same
question over and over
again to which you have
no answer.
you have no case she says.
your wife is right.
you need to give
her everything.
your son, your dog, your
copy of catcher in
the rye. you get nothing.
that's it she yells,
case dismissed,
i'm done with you,
now go.
case dismissed
you have a dream that
judge judy
is yelling at you.
telling you to quit waving
your arms
and to look at her when
you speak.
you try to show her the evidence,
the Nordstrom bill,
the photos of her kissing
your son's karate teacher
behind the strip mall.
the piles of laundry in
the basement,
the dishes in the sink.
the pad lock on
the bedroom door.
she slams her gavel down
and keeps asking
you the same
question over and over
again to which you have
no answer.
you have no case she says.
your wife is right.
you need to give
her everything.
your son, your dog, your
copy of catcher in
the rye. you get nothing.
that's it she yells,
case dismissed,
i'm done with you,
now go.
judge judy
is yelling at you.
telling you to quit waving
your arms
and to look at her when
you speak.
you try to show her the evidence,
the Nordstrom bill,
the photos of her kissing
your son's karate teacher
behind the strip mall.
the piles of laundry in
the basement,
the dishes in the sink.
the pad lock on
the bedroom door.
she slams her gavel down
and keeps asking
you the same
question over and over
again to which you have
no answer.
you have no case she says.
your wife is right.
you need to give
her everything.
your son, your dog, your
copy of catcher in
the rye. you get nothing.
that's it she yells,
case dismissed,
i'm done with you,
now go.
extremists
i cringe when he
brings up politics, leaning
so far to the left
he'd be
black listed in the fifties,
his wife too.
her red
beret tilted,
her pamphlets printed
and ready to
be air dropped onto you.
the other friend
leans right.
oil and war are on his
mind.
sharpening our bayonets
to keep
the landscapers
and nannies out.
building the wall with
one insensitive
brick at a time.
if i were a turtle
i'd recede
into my shell and wait
until it all is over,
hoping for Thomas
Jefferson, or Lincoln,
or even Taft to come back
to life.
brings up politics, leaning
so far to the left
he'd be
black listed in the fifties,
his wife too.
her red
beret tilted,
her pamphlets printed
and ready to
be air dropped onto you.
the other friend
leans right.
oil and war are on his
mind.
sharpening our bayonets
to keep
the landscapers
and nannies out.
building the wall with
one insensitive
brick at a time.
if i were a turtle
i'd recede
into my shell and wait
until it all is over,
hoping for Thomas
Jefferson, or Lincoln,
or even Taft to come back
to life.
extremists
i cringe when he
brings up politics, leaning
so far to the left
he'd be
black listed in the fifties,
his wife too.
her red
beret tilted,
her pamphlets printed
and ready to
be air dropped onto you.
the other friend
leans right.
oil and war are on his
mind.
sharpening our bayonets
to keep
the landscapers
and nannies out.
building the wall with
one insensitive
brick at a time.
if i were a turtle
i'd recede
into my shell and wait
until it all is over,
hoping for Thomas
Jefferson, or Lincoln,
or even Taft to come back
to life.
brings up politics, leaning
so far to the left
he'd be
black listed in the fifties,
his wife too.
her red
beret tilted,
her pamphlets printed
and ready to
be air dropped onto you.
the other friend
leans right.
oil and war are on his
mind.
sharpening our bayonets
to keep
the landscapers
and nannies out.
building the wall with
one insensitive
brick at a time.
if i were a turtle
i'd recede
into my shell and wait
until it all is over,
hoping for Thomas
Jefferson, or Lincoln,
or even Taft to come back
to life.
down on the farm
being a farmer
I enjoy the extra hour
that
daylight savings brings.
out in my backyard
raising from seed
corn, and lettuce,
tomatoes,
string beans.
tending to my crops
in my ten by ten
townhouse yard.
the extra hour
makes all the difference
in getting produce
fresh and on time
to market. it's nearly
nine o'clock at night,
and there's still
just enough light
to chase
the rabbits out,
to pluck a ripe
pepper or two.
I enjoy the extra hour
that
daylight savings brings.
out in my backyard
raising from seed
corn, and lettuce,
tomatoes,
string beans.
tending to my crops
in my ten by ten
townhouse yard.
the extra hour
makes all the difference
in getting produce
fresh and on time
to market. it's nearly
nine o'clock at night,
and there's still
just enough light
to chase
the rabbits out,
to pluck a ripe
pepper or two.
down on the farm
being a farmer
I enjoy the extra hour
that
daylight savings brings.
out in my backyard
raising from seed
corn, and lettuce,
tomatoes,
string beans.
tending to my crops
in my ten by ten
townhouse yard.
the extra hour
makes all the difference
in getting produce
fresh and on time
to market. it's nearly
nine o'clock at night,
and there's still
just enough light
to chase
the rabbits out,
to pluck a ripe
pepper or two.
I enjoy the extra hour
that
daylight savings brings.
out in my backyard
raising from seed
corn, and lettuce,
tomatoes,
string beans.
tending to my crops
in my ten by ten
townhouse yard.
the extra hour
makes all the difference
in getting produce
fresh and on time
to market. it's nearly
nine o'clock at night,
and there's still
just enough light
to chase
the rabbits out,
to pluck a ripe
pepper or two.
Friday, March 11, 2016
two dolars and fity cents per night
the room, with warped boards,
a blind
man at the desk. a boy
to hand you a key.
rocking chairs
on the porch, striped
mattresses
on the bunk beds,
no sheets, no pillows
to rest your head.
two dollars and fifty
cents a night
in ocean city Maryland.
a pink cape cod,
with peeling shingles
on the board walk.
a view of the wide
ocean from the front,
an extra dollar for
those rooms.
the smell of fried chicken
in the air, suntan lotion,
salt and sand,
taffy being spun.
all of it in the air,
through the unscreened
window held open
by a stick. the racket of bells,
the clatter of pin
ball machines,
the hum
of people down below,
overfed and burned
walking as one numb mob
to one end, then the other.
it's nineteen sixty-eight.
you're on vacation.
a blind
man at the desk. a boy
to hand you a key.
rocking chairs
on the porch, striped
mattresses
on the bunk beds,
no sheets, no pillows
to rest your head.
two dollars and fifty
cents a night
in ocean city Maryland.
a pink cape cod,
with peeling shingles
on the board walk.
a view of the wide
ocean from the front,
an extra dollar for
those rooms.
the smell of fried chicken
in the air, suntan lotion,
salt and sand,
taffy being spun.
all of it in the air,
through the unscreened
window held open
by a stick. the racket of bells,
the clatter of pin
ball machines,
the hum
of people down below,
overfed and burned
walking as one numb mob
to one end, then the other.
it's nineteen sixty-eight.
you're on vacation.
unspent
unspent money,
the coin and paper saved.
scraps
of a life worked,
now turned
over to lawyers,
siblings,
a child,
as you slip into
the cold dug
dirt, a grave.
how carefully you kept
the balance
to the penny.
knowing how long it
would last, but in
the end
you take with you
what you started with,
which is
nothing, the time
has moved so fast.
the coin and paper saved.
scraps
of a life worked,
now turned
over to lawyers,
siblings,
a child,
as you slip into
the cold dug
dirt, a grave.
how carefully you kept
the balance
to the penny.
knowing how long it
would last, but in
the end
you take with you
what you started with,
which is
nothing, the time
has moved so fast.
unspent
unspent money,
the coin and paper saved.
scraps
of a life worked,
now turned
over to lawyers,
siblings,
a child,
as you slip into
the cold dug
dirt, a grave.
how carefully you kept
the balance
to the penny.
knowing how long it
would last, but in
the end
you take with you
what you started with,
which is
nothing, the time
has moved so fast.
the coin and paper saved.
scraps
of a life worked,
now turned
over to lawyers,
siblings,
a child,
as you slip into
the cold dug
dirt, a grave.
how carefully you kept
the balance
to the penny.
knowing how long it
would last, but in
the end
you take with you
what you started with,
which is
nothing, the time
has moved so fast.
proper english
it's hard to keep up
with the vernacular of our
time.
I just started using
off the chain
in regular conversation,
when I hear someone
say that they're living
off the grid. what's a grid?
I wonder.
I write this down in
a little notebook.
next to, she's so random,
and peace out.
it is what is is, I respond,
but that's old now.
hardly ever used
anymore, because it's
an empty string of meaningless
words.
people look at me,
shake their heads and walk
away.
I need to find a young
hipster to bring me
up to speed.
with the vernacular of our
time.
I just started using
off the chain
in regular conversation,
when I hear someone
say that they're living
off the grid. what's a grid?
I wonder.
I write this down in
a little notebook.
next to, she's so random,
and peace out.
it is what is is, I respond,
but that's old now.
hardly ever used
anymore, because it's
an empty string of meaningless
words.
people look at me,
shake their heads and walk
away.
I need to find a young
hipster to bring me
up to speed.
the morning
you're not a shallow person
in the morning.
you have lowered
your expectations not just
for her,
but you too.
it takes a while to regroup
after a night
of sleep
and extracurricular
activities.
cold water helps.
both drinking and a
shower.
coffee. silence is welcome.
it takes about two hours
before you
expect either one of you
to look human
again. unlike the rest
of the day,
you're not a shallow
person,
in the morning.
in the morning.
you have lowered
your expectations not just
for her,
but you too.
it takes a while to regroup
after a night
of sleep
and extracurricular
activities.
cold water helps.
both drinking and a
shower.
coffee. silence is welcome.
it takes about two hours
before you
expect either one of you
to look human
again. unlike the rest
of the day,
you're not a shallow
person,
in the morning.
the morning
you're not a shallow person
in the morning.
you have lowered
your expectations not just
for her,
but you too.
it takes a while to regroup
after a night
of sleep
and extracurricular
activities.
cold water helps.
both drinking and a
shower.
coffee. silence is welcome.
it takes about two hours
before you
expect either one of you
to look human
again. unlike the rest
of the day,
you're not a shallow
person,
in the morning.
in the morning.
you have lowered
your expectations not just
for her,
but you too.
it takes a while to regroup
after a night
of sleep
and extracurricular
activities.
cold water helps.
both drinking and a
shower.
coffee. silence is welcome.
it takes about two hours
before you
expect either one of you
to look human
again. unlike the rest
of the day,
you're not a shallow
person,
in the morning.
party time
the invitation
on a thick rich card
with raised letters in
gold ink,
expects a response.
one or two
guests?
any special food
requirements,
will you be staying
in town
overnight.
formal wear.
gowns and tuxes are required.
open bar,
sit down dinner.
the gift registry is
online.
crystal or silver
is preferred.
this makes you think about
your own cookout
on Saturday.
texting everyone with
a yo, come on
over, bring a dish
and a fork.
ribs and chicken,
brownies for dessert.
a keg and boxed wine.
on a thick rich card
with raised letters in
gold ink,
expects a response.
one or two
guests?
any special food
requirements,
will you be staying
in town
overnight.
formal wear.
gowns and tuxes are required.
open bar,
sit down dinner.
the gift registry is
online.
crystal or silver
is preferred.
this makes you think about
your own cookout
on Saturday.
texting everyone with
a yo, come on
over, bring a dish
and a fork.
ribs and chicken,
brownies for dessert.
a keg and boxed wine.
party time
the invitation
on a thick rich card
with raised letters in
gold ink,
expects a response.
one or two
guests?
any special food
requirements,
will you be staying
in town
overnight.
formal wear.
gowns and tuxes are required.
open bar,
sit down dinner.
the gift registry is
online.
crystal or silver
is preferred.
this makes you think about
your own cookout
on Saturday.
texting everyone with
a yo, come on
over, bring a dish
and a fork.
ribs and chicken,
brownies for dessert.
a keg and boxed wine.
on a thick rich card
with raised letters in
gold ink,
expects a response.
one or two
guests?
any special food
requirements,
will you be staying
in town
overnight.
formal wear.
gowns and tuxes are required.
open bar,
sit down dinner.
the gift registry is
online.
crystal or silver
is preferred.
this makes you think about
your own cookout
on Saturday.
texting everyone with
a yo, come on
over, bring a dish
and a fork.
ribs and chicken,
brownies for dessert.
a keg and boxed wine.
Thursday, March 10, 2016
a light on
sleep comes easy.
it's the other hours of the day
that you find
hard.
the conversations,
the work
the needs you've decided upon.
sleep is a blessing.
a kind relief
from being who you
need to be
to keep things going,
food and shelter,
a light on
in the hall.
it's the other hours of the day
that you find
hard.
the conversations,
the work
the needs you've decided upon.
sleep is a blessing.
a kind relief
from being who you
need to be
to keep things going,
food and shelter,
a light on
in the hall.
a light on
sleep comes easy.
it's the other hours of the day
that you find
hard.
the conversations,
the work
the needs you've decided upon.
sleep is a blessing.
a kind relief
from being who you
need to be
to keep things going,
food and shelter,
a light on
in the hall.
it's the other hours of the day
that you find
hard.
the conversations,
the work
the needs you've decided upon.
sleep is a blessing.
a kind relief
from being who you
need to be
to keep things going,
food and shelter,
a light on
in the hall.
a place unlived in
how different is a house
unloved,
unkept, no curtains hung,
no paint
of any color
but white.
no rug spread below
the feet of chairs,
a table.
a simple sofa
beside the window.
how unlived in is the place
without
a kind hand
to hammer a nail
and center a picture
over the mantle.
winslow would do, or
just a vase
with fresh flowers.
at night without lights
you would think
it makes no difference,
but it does,
more so as you find
your way up
the dusty staircase.
unloved,
unkept, no curtains hung,
no paint
of any color
but white.
no rug spread below
the feet of chairs,
a table.
a simple sofa
beside the window.
how unlived in is the place
without
a kind hand
to hammer a nail
and center a picture
over the mantle.
winslow would do, or
just a vase
with fresh flowers.
at night without lights
you would think
it makes no difference,
but it does,
more so as you find
your way up
the dusty staircase.
not always
part indian,
part spanish, part horseradish,
part mustard.
german, I see that too
in her.
she's a club
sandwich.
a zesty treat of a girl.
this sparrow
sized siren who lies
between
the sheets,
the rye bread of my
bed.
dressed in the translucent
leafs of lettuce.
the indigestion later
is worth it,
but not always.
part spanish, part horseradish,
part mustard.
german, I see that too
in her.
she's a club
sandwich.
a zesty treat of a girl.
this sparrow
sized siren who lies
between
the sheets,
the rye bread of my
bed.
dressed in the translucent
leafs of lettuce.
the indigestion later
is worth it,
but not always.
not always
part indian,
part spanish, part horseradish,
part mustard.
german, I see that too
in her.
she's a club
sandwich.
a zesty treat of a girl.
this sparrow
sized siren who lies
between
the sheets,
the rye bread of my
bed.
dressed in the translucent
leafs of lettuce.
the indigestion later
is worth it,
but not always.
part spanish, part horseradish,
part mustard.
german, I see that too
in her.
she's a club
sandwich.
a zesty treat of a girl.
this sparrow
sized siren who lies
between
the sheets,
the rye bread of my
bed.
dressed in the translucent
leafs of lettuce.
the indigestion later
is worth it,
but not always.
buying fish
so many fish
so many fish, their cold
grey bodies, still
limp from the sea,
with flat eyes
in tact, unseeing
the ice
they lie in.
trout and cod,
rockfish, mackerel.
laid out in lines
with their own kind,
marked up or down
per size
and weight, freshness,
perhaps. you hope.
the date of capture a small
ink smudge on
a sticky tab.
you choose none of that
and buy
the clean cut of pink
salmon, palm sized,
farm or wild, matters little
to you.
you like to buy
food without eyes,
or heads
or the things within
them, still in place,
but now unused.
so many fish, their cold
grey bodies, still
limp from the sea,
with flat eyes
in tact, unseeing
the ice
they lie in.
trout and cod,
rockfish, mackerel.
laid out in lines
with their own kind,
marked up or down
per size
and weight, freshness,
perhaps. you hope.
the date of capture a small
ink smudge on
a sticky tab.
you choose none of that
and buy
the clean cut of pink
salmon, palm sized,
farm or wild, matters little
to you.
you like to buy
food without eyes,
or heads
or the things within
them, still in place,
but now unused.
to skin a cat
while stroking his beard
he tells you with a wink,
a grin,
a grizzled smile, showing
his bad teeth,
his grey tongue
that there is more
than one way to skin a cat.
you want to ask him
why would anyone
even want to skin a cat.
for what reason?
but you don't say that,
he's invited himself
to sit next
to you outside
in the arcade and drink
his black coffee with you,
a familiar face.
what are you drinking?
he asks. not one of those
girly drinks
all sugary and pink
with sprinkles, is it?
he laughs, throwing his
head back. what looks
like ashes comes out
of his mouth, his eyes
water, then he starts coughing,
really coughing.
the kind of coughing that
might result in 911 being
called, but he stops.
finally.
he points at your drink
with a long yellow nail,
and says, do you mind if I
have sip of yours,
got a frog in my throat.
you look at him, and say no.
he tells you with a wink,
a grin,
a grizzled smile, showing
his bad teeth,
his grey tongue
that there is more
than one way to skin a cat.
you want to ask him
why would anyone
even want to skin a cat.
for what reason?
but you don't say that,
he's invited himself
to sit next
to you outside
in the arcade and drink
his black coffee with you,
a familiar face.
what are you drinking?
he asks. not one of those
girly drinks
all sugary and pink
with sprinkles, is it?
he laughs, throwing his
head back. what looks
like ashes comes out
of his mouth, his eyes
water, then he starts coughing,
really coughing.
the kind of coughing that
might result in 911 being
called, but he stops.
finally.
he points at your drink
with a long yellow nail,
and says, do you mind if I
have sip of yours,
got a frog in my throat.
you look at him, and say no.
clothes make the man
if clothes make the man
I am a fourteen year old boy
leaving the house
in khaki shorts
and a white or blue t-shirt nearly
every morning.
sneakers too, but expensive sneakers,
pumas, not those ankle
breaking chuck taylor
high tops that give you no
support.
I might have a marble
in my pocket, a rabbit's
foot attached to my keys.
life saver candies stuck together
from when the pants were washed,
gum, real gum. not the thin
fruity kind, but
the thick pink kind you
can blow a bubble
the size of a child's head
if need be and pop it
with a loud bang,
making grown ups
shake their heads.
i'll be wearing white socks.
no belt.
no briefcase.
maybe a baseball cap,
dirty with sweat rings
and a rip where my dog
chewed off the top button.
I am a fourteen year old boy
leaving the house
in khaki shorts
and a white or blue t-shirt nearly
every morning.
sneakers too, but expensive sneakers,
pumas, not those ankle
breaking chuck taylor
high tops that give you no
support.
I might have a marble
in my pocket, a rabbit's
foot attached to my keys.
life saver candies stuck together
from when the pants were washed,
gum, real gum. not the thin
fruity kind, but
the thick pink kind you
can blow a bubble
the size of a child's head
if need be and pop it
with a loud bang,
making grown ups
shake their heads.
i'll be wearing white socks.
no belt.
no briefcase.
maybe a baseball cap,
dirty with sweat rings
and a rip where my dog
chewed off the top button.
clothes make the man
if clothes make the man
I am a fourteen year old boy
leaving the house
in khaki shorts
and a white or blue t-shirt nearly
every morning.
sneakers too, but expensive sneakers,
pumas, not those ankle
breaking chuck taylor
high tops that give you no
support.
I might have a marble
in my pocket, a rabbit's
foot attached to my keys.
life saver candies stuck together
from when the pants were washed,
gum, real gum. not the thin
fruity kind, but
the thick pink kind you
can blow a bubble
the size of a child's head
if need be and pop it
with a loud bang,
making grown ups
shake their heads.
i'll be wearing white socks.
no belt.
no briefcase.
maybe a baseball cap,
dirty with sweat rings
and a rip where my dog
chewed off the top button.
I am a fourteen year old boy
leaving the house
in khaki shorts
and a white or blue t-shirt nearly
every morning.
sneakers too, but expensive sneakers,
pumas, not those ankle
breaking chuck taylor
high tops that give you no
support.
I might have a marble
in my pocket, a rabbit's
foot attached to my keys.
life saver candies stuck together
from when the pants were washed,
gum, real gum. not the thin
fruity kind, but
the thick pink kind you
can blow a bubble
the size of a child's head
if need be and pop it
with a loud bang,
making grown ups
shake their heads.
i'll be wearing white socks.
no belt.
no briefcase.
maybe a baseball cap,
dirty with sweat rings
and a rip where my dog
chewed off the top button.
home cooking
I miss my mother's cooking.
her heavy handed
seasoning, salt and butter,
sugar when needed.
whole milk.
the red sauce with meat
on her spaghetti.
everything tasted fine.
you never left the table hungry,
despite there being seven
of you, that makes fourteen
hands and arms
reaching for what
was placed in the center.
I remember the sweat on her
brow as she sat at the head
of table,
saying grace with a smile.
her heavy handed
seasoning, salt and butter,
sugar when needed.
whole milk.
the red sauce with meat
on her spaghetti.
everything tasted fine.
you never left the table hungry,
despite there being seven
of you, that makes fourteen
hands and arms
reaching for what
was placed in the center.
I remember the sweat on her
brow as she sat at the head
of table,
saying grace with a smile.
a list of lovers
you make a list
of lovers that you've had
throughout your
life.
so far it's been Russian
roulette
and you've walked
away from
the table, so to speak,
unscathed. perhaps
poorer and weaker
in the knees,
heart broken, or not,
but you've survived.
whether it's a long list
or not, doesn't matter,
who hasn't made
their own list
then tore it up before
anyone with prying eyes
could find it.
quickly you light the match,
and let it go,
as many did to you.
of lovers that you've had
throughout your
life.
so far it's been Russian
roulette
and you've walked
away from
the table, so to speak,
unscathed. perhaps
poorer and weaker
in the knees,
heart broken, or not,
but you've survived.
whether it's a long list
or not, doesn't matter,
who hasn't made
their own list
then tore it up before
anyone with prying eyes
could find it.
quickly you light the match,
and let it go,
as many did to you.
a list of lovers
you make a list
of lovers that you've had
throughout your
life.
so far it's been Russian
roulette
and you've walked
away from
the table, so to speak,
unscathed. perhaps
poorer and weaker
in the knees,
heart broken, or not,
but you've survived.
whether it's a long list
or not, doesn't matter,
who hasn't made
their own list
then tore it up before
anyone with prying eyes
could find it.
quickly you light the match,
and let it go,
as many did to you.
of lovers that you've had
throughout your
life.
so far it's been Russian
roulette
and you've walked
away from
the table, so to speak,
unscathed. perhaps
poorer and weaker
in the knees,
heart broken, or not,
but you've survived.
whether it's a long list
or not, doesn't matter,
who hasn't made
their own list
then tore it up before
anyone with prying eyes
could find it.
quickly you light the match,
and let it go,
as many did to you.
plumbing issues
i'm bothered by how
the pipes
in my house are making noise.
a thump,
a burp, a loud rattle
and shimmy
of the old bones.
will it all explode?
will the joints spring a leak,
and send the floors
crashing into one
another like a soft cake?
gently I slip into
the steamy bath, just big
enough for two,
being careful not make
any sudden moves.
this could affect Saturday
nights date plan.
the pipes
in my house are making noise.
a thump,
a burp, a loud rattle
and shimmy
of the old bones.
will it all explode?
will the joints spring a leak,
and send the floors
crashing into one
another like a soft cake?
gently I slip into
the steamy bath, just big
enough for two,
being careful not make
any sudden moves.
this could affect Saturday
nights date plan.
plumbing issues
i'm bothered by how
the pipes
in my house are making noise.
a thump,
a burp, a loud rattle
and shimmy
of the old bones.
will it all explode?
will the joints spring a leak,
and send the floors
crashing into one
another like a soft cake?
gently I slip into
the steamy bath, just big
enough for two,
being careful not make
any sudden moves.
this could affect Saturday
nights date plan.
the pipes
in my house are making noise.
a thump,
a burp, a loud rattle
and shimmy
of the old bones.
will it all explode?
will the joints spring a leak,
and send the floors
crashing into one
another like a soft cake?
gently I slip into
the steamy bath, just big
enough for two,
being careful not make
any sudden moves.
this could affect Saturday
nights date plan.
new in town
you're new in town.
which is good.
nobody knows you
and you don't know them.
it's good for everyone
all around.
perhaps you'll turn
over a new leaf,
be a better person
with a change of scenery.
maybe not.
it might take a week or
two before
they find you out,
and you them,
but it could be a nice
week of ignorant bliss.
which is good.
nobody knows you
and you don't know them.
it's good for everyone
all around.
perhaps you'll turn
over a new leaf,
be a better person
with a change of scenery.
maybe not.
it might take a week or
two before
they find you out,
and you them,
but it could be a nice
week of ignorant bliss.
new in town
you're new in town.
which is good.
nobody knows you
and you don't know them.
it's good for everyone
all around.
perhaps you'll turn
over a new leaf,
be a better person
with a change of scenery.
maybe not.
it might take a week or
two before
they find you out,
and you them,
but it could be a nice
week of ignorant bliss.
which is good.
nobody knows you
and you don't know them.
it's good for everyone
all around.
perhaps you'll turn
over a new leaf,
be a better person
with a change of scenery.
maybe not.
it might take a week or
two before
they find you out,
and you them,
but it could be a nice
week of ignorant bliss.
almost there
the teacher stares
at her calendar,
her mind wandering towards
wine
and beaches,
the finish line is so close.
just months away.
the children
look out the windows
with glazed eyes
on this early
warm morning.
hard to crack a book
and recite poetry
when the cherry blossoms
are in bloom,
the trees becoming green,
and full,
or learn
why a frog lays eggs,
difficult to
concentrate
on an obtuse angle,
an equation
waiting to be solved.
there is so much more
to learn
outside these walls,
if they'd let us.
at her calendar,
her mind wandering towards
wine
and beaches,
the finish line is so close.
just months away.
the children
look out the windows
with glazed eyes
on this early
warm morning.
hard to crack a book
and recite poetry
when the cherry blossoms
are in bloom,
the trees becoming green,
and full,
or learn
why a frog lays eggs,
difficult to
concentrate
on an obtuse angle,
an equation
waiting to be solved.
there is so much more
to learn
outside these walls,
if they'd let us.
almost there
the teacher stares
at her calendar,
her mind wandering towards
wine
and beaches,
the finish line is so close.
just months away.
the children
look out the windows
with glazed eyes
on this early
warm morning.
hard to crack a book
and recite poetry
when the cherry blossoms
are in bloom,
the trees becoming green,
and full,
or learn
why a frog lays eggs,
difficult to
concentrate
on an obtuse angle,
an equation
waiting to be solved.
there is so much more
to learn
outside these walls,
if they'd let us.
at her calendar,
her mind wandering towards
wine
and beaches,
the finish line is so close.
just months away.
the children
look out the windows
with glazed eyes
on this early
warm morning.
hard to crack a book
and recite poetry
when the cherry blossoms
are in bloom,
the trees becoming green,
and full,
or learn
why a frog lays eggs,
difficult to
concentrate
on an obtuse angle,
an equation
waiting to be solved.
there is so much more
to learn
outside these walls,
if they'd let us.
upside down
seeing a car upside down
on the side
of the road always surprises you.
you slow down
to see the chaos.
the firemen are there,
blocking
as much of the road as
possible
with their long truck.
an ambulance spins
its lights, the back doors
open and ready
for business,
a stretcher is out
rolled towards the motionless
car, the turtle
on it's back.
someone is tossing sand
onto the pavement.
another man is holding a flare
and telling you to go
around, go right.
keep it moving. but you have
to look.
the car is upside down.
on the side
of the road always surprises you.
you slow down
to see the chaos.
the firemen are there,
blocking
as much of the road as
possible
with their long truck.
an ambulance spins
its lights, the back doors
open and ready
for business,
a stretcher is out
rolled towards the motionless
car, the turtle
on it's back.
someone is tossing sand
onto the pavement.
another man is holding a flare
and telling you to go
around, go right.
keep it moving. but you have
to look.
the car is upside down.
half wrong
they don't know,
these weather men
weather women.
half wrong, half right.
telling you
what the next day
will bring.
pointing at radar
and charts,
the numbers in a windowless
room.
but you listen.
you pack your picnic
lunch for tomorrow,
knowing better,
but leaving
an umbrella behind.
these weather men
weather women.
half wrong, half right.
telling you
what the next day
will bring.
pointing at radar
and charts,
the numbers in a windowless
room.
but you listen.
you pack your picnic
lunch for tomorrow,
knowing better,
but leaving
an umbrella behind.
the grudge
some can, some are able
to hold
onto the anger, embrace
the grudge
for years on end.
they feel safe
in darkness, the terror
of forgiveness
or love
is too much to bear.
it's easier to dig
the trench,
hide behind the barbed
wire of their life,
lay low never thinking
of repair.
to hold
onto the anger, embrace
the grudge
for years on end.
they feel safe
in darkness, the terror
of forgiveness
or love
is too much to bear.
it's easier to dig
the trench,
hide behind the barbed
wire of their life,
lay low never thinking
of repair.
Wednesday, March 9, 2016
the darkness within
you knew boys
who would put a dead cat
on the railroad tracks.
hunt frogs
with bleached needles
on the end
of long sticks.
they were bad boys.
lighting on fire
Halloween bags of candy
as children screamed,
slashing tires
on the school buses.
peeking into windows
late at night,
throwing rocks
at cars. crank calls
on the phone
feigning death of sons
or daughters.
you knew them by name.
they knew you.
you were there for some
of these things.
stunned and amazed
at the cruelty within
them. how easy it was to go
another way.
never to cross
paths with them again,
yet you know they're
out there, somewhere.
a part of this world,
as you are.
who would put a dead cat
on the railroad tracks.
hunt frogs
with bleached needles
on the end
of long sticks.
they were bad boys.
lighting on fire
Halloween bags of candy
as children screamed,
slashing tires
on the school buses.
peeking into windows
late at night,
throwing rocks
at cars. crank calls
on the phone
feigning death of sons
or daughters.
you knew them by name.
they knew you.
you were there for some
of these things.
stunned and amazed
at the cruelty within
them. how easy it was to go
another way.
never to cross
paths with them again,
yet you know they're
out there, somewhere.
a part of this world,
as you are.
the darkness within
you knew boys
who would put a dead cat
on the railroad tracks.
hunt frogs
with bleached needles
on the end
of long sticks.
they were bad boys.
lighting on fire
Halloween bags of candy
as children screamed,
slashing tires
on the school buses.
peeking into windows
late at night,
throwing rocks
at cars. crank calls
on the phone
feigning death of sons
or daughters.
you knew them by name.
they knew you.
you were there for some
of these things.
stunned and amazed
at the cruelty within
them. how easy it was to go
another way.
never to cross
paths with them again,
yet you know they're
out there, somewhere.
a part of this world,
as you are.
who would put a dead cat
on the railroad tracks.
hunt frogs
with bleached needles
on the end
of long sticks.
they were bad boys.
lighting on fire
Halloween bags of candy
as children screamed,
slashing tires
on the school buses.
peeking into windows
late at night,
throwing rocks
at cars. crank calls
on the phone
feigning death of sons
or daughters.
you knew them by name.
they knew you.
you were there for some
of these things.
stunned and amazed
at the cruelty within
them. how easy it was to go
another way.
never to cross
paths with them again,
yet you know they're
out there, somewhere.
a part of this world,
as you are.
the new friend
he helps her move.
you see him
in the yard
taping boxes, marking
on each
the next room
where it will go.
he's new,
a friend, she says,
unable to say the word
boyfriend, quite yet.
you see him with a rake,
a broom.
the trunk of his car
open
and full of all the things
she owns,
and seldom used.
he carries out the heavy
things
to the rented truck,
chairs and tables,
boxes of books,
while
she's more concerned
with clothes
and shoes. put that
in the back, she says,
no further, all the way
to the end.
there you go. you're
so helpful.
thank you.
you see him
in the yard
taping boxes, marking
on each
the next room
where it will go.
he's new,
a friend, she says,
unable to say the word
boyfriend, quite yet.
you see him with a rake,
a broom.
the trunk of his car
open
and full of all the things
she owns,
and seldom used.
he carries out the heavy
things
to the rented truck,
chairs and tables,
boxes of books,
while
she's more concerned
with clothes
and shoes. put that
in the back, she says,
no further, all the way
to the end.
there you go. you're
so helpful.
thank you.
the new friend
he helps her move.
you see him
in the yard
taping boxes, marking
on each
the next room
where it will go.
he's new,
a friend, she says,
unable to say the word
boyfriend, quite yet.
you see him with a rake,
a broom.
the trunk of his car
open
and full of all the things
she owns,
and seldom used.
he carries out the heavy
things
to the rented truck,
chairs and tables,
boxes of books,
while
she's more concerned
with clothes
and shoes. put that
in the back, she says,
no further, all the way
to the end.
there you go. you're
so helpful.
thank you.
you see him
in the yard
taping boxes, marking
on each
the next room
where it will go.
he's new,
a friend, she says,
unable to say the word
boyfriend, quite yet.
you see him with a rake,
a broom.
the trunk of his car
open
and full of all the things
she owns,
and seldom used.
he carries out the heavy
things
to the rented truck,
chairs and tables,
boxes of books,
while
she's more concerned
with clothes
and shoes. put that
in the back, she says,
no further, all the way
to the end.
there you go. you're
so helpful.
thank you.
boiling water
boiling water,
the steam rising
from the deep
pot.
the gas turned
high.
how quickly
things change
under pressure
and flame.
how soon
what we hold dear
evaporates
from sight.
the steam rising
from the deep
pot.
the gas turned
high.
how quickly
things change
under pressure
and flame.
how soon
what we hold dear
evaporates
from sight.
boiling water
boiling water,
the steam rising
from the deep
pot.
the gas turned
high.
how quickly
things change
under pressure
and flame.
how soon
what we hold dear
evaporates
from sight.
the steam rising
from the deep
pot.
the gas turned
high.
how quickly
things change
under pressure
and flame.
how soon
what we hold dear
evaporates
from sight.
first stop
your first rented
apartment
was on the ground floor,
two thirty five per month
including utilities.
it backed up
to the woods, beyond
the woods was a racetrack.
you stuck
a stick in the door
to keep intruders out,
the sliding
window too.
sometimes at night,
you'd open the window
or sit out on the slab
of patio and drink a beer,
swat the bugs away
with a newspaper.
you'd listen
to the races being called.
you could see
the light glowing beyond
the trees, smell the barns,
the grass,
hear the stomping of
hooves and the muffled
roar of a crowd
winning next to nothing.
you didn't know where you
were headed next,
but it wouldn't be hard
to top this.
apartment
was on the ground floor,
two thirty five per month
including utilities.
it backed up
to the woods, beyond
the woods was a racetrack.
you stuck
a stick in the door
to keep intruders out,
the sliding
window too.
sometimes at night,
you'd open the window
or sit out on the slab
of patio and drink a beer,
swat the bugs away
with a newspaper.
you'd listen
to the races being called.
you could see
the light glowing beyond
the trees, smell the barns,
the grass,
hear the stomping of
hooves and the muffled
roar of a crowd
winning next to nothing.
you didn't know where you
were headed next,
but it wouldn't be hard
to top this.
the new beard
he grew a beard,
a thick grizzly mush of
hair.
dark and wooly,
around his chin
and lips,
up to his ears.
he felt more
manly
with his new look.
more rugged,
more wild
and virile, but
she didn't like it,
so he shaved it
off.
a thick grizzly mush of
hair.
dark and wooly,
around his chin
and lips,
up to his ears.
he felt more
manly
with his new look.
more rugged,
more wild
and virile, but
she didn't like it,
so he shaved it
off.
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
whose coat is this
I don't know the coat
that hangs
in the hall closet.
it's not mine.
it doesn't belong to me.
there is nothing
in the pockets.
no name, no tag, no clue
as to who may have
worn it last.
yet it hangs there
against my coats,
between summer and winter.
rain and wind,
each season to its own
cloth and form.
i'll keep it for now,
perhaps the hands
that own it
will return one day,
maybe not, but I have
time to wait.
that hangs
in the hall closet.
it's not mine.
it doesn't belong to me.
there is nothing
in the pockets.
no name, no tag, no clue
as to who may have
worn it last.
yet it hangs there
against my coats,
between summer and winter.
rain and wind,
each season to its own
cloth and form.
i'll keep it for now,
perhaps the hands
that own it
will return one day,
maybe not, but I have
time to wait.
whose coat is this
I don't know the coat
that hangs
in the hall closet.
it's not mine.
it doesn't belong to me.
there is nothing
in the pockets.
no name, no tag, no clue
as to who may have
worn it last.
yet it hangs there
against my coats,
between summer and winter.
rain and wind,
each season to its own
cloth and form.
i'll keep it for now,
perhaps the hands
that own it
will return one day,
maybe not, but I have
time to wait.
that hangs
in the hall closet.
it's not mine.
it doesn't belong to me.
there is nothing
in the pockets.
no name, no tag, no clue
as to who may have
worn it last.
yet it hangs there
against my coats,
between summer and winter.
rain and wind,
each season to its own
cloth and form.
i'll keep it for now,
perhaps the hands
that own it
will return one day,
maybe not, but I have
time to wait.
the slow meal
I wonder if a spoon
fed
love is better than a feast.
a table
where you
pull up and go at it,
both having your
fill, or
does small portions
work better,
better for the long run,
slow indulgence,
the light kiss, the touch
of hands being
the wiser road,
fast food
not making a meal.
fed
love is better than a feast.
a table
where you
pull up and go at it,
both having your
fill, or
does small portions
work better,
better for the long run,
slow indulgence,
the light kiss, the touch
of hands being
the wiser road,
fast food
not making a meal.
i'll send you some of mine
i'll send you one of mine
she says,
maybe two or three,
i'll put them in the mail.
look for them
when they arrive,
I've worked so hard
to get them right,
be kind
in your response,
I trust your gentle hand,
your
careful eye.
but they don't come.
and you wonder
was it weather, or work,
a new love,
an old love
blocking her words,
you wonder
why.
she says,
maybe two or three,
i'll put them in the mail.
look for them
when they arrive,
I've worked so hard
to get them right,
be kind
in your response,
I trust your gentle hand,
your
careful eye.
but they don't come.
and you wonder
was it weather, or work,
a new love,
an old love
blocking her words,
you wonder
why.
i'll send you some of mine
i'll send you one of mine
she says,
maybe two or three,
i'll put them in the mail.
look for them
when they arrive,
I've worked so hard
to get them right,
be kind
in your response,
I trust your gentle hand,
your
careful eye.
but they don't come.
and you wonder
was it weather, or work,
a new love,
an old love
blocking her words,
you wonder
why.
she says,
maybe two or three,
i'll put them in the mail.
look for them
when they arrive,
I've worked so hard
to get them right,
be kind
in your response,
I trust your gentle hand,
your
careful eye.
but they don't come.
and you wonder
was it weather, or work,
a new love,
an old love
blocking her words,
you wonder
why.
the sigh
a breath,
a simple sigh of air,
taken in
and let out.
a short form of
despair.
it will pass, this thought
of discontent,
it will go
away.
as does much of what
brings you
disappointment
in nearly each
and every day.
a simple sigh of air,
taken in
and let out.
a short form of
despair.
it will pass, this thought
of discontent,
it will go
away.
as does much of what
brings you
disappointment
in nearly each
and every day.
the sigh
a breath,
a simple sigh of air,
taken in
and let out.
a short form of
despair.
it will pass, this thought
of discontent,
it will go
away.
as does much of what
brings you
disappointment
in nearly each
and every day.
a simple sigh of air,
taken in
and let out.
a short form of
despair.
it will pass, this thought
of discontent,
it will go
away.
as does much of what
brings you
disappointment
in nearly each
and every day.
garage sale
these instruments
left behind. the tuba
no longer
blown. its brass
gone green,
the violin with strings
detached,
a drum
now numb and flat,
the broken sticks beside it.
the music
has ended, but what
glory
there was in sound,
as fingers
and hearts
moved fast along
the scales, feet tapped,
raising hope, fielding
pleasure,
putting something akin
to love into
the air.
left behind. the tuba
no longer
blown. its brass
gone green,
the violin with strings
detached,
a drum
now numb and flat,
the broken sticks beside it.
the music
has ended, but what
glory
there was in sound,
as fingers
and hearts
moved fast along
the scales, feet tapped,
raising hope, fielding
pleasure,
putting something akin
to love into
the air.
garage sale
these instruments
left behind. the tuba
no longer
blown. its brass
gone green,
the violin with strings
detached,
a drum
now numb and flat,
the broken sticks beside it.
the music
has ended, but what
glory
there was in sound,
as fingers
and hearts
moved fast along
the scales, feet tapped,
raising hope, fielding
pleasure,
putting something akin
to love into
the air.
left behind. the tuba
no longer
blown. its brass
gone green,
the violin with strings
detached,
a drum
now numb and flat,
the broken sticks beside it.
the music
has ended, but what
glory
there was in sound,
as fingers
and hearts
moved fast along
the scales, feet tapped,
raising hope, fielding
pleasure,
putting something akin
to love into
the air.
the winter birds
the winter birds
have no worry in their
black wings,
curved beaks,
finding enough
to keep going, months
moving
neither fast or slow,
but as they
should.
they find enough in
trees, along the scrub
brush,
the melted snow,
patches of grass, weed.
the winter birds
are calm
in flight, in life,
always having, finding
what they need.
have no worry in their
black wings,
curved beaks,
finding enough
to keep going, months
moving
neither fast or slow,
but as they
should.
they find enough in
trees, along the scrub
brush,
the melted snow,
patches of grass, weed.
the winter birds
are calm
in flight, in life,
always having, finding
what they need.
the winter birds
the winter birds
have no worry in their
black wings,
curved beaks,
finding enough
to keep going, months
moving
neither fast or slow,
but as they
should.
they find enough in
trees, along the scrub
brush,
the melted snow,
patches of grass, weed.
the winter birds
are calm
in flight, in life,
always having, finding
what they need.
have no worry in their
black wings,
curved beaks,
finding enough
to keep going, months
moving
neither fast or slow,
but as they
should.
they find enough in
trees, along the scrub
brush,
the melted snow,
patches of grass, weed.
the winter birds
are calm
in flight, in life,
always having, finding
what they need.
leave it alone
you see the mountain.
it's peak.
the bluish ragged
line of cliffs and hills.
the snow cap,
white in the sun.
it's there.
do you want to go and climb
it.
no.
not really.
the ropes and tools,
the special boots,
and dried
food. a lumberjack
shirt. red plaid, perhaps.
lugging water and maps
up the side.
the rescue helicopter
whirring
above you as you
teeter on an edge crying,
calling for
your mother.
your fingernails dug
into a hunk
of shale.
you want to leave
the mountain alone,
it's not bothering anyone.
you want to enjoy it from
a distance
like so many other things
in life.
it's peak.
the bluish ragged
line of cliffs and hills.
the snow cap,
white in the sun.
it's there.
do you want to go and climb
it.
no.
not really.
the ropes and tools,
the special boots,
and dried
food. a lumberjack
shirt. red plaid, perhaps.
lugging water and maps
up the side.
the rescue helicopter
whirring
above you as you
teeter on an edge crying,
calling for
your mother.
your fingernails dug
into a hunk
of shale.
you want to leave
the mountain alone,
it's not bothering anyone.
you want to enjoy it from
a distance
like so many other things
in life.
marie is in love
marie is in love,
much to your disappointment.
she's off
the grid,
the map, the autodial.
she's found
someone, someone not like
you.
but someone geographically
closer,
someone with
a real job and available
on holidays
to do the things
you don't want to do.
someone not allergic
to children
or cats. marie is in love,
but not with you.
much to your disappointment.
she's off
the grid,
the map, the autodial.
she's found
someone, someone not like
you.
but someone geographically
closer,
someone with
a real job and available
on holidays
to do the things
you don't want to do.
someone not allergic
to children
or cats. marie is in love,
but not with you.
marie is in love
marie is in love,
much to your disappointment.
she's off
the grid,
the map, the autodial.
she's found
someone, someone not like
you.
but someone geographically
closer,
someone with
a real job and available
on holidays
to do the things
you don't want to do.
someone not allergic
to children
or cats. marie is in love,
but not with you.
much to your disappointment.
she's off
the grid,
the map, the autodial.
she's found
someone, someone not like
you.
but someone geographically
closer,
someone with
a real job and available
on holidays
to do the things
you don't want to do.
someone not allergic
to children
or cats. marie is in love,
but not with you.
the tunnel life
it's a tunneled life.
a life
underground.
digging.
burrowing, going deep
and dark
into the soft
soil
making holes
where there were none
in the shadowed light.
the front
paws scratching
at the earth, the teeth
gnawing
at what's in the way.
the need to go under,
the desire
to be below
ground, hidden
with only those of
like ilk.
a life
underground.
digging.
burrowing, going deep
and dark
into the soft
soil
making holes
where there were none
in the shadowed light.
the front
paws scratching
at the earth, the teeth
gnawing
at what's in the way.
the need to go under,
the desire
to be below
ground, hidden
with only those of
like ilk.
the tunnel life
it's a tunneled life.
a life
underground.
digging.
burrowing, going deep
and dark
into the soft
soil
making holes
where there were none
in the shadowed light.
the front
paws scratching
at the earth, the teeth
gnawing
at what's in the way.
the need to go under,
the desire
to be below
ground, hidden
with only those of
like ilk.
a life
underground.
digging.
burrowing, going deep
and dark
into the soft
soil
making holes
where there were none
in the shadowed light.
the front
paws scratching
at the earth, the teeth
gnawing
at what's in the way.
the need to go under,
the desire
to be below
ground, hidden
with only those of
like ilk.
Monday, March 7, 2016
cat love
sometimes, when
she hasn't called for
a few days
you think
your cat no longer loves you.
that she uses you
for food and shelter. she's
no longer interested
in the soft grey mouse
on a string
wriggled from a stick.
no longer caring
about the ball
that rolls across the floor.
never curling
in your lap when you come
home from work. she just
sits on the sill,
curled in the sun,
waiting to hear your
hand in a drawer,
a can cut open.
but the ringing phone
changes everything.
she hasn't called for
a few days
you think
your cat no longer loves you.
that she uses you
for food and shelter. she's
no longer interested
in the soft grey mouse
on a string
wriggled from a stick.
no longer caring
about the ball
that rolls across the floor.
never curling
in your lap when you come
home from work. she just
sits on the sill,
curled in the sun,
waiting to hear your
hand in a drawer,
a can cut open.
but the ringing phone
changes everything.
cat love
sometimes, when
she hasn't called for
a few days
you think
your cat no longer loves you.
that she uses you
for food and shelter. she's
no longer interested
in the soft grey mouse
on a string
wriggled from a stick.
no longer caring
about the ball
that rolls across the floor.
never curling
in your lap when you come
home from work. she just
sits on the sill,
curled in the sun,
waiting to hear your
hand in a drawer,
a can cut open.
but the ringing phone
changes everything.
she hasn't called for
a few days
you think
your cat no longer loves you.
that she uses you
for food and shelter. she's
no longer interested
in the soft grey mouse
on a string
wriggled from a stick.
no longer caring
about the ball
that rolls across the floor.
never curling
in your lap when you come
home from work. she just
sits on the sill,
curled in the sun,
waiting to hear your
hand in a drawer,
a can cut open.
but the ringing phone
changes everything.
missing things
the movers
have stolen her new
underwear.
they were tucked neatly
in a dresser
drawer as the men carried
each out
the door, to the elevator
then truck.
she's unsure as
to how to approach
these young men
from the eastern bloc,
and ask them if they know
the whereabouts
of each
still packaged pair.
would she describe them
in detail,
the frills, the transparency,
the ones
with Friday in script
across the front.
or Tuesday in red?
best let it go,
and try not think about
it anymore.
have stolen her new
underwear.
they were tucked neatly
in a dresser
drawer as the men carried
each out
the door, to the elevator
then truck.
she's unsure as
to how to approach
these young men
from the eastern bloc,
and ask them if they know
the whereabouts
of each
still packaged pair.
would she describe them
in detail,
the frills, the transparency,
the ones
with Friday in script
across the front.
or Tuesday in red?
best let it go,
and try not think about
it anymore.
missing things
the movers
have stolen her new
underwear.
they were tucked neatly
in a dresser
drawer as the men carried
each out
the door, to the elevator
then truck.
she's unsure as
to how to approach
these young men
from the eastern bloc,
and ask them if they know
the whereabouts
of each
still packaged pair.
would she describe them
in detail,
the frills, the transparency,
the ones
with Friday in script
across the front.
or Tuesday in red?
best let it go,
and try not think about
it anymore.
have stolen her new
underwear.
they were tucked neatly
in a dresser
drawer as the men carried
each out
the door, to the elevator
then truck.
she's unsure as
to how to approach
these young men
from the eastern bloc,
and ask them if they know
the whereabouts
of each
still packaged pair.
would she describe them
in detail,
the frills, the transparency,
the ones
with Friday in script
across the front.
or Tuesday in red?
best let it go,
and try not think about
it anymore.
double scoop
the warm day
excuses your desire for
ice cream.
all winter
you've restrained yourself
from butter brickle,
or rocky road.
or even a single scoop
on a sugar
cone of mint chip.
but not today.
near seventy degrees
sweating under
a high march sun,
gives you
reason
to buy and savor
an ice cream,
and nibble
like a king on the bottom
of a dripping
cone.
excuses your desire for
ice cream.
all winter
you've restrained yourself
from butter brickle,
or rocky road.
or even a single scoop
on a sugar
cone of mint chip.
but not today.
near seventy degrees
sweating under
a high march sun,
gives you
reason
to buy and savor
an ice cream,
and nibble
like a king on the bottom
of a dripping
cone.
each to his own grieving
her brother did not seem
upset when she
died.
you were embarrassed by your tears,
your loud
crying.
you wanted to stop,
be stoic
be strong and unemotional,
but that wasn't to be.
you melted in grief,
in weight,
in humor. each day
was another breath taken
out of you.
it took months to be well
again.
for the sting
of death to wear thin,
while her brother,
in time
was worse than you'd ever
been.
upset when she
died.
you were embarrassed by your tears,
your loud
crying.
you wanted to stop,
be stoic
be strong and unemotional,
but that wasn't to be.
you melted in grief,
in weight,
in humor. each day
was another breath taken
out of you.
it took months to be well
again.
for the sting
of death to wear thin,
while her brother,
in time
was worse than you'd ever
been.
each to his own grieving
her brother did not seem
upset when she
died.
you were embarrassed by your tears,
your loud
crying.
you wanted to stop,
be stoic
be strong and unemotional,
but that wasn't to be.
you melted in grief,
in weight,
in humor. each day
was another breath taken
out of you.
it took months to be well
again.
for the sting
of death to wear thin,
while her brother,
in time
was worse than you'd ever
been.
upset when she
died.
you were embarrassed by your tears,
your loud
crying.
you wanted to stop,
be stoic
be strong and unemotional,
but that wasn't to be.
you melted in grief,
in weight,
in humor. each day
was another breath taken
out of you.
it took months to be well
again.
for the sting
of death to wear thin,
while her brother,
in time
was worse than you'd ever
been.
what's left behind
people would leave
things in your cab.
you had a box in your trunk
to put them.
the rings
and watches, discarded
clothes,
hats and gloves mostly,
but sometimes a dress
slipped
off, or more.
briefcases
and books, phones,
laptops
and money.
sunglasses, glasses.
a small dog once.
sometimes they'd
find you again,
calling the dispatcher
to retrieve
what belonged to them,
and other times,
over time these things
became yours.
vague memories of each
street you visited
or were hailed down
with a whistle or yell.
things in your cab.
you had a box in your trunk
to put them.
the rings
and watches, discarded
clothes,
hats and gloves mostly,
but sometimes a dress
slipped
off, or more.
briefcases
and books, phones,
laptops
and money.
sunglasses, glasses.
a small dog once.
sometimes they'd
find you again,
calling the dispatcher
to retrieve
what belonged to them,
and other times,
over time these things
became yours.
vague memories of each
street you visited
or were hailed down
with a whistle or yell.
what's left behind
people would leave
things in your cab.
you had a box in your trunk
to put them.
the rings
and watches, discarded
clothes,
hats and gloves mostly,
but sometimes a dress
slipped
off, or more.
briefcases
and books, phones,
laptops
and money.
sunglasses, glasses.
a small dog once.
sometimes they'd
find you again,
calling the dispatcher
to retrieve
what belonged to them,
and other times,
over time these things
became yours.
vague memories of each
street you visited
or were hailed down
with a whistle or yell.
things in your cab.
you had a box in your trunk
to put them.
the rings
and watches, discarded
clothes,
hats and gloves mostly,
but sometimes a dress
slipped
off, or more.
briefcases
and books, phones,
laptops
and money.
sunglasses, glasses.
a small dog once.
sometimes they'd
find you again,
calling the dispatcher
to retrieve
what belonged to them,
and other times,
over time these things
became yours.
vague memories of each
street you visited
or were hailed down
with a whistle or yell.
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