after all that

the early years
are lean
and fun
wanting, driving.
optimism is found
in a rising sun,
a rain cloud,
a new lover, an old
flame
dying out.
the middle years
put a smile
on your face
fat
and content with your
yard,
wife,
son, dog and cat.
so much to do is done,
now this.
what is this
after all of that.

after all that

the early years
are lean
and fun
wanting, driving.
optimism is found
in a rising sun,
a rain cloud,
a new lover, an old
flame
dying out.
the middle years
put a smile
on your face
fat
and content with your
yard,
wife,
son, dog and cat.
so much to do is done,
now this.
what is this
after all of that.

yard sale

bargain
hunting is not your thing.
never would you
stop at a flea
market, a yard sale,
a parking lot
where others are sitting
out with the junk
they no longer want,
prices pinned
to sleeves, and dresses,
shoes, and old cd's.
you have enough junk of
your own.
enough tvs
you never watch, a pool
table where you
stack the folded
clothes.
you don't need another
poorly painted
seascape,
or weed wacker with
a broken string,
or half empty cans
of paint.
old toaster ovens with
crumbs still in them.
rakes and brooms, floppy hats.
no.
all day they sit.
the gabby women and squirrely men,
eating donuts drinking coffee.
seeing you
pass by in the morning,
coming home
that afternoon, hoping
that you'll stop
and have three dollars
to spend.

yard sale

bargain
hunting is not your thing.
never would you
stop at a flea
market, a yard sale,
a parking lot
where others are sitting
out with the junk
they no longer want,
prices pinned
to sleeves, and dresses,
shoes, and old cd's.
you have enough junk of
your own.
enough tvs
you never watch, a pool
table where you
stack the folded
clothes.
you don't need another
poorly painted
seascape,
or weed wacker with
a broken string,
or half empty cans
of paint.
old toaster ovens with
crumbs still in them.
rakes and brooms, floppy hats.
no.
all day they sit.
the gabby women and squirrely men,
eating donuts drinking coffee.
seeing you
pass by in the morning,
coming home
that afternoon, hoping
that you'll stop
and have three dollars
to spend.

early morning

her sunday cry
is more of a misting, a peering
out her kitchen
window
with the cat.
green tea might be involved.
some early morning
stretching.
deep breathing.
but the tears come down.
she takes out an old
scrap book
to break the clouds open.
when she's finally
had enough.
she takes a walk to the park.
hands in
her pockets,
hat on.
the fall wind
swirling down her
open jacket, her sleeves,
giving her
a chill as she crosses
the empty street.

disrepair

so much of the house
needs work.
gutters swing,
shutters bang, doors
squeak, with broken keys
still in the lock
as the furnace
hums cold.
the yard is a patch
of weeds
and dirt.
the fence leans, the gate
won't close.
someone lives
here who doesn't care
anymore.
it's not about
the money, but something
else. something
you've known about
but would rather not
hear anymore.

off the chain

the stray dog
worries you as he crosses
the highway,
out of breath,
panting.
the cars dodge him.
horns blare.
he makes it to
the other side
of the road,
goes into the woods.
his ribs show.
his eyes
are dull.
he's lost, having wandered
too far
from home.
a path you've known
quite well.

the quiet

the quiet neighbors
are up early, raking leaves.
spreading
spider webs
upon their shrubbery,
setting out the carved
pumpkin, the green witch
placard
that wobbles in the autumn
wind.
they say nothing to you.
they look down,
look away.
you've given up on hellos,
of saying
good day.
you go inside,
they try the string of lights,
they glow
orange and blink
beneath your shades.

on another day

she sits
in the sun. the park is empty.
the trees
bare.
scattered shots of grey
pigeons
wander about
on clawed feet.
she sits and wonders which
way to go.
what words to say,
how to end it all,
or stay.
she sits in the sun,
the sun
upon her face.
she knows the answers, she
knows
what must be done,
but doesn't.
maybe another season,
on another day.

on another day

she sits
in the sun. the park is empty.
the trees
bare.
scattered shots of grey
pigeons
wander about
on clawed feet.
she sits and wonders which
way to go.
what words to say,
how to end it all,
or stay.
she sits in the sun,
the sun
upon her face.
she knows the answers, she
knows
what must be done,
but doesn't.
maybe another season,
on another day.

passing by

each train
coming slowly into the station.
we wait.
we stand together,
board
then sit and watch
as the curve
of the earth
passes
by.
some have a day left
to live,
others
years, a lifetime.
the train keeps coming,
rolling,
arriving,
departing.
we board.
we sit and watch at the curve
of the earth
passing by.

the mystery

As a small child
I remember seeing my
mother's lingerie hanging
on the shower curtain bar
while I sat
in the only quiet room
in the house
reading dc comic books
on the toilet,
my legs going to sleep
from being there so long.
the days of the week
in scroll were embroidered
across each pair
of underwear she owned.
didn't she have a calendar?
was there a rule
to this clothing?
what if she wore fridays
pale blue number
on Tuesday, would she
forget we had school the next
day thinking
it was Saturday?
and those strange sheer
stockings, like fishnets,
they would hardly keep a leg
warm in winter.
what was going on
here? a mystery for a very
long time, until
it wasn't.

reboot

the near end
of the world, might save
the world.
it can't go on like this
forever,
spinning backwards.
it needs to stop,
to pause,
to erase and flood
again.
wipe clean
the noise, the wrongs.
it will be a deep sleep
for the blue
planet, but it
will come back.
slowly, hopefully
better for what has
happened.

down to the sea

in Barcelona, the tall
man with a black beret,
the housekeeper,
would collect
the new born kittens
in a burlap bag
then take them down
to the sea
to drown them.
you watched from the window
as he lifted
each kitten, from the wooden
crate,
crying, lying beside
the mother,
feeding.
you were just a child.
your face pressed
against the wired screen.
you imagined
the green water
of the Mediterranean,
so soft and calm
filling
their new lungs. you
wondered was life
that easy to take.
all life?

off to war

she was about to go to war,
or at least
that's what she said
when I met her.
a final date then
off to some dark
hell of a place where death
is an everyday event.
she was hungry.
so I fed her.
bought her wine, bread
and salad.
she slurped from her bowl
of clams and pasta,
every last drop down the hatch.
was she thinking
about war, as she chewed
and swallowed,
was she pondering
guns and bullets,
tanks
and jets, as she licked
the tiramisu from her fork,
or was she just
hungry and didn't have to
pay, being with a stranger
she'd never see again.

off to war

she was about to go to war,
or at least
that's what she said
when I met her.
a final date then
off to some dark
hell of a place where death
is an everyday event.
she was hungry.
so I fed her.
bought her wine, bread
and salad.
she slurped from her bowl
of clams and pasta,
every last drop down the hatch.
was she thinking
about war, as she chewed
and swallowed,
was she pondering
guns and bullets,
tanks
and jets, as she licked
the tiramisu from her fork,
or was she just
hungry and didn't have to
pay, being with a stranger
she'd never see again.

the big store

so much
in the stores, on the shelves
hanging on
the racks.
unbought
untouched or worn,
pushed into
stacks, into the caverns
of seconds,
thirds,
off to where?
some other country
some other store
that prefers
polyester
or plaid, bold striped
with photographs,
the roof can hardly
hold the changing
of seasons,
the cheaply made sweaters
that unravel
with a single wash,
next to summer shorts,
spring
dresses,
the thread bare
shirts
and pants, shoes
with soles about to
come off.
clothes for masses, cheap
and plentiful.
hot off the press,
from the sewing
machines
of a factory that runs
all night.

five bags

might not be enough candy.
how many children are there
in this neighborhood.
they are being born
by the barrel,
the crate,
falling off conveyor
belts.
the parents must be tired
making all these children.
now they come
in droves, sweating beneath
their costumes
and masks,
ballerinas and ghosts,
queens
and knights.
their little hands are
out as their mouths
squeak
trick or treat,
their sagging pillow cases
dragged behind
them in the cool
October night.

moon flowers

the water holds the moon.
it flowers
white
and silver
on the wash of black.
it's hard to match
such beauty.
sublime
and pure
without intention,
but we can try.
we can come close.
and that's good enough

moon flowers

the water holds the moon.
it flowers
white
and silver
on the wash of black.
it's hard to match
such beauty.
sublime
and pure
without intention,
but we can try.
we can come close.
and that's good enough

dorchester street

this small street
a snippet
of concrete and scrub
grass.
squared houses with
flat roofs,
duplexes of brick,
chipped curbs
and oiled poles,
the wires sagging
with the old voices
of past and present
calls.
it holds so little.
it holds so much.
the hours
and years spent running
from side to side.
the sleds on ice
and snow.
the rain storms,
the chase
and tag of young love,
nothing could keep
you inside,
from being out
in the street.

dorchester street

this small street
a snippet
of concrete and scrub
grass.
squared houses with
flat roofs,
duplexes of brick,
chipped curbs
and oiled poles,
the wires sagging
with the old voices
of past and present
calls.
it holds so little.
it holds so much.
the hours
and years spent running
from side to side.
the sleds on ice
and snow.
the rain storms,
the chase
and tag of young love,
nothing could keep
you inside,
from being out
in the street.

a cool place

a quiet black snake
eases its way
across the bike path.
you stop
to watch him slither
onward.
the sun puts a dull shine
upon his long body.
there is no looking up
at you, no hurry in him,
no hissing, no baring
of fangs.
he's tired
of this summer heat
and wants to find a cool
hole
to curl into. a place
to sleep
for winter.
you too.

shades of blue

the prince and princess
of Chantilly
want it cheap.
want it perfect, want it
to be like the palace
they have
in their delusional minds.
but they have
no money, so they negotiate
down and down.
meanwhile
the rugs come in, the chandeliers
get hung,
the oil paintings
are centered onto walls.
she's in a range rover,
he in his
black Mercedes.
we have no money, they tell you.
we can't pay you
what you want.
please, help us, we like you.
we like your work.
she spoons caviar into his
open mouth.
he lights incense to get
the paint smell out.
a servant appears in silk, bows,
and announces that their bath
is ready.
please, they say. one more
coat on everything to make it
shine.
but we have no money.
please let yourself out when
you're done. we'll call you
later to let you know what other
things we need
painted again.
this blue is a shade too dark.
do you know the color periwinkle?

cure for a cold

a masked man with a gun
sticks the barrel into my ribs
as i take a detour down
a dark alley, he asks me
for directions.
where's the nearest bank, he says.
around the corner i tell him,
they have a drive through atm too,
i put my hands in the air.
it used to be a Boston Market, but
it's a bank now.
east or west, he asks.
that way, i tell him, pointing.
maybe north, or northwest.
he sneezes.
god bless you, i say to him.
he nods and wipes his nose
with his arm.
what's the best way to cure
a cold, he asks coughing into his sleeve
what? answer me, he says,
pushing the gun harder
into my belly.
i don't have all day,
banks close at twelve on Saturdays.
what's the best way to cure a cold.
answer me!
I've had this nagging cough for weeks,
how do i get rid of it?
umm, rest, liquids, juice, sleep,
i tell him. but i'm not a doctor.
i go on WebMD all the time though.
try some cough syrup.
what kind? over the counter?
i have a prescription, but it's
no better than the stuff you can
get at the drugstore. some of them
make you drowsy, so you might have
to be careful when you're loading your gun.
also, chicken soup. hot chicken soup.
you trying to get funny with me?
i hate soup, do i look like someone
who eats soup?
i look at him, there's a scar down
middle of his forehead
and a tattoo of an electric chair
on his neck.
no, i say. no, but really, soup
is good for you when you have a cold.
hmmm. he says, lowering the gun.
maybe.
he sneezes again and begins to cough,
bending over, trying to catch
his breath. i feel feverish too, he says.
where can i get some soup?
try whole foods, or wegmans, but
they'll be packed today.
you can get it freshly made
in those hot bins. okay, okay.
he says. i'll get some soup.
here, i tell him, handing
him my handkerchief. it's clean.
you can have it.
okay, thanks, he says. don't follow
me or tell anyone about this.
i won't i tell him.
chicken soup, i yell out as he
pulls the mask off and darts
out of the alley.

let's eat out tonight

talking to yourself, you say,
let's eat out tonight.
you open the fridge door, close
it, open it again.
close it. you go to
the cupboards, doors open,
doors closed.
once more to the fridge.
open close.
the top freezer section,
ice and a blue
bag frozen, for you knee.
nothing.
let's eat out tonight you say again,
to no one, looking
out the window.
it's still light out.
but casual. let's go casual
you say, looking down
at your underwear and socks.
okay not that casual.

let's eat out tonight

talking to yourself, you say,
let's eat out tonight.
you open the fridge door, close
it, open it again.
close it. you go to
the cupboards, doors open,
doors closed.
once more to the fridge.
open close.
the top freezer section,
ice and a blue
bag frozen, for you knee.
nothing.
let's eat out tonight you say again,
to no one, looking
out the window.
it's still light out.
but casual. let's go casual
you say, looking down
at your underwear and socks.
okay not that casual.

the audition

the actor,
staring into the phone.
practicing her lines, his lines.
the understudy's
lines.
it's raining.
the bus is late.
when will they call.
Shakespeare's been dead a long
time.
but his words
keep ringing and ringing
through
each actor's head.
stardom
just a break away.
one lucky turn.
the right place at the right
time.
the bus is late.
it's raining. there must
be a better
way to make a living.

let's talk

i listen, sometimes.
other times, i'm waiting for the other
person to stop
talking so that i can say something
more interesting
or to summarize what they just said,
to clarify the mumbo jumbo
that just came out
of their mouth, or to disagree with them.
sometimes they go on so long, that i
have no choice but to interrupt
them, putting my hand up
in the air, giving the whoa sign.
tapping my watch.
sometimes i don't talk to anyone
the whole day, those are good days.
very relaxing.

let's talk

i listen, sometimes.
other times, i'm waiting for the other
person to stop
talking so that i can say something
more interesting
or to summarize what they just said,
to clarify the mumbo jumbo
that just came out
of their mouth, or to disagree with them.
sometimes they go on so long, that i
have no choice but to interrupt
them, putting my hand up
in the air, giving the whoa sign.
tapping my watch.
sometimes i don't talk to anyone
the whole day, those are good days.
very relaxing.

the blue line

as you sit
in the pharmacy waiting room,
along with the others,
each wrapped
up in their own sweaty misery,
you wait for your
name to be called.
the lines are long. a red line,
a blue line.
it's ellis island. grand central
station.
it's rush hour
for prescription meds.
calmly you sit, staring
at your folded hands.
trying not to touch anything,
or breathe.
finally you hear your name,
it's close enough,
so you rise and find
your place
in the blue line. blue
being your favorite color.

the blue line

as you sit
in the pharmacy waiting room,
along with the others,
each wrapped
up in their own sweaty misery,
you wait for your
name to be called.
the lines are long. a red line,
a blue line.
it's ellis island. grand central
station.
it's rush hour
for prescription meds.
calmly you sit, staring
at your folded hands.
trying not to touch anything,
or breathe.
finally you hear your name,
it's close enough,
so you rise and find
your place
in the blue line. blue
being your favorite color.

she's in rome

she's in rome now.
she sends me
a postcard
with the smudge of her
lipsticked lips
pressed upon
the stiff card.
on the front is
the ancient coliseum,
quiet now
and full of feral cats.
wish you were
here, the card reads,
forgetting about the lion
she once was
with me in the center ring.

she's in rome

she's in rome now.
she sends me
a postcard
with the smudge of her
lipsticked lips
pressed upon
the stiff card.
on the front is
the ancient coliseum,
quiet now
and full of feral cats.
wish you were
here, the card reads,
forgetting about the lion
she once was
with me in the center ring.

some girls

some girls,
were like safes.
almost impossible to find
the right
set of numbers
to open the iron door.
how you clicked the dials
in the back seat
of your father's car
on dark roads,
under moonless nights.
some were like fort knoxx.
impervious to your
efforts,
your teenaged charms.
there were
armed guards at the gate.
others
left the doors
and windows unlocked
and put out
a welcome mat. left
a light on to help you
find your way.

the work

I used to do all the work
myself
the owner of the house says.
he's holding a cup
of coffee, squinting
at the rising sun as he
remembers.
he shows me
his garage full
of tools, neatly hung
where he wants them to be.
half empty gallons of paint
tapped shut.
stacked against a wall.
paint brushes too.
yard tools.
mowers and clippers,
hoes.
a straight line of screwdrivers.
I used to do all the work
myself he says,
pointing at his work
bench, hands on hips,
wearing his overalls,
neatly pressed,
with suspenders.
but I don't now.
I can't anymore.
I have ladders too, he says.
they're around
back, let me show you.

don't find me

some distant relatives
are not distant enough.
they find you.
ancient friends
buried in memory, now
risen
with their vague memories,
and you with yours.
everyone finds everyone these days.
it's not good.
they say heaven
is like this, or hell perhaps,
where everyone you know
or have
known is suddenly in the same
place
at the same time.
it's not good.
I need my space and time
alone.

don't find me

some distant relatives
are not distant enough.
they find you.
ancient friends
buried in memory, now
risen
with their vague memories,
and you with yours.
everyone finds everyone these days.
it's not good.
they say heaven
is like this, or hell perhaps,
where everyone you know
or have
known is suddenly in the same
place
at the same time.
it's not good.
I need my space and time
alone.

water

I take water
for granted. I expect it
to come out
of the faucet.
i'm not surprised
when the shower works
and rains down,
or the tub rises.
when i'm thirsty I hold
a glass
under the cold stream
and let it fill.
I can't imagine
life any other way.
and that's where
you come in.
you pour yourself
out
when I need you.

water

I take water
for granted. I expect it
to come out
of the faucet.
i'm not surprised
when the shower works
and rains down,
or the tub rises.
when i'm thirsty I hold
a glass
under the cold stream
and let it fill.
I can't imagine
life any other way.
and that's where
you come in.
you pour yourself
out
when I need you.

we love to work

we love to work.
we tell people how hard
we're working, the hours we've
put it in.
we say that we haven't had a real
vacation in years.
excuse me while I take this call.
okay. where were we?
we talk about how
early we get up in the morning.
how late we arrive home.
even the weekends keep us busy,
keep us going.
work is with us every hour
of the day and night.
on our phones our screens.
hold on while I answer this text.
okay.
we who shake our heads at how
hard a farmer works,
bent over in a field,
coal miners and factory workers,
how we flinched at their lives
while we do nothing but plow,
seed and harvest, forever more.

it's your life, sort of

you love your
new sports car. did you need
another car.
another
set of wheels to ride around
in? no,
of course not.
but somehow it makes
you feel better about how
hard you work,
the reward
of grinding out the days
towards
sunset.
it will hold you for awhile.
its leather
and new smell, the sleek
shiny
hope that it offers
as you shift
along a curve.
it's a mirage,
but who cares.
it's your money. your life.
sort of.

it's your life, sort of

you love your
new sports car. did you need
another car.
another
set of wheels to ride around
in? no,
of course not.
but somehow it makes
you feel better about how
hard you work,
the reward
of grinding out the days
towards
sunset.
it will hold you for awhile.
its leather
and new smell, the sleek
shiny
hope that it offers
as you shift
along a curve.
it's a mirage,
but who cares.
it's your money. your life.
sort of.

awake at night

it's easier to remember
the failed
shot,
the fumble, the missed ball
swung
hard at.
the love
not conquered, or
job
not given.
it's easier to dwell
on failure
than it is on success,
one keeping
you awake,
the other,
already dismissed
and forgotten.

awake at night

it's easier to remember
the failed
shot,
the fumble, the missed ball
swung
hard at.
the love
not conquered, or
job
not given.
it's easier to dwell
on failure
than it is on success,
one keeping
you awake,
the other,
already dismissed
and forgotten.

a longer night

the morning
star,
as yellow and white
as any
star
can be
through a blue
haze
of sky,
slips through
the shade
into my still
asleep eyes.
how quickly night
goes,
and morning
arrives.
a longer
night is needed.

a longer night

the morning
star,
as yellow and white
as any
star
can be
through a blue
haze
of sky,
slips through
the shade
into my still
asleep eyes.
how quickly night
goes,
and morning
arrives.
a longer
night is needed.

ready for work

you couldn't wait to shave
when you were
a child.
covering your cheeks and chin
with your
father's
shaving cream,
then taking
a razor to slowly
take the creamy
white clouds away.
not even peach fuzz was
there
to cut.
but you made like there
was.
your sisters banged at the locked
bathroom door.
what are you doing in there?
then his old spice
splashed on
with your small cupped hands,
your hair combed,
parted on the side
with the help
of brylcreme.
done.
brushing past
your angry sisters,
you were ready for work,
grabbing your
lunch box
and running so as not
to miss the bus.

for sale

he mistakes
the woman two stools down
at the quiet hotel bar
for someone who is interested
in him
romantically.
they talk. they flirt.
she moves closer to him,
touching his arm
then knee when they talk.
she laughs
at everything he says.
then yawns, tapping her mouth,
gets
up to leave,
she slides a matchbook cover
towards
him with her room
number on it.
he watches her walk out.
the tight skirt,
the hair
bouncing
around her shoulders,
the curves of her.
he goes to his room
to freshen up, calls his
wife to say
good night, stares at
himself in the mirror.
amazed that he still has it.
he dabs on
some cologne, buttons
up a fresh
shirt,
then call her room number.
are you a cop,
she says.
to which he says no,
i'm a salesman in town for
the convention.
well, good, she says, perhaps
you should come
up for a drink,
but first let me give you
my prices.

the next song

the aged rebel
is still at it, undefined,
uncaptured,
misunderstood.
how they want to rein
him in,
make him one of them,
at last,
by giving
him a medal.
he's quiet on it all.
smirking
in the last light
of day,
adorned by those he railed
about
for decades.
blue eyed and bent,
he stares into the crowd,
strumming
his guitar
making the next song.

the next song

the aged rebel
is still at it, undefined,
uncaptured,
misunderstood.
how they want to rein
him in,
make him one of them,
at last,
by giving
him a medal.
he's quiet on it all.
smirking
in the last light
of day,
adorned by those he railed
about
for decades.
blue eyed and bent,
he stares into the crowd,
strumming
his guitar
making the next song.

unwavered

they clubbed
you like a baby seal at
saint Thomas More,
the nuns
in black,
holding their weapons
of rosaries and crosses.
every pleasure
a sin
to be avoided. you
were born bad.
hell lingered nearby
even in infancy.
on boney knees
you inhaled the perfumes
of mass,
memorized
and beat three times
your chest.
how you trembled
in line at the confessional,
in front
and behind were
your sinning peers.
penance hardly seemed
enough
to cleanse you,
but you took it gladly.
you could hide
from your parents,
your teachers,
the adults in your life,
but not
God, there he was, there
he was,
all day. all night.
still your faith
has not wavered.

tomorrows

the worries
of tomorrow don't come.
they
may be postponed
or delayed
by traffic or rain,
but
they don't arrive
as expected.
you sigh
and wipe your brow,
look out
the window
and wave
to the mailman
as he whistles
passing by.

tomorrows

the worries
of tomorrow don't come.
they
may be postponed
or delayed
by traffic or rain,
but
they don't arrive
as expected.
you sigh
and wipe your brow,
look out
the window
and wave
to the mailman
as he whistles
passing by.

blue tequila

I can see
the light. it's a bright
white light.
there are angels.
white winged angels
with long hair
and blue eyes.
they seem happy to see
me. how nice.
together we fly off
into the clouds.
tequila
is a strange
and wonderful thing.

blue tequila

I can see
the light. it's a bright
white light.
there are angels.
white winged angels
with long hair
and blue eyes.
they seem happy to see
me. how nice.
together we fly off
into the clouds.
tequila
is a strange
and wonderful thing.

happiness can be bought

they say that money cannot
buy happiness,
but I am here today to refute
that myth.
in my hand is a cheap
bamboo stick, $7.95 retail,
with a claw like monkey hand
end, made somewhere i'll
never visit. an island off the coast
of a country I can't pronounce
or find on a map.
with it I can reach any
portion of my dry back
that has an itch.
the joy and blessed
happiness that I get each
day from this
ingenious, potentially
nobel prize winning
back scratcher has put
a smile on my face,
a smile
not unlike the one I get
from loving you,
or a slice of deep dark
chocolate cake
washed down with a cold
glass of milk.

the open space

you see
the big tree gone when you
get home from work.
thick
and tall, now carved
and cut
into small stumps.
the courtyard looks strange
without it.
someone deemed it dead,
and turned
the saws on
while no one was around
to protest
or mourn. which is often
how we all go,
leaving an open space
to ponder.

the open space

you see
the big tree gone when you
get home from work.
thick
and tall, now carved
and cut
into small stumps.
the courtyard looks strange
without it.
someone deemed it dead,
and turned
the saws on
while no one was around
to protest
or mourn. which is often
how we all go,
leaving an open space
to ponder.

blood relatives

what is wrong with
these people,
these strange people you often
thought of your family
when growing
up with them
in the same house.
why do they behave
this way,
how different you are from
them.
adoption comes to mind,
found in a basket
perhaps on the door step, left
by some passing stranger
with one too many
children to care for.
it's a wonderment,
the differences, even
now as we each turn grey.

holiday cookies

when your ex wife
went on a diet, there was
no shortage
of summer squash,
kale,
white fish, carob
and low fat
cookies.
lots of raisons
were in the house,
unsalted nuts. dry
oats.
her plates of desserts
lasted and lasted
throughout
the holidays,
and as the tree went
down,
the lights turned off,
not even the dog would tip
a plate
and indulge.

the tease

the tease
of life,
the sugar
the salt,
a kiss a wink,
the slight
touch
of hand.
a whispered
word,
a moon aglow
in
the sweet
black night.

bee

the bee, making his choice
to land
and sting
is neither foolish
or wise.
it's what
he does for others
to live on,
to survive.
a practical decision,
selfless.
so rare
do we think like
them
and die.

bee

the bee, making his choice
to land
and sting
is neither foolish
or wise.
it's what
he does for others
to live on,
to survive.
a practical decision,
selfless.
so rare
do we think like
them
and die.

the nights

you marry
an Italian woman
who throws things
when she's angry.
she screams
and curses
in her native language,
her long arms
in the air,
she is fury
when you've crossed
her
or been misunderstood.
it's long day
with this woman,
a very long day,
but oh,
the nights.

how she goes

the poet
plans her life's
end
by exhaust. the 67
cougar
let to run in
the enclosed garage.
the pill excursions
were nothing.
she leaves
no note.
no last call.
no farewell.
just the radio on
and the chug of blue smoke
as she sinks
into an odd sleep,
embracing
the next world
calmly,
at last.

how she goes

the poet
plans her life's
end
by exhaust. the 67
cougar
let to run in
the enclosed garage.
the pill excursions
were nothing.
she leaves
no note.
no last call.
no farewell.
just the radio on
and the chug of blue smoke
as she sinks
into an odd sleep,
embracing
the next world
calmly,
at last.

fear and fun

i have no desire
to climb
mount Everest.
jump out of a plane,
or deep sea
dive. not a bone in my
body wants
to bungee jump
over a bridge,
or to wrestle a wild
animal.
save your balloon fights
for someone else.
getting up
and going to work
is enough
fear and fun for
one day.

you may feel a pinch

this won't hurt a bit,
the doctor says, holding a light,
a needle,
a gun
in his hand.
why the gun, i ask.
trembling at the sight
of the pointed
steel syringe.
oh,
don't worry it's not
loaded.
but sometimes
patients don't pay,
this helps.
stay still, you may
feel a pinch.

sorry that i asked

i'm sorry I asked.
excuse me for nodding off in the middle
of your answer
to my question.
I had no idea you had
so much to say.
no clue that you had prepared
a long statement
to which I am captive
to listen to.
please pardon me if I slip
away,
if I close my eyes
or sing, or hum, or gaze
up into the clouds.
i'm both here and hear.
go on. tell me what you need
to tell me,
and i'll try to hide
the fact
that i'm sorry that I asked.

sorry that i asked

i'm sorry I asked.
excuse me for nodding off in the middle
of your answer
to my question.
I had no idea you had
so much to say.
no clue that you had prepared
a long statement
to which I am captive
to listen to.
please pardon me if I slip
away,
if I close my eyes
or sing, or hum, or gaze
up into the clouds.
i'm both here and hear.
go on. tell me what you need
to tell me,
and i'll try to hide
the fact
that i'm sorry that I asked.

wounds

this blood
is nothing. a dribble across
the floor.
a leak
in the system
that is you.
just a small wound
that will close
in time.
unlike the larger cuts,
pressed deep,
of heart,
of mind.

wounds

this blood
is nothing. a dribble across
the floor.
a leak
in the system
that is you.
just a small wound
that will close
in time.
unlike the larger cuts,
pressed deep,
of heart,
of mind.

the wrong wrench

the wrong wrench won't
turn
the nut.
too tight.
no grease will loosen
it, no
pliers
no steel fingers
will turn it to the left
or right.
it's frozen.
who hasn't
been there, unable
to change,
to be loose
and free once more,
like when you
were young,
new.

the wrong wrench

the wrong wrench won't
turn
the nut.
too tight.
no grease will loosen
it, no
pliers
no steel fingers
will turn it to the left
or right.
it's frozen.
who hasn't
been there, unable
to change,
to be loose
and free once more,
like when you
were young,
new.

cat burglar

she is a thief,
a robber,
a cat burglar
in black,
slipping inside your heart,
ear to
the ticking chest,
turning the dials
to get
what's in you.
all of you,
then go off into
the night,
to another unlatched
door.

cat burglar

she is a thief,
a robber,
a cat burglar
in black,
slipping inside your heart,
ear to
the ticking chest,
turning the dials
to get
what's in you.
all of you,
then go off into
the night,
to another unlatched
door.

in between

we are in between
so much,
caught
inside
lifes edges.
the clock, the calendar,
each with its own
space
to live in.
we strike a stance
and like
Samson
try to hold back
the hours
that swarm by,
the columns that hold
up the day,
the night.
what is it that this world
wants from
us.

in between

we are in between
so much,
caught
inside
lifes edges.
the clock, the calendar,
each with its own
space
to live in.
we strike a stance
and like
Samson
try to hold back
the hours
that swarm by,
the columns that hold
up the day,
the night.
what is it that this world
wants from
us.

blue ink

a blue inked sky, unsure
of itself.
or maybe
it's just me
thinking that.
the clouds undecided whether
to stay
or blow away.
my shoes are wet
from the rain, the deep
puddles.
there is so much to do,
and yet
I look into the sky
trying to give it meaning.

blue ink

a blue inked sky, unsure
of itself.
or maybe
it's just me
thinking that.
the clouds undecided whether
to stay
or blow away.
my shoes are wet
from the rain, the deep
puddles.
there is so much to do,
and yet
I look into the sky
trying to give it meaning.

your turn will come

an old man
pokes me with his cane,
telling me
to move up in line, get off
your phone
he says.
it's your turn,
you look at him, at his cane,
his hat.
his face
a road map
of life lived.
he's tired of waiting,
he wants
his coffee now.
you tell him
to go ahead of you,
which he does.
your turn
will come.

your turn will come

an old man
pokes me with his cane,
telling me
to move up in line, get off
your phone
he says.
it's your turn,
you look at him, at his cane,
his hat.
his face
a road map
of life lived.
he's tired of waiting,
he wants
his coffee now.
you tell him
to go ahead of you,
which he does.
your turn
will come.

snow bird

next year
you'll go south for the winter.
become
a snow bird.
you'll take nothing but
a small bag
of shorts
and shirts. no shoes.
you'll lie
on the beach in the land
of oranges
and coconuts.
you'll learn
to play a mandolin
and sit
by the shore with
your hat turned up for
change.
you think all of this as you
stand
in line
with a snow shovel,
and a twenty pound
bag
of road salt.

snow bird

next year
you'll go south for the winter.
become
a snow bird.
you'll take nothing but
a small bag
of shorts
and shirts. no shoes.
you'll lie
on the beach in the land
of oranges
and coconuts.
you'll learn
to play a mandolin
and sit
by the shore with
your hat turned up for
change.
you think all of this as you
stand
in line
with a snow shovel,
and a twenty pound
bag
of road salt.

her long blonde hair

lying down,
asleep, you snuggle close
to your loved one.
she's warm
in the sunlight.
her breathing is soft
as she moves
in her dream.
gently you put your
arm around her,
brushing her long blonde
hair,
and whisper,
it stopped
raining, do you want to go
for a walk.
get your leash.
here we go.

her long blonde hair

lying down,
asleep, you snuggle close
to your loved one.
she's warm
in the sunlight.
her breathing is soft
as she moves
in her dream.
gently you put your
arm around her,
brushing her long blonde
hair,
and whisper,
it stopped
raining, do you want to go
for a walk.
get your leash.
here we go.

we know

nervous
about the baby, still
inside his wife,
he tells everyone,
pointing
at her belly. my wife,
is about to have
a baby.
she says nothing.
she already knows.
but the husband, young
and suddenly new to the idea
as the day approaches,
is nervous.
my wife, he says again,
is about to have
our baby.

we know

nervous
about the baby, still
inside his wife,
he tells everyone,
pointing
at her belly. my wife,
is about to have
a baby.
she says nothing.
she already knows.
but the husband, young
and suddenly new to the idea
as the day approaches,
is nervous.
my wife, he says again,
is about to have
our baby.

their turn

they go away,
these young children,
nieces and nephews.
off to their own
lives. grown,
the photos stopped.
remembering what, if
anything,
from
holiday gatherings, the screaming
brood,
happy and unhappy,
a chorus
of shrill voices,
the television on, dogs barking.
the dining room table
cluttered with food.
they're gone now,
the children,
those days.
the parents unglued from
life,
the aunts and uncles
now grey, taking over,
it's their turn.

orange clock work

you come up for air,
being on
the phone all day. hoarse.
weary. rising cautiously
from the sick couch,
beaten by your own
age.
you stumble
against a box of tax
papers onto
the orange chair,
spilling
warm tea.
landing on the rug.
you lie back
and stare at a blank spot
on the blue wall
and think
what lovely place
for a George nelson
ball clock, orange.
perhaps.
you can almost hear it
ticking,
as you wonder how much time
you have.

orange clock work

you come up for air,
being on
the phone all day. hoarse.
weary. rising cautiously
from the sick couch,
beaten by your own
age.
you stumble
against a box of tax
papers onto
the orange chair,
spilling
warm tea.
landing on the rug.
you lie back
and stare at a blank spot
on the blue wall
and think
what lovely place
for a George nelson
ball clock, orange.
perhaps.
you can almost hear it
ticking,
as you wonder how much time
you have.

breakfast love

the smell of breakfast,
a real breakfast,
eggs, bacon, toast,
hash browns
reminds me
of childhood,
with my father at the stove.
butter and jam.
orange juice.
him in his apron
and sailor whites,
cooking for seven kids,
all sitting at the table.
the plates
were full. he'd slice
up quarters of melon
too, setting
the orange and green slices
on each plate.
he had no advice,
no fatherly
tender moments, no giving
of direction
for any of our lives,
but he could cook
us breakfast, those rare
times when he was home,
and for then, and
even now, that was
good enough.

child proof caps

I want
to open this bottle of pills,
but I can't
get the top
off.
I can see the pills
dancing around behind
the amber
plastic casing,
laughing.
I take a steak knife
and cut
a hole in the bottom,
shake it
to get a tiny dot of a pill
out.
I find
the duct tape
to close the new
opening.
I pour a glass of water,
wash the pill down,
then take
a seat,
still shaking.

your fears

let's talk about love,
my therapist says to me while
filing her nails
and doing her bills,
her long leg is dangling
a pink heel at the end
of it.
could you stop that, I tell
her.
it's distracting.
oh, she says, and why do
you find it distracting?
because it's near my head
and I can't concentrate
on your questions
when I think that shoe
might hit me in
the eye.
okay, okay, she says,
flipping the heel off.
what else are you afraid
of?
tell me about your deepest
fears.
are they connected
with being in love? i'm
worried about
you billing me extra if
we run over in this session.
so i'll keep it short.
no is my answer.
I fear real things,
like a painful death,
or bee stings.

your fears

let's talk about love,
my therapist says to me while
filing her nails
and doing her bills,
her long leg is dangling
a pink heel at the end
of it.
could you stop that, I tell
her.
it's distracting.
oh, she says, and why do
you find it distracting?
because it's near my head
and I can't concentrate
on your questions
when I think that shoe
might hit me in
the eye.
okay, okay, she says,
flipping the heel off.
what else are you afraid
of?
tell me about your deepest
fears.
are they connected
with being in love? i'm
worried about
you billing me extra if
we run over in this session.
so i'll keep it short.
no is my answer.
I fear real things,
like a painful death,
or bee stings.

the dream

you dream of a day
when you wake up not coughing.
gagging,
bent over,
your bones rattling
with something
deep inside
your lungs, you dream of that
day
the way you used to dream
about a girl,
or a car,
or something
wonderful like a day at
the beach
with a loved one.
not now.
now, you dream of a day
when you wake
up and stop coughing.

the dream

you dream of a day
when you wake up not coughing.
gagging,
bent over,
your bones rattling
with something
deep inside
your lungs, you dream of that
day
the way you used to dream
about a girl,
or a car,
or something
wonderful like a day at
the beach
with a loved one.
not now.
now, you dream of a day
when you wake
up and stop coughing.

their next meal

the celebrity divorce
is in the news,
it's everywhere, who's fault
is it,
what happened,
who lied, who cheated, who
didn't hold up
their end
of the marriage,
who loved
the children more?
the gossiped dirt eeks out
of the pipes.
who cares?
just the lawyers, gathering
like dark
birds in the sky,
awaiting
their next meal.

twisters

unnamed, why name
them, what point is that,
are those
who can't get out of their own way.
every day
a three act play,
a drama,
a soap opera, full of mistakes,
roads taken,
regret, missteps.
they are twisters tossing
the debris of
their life around,
wanting you to listen,
to sympathize, to help
them fix
things, help them get
their feet
back on the ground. you
can only indulge
so much
before you too are
caught up
in the wind.

twisters

unnamed, why name
them, what point is that,
are those
who can't get out of their own way.
every day
a three act play,
a drama,
a soap opera, full of mistakes,
roads taken,
regret, missteps.
they are twisters tossing
the debris of
their life around,
wanting you to listen,
to sympathize, to help
them fix
things, help them get
their feet
back on the ground. you
can only indulge
so much
before you too are
caught up
in the wind.

still life

her still life
of pears
in a bowl on a clean
white table,
does nothing for you.
take
a bite from one,
let a fly land
on another, show
the meat
gone brown,
the rot, the stem
twisted off,
the skin
gone soft,
do that, and then
you have me.
i'll drive a nail
to hang it on
my wall.

still life

her still life
of pears
in a bowl on a clean
white table,
does nothing for you.
take
a bite from one,
let a fly land
on another, show
the meat
gone brown,
the rot, the stem
twisted off,
the skin
gone soft,
do that, and then
you have me.
i'll drive a nail
to hang it on
my wall.

small dogs

the small dog
barks
all day
at everything and everyone
that passes by.
his hair bristles,
his teeth
are bared,
it's a loud bark,
a vicious bark,
until you bend
over to his
size,
then he licks
your hand.

small dogs

the small dog
barks
all day
at everything and everyone
that passes by.
his hair bristles,
his teeth
are bared,
it's a loud bark,
a vicious bark,
until you bend
over to his
size,
then he licks
your hand.

a new winkle

you just noticed
a new wrinkle in
the mirror,
the wet leaves
on the steps
gone
gold,
a parent, who
forgets
what she used to know.
you just noticed
how the paint
has faded
on the shed,
how the fence leans,
how long
it takes to
rise, to unstiffen,
to get
out of bed.

invasion from mars

ernie,
had a flair
for drama.
seeing a green meteor falling
from the sky
as we played stick ball out in street
ran into the house
and phoned
the white house to tell
them about
how we were being invaded
by creatures
from mars.
we gathered around the phone
as he talked
frantically
about the green light
that flashed across
the sky,
heading north over
Washington d.c. .
they could all be dead now,
we thought,
this could be the end of
the human race,
our hearts raced.
one girl, cried,
while another boy ran home
to be with his parents
when death came.
they said they were going
to look into, ernie told
us as he hung
up the phone,
then we went back outside
to finish the game.

the negotiator

my younger brother once
called me at a party and said
you have
to come home quickly,
Theresa is chasing me
with a knife.
how did you know I was here,
I asked him.
he was out of breath
and I could hear
the furniture
being tossed around.
why is she trying to stab you.
I called her a name,
he said. a bad name.
what name?
I can't say it, she'll throw
the knife
at me.
where is she now.
she's here, i'm holding
her goldfish bowl
so that she doesn't
lunge at me with the knife.
where's mom?
I don't know.
well, okay. i'll be home
in a little while.
tell your sister you're sorry and
that you'll never call her
that name again.
go ahead.
I sip my beer and listen
as he tells her he's sorry.
okay, he says.
she says, she'll put
the knife down. good
good, now hand her the goldfish
bowl.
I am. are we good now?
yes, yes.
okay. we'll go watch tv,
or do your homework or something.
i'll be home soon.
hide the knives outside
near the rose bush.

giddy up

be a cowboy
and buy me a steak,
the girl
said on our first date,
sitting on the bar
stool
in her white
boots
and sequined
dress.
be a cowboy and rustle
me up a porter house steak
or a nice
juicy rib eye,
with all the trimmings.
no thanks,
I told her.
let's just have a drink,
if that's okay.
and see if
we like each other.
so, you're not a cowboy,
she says,
shaking her
permed hair, a foot
high on her small
empty head.
nope, I said,
i'm guess i'm not,
but giddy up.
got to go.

giddy up

be a cowboy
and buy me a steak,
the girl
said on our first date,
sitting on the bar
stool
in her white
boots
and sequined
dress.
be a cowboy and rustle
me up a porter house steak
or a nice
juicy rib eye,
with all the trimmings.
no thanks,
I told her.
let's just have a drink,
if that's okay.
and see if
we like each other.
so, you're not a cowboy,
she says,
shaking her
permed hair, a foot
high on her small
empty head.
nope, I said,
i'm guess i'm not,
but giddy up.
got to go.

dark grass

your bare feet are cold
in the deep
wet grass. it's night.
there is no moon.
your feet
sink into the dark soil,
the water seeps between
your toes,
the pebbles stick
to your soles.
you won't walk far like
this.
half across the yard
on a moonless night.
you just had to remember
had to know
what it felt like once
more in your life.

dark grass

your bare feet are cold
in the deep
wet grass. it's night.
there is no moon.
your feet
sink into the dark soil,
the water seeps between
your toes,
the pebbles stick
to your soles.
you won't walk far like
this.
half across the yard
on a moonless night.
you just had to remember
had to know
what it felt like once
more in your life.

we need to talk

we need to talk,
she says
firmly, sitting at
the kitchen table
with hands folded.
I need to ask you a few
questions.
math questions, I respond.
I hope not.
or anything to do
with diagramming a sentence,
no geography either,
I can only name a few
of the seven
seas. i'm not good
at chemistry either,
I tell her, tap dancing,
collecting
my coat, my hat,
my keys.
what are you good at,
she says, trying
to find my eyes.
this, I tell her, making
light of
something serious.
something gone
terribly wrong,
this is what i'm good at.

your book

it's difficult to comprehend
the years.
the passing of others.
the collected memories
that are vivid
still.
hard to gather it all
together and come to some
conclusion.
it's a book with lots of pages,
chapters, getting
thicker.
you write it, you read
it, you go back sometimes
to make it
better than what it was.
who's to say no?
it's your book.
you can do whatever you want
with it.

your book

it's difficult to comprehend
the years.
the passing of others.
the collected memories
that are vivid
still.
hard to gather it all
together and come to some
conclusion.
it's a book with lots of pages,
chapters, getting
thicker.
you write it, you read
it, you go back sometimes
to make it
better than what it was.
who's to say no?
it's your book.
you can do whatever you want
with it.

the low branch

poetry is a tree
with many branches.
peaches, apples, oranges,
pristine rare
fruit at the top.
my branch swings
low, low enough
that anyone with a stick
can knock one
down and take a bite,
swallow
or else spit it out,
and heave it towards
the sea.

the low branch

poetry is a tree
with many branches.
peaches, apples, oranges,
pristine rare
fruit at the top.
my branch swings
low, low enough
that anyone with a stick
can knock one
down and take a bite,
swallow
or else spit it out,
and heave it towards
the sea.

everyone knows

everyone knows
what the truth is.
what can't be said.
what must left on the table.
everyone knows
what's coming,
what's come and gone,
what tomorrow will
bring, but no one
wants to admit it,
or say it out loud.
everyone knows pretty
much everything
there is know
to get by on,
the rest stays hidden.

be happy

be positive.
be mr. sunshine for once.
stop being so dark
and blue,
cynical about the world
and the people
you know or don't know.
not everyone's a fool,
not everyone is perfect
like you.
put on your happy face
and skip down
that sidewalk of life
with a bright
red balloon.

be happy

be positive.
be mr. sunshine for once.
stop being so dark
and blue,
cynical about the world
and the people
you know or don't know.
not everyone's a fool,
not everyone is perfect
like you.
put on your happy face
and skip down
that sidewalk of life
with a bright
red balloon.

can you fil out our survey.

no, I don't want to go home
and take a survey telling you
how nicely you put the underwear
I just bought into a bag
and then took my money.
or the survey about how
well you poured my coffee,
or made me dinner, or
changed the oil in my car,
or put a needle
into my arm so that I won't
get shingles. I won't do
any of these surveys,
not online, not on the phone,
not in person.
the only survey I would take
would be the one about
taking surveys. on a scale
of one to ten, ten being annoying,
i'd mark in ten every time.

can you fil out our survey.

no, I don't want to go home
and take a survey telling you
how nicely you put the underwear
I just bought into a bag
and then took my money.
or the survey about how
well you poured my coffee,
or made me dinner, or
changed the oil in my car,
or put a needle
into my arm so that I won't
get shingles. I won't do
any of these surveys,
not online, not on the phone,
not in person.
the only survey I would take
would be the one about
taking surveys. on a scale
of one to ten, ten being annoying,
i'd mark in ten every time.

you leave

once, not once upon a time, but once,
I stayed overnight
in a flea bag hotel on Richmond
highway.
my soon to be ex wife demanded
that we take
a break from one another, just
for a few days, she said.
it might help.
so I agreed. I was an agreeable
and compromising person
at the time.
the bed was stiff and limp,
thin, but not as thin as the walls.
a shared vent
brought in the voices and smoke
from the rooms next door.
the arguing and coughing.
I listened to a couple make love.
but it didn't sound like
love, it sounded more like
anger and sadness.
I turned the television on
to drown out the voices, watching
nothing of memory.
I lay there with my clothes still on,
my small bag unpacked,
then finally at three in the
morning, went home and told her,
if you're unhappy, you leave.

you leave

once, not once upon a time, but once,
I stayed overnight
in a flea bag hotel on Richmond
highway.
my soon to be ex wife demanded
that we take
a break from one another, just
for a few days, she said.
it might help.
so I agreed. I was an agreeable
and compromising person
at the time.
the bed was stiff and limp,
thin, but not as thin as the walls.
a shared vent
brought in the voices and smoke
from the rooms next door.
the arguing and coughing.
I listened to a couple make love.
but it didn't sound like
love, it sounded more like
anger and sadness.
I turned the television on
to drown out the voices, watching
nothing of memory.
I lay there with my clothes still on,
my small bag unpacked,
then finally at three in the
morning, went home and told her,
if you're unhappy, you leave.

be careful

the man who lived there,
in this now empty house,
asks me if I can help him carry out
his mattress to a van
waiting out on the curb.
a small boy is inside,
eating from a bag. he doesn't
look up.
the man tells me that he had
to sell the house
because his wife became ill
and died.
you are quiet, then look into
his eyes and say. i'm sorry,
he says, what can you do.
I have to move. my son is in
they car, he says as he lifts
up one end of the mattress,
and I lift the other.
be careful, he says.
the steps.

be careful

the man who lived there,
in this now empty house,
asks me if I can help him carry out
his mattress to a van
waiting out on the curb.
a small boy is inside,
eating from a bag. he doesn't
look up.
the man tells me that he had
to sell the house
because his wife became ill
and died.
you are quiet, then look into
his eyes and say. i'm sorry,
he says, what can you do.
I have to move. my son is in
they car, he says as he lifts
up one end of the mattress,
and I lift the other.
be careful, he says.
the steps.

please advise

I communicate with my doctor
through e mails now, which to me
is interesting, but to her, amusing.
or worse, annoying.
the phlegm is yellow, I write.
wet ribbons of yellow, the dull
sunset yellow of late winter.
they arise from deep within
the cave of my chest. forced out
with a wearying strength.
I feel warm, not a love heat or
even the warmth of infatuation,
but the low burn of a furnace
inside of me,
the coal of ill health being
shoveled into the wide
mouth of my life. my nose
is stuffed up too. please advise.

to work

the photograph is of boys,
unsmiling,
three rows of young men,
tightly bound shoulder
to small shoulder,
Italian, irish, polish,
each with cropped
hair, the smudge and wind of
the steel factory engrained
upon their faces. cold embers
and ash. they are old
men already. behind them is mill.
the long cannon stacks with plumes
of black swirling in the cold
grey sky. most likely they are all
dead now, long buried somewhere
in the hills of Monrovia.
each story untold. the burden
of their lives buried with them,
so much they, or even we won't
ever know.

this illness

this illness, its claws,
its hooves,
its bite
devours you.
steals the breath from your
lungs.
squeezes your head
with
a vise.
you hardly know where to turn,
as you sit at the edge
of the bed.
you can think of nothing
but air,
of breathing.
of being free
from what your body has
become.

wonder bread

two pieces of bread,
white,
wonder bread from
the colored balloon bag,
a slice
of meat, bologna
from the roll, cut
fat and thick
with a butter knife by
your small hands, a swipe
of mustard.

then you stand on the chair,
and grip
the counter
to rise up and find

a dish in the cupboard.
you see your father's
liquor bottle hidden
on the top shelf,
amber whiskey,

with hardly a swallow left.
you twist off the cap,
and sniff.
closing your eyes
in scared wonder.

he was a good man

why don't you hate your father,
my therapist
asks me, stopping me in mid sentence
as I tell her again
about the time my mother forgot
my birthday.
my father, what does he have
to do with anything, I blurt out,
turning my head
to look at her as I lie
prone on the velvet couch.
think about it, she says,
staring at her cell phone,
and texting.
well, I tell her. sure, he drank
a little, womanized,
occasionally beat
my mother and pulled her hair,
and yes he left seven kids in
the lurch when he ran off with
my mother's best friend,
the avon lady,
but for the most part
he worked hard
and had a great sense of humor.
go on she says, clucking her
tongue, go on, tell me more
about daddy.
look, I don't like where this
session is going, and you're
not really paying attention to me
anyway with that damn phone.
okay, okay, i'm sorry, she says,
snapping the phone shut.
i'm done, I was just texting my
friend Marsha, we were talking
about our patients and how
crazy they are. but i'm done.
go on now.
you were talking about your
daddy. he was a good man?

the easter ham

it was a mistake getting this tattoo.
it seemed like
a good idea at the time,
after four or five
Moscow mules,
driving to some foreign
part of town.
who is she? Esmeralda?
this name now etched upon
my arm.
hearing the door slam,
I look out the window,
maybe that's her,
leaving in her leopard
print coat,
getting into her yellow
ford pinto,
and carrying what looks
like
an easter ham.
my ham that I bought
just yesterday.

so much alike

i never had a dog
that listened or obeyed.
one who
fetched the paper,
or sat,
rolled over, played
dead,
begged.
i never had a dog
who
understood
a word i said, or if
he did ignored
me.
walking him
was like walking a fish,
tugging
every way but
straight,
lost in his world
with me tethered to
the string
he was always trying
to break.
so much alike
we were. so much alike.

so much alike

i never had a dog
that listened or obeyed.
one who
fetched the paper,
or sat,
rolled over, played
dead,
begged.
i never had a dog
who
understood
a word i said, or if
he did ignored
me.
walking him
was like walking a fish,
tugging
every way but
straight,
lost in his world
with me tethered to
the string
he was always trying
to break.
so much alike
we were. so much alike.

a different shade of blue

i know i'm crazy, she says,
sitting
near broken glass,
and blood,
her wrists strapped
white. i know me,
she echoes,
her finger
twirling the dark strands
of her hair, the blue
in her eyes
wet and turning
a different shade of blue,
a muddled
pond of blue.
treatment can educate me,
but it can't cure,
i know these things,
i them in my heart,
so why can't you.

cold tea

in her pointed
shoes, toes squeezed
tight, reddened
with cold, she
picked up boxes of strange
black
tea in the yellowed store,
of warm light,
in February, no less,
on a day I was born.
a hard
wind up from the river
snapped
against us,
not enough buttons to go
around.
her black hair pulled tight,
a permanent
fixture, as I would
find out,
pinned atop her head.
she seemed impervious to weather,
or affection.
but it was more
about
the tea that day,
that first meeting, those exotic
blends stacked
in boxes
on glass shelves
that held her interest,
orange and pear,
the porcelain cups
and saucers
from china, from Russia,
not me.

they come and go

how swift the maids are.
coming and going unseen.
the key left on the counter.
the money gone.
the smell of pine trees
on the floor.
the dust no longer where
your finger found
it.
how strange to have strangers
move about your house,
touching books,
and shoes.
making a bed that
you lie on.
what thoughts do they
possess wondering about
your life, the stacks of
books and clothes,
the way you let things go,
then gone,
on to the next.

enough noise

the sigh
of sighs, the exhale
of a day
gone by, the room aglow
in
last light.
the glare
of a still tv.
muted.
hardly a sound is heard.
the neighbors
quiet,
not a dog barking.
not one bird
in the sky.
what noise do you need
right now?
no answer
given, enough noise
found
in just the sigh.

the pearl within

these hard shells,
tight lipped and black, the brine
of sea
latched
to their curved skulls.
what lies within,
a pearl, perhaps, or the soft
life
of a jelled body,
now ripe, awaiting what's next,
who isn't?

the pearl within

these hard shells,
tight lipped and black, the brine
of sea
latched
to their curved skulls.
what lies within,
a pearl, perhaps, or the soft
life
of a jelled body,
now ripe, awaiting what's next,
who isn't?

heart beats

the twist
of sky, a plume of violet
becoming blue
or is it grey, how the sun naps
behind
a thickened wall,
perhaps never
to appear again, and me
and you,
whispering to one another
as if the absence
of clothes
demands us to do so.
the window holds our attention,
for now,
the love lust sweat
upon us, drying,
our hearts
still tapping like feet,
like fingers and finally
like the water
falling
in fat tears against
the chrome drain
beyond.

i could do that

I could do that, I tell
my friend Francis, as
we visit the art gallery.
I could make
that painting.
it's just splashing a gallon
of paint on a canvas while
it sits on the floor.
I could make about ten of those
in an hour.
well, then why don't you?
i'm busy.
busy doing what?
stuff, I've got a lot going
on these days.
oh really now, like what.
you don't want to know.
i'm working on things, things
that will be amazing
when they come to fruition.
so you can't tell me?
nope. it's a secret.
i'd need you to sign a
statement of confidentiality.
you exhaust me sometimes,
she says.

i could do that

I could do that, I tell
my friend Francis, as
we visit the art gallery.
I could make
that painting.
it's just splashing a gallon
of paint on a canvas while
it sits on the floor.
I could make about ten of those
in an hour.
well, then why don't you?
i'm busy.
busy doing what?
stuff, I've got a lot going
on these days.
oh really now, like what.
you don't want to know.
i'm working on things, things
that will be amazing
when they come to fruition.
so you can't tell me?
nope. it's a secret.
i'd need you to sign a
statement of confidentiality.
you exhaust me sometimes,
she says.

hit the button and pray

i'm setting the bar low
she tells me as she fills out
her profile
for e harmony.
i'm not in search of my
next soul mate,
or cell mate, she types,
I just want a date,
how does that sound?
perfect, I tell her,
and maybe add in,
have a human head
and a ten tattoo limit.
that sounds mean, she says.
okay, okay, don't,
but i'm warning you,
ever since the prison
system handed out
laptops to felony
offenders in the can
you're going to get a lot
of strange men writing to you.
oh, and if I was
you, I wouldn't put that bikini
picture on of you
in the hot tub,
or the one where you're
peeling a banana.
but, it's just a banana.
whatever, I tell her.
and take out the part about
you're a professional woman,
what are the options,
amateur status?
okay, she says. got it.
and no pictures of kids,
or plants, or cakes, or fish.
but men like to fish.
yeah, I know, but just don't.
and take out the pictures
of your best friends.
they're all too pretty and sexy.
it will reduce your chances.
okay, she says, staring at me
as she gulps from a bottle
of red wine.
anything else?
nah, that should do it.
hit the button and pray.

for you, for me

it's a relief when the dog
dies.
half blind,
deaf,
his teeth awash in
pink.
it's a selfish thought,
the end
of walks, of carrying
him out to a bush
or tree
in the rain.
it's a terrible thing
to love and resent
a living thing,
but so it is
at the end of any
long life,
perhaps how it will
be
for you,
for me.

for you, for me

it's a relief when the dog
dies.
half blind,
deaf,
his teeth awash in
pink.
it's a selfish thought,
the end
of walks, of carrying
him out to a bush
or tree
in the rain.
it's a terrible thing
to love and resent
a living thing,
but so it is
at the end of any
long life,
perhaps how it will
be
for you,
for me.

do that and then

be quiet,
come fast,
someone will know
and rat us out she says,
taking
my hand and leading us behind
the shed,
along the peat moss, the soft earth
which takes
our footprints.
we have to be quiet,
don't say a word, she says,
her hand pulling
me closer, the heat
of her making me forget
how wet my
shoes are, how warm the air
is, how dark
the branches fold upon
our clinging shadows.
promise me first
that you love me, she says,
straightening me
to find my eyes,
do that and then.

wanting more

there's no harm
in asking for more, is there?
for one last
kiss, or mad
session between the rumpled
sheets,
hardly cooled
from the night they were
slept on.
or drink, or spoon full of
what makes us
fat. there's no harm
in asking
for more. see how the birds
open their beaks,
how the leaves curl
and cup upwards
for rain.
why not live, and have more,
but more
leads to more
which isn't good, or is it?

the devil's black box

if this call has been recorded, well
then, please forgive me. I don't often use
language like this, except when
driving, or in line at the grocery
store behind someone with coupons,
talking on their cell phone. i'm sorry,
but my old cable box, installed by
grandma moses does not have an HDMI slot,
so my new television that sits on top
of my dresser cannot be used until
this is fixed. the box hasn't worked
in six months, but because it's raining
and I had a day off, I thought
i'd take care of this small, but
important issue. I'm tired of covering
the blinking lights with a sock.
I like to watch tv in bed
and eat snacks with my dog,
or current love interest, excuse me for living.
so, after an hour or more of screaming
into the phone, after you've cleverly
hidden your customer service number
for anyone over the age of 50, and yelling
my last name, the first three
letters of my name, my phone number,
and the word agent, agent, agent,
over and over again until I start coughing,
finally I have you on the phone.
I know it's very late or early over there
in India or Singapore, or wherever you are,
but please,
you have to help me. for the love of God,
or Allah, or a sacred cow,
send me a new box. that's all i'm asking.
a new cable box built in this decade.
is that too much to ask?

for sale

closed doors,
closed windows, the lights off.
the water
too. sign in the yard.
you press your face
to the window.
no one lives here anymore.
not her,
not you.
there was a time though,
a time
when
the heat was on, when
a dog
barked.
when a child
sat looking out waiting
for you to come home.

for sale

closed doors,
closed windows, the lights off.
the water
too. sign in the yard.
you press your face
to the window.
no one lives here anymore.
not her,
not you.
there was a time though,
a time
when
the heat was on, when
a dog
barked.
when a child
sat looking out waiting
for you to come home.

note in a bottle

stranded on dry land
you toss a bottle with a note
inside
out the window,
into the street to someone
passing by.
they look up and throw
it back,
yelling at you to be careful,
you're going to kill
someone throwing
bottles out the window.
you throw it onto the lawn
the next time
and watch it roll
to a stop.
you've written help, on
the note, your name
and address.
you tell them to send help soon.
to rescue you.
you've rolled the note up
and tucked it through the top
of the empty bottle.
you go and fix a drink,
then come back to the window
to wait, watching, hoping.

of her kind

long and languid, stretched
out in her chair,
a cigarette between her fingers,
a bottle of beer
nearby, she reads her poetry,
blue eyed, black
haired, a smart wild look
about her.
she reads to the camera, plays
with the eye
that watches her,
seductive and hoarse, whispering
her words, impressed with
her own genius. how can
you not a love a poet
such as this, one of her
kind.

of her kind

long and languid, stretched
out in her chair,
a cigarette between her fingers,
a bottle of beer
nearby, she reads her poetry,
blue eyed, black
haired, a smart wild look
about her.
she reads to the camera, plays
with the eye
that watches her,
seductive and hoarse, whispering
her words, impressed with
her own genius. how can
you not a love a poet
such as this, one of her
kind.

the small plate

I count two
scallops on the small plate,
covered in deep
fried
thin strands of what?
rusted colored
tumble weeds.
the menu said scallops,
where are they?
small white flecks of
something are in the sauce,
scattered
like pigeon
droppings. they might
be related to scallops,
but i'm not sure.
it's all fishy.
I search with my fork,
I know they're in there
somewhere. I am on a mission
to find
something on this
small happy hour plate
to eat.

the small plate

I count two
scallops on the small plate,
covered in deep
fried
thin strands of what?
rusted colored
tumble weeds.
the menu said scallops,
where are they?
small white flecks of
something are in the sauce,
scattered
like pigeon
droppings. they might
be related to scallops,
but i'm not sure.
it's all fishy.
I search with my fork,
I know they're in there
somewhere. I am on a mission
to find
something on this
small happy hour plate
to eat.

i want that

if had this,
that would be a good thing.
that house that looks like
a swiss chalet.
i'd be happy then,
or her,
that girl,
yes, the one over there,
in the dress,
leaning over
to pick something up,
I want her,
then, then i'd be in
bliss.
or that car,
no the red one with the top
down,
or the boat,
the sleek white boat
on the water. see it.
they look so happy out there
in the sun,
waving to us.
I want that.
I want to be them.
they have no problems,
like we do.
why are we walking, we
should be on
a boat like they are,
our boat.

i want that

if had this,
that would be a good thing.
that house that looks like
a swiss chalet.
i'd be happy then,
or her,
that girl,
yes, the one over there,
in the dress,
leaning over
to pick something up,
I want her,
then, then i'd be in
bliss.
or that car,
no the red one with the top
down,
or the boat,
the sleek white boat
on the water. see it.
they look so happy out there
in the sun,
waving to us.
I want that.
I want to be them.
they have no problems,
like we do.
why are we walking, we
should be on
a boat like they are,
our boat.

the little white pills

she takes a pill to wake up,
to counter
the ones she took
to fall asleep,
then there's other pills too.
all neatly aligned
in the medicine cabinet.
prescribed and dated.
one for this,
another for that.
things you don't want to know
about.
it's an all day thing,
rattling
the brown bottle,
unsnapping
the child proof cap,
swallowing,
drinking water
to wash them down.

the little white pills

she takes a pill to wake up,
to counter
the ones she took
to fall asleep,
then there's other pills too.
all neatly aligned
in the medicine cabinet.
prescribed and dated.
one for this,
another for that.
things you don't want to know
about.
it's an all day thing,
rattling
the brown bottle,
unsnapping
the child proof cap,
swallowing,
drinking water
to wash them down.

tied up

the rope keeps the boat
from floating away,
tied to the pier
in knots.
and you, what
keeps you
here.
how many ropes are
keeping
you from sailing away,
from
discovering places
you've never
seen or been.

tied up

the rope keeps the boat
from floating away,
tied to the pier
in knots.
and you, what
keeps you
here.
how many ropes are
keeping
you from sailing away,
from
discovering places
you've never
seen or been.

betting on us

God does not roll
dice
with the universe,
Einstein said, or something
to that effect.
but maybe there's a roulette
wheel
up there,
a black jack table,
a horse track.
maybe he's pulling the arm
of an old vegas
slot machine,
hoping for four cherries
to roll up.

betting on us

God does not roll
dice
with the universe,
Einstein said, or something
to that effect.
but maybe there's a roulette
wheel
up there,
a black jack table,
a horse track.
maybe he's pulling the arm
of an old vegas
slot machine,
hoping for four cherries
to roll up.

the rain

the rain
surprises you
as you brush
paint
onto a board.
you look up
into the sky, unaware
of the clouds,
or the lifting of leaves
turned gold.
how can the season
change
so swiftly,
overnight it seems,
not unlike how
love comes,
love goes, unseen.

the rain

the rain
surprises you
as you brush
paint
onto a board.
you look up
into the sky, unaware
of the clouds,
or the lifting of leaves
turned gold.
how can the season
change
so swiftly,
overnight it seems,
not unlike how
love comes,
love goes, unseen.

what's next

unset
the anchor,
leave no note,
drift
from port untethered
by what's left behind,
go
into the outstretched
arms
of blue
mystery.
an open sea of no
promises. raise
the sails.
keep a light
hand on the wheel,
let the wind
push towards what's
next.
let's see
where this goes.

three days two nights

on the flat wall
of the cheap motel,
below the vacancy sign,
white with blue trim,
red doors,
white in the sun, a harsh
squared glare,
the faces
then bodies come out
to lean
and stare down at the boardwalk,
to the ocean
with all its
blueness.
you see them yawn, red
faced
from drink and sun,
sleepy,
half dressed, some smoking,
some with instant
coffee in their hands.
the gulls chirp,
diving into the water,
the littered rolls
of warming
sand.

your own sign

you want those that are crazy
to stop
being crazy.
those on the street begging,
stop
you want to yell.
get a job,
get a life,
anything would be better
than this.
it only makes sense
when it's you on your hands
and knees
cutting out the side
of a cardboard
box to make your own
sign,
then finding a busy
corner
to stand on.

your own sign

you want those that are crazy
to stop
being crazy.
those on the street begging,
stop
you want to yell.
get a job,
get a life,
anything would be better
than this.
it only makes sense
when it's you on your hands
and knees
cutting out the side
of a cardboard
box to make your own
sign,
then finding a busy
corner
to stand on.

no, go this way

do you need others
to tell you what's wrong,
rarely,
but sometimes
you do.
you need the nudge,
the kind
hint,
a hand to push or
pull you back
onto the straight line.
sometimes
you are in a fog,
going oddly
in the wrong direction.
you need
the snap of smelling
salts
beneath your nose,
a voice whispering,
no, go this way.

no, go this way

do you need others
to tell you what's wrong,
rarely,
but sometimes
you do.
you need the nudge,
the kind
hint,
a hand to push or
pull you back
onto the straight line.
sometimes
you are in a fog,
going oddly
in the wrong direction.
you need
the snap of smelling
salts
beneath your nose,
a voice whispering,
no, go this way.

then decide

I don't cast
my lot in easily.
I get close
to the fire to warm
my hands,
stamp my cold feet
beside its circle,
but steer
clear
of handling the wood
that burns, not touching
those coals,
red as desire, going white,
thick with flame,
a throaty roar.
I wait
for it to slow, then
decide.

then decide

I don't cast
my lot in easily.
I get close
to the fire to warm
my hands,
stamp my cold feet
beside its circle,
but steer
clear
of handling the wood
that burns, not touching
those coals,
red as desire, going white,
thick with flame,
a throaty roar.
I wait
for it to slow, then
decide.

the tumble of sleep

it's less slipping
and more
of a stumble into sleep.
so much
on your mind.
the room crowded
with decisions to be
made.
the knick knacks
of your day
teetering
stone cold and quiet
on some shelf.
a rattle of pipe,
or is it wind
wanting,
or answering
outside the window.
the bed is a flat table
of white sheets
that you lie
upon
and roll, never quite
getting to where
you need to go, shuffling
the papers,
reading between
the lines, unsleeping
with eyes
closed.

the tumble of sleep

it's less slipping
and more
of a stumble into sleep.
so much
on your mind.
the room crowded
with decisions to be
made.
the knick knacks
of your day
teetering
stone cold and quiet
on some shelf.
a rattle of pipe,
or is it wind
wanting,
or answering
outside the window.
the bed is a flat table
of white sheets
that you lie
upon
and roll, never quite
getting to where
you need to go, shuffling
the papers,
reading between
the lines, unsleeping
with eyes
closed.

book review

half way through the book,
i stop reading
and ask myself,
why am i reading this book.
i hate this stupid
book.
it's boring beyond words
and yet goes on and on
grasping at some story.
the characters have names
i can't pronounce and i don't
care if they live
die, or reproduce monkeys
from mars.
the flashbacks are killing me.
i feel bad for the trees
needed to print this tomb.
i hold the closed book
up to the light,
it's four inches thick
weighs five pounds, at least.
i wonder how far
i can throw it without
wrenching my arm.
so go into the yard
to do so, heaving it towards
the creek,
scattering the wildlife,
the trees
applauding.

book review

half way through the book,
i stop reading
and ask myself,
why am i reading this book.
i hate this stupid
book.
it's boring beyond words
and yet goes on and on
grasping at some story.
the characters have names
i can't pronounce and i don't
care if they live
die, or reproduce monkeys
from mars.
the flashbacks are killing me.
i feel bad for the trees
needed to print this tomb.
i hold the closed book
up to the light,
it's four inches thick
weighs five pounds, at least.
i wonder how far
i can throw it without
wrenching my arm.
so go into the yard
to do so, heaving it towards
the creek,
scattering the wildlife,
the trees
applauding.

off the list

i am bad luck
at weddings, every one that i've
attended, including
all five of mine has ended in
failure for the bride
and groom.
i try to tell people this.
please don't invite
me.
the ship will sink.
i am the iceberg hidden
in the blue
gloom of the atlantic
about to scratch
a whole
into your pretty new ship.
save the invitation,
i'll send you a toaster
oven
or set of Tupperware,
something,
but please, for your own sake,
for your own potential
marital bliss,
don't put my name
on the list.

off the list

i am bad luck
at weddings, every one that i've
attended, including
all five of mine has ended in
failure for the bride
and groom.
i try to tell people this.
please don't invite
me.
the ship will sink.
i am the iceberg hidden
in the blue
gloom of the atlantic
about to scratch
a whole
into your pretty new ship.
save the invitation,
i'll send you a toaster
oven
or set of Tupperware,
something,
but please, for your own sake,
for your own potential
marital bliss,
don't put my name
on the list.

leaderless

the leaders are no longer
leading
the country
instead they are leading normal
lives
behind
the curtains,
safe
in the shadows.
the dumbing down of
America
has reached its
Walmart
zenith.
we are transfixed
on the simple
and meaningless
the throw away celebrities,
the gossip,
the calorie laden
junk
food of social media.
it's time once
again for another great
flood,
the clowns
are in charge,
blowing their brassy
horns.

leaderless

the leaders are no longer
leading
the country
instead they are leading normal
lives
behind
the curtains,
safe
in the shadows.
the dumbing down of
America
has reached its
Walmart
zenith.
we are transfixed
on the simple
and meaningless
the throw away celebrities,
the gossip,
the calorie laden
junk
food of social media.
it's time once
again for another great
flood,
the clowns
are in charge,
blowing their brassy
horns.

the red bird

a lace
of stars not unlike
the cloth
upon
your grandmother's table
at
the holidays.
a saucer,
a plate,
a tea pot.
how small you were, reaching
up
to stare
at her clock,
the one with the bird,
painted red
and the pine
cone weights.
how she moved the hands
with a stick
making it appear
on a small tray,
and coo.
somehow these stars
remind you
of that.

points a b and c

the line is not straight
getting from point
a to point b.
it's a dotted line
with curves and loops,
stops,
starts.
so how did you get here,
arrive so quickly
with no path
to follow, taking it
one day,
one inch
at a time. you look
around at the others,
at those who have arrived
with you at point b.
they don't know either,
but together you
look out the window
and stare
pensively at point c
just beyond
the breaking waves.

points a b and c

the line is not straight
getting from point
a to point b.
it's a dotted line
with curves and loops,
stops,
starts.
so how did you get here,
arrive so quickly
with no path
to follow, taking it
one day,
one inch
at a time. you look
around at the others,
at those who have arrived
with you at point b.
they don't know either,
but together you
look out the window
and stare
pensively at point c
just beyond
the breaking waves.