my self help books

I decide to write
a series of self help books,
mostly to
help my self, but others
can buy them and help themselves
too
if they'd like
to dole out the twenty nine
ninety five
on amazon.
walk more and eat less,
is the first book. it's
about losing weight.
there are no special diets
whatsoever, so people should
like that. it will have pictures
of people taking long walks
and eating spinach.
that's to be
followed by,
stop, don't put that donut
in your mouth.
the cover is a chocolate
glazed donut, my favorite,
with a red line through the middle.
another book i'm working on
is how to stay
married and in love forever.
but being divorced twice
already
this one might be hard
to pull off, so i'm shelving
that idea for now.
a third book I've started is
called.
stop whining and complaining.
I need this book
the most.
step one is to stop talking
for twenty four hours,
and posting crazy self absorbed
things on face book,
then notice how much
people suddenly like you more.
this could be a best seller.

enjoy your life

the billboard along
the highway, frayed
and blowing at the corners
in the wind,
shows a woman
eating an orange.
her eyes are blue,
her skin
tanned, her cheeks
full.
she is someone you'd
like to meet and share
and orange with.
the word Florida
is below her arm,
close to her breast
barely covered by a silk
blouse.
she's sitting on a crate
of oranges.
come to Florida
it says below, enjoy
your life. visit soon.
behind the billboard
is a tattered house.
a dog in the yard.
a man
hammering a nail into
his roof
to keep the rain out
that's coming just over
the dark hills.

the daily melt

I understand
the parable of the melting
of metal
down to get
to the real thing. what
matters most
within.
that of value, burning
off the dross, but I
can't say
I enjoy the process.
at what age will I be
perfect, or at least close
to being who
i'm meant to be,
never seems to be
the answer.

on break

the angels,
on break, linger at
the coffee
shop.
tucking their wings
behind them,
discussing
their day. who did
what,
who needs saving
later on.
who needs a thought
of comfort.
I see my guardian
angel
drinking a latte,
he waves,
and says hey.
no worries today,
i'll be along
in a minute.

time travel

the clock has
wings when we're together.
the hours
are minutes, the days
swim by.
we hardly
spend a moment alone
when it's time to leave,
time
to say farewell
until next time,
give
a kiss goodbye.

is betty home

for a thin dime
I would call betty
from the phone booth
in the drug store.
i'd close
the accordion doors
and sip on a cherry
coke I bought at the counter.
I'd sit on the wooden seat,
take the folded piece of paper
that held her number
out of my pocket
and spin the dial.
i'd ask
her mother if betty
was home, if she
wasn't too busy, could
she come to the phone.
her mother would yell out,
betty, hey betty
I think it's that kid
in your class.
no, not jimmy, no,
not carl ether, the other
one. the little
fellow with the cow
lick. you know
the shy kid with
freckles. I think
he likes you.
at this point i'd hang
up the phone
and wipe the sweat off
my brow.
i'd gather myself,
put my hands on my knees
to get my legs
to stop shaking
then go read a few
comic books, trying to block
out
the disaster that
love could be.

the penguins at St. Thomas More

the nuns
never really cracked knuckles,
or whipped
us, too hard.
but like stoic penguins
they would stand
at the gate
of the chain link fence
that bordered
the black top
school yard and watch
for sins
to be committed.
God is watching you,
they'd say,
every second of every
day.
so be good, be kind,
turn the other cheek.
think
what Jesus
would do
when punched or
had his hair pulled,
or had His
lunch money stolen
that His mother Mary
gave him
to take to school.
we grumbled quietly
to ourselves,
believing that a thousand
angels would have
come to His rescue.

a loaf of bread

shoeless
and hungry. a thread bare
coat
on his back,
I hand
him a loaf of bread,
still warm
from the store's oven.
he's out there on the steps
all day,
all year.
stroking his long
beard.
what's this, he says,
looking up
with blue eyes
rimmed red. I don't
want bread. is
there nothing that
I can give
you to change things?
go away, he says.
you're making things
worse.

fixing my world

I can dream
the dead back to life.
heal wounds,
repair broken relationships
in the middle
of the night.
I can fix the world in
my sleep, but my
world only, which
seems to be the only
one that counts,
sometimes.
i'll leave the rest
for someone else.

summer's gone

the life guard
blows his whistle all
summer long.
get off the rope, no
diving off the side.
no yelling, no running.
no wrestling
in the pool. the adults
sleep on
their chairs,
the children grow restless,
splash in
the shallow end.
the water gets still
as the sun
falls. the leaves turn.
a chill sweeps
in the air.
summer is gone.
the whistle has stopped.
the lock
is on the gate.
the parents have taken
the children home.

tell me something

in the middle of the day,
she'd
come into the room
I was working in
and say
let's have a break,
is that okay?
she would sip
her tea,
push the sugar cubes
towards
me
cream? she'd say.
pouring
it into my cup.
I made cookies too.
have one.
tell me a story, she'd
say.
tell me something about
yourself
that I don't
already know.
she was nearly eighty
and I was forty.
do you think love can
last forever?
and i'd nod, sipping
my tea, taking a bite
of a cookie.
yes. I do.
me too, she'd say, me
too.
I still love the first boy
I ever kissed.

section eight

the renters have
gone wild and destroyed
the house. sketchy
people come and go
at all hours
of the night. screams
are heard,
police sirens.
they don't care
about the security
deposit. they don't care
about the leaks,
the fire,
broken locks or
windows. the peeling
paint means nothing,
as does the broken
steps,
the rotted boards.
the dogs have
eaten the carpet.
we're renters
they say spinning
around the room with
a beer
and baby in hand,
singing to the loud
radio.
we're moving on.

end of the road

there's a new Cadillac
parked in front of the dilapidated
house at the end
of road. shutters swing free,
the storm door
is off its rusted hinges.
I ring the broken bell taped
to the door,
then knock. I go in.
the senior home
woman tells me that they
are almost out of
ensure and diapers,
tiny jars of baby food.
straws and plastic spoons.
every visit they say the same thing.
I hand her forty dollars
in cash then ask
what about the four thousand
dollars
you get each month
for her being here.
where does that go?
she doesn't eat food so you
don't have to cook for her.
she doesn't
walk around,
she doesn't use electricity
or water, or
take up much space
other than this single
bed in the smallest room
in the house with no tv,
or radio.
oh, that, the woman says.
I don't know, you have to talk
to the owner about that,
but we need Ensure.
come in i'll wake her up
and let her know you're here.
Marie she yells,
flicking the ceiling light
on and off, Marie,
your son is here.

fake book

the picture
reaches you of family having
dinner, lunch
somewhere
over the bridge, they openly
despise one
another, but for the sake
of the camera
and face book
they smile,
put their arms around
one another and say cheese.
it gets posted and liked
over and over. it's
how the world is now.
what isn't real has become
real.
let's shine that apple
and turn
it so that no one
can see the worm.

quiet neighbors

the good neighbors
are quiet neighbors
on both sides
of the walls.
the baby never cries,
there's not
a single fight,
not one dish thrown
against
the walls in anger.
not even the dog barks
in the yard out back.
they're are so polite.
never nosy,
never a word of meanness,
or gossip,
or spite.
I hardly know they're
there
whether it's a summers day,
or a winters night.

sales men

this jive talking
salesman won't leave me alone
as I walk through the gravel lot
hoping to use the bathroom inside
the dealership.
he looks at me like a dog
looks at a pork chop in a frying pan,
licking his lips.
he wants to put me into
a new Lincoln
today. what can I do to
get you to drive this car
off the lot today,
he says, tapping the hood
of a long black car.
but I was just passing through.
he smiles, showing me his pearly whites.
tell me how I can get you into
a brand new car?
I dunno. I tell him.
my wife would kill me if
I came home with a new car.
we're not really car people
anyway.
we're walkers, bikers.
hitch hikers. we worry about
the ecology.
one of those, huh he says,
I love the whales too. Good God,
I mean what are we doing to those
baby seals? I nearly cry every time
I look at those videos.
he flicks his cigarette
into the street. do you have
a trade in? he asks. pull
it around back and we'll
have jimmy take a look see.
see what kind of deal we can
make for you.
I don't have a car, I tell him.
how old at you, if you don't
mind me asking, he says.
i'd guess 39, maybe 40 at
most, because good God you're
a handsome fellow. I
bet you can't keep the women
off of you. he winks
and puts his arm around me,
steering me into the show room.
sit over there, that's my desk.
can i get you anything, a coke,
coffee, i think one of the women
brought in some green tea? nothing?
i shake my head.
i'll be right back, I just want
to talk with my manager about the deals
we have on.
see all the balloons? yeah,
that means we're almost giving cars
away today, but it's the last
day, so let me see, be right back.
where's the bathroom I yell to him.

bad company

i used to be able to eat
more than i can now.
one sandwich is enough.
doesn't matter if it's tuna,
egg salad,
or ham.
i can barely finish that.
a bowl of cereal and i'm stuffed.
but when i was
a skinny long haired teenager
riding around with my
delinquent friends
in a dodge dart,
i could eat
and eat all night.
a foot long sub no problem,
a turkey leg
with all the trimmings,
easy.
hamburgers and fries, a
milkshake to wash it down,
bring it on. pizza with extra
mozzarella. yum.
of course
the cannabis we were smoking
may have had
something to do it.

the deadbolt

i have a bad dream
about my
ex wife and her boyfriend
carlos coming into my house
after i
die and taking everything
i own.
i wake up shaking,
in a cold sweat, my heart
beating like a rabbit's.
i look around
the room and see nothing
but shadows.
i go down stairs,
look out the peephole,
then turn the deadbolt
to lock the door.

roll me back a week doc

the plastic surgeon tells
me that he can make me look years
younger
with just a few cuts
of the knife,
some packing, some tightening.
I can uncrease
those furrows, lessen
the lines, decrease the dark
circles under your eyes.
I tell him no, but
thanks just the same.
I just need to roll
back the clock a week,
just one week.
last week was a tough one.

there's a man outside

there's a man outside
my house
looking in. I don't know him.
he's well dressed
and holding an umbrella
over his head.
it's raining.
maybe he used
to live here. or wants to live
here now.
I peek out the blinds.
he's very patient,
his hands are in his pockets,
he seems to have
all the time in the world.
he sees me looking out
and waves.
I lock the doors.
I turn off all the lights.
I lie in bed
and think about my own
life.
is there somewhere that i'd
rather be.
would I have the patience
to wait
and wait, like he's doing,
for someone else to leave.

time stops

it's a party, but no one
is in a party mood.
we sit outside in the oppressive
heat
and drink.
the colored lights are subdued
some blink,
some don't.
we stare at what's left
of a harvest moon.
time has stopped.
we take seats, making
them our own,
or lean
against the rail
above the darkened lawn.
no one eats, no one
has much to say.
we drink.
it happens.
not every party can be fun,
can be gay.

one small dog

the cops
are out there, gathered
around
a car.
there was a break in last night.
a gate
was left open
someone rattled
the door, shook the wreathe,
pressed
and pulled
trying to get in.
the cops are taking
finger prints.
things are missing from
a few cars
left unlocked.
they seem to be gentle
thieves,
careful not to break
anything
that's locked. the next
day
we set out the things
we no longer
want, the tvs, the stereos,
the shoes
and watches,
one small barking dog and hope
the thieves come back.

Gin for Christmas

my ex father in law
would hide his liquor from
his wife
under the kitchen sink,
behind the bottles
of bleach and canisters
of ajax.
bars of lava soap.
he nestled the pint
of old crow
in the moist
shadows under towels
and what not.
but his wife always
found it.
she spent the day looking
for it, knowing
it had to be somewhere,
sniffing brown whiskey
in the air he walked in.
he just needed a pop
now and then but
he was running
out of hiding places.
I may have made a mistake
when for Christmas
I bought him gin.

to run and run

the dog got loose
and died
on the road. we chased it.
we called
after it.
but it was thrilled
to be
off her chain, happy
to be free
and able to run fast
and long
through the woods,
across
the stream.
she looked back
gleefully, finally doing
what she always wanted
to do.
run and run.

almost a holiday

it's a rain day.
an almost holiday where
I plan
to get the oil changed,
to kill
that orange light
on the dashboard.
i'll visit my
mother
in her bed in the senior
hospice
facility an hour away.
i'll go hold
her hand. now bones
and veins.
stroke her white hair.
tell her things
she might like to hear
me say.
i'll shed tears,
light a candle,
then drive home
in the light rain, on
a day that's almost
a holiday.

the crowd of us

the crowd of us,
like minded friends, or
friends that are secretly
enemies
gather at the communal
table
outside the coffee shop.
we beat a dead horse
for hours, each taking a club
and giving it
another severe whack.
it's political
minded for the most part.
the big fat easy target
in the white
house.
but there is true sadness
in the eyes of
elders.
true angst, true shame
that we have reached a point
in this country
where such
a thing could take place.
exhausted, we tip our hats
and finally go home.

try this

taste this, she says,
holding out a spoon full of
salad
dressing
that she's concocted
out of thin
air
and onions, salt
and pepper, vinegar.
garlic perhaps?
delightful, i tell her,
smiling as best i can,
but blue cheese
will be fine
for me, thank you.

surrender

my way of prayer
has changed
over the years. love
and death
have beat me down, only
to rise again.
no longer
is there fear, no
longer do i wonder what
now.
I've surrendered
this life
a long time ago.
I've given up
the self
and ask only for
His will.

what's up

the empty bed.
the quiet room, not a bone
of china
rattling
below
in the kitchen. there's
nothing on the stove.
not a sound
from the radio.
it's stone cold
silent.
not even trees are
moving outside
the window.
they too want to know
what's up.

show me what you got

all my cards
are on the table.
I've pushed everything in
to the middle,
the cash, the coins,
the gold watch.
that's my heart
too, beating on a silver
platter.
i call
and turn
them over, then
wait for you
to show me what you got.

the early morning rain

I could run for hours,
miles
I could melt inside the rain,
my feet striking
the path,
onward.
my lungs pressing out
the air
I've taken in.
the bloom of breath
before me.
my body wet,
the swing of my arms,
my legs
easily carrying me
to the end.
I could run for hours
in the early
morning rain. I still can,
but in a different
way, striking this key board
time and time
again.

the night walkers

people are out walking
under the moon light.
three days after the harvest moon.
a handful of souls,
out
strolling in large circles
around
the parking lot.
we stand and talk, we
say something about the moon,
how the clouds
move like silk across it.
we watch as these
people walk silently
in the warm October air.
we hug and say goodbye.
we carry home our food,
we think about
these people walking
alone
between the curbs,
along the empty street,
under the soft umbrella
of moonlight.

where are you now

i find what was lost,
the key to the back door,
finally.
i scratch the itch that
i couldn't reach.
i get the pillows just right
before sleep.
the dust is gone.
the floors shine.
i know where everything
is,
at least for the moment.
everything but
you.

my own advice

i tell him
that he must remove all toxic
people
from his life.
all the needy and pessimistic
souls who cling
and want him to provide
emotional and monetary
funds. the dark cloud
people, the woe is me
crowd who live like
every day is a rainy day.
get rid
of all of them. in this way,
and in this way only
can he have peace
and finally
be able to sleep at night.
but does he do that,
no?
few do.
few listen, few can let go
of those that drag
them under. i don't even
listen to my
own advice, half the time,
so why should anyone else.

i need sleep

I need sleep.
I need
a good massage.
a kiss
on the back of my neck.
I need
a hot meal.
I need the person
I love to whisper
into my
ear
and say the words
I love you.
I need sincerity.
I could use a long vacation.
I could use some new
music too.
maybe a little
Italian sports car.
I need to not hear
a car horn barking
behind while
i'm in the slow lane.
I need to lose ten
pounds of unwanted fat.
I want
a miracle to happen.
I want a vision.
I want a goal for the day.
I want to pray about something
and get an immediate response.
I want a winning lottery
ticket.
I need someone to drive
me around
to take me places
I've never been.
I want a rib eye steak
with mushrooms and gravy.
garlic mashed potatoes.
an ice cold martini, shaken,
not stirred. I want what
I don't have,
I want to give away
what I do.
I need sleep.

the war goes on

during the war
we had to turn off the lights
in case
the planes
came over to bomb us, he
says, looking up at the sky
as if the zeros might
still be up there.
I yawn.
I stretch my arms over my
head, having heard
this story a thousands times
before.
rations.
collecting aluminum cans
for the cause.
war bonds. even women had
to work, he says,
can you believe that?
there was this one time
when the japs
had us pinned down and,
and,
but he can't remember what
happened next.
instead he pulls up shirt
and shows me
where a bullet went
in then went out through
his back.
an inch lower and
you wouldn't be here buddy boy,
he says. so thank your lucky
stars hotshot.
we better get going, I tell him.
it's almost five o'clock.
god forbid we miss the sunset
special.
i'm hungry.
denny's?
of course he says,
holding out a coupon, i'll
drive. i'm not riding
in that Honda of yours.

the human touch

we don't talk
anymore. we text. we don't
see one another
for a drink or coffee.
we look at our
pictures posted on facebook.
we don't send
cards, or hand written
letters,
we can barely hold a conversation
on the phone.
we e mail or text again
and again.
we have lost our
way.
we are losing ourselves
within ourselves,
every question answered
by our phone,
every direction to somewhere
a click away.
even the funerals
are full
of nothing, videos,
a bank of screens, the music
blaring,
short of love
and warmth,
of the human touch.
we don't talk anymore,
we text.

hear me out

we all get defensive
when accused
of something someone observes
about us,
whether friend
or foe.
you seem shallow
they might say.
or insensitive, you act
at times
like you really don't
care or truly love me.
you can be selfish
and narrow minded about
some things.
where were you on the night
of October 18th?
I become Clarence Darrow
at that point,
f. lee bailey.
I pace back and forth
across the room
with the evidence
and object loudly, throwing
my hands
into the air. I explain
as best I can what I can,
pleading with the jury,
shaking their heads,
to please hear me out.

colored lights

on a whim,
struck by the globe of
light i see in the store,
I buy it.
it's cheaply made. a
thin
white ball that when
turned on
glows blue, then red,
yellow,
orange, green
and pink.
I am a child when it
comes to color,
a bright light.
I run to it
hoping it will make
the room different,
better.

how's your day going

the mailman
tips his small grey hat
and says
my last name, then he hands
a bundle
of mail to me.
he's tall and lean,
Asian.
the leather bag is worn,
straps bending
at the shoulders of his
wet blue shirt.
he moves on.
it's a simple exchange.
no talk
about the weather,
no discussion
of kids or wife.
no, how's your day
going.
he moves on.
we all move on.

the wind

the wind
in us, is air leaving,
the exhale
and inhale
of life.
slow
breathing. the forehead
touching
one another,
the soft
blown kiss on a shoulder.
the listen
of hearts gone fast,
now slowed,
and slower still,
becoming one,
at last.

the front porch

smells like rain,
doesn't it, she says while
gently swaying
back and forth on the porch swing.
look at how
the leaves have turned
up, smell the air,
it's getting darker,
the slight breeze.
I could sit here all night,
she says,
drinking her wine,
my hand on her knee.
time could stop right here
and i'd be fine with that.
I agree.

down on the farm

maybe it was a mistake
buying
the farm
far away from town.
goats
and pigs included
and one
fat cow.
maybe I should have
thought things through,
not knowing a thing
about planting,
or harvesting,
or chickens,
not a single clue.
maybe the city life
is really who I am
I say out loud
to no one,
as I stare at the rusted
red tractor
with a strand of
hay dangling
between my lips. but I
did it for love,
I did it
for you. where's
my rake?

see you soon

it's just a cold.
a sneeze
or two. I promise it won't
get in
the way
of me,
and you.
it's just a slight
fever,
a cough, a sweat,
nothing
to concern yourself
about.
a tickle in the throat,
some aches
and pains, but
it's nothing honest.
i'm fine. don't worry,
don't fret.
see you soon.

john and dave

I miss my two best friends,
john
and dave.
both dead now for years.
both younger than me.
we would talk on the phone
for hours
about everything,
anything that would
cross our minds, we were
like girls
in high school. no offense
to girls.
and yes I know I should
use the word women,
instead of girls,
but for this poem I choose
the word girls.
please accept my apologies
for anyone that might
be offended.
back to john and dave.
oil and water.
sweet and sour.
right and left.
two different souls, as
different as any two
men could be,
but I loved them both
and miss them
nearly every day of my
life.
i wish that I could
pick up the phone this second
and talk
to them, listen to them
breathe.

never say never

for nearly forever
i'd say, why get married again.
why
have a business contract
for an emotion
that could change at the click
of a button,
the drop of a hat.
like the weather,
love could disappear, as
could loyalty
and devotion.
however,
I was so much older then,
as Dylan would say, but
i'm younger than that now.

the boy with red hair

the boy
with red hair
in the old neighbor hood
knew
everything
there was to know about
sex.
a walking encyclopedia
of the female
anatomy.
he was fourteen,
we were ten and eleven.
he would
gather us
around in the alley
and tell us
how a woman worked.
describing each part of
a girl
in detail. the legs, the arms,
the breasts.
we were in awe.
do this, he would say,
do that,
they love when you
touch them there,
just so.
we took notes in our mind.
we couldn't
wait for the next lesson.
we couldn't
wait when it was our turn
to kiss
a girl and put our lessons
into play.
in time he went off to
Vietnam
and came back broken,
the blue eyes
had lost their shine.
he spoke little of women
anymore, but we were older
then,
and he would never
be the same, nor would we.

shedding skins

when I met her,
painted her house, hung
a flock
wallpaper
in the bathroom,
helped her throw a rug
down
in the living room,
she was
on drugs
and drinking.
pale and red eyed,
from too much vodka
and not enough sun,
her hands trembled.
there was always
a new man
in her hot tub which
bubbled
hot on the deck
out back. he would wave
to me as I worked.
she wanted out, wanted
a new skin,
a new life.
flash forward five
years later.
I see her on face book,
clear eyed
and calm,
doing self help
videos, doling out
long sessions of
sage advice.
,

the last of it

when his car broke down,
his
58 chevy,
he left it there
on the side of the road
somewhere near Atlanta,
he grabbed
his duffle bag
full of clothes
from
the trunk,
put his thumb
out. he kept going.
we got a post card
from him
in Miami, saying
little but, i'm in Miami
now.
it's hot here.
that was the last of it.

suburbs

it's a fine
house. brick and mortar.
hard woods,
a strong door and shutters.
the fence
goes around, entered
by a latched gate
to keep
the dog in, the cats.
the future kids.
just starting out,
they are,
the wedding album
still on the table.
new to this life of living
beyond the beltway,
in the woods,
where people wave and say
hey
when out and about.
the noise of the city
is far away, but strangely,
deeply,
they miss it.

be there

the wrong thing to say
is
yes, but you are so blessed,
you have
so much to be thankful
for,
don't be sad,
don't cry, when in
fact
it would be better
to listen,
to be there,
and let her be where
she needs
to be in the moment,
accept her pain
and grief and let her
work through
the darkness that she's
in.

the clock and calendar

a job, three squares.
a shingle on the wall.
a house,
a fence a dog.
a wife
two kids, a car in
the driveway
a chicken
in the oven.
a yard full of grass.
a roof over
our heads.
just the bare necessities
and a tad more.
a clock and a calendar
keeping track
of it all,
but what about
love?

letting love have its way

adrift,
a boat idles beside
me
on my small flat raft.
the bones of trees
strapped together.
do you need help, he says.
water?
anything, could I tow
you to shore?
i'm fine, I tell him.
squinting into
the harsh light of day.
my hair is long,
my beard
grey. the sun has done
hard time
upon my face.
i'm fine, I tell him,
nothing can bother me
in this state,
I could drift for
days or years
as I grow weary and ill.
i'm fine.
I am letting love
have its way with me.

nothing changes

the lights go out.
you find a flashlight
in the hall
closet and shine it on
the room.
others are there.
they've come in from
the rain,
wind blown and with
stories
to tell.
the water rises, the roof
shakes.
we huddle
onto the floor and light
candles.
we remember
other times like these
when we were young.
nothing changes,
nothing remains the same.
the storms
keep coming.

driving all night

the black wet highway
is loud
with the windows down.
the radio off.
the wipers slapping
back and forth.
not a soul on the road.
just you,
heading south
for a while, then north,
making a u turn
where the sign
says detour.
the motel lights go by,
flashing
no vacancy, the long
wires
strung from pole
to pole are glazed in
the awful light.
you drive on. you drive
on. you don't want
the night to end.
the days are just
too hard without her.

the cautious heart

the careful heart,
the cautious heart, the timid
one,
gets
left behind.
the chance
of love is frightening,
losing
what you want
after so much, so much,
water
under the bridge
and time.

the fire fly

each fire fly
we'd catch, we'd place
inside a jar
and see how long
they'd last.
not long.
soon, they'd grow
sad
and no longer
light up and glow
the way they wanted to,
trapped.
a lesson in
not holding too tight
to those we love,
perhaps.

night songs

the play is rich
in song,
and mirth, the words
almost too fast
to catch each one
and laugh.
the lights dim
and darken,
or go bright with
each new mood
of plot. the orchestra
up high
behind the screen
plays on. you could
sit there
with the one you
love, her warm
hand in yours
and listen, and watch,
all night.

do you play?

he loves
golf. talks about it all
the time.
tells me about his back swing,
his stroke,
his sand traps and
almost perfect holes.
he takes his bag of new
clubs out of the trunk,
still in his
cleated shoes.
poor tiger, he shakes
his head and sighs.
if only is a phrase
that comes up a lot,
if only i'd used the other
club, if
it hadn't been so windy,
or the rain had waited.
if only i'd hit
the ball more left
on the eighteenth green.
what about you, he asks.
do you play?

red wins

I put my money down
on the number five horse
in blue.
the jockey seems confident,
proud
in his silk suit upon
this gleaming horse.
he looks like a winner.
how could he not come
in first, how could he
stumble how of the starting
gate and nearly fall?
how could he not lead
the field
without a challenge
and break the tape before
the others?
off they go and red
wins.

red wins

I put my money down
on the number five horse
in blue.
the jockey seems confident,
proud
in his silk suit upon
this gleaming horse.
he looks like a winner.
how could he not come
in first, how could he
stumble how of the starting
gate and nearly fall?
how could he not lead
the field
without a challenge
and break the tape before
the others?
off they go and red
wins.

the scratch

the record skips in
the same spot it did
thirty years ago.
on the same song, in
the same
vinyl groove.
I wait for it then
get up to move the needle.
it's like an old
friend
who hasn't changed,
that you accept for
all their scratches,
enjoying the rest
of their music.

the inside

a block
of stone to
the sculptor
means
nothing.
what's inside
matters.
it just takes time
to get to who we
really are,
to chisel away
the rough,
the useless rock
within,
then shine.

tomorrows ink

the well
is hardly dry.
but I can hear the splash
of my bucket
in the shallow
cold below.
I pull up enough black ink
for the day.
for a week of words
to scribble, saying what
I mean,
what I don't mean,
what I really meant
to say,
but didn't.

gold rush

when panning for
gold,
much of your life, kneeling
at the altar
of sand and stream,
dipping
hands into the ice cold
water,
year after year.
how your back aches,
your heart darkens,
how your eyes grow
weary, until she comes,
and the wait
is over.

they're watching

the trash goes
out on Monday, then Thursdays.
after dark,
or in the morning.
please pick up,
after your dog, keep
that cat on a leash.
don't change the color
of your door,
or lock,
don't grow anything
that hasn't been deemed
ok
by the HOA.
they're watching,
they're on the job with
clipboards
and cameras,
perennially elected souls
with nothing to do
but this.
their eyes
are upon you,
around the clock.

what does that mean?

the often unreadable,
puzzling
poetry that graces
the bi monthly issue
of the new Yorker
worries me. saddens me.
they seem to be killing
poetry,
not honoring or giving
it to the masses.
they keep the door closed
on what poetry
can be.
doling out obscurities
that only
the academic world
appears to get.
or do they?
i'm not the most literate
person in world,
nor do I claim
to write better, but
for once, other than
an occasional billy Collins
poem, i'd like to read
something that resembles
my life
or the simple lives
of others
that I know.

the ice cream

blue in the face
and crying,
it's a sweet
cone
that the child wants.
to lick
the melting ice
cream.
that's enough to make
the child happy,
at least for
the moment.
there will be more
crying though
down the road
for other things,
knowing now how
life works.

you don't mess around

you don't mess
around
with love.
you don't grab it
by the ears
and bring it closer.
you don't squeeze
it too hard, or
shower it too much
with sweet talk
and gifts.
you don't make it what
it isn't.
you have to go easy
with a thing
called love.
let it roll across
you like a warm
blue ocean,
floating on top
with the sun in
your face,
you have to let it
carry you away
to another shore
and not worry where
you land.

fall back

the fatigue
of work, the dust of
day.
the sweat
of clothes.
the heavy shoes
that swing
as I walk.
it's dark early now
as I sit
and think
of what's ahead,
what's behind,
believing that things
will get
better,
still.

the spell

under her spell
I sleep
during the day
in a dream state.
what's next.
where to. i'm
in between
her point a, her
point b,
waiting for the bell
to ring,
watching the clock
until i'm free.

this is the end

a line is outside
my door.
women mostly holding old letters
in one hand,
clubs in the other.
some are holding torches
over their heads.
they look tired
and mean.
some shout at the window
when I peek out.
we know you're in
there, they say.
we're coming in.
I duck down and crawl
towards the back
door, but they're out
there too. I hear them
on the roof,
chiseling at the tiles.
it wasn't supposed
to end this way.

dark bird

i'm glad that the bird
who flies
into my
living room window
is okay.
i hear the thud
against the glass,
see the shadow of
him fall.
he's outside
on the patio,
lying there still
for a moment before
getting up
and dizzily flying
away again.
is it
his own reflection
that draws him into
himself,
is there something
inside
that he wants?
or is he just tired
of being a bird
and trying to get to
the next life?

retro girl

after work
at the State Department,
home late as usual
because of traffic
and putting a pot roast into
the oven,
she wants to know
where we could score a dime
bag of weed, to which I say,
huh.
she's showered and changed
into her new peasant
dress,
a lava lamp
is lit. she's dancing around
the living room
in her sandals,
her hair braided behind her head,
a peace sign painted
on her forehead.
a black light is on
beneath a poster of jimi
and Janis
at Woodstock.
a dime bag? I say out
loud, scratching my head.
i'm not sure,
I haven't seen my friend
junebug in over forty years,
he used to
have the good stuff back
in the neighborhood.
I think he's a stock broker
now, i saw him on facebbook
the other day.
i'll send him a message,
see if he can hook us up.

at a certain age

at a certain age
people stop giving you advice.

they look at you 

and see the white hair,

the lines on your face,

the slowness of your gait

and realize that you must
know more than they do 

at this stage of life.

you must be wise by now.

which isn't true at all, 

please, tell me something 

I don't already know,
if possible, i'm all ears, 

although I'm having
issues with them as well.

hospice

her skin,
lineless despite so
many years of worry,
not a furrow,
not a grimace or squint
on her face
framed by white
hair,
the hard work of life
done.
she's at peace in some
strange way.
alive inside,
unmoved by legs.
wordless.
this is how she'll die.
alone
in a stranger's bed,
in an unknown home,
away
from all those she
loved, and loved her
in return.

falling birds

the birds scatter
at gunshot, take off on
rapid wings
into the low
grey sky.
it's killing season,
the hunters
nestled unseen
in their bunkers.
so easy to kill,
so quick to pull a
trigger to bring life
down without a thought
or care,
or need. just
sport.
we're different.

a new skin

we shed our skin,
discard
that translucent case
we thought
so important,
let the old fall away
dry
and thin,
it slides off
us so
easily when
it's time, when
we're ready
to be whole,
and new again.

alternative means

I never
understood the phrase,
that there
is more than one way
to skin a cat.
why would anyone do such
a thing in the first
place, skin a cat?
what would these
ways be?

let's jump out of a plane

let's go jump
out of a plane, she says to me,
as I lie in bed
reading the paper.
we need to do something
fun,
something different,
we need to shake things up
a little.
I look over the top
of the paper,
and watch her dance
on the floor in her pajamas.
she stretches her
arms out and spins in a
circle,
as if flying.
I thought we
were going to weed
the yard today, I tell her.

i was really looking

forward to it.

nothing lost

she fed us
and we grew. watered
us,
dressed us and sent
us on our way,
to church,
to school.
how quickly we needed
new shirts
and pants, dresses,
shoes.
the old ones tight,
worn,
and thread bare,
quickly grown out of.
she fed us,
kept us out of trouble
as best
she could.
there was nothing lost,
she couldn't find,
nothing
for her children she
wouldn't
try to do.

back pedal

who doesn't back pedal,
do a moon
walk
in the other direction
after saying
something you wish you
hadn't.
who isn't covering
their tracks,
zig zagging down
the road to keep
someone off your back.
we did it once,
and we'll do it again,
say something dumb,
but hopefully
not the same thing.

these days are numbered

gas is cheaper
here at the shore, he says.
so is the polident,
aisle six,
next to the fiber
mix,
I follow as he pushes
the cart
dropping in a box of
this or that,
what's on sale.
Halloween candy.
boneless chops.
do you need anything, he
asks.
and i nod no.
I have everything I need
and more.
this is good enough.
this walk, this shopping,
together through
the enormous well lighted
store.
these days are
numbered.

trivial news

the friends
unfriend you. a brother
or sister too,
a distant cousin,
old loves.
do you care?
yes, but
typing words and never
seeing someone
is hardly
friendship, or
is receiving trivial
news.

blue wind

nothing you can do with
wind
at the shore.
hands in pockets, the waves
slapping madly
into one another.
the rake of gusts out
across the sick green
of sea.
not a gull in sight.
not a soul
lying, or sitting warmly
against wet sand,
the sky and mood less
light than dark. there
are better things to do
than plow forward
against such might.

a piece of chocolate

I take a small
piece of candy, cut in half.
mint,
chocolate, a sweet
tiny
morsel of something
she loved
and place it on her
lips.
her eyes open, she
mimics a smile, opens
her stiff mouth
and let's it
fall against her
tongue.
she grips my hand.
she closes her eyes
and swallows.
no words need to be said
about the sweetness
of life.

the tepid sea

the safe middle is not
where you want to be.
to paddle,
or tread water, neither
here
or there,
with no island in sight,
no direction
planned. without love.
just you, bobbing
like a dry cork
for years, going nowhere
in the tepid sea.

a new church

the church
rises in red brick along
the parkway.
the stained
glass arched,
pulling in shards
of colored lights.
Christ is hung
over the altar, below
the swoop of a sky
blue ceiling.
the sound is perfect,
the choir,
the priest as he sings.
the two altar
boys
in white beside him,
heads bowed. there are
angels and Mary,
candles blue,
and red lit on each
side.
the stations of the cross
along the pews.
it's a new
church. a new life
that rises
in red brick along
the parkway.
I go in to try again.

the game

the ball bounces
in a direction you don't see
coming. it flies
off the rim,
out of bounds.
it keeps rolling, we
chase it.
we follow it to where
it's going.
we run all day, into
night.
down the streets
and alleys.
we were young when we
started,
but now our legs are
tired, our hair
brushed with grey.
our lungs breathe heavy.
we keep after it.

it won't be the same

the tree falls
in the middle of the night
heavy
with rain.
it tumbles with
hardly a note,
or sound.
it's been silent
nearly
all its life except
for the sweep
of leaves in wind,
the rustle of
them
dying, floating
softly
to the ground, but
now this. this quick
end.
the cool shade,
its glory of color,
this absence
is sudden and sad.
more trees will come,
but it won't
be the same.

the unknown

you forget to breathe
at times,
taking small short breaths
like how
a rabbit might.
your whiskers twitch,
your tail
shakes, your eyes
peer nervously to
the left and right.
it's not easy being
on the trail,
in the dark woods
with so many unknown
things
before you.

the cold soup

sometimes the soup
gets cold
upon the spoon,
the bread stale
against the plate,
things fall apart at
the seams.
what once was new
is old again,
what's faded
grey was once a
vibrant blue.

the third martini

it's the third martini
that gives you wisdom, 

makes you articulate
and bold,
makes you stand up
and say the things
you think others want to

hear, all the things

you believe

they want to know,

it's that third drink
that makes you
likable and giving,
ready to grab a hand
and dance across the floor.
the third drink brings out
the best in you,
all of which will

disappear when you decide

to have that fourth.

the fever

love is a chill,
a fever,
an ache
when apart, love is
gold,
it's the sun,
the moon, the stars.
love is everything,
it's something
you don't see coming.
you know
from the start.

ah oh

we were on our honeymoon,
in back of the long
black limo
when she told
me
about another man
she loved
more than me.
but we had the tickets,
the hotel
was booked.
I still had cake my
mouth,
on my sleeve.
she was still in her
wedding dress,
and crying,
twisting at her
diamond ring
as new brides often
do.

they don't know

the babies
don't know what's coming.
what's
ahead for them
down the road,
once off
the milk, beyond
the cradle
and crib.
they just keep coming,
keep
arriving,
in pink and blue
swaddling clothes.
blue eyed and brown,
new hope
for an old world,
battered and
confused.

a busy God

although I've tried
to pray without ceasing,
it's nearly
impossible. there is too
much to do
without God's help.
i'll save him for larger
needs,
like money, or love.
sickness, that sort
of thing. a hurricane,
besides
i'm sure he's very busy
right now
with football season
underway.

conversation

it's the same
people gathered in front
of the coffee shop,
sitting in the iron chairs,
they've been coming
here for years.
I can hear them
as I sit on the edge,
reading my
paper.
they've put their phones
down,
they are engaged and
talking, sharing, not
a single laptop
on the table. they speak
of their lives,
the news.
they could sit there
all day and do this,
some do.

holding a sign

his sign is detailed
with
mishaps.
the IRS, a bad marriage,
health.
it takes a while
to read it as you sit
waiting for the light
to change.
he's well dressed
with a mustache black
and curled above his lip.
he's an unwritten
novel, this man
on the corner in
a buttoned down dress
shirt, pin striped,
and gabardine pants.

room 1201 north

it's just a room
for one night,
a queen sized bed,
a studio.
the bare
necessities.
a tv,
a fridge,
a balcony.
room service if need
be.
how large the world
is
up this high,
seeing the curve of
the earth,
the ocean
disappearing as it
does
towards another
set of eyes.

the white shells

it's a clean
white shell
I find
lingering in the sand
as the sea
washes green
upon my feet.
the inside gleams
like that of a pearl.
I place the shell
to my ear
and wait to be told
what I want
to hear.
disbelieving,
I find another,
then another.
they all say yes.

only monday

I throw a handful
of coins
into the well,
drop to my knees
and send up
a plethora of prayers.
I make
a wish on a falling
star then
make promises
I can't keep if any
are answered.
it's only Monday.

put your hands up

I hand my wallet
over to the mugger, me
being the muggee.
he's holding what looks
like a rubber gun.
is that gun real, I ask
him, it looks like it's
made of rubber.
I can see the tag on it.
in fact. I turn my head
sideways and read toys r us
on the tag.
shut up, he says, or i'll
plug you.
can I put my arms down,
I ask him.
it's been a long day job
hunting, plus
I had to take my cat
in to the vet. some sort
of rash.
he looks at me and shakes
his head.
okay, you can put one arm
down.
what's up with this wallet,
you have no cash,
one stinking credit card,
a library card.
you don't even have any
photos.
no wife, no kids?
I switch arms, raising
up the other one.
i'm sorry, I tell him,
it's been a rough couple
of years. my wife left
me for another woman.
my kid hates me, calls
me only for money. I found out
the other day, he might
not even be my kid.
that's a shame, he says.
no phone? nope, dropped
it in the sink the other
day, it's fried.
oh brother, he says, handing
me back my wallet.
he puts his rubber gun
back into his coat
then hands me a five dollar bill.
here, get yourself a burger.
you can put your arm down, he
says. but stay out of the alley,
okay.
you're a complete waste
of my time. now scram.

where are we now

going downtown
confuses me. mid town,
up town,
the edge of town.
soho
noho,
battery park.
Chinatown. is that
the empire state building,
or the Chrysler?
the west side,
or the Hudson. where
are we
now?
i'm hungry.
we shrug and keep
walking,
looking
at our maps, our
phones,
stopping every now
and then
to eat slice of ray's
original
before getting on
the subway.

in between

there is mystery
to twilight, to a dusk
falling, or
dawn about to rise,
the absence of pure
light,
or darkness.
that in between world
of neither
day or
night.
it's a poetic
break to be,
whether things are wrong
whether
things are right.

the red wagon

whether the wagon
was red
or not, is not important.
that's not
really part of the story.
the dog
dying is.
the policeman
using one bullet to take
his life
as he lay in
the street
after being struck
by a car.
go get your mother
he said,
as a small crowd
gathered
in the morning sun,
my route
finished,
the last paper thrown
onto the last
porch.
we covered him,
and pulled
him home.

seeing the light

they cut open
your eye
to put a new lens in,
vacuum out the web
that's grown.
your head is strapped
down
so that you don't move
an inch.
you are surrounded
by masked men
and women in green.
music is playing.
you haven't eaten or drank
anything for what
seems like days,
twelve hours.
a needle is in your hand.
you're drowsy
weak as a kitten.
it's a psychedelic
trip as the lights flash
bright in colors.
in no time though,
you can see
the leaves on the tree
once again, find dimes
lying in the street.
brush lint
of her shoulder.

i have to go now

she knows my order by heart,
or at least sees
what I ordered the last
five times
on the screen
in front of her.
what, no summer rolls
tonight, she says.
no kung pao chicken?
no I tell her, i'm just
calling to say hello,
we haven't talked in quite
awhile.
how about this weather?
i'm very busy she says.
I can hear the clink
of plates and glasses
behind her.
her fingers clicking
on the keyboard.
can I take your order?
spare rib appetizer?
we have a special on combination
fried rice.
no, thank you,
nothing tonight, I tell
her.
maybe tomorrow, can
we talk then?
sure, she says.
but I have to go now.
I have another call.
when you call, you have
to order, okay?
sure, I tell her.
anything for you.

the large hand

the world
spills onto itself.
cracks
and takes under what's
in its path.
the skies move,
winds
swirl and sweep
the corks
of ships away.
tumble
what's made into
rubble.
it's a large hand,
a strange thing,
how we trust and fear
what we
and pray to
and don't understand.

jumping beans

she makes
your feet move,
your heart
flutter,
your mouth water,
she
turns your chakras
into Mexican
jumping beans.
time goes so fast
when you're with her,
so slow when
you're apart.

be good

mark twain
suggested that be good
and be alone,
so what's up with that?
I've tried
so hard to follow
that rusted
rule, and here I am,
still waiting.

a summers day

a summers day
needs
an ice cream
cone,
a double scoop.
to sit on
a park bench
and watch the world
go by.
let the clouds
become
what clouds want
to be.
to stare
off into the sea,
where dreams
can come true.

the last page

some movies
you know the ending
before
the opening scene.
before
the first word is
spoken,
before the plot
thickens.
so you skim, and
fast forward,
turn to the last
page, the last reel,
and hope you're
wrong.

slow boat to china

the slow boat
to china is nearly full,
but they make room for me.
they pull me on board
and give
me a seat.
who asked you to leave,
they say.
who told you to hit the road
jack
and don't you come back?
oh, it's a long list
I tell them.
where should I begin?
never mind they say,
here's an oar, start
paddling.

to forget

to forget
you go to work.
you work.
you skip lunch, you skip
coffee.
you watch the sun
rise
and set.
you get lost in the weariness
of work,
letting yourself
get spent.
but it doesn't go away,
not yet.

the apple

the apple
once a red shine
in your hand, has a brown
spot,
a soft dent,
the meat has darkened,
the worm
has turned.
nothing lasts forever
despite
wanting it to.

when it's over

in passing,
she points
to your wrinkled brow,
your hands,
the limp
you carry, the white
in your
lessened hair,
she
asks you about
your health, your
age
approaching
medicare,
what beach or island
do you plan
to lie down upon
when it's over,
she says.
she isn't being cruel,
or unkind,
it's a matter of fact
small slap
against the lips of
someone who
loved her.

early xmas

the gin
and tonic
tastes like Christmas
on ice.
the lime
cut on the edge,
the bright smell
and taste
upon my lips,
cold going down.
come here and have
a sip of me.
let's celebrate
early,
who needs a wreathe
who needs a string
of lights, a tree?

enough

the sharpest knife
in the drawer
is not you, but what you
have seems
good enough to get by.
to live the life
you live, to
the keep the shelves
full,
clothes on your back,
gas in the car,
there's enough to keep
the home fires burning,
enough to buy roses,
and dark chocolate,
a card that reads
thanks for being you.

the song

the song
keeps rattling inside
the cage
of your
tired brain.
your fingers snap,
feet
tap.
there's a beat
to it all.
there's a dance
going on
inside of you,
but you can only
sit there and gaze
out the window,
home at last.

short love

the man in the white
cowboy hat
is making love to the woman
on the dance
floor.
his hands
slide up and down her
stout
body. she doesn't mind
a bit, spinning
around so that their
bodies fit.
she throws her arms
into the air
as if she might be on
fire.
she shakes
and tosses her hair from
side to side.
he whispers in her ear,
nibbles at her neck.
the band keeps
playing.
they don't even pay
attention.
they've seen short love
before.

three meals and a bed

they are old birds
in a circle, without
wings, nodding off
to
the Jeffersons
on tv.
the big couch and chairs
holding them
like soft hands.
the dinner bell has
not rung,
lunch just over
though they don't remember
what was eaten.
there is no talking.
no movement.
the eyes
flutter towards
the screen or to the door
when the doorbell
rings.
there is little difference
between night
and day.
Christmas could be tomorrow,
or it could have
been yesterday.

the girl next door

the girl next
door has grown up.
i remember kissing her
in the shadows
of summer
under the big tree
where we couldn't be
seen.
we had no idea what
it all meant,
but our hearts
were in it as we
made promises we could
never keep.
I can still feel her
hand in mine.
smell the perfume
in her hair.
taste her lips.
I think about her
often, wondering
if she's found another
lover, another
tree, but knowing deep
inside that i'll
always be hers, and
she'll always be mine.

the three day weekend

inspired by
all the continual protests
going on in front of the white house,
you feel a little left
out.
you need a cause, something
that you
are passionate enough about
to chain your self to the white
house fence.
then it comes to you.
the three day weekend.
with three of your close
friends of like minded
intentions
you go downtown on a Friday
morning
and lightly
tie
one leg to the fence.
the others do the same.
you wave your signs
and begin to chant. we want
a three day weekend over
and over.
the other protesters laugh
and laugh, they can
hardly contain themselves,
as do the police as they
pepper spray us and haul
us away. they keep us
until Monday, so we did
accomplish what we wanted,
sort of.

it's the little things

it's an amazing
parking space
that opens up
in the middle
of the packed city.
it's a miracle worthy
of the parting
of the Red Sea.
there it is, open
and free,
unrestricted, no
twenty minutes only,
no Sunday
through Thursday
from nine to five,
no meter, no tow away zone,
no nothing. just a clear
open space
where your car
can fit perfectly in.
you grab a box of Kleenex
to wipe your eyes
and take it.

free range

the cow
is only eating free range
grass,
corn and oats
grown without
chemicals
to make her large and fat.
its a good life,
for awhile,
the blue skies,
the endless plain
rolling green along
the hillside,
the sun
warming her
soft white hide.
she could stand there
forever
if she had a say
in it.

the one that got away

my friend jimmy
likes to tell stories
of the women
he's taken to bed.
all of them gorgeous
beyond belief,
but you never see him with
anyone,
not even on a Saturday
night.
he sits at the bar
and orders another round
and says stop me
if you've heard this one.
there was this girl, he
says,
I think her name was Gloria,
or Linda, he shakes
his head.
she had a crazy head of red
hair, and eyes
that sparkled like
blue diamonds.
I don't know why i let
her get away. she was the one.
she was the real deal,
the keeper. he talks
as if she might be a
fish on the line,
hooked,
struggling to be free,
which she may have been.

the dog trainer

the dog
paddles out into the shallow
lake.
the stick he wants
is just beyond
the pier
after a cartwheeled throw.
all four legs
below go at it, as if
running,
but afloat.
the owner stands dry
on the shore, he claps,
proud
of the lessons he's
given the dog,
sit heel, play dead,
go fetch, now here's a
little bone.

come morning

the light switch sparks,
the bulb
sputters on
then off. not a single
watt illuminates
the book i'm trying to read.
a new light might be
in order.
this lamp is done,
the wires frayed,
the connections loose,
the button
won't push anymore,
but it's okay.
the darkness
we live in
will change come
morning.

love and friendship

reality
is a cold glass of water
thrown
into your face.
it's the nail you step on.
the branch that
falls from a tree
upon you.
it's the unexpected bill,
the dog
getting hit by a car,
the storm
approaching
taking everything with it.
being misunderstood.
much of this makes life
hard,
and matter,
but love and friendship,
if true,
will never fade
or fail.

champagne love

some affection
is of the champagne
variety.
there is the pop,
the bubbles,
the fun of it all
pouring out.
the tickled pink
drink of it
going down,
but by nights end,
the bottle
has gone dry,
gone flat and what
was once
infatuation,
brimming with hope,
is now old hat.

get over it

shame about the grudges.
the animosity
that goes on.
the lingering sting of words
said,
deeds undone,
vows broken.
it's too bad about it all.
but what can one do
but reach out,
wait and wait
for them to come around,
or you.

caught in the rain

it smells like rain,
see how the leaves
have darkened
and turned up.
feel the wind, the push
of a front
moving in.
let's wait though,
let's stay a little longer,
finish our drinks
and feel
it when it begins.
let's sit here
hand in hand, then run
to car, soaked.
it'll help us, make
our love
stronger. I don't know
why or how,
but I feel that it will.

does she dream

it's hard
to see your mother lying
there,
wordless.
when was she ever without
something to say?
her glasses lost, or taken,
the white hair
still thick and pulled
behind
against a stranger's pillow.
it's difficult
to remember how she laughed
and told a story,
how she felt
your head for fever,
told you to come inside,
dinner was ready.
how a single sip of wine
made her dizzy.
and now,
still alive, barely,
she lies there with all of
life behind
her.

keep going

trains
arrive, then leave.
we board
and ride to where
we need to go.
tomorrow is the same.
bag in hand.
the trees outside
go from green to bare
as the months
turn.
the wind blows
grey
into our hair.
we lean
and keep going, keep
riding.
what else is
there to do.

keep going

trains
arrive, then leave.
we board
and ride to where
we need to go.
tomorrow is the same.
bag in hand.
the trees outside
go from green to bare
as the months
turn.
the wind blows
grey
into our hair.
we lean
and keep going, keep
riding.
what else is
there to do.

thinking about baseball

the cold shower
helps
at times,
thinking of baseball too.
from first to third,
then home plate,
but then
my mind strays
and I can't help
thinking of you.

Stella

it was a street car
named
perspire.
a lot of sweaty tired
people
were on it
coming home from work.
not a day
went by when your
back didn't stick to
your shirt.
I grew tired of jumbalaya
and catfish.
hanging vines
and swamps.
who dat,
etc.
I needed to get home
to where the water
stayed put,
didn't rise halfway
up the house any time
it rained,
to a place where I understood
the language,
where I wasn't
always yelling
for Stella to forgive me.

hanging on

I see
them hanging on
to the cliff
of love and affection,
clawing at the side
of what was,
but it's over.
nails dug
in. frantic, trying
to hold on
to the mountain,
boots struggling
to find a divot
to keep them steady.
they don't realize
that they're only
two
feet off the ground,
not a thousand.
they need to let go.
other cliffs are out
there.
other mountains
to climb
and rest upon
with easier roads,
and rest stops along
the way.

the last piece

I nod yes.
not because I agree
but because
I don't want to argue.
i'd rather you
get your way then have
to go through that.
go ahead,
have the last piece
of cake.
we'll make more.
there's always more
until they're isn't.

that screeching sound

that screeching sound
you hear
is the caliper which is connected
to the rotar
which is connected
to the pads,
etc. everything is
sticking.
looks like it could
be anywhere between five
hundred and a thousand
to fix things.
we've got it up on the rack
right now.
of course you know
it's best to do both
brakes,
not just one. (long pause).
I hear the whir
of a power wrench,
the clink of lug nuts.
cursing.
so what do you think, bub?
should I give
Jimmy the go ahead?
what choice do I have
I say.
none, he says. making
a noise that sounds
like cha ching. do it jimmy,
he yells out into
the garage.

not like that

when he would
carve
the turkey, she'd take the automatic
knife from
his hand
and tell him
to sit down, let me do it.
so he would.
don't water
the plants like that she'd
say,
don't pour so much.
you snore
she says. i'll be in
the other room.
didn't you wear that shirt
yesterday,
here, let me find you one.
you can't go out
like that.
and now,
that's he gone, she
misses all the things he
did and visits
him weekly to weed
the grass he's under.

toll booth love

every day
she takes my money.
I hand her
a bill and wait for her
arm to
reach out with change.
we say
little, but hello.
goodbye.
we smile.
there is the metal
of my car,
the half rolled window,
the anxious next car
behind me
that keeps us from
knowing one another, from
falling
in love and living
happily ever after.
there always seems
to be something
or someone in the way.

seeing green

it smells
like jealousy. tastes
sour
and bitter
on the tongue.
it's a love gone
bad
left out
to rot in the sun.
it's green, it's a vile
potion
a dangerous
emotion. left unchecked.
it goes red
and wild with
imagination. there's
the ride by,
the phone,
the woods, the roof top
with which to spy.
once it bites
there are no shots to
cure it,
no quarantine
to keep it at bay.
only time, a new love,
or a restraining
order from a higher court
can help keep
him or her away.

nothing else to do

you nearly fall asleep
listening
to chet baker
and his trumpet.
funny valentine.
you try not to think
too much of his troubles,
his addictions,
his strange end.
you let the music
spill
between your ears,
it's almost like
listening to sin.
it's tragic blues,
the blow of the horn,
soft
and sweet.
his whispery voice
singing
melodies you could
listen to all night,
all day
if you had nothing else
to do.

the HOA

the HOA,
that coven of witches and warlocks
who meet monthly
the third Thursday,
at the mark twain elementary
are walking
the streets
with their clipboards.
one has a camera,
another
points with her long
hand
to a bush, or roof,
or color of paint
that isn't on the program.
they nail
a manifesto to your door.
we can't see the parking
permit in your car.
who said you could change
your locks.
third warning.
get that dog to stop
barking
or else. but I don't
have a dog.
it's me they hear.

the safe

she had an ear
for wall safes.
bank vaults.
pulling back her long
hair
to listen against
the thick walls
for the click click click.
with her delicate fingers
she would turn
the dials
and open up any cold
box
holding jewels,
cash,
bonds and stocks.
there was no safe she
couldn't crack, no door
or heart
she couldn't get to,
until will met,
and that was that.

the vampire years

we were vampires
in our twenties.
out all night with our
bat wings,
dressed in black.
carousing the dark
caves
of music and drink,
fluttering near
girls with bright lips
and tight clothes,
tender necks.
we wanted to
make them our own.
to bring them
home to our webbed
nests.
we were upside down
for years, not caring
about the daylight
hours,
avoiding the sun,
delaying the eventual
tomorrow when we believed
there would be
no more fun.

charity bucket

the rag tag girl
in front of the grocery
store
has a bucket,
bright yellow,
with the word Florida
taped to the side.
it's full of dollar
bills
and change.
thank you, she says.
as I drop
some money in.
I see her later
at the coffee shop
buying
a caramel macchiato
and a blueberry
scone.
she's wearing what looks
like a new dress
with new shoes
and a matching handbag.
the yellow bucket
beside her chair
says Tennessee now.

just a rumor

it's just a rumor,
a few words whispered into
my ear,
passed down
along the wire,
across the fence,
through the grapevine.
I say oh my,
really? I can't believe
that.
who would do
something like that.
and the other
person, who seems
to know everything
about everyone, says
I know. I know.
crazy isn't it?
what's wrong with these
people, she says.
I'm shocked, I say,
and then quietly
promise myself
to never tell her anything.

friday night

there is dust
on my shoulders from
the long week. I shake out
my hat
and sit down
in the kitchen chair.
the walls are yellow.
the calendar is a month
slow on the fridge.
I see myself in
the toaster as I bend
to take off
my boots. i could use
a shave, a newer face.
I turn on the radio,
grab a beer
and a cold half sandwich
still on a plate.
a song comes on,
just my imagination by
the temptations, I begin
to dance in my socks across
the linoleum
floor. I spin,
take a sip of beer, go
low, rise and spin again.
I can still dance.
I still have it even after
all these years.

quiet desperation

who isn't brilliant
to some degree.
whether the stock boy
in the store,
the man
directing
traffic,
the stripper on stage
wearing
nothing
but shoes.
the cook, the salesman
with his bag
of goods
going door to door.
there is still something
inside
everyone
that may be never be
known or seen.
they are Picassos
and mozarts,
singers and poets,
people living their lives
in quiet desperation,
while inside
they dream.

three cats

three cats.
not real cats, but hipster
cats
are on the corner
of king
and
union playing songs.
one
with a bass, another
a sax,
the third
beating on a drum.
three hats collect
the coins
and cash.
they nod and smile
with each donation.
how good to be young
and carefree,
to do
such things as that.

zoo girl

when I hear
a radiator clunk in the dead
of winter.
bang and sing its strange
old pipe
song, I think of her.
the steam and rattle of her.
zoo girl
in her ancient digs,
the monkeys across the street
swinging
in their cages.
the pandas
tucked in a cave.
seals being seals.
I wonder about the zoo
bar below her,
the Dixie land band,
the stragglers
coming in
in the dead of night for
one last round,
one last chance at love
before dawn.

pure and true

the best
shot is the one taken
without thinking,
the clean swish
without rim.
the arrow from a bow
striking center, red.
the best spiral of a ball
when leaving
your hand
in laser precision is
the throw
without thought,
landing in open hands,
without measure or push.
it's a natural
thing.
so are the words spoken
when from the heart,
they too flow
most pure
and true.

go slow

it's the slow
food,
the slow drink,
the slow
rise
from sleep, the slow
and easy
love
at night
that takes hold,
puts
you on the right
path.
little remains
of anything else
that happens
fast.

go slow

it's the slow
food,
the slow drink,
the slow
rise
from sleep, the slow
and easy
love
at night
that takes hold,
puts
you on the right
path.
little remains
of anything else
that happens
fast.

go as two

you don't know until
you set
sail
if the earth is flat
or round.
if what lies
beyond your sight
is real.
you don't find what
you're looking
for
by staying put,
staying home,
never thinking
beyond
what you've been told.
but it's better to
go as two,
if you go at all,
and not alone.

a higher power

I lie
down in the bed
I've made.
harvest
the field of seed
I've planted.
I have no one
to blame
or praise
but me for what
rises
from the ground,
or what
dream appear
with or without
sleep.
I don't really believe
any of that.
there is a higher
power.

the best part

i don't see an end.
but maybe
she does.
maybe she knows what i
don't know.
women are like that.
so far
advanced
and evolved than we
are.
i don't see an end,
or a middle.
i see the start.
where the flowers are fresh
and full
in the vase.
i always see the start,
the best
part.

shopping late on a sunday night

with an empty
cart
I wander the store.
the one wheel
off kilter,
squeaking on the linoleum
floor.
what i'm looking for I can't
find here.
but still I go down
each aisle,
reading labels, touching
boxes,
inspecting apples
and pears
for marks.
I hold a loaf of bread
into the air
and put it back onto
the shelf.
i'm there an hour or more,
but I buy nothing.
what I want and need
from her,
I can't buy in a store.

half way there

half way
to where i'm going
I turn around.
maybe the oven is on.
the iron
in the basement.
did I lock
the back door,
close the windows.
blow out the candle.
of course all of these things
have been taken care of.
but I feel better
now,
somehow. I take one last
look around
the room,
then pull the door
shut, I begin again
to go where i'm going.

the separation

i remember
packing my bags at her request
and driving
to a motel
on route one.
a shabby place with thin
walls
and smokers.
loud televisions
filling the hall.
i remember lying on the stiff
bed,
the hard pillow
and thinking
what am i doing here.
what has become of me
that I've landed here on
the edge
of nowhere.
i listened to a man in
the other room
coughing.
he was alone too.
the wall shook with his cough.
still dressed,
still unpacked,
i drove home at three
in the morning.
i went up the stairs
looked into my son's room.
kissed him
goodnight then when to
bed. i would never leave
again, but she would.

three pills

with cold water
I swallow
three pills and wait
for the pain
to subside.
I listen to my limbs,
my heart,
the throb of blood that flows
through me,
that constant
tide.
I place ice where
it hurts,
behind my
mind and hold it there.
a cool blue of bag of ice
upon my neck.
I wait
for pain to leave.
to exhale,
to sigh.

to whom i love

I say
what I don't mean,
not literally
at least.
I babble in obscurities,
vague
cryptic notions
of thoughts
that ramble in the corners
of my mind.
I stretch the canvas,
dabble in
abstract.
I can't get out
of being me,
maybe I can be less
talkative,
less misunderstood,
more
aware of those i'm
speaking to
and their sensitivities.
I can take a vow of
limited silence,
spend less
on talk
and more on
listening to those
I love.

we can remove this virus

it sounds like the same man
or woman
who called yesterday on the phone
about the virus in
my computer.
i'm from Microsoft he says
in broken English.
you have downloaded a corrupt file.
put one finger on the control
button
and the other on the shift
key, press and let
me in. we will fix your computer.
he sounds like
the same guy from the IRS
wanting to help me with
my over due taxes,
and the same fellow who
wants to award me a grant
from the government
for nine thousand and seven
hundred dollars.
I can hear the chatter in
the warehouse of people behind him.
we talk and talk about all of
these issues,
becoming friends of sort, then
they grow weary and hang
up telling me to go do an
impossible thing to myself
involving procreation.
I don't worry though, i know
his anger and frustration with
me will subside. I know
he'll call back tomorrow,
around the same time.

small print

it's the small
print
that gets you.
the tiny words and numbers
on the pill
bottle,
at the bottom of a contract
waiting to be
signed.
the instructions
are hardly legible
on how to build what
came in a box, or
the ingredients
on the back of can
or tub
of something you want
to eat.
who has the time
for small print, if it
was that important
wouldn't they make it
easier to see
and read?

waiting it out

she's category
four
in the rating of storms.
you don't want
to go there
and be caught up in
the fury of her winds
and rain,
the surge of her words.
it's best to
evacuate and let
her roar
herself out. grab
your pillow
and sleep it off
in the guest room
with the dog
by your side.

waiting it out

she's category
four
in the rating of storms.
you don't want
to go there
and be caught up in
the fury of her winds
and rain,
the surge of her words.
it's best to
evacuate and let
her roar
herself out. grab
your pillow
and sleep it off
in the guest room
with the dog
by your side.

the wave

she washes over you
in soft tumbles.
she's clear blue,
with
golden rays.
she's unstoppable.
she keeps coming.
hardly a day goes by
that you
don't drift
into her waters,
to dive, or wade.

the black snake

it's a fat snake,
wrapped
around the fence,
climbing in his rope
like twist
up, up.
he smells an egg
in the tree, a cupped
nest with
no one around.
his tongue out,
his black leather
jacket both
smooth and sticky
at the same time.
with no legs, no arms
or hands, he finds
a way.
hunger
having no bounds.

the new world

everything
and everyone is on camera
now.
nothing is in the shadow
of night.
big brother
and sister, mother and
father,
the bright lens is
at work. whirring
away in some
corner or high point.
the bank
the store, the building
across
the street is filming
twenty four
seven.
not a thing done is
unseen,
not a crime
committed,
or step taken hasn't been
captured forever
on film. for better or
worse,
it's the world
we live in.

the game

let's not keep score,
let's
not
worry about who wins
or loses.
it doesn't matter
does it?
just as long as
no one
gets hurt
and everyone has fun
during
the game
and after. tomorrow
we play
again.

a can of beans

I have this one can of
baked
beans in my cupboard
that I've had since the early
eighties.
i'm not sure why I haven't
opened it
and ate what's inside
after all these years.
sometimes I take it out
and look at the faded
label. it's unreadable.
I see the word soy, and fructose.
salt and something
that looks like
potassium chloride.
I don't even like beans
from a can,
boston baked or otherwise.
but there it is.
this brown labeled can
on the shelf
behind other cans,
boxes of rice
and bottles of barbeque
sauce. i'll never in a million
years eat it,
i'll never throw it
away.
some friendships are unbreakable.

my friend mr. lincoln

the maître d is purposely
a little
snobby, a little uptight
in his dark suit
and white shirt, his
bold red tie with flecks
of gold.
he looks
down at the hungry
people gathering
at the door
reservations? he says,
hardly making eye contact.
there's a three hour
wait, he sniffs,
but please have a seat
at the bar
and we'll let you know
when a table becomes
available.
three drinks later, he
doesn't budge when I go
up to his pedestal.
you're on the list sir,
he says.
there are seven people ahead
of you.
please, be patient.
have you met my friend mr.
Lincoln, I tell him,
casually shaking a five
dollar bill in front of him.
no, I haven't he says.
but if he has some friends,
such as mr. grant
or Hamilton, perhaps we could
seat you sooner.

the roar of her

if she was an animal,
i'd say
lion. that beautiful
mane,
those brown eyes.
the scratching,
the biting,
the dragging me around
by the nape of
my neck into her den.
not to mention
the roar of her.

the car wash

the boy scouts
in their uniforms
covered in merit
badges
would wash cars at the church.
there would be
twenty of them,
all ages and sizes.
except for the old guy
in the same outfit,
who must have been the pack
leader. he stood back
and waved you forward in the line.
they were like bugs on
your car
spraying, washing, hosing
it down
as you sat inside
listening to the radio
and eating potato chips.
they did a great job,
but there was always
one side
missed, somehow,
a five foot stretch
of untouched dirt, which
was okay.
what did they know about
washing cars.
building a fire, yes.
catching fish, or tying knots.
yes.
car washing, well.

what are those for?

her medicine cabinet
was full of brown bottles,
and tubes
of ointments.
there were syringes
and
instruments that I wasn't
familiar with.
smelling salts
and bandages.
tweezers and nail clippers,
not to mention
a jug of hydrogen
peroxide.
there was the little
plastic container
with the days of the month
inscribed
on the plastic doors.
cue tips.
sprays and roll ons.
powders and perfumes.
hair dye,
shaving cream and razors.
loose pills of all colors
and sizes.
pepto bismol.
gum.
I took some gum and got
out of there,
pushing the squeaky door
closed again.

late again

late for work
again.
I have my list of excuses ready.
they are much like
the ones I used in high school.
my aunt died, no, not
that aunt, the other one.
my dog is sick.
I couldn't find my books.
my shoelace broke.
traffic,
the weather.
the line at starbucks
was a mile long,
and there was no
half and half on the counter.
I thought it was Saturday.
I ran out of gas.
my wife wouldn't let me
leave because she wanted
to fool around.
I know, not all of them
are very believable.

holy ground

how quick we are to
flee
from those in need,
those
who have fallen on hard
times.
we want to comfort them
with
an argument of blessings.
look what you have,
who you are, it's not
as bad as it seems.
this will all pass we
say, be patient.
it's not what they want
to hear.
instead they need a quiet
hand upon
them. an acceptance of
where they are.
an agreement that yes,
it's okay to lower
our heads as one
and weep,
sorrow being
holy ground.

one last gathering

we gather around
to all take another kick
at the dead
horse in the room.
not a literal dead horse,
of course.
that would be a cup of crazy.
but the argument
at hand.
it seems to never end.
this sibling disagreement.
passed down through the years
and regenerated
with each new holiday
where we are forced to be
in the same room
together.
we need one last gathering
to get past this.
it's coming
soon, i suspect,
then we can all rest
and move on.

hearts are wild

i don't understand you,
she says to me,
as i look at my cards,
holding them tight
to my chest.
i can't read you.
me either, i tell her,
putting two cards
down on the table
and staring at
the deck in her hand.
it's confusing at times.
i push all my money to
the middle, take off my
watch, my shoes,
my shirt and add them in too.
i look at my two new
cards. i can't win with
this hand, but i do know this.
i want to keep it
going.
i raise you everything
and call.
show me yours and i'll
show you mine.

the old radio

the radio,
a transistor, I suspect,
is beat.
paint splattered, the
antenna bent.
the wobble of the dials
can't find
the station
i want to hear.
forget about AM, you
might as well be on the moon
for that.
it's
battery powered, with
a plug
in option. twenty bucks
or so
at radio shack.
how many drops
off a roof has it survived,
stepped on,
spilled upon,
kicked accidentally
across a room,
but it still has a heart
beat.
four triple double
A's will
keep it going through
the winter, the bent
plug
can be straightened
out,
if there is a socket to
stick it into.

the sun came out

your blood pressure
is strangely low and normal.
it hasn't always
been this way.
at times it seemed as if
your top would
blow, your bubble burst,
your eyes
would pop out because
of the calamities that
you lived with,
the people that you knew,
stuck in your life,
by blood or friendship.
chaos was your go to
place, it seemed safe to
be in the middle
of a hurricane.
but something changed.
the sun came out.

when the water rose

when the floods came
what was there to do
but grab
what we could.
the children, the cat,
the dog, we
let the birds
fly to where ever
they wanted to.
the cow went to the roof.
we stuffed
a phone, some papers,
photo albums,
clothes into a suitcase,
the rest can go down,
go under.
we let the water rise
then boarder our small
boat and set sail
for drier land.
we watched
as we rowed away
as everything we owned slipped
into the sea,
the new sea where only
fish were safe
from drowning.
there was no bargaining
with God for it seemed
He wanted this rain
to come down.

the clearing

the priest in
black, white collar
is just as confused and
doubtful
as you are, at times.
how do we explain
the world
and all that transpires.
it doesn't matter.
you go on.
you kneel, you pray,
you wait for an answer,
which is often
no, or let's see.
it's not blind faith,
but a fog
some days.
the clearing lies
far ahead for him,
for me.

wanting more

a cold cup
of coffee doesn't get it done.
nor does
a stale
slice of bread,
a half moon,
gives us just a glimpse
of what's to
shine in full, to come.
a taste is not a meal.
a kiss on the cheek,
or pat on the back
hello or farewell
is heart breaking
when you desire more.