the pink balloon

your balloon has little
air
to keep it afloat,
the string
is unwound, limp in your
hand
as you try to get
it up and up
off the ground.
but its sadly of no use,
this pink
once happy
clown of thin skin
and helium, how it sags,
how it swims nowhere,
but falls and falls,
unseen, never to be let
go and happily
found.

the rise and fall of water

I've never had a summer
without visiting
the beach until now.

what it means, i'm not sure.

but it does
have meaning.

I long for the cold wash
of surf as I stiffen my body
and ride
the next wave in.

the curled green glass,

the sparkle of sun
and salt,
the pure power of an ocean
that was here
before me
and will remain as it is when
i'm done.


at night I stare at the sunlight
of the moon
and think
about the tides.

the rise and fall of water,
caressing me.

the sea, so close, so far.

the mountain of love

I push the rock
up the mountain, again and again.
it rolls
back down.
rolls right over me.
every day,
I try once more,
I take the boulder
in my arms
and set it down at the base
of the mountain,
then I push,
I get my body beneath it.
my heart and mind
the history of me.
all of my life has led me
to this moment.
I use my arms
and hands to hold
it upwards, pushing
it towards the top.
I push it towards a place
I can't even see.
I don't even know
if the top exists. but
up it goes, inch by inch.
at times it seems pointless,
this love
I seek, this mythical
world, but
what choice do I have.
I feel the need to struggle,
to stay with it,
another foot,
another half mile, if only
I can get it there,
then again,
it rolls back down
right over me.

the dime

i flip a coin
to decide where my life
goes next.
i toss the silver
dime into the air
and watch it as
it flips and flips
in the morning sun.
i let it hit the ground
where rolls away
hiding itself
from my eyes.
it's lost and i may
never know what's next.

the big bus

i dip into
one of a thousand books
on the shelf,
this one leaning towards
an eastern
way of thinking. let go.
surrender
all things and move
forward.
your desires and attachments
are what brings you
pain.
i get it. i get it a thousand
times over.
and the thought
lasts an hour, or a day, and
then i'm back at
the wheel
driving this bus
of hurt down the center lane.

on hold

i'm surprised
at how quickly the baby
has grown.
walking,
smiling.
so soon, it seems.
from nothing
to this. she is growing
forward
as I remain
the same, not young,
not old.
lingering
in the middle, waiting,
so much still
on hold.

i'll be home soon

i'll be home
soon
I tell her on the phone.
but it's not true.

i've made

a mistake in loving

such a person,

someone crazy,

a fake.

how did i let such a liar

and loser

into my life,

such an evil person?

i won't be home soon.

i'll never

be home,

until she's gone

and out of my life.

they drink a lot

they drink a lot.
man and wife.
the soft crepe skin of this age
falling
off their bones.
retired. pool in the back yard
that they
never use.
the vacuum running all
day.
gin and tonic.
they don't eat much.
they're done.
cooked.
baked from a hundred
suns
from Mexico to Barcelona.
there is nothing
that they need or want.
the kids are grown,
who do nothing too, they've
given them too much,
too soon.
the shrubs are cared for.
someone
shovels the walk,
someone dusts and makes
the bed.
tv bores them. books bore
them.
so they sit on the back porch
and drink.
they drink a lot. they listen
to the cicadas.
sometimes one will say something
in passing,
and the other will say.
what?

the test

I remember
staring at the bright oval
clock at the front of the room,
nailed to the cinder block
wall,
the black hands
like iron
moving fast
towards the end when
a bell would ring, and someone
would say,
put down your pencils.
the test is over.
I can conjure up sweat
and anxiety, even now
at this age.
my hands wet, my mouth dry.
my tongue full
of sand, thick with unspeaking.
fearing that at last
they'll know for sure how
dumb i truly am.

there 's more to it

there's
more to it, I tell my therapist.
a lot
more.
things I can't even talk about.
but the water
is dark.
it's deep.
the undercurrent pulls
at me everyday.
I can barely keep my head
above water at times.
i'm hanging on to whatever
jagged rock
I come upon.
but i'm floating down stream,
fast.
I can hear the roar
of the falls not far in front
of me.
no matter how hard
I paddle back,
I keep going and going
to where I don't want to go.
i'm looking for a rope
a vine,
a tree to climb upon,
a ladder out,
a soft soft raft.

little white pills

the physician
in her white coat, her stethoscope

around her neck.
takes my
pulse.
looks into my eyes
and tells
me, no worries. you'll
be fine.
she helps me up
from the sidewalk, gives
me a glass
of water and says, here,
take one
of these.
she hands me a little white
pill.

take one each morning she says, smiling.

everyday, swallow one and you'll
be fine.
you're just
having a bad dream
and these will help you
wake up.
they're full of nothing but
sugar
and common sense.
I made them just for you.

fifteen rounds

love is fifteen rounds.
not one
not two.
it's the full match
between the ropes.
each bell
a day,
a year, another swing
at one another,
another duck,
miss.
hit.
I look out into
the crowd as I take
the standing eight,

then go to my stool
for water and advice,
they clean up the cuts.
between rounds,
I spit blood into the metal
bucket.

i see the faces
out there,
covering their eyes
some I know
who wish i'd just quit
the game
cut off the gloves
and take up
a saner line of love.

the teacher

the teacher.
grizzled now, lies in bed
receiving the gamma
rays
of medicine. there was something
funny
in everything, or
so he said.
this too? hardly, at least

I can't imagine,

facing death without a God

in mind.
an angel by one's side.
a cross
in hand.
how do the faithless do it?

crawl out from this old skin
and
go onward, wherever that may be.

hard rain

I get wet
in the rain. which is fine.
I like the cold

feeling, the strikes of hail.
the pelting
of hard
drops from the bruised
clouds.

I don't mind at all
and take my time as I walk
to the truck.
the day is done.
tired to the bone.

this rain feels good.

makes me forget sometimes
about being
alone.

she's in minnesota now

happiness is one elusive
son of a
biscuit eater,
my grandfather says
as he
whittles down
a stick
into a smaller stick.
when he talks like this,
you don't say a word,
you just listen.
we're sitting on the front
porch of his
run down house
in the woods.
I see a mouse pop his
head out from the floor boards
and scurry back under.
my first wife was a peach,
he says.
she made the finest pies
in town.
I truly loved her. she made
me happy.
but bill, the postman
made her more happier than
I could,
so she ended up with him.
they live
in minnesosta now. every once
in a blue moon
I think about her. about her
pies.
about the way she used to sit
on the front porch
with a hot cherry pie,
right out of the oven,
rocking in that chair over there,
waiting on the mail.

job hunting

you start looking for new job.

you don't like the people you work with
anymore.
the pay is low
and you're going nowhere
fast.
sure there's free coffee.

an hour lunch break.
volleyball on Wednesdays
and happy hour on Thursday and Friday
night.
but the work is dreary.
endless.
coal out of a mountain.


but you have no experience

in any other field. you don't even
really know the work you're doing now.

somehow though you get by.
it would be nice
to get out of there. start fresh.

it's just a fleeting thought though,
as you prep the next patient to take
out
his spleen.

the welfare lady

the welfare
department showed up at our
door one day.
the power had just gone back on.
a woman in a blue suit,
a white blouse.
she was carrying a briefcase.
lipstick, red, line
her tight lips, her shut mouth.
she took a look around.
at the seven kids,
a dozen friends,
dogs and cats,
a chicken and rooster in
the back yard.
a gerbil on a squeaky wheel.
where's your parents
she asked, standing in the small
hallway.
are all of you children alone?
we were at the table,
doing homework,
the television on.
someone strummed a guitar,
someone was painting,
another decorating the Christmas
tree
we found in the woods and
cut down.
nothing changed. we stayed
together. we were
in this as one,
unlike now.

the arrival

the arrival
is fine.
the thoughts gel.
the heart
becomes one with the mind.
planets align.
stars shine.
we have arrived,
we are there,
finally,
just in time.

things fade

things
fade.
the light. the blue
essence
of day,
the ink
of night.
the fabric of our
lives
wears thin,
the curtains,
the sheets,
the clothes we live
in.
friends and lovers.
things fade.
the light,
the blue essence
of day,
the ink of night.

the corn field

my grandmother would say,
why don't you children
run across the highway over there
and grab some corn
off the vines
in that field.
farmer smith won't miss em. there's
thousands of them,
ripe and ready.
we'll boil them for dinner.
she was a good Christian
woman. loved Billy Graham.
put your hand on the television,
she'd say.
and pray to God that you'll
be saved.
now go, run. go get us some
corn. it's getting late,
don't get run
over. watch out for them cars,
behave.

the wounded

brilliant
anger. seeing red.
a bull
in the ring with one
thing in
mind.
end the madness.
pillage, purge, death.
see the swords
plunged into his oiled
back,
see the ribbons of his
blood
let loose
amid the fray.
how his eyes grow
wild in the sun,
wounded, he's at his most
dangerous.
his horns
are pointed with truth.
they know one thing
and one thing only.
survive, get loose.

click click click

I see
them in the park,
on the street, everywhere
and
anywhere, people holding their
cameras
cheek to cheek.
lovers, or friends, family
smiling all teeth.
just the like the others
we took
two minutes ago, then
another
another,
one more, and again,
this one
and all of them, strangely,
saved. some printed.
click
click and click
memories, precious memories
made
for keeps.
let's validate the moment
lest we forget,
each breath taken, each
heart beat.

lost and found

a memory
is found behind
a drawer,
beneath a bed,
tucked
forgotten in the dark
mouth
of a closet.
what lies
below, floats up
to the surface
and the river
takes it all
away.
nothing to think
of,
no date, no clue,
no attachment to anyone,
or thing. there is
truly
nothing to ponder,

nothing
to say.

the hour goes by so fast

my therapist
is an owl.
a wise owl in a soft
chair.
pencil in hand.
spiral notebook,
legs crossed.
her hair a wide
neat nest of locks. black,
like her shoes
that seem too tight.
she listens so well.
nods
and smiles. she has good
eyes.
shakes her head when
necessary.
I can feel her empathy
from across
the four or five
foot stretch
between us.
we go around in a giant
circle
of talk.
never getting to the middle.
we touch
the thorns, we ease our way
through mud.
she hands me a box of Kleenex
at some point.
to which I say thanks
and blow.
the hour is up before
you know it.
the check is written.
take cares are said.
next week?
sure, why not, I tell her.
got nothing else going
on.

the chicken

my grandmother
would go out into her
squared
short yard in south
philly,
arched with grape vines
and figs,
a cherry tree,
and wring a chicken's
neck with a simple twist
her muscled italian
hand.
pluck it clean,
chop it
into parts, boil and bake,
no part not saved,
and have it with veal
meatballs
and penne pasta
for a
wine soused meal
in no time.

love or money

i'd rather
have love, than money.
it's better than
a car,
or boat, or plane.

that mansion on the hill
can slip into the sea
for all I care.

i'd rather
sleep well
beside
a woman who cares.
who says into my ear. you
are loved.
you are so loved
by me.

i'd give so much of what
I have away
for that.
love wins
hands down every time.

the globe

I stare at the world,
the globe
on the table.
perfectly round. green
and blue
for water, the seas,
the brush of
brown for land,
white mountain caps,
the soft
sands.
I spin it with eyes
closed
and press a finger upon
the metal ball.
then look to see the place
where i'll never go.
i'm here,
it seems for good.
plant
me.
water me. see that my
grave is kept clean.

friday nights

we filled
our mouths with cheap wine.
music
on the car radio.
the dashboard drums,
the tires
almost bald but getting us
there on a Friday
night.
maybe there's a party
on deal drive.
hey let's ride by the old
school.
who's hungry.
who has money.
what's at the drive in?
i'm not getting into the trunk,
my turn to drive.

i remember laughing

I remember laughing.
I really do.
hard
and long, tears in my
eyes.
mouth wide,
stomach held in check.
buckled
over
with gay laughter.
I remember the friends
that brought this on.
men and women
who held a gift for love
of life
and all it's strangeness.
finding good souls
good
hearts, and the twist
of it all in everything,
everyone.
how well
I remember them all
and miss them.

weak men

retreat from
this strange land.
pull back on that steed's
rein
and thunder out
and away from
this land
not of oz
but of some queen
on a thorny throne
with a wand
that she wields to slay
weak men
that love her.
get them, kill them,
torture them
first, let's
see them twist
in the cold wind
in their lethal passion.
she's a spider
on the ceiling,
in the corner,
dropping down with teeth
bared,
the blood of others fresh
on her jowls,
her appetite is endless
for this sport,
a spider with silken
traps, sharpened nails,
and
poison,
so bright, so cheerful,
so loving
before the death.

idols

the anger
clears my head. it's a fine
wine
this angst
turned red
right before my bewildered
eyes.
I've had enough of them,
of him,
of her, of all those
toxic souls
who planted roots into
my once
happy life. how the lies and deceit
stains my skin,
rolls out with the tears.
they choke the fun out of any
life.
i'm done
with fear.
bring it on.
bring me the darkness,
your
lies, your false cheer and jewels,
your guilt filled
religion with
men in gowns telling
the world
what's right, what's wrong.
Pharisees each one.
crushing the souls of so many
each sunday, begging, always
begging for
money money money
to build another
golden cow and not a single
clear word by
Christ leaves their
pinched mouths.
I lie under the stars at night
and see no good
in anyone in any of these twisted
guilt laden
words they preach with
thick tongues.
what a small minded god these men
have made.
bring it to me, this witches brew
and watch
me devour
then spit it all out
like the bile it is.
the anger clears my head.
it's a fine wine, this angst,
turned red.

not a home

it's a house,
not a home.
it's brick
and wood, mortar,
plastic
and paint.
aluminum and steel.
copper pipes
and tile.
it's just a place
to lay one's head.
a cold
square of steps
and rooms.
not a home,
not a place to stay
long,
just a house.
we come, we go.
it means nothing
and when we're gone
and in the ground,
some one else
will pound a nail
into the far
wall, as I once
did.

silent night

another day
another morning.
coffee and birds.
the work I've chosen.
the house
I live in.
the stretch of hours
alone before me.
before dark,
before the quiet sighs,
before
the closing of books
in silence
and sleep again
engulfs me.

even love is possible

I used to care
but things have changed.
I wasn't always
like this
hunched over in tears.
I'm younger now
than I was back then.
I've grown
backwards.
back to the playground,
the fun,
the grin,
the ball that spins.
the girl
in pigtails,
the blue open sky.
the brilliance of a first
read book.
the sun,
the surf, music,
a song
that opened my heart,
my eyes.
i'm going back where
I belong.
in the make believe
world
of childhood
of hope and happiness,
where all things are possible,
even love,
minus the gloom
and doom
of adult lies.

crash after crash

i take my hands
off this
stiff wheel, i take
my foot off
the gas. i lean
back
and let the car roll
where it wants
to go,
forward, back.
who's to know
where i'm supposed to be,
or who with.
it just has to be better
than what
i'm doing, crash
after crash.

before i die

how rare
love is. it's a strange
color,
a wonderous
thing
to behold.
it's
bread
warm
in the oven.
it's a twinkle
in one's eye.
it's hands together,
entwined.
fingers laced.
which are yours, which
are mine.

I want that before
I die.

game over

the clock has
stopped
ticking.
the sun is stuck
in the yellow
sky.
the moon is frozen
over some
plum dark
ocean.
even the tide won't
rise.
the hour glass
has not a grain of sand
left in it.
no words left to say,
no pages
left to be turned.
time is up.
game over.

late summer

we get to the beach.
settle in
to our chairs. the sun is
behind us
on the bayside.
slipping like yellow
silk into the water.
no one but us is on the shore.
we hold hands
as the water rushes
cool and warm
against our legs.
we kiss,
we say nothing.
we love one another.
the sea holds an endless
array of color and hope.
this is what summers
are for.

coming home

I see her in the window.
waiting
for me.
I've been gone for a while.
captured
then lost, circling
with the shackles still on,
and now
finally set free.
she sees the dust on my
shoulders
my hat.
my boots are worn
through.
i'm weary and beaten.
older. she
opens the door and takes
my hand.
offers me
a cold drink.
she puts her arms around
me
and sighs. she wipes
my brow, the tears
from my eyes.
welcome back, she says.
i'll never leave
you. you'll always be
mine.
forgive me, I tell her.
forgive me,
let's start over.
there's still time.

what you never had

you give up.
surrender. the white flag
comes out.
you retreat
and go
where you need to go.
not in defeat
but in victory
over lies
and deceit.
you exhale and throw
down
your gun,
your badge, your
past.
you go home to the one
you truly love
and who loves
you.
you can't keep what
you never had.

the long road

bored and distracted
I
order eggs
and bacon, hash browns
at the dive
breakfast
trailer
on route one, heading south.
tina,
my waitress
in pink
with a black apron,
says, hey hon,
what's it gonna be. she's wearing
a button,
yellow, like mustard
that says smile on it.
I tell her
over easy.
coffee too. toast with
jam.
I get up to go
wash my hands.
I lock the door in the small
bathroom
and lean on the old
porcelain sink.
I stare into the mirror
and take stock
of what the night
has brought on.
to the side of the mirror
someone has written,
for a good time call
with the number
beneath it. I recognize
the number.
my ex wife
from years and years ago.
I laugh and throw some
water onto my face.
dry it off with some stiff
paper towels, then
go back and eat my
breakfast. it's a long road
ahead of me, but there's time.

chasing fire flies

the mattress salesman
says
welcome.
come in. take your time
and look around.
how about this rain we're having?
are you looking for firm
and stiff,
or soft
and cushiony.
I don't know, I tell him.
I need to lie
on one to know for sure.
no problem,
he says.
start at the top and work
your way
towards me at the back
of the store.
if you have any questions
just yell out.
these are all on sale,
by the way,
and we have a lay away
program as well.

I watch him go back to his desk
and continue eating
his lunch.
I see a pair of chopsticks
in his hands
as he opens a small white
box from carry out.

I look around the store
and spot a mattress that I might
like.

I don't need one.
I just need to lie down for awhile
and think
about things.
so I do. I lie there and stare
up at the ceiling tiles
yellowed from leaks. I see
the long bulbs
of fluorescent lights.
I shut my eyes and sigh.
I listen to the buzz that reminds
me of childhood.
summers in the trees,
under stars, free and chasing
fireflies.

nothing changes

a line of liars
and cheaters,
manipulators
and abusers
winds around
the church.
repentant and wanting
forgiveness.
they show up
with crocodile tears
and hand
written notes
from loved ones.
this time it's for real,
they say in unison.
honest.
the priest sighs
and pulls a long
red hose out
from the back of the church.
he turns on the holy
water
and sprays them all down.
see you next week
he tells them
as they slink off
to be who they always
were and always will
be. nothing changes.

what isn't said

what isn't said
is swallowed hard
like a stone
instead of warm
bread dipped in a savory
stew
to fill
the soul
the heart, the head,
nothing is
left on the table.

you can have my pickle

I try to convince my friend
jimmy
to go on a hunger strike with me.
he says okay, sure why not,
while he takes
a bite
of his enormous salami sub
sandwich.
when do we start and what's
our cause, he says,
wiping mayonnaise from his lips.
he reaches over
for the bag of chips,
snaps one in his mouth.
the environment? he asks,
baby seals, what?
I don't know I tell him.
I read where the ocean is running
our of fish, he says.
maybe, I tell him, but
something bigger,
there must be something we can
think of to
change the world if we stop
eating.
i'm full he says, do you want
the rest of this sandwich?
sure I tell him....provolone?
of course he says. you can have
my pickle too.

i need to move

i fall awake
after a dream. i'm in a house
full
of dogs
and cats. strangers
with old
children in their laps.
my mother is on the phone.
my sister
is still in the bathroom
washing her hair,
reading a magazine.
there's a leak
in the roof. a silver pan
catches the rain.
someone's at the door
with bad news and a tuna
casserole.
my father is pushing a mower
across the chrome green
lawn.
he's smoking a cigarette
and has a can of beer
snug between his chin
and neck.
I get the feeling that he wishes
he was dead,
or with Laura
a girl he met in high school.
i see my future. it's bleak.
i smell
something burning in the oven.
fish sticks, or a slab
of something that reminds
me of meat.
i look out the window
and see the love
of my young life
on a bicycle for two,
riding behind
billy Arnold.
my nemesis since i was
three, or two. it's a clear
portent of things to come.
her hair is
golden and reminds me of
California, though I've never
been west of the Mississippi River.
my brother's are laughing,
playing cards,
telling lies to one another
about the past, about the future.
i am alone in this crowded
house.
i need to move.

lying is hard

I've been caught in every lie
I've ever told.
my mother would shake
her head and laugh at my
attempts. my eyes shift,
I get nervous and twist
my hands
into one another,
my mouth is dry.
I grind my teeth.
I bead up in sweat, little
rivulets
rolled down my neck.
I get an itch
that can't be found.
lying is hard.
very hard,
but it beats the truth,
beats it like a rug
sometimes.
hands down.

those freckles

his name was Bernie
and he lived in the house behind
us.
he had a sister named
Bernadine
and a brother named dexter.
they were all covered
in freckles.
when Bernie came back from nam
he was in
a wheel chair.
he couldn't walk and never did
again.
but he was still all
there.
the wide smile, the white teeth.
those freckles,
those freckles.

black beans

a can
of beans sits on the shelf

in the dark cupboard.
it's an old friend
at this point.
black beans.
a blue labeled skin
is wrapped
around the aluminum
barrel.
how long have I had this
can?
which wife
was I almost in love with
then?
who was the president
that day
when I found it on the shelf
at the grocery
store.
was a man on the moon yet?
was the war over?

was my hair

still brown, not grey?

swords or pistols

i ask
my lover's former lover
to a duel.
he's annoyingly still around.
swords or pistols
at thirty paces,
i ask
him as he wipes the drool
off his
slack jaw
after slapping him with
one of my
long leather gloves.
he shrugs and says,
why'd you hit me.
why not, i tell him.
you dog.
go home to your wife
and leave mine
alone.
swine.
there's no fight in him.
or me either
for that matter.
thankfully he goes
on his way, at least for
the moment,
as do i.
why didn't i think of
this before.

have a drink

what makes you drink
he asks
as I pour a tall one from
a green bottle
of Christmas tasting gin.
when i'm happy,
I tell him, I pour a drink.
if things are going my
way
with work, or love.
i'll find a bar to celebrate
my luck.
but when things go south,
well,
there it is, another reason
to have a drink.
I find the same
bar, with the same bartender
and he knows
the medicine I need to
get better.

no cat

she packs her bags
for the shore.
glasses, umbrella, cream,
lotions.
sandals
a pink suit, one
yellow, one blue,
an umbrella too.
wide long towels to lay
upon, a chair
to sink
into as the sun falls
from the sky. into
the trunk they all
go, remnants of sand
still stuck
like candy
to beach coolers,
beach shoes.
the dog goes into the car
last.
the leash
and dish, the bag of food.
a ball to chase along
the shore.
everything
she needs, but someone
to apply
sunscreen to her back.
no cat.

something new

is there something new
to
know,
to let sink
into your bones, some
new fact
or fiction
that will bring you
home,
settle you
into a final peace.
is there some book,
some rhyme in a poem,
a song
not heard
that will form upon your
dry lips
and go out
like a happy wind.
is there a place you
haven't seen,
a city that beckons
you to sleep in.
too soon to know.

it's up here

it must have been up here,
up this wobbled ladder
that creaks
beneath my weight,
in this
webbed attic,

with rotted wood
and scattered bones
of small animals,
bats
birds left
to be unfound.
it's up
here
that you find the grey satchel
thread bare,

holding
an empty bottle
of red wine,
a flask
of bourbon drained dry.


a slew of letters,
post cards saying wish
you were here,
now and into eternity,

it's up here where you find
her silk scarf too,
golden in shine, holding
the scent of her perfume,

it's up here
that he held it to his cheek
and remembered how it once
wrapped
around her neck
and fell to her side.

it's
up here where he must
have gone
when the wife was angry,
when the world
inside the house
was wrecked in storm.
up here


where he found a place
to go
and remember what could have
been,
what should have been
so long so long
ago.

around

at the start
you lean in your blocks,
head down,
feet
tightly in place
muscles
trembling,
fingers
just touching
the paved
ground.
you wait to hear
the gun
go off.
then rise and spring
forward,
your legs gliding against
the lined track.
it's a long race
with no winners no losers.
just around
and around
you go, no point
in looking back.

thirty years

no longer working.
he sits
on the stoop
and waves to those that go
by.
coffee in hand.
a paper.
the empty house
behind him.
what to do now.
he thinks about the last
thirty years of his life,
shakes his head
and wonders what
that was all about.

the weight lifter

the weights
are heavy, as he lifts them.
straining his
muscles, the veins, blue ribbons
down his arm,
his neck,
face.
he is in the mirror,
up and down
they go, curls and lifts.
presses.
he bends to the world
to shape
himself into something,
anything,
anything but this.

the luncheon

we unfold
our napkins and place them
on our laps.
some begin, taking
the fork beside the plate,
some bow their heads
in prayer
their hands folded,
fingers laced.
others stare out the window
not here.

the playground

it's a grey
wind that has passed over us.
aging
our bones,
thinning our hair,
our ranks,
our once smooth skin.
the bleating
of time,
the sand of it, the vapor
of it
rising into
the full sky
above the playground.
we press on,
no less thrilled at
the shot, the pass,
the win or loss that
will be
forgotten
or remembered into
eternity.the

surrender and let go

attachments
and desires are the death
of you,
the buddha
says, breathe and let
go.
be free of all
that you love, things,
people,
imaginings.
quench your earthly desires
and let go.
ungrip your hands,
open them and fall
into the grace of God's will.
do not be afraid.
He will catch you.
let nothing steal
your heart, your soul,
your life,
by taking such
a death grip hold.
let go.

just drive

i take a taxi out of town.
throw
a thousand dollars over the seat
and tell
the driver to just drive.
anywhere, just hit the gas and go.
go as far away from this place
as you can.
he looks in the mirror,
and says, okay.
one way?
one way i tell him.
stop anywhere, anywhere and let
me out.
but keep driving, keep going.
don't stop
until i tell you to.
i'm going to close my eyes
and pretend i'm someone else.
this isn't really
my life, none of this is
true.
he says okay. okay.
relax mister, here we go.
he understands.

lost and found

I peer into
the empty house.
the for sale sign in the yard.
I cup my
hands and lean into the plate
glass window.
I see where the table was.
where we gathered
for meals.
I see the couch,
the chair,
the wall where the tv hung,
the mantle where
our pictures stood.
side by side, one by one.
I look under
the mat for the key, but
it's gone.
no mail in the box.
no paper
on the step.
the shrubs are over grown,
the ivy
gone wild up the side
of the brick.
the grass
is thick and brown.
I remember living here.
I remember
her smile, the day,
that night, the wedding gown.
I remember most
everything. once lost,
then found.

the birds keep singing

the ink
hardly dry on the paper.
the flowers
wilted but
not quite dead
in the vase.
the wrappings and ribbons
still
on the floor,
champagne gone flat,
three bottles
never poured.
how quickly
the tide
comes in, goes out.
what was
isn't anymore,
and yet as I stand
on the balcony
looking backwards,
the birds are still
singing.

uncommon sense

I take a class
in common sense.
the obvious is discussed
on the first day.
look what people do,
not what they say.
actions speak louder
than words,
a long worn, but true
cliché.
look before you leap.
listen
before you speak.
measure twice, cut once.
trust your gut.
it's never wrong
and don't look back.

one last round

after the eight count,
and the bell dings,
I get up from the canvas
and stagger back to my stool.
my corner man
asks me if I can go on.
do I have anything left.
anything?
I spit out my mouth piece,
drool out a pint of
blood, saliva.

someone pours water over my
head to clear my eyes.

they suture up the cut on my
cheekbone. whisper encouraging words
into my cauliflower ears.

I look across the ring.
she's tired too.
beaten. she's weary.
her eyes are blackened.
her legs limp
as she rises at the bell.

one more round I say.
standing, slapping my gloves
together.
one final round of love
and then i'm done.

the carnival

a carnival arrives
in town to no fanfare.

they're tired people
with tired
tents
and poles.
rides
and what not.
half smiles.
half frowns.

they put it all together
in the cool
shade of night.
the lights, weak
and yellow.
the machines
that grind. someone takes
the tickets.

the smell of burned sugar
laminates the air.
cigar smoke
from old men with broken
teeth
slithers out from their
purple lips.


the crowd is young.
too young to see the pain
in their travel weary eyes.

in time they'll move
on, take apart the games,
the tents,
wheel out onto the open road
to another
strip mall,
where the glass embedded
in the pavement
looks like diamonds.

the blue blade

it all
depends on this
shovel.
this
blue blade.
where to dig, what
to bury.
what to
uncover, or leave it
as is
and let
nature run
its course.

who owns you

every life
has a dozen crossroads.
a hundred
choices of go left go right.
go alone,
or take someone with
you.
your gut
puts you there. standing
at the intersection
of tomorrow.
which way
do you go.
who or what thing owns you,
keeps you in fear,
isn't this your life?

regret

there is no
surrender in some.
they hope, they wish, they
beg for a different
outcome.
the reality
of the day is beyond them.
the truth is not their friend.
they are blind to
the facts shown daily
by sun and
the terrible harsh blue
sky above.
they want what they can't
have,
they want yesterday
to be today
and tomorrow. they
waste their hours,
their lonely hearts,
twiddling
prayers, twiddling their
dreams
and mistakes on
calloused thumbs.

your life

there are no
mistakes according to
Miles Davis.
the world is a jazz
piano,
a jazz trombone,
horn,
or trumpet,
there are no miscues.
no drum
hit wrongly,
no note out of place,
it is what your hand
has plucked, your mouth
has blown. this is your song,
no going back, no front
or sideways.
it's your life
by you, for better
or worse. accept it.

if it's not one thing

I prepare myself for todays
therapy
session
by lying on the floor
and crying
for an hour.
the dog comes over
and licks my face.
I tell him thank you
and wipe
his slobber off my cheek.
once that's
out of my
system.
I write down my list of
grievances
of all those that have
done me wrong.
I need two sheets of standard
typing paper.
then I think, what
about me, have I caused
any of this
angst or grief,
have i unconsciously caused
this turmoil
that I've been caught
in.
impossible.
me? it has to be them.
I laugh. I know it's probably
at least half
of me, if not more.
as i pack up my
brain luggage, my heart
sheaves of paper,
my laundry list
of pain, i realize
that's what I need to get to,
the me in me,
and stop believing that
if its not one thing,
it's your
mother.

down the drain

I take
some soap, a sponge, a wash
cloth.
I scrub the inside
of my
head
for an hour, rinse
then do it again.
I scour my brain,
brillo those clinging thoughts
from deep inside.
the bubbles come out of my
ears,
my mouth,
my nose runs with
dirty water.
I take the hose and give
it all a
thorough dousing.
I shake my head then
let it dry as I lie
out in the sun.
i'm ready now for new
thoughts,
fresh ideas.
the old ones have been washed
away.
down the drain they go.

lines in the sand

you draw a line in the sand.
then another.
one more,
one curved, one crossing
the other.
you are surrounded
by lines.
unable to move
or cross over, you've
trapped yourself
in a world
of ultimatums, none
of which are
taken seriously
by anyone but you, and
even then, the wave
of time
rolls by and washes
them all away.

parents

you go back to square one.
birth.
lying there
in a crib.
someone holds you.
feeds you
changes you.
keeps you warm with
a loving
embrace.
it was so simple then.
unconditional
love.
the mobile of music
above your new ears,
your new eyes.
a blanket around you.
someone singing
you to sleep,
there in the morning
when you rise.
someone who helps you
take step one,
and the rest that will follow
until you die.

friday night

there's one beer
left
in the fridge.
a single cold brown
bottle on the rack.
a half of sandwich.
ham and cheese.
a pickle or two floating
in the brine
and green water
of a round jar.
there's mustard
and ketchup.
old lettuce ready
for the can.
four eggs, a white
box of white
rice
from west hunan.
what to choose as my
stomach
growls, my thirst grows.
what
says Friday night
as I lean into the cold
light of the box.
I grab a beer
and shut the door.

the kitchen window

I remember my mother standing at the sink
staring out the small kitchen
window with a plant on the sill,
looking down the road, wondering
where my father was, if he was coming
home. who was he with, what woman,
what house or bar was he in, being kissed.
making love to someone else.
how she stared out that window
waiting for his car to appear,
smoking, running the water over her
hands, a dish, a glass.
I think about all the wives in
the world who are staring out their own windows
wondering where their loved ones
are and if they will ever come back.

I wash my hands, pour water on
the small green plant
then turn away. it's late.

blue river stone

the new therapist
reminds me
of an owl.
her round glasses, her
oval
face
and hair.
she's prim and proper
across from
me as I sit
and cross my legs
in her deep cushioned chair.
so why are we
here, she asks, pen in hand,
staring me down
using all her knowledge
to examine
and reveal
the reason for my coming,
my frown.
why are we here, indeed.
why anywhere,
why can't we leave well
enough alone,
and numb ourselves.
live and die,
walk through life
unbothered, cold
and thoughtless. silent
below the water not unlike
a rounded blue
river stone.

no looking back

I pack light for this journey.
a single bag.
some cash,
a book or two.
I get coffee on the way
as I walk
to the station.
the wind is at my
back.
a light rain falls as I adjust
my collar,
my hat.
I stand at the platform
and look down
the rails.
they shine so bright, glisten
with promise
of a new life.
I listen for the wheels
of the train,
the surge of it approaching.
I hear the whistle
as it slows to a stop,
I pick up my bag,
get on, find a seat
by a window.
I don't look back.

nothing is lost

the day begins.
the pale light of morning
brightens
up the green of trees.
the sky
is grey
and soft. a blanket
of clouds.
the birds are in the yard.
on the fence.
despite all things,
you feel
that nothing is lost.
how can you lose what
you never had,
the long night
has ended.

the bonfire

I remove my clothes.
put them into a pile and burn
them.
I take my books,
my shoes,
my hat. I throw
them into the fire.
I take everything I've ever
written, every poem,
every letter
and toss it all into
the rising flames.
I carry out a box of memories
and drop them
on the fire.
I've given up on this world.
I want a new life.
one without
the past, without the shame,
the guilt,
the pain.
I want the bonfire of my
vanities
to burn away.
I want the ashes to be
buried deep into the earth
where i'll never
see or think of them again.

the small dog

the dog
was brown with white spots.
he knew how
to beg,
to lie down
and play dead.
he would bark on cue
and
howl
at the full moon.
he was a lovely
dog
except when it rained
or snowed
and wouldn't budge,
wouldn't
fetch his leash,
but hide and brood.

smoke and mirrors

it's a house of mirrors.
of smoke
and fog.
the locked doors,
the stuck
drawers.
the traps, the hidden
agendas,
the mask.
the costume of the day,
the whispers
into a phone,
the light typing of words
to lovers
who won't let go.
pray for me,
she says,
pray for us he replies.
as you go to a window
and try to remember
a life
that wasn't full
of deception of
an endless nightmare
of black and white
lies.

almost there

each wave
that hits upon
this rock
chips away a little more.
the ocean of trouble
makes
sand of strength,
the salt of tears,
the blue pounding
of surf.
each blow
of hard water upon
its craggy soul
erodes its form,
breaks it into what
it once was
no longer stone.
but something else,
something
that the wind will
catch and blow away.
almost there.

bling

they are just things.
objects.
shiny,
bright pieces of jewelry
watches,
bracelets
and rings.
mere stones
collected and brought
together
to be worn
and held under the light.
temporary bling.
worthless.
hardly
sand, compared to love
compared to what
reins in a heart
for life.

let go and surrender

to exit
this life, one must
make plans.
otherwise
we leave against
our will.
no different than
our birth.
we had no say in
that either.
let's see out this
plays out,
as we let go
and surrender.

before midnight

I play no
music
other than this keyboard.
no strings,
no percussion,
no wood winds.
but this is enough
music for one life.
for one
stroll through the park
before
midnight.

tomorrow is another day

I get fooled
a lot.
i'm an easy mark, an easy
prey.

I think everyone
is honest.
not a lie in their heart,
no dark
secrets,
no scam or deceit,
everyone is on the up and up,
and not
part of some
play.

I look deep into their eyes.
I listen and believe
the words
they say.

I get fooled a lot.
but less and less
as I grow older,

hopefully wiser, but tomorrow,
sweet Vivien,
well tomorrow is
another day.

thinking of gin

the boy with gum
on the bus. red cheeked
and wild
eyed.
a strange blue like
broken
glass.
chewing and blowing pink
balloons.
his sharp teeth red
with candy.
a fireball stuck
within a cheek.
his brush of blonde hair
looks
aglow,
uncombed, the tail lick
up
like a shark's fin.
he pounds on the window
with two pink
hands, and the mother,
two seats to his left.
staring out
the other side.
no husband in sight,
she's thinking
of gin.

hindsight

if I knew then
what I know now, would things
be different?
would
I take off those rose
colored glasses,
unplug my ears,
silence
the nagging doubts
and fears?
would I have taken a
different path
on a different horse,
or would I
have gone forward, blind
and deaf
into the storm,
weak of heart,
stumbling into what I
thought was light,
was right,
but was dark.

the false sigh

our memory of yesterday
is never
quite what it really was.
we've shined
that apple nicely,
turning the brown bruise
away,
hiding the worm and rot.
but in the window, on
a white sill, least
for now,
those days were wonderful
and full of love,
let's pretend they were
fine, keep the apple
shined and ignore that
they were not.

sail on

old loves
die hard. they are crawling
through
the desert of lost
relationships.
abandoned
and circling.
taking the cup of water
you dole out
on occasion
that gives them
hope.
massaging their soul
with the mirage
of maybe.
the oasis of let's wait
and see,
the beginning of a new
day,
another try,
once more.
the desert is full of them.
I can see
them
in the hot dry sand,
crawling on their hands
and knees
as I sail
off into the sunset,
the mast full of a cool
breeze
with drink in hand.

a blue period

your blue period
has been
extended for another six months.

indigo.

azure. pale.

all different shades of blue
have appeared.
baby blue,
jay bird,

blue bird. royal.

oh to have wings and fly
deep into the forest
to be rid
of blue.

there must be other
colors out there.

no changes

you make no changes
in
what you
do
on a day to day basis.
you
rise early,
you shower,
get coffee.
pants, shirt,
shoes go on.
you drive to work.
the same route.
you say good morning
to those you see.
you sit
at your desk
and begin your day.
turning over page after page.
the seasons change
outside your window.
the rut is deep.
the wheels
are dug in.
you think the same thoughts.
ruminate
over the same things.
stay put
resisting change. sadly
it would take an
earthquake
to get you off this
path.

the past

it's been a year of frost.
of cold
winds.
icy roads
and blue steel.
the dullness of the sky
the grey
bloom
of a melted sun,
always low.
tired.
word is that summer
will return.
a hopeful rumor,
perhaps.
we wait
on the park bench
in our long coats
and wait out
this strange weather.
sipping on our coffee,
remembering
the past.

more

relentless
the squirrels are.
all
looking about the same.
grey
and fat
this time of year.
unpettable and wild.
their
nut eyes
never stopping to gaze
too long
at any one thing.
digging at the fallen
seed,
onto the bird
feeder they swing.
into the steel
lidded bucket
to find more.
there is no stopping
them,
their need for more,
and more.
it's the world we live
in.
no difference
between us
and them.

yellow balloon

the air
seeps out of the fun
balloon,
the yellow
thin
ball of warm air
held tight in your hand
on this summer day.
it wants to fly
but can't.
the string goes limp.
it's going soft,
going fast,
things don't always
go as once
planned.

another try

you surrender your life
to a higher power.

give everything, all issues,
all thoughts,
all problems large
and small
to God.

work, relationships, love
death
and sex.

i'm taking my hand off
the wheel,
letting you drive this time
you say from
your calloused knees.

God listens and sighs.
you hear him whisper.
again?
and you say yes. i'm
giving it another try.


good, He says. good, get
ready for
what happens next.

i'll be waiting

strangers call
and say
hello. I listen politely.
they have thick
accents.
there is the chatter
of phones
and typing
in a loud wide room
somewhere.
they want to sell
something to you.
give you
discounts on pills
and magazines.
they ask if you are hard
of hearing,
tired of living,
or just plain
run down and need a drink.
I tell them yes.
yes. yes.
how did you know this about
me.
i'm in.
here's my credit card,
send me everything
you have.
i'll be waiting.

hacked into

your life gets hacked into.

your old dating world online
is active
by some
child
in his mother's basement.

they post
new pictures of you on
facebook

you have a cat now.
a bird too.

they
are having fun in your old
skin.
sending and receiving
messages
from afar.

who you used to be is still
out there somehow.

undaunted.
they are buying televisions
on your amazon
account.

e harmony sends you ten
new matches per day.

a woman in Russia thinks you're
swell.

the cat in morning

the cat stretches

on the bed.

turns her glass green
eyes
to the thin light
etching
the sheets in shadows.

we begin the day
like most
days.
quietly.
each going towards
what work there is to do.
the cat
is beyond that.

beyond us.
thinking little
about
her life, just wondering
when
the yellow bird
will
appear.

it's not far from here

it's not
too far from here.
you can almost see it
if you
lean
to the left and stand
on your toes.
see,
there is.
just over the horizon.
see the white
glow,
the oasis of trees
and water.
it's the place of rest
you've been
looking for.

still here

i see the length me

decreasing.
the hair
gone thin, swept grey.

the teeth are
worn,
like tools in an old shed,
as is
the crepe of arms,
the plains of skin.

i am blurred in light
and

must lean towards a voice
to understand
what's
said.

i steady myself on the rail,
or take an arm to
walk with tender
feet
up the concrete stairs.

i am going fast, going slow.

i remember what i want
to remember, if remember
things at all,

amazed at times that
others are gone while
i'm still here.

this late in the game,
this season
of fall.

waiting in the rain

I look out the window
and see
you standing across the street.
your arms are folded
across your chest.
it's raining.
you have a hat on, a long
rain coat,
green, the color of olives,
or the sea
after a storm in Portugal.
we look at one another
and wave.
i'm still here. you're over
there,
across the black
wet street.
I go to bed, turn off
the lights. i look out
the window once more
before I lie down
in my bed.
I see you there, still there
waiting. patient as
any mountain, as any tree.
I wonder how long you
can wait.

a new light

a lamp arrives
in the mail, it's on the porch
when I get home.
instructions, nuts
and bolts,
a wrench inside.
i'll put it together
in no time.
it'll help take away
the darkness.
it's what I do to wile
away
these hours, buy things,
then find
a place to put them.
tighten down a bulb,
three way,
and let a new light shine.

half in

my father often smelled
of rye
whiskey
and cigarettes when he arrived
home
after the sun had gone down,
tail between his legs,
his dinner still
on the table, cold.
my mother colder still.
but he was happy
and smiling, quick to lift
us in the air
and spin us towards
the ceiling.
he'd rub his rough beard
against our
faces,
wiggle our noses, our ears.
he was never happier
than those days,
half in the bottle, half
out.
like his marriage, like
his life, never quite settled
down.

the broken pipe

the pipe breaks
and floods the basement, peels
back
the green grass cloth,
soaks
the carpet.
fish appear, small birds.
a deer is seen
in the corner of the living room
lapping
at the new pond.
in a way
this is nice too.
this new park within the home.
soon
you can come over
and paddle
on a row boat beneath
the silver moon.
we can strum our ukulele
and sing
all night long.

busy

I need to be busy.
like a bee
from flower to stem
to tree.
I need to have my
wings moving,
my mind in flight,
my legs
tapping to a song,
my head
lost in a book,
going towards
some new light.
I need the wind
in my face,
the rain,
the sun. more work
to be done. I need
to be out in all
of it, to hear
a knock at the door,
the ring of
a phone,
I have too much
time alone.

time alone

we need room.
space.
time alone.
a place to go
to sleep,
to read, to bend
to nothing
but self
and thought.
we need a soft
place
to land
at the end of a
day.
at the end of
the week.
to push all things
to the side
and close
ones eyes
and breathe.

cigarette

he used to make a big
deal
out of smoking. tapping the pack
tight against his hand,
against his knee, or rail
where he stood.
pensive
and nonchalant
in a leather coat,
greased hair,
he struck the tip of a match
head against his shoe
and lit
the lucky strike up,
then blew smoke rings towards
the girls,
who almost all darted away,
like a flock of birds, but
there was always one
who didn't scare.

places other than home

the world.
this small dot of blue
afloat
in a sea of black
and
studded stars
aglow.
what is there that isn't
here,
why should we go,
what places
other than home do we
need to know?

salt water taffy

my friendly
neighbor with her daughter
used to bring me taffy
from the beach.
a bag
from a store on the boardwalk.
soft
and chewy.
sweet. the scent of salt
and ocean
on the bag.
I hated taffy.
salt water taffy.
but she never failed in
bringing me
more and more as each
summer came and
went.
I wonder where she is
today,
and who gets it now.
the daughter grown
and off to her own life.
the house empty
and waiting for someone new
to share
the wall between us.
maybe they like taffy.

i have the bags to share.

the postman

the mailman
is crying as he slouches
with his heavy
bag.
his grey uniforms
wet from the sun and labor.
what's wrong
I ask him
as he hands me my mail.
i'm tired, he says.
tired
of this life.
the news I bring is rarely
good.
rarely bad.
it's nothing
like it used to be.
no one cares
anymore if I come or go.
if i'm late,
or don't arrive at all.
no one looks out the window
for me,
or waits by the door.
the world has
changed.

morning comes too soon

the moonlight is
lovely
as it shines
into the window,
a soft hand
upon
your face
that lies against
a cloud of
pillows,
your body stretched
out
on a snow drift
of sheets.
you are far
away
into a dream.
how morning comes too
soon.

a dish of time

I have a plate of hours,
a clean white
dish of time
to dine from on this
lazy sunday.
what to do,
where to go. who to see.
the list is short
even shorter now
as autumn approaches.
those once
a mile or call away
have disappeared,
but I have these hours
on this day with
which to fill or
unfill, a clean dish of
time to wile away.

examination

the doctor places
his stethoscope upon my chest.
and listens.
he nods his head,
makes a clicking sound with
his mouth.
hmmm. hmmm. he says.
it's a strong heart.
very strong. but
be careful with it.
there is only so much
life left.

the beach trip

from the beach
in her chair at sunset.
her book
thick and heavy in her browned
hands.
unopened yet.
the wash of
a green ocean upon
her feet.
what lies ahead is as
mysterious as
what came before it.
each new wave
does nothing to ease
the worry,
the pain, the doubt.
one can only pray
and hope that things in the end
will go
the way they were meant
to be.
that all in time will work
out.

it smells like rain

it smells like
rain.
the blue leaves
think so
too.
they've curled
their veins
to the heavens.
and the birds,
still
in the trees.
the stream awaiting
new life.
and us
on the porch, you
in your summer dress
me in shirt sleeves.
it smells like
rain.

it went by like that

the retirement looms
near.
the gold watch. the party.
the balloons.
the desk left
as it was thirty years
ago.
a coffee mug.
the pad
with which to ease
your back.
the plant on the sill
never quite
happy where
it sat.
no more good morning
so and so.
no more, so what
did you do last weekend.
did you see the game?
no more tears
at the water cooler,
or laughs
in the lunch room.
who wants my tuna
sandwich?
it went by like that
you'll say
to the new person
chipper at the keyboard.
fresh and crisp right out
of school. it all went by
like that,
and then you'll walk
away.

monday is not far off

I go down
into mine and start with my pick
and axe
against
the black wall.
I chip off a days worth
of coal
and wheel it out in a steel
wagon.

my face is charred,
my lungs wheeze.
even the birds are full of soot
above this mountain.
they shake their wings
but are never free from it.

I go to the saloon and get drunk,
then go
home to my wife
and kids.
they don't know me anymore. I don't
know me anymore.

I put the money on the table.
Monday is not
far off.

one chair

I start
with a chair. a simple wooden
chair with
a strong back.
I place it in the center
of the room.
a space that is empty
except for me,
except for this chair.
I sit down
and fold my hands into
my lap.
I am unafraid, or worried.
I have been
here before,
I've sat in many empty
rooms, alone,
and once again here I am
starting from scratch.
I look around and see
what needs to be done.
with this house, this room.
I know how to fill spaces.
I do it easily for others
and for me.

the after life

there are boxes
still in the rooms.
clothes in the closet.
a sweater,
shoes.
the kitchen has the spoon
she stirred with,
the forks
and knives she used.
there's vodka
in the fridge.
frozen peas, tv dinners.
a slice of
cake from her wedding.
her mail
sits on the table.
still coming
through the door.
her cat looks out the window,
waiting.
I paint the rooms.
we move on.
there's a knock by the new
tenants
at the door.

fine dining

the food doesn't sit
well with us.

Ethiopian perhaps.
buffalo? goat?
who's to know what the meat
is or was
that lies now in a spicy
brown sauce
on our yellow plates.

we wash it
down with beer brewed
in a Cambodian rain forest.
nibble on cake
from mexico.
thick and soft,
dripping with sweetness.

we look over at the table
beside us
and nod. we should have had
that.

potatoes and chicken.
a slice of pie.
coffee.

a world of this

i hear the couple next to me
at lunch
fighting.
i sigh and wince.
i get another drink, nibble
at the food on my
plate.
it's a gorgeous day.
mild and sunny.
a wisp of white clouds above
the trees swim easily
along
the boulevard.
i turn the other way
so as not to hear so much.
she's crying,
he's angry.

their food gets cold,
the ice in their drinks
melts over the edge of the glasses.
the waiter arrives and leaves
without a word.

i hate the world that owns
this.
i despise
the death of love, the grief
of lovers
gone sour. the betrayal
and lies
we indulge in when
it's over.

i want to turn to them and say
stop.
no more.
i want to wave a magic wand
over their sorrow
and make everything okay.
to steal a cupid's arrow
and aim straight towards each

troubled heart.

the oak tree

i've turned over so
many new leaves that i'm
an oak tree
on the lawn.
tall and wide,
rough barked.
i'm as tall as i'll
ever be with branches
reaching.
i'm just here now
for the duration.
not ready to fall
or to be cut down.
not ready for the saw
or for a summer storm full
of wind
and lightning
to have its way.
I still want someone to
climb my branches.
scale my arms,
and listen to me as a breeze
cascades against my
body. I want someone to
wrap their arms around
my trunk,
rake the leaves
that fall around me in
the shadow of my life.

it's hard to believe

I've been bullet proof
for so long
that it surprises me when
I get shot
and it goes through me,
flesh and bone.
into the heart.
I look down
and see the crimson
ribbon of my life
spilling out onto the floor.
the heat of my body
rising like a cloud.
not me.
it's never me.
it's always someone else
that's in this predicament
not me.
i'm Teflon, i'm steel.
I fall off of roof tops
and walk away.
and now this, you're
telling me i'm human.
it's hard to believe.

foreign film

under a spell
I walk
through life
with eyes half open.
legs and arms limp
with dream.
i'm in a foreign
movie,
a subtle film
with a vague plot
and people whispering
over subtitles.
the light is rare,
black and white with
blue vapors,
red tail lights,
amber
lamps under a falling
snow.
i'm walking the streets
with my coat
pulled tight
up to my chin,
my breath a cold cloud
caught
by wind.
I feel the cobblestones
under my thin
shoes.
I am going somewhere,
leaving somewhere.
i stand at the corner
and rest, waiting for
the director
who sits in the shadows
to tell me what's next.

the pause

the cows out
there
are large. some white.
some black and white.
spotted brown.
some chewing. heads
bent to the green grass.
some stare in the distance
off to where the white hills
rise. gazing
at nothing
in particular.
their tails wag
in the sunlight.
we slow the car
and look out
at them across the white
rails of an old fence
that needs tending.
we say nothing.
our thoughts too are
far away.
we pull back onto
the road and drive,
there are places we
need be.

rain check

it's too hot
for nearly everything but
this
I tell her.
touching the curve of
her hip,
laying a small
kiss upon her elbow.
the fan
is going above us.
the sheets are warm.
a trickle of sweat
eases off our brows.
she waves a magazine
against her face.
it's too hot she says.
let's sleep on it awhile.
rain check.

she lights my fuse

she lights my
fuse
with a match, stands
back
and watches as I fly
across the sky
zig zagging
among the stars.
she waits and waits
for me to
come back, to hold her
and love
her
like the old days.
to see only the good.
the fireworks
that were.

just a phase

who are you,
my friends ask.
we don't know you anymore.
we've lost touch.
you've changed.
you've lost weight and grown
a beard,
shaved your head.
are you a monk now?
have you lost your way.
what's happened to you.
and I answer, it's just
a phase.
just a phase.
that's all I can say.

on the lamb

on the run
I'm fast, I know where
to go,
how to hide.
I know every hole
in the county.
every broken lock
and door that's left
open.
I won't be caught this
time.
i'm on the run, the lamb,
i'm in the wind.
i'll lay low for awhile,
change my name,
erase my past
and start all over again.

the island

it's an afternoon of black
and white
movies.
cool in the basement.
a bowl of fruit.
water. legs stretched out
on the white couch.
it feels like sunday,
but it's only Monday.
no matter.
it's good to be home
in the quiet, in the shadows
of sunlight,
on the island
of peace.

the rotten apple

the shine is off the apple.
the worm
has made its way through
from one side
to the other.
in the light I see the brown,
the soft
bruise, the fallen fruit,
what once was gold
and glorious and red
is tossed to the ground.

the white flag

I wave
the white flag.
put my hands into the air.
i'm
coming out of the fox hole,
the dug
trench.
I climb the wire,
step over the bodies.
I throw down my gun,
my words,
my heart.
I surrender.
I wave the white flag.
i'm done.

gone fishing

she'd bring home
fish.
blue fish from the bay.
chop their heads off.
and let them
roll
into the can.
she'd cut them down the belly
iwth her sharpest knife,
cut out
the bones.
split the skin.
filet the meat.
soon the house would
smell of fried
fish
and we'd see the smile
on her wide
sunburned face.

dig a hole

the border
is closed we can't get in or
out.
we're in lock down.
away from
our country.
our flag and home.
so be it.
dig a hole and fall in.
go under, go over.
wait it out.
sadly every vote does
count.

june heat

bored with the heat
I let
the cold
water from the shower head
pummel me
into submission.
I feel a nap coming on.
I smell
the quiet of this house,
alone all
day.
all night.
the blur of my life
slowed down
to a snail's pace.
I exhale and listen
to the loud thump
of my heart.
healthy and wanting.
waiting.

ER

at midnight
the emergency room is full of
the wounded.
the shot,
the cut, the car wrecks
bringing them
in on bloodied
stretchers.
the aged with limps
and strokes.
the crazies who have
no place
to go.
dog bites and punches
thrown.
it never stops
what we do to one another,
what we
do to ourselves
finally catching up
to pay its due
on a Friday night
in the emergency room.

what we drink

we choose
what
drink
we put to our lips
and swallow
from the cup
we hold in our hand.
no one
makes us do what we
do.
we do it
because.
the past, the present.
tomorrow
all tied
into
what goes down
the hatch, no one
is to blame,
but us.

this day

I shake off tired
and get to it. this day.
I ignore
the pangs,
the old fear that wants
his say.
I grip the wheel
of the early hour and
steer it
to work.
a fresh start,
fearless
with a healed heart
I go.
I go, let the dead rest.
let the old
haunts
of jealousy and doubt
die with them.
no more of that.
let joy win out.

perhaps

the green is everywhere,
the roll 

of land.
the metal and stone
markers.
the mourners of these
dead, gone too.
the trees alive
longer
than anyone here
today.
the sky is big.
full
of blue, of white.
a june sun
seeks us out in the unshaded
land
around the tent.
the body will
be lowered later.
later, after the words
are said.
the flowers laid.
after the cars have
gone away. perhaps she'll
be happy here,

at last.

the desert

the dry faith
is a wide
desert.
the unanswered prayers
are clouds
without rain.
the knees
are red, the eyes
blurred.
where is the relief,
the blessing
from above
to ease
to still this pain.
it's part of it.
this
circle
this quiet trek
alone.
what joy there will
be when
it ends.

day one

i'm startled
by
a dream.
or is it. maybe this is
the dream.
this is the night
and the dreams
are where I really am.
nothing makes
sense anymore.
what's left is right.
what's up
is down.
turn the lights off,
let's close our eyes
and start all
over again.
pretend, pretend
that tomorrow is day one.

swept away

we dance
in the shadows.
we hear the music that others
cannot hear.
we linger
in the past, cautious
with our
steps
towards tomorrow.
we touch
the things we cherish
and store them
away.
proof positive that
another life
was once lived
but gone now.
the wind of time
won't let them stay.

down any drain

I click and click
at this machine. long into the night.
in the early
morning.
at 4 pm.
no difference to me.
love and death.
joy and sorrow.
something
will come up and find
its way upon the page, will
leave my
wilting brain
and exit out by my fingers,
some to be saved,
some
ready to swirl down
any nearby drain.

sympathy cards

sympathy comes in from afar,
from distant
shores, from
nearby
as well.
we're sorry for your loss
the cards
and e mails
read.
we didn't know her, but we
imagine that she must
have been a
peach, a work of art,
a handful of trouble,
but fun,
if the mother
was yours.

the tool belt

with her tool
belt
she could fix anything
around the house.
a pipe,
a table leg, a television
throwing off
sparks.
a computer.
the loose door, no
problem.
the leaky faucet,
the squeaky floor.
there was nothing under
her roof that couldn't
be fixed when
she picked up her tools
and snapped on
her tool belt.
get out of my way, she'd
say.
I got this.

mary

he stumbles out the door
in his bathrobe.
bleary eyed
and wet
from a shower.
toothbrush in hand.
he calls out for mary,
the love
of his life.
i'm coming he says
in traffic,
the patrol man
waving him down.
he sees what isn't there,
hears what isn't said.
there was a time
when his black hair
was parted on the side.
a smart suit
adorned him.
Italian shoes. a brief
case of ideas
in his hand,
but now, this. this
is where we end
up.
not from sin, or wrong
turns,
not from anything deserved.
it's just the way
it is,
we're born then returned.

the old dog

the kitten underfoot
is grey
striped
blue eyed and craving
attention. tiny
as small can be,
feather light,
pawing everything
she sees.
starting
just one of nine
lives, she goes
from hand to hand.
the old dog
is unhappy at
what he sees.

old grudges

the family arguments are old.
stale
by any measure. what the point
was
is lost.
but the anger remains,
it festers, burns
like old
coal, hot and white
red embers,
fast flying into flame.
it's hard to remember
who said what,
who
did what to whom, years
have gone by.
winters have
delivered snow,
summers
have folded
onto one another in green,
then gold.
is it easier to hold on
to old
grudges and never
make amends, it appears
so.
that's how it's been.

everything's fine

I remember
telling my mother about some
awful event
that had happened in my life.
not tragic or life ending,
but something
that bothered me, was on my mind.
I wanted her arms
around me.
I wanted a kiss on the cheek,
wisdom,
advice. I wanted
her to take my hand
like a mother would
to a small boy. telling me
that everything would be
alright.
instead she cried and made
the trouble her own.
I would end up comforting her.
wiping her tears away,
telling her not to worry,
that things would be fine.
I learned in time
to tell her only good things.
she wasn't ready, not now,
or ever, for the rest
of my life.

the hallway

his job
was to sweep the long hallway
that led to the pool,
mop it,
then wax and buff it.
he wore a grey uniform
with his name
on it.
Ron.
he smoked and whistled
the whole day.
his hat tilted
down
over his long face.
it was a good job though.
steady pay.
a weeks vacation after a year.
a raise.
this wasn't jail,
this wasn't prison.
this was halfway.
a paycheck at the end
of two
weeks.
enough to go home on the late
bus,
enough to get up
and do it again.
the green tiled floor
would wait.
how it shined when the door
opened
and the tenants carried
their towels
and chairs to the wide
blue pool
at the end of the hallway.
how it shined.

the long summer

we used to sit around
for hours
smoking weed and listening to whatever
new vinyl
we bought from tower records
down the street.
someone would
make a run to jiffy's sub
shop
for a steak and cheese,
maybe
a large pizza
with peperoni and mushrooms.

a case of Schlitz, was picked
up by someone with
a legal I.D.
a bottle of boones farm
apple wine too. strawberry hill.

they were long nights.
a lot of laughs.
but we were adrift, fatherless
for the most part.
the mothers holding it all
together with
low wage jobs.
still putting dinner on the table
for whoever might be home.

we were riding the soft wave
of the late 60's,
hoping or not hoping for a light
to go on,
for direction
of some sort.
meandering through classes
at the community college.
always looking for a girlfriend,
for a used car
that would start,

but we knew this couldn't last
forever,
we were bad for one another,
trapped
in a hazy world, on a strange
lifeboat, scared to jump and swim
off into the next world,
a world we weren't prepared for.

my man

her sunday best
was what she wore on Tuesday
or Monday.
what she wore
when she went bowling
or to church,
it made no difference.
I am who I am she said,
sipping on a cold
bud,
eating a pretzel smothered
in mustard.
take me as I am
or leave me,
makes no difference
to me, she said, pointing
at the revolving door.
when the right man comes
along
he won't care
what i'm wearing, or what
I say,
or how long my hair
is.
he won't ask me who my daddy is,
or where I went to school.
he'll be beyond all that.
he'll look into my eyes
and see my heart.
she pointed at her
heart
dropping a dollop of
mustard on her white blouse.
oops, she said.
but he won't even care
about that. my man.

a room full of flowers

the flowers
are too much. too many.
the air
is confused with roses
and mums,
daffodils and tulips.
it's hard
to breathe in a room like
this.
with life and death
together.
side by side.
and the mourners so quiet,
well dressed.
hugging, kissing.
polite and respectful.
wondering
wondering, who's next.

you got a friend

i'm so worried about
my friend dr. frankenstien.

in the laboratory all night
sewing
someone together. his servant
out all night
digging up graves.

victor in his white coat

harnessing lighting
from the sky.

the lifeless body
that he's knitted together
strapped by leather
on the long table.

i worry that he's lost it,
gone mad, he's become so
lonely. so in need
of a friend.

someone to confide in and give
him unconditional love.

but i get it, who doesn't
want that?

the mystery novel

i lose
myself in books, in film.
in you.
i like adventure
and mystery. i like
not knowing where things
might go.
cliff hangers.
i never not what's behind
the door,
what's in the cellar,
who's in the attic.
i'm a thrill seeker
in the mildest
of ways. don't tell me
what meat is in the stew.
give me a good storm,
full of rain and wind,
thunder. i don't
want a bad ending.
i prefer the happy ones.
where the good guy
wins. where we're satisfied
and not in the least
bit blue.

we'll get there

we're not lost. not
really
we are where we need to be.

go left or right,
it doesn't matter.


relax
and take the scenic route.

go back,

go home, go to Alaska,
take your shoes
off and stay awhile.

let me get you a glass
of something cold.

come here and hold me in
your arms.
we'll get there
together.

no maps. no train schedule.
no looking back.

we'll get there.

i drop in a dollar

that old man
on the stoop, sign in hand.
wanting bread,
wanting spare change.
stroking his
Whitman beard,
in his Dickenson clothes.
but
from the look of those
red eyes,
that nose,
he loves
his rum, his wine, his
whiskey.
he wants to sleep this life
off
and start a new one.
bread is far down the line.
but the sign
says bread.
I drop in a dollar.

already gone

the balloon of her life
has fallen.
the air
out, the basket on the ground.
we take
her now where she needs
to go,
the body.
but she's already
gone.
what we're left with
is something else,
beyond us.
beyond our blind ways,
our weak
faith
our careless days.

hide and go seek

the children
in the street loving the light
of the long
summer day
cry out
as they play hide and go
seek.
you hear the count with eyes closed.
behind trees they scramble
behind cars
and into bushes.
laughing as they run.
folding themselves small
into hiding places.
so free.
so young.
so uncaught and found yet
by the real
world that awaits them.

ruby glass

it's not a diamond
on the street, embedded
in the black
top.
it's not
a gem of worth. it's just
glass.
a red shard
in the tar baked road.
but it's enough
to grab your heart. this
ruby
of glass, holding light.
it's enough
to get you across the street
to hold onto your faith,
get you into the night.

the radio off

the music
tires us. we know the words.
we know
the song
inside and out, when
to smack
the snare drum, to pluck
a string, or
bang our hand against
a tambourine.
we know the high notes,
the low.
the symphony,
but it bores us some days,
we have no
dance within,
no feet that want
to move. not throat that wants
to let sound out.
instead we turn the dial
to off.
another day will
come when it will bring us
old joy,
but not today. not today
though.
let's get through this sadness
first.

all in a box

it's a circle
of some sort...not clean
edged or
square
is any life, no
start middle then finish.
it's
abrupt
and jagged.
a zig saw piece of work.
not art
by any stretch.
more a splatter at times
of emotion.
of love
and death. work and hard
luck.
but there is good too.
between the pain
and suffering. there is
the cry of a baby.
the first kiss.
the wealth of butter on warm
bread.
the purity of salt.
there is joy. there are stars
to be wished upon.
mirth.
it's a wild ride, a mild
spin,
it's everything you could
imagine
and then some.
then it ends and we try
to put it all in a box
and say,
that's what it was, that's
her life,
it's all we can do to
understand.

at ninety

ninety came quick
for him.
how many ships, how many children
and women
sailed through his
laborious life.
hardly a year
without a storm,
without a port to call
a new home.
he's boiled now, charred
and
aching.
some of it intentionally done,
some
done to him.
the pain knows no
difference.
at ninety i'll give him a call,
and forgive
forget,
embrace
the man he always wanted
to be but couldn't.

dead mouse

there are days
when
it's hard to accept
nonsense.
suffering fools
gladly
is not your cup of
tea
this day.
you shake your head
and groan
at what the world brings.
the grey limp
body
of a dead mouse on the door step.
the guilty
cat in the street pawing
licks
against his ear.
one good word, one good
kiss.
one good embrace
is all you need to get you
through
the night and into the next
day.

from this something good

I carve
the worry out of the tree.
slay
the lumber
lay it down
and chisel
away the bark.
to burn it would be
too easy.
to chop it into cords,
to strip
it of leaves and knots,
too simple a task.
instead
I take a knife
and envision beauty
love
and
togetherness
which I form
with my bare hands
and the gift
of nature
that God has provided.
I watch the tree fall
as I hatchet at
the roots, the trunk.
its life falls with a thud.
I go at it all night
into the next day
then lie
down
with what I've made.

another lamp

the lamp store is closing.

for years
I've gone in looking for one
more lamp
to light my life.
to put a shine on a table, or
desk
or brighten a room.
the lady with her wire rimmed
glasses
nods and says,
yes, an end of era.
twenty percent off all floor
lamps
that aren't already on sale.

there are no tears, no nothing
to speak of.
just me and her standing across
from one another with nothing more
to say.

I find one more lamp

and two three way bulbs.
take them out to the car and wonder
where
I might need more light.

st. elizabeth's farm

it was a sweet
melon
stolen off the farm
by
skinny boys
with fishing rods
in the dead heat of
summer,

a world full of flies
and the smell of dead
perch on
the sand lawn
of the Potomac river
circa 67. catfish on their
sides,
ballooned grey and slick.
the blue plains
sewage plant just upstream
warming
the water for fish,
and for their too soon
demise.

but us boys, rag muffins
with cow licks, spinner reels,
blood worms,
and lead sinkers in our pockets,

we were burnished with sun,
going down the gulley to
where the farm was.
where the white clothed men were guarded
by shotguns,
the metal barrels gleaming
in the sweltering air.
prisoners
in the field.

how sweet the red meat
of those melons were as we
ran, one for each.
ripped from the green
snake vines, heavy in our arms
laughing our fear away

stumbling to the river bank
where we broke them open
with rocks
and feasted.

thunder

a thunder
clap and then rain.
the slice
of electric
white etched on a blue
burst sky.
we huddle near a window
and count
how far, how long
after
will the boom
rattle our
ears.
so much in life
is waiting.
so hard a lesson,
this thing called
patience.

the last stop

in the soft glaze
of morphine
my sister sits and reads
to her.
another new place for her to
lie, and wait.
someone will bring flowers.
someone will
come and take a selfie
beside her.
a spoon will find her lips.
a sponge of water.
her life
has come to this.
ward of the state, of
children
she doesn't even remember
to miss.
today, or tomorrow, or
soon,
she'll be there in paradise.
out of the shambled
body,
the muddled mind. too far
gone to even
have a broken heart.

the white flag

the white flag goes up.
you crawl out
of your trench.
bloodied and weary.
bullets spent.
you drop your sword,
your gun,
your helmet.
you hold up in the fog
of war
your flag.
another word need
not be said,
no treaty to sign.
you haven't given up.
not at all.
it's just time to join
the other side.

does she remember mine

i remember her name.
but i doubt she remembers mine.
we were ten
or eleven
in the school yard
at st. Thomas Mores.
i can see her black hair,
the plaid skirt.
her silken blouse,
me in church blue, scuffed
brown shoes,
and white shirt. my head
a field of wild hair.
we loved each other,
of course.
her freckles alive
in the cold sun
as we kicked that red ball
from one end of the black
top to the other.
when i close my eyes
now, fifty years later
i can see her smile,
her bright smile. a
twinkle in her eyes.
but does she remember me.
i wonder. i wonder.
i remember her name,
but does she remember mine.

the wave in

i dream of water.
blue.
deep, dark, mysterious.
it holds me.
swallows me.
it owns my life this water
i swim in.
all night i go from shore
to shore.
i ride the waves in.
i go under,
i go over.
there is no fear, no worry
or concern.
the water saves me,
takes me where i need to go,
and when i awaken
i'm there.

the long grey line

I shift my feet in this long line.
it goes slow.
I look at my stub,
I put my hands in my pockets
and jingle keys,
change.
will work for money.
I see the same men every day.
walking
from the bus, smoking
quietly, the ashes matching
their eyes.
a smoldering.
lunch pails with them
in case
a day comes through.
hard times, with hats pulled
tight.
shirts buttoned,
old shoes
shined.
the hunger a caged lion
inside.
maybe today a finger will
point and say
you.
maybe today
there'll be drinks,
a paid bill, a bag
of groceries the rent paid,
no longer past due.

before dying

this mine shaft
where we work, hour after hour
in the artificial light,
the artificial air,
we pound and scrape
at the inside of a mountain.
we want the canary
to keep singing.
we want the ground
to be still
and not shake.
how strange to be
underground for so long,
for so many years,
before dying.