a familiar dream

it's a sweet cool
rain
on this late summer day.
a soft
coat of grey
with swimming clouds.
the grapes
are in, the apples ripe
and crisp
from the farmer's market.
how nice
to lie here
in the afternoon, with
work behind me,
book in
hand, nowhere to be,
no need to go
out for anything.
this bowl of fruit
will suffice.
these words I read,
these words i write.
i watch
the cloth of violet
blow across
the wonderous sky
between what's left of
leaves
then drift off
into a familiar dream.

easy prey

it's the low
fruit,
the fruit on the ground,
the easy
prey
that those
of lesser beings
go for.
the wounded and weak,
the staggering
souls
left behind
by the herd. broken
and disheveled,
it's those
who get devoured.

fine old wines

some people
can make you happy, just
by
talking to them.
by bumping into them at market.
there they are
in line
getting stamps
and a smile broadens
your face.
your heart beats faster.
you reminisce
of good times.
how lucky it is to be
in their company,
and them in
yours.
to have such friends
is a blessing. they're
fine old wines.

true love

a vase
of white roses,
a hand written card.
a simple gift
from the heart,
unbought,
wrapped
with a ribbon
and bow.
one kiss, and the words
whispered, I miss
you,
welcome home.
love can be that simple.
that true.
no need to think
about it.
just do.

therapy

i'll meet with my doctor
today.
my shrink, my confidant,
my
mother and father wrapped
into one
warm heart.
i'll tell her about
the week,
the days behind, what
may lie ahead.
she'll nod and smile,
drop a tear or two,
give me words of studied
advice.
she'll tell me to breathe.
to meditate, to eat
and sleep.
she'll offer a book or
two to read.
then the hour is up,
and i'll write the check.

the empty seat

she boards the plane
in the early morning rain.
she's packed light
for her short stay.
I stand at the gate
and watch
as she waves.
the plane rises into
the grey sky.
red tail lights are all
I see
as it heads west
with one empty seat
beside her.

writing in the sky

the world
doesn't need to know everything,
and yet
you want to write
your story in the sky
in large black letters.

you want to shout
from the highest
building
all that you know,
blow the whistle

to stop this train
dead in its tracks,
but you can't.

what would
be the point.
what purpose is there
in this maudlin self pity.
this dark desire
to come clean.

the ego
is a monster that must
be tamed or otherwise
things could get ugly.
the fragile house of cards
will burn.

her cold cold heart

she lies

she cheats

she betrays.

she pretends to be

someone she isn't.

she goes to church.

she smiles.

she's polite.

sadly

she's my wife.

the unknown

there's a chill in the air.

a cold

room full of ghosts.
apparitions.
things unseen.

I put my arm through the sleeve
of frigid air.

the dog howls.
the cat's hair stands up.

something is here
beyond
what we see.


we know and we don't know.

we exhale
with fear.

imperfect

I learned
how to walk on water.
turn water
into wine.
I raised the dead,
made the crippled
walk again
gave sight to the blind.
I even moved
a mountain with my
mustard seed
faith,
but that's not enough,
is it?
as I look at
the clock, leaving
you waiting,
late once again.

clay

we take
the clay of those
we love, fold it
in our hands
spin it,
mold it to the shape
we want
it to be.
not perfect,
not exact, but a
close resemblance
of what's in our
minds eye.
enough
to accept them,
to get us through
the day.

the fig wound

a corner
catches the hip
leaving a blue red bruise.
no blood.
it actually feels
good
in a strange sort
of self inflicted
way.
still alive
and breathing.
that's a good thing.
I study
the welt.
in time it will go
from
blue to green
to a soft
fig like brown.
i'm basically
a piece of fruit now,
once juicy and ripe
hanging brightly
from a blossomed tree,
now
fallen to the ground.

blue hair

God bless the blue
haired ladies,
the soft bellied men
in tow.
high belts
and matching shoes.
easterly plaids
and khakis.
everyone as pink
as buttons on a starched
white shirt.
they sit in the same
pews,
the same
spot for years.
a neighborhood gathering
of who's who.
smelling sweet in
perfume,
bejeweled.
how the prayers,
rote and cold, leave
their hands, their pursed
lips,
rarely going anywhere,
stalled
at the arched old
roof.

before going home

i go north
for awhile. i need
the sting
of a cold wind
against my skin.
i want my shoes wet
with snow.
i want
ice in my hair. i want
to walk
the highway, between
the tall pines,
to find someplace
new to go.
i'll stop along
the way, but say nothing.
i'll sit
near a fire and drink
coffee. i'll warm
myself and get right,
before going home.

the disappearing

the trickle of
the pipes,
the hum of air
through
the vent.
I roll over
to pretend. I listen
to the early slap
of a paper
against the stoop.
is that the milk
man with
his glass
bottles
his butter and eggs.
who's in the other
room?
mother, father.
what century are
we in.
how did
then disappear
so quickly.

sunrise sunset

we work.
we plug along, day
in day out.
it's not about the money.

it's something else.
we're filing
time. precious time.
we're dutiful. loyal.

we bow to the grind
of it.
the religious ferocity
of the clock.
kneeling at the altar
of work
we genuflect to
the corporate cross.

in moving
we find the stillness
that life
won't give. the vague drug
of peace that being
busy gives. there's
no time
to think about what is,
what isn't.

work.
work.
work.

sunrise sunset.

pound the hammer.
the chisel, bring out
the saw.
but making nothing
that lasts. all that matters
slips
through our fingers.

there is no now,
just an empty heart,
a faded past.
life will wait,
until it won't.

the new suit

I make
my self a suit
out of steel.
alloys,
iron,
gold, and platinum.
a breast plate
of titanium.
silver
gloves. it's bullet
proof.
bronze boots.
a space age shield.
a helmet too.
I slip into this new
suit
when I arise
and begin the day.
I clank about
like a knight without
a kingdom, or horse, but
nothing will get to me
now.
i'm protected from
everything, and everyone,
nothing can get to the
the essence of me,
or my heart of course.

purging

I empty
the closet. I start there
this Saturday.
what's no longer of use
or has meaning
goes out
to the waiting curb.
then to the drawers.
to the shelves.
to the basement, then shed.
i'm purging my soul
once more.
clearing my heart,
my world of things
I no longer
care about,
my head.

photo albums

i reach up onto
the high shelf and pull
down the dusty
bin full of books
and pictures, old cards,
mementos from lovers
and friends.
I look through
the photo albums
at the hundreds of pictures
and try
to get a clue
as to what was, what
the deal
was then.
are the smiles real,
the kisses
that sweet, or is there
darkness
when the camera is turned
away.
the hands, and body in
retreat.
that birthday cake,
the meal
on the table, the gifts
unwrapped.
the cards
saying love. what was it.
why so brief.
what happened.

evacuate

do you ride out
the storm or get out.
go to higher ground,
to safe harbor.
do you barricade
the windows, the doors,
stay put and let
the flood water rise,
let the wind
whip its furious
folds upon you.
do you burrow in
and depend on the uneven
promises of prayer,
for safety and for
life to get normal
once again?

friendship

we were joined
at the hips my friend from
the fourth grade.
both freckled
with cow licks.
small and lean, down
the halls,
down
the hills going home.
studying together.
we dressed alike as
if twins.
talking girls
and sports, always
on the same team,
in the same
games.
into high school and
college,
those years of carousing,
confiding.
driving into the late night
with other friends,
young and pondering,
this world we were
born into. then
in each other's weddings.
then to work, or war.
which ended that.

happy pie

an apple pie
would make me happy
I tell
the waitress at the diner.
a hot
apple pie
with a scoop
of French vanilla
ice cream plopped on
top.
that's it, she asks?
that's all you need to
be happy.
yes. yes
I tell, her holding
my fork and knife
in air above the table.
one apple pie please,
and a strong cup of coffee.

the spill of time

the clock spills
out it's ticking hours.
see how
they puddle at your feet.
see how time
evaporates
into the sky.
tomorrow, today.
all into a cloud,
rising, rising, fading
into memory,
soon, all that you are,
or thought to be,
is wiped away.

take a number

there are good priests
and bad.
bad lawyers, and not
so bad.
drunk poets,
movie stars who eat only
celery and carrots.
narcissistic sailors
and
angst ridden
cowboys.
depressed bakers, unhugged
as a child.
the traffic cop
who's afraid of the dark.
the senator
who
thinks he's king.
the street walker
who's a queen.
there's napoleon
on the street corner.
jesus outside
the grocery store playing
a harmonica.
the weary, the happy.
the rich, the poor,
the love sick.
those on the bridge
about to dive.
it's a mixed up world,
with a long line
forming
outside of Sigmund
Freud's door.

an eight mile drive

it's an 8 mile
drive
from here to Dorchester St.
at the edge of the D.C. line.
twenty minutes
in traffic.
I can almost
see the house, the brick
duplex from
my window. the rusted
gutter and down spout.
I see the chain
link fence. the metal
trashcans out front
without lids. I see
the clothes line full
of dungarees and thin dresses.
the broken steps
and rotted
wood of the porch.
I see the cracked windows.
my brothers and sisters
in the yard,
splashing in a plastic
wading pool.
I hear the dogs bark.
see the cat in her box
having more kittens.
i see
my mother at the
ripped screen door
with a fly swatter
talking on the phone,
the long black cord
curled behind her all
the way from the kitchen.
white tape holding her
glasses together
upon her nose.

suburban dream

the boys
with smokes and leather.
the pointed
Cuban boots,
the black hair
slicked
and combed into
an oil stream.
switchblades in their
jeans.
they know do wop,
they know
elvis.
they know what you
don't yet know
about so many things.
one day they'll disappear
from the corners
from the stoop,
from the drugstore
counter
and move on
to cut grass and walk
the dog
in a suburban dream.

a place to be

so many birds
on wing.
black
and red.
the sparrows are
plentiful.
what price, a penny?
what a secret
life they lead.
they disappear
into the thickets of
hedges,

bramble and
trees.

so unlike us,
there is no place,
they'd rather be.

in white

winter slows
us down to a crawl.
we burrow
and build a fire.
we eat
what we have
to get fat and ready
for what's to come.
we cover ourselves
in wool,
in leather.
our knit hats.
we look to the sky
for snow.
bring it on.
bury me in white.

the cold black numbers

I count on both
hands
the friends that have passed
on
over the last five years.
john and dave,
steve and mike, Debbie,
lynnie.
all younger than me, but one.
I still have
their numbers in my phone.
I want to call them,
to talk with them just once
more.
to say hello. to say I love
you and miss you.
I want to say, remember when.
I stare at the cold black
numbers, then close
the phone.
i'm not sure what to think
about it,
anymore.

sweet dreams

we pretend.
we lie.
we know so much
beyond
what is said,
but
the real truth never
leaves our lips,
you can see it in our eyes.
we've learned
to deceive and hide.
it's a sick game
that we've learned
from others,
elders and young alike.
we try with half a heart
to keep the dying
flame alive.
we nod,
we smile, we grimace
as we
turn our backs
and go to another room.
with dry
lips we kiss goodnight.
say sweet dreams.
it's come this.
we are our parents,
stuck in a
familiar gloom.

marked yours

what can i throw away today?
let's see.
a dozen
old shirts, paint stained,
greasy,
ripped and torn,
shredded, yellowed.
a few pairs of pants.
zippers
that won't zip.
buttons missing.
and shoes.
so many smooth soled
shoes.
into the can they go.
that lamp
with the frayed wire,
the table
with the wobbly leg.
the thread bare rug
in the hall.
a dozen or more self help
books,
dog eared
worn and read to the core.
hardly a word
absorbed.
how about all those watches
in the top drawer.
not a single one
giving the right time.
those photographs.
those greeting cards.
that slice of cake in
the freezer, marked yours.

lines in the sand

i draw lines in the sand.
proclaim
ultimatums.
i make a long list
of deal breakers.
i stand up
for my rights,
my dignity.
my self respect.
i nail them to the door
like martin luther.
and wait.
all I want is the truth.
i hear the laughter.
a year goes by,
another year.
another.
nothing changes.
i'm alone in this.
I grow old
then die.

the indigo sky

I see the plane
overhead
as she departs.
the silver
wings,
aglow in twilight.
the red
tail light
blinking, a beacon
of sorts.
I wave my hand
towards
the crush of stars
against the indigo sky.
it doesn't long
until she's out of sight.
she'll come back
and i'll be here
waiting.

lost souls

I see the truck
outside.
the movers, young and strong.
how easily
they carry out the boxes.
the furniture,
one piece at a time.
up the ramp,
everything taped
and folded
over with a blanket.
snug into the dark mouth
of the van.
I watch them as they work,
laughing, unaware
of the why.
I lean against the sink
in my kitchen.
the windows, both front
and back are open.
I feel the cool
clean breeze of the day
curl around
my hands, my neck,
my face.
I feel young again.
the doors slam, and the latch
goes down heavy
against the locks.
the truck pulls away
and I wonder where they
are going,
where will they land,
these lost souls on this
fine autumn day.

home at last

a new haircut.
new shoes.
a new suit.
the war is over.
my brain is a plate
of scrambled eggs,
but i'm home.
home at last.
i'm on the bus
to go see my best
girl.
I've kept a photo
of her
against my chest.
no more drama
for me. let the warrior
die a peaceful
death.

how they laugh now

after years of sifting
the river
for gold.
I heard the strike
of a hard stone hitting
my worn
rusted pan.

I held it to the sun,
it glittered real.
it felt and tasted real.

I proclaimed to everyone
that I was rich.
that I was done.

I threw my pan to the ground
sold my gear,
my burrow.
dusted off my clothes
and washed my hands.

I was done.

how they laugh now.

the wind of sea

the mind
has a life of its own.
going
sideways.
dredging the black
sea
of sorrow,
circling deep beneath
the cold.

the wind
below the sea
carries me away.
under green
under blue.
across the bottom.
the grey fish turn
away,
they have no room
for you.

sweet day

it's a sweet
day.
a fruitful
day of love and healing.
no need for sunshine.
it's all
from within.
surrendering
the pain and sadness
to a higher power.
to begin
again.

the mouse

the black
cat
doesn't mind the rain.
there are plenty
of cars
and sewers
to duck under or in.
she doesn't cry
or sing,
she purrs.
her long matted
hair black
as oil
her bottle green
eyes are startling
before the sun
goes down.
your headlight
catches them as you
pull away or.
the saucer of milk
you set out
is never licked, or
bothered with.
it's the mouse she carries
in her white
tight lips
that concerns her
now.

smoke and mirrors

smoke and mirrors.
what's true
what isn't true.
the fog we live in.
the secrets,
the hidden world
behind
the curtain,
closed doors
and tucked away
things.
how desperate we
are to
not be known,
to stay a mystery
to find a way
to be without others,
to be alone.

the truth this time

a long line
forms.
I get in it.
I have all day.
no one speaks,
everyone is quiet
or on their phones.
the line moves slowly
into a black door
that sits
between two windows
of a long white wall.
I see no one ever
leaving, but i'm
patient. I can wait
all day
for what's to come.
what lies inside.
I hope it's the truth
this time.

i can do that

I take another white
sheet
from deep within
the linen closet. i
stretch it out on the floor
and cut
it with the good scissors.
I make another dozen
flags of surrender,
attaching each to a sturdy
wooden pole.
I go out into the rain
and march silently.
there is nothing left to
do, but do nothing.
I can do that.

another turn

I turn
the calendar page.
another day.
week, month.
nearly a year.
so much rain this year.
good for the green,
the ducks,
the fish,
the frogs.
out the window I see
an emerald wall.
I see the fat trees
full
of rain water,
heavy and leaning,
sighing from the long
summer,
so many
about to fall.
I turn the calendar
page.
i'm still in the moment.
awake, alive.
suddenly amused
at all of it.
my turn has come, again.

all is well

the cookies are stale.
the milk
sour. a lace breaks.
the bed is cold.
a good freeze has
wilted
the rose.
the shine is off
the apple.
a bulb explodes
and i step on the thin
shards
of hot glass.
the key breaks off
in the door.
I take another bite
of a lemon
and make believe that
all is well.

side of a cliff

my fingers
bleed while I hang on to the cliff.
my feet
are dug into
the granite,
my toes curled.
my muscles ache and burn
from holding
me tightly
to the side of this mountain.
i'm afraid to look
down, but finally,
with the sweat pouring
into my eyes, I do.
I see that
i'm only two feet off
the ground.
just that far, what was
all that fear and worry
about.
I jump.

the dead horse

I take a stick
and go out into the road.
the dead
horse is still there.
flies buzzing.
the stink, the smell,
the stench
of death is
overwhelming. I cover
my mouth. my eyes water.
my lungs stink
with decay.
I can hardly breathe
as I go over
and beat it once again.
Monday.

sticky fear

like the squirrel
in the road,
I scramble back and forth
from one
decision to another.

north or south.
up a tree,
or over the fence.
run or stay put,
which way do I go from
here.

it isn't easy, it isn't
clear.
the unknown
is so unknown, so much
of what to do
or not to do
is governed by what's
come before,

the stickiness of
inexplicable fear.

it isn't you

life is hard
says
the bum
on the corner. holding
his sign.
the woman
in the coffee shop
in a wheel chair
banging her way
in and out.
the dog
with one leg.
the girl weeping
in the rain.
the kid
with a shaved head,
homeless giving
blood for food.
they've had
their turn and then some,
while the preacher
preaches
love and forgiveness.
the mystery of it
all.
be thankful, be glad
it isn't you.
yet.

down the road

even after all these
years, all these
miles, we still wash
and polish
the car, keeping it new,
or at least appearing
to be new.
we fill
the tires with air,
gas it up.
a quart or two of 10-40
goes down
the gulley.
a coat of turtle wax
from stem to stern,
using the chamois cloth
we go at it in the summer
sun.
an air freshener
on the mirror.
a wipe
against the dashboard,
we vacuum the floors,
in between
the seats.
we straighten up
the trunk. we comb
our hair in the rear view mirror.
buckle up
and we're ready.
it's not new anymore, but
hey,
it'll get us down
the road.

you get used to it

this pebble
in my shoe is sharp,
it feels so much
bigger than it really is.

I should stop
at the first chance,

sit down
and shake it out,

but no.
i'm getting used to it.
I've befriended this pain,
this small stone.

I've grown accustomed to

the trouble it gives me,

as i have with you.

I almost expect it
each morning when I rise,
to get dressed
and go out again.

going fast

the small
boy
leans against the bus
window
staring out.
his cheeks, red pressed
and cold
against the smudged
panes.
the world beyond him
is vague
but moving
fast.
soon he'll be one
of them.
swinging his arms,
hurried,
worried, rushing to where
he needs to be,
walking fast.

the owners

they own six houses
they are quick to tell you.
six
he says, she says.
they say what the other
one is thinking.
finishing sentences
for one another.
they've been at this for
awhile.
painting, plumbing.
the floors.
the cracks in the wall.
it's how we met, she says.
right, he says.
they've seen it all.
been there. gone down
every road.
but it's fun she says,
smiling, holding a color
chart against
the wall. what do you think
of antique white, she says
out loud, looking at her husband
asleep
against the cut up
rug, rolled on the floor.

summers end

we walk
the boulevard,
stroll
in the oppressive heat.
the fountain
rises and falls.
we speak
of things to come,
what might
happen or not.
the world feels
small.
the sky too close.
the weight of
it all
keeps us quiet
and hopeful.
the voices of children
are high pitched
as they
run barefoot
through the clear
cool water of summers
end.

the good neighbor

the neighbor is good.
so good.
she is the moral authority
of the block.
be careful
where you park.
be cautious with your
words.
speak softly,
be polite.
be kind.
don't take your trash
out too early.
cut the grass
and trim those hedges.
our dogs and tongues
are on a leash.
she's whipped us into
shape.
we are like her now.
so good.
no longer making our
horrible
human mistakes.

on the side of the road

staring out at a
quarter moon, she said,
I hate these nights.
these talks, these long
discussions
that go nowhere.
me too, I tell her.
I despise
this self analysis.
these wretched books.
why do we do this to ourselves.
what happened
to us, what put us here
with the air gone out of the tires.
why are we stuck
on the side of the road,
going nowhere.
I don't know I tell her.
I wish I had some answers.
I wish
it wasn't like this,
that it wasn't this late,
this late without so much
as a hug,
a tender touch,
a whisper or kiss.

bring beer

I was muscled once,
he says, looking
far off into a place
that isn't there.
I was lean, strong.
I have pictures
to prove it.
and hair,
gleaming thick locks.
oh, how the girls adored
me.
I could dance all night,
name the dance,
i was like fred
Astaire.
and run, oh boy, could
I run. think of a fox.
think of a deer.
I was young once,
come and listen to
my tales,
my stories, amuse me,
pretend that you believe
all that i'm saying,
bring beer.

this desert

starvation
comes
in many forms.
lack of food,
nourishment from
any tree,
a piece of fruit,
how weak we grow
from lack
of talk, of touch,
of love.
the spirit
sags, the body
limps
through another day.
and thirst.
how dry the mouth becomes
without water to sip,
without a pair
of lips
to kiss.
how empty
the heart is
when lost in a desert
such as
this.

she made it right

my mother's older
sister,
Gloria
took her own life back
in the early sixties.
why
or where, or what
the details were
are locked away.
all the witnesses
are too old to remember
or dead.
but I remember her.
a whispery song
on her lips, her long
fingers
at the canary cage,
nodding. I remember
how strong
and worried her face
was.
how the lines were
carved, set as if in stone.
her black hair
framing
a gaze, an imperial
gaze
of what was wrong
with the world and what
could make it
right.
she made it right.

off the beaten path for a few minutes

we get lost
in the cave, straying
off
the path
roped
and lit
for our safety. we
want
to see more, so go further
inside.
we want
some danger, some
chaos,
to rebel
at what we've been told.
we want
to see where the bats
are,
where the rocks
are sharp and slippery.
we want
to smell the danger
of the cave,
of the ancient wet
walls.
we want to see the bones
of the dead,
hear the murmurs
of things
we know nothing about.
we stray off the beaten
path.
then go back.
we're not that crazy.

an air brushed world

it's the small
print that you have to read.

it's an air brushed world.
what lies
between the lines,
the smile. the house
on the hill,
the touched up
photo of a fake
family.

even the dog is an actor,
barking on cue.

it's a new car smell,
the scent
of chicken on the stove.
balloons
and clowns.

the cruise ship
of happiness
the promise
of perfume, of coffee,
of shoes
and shirts,
gloves.
and rings.

pick me
they all yell.
pick me and be happy.

the new shirt

the new shirt
with a hole in it,
with ink
stained
on the sleeve.
the tag
still on.
hardly out of the bag
for an hour.
never worn.
I have no idea what
it could
mean.
what the message is
from God.
but truthfully
I hope that he's too
busy for
such things.

the green light

the couple
in front of my car
are kissing.
they are as old as i am.
it's a romantic kiss,
a prelude
perhaps to the night
ahead.
his arm
around her, hers
around him.
an awkward but loving
embrace.
the light turns green
but i don't
honk my horn.
i just wait. i sit
there.
i savor the moment,
the beauty of such love,
and remember
when.

what i want

the therapist
sighs
at my words. she opens
up her heart,
her eyes,
her hands,
her soul comes out
for a visit too.
is that I tear I see on
her cheek?
but it's not what I need.
or want.
i'm tired of words,
tired
of books, tired
prayers
and thoughts that
circle and circle
with no
end. i'm tired
of being tired.

just love.
give me that and i'll sail
off into
the sunset
a happy man.

on his knees

I think of my father
on his
knees
in the black soil
poured, in
the weeds,
in the garden snug
between
the patio and the common
ground.
a stump
from a tree cut
down
last winter.
I see him now, at ninety
his hands
in the tomatoes
the peppers,
feeling his way
with murky eyes, watered
like the salty
seas he
drifted upon when
he was muscled
and tanned.
blue eyed and blonde.
the world ahead of him
bright with
hope.

what a summer it's been

I lie
awake in the puddle
of blue sheets,
a night time pond of
uncertainty.
the heat
is unbearable. the fan
over head
spins slowly,
the hour hand
hardly
moves.
there is the glow
of red
numbers on the clock.
why so many clocks?
I can hardly breathe.
the hum
of the house,
creaks with its
bones
of wood and plaster,
cold sweating pipes,
the glass panes
trickle with
condensation. let's not
call them tears, okay?
people have
died in this room,
but it's too
soon for that.
what a summer it's been,
if i see you on the street,
don't ask, i won't
give you a straight answer,
and i certainly
when it's over won't
look back.

the light ahead

i'll dig myself out
of this.
tunnel out from
these prison walls.
there is light, there's always light.
I've been in worst
spots before.
this nothing
this is small potatoes.
i'll be back stronger
and happier,
more alive
than ever. give me the spoon,
the spade,
and watch me dig.
inches at a time.
night after night when
the lights go out.
just wait.
you'll see. i'm coming.
i'm almost home.
almost free.
I see the light ahead.

Inside

inside
i'm still the same boy
my mother knew.
full
of love
and mischief. shy and
quiet.
i'm still the same
soul
she held at night,
read to
and prayed with.
a wise guy,
a tease. but sensitive
and sad
for anything or anyone
that hurts.
i'm that boy now, same
as before.
same as I've ever been,
but the world has
taken its toll
and it's hard to find
me, to see
what isn't seen.

on ice

I put a bag
of frozen peas on my knee.
another frozen
bag of sweet corn
on my hamstring.
I put a rock hard frozen
rib eye on
my eye to soothe a migraine
that has its own
beat. I swallow
a few large white pills,
washing them down
with gin.
i'm in for the night.
for the day.
at times it seems like
it may be for
life.

it'll be fun

she wants
to live in texas.
the lone star state.
cowboys and cattle.
hills
and prairies.
cactus.
she wants to live
near the rio grande.
raise sheep.
have a barn
with chickens and roosters.
let's go she says.
what's keeping you here?
you've got not ties,
nothing
holding you back.
giddyup, she says.
saddle up and let's go.
it'll be fun.

the strange enormous night

I bow
to the quiet.
it's my new God. my new
place
of being.
another false idol
added to the list.
silence.
complete lack
of caring.
I go numb, I go black.
I drink
my own blood
and stare out at the moon.
i come into this
world
alone, and will leave
it
the same way
with no hand to hold,
no love
to say farewell to.
I bow to the quiet.
I listen to my heart,
its low
clock tick.
I hear the rattle of
my old
bones unfolding
in the corner chair.
I am in the thick of it
and ready for some end
to begin.
i'm lying low.
waiting waiting
patiently
in the long dark
of this strange enormous
night.

on the gurney

the world
is full of snakes.
I feel the green brown
muscles of them
around my feet,
venomous with
dagger teeth.
rats
in the alley,
and bugs with wings
that sting.
disease
and lies
under the guise
of love and faith.
deception is at every
turn.
negative thinking,
bad
people who
pat you on the back
and spit,
crossing themselves
in public
reciting prayers.
pretenders and hypocrites.
betrayal is around
every corner.
dark clouds loom.
the rain
is cold. the snow
deep.
I lie in it.
strapped
to a gurney of a world
gone sour.
there's an IV in my vein.
a mask of air
around my mouth and nose
I yell out
for help,
I weep, I wait for rescue.

courage

in time
i'll find the words.
i'll
have said them over and over
again
in my head,
out loud
during the day,
while on a walk,
a drive.
in the shower, i'll
practice,
hone down
the verbiage.
keep it simple clear
and concise.
in time
i'll find the courage,
the resolve
to say what i need to say
and be done
with it.

love and plants

I had a potted plant
once.
1977 was the year.
a gift from
someone I used to know,
someone
i cared about.
it didn't last.
all that watering
and care.
turning it towards
the sun.
I hardly said a word
to it,
or it to me.
in time it went
brown.
the roots died.
the leaves
fell off.
I set it in the trash
room
outside in the hall.
when I moved
out, I saw it
in my neighbor's window.
it was green.
alive
and blooming.
it made me happy
and gave me hope about
life,
about love,
about the future.

open windows

a simple normal
day
would be nice.
not a negative word
or thought
in mind.
a hot cooked meal.
a kiss.
a book.
lying on the couch
until the stars
come out, and then
some.
gin and tonic.
music
with the lights out.
maybe a candle
is on the table.
the white flame
a flicker
of hope as autumn
approaches
and the windows
are raised to let
the cool air in.

on the run

you take a wrong turn
and end up
in a bad part of town.
you roll your window
down and ask
directions from a woman
in a sequined dress.
it's getting dark.
you hear someone call your name.
the woman asks you for
a match
before pointing to the left.
go left, then straight she says,
smiling.
you see the gold in her
teeth.
slowly you turn
the corner before
your car runs
out of gas. you get out,
abandon the car.
you start to run
as strangers
come out of the shadows
and chase you.
down the alleys,
through the park, you sprint,
through the hedges and trees
you run,
run for your life.
you wake up in a cold sweat.
it's a long
night with dreams
like these.
it's why you wear
your running shoes to
bed.

under water

i'm a submariner now.
i'm deep below the surface
of the roiling sea.
my periscope is down.
i'm hunkered in.
encased in the metal tube
full of air,
water, food.
i'm in my bunk, swaying
to the gentle
roll of the ocean.
i'm part fish, part crab,
part whale.
i'm growing fins
and gills.
i'm a submariner trying
to forget about land,
about the life
I had.

playing the market

she's studying the market.
the
ins and outs
of stocks.
the highs and lows.
blue chips and penny.
she's got a knack
for gambling,
it's in her blood.
black jack, or poker.
she'll sit at a table
of men,
puffing on a cigar
and drinking scotch
and walk
away with the pot.
now it's the dow jones,
the Nasdaq.
I see her perusing the paper,
following the numbers.
she's got the lingo down.
she knows when to buy,
when to sell.
she's rolling her dice.
spinning
the wheel, she's about
to make her move.
leaving you in the dust
driving away in her fancy
pants wheels.

nobody knows what they're talking about

he tells me it is
what it is.
I saw it on fox,
and cnn.

I answer back with
so you say.
the long and short of it
is this
a woman speaks up,
wagging a dagger nail.

someone else says,
baloney,
at the end of the day
is all that matters.
it's the same old
story an old man in
a red beret
whispers
into his newspaper.

he might be a socialist.

we talk like this for an
hour or so,
sipping on our coffee
never knowing what in
hell any of us are talking
about,
then we go home and walk
the dog.
watch tv.

the weather report

the sun
has moved closer to the earth.
they haven't
told us this
yet, but it has.
they don't want to scare us.
and yet.
eggs are scrambled
on heads,
dogs sleep
in the streets,
the wings of birds catch fire.
squirrels hot foot
it across the road with
parasols,
the herd is being thinned.
it's going to be
a hot one today,
don't go out, lie in
a tub of ice,
stay in.

the good

it's the good in her.
the beauty
the intellect.
it's the mother.
the child.
the woman.
it's the way she cares.
the way
she smiles and laughs.
it's how hard she works
and is fair.
it's the way she can fix
nearly anything.
the way she tenderly
holds me,
and kisses me
and accepts how human
I am.
seeing through my fears.
it's her patience
and hope
for a new day.

into the woods

I forget to take my
compass at times.
no sexton no map,
no gps, or lap top
to guide me.
the trees are too thick
to see the sun
or stars.
I go alone through
these woods,
asking on occasion
as I get deeper in
when strangers pass
by if there is a coffee
shop up ahead, perhaps
around the next bend.

the dark skillet

there is something about
bacon
that I can't explain.
the smell of it.
my father at the big black
frying pan
on a Saturday morning,
standing over
in his bare feet
a mess of spitting strips
with his spatula.
the smell of it.
the way, your mouth waters
with its scent.
a strange comforting food
of salt and lard,
of no nutritious value.
and yet.
I order it every time I have
eggs
in some god forsaken
diner on the road to somewhere.
I see my
father at the stove.
the house filling up with
the smell and grease of fried
bacon, a bowl of eggs
waiting their
turn in the dark skillet.

shopping for a dress

why is it so hard
to shop for a dress.
too thin of fabric,
too bold, too blue,
too short.
too old of year,
too much,
too hip, but it's
on sale
and it might
it might, if the mood
strikes
might fit,
so why not, i'll save
the package,
the receipt try it
on.
and turn left then right,
then forward
and we'll what we
shall see.

tell me now

small words.
like birds. fluttering
at the feeder
at the stone bath.
brown
and fragile.
light coins,
feathered.
how long a life
do we have.
and with whom
in this stretch shared
of short flight
beneath the blue.
tell me.
tell me now, i'm running
short of time.

the higher light

let's toast tomorrow.
let's
be done with today,
yesterday
and all the days
that we've toiled in
futile sorrow.
let's lift our
glasses
to love, to aging
well, to being ourselves
and accepting
the lot that God
has given us.
let's toast
each other and move on
into the higher
light.

the good life

easy,
breezy. a cool blue
shirt
and chinos.
no socks.
the sand and surf.
the roll
of pristine white
clouds
fat
with sunlight.
a soft glow of tan
upon your brow
and nose.
the music of waves.
the joy
of yesterday
on this midday stroll
with a loved
down the beach.
hand in hand.
heart in heart.
may life be this good
forever more.

mid century tyrants

the tyrant
has a small kingdom.
but it's big enough
to fuel
his rage,
his fire, his desires.
to quench his thirsts
when needed.
what he wants
is his. he spreads his
arms and says
mine, mine, mine.
no questions asked, no
denials.
he is a king
between his walls,
his property
and others.
all
who enter and live
here
must obey
or go. but it lasts
for only a short
while
and soon he is alone,
dying,
wishing
they would all come back.

becky and my trash

i hear the beep
of the trash truck,
so i run out with two soggy
bags
of garbage, chasing it
down the street
in my socks and bvds.
becky, my neighbor,
yells at me to go put
some clothes on.
out of breath, i throw
the bags into the mouth
of the disgusting
fly swarming truck,
then go home
where i see a note on my
door.
she'll write me up,
put me on the community
news letter, report
me.
becky. oh becky.

old news

I get the inside scoop
from jimmy,
the dirt
the skinny, the word
on the street
about what's going down.
he heard what's happening
on the grape vine.
across the fence,
online, off line,
between the lines.
it's shameful.
shocking. it's totally
outrageous, but it's old
news,
I heard about this
ten minutes ago, I tell him,
so what else you got?

the cheerful man

my neighbor
in the apartment building
is
always happy.
his friends too,
who visit with a smile.
a cake,
or tray of food.
I want to kill him
at times.
so perky.
so full of life and fun.
he's cheerful
to beat the drum.
I try to avoid him
at times.
listening at the door
for when he leaves,
when he comes.
how are you he says,
old chum.
gorgeous weather we're
having, yes?
no kids, no pets,
no wife.
I hear music
all day
between the walls of me,
and him. laughter
and frivolity all day
and night. and
all of it just makes
me glum.

a new song

so many words
to this tune.
too many. to each
his own
way of looking at the world
and dealing
with the cards
life has dealt.
no one is
right.
no one is wrong.
let's shuffle the deck,
deal another hand,
drop the needle on
a new song.

one shoe

i find
a piece of you on
the floor.
left behind. one shoe.
i think i'll
keep it,
lock it away when
i need a fix
of what I imagined
we were,
or maybe i'll just toss
it in
the trash
and move on.

night reading

the child
is grown. those days of reading
at his bedside
over.
now I read
what he writes.
I go to sleep with it.
pull up
the covers
and doze off
to his words.
the circle is almost
complete.

local hot spot

it's a small dive
outside of town. a gravel
lot,
a neon sign with half
the letters out.
open.
liver and onions Wednesday night.
live music,
a local band
of senior citizens
holding on to the past
with pony tails and mustaches,
one with a gold earring.
a wife or girlfriend, or
both sit nearby
drinking beer, staring into
their phones.
the band's thin voices are
a vague out of tune scratch.
high pitched
and whiney.
with guitars in hand they strum,
someone on drums.
grey or nearly bald, paunches
under plaid shirts.
one has a beer in hand,
they go at it in the soft
glow of pale light.
the bathroom door opens
and closes nearby.
there's an echo, a squeal,
a thump.
a few patrons look
up from their beers and fries,
offer a clap or two
when a song ends or did it
end.
it's a long night as people
disperse, leaving
money on the table. no one
saying goodbye. it's enough
to make you cry.
we get out of there.
the night comes on so fast.

piano lessons

even then she smelled old
beside us.
a walking antique. musty.
her cloak, her crocodile hands
with pointed nails,
her long
heavy dress draped
upon her slender
silhouette, those boots
laced.

the perfume seemed
permanent
on her floured cheeks,

those silvered lips outside
the lines.

come sit beside me, she'd
say.
tell me about your day.

oh how she loved liberace,
his candelabras
his grande piano,
his silk white suits
and glorious bouffant of hair.

he's wonderful, she'd say,
staring into the black and white
screen,
eating melba toast and tea.
cursing all along the kennedys.

maybe one day you can learn
to play.
perhaps i'll teach you if your
father ever buys
a piano.

but he doesn't make much money
does he?

some trees

some trees
fall. heavy footed in the deluge.

the birds scatter.

the engine of life stalls. sputters.
your wings shudder,
you're dripping oil and gas.

the gauges are stuck.

the plane goes down in gorgeous
flames.

everything has its day.
behind everything beautiful thing,
lies pain.

who has the time

word leaks out.
gossip
is spun like fine
silk
thread
across the lines.
he said,
she said.
you won't believe this.
but
does it matter
anymore.
who's right or wrong.
who's fault,
who
has the energy,
the ambition to keep
up with others,
when we're treading
water ourselves.
who has the time.

embrace the view

the power
is out. the wires
are down
the water has risen
and flooded
the highway,
the bridge knocked down.
a wind full of rain
pours under
black skies,
but it's all
good.
i'm in here with you.
safe
beyond words.
let's lie in bed,
open a window,
enjoy
each other, embrace
the view.

vampire blues

the vampire
sucks
the blood from my neck.
swallows
the life of me.
all
of the liquid
red.
the warm
elixir of who I am.
I go pale
with fatigue.
I climb the walls
at night,
hang from my feet,
weak
in the bones,
the knees.
i'm a puddle on
the floor, avoiding
sunlight
praising the darkness
of dirt. i'm
half in half out
of this life.

no hurry, breathe

nothing changes
quickly.
how our impatience grows.
life
is
truly
the growth
of grass, the drying
of paint,
the nails and
hair of us proceeding.

the sadness from years
gone by,
they fade
then come back.
there is
the line that won't
move.
the sun
coming out
from a cloud.

boiling water.

the long shadows
of a full moon at last.

everything at its
own pace,
no rush, no hurry.
why can't we be like that.

coming or going

a man sees
me crying on the train
and approaches me.
he's older than me.
he asks if he may sit down
beside me,
if the seat empty.
are you okay, he says.
dear boy, are you okay?
i wipe my tears on
my sleeve and tell him
yes. i'll be fine.
i'll be fine. i just don't
know if i'm coming or going
anymore, to which he
says nothing, but nods
knowingly of what i speak,
and gently takes his
hand in mine.

why and what next

after a cold
ice shower, i towel
myself dry,
wrap it around me,
then lean
forward into the mirror
and examine
our patient.

i dim the lights.
such realism is unnecessary.
i check
my pulse. yes. i'm still
alive,
despite the grey
of me, the bones of my
ribs
showing. the trembling
of hand.

despite the deepening
of lines,
the carving
of life
upon my face.
i'm still here.

despite
all things. both love
and death taking their toll.
i'm still here.

still wondering why
and what next.

this gives me hope

at night
i hear the cold drip of
ice
melting.
this gives me hope.
this
puddle
on the floor beside
the bed,
almost as warm
as a hand
upon my shoulder, this
gives me hope.

waiting for you

i wait for you to arrive.
I've been
waiting for so long
in the rain and sun.
I've waited through the seasons
of my life.
my hair has thinned,
blown grey.
my shoulders sag
with the weight of waiting.
i look into the window
of each car,
each bus that passes by.
i look down both ends
of the darkening street
for you to arrive,
but you don't come. I've
waited so long for you.
I've prayed for you and
imagined who you might be,
but soon, i have to go.

ashes

nothing sticks.
nothing stays forever.
these shoes
already worn, this shirt
torn,
the buttons gone.
the pants ripped
at the seams.
even that chair in
the corner is faded
from the harsh sun.
nothing lasts.
not love, not even sorrow,
that too
has its day.
in time it all washes
away, all things in time
come clean.
our bones whitened
in the grave,
our memories caught
like ashes
in the wind, blown
blown
blown away.

at the end

there is a light
at the end of all this.
a soft blue
light
rimmed in white and gold.
I can see it
as if in the hands
of an angel.
I can feel its glow.
she stands
far into the tunnel,
far down
that gravel road.
I can see it as I crawl
on my knees.
I can see it.
I can see her smile,
whispering the words I
need to hear.
keep going, she says.
trust me.
you'll be fine,
you're almost out,
almost there.

the good night

I bury myself in books.
I dig
a trench in the yard
with a silver
spade
and toss in
the works of cheever
updike
carver and plath.
I blanket
my body
with the poems
of Bukowski,
oliver
and Whitman. Hemmingway
joins the party.
salinger and frost.
once in the shallow
grave,
I pull more upon me.
sheets of dried ink,
of other's thoughts about
the world,
about love and death
the struggle
and joy of it all.
book after dusty book
I pull upon me,
yellowed and dogeared.
stained with coffee and drink.
underlined in black.
I clean the shelves,
the bedside stand,
the boxed ones,
once read, then never
again.
all my books I stack
then tilt
letting them fall upon
me. this is how I go
into that good night.
reading, remembering of a younger
me,
wondering wondering,
savoring these faithful
joyful lights.

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.