the hollow

we learn
quickly how to get
our way.

the art of manipulation
and deceit.

to lie, to cheat.
to persuade with a kiss
or word
of kindness.

to double speak
and hide the truth
of what one seeks.

in time, with
practice
the sweets will follow
but in the end,

the joy, the soul
the life will be empty,
a world gone hollow.

a new book to read

i want a good
book to read. a deep
complex story
of intrigue and romance.
a mystery.
i want to get
lost in a thick
tale. a smart story
i can't
put down, but don't
want to end.
i want to burn the midnight
hour until my eyes
burn
and i have to sleep.
i want to escape into
the world of someone
else's life
and mind. i'm
so exhausted
and tired of my own.

he's in there

I see the glassy
yellow
eyes of the red
fox
in the woods.
he crouches in fear,
his legs
slender as twigs,
the fluff of him
is golden
as he darts
from side to side
disappearing
on whispery paws
to hide again.
he's in there.
i'm out here.
we are not enemies
but two strangers
trying the best we
can to live
our lives in peace.

colors

he can get away
with an orange shirt, a
pink tie,
red shoes.
he can dress to the nines
in a rainbow
array
of colors,
but not I.
i'm all grey, i'm all
black.
i'm blue.

the cat and the canary

I see the feathers
in their mouths,
on their lips. the canary
gone.
they know.
I know that they know
everything,
but I don't care
anymore.
let them choke on the bones
of that dead
bird.
let them swallow
the secrets
that's been whispered
into their ears.
let their vows of silence
keep them warm
at night.
it no longer matters.
i'm gone, i'm out.

the clear blue sky

there are rumors
of things
about to change.
whispers
of things to come.
what's hidden will
come to light.
there's
some truth to it
all,
some lies, but
everyone is hard
to read
these days.
even you and I.
at times it's
even hard
to trust a cloudless
and beautiful
clear
blue sky.

the trees clear

the trees clear.
the wind
pushes
against the bark.
there is no where to hide
anymore.
the slush
of orange on the ground,
hills of reds
and yellows.
the lives of others
soon
take what we thought
was ours,
but never was.

painting a room

when i move
the bed to paint their room
i see
the books,
the magazines. the handcuffs
and cameras.
gloves? a riding crop,
sharp pointed shoes.
i cover it all
with a thin sheet of plastic.
then i carefully push
the nightstand
which holds the Bible
and Holy Water
towards the center.
that too gets draped
to keep the splatter of paint
from falling upon it.

it's a start

i burn

a pile of clothes
in
a barrel.

pictures too.

love notes.

the things i treasured
go up
in smoke.

i fix myself a sandwich
and warm
my hands
against the flames.

i say nothing, think nothing.
i free
myself
from all.

i am the ashes floating up
into a blue sky.

i burn

a pile of clothes
in a barrel.

it's a start.

the oasis

his oasis of home
is dusty.
the palms,
the pool of blue
in the middle
of the living room.
the pretend
tree, the stiff
plants that need no
water, or care.
a black kitchen phone
that hardly
rings.
the stuffed
animal
on the wall with
button eyes
and a fearful stare.
the pictures of family
from some
distant year.
a box of ashes
from
rex the wonder dog.
the bed with two ravines,
where love
was made, where books
were read,
where sleep dissolved
the day.
home sweet home.

chameleon

the chameleon
appears, like magic
in shades
of pink and grey.

luminescent greens,
blues like an egg,
or jay. brushed
in stripes, in clear
clean waves.

how she slithers
along the cold
concrete
then stills
herself
for the suns
warm rays.

how
she runs
at the sound of any
foot,
or derisive
tone, or voice
sounding like a
war
drum.

she flits away,
the cool liquidity
of her, quickly
disappearing between
the cracks
of a world
beyond her.

blue and grey

i almost buy a thick
book
on the civil war.
the blurbs are wonderful.
it's the best
book, the most
comprehensive book,
the greatest
book ever written about
the war
between the states.
i pick it up
and feel the weight of it.

it would make a great
door stop should the reading
become laborious.

what don't i know
about the war?
a lot i'm sure, but do i even
care.
maybe later i'll care, but
where i'm at right now
I've got my own trench
to dig, my own rifle to load,
my own bayonette
to sharpen.
i'm just waiting for the bugle
to blow before i charge
over the hill and
blindly into the sunlight.

i flip through the black
and white
photos of the book, not a smile
on any face,
whether dead or
living.
i carry it around the store
for awhile i peruse
other books,
poetry mostly, the thin
racks
getting thinner every day.
then i set it down
among the other never to be
bought books,
then leave.

this

I miss.
I miss.
I miss.
I just have to get
through this.
and then
i'm there.
i'm there.
i'm there.

it's coming

the parents are old.
dying
actually.

the house is dark.
they can't reach to change
the hall bulb.

grumpy with their ills.
limping from bed
to bath,
from table to chair.

half in the old books.
half in
the show. did we already
see this?

forgetful of the day,
the hour.
the oven. the oatmeal
gone cold.

we'll get there too
some day.
sooner
or later. you can't
stop what's coming.

someone will bring us
the paper.
the mail,
pick up our
laundry
and groceries.
on sunday we'll get a call
and talk
about the small
remainders
of life.

sloe gin fizz

they find
him in a snow bank.
half alive.
he's smiling.
drunk on the sweet
peach of sloe gin.
his boots full
of melted ice.
he's happy as he
begins to slip away
from this life.
away from work,
the kids,
the trouble,
the strife.
let me be he says
to the men
who pull him to his
feet.
let me bring the new
year in
right. he finds
the flask
in his coat pocket
and takes another
swig,
they take home
where his wife waits
with arms crossed,
where the Christmas
lights are lit,
the children asleep,
the fire on.
the house warm.
not knowing now, or
ever how much
he will be missed.

then we prayed

at the first sign of
someone sneezing, or blowing
their nose
my mother would throw a chicken
into a boiling pot
of water.
she'd slice up a handful
of up carrots, celery stalks,
then toss in a box of noodles.

the whole chicken once
cut up went in.
neck, legs,
wings, etc.
skin and bones.
the meat going soft,
falling away in the heat.

the house smelled of chicken
soup and vicks vapo rub
for a week
all in the hope of keeping
us in school.

salt and pepper.
saltine crackers,
a caboose of butter,
hard as a rock
with a dull knife beside it.
cold milk and wonder bread
stacked on a round plate
all sat in the middle of
the table. then we
prayed.

fatima on line one

sick of me
I look for a new me.
i'm tired
of who I've become.
what I've done.n
I need a full
drenching of
holy water.
I need Lourdes and Fatima
to give me a call,
I need
saint Bernadette
and a host
of others
with halos to come
a knocking.
regrets. who is Sinatra
kidding?
he's had a few?
come on now.
each day is layered
in some form of regret.
I should have,
could have,
would have if only I hadn't
been such a dope
in that particular
moment.
the trouble is, is that
I've done it my way,
the wrong way.
the selfish
and inglorious mistake
filled way.
I've taken the low road
afraid
and full of fear
that I won't get another
chance
at love. at love on
the high road.

The Liar Wife

she can't help herself.

sick

with a variety of disorders.

anorexic,

suicidal.

borderline and narcissistic.

in love with a married man

who would never

leave his wife,

and a man

who beat her daily

and abused her.

a father figure, twenty-five

years her senior.

she'd lie about work, about

friends,

about money.

about love.

about how she spent her time.

every second she opened her

mouth a lie

fell out.

small or large, her eyes would

shift from

side to side

as i waited for the next lie

to arrive.

dumb as a rock,

she was.

everyone could see what

she was up to

and who she really wasn't.

baltimore jack

i took a wrong turn
and i just kept going, i hear
bruce
sing in his song,
everybody has a hungry heart.
i got a wife and kids
in Baltimore jack.

i took a wrong turn and i
ain't coming back.

who hasn't gassed up the car
with a pocket
full of cash.
the clothes on their back
and kept driving, or tried to.

getting there

it's a long
haul
from here to there.
am
i in, am i out.
how tired am i.
how worn
are my shoes.
i look at the mountain
before me,
the unmapped
road and i wonder
if i'm still young enough
to go there,
to get where i need
to be, finally,
or am i too old.

fade back

i dig out my
old Elton john albums.
mad men
across the water.
goodbye yellow brick road,
nearly all of them
still in tact,
still in their covers,
bent and stained,
corners torn.
i know all the words
of all the songs.
i know where the scratches
lie in the vinyl,
when to pick up the needle.
i know the age
i was when i bought the record,
where i lived,
who i was in love with,
or not.
when i spin
the music now on the ancient
turn table, i close my eyes,
i listen to that comforting static.
i'm that young again,
wishing to go back
and start over, knowing
what i know now
about everything.
i want to set the needle
onto the first track,
to the beginning and hear
it all for the first
time.

pushing at the wall

I see the crumbling
wall
behind
my house.
the wall that holds
everything in place,
the wall
that keeps
all things
from sliding down
into the ravine,
into
the stream below
and I want to save it.
I see the cracks
widen
over the years,
the stones falling out,
the bricks
turning into soft
red dust.
I put my hand against
the wall
and push.
I push with all my might.
I brace my legs
against the slant
of the soft browned earth
and push.
I think that I am that
strong,
it's the foolishness
in me,
as it is in all things
coming out.

the frenzy

my mother
and her turkey dinner.
her lasagna
and fat ham, spiraled
and sweet,
her potatoes.
and squash, her peas
and carrot,
her rows of olives stuffed
with cream
cheese.
celery stalks.
the pies and cakes
on the screened in porch.
how the room heated up
with children,
and guests.
sons and daughters
their lives in tow.
dogs. her blue parakeet
in a cage.
nowhere to sit, or go.
someone gets up
for gravy or a roll
and the seat
is gone.
but there in the kitchen,
sweating
in her holiday dress.
her apron
wrapped around her,
her hair done
just for the day,
how happy and anxious
she was
in the frenzy, in the joy
of all being
together, at peace,
snapping another and another
picture
to savor the moment,
to cherish the day.

soft fall

as work slows
and winter appears
I watch the trees
in their
final
fling of color.
letting go of their
youth,
their middle years
and now into this,
the soft
fall
of autumn, surrender,
which is a kind
sort
of bliss.

the road ahead

my loss
is upon me.
I
see no beauty in the rose.

no glory
in the clouds.

I walk
along the green
hills
of the cemetery
and feel
nothing for those
below the tilted white
stones.

I let the wind
fly
against my open
collar.

the road ahead is
not
clear.
the road behind me
is where, again,
i don't want to go.

it's all okay

October has always
been a dramatic
month
for me.
I've moved four times
on Halloween.
been married divorced
in that month.
started
therapy in October,
quit too
and started drinking
heavily.
I lost a dog in that month.
lost my
keys.

I stare at the pumpkin
on the porch
and wonder why.
but I know there's no
answer.
it's not the time about
to change.
or the wind,
the rain.
it's something else.
autumn after autumn.
the death of leaves.
the lack of light,
the disappointments
all gathering
to be burned in a barrel
before the new year
begins.

but it's all okay.

right?

five poets

they've rearranged
the books
at the book store.
it takes me an hour to find
the meager
shelf of poetry.
it gets smaller with each year.
one would think that
there are only five
poets in the world
when looking
at the line up on
the shelves.
plath and Bukowski,
Dickinson and billy Collins.
oh and mary
oliver too.
in time i'll crowd them out,
she tells
me.
making me laugh and laugh
and
go to the keyboard
to write that down.

murphy

she tells me about her cat
murphy.
long gone.
three years, four?
how we took him to the vet
to end
his sweet life.
i ask her about the radiator
in her
apartment
above the zoo bar.
if it still clanged all day
when seasons
changed.
did the elevator work?
remember how you locked
your keys inside
and it was snowing
and we had three dollars between
us to eat
and drink
on that long cold February day.

what gives

i feel lucky
so i buy seven lottery tickets.
but not a single
number shows up
on any of the stubs.
i decide to no longer
rely
on my feelings for
luck
or love.
but to just wing it
and see
what gives,
or doesn't.

once mine

i lose her.
this love.
this star.
this shine.
but there is no choice.
with life
in the balance.
i'll regret this now,
and
in time.
i'll look back and wonder
where she is.
with who.
this love, this
person,
once mine.

this weight

finally
I set the weight down.

I've been carrying it for so long
that at times
I've forgotten that
it's on my back.

at the shore
I undo the straps,
pull it off my shoulders,
release it from my body.

my muscles ache.

my skin is scarred
and bruised
from the weight of so
many years
and miles carrying this
burden alone.


I have gone nowhere with
it and I am back to where
I started.

I place it
on the sand, in the sun,
before the relentless
ocean.

there is no blame.
no regret, no sorrow
or shame.
but it's finished.
I leave the weight
and walk away.

I don't look back.

crab world

at the beach
they insist on putting
crabs
into everything.
the drink,
the eggs, the fish.
the potatoes.
they come in from Thailand,
from
Indonesia,
from
anywhere but here.
crabs.
fresh and unfrozen.
legs
and shells.
their crusty pointed
lives
ending at captain bob's
buffet,
sprinkled
with bay seasoning.

the unseen sun

i untie
my shoes, stare out
at the ocean 13 floors below.
against the sand
it rages.
it roars.
the rain comes down.
the gulls are grey
and slow to wing their way
into the water.
the earth is cold.
so easy it would be
to float
to leap and leave
to reach for the clouds,
the unseen sun
and go.

the wheel

under a harsh blue
sky
this wheel
on the playground

keeps spinning.

round and round.

my hands grip the cold bars.
my legs splayed out
on the iron
platform.

i feel the grit of sand
in my mouth.

the wind blows
back my coat,

my teeth are exposed
as I go faster,

my hair goes white
and thin.

round and round.

but I hang on
while others fall off.

I see my father disappear,
my mother.
friends become shadows,
then nothing.

it's a world of leaving
when on this wheel.

since childhood
I've been doing this

waiting to be pulled off
and saved.

near love

the father
is washed away in his grief.
whitened
from
his loss. which wasn't true love
at all,
but resembled it.
who's to know what it really was?
yes, there was dancing.
yes. there were meals shared.
shows watched, walks taken.
but not a firework went off
and exploded in the air.
there were no bubbles
in that champagne,
but now
the bathing and feeding of a near
loved one grown old
and feeble,
says everything.
no cards, no flowers, no flourish
of words are
needed. no hearts carved
into a tree.
it's the whisper into the ear,
the hand on the cheek,
the arm,
the heart of one
lying there beyond life,
beyond belief,
the tilt of a bottle, or spoon
towards dry lips
waiting for the lights
to close that says it all.

a slow death

strange how

i once loved this person.

at least the person

she pretended to be, and now

as she lies beside

me, half asleep,

i actually despise her.

i've never felt such hatred

for a human being.

and i'm married to her.

how could this be?

the lies, the betrayal.

the adultery.

the evil is so thick within

her i can smell it

like a sewer in the street.

i look into her eyes

and see nothing. i see

no one. no heart,

no love, just a skeleton

waiting to die.

the pull

this white
wafer
in the air,
unbitten and full.
waiting, watching.
being something it isn't
to help fulfill
our poetic attempts
at understanding love,
or us.
we feel it's presence,
the pull of tides,
of blood,
the incremental rise
of hope,
or despair.
we can hardly take
our eyes
off such a thing,
this full white moon
within the hand of a black
unspeaking sky.

the carrying

we speak of death
in whispers. small cups of
breath
leaving our mouths,
our lungs,
our hearts. we possessed
learned
sadness.
the culture of being somber
in its face
becomes us.
death is near, death is far.
we reach
into a place
where we love
and fear their departure,
whether surprised,
or not.
father, mother.
son
or daughter.
friends.
they never leave us, or
us them.
the weight is there.
the memory
imbedded. attached.
but
we become more somehow
with their absence.
our souls expand,
carrying, taking
them with us
into the day,
down into the night.

Holy Help

the priest in his long
shiny gown
comes calling.
he's dour
as usual.
he brings me a box
of guilt.
sprinkles me with
holy water
and assigns me penance.
three hail marys, five
our fathers
and sixteen jumping jacks while
i hit myself with a whip.
repeat
and rinse, he says.
hell
is at the end of the road
you're on
if you don't change
your evil ways and repent.
i smile. I put
a twenty into his ever
present basket, and tell
him thank you
for coming over
and cheering me up.

going full Hazel

i take down the crosses
the platitudes
of thankfulness. I
toss
the self help books,
i purge the cards, the letters,
the gifts.
the sweet nothings
which are exactly that.
i bag and burn
the lot.
i delete the emails,
the texts.
i erase and smudge
what was written in faux
love.
the vacuum comes out,
the broom.
the dust rag.
i go full Hazel on it all.
it's how i move on.
how i survive in this
world
of impermanence.
it's how i heal
from
this ephemeral beast
called love.

lost and found

a stranger knocks
at the door
with something in his hand.
it has a slow beat.
a tell tale thud.
I believe this
might be yours he says.
and hands
it to me.
I found it outside in the snow.
it looks broken, he says.
but I found it that way.
no problem, I tell
him, I understand.
I take it from him and press
it back into
my chest. it slips out
every now and again, I tell
him. but thanks
for bringing it back to me.

black bottom cake

it's a large cake.
black bottom
cake.
chocolate on chocolate.
the balloons are
black.
the streamers white.
no gifts allowed,
but lots of wine and
gin and tonic. let
the music play.
b.b. king
and tom waits.
let the saxophone howl.
there will be dancing.
singing.
reminiscing.
open the door and let
everyone in.
raise the roof.
let the party begin.

the farewell party

my old friend
who wasn't all that bad,
but
a criminal at heart. He
stands now on the hatch door
of the gallows.
the noose around his neck.
someone says a prayer.
his family cries
for him. a man of cloth says
a few mumbled words
in his defense, or something.
his hands
are behind his back,
tied tightly.
his legs together, rope
around his ankles
to keep him from flailing
once he begins to swing.
but he looks fine.
he looks at peace.
i think for a moment that he'll
get out of this too.
but no.
he sees me in the crowd
and smiles, nods his head,
he winks his wink.
the black hood drops over
his head, then
down he goes. down he
goes.

the fix

the addicts
in the alley. needled
and deboned
of ambition but that
of next
fix, the next high,
they are shadows,
ghouls
bitten by the vampire
of ecstasy.
at time I join them
and lean
against the cold wet
wall
of memory.
how quickly we succumb
to what
makes us feel good.
whether the ding of the phone,
the kiss,
the drink,
the drug. we chase forever
that high
of love,
that pinnacle of pleasure
that the world
offers falsely.
in time
the champagne goes stale,
goes flat,
the bubbles subside.

awaken and rise

the Lazarus in
me
awakens.
the flesh and blood
once cold
and blue
go warm.
I am nearly in the pink
again.
I brush off the dirt
of my grave,
rip off the shroud
that covered me.
I dry the tears
of those who stood by
and loved me
when I was under,
when I was gone.
together we lift
our glasses,
our hearts to life
and love.
we toast tomorrow
once more.

i need a parade

I miss the city.
the iron of it. the steel
blue
water
off battery park.
the up of it all.
the cacophony of horns,
the swarms
of yellow cabs,
tourists from texas,
florida
and france,
bundled trying to stay
warm.
the cart of chestnuts.
the faux watches
and chains, pictures
of the empire state building
framed and wrapped
ready to go. fools gold.
the insanity
of times square.
the sailors, the soldiers.
the broadway lights,
the tarnished glare
of it all.
never quite the same,
never different.
from the Hudson to the village,
to Washington
square the thunder
of the subway deep below. the
whistles
of cops. Chinatown and pizza.
a cross town bus will take
you there.
littly Italy.
St. Patrick's,
central park, the zoo.
The Met.
fifth avenue. I miss
the city, I need a fix.
I need a parade,
and soon.

a winters story

the cold comes
not
a moment too soon.
the boots come out.
the scarf and gloves
go on.
everything appears
that needs to worn.
let there be frost in
the air.
let it snow.
let the wind blow.
let the sky
full of grey clouds
lie upon us.
let the next winter
story of you and me,
others
be told.

to be home

the new house
needs
love.
the new floors need dust,
need dirt
from the steps
of boots and heels,
slippers
and bare feet.
the new house needs
crumbs
on the counter
a dish in the sink,
a glass left
on the table.
clothes on the floor,
a wet towel
draped
on the shower.
the new house needs
an unmade bed.
plants that need
water.
books left
opened, waiting to
be read.
the new house
like us needs to be loved
and felt
a home.

the horses pull
all day
at the plow.
the earth
needs to be dug.
things planted.

another blue bird

I scratch
the nail into the wall
of my cell.
make another mark.
grinding the dull point
into the limestone
wall.
the floor is wet.
the bars
are ice cold as I sit
on the stiff
thin
bed they've given me.
I smell
the grunge of others.
I hear
the rats
plotting their own
plans
in the tunnels.
the grunts and groans
of cellmates
down the row.
there is no light but
the bare
bulb that swings its 40 watts
over my crude sink,
my metal mirror,
my toilet.
I scratch out another
day, then look
to the window above
where I see the miracle
of a bluebird
on the sill.
he's singing a song.
I know that song.
there is hope.

the porch swing

she hands me a glass
of sweet tea.
it's amber color
collects the sunlight
as we sit
on her porch.
we say nothing.
we sip our tea and swing
gently
as the sun
sets, as the moon appears
and kisses
us with it's kind
light. we could do many
things
in this moment.
but this is good.
doing little, saying nothing.
swinging,
waiting
for the world to change
and be made right.

to sleep

i fall asleep
in the middle of chaos.
i drift
off into a dream.
a dream
i won't remember when i
awaken.
sleep
rescues me
from the day,
from tomorrow.
fatigue is a wet
coat.
but i'll trudge through
the daylight hours.
i'll get to the end of it.
to sleep once
more, dry and warm,
safe in the comfort
of sheets,
and blankets, a bevy
of pillows.

going to mars

i tell no one about
my trip
to mars.
i leave no forwarding
address.
i pack lightly.
just my silver suit.
my helmet
and a good pair of boots.
i leave
my dog with a neighbor.
kiss my
wife goodbye.
she hands me my lunch pail
and waves
as i drive
towards the rocket which
will take
me away.
i leave her a note
on the nightstand.
going to mars,
be back soon.
i hope.

unlearned

i turn my pockets inside out.
i shake
my shirt
of lint, of grass and leaves.
i kick the mud
off my boots, then
sit on the curb
and listen
to roar
of silence as it surrounds
me.
it reminds me of another
day,
decades ago.
another time.
another lesson learned,
then unlearned.

skin and bones beside you

strange how i now

hate the woman

who sleeps in my bed

a foot away.

the boney wench i married.

i hate the way she lies

and betrays.

i despise her. who she is,

who she pretends to be.

she's sick and making

me sick.

she's drowning in her own

nightmarish life

and trying to take me down

with her.

i know the day is coming

soon, but i have to wait

just a little bit longer.

i'll know when the time

is right to get her out of

my house, my life.

soon, very soon.

creative writing

your old teacher
passes away, you see his obituary
in the paper.
there he is.
larger than life.
the books and poetry behind him.
how he held
court.
kept us in laughs and wonder.
a performance.
brash and gentle.
kind
and harsh.
a pendulum swinging.
cigarette in the hallway.
a drink
after class.
laughs and laughs. but the darkness
of life
did not elude him.
his signed book is on the shelf.
his wish
for you to continue on.
to keep at it.
keep going.
write for yourself first,
and the rest will follow
rings true,
even now as I sit here at this
hour,
typing and thinking
of him.

the waiting

she waits.
she waits. she sits.
hands
folded in her lap.
he's late.
he said he'd be coming
soon.
he was on the train.
bags
packed.
hat on, the past
and road
now behind him.
she waits.
she looks up to where
the rails
disappear into
the mouth of woods.
the seasons change.
promises have been made.
she's patient beyond
words.
she knows he's worth it
though.
that the love is real.
just a little
while longer
the station master
says, looking at his
watch, then the sky overhead.
he's on his way.
he's hoping
she's still there.

around and around

my mother
suffered with men.
though no picnic herself.
her Italian
blood
full of passion.
the plates would fly.
forks and knives.
glass littered
the room.
blood was spilled, but
in the end
they'd make love,
my father and her,
have another child,
then start all over
again.

let it begin

what
lies ahead of us
means little
when the now
is rich
with pain.
tomorrow means
nothing.
yesterday is a pale
fragment of
our memory.
I want an answer.
I don't want
to be in the wind
another day,
another week,
another hour.
let it end,
or let it begin.

the empty streets

the clock on the town
tower has stopped.
the clouds
are still.
the streets are empty.
only the leaves
move
from the trees.
scattered in color.
I listen
to the heart beat
of this day
becoming night.
I put my ear to the chest
of tomorrow
to understand what's to
come,
what's wrong.
what's right.
the stones are cold
and hard
beneath my feet, but I
walk.
I walk.
I go forward as I always
have,
with or without
you.

born into this

born into this.
alone with no choice
in the matter.
i'll die the same way.

against my will.

it's not the end or
the beginning that's hard.
it's
the middle
that's hard.

the loves and losses.

the slight gains.
the meager

joy.

the thin thrills
that throw what light
there is upon darkness
and make

life bearable.
with ever fading witnesses
to the fact.

sleep

it's cold enough
for meat.
for stew. potatoes
and carrots, onions.
the slow
cook of a long fall
afternoon.
how the leaves drop
on cue.
how the sun turns white
and soft.
how sleep
seems far away.

all me

I see the wind
of arrows,
a cloud
of them arriving
as expected. i
feel the piercing of each
sharp
head
into my skin.
going deep to the places
I remember.
I have no
need for this blood
anymore. let it pour
and go.
this sting,
this outrageous fortune
is all
me. my road is my
road.

the night

a blue note
from the horn
in the blue haze.
the blue
lights
of the stage.
the voice is
gravel.
the drinks
are cold and hard.
shoes tap
fingers drum.
hearts
slow down to remember
and forget.
the bitterness is
sweet.
the night no longer
young.

cooking and kissing

it's her brown eyes.
her laugh.
her hair.
her hands upon me.
it's her legs
and arms.
her brain.
her strength and compassion.
it's her
way of forgiving.
it's all of that
and more.
not to mention cooking
and kissing.

more cake

when the cake arrives
all eyes
go upon it.
it's a big cake.
long, thick, and rich
with icing and fruit.
layers
of thick yellow
beds. soft and moist
in the light.
the candles are lit
then blown out.
were wishes made?
pieces are cut
and handed out on plates.
the crude jokes
end.
the small talk,
the clutter of chatter
is hushed.
the room goes quiet
as forks move from
dish to mouth. at times
all it takes is
sugar and butter,
cream and flour
to make people stop talking
and be silent.
we should all eat more
cake.

gone south

I drop a coin
into the slot and pull
the arm
down.
the windows spin
and spin,
then the rattle of small
changes comes
down. not much.
I try again, again.
my luck
once rich with tomorrow
has gone
south.

we say things

we say
things we don't mean.
we lie
to ourselves.
go against our nature.
protecting
hearts
and minds from the grief
we dole out.
ours and theirs. we
deceive and deflect.
defend
the sand we stand on.
we go nowhere
with this game.
round round and we go
on this carousel with stiff
horses,
plastic and faded,
melted.
never truly galloping
in the sun
across the open fields,
free and honest.
true.

free flight

the plane
shudders in the late bloom
of October.
historically not a good month
personally
for me.
i'm at the door.
parachute on, trembling,
not from the wind,
or the speed of the plane
over the bright green fields
of orange county,
but from fear.
the cold fear of what ifs.
the gut is raw
with the height. the rush
of blood
in my head.
the numbness of my feet
as I crouch at the door.
it's not like I haven't done
this before,
many times.
I hear them all yelling
at me, from the ground, from
inside the plane,
from those already in the sky.
jump, jump, jump, they say.
I close my eyes
and pray. i feel a hand reaching
out to touch me on the shoulder,
but
I don't know if it's too
push me out into the open sky,
or to hold me in place.

out of reach

I don't have enough
money
to buy what I need.
or time
to shop.
or gas to get me where
I need to go.
even love is out
of reach.
so I sit
on the front porch
and swing
and swing.
and swing.
until the sun disappears,
sinking softly
behind
the trees.

photo shopped

little is what it appears to be.
if it's almost too good
to be true, well. yes. it is.
the camera lies,
the words
ring untrue,
it's the little lies,
the small print
beneath
the photo shopped view
that speaks the truth.
what you see is rarely
what you get.
buyer beware.
whether a car, or house,
or a glossy photo
of food,
or trip to a discount room,
a flight half price.
swing back the light
like Stanley in Streetcar,
and take a hard look.
the world we live in is
so often air brushed
and polished, unrecognizable
in person.
disappointment ensues.

get out while you're young

get out while you're young
the old
man says to me
when I tell him my troubles.
don't look back.
love will come again.
cut your losses.
you did all that you could
to make things
work.
there's nothing to be ashamed
of,
it's not failure.
it's life.
they can't all be winners.
you had some fun.
the worst thing you can do
in life is to stay with
someone who doesn't love
you, or who you don't love.
the world is full of such
insanity.
life is too short.
too brief. too valuable to live
in sorrow, sadness and grief.
look at your watch, it's ticking.
look at the sun.
how many more sunrises do you
have mister.
find joy. find joy. find joy.
get out while you're young.
and don't look back.

so happy i could burst

the holidays
look like fun this year.
there is so much love
and understanding going around.
my hair stands on end
with excitement.
I've already picked out
a pumpkin to carve.
I have a new wreathe
to hang on the door.
I've purchased rolls and rolls
of silver wrapping paper
for the gifts i'll buy
for loved ones.
there are so many to give
to. but that's okay.
I like to give.
i'm a giver by nature.
I've unraveled the strings
of colored lights, taken
the tree out of the attic.
the ladder is out of the shed.
the stockings are hung
by the faux fireplace.
I've bought dozens of cards
from hallmark and have drawn
hearts with arrows through
each for all my special loved
ones.
there's a pumpkin pie
in the oven. a turkey
in the freezer. I can't wait
to make a pot of gravy.
i'm excited and full of joy
for this upcoming season.
i'm so happy I could burst.

what was that all about

I wake up startled.
it was all an unpleasant dream.
a long mysterious dream.
I shake the cobwebs
out of my head
and let my feet hit the cold
floor.
I shower,
I shave.
I get dressed and look
into the mirror.
no worse for wear.
I get coffee and go to work,
wondering what in the hell
that was all
about.

out of the storm

it's a long
trek
from there to there
in these winds.
this hail storm without
end.
but we'll get there.
be patient.
hold on.
the longest days
of our lives
are getting shorter
by the minute.
be fearless
and strong.
keep on keeping on.
one foot
in front of the other.
trust
and faith. hope
and perseverance.
put your hand out
i'm almost there.

work shop

the workshop
is hard.
the words come out of these
hands,
those hands,
those minds and hearts.
leaves
on trees fluttering
down
in the autumn of their
lives.
dreams
of fame, of fortune
don't appear, just a nice
word or two,
well done,
we like it, can't
wait to read more,
is all most
of us want to hear.

there's still time

a man in a black
suit
is looking for me.
when I see
him coming down the street
I step
into a doorway, or an alley.
I ball myself up
and crouch
behind a garbage can.
sometimes I climb up
a fire escape
and lie upon a roof.
all day
I see him out of the corner
of my eye. I can hear
his shallow breathing.
he's relentless
with that paper in his hand.
he's been following me for
years,
since I was a child,
and has come close
a few times to putting
his hand
upon my shoulder.
but not yet.
not yet. there's still
time.

the blue bird

the simple life.

normalcy.

love from the heart.

work. hard work.
the pleasures of doing nothing.

perhaps a good book.
a well crafted poem.
a walk along the shore hand
in hand.

to wake up with someone
and smile
and say yes, yes yes.
again.
and again.

i have a blue bird in my
heart
that wants to get out.

i want the simple life.

normalcy.
love from the heart.

the barrel fire

i can't purge
fast
enough.
i can't burn and bend,
break
and throw away
all the poisoned links
to yesterday.
i throw
my life into a barrel
and pour gasoline
into it.
i drop a match
and watch it go up
in a roar
of flames.
it's an old barrel.
well used. and
it will be
used again
and again before i'm
done.

the future

by chance
i run into someone
on the street that i used to know.
we're older
now.
not wiser, just older,
pretending to be so.
we make the same
mistakes over and over
again, we say to one another.
we're freaking moses
in the desert.
forty years of wrong
turns,
miscalculations.
mirages.
heat and cold.
lack of food, lack of
drink.
lack of love.
we reminisce about the good
old days.
back when.
back when we had hair,
back when our skin was smooth,
and our knees
and hips didn't hurt,
causing us to limp through
the dry sand.
it was before everything,
almost.
before wives and children,
jobs
and mortgages, bills, bills
bills,
and yards to tend to.
what fun we had.
we wondered how we landed here.
we wondered
under the yellow sky of a
low blistering sun.
we stared at one another
and hugged, shook hands.
kissed each other on the cheek,
and then realized together
without having to say it,
that the future is not
what it used to be.

a bed full of feathers

I cancel tomorrow.
and the next day too.
i'm bored
with life. my eyes have
glazed over.
my heart
beats
slowly
under the October sun.
I imagine
being on the moon.
or mars.
or some distant planet
yet named.
i could easily
or on a silver ship
travelling through
the black
clarity of space.
I find that sleep is of
no help
and the daylight hours
linger on,
linger on, linger on.
but there is hope.
i will arrive
soon.
i'll get there. please be
there when i do,
with gin
and tonic in hand
and a bed full of feathers
to lie in.

the blue of night

the blue
of night is here.
the soft
clouds of youth have
flown.
I inch
to the window
to find a sullen moon,
a yellow
lamp
holding a cat
in its shadow.
I go forward
I go back.
I understand less now
than I did
just yesterday.
I used to be
young
before I became old.

quiet

there are no laughs,
or
jokes
or pratfalls.
there is no
laugh
track no sly retort,
no double entendre,
no quip
or clever
back and forth.
there's just this.
this walk
away.
the other cheek turned.
nothing gained,
the mike dropped,
the day in flames.

they need us now

they need us now,
not then.
these old people who look
like us.
with their
walkers
and chairs, their oxygen
masks
and pills.
they need us
to be there, to go
places where they can no
longer go.
helpless now
in their aged bones.
their loose robes,
shaking
and coughing. bleary
eyed
and thin.
they need us now,
not then.
strange how things
come around
before the end.

small things

it's the little things.
the paper cut.
the pebble
in a shoe, the shaving
miscue.
the finger
in the door.
an ankle twisted
off a curb.
it's the spilled coffee.
the misunderstanding
of words.
the late train,
the early
rise.
the disappointment
of love
though
erases everything.

to paraguay

when I arrive
i'm shaky.
just off the plane.
bag in hand.
I look around at this
strange land,
with a different way
of speaking.
I go down the ramp
in the bright sun.
I see yellow birds
in the trees,
animals on the tarmac.
police men in white.
i'm thirsty, hungry.
exhausted from
the flight.
I take a cab to my hotel
where she waits for me
and says,
are you ready to begin
the rest of your life?

fixing things

she can fix
anything.
leaky toilets, washers
with bad belts.
televisions
that won't come alive.
computers
gone dead.
the sink that drips.
with her tool belt on.
a wrench in hand,
hammer and drill,
a manual, a light.
she kneels to the machine
and goes at it,
making what's gone wrong.
right.
but of course, the heart's
another thing.

for now

there is nothing
one
can do about bad weather.
good shoes
an umbrella, an overcoat
is about it.
be careful
not to think of it as
a bad omen,
or what the future is.
it's just weather.
rain
or ice,
snow. neither fair
or unfair. these things happen.
as it is with those
who cross your pass,
contentious and ill willed.
embrace it all as life.
where you are.
where you need to be
for now.

twenty minutes

the sweet silence.
the undoing,
the stoppage of movement.
thoughts
settled
by the flame
of a candle burning.
let the ripple pond
of life
grow clam.
breathe
in
breathe out.
erase, delete, subtract.
go quiet.
just the hearts soft drum,
in the moment.
no looking forward,
no looking back.

the empty house

the empty house
sighs.
it breathes in then out.

it's
almost alive.

the wind of time.

the laughter.
the tears.
all still here.

somewhere.

and love too.
both yours and mine.

inspecting the attic

the attic
was moldy, dusty.
dirty
grungy when we pulled
down the wooden
steps.
they wobbled with
our weight
when we went up,
holding a flashlight
in our hand.
we didn't know what we'd find.
what secrets
from the past lay hidden
in trunks,
or bags.
the webs
were stuffed in the rafters.
spiders scurried and sat
still.
the small
white bones of birds
and other
creatures
who called it home
were scattered about on
the pink
insulation greyed
like wool.
an ancient burial ground.
the bats, like figs
twitched
in their dreams,
their claws holding them
upside down
in the wood.
nothing up here to be
seen. why bother with secrets,
with what we don't know.
we left
and thought of different
things.

reminders

we trip
over one another.
shoes
left in the way.
purses
and coats,
things not put away.
we stumble on
the boxes
and bags,
slip on the wet
bathroom
floor,
cut our hands
on the knives
left in the sink.
there's a reminder
in every room
of who was here,
who
left, or decided
to stay.

wrestling with God

i wrestle with my
religion every now and then.
I struggle
at times with the whole church
thing, the validity of
noah's ark, and the garden
of eden. i'm
full of doubt and worry.
my faith is weak
wondering about
heaven and hell.
purgatory, really?
a weigh station for the unconfirmed
believers?
we get down on the floor
and go at it, on our
hands and knees.
we argue,
get sweaty, we spit
and gouge each other.
kicking is allowed, as is
hair pulling. but in the end
god puts me in a choke hold
and uses the old boston crab
on me, squeezing
the bejeebees out of me
with his super strong legs.
i cry uncle, and tap the floor
in surrender.
then he lets me up,
and stands over me with a smug
look on his face, then
says something like, okay,
now go and sin no more.
i shake me head and murmur
beneath my breath,
like i haven't heard that one
before. i duck as i hear
a bolt of lightning
go by my head.

the white sale

I don't own a white
shirt that doesn't have
a stain on it.
chocolate or coffee.
dribbles.
dots, drops, dollops.
red sauce
and grape nehi.
some are t shirts,
some dress shirts,
starched and ready
on the hanger,
some are white sweaters,
wool,
cotton, or a blend
of polyester
and nylon.
once the drop is on
them, it's over, done.
and back to the store
for more.

so many miles

the heart fails.
the blood pressure is high.

the pulse
races.

they do what they can to
mend,

but we're old
and worn. we're

bald tires with plugs,
losing air, with

only so many miles
left to
spin.

eat cake

I make a small
dent
in the cake with a fork.
I lift it to my
mouth. no need
for plate
or napkin, or politeness.
I just need
to taste the baked
sweetness
of a chocolate cake.
cold
milk goes nicely
with it
and a window to look out
as I
dig in.

candle burning

two
ends of the candle,
both burning.
the middle
too
now has a wick.
burn on.
sunrise
to sunset.
a puddle of melted
wax
by years end.
and what to show.
what
is the point of this
life,
these working
days
without end.

give me what i want God

what good is
prayer, if it won't get me
what I want.
if I can't
have the winning ticket.
the car, the beach house
with a pool,
the vacation to the south
of France, a few publications
with stellar
reviews.
what gives
dear Lord, I've been so
good for so long, well
lately at least.
okay, today.
I was on my knees,
hands folded
for nearly three minutes
this morning.
and sometimes before I
drift off to sleep
I offer up a Hail Mary or two.
I even put five dollars
in the second collection basket
which I don't
normally do.
(I like to get coffee after
the service.)
i'm just wondering what
more do I need to do
to have things go my way, to
get on your good side. I know
you have one,
or so they say.
you've had my list
for some time now.
I know you're very busy,
but who isn't?
i'm waiting patiently.
oh, and I do thank you for
helping me find
my keys the other day.

the thorn

a thorn
decides to pierce
the soft
skin
of your arm.
just below the elbow.
almost like
a bee sting, but worse.
it stays
in where it hooked.
thick
and curved like
a shark's fin.
the drop of blood is warm,
as you taste
the tiny lamp
of red
off a finger.
roses used
to be your friend.
roses of any color.
how things have changed.
the bundles
coming less
and less
to an empty vase.

at the sand pit

on the swings
at the sand pit,
the children rock back and forth.
swaying
beneath a harsh
blue sky.
the mothers are to the side
sitting.
talking.
wrapped in coats and colorful
scarves
picked
in a different world,
a distant time. much of
their lives are still
before them,
but it's different now.
with husbands lost in work
and weekend chores.
golf and friends.
drinking and television.
the children
want little more than to
be pushed
upwards, back
and forth. that's enough
for now.
their desires and needs
are yet
to be defined. and the wives,
as one,
have a look of uncertainty
locked within
their eyes.

who will get the mail

at ninety
they wheel him in.
having avoided doctors
and hospitals
for most of his life,
he's getting his full share
now,
at the end.
the mask goes on.
the machines whirr,
the clicking
and whirl
is a symphony none of
us want to hear.
monitors come alive
as death
approaches.
the chatter
of nurses in green
and blue,
yellow and pink,
fill the white room,
children
at his feet, like flowers
in some garden
he once kept
clear of weeds.
at ninety he's in a strange
room
with strangers.
the sea is under him.
his blue eyes
are full of fear, of fatigue
and wonder
at how quickly it all
came to this.
who will get
the mail, he whispers
worriedly through the fogged
mask, I left milk
on the counter.

waiting on a train

i'm always waiting for a train
to take
me somewhere.
waiting for the long dark
cars to approach
and screech to a halt.
it's film noir.
hands in my pockets.
hat on,
looking down the steel
rails,
the wet cinders,
grey
and black. it's late
in the afternoon
and the trees are almost
bare.
what's left of them are shades
of plum or brown.
I stand and listen
for the wheels, for
the signal,
the blow of a whistle.
i'm always on the platform.
one bag
beside me.
the life I once had
long gone.
no map, no where to really
go.
but ready, always ready
to get on board
and go.

click click click

I raise the camera,
hold it out a far as I can
go
and click.
it's me
at the beach, me
in the city.
me
on my bike, at
the lake
me walking through
the woods,
in the snow.
me
at the desk, writing.
me with a sunset,
a sunrise.
me
at the park,
the carnival,
the market,
me in front of the water
fall,
me with mountain
peaks
behind me.
me eating ice cream,
reading a book.
it's me.
just me. alone.
click.

slave labor

it's an American
thing.
this obsessiveness with
work.
how we tell others
how long
how hard the day has
been.
how busy we are.
at the shore with our
lap tops.
on the mountain
with the phone.
hardly a minute goes
by without the ding,
the buzz,
the ring
of each and every
connected gizmo.
our fingers a blur
against the key board.
vacations are non
existent. no holiday
to rest.
Saturday and sunday
mean nothing
anymore. there is no end
to any week.
we are proud of our
work ethic,
the work is never done,
who needs art and books,
films and friends,
who needs the quiet
mediation of a soft rolling
brook,
who needs fun?

the deep cushions

I remember
the deck. white with
new stain.
the falling leaves,
the fire
and deep cushions.
I remember
the music
from the window. how
the sky
went blue to dark,
full
of stars.
the drinks refilled,
the plates
put away.
how the night wore on
without words.
hand in hand.
there was little to be said.
being in the moment
was enough.

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.