the gentle splash

they sell their last house.
the sign gets hammered into
the yard.
time
has caught up
with them.
the parade of renters
is over. the painting,
the electric
and plumbing
is too much now
to deal with.
they lived there once
in the sixties.

bean bags and lava lamps.
throw rugs
and water
beds. the rooms were
full of smoke
and music,
Hendrix and Joplin,
the beatles,
the stones. books on
zen, on god, the poetry
of Ginsberg,
Frost and Whitman.


Dylan when Dylan was forever
young.
how quickly youth fades.

they're slow now, whitened
by time
the steps are steep,
the sidewalks crumbling
and too hard to navigate.
the lights too dim to read
anymore.

to a warmer climate they go.
to eat, to drink,
to bathe in the warm light
of the deep south,
to finish out the years
with a gentle splash
then swim.

the quiet zoo

the zoo is quiet tonight.

I see my life before me
as the gates
close, as the children leave,
as the keepers
depart to their own lives.

I see the wrong turns.
regret.
remorse.
I feel the sting of what's lost.

I put my head to the earth
and give
thanks for the little
I do have.

I hear the whistle of a distant
train.
the air of life escaping one
breath at a time.

where is he

the mail
hasn't been arrived
in days.
I go to the window
and look
out for the white
truck
with red
and blue trimming.
nothing.
I look down the sidewalk
for my mailman.
he's tall and lean,
Asian.
pleasant not so much
that he wants a new
friend.

he was a little careless
at times.
my mail going to someone else,
and other's mail
coming to me.
some bills were lost
during the years.
but that was rare, i doubt
i could do
any better.

I miss his quiet walk,
his gaze, his
slight smile, the tilt
of his pith helmet
on his head.
rain, sleet or snow,
he came with that brown
leather sack
weighing him down.
lightening it one envelope
at a time.

the hard work

I feel guilty.
ashamed.
the priest confirms
my feelings.
he can hardly look me
in the eye
through
the perforated screen.
three hail marys.
six
our fathers
and say the rosary
until your fingers bleed.
is that enough,
I ask him?
actually, none of that
is necessary,
just confess your sins,
He did all the hard
work
by dying on the cross.
go home and sin
no more, or at least
try not to.

veil of deception

it's the door
closed, the one with the lock
on it
that has my
interest.
it's the hidden note,
the secret message,
the cradled phone.
what's hidden and held
close
is what i want to know,
despite the pain it could
cause.
i want the truth,
not a veil of deception.

calm waters

after death
we lose contact.
the sisters and brothers go back
to their own
lives.
over the bridges
real and imagined.
they've never gone too far from
what was home.
the silence
is fine.
the arguing has died.
calm waters have returned
for most of us.
we'll be together again
though,
life has a way of ending
when least
expected.

parenting skills

my father would
flip
a quarter onto the made
bed
to see if it would bounce,
or not. to see
if the sheets
and blanket were tucked
in tight enough.
that the bed was made properly
like how it was
in the barracks during
boot camp.

that was about the extent
of his
parenting skills.

let's go

i whistle
for a cab to stop.
the door swings open.
where to he says.
new York, i tell him.
manhattan.
Chinatown.
i need some kung pao chicken
from jimmy's
in a bad way.
i'm starving, i haven't
had a decent meal
in ages. do you know
jimmy's, i ask him.
it's right next to a Greek
church.
i don't know no jimmy's,
he says, but
it's gonna take
us five hours to get to
new York.
so what, i tell him
and throw a handful
of bills over the seat.
drive on.
okie dokie, he says
then flips on the meter.
he looks at me in the rearview
mirror to see if there
is any crazy in my eyes.
there's a lot. he shrugs,
tells me to buckle up,
then hits the pedal.
my wife is gonna kill
me if i'm late for
dinner again,
he says tugging at his
turban. call her up,
let me talk to her, i'll
smooth things out for you.
i'll buy you dinner,
i tell him.
drive on.
do you like kung pao chicken?
sure, he says,
sure.
good, jimmy's has the best.
let's go.

time to go inside

I feel
the rain against
my bones.
the cold hard push
from
galvanized clouds
riveted onto the tin sky.
the drops
ping against my upturned
face.
the furrows
of my skin
lets it all roll down.
i'm tearless.
dry inside.
enough is enough.
time to go
inside.

the short drive

you don't want to open
up that can
of worms, do you?
she says.
she's cliché girl.
a bird in the hand
is worth two in the bush,
etc.
when it rains it pours.
when she's on
a roll,
well, yes.
she's like butter.
no use trying to stop
her.
she's just a kid
at heart.
barely old enough
to drive me crazy,
which in itself is a
short drive.

friday night

the bank
has all my money
but they make it hard to get it out.

I keep putting more in,
getting ready
for old age,
for the oatmeal years
when my teeth are gone.

I look at rocking chairs
in the windows
of big stores.

I think about collecting stamps,
or coins,
or taking up
painting by numbers,
or putting together puzzles
late into the night.

I make another deposit
and the young
kid behind the glass smirks.
he's thinking
about girls and food, drinks,
and fun.
fast cars
and the clubs downtown
where he can dance
all night.

been there, done that, but
right now

i'm thinking about a bowl
of hot soup
and cnn,
the antique roadshow,
a good book to curl up to
and read until I fall asleep
at ten.

fist full of pills

one of my seven doctors
is the one
I go to
to get a new prescription
of prednisone.
low dosage though.
when I get the high octane
stuff
I go a little nuts.
I want to put on my cape
and fly
around the world,
solve crime
and vanquish the world
of evil.
but the low milligrams
I can handle,
with food,
of course. it clears my
head
for a few weeks.
able to breathe again like
normal humans
who walk the earth.

the itch

it smells like
rain.
or snow.
or something wet
about to fall from the sky.
i'm bone dry
in that department.
the winter has whitened
my skin.
starched me free of
whatever summer
did last year.
i'm ready for a change.
for a new
start.
i'm waiting on a train,
for the phone
to ring.
for a message from the heavens,
telling me what
to do.
I've got an itch I
can't scratch.

pick me up at 8?

the crimson syrup
of his lungs splatters
the white sink.
i'm dying,
he says
lighting another cigarette,
wiping his mouth
with a sleeve.

what's the point
in quitting now, he growls.
fuck it.
his eyes are grey,
the blue
all gone.
the sunshine of his soul
has dissolved
into a yellow pale froth
of fatigue.

even his hair looks tired
as he combs it back
as if readying himself
for a friday night date.

i'll be okay, he says.
bending over to tie
a boot.
tucking his paint stained
t-shirt into his
white sagging pants. he coughs
and clears his throat.

i'll be fine by Monday,
pick me up
at 8?

road side assistance

I need roadside assistance.
my life
has broken down.
I need a lift,
a ride, I need
someone to get me down
the road
and into
a warm hotel, with hot
food
and a view.
someone to draw me a bath
and read
to me as I fall asleep.
it was an old car.
I may just leave it where
it died.
right there
on the highway.
it got me where I needed
to go for so long,
I trusted it,
but that's done now.
the past is past.
I need roadside
assistance, my life,
has broken down, my thumb
is out, my heart is open
for suggestions.

all night

all night
a dog barks in the yard
across the street.
I look out
the blinds
and see nothing.
he's behind a fence.
it's cold out,
the wind is fierce.
finally he stops.
he's either died or
the owner has let
him in.
I can't get back to
sleep though.
I miss the chaos.
the howling,
the sound of his paws
scratching at
the gate trying to get
out.
I listen to the wind,
the rattle of
the shutters against
the house,
the sound of metal
cans rolling down
the icy street.
the bending of frozen
trees in the woods,
ahhh. music to my ears.

crime does pay

they take
me away in handcuffs,
arms behind
my back,
after I attempt to rob
a bank with a toy
pistol.
I was running low on
money because of the shut down.
guilty of all charges.
but I don't mind.
no more cutting the grass,
taking out the trash.
no more telemarketers
calling me
up to buy things I don't
need.
I don't mind
the orange jump suits either,
or the stiff cot
they call a bed.
I could read and write,
study micro biology,
lift weights in the yard
with my new friends.
it wouldn't be so
bad,
three meals a day.
maybe I could get a job
in the kitchen
cooking up
scrambled eggs.
I didn't like my old job
anyway.
nine to five, who needs it.

when there is none

we pretend.
we wear masks, costumes.
we say our lines
accordingly. we
find our spot on the stage
and perform.
where is the real self?
the transparent
you.
the naked you
unburdened by who you
think you are, or need
to be
for others.
how we toil at the play
when there
is none.

marshall hall amusement park

I can still hear
the clank
of the roller coaster
climbing up
the first steep
hill of the wooden
dinosaur, the white
paint peeling in
the april wind.
cross hatched in wood,
planks and two by fours,
beams.
how the car slowly rose
under the weight of us,
struggling to
climb, pulled by
a chain, decades old.
the whole thing creaked and swayed.
rattled like ancient bones.
how we hung on
for dear life
as we approached
the crest where the whole
world could be
seen.
then down and down,
swiftly, falling,
our slight bodies lifted
from the steel seats,
our eyes
wide open with a fierce
wind, our lungs
alive with screams,
our fingers wrapped
tight around the bar
that held us in.
around we would go, side
to side,
up and up, hill after steel
hill, down,
the wheels screeching hot
along the way.
then finally, finally slowing
to a stop
at the flat
platform, where our parents
waited and smiled,
knowing that life
is so much like this ride,
let's do it again.

like i always do

the slightest
creak
of wood startles the cat.
she purrs and shivers
beside
me.
nothing to fear I tell
her.
lying to her
like I always do.

i remember this

i remember
the first kiss.
the last dance. the smell
of her perfume.
the beginning and the end
is easy
for me to see.
i know what's coming,
what's
not.
i can see the future,
but resist it.

i am alone in this.
i am
in a crowded room
with everyone pulling
on my shirt tail.
i forget
who i am, i remember
nothing.

i remember everything.
i am confused
and worried.
i'm perfectly content
with
how things are. i'm angry
and disgusted with myself
for being so weak.

i'm found.
i'm lost. i'm in love
with who she is,
who she was,
who she isn't. i lift weights
to gain muscles,
to feel the burn.

i answer the phone by saying,
i have no
money.
i let the sun surround me
and warm
my cold body.

i remember her in a white
dress.
the drink she ordered.
the food we ate.
the kiss
under the veil of darkness.

my mother is dead.
my father is alive and well
at ninety. although nearly blind
and deaf, and unable
to walk more than ten steps
without stopping to catch
his breath.
I've lost 7 friends
in
three years.

i think there is hope by
writing things down.

i don't think having a dog
is the answer, or drinking heavily,
but i'm willing to try.
i bake bread in the oven
and watch it rise.

i see a woman on the street
that looks like my mother,
i want to tell her that, but decide
not to, why should she feel
my pain. i leave her alone,
as she pushes her shopping cart
down aisle 6 where the olives are.

i refuse to give up. i give up.
i think about joining the army,
any army, but i'm too old too fight.
to old to kill
someone for no reason.

i'm a pacifist at heart, but
willing to take a sword
to the dmv, or to husbands who
cheat on their wives.


i want to be silent. to meditate
on the world I've created within
a world.
i want to scream it all
from
the highest roof top and let
everyone know what i know.


i want to sleep. i want to wake
up in a different world with
everything i know unknown.

i remember everything.
i remember nothing.

no heavy machinery

i buy stock in Kleenex
and sinus decongestion pills
and liquids.
the stock rises
this time of year
from my purchases alone.
the day time variety,
the night time,
the generic brand
and the luxury brand.
i try to stay away from
heavy machinery
all day.
no plowing the field,
no cement trucks,
or buzz saws.
i stick to the couch
and lean back,
relying on chicken soup,
green tea,
and slices of blueberry
pie.

spare change

I make my sign
and go stand in the ten degree
weather
at a busy
street corner.
god bless
I write.
not a veteran, not lazy,
but not very
ambitious either.
just need some cash
to see me
through the weekend.
i'd like to see
a movie
maybe grab a steak
at Mike's and have few
cold
beers.
put some gas into my
v 8 mustang.
any amount would help
my cause.
I just don't want
to crack into my 401 k,
or blue chip
stock funds, just
yet.

the other side

frozen
in
time. unable
to get
up
and walk.
my eyes are locked
down.
my mouth
sealed.
i'm beyond the shiver
of the blue
cold.
i'm
warm inside.
about to see what
is on
the other side.

the blue cover of night

unable to sleep
for a variety of reasons
I rise
and find my clothes in
the dark.
I peer out the window
at a frozen world
of grey ice
and slush.
not a dog barks, or
fox
howls.
I go down the stairs,
hearing
the creak of wood
I've listened to for
the past 14 years.
what's changed?
I feel the ache in my
knees,
the soreness of work
and age.
I wonder about the next
ten years.
what it will bring.
the woods get lighter
as the winter sun crawls out
from under the blue
cover of night.

her life

the death
of a poet goes unnoticed
by most.
a small obit
in the back page
of the metro section
of the post.
she spent her life
in the woods
wandering,
trying to extricate
what
her father did
when she was a child.
each leaf that fell
at her
feet had meaning,
each stream she bent down
to touch
was real
beyond what it was.
it never ended.
until now.

i see an island

the gypsy
smiles when she sees me coming
through the door.
she wraps a new red scarf
around her head
and pulls out the old
crystal ball.
she lets out an ugh
as she hauls it to the
round table, blows
the dust off of it.
sit, sit, she says. tea?
sure, I tell her.
earl grey with a splash of
cream.
two sweet and lows, she says,
right?
yes. I tell her and take off
my coat.
she looks at my palms first
and sighs.
oh my she says. oh my.
some year, eh?
brutal, I tell her.
well, that's all behind you
now.
not to worry. I see an
island resort in your future.
white sands.
blue skies and palm trees.
I see a tall drink in your
hand
and someone rubbing
lotion onto your back.
how's that sound, she says.
pouring me some tea.
great, I tell her.
go on.
cash or credit today? she
asks.
I pull out a roll of bills,
keep going, I tell her.
keep going.
some cookies with that tea?
sure.

i know so little

I feel the twinge of
sciatica
run up the back of my leg
from heel to spine.
I cringe at the numbness
and tingle
of it burning.
it's not old age,
or stress,
or weight, it's just
the nerve
impinging on some unseen
bone, or muscle,
ligament
or something I know nothing
about.

there is so much I know
so little about.
but the things that I do
know,
I know thoroughly,
without a doubt.

less is fine

she has frost
in her hair. go for it,
I tell her.
go silver.
go white.
go boldly into the next
phase of
your hair
life.
I show her mine
and tell her how hard
it was
at first, but no more.
I like
the shine,
the saving of time
in washing,
in combing.
a new hat fits so
nicely, less
is just fine.

soon she'll be gone

i can feel it coming.

a premonition.

the absence of her.

the final straw about to happen.

i can taste in my mouth,

the ashes of it all.

it's coming. thank God.

that my prayers 

will be answered.

finally, it's coming,

and she'll be gone.

back in time

i find a time machine on ebay
used once.
the former owner is nowhere to be
found,
although from
the dial on the machine
he may be
someplace
in the 18th century.
that's a shame.
i have the machine delivered
to my door.
there's a note on it.
be careful, this is a one
way trip, which is good news to me.
i don't want to go far.
not far at all.
i sit in the seat,
strap myself in
and turn the dial.
i push the button,
hold on for dear life,
then close my eyes. away i
go.

the session

I fall asleep
on the couch in the therapist's
office.
she keeps talking.
she keeps
telling me the same things
over and over. it's hard
not to doze off.
there is nothing new to
tell me anymore.
she takes my shoes off
and puts a blanket
over me. puts a pillow
behind my head.
she loosens my tie,
and puts my coat on a hanger.
she takes my wallet
and charges me
for the visit,
then turns the light off,
closes the door.
it's the best session ever.

one day more

I see her
in the kitchen.
at the stove.
she's mixing up something
in a bowl.
I see the ice
go into the glass
the gin
poured.
the lime cut
and set on the rim.
I see the snow fall
out the window.
I hear
the fire place
roar.
I see winter and more
winter.
she watches me as I fall
asleep
on the long
couch.
a weekend away,
just one day
more.

the blue bird inside

his time is nearly
up.
he lights a cigarette and takes
a deep drag,
letting it
soak into his rotted lungs.
I did it to myself
he says,
flicking the ashes against
the steps.
all of it.
he coughs, then spits
out some blood,
it's crimson against
the thin patch of white snow.
you'll miss me when
i'm gone, won't you,
he says,
his hard blue eyes crystalline
with tears.
probably, I tell him.
probably.
he smiles and nods.
I ain't so bad, he says.
there's blue bird in me
that I hardly let anyone see,
but I think you know that,
don't you?
yes. I know that, I tell
him.

weight of the world

the priest comes to me
in his full
black gown.
his white collar
wilted and dirty, smudged
with life.
he looks tired.
he looks
sad, dour
and done.
he asks if he can sit
for awhile
and talk.
I bring him a chair,
and listen
to his sins, his doubts.
I tell him
we're all in the same
boat
which makes him laugh.
I knew a girl once
when I was
younger, he tells me.
I loved her more than
anything under the sun.
I wanted to marry her one
day.
I wonder where she is now,
if she'd have me
back.

I bring him a cup of hot tea.
he takes it and says,
I wonder why i'm so sad
when i'm so close
to God.
I say nothing. I've got
nothing.
he stands up to leave,
sipping on the tea.
we shake hands.
I watch him walk back
to the church, down the narrow
path through the woods
with
the weight of the world
on his shoulders.
he still doesn't get it.

in times of trouble

in times of trouble
I need beef stew. I need
the house to fill
up with the scent of onions
and carrots,
meat
braised and slow cooked
in the broth
my mother taught me.
I need to see the potatoes
and carrots boil,
the sprinkling
of pepper and salt,
the celery
and bay leaves.
the cup of wine poured
in like
the blood of me.
rich and red.
in times of trouble I can
wait for the stew
to be ready.
I am patient on days like
this.
in no hurry for anything,
or anyone.
just waiting
on a meal to soothe me,
to fill the void
of cold
and warm my soul.

on ice

when I fall
on the ice, I wonder
about you.
where you might be.
I stare up at the starless
night,
cold
and harsh.
I lie there on the pavement,
and wonder
who you're with,
whose lips are kissing yours
tonight.
I could lie here
forever and never
stop wondering what went
wrong, what
could have been right.

i see

I see the suitcase
by the door.
the note on the pillow.
the taxi out front,
leaning on his horn.
I see the neighbors looking
out their windows.
I see the empty spot
in the driveway, the tracks
leading out.
I see the moon high above
the trees.
the same moon we spoke
about
so many years ago,
so many spring and summers,
so many seasons
of turning leaves,
so many hard
winters of deep snow.
I see the smile and welcoming
arms
of who you run to.
I close the door and move
on with one more glance
at a moon
that never changes.

day one or day done

the turning of the calendar
page
to the first of the new
year
means little to me.
who cares?
it's just another man
made way of
controlling how we think
and act.
forget the numbers, the years,
throw that calendar
into the fire.
every day is the first day,
or the last.
day one, or day done.

moon landing

i read where they want to
put
a colony of men
of mars,
or go back to the moon.
why?
we have rocks here.
plenty of them.
why go where there is no air,
no food, no
water, no
shelter?
why not cure cancer first?
or help
the elderly,
take care of the orphans,
the invalids,
the disabled?
why not solve one single
thing down here?
and quit looking to the stars
for answers.
look in to the eyes
of those who
need help first. that's
the moon landing
we should
be worried about.

alone

some
journeys are best taken alone.
why
risk another
life
for mine.
why bring along
a loved
one
to join me
in where I need to go?
we enter
the world against
our
will
and for the most
part leave it
against our will too.

is it weakness
or fear
that keeps us where
we shouldn't be?

moth to the flame

a moth
to the flame.
my wings are burned off.
my eyes
gone blind.
my feet are scorched
from the heat
of that light
I flew into.
turn it off and let
me fly
away into the cool
soft
night of stars
and truth.

crayons and skates

don't lose
the nonsense of youth.
don't
go dark
in old age, letting
go of
the jump
rope, the jacks, the chalk
on the sidewalk.
don't throw
away the glove
and ball,
the bat,
the bike, or skates.
don't lose
your youth in the grey
cage
of grown ups.
throw open the box
of
marbles and things
saved. that skull
and cross bone
ring,
that silver chain
with a key.
the crayons, that picture
of a loved one,
who shared
a first kiss.

shake the world

how easy it is to get lost,
to take the wrong
turn,
buy the wrong house,
order a bad meal,
kiss the wrong
person
again and again.
in our hearts we know what
we truly want.
how much sorrow we bring upon
ourselves
with indecision
and bad directions.
it makes you want to scream.
to shake
the world and make it right,
finally.

he's come undone

my poison pen
has been busy over the past month.
the point as sharp as ever.
if I could write
with both hands
I would.
let the blood spill.
no one gets out without
being wounded by my
hurtful words.
I line them and knock them
down,
one by one.
it's not revenge, or making
myself feel better.
it's just a response to anger
after a year
of being bitten again and
again by wrong doing,
to the point of me becoming
undone.

mistaking the purr

three cats arrive in the mail.
kittens
actually.
each with blue eyes
and striped
tails.
they seem thirsty
after their long trip
so I give them a saucer
of milk.
they wet their lips
with it,
the fur
going white around their
mouths.
I don't know what i'll do
with them.
I mistake their purr for love.
three cats.
I know so little about
cats,
or any feline for that matter.

i need light

black is no longer my
favorite color,
though it hardly is a color,
but the absence
of light.
how easy it is to hide
in the dark,
to cloak oneself
in black.
to pull the shades,
to douse
the lamp, to crawl beneath
the bed
and wait
life out.
I've given up on black.
I need light.

if you were here

if you were
here
i'd tell you things.
tell
you small things
that
I've never said before.
but you aren't.
if you
were asleep, i'd
lie beside you and listen
to you breathe.
i'd touch your
hand
and wait for you to awaken.
if you were here,
we'd walk
through the woods,
down by
the cold stream. we'd
find a warm
ocean to retreat
to.
we'd begin again.
if you were here i'd
tell you things
I've never said before.
but you aren't.

post card from beyond

i get a post card from my mother.
which is strange
since she died six months ago.
how are you, it says.
miss you, hope you are well.
i love you. on
the front is a picture
of the ocean,
palm trees and white sand.
the sky is a magical azure
blue. the clouds are perfect
puffs of cotton.
the world is a glossy globe
of relaxation and peace.
i turn it back over again,
and look at what is written.
it's her hand writing.
no doubt.
finally, she's on vacation.

making friends along the way

i don't smoke
but they ask me if i have one
last request before
the firing squad
takes aim
and finishes me off
in the hot Mexican sun.
cigarette, please?
i say.
and so they give me one.
i choke, i cough.
they laugh,
and point. they begin
to joke at my expense
and shake
their heads.
a drink, please, i ask.
so they give me
a glass of water.
sandwich? i plead. just
a small one,
if you don't mind.
i'm starving. i don't want
to die hungry.
tuna, perhaps, no crust.
and maybe a small pickle,
chips on the side.
they shrug and set
down their rifles.
they bring me a sandwich
and a dill pickle.
we sit in the shadow along
the wall.
we begin to talk. to learn
each other's names.
i ask about their families.
how old their children
are.
they show me pictures
of their loved ones,
their girlfriends,
their pets.
their humble homes
along the border.
then it's time. some of
them are weeping, some
are sad and can hardly
look at me as they stand
me up against the wall
and drop
the blind fold around my eyes.
they say they are sorry as
they shake my hand.
our job, they say. our job.
i hear the guns click, i
hear the leader count down,
then they fire
all at the same time.
and that's it.

starting over

I change my name.
my hair, what 's left
of it. I go to a surgeon
and remove
some lines,
some furrows
in the brow,
they smooth out the worn
stretches
along the eyes,
my mouth.
I grow a beard.
I lose weight.
I learn to write
with my left hand,
no longer the right.
I leave
no forwarding address.
I toss my phone into the river.
I'm on the run,
on the lamb,
i'm a shadow in the night,
i'm no one.
i'm starting over
this time
without the past, the present
or future in
sight.

what isn't?

the bills
are due. i line them
up on the desk,
write out the checks.
stamps,
envelope,
a ledger, old school.
i take them to the post
office,
bundled in my hand,
drop them into the blue
box.
it's a matter of trust,
what isn't?

trick of mind

distance
and time fools us.
puts a shine
on the rotted apple,
we forget
the splinter in our thumb,
the broken
bones,
the black heart
we slept on.
we paint a false picture
of what was.
whether love
or family,
friends or work. we
try and remember the good,
this trick of mind
saves
us, keeps us safe
and able
to go on,
keeps us blind to what
really was.

disappearing

if it's cancer
he tells
me i'll kill myself.
swallow a bottle
of pills,
drink heavily.
they can put me out
on the curb
after that.
food for the dogs,
the worms. i don't want
to lose my hair,
he says, putting his hand
through the thick
brown swirl, uncombed
upon his head.

i'm driving, and look
over at him,
as he coughs
up the syrup of blood.
he's
bleary eyed and cold.
he stares out
the wet window
and wonders where his
life has
gone.

i pull up to the emergency
entrance
and he wobbles out
towards
the hands that guide him
towards the end
of his life.
he turns
to wave, and smiles.
i wave and wait until
he disappears, then go.

of the essence

i put a piece tape
over my
mouth,
i bleach my brain,
cough out the moths
that have
worn
holes into my soul.
i shower,
i bathe.
i get clean.
i keep what's in me,
in me.
i shake off the debris
of yesterdays
and move
forward. time
is of the essence.

pointed towards home

he would put his shoes
on the steps,
large black or brown,
so we'd
do the same.
that's where they always
were,
until he left.

his were polished,
holding the sheen
of the stairway
light
at the top of the stairs.


but most of ours were worn
the soles turned
the sides buckled.
holes near formed.
the white sneakers marred
with the street
and woods,
the mud
of the thin creek behind us.


I look at the shoes
now
that I own. dozens.
under the bed, on
shelves.
so many of them,
some new and hardly
worn, some lined on
the steps. some black,
some brown,
but all

pointed towards home.

the wedding party

the traffic slows
for the wedding party coming
out of the church.
bells ring.
the long
black cars gleam in the winter
sun.
she's in pure white,
he's in a deep
grey suit.
flowers are everywhere,
rice
rains in arcs
from the smiling families.
friends in tears.
it's a beautiful
thing
this love,
this joining of souls.
then the cars clear
and the traffic
moves on. off we go,
there is work
to be done.

after visiting the zoo

we should
get a monkey, my son says,
as he jumps
around
in the house, from couch
to couch,
a banana in hand.
he's only
four,
but he can play a monkey
quite well.
why get one, i tell him,
when you do so
well pretending
to be one.
he jumps onto the drapes
and swings
across the room
before landing
on the dining room
table.
he makes his monkey
noises,
scratches below his arms,
shows his teeth.
i need a friend, he says,
biting on
his unpeeled banana.

resolution

i see her
list of resolutions.
it's a long
list.
goes on for several pages.
she runs out
of ink
and has to start using
another pen.
days later
she's done.
she hands it to me
to read.
i tell her good. good,
then add on
another dozen or so
for her to ponder.

how about you

she says she's happy
now
in her high rise
over looking
the interstate that rolls
both north
and south.
money isn't a problem.
she has a cat.
she still knits,
still
watches her shows
that come
on during the day,
and reads herself to sleep
at night.
she's happy, she says
again, but with a look
in her eye
that says it isn't so.
she misses
being young, being
courted,
working and living in
that whirl wind world
of youth.
I still like a good glass
of wine,
she says, taking a sip
and raising it in
the air. I have friends.
my daughter comes to visit
when she can.
i'm happy she says,
how about you?

the crazy ex wife

bone thin,

hollowed out by laxatives,

and a vegan

diet,

purging

the few calories

she took in

that day of carrots and kale,

she bends over the toilet

with a set

of boney fingers down her

throat,

then exhales.

she tells me that she wants

to leave the world,

end it all

like celebrities do

by rope or pill.

again? i say. but

i'm too tired to have this

talk again. so i shut

the door

and leave her in the room

where she's cradled

in a fetus like ball,

in darkness,

her raccoon eyes smeared

with make up

and confusion.

i go down the stairs

leaving to her woes,

and think

i'm in a bad dream, that this

is all

a crazy illusion.

turning over a new leaf

it's new years
and everyone is turning over a new leaf.
everyone will lose
a pound or two,
read another book,
attempt to be kind and nice,
to be sweet
and patient.
the lies will stop.
pies will be baked.
push ups will be done,
sit ups too.
we'll drink more water,
go to church and pray
more.
volunteer
and just be good souls
through and through.
this is the year we'll
dust off that resume and get
a new job,
we'll save some money.
take a trip
to Timbuktu.
yeah, things will be different
this year.
you'll see, just wait.
i'm going to be a different
person, fun and bright,
full of positivity
and so will you.

vacancy

there is another
road
out of this town I ask
the stranger
standing on the side of the road
with his tin
cup. he looks like
he's been in a fire.
ashen
and streaked with dirt
and mud.
I've taken a wrong turn
and can't find
my way back.
he looks at me
and smiles.
once here, you cant get
out he says.
the road you took to get
here,
ends here.
welcome home.
this is my corner, but you
can have
the one across the street,
that's been vacant now
for some time now.

the human condition

you wake up
and think about what a horrible
human
being you are
at times.
the lies, the deception.
you cringe at the hypocrite
you can be
when things get tough,
taking the easy way out,
the low road.
it's almost like there's
two of you.
the good and the bad
always at war with one
another.
the devil on one shoulder
and the angel
on the other.
it's so easy to point a finger
and say hey,
can you believe what
he's doing, while doing
the same thing the next
day.
you shake your head
and say to yourself one day
at a time.
one word, one thought,
one action. just do the right
thing
you promise yourself,
try not to be so human
for once in your life.

it all depends

would you take a bullet
for anyone
my friend jimmy asks
as we sit in the park
handing a brown
bag with a bottle in it
back and forth.
hmmm, I ask, taking a swing
of the harsh
cheap whiskey.
anyone?
probably not, I tell him.
but you never know
about these things
until it happens.
until the gun goes off
and what you had for
breakfast that day,
or your last argument
with a loved one
as you left the house
slamming the door.
it all depends.
yeah, me too, he says.
taking the bottle from
my hands, finishing off
the dregs. not sure if
everyone is worth
saving.

dogs run free

the stray
dog is in the woods.
he looks happy
in the trees,
down by the blue sleeve
of a cold stream.
the blonde brush of his hair
gleams in
the soft
light
of a low sun.
no collar, no tag,
or leash.
he's on his own.
free,
free
from whoever had him,
whoever let
him go.

real love

there was the time
we were in Chinatown in nyc.
it was near
the end of our relationship,
both done
with each other, living
on fumes, neither one
of us, as Gladys would sing,
wanting to be the first
to say goodbye.
but we were hit from behind
by a tourist
as we rolled slowly
along looking for a place
to eat.
no damage done.
we all moved on.
I remember that it was
raining, and cold.
I remember looking at her
in the early morning fog
and thinking
this has to end
at some point.
we stared at each other
with this thought in mind.
I remember that moment,
eye to eye
as we stood in the street.
the bloom of our breathing
in front of us.
hungry for real love.

the midnight oil

I keep telling myself
that next year will be different.
I make a list of all
the positive things
that i'll do and accomplish.
no more procrastinating
about anything.
i'll turn my frown upside
down.
i'll have a spring in my step.
i'll put my nose to the
grindstone,
foot to the pedal, i'll
burn the midnight oil,
and maybe just maybe
i'll stop using
clichés and be more
original. maybe.

at peace

i admire the neighborhood
black cat.
how she endures
the weather, the cold,
being put out at night
to wander.

i saw her the other day
walking slowly through
the parking lot
in the pouring rain.

not a care, not a hint
of trouble in her gait.
she's been through so
much, i think. nothing
bothers her now.

she's at peace with what
life has served her.

she almost seems to smile
with her candy green eyes
when she looks over at
me, standing in the door.

i believe she even winked
at me.

the worker

nothing is what it seems.

you look out
the window
at the painter on the ladder
at 8 am
on a Saturday morning and wonder
what's going
on in his head.

he must be cold out there.
does he have a wife,
children?
is he behind on his bills?

is he
happy
with that brush in hand,
happy to have a
job, to be working
this deep into winter.
is he in love?

nothing is what it seems.

what goes on in anyone's head
is unclear.
what they say,
what they're feeling, who
they really are
is a mystery unsolved
even in death.

this love we all want
and feel that we need, what
is it?
what does it really bring
into your life?
pain, joy, both perhaps
in equal measure?

nothing is what it seems.

I take coffee out to the man
on the ladder.
he doesn't speak English,
but nods and smiles.
he points to where I can put
the cup, then
continues with his work.

words of advice

I try to explain
to my father the complexity
of my life
right now, but he's 90
and sees only
in black and white.
his advice has always been
there's more
fish in the sea.
whether death or divorce
has occurred.
I shake my head and listen.
what is there to say.
you only want to hear the words
I love
you, and i'm here for you,
whenever
and for whatever you need.

the good life

i take the tree down.
bulb
by bulb, unwinding the strings
of lights.
the ornaments go back
into the box
marked xmas. pushed onto
a shelf in the cellar.
off goes
the tinsel, the angel
hair, the star
on top. the blanket
below
where the stand holds
tight.
the needles are dry.
it sags
in the corner.
but it had a good life
serving well
through many days
through many
holiday nights.

while the iron is hot

they say that revenge is best
served cold,
but I disagree,
I say strike while the iron
is hot.
slay the beast, the dragon
and be done
with it.
why lose another second
of sleep.
go sharpen the blade,
load the cannons,
light those flaming arrows
and let them fly,
arching like
comets into the night.

her story

her stories went round
and round.
a circus
of thoughts
flying off in all directions.
her mind
was a bee hive
struck with a stick.
each bee a word, an idea
trying to find
it's way
but never
reaching a conclusion.
but she was loved
and made
the best apple pies
this side
of the state.
so you listened and ate
her pie.
went back for seconds.

near the red barn

I take a sharp
knife
to the bark.
I sit
on a stump
near the barn.
the sun
is between the arms
and legs
of bare
trees.
there is a whistle
of wind
through the loose boards,
the rusted
roof.
I go at the thick
branch
with gentle ease.
I whittle it down
to the bone.
to the flesh.
all things must die
and become new again.

check is in the mail

the check is in the mail
I tell
anyone who
calls my phone. I've been lax
lately
with paying my bills.
lost track of time and days.
my credit score must be dropping
like the stock market.
i'm in a calendar fog.
I don't know if it's Tuesday
or Wednesday.
i'm upside down.
the new year
will set me back too.
a different number at the end.
i'll put a note
or two around to remind
me of that.

I thought I just fed you,
I tell the dog.
didn't I just pour
some water into your bowl?
a week ago?
really?

no pony

i'm surprised that I didn't get
a pony
this year
for Christmas. it was
the only thing on my list
which I handed out
to everyone I know.
my mother knew,
my father,
my entire family.
all my friends on facebook
and the real
friends too.
one pony. any color.
but no.
no pony.
I got a book,
a shirt. some socks.
some candy,
a fruit cake
and flannel pajamas.
but no pony.
the disappointment
though
will fade.
i'll survive. there is always
next year.

a late night drink

I find an open
bar
on Christmas eve.
it's late, past midnight.
the revelers have all gone home.
the wait staff is leaving,
laughing as they rush out
with cash in hand,
bottles of wine,
champagne. one drink
I say as the door almost
closes and gets locked.
the bartender
is a kind man
though and says sure,
just one
and pours me a tall one
over ice.
I find a stool and settle
in.
he tells me please
don't take out your phone.
talk to me he says,
elbows on the mahogany bar,
tell me the story
of your life
what brings you in here
on Christmas
night, alone and red
cheeked from the cold.
don't look at your phone,
or deep into the drink
I just poured,
talk to me.
okay, okay. I tell him.
join me.
and so we talk and talk
until there's nothing
left to say
that hasn't already
been said.
two stories. two men talking
about love won,
love lost.
getting old, getting back up
and doing it again.
it's Christmas eve and the bottle
is finally empty.
we're both sadly happy
and content. good night he
says and shows me to the door
as the snow
begins to fall. take care
he says.
I will, you too.

escape from cell block H

it's mostly

fear and loathing at this point.

a few

days before Christmas.

the one

year anniversary

not far away. and what a year

it's been.

lies, and betrayal.

deception and gas lighting.

no fun,

no intimacy, no joy 

whatsoever.

just tears and anger.

long sleepless nights

and days

of worry and anxiety.

it's about to end, soon, and

i can hardly wait.

but for now,

i'll lay low, and let the plan

begin.

my hacksaw is in the cake.

each year for more

the lake
is a Russian blue on this
Christmas morning.
five miles around
through woods and stones.
no boats
disturbing the water,
no one fishing.
hardly a soul
about.
the geese are on the shore
in groups
of grey threes
and fours.
it's cold. it's winter.
it's the beginning
of things.
the end of
others.
the lake holds a truth
that lives inside
me.
it's why I return
each year,
for more.

throw the dog a bone

you know something's wrong
when
you wake up
at ten a.m.
with tears in your eyes
on Christmas morning,
when you
have no hunger.
when every word spoken to you
sounds like
a lie.
the sun is a nuisance.
the cold
hardly matters.
their could be something
amiss
when you don't answer
the phone.
when your dog wants to play
and you got
nothing.
was it a bad year?
yup, but a new one awaits
around the corner.
it can't come soon enough.
clean the slate and
bring it on.

365 till next year

I see all the santas
going home,
dragging the empty sacks,
their red suits dirty
from the car
fumes.
the drool of children.
the spill of bourbon
from
flasks kept in their woolen
suits.
I see the crumbs of
cookies and pies,
the drip
of food and drinks
on their beards,
their boots.
I see the fatigue of
red in their eyes.
another season under
their belt.
they did what they could
to bring
happiness and joy
to those
who need it most
and now they go home
to sleep it off.

the abandoned mine

the abandoned mine
has a sign
outside. do not enter.
danger.
your life is at risk.
stay away.
I can't help myself
and go in
with a small flashlight
attached to my
forehead. I carry
my yellow canary
in her small cage.
my dog comes too.
we explore the danger.
going down into the wet
black
depths of an old cave.
we like the fear.
the essence of uncertainty.
chaos is our home.
our comfort zone.
we like when the earth
shakes
and the debris of the mine
rains down upon
our heads. the wood creaks.
it's childhood all over
again.
home sweet home.

what is true is seen

ah, the clues.
the finger prints, the foot
prints.
a hair, a fiber.

an unlatched door.
the window
ajar and left open.

the drip of water.
the smell of smoke.

a picture tucked inside
a book.
an amulet hidden
in a pouch.

you don't need to be sherlock
to see
what's going on here.

under the bed.
in the closet

in a mailbox with a key.

the eyes tell it all.
the voice.
the tremble of hand.

what is true is seen.

the tree

the tree lights
remind me of something.
of someone.
some decade. somewhere.
it was cold.
it was winter. another
Christmas.
another time. another age.
another world
where I once
resided.
the tree lights remind
me of so much.
and this tree too will be
a memory.

his job

it was nothing for
Benito our house keeper to
pick up the litter
of new born
kittens still cloaked
in blood
and toss them into
a burlap bag.

he'd walk them to the
the Mediterranean Sea
and drop the bag
into the cold green water
until the job was done.

no words. no remorse.

it was the way chosen
to the keep the world
at bay. it was his job
among many.

this was my life

the attic
is where I am today.
i'm into the basement too.
the deep
corners of closets I haven't
peeked into
in forever.
i'm digging into coat pockets.
finding
slips of paper,
notes in between the pages
of books.
cards and letters.
scraps with phone numbers on
them.
i'm reconnecting
with my past.
looking at old photos
and wondering what happened
to each and every one
of these young
faces still young by
kodak.
i'm in the attic.
sitting in an old chair.
I smell the rot of wet wood.
I hear the flutter
of bat wings,
the tapping of mouse hooves.
the boxes all around me
are open.
there is joy, there is pain.
this was my life.

going electric

i watch a show
at seven in the morning on
the mysterious reappearance of bob
Dylan's electric
guitar circa 1964.
some words he wrote on scraps
of paper
are in the case too.
the skeleton beginnings
of some masterpiece.

they find out it's really is.
the handwriting matches.
the grain in the wood is the same.
there's a picture of him
holding it in his hands.
it's the one he played
at Newport when he
went electric and they were
going to cut the cable with
an axe.

judas they called
him. how dare he
bring such a racket to this
crowd of folkies.

i wished they'd give it back
to him though.
let him strum it one more
time and change the world.
let him plug it in
once again
and tell everyone about
highway 61.

what fun

I buy myself
a power saw for Christmas.
a gift to myself.
it's a black and decker
with variable speeds,
both battery powered
and electric.
it has several blades.
some for trees
some for hard wood,
one for soft wood
that needs to be cut gentle.
I can hardly wait to plug
it in and start sawing
stuff down the middle,
to tear it all down
and begin to build it all
up again.
I have a new hammer too,
oh and a large heavy
crow bar too.
what fun.

click click click

there is no original
sin.
they are all old and dusty.
used
and reused.
the ten commandments
are apparently just suggestions
to most of us.
those tablets held by
moses, those words
carved in stone
are simply an ancient text
no longer in need
in these modern times.

people used to be scared
when the car
was invented.
how the lonely and
disappointed will stray
from their mates
and find love
in the next town,
so easily reached
with a tank of gas.
but now sin is just
a click away by phone
in the bathroom
with the door closed.

rosebud

what do you want
for Christmas santa asks me
as I sit on his lap
with my finger on my chin.
I don't know,
I tell him. I have so much.
a house, a car,
a good job,
my health is fine,
my son is somewhat happy
and living in
the sunshine of southern
California.
well, well, santa asks,
looking at the long line
of children
getting fidgety behind
the velvet rope.
i'm just not sure, I tell
him.
of course I want peace
on a earth
and a new president,
and hunger
to be eradicated,
not to mention saving
the environment, but
those are all givens.
love and happiness, as
al green sings, would be
nice to.
just tell me santa says,
I don't have all day,
plus you're killing my leg.
how old are you anyway?
okay, okay, I tell him.
I got it.
I want a new sled, the old
fashion kind made of wood,
with iron runners
and rope. one like I used to have
when I was a kid.
that's it? that's what
you really want?
yup.
good lord!
okay. get out of here.
next!

been here before

I've been here before.
in another life.
this all seems familiar.
the same
words,
the same situation,
the same everything,
all day
all night.
I know this place
i'm in.
I know this door, this
stairway,
this room. this bed
where I sleep.
i'm doing my life
all over again,
will I ever get it
right?

rosie

she's handy
with her hammer,
her screw driver and pliers,
her level and
drill
tucked
inside her
tool bag wrapped
and snapped
around her waist.
she can fix anything,
I hope.

one bathroom

we had one bathroom

at the top of the stairs

of the brick duplex.

there was always a knock,

at the door.

a line of begging

voices with shoes doing

a jig.

one hardly
had time to take a bath
or finish a
comic book in there.

don't use up all the hot water
was a common
lament.
eight toothbrushes
were lined in a row
along the porcelain sink.
the bar of soap
whittled down to
a communion wafer.
but somehow we managed
to stay clean,
to stay brushed and combed
and presentable
to the outside world.

the new saint

in his later
years they deemed him a saint.
all sins
forgiven
all memory of the pain
he inflicted
now faded in the light.
fragile and ill,
his halo
sits
above his brow,
the pages of his story
have all been
torn out.
he's outlived his
enemies
he's won. in the court
yard there's a statue
of him now.

this face

this face.
these ravines.
the carving of age
and
gravity.
the worn mask says
so much
about the joy,
the pain
endured.
the loves lost,
ones gained.
what else is there
to know
but to look into
ones eyes
and see
how their life did
go.

the house plant

it was a common
house plant. green with leaves.
a stem or two
jutting out and up
always leaning in the direction
of sunlight
which was scarce
from my balcony view.
who gave it to me, I don't
know.
did I purchase it on
a whim,
was it here before I moved
in?
but it grew despite my
general lack of care.
just a water can to pour
into its dry pot, few words
were shared
between us.
I felt for it though.
seeing it
sometimes littered with
a cigarette butt
from a visitor or two.
a chewed piece of gum.
a wrapper. bottle caps,
a button come loose.
such indignities never seemed
to bother her though.
she stayed green.
she stayed true.
such a friend I've never
known before. no one has been
so loyal and kind,
so understanding,
not even you.

in the early morning

I buy a box
of donuts for the painters
working outside
in the cold.
four cups of coffee.
I hear the clack of ladders,
the chatter
of their lives
as they work, their arms
moving with
a brush or roller,
laying on the greys,
the whites.
they smile and say
thank you in another
language.
their faces are red
and raw from the wind
and cold.
I wish there was more
that I could do for them,
and they look at me,
deep into my eyes,
and wish the same.

baby it's cold in here

lying beneath
a thick blanket I get up
in the middle of
the night
and turn the heat up.
it's snowing inside
the house.
there is ice on
the windows.
I spread a bag of road
salt going up the stairs
and put out some
orange cones leading
into the slippery
kitchen.
I see the dog stiff
against the couch.
I breathe into his mouth
and bring him back to life.
I make him a cup of hot tea
then carry him upstairs.
it's cold in here.
I call up betty and ask
her if it's snowing in
her house too.
she says yes. brrrr. it's
cold as hell.
I tell her, I thought
hell was supposed to be
hot. she laughs. I guess
you thought wrong
buster brown.

false prophets

question everything.
everyone.
see through the rhetoric
the thick
words of manipulation,
see through
the sales pitch,
the flim flam.
don't follow the bouncing
ball.
read all the fine print.
don't inhale the smoke.
disregard those men in gowns
telling you what sin
is.
telling you how to run
your life, your marriage
your money.
your children.
they are insulated and
dour, there is no joy
in their hearts. they are
full of fear and misgivings
about their lives.
don't drink the kool aid
of that church.
go and worship. but take
it all with a grain
of salt. they are not
gods, they are not Christ,
they are mere men, like me
and you. beware of false
prophets, they are here
among us.

Merry Christmas One and All

we play house,

a tree

goes up in the corner

for Christmas,

a string of lights,

a few

store bought ornaments

are hung.

a few

gifts are wrapped

and set below 

the dried out needles.

there is no joy

as we go through the motions.

if only she knew how much

i hate her,

would she finally leave?

if she only knew how

i cringe when i hear

the door open,

the jangle of her keys

when she comes home 

from work,

the heels coming

up the stairs, maybe then,

maybe then,

she'd go back to her married

boyfriend,

her felon ex husband,

her life of lies,

and leave.

back in the night

back in the night
we used to go downtown
to drink
and dance. search
for love.
the four or five of us
packed in one car.
dave and josh,
steve and jim acs,
perry.
miller lites in hand.
a few smokers
with their Marlboros.
we would close the joints
down, sweaty and tipsy,
then grab a hot
dog on corner of M
and 19th.
we were full of ourselves.
leather coats
and wide collar shirts.
flared pants
with boots.
we were brothers for those
short fast years,
until life
came along and took us
away. it's still taking us,
farther and farther away.

you're going to live

I like my new doctor
she's not like the last
one. gelda von stroppenheimer.
I don't know what happened
to her, although I heard
an intern whisper the word
deportation when he was pushing
a wheel chair down the hall.
whatever the case may be
she just plum
disappeared.
what she lacked in bedside
manner
and common sense, she made
up in....in.
well i'm not sure what,
but let's just say, she was
punctual and leave it at that.
the new doctor has an espresso
machine.
she has candy and treats, up to
date magazines.
and wi fi.
there's art on the wall,
green live plants in the corner.
low music playing.
I almost want to order a drink
when i'm in her office
and ask someone to dance.
patients often get up and leave
after sitting there for a few
minutes. healed by osmosis.
I should make an appointment
for her to check out every single
liver spot on me.

the church is cold

the church is cold.
the pews
are hard
and empty.
we listen to
the message.
it's stale. it's old.
just a few have come
to listen
and repent.
there's me.
there's you.

whose blood is this?

whose
turn is it?

husband or wife.
spy versus spy.
is the game on,
is the stealth enough.
are the prints off
the knife.
are the shoes full
of mud,
whose blood
has leaked along
the dark road.
who is the cat,
who is the mouse,
who creeps
along
the walk way
approaching a darkened
house?

the deep

the water
deceives you. it's
deeper
and faster
than you realize.
you step in
and feel the surprise
of the hard
surge,
the tug and pull
of what rules
the earth.
there is no fighting
it.
just go,
let it take you where
you need to be.
from creek
to stream to river
to bay
then ocean, up
into the air
to begin again.

the sky is dark

there is someone
in the hedges.
a car rolls by,
a cough,
a stumble. footsteps
in the street,
a shadow
eases in and out
of sight.
the rattle of keys.
the sky is dark.
suspicion,
accusations.
something's gone
amiss
something's not right.

not every apple

not every apple
gets picked
and bitten into, enjoyed
and savored.
no less sweet
than the others,
no less red or green,
some just fall to the ground
or die on
the vine,
never to be known,
or loved.
or to have seeds taken
from to be grown

i need coffee

it's raining.
I need coffee. I need to
get out
of this room
this town
and stretch my legs.
I need a new
book, a new idea
to write about.
I need a kind voice
on the phone.
a human touch.
I need arms around me
telling me
not to worry.
everything will be fine.
you'll see.
I need to get out of this
bed
and out of my
own head.
it's raining.
I need coffee.

nothing

so much
is out of your hands.
there is little
you can do
to control what others
do,
what others think.
their behavior
is beyond
your control.
so what to do?
nothing.
we are human.
people will always fail
you. lie and betray,
it's the way
of the world.
get used to it
and try not to do
the same.

the christmas prayer

we make our lists.

our christmas list.

our wish list.

but there is nothing

material that i want.

not a single thing do

i desire or need.

i just want my cheating

wife 

to be gone.

for her to leave.

to take with her all

the pain and lies with

her. the sooner

the better.

i don't bother telling

santa,

instead i fold my

hands together,

get down on my knees

and plead.

we let go

we let go,
release our hands
from the grip,
we leap
and fall into the warm
abyss.
we empty our minds,
our hearts.
we get clean.
get fresh.
go back to who we once
were so long ago.
we start over
vowing to never again
stay dark
stay sad
for so long.
let the new year begin,
as the old
one fades
into the past.

the pharisees among us

the church
can be a wonderous thing.
a place of comfort
and love.
guidance and wisdom.
but it can also
be a house
of pain, of guilt, of
man made,
unbiblical
rules and more rules
that darken our hearts with
the inability to follow
them day in
day out.

do this
or go to hell.
you'll never get to heaven
unless you
obey our strict
man made rules that have
nothing to do with the message
of Christ.

kneel. sit. stand.
sing.
pray.
do this do that. follow
what we say, or else
off you go into the lake
of fire.

what folly
there is in so much of it.
the Pharisees
are still among us.
there they are in their long
gowns, their hats.
their gold
crosses, their ornate
palaces of worship.

compassion and forgiveness
is all that
matters. faith and repentance.
Christ died on the cross
to end
this madness
and yet it's still here
making people
miserable.

roadside motel

I hit the road
and search for a beat up motel
in the middle of nowhere.
twin
beds. fine.
no room service, fine.
no cable. no phone. so what.

i'm good with a vending
machine
outside the door.
a sink
a tub
a toilet.

no need to get undressed.
I wont even put a quarter
in the machine to get
the bed
to vibrate.

i'll just
lie there for a few
days
and let the cold hand
of night slap me around.

i'll let the sun rise
through the thread bare
curtains, the bent blinds.

i'll listen for a few
days
to the couple on the other
side of the thin
walls arguing
about
all the things life serves
up without reason.

i'll smell the stain of smoke
from decades gone, saturating
the flowered
bed spread, that love
seat against a green wall.

i'll rub my nose at
the stench of spilled beer,
bad liquor in the shag carpet.

i'll ignore the cracks
in the ceiling. the drip
of the faucet. that bug making
his way up the wall.
his whole family behind him.

i'll pretend not to notice
the vague despair of broken
hearts that lay here before me.

I'll take the Gideon's Bible
from the drawer
and turn it randomly to a page,
putting my finger
on a line
and believe that it's God's
specific message to me.

then i'll leave and get well.
as I always do.

don't know jack

my friend
jack
tells me what I should do
with my life.

he's so wise
when he's had a couple
of cold ones.

he's got all the answers.

but after three, he's
got nothing.

with one drink,
he's Gandhi
with two he's albert
Einstein and
freud
wrapped into one.


but after three, he's silly.
he's pee wee
herman

with the giggles, which
I actually like better.

rinse and repeat

why the glum
puss
my therapist says, smiling
in a therapeutic way,
crossing her
legs
and studying
my body language
like a cat on sill
staring out the window
at tweety
bird.
oh, you know. I tell
her.
same as last week.
rinse and repeat.
rinse and repeat.
wash me clean doc,
then hang me out to dry
in the cold December
air.

hooked

the fish
he pulls from the river
wants no
part of this display,
it has no
desire to be weighed,
to be in the pan,
to be scaled, and cut
fileted.
life was so wonderful
a few minutes ago.
the salt
and brine, the seaweed
below,
the thick sand, and rocks
from eons
of the earth turning,
the rain falling,
the blue and green
water
forever a safe place
to live
and love, to play.

those blue suede shoes

I get in line
for a lobotomy at
the local
insane asylum, I also
sign up
for three electro shock
therapy sessions.
you pay for two, but
get the third one
for free. I get the Sylvia
plath special, which
cranks the volts up extra high.
the line is long,
but it's been one hell
of a bad year
psychologically and I could
use some serious
cranial zapping. it's well
worth the wait
if I can clear my
mind of the last 365 days.
just shake and clean
the whole thing up like one
of those etcher sketch screens.
I meet napoleon and
Moses in the queue,
both have a cup
of coffee
and a scone, which they
refuse to share.
mary Magdalene
and
joan of arc are there too.
love the robe, joan
says to mary.
silk? oh, this old thing,
she says. something I found
lying around in the tomb.
as the line slowly moves forward
we have a lovely conversation
about the world
at large, about our
love life, our
work, our children
and parents, how they didn't
hug us enough.
everyone laughs when that
comes up.
so what brings you here,
I ask one of several Elvis's
standing there
in his rhinestone
white jump suit
and a hound dog
at his side, ah shucks mister,
he says.
same old, same old.
i'm bluer than my shoes,
he says. just plain blue.

jumper

when I leave
the house I see my neighbor
with
a snarl of jumper cables
in his hand.
it's cold.
there's ice on the windshields.
the thick frost
of night hastaken hold.
jump me?
he says.
okay, I tell him
and pull my car around.
it's the third time
this week.
I suggest that maybe
he needs
a new battery, to which
he says, yeah,
you might be right.
I point at his front left
tire that is beyond
low. he nods
and says. man.
I give him the jump.
with the cables clamped
I churn my engine,
and away we go
once more.

come sit next to me

she's old,
but still has retained
her sense
of self,
of mirth and mischief,
of
pointed
observations that prick
the skin.
she's a walking antique.
if you don't have anything
nice to say,
come sit next to me
she says, not unlike
Alice of so long ago.
so I do.

the ocean has been here already

I find my calendar
and
black out
the dates I once thought
to be
memorable.
my phone is purged.
my emails,
my paper mail.
my infatuation
that turned into a love
trail.
I etch out
the stone where I carved
initials,
I chop down the tree,
then go to the dark
sand shore
where I dragged my
finger into a large
heart
of her and me,
but the ocean has already
been there
and taken care of that.

the masquerade

it's a masquerade,
a ball,
a dance in suits
and gowns where no one
knows
who anyone really is.
who's behind
the smile, the frown,
the shy
mask worn as if it's
a true self.
even the priest is
wearing one,
hiding behind
his holy personae
as he sprinkles holy water
upon the crowd.
his secrets and sins
are just as
bad as ours, but for
him, where is there
to turn, when can he pull
the mask off
and say this is who
I really am.

that cat

the neighborhood cat
is jet
black. long haired with green
eyes.
she reminds me
of someone I knew
in college, a thousand
years ago.
the same meow,
the same slow gait in
her legs as
she came towards me,
needing
something I couldn't
give her.

bone dry

we have a talk.
another talk.
another deep self analyzing session.
it's grueling.
it goes nowhere.
it's a circle.
I've said the same things
for over a year
now.
nothing changes.
more distrust.
more deceit, more lies.
more smoke
and mirrors. I sigh.
there are no
more tears
inside me.
i'm bone dry.
I look up and see the vultures
gathering.
waiting patiently.

cheer up

I cheer myself
up
with a cup
of crazy,
a big bowl of nuts.
I imagine
i'm on a deserted island
with no
one else around,
except for one true love.
the trees full of fruit,
the ocean
full of fish.
the sun warm,
and a freighter full
of books
aground
on the coral reef.
oh, and an open bar
with a bartender
who delivers right to
the sandy beach.

when the lights go out

my father
despite his failing
vision,
his muffled ears,
his wobbly
legs
insists on living alone.
no
senior home
for him.
no spoon fed meals,
no lights out
at ten.
he'll go down
swinging.
doing it the way
he's always done it.
fiercely independent
of everything
and everyone.
and when the lights go
out,
when it finally
ends
i'll be happy
and grateful
for who he's been,
not just a father,
but a close
and loving friend.

the truth

once
the truth is known,
the light shone
brightly

on the lie,
it's
hard
to believe
what else
is true or false.

what else is unknown?

what words
can be trusted.
actions.

one lie, two,
three.
tips of icebergs
beneath the cold
green sea
of doubt.

it makes the liar
not stop,
but instead be more
careful to cover
their tracks,
delete deny
and mask.

bad motel

it was a bad motel.
but it was raining.
cold. we were tired
of driving.
look, over there, she
said.
pointing to fluorescent
lights
holding only a few
letters in
the word vaca..y.
the room smelled with
the years
of other men
and women, children too
bunking down
on the stiff mattresses.
sharing the lights,
the bathroom.
no cable, no ice, no
complementary breakfast.
just a vending machine
with crackers, cigarettes
and cokes, outside.
but we were in love.
and love would
make it all okay.

room without a view

she's in
a cell. a cold dark
damp
room
in solitaire.
punished.
whipped and beaten
with silence.
she needs
to learn a lesson.
don't cross
the warden,
there's room for
you too
if the line is
crossed.

ruby or gold

i look through
the looking glass, the long
mirrored
sheet of clean clear
tempered glass
at the jewelry store.
what to buy for a loved one?
what possible
ring doesn't she have,
what bracelet or
necklace, or amulet
or broach is not in her
box, not tucked away in
some safe place,
rarely displayed.
a diamond, an emerald,
ruby or gold.
what says too much, what
says too little.
it's hard to know these
days
which way to go.

a cold comes on

a cold comes on.
he sniffles, she coughs.
they
slip into big
clothes,
hold
a bouquet of Kleenex
in their hands.
the water
boils,
the blankets go
on.
tis the season
of snow,
of fever of lights
on the tree
blinking,
the endless playing
of holiday
songs.

early is the time

early is
the best time to write.
when most
are still in bed,
asleep,
husbands and wives,
children,
the lost and lonely,
the single
souls,
the infirmed lying
in strange beds.
before the sun rises
is the best
time to sort through
the lines
that mingle
in your mind,
waiting waiting for
your fingers to go,
to write them forward,
with or without a
rhyme.

coal this year

it's Christmas lite
this year.
no eggnog poured, no
mistletoe hung,
no tree
in the corner with
lights and ornaments.
it's a gift card
kind of season this time
around.
no carols sung by
the open fire, no chestnuts,
or gifts with bows
and ribbons,
with the words love you
always thanks for a wonderful
blessed year.
the stockings are empty.
Santa will fly by,
the elves too.
the reindeer won't even
take a look,
no need to set out a slice
of pie
or glass milk for him.
it's coal this year
for you.

broken

it's a mystery
how brokenness works.
the length of time
it takes
to crumble you into
splinters
and split boards.
how much longer can you
go on,
with your glue and nails,
your hammers
trying to put yourself
back together again
only to be stepped
on once more.

bad part of town

your life
once a bowl of cherries,
once
a piece of cake,
a slice
of pie is different
now.
you've detoured off
of easy
street into a bad
part of town.
the fruit is rotten
in the bowl.
the flies buzz,
the mice are in
the cupboard
a line of muggers
have taken all you have,
left you
gagged and bound.

seeing further

i lie
down in bed
shoes off
clothes removed.
head on a pillow.
the lights gone.
i stare at the watery
shadows on the ceiling,
then through
the ceiling.
i can see the stars
align,
white pricks in the black
cloth of night.
i see
the carved face of a lonely
moon,
unvisited or
thought about, expect by
poets and children
for so long.
i see farther,
i see the shortening list
of tomorrows,
of things to do.
i see no heaven, just
the winding down
of my imagination,
my universe such as it
is
coming to an uneventful
close.

the cold paint

I hear
the painters outside
scrapping
at the side of my house.
the clang
of ladders as they rise
and rest
against the brick,
the sills.
it's 33 degrees out
and the paint won't stick.
but there's a job
to do,
money to be made.
they are bundled like
robbers,
only the eyes show,
or lips
when they take a break
to smoke
and drink coffee.
they arrive at first light
and will
leave
as the winter sun melts
yellow
behind the trees.
the paint will last a week
or so,
never curing, or drying
in the wet
cold air.
but it's work
and Christmas is coming.

lawyered up

lawyered up
my
dog
appears before the court
pleading
not guilty
of all charges.
he's washed and clean,
his nails trimmed,
his teeth bright and white,
which I can tell when
he snarls at me
across the courtroom.
he shakes his head
at the bevy
of evidence that has
been presented.
the chewed
sunglasses,
the ripped pants,
the leg of a chair,
the cushion,
the window sill,
the rug where he
sunned himself
thread bare
and torn.
a wad of money shredded
and eaten
then spit up into a green
presidential ball.
he raises his paw
to be sworn in and
gives me a look.
growls and bares
his teeth.
i'm in trouble, deep
trouble
if he gets out of
this and comes
home.

new born

from hand to arm
the new
baby goes,
swaddled in a fresh
cotton
shroud
to keep him warm.
how we love
new life,
how we want to hold
what tomorrow
can bring,
what this child will
mean
to a mother,
a father.
what joy there is in
new life.
pass him around
one more
time
and say a prayer
that they will get it
right.

a silver bird

a small silver
bird
appears in a dream.
she's lovely
on wing
the low winter sun
holds her
bright
in my eyes.
she's hope, I say
to myself.
she's what tomorrow
will bring.

another christmas

someone at the party
says
left skip Christmas this year.
let's not
go to the mall with a list,
go online
with our credit card
to just get it done.
let's not bake a single
cookie
or sing
a single carol,
or hang a bulb onto a silver
tree,
or tinsel.
let's skip Christmas
someone says, but
the drinking goes on and
the mistletoe gets hung,
the feast is on the table,
the gifts are
there, kisses are made
white Christmas
gets sung. another year,
almost done.

flame out

the poet
and her oven, the flame
doused.
the doors
sealed,
the children safe
in their cribs.
the gas
turned high, her
second, her third
her final
try.
brilliant and brittle.
she left so much
on the table,
so much, so many words
unwritten
left behind.

manipulation

it's so easy to see
from the outside looking in,
the faults in others.
their achille's heel.
their foibles and mistakes.
it's so clear
how they are manipulated
and lied to.
promises, promises
that never get answered.
how easy it is for them
to accept gifts and cards,
flowers,
and jewels and think,
oh this is what love is.
he put our initials
in the sand, carved
them into a tree with
a heart, so
it must be true.
soon, soon, he'll be mine.
and yet they don't see it,
don't see the obvious truth.
everyone else sees it but them.
they go through life
trapped. gaslighted.
tricked and fooled.
forever lost,
and unknowing when love
really happens.

undone

tomorrow i'll find the courage
to do
what I need to do.
to say the things that need
to be said.
i'll summon up the bravery
buried deep
within my soul
and speak clearly the words
that stick
to my tongue.
i'll force them out
and finally let it all
come undone.

nowhere

we have no plans
to go anywhere.

we are here to stay.
to live
out
these days
in sublime quiet.

the memories are thin
frayed sheets upon us.

we have books.
we have

the television.
food and drink.

we are here, but
we are nowhere.

we are growing older
and older.

we have the past to keep
us warm
on our cold
winter days, approaching.

the other room is hers

the other room
is
hers.
the secret
place
where doors close,
where shutters swing tight
into darkness,
the dry wet weeds
of hidden
things.
mementos of past loves.
the closet dark and forbidden,
the drawers
locked
tight.
the bags
and bags all bundled shut.
what lies
beneath the layers
of this world.
these layers of sediment
and guilt,
this shadow world of
yesterdays.
who is she.
what have I not seen,
what is there
to this person
who sleeps beside me
that I don't already know
or don't want to know.
the other room is hers.

mirage

some souls
lost in their own
desert
of broken hearts
keep crawling under
the sun.
nothing stops them.
they
no know other life
than
to stay thirsty,
to stay lost,
to stay heart broken.
a drop or rain
or two
keeps them going though.
a morsel of food.
that mirage
in the distant
wind blown sand
gives them hope.
she likes to give them
hope.

the etchings

so many pet names
they have
for one another.
silly and cute, fun
and loving.
their initials carved
on the trunks
of all the trees
they passed when
meeting secretly
along the wooded paths,
the hearts on napkins,
or against the wet
concrete wherever
found.
in the sand at the shore,
in the dirt,
upon a layered cake
thick with icing.
a heart, an arrow.
such love the world has
never known.
an anniversary for everything.
with love always.
how sweet, so sweet
it almost makes your
teeth ache with such
displays of adolescent
confectionary
affection.

simple joy

the boy
skipping the stone with his
father
near the pool
of sky
blue,
talking with one another.
him gently showing
the boy how to hold
the rock,
how to let if fly
and glide across the still
water.
skip skip skip, then splash.
what joy there is in
that.
what simple happiness
they'll share.

just one day

I just want
one normal happy day.
one twenty four
hour spin around
the clock of
no angst, no sadness,
no one lying to
me, betraying me.
no anxiety
with the constant
swirl of a roiling
ocean.
one single solitary
day of joy, of
peace of
love and compassion.
one day
of clear skies
and calm
water. one day.

taking a stand

i'd like to think that i'm
not a violent person, that I've
evolved into a more gentle
and compassionate human being.
i'd like to think that I've
embraced some sort of peace
with the world, that i've
conquered the demons within
the dark part of my soul
and moved on. i'd like
to think that I've grown
with higher learning,
with spirituality,
always trying to do the right
thing, but there are times
when there is evil in this world,
when there are
manipulating lying predators,
sick people
that threaten your world,
that have no boundaries and
disrespect you, take
you for weak. it's then that
you have to take a stand.
sharpen and focus
your anger, put on the armor
of righteousness and go
to war.

be happy that way

I get a dog to take my mind
off of things.
I need a distraction.
something fun
some thing, some living
thing
that wants me,
adores me, can't wait
for me to come home.
but this dog isn't like
that.
she's aloof and cold.
she keeps running back
to her other owner, she
won't fetch the paper,
and leaves
a mess when i'm not around.
I start thinking about
a cat, or maybe a bird.
or maybe i'll just take a
walk in the cold
be happy that way.

fiddle dee dee

she says things like.
i don't cotton to that idea,
or i was on that unruly man
like a chicken on a boll weevil.
i ask her what's up
with this
strange way of speaking.
cotton?
when was the last time you were
even near a cotton field,
i ask her.
the war's over, i tell her.
the south lost. thank god.
oh hush. she says back.
sometimes you make my blood
boil,
it makes no never mind what you
think.
the south will rise
again. you'll see.
that war of northern aggression
will one
day be rectified.
oh brother, i say, taking a long
sip of a mint julep
that she just put in my hand.
sometimes i wonder if you truly
adore me like you say you do, she says,
blinking her eyes,
feigning tears as she stares
off across
the parking lot to a dunkin
donuts sign next
to a goodyear tire center.

what's next

hardly a leaf
remains on the trees beyond the fence.
a wet fire
of oak and maple
adorn
the yard,
lie against the fence,
the chairs,
the patio.
they've surrendered their
brief lives
in a fine
display of colors.
going out
in glory, making room
for what's next.

being human

I never thought of myself
as a jealous
person. one
who snoops and plays detective
trying to find
out if a love
is lying and cheating on you.
I've never been one
to look
into closets, or drawers,
or beneath a bed
for some clue
as to what is going on.
what's on that phone,
in that computer, I have no clue.
I thought I was beyond that.
more mature and spiritual,
trusting the Lord
for all things, as St. Paul
says. I really believed that
I was beyond that lowly form
of life. but no.
i'm human like the rest
of this sick world. green
with jealousy and fear.
weak when it comes to
love and feeling betrayed,
abandoned. i'll sit in
the cold shadows for hours
wondering when i'll know the truth.

we all have our say

the death of a poet.
a minor
one
to be kind
and gentle about it
still
strikes me
in the heart. I've
gone through his pages
for decades.
dog eared my
favorites, underlined
the lines
that gave me
a spark.
how quickly the ink
dries
on all of us, read
or unread,
major or minor.
we all have our say
before we're forgotten
and gone
away.

december

I've been
through a few Decembers.
some
I remember well,
others I've blocked
off,
and want to forget.
using socks
as mittens
comes to mind,
as does
slipping on a bed
of black
ice with a ropeless sled,
with dull runners.
this one's open
for interpretation.
what's it going to be,
rain
and snow.
a pounding of sleet,
a cold lock down
inside
with the schools closed
and the bread
gone from the shelves?
or a bright sunny
stretch
of strange warm
weather
with a blue bird
on the sill.

rescue dog

i get rescued by
a rescue dog,
a dog no one wanted.
a brown mutt with a wiry
tail
and one eye.
he limps too
and has a scar
down the front of his
long
wet nose.
he likes to lick
and cuddle though.
he'll chase the ball
and howl at the moon.
he answers
when i call.
he keeps me warm
at night
and never never
once lies to me
or betrays me.

eat out

i burn my
hand
on the stove.

three times.

but now i know.
now i know,
now i know.

it's time to eat out
more often.

i know what you're cooking

i know what you're thinking,
what you've done,
and said,
and written,
well
sort of.
because who can really know.
but I get
the gist of it.
I get the vibe,
feel
the energy
that emanates from
every fiber of your body.
I see the aura,
smell the coffee,
taste
what's in the air.
I know what you're cooking
dear girl,
but it doesn't matter
anymore.