it's not me, really

the bank robber,
the rapist, the terrorist,
the thief,
the liars,
the abusers, the betrayers,
the cheaters, the deceitful
lost souls,
they all
plead mercy on the court
for reasons of insanity.
it's not who I
really am. the person inside
is good. honest. just
give me one more chance
and i'll prove it to you.
this time i'm serious about
turning over a new leaf.
yes, i've done this
over and over and over again,
I've tricked you
so many times,
I've made vows, made promises,
but now,
now that you've caught me
red handed for the fifteenth time
I want to say, whoops,
i'm sorry. really really sorry
this time.
it's not who I am,
none of it is my fault,
I'm wounded deep inside.
i'm a victim of circumstance.
it's like i'm in a trance.
my parents, my upbringing,
my youth,
my ex's, my life. i'm a victim.
this cruel world has put a spell
i'm me
and i'm not responsible
for all the bad things I
continue to do. they made
me this way,
they poisoned my life.
they're making me do these
things without remorse or feelings,
look at me, i'm praying, i'm
wearing a cross. i'm doing
the rosary.
i'm going to church,
i'm observing the holy days.
i'm going to synagogue,
i'm doing yoga, i'm speaking
in tongues, handling snakes.
i'm almost a buddhist,
i'm praying to mecca.
i'm praying over my meal. I
give money to the poor.
i'm genuflecting
to my God.
I have no
control over anything in
my life. not my mouth, my
arms, my legs. my fingers.
i'm like lucy pulling the ball
away from Charlie brown
when he's about to kick it.
laughing each time I yank it away.
I can't help myself from
being evil. i'm like an innocent baby
in a crib with no mind of my
own, no say, or power
to control actions and behavior.
as long as it's hidden
and no one knows, i'm okay.
people will actually believe
that i'm good, that the fake
image I present is the real me,
but no,
i'm at the mercy of
those devils who control me.
please, understand.
i'm sick, I won't do this again.
honest. it's not who
I really am,
and if you forgive me for
the hundredth time
and trust me once more,
you'll meet that wonderful
person. the true me,
the person I really am,
buried deep inside. come on,
everyone else let's me get
away with this behavior,
why won't you? and maybe if you
didn't know what I was doing,
you wouldn't feel so bad.
in fact, I think this is
all your fault.

the list

a small drip
drips
and drips all night
on the chrome
drain.
it's too cold
to get up
and turn the knob
tight.
i'll get it tomorrow.
it's on the list.
a long
list of things
to make right.

the other side

finally you break.
everyone has a breaking point.
the line
in the sand has been swept
aside
so many times.
trust broken
with an endless stream
of lies.
there is only so much
a heart
and mind can take.
when dignity and respect
has eroded to the point
of insanity.
rage and anger take
it's place.
the monster in you arises
and takes
charge.
but then it fades and you
see the light.
the truth.
you wake up on the other
side at peace,
understanding who should
be in your life,
who you should keep.

as it should be

the stillness
of normal, of peace awaits.
the kind
hand,
the gentle touch,
the smiling
face.
the quiet of love
in a loving
house.
no anger, no sadness,
no
lies,
no pain.
the glow of life
as it should be.

a new path

spring
is good for a new way.
a new
trail
unbeaten
through the woods.
let's find a new
path
to the waterfall,
let's get out of the dark,
out from
under the canopy
of old trees
and broken dreams.
take my hand
and let's move forward,
to find the open
the sky,
to put our hands,
our feet into the cold
stream
of fresh fallen snow.

the rest will follow

the mother
reads her son to sleep.
he falls
and falls away
into that slumber that
only children
know.
it's before they have
joined the world.
before work, before money.
before love and death,
loss
and suffering.
they are still safe
and sound
in the bubble of youth.
the rest will follow
in time.

the business meeting

it smells like
a bad idea.
stinks, in fact.
but let me run it
by you,
she says dragging
on a camel.
she's wearing a pink
dress.
a rattle snake
handbag under
her arm.
can you do something about
that sun, she
says, staring into
the bright yellow glare
coming into the window.
no, i tell her.
it's the sun. what is
there to do about?
i guess nothing she says,
but here's my idea.
we can get rich
on it.
but i'm already rich i
tell her.
so what, she says. who
doesn't like more money?
okay.
what's your idea?

sucker punch

it's a sucker punch
to the gut,
a hard swing into the ego,
the id,
the I ching.
the soul
goes down for the count.
a standing eight.
blood boils.
hearts race.
you fight back, you
know
that you have the power
of righteousness on
your side.
you rise in fury,
in pain.
it won't happen again.
your guard will always,
from this point on,
be up.

get in line

I think about
getting into the victim
line for a little
tea and sympathy,
but change my mind.
it's so long,
so deep
along the red bricked building.
I see them.
the weary,
the misunderstood,
the poor, the rich,
the faithful
and unfaithful.
stamp my forehead
with a big V.
woe is me.
my parents didn't hug
me enough.
i'm too white, too black,
i'm catholic,
i'm jewish.
i'm too short or too
tall.
i'm a victim of circumstances.
it's the economy,
the environment.
it's too late in the day,
too early
in the morning.
i'm married,
i'm divorced.
i'm lonely and forgotten.
I never get a break.
my life has been too hard,
too easy.
slowly I back away,
get into my car and hit
the gas.

help for a little while

there is nothing quite like
retail
therapy.
shopping for things you don't
really need,
but could brighten
your walls,
or floors.
a new green chair,
a mirror
over the dressers.
a bright
new light,
sheers for the sunny
room,
shades
for the rear.
a spring shirt,
a summer pair of shorts,
grey shoes,
new socks for
the courts.
full price or half,
makes no
difference. just push
the cart forward and
go to your happy place.
it'll help
for a little while.

to those who wait

a winning ticket appears
out of nowhere, a falling star
gives you a wish.
a lost pup
wanders into
the yard,
a dollar bill lands
in your hand
on a windy day.
you're first in line,
every light is green
on the open road.
you have
exact change for the toll.
you wake up
on the right side of the bed.
go left in the woods
and there it is.
the universe is
telling you something.
listen and listen hard
to these lessons
and premonitions.
they are priceless and rare,
blessings
come to those who
wait.

let it go

the police call
with inquiries as to why I
would
say such things.
write such things.
threaten and be mean and
nasty
towards a despicable
person
who has ruined the lives
of many.
I ask them to stop by
for a cup of tea,
so they come
and I tell them my story.
by the end of the afternoon
they are in tears,
they put their arms around
me, and say, it's okay.
it's okay.
you've done what any
man in love would do.
no one blames you for the rage
and fury
that dwells within your
soul.
now go and find peace,
erase, extinguish those
memories and thoughts
from you mind,
move forward,
find joy, delete.
let it go, brother.

where i am

the night
air awakens the dead
soul
in me.
I button my coat to my chin,
and plow forward
down the old
streets.
down the cobble stone,
by the river
then up and up,
starting all over again.
I breathe in
the coolness of the wind.
I see no one.
feel nothing.
I've arrived where I've
always been,
at the beginning,
at the end.

mystery of reason

not unlike job,
minus the plagues, the boils,
the loss
of life
and land, sheep goats and
cattle, gone.
you
beg for mercy under
a quiet God.
your faith must stay
in tact, throughout
it all.
all things good or bad,
are allowed
from his hand.
the mystery of reason
though, at times
like this is nearly
impossible to understand.

in life and in love

it's a valiant effort.
but you have to know when
the battle is
lost,
when the fighting must end.
the bloodshed
must cease.
you call in the
foot soldiers, the cavalry.
you roll back
the cannons,
put away the sword.
not every battle can be
won, you must save
your strength, get well
and heal.
in life, and in love,
there will be more.

may she rest in peace

was she possessed by demons?

or just evil.

just sick

and disordered.

mentally ill.

do i feel sorry for her.

not now, maybe later,

i think as i bag

her clothes and set her

trash out on the curb.

will i miss her.

no.

a resounding no.

she was a fake, a liar,

a loser.

everything about her was

dark.

the first night without

her i laughed

myself to sleep

after changing the locks,

and burning the bridge

completely.

may she rest in peace,

as i will

without her.

gaslighting

nothing is what it seems.
there are layers upon layers
of deceit and deception.
the clouds are upon us.
the fog is thick.
the gaslights are on.
what you thought was true
is untrue.
what's a lie anyway?
what's twenty lies.
a year of lies.
it's the fabric of a soul.
that's what it is.
God save us all from such
people who hurt without
remorse, without conscience.
without care or repentance.

biscuits in the morning

she was a funny
woman.
made me laugh when i
wanted to cry.
made me
biscuits in the morning,
warm
with butter.
she was tender and soft,
always sweet with
kisses and words.
a pot of water was
always boiling on the stove.
there was a cat
on the sill
and a dog on the bed.
it was home
away from home.
she saw beyond the pain
of life,
how there was more
than that,
she believed that joy
was in the making.
love and truth will
win out in the end.
she whispered to me
hang in there.
be strong,
keep your faith.
protect your tender heart
from evil, it's everywhere.
she had kind eyes and soft
hands. no worries.
you're a good man.
you'll get
there. i promise.
she made biscuits
in the morning,
warm, with butter.

sharp knives

i pull a sharp knife
out of my back
and say ouch.
not again. but yup.
there it is.
the serrated steak
knife stuck
half way into my
back.
but i laugh and shrug
it off.
this makes me stronger.
wiser.
more wary of liars
with sharp knives.
a mere flesh wound.
it missed the heart
completely.

i take an axe

I take an axe
into the forest and start
chopping down
trees
until I find the one
that i'm looking for.
it's a wasteland.
the stumps are everywhere.
but there it is.
what I've been looking for.
that special tree.
the tree of knowledge.
the tree of life.
it tells me all I need
to know about what I
need to know.
it's a truth tree.

daydreaming

my favorite teacher
was the hardest.
five foot one. grey eyes.
glasses.
squared from top to bottom.
she taught analysis
in the eleventh grade.
Mrs. Curtis.
she knew you could do
the work,
knew that you were smart
enough, but
also knew that you had
some lazy bones in you,
distracted by sports,
by the girl
in the first row. by music,
holidays and books.
the window drew your
attention away from her
chalk board.
her numbers and equations.
her diagrams.
Stephen, she'd say
loudly, tossing a piece
of chalk my way, what's
the answer to the problem
I just put on the board?
and it would awaken me
from my day dream.
of blue skies and clouds.
of poetry and imagination,
all the things that lay
outside lines.
at the end of class she'd
scold me in her soft way.
and say, you should be getting
A's not B's or C's.
now take these erasers outside
and bang the chalk out of them.
and tomorrow, I want you
to be present, not day dreaming
your life away.

let's make a deal

he was a person
who
had to have his way.
it was all about him.
always.
he couldn't stop being
on call.
making the sale.
glad handing all who
crossed his path.
hey buddy.
hey pal.
my friend.
did you lose weight,
you look
great. younger.
smarter. you even smell
good today.
he was the life of the party,
but dead inside.
full of baloney
and casual, unending lies.
he couldn't have
everything he wanted
he found out
in the end.
some things
were out of reach.
some people came to their
senses and escaped
his greedy clutches.
some things slipped through
his hands
because he was too busy
holding onto
everything and everyone
else.

get me off this thing

it's fun
being on the ferris wheel,
strapped in tight,
around and around
up high.
I can see the sites.
the bridge, the water,
the tops of buildings,
birds flying by.
it's fun,
for awhile, but then
I get queasy and need
to get off.
it's going on and on
and on, with no stopping.
a few times around was
wonderful, but now
I finally want to get
off.

no more cake

I blow out a candle
in each room
and make a wish.
it's my cake of life.
I've baked it.
I mixed up this batter
and set it out.
but the sweetness
is gone.
it's stale and crumbling.
it was a beautiful
cake at one time.
the icing, the shape,
the hope of it.
I blow out a candle
in each room
and toss the cake
out the window.
my wishing is all done.

tomorrow

tomorrow things will change.
I tell myself
in song.
tomorrow, or maybe next week,
maybe next month
things will make a turn
for the better
and get right.
tomorrow. always with the tomorrow
I sing in the shower,
on the way to work,
as I lie in bed
at night.
but the past and present
is singing a different
tune.

the cold room

you go to sleep cold
lying on the edge
of your ice
berg bed.
you wake up
cold.
the floor is ice.
the air
is frigid.
it feels like it snowed
in this room
last night.
there's not a single
waft of heat
coming from
any direction, not a
single ray of hope,
or light.

i'm not sorry

no one says i'm
sorry
anymore.
they justify their actions
as being human,
being misunderstood.
they believe they're innocent,
their actions are
okay
and perfectly normal.
they don't see the pain
the agony
caused.
their righteousness
keeps the word out of their
mouth.
no empathy, no concern.
deal with it,
they say and move on.
sorry is not in their
vocabulary, which tells
everything there is to know
of what truly lies within
their soul.

a basket of clothes

my mother used
to gossip over the back fence
while hanging clothes,
wet clothes on the stiff line.
there would be a basket
at her feet,
a dog in the yard,
we were in the window,
some of us, faces
pressed against the cold
march glass.
but she would talk
to the neighbors in conspiratorial
whispers
about what the dirt
was in the neighborhood,
a husband gone astray,
a job lost.
a child sick with the measles,
a mother in law
who had over stayed her welcome.
i'd see her laughing,
standing in the blue green
grass of early
spring. the patches of dirt
where the dog ran
along the chain linked fence.
she was happy then.
out of the house, hanging
sheets and blue jeans,
shirts and dresses.
letting the wind do its thing.
tossing her thick black
hair about.
she would always be young
back then. I will always think
of her in that way.
strong and laughing,
a basket of clothes at her
feet.

flying kites

do you still believe in love,
she asks
me
as I look upwards into
a vibrant
blue sky.
we run along
the march grass as
the wind takes our kite,
bright as a gold finch,
high into the clouds.
of course I do, I tell
her,
pulling on the long
string
to keep it near.
it's not the emotion of
love
that's a problem,
it's who you fall in
love with.

getting out of the jump

I can feel
the cool breeze of a new
day
as I lie inside
my cell,
staring at the window
and
the black
iron bars that keep
me in the stir.
my time is almost up.
I've served
and paid my dues
to love.
I listen to the guard
come down
the hall with his
keys.
he's glad i'm going home.
he knows i'm
innocent, as does
the whole prison.
they all want me
to be happy and free.
they clap and yell,
they whistle.
go home, they tell me.
go home. go home and
find
a new life.

the truth shall set you free

you hire a detective
to see
if she's cheating on you
again.
lying through her teeth
once more.
putting on her casual
air
of innocence. but
my man is good.
a gumshoe of the very
best.
he blends into the trees.
smooth as silk
with his
deft moves.
no one can escape
his tail.
just take a few pictures
you tell him
of her and her lover.
they usually meet
in a park,
or some special
place
off the beaten track.
i'll be out of town
so i'm
sure they'll plan a
sweet little
rendezvous.
you pay him double
for his work and he
tips his hat.
i'll get you what
you need, he says,
striking a match
to light his cigarette.
give cheaters time and
rope and they
all slip up eventually.
have a nice trip,
you're worries are about
to be over.

not dark yet

she says you seem depressed,
sad,
lonely, despondent,
discontent.
go on I tell her
while lying on the floor
in a fetal position.
what else?
well, you're no fun
anymore. no more
sly observations, no
jokes, no laughter,
no witty banter about
the mundane.
it's like
the you in you has been
cut out.
someone carved away
the heart of you.
what else?
that's it she says.
now get up off the floor
and get right.
get living again.
get happy my dear boy,
the night
is approaching. it's
too early in life to
call it a day.

awaiting the light

another orbit
around the sun.
another day
another night.
where are you?
what's keeping you
from
saving me
from this planet
I've arrived on?
beam me up
and out. i'm here
with arms extended,
awaiting the light.

we're holy now

i see them pray.
church every day.
on their knees.
rosary in hand.
repentant and remorseful.
they've turned
over a new leaf,
a new life.
how nice.
let's forget the past
and move on.
but something is amiss.
something
doesn't feel quite
right.
the outside has a shine,
but what lies within
still is in the dark.
there is no light.

they never stop

it never ends.
they never stop.
like termites
they eat the wooden
legs
off the table.
carve holes into
my door, my
heart.
they go after the windows,
the floors.
they never stop.
they are incessant
with their desire
to win her back.
this is what they do
and know
with no respect for
me, my life, or home.

erase and delete

my memory is good.
I remember
a good meal. a good story.
love.
hate.
I remember
the past as if it was
now.
which can be a problem
when it
comes to moving on.
even the imaginary
memories
are hard to shake.
what you thought then,
thinking it was true.
it still feels true,
despite all that you
know and the tears that
you've shed.

happy times

he used to tell
me
that he only drank
in happy times
or sad times or when
he felt bored.
if not for those times
he wouldn't at all,
not even a single drop.
and I tend to believe
him as he fills another
glass.

a new book

a new
book is in my hands.
hardback with a glossy cover.
slowly I turn the pages.
reading line
after line.
each word bounces off
me. off my
eyes.
nothing gets absorbed.
I start again
and have no idea what it's
about, who's who,
where it's going, or how
it might end.
the blurbs all rave
about it.
the new York times says,
some book!
they may even make a movie
based on it,
but for the life
of me I can't get passed page
three.
i'll try again tomorrow.
maybe.

don't wait

the bread is good.
warm
right out of the oven.
people stand in line
for it. it has
a nice
hard crust.
they slide it into
in a paper bag. you can
still feel
the heat
when you put it under
your arm
and go out the door.
why wait until you
get home,
go ahead
and snatch it apart,
have a piece. don't wait.

march on

a sweet coat
of white drapes the birches,
the pines,
the oaks
outside.
the grass is smooth.
a sleeve
of ice
on the lower stream.
the wind light.
i'll get out there
at some point.
alone. resigned.
a scarf around me,
a hat,
gloves, my coat
buttoned tight.

what do you miss

what do you
miss about your old life
my therapist asks
from behind her owl like
gaze.
she's across from me with
a yellow pad.
her glasses tilted just so
on her nose.
her hair is all over the place,
which i take as a sign
of intelligence.
what do you miss, she asks
again, but softly
to keep me from crying.
tell me she says.
go slow.
it's okay. give me
your pad, i tell her.
and more paper, more ink.
how long do i have?

true love around the corner

i hear a rumor
that true love is right
around
the corner.
just a half a block up
to the left.
mutual love.
romance
and joy.
friendship and trust.
a love that forsakes
all others.
i hear
it's rare. unusual.
but it's out there,
i can feel it.
right around the corner
is what they
say.

the war is over

he wins.
they both win.
I surrender.
to hell with it.
I give up.
give in.
I wave the white flag
and climb out
of my bunker.
i'm done. I have
nothing left to give.
no bullets left
in my gun.
i'm tired, out of
food and water.
my clothes hang on me.
i'm a skeleton.
bared to the bone.
not a tear left
to shed.
take her.
she's yours.
the war is over.

still winter

there is a chill
in
the air.
winter is lingering
on.
I can't remember
warm
air.
the warm embrace of
a golden
sun. I never knew
it would
take this
long.

a desk rises

she's mechanical.
with her tool belt on.
her flash light
her flat head driver
phillips too.
a hammer.
and glue.
casters askew,
pegs and screws.
the directions spilled
across
the floor of her room.
in no time,
a desk rises
from a slew of pieces,
solid
and clean ready
for her work,
for her elbows to lean.

the night fire

I push a steel barrel into
the center of the yard.
I find the lighter fluid
and a book of matches.
I throw in some branches,
some newspapers just to get
it going,
then set it all ablaze.
I put all of my self help books
into a wheel barrow
and bring them around
the house
to the raging fire.
one by one I toss each in.
I watch the flames lick
the pages,
the underlined and dated
sentences.
I see the bindings go up,
the sizzle of the laminated
covers,
the smoke of ink burning.
I stand around the barrel
and smile.
I feel better as I warm
my hands over the fire.
finally they have become
useful.

the new wife

in his turquoise Chevrolet
he
pulled away
as we stood at the door,
others at the window,
and waved.
divorce is cruel
to everyone.
where once there was love,
then none.
the promises of returning
became fewer.
we grew
without him.
he found another life.
a new family.
a new wife.

friday nights

it's Friday night.
the early meal.
the book, the silence.
the rain,
the quiet as you slip
into bed
before ten.
there is another world
out there.
I remember it well.
the nights
out
with the boys.
the closing of bars.
the sweat of dancing.
the promise of a dance,
the miracle
of a kiss, or a number.
we were young
then.
so very young and hopeful.

the bus

the bus
is on time.
they gather like birds,
huddled
in the rain,
wings to their sides.
the air brakes
bring it to a halt.
a door flaps open.
they climb aboard
with their lives.
work
is down the road.
life is
going and coming.
the bus
is part of it.

be patient

she says i can't read your poetry
anymore.
it's too sad.
too maudlin and blue.
you're broken heart
and
anxiety is killing me.
you're no fun anymore.
what happened, what
went wrong?
i miss the old you.
be patient, i tell her.
i'll be back, i'm on my
way, not to worry.
more frivolous poems
are coming, stay tuned.

i don't need any of this stuff

i don't need
a new car but i think about buying
one.
i don't need
new shoes either,
but it doesn't stop me from
going to the shoe
store and purchasing
another pair.
i don't need a new chair,
or a tv,
or a new rug, or hardly anything,
not even new friends,
most of what i have is
perfectly fine, hardly old,
but certainly not new.

a girl from the north country

at the gym
there is a man who stares
into the full length mirror
for an hour
after lifting his weights.
his hair is peroxided
a golden yellow.
the color of a twinkie.
he flexes
his arms,
his legs.
the veins in his neck
bulge into
ropes of blue
beneath his glistening
tanned skin.
he turns from side
to side,
looks at himself from
behind.
he's pleased.
very pleased at what
he sees.
finally he struts out,
giving high fives to the trainers,
the towel boy,
the girl at the front
desk.
what this all means,
I have no clue.
but it's interesting
as I sit here
thinking about a girl I
once knew, or thought I knew
who lived in Quebec.

that might do it

it's the blues.
the doldrums, the winter
deep freeze.
cabin fever.
I pull the blanket
to my chin
and think about skipping
work.
skipping
the whole day.
quitting, or joining
something.
I think about making some
changes.
going south,
going west.
or just going somewhere
where nothing
looks the same or reminds
me of the past
12 months.
maybe somewhere tropical.
or a big
city I can get lost in,
or maybe a deep
mine in the mountains
where I can carry
a lantern
down down down to the center
of the earth.
that might do it.

not here

you don't come around here
much anymore,
do you, the woman says,
pushing a cold drink in front
of me.
you used to be a regular
here, weren't you.
in fact you used to sit over
there,
right over there in that stool
if I remember correctly.
I never forget a face,
or the drink that goes with it.
gin and tonic, right?
right, I tell her.
slice of lime.
go easy on the tonic.
where you been, my friend.
not here, I tell here.
not here.

food

I spoon the words
into my
open mouth. I am a child
with books.
I eat strings
of sentences when I can,
when I have
time.
I devour the pages,
crumble them
into my mouth.
the ink drips from my lips.
whether on the road,
or in bed, I read
and read.
I need the nourishment
of thoughts
written down.
I hoard the books
on shelves,
on the floor,
stacks of them rise
like timber
in my rooms.
I starve for poetry,
for
fiction, for truth.
yes, even that, though
so often that's
the hardest thing to
swallow.

in line

in line
again for something.
I fold my arms and wait.
I have been
waiting all my life
to reach a point
where I don't
have to wait
for anything,
or anyone.
it's coming,
I can feel it, but
i'm' not quite there,
just yet.
soon. soon.

monday

another weekend
passes.
and the new morning
punches you
gently in the gut
to get up.
to get to it.
get out there and
make a buck.
do something.
so you shower and dress,
slip
on your work
shoes.
coffee on the way,
you steer numbly
into Monday,
the start of a new week,
no different
than the last
or the one to follow.

the flea market

in tidy rows
they line the shelves,
the floors and tables with
their
dusty gold.
the vases and jars,
the unworn
rings and broches,
the dresses
and shoes, all thin
bare,
unwanted, but used.
magazines with Kennedy
and Nixon
on the cover,
the moon men,
natalie wood,
or john wayne.
the yo yo's.
the empty coke bottles.
a tin
from an Esso station
saying stop here.
one man's treasure
is another
man's
trash, not thrown
away, but kept and sold
to the lowest
bidder who has a place
somewhere in
his already crowded
basement or
room.

the splinter

the splinter, the stick,
the split
board
the sharp pointed
sliver
that jabs
your heart, your mind,
your increasingly
indifferent soul,
is without
a clock.
it stays and stays,
it seems
to have found a home
in you, never wanting
to stray too
far
from where you
live
and breathe.

the long distance swimmer

arm over arm
you swim and swim.
you kick your legs
turning your head side
to side
to breathe.
the salt and cold
of the waves
roll over you.
this takes the measure
of who you
are or thought you
might be.
there is no land
visible
in any direction.
there is little you
can do,
but swim, and swim
and swim
under a cold moon,
under a hot sun.
you do all that you can
do
to not slip under
and succumb
to the world you've
been born into.

you're getting old

you're running out
of time
the therapist says. look at you,
at this age
coming unglued,
untethered.
full of anxiety and pain.
you only have a few years
left.
why aren't you having fun,
why aren't you in
paris, or rome,
or Bombay
enjoying your golden
years with a loved one.
her voice is soft and lilting.
the couch in her office
is full of feathers,
the walls are a pale grey,
the light is low
and warm.
it's easy for me to drift off
and forget my troubles
when i'm there.
what?
I ask her when she stops
talking,
did you say something?

the pie lady

she likes to make
pies
and sell them at the
farmers market
on pitt street.
Saturday and sunday
mornings from
eight am
until
she runs out.
her own recipes.
her own crust.
everything from scratch.
no cheating.
real butter and sugar.
she knows what people like.
apple, blueberry.
pumpkin and mince
meat when in season.
lemon pies
with the froth
of meringue just so.
peach
and the rare
pear pie, made to order.
she sits there in her
metal
folding chair
beneath an umbrella
and says little.
her hands are pink
from the kneading and washing,
the dicing of fruit.
they are thick
with time and work.
she's not there to
socialize
or make friends.
she lets her pies
do the talking.
the sign says cash only.
it's business, these pies,
just business.

what's left behind

her father
steps out into the room
without clothes.
he's unshaven
and curt.
the steady hand
of his daughter
draws him back into
the bedroom,
to the bathroom.
this lion
of wall street,
now a mere kitten.
at the mercy
of his mind, those
brilliant years
of life
and living have
disappeared, only
the photos show what
was and what's been
left behind.

the longer night

the long day
proceeds even the longer night.
the owl
perched
under a silver moon
on a bended
branch
in thick pines,
is watching,
listening before
spreading his wings
to kill
what lies below.
a fox sides through the bramble
with something
half alive
in it's teeth.
snakes curl coldly
side by side. all the
birds have gone quiet.
the woods
are under the spell
of darkness.
a possum wanders
into the street,
blinded by the lights
surrendering his pondered
life.
and here we are inside
doing
what we do best,
we're quiet, a book
in hand
beside a low soft light.

what's wrong

count your blessings,
she says.
you have so much
to be thankful for.
look around you, who has
what you have?
she lists my
belongings,
my health, my friends
and relatives.
she throws out her arms
and says most
people would be happy
and thrilled to be where
you are,
what's wrong?

two steps forward

two steps
forward, one step back.
the chill,
the bone ache
of cold,
the hair on end
the swirl of
thoughts,
suspicion and lies,
jealousy
and pain
taking you down
once again
to that dark hole
of yesteryear.

around the bend

it's down the road.
around
that bend,
past the corn field,
the water tower,
the gas station.
keep going,
you can't miss it.
you'll know it when
you get there.
a cold drink
in the hot sun.
stretch your legs,
relax.
have a bite to eat.
true love is waiting.
you're home son,
at last
you're really home.

i hate face book

it's official.
I hate face book. the social media
in general.
you tube, myspace,
your space,
snap chat and the rest.
don't send me any more of
your cake
photos please, or tell
me where you've
been or what you're doing, or
eating,
and with whom.
that new house, or car,
or tan you got on some island
bores me to tears.
I don't want to know about who
died, or is dying.
don't tell me your medical condition,
or post a photo of your rash,
or lump,
or eye that's gone awry,
or new pair of shoes.
I don't want to attend another
reunion, or connect
with long lost relatives
or friends.
i'm perfectly content with
those I have, or don't have.
your dog or cat or grandbaby
is not
interesting to me, nor
are your political
or religious views.
spare me the gossip of
your life.
sorry, so sorry,
but please delete me,
don't tag me, or like me.
just go away and leave me alone.
it's official,
I hate face book and all that
it entails. if we're really
friends, meet me
for coffee, or lunch,
or call me on the phone.

beware the mood

everyone has a breaking point.
when
kindness and compassion
suddenly
are erased with a fit
of red rage, when
the desire to harm
and set right
the wrongs overtakes
the kind and gentle soul
you believed you were,
but aren't.
beware when that mood
strikes. beware.

sleeping dogs

the sleeping
dog
is left to his sunny
nap
on the rug.
stretched out in the warm
spring sun,
he's deep
into a dream.
let's let him lie
a bit longer,
no need to disturb
his sleep.
no need to feel the wrath
and bite
of those hidden teeth.

contact

he used to find
the smallest of reasons
to call,
to make contact.
he was a child begging
for his mother
to tuck him
in, to give him one
more sweet
from the jar high
on the counter
where he couldn't reach.
and with her
soft heart she did,
over and over again,
until he was back
in her good graces
and starting once more
the game
with no end.

to the other shore

the fog
has lifted.
I see clearly now what has
to be done.
where I need to go
from here.
the water is calm.
the other shore
is closer than I imagined.
I could swim
the last mile
easily.
I take off my pants my
shirt, my
shoes and dive in.
take my hand on the other
side,
i'm coming.

what love is

i sip
the poison daily.
small sips.
i don't want to do it
all at once.
too dramatic.
i want people at
bedside
telling me how
much they love me.
how they're going
to miss
when i'm gone.
when they leave the room,
i smile.
finally
i know what love is,
or pretends to be.

the strong wind

I see small children
in the air
flying.
the wind is strong today.
they seem
happy
as they float aimlessly
against the blue.
their books and bags
are let go.
the smiles
on their faces are
filled with joy.
their parents are desperate
to save them,
to bring them down.
to keep them
in hand, close by.
it's a trend that will
never end.

untethered

the phone is dead.
the battery drained dry
of me
calling,
texting, emailing, looking
at cats
on you tube videos.
i'm untethered
to the world I've
created.
but it's okay.
it's fine.
I can breathe now.
free
from what I think
is so important
but isn't.

the fun house

logic goes out the window.
rational thinking
too.
everything is upside down.
what's right is wrong.
black is white.
it's a fun house of twisted
mirrors.
of rolling floors
and trap doors.
the blinking lights
it's a circus of blowing
horns,
tears and laughter
at the same time. it's
maddening and scary.
is it day or is it night?

breaking point

everyone has a breaking point.
a line
in the sand,
a point where tolerance
is no longer
an option.
it takes a long time.
a lot of bending before
the break, but when
it does,
when it happens, there
is no looking back,
no regret,
no remorse,
no dragging of the lake.

the tropics

it's hard
to know when a storm
will arrive.
the day being so peaceful.
the sun out.
in an instant
though things change.
a wind picks up.
the sky goes dark.
the rain pelts
us without warning,
the air grows cold.
an hour later,
it's as if nothing
had happened.
the smile returns.

the vew from here

i like the view from
here.
the rocks. the mountains,
so layered
in blue,
the distant clouds awash
in white, grey wisps.
i like this chair
i sit in.
alone with a book,
my feet upon the wall.
the trees anxious to be
full with life once again.
like me.

my rose colored glasses

my detective days are over.
i'm done with that
I know more than enough
about what's going on.
no longer do I need
confirmation, or clues, or
tracks in the sand. I need
no dna, or blood. no photos
or texts, or emails.
I know what the truth is.
I've known it all along
but now I know for sure,
my instincts were right.
the rose colored glasses
are off, shattered
in my hand.

a square of metal

it's an addiction
this
phone. these texts.
these
emails,
these voicemails.
this constant need to
look and check
what the ding is,
what the vibration means,
what the light
glowing could possibly
be.
it's a sick world
we've made.
no conversation. no
gentle touch
of hand in hand. no
power to stop reaching
for what was,
what's ended.
we're slaves to this
square of metal.
till death do you part.

given time

i kiss February
goodbye.
i wave to it as it
finally
slips away into another month.
the birthdays
the drama,
the holidays.
enough already.
the ice of it.
the shortened light
of it.
the cold and wind.
it seems as if it will
never end, but it
does, as most
pain will, given time,
given friends.

is this life

I don't blame the animals
in the zoo
for plotting their escape.
despite water
and shelter, food,
it's the bars
that make them worry.
the lack of freedom.
they long to live and die
in the natural world.
they pace and swing from
the rafters,
swim in the shallow pool.
is this life,
they ask each other,
passing notes, whispering
in their own way
to one another.

the rare light

survival makes us forget
the pain
of what was.
we put a shine on it.
soften it
with false memory.
we ignore the scars,
the limp
of heart,
the broken trust
and lies.
we tell ourselves
it wasn't so bad.
we remember
the rare light,
despite
the darkness of
those days.

it's quiet here

it's quiet
here.
the dust has settled.
the debris
of words
have been swept up
and tossed
away. by morning
the shattered glass
of love
has been picked up.
the fingers bleed,
there is little
left to say.
it's quiet here.

his garden

he can hardly see,
but
into the garden
he goes
on bended knees.
the dirt is known.
the seeds, the spade
and hose.
the square of ground
he's worked at
for thirty years
or more.
it's just tomatoes,
peppers,
that sort of thing.
but still,
something he can hold
onto,
something to wait
and look forward
to this spring.

go left go right

sleepless
in the great room
where the cool light of
morning
comes too early.
how the cold catches you,
a leg uncovered,
an arm
above your eyes.
the conversation within
you
goes on and on.
the argument
unceasing,
go left, go right.

game on at four

i hear the other foot
finally
drop.
the door close,
the cab pull away.
i go to the window
to wave,
but it's too late.
the bags are in
the trunk.
i see the blue exhaust
blow out
as the car
turns the corner.
i sigh
and make myself a sandwich.
there's a game
on at four.

mush

it's her brown eyes.
her
smile.
her sweetness in general
and mind
that melt my bones
turns me
into mush when I
see her
and kiss her, the time
goes by so quickly.
there's never
quite enough.

romancing the past

it was hard for her
to leave
the past behind.
the sweet harmony they made
together.
the deck,
the dogs, the stream
and woods
behind the low rise
of a foot bridge.
it was hard
to not romanticize the past.
pretending
that all things
were good in that life,
no pain,
no sorrow, no
strife.
it was hard for her
when thinking back,
and harder for
me when I knew
where her thoughts
were at.

stalker

I see the stalker's
car
in the shadows, beneath
the trees.
he's waiting
for a glimpse, a wink
or a wave.
his basket full of goodies
under arm.
he'll never give up.
he's
a knight in rusted
armor, a predator
of the worst kind,
a savior of the blind.
he's as patient
as the snake is at the bottom
of a tree,
with his slithering tongue
and convincing eyes,
waiting for spring,
waiting for the eggs,
for that moment to arrive.

the earth spins

the earth spins
without our help,
the rain
falls,
the heat makes the desert
what it is.
there is little
we can do to change
things,
as in people. they
are
who they are,
not what they say.
beware of words
whispered over and over
again.
there is little truth
in them.
liars never change.

dog beach

the dog loves the beach.
the roar
of the ocean.
the expanse of cold sand.
how blue
the sky is above his prancing
paws.
the joy seen in his
wide
lapping tongue.
his dash to the waves,
chasing gulls
into the sky on soft wings.
this is heaven for him.
sweet bliss
in early spring before
the tourists arrive
and change
everything.

the new prehistoric

some are readers,
others not so much.
some
like the printed word
while
others like to stare into
their phones
looking at cats
or people falling down
on you tube.
the world is dumbing
down
at record speed.
listen to the music.
watch
the shows.
the comic book movies.
hardly an intelligent word
or thought
is spoken
these days.
it is what it is, we say,
not having
anything worth while to add
to any give
day.
we are going back
to the cave
with a stone and stick
in hand,
etching
bison on the wet dank
walls
we live in.

snow day

the snow sure does look
pretty
today, mother, the child says,
elated
with the cancellation
of school.
do you think we'll have two
days off, not
one?
the mother, stands at the door
and looks out
at the freshly fallen
snow.
she wishes she felt like
the child does about such
wonderment.

the same feeling

i can see in her eyes
the memory of someone else, not
me.
i feel the weight
of it
on my heart, but try my best
to let it go.
she goes quiet
with her thoughts, and i
know better than to ask
her, what?
what's going through your
mind right now.
i don't want to know.
and she looks at me, with
the same feeling.

hold on

my father coughs into the phone.
I can't remember a conversation
with him
when he wasn't coughing,
or blowing his nose, or asking
me to hold on
while he gets a glass of water.
I tell him a joke or two
to set the mood.
he's always been a good laugher.
the worse the joke the harder
he laughs. we've got that going
for us.

another day

the birthday
comes and goes. another day
in the life.
an uneventful
twenty four hours,
which is nice.
a cake, a card,
a candle to blow on.
a small gift
with a hand written note.
we move on,
and on, until
there are no more days
to wonder
about, and think what's
next.

the sickness of her

she is sick.

i see her lying on the bed,

groaning

in pain.

heat on her stomach,

pills in

her mouth.

ice on her head.

bone thin and gaunt.

she's sick.

and she's making me sick

being with her.

every day

is misery.

she lies, she betrays,

she's a demon

sleeping six inches away.

dear Lord

get me out of here

before i too go crazy.

from a window

the morning coffee
is
good
against the back drop
of quiet.
a blue
sky
rises
against the yellow sun.
the bare
trees
reach and bend
towards another day.
we do
too.

love balloon

she says that love
to her
is like a balloon
but with
a tight knot so that it
doesn't loose
it's air.
a red balloon, perhaps,
or pink
or white,
no strings
attached.
love is meant to fly
and be free,
to go where it needs
to go
without a worry or a care.
love is something to be
shared.
something to last.
never once though
does she think about
the thorn that lies
in every path.

bread on the table

the bread
rises in the oven.
I flick on the light and watch
the heat
do it's thing.
a simple thing.
a small
good thing as the sun
settles
beyond
the city.
the room fills up
with the scent of baked
bread.
the calmness of it all.
the taste of it
in warm slices
on the tongue,
a wealth
of butter atop
each piece,
cut or torn.
out the window,
the sky gone blue
in darkness, but there is
this,
fresh bake bread
on the table.

knockout

the boxer
in his corner on the stool
looks
out to the maddening crowd.
blood
cakes his eyes.
his nose is flattened
wide.
his ear are swollen.
they douse him with water,
clog the cuts.
rub his shoulders.
you've got him this round
they whisper into his one
good ear.
upper cut, upper cut.
he's dropping his guard.
but the boxer isn't there.
he sees a girl
in the stands. she reminds him
of a woman he used
to be in love with.
the road not taken.
he misses her, he loves her.
he'd do anything to win
her back.
he'd even get up exhausted
with no life in him
to win her love again.
so this is what he fights
on for.
the bell rings and he
charges
into midnight. he doesn't
see the glove coming
towards him,
he only sees the girl.
he goes
down and down and down
into a slag heap. he's out.

family dsyfunction

I see the pattern.
the circle of it all.
the good days
versus the bad.
I see a trail of train
wreck
holidays.
new years.
Christmas.
thanksgiving.
mother's day.
father's day.
birthdays.
valentine day.
only arbor day and flag
day goes unscathed
by some turmoil
and dysfunction.
maybe ground hog day too
is clear
of door slamming,
or sleeping
in the other room,
or the dreaded blanket
of silence for
a few days. I fear
St. Patrick's day
looming
on the horizon.
I tap my foot and bite
my nails,
what will I do wrong,
what misdeed or word
spoken will wreck
that day and put me
in the black, send me
to the dog house?

for anyone to see

I used to have
friends I could call
and tell them anything.
tell them
everything
no matter how dark
the circumstances were,
no matter who was right
or wrong.
I could rant and rave,
spill my guts to them
and they'd never turn on me.
they'd listen.
they'd hold me in their arms.
they'd put their
hearts into it
and tell me that they're
there for me
through this storm.
good friends. people
who'd listen
and love without judgement.
souls who knew me and
really cared,
but they're gone
now.
seven down and counting.
so I sit here and write this.
I cut a vein
and bleed upon this keyboard
for anyone to see.

adrift at 5 a.m.

I stumble
down the stairs on one hour
of sleep.
I can't wait to get home
and I haven't
even left yet.
I find my clothes
in the dark,
brush my teeth, wash
my face.
I don't even look in
the mirror.
why bother.
why upset me even more
with that.
I fix a cup of coffee,
find my shoes,
my stack of underlined
self help books.
I grab my keys, my wallet,
my phone.
I got nothing on the phone.
the world
has changed.
not a call, or text.
nothing. i'm truly alone
in this.
i'm adrift
at five in the morning
wondering
if life will ever be
sane again.

wating their turn

the alley
cats know their way around
the neighborhood.
where the
good trash is.
the sardine cans,
the chicken bones,
the flounder
scraped
from a pan.
they tip toe along
the fence,
jump through
the hole in the brick
wall.
the rats
wait their turn.
they sit in the shadows
playing
gin rummy
with friends.

the road we're on

the roads
at this hour are quiet.
most are at home
asleep with loved ones.
a dog
curled at bedside.
children tucked away.
but not me.
I drive the earth.
I stare up at the broken
glass
stars.
at the shard of a cold
moon.
I can drive all night if
I have to,
the tank is full.
the radio on.
I know almost all the words
to every
love and unloved written
song.

unslept

who needs sleep
anyway.
that sweet slumber is over
rated.
I can do without it,
without the dreams,
the nightmares,
the bed
going cold.
the reaching out for
love that isn't there.
i'll slug through the next
day as if under water,
but that's fine.
it's nothing new, nothing
to worry about.
it's what I do.

a mere tick

I stare at the compass.
all directions
are open.
I choose north.
I want to be in the coldest
place possible.
to be frozen,
unmoved
by circumstances.
I haven't done well with
decisions.
by choosing north, I won't
have to decide anything
anymore.
i'll be the ice man.
i'll be perfectly content
without a voice.
my heart slowed to a mere
tick.

the merry go round

it's a merry go round
minus
the merry.
there is no merry anywhere
near this
junk ride of squeals
and wheels,
nuts and bolt flying off
with each turn.
the wind bleeds my eyes.
the up and down unsettles
my stomach.
my soul is unpinned.
can't anyone hear my screams?
I hold on for dear life,
as the ride begins
again. again. again.

nights like this

I see my future.
the dry road, the bleakness
of dawn
approaching.
not a wink of sleep
will I find this night.
I burrow
down into the hole of me.
wrapped
in sheets, the window
of trees
scraping in cold wind.
I find no comfort,
no joy
or lasting pleasure in this
mood
i'm in.
I see my future. it's more
and more
not less of nights
like this.

love child

the nursery is full of new babies.
pink and brown.
freshly born.
they lie in rows
behind the glass while the parents
outside point
and say, look that one's mine,
oh look, he's ours,
it's wonderful, this child.
and a wary world hopes
this love will last.

how it goes

there is blood in her eye
from
crying.
the sallow
look
of despair.
the wrench of this night
has unloosened
the screws
and bolts, unhinged
the bones
of her. black hot oil
drips
from below.
the gas is spilled.
a match could send it all
up
in an instant.
this is how it goes.

to all of us

the store bought roses, wilted
soon in their wrap.
the simple
card.
the quarter pound of sweets
in bright foil.
our love is thin
and fragile.
the broken glass is on
the floor,
the spilled wine,
the burned meal
unserved.
I hear my father's curse,
taste my mother's
tears.
the salt is in the wound.
what has cupid done
to all of us?

the shipwreck of night

the shipwreck of night,
the tossed
waves
of light and dark,
the bitter green of ocean
unfolding
onto itself,
the worry
and concern over the sails
split down and shorn.
the mast creaking,
the water
rushing onto the deck.
the lightning shows
the shore,
the jagged cliffs,
the shoals.
how close we are to home,
how far away we are
in getting there.
where is the dawn.
where is the calm port
we wished for, when will
there be an end to this
storm.

something to do

I pick up the phone to
see if
there is a dial tone.
why isn't it ringing.
i'm here,
ready for work.
i'm idling.
going from window to door,
looking out.
it's Monday.
grey, wet, slick.
maybe there's movie to
go see.
the back row, pop corn
in hand.
candy and a drink.
just me and another straggler
under the dimmed lights
as the film
begins.
i'll stretch out
in open cavern of seats.
I've got all
day.
join me if you've got
nothing better
to do.

the hidden

nothing is ordinary.
dull
or stale.
no one
is not unique,
or
special. a star
or flake
fallen from the sky.
despite the frown
or tears
the poverty
of pocket
or soul, no one
is the same,
or lacking in spark
or
glory,
though few blaze
open
for others to see.

three boats, four wives

my friend tells
me about his boat, his second
or third. maybe the fourth.
one less than the number
of wives he's had.
they seem to sink
annually, or catch fire.
the boats, not the wives.
he's usually in a bar
when he calls,
sounding lit up and
happy. healed from his
mini stroke and hip replacement.
i'm in a tiki bar in
Solomon's he'll say.
come on down.
it's crazy.
he holds his phone up
to the clanging
of the band
attempting Margaritaville.
he'll be seventy soon,
which he reminds
me and everyone else within
earshot of his loud
voice.
he's in his silk shirt,
the one with coconut trees
emblazoned on the front
and wearing his famous
khaki shorts and sandals.
it's February. there's snow
on the ground.
I imagine he's doused himself
with his favorite cologne,
old spice.
his sliver hair slicked
back, a rolex on his wrist
that's only right just twice.
he's on the prowl and
needs a wing man, but I
tell him sorry,
I can't make it tonight.

find an answer

I look at the clock.
see
the hour
that it is.
the incessant
motion
of the second hand.
time to go.
to leave.
to wander.
to find an answer
not in a book,
or
in the words of
well
meaning friends
who worry
about me. there's
something else
out there, waiting
to be embraced,
to tell me
sweetly, everything
is fine,
come home.

trust, like ice

trust, like ice
once broken and you've fallen
into the cold
dark water,
is hard
to buy into again,
it's difficult to walk
or slide
towards the middle
no matter how many times
you hear the words,
it's fine.
take my hand
and trust me, I wouldn't
ever lie,
at least not a second
or third, or
twentieth time.

picking oranges

I've got an itch.
a
hankering
to catch
a freight train out
of town.
run with a single bag
and hop
into the open
car
heading south.
i'll leave no forwarding
address.
i'll cash in my chips,
keep my money
in my sock.
I can pick oranges,
I think.
even now
at this age.
i'll be the best orange
picker in
orange county
and be so tired i'll
finally
get some sleep.

the paperwork

the line
is long outside the door.
have your
i.d. ready.
picture please, place
of birth,
your mother's maiden
name,
your first born,
your marriages, one through
three.
siblings?
addresses
and numbers that tell us
who you are.
but that question
is rarely answered
satisfactorily,
who knows truly
beyond the paperwork
who we are.

appearances

on the outside
looking in, everything seems
fine.
ordinary
and normal.
the quiet smile,
the pleasant greeting,
a farewell kiss,
lips upon lips.
a gentle hand
upon the back.
what nice icing they've
given
to it all.
a sweet swath of cream
upon the stale
and crumbled cake.

to you

the silly
birthdays arrive. cakes
and cards.
balloons and small
gifts wrapped
with ribbons and bows.
the candles are lit,
we heave
and blow.
we make a wish.
the song gets sung.
another year,
another
promise broken.

spiritual advisor

her spiritual
advisor
tells her what to do.
despite
the fact
he's lost in
the wilderness.
but he's got the collar
on,
the sheep skin
on the wall,
the crucifix
and all the trimmings
of the church
behind him.
so why not listen
and obey,
he's got to have his
stuff
together, right?
hardly. dour and sad,
he ponders
his life, the choices
made, the roads not
taken,
the one he's stuck on.

medicine

just one drink,
he says,
staring
at the tall full
flask
of gin.
one sip will do.
one smell,
one swallow
and i'll be good
again.
one taste of
the elixir
and i'll be right.

hail storms

there aren't enough
straight jackets to go around.
hardly a day
goes by
when I wish I didn't have
one for
someone, or for myself.
a bottle of pills
to calm the nerves,
dull
the wits.
we are small
typhons of emotions.
spinning sadly,
sleeping barely.
wondering in worry,
keeping
the trouble fresh and
alive,
what our parents did.
what our jobs
do.
what the weather has
done to us
today.

love given

the really smart boys
and girls
sat up
front
raising their hands
to every
question posed.
good breeding in most.
off they go to MIT,
to Harvard
and Yale,
assorted other
ivy league schools.
NYU, for the writers in
the group.
Northwestern
and Columbia.
I found
my home
in the community college
around the corner
with professors whose teaching
position
was their second job.
thirty bucks per credit.
i'd drive my beat up
dodge
with leaky brakes
and a cracked windshield
to night classes.
walking when
the wheels broke down.
but it's okay.
i'd change nothing.
the books are out there.
the world
is yours if you
want it. Every word
written is yours to read.
every
ounce of knowledge
awaits and besides,
it's more about the soul,
the heart.
the love
given, not taken.

flying south

we fly south for the winter.
hand in
hand
on an airplane.
the ground gets smaller
as we rise.
our problems
slip away,
go under us.
they're forgotten
after the first
on flight drink.
we've packed light.
we're on easy street
as the plane
streaks
to an island
in the middle of a
crystal blue sea.

hope

a bright
sun
slips through the cathedral
of tall white
clouds.
it sings
upon the grass,
the wintered trees.
melts what's left of
the grey snow.
there is hope
in warmth,
in the glow and kiss
of a soft
pre april breeze.

hiding

from the first time
the child
hides beneath a bed,
or burrows inside
a dark
full closet, it's then
the boy
or girl realizes,
that this feels fine,
escaping
the world, it's
pain and sorrow,
it become
a pattern.
the mind is wired
to go this way,
to hide in times
of trouble,
to find rest.

missed calls

there are 13 missed
calls
on the phone.
not a single message
left.
strangers
dialing my number
wanting something,
someone
who isn't home,
someone
who won't answer,
or pick up,
too busy with more
important things,
like sleep,
like food,
like love
and all the rest.

the cellar

the cellar

is cold. there is no
wine to be found, no
hand,
no body near
to hold.

no mice,
no bats or broken latches
or windows.
no memory to rest upon.

I sit in the long chair.
against the wall.
the tv
is off.

I ponder my next move.

sipping hot tea
in the dark.
alone.
it's nearly a new day.
i'll rise
and go up
soon.

drama

the show goes on.
we know our roles by heart
at this point.
when to laugh, or cry,
which direction to turn,
where to stand
to hit our mark.
we know the cues, when
the music stops,
or starts.
we are one in this drama.
a king and queen,
for better or worse,
we are actors stuck
in a self written play.
a performance
with no fore seeable end,
both tragic
and comedic on any given
night,
any given day.

the pressure of life

the barber
would be waiting in the chair
that i'd
sit in. not my usual
barber alfredo, but
don from Greece.
he'd be smoking a cigar,
the morning paper
stretched out between
his thick hairy arms.
it's 1965.
i had a lot of hair back
then. trim, he'd ask.
short in
the back? a little off
the top? where's your mother
he'd ask.
I don't know I tell him.
but give me the usual,
like alfredo does. okay,
he'd say and wrap the cape
around my skinny neck,
pinning it at the collar.
we're gonna make you handsome,
he'd say.
all the girls
are gonna love you.
but i'm only ten, i'd tell
him
feeling the pressure of
life upon me.

key after key

i could type at this machine
all night.
grow old
as each sun rises and falls
out my window.
just bring me
a sandwich once in a while,
coffee.
every now and then
come to see if i'm okay.
come close and put your
hand on my shoulders.
lean down
to kiss me and tell me
that you love me,
then let me go at it.
key after key struck because
that's what i do,
what i need.

everyone is home now

the baby is crying
through the wall.
it's a soft
weep.
she needs to be rocked,
to be held, or
fed, perhaps read to
as she falls asleep.
I could
if I could, but
those days are long
past me.
i'll just listen
as i lie here to
the sweetness of the voice,
a warming
sound, that says all
is well. everyone
is home now.

when it's spring

it's a mystery.
a riddle.
a long way home
from here.
no direction, no map.
no clear
path.
we're in the fog.
the cold
sleet drizzle.
the mud once snow.
our ears are full
of whispers.
cold wind.
February doesn't sing.
it thuds
forward
on ice.
one boot after the other.
wake me when it's
spring.

sleeping with poetry

i fell asleep
listening to an old scratchy
record
of walt Whitman
reciting his poetry,
Emily came
next, then frost,
then William blake.
the sleep grew deeper
with each poem.
T.S. Eliot made me snore,
and frost made
me turn over,
looking for the cold
side of the pillow.
i scratched hard at my
head
with e.e. cummings.
Sylvia and sexton though
stirred me into
bad dreams,
as did Bukowski and Ginsberg.
but i was getting somewhere,
closer and closer to home.
Philip Larkin
woke me up,
as did Ignatow
and
Collins. Oliver rest
her soul, gave me hope.

to be read

the workshop
is mostly old white men,
retired
and well read, well bred.
bmw's line
the lot.
a Mercedes or two.
i don't sniff a single
struggle for
shelter or food
amongst the lot.
good boots or shoes on
all of them.
there's a sprinkling of
women too.
young and older.
quiet for the most part,
but smart
as whips, whatever that
cliché might mean.
it's a good group of
readers who go line by
line
through your small piece
of art.
your little story pulled out
of thin air.
a simple story of a first
kiss,
that's it.
no need to think much more
about it, but the words
are welcome.
feels good to be read
and liked.
who doesn't?

you've got a lot of nerve

i tell her that one day
when i'm
rich and famous, she'll
regret her mistreatment of me.
giving me the cold
shoulder
all the time.
she'll regret that,
and i'll just tell her
that she's got a lot of nerve
saying she's my friend.
at that point i'll
put on positively 4th street
and let bob
sing the rest.

land lline

the land line
is worthless, for the most part.
it's the number
that my mother used
to call me on,
though.

so it's hard to let it go
despite
the 7 hundred dollars
a year I pay for it to ring
by people I don't know.

someone from
india
or the urkraine
asking me
if I need any medication,
or new windows,
or if i'd like a no interest
loan
or maybe a warranty
on my toaster oven.

these things all interest
me, but
I just hang on up on them,
which doesn't seem
to phase them in
the least bit.


they call the next day
without fail.
same spiel, same deal,
same scam,

different day.

the project

no need for a plumber.
she's got this.
a saw,
some new pipe,
putty,
a wrench, a sleeve,
an elbow.
inside
there's the ring,
a tooth,
hair
and assorted debris
from years
of brushing,
washing, rinsing.
a mercury dime appears.
a clasp
to a bracelet, a shard
of glass
from the wine that
tilted
and made a red splash
everywhere.

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.