the nice guy

they see you coming.
they
see and feel your heart.
your empath
side.
they can tell you're
a nice guy.
you're safe. honest.
responsible.
you'll do anything
to help save them
from their life of bad
decisions.
you want to help them
make the countless
mistakes they've made,
and continue to make,
right.
they have you from
the start.
you're a knight
in shining
armor. a godsend.
an island of calm
in their perpetual storm.
a savior who will
right their sinking ship,
and off you go, lost
now in the quicksand,
the emotional
turmoil
that will sadly be
your new exhausting
life.

the sway of the hammock

i stretch out the lines
to the hammock in the backyard.
tying them from post to post.
it's in the shade.
i set a small table
beside it.
bring out the cold drinks,
the books.
it fits two, as it swings
in the late summer air.
we are careful as we lie
down within, smiling
as the stars appear.
it's what love should be
like.
moments like this,
being together, side by
side, relaxing in the gentle
sway of time.

mother hood thing

I remember asking
my mother where my hat was, or
shoes,
or baseball glove,
or pants,
or shirt, or book,
or a pencil, or pen, or
my pet frog,
or my
list of phone numbers
to all my friends.
the scissors, or a needle
and thread.
we all asked, all seven
of us kids, where
things were.
never truly lost, because
she always knew where
everything was.
always. it was a magical
gift that she
possessed.
she had this motherhood
thing down pat.

sunny side up

he's on the dole.
making
real money now. a grand a month
disability.
food stamps too.
a bunk in the shelter
until free housing arrives.
three squares a day.
he's making new
friends. he's got a girlfriend
now who texts him
nine times a day.
all the doctor's bills are
paid.
he's on top of the world.
he actually says, i wish
i had gotten this cancer
years ago, oh how my life
has changed.

faux ocean

i buy a candle that smells
like the ocean.
i turn on the white noise,
which is a recording
of waves
and seagulls.
i spread some self tanning
lotion all over
me and put on my
sunglasses. i step into my
new lime green bathing suit.
my sandals.
i sit in a small chair
in the living room,
facing the sun
with a fat new book of
poems.
then it occurs to me
maybe i should really go
to the beach,
and quit this fooling around.

finding peace

the old couple
at the table beside us
are holding hands.

they say a few words.
but it's mostly nods and smiles.

saying things
with their hearts,
saying things with their eyes,
things
they both understand.

it's obvious how in love
they still are.

they are at peace with this
world. with
each other, and who they are.

they have won this war.
and who doesn't want that?

Mind Games

the mind is
a terrible thing at times.
so easily
distracted, fooled, tricked
duped
into doing things you
don't normally do.
it ignores the truth,
puts blinders
on the eyes, closes
the ears
to all the words you
don't want to hear.
don't believe what it tells
you.
it's soft and undisciplined.
it wants love
when there is none.
joy when it's impossible.
kindness in a place where
it doesn't exist.
your mind will create
what you desire,
a mirage.
it's easily swayed by
charm, by a convincing kiss.
it's not real.
don't listen to your mind.
it will steer you wrong
every time.
trust your gut, it's
your true compass
to this life.
you can save yourself
a world of grief and sorrow,
if you disobey
your mind and listen
to the intuition that
lies inside.

simple faith

it's not about
church
attendance, or how many
times you recite a prayer
on a string
of rosary beads.
it's not about confession
or communion,
or being baptized.
it's not about the collection
basket
or good deeds.
it's beyond all these man
made rituals
that assuage your guilt,
qualm your fears.
it's more.
much more.
it's the simple act of
faith, and sinning no more.
forgiveness.
trust and gratitude.
being thankful, for all
that lies ahead, and all
that came before.

i need it now, baby

I have a break down.
I lose
my mind and go a little crazy.
I can't take
it anymore, i'm in dire
straits,
i'm up to my neck in
this desire. I need it.
i'm sweating profusely,
I've denied myself too long.
the cold showers aren't working.
I need this.
I want it, I absolutely
deserve it.
my body craves what
I've been away from
through self discipline
and spiritual
awakening. I need it
badly, I need it like now,
bring it on.

I need an ice cream cone.

the yellow butterfly

the butterfly
that's on the sill is yellow.
she has
soft wings.
like silk.
patterned with dollops
of black.
she's beautiful sitting
there so still.
I wonder where
she's going as she takes
flight,
to whom does her heart
belong.
will her life be
fulfilled.

swimming out

I've been in the shallow
end
too long
with the other shallow
dwellers.
those with broken fins,
hooks from past lovers
still lodged in
their mouths.
time to go deep,
to the rich and blue
waters
on the other side.
to the healthy part of
the ocean.
where there is less
pollution, less debris,
less
sorrow and regret,
less of those just
surviving day to day,
wallowing in sadness,
no thriving,
no cheer, no joy, no
fun
in what they do, or say,.
time to swim out
into the deep and
breathe in new air.
taste new salt
in my mouth, swim with
the beauty
of this wonderful sea.

the arms of sunday

i'm up way too early.

i'll go back to bed shortly.

coffee and toast first.
i'll get the paper off the porch
and read
some of the new but old
never changing,
awful news.

I'll write a poem or two.
look out the window
at the sky. i'll be grateful
for all that is.

i'll think about the past
for a few minutes.
then the day ahead.

i'll rest in the soft arms of
sunday morning,
and wish it was you instead.

believe them

I love the quote,
'when they tell you who
they are,
believe them.'

it's so hard to do.
you want them to be
less,
or more of what you
desire. it's impossible.

you want them to change,
be more moral,
more truthful, more
fun and loving, more
who you are, and less
like how they behave.

but no. they are incapable
of any change.

they tell you in words,
in actions, in thought
and feelings exactly
who they are. you must
listen and observe.
take note.

when you do finally
get it and believe them,
it sets you free.
your eyes clear,
your heart heals

and you can see at last
that they aren't meant to
be with you, no matter
how hard
you wish and try not
to believe.

the long letter

I write a long letter.
it says
everything I need to say.
everything
that has been said,
but needs to be said
one last time.
I rewrite it. I fine tune
it.
I add, subtract.
I emphasize what needs
to be emphasized.
self love. self love. I
dot the I's, cross
the T's.
it's a gentle letter,
a kind
piece of prose written
from the heart.
it's about healing
and moving on. letting go.
being grateful.
full of positive affirmations.
trust and faith.
I set it aside, then
go back to it. it's
tearless and concise.
rational and forthright.
it's encouraging and full
of spiritual insight.
it's nearly perfect.
there is nothing left
to say in this letter.
it should be saved
for years, laminated.
hung on a wall and framed.
but I don't send it.
I don't e mail it,
or put it in an envelope,
with stamp attached.
I just keep it where it
can be read whenever I
need it. in the drawer
where I sit and type.
it's a letter addressed
to me.

the blue tiffany box

i was at Tiffany's the other day
having
breakfast
by myself. scrambled
eggs, bacon,
toast, coffee.
Audrey was late,
as usual.
she's so irresponsible at times.
she showed
up in sunglasses
and a pencil skirt.
smoking,
always with that cigarette.
her hair
was up,
in a kerchief.
she looked nice, but tired.
she finally sat down next
to me, and peeked out from
under her dark glasses.
sorry i'm late, she said
meekly.
are you mad?
to which i said. of course
not.
good, she said. i don't
like life when you're mad
at me.
i pushed the blue box
with a white ribbon
across the table, and told
her.
this is for you.
to which she replied,
you shouldn't have, and
I said, without
pause. i know.

a new religion

if I were to invent
my own
religion, it would begin
with a cold
shower.
ice cold for ten minutes.
everyone would get under
the freezing water
until they
turned blue.
from then on their lives
wouldn't seem
so bad.

relationship hell

when someone abuses
you.
leave.
whether physically, or
emotionally.
when someone lies to
you,
run.
it's who they are, they
do this all the time.
you caught them in
one lie, now trust me,
more lies
are to follow.
when someone cheats
on you,
betrays you,
leave, don't give
them a second chance,
change the locks, close
the door.
these people are not
worthy of being
with you.
let them go. they will
never change.
they are sick and need
help. don't let them infect
you with their immoral
selves.
don't believe the charm,
the fake spirituality.
it's a mirage.
they will bring you down,
cast you into the lake
of relationship hell.
run from these lost souls,
they have no conscience,
no heart, no desire to
be whole.
they will suck the life
out of you,
and pretend it's love.
you mean nothing to them.
believe me on all of this.
I truly know.

a wonderful life

it's a wonderful life.
a so so life.
a miserable life.
pick one, choose one
out of the hat.
it's your decision.
yes.
people get sick,
people die,
hearts are forever
broken,
love is unrequited.
we go broke,
we lose everything.
we are back to square one,
once more.
it's the life you choose.
the way you
look at it after the grieving
is done.
after the sorrow is
wrung out of you.
the next day, the next
year is yours.
do as you choose.

get back in the game

I have an argument with the mailman.
I confront him
on the porch before he puts
my mail into the slot.
what's the deal, I ask him.
I haven't any good mail in months.
no sappy greeting cards, no postcards
from a far, no love letters
with lipstick on them, or a dab
of perfume,
nothing, nothing but junk,
flyers for lambchops
or chicken necks on sale
at the grocery store.
he looks at me, tipping his
pith helmet in the sun
and says. too bad for you.
maybe you need to make more
friends. i'm not responsible
for your lack of good mail.
maybe you should get a life.
I let out a sigh. he's right.
damn him. get busy, he yells,
as he goes down the street
with his heavy sack. step it
up brother and get back in
the game. you can do it.
now go back in there and take
a shower, use soap.
and shave, you're a mess.

the whistler

my grandmother used to
love to whistle.
a veritable bird
in a cage.
she'd whistle complete songs,
her lips puckered
her cheeks blown out.
her hands conducting an invisible
orchestra.
she'd make funny faces,
her eyes would twinkle.
on and on she'd go, but after
awhile it got very annoying
and you had to leave the house
and go play in the street.

no cure

it's not like measles,
or
the mumps, or even
cancer.
it's nothing like any disease.
it's beyond
that.
you can't fix what's
in the bone,
in the blood,
the heart.
this is who people are
from the jump.
there's no changing them,
no fixing.
they will never be different
from who they are.
what you see is what you get.
as the song goes.
whether good or bad.
and they themselves know that.
it's not a choice. it's
just so.
there's no cure
for the self, it's their
true nature.
they can try and hide it,
but
it's permanent. don't fool
yourself
and try to help them.
you're wasting your time.

off the grid

I sell the house.
the car.
clothes, except for those
on my back.
books and
furniture.
I empty the drawers.
I cash in.
close out the bank account.
the funds,
the stocks.
retirement.
all cash now from here
on out.
I get off the grid.
social media.
I toss the phone.
shut it all down as if
I don't exist.
I hit the road and don't
look back.
thumb out.
the world i'm in means
nothing anymore.
there's no turning
back.
time for a new start.
see ya.

it's not easy

i chisel out some etchings,
on the front sidewalk.
scrub the graffiti
off the side of the house,
the curb.
i take a look
at the scratch in my car,
keyed again, the inside
rummaged through
in the middle of the night.
there's something written
in red lipstick
on the windshield.
i think it reads,
i hate your guts. loser.
i recognize how the T is crossed.
i see someone in the woods
hiding behind
a tree. there is a high
pitched cackled
as they run off.
breaking up is hard to do.

sugar in the morning

I run out for paper and coffee
and two bagels.
it's early.
she's still asleep, and says
something like,
what time is it. she's groggy.
I kiss her on the cheek,
and say i'll be right back.
no sugar she says, as I
go down the steps.
to which I say, do you mean
sugar sugar, granulated
white sugar or the other
kind of sugar, all with a wink.
she laughs and says,
hurry back, before falling
quickly back to sleep.

good to go

there is serendipity
in synchronicity,

when the planets align,
when you feel that vibe.

when your intuition
tells you what to do,

that wish on a falling star
comes true,

that prayer in the darkest
hour is answered,

it all comes together,
and then you're good

to go.

the house is empty

the house is empty.
the owners
leave, taking everything with them
but a few beers
left in the fridge.
a broom in the corner.
a glass on the counter.

my shoes echo across the floor.
there are dust balls
underfoot,
dog hair.
scribbles on the wall
where kids were measured.
there's a lock box
on the door. a sign in the
yard.

it's bitter sweet for them,
leaving this long
time home, a place where they've
lived,
shared love, and meals,
holidays, and watched the kids
grow.

I can almost hear and feel
the laughter that went
on here. hear the arguments
too, the tears,
and the apologies as each,
out of love, withdrew.

I can see the Christmas
tree in the corner.
the stockings on the mantle.
I smell the summer grill out
in the yard sizzling.


I hear the mower.
I see them raking leaves,
side by side,
the scraping of a snow shovel
against the walk.

a wind catches the rusted swing
in the back yard,
and as I stand there with
a cold beer in hand.

I watch it drift slowly,

back and forth,
back and forth.
back and forth.

slow boat to china

my friend talks about
kayaking
to key west.
he's 70, new hip,
high blood pressure,
a heart condition, no
job,
no significant other.
I worry about him,
I wonder if he's written
a good bye note.
he says it holds 450 pounds,
to which he's half
of that, the rest
supplies.
canned goods. baked
beans and things
he can fry when
he pulls it up on
some river bank along
the way.
I don't tell him that
I think he's crazy,
or out of his mind. I
just wish him well,
tell him good luck,
be careful and have
a good time.
at this stage of the game,
what the hell.
do whatever it is you
want to do.

blue green swivel chair

i'm waiting on my new chair.
staring out the window
for the big brown truck.
it's
sweet, a pale blue green,
swivels
on a four prong silver
stand. it looks soft.
fits one.
I've been looking for it
for months
on end.
browsing and trolling
the sites on line.
then voila, there it is.
sort of like
how I found you.
mid century modern,
it will look fine
in the new living room.
comfy and cozy,
the color and style
just right.
come on over and take
a spin.
watch the spills though,
please.

in the early morning rain

it's a long
walk through the woods around
the lake
in the early morning rain.
the lake
is full of
sky and trees.
the path is clear.
the mind
and heart at last
are free.
there is an old memory
around each wide bend.
I know this trail.
I know
these woods,
this sky, this water.
through every season
they've been
good to me.

lucky in love

I pick
the short straw, again.

I get Shirley Jackson's black
dot
on the slip
of paper.

I roll snake eyes.

draw a duce not an ace
to fill out the royal straight.

I go under
the ladder.

the black cat scurries
in front of me.

there's not a single number
on my
ticket
to claim the lottery.

the spin of the wheel
brings up red, not
black.

but i'm lucky in love,
right?

do you hear that?

about 4 a.m.
the battery in
one of several smoke alarms
dies, and gives
out a plaintive weep.
they are dotted
about the house.
I say out loud,
do you hear that,
that incessant beep.
I think it's the smoke
alarm.
I look over
but there's no one
there.
I get up and walk through
the darkness
looking for a red
light flashing,
listening for the staggered
eek.
it could be anywhere.
on any floor.
I wonder if I have any
of those strange squared
fat batteries
in the kitchen drawer.
I give up
and go back to bed,
shut the door, put a pillow
over my head
and fall back to sleep.

a positive charge

something changed.
almost
as if an electrical charge
had
occurred.
as if my
finger went into the slot
and jolted
me
with a thousand
watts.
my eyes sparkled,
words
fell out, there
was a new sheen on the world.
I started dancing,
and laughing.
it was a positive charge.
a bolt
of lighting from
above.
it was nice. it was nice.
it was
well deserved.

white cake

the best cake I ever had
was
a slice of white cake with
vanilla icing,
three layers at a wedding
I attended
in 1975, October 18.
I even saved a piece for
later. a large slice.
wrapped it in freezer
paper and stuck in the fridge.
I can still taste
it, even after all these years.
it melted in my mouth.
the bride's mother had it
specially made by a baker
in Maryland who came out
of retirement to make this
one enormous and delicious
cake.
I can see now. still taste
it as it was crushed playfully
into my mouth.
I never got the second slice,
the marriage ended
shortly thereafter,
and she took it with her,
along with a toaster oven,
back to mom.

the estimate

she had five cats.
four dogs,
a bird.
a husband
who was almost gone,
all rescued from somewhere.
each with their
own
set of problems,
health, age,
emotional disorders, or
none.
they barked, they
purred,
they squawked as I moved
room to room.
the husband,
waved
with one hand,
the other on his remote.
the smell burned my eyes
as I made my
way through the array of obstacles,
and animals
that were underfoot,
clawing at my legs.
I stared at the peeling
wallpaper,
the crackling paint,
the gaps
between wood and wood.
the circles of water stains.
brown halos
on the ceilings.
the pads
the blankets, the dishes
and bowls
upon the floor.
cat boxes full of sand.
I wondered how in the hell
it got this way.
would fresh paint even matter
at this point?

making music

it's the space between the notes,
the quiet gap,
the soft silence,

before the next key is struck
or chord strummed,
or trumpet blown,

that makes the music.

so it goes with us.
when we quiet our souls,
still our minds,

before we let the next note

unfold
is when we find our
true selves

and get whole. then
the music comes.

the old bookstore

it's a small book
store in a small town,
south
of where we are,
but it's full of books you've never
read, or seen.
the floors go
everywhere, up
down, sideways. the shelves
are stuffed
with the old and new.
magazines
too.
it smells of paper.
real paper.
the ancient dust
of words.
ink. the binding of glue.
I could spend the night
there, just me and you,
with a candle
in one of the big
stuffed chairs
and read until the morning
sky turned from ebony
to blue.

not lately

I used to savor
each summer day, not wanting
the long
hot months to end.
but not lately.
I've moved on to fall
as being
the place I want to spend
my days.
give me the changing colors
of leaves,
the cool breeze.
the crisp air through
the open windows.
give me a hand to hold.
a true heart.
someone to love
as the sizzle of
summer recedes. give me
autumn.
fall. the change of
season in so many ways.

debatable

I watch the debates
for a few minutes then change the channel.
I go back to it.
it's sad.
it's a train wreck.
is this the best we have?
the world is changing.
the old hang on,
the new claw at the door
trying to get in.
no one stands out.
there's a chink in all their armor.
they stumble, mumble,
make promises they can't keep,
trying too hard
to get their point across.
it's a beauty contest.
no one seems good enough,
smart enough.
honest enough.
but that's the way it's
always been.

the field trip

I remember the time
I was ten on the school bus riding
home in
the middle of the day
after a field trip to the capitol,
and looking
out the window of the bus
to see my father
with another woman
riding next to him in his car.
she had her hand
on his knee,
and he had his hand
somewhere else on her.
I recognized her.
my mother's best friend, Doris.
I ratted him out
when I got home.
then life got really interesting.

late night rice

it's late.
but I need some Chinese food
and a mai tai.

I need a greasy spring roll
dipped in wasabi mustard.

I need to sit at the bar
and eat with a fork, not
chopsticks.

they'll have the tv on.

the girl at the front will
nod when I come in.

the guy who pours the water
incessantly
will come over and shake
my hand, tell me it's good
to see you once again.

the usual, i'll say.
and off he goes with the order
into the hectic kitchen.

we've done this before.

your cheating heart

it was a good song.
hank williams wrote it 

on the back
of an envelope
in a few short minutes.
so the story goes.
it's a simple song.
your cheating heart.
country blues.
but he sang it 

like he knew 

what it was all about.
it was written before
it even left his hand.
it's timeless. 

and once you've gone 

down that road,
and tasted love 

gone wrong,
you'll understand.

Get Out

once
out, we don't go back.
when someone
abuses you,
whether physically
or emotionally,
or lies to you
again and again.
it's over.
no more chances.
strange how time and distance
gives
clarity.
the water clears
and stills.
we see the past for what
it really was,
people for who
they really are.
there is no doubt after
a while
about what went down.
we know without
out a doubt
what was lost, what
was found. we don't go
back. we move on.
some people never change.
we need to realize that.

the far blue wall

I let the phone ring.
i'm busy.

well, not really, but I
don't want to talk at the moment.

i'm not in a talking mood.
i'm in more of a thinking mood.

pondering.
wondering. examining.
rehashing.
staring at the far blue wall
recalling a moment in time.

it passes and I listen to the
voice message.

but I still don't return
the call. it's someone I don't
want to talk to.

there is a time and place for
everything.

like all painful things,
I put it off,
i'll get to it
when i'm ready and not a second
too soon,
or too late.

say nothing

I change things up.

remove
all books of a negative nature
to a room
where I won't see them.

enough is enough.
i purge the phone.

I dispose of bad habits.

worry,
despair.
pondering the past,
the future.
i let go.

the moment is where I am.

a cold shower.
good food.
good sleep.
good friends.

I break the spell, clear
the haze
the fog. i erase.

i'm done with it, with
toxic souls. i realize
that i can only change me,

they're on their own.

i move onward in simple
ways.

I make the bed.
I drink more water.

i pray. i say nothing
when nothing is all i need
to say.

i clean the wounds,
i heal and carry on.

package in the mail

i get a package in the mail.
a brown
wrapped
box with no return address.
it could be anything,
from anyone.
i pick it up off the porch
and stare at it.
i give it a shake,
holding it up to my ear,
listening for a tick,
or something. but
there's no sound.
it's neither heavy
or light.
i bring it into the house
and set it on
the table.
i make a cup of coffee
and sit beside it.
i don't open it though.
i like
the mystery of it.
that's enough for me
right now.

open wide

the dental assistant
is perky. a head of wired bushy
hair,
controlled by rubber bands
behind her head.
dressed in blue
pajamas.
she tells you about the needle,
the numbing stick,
pills and food. she
takes your blood pressure,
puts a piece of cardboard
in your mouth that makes
you drool,
smiling all the time.
she's young and new.
all day she's at it with
the fillings,
the cleanings, the pulling
of teeth that
are no longer of use.
opening and closing drawers,
telling you
the doctor will be in
shortly. just a few minutes
more.

milk man

the milk man
used to deliver the eggs,
the juice
the bacon. milk.
there'd be a metal box
on the porch
and in the early
morning
he'd pull up in his
round shouldered truck
to drop off
what we ordered.
we could hear
him pull up and pull
away.
never meeting him
in person, but wondering
about his life.
his children,
his wife, did they miss
him
when he rose so early,
and went away.

goodbye wisdom tooth

how quickly
the dentist
finds
my wisdom tooth
where it's been for a very
long
time, and yanks
it out after
a few well placed
shots of novacaine.
I hardly have a moment
to say goodbye,
to thank it for all
the chewing that it's
done over the years.
I apologize
for the lack of brushing
and flossing
not on a regular basis,
i tried,
but it was a good
tooth,
a fine tooth, i'll miss
it,
and so will its friends
who still stand by.

Love Story

we made
love after watching
love story.
it was awkward,
not love exactly, but
something else.
more like an
extended kiss, an
opening to what's next.
it was deep
in winter.
february.
there was snow on
the hard ground.
we were testing the waters,
letting
go of the past and
present,
banking on some nebulous
future.
the movie, such as it is,
was not
a favorite,
not one to save or
go back to.
a tearful film,
from the book,
an easy read.
written in a day.
the dying the girl,
the preppy boy,
the overbearing father.

dents and bruises

we all have dents
and bruises,
scrapes and cuts, scars
and cracks.
we've been through a lot
once we reach
a certain age,
no one gets out
unscratched,
unscathed.
life gets in the way.
things falls
apart at the seams.
what's real
is fake,
what you thought was
true,
is not what it seems,
but it's not how you
fall,
but how you get up.
cliché after cliché,
and yet
they all fit at some point.
we lead a life of mediocrity
if we don't press on,
and
follow our dreams.

rewire the brain

i get out my medical bag,
scalpel, syringes, wires,
clamps, antiseptics.
cotton balls.
i am going to rewire
my brain.
i send away for a manual,
the necessary
instructions i need to
go in
and fix the faulty connections
that are adversely affecting
my way of thinking.
causing wrong choices
in my relationships and other
aspects of my life,
but there are no tools
necessary.
it's just words of advice.
let go,
trust god, get busy, move
on, don't look back.
be good, be kind, be fun.
be creative, be compassionate.
clear the toxic souls,
the energy vampires that
suck the joy and hope
from your life. and
remember, it's not
a sprint, but a marathon.

Incompatible?

you like to sleep in.
she likes
to get up early
and cry.
you enjoy breakfast, she
has a glass
of lemon water.
you go for a walk,
she runs until her feet
bleed.
you want to make love,
she doesn't.
you read fiction, she's
onto self help, self love,
avoidance.
you tell the truth,
she lies.
you try to be transparent.
she hides.
you forsake all others.
she keeps
all the ex's close by.
you want to talk, or hold
her, she asks you why.
you love the holidays,
she wrecks each one, and
makes them about her.
you want to go out to
dinner, see a movie.
she boils an egg
and puts on a cartoon.
you turn off your phone.
she stares into hers
all day and night,
cradling it in her hand,
like a loon.
this will never work.

there are no coincidences

there are no coincidences.

when the student
is ready the master appears.

synchronicity.

put the desire and need
out there
and the universe will
answer.

God will answer the prayer.

someone will appear that
you need in your life,
a truth will be revealed
that will
free you from bondage,
from anxiety and fear.

think it clearly and it
will show up before your eyes.

there are no coincidences.
it's not by chance
that the world shows itself
to us.

believe and watch it happen.

what's for dinner?

when my grandmother
lena,
would go out into the back
yard
of her little row
house in south philly
to grab
a fat chicken, and then
wring it's neck
without blinking an eye,
we became worried
and confused.
all of them had names,
they were well fed
and cared for,
not unlike us grand children.
were we at some point
going to be
baked and seasoned,
fried in her big
black pan,
or end up in a sunday
stew?

everyday i write the book

I begin to write a script about
love.
the words pour out.
the dam breaks with ideas
overflowing on each new page.
I run out of ink,
I run out of paper.
the plot sickens.
the twists and turns get more
bizarre
and strange.
but it's all true, true
to the bone.
not a word needs to be changed,
altered,
embellished
or honed.
it's a tome of sorts.
a real life story,
an unbelievable tale that's
all true.
I call my agent and read him
chapter one.
he screams wow, this will
be a blockbuster.
i'm drawing up a contract now,
don't tell anyone.
I can almost hear him drool.

gold mine

there's beauty in nearly
everything.
in all people.
but it's our own making,
for the most
part.
we perceive
or trick our minds into thinking
gold is really
gold,
that it just isn't
the surface,
the gleam of someone
in the sun,
but there has to be more,
a lot more
waiting inside the mine.
so you go in to dig,
but it's empty
and eventually it all
caves in.

love and gambling

it's a gamble.
love
is.
it's the slot machine
taking
your nickel
of affection and giving
you back
a dollar,
then putting in a dollar
and getting back
a nickel.
then another nickel.
and another,
but you keep pulling the arm,
hoping against
hope
that it will go back
to the way it was.
the change pouring out,
real money,
real love.

the apology

apologies
are often too late in coming.
not sincere,
or forthright.
instead
they are lame attempts
to appear
remorseful and contrite.
ways to assuage
the guilt
that's imbedded in their
tattered souls.
they cringe that others
look at them
in such an awful light.
they don't work.
save them for someone else.
another lie
on top of lies
just makes everything
done seem
ten times worse.

meet the new boss

i had a boss once,
when i worked in a cubicle,
that was shot
up
and left for dead
during the vietnam war.
he was from the south.
he survived though
swimming to a barge out
in the china sea.
he was riddled with bullet
scars,
and wounds
he wouldn't talk about.
one hand was stiff, the fingers
unmoving.
he'd eat a bowl of rice
for lunch in his office
with the door closed.
you could hear the chopsticks
clicking.
he was an angry man,
small in stature,
thick glasses, a cigarette
dangling in his
mouth at all times like
a Saigon gangster.
you know nothing, he used
to say to me.
nothing.
when will you ever learn
and stop being so american
lazy?
that was when he was having
a good day.

the august beach

I look at the calendar.
august already,
oh my, how time flies,
but it's coming soon, the beach,
the long
stretch of days
water and sand.
blue skies, white clouds.
no rush,
no hurry, no worry.
unpacked and settled in,
just us
hand in hand.

my father's phone

my father
misdials his phone which
isn't hard
since he's legally blind.
the irony
does not escape
me.
he's been blind for a very
very long
time even when he could see.
he's surprised when
he hears my voice,
as he's often surprised
when there's a knock
at the door
and it's one of his children
that he admits,
or denies is his.
he's always been on shaky
ground when it comes
to children. he'd rather
be at sea, safe upon
the ocean, but
a child in every port
would not surprise me.

numbers 1111

numbers appear
out of nowhere,
receipts
addresses,
birthdays,
chairs,
groups of ones.
there's a meaning there.
something about
angels.
something beyond
the obvious,
it isn't clear.

one boiled egg

the boiled egg
awaits.
hard and white,
hot
from the pot
of water still
on the burner.
I stare it down
into coolness.
I get the salt,
the pepper out,
ready for a shake.
I can almost taste,
the first bite
after the shell
has cracked and
broken away.

ice cream blues

I told myself no ice
cream
this week.
it's part of my new
diet,
but it's all I've been thinking
about.
chocolate, rocky road, coffee.
mint chip.
i'm thinking
of nuts and cherries,
whipped cream.
i'm thinking of sugar cones,
and sprinkles,
the gallon, the pint,
a little cup.
or maybe something cold
and creamy
from the dairy queen.
a blizzard
with oreos crunched up.

the upgrade

i hire a new assistant,
an intern
to help me around the house,
keep track
of where i put my glasses,
or keys.
do we have any stamps,
i'll ask her as i do my bills.
top drawer she answers.
she makes my bed, makes
me cookies. puts fresh
flowers in a vase. she
rubs my shoulders when
I've had a long day at
the office.
sometimes she'll hold
my hand when we watch t.v.
or give me a kiss
for no reason whatsoever.
i'm thinking of giving
her a raise, an upgrade

of status. she deserves it.

we tried to warn you

i should have said
i don't
when the justice of the peace
in the empty
basement of my house said,
do you take this
woman to be your lawfully
wedded wife, etc.
but no.
like an idiot, i agreed,
and said i do,
despite knowing and going
against very single
intuitive feeling
i possessed.
my heart and mind
was fluttering wild with
red flags.
my spider sense was tingling
to the nth degree.
beware it screamed. run,
don't do it.
i was a moth to the flame,
a sheep to slaughter.
even her family admitted
later that i was doomed.
we wished we would have
warned you they told me
apologetically after the deed
was done. she's a
freaking nightmare,
a rollercoaster of emotions,
she's been like this
forever,
she destroys
everyone she meets,
and she'll destroy
you too.
they owe me, big.

going back in time

i finally get my time machine up
and running.
it's taken a while, but it's
done. i found the design in an
old popular mechanics magazine
that my father subscribed to.
it was hard getting the plutonium
to give it power, but the internet
was very helpful with that.

i take a test run and go back
thirty minutes ago, when my
full cup of coffee was just
poured and hot.
it works. i have my coffee hot
again. i take it with me as
i return to the present.

i then set the lever to take
me back two years ago, to an
exact date that i have in mind.
when i get there, i change my
phone number, my email address,
i delete and purge every connection
I've ever had with one particular
person, then return to the now
again.

amazing.
life is peaceful. life is calm
and stress free.
i feel lighter, happier,
more myself than i have in
years. i have no bad memories,
no more ruminations, or
anxiety about what this person
did to me. there's not a trace
of anger or resentment.
all the crazy nonsense is gone.
it's like that nightmare
never happened.
i am at last free. i love
my time machine.

those kind of days

i see the stray dog
on the highway,
not dodging traffic, but just
sort of taking his time
as he walks across six
lanes of traffic
along route 66.
cars are slamming on their
brakes.
trucks are veering
out of the way. buses
just barely avoid him.
the dog doesn't care,
he just keeps walking
slowly to the other side.
he doesn't seem to care
or has a lot on his mind.
I've had those kind
of days.

The Monday List

I take the day
off
to get things done.
laundry, grocery shopping,
a trip
to a store to buy more things
I don't really need.
the bank.
a stop by Kaiser
to get a prescription filled.
maybe i'll change
the sheets, sweep
the floor.
rearrange some furniture,
exorcise
a room or two,
to get the evil spirits
out.
maybe i'll write for a while,
and say the same
things once
more.
wring the angst and seemingly
perpetual anger
out of my
psyche.
the car needs an oil
change.
the yard needs some weeding.
it could be
a busy day, or it could
be me,
just lying on the couch
with the phone off,
a cup of coffee in hand,
reading.

Late Night Prayer

late at night,
at last in bed,
fatigue upon me,
the blankets and sheets
pulled tight, I
close my
eyes and say a prayer.

hands are flat together
as i was taught
when a child at church.

thank you God
for all the blessings
you've given me,
for all the love that
others give and share,

and especially i'm
grateful
for removing all
the suffering and evil
that once lived here.

the days of milk and honey

it's the same old story.
boy meets
girl.
girl meets boy.
love ensues.
the honeymoon takes place.
they can't wait
to be together under the silver
moon.
it goes smoothly for awhile.
hugs and kisses, sweet
nothings
whispered into welcoming
ears. two peas in a pod.
then all hell
breaks loose.
the toilet seat is up.
toast gets burned,
an old boyfriend calls,
suddenly
no one is who you thought
they were.
the masks have fallen.
the milk goes sour,
the honey rancid.
there's a smell about it all,
that you just can't
get rid of. doors are now
exits, not
ways to get in.
the lying begins.
betrayal. secrets
come to light.
denial. tears, threats.
vows are broken.
it's the same old story.
boy meets girl.
girl meets boy.
love ensues, until it
doesn't anymore.

another bone to chew on

sometimes I chew
on the past like a dog chews
on a bone.
the meat is gone.
there's nothing left but
shards, broken
pieces cracked.
but i'll gnaw on it a little
while longer.
remembering
how satisfying it
was for a short while.
a meal, a banquet, dinner
and a movie.
a way of life,
but now, and forever more,
it's just a nasty old
bone.

we crave candy

we are all addicts
of some kind.
whether it's coffee, or
heroin,
sugar,
sex, or wine.
we all need a fix
of some sort.
exercise. work.
a man, a woman,
some semblance of love,
money.
our phones.
texting endlessly,
checking
our social media.
the lure of it all.
power and control.
we all try to soothe
our troubled
lives, resolve
our pasts, our unloving
parents
or spouse,
with something or
someone else, hanging on
for dear life to
what's bad for us.
what's false.
we medicate to make
the days
and nights go easier.
we need that boost,
that high. the adrenaline
rush. the dopamine.
year in year out,
we never let go
of what needs to be
let go of.
instead we soothe,
we mend, we placate
ourselves
with another hit,
another fix.
it's a circle without
an end. we crave
candy.

cell mates

I wake up some mornings
not knowing where I am.

I think i'm back in prison
sharing an eight by eight
room
with my cell mate.

but she's gone.
thank god she's not there.

I look at the bars,
the small window
carved in the brick.
the notches I've scratched
into the wall.

my eyes are blurred, my
mind not quite cleared.

i'm not sure if I can
speak, or say what's on
my mind.

i'm paralyzed again with
fear. it's quiet though.
there's no rustling
of the bed.
no ding of her phone.

i'm alone. i'm not in
prison anymore. i'm free.
i'm alive.
I've survived the abuse,
the torture,

I've somehow escaped
the prison of my wife.

let's get out of here

let's get out of here.
go someplace where
we can't be found.
let's run.
let's leave
behind
the toxic souls who've
come in and out
of our lives.
let's change our
phones,
no forwarding address,
let's leave no trail
for them to find,
let's sever the ties.
cut the cords.
set a fire
to burn what needs
to be burned,
then fly. fly, fly.

we decide, not them

some people you miss.
the good
of them. the love in them.
the beauty
of who they are.
while others fade
into the past,
no longer a part
of your life,
they've become
a pebble in your shoe,
a thorn in
your side, an illusion
of who you thought
they were.
we pick and choose
our memories.
we pick who stays with
us,
for the rest of
our earthly lives.
we decide,
not them.

board game

we use the whole board
in
a late night game of scrabble.
drinks
have been poured,
the words
are getting misspelled
the rules
are ignored.
we lose track of the score.
but we play
on, pulling letters
out of the black
bag
until there aren't
anymore.
when it's done, we finish
our drinks,
look at one another
and laugh,
and say, we'll that was
fun. what now? it's only
one.

tender love

I throw
a bone to the dog.
he runs away with it.
tail wagging,
tongue
half out.
eyes a blaze with happiness.
sometimes
that's all it takes
to make you happy.
a bone,
a crumb. a smile,
a hug,
a word whispered,
a gentle
kiss, some tender
love.

the bad apple

i don't choose apples
well.
or at least i didn't in
my youth.
shiny, and golden,
would be fine, right off
the stack,
or plucked from
a low branch.
my eyes were everything
back then.

but not now.

i spin, and hold an apple
in my hand, i look
at the front
the back, i ignore
the shine,
ignore the price.
i look for the dents,
the worm.
the deceit the lie.
i pay attention to who
i want now
in my life.

yellow winged

there's a butterfly
at the door.
yellow winged,
light, and soundless as
she parades
gently through the air.
does she want in,
or is she just seeing what
goes on in there.
her eyes wide open,
as are mine.

i'm very low maintenance

when you hear the words.
i'm low maintenance.
run. don't walk, don't
dilly dally, run fast.
you are in for trouble.
chaos and drama is soon
to follow.
those three words will
rock your world, take
you through the streets
of hell in a rickshaw.
people that say that
about themselves are
normally delusional
and the worst kind of
souls you want to get
mixed up with.
drama is their middle
name.
they are anything but
low maintenance. they
are the opposite.
they will put you through
the worst time of
your life, and laugh
about it.

if she was an appliance

if she was
an appliance.
i'd say she was
a refrigerator.
an ice box.
the old kind,
circa 1960.
the kind where
the ice
builds up on the inside
walls
and at some point
you have to defrost
it and chip
away the rock hard
ice with a butter knife.
yes.
that's the appliance
she'd be.
a pretty blue
but
cold on the outside,
and ever frostier
on the inside
when you opened the door
a little.
the white chilly light
giving you
nothing,
but an arctic heart
a bitter
breeze.

if it rains

if it rains,
it rains. if not. that's okay
too.
no use worrying about it.
we have a roof
over our heads.
we have chairs, and tables,
beds.
we have umbrellas.
no worries about the rain.
let if pour,
we'll be fine.
you have me, and I have you.
let's stay dry
together.

to the moon, Alice

it was like being on the moon
for a year or so.
from earth she looked
so inviting.
the fine silted sand of a million
years
crusting
the airless orb
afloat, gleaming white
in the suns
light.
from a distance she was
a beauty, but up close
she was trouble,
pocked with craters,
jagged valleys
holding nothing
but darkness. dead in
space.
I was away for so long.
locked tight
in my suit, my capsule
keeping me alive, along
with
my faith. my hope.
it was a dangerous
place to be.
stuck there on that cold
world
devoid of love,
devoid of life. it was
an empty place that gave
nothing return.
could I
make it home?
could I finally separate
myself from this trap,
this false idea.
I could, and did.
finally I boarded,
and without looking back
for even a glimpse.
I took flight.

what else do they know

the telemarketers were up
late last
night.
calling me from Nigeria,
or the Ukraine.
Ohio?
i'm half asleep when
they ask me if I need
any medication, or
health insurance, or
have any sore muscles
that need relief.
anxiety pills? spiritual advice?
apparently they have
my age, my number
and current state of life.
i'm in the range of people
that need these things.
what else do they know,
that's what I want to know.

three baskets full

somehow three laundry baskets
aren't enough.
I need one more to put
all the folded and unfolded
laundry in.
too many clothes, way too
many shirts and socks,
pants and towels.
I could open up a store,
slightly used, hardly
worn, but clean, reduced
price.

the buddhist way

attachments cause
suffering.
it's a Buddhist thing.
by attaching ourselves
to things
and people,
relationships,
jobs, possessions of all
sort we
set our selves up for
suffering. for a long hard
life of grieving
when people leave, when
things disappear,
when circumstances change.
attach yourself to nothing,
Buddha says and live
a content life.

but you know what, I love
my new comfy couch and my hi def
4k high resolution 55 inch tv
in my remodeled basement.
Football season is
right around the corner, so
it's too bad Buddha. not to mention
that Shelia is coming over
in her high heels
with a seven layer mexican
cheese dip and a blender full
of margaritas, so
sorry about that.
have a nice life with nothing
and no one you're attached to.

gonna need an ocean, etc.

I can't think
of anything without having
a metaphorical
meaning added to it.
pulling weeds for example
is not just pulling
weeds,
it's getting rid of all
the bad in your life,
those people and things
that have infested
and ruined
the placid calm yard of
you.
and that poison ivy
that has sprouted up everywhere,
well, do I even need to
say what I think about
that. snip, snip, snip.

fast or slow

a penny for your thoughts,
she says
to me with her specs on her
nose,
sipping her first
Friday glass
of chardonnay, ice cold.
hmmm, I answer,
you don't want to know.
she winks,
and say,
maybe I do, maybe I don't.
i'm just wondering,
fast,
or slow.

perfectly human

we make vows.
promises to ourselves.
saying things like, i'll
never do that again.
i'll never get married again,
or let someone
crazy into my life,
i'll never eat Ethiopian food,
or travel
to mexico without bottled
water again,
or swim in shark infested
waters
with a bloody nose.
or put all my money
on Microsoft before
the market closes.
we say never again, and
yet, strangely something
overcomes us and we do.

where's the money

I remember one sister
sitting beside my mother, as
she lay dying.
half in and half out
of consciousness,
asking her, tapping my
mother on the arm and asking
her where the money was.
where she may have hidden it,
in jar, or
box, or in a can buried
in the back yard.
i'm getting my inheritance
she said
to my mother, with no
guilt or shame, or remorse.
I wondered how much there
could be, twenty dollars,
a hundred? maybe more,
maybe less, all squirreled
away for some cold and wet,
rainy day.
and now the sister holding
my mothers cold hand, asking,
pleading, begging for a clue
as to where it all could be.
she was ready
to dig and dig, to find
this meager pot of gold,
keeping her alive until
she knew.

sorry about that

some of us age well,
retaining that youthful
spirit,
the spring in our step,
the joy of being
alive still with us.
while others it's a struggle
just to get
out of bed in the morning.
the mirror is no
longer our friend,
but a set of eyes judging
us,
the weight gained,
the sagging of bones,
the lines
on our faces,
the thinning hair,
the veins that run along
the pathways
of our crepe skin.
we see our parents staring
back at us.
it's not for the weak of heart
this getting old thing.
it's upon us before
we know it.
beauty is fleeting,
sorry about that.

trust your intuition

on occasion there
is a flash
of insight.
intuition is in full bloom.
it's a stunning
thing
to have this sixth sense
awakened
and alert, finding out
all things you need to know.
a gift from God? or is it
in all of us,
like an arm, a leg,
a heart?
once you distinguish
the difference between fear
and intuition
you're on the path
of freedom and peace.
don't ignore it. it's there
to protect you, guide you.
listen to it. the whisper
of truth.
it's a quiet
feeling that drops upon
you, a vibration of
rightness and knowing.
ask and you'll receive,
it will come to you.

suit yourself

the deli man
in his netted cap
and plastic gloves,
is an older
fellow.
maybe from new York,
something in the way he says
pastrami
makes me think that.
regular slice, he says,
or thin? need a taste,
i can do that,
when i tell him a half
a pound of ham,
do you want cheese with
that,
maybe a pint of potato
salad? or a pickle.
how about some mustard.
dark, or light?
spicy or mild.
i'm good i tell him.
just the ham, okay he
says,
suit yourself. your loss.

flying by

they're in the wind.
siblings,
brothers and sisters.
parents.
cousins,
uncles and aunts.
done and gone.
old loves.
old friends.
sometimes i see them
up in the sky,
heads in the clouds,
busy with their lives.
caught up
in the swirl
of wind.
flying by, flying by.

take a note

i make a note
to remind me to make a list.

work,
appointments.
doctor,
dentist.
groceries.
laundry.
phone calls.

this and that.

i write it all down on
a yellow sticky
note
and pin it to the fridge,
next to last
weeks notes.

i'll get to it.

but i need a nap first.

what's next

what's next.
what will the day bring.
what will
technology
bring to us in our
ever complicated lives.
new everything
appears
overnight.
new roads,
new stars in the sky.
even new friends,
new loves,
does anything remain
as it was?
does anyone not stray,
or lie,
does the world always
have to be
in flux,
strange and disorganized,
haphazard?
doesn't anyone ever stay
in one place
anymore?

i miss you

i'll leave
the light on for you.
i'll leave a space
in front of the house for
you to park.
the key is under the mat.
i'll leave a box, a small
gift
on the counter.
white wrapped in ribbons
and bows.
those flowers are for you
too.
there will be a card
that will tell
you my feelings and love.
i'll be upstairs, half
asleep, follow the rose petals
on the stairs,
i'll
leave a light on for you.
come soon.
drive careful.
I miss you.

midnight swim

I sit at the edge of the pool,
my feet dangling
in the cool water.
it's late at night, so there's
no one there.
I climbed the fence like I did
when I was in high school.
but this time around
there's no beer, no girls,
no friends going wild off
the high dive. it's just me
under a silver moon, thinking,
feet dangling in the water,
staring at the reflections
of light and dark
that swim about the still pond.
thinking about the years
gone by, the years ahead.
the blessings, the mistakes.
the turns taken that have all
somehow ended up just fine.
I slip off the side and go
under. I feel the water encase
me, like a baby in a womb.
I sink under to the bottom
and look up, I see the
watery trees,
the stars, the sky, the silver
welcoming embrace of a full
sweet moon. as I rise to breathe,
I am born again,
once more, for another time.

his next life

he's thinner now.
his hair
once thick and tied tight
into a pony
tail
is thin too, like silver
feathers
on his tanned skull.
but his eyes are clear.
chemo
and radiation haven't dampened
his rebellion
to a world he's never
really been a part of.
he's on the dole.
every taxpayer has paid
his share of
his medical woes.
he's home free, in the shelter
with three squares a day,
a bunk,
a bureau, a lamp.
he's a survivor.
off the grid, onto his
next life, one of many.

the epiphany

it's an awakening of sorts.

therapists would call it a break
through,

or an epiphany.

it's an ah ha moment when you
realize
the answer
to the problem.

when you hear the click
as you turn
the dial on
a combination lock,
or slide a key
into a door.

things open, you're in.
the clouds part.
the Red Sea of your life
divides.

you suddenly get it
and completely understand
what the problem
was, and who it was,

and how to solve it.
it was a long time coming,
a lot of water
under the bridge, tears

and suffering, but now
you're there.

you at last understand what
love is.
what love isn't.

you've crossed over,
you've arrived and there's
no going back.

there is no B side

I put on some
elvis Costello and turn it up.
I clear the floor of
chairs in case I get
happy feet and need to dance.
I play his
first album on the stereo,
dropping the needle down
onto the vinyl groove
of the first track,
when it ends i
flip it over to the B
side.
there is no B side.
watching the detectives,
red shoes,
Allison, my aim is true,
and my favorite that
fits my current mood.
i'm not angry, anymore
sung in a gravelly
angry voice. love it.

the book club

we tried to have a book
club
but no one read the books
or were
prepared to discuss
them.
some came late,
or cancelled at the last
minute.
for some it was more
about the food
and the drinks
and talking about their
lives,
catching up
on trips, and children,
love and romance,
who's dead, who's still
alive.
nobody had the time for
run rabbit run, or war
and peace, or bridge on
the river kwai, so
we changed the meet up
to drinks and food,
desserts and coffee
at 9.

spare me

spare me the fools.
the talkers.
the liars.
the manipulators.
I have no room for them
in my life
anymore.
the pretenders,
the sick of heart,
the sick of mind.
the zealots,
the religious right.
the do gooders,
the kneelers
and cheaters. keep
them all away from me,
out of mind, out
of sight.
they charm you with
a smile, and stab
you in the back
when the timing is right.

the condo board

the condo police
are out there in full force.
large women in flowered
curtain like dresses,
with clipboards
and cameras.
they stand in front of my
house
shaking their heads, mumbling
writing furiously
about the color
of my door, it's one
shade off the red
that's required, and that
bag of trash, that's
out there, 45 minutes
before it's allowed.
is that a new knocker
on the door,
a new mail box slot?
who said you could go with
brass instead of gold?
and those windows. when
are you going to replace
them?
and your car is slightly
askew, nearly touching
a white line where
you parked it in your
spot. they post their
findings on my door, with
a list of pending fines
if these things are not
taken care of soon, like
within the week, and not
a day more.

smart isn't everything

i remember
when i lived next door to albert
einstein's
cousin,
jimmy.
he wasn't the brightest
bulb
in the box,
the sharpest
knife in the drawer.
in fact
he'd ask
me if i could help
him
turn the water on
to the outside
faucet.
but he made a nice batch
of mimosas
when we had brunch
on sunday morning.
and had quite a few
women friends,
who'd come to visit
and sunbathe
in the back yard
after he'd spray them with
a garden hose.
being smart isn't everything.

the green yard

the yard
is green, weeds are out of control
so I go at
it
with the clippers.
the rake,
a quick
random mow.
I can almost see the ground
again.
the small square
of a yard
is trimmed.
it's nice how when you
leave things
alone,
distance yourself
from others,
how your heart
heals,
how nature takes over
and new love grows.

click here

the spam box is full.
it's
crammed with ads with inquiries
both false
and true.
there are so many helpful
people in the world
wanting to give you
a loan
interest free, or to
install new windows into
your house, or
cure you of anxiety,
or the jimmy leg,
that pesky ED.
religious mail.
insidious e mail.
strangers and friends
hacked, who now have pictures
they want you to see.
click on my link.
click here
and throw away your life
as you know it.
it'll cost you nothing.
it's all free.

closing time and love

it's closing time.
I lock the door, pull the shade,
put the sign in the window.
wipe
the counters, sweep
the floor.
I count the cash and
coins
in the register.
I turn the lights off
and go upstairs to my wife.
who's waiting.
reading in bed.
with the light on.
how'd we do, she asks, her
glasses on her nose,
her hair up like she does,
cream her face.
we did alright, I tell her.
alright.
good she says, good,
now wipe that worry off your
face,
and get in bed, lie next to
me, tell me that you
love me, whisper sweet
nothings into my ear.

diner on 29

there was a waitress
named jeannie
I used to be fond
of back in the day.
she worked
at a diner along 29.
strawberry blonde
with cat green eyes
and a little shamrock
tattoo on her pale meaty arm.
she was a moving violation,
going from table to booth,
hardly a smile,
just a smirk a glance,
a wink.
do you boys need some cream
with that coffee? she'd say.
she wore nylons that came
up to the edge of her
pink skirt, her black
apron.
she knew what she was
doing with what she had.
an actress worthy of an
Oscar. it wasn't the coffee,
or the ham and eggs,
the ambiance
of the place, it was her
sashaying about, those
heels clicking against
the tiles,
that kept
us coming back.

these apples

i'm thinking about eating
one of those
five apples I bought before
they all go bad.
honey crisp apples,
I do believe.
they're on the counter
next to the bananas that
have already turned
a dirty shade of brown.
I don't know why I keep
buying so much fruit.
I just can't seem to get
to it when I have other things
to choose from,
like ice cream.
like cake.
like chocolate chip cookies
with nuts.

handprints on the sheers

i replace the curtains
in the front window because there's
a half a pound of brown make up
streaked
on the sheers from when the previous
tenant would look
out the window
to see if i had left or not
so that she could do whatever
secretive things
she was doing when i wasn't there.
i tried warm water, cold water,
soap. i scraped, i rubbed. i wiped.
i tried everything to get her
hand prints off the curtains
and the sheers,
but nothing worked.
so i bought new ones, just like
the old ones.
i wondered how she ever got all
that junk off her face
at night.
whew. it was a little thing,
but just another part of a long
exhausting nightmare.

believe them

when they show
you
who they are

believe them.

believe them.

believe them.

going home again

when I go back to my childhood
home,
driving down Dorchester street
to winthrop
and audrey lane,
where I had my
paper route,
past the parks where
we played ball.
the bowling alley wall
with a strike zone
we painted on.
when I see the house
next to ours,
the brick duplex,
where the girl I loved
lived,
the bushes still there
where we hid
and stole our first kiss.
I have good thoughts.
sweet memories.
I don't see the bad in
any of it.
the poverty, my parents
divorce, the feeling
of having less
than others. I only have
good memories.
brothers and sisters
before things changed
and we fell apart.
love and fun, summers
at the pool.
winters on our sleds.
i'd have it
no other way, than what
it was.

cupcake in the window

she's a cupcake.
a pastry.
a sweet on the shelf
of the store
window.
is that sexist?
comparing a woman
to a baked good?
I don't care.
sue me, forgive me,
do what you want with me,
but when I see her,
I want to take a bite
out of her.
I think of a cupcake
in the window.
so live with that.

if i had a hammer

I go to my tool box
for a hammer. it's not there.
I have no
idea
where it could be.
I check the closets,
the laundry room,
the shed out back.
under the bed.
the kitchen drawer.
it's a heavy hammer, one
I've used for years
to drive
a nail, to remove a nail
to unstick a stuck
door.
I can't find my good hammer,
my friend,
my unwavering source
of banging
on things for twenty five
years.
my hammer is gone.
sadness overcomes me
like never before.

everything tastes better

food tastes better.
drinks too.
they slide down easily.
even
water has a sparkle to it.

each day
is a new dessert, sweeter
than the one
before.
each hour of freedom
is a joy.
each week and month,
is full of open doors.

nothing is hidden. there
is no one whispering
lies into my ear,
no one,
stealing my time, my
heart.
there is the absence
of fear.

sleep is an island
of good dreams.
and being awake without
pain
is even better.

the broken spell

it's clear now.
whatever spell I was under
has been swept
away by a cool wind,
a change in temperature.
reality has set in.

the truth does set us free,
it breaks the spell
that controlled us.

strange
how life goes. what you
once thought you couldn't
live without
is now something
you can't ever imagine
being near again.

people like you

there are people
like you.
then there are people who
aren't.
you'd like to think that
everyone
is the same
inside,
God fearing,
with a conscience,
a beating heart
a brain
that's rational,
a good nature, but
that isn't true.
don't be fooled.
there are people walking
around
who are different.
they may look the same
but they play
by different rules.
don't believe a word
they say,
they'll ruin your
life
if you let them.

it feels like wednesday

it's only Tuesday,
I tell her. can you believe
it's only Tuesday?

she says,
I thought it was Wednesday.
it feels like a Wednesday.

I don't know what that
feels like
I tell her.
I know Mondays, and Fridays,
but I got nothing
for Wednesday.

well, okay, she says.
Friday is coming, and you
what comes after that.
Saturday? I ask.
yup, she says.

saturday and then sunday.
the weekend.

The Apron Strings

some mothers
and fathers give and give.
they become close friends
with their children.
finishing one another's lines.
sharing jokes,

incestuously close,
out of love,
guilt, some sort of unresolved
shame.
they keep their children
beside them with constant
hugs and kisses,
never snipping the apron strings.
never pushing them out
the door,
out the nest like
healthy parents do.

they suffocate
their young
with what they think is love,
but it's not.
it's selfish and cruel
to never let the child leave
to the adult side of their
lives, to go off on their own.

to find a job, to find a love.
to find their own place
in the world.

they remain stuck in the weeds
and tangle
of their parent's life.
held back by their aging claws,
afraid to be left alone
with each other.

soon the boy or girl has
grey in their
hair, furrows in their brow,
kept safe and sound,
like little children,
forever five,
in the room next to theirs.
forever lost,
forever home bound.

don't be a fool

don't ever
ever
not listen to your
gut.
is there pain, anxiety.
is there
doubt,
fear?
do you have that strange
queasy feeling?
those aren't the butterflies
of love in there,
but something else.
it's your intuition.
self love
telling you to run.
listen to it.
it's your second brain.
there are
more neurons
there than in your spine.
your gut
is a genius.
it wants to save you
from
mistakes, keep you alive.
trust it. believe
what it's telling you.
don't do what I've
done
and ignore
what screams danger
from deep inside.

a change of scenery

i need a change of scenery.

tired of riding by
the same old buildings with
the same
old memories.

some bitter, some good.

the restaurants,
the old
haunts.
the playgrounds of middle
age.

fatigue has set in with this place.
i know the sequence of every light.
i know every stop sign,
every bum on the corner
with a sign.

the burb
in the middle
of nowhere. there has to be
more.
please tell me this isn't it.

what kind of life is this.
culture?
what culture, what literature,
what art,
what poetry exists?
it's like a zombie apocalypse
around here.

it's at the intersection
of hell
and purgatory.
you can't miss it, but you'll
wish that you did.

so they pull you out in the end
on a stretcher.

they come
for your things, they empty your bank accounts
your funds,
your savings that prepared
you for a tomorrow.
that never came.
someone drives away in your car.
some one takes your dog
and gives him another name.

it's crazy, this life, how
it strangely began,
how it even stranger ends.

visit now. call now. don't wait
until one of us is
in the ground. let's figure
this thing out. get out

while we can.

stuck in the spin cycle

I was stuck on spin
cycle
for a long time in the
whirlpool washer.
around and around
I went, squeezed of any
sense that was in me.
I peered out the window,
at the world
flying by in a dizzying
circle.
I screamed, I cried.
it was an Alfred Hitchcock
movie in black
and white.
I banged on the glass
for help.
I used my phone to call for
anyone to stop
the machine. to get me out
of this nightmare
I was stuck in.
it went on and on
until it finally stopped.

prayer does
work.
trust me. oh the stories
I could tell.

her reign of terror

her reign of terror was
brief
but deadly.
her demands
and rules were ruthless.
her silent treatment,
her withholding of affection.
her temper,
her tantrums.
spreading fear with an
iron fist.
lives were lost,
land taken,
futures were put on hold,
dreams deferred.
hearts broken.
if there was any hope
it was
extinguished by
her endless purge.
the guillotine got a work
out,
the noose,
the sword, the electric
chair,
the firing squad.
but she was a charming queen.
she had her
throne,
her crown.
her court jesters and
admirers who gave her
unconditional love.
all of them fooled
by her double life, and
covert ways.
how they learned to bow.
somehow I escaped, got away
in the dead of night
sprung free by a friendly
guard who stole
a horse that provided
me with flight.
giddy up.

biography and biology

does our biography
become our
biology.
are sins and transgressions
obvious
in how we look?
the lines
on our faces, the sag
in our
posture,
the brittleness of
hair
or lack thereof.
the circles under our eyes,
is that worry
and guilt
in our gaze,
or genetics?
are who we are inside
eventually
shown to the world on
the outside?
do we begin to pay for
our sins
before leaving this earth.
does the mirror lie?

write me a letter

we used to write letters.
sit down
at a desk with a pen
and paper
and write out our thoughts
in long hand.
we took our time.
we rambled, we explored,
we stopped
and waited to hear what
was on our mind.
we wrote letters to one
another, folded them
into envelope. put a stamp
in the corner and off
they went into the wild.
we put x's and o's at
the end.
we wrote things like, i
miss you. i love you.
can't wait to see you
again.

Our Gardens

we discuss
death over the phone.
relationships.
the days gone by, the days ahead.
friends
for life.
what books are you reading,
she says.
what are you writing about
these days.
her kids are raised
with kids of their own now.
onto their second
marriages.
houses, cars and jobs.
we talk about the mistakes we've
made.
the trust and hearts
broken along the way.
there's little she doesn't
know about me,
or me about her.
she tells me about her
garden,
the school where she teaches.
the children, all the same
year after year.
we love each other, but
it's a different kind of love.
it's thick,
it's a rope, a bind, a love
of friendship.
pulled closer and tighter
by time.

the girl from iowa

I met a girl
from iowa
in the summer
of nineteen
seventy. she was
lean, and bright,
blonde and blue
eyed.
I can still see her smile
and feel
her hand in mine.
a corn fed beauty.
I don't remember her
name.
and she probably
doesn't remember
mine.
but we had a few
days
before she left town
again
with her parents,
traveling on vacation.
she's old now.
like me.
the beauty shed
on the outside, but
I doubt
it's gone from
within.
she was that kind
of girl.

a days work

it's a nice tired.
work,
hard work will do that to you.
a sublime
fatigue, bringing peace.
physical work
using arms
and legs,
back. out in the sun
or cold,
feeling the wind
beneath your
clothes.
hardly a moments rest.
the sweat and grime
upon you.
the hours on your feet.
it's an honest
days work.
a blessing, a sanctuary
that at times
you hate to leave.

do you like my dress?

she says
do you like my dress.
she spins around
in a soft pirouette
I say
yes
yes
yes.
and my hair, too short,
too much
color,
too curled?
oh no, it's perfect,
lovely. I tell her.
and those shoes,
oh my,
what they do for your
legs,
I adore them.
she laughs.
and my nails, is pink okay?
or should I have
gone with blue,
or red?
love em, I tell her.
there's not a single thing
i'd change about you.
not one thing
I would do instead.

cutting coupons

he was a frugal
man.
coupons.
sales.
in line for second
hands.
he waited for the rain
to fall
to wash his car.
wore
his coat
until the threads
unraveled,
the buttons fell,
the elbows became
worn.
brown or black the
soles
of his shoes had
holes.
stingy with his tips,
he saved and saved
penny after penny
wanting at some point
to die and take
it all.
but didn't.

Red Flags

she was the worst
of a long list of mistakes
I've made
with women. ignoring all
the red flags,
the feeling in my gut,
that had already surmised
what was to come.

she took the winning prize
for ill behavior,
deceit and lies.
playing the victim.
always pretending to be good.

she was not unlike the others,
but she turned it up to the nth
degree.

it was all about image.
how she looked
in the mirror,
how she appeared in other's
eyes.

what lie beneath the surface
was rarely seen.
who she really was
stayed hidden behind a mask.
always, and it still does.

If people only knew
the darkness that lies
within her. the lack of empathy
and conscience. the unfixable
sickness of her mind.

I saw it. I feared for my
life.
I ran, I screamed. I nearly
died.

do it without me

I used to worry.
attempt to make others
good.
listen to each word and
analyze
it's secondary meaning.
I used to look into the eyes
of someone
I didn't trust
to figure out
what they were actually up
to and doing.
I used to cringe
at the hour, at the sound
made,
at the sigh, or crying.
the ding
of a phone,
wondering, wondering, wondering.
full of fear,
knowing that something
wasn't right.
that behind each word spoken
was a lie.
I used to worry
and try to control,
to try and make life what
i wanted it to be,
when what I really
had to do was open
the door, and say go,
Go be sick with
Someone else,
go have your own version
of life, but do it without
me.

july day

the air is full of fever.
the exhale
of the sun
is upon us, breathing
fire
on our skin,
melting the weak,
drying up the stream.
there is no where to hide
from this
white light.
nothing can escape
this heat,
nothing false will survive
and make it
to the night.
drink, slow down, find
a rock
to get under and hide.
at some point
the moon will rise,
the moon will coolly.
shine.

surrender to it

we don't defeat the past.
we surrender to it.
we let it slide out of our hands,
slip
from thought to thought
out of sight
out of mind. there are no more
battles left
to be won,
left to be lost.
it's over.
it's done,
the war is over, go home,
rebuild.
the past is over, today is what
we live for,
finding joy,
finding love.
let's fill each tomorrow
with that,
soon they will come.

grey squirrel

I saw a squirrel
on the bench this morning,
stretched out,
tired,
he was wearing a little sombrero
and had his
feet in a dixie cup
of cold
water.
I came and sat next to him,
he didn't
budge,
he lifted his little
grey head
and looked at me, and
nodded.
hot out, I told him.
yup, he said.
crazy, isn't it?

Greasy Spoon

let's go for breakfast,
she says, stretching her arms
and legs,
what's
the nearest greasy spoon
around here.
I need
some eggs, potatoes,
bacon right
off the flat splattering
grill.
hmmm.
let me think for a minute,
I tell her
sipping on the first
cup of
coffee
this early morning
in a blistering heat wave.
I got it,
I tell her, I know
just the place.
and you can smoke
in there too if they
haven't yet changed
the rules.
it's the greasiest place
in town,
eat at the bar or
in a red vinyl booth.
parking right out front
in the gravel lot,
juke box too.
sounds lovely, she says.
let's go.
what's it called?
Moe's, I tell her. Moe's.

pina colada night

I make a batch of pina coladas
in the blender,
it's been that kind of day,
that kind of week,
what the hell, that
kind of year.
it's a frothy mix of coconut
juice
and rum. some other stuff.
lots of crushed ice.

they go down easy.
really easy in this heat.
it's so damn hot out
that one won't do. we
need the whole pitcher
for a night like this.
no need to venture out.
put some music on,
pour me another.

put some al green on,
let's cuddle on the couch.

wedding vows

there are a few
things
we need to get straight before
we go any
further, Ok?

be honest.
be true.
be loyal and faithful.
be compassionate
and giving.
forsake
all others.

listen, listen, listen.

be in love,
not half in
half out.
be authentic.
your true self.
it's actions, not
words that truly count.

understand and forgive,
be a friend,
a lover, be the other
person's light.

i'll do the same for you.

and one other thing,
Never go to sleep
Angry or without
and embrace, or a kiss
goodnight.

Recess at St. Thomas More

i remember the school yard
at St. Thomas More.
the squares of black pavement.
the faded white lines,
the tall fence
keeping the children in
who flung themselves about
like flocks of small birds.
there was
the slanted shadow of the church
and rectory nearby.
the nuns, looming large,
in black cloth, white trim.
crosses around their necks.
whistles in hand.
was it fun? i don't know
about that.
but there was one little girl
with blue
eyes, pensive and shy,
that i'll never forget.

to another shore

it was like putting a finger
in a dike
about to break as the rain
kept pouring down.
the water cresting as the thunder
roared.
another crack, another hole.
another argument, another lie,
i tried my best to keep
the river back,
but it was an impossible task.
i had no help.
it was just me trying to keep
together what wouldn't hold.
finally, i just gave up,
and let it all go, let the dam
break, the levees overflow, i let
the whole thing go down,
taking me with it to another
shore.

she was more than that

the girl that died
used the same perfume my father's mother
did.
i used to tell
her that which made
her smile, being
from new England, my
grandmother from north reading.
white linen? was that the name?
when she passed away,
fifteen years ago, i kept
a bottle
of it,
half empty that i found
on her dresser,
and would open it once
in a while
to get a whiff of her.
to get a whiff of both of them.
the memory wasn't the same.
in time
it evaporated and i threw
the bottle away.
she was more than that, they
both were.

on to the next

i finish one job
to go on to the next.
it's a carousel never stopping,
never spinning.
on and off.
the music plays.
each day flowing into the next
seamless.
endless.
a day a month a year.
a life.
i finish one job
and go on to the next.

Revenge Served Cold

i can't say what
i want to really
say. to drop a letter in
the mail
a satchel of pictures
and things, evidence
of her past and present deceitful
nature,
to show people who she really
is.
i can't take the actions
that i really want to do,
to get even, to make myself
feel better
and avenged for the living
hell she put me through.
I can't tell the whole world
the truth about who she really is,
although it's tempting
when it crosses my mind
and pricks a nerve.
as they say,
revenge is best served
cold. but if i did
fragile lives would change.
the truth would be known,
she'd be homeless
and on the street with her
pill filled
bags and phone.
all hell would break loose.
even the church would finally know.
but what's the point.
why stoop to that level
and become like her.
let her live
in the muck of who she is.
a liar, betrayer, a fake.
an adulterer,
a pretender and such.
let her
sleep in the bed she's made.
a wolf in sheep's clothing.
fuck her and the horse she
rode in on.
bite your lip and take
the higher road,
leave her sordid life alone,
it's not who you are,
it's who she is
and always will be.

pay day

I remember those Fridays.
punching the clock
at the end of the day, then
the check handed to you in an envelope.
name showing
through the little window.
net, gross.
taxes taken out, fica.
what the hell?
is that all there is?
depositing most, but taking out
enough cash
for the weekend.
to go out dancing, drinking,
eating
cheap food with
friends. gas for the car.
maybe flowers for some new
love interest that was
along for the ride,
trying to make it all last
until the next Friday.
living on the edge in a one
bedroom apartment near
the race track.
235 a month, utilities
included.
it was a simple life back
then, but I don't miss it.
life was fun, but hard.

get rid of these things

I love to get rid of things
when something ends.
the clean slate.
the empty closet.
the tossed boxes and bags
of sentimental
junk.
I like to burn the past
that wasn't true.
barbeque the pictures
out back.
crush, delete, abolish.
I have no grief over things.
over cards and letters.
watches, rings.
gifts that once had
a semblance of meaning.
I get a happy feeling
seeing the trash truck
take away the pile I
put on the curb.
I rejoice and laugh at
what's gone, what's left.
it's truly the theater
of the absurd.

No Such Luck

i remember an old
girlfriend, if you can
call her that,
she was a friend, and yes,
she was girl,
she proved that frequently
with uninhibited charm.
she was a cupcake
with a lot of icing.
it was a few years ago
when I was on the prowl
looking for the real thing.
the honest to god end to this
madness
I was in, dating up a storm.
we went out
for a month,
maybe three weeks, but i was
mad about her. infatuated
to the bone.
couldn't wait to see her,
take her anywhere, a car,
the woods,
a phone booth,
take her home.
she put me in therapy
after it ended.
it's funny. not even four weeks
and i was doomed, even though
she was crazy as the day is long,
and involved
with others, her husband
still in the house
living in the basement.
she worshiped her phone.
it rang and pinged all day,
all night long.
her kid flunking grade
school. spinning like a top
on sugar.
three dogs, a snake in
a cage.
she was fun for about five
minutes. drinking, laughing,
carousing around. she was a live
wire, but
it was all about her,
she needed the attention,
a narcissist on crack,
and I gave it to her.
i was on her ride for a short
while, a rollercoaster,
of angst, pain worry
and anxiety.
i leaped off to save my life.
you'd think i'd learned
something after that,
became wise to women like
her, the jezebels that crush
your soul, but no such luck.

clean the fridge

i clean the fridge.
it's about time. so much debris
collected
over the past few months.
whose avocado is this?
whose
rotted lime?
seven bottles of salad
dressing.
an apple gone soft.
grapes,
shrunken in the bag.
smoked salmon in foil.
a box of Chinese chicken
stuck
to the glass shelf.
packets of soy sauce,
fortune cookies unwrapped.
half bottles of wine.
i empty it all. time to start
a new
collection.
bring something over,
maybe a freshly baked
rack of chocolate chip cookies
with nuts,
or an apple pie.

thoughts on emily

I think of Emily
in her room, writing in long hand
her
rhyming poems,
rarely leaving
the house to wander.
her window her view of a world
rushing by,
then hiding what she wrote
beneath her bed.
numbering each
piece, the date, the time.
was there love,
was there joy, heart ache.
was there laughter.
what went through her mind.
would she be different now,
reclusive, shy,
or would she be out there,
like this.
writing, writing as if she
was running out
of time.

the abstract

it's abstract.
blue
green, splotches of
violet
on a glossed
canvas.
red streaked,
not unlike the crimson
of a vein
undone.
i'll take it.
this will work, i'm
in that kind of mood.
it means nothing.
it means everything.
each time I look
at it,
i'll think of you.