i see the exit
sign at the theater.
a box of red letters.
bold and in caps.
EXIT
it says.
i look at the aisle,
the path
leading to the door out.
there's another
one on the other side
and one behind
the last row of seats.
i try to decide which one
is closest,
the easiest to get out
of.
it's how i think now.
when trouble
occurs. i refuse to stay
put and see
things out.
i quickly find the nearest
door
and flee.
Tuesday, September 17, 2019
the holiday party
we plan a party.
a holiday get together with
a few
close friends.
drinks and food.
music of course.
if it's warm we'll take it
out back
under the strings of Edison
lights
on the long white porch.
we'll put a tree up.
someone will spike the eggnog.
we'll toast the coming new year.
all the good,
all the blessings.
each other.
we'll look forward to the days
ahead,
the nights, too.
we'll leave the past alone,
now is where
we live, what we choose.
a holiday get together with
a few
close friends.
drinks and food.
music of course.
if it's warm we'll take it
out back
under the strings of Edison
lights
on the long white porch.
we'll put a tree up.
someone will spike the eggnog.
we'll toast the coming new year.
all the good,
all the blessings.
each other.
we'll look forward to the days
ahead,
the nights, too.
we'll leave the past alone,
now is where
we live, what we choose.
the gypsy life
it's the gypsy life for some.
never being in
a home that is really
a home.
there is nothing
that they truly own.
half in half out,
always looking at a map
of where to go
next.
they have no anchor.
no port,
no harbor, they
are in perpetual confusion
of
which road to take.
half their possessions
in boxes.
the other half, from
twenty years ago.
they are restless souls.
sleepless.
not wanting to stay,
not wanting to go.
never being in
a home that is really
a home.
there is nothing
that they truly own.
half in half out,
always looking at a map
of where to go
next.
they have no anchor.
no port,
no harbor, they
are in perpetual confusion
of
which road to take.
half their possessions
in boxes.
the other half, from
twenty years ago.
they are restless souls.
sleepless.
not wanting to stay,
not wanting to go.
tequila mockingbird
we stop in a faux Mexican
joint
in a strip mall along the coastal
highway.
tequila mockingbird
is its name.
clever.
but there is no one
serving drinks
with a name like scout,
or atticus, or del.
it's mary lou
and betty jean
in sombreros and daisy
duke shorts.
the food, if you can call
it that, is
all Americanized
south of the border
faire.
lots of cheese, heavy
on the salt
and hot sauce.
weak drinks, loaded with
ice, overflows
in your hand, made with
rail tequila that stiffens
your spine
and gives you a headache
before it goes down
the hatch.
joint
in a strip mall along the coastal
highway.
tequila mockingbird
is its name.
clever.
but there is no one
serving drinks
with a name like scout,
or atticus, or del.
it's mary lou
and betty jean
in sombreros and daisy
duke shorts.
the food, if you can call
it that, is
all Americanized
south of the border
faire.
lots of cheese, heavy
on the salt
and hot sauce.
weak drinks, loaded with
ice, overflows
in your hand, made with
rail tequila that stiffens
your spine
and gives you a headache
before it goes down
the hatch.
Monday, September 16, 2019
the phone call
they found her horse
out near the far stretch of fence
that held back
the woods
in California, Maryland.
deep into the thick of weeds
and grass.
she hadn't rode him in years.
old
and nearly blind.
but she brushed him each day,
washed his back.
swatted the flies away
in the grey barn.
sugar and carrots fell
from her hand.
I remember how she cried on
the phone.
harder than when her father died.
harder
than when our love
ended.
out near the far stretch of fence
that held back
the woods
in California, Maryland.
deep into the thick of weeds
and grass.
she hadn't rode him in years.
old
and nearly blind.
but she brushed him each day,
washed his back.
swatted the flies away
in the grey barn.
sugar and carrots fell
from her hand.
I remember how she cried on
the phone.
harder than when her father died.
harder
than when our love
ended.
fading memories
how pale
this memory has become,
almost washed away
beneath
not swift,
but slow moving clouds.
tomorrows
have arrived.
people talk too much
about nothing.
you can hardly meet them
in the eyes.
you want to think
on things, but the world
gets in the way,
demands
you pay attention to what
you don't care about.
you gaze anywhere,
but where they want you
to look.
they force words into
your ears. unwanted
thoughts into your mind.
they all have an answer.
but they have no clue.
how pale this memory
has become.
we live lives made out
of sand.
those who've never been
where you are,
will never understand.
this memory has become,
almost washed away
beneath
not swift,
but slow moving clouds.
tomorrows
have arrived.
people talk too much
about nothing.
you can hardly meet them
in the eyes.
you want to think
on things, but the world
gets in the way,
demands
you pay attention to what
you don't care about.
you gaze anywhere,
but where they want you
to look.
they force words into
your ears. unwanted
thoughts into your mind.
they all have an answer.
but they have no clue.
how pale this memory
has become.
we live lives made out
of sand.
those who've never been
where you are,
will never understand.
a year of seasons
it takes a year of seasons
to
move on, to go forward.
a year of new
memories, new images and words.
new music.
it takes a river of time
to cross under
the bridge, the sky needs to
fill with clouds
and rain, rain hard,
before it clears.
it takes a year of seasons
to get well
again.
to shake your limbs,
your coat,
your shoes of where you've
been.
to
move on, to go forward.
a year of new
memories, new images and words.
new music.
it takes a river of time
to cross under
the bridge, the sky needs to
fill with clouds
and rain, rain hard,
before it clears.
it takes a year of seasons
to get well
again.
to shake your limbs,
your coat,
your shoes of where you've
been.
if you could read my mind
if you could read my
mind love,
what a tale my thoughts could
tell.
Gordon
sings it so well
as I drive to the lake
to begin my walk around.
so much
time, so much wasted time.
so it goes.
I walk.
I walk.
I visit my old friend.
the rough blue of water.
the trees
before me about to fold
their green
and find the yellows
and gold,
the reds,
the burning orange.
there are so many
songs yet to be sung,
stories of love
yet to be told.
I walk in quiet.
I walk alone.
mind love,
what a tale my thoughts could
tell.
Gordon
sings it so well
as I drive to the lake
to begin my walk around.
so much
time, so much wasted time.
so it goes.
I walk.
I walk.
I visit my old friend.
the rough blue of water.
the trees
before me about to fold
their green
and find the yellows
and gold,
the reds,
the burning orange.
there are so many
songs yet to be sung,
stories of love
yet to be told.
I walk in quiet.
I walk alone.
staying fresh
things get old.
dogs. cats. dinner.
fish again?
the clothes we wear, our
old brown shoes.
us, the house, the car.
the conversation.
even love making can go stale
after a while.
it's hard to keep the world fresh
and new.
it takes imagination
and fun
to keep us in the groove.
a shopping spree, a trip,
maybe a bite
on the neck
when a kiss won't do.
dogs. cats. dinner.
fish again?
the clothes we wear, our
old brown shoes.
us, the house, the car.
the conversation.
even love making can go stale
after a while.
it's hard to keep the world fresh
and new.
it takes imagination
and fun
to keep us in the groove.
a shopping spree, a trip,
maybe a bite
on the neck
when a kiss won't do.
her ups and downs
she used
to sleep hard and fast.
her travel kept her going.
flight to flight.
paris, rome, Dublin, Chicago
then home.
the ambien
knocked her out cold.
her low breathing, and slow
heart, often
had me reaching for the phone.
i placed a mirror over her
mouth,
unable to shake her out
of slumber,
but in the morning a new
pill would go
down with a slug of coffee,
and she'd be happy,
back to her normal
perky self.
up once more, no longer
down.
to sleep hard and fast.
her travel kept her going.
flight to flight.
paris, rome, Dublin, Chicago
then home.
the ambien
knocked her out cold.
her low breathing, and slow
heart, often
had me reaching for the phone.
i placed a mirror over her
mouth,
unable to shake her out
of slumber,
but in the morning a new
pill would go
down with a slug of coffee,
and she'd be happy,
back to her normal
perky self.
up once more, no longer
down.
christmas girl
even now at this age she is
a Christmas girl.
her eyes are aglow.
she's ready to hang the lights,
the stockings,
to set out ornaments for
the tree.
it's early, the first frost
has not even appeared
and yet there she is
bringing out the boxes.
the ribbons and bows.
the music, the tinsel.
the wreathe. her list is made.
she's at the stove
looking at recipes
for cookies and cakes. treats
for those she loves, or anyone
who needs.
a Christmas girl.
her eyes are aglow.
she's ready to hang the lights,
the stockings,
to set out ornaments for
the tree.
it's early, the first frost
has not even appeared
and yet there she is
bringing out the boxes.
the ribbons and bows.
the music, the tinsel.
the wreathe. her list is made.
she's at the stove
looking at recipes
for cookies and cakes. treats
for those she loves, or anyone
who needs.
a peach
it's a good weekend. a peach.
too short, as always, but a fine
few days
of fun
and relaxation. R and R.
the sweetness of fall.
the trees and vines are full,
ripe with
crisp apples. violet grapes.
succulent peaches.
the fruit of our
lives.
plucked and savored.
a memory that will not
fade easily, it will survive.
too short, as always, but a fine
few days
of fun
and relaxation. R and R.
the sweetness of fall.
the trees and vines are full,
ripe with
crisp apples. violet grapes.
succulent peaches.
the fruit of our
lives.
plucked and savored.
a memory that will not
fade easily, it will survive.
treasures
we have treasures
in our life.
small boxes of gold.
there are good hearts out
there.
true and faithful souls.
friends who don't fail.
people who have your back,
who treat you kindly,
care if you are well.
one call and they are
there, it makes no difference
the passing of years.
in our life.
small boxes of gold.
there are good hearts out
there.
true and faithful souls.
friends who don't fail.
people who have your back,
who treat you kindly,
care if you are well.
one call and they are
there, it makes no difference
the passing of years.
train out of the city
we board the train
in bunches.
sardines in the silver can.
the yellow line
to the green to the blue.
we stand.
the car wobbles and sways,
speeds
up and slows down.
we hang on to one
another, keeping our
feet firm,
our grip strong,
hand in hand while
we roll down the tracks,
across the river,
through towns,
passed graveyards
and buildings. so much
we've never seen,
so much
we don't understand.
in bunches.
sardines in the silver can.
the yellow line
to the green to the blue.
we stand.
the car wobbles and sways,
speeds
up and slows down.
we hang on to one
another, keeping our
feet firm,
our grip strong,
hand in hand while
we roll down the tracks,
across the river,
through towns,
passed graveyards
and buildings. so much
we've never seen,
so much
we don't understand.
Sunday, September 15, 2019
sunday night
I find frozen cookies
in the freezer
and eat them.
one by one, dipping
them into green tea,
just boiled and brought
down to the big couch
in front of the big tv.
I remember sunday nights
like this as a kid,
one last treat before
being sent off to bed.
Monday school looming
like a dark cloud, a storm
rising up ahead.
in the freezer
and eat them.
one by one, dipping
them into green tea,
just boiled and brought
down to the big couch
in front of the big tv.
I remember sunday nights
like this as a kid,
one last treat before
being sent off to bed.
Monday school looming
like a dark cloud, a storm
rising up ahead.
play ball
the ballpark is pristine
on this
gem of a day in September.
the grass a postcard green.
blue skies, soft breeze,
the sun high and warm
upon the shoulders of
those who anxiously
wait in their seats. it's been
a long season. red hats
are everywhere, each hand
with a cup, a bag, a bite.
where else would they like
to be? nowhere, as we
squeeze into our seats
and rise to sing the national
anthem.
on this
gem of a day in September.
the grass a postcard green.
blue skies, soft breeze,
the sun high and warm
upon the shoulders of
those who anxiously
wait in their seats. it's been
a long season. red hats
are everywhere, each hand
with a cup, a bag, a bite.
where else would they like
to be? nowhere, as we
squeeze into our seats
and rise to sing the national
anthem.
nine pounds three ounces
what hurts, he says?
I show him my arm, my hand,
the cut. the bruise on my shoulder.
he shows me his knee.
swollen
like a soft ball.
then pulls a band aid off his nose.
pre cancerous, he says, proudly.
betty leans over and says, you
boys
are sissies, then pulls up
her blouse, pulls at the edge
of her yoga pants to show
us a scar.
caesarean, she says.
9 pounds, three ounces.
I show him my arm, my hand,
the cut. the bruise on my shoulder.
he shows me his knee.
swollen
like a soft ball.
then pulls a band aid off his nose.
pre cancerous, he says, proudly.
betty leans over and says, you
boys
are sissies, then pulls up
her blouse, pulls at the edge
of her yoga pants to show
us a scar.
caesarean, she says.
9 pounds, three ounces.
they disappear
they disappear.
come and go. like flowers.
like clouds.
people.
once real, now so easily
disposed.
friends, lovers, relatives.
down the river.
into the enormous ocean,
where we
all eventually go.
come and go. like flowers.
like clouds.
people.
once real, now so easily
disposed.
friends, lovers, relatives.
down the river.
into the enormous ocean,
where we
all eventually go.
Saturday, September 14, 2019
if you get this, come on over
i check out of my house
for a few days
and check into the Hilton down the street.
i need some room service
and a polite greeting from those at
the desk, the door,
the maid with her vacuum and clean
sheets.
i need a plate of eggs
and unlimited coffee. leave the pot.
i need a break.
the king sized bed. the enormous tv.
a potato and salad,
a steak
in the dining room.
with piano music and an ice
cold martini.
come over if you get this.
for a few days
and check into the Hilton down the street.
i need some room service
and a polite greeting from those at
the desk, the door,
the maid with her vacuum and clean
sheets.
i need a plate of eggs
and unlimited coffee. leave the pot.
i need a break.
the king sized bed. the enormous tv.
a potato and salad,
a steak
in the dining room.
with piano music and an ice
cold martini.
come over if you get this.
i need some cake
I need some cake.
a slice will do, with a cold glass
of milk.
tell me about your childhood.
the lack of.
the trauma of violence and abuse.
breaking glass.
cursing. broken bones.
sitting at the top of the stairs
at midnight
listening to the fight.
to the parents who couldn't get
a thing right.
I need some cake.
even now, so many years later.
a goodnight kiss
saying good night to someone
you love,
leaning across the bed, to touch,
then hug
is part of it.
a large part of it.
the kiss,
a sunset of a day in love.
a small thing. but it holds
us together.
it means so much.
the world can't get to us
from here. we're safe.
you love,
leaning across the bed, to touch,
then hug
is part of it.
a large part of it.
the kiss,
a sunset of a day in love.
a small thing. but it holds
us together.
it means so much.
the world can't get to us
from here. we're safe.
nearly impossible
the world is full of broken
promises.
broken windows. broken hearts.
hardly a day goes by
without finding a broken latch
or lock.
a broken dream,
a broken clock.
finding someone to fix things
and make them
right again is hard.
nearly impossible.
promises.
broken windows. broken hearts.
hardly a day goes by
without finding a broken latch
or lock.
a broken dream,
a broken clock.
finding someone to fix things
and make them
right again is hard.
nearly impossible.
let's walk together
sometimes we need to feel
the earth
beneath our feet, shoeless,
and bare.
the wet dew of grass
as we gather mail at the gate.
the sand
of the sea.
the dirt of a road we're on,
between our toes.
it connects us.
the puddles of childhood
that we ran
through.
the hard floor, cold
concrete.
the stiffness of new carpet.
the warm wood of the porch
in summer.
the silk of sheets.
let's walk together and see
where we might go.
taking blood
my doctor is gentle
with the needle. she slips it
into a vein
so easily.
I hardly know she's draining
blood
from my arm.
she taps my chest,
listens to my heart, peers
into my
throat and ears.
she says, hmmm, every now
and then,
then writes something down.
she's a good doctor, always
with a smile,
tender
and concerned.
rarely is she down.
with the needle. she slips it
into a vein
so easily.
I hardly know she's draining
blood
from my arm.
she taps my chest,
listens to my heart, peers
into my
throat and ears.
she says, hmmm, every now
and then,
then writes something down.
she's a good doctor, always
with a smile,
tender
and concerned.
rarely is she down.
the hardest thing
I climb up
into the attic, where
I've
stored boxes over the past
fifteen years
and begin.
I have a flash light and a small
pillow to sit on.
one by one I go through
each stuffed box to slash and burn.
ribbons and bows, photos.
rings and cards.
letters. memories that only
bring pain.
there is little hesitation,
no pondering, no regret.
the past is the past.
letting go is the hardest, but
the healthiest thing.
and when I climb down,
I take out my new camera
to begin
all over again.
into the attic, where
I've
stored boxes over the past
fifteen years
and begin.
I have a flash light and a small
pillow to sit on.
one by one I go through
each stuffed box to slash and burn.
ribbons and bows, photos.
rings and cards.
letters. memories that only
bring pain.
there is little hesitation,
no pondering, no regret.
the past is the past.
letting go is the hardest, but
the healthiest thing.
and when I climb down,
I take out my new camera
to begin
all over again.
their dirty work
there are thieves among us.
robbers.
burglars.
safe crackers.
they slip in so easily
in the dead of night,
to take our money,
our jewels,
the possessions we've
accumulated
throughout our life.
our tender hearts.
they hardly make a sound
as they turn
the dial,
pry open a window
and
do their dirty work.
in the day they seem so nice.
robbers.
burglars.
safe crackers.
they slip in so easily
in the dead of night,
to take our money,
our jewels,
the possessions we've
accumulated
throughout our life.
our tender hearts.
they hardly make a sound
as they turn
the dial,
pry open a window
and
do their dirty work.
in the day they seem so nice.
Friday, September 13, 2019
when it cools down
after
a while, it's no longer about
the face,
the hair,
the legs or arms,
the shape or size of someone.
it's no longer about
making love.
real love
is different.
it's heart and soul.
conversation, trust and respect,
the mind.
once the boyish infatuation ends,
the real
begins.
when the heat dies, and things
cool down, then you
know.
then you know for sure,
if it's just for a season,
or for life.
a while, it's no longer about
the face,
the hair,
the legs or arms,
the shape or size of someone.
it's no longer about
making love.
real love
is different.
it's heart and soul.
conversation, trust and respect,
the mind.
once the boyish infatuation ends,
the real
begins.
when the heat dies, and things
cool down, then you
know.
then you know for sure,
if it's just for a season,
or for life.
we're still here
we planned a trip, the boys
and I, Jim Acs and Perry Hebert,
to California. it was 1974.
we had saved our money,
stuffed what clothes we had
into duffle bags, gassed up
and hit the road in Jim's 57 chevy.
i knew a girl there, a cousin
of a friend from high school.
she'd show us the ropes
of the left coast.
we drew a line on the map
from Maryland to Huntington Beach,
California.
we were young. strong. invincible.
long haired and fair skinned.
how hard would be to get there.
to the ocean, to be part
of it all, out of suburbia.
on the beach with beautiful
California girls. living the life
of surf and sun.
we had no job skills, a little
education, but not much else.
the three of us, together were
going to start a new life.
we were so young,
but the car broke down, ten miles
from home.
we're still here.
and I, Jim Acs and Perry Hebert,
to California. it was 1974.
we had saved our money,
stuffed what clothes we had
into duffle bags, gassed up
and hit the road in Jim's 57 chevy.
i knew a girl there, a cousin
of a friend from high school.
she'd show us the ropes
of the left coast.
we drew a line on the map
from Maryland to Huntington Beach,
California.
we were young. strong. invincible.
long haired and fair skinned.
how hard would be to get there.
to the ocean, to be part
of it all, out of suburbia.
on the beach with beautiful
California girls. living the life
of surf and sun.
we had no job skills, a little
education, but not much else.
the three of us, together were
going to start a new life.
we were so young,
but the car broke down, ten miles
from home.
we're still here.
anonymous
i have no rings,
no watches that i wear,
no cross
around my neck.
no bling, no bracelet,
no pin,
no shiny thing to adorn
me.
i don't want to sparkle,
to be seen,
to be asked.
to be known.
i am happy leaving
as i came in,
quietly happy, anonymous
and alone.
no watches that i wear,
no cross
around my neck.
no bling, no bracelet,
no pin,
no shiny thing to adorn
me.
i don't want to sparkle,
to be seen,
to be asked.
to be known.
i am happy leaving
as i came in,
quietly happy, anonymous
and alone.
the accident
ahead of us,
there was a horse in the road.
still alive.
his legs
moving, in an attempt to get up.
the cart
he pulled was turned over,
all its belongings were spread
in front of us.
blocks of ice. eggs, metal
cans of milk.
the car that hit them
was off the road, the driver
bleeding, holding his head,
the windshield
broken.
the police arrived and brought
the man to my
father's car, where they
placed him in the back seat.
el hospital, he said, over and
over again until my father agreed.
my brother and I climbed into
the front seat, while my
father drove.
the blood was everywhere.
we looked back at the man as
he closed eyes and crossed
himself, holding his head.
murmuring in his language.
his heavy breathing finally stopped
before we reached the hospital
on the outskirts of Barcelona.
whether he died, or lived,
we never knew.
all afternoon, my father quietly
washed out the car,
saying nothing about the accident,
until yesterday, fifty five
years later.
there was a horse in the road.
still alive.
his legs
moving, in an attempt to get up.
the cart
he pulled was turned over,
all its belongings were spread
in front of us.
blocks of ice. eggs, metal
cans of milk.
the car that hit them
was off the road, the driver
bleeding, holding his head,
the windshield
broken.
the police arrived and brought
the man to my
father's car, where they
placed him in the back seat.
el hospital, he said, over and
over again until my father agreed.
my brother and I climbed into
the front seat, while my
father drove.
the blood was everywhere.
we looked back at the man as
he closed eyes and crossed
himself, holding his head.
murmuring in his language.
his heavy breathing finally stopped
before we reached the hospital
on the outskirts of Barcelona.
whether he died, or lived,
we never knew.
all afternoon, my father quietly
washed out the car,
saying nothing about the accident,
until yesterday, fifty five
years later.
let's get out of the rain
in the rain
I find you outside the store.
in a doorway.
you are wet and crying.
I don't ask you why,
because lately
you're always crying.
I put my arm around
you
and say nothing.
it's what I do now to those
in pain.
I say nothing.
everything has already been
said.
instead I kiss your cheek
and tell you,
let's get out of the rain.
I find you outside the store.
in a doorway.
you are wet and crying.
I don't ask you why,
because lately
you're always crying.
I put my arm around
you
and say nothing.
it's what I do now to those
in pain.
I say nothing.
everything has already been
said.
instead I kiss your cheek
and tell you,
let's get out of the rain.
we invite into our lives
we invite into our lives
both
good and bad souls, and then
must
decide
who is to stay, who is to go.
do they embrace you,
make you a better person, do
you enjoy
them. is their influence one
of fear and anxiety,
or joy and trust.
are they truthful, do they have
compassion.
is the respect mutual.
some souls take us down into their
dark
hole of despair.
into the drama of their own lives,
that forever circle
downward.
chaos is their home, the deep
cold sea of where they live.
those cords must be cut. must be
part of
the process of letting go,
or drown with them.
both
good and bad souls, and then
must
decide
who is to stay, who is to go.
do they embrace you,
make you a better person, do
you enjoy
them. is their influence one
of fear and anxiety,
or joy and trust.
are they truthful, do they have
compassion.
is the respect mutual.
some souls take us down into their
dark
hole of despair.
into the drama of their own lives,
that forever circle
downward.
chaos is their home, the deep
cold sea of where they live.
those cords must be cut. must be
part of
the process of letting go,
or drown with them.
everything you desire
like candles,
the stars light themselves
all at once.
infinite blessing are in reach.
no need to wish upon
one.
what you have is all you need.
let go of fear.
everything you desire
is already
here.
the stars light themselves
all at once.
infinite blessing are in reach.
no need to wish upon
one.
what you have is all you need.
let go of fear.
everything you desire
is already
here.
more than friends
each summer
has its end. a sad sweetness
to it.
like a different lover, it holds
you in another way.
I fall for autumn though.
the caress of leaves.
the cool
kiss of wind.
the promise of Christmas to come.
the pristine
confection
of snow.
us together, more than friends.
has its end. a sad sweetness
to it.
like a different lover, it holds
you in another way.
I fall for autumn though.
the caress of leaves.
the cool
kiss of wind.
the promise of Christmas to come.
the pristine
confection
of snow.
us together, more than friends.
rowing towards shore
the moon is silver
against the water, as I move
slowly
across the bay,
digging my oars
deep into
the black water.
there is no sound but the gentle
slash
of oar,
of me pulling the wooden
boat
through the gauze
of memory and moonlight.
I am neither close
or far from shore.
I have a long ways to go.
but my arms
are strong, my lungs breathe
in the cold air
of November.
I will, in time, find
what I am looking for.
the moon is silver
against the water, it's
a lane of light
i will follow.
against the water, as I move
slowly
across the bay,
digging my oars
deep into
the black water.
there is no sound but the gentle
slash
of oar,
of me pulling the wooden
boat
through the gauze
of memory and moonlight.
I am neither close
or far from shore.
I have a long ways to go.
but my arms
are strong, my lungs breathe
in the cold air
of November.
I will, in time, find
what I am looking for.
the moon is silver
against the water, it's
a lane of light
i will follow.
A Meditation
I need no one
I tell myself
after a day of meditation.
I am content
being alone.
I am attached to no thing.
no person.
I can fast for 40 days.
I find bliss in this silence.
I am buddha.
I am Gandhi.
I am Batman.
day two.
I am completely out of my
mind,
starved for affection
and hungry.
I tell myself
after a day of meditation.
I am content
being alone.
I am attached to no thing.
no person.
I can fast for 40 days.
I find bliss in this silence.
I am buddha.
I am Gandhi.
I am Batman.
day two.
I am completely out of my
mind,
starved for affection
and hungry.
all the pretty girls
after showing me
the pristine new car
in his garage,
unwrapping the cloth of
the Aston Martin,
he opens his mouth
to show me the dental work that he's
going to have
in an hour.
then shifts his hands to his
stomach where he curls
his shirt against the fleshy
lobes
of a hernia.
that's next week, he says,
then rolls up
his pant leg
to show me his swollen knee.
November for that,
he says,
shaking his head.
don't even ask me about my
heart.
i'm falling apart. don't
get old.
you might not believe it
now, he says, but I used
to get all the pretty girls.
he smiles, winks,
then grimaces
as he gets into his car,
he revs the engine, then
drives away.
the pristine new car
in his garage,
unwrapping the cloth of
the Aston Martin,
he opens his mouth
to show me the dental work that he's
going to have
in an hour.
then shifts his hands to his
stomach where he curls
his shirt against the fleshy
lobes
of a hernia.
that's next week, he says,
then rolls up
his pant leg
to show me his swollen knee.
November for that,
he says,
shaking his head.
don't even ask me about my
heart.
i'm falling apart. don't
get old.
you might not believe it
now, he says, but I used
to get all the pretty girls.
he smiles, winks,
then grimaces
as he gets into his car,
he revs the engine, then
drives away.
i wake up
I wake up in a strange house.
a bed not my own.
whose lamp is that, whose
books are on the nightstand.
I am wearing someone else's clothes.
there is a dog on the bed,
a woman
who is not my wife.
I hear the voices of children
in the other room.
I get up and go to the mirror.
I am not who I thought
I was.
I don't recognize myself.
perhaps the other life was
a dream,
and this, this life is real.
the woman wakes up and says,
sweetheart,
is something wrong?
I look at her, wondering who
she is, trying to remember
how I got here.
come back to bed, she says,
opening her arms. it's early.
too early to get up.
so I do.
a bed not my own.
whose lamp is that, whose
books are on the nightstand.
I am wearing someone else's clothes.
there is a dog on the bed,
a woman
who is not my wife.
I hear the voices of children
in the other room.
I get up and go to the mirror.
I am not who I thought
I was.
I don't recognize myself.
perhaps the other life was
a dream,
and this, this life is real.
the woman wakes up and says,
sweetheart,
is something wrong?
I look at her, wondering who
she is, trying to remember
how I got here.
come back to bed, she says,
opening her arms. it's early.
too early to get up.
so I do.
Thursday, September 12, 2019
two double A batteries
I see that the clock
on the far
wall,
the battery powered clock,
the mid
century thing with wooden
spikes
and a silver disc
at the center has stopped.
it's been three ten for five
hours now.
I got nearly two years out
of those batteries.
a lot of time has passed
since I hung it on the wall
next to the black and white
photo of the flat iron building
in new York city.
enormous changes have occurred.
I pop in two more batteries.
let's see what lies ahead now
as the second hand begins
to sweep forward.
on the far
wall,
the battery powered clock,
the mid
century thing with wooden
spikes
and a silver disc
at the center has stopped.
it's been three ten for five
hours now.
I got nearly two years out
of those batteries.
a lot of time has passed
since I hung it on the wall
next to the black and white
photo of the flat iron building
in new York city.
enormous changes have occurred.
I pop in two more batteries.
let's see what lies ahead now
as the second hand begins
to sweep forward.
between 8 and 2
they give you a window.
the repair man,
the plumber, the cable guy,
the delivery man,
the pick up guy,
what kind of a world
are we living in
when
we allow a five hour window
for anyone
to do anything.
just tell me when you'll be
here,
give or take
fifteen minutes
and i'll be there.
why is this so hard?
what's the problem?
the repair man,
the plumber, the cable guy,
the delivery man,
the pick up guy,
what kind of a world
are we living in
when
we allow a five hour window
for anyone
to do anything.
just tell me when you'll be
here,
give or take
fifteen minutes
and i'll be there.
why is this so hard?
what's the problem?
waiting at the station
the milk
of this moon is upon me
as i sit
on the porch and examine my life.
the trees sway
with a gentle wind.
i hear the train blow it's whistle
in the distance.
three times.
even now, at this late hour
people are on the move, going
places.
going to be with loved ones.
i'm still at the station, waiting
once more for
my train to arrive.
of this moon is upon me
as i sit
on the porch and examine my life.
the trees sway
with a gentle wind.
i hear the train blow it's whistle
in the distance.
three times.
even now, at this late hour
people are on the move, going
places.
going to be with loved ones.
i'm still at the station, waiting
once more for
my train to arrive.
bake me a loaf
i was in Maryland
the other day and started thinking about
zucchini bread.
warm, right out of the oven with a thin
coat of icing.
i go way back with zucchini bread.
good memories.
i wish i had a bag of it right now, as
i sit here
thinking about it.
i could eat a whole loaf, if you baked
me one.
the other day and started thinking about
zucchini bread.
warm, right out of the oven with a thin
coat of icing.
i go way back with zucchini bread.
good memories.
i wish i had a bag of it right now, as
i sit here
thinking about it.
i could eat a whole loaf, if you baked
me one.
grow through it
if you live long enough,
a lot of crazy stuff is going to happen
to you.
you'll meet a lot wacked out people,
including your own family.
trouble comes with the territory
of living.
money, relationships, jobs.
neighbors. pets.
if you're breathing, you're in for
a long day, most of the time.
traffic. aging. disappointment.
mostly annoying, petty stuff, but big
stuff too, divorce and death
comes to mind.
but you keep going. you keep getting
up and plowing through the day.
you either grow through it, or stay
stuck in the mire and the swamp
of it all.
but if you do make it through, you
do find a way to put the pieces together
and find love and joy,
contentment in your life. sweet.
don't look back, and stay away from
the losers you've left behind.
forward. grow through it.
a lot of crazy stuff is going to happen
to you.
you'll meet a lot wacked out people,
including your own family.
trouble comes with the territory
of living.
money, relationships, jobs.
neighbors. pets.
if you're breathing, you're in for
a long day, most of the time.
traffic. aging. disappointment.
mostly annoying, petty stuff, but big
stuff too, divorce and death
comes to mind.
but you keep going. you keep getting
up and plowing through the day.
you either grow through it, or stay
stuck in the mire and the swamp
of it all.
but if you do make it through, you
do find a way to put the pieces together
and find love and joy,
contentment in your life. sweet.
don't look back, and stay away from
the losers you've left behind.
forward. grow through it.
Wednesday, September 11, 2019
the whole cake mistake
each year that goes by, I look
back and think,
good lord I was a knucklehead
last year,
and the year before that.
I can imagine being ninety
and looking back at eighty nine
and thinking, jesus mary and
joseph, what a fool I was
back then.
how silly and immature
I was, the things I did,
the stupid things I said.
it's embarrassing how i behaved.
each year a new lesson.
a whipping of sorts, a humbling
journey, for sure.
and so what was last year's lesson?
don't make one person
your whole cake. that's it.
back and think,
good lord I was a knucklehead
last year,
and the year before that.
I can imagine being ninety
and looking back at eighty nine
and thinking, jesus mary and
joseph, what a fool I was
back then.
how silly and immature
I was, the things I did,
the stupid things I said.
it's embarrassing how i behaved.
each year a new lesson.
a whipping of sorts, a humbling
journey, for sure.
and so what was last year's lesson?
don't make one person
your whole cake. that's it.
queen Jane
my dear friend,
queen jane, the drama queen,
is up
in arms
over something. I hear her scream,
plates break,
dishes fly. I see her
across the courtyard
yelling
at her man.
she's only happy, when
she's unhappy.
she's hard to understand.
she likes her wine.
her phone.
her lipstick and big hair.
she's stuck
in the eighties, lost
in big shoulders
and mtv glam.
but she's my dear friend
who comes over for a cup
of sugar
in her satin pink robe,
teasing
the boys
down at the pool with
her leopard print suit,
and stiletto shoes.
queen jane is a piece of work.
blanche dubois
and betty davis, all rolled
into one,
the queen bee
of the apartment court.
queen jane, the drama queen,
is up
in arms
over something. I hear her scream,
plates break,
dishes fly. I see her
across the courtyard
yelling
at her man.
she's only happy, when
she's unhappy.
she's hard to understand.
she likes her wine.
her phone.
her lipstick and big hair.
she's stuck
in the eighties, lost
in big shoulders
and mtv glam.
but she's my dear friend
who comes over for a cup
of sugar
in her satin pink robe,
teasing
the boys
down at the pool with
her leopard print suit,
and stiletto shoes.
queen jane is a piece of work.
blanche dubois
and betty davis, all rolled
into one,
the queen bee
of the apartment court.
the art prison
they've turned the prison
into an art house.
women and children,
men
with canvasses and brushes
go in
to show their work.
to brush long strokes turning
white into
trees and
faces. cats and dogs.
it was a notorious place
for decades.
the worst of the worst
of crimes
were committed by its
inhabitants.
murder, rape. robbery.
but now there is no guard
in the watchtower,
no
barbed wired
on the fence. no cell locked.
no rifles pointed down
preventing escape.
daisies are painted where
blood once ran.
flowers bloom in the yard,
where shivs
were sharpened,
were deals went down.
pottery spins in the work house.
yarn,
and sketches.
there's singing too.
it's kumbaya in the big house.
not a single shriek is heard
anymore.
into an art house.
women and children,
men
with canvasses and brushes
go in
to show their work.
to brush long strokes turning
white into
trees and
faces. cats and dogs.
it was a notorious place
for decades.
the worst of the worst
of crimes
were committed by its
inhabitants.
murder, rape. robbery.
but now there is no guard
in the watchtower,
no
barbed wired
on the fence. no cell locked.
no rifles pointed down
preventing escape.
daisies are painted where
blood once ran.
flowers bloom in the yard,
where shivs
were sharpened,
were deals went down.
pottery spins in the work house.
yarn,
and sketches.
there's singing too.
it's kumbaya in the big house.
not a single shriek is heard
anymore.
go slow, i tell her
drink this i tell her.
but go slow.
think tantric drinking.
there's rum in there.
it's sweet too.
i advise only one or two,
with three
you'll be swinging
from the chandelier
and throwing off your
clothes and shoes.
fiddle de dee, she says.
i know what i'm doing,
i'm a big girl,
so down it goes,
one after the other,
and by midnight she's in
the bathroom,
hugging the porcelain
wheel.
but go slow.
think tantric drinking.
there's rum in there.
it's sweet too.
i advise only one or two,
with three
you'll be swinging
from the chandelier
and throwing off your
clothes and shoes.
fiddle de dee, she says.
i know what i'm doing,
i'm a big girl,
so down it goes,
one after the other,
and by midnight she's in
the bathroom,
hugging the porcelain
wheel.
all those wasted words
i used to write long
letters, trying to right the ship
i was on
as it sank
into a blue sea.
tearful letters, letters of remorse,
letters of angst
and pain,
and sorrow.
my fingers knew no end to what
what was in my heart.
the ache was poetic and dark,
it was a strange period of time
back then.
thinking it was the loss of love,
but having nothing to
do with such a thing.
i have burned everything i ever
wrote,
and vowed to never be in such
a horrid state, so lost
again with such a sick individual.
new ink will not go to waste
anymore.
letters, trying to right the ship
i was on
as it sank
into a blue sea.
tearful letters, letters of remorse,
letters of angst
and pain,
and sorrow.
my fingers knew no end to what
what was in my heart.
the ache was poetic and dark,
it was a strange period of time
back then.
thinking it was the loss of love,
but having nothing to
do with such a thing.
i have burned everything i ever
wrote,
and vowed to never be in such
a horrid state, so lost
again with such a sick individual.
new ink will not go to waste
anymore.
routine
I bend to the familiar,
the routine.
I know how the day goes,
before it goes.
one foot before the other.
what I will eat,
or drink, what clothes
i'll wear.
I will drive to work,
in silence, and return
home when enough is done.
I bend to the familiar.
the structure of what
I've created, often
unwilling to change, or
have anything come undone.
the routine.
I know how the day goes,
before it goes.
one foot before the other.
what I will eat,
or drink, what clothes
i'll wear.
I will drive to work,
in silence, and return
home when enough is done.
I bend to the familiar.
the structure of what
I've created, often
unwilling to change, or
have anything come undone.
making love under a full moon
the moon casts its milky
light upon
us as we lie beside one
another, our
hearts still
racing after making love.
we say nothing.
there is nothing to be said.
her hand is
upon my chest, my hand
on her knee.
we listen to each other breathe.
there is sadness, a sigh
of grief that it's over
once more, the thought
is tragic,
that one of us may leave.
light upon
us as we lie beside one
another, our
hearts still
racing after making love.
we say nothing.
there is nothing to be said.
her hand is
upon my chest, my hand
on her knee.
we listen to each other breathe.
there is sadness, a sigh
of grief that it's over
once more, the thought
is tragic,
that one of us may leave.
she was busy
I don't remember my mother
worrying
about being happy.
about finding out who she really
was deep inside.
I don't think she ever asked herself,
who am I, what's my purpose in life?
she just wanted to pay
the electric bill and feed her
seven kids.
put clothes on their back,
shoes on their feet.
there was always another heavy
wet load of clothes that she had
to hang on the line out back.
she never concerned herself much
with fashion,
she was too busy worrying about where
the next loaf of bread
and gallon of milk was
coming from.
I never saw her reading a self
help book,
or going to therapy,
or meditating, or agonizing
about her looks,
staring into the mirror,
upset
if she gained two pounds,
or there was a strand of
grey in her hair.
she was too busy for all the hippy
bullshit that was going on too.
sleep was her only break in life,
until the phone rang,
or a baby started crying.
or someone needed to find their
gloves, or shoes, or keys.
worrying
about being happy.
about finding out who she really
was deep inside.
I don't think she ever asked herself,
who am I, what's my purpose in life?
she just wanted to pay
the electric bill and feed her
seven kids.
put clothes on their back,
shoes on their feet.
there was always another heavy
wet load of clothes that she had
to hang on the line out back.
she never concerned herself much
with fashion,
she was too busy worrying about where
the next loaf of bread
and gallon of milk was
coming from.
I never saw her reading a self
help book,
or going to therapy,
or meditating, or agonizing
about her looks,
staring into the mirror,
upset
if she gained two pounds,
or there was a strand of
grey in her hair.
she was too busy for all the hippy
bullshit that was going on too.
sleep was her only break in life,
until the phone rang,
or a baby started crying.
or someone needed to find their
gloves, or shoes, or keys.
the wedding gown
i remember her white wedding
dress
sealed in a plastic
bubble
hanging in the closet.
that must of cost a fortune
her uncle Al said
as he stuffed another shrimp
into his mouth.
i tried to imagine what she
was saving it for.
do men save their tuxes,
their shoes
and bow ties that they
were married in?
so the marriage ends,
who didn't see that coming?
but she still has the dress
hanging in the closet.
a dress not unlike
Glinda's the good witch
of the north.
one day of good memories,
a nice cake,
and lots of shrimp,
a band playing proud mary,
and
the rest of the six month
marriage a train wreck
with a boat load of regrets.
dress
sealed in a plastic
bubble
hanging in the closet.
that must of cost a fortune
her uncle Al said
as he stuffed another shrimp
into his mouth.
i tried to imagine what she
was saving it for.
do men save their tuxes,
their shoes
and bow ties that they
were married in?
so the marriage ends,
who didn't see that coming?
but she still has the dress
hanging in the closet.
a dress not unlike
Glinda's the good witch
of the north.
one day of good memories,
a nice cake,
and lots of shrimp,
a band playing proud mary,
and
the rest of the six month
marriage a train wreck
with a boat load of regrets.
the wonderful house
at the new showing,
the floors gleam, the counters
are wiped
clean.
the wall are painted a
pleasant white,
the inside of the house
has everything
in place.
everything is right, but
out the window
is a swing set left behind.
the rusted chain
and seat swinging in
the fall rain.
what child found glee
out there, what child went
down
the bent dull slide.
what years were good
before the parents found
each other out,
separating, then divorcing
selling what was once
and still is a wonderful
house.
the floors gleam, the counters
are wiped
clean.
the wall are painted a
pleasant white,
the inside of the house
has everything
in place.
everything is right, but
out the window
is a swing set left behind.
the rusted chain
and seat swinging in
the fall rain.
what child found glee
out there, what child went
down
the bent dull slide.
what years were good
before the parents found
each other out,
separating, then divorcing
selling what was once
and still is a wonderful
house.
drive through religion
I see over at the church
the new drive through
arrangement.
the priest is out there
with a long black hose
hooked up
to a tank of holy water,
spraying the cars down.
he has a megaphone
and says what needs to be said
as the cars
ride through,
the passengers crossing themselves,
repenting
taking the communion wafers
as a nun in earth shoes hands
them through the windows.
it's quick and easy. no fuss
no muss.
in and out, then off to breakfast
at Dennys.
i'm not sure if the Vatican
knows about this, but
hey, they seem to adjust
to whatever the current
times are.
the new drive through
arrangement.
the priest is out there
with a long black hose
hooked up
to a tank of holy water,
spraying the cars down.
he has a megaphone
and says what needs to be said
as the cars
ride through,
the passengers crossing themselves,
repenting
taking the communion wafers
as a nun in earth shoes hands
them through the windows.
it's quick and easy. no fuss
no muss.
in and out, then off to breakfast
at Dennys.
i'm not sure if the Vatican
knows about this, but
hey, they seem to adjust
to whatever the current
times are.
the unwasting of time
i get into the habit of
daily
meditation.
sitting quietly.
breathing. observing my breath
as it comes
and goes gently
from mouth to throat to chest,
then out.
within a few minutes my
mind stops wandering,
stops thinking about ice
cream
and cake.
women and work.
all problems are equally
erased.
the relentless brain, slows
and actually clears itself.
and it's just me.
clarity arrives.
there is no worry, no past to
ruminate over, no future to ponder
aimlessly.
you realize how much energy and time
has been wasted on nothing.
you're free.
daily
meditation.
sitting quietly.
breathing. observing my breath
as it comes
and goes gently
from mouth to throat to chest,
then out.
within a few minutes my
mind stops wandering,
stops thinking about ice
cream
and cake.
women and work.
all problems are equally
erased.
the relentless brain, slows
and actually clears itself.
and it's just me.
clarity arrives.
there is no worry, no past to
ruminate over, no future to ponder
aimlessly.
you realize how much energy and time
has been wasted on nothing.
you're free.
when it comes back around
there is no need
to take
revenge, to seek justice
for the harm
others have done to you.
no need to sharpen
your sword and go under
attack.
rest and be assured,
in time,
it will all come back on
them.
all the deceit and lying
will
eventually do them in.
it's not your duty, or call
to seek
revenge.
life and the karma
will do what needs to be
done.
to take
revenge, to seek justice
for the harm
others have done to you.
no need to sharpen
your sword and go under
attack.
rest and be assured,
in time,
it will all come back on
them.
all the deceit and lying
will
eventually do them in.
it's not your duty, or call
to seek
revenge.
life and the karma
will do what needs to be
done.
she's got game
I pick her up for the ball game
at the stadium along the river.
she's wearing her jersey and cap.
a glove on one hand.
smacking gum.
high top chuck taylors and
knee high socks.
what the hell, I say to her.
Halloween is a month away.
she dabs some black under
each eye.
i'm ready, she says, let's go.
she slams her fist into her glove
and gets all steely eyed.
swing batter swing
she screams when we arrive.
she starts harassing the players,
talking about their mommas
and their lack of manhood.
it's a long day at the park.
beer, hot dogs, peanuts.
at some point she even
snags a foul ball away from a kid
in a wheelchair.
I had no idea that she had this
in her.
at the stadium along the river.
she's wearing her jersey and cap.
a glove on one hand.
smacking gum.
high top chuck taylors and
knee high socks.
what the hell, I say to her.
Halloween is a month away.
she dabs some black under
each eye.
i'm ready, she says, let's go.
she slams her fist into her glove
and gets all steely eyed.
swing batter swing
she screams when we arrive.
she starts harassing the players,
talking about their mommas
and their lack of manhood.
it's a long day at the park.
beer, hot dogs, peanuts.
at some point she even
snags a foul ball away from a kid
in a wheelchair.
I had no idea that she had this
in her.
Tuesday, September 10, 2019
the new girl
my buddy jake the snake
finds
love at the shelter. her
name is helen.
after 45 days in, he stumbles
upon a new resident
who was uncuffed
and let in.
she's gone through rehab
for heroin
and cocaine, and has come
out the other side,
she pees into a cup
each morning to show she's
clean.
she did burglary for awhile.
small time.
jimmying locks
on the sliding doors
of apartments.
all to pay for her addiction.
she's in the women's
wing of
the facility. she smokes,
he smokes.
they talk, they go to
a movie.
they hold hands on the balcony
overlooking
the highway,
staring out into the distance.
they watch the sun set
and talk about
drinking. they
talk about an apartment.
a car. the money they both
get from disability,
food stamps.
the future is so far away.
but they have each
other, for now.
finds
love at the shelter. her
name is helen.
after 45 days in, he stumbles
upon a new resident
who was uncuffed
and let in.
she's gone through rehab
for heroin
and cocaine, and has come
out the other side,
she pees into a cup
each morning to show she's
clean.
she did burglary for awhile.
small time.
jimmying locks
on the sliding doors
of apartments.
all to pay for her addiction.
she's in the women's
wing of
the facility. she smokes,
he smokes.
they talk, they go to
a movie.
they hold hands on the balcony
overlooking
the highway,
staring out into the distance.
they watch the sun set
and talk about
drinking. they
talk about an apartment.
a car. the money they both
get from disability,
food stamps.
the future is so far away.
but they have each
other, for now.
the performance under water
I hear her singing in the shower.
she has sweet voice.
a lyrical way with words as the water
pours upon her.
I see the steam slip out from
under the door.
I stand in the hall and listen.
such sounds I've never heard.
she smiles when she comes out,
soaked, hair wet, a towel
wrapped around her.
gleaming.
she's happy and so am i.
she has sweet voice.
a lyrical way with words as the water
pours upon her.
I see the steam slip out from
under the door.
I stand in the hall and listen.
such sounds I've never heard.
she smiles when she comes out,
soaked, hair wet, a towel
wrapped around her.
gleaming.
she's happy and so am i.
on the open hill
she lies down
in a bed of flowers, poppies
bright
on a field.
she puts her head upon my lap.
we watch
the sky
move against the sun.
there is all day to do this.
no need to speak,
or to wonder what may
or may not
come.
in a bed of flowers, poppies
bright
on a field.
she puts her head upon my lap.
we watch
the sky
move against the sun.
there is all day to do this.
no need to speak,
or to wonder what may
or may not
come.
the hidden sin
when something
stays hidden, safe from
other's eyes,
when we know deep inside
it's wrong,
there is either
shame or
guilt or both
involved.
we haven't traveled
far from the garden
of Eden, where sin
has
clothed us all.
stays hidden, safe from
other's eyes,
when we know deep inside
it's wrong,
there is either
shame or
guilt or both
involved.
we haven't traveled
far from the garden
of Eden, where sin
has
clothed us all.
man outside the window
i see a man outside
my house, late at night.
he's wearing a long coat.
he's staring towards me.
i wave.
he puts a hand up.
he looks like someone i know.
or used to know.
he's very still. quiet.
he's wearing sunglasses and a hat.
holding an umbrella at his side.
i watch him for a while, then go
back to what i was
doing.
which was nothing.
my house, late at night.
he's wearing a long coat.
he's staring towards me.
i wave.
he puts a hand up.
he looks like someone i know.
or used to know.
he's very still. quiet.
he's wearing sunglasses and a hat.
holding an umbrella at his side.
i watch him for a while, then go
back to what i was
doing.
which was nothing.
hazel, where are you?
I stretch like a cat in
the morning sun.
is it Friday yet?
I yell down to hazel to put
the coffee on.
she's not there.
damn her.
I pay her so much and for what?
my psychiatrist tells me to get over
her.
my imagination runs wild sometimes.
but I love the idea of hazel.
not the television hazel. but a hazel
from Norway or Sweden.
very tall and demur. she doesn't even
have to speak English.
we'll figure it out.
if she can make coffee, that's a plus.
the morning sun.
is it Friday yet?
I yell down to hazel to put
the coffee on.
she's not there.
damn her.
I pay her so much and for what?
my psychiatrist tells me to get over
her.
my imagination runs wild sometimes.
but I love the idea of hazel.
not the television hazel. but a hazel
from Norway or Sweden.
very tall and demur. she doesn't even
have to speak English.
we'll figure it out.
if she can make coffee, that's a plus.
get well
she has my back.
I have hers. there is comfort in
being together.
no worries, no cares. just the simple
quiet
of being with one another.
no drama.
no arguing. no discussion
of what was.
there is trust.
open communication
as we embrace the now.
love is like that.
simple and sweet.
you get past the rough patches
and
get well.
I have hers. there is comfort in
being together.
no worries, no cares. just the simple
quiet
of being with one another.
no drama.
no arguing. no discussion
of what was.
there is trust.
open communication
as we embrace the now.
love is like that.
simple and sweet.
you get past the rough patches
and
get well.
things have changed
how quickly things change.
the houses go up,
a building that wasn't there yesterday
is now
ten stories high.
the roads are different than
they were
a week ago.
we look at one another and ask,
where are we.
new stores, new restaurants.
boutiques
and shops with strange names.
even the people look different.
where do we park?
our town is not the same
after just a week away
on vacation.
the houses go up,
a building that wasn't there yesterday
is now
ten stories high.
the roads are different than
they were
a week ago.
we look at one another and ask,
where are we.
new stores, new restaurants.
boutiques
and shops with strange names.
even the people look different.
where do we park?
our town is not the same
after just a week away
on vacation.
crab house
it's a restaurant on
the main drag of town.
picnic tables covered in newspapers.
liters of vinegar,
ketchup, salt and pepper,
old bay,
trays of crabs, steamed
and hard in their red shells,
coming out from
the floppy doored kitchen
by the dozens.
it's a loud place.
everyone seems to be yelling.
the music. the large groups
of people, sunburned and
almost out of money on this
sunday night, heading home
on Monday.
the frenzy of food is
frightening. everything fried,
and hot. the waiters tired,
dragging in their shorts
and sweaty tops.
we shrug and say, okay. let's
eat. there has to be something
on the menu we like.
drinking helps.
the main drag of town.
picnic tables covered in newspapers.
liters of vinegar,
ketchup, salt and pepper,
old bay,
trays of crabs, steamed
and hard in their red shells,
coming out from
the floppy doored kitchen
by the dozens.
it's a loud place.
everyone seems to be yelling.
the music. the large groups
of people, sunburned and
almost out of money on this
sunday night, heading home
on Monday.
the frenzy of food is
frightening. everything fried,
and hot. the waiters tired,
dragging in their shorts
and sweaty tops.
we shrug and say, okay. let's
eat. there has to be something
on the menu we like.
drinking helps.
Monday, September 9, 2019
the light and dark
we make
mistakes. missteps.
we do
things we regret.
some days
we trip and fall.
we say things
we'd like to take back.
but we can't.
we don't forget.
it's part of us. who
we are
in the deeper regions.
there is a light
and dark
side to us all.
mistakes. missteps.
we do
things we regret.
some days
we trip and fall.
we say things
we'd like to take back.
but we can't.
we don't forget.
it's part of us. who
we are
in the deeper regions.
there is a light
and dark
side to us all.
pay it back
the guy in line
behind me, has a cart full of hamburger
meat
and buns.
hot dogs. mustard, relish.
onions.
I see him counting his change,
his dirty fives
and ones.
he's covered in twigs and leaves,
as if he'd been sleeping in
the woods.
he swears to himself, mumbles
beneath his breath.
recounting his handful
of money. nervously
he pulls out all his pockets
and checks his shoes.
it's obvious that he isn't going
to have enough, so
before I leave
with my bags, I reach back and hand
him a twenty.
what? he says. really?
yup, I tell him.
it's fine. put it to good use.
behind me, has a cart full of hamburger
meat
and buns.
hot dogs. mustard, relish.
onions.
I see him counting his change,
his dirty fives
and ones.
he's covered in twigs and leaves,
as if he'd been sleeping in
the woods.
he swears to himself, mumbles
beneath his breath.
recounting his handful
of money. nervously
he pulls out all his pockets
and checks his shoes.
it's obvious that he isn't going
to have enough, so
before I leave
with my bags, I reach back and hand
him a twenty.
what? he says. really?
yup, I tell him.
it's fine. put it to good use.
willing to change
after a hard day on the job
it's a nice nap
after a freezing cold shower.
I hardly moved
beneath the cool sheets
as I fell into a deep slumber
full of dreams.
I wake up refreshed ready to
start the next
third portion of the day.
it's good to have a routine,
but with some flexibility of course,
I mean if you
were here,
it might be different.
i'm willing to change.
the whipped cream aisle
I roll the cart through the fruit
and vegetable section
of the grocery store.
I stare at the oranges. I don't think
I've bought an orange
in five years.
or a pear, or pineapple, maybe never.
but I like to look at the colors
and how everything is
so neatly stacked
in rows, in pyramids. I like how
the apples
shine, the grapes glow under
the fluorescent lights.
so many bananas, where do they all
come from.
who picked them?
there are the peaches, as fuzzy as
the first one I remembered
eating as a child.
biting into its sweet slush
as the skin tickled my lips
and tongue.
I circle the melons. the lopes.
the berries one more time before
moving on and taking a small basket
of strawberries.
I head to the whipped cream aisle,
I think the can she bought me
once for a Saturday night, may
be dried up now.
and vegetable section
of the grocery store.
I stare at the oranges. I don't think
I've bought an orange
in five years.
or a pear, or pineapple, maybe never.
but I like to look at the colors
and how everything is
so neatly stacked
in rows, in pyramids. I like how
the apples
shine, the grapes glow under
the fluorescent lights.
so many bananas, where do they all
come from.
who picked them?
there are the peaches, as fuzzy as
the first one I remembered
eating as a child.
biting into its sweet slush
as the skin tickled my lips
and tongue.
I circle the melons. the lopes.
the berries one more time before
moving on and taking a small basket
of strawberries.
I head to the whipped cream aisle,
I think the can she bought me
once for a Saturday night, may
be dried up now.
the toaster oven gift
I remember the dairy queen
in Cambridge.
halfway to O.C.,
we stopped there once in 1975,
for a cone.
one for her,
one for me.
I had chocolate, she had vanilla.
we were on our honeymoon.
fresh out of high school.
she was the love of my life
for about
six months,
the first of a dozen
soul mates
yet to come,
before she walked home to her
mother's house
with one suitcase
and a toaster oven.
in Cambridge.
halfway to O.C.,
we stopped there once in 1975,
for a cone.
one for her,
one for me.
I had chocolate, she had vanilla.
we were on our honeymoon.
fresh out of high school.
she was the love of my life
for about
six months,
the first of a dozen
soul mates
yet to come,
before she walked home to her
mother's house
with one suitcase
and a toaster oven.
coffee tea or me
as crazy as my friend was,
Debbie the flight attendant,
she was fun.
smart as a whip, well read,
intuitive. nothing ever got
by her.
she was always three steps ahead
of me,
she had the upper hand,
the upper leg.
the upper everything on me.
as sweet and charming as she was,
she was as equally untruthful.
with nary a wink, she'd lie
like a rug
about anything and everything,
she always had something to hide.
but I didn't care.
she knew I knew. so that made
it interesting.
it was never going to go anywhere
to begin with,
because of all the other
men in her life, and all the other
women in mine.
but when we were together,
we were both all there. all in
for a three day layover.
I can still see her at the airport,
luggage at her side,
in uniform, red lipstick on,
stockings and heels,
with a sly cat ate the canary
grin.
even near death, shaved bald
and bone thin, she smiled
and winked
for the camera. she sat there
in her wheel chair,
half of what she was,
and promised that she'd see
me once again.
Debbie the flight attendant,
she was fun.
smart as a whip, well read,
intuitive. nothing ever got
by her.
she was always three steps ahead
of me,
she had the upper hand,
the upper leg.
the upper everything on me.
as sweet and charming as she was,
she was as equally untruthful.
with nary a wink, she'd lie
like a rug
about anything and everything,
she always had something to hide.
but I didn't care.
she knew I knew. so that made
it interesting.
it was never going to go anywhere
to begin with,
because of all the other
men in her life, and all the other
women in mine.
but when we were together,
we were both all there. all in
for a three day layover.
I can still see her at the airport,
luggage at her side,
in uniform, red lipstick on,
stockings and heels,
with a sly cat ate the canary
grin.
even near death, shaved bald
and bone thin, she smiled
and winked
for the camera. she sat there
in her wheel chair,
half of what she was,
and promised that she'd see
me once again.
love yourself
yo, he says.
my buddy at the ball court,
my man. you got your mojo
back,
don't you?
I see that sparkle in your eye
again.
you're hitting your shots.
shoulders back,
head straight.
that last time I saw you
things were dark,
you were bleak, broken,
but not now,
I feel it brother. glad for
you.
the light's back on.
took a while didn't it.
women will do that us,
won't they. goddamn them.
can't live with em,
can't live without em.
but hey. don't lose it again.
be strong.
be wise. be yourself
no matter what.
love yourself first and
the rest will follow.
now let's play ball.
my buddy at the ball court,
my man. you got your mojo
back,
don't you?
I see that sparkle in your eye
again.
you're hitting your shots.
shoulders back,
head straight.
that last time I saw you
things were dark,
you were bleak, broken,
but not now,
I feel it brother. glad for
you.
the light's back on.
took a while didn't it.
women will do that us,
won't they. goddamn them.
can't live with em,
can't live without em.
but hey. don't lose it again.
be strong.
be wise. be yourself
no matter what.
love yourself first and
the rest will follow.
now let's play ball.
the grey man
when he got out of prison
he got
a job mopping hallways in
an apartment building
in crystal city.
his uniform was grey.
his face
greyer.
he was sick, you could see
that.
he'd been in jail for a long
time.
too long.
it changed him. took his
life away.
but he mopped, he waxed, he
buffed those floors
to a high shine.
he almost smiled
at them, squinting down the long
corridor that led
past the beauty shop,
to the pool.
then he was gone. no explanation.
no goodbyes.
it was time. no need to
overstay.
he got
a job mopping hallways in
an apartment building
in crystal city.
his uniform was grey.
his face
greyer.
he was sick, you could see
that.
he'd been in jail for a long
time.
too long.
it changed him. took his
life away.
but he mopped, he waxed, he
buffed those floors
to a high shine.
he almost smiled
at them, squinting down the long
corridor that led
past the beauty shop,
to the pool.
then he was gone. no explanation.
no goodbyes.
it was time. no need to
overstay.
she had muscle
she had muscle,
my mother. she used to flex her
arm
and we'd feel
the bulge in her bicep.
she was rosie the riveter,
mother Theresa
Florence nightingale
and at times jayne Mansfield
all wrapped up
into one.
seven kids will make confusion.
but she had
muscle.
from cleaning. hanging clothes
on the line,
dishes,
diapers,
cooking.
she was tough and weak.
she could cry at the drop of a hat.
or laugh
at the littlest
thing. she couldn't tell a
joke to save her life,
but she was funny.
she was full of herself, for better
or worse, from
the depths of despair
to the joys of seeing her children,
on occasions, get life right.
my mother. she used to flex her
arm
and we'd feel
the bulge in her bicep.
she was rosie the riveter,
mother Theresa
Florence nightingale
and at times jayne Mansfield
all wrapped up
into one.
seven kids will make confusion.
but she had
muscle.
from cleaning. hanging clothes
on the line,
dishes,
diapers,
cooking.
she was tough and weak.
she could cry at the drop of a hat.
or laugh
at the littlest
thing. she couldn't tell a
joke to save her life,
but she was funny.
she was full of herself, for better
or worse, from
the depths of despair
to the joys of seeing her children,
on occasions, get life right.
Sunday, September 8, 2019
i'd prefer the kiss
I make a run to the store.
a short hop. no list. just a gut
feeling
of needing something
sweet.
or salty, sort of like a kiss.
I stare at my phone.
no.
not that, I scroll. yes. this.
it's either, chocolate, or chips.
though I would prefer
the kiss.
a short hop. no list. just a gut
feeling
of needing something
sweet.
or salty, sort of like a kiss.
I stare at my phone.
no.
not that, I scroll. yes. this.
it's either, chocolate, or chips.
though I would prefer
the kiss.
kitchen dancing
she says let's go dancing.
sure I tell her.
i'm rusty, but ready.
she spins around like a top
in her little back dress
and heels.
I catch her before she falls.
oh my, she says. I have a case
of the vapors. I think I had one
too many glasses of vino.
maybe we need to practice some more,
I tell her, clearing out the kitchen
to give us more room.
I turn up the music, put the party
lights on,
and away we go.
sure I tell her.
i'm rusty, but ready.
she spins around like a top
in her little back dress
and heels.
I catch her before she falls.
oh my, she says. I have a case
of the vapors. I think I had one
too many glasses of vino.
maybe we need to practice some more,
I tell her, clearing out the kitchen
to give us more room.
I turn up the music, put the party
lights on,
and away we go.
Your Go to Person
i go to the doctor
for a routine check up,
blood pressure, heart, lungs,
that sort of thing,
say, ah. a peek into the ears,
the eyes,
the nose.
all is well,
but they want me to update my info.
age weight height address.
place of employment.
most of which hasn't changed.
but the relationship status has.
the form asks at the end for
the name of a significant other.
who is your go to person
that we need to contact in case
of an emergency?
who is the most important person
in your life right now, right
this second, who needs to know
if you get sick?
your son, yes. but who else?
I look down at the old form,
then black out the name that's on there,
the ink still wet,
freshly written just months ago,
then write in the new name.
maybe this one will stick, hopefully
before the ink dries
this time.
for a routine check up,
blood pressure, heart, lungs,
that sort of thing,
say, ah. a peek into the ears,
the eyes,
the nose.
all is well,
but they want me to update my info.
age weight height address.
place of employment.
most of which hasn't changed.
but the relationship status has.
the form asks at the end for
the name of a significant other.
who is your go to person
that we need to contact in case
of an emergency?
who is the most important person
in your life right now, right
this second, who needs to know
if you get sick?
your son, yes. but who else?
I look down at the old form,
then black out the name that's on there,
the ink still wet,
freshly written just months ago,
then write in the new name.
maybe this one will stick, hopefully
before the ink dries
this time.
quicksand
i didn't see it, not
at first
the soft sand before me,
a wide circle
of wet, thick sand.
quick sand.
i thought i could walk
across, but no.
i sank and sank.
boots, to knees to waist.
my life passed before me,
until she arrived and stood
there with her hands on
her hips and said.
my oh my.
need some help?
sure, i said. thanks, i owe
you. i appreciate you
saving my life.
coffee?
at first
the soft sand before me,
a wide circle
of wet, thick sand.
quick sand.
i thought i could walk
across, but no.
i sank and sank.
boots, to knees to waist.
my life passed before me,
until she arrived and stood
there with her hands on
her hips and said.
my oh my.
need some help?
sure, i said. thanks, i owe
you. i appreciate you
saving my life.
coffee?
three days
I miss the city.
nyc.
the park, the museums,
the shows.
a hotel room with a view
of the Hudson.
room service. the hustle.
the bustle.
soho, NoHo, tribeca, the village.
Washington square.
Chinatown.
the horns, the traffic. the people.
I miss the vibe. the energy,
the food. around every corner is a new
town.
it's time for a pre holiday visit.
when the leaves turn,
the air cools. let's walk until
we're bone tired.
I miss it but three days and out
is plenty for my fix.
let's roll.
nyc.
the park, the museums,
the shows.
a hotel room with a view
of the Hudson.
room service. the hustle.
the bustle.
soho, NoHo, tribeca, the village.
Washington square.
Chinatown.
the horns, the traffic. the people.
I miss the vibe. the energy,
the food. around every corner is a new
town.
it's time for a pre holiday visit.
when the leaves turn,
the air cools. let's walk until
we're bone tired.
I miss it but three days and out
is plenty for my fix.
let's roll.
mini golf night
it's a wild mini golf course
but we go for it
with our little clubs. our tiny
pencils and score cards.
it's dinosaur land with
spewing volcanoes and cave
men. all constructed out of
metal or wood, or paper mache.
there's a waterfall, a bridge,
a dip, a wall, a hill to climb.
skill has nothing to do with it.
it's mostly swing the club,
hit the ball and hope for the
best. so we do. but when I lose
to her, I shrug and say oh well.
then we get ice cream.
but we go for it
with our little clubs. our tiny
pencils and score cards.
it's dinosaur land with
spewing volcanoes and cave
men. all constructed out of
metal or wood, or paper mache.
there's a waterfall, a bridge,
a dip, a wall, a hill to climb.
skill has nothing to do with it.
it's mostly swing the club,
hit the ball and hope for the
best. so we do. but when I lose
to her, I shrug and say oh well.
then we get ice cream.
directions
lost, I pull over and roll
down
the window to ask directions
from an old man
sitting on a bench reading
the newspaper.
he tells me to go to hell
and to quit bothering him.
do I go left or right at
the light, I plead with him.
what do I care, he says.
quit bothering me.
I sigh, and shake my head.
do whatever you want to do,
he says, lowering the paper.
you'll find your way at some
point, we all do. it's okay
to be lost once in a while.
makes you feel good later,
when you aren't.
down
the window to ask directions
from an old man
sitting on a bench reading
the newspaper.
he tells me to go to hell
and to quit bothering him.
do I go left or right at
the light, I plead with him.
what do I care, he says.
quit bothering me.
I sigh, and shake my head.
do whatever you want to do,
he says, lowering the paper.
you'll find your way at some
point, we all do. it's okay
to be lost once in a while.
makes you feel good later,
when you aren't.
it looked good online
they deliver the new
chair
six months later.
I hate it.
it's a mottled blue
green, not the solid pale
sea foam
green I imagined
when I ordered it.
it looks like it's shedding.
not unlike how
a rabid dog
loses his fur.
dang, I say.
and get on the phone for
them to come
back and get it.
three weeks, they say.
I cover the chair up
with a white
sheet. it's that bone
ugly.
and it looked so sweet
online.
chair
six months later.
I hate it.
it's a mottled blue
green, not the solid pale
sea foam
green I imagined
when I ordered it.
it looks like it's shedding.
not unlike how
a rabid dog
loses his fur.
dang, I say.
and get on the phone for
them to come
back and get it.
three weeks, they say.
I cover the chair up
with a white
sheet. it's that bone
ugly.
and it looked so sweet
online.
power cleaning
I go crazy with the power washer.
the deck first, the patio,
the grill.
the bikes.
the windows. the side of
the house.
I do the shed, the fence.
the grass.
I blast everything in site.
a passing dog.
the neighbor, the children
playing
in the street, the mailman
with his leather
bag.
squirrels and birds.
a fox comes out the woods,
seething mad.
it's fun and noisy, making
the world clean again.
dirt free.
I save myself for last, this
will take a while.
the deck first, the patio,
the grill.
the bikes.
the windows. the side of
the house.
I do the shed, the fence.
the grass.
I blast everything in site.
a passing dog.
the neighbor, the children
playing
in the street, the mailman
with his leather
bag.
squirrels and birds.
a fox comes out the woods,
seething mad.
it's fun and noisy, making
the world clean again.
dirt free.
I save myself for last, this
will take a while.
a penny saved
it's all about money
for some.
the dollar, the gain. the loss.
the score
kept
daily. how did the market do?
the accounts checked.
the coupons cut.
there's a sale on somewhere.
down the block
gas is
a penny less.
these shoes can be fixed.
there's a discount,
a going out of business sale,
everything must
go.
last chance. the senior
sunset discount
at the grill.
the chicken, the fish,
unfrozen and ready to go,
expires at midnight.
for some.
the dollar, the gain. the loss.
the score
kept
daily. how did the market do?
the accounts checked.
the coupons cut.
there's a sale on somewhere.
down the block
gas is
a penny less.
these shoes can be fixed.
there's a discount,
a going out of business sale,
everything must
go.
last chance. the senior
sunset discount
at the grill.
the chicken, the fish,
unfrozen and ready to go,
expires at midnight.
Saturday, September 7, 2019
let me tell you about love
the old are dying,
they are dry bones with
muddled
minds. nursed now as if
infants between
the sheets.
hanging on
to a rattling cup of tea.
they remember though, and will
tell you stories
of long ago.
they will extend their life,
hold you
by the wrist
so that you cannot leave.
i was young once, they tell you.
convincing
themselves with a picture,
a postcard,
a ring upon their finger.
oh, the fun we had.
the things we did, the places
we went.
have you ever been in love,
they ask,
their milky eyes, neither
blue or grey, but somewhere
in between.
i was once, they say.
listen to me, listen. let me
tell you about love,
can you stay?
they are dry bones with
muddled
minds. nursed now as if
infants between
the sheets.
hanging on
to a rattling cup of tea.
they remember though, and will
tell you stories
of long ago.
they will extend their life,
hold you
by the wrist
so that you cannot leave.
i was young once, they tell you.
convincing
themselves with a picture,
a postcard,
a ring upon their finger.
oh, the fun we had.
the things we did, the places
we went.
have you ever been in love,
they ask,
their milky eyes, neither
blue or grey, but somewhere
in between.
i was once, they say.
listen to me, listen. let me
tell you about love,
can you stay?
to get through
she dips
her eyes into a book on
this saturday
morning.
an old book. edges frayed.
pages
ear marked,
underlined.
it still rings true.
but another dose is needed.
another read, another study
to
have it stick again,
to help the hours
that lie ahead,
to get through.
what now? what choices
are there?
trapped again? or not.
how we circle back again
and again
to what was lost.
her eyes into a book on
this saturday
morning.
an old book. edges frayed.
pages
ear marked,
underlined.
it still rings true.
but another dose is needed.
another read, another study
to
have it stick again,
to help the hours
that lie ahead,
to get through.
what now? what choices
are there?
trapped again? or not.
how we circle back again
and again
to what was lost.
a cool quiet
it's a long silence.
a cool
quiet.
a distance traveled and not
returned from.
the door creaks open.
it's never been
closed.
we wish we knew what there
is to be known.
so many pages left to turn,
to see
how this story unfolds.
a cool
quiet.
a distance traveled and not
returned from.
the door creaks open.
it's never been
closed.
we wish we knew what there
is to be known.
so many pages left to turn,
to see
how this story unfolds.
Friday, September 6, 2019
night walk
i'll wait until dark,
then walk.
when most lights are out,
or dimmed.
the blue
glare
of bedroom sets
flickering in the upper
windows.
no one will be around,
a late dog walker, perhaps.
a random
soul coming in late.
i'll find my stride along the way.
around the bend.
up the steep path, beyond the cars,
where the houses
end.
where the trees begin.
i'll go until I go no more.
i'll wait until dark,
then walk.
then walk.
when most lights are out,
or dimmed.
the blue
glare
of bedroom sets
flickering in the upper
windows.
no one will be around,
a late dog walker, perhaps.
a random
soul coming in late.
i'll find my stride along the way.
around the bend.
up the steep path, beyond the cars,
where the houses
end.
where the trees begin.
i'll go until I go no more.
i'll wait until dark,
then walk.
everyone says so
i'm fine.
all is well. you greet
each friendly
face
with a smile, a healthy dose
of
good cheer.
fine, you say.
and you, how are you these
days?
good. good is said again.
the world is fine, I suppose.
everyone
says so.
all is well. you greet
each friendly
face
with a smile, a healthy dose
of
good cheer.
fine, you say.
and you, how are you these
days?
good. good is said again.
the world is fine, I suppose.
everyone
says so.
flowers at the grocer
they greet you as you enter
the heavy glass doors,
a gallery of color
and scent. lively little
faces
on green stems.
you push
your cart forward,
then stop.
so many flowers to choose
from. roses, pink,
white,
crimson.
gold sunflowers.
daffodils
and tall orchids, singular
and elegant.
who are these flowers for?
whose hands
will embrace each bundle
and say thank you
before
placing them in vases,
trimmed to fit,
the water poured.
where are these lovers?
the wives. mother's perhaps
who wait for your arrival,
loved ones
who will kiss you
as you enter the door?
I move on, so that others
can have their way.
the heavy glass doors,
a gallery of color
and scent. lively little
faces
on green stems.
you push
your cart forward,
then stop.
so many flowers to choose
from. roses, pink,
white,
crimson.
gold sunflowers.
daffodils
and tall orchids, singular
and elegant.
who are these flowers for?
whose hands
will embrace each bundle
and say thank you
before
placing them in vases,
trimmed to fit,
the water poured.
where are these lovers?
the wives. mother's perhaps
who wait for your arrival,
loved ones
who will kiss you
as you enter the door?
I move on, so that others
can have their way.
chat with God
i drag myself into church
for a long talk
with the almighty.
St. Bernadette's is right next
door, talk about guilt,
so I walk over.
what the hell is up?
i ask out loud, although I
figure he knows what i'm thinking
so either way, he hears me.
language, the deep growl of
a voice says, language.
sorry.
just wondering, i say,
sitting on the hard pew.
do you mind kneeling, the voice
says. a little respect.
i kneel. fold my hands together
squint towards the altar.
just wondering, what's up?
i need some direction here,
okay?
a clue. a push, a nudge.
come on you've got to give me
something.
i'm dying here. i'm freaking
moses wandering the desert
for 40 years.
you'll be okay, the voice says.
stop worrying, stop ruminating,
stop thinking about things
you have no control over. relax.
easy for you to say, i tell Him.
what? a little snarky this morning,
aren't we.
no, no. just weary, that's all.
i mean you're so quiet and mysterious
all the time. i'm tired and lost.
hey. all of you are. it's what you
people do.
you people?
yes. you people are exhausting sometimes.
let me think about your
situation and i'll get back to you,
okay? i'm glad you stopped by though.
meanwhile. stay out of trouble, and drop
]a few bucks in the basket on your
way out.
that's it? that's all you got?
i hear a roar of thunder, the pew shakes
and trembles under my feet. candles
flicker.
okay, okay. easy does it.
i'll wait.
patience, my dear boy, patience.
how about you do nothing for a change.
stop reading all those self help books.
get busy with life, or get busy dying.
hey, you stole that from Shawshank.
pardon? who do you think put that line
in the writer's head? it's all mine.
I've got the whole world in my hands.
just like the song goes.
what about the devil and all this evil
going on?
okay. we're getting in pretty deep here.
but don't worry about him.
his day will come. once again, patience.
there is a season for all things.
now off you go, mass is coming up.
don't you have hoops this morning at eleven?
for a long talk
with the almighty.
St. Bernadette's is right next
door, talk about guilt,
so I walk over.
what the hell is up?
i ask out loud, although I
figure he knows what i'm thinking
so either way, he hears me.
language, the deep growl of
a voice says, language.
sorry.
just wondering, i say,
sitting on the hard pew.
do you mind kneeling, the voice
says. a little respect.
i kneel. fold my hands together
squint towards the altar.
just wondering, what's up?
i need some direction here,
okay?
a clue. a push, a nudge.
come on you've got to give me
something.
i'm dying here. i'm freaking
moses wandering the desert
for 40 years.
you'll be okay, the voice says.
stop worrying, stop ruminating,
stop thinking about things
you have no control over. relax.
easy for you to say, i tell Him.
what? a little snarky this morning,
aren't we.
no, no. just weary, that's all.
i mean you're so quiet and mysterious
all the time. i'm tired and lost.
hey. all of you are. it's what you
people do.
you people?
yes. you people are exhausting sometimes.
let me think about your
situation and i'll get back to you,
okay? i'm glad you stopped by though.
meanwhile. stay out of trouble, and drop
]a few bucks in the basket on your
way out.
that's it? that's all you got?
i hear a roar of thunder, the pew shakes
and trembles under my feet. candles
flicker.
okay, okay. easy does it.
i'll wait.
patience, my dear boy, patience.
how about you do nothing for a change.
stop reading all those self help books.
get busy with life, or get busy dying.
hey, you stole that from Shawshank.
pardon? who do you think put that line
in the writer's head? it's all mine.
I've got the whole world in my hands.
just like the song goes.
what about the devil and all this evil
going on?
okay. we're getting in pretty deep here.
but don't worry about him.
his day will come. once again, patience.
there is a season for all things.
now off you go, mass is coming up.
don't you have hoops this morning at eleven?
not for me
the ship
is sinking, slowly.
I take a bucket and bail
out the water.
I start the pump.
where is the shore?
I don't see it.
another storm is brewing,
the wind is up
on this unkind sea.
sailing
just isn't for me.
is sinking, slowly.
I take a bucket and bail
out the water.
I start the pump.
where is the shore?
I don't see it.
another storm is brewing,
the wind is up
on this unkind sea.
sailing
just isn't for me.
Thursday, September 5, 2019
my birthday suit
the giant bush in front of my kitchen
window
has finally died.
a long hot summer did it in.
the condo board came and chopped
it down to the roots.
the bird feeder is on the porch,
dry and empty.
it was a grand bush, whatever it was.
full of bees.
blossoming,
bright and green, yellow,
taller than me.
half the width of the house.
it gave shadow, gave protection
for fifteen years.
kept the neighbors from looking
in and seeing me
making coffee
in my birthday suit.
window
has finally died.
a long hot summer did it in.
the condo board came and chopped
it down to the roots.
the bird feeder is on the porch,
dry and empty.
it was a grand bush, whatever it was.
full of bees.
blossoming,
bright and green, yellow,
taller than me.
half the width of the house.
it gave shadow, gave protection
for fifteen years.
kept the neighbors from looking
in and seeing me
making coffee
in my birthday suit.
open house
I unlock all the doors.
I throw open the windows.
I plant a sign in the yard,
open house.
come one, come all.
visitors welcome.
stay the night, stay a week.
but be courteous and
respectful.
bring a heart, bring lips.
bring arms.
bring the truth.
no trouble. no drama. leave
your past
at the door.
just be happy and loving.
no arguing allowed.
hope that's not too much to ask.
I throw open the windows.
I plant a sign in the yard,
open house.
come one, come all.
visitors welcome.
stay the night, stay a week.
but be courteous and
respectful.
bring a heart, bring lips.
bring arms.
bring the truth.
no trouble. no drama. leave
your past
at the door.
just be happy and loving.
no arguing allowed.
hope that's not too much to ask.
ashes to the river
you hear through the grape vine
about the death
of your sister's ex husband.
a true outlaw with
a rap sheet a mile long.
they throw his ashes into the river.
down by the old
lighthouse
where he used to stand on the banks
and smoke
and drink,
his line cast out as far
as it could go.
everything i knew about him was
second hand news. half lies,
half truth.
the deeds done. the life of crime.
repentance. but
there was good in him too.
a circle he never quite
escaped from
until now.
about the death
of your sister's ex husband.
a true outlaw with
a rap sheet a mile long.
they throw his ashes into the river.
down by the old
lighthouse
where he used to stand on the banks
and smoke
and drink,
his line cast out as far
as it could go.
everything i knew about him was
second hand news. half lies,
half truth.
the deeds done. the life of crime.
repentance. but
there was good in him too.
a circle he never quite
escaped from
until now.
all the way down
the fridge is empty.
i need
sustenance. food. supplies.
cookies are good, but they only
take you
so far
before you start shaking.
a fat steak would be nice.
fish,
a baked potato.
some greens, of course.
and then a cold glass of water.
clear and truthful.
soft against my lips.
a love i can drink all the way
down.
i need
sustenance. food. supplies.
cookies are good, but they only
take you
so far
before you start shaking.
a fat steak would be nice.
fish,
a baked potato.
some greens, of course.
and then a cold glass of water.
clear and truthful.
soft against my lips.
a love i can drink all the way
down.
breathe
i cancel
the flight.
unpack my bags. i'm
staying home.
i'll go out back and watch
the leaves
drop.
i'd rather be here than
almost anywhere.
home, my home. not
someone else's.
not a hotel room,
a bus stop.
a room along the way.
a place i can say nothing,
do nothing.
a place to
read,
or not read.
to listen to music.
to write. to be quiet
against the storm outside
in other's lives.
a place to breathe.
yes. breathe.
the flight.
unpack my bags. i'm
staying home.
i'll go out back and watch
the leaves
drop.
i'd rather be here than
almost anywhere.
home, my home. not
someone else's.
not a hotel room,
a bus stop.
a room along the way.
a place i can say nothing,
do nothing.
a place to
read,
or not read.
to listen to music.
to write. to be quiet
against the storm outside
in other's lives.
a place to breathe.
yes. breathe.
reboot
I start from scratch
all over again.
erase the board.
shuffle the deck.
the baggage and drama
is everywhere.
you can't escape it.
everyone wants you to be
who you aren't
and never will be.
it's not enough.
it never is. nothing is
ever perfect.
nothing is quite they way
they want
things to be.
reboot. reset. sigh.
and go
once more. take the high
road,
the low road is too crowded.
you've been here before,
so many times.
too many to count.
saddle up, giddy up, here
we go again.
it's not dark yet,
but it's getting there.
all over again.
erase the board.
shuffle the deck.
the baggage and drama
is everywhere.
you can't escape it.
everyone wants you to be
who you aren't
and never will be.
it's not enough.
it never is. nothing is
ever perfect.
nothing is quite they way
they want
things to be.
reboot. reset. sigh.
and go
once more. take the high
road,
the low road is too crowded.
you've been here before,
so many times.
too many to count.
saddle up, giddy up, here
we go again.
it's not dark yet,
but it's getting there.
Wednesday, September 4, 2019
stroll on the boardwalk
after walking on the boardwalk
for a few hours I go back
to my hotel room
and slip out of my clothes.
I wring the French fry oil
out of my shirt, shake
the pizza odor from my pants.
with tweezers I remove
the cotton candy out of my eyes
and the candy apple
shards from my teeth.
I have a fried chicken drumstick
in my front pocket.
and a breast in the back
pocket.
honey dipped, still crispy.
my shoes are sticky with salt
water taffy, gum and spilled
cherry soda,
and I have an onion ring
around both wrists.
i'm carrying a soggy white
bucket of shrimp
and a pint of cocktail sauce.
seagulls are harassing me.
my skin pulsates from the sun,
red as a lobster as I limp home.
my knee is swollen after being
run into by a kid on a bike.
not much has changed in
fifty years on or under
the boardwalk. I even have
a picture of me dressed as
a cowboy in one of those
old time photo booths.
I kept the hat.
old age has arrived, just
shoot me. go ahead. it's okay.
for a few hours I go back
to my hotel room
and slip out of my clothes.
I wring the French fry oil
out of my shirt, shake
the pizza odor from my pants.
with tweezers I remove
the cotton candy out of my eyes
and the candy apple
shards from my teeth.
I have a fried chicken drumstick
in my front pocket.
and a breast in the back
pocket.
honey dipped, still crispy.
my shoes are sticky with salt
water taffy, gum and spilled
cherry soda,
and I have an onion ring
around both wrists.
i'm carrying a soggy white
bucket of shrimp
and a pint of cocktail sauce.
seagulls are harassing me.
my skin pulsates from the sun,
red as a lobster as I limp home.
my knee is swollen after being
run into by a kid on a bike.
not much has changed in
fifty years on or under
the boardwalk. I even have
a picture of me dressed as
a cowboy in one of those
old time photo booths.
I kept the hat.
old age has arrived, just
shoot me. go ahead. it's okay.
smells funny
it smells like
perfume
in the house. as if someone
as been prancing
around
with a bottle of white
linen,
or,
or another kind of perfume,
but that is the only
one I can come up with right
now.
it's everywhere.
in the sheets,
the bedroom, the bath,
the kitchen. it's in the air.
the closets too,
or maybe I've lost my mind.
or my olfactory
machinations are completely
out of whack.
perfume
in the house. as if someone
as been prancing
around
with a bottle of white
linen,
or,
or another kind of perfume,
but that is the only
one I can come up with right
now.
it's everywhere.
in the sheets,
the bedroom, the bath,
the kitchen. it's in the air.
the closets too,
or maybe I've lost my mind.
or my olfactory
machinations are completely
out of whack.
do you paint limestone
do you paint limestone
the garbled
message says
in a language i'm
vaguely familiar with.
I need limestone painted
tomorrow.
the dimensions are
twelve by ten, by six
with thirteen steps
and a black iron
rail.
we need it done soon.
like yesterday.
can you come.
do you paint limestone.
please say you do.
our lives, our money, our
future depends upon it.
save us.
the garbled
message says
in a language i'm
vaguely familiar with.
I need limestone painted
tomorrow.
the dimensions are
twelve by ten, by six
with thirteen steps
and a black iron
rail.
we need it done soon.
like yesterday.
can you come.
do you paint limestone.
please say you do.
our lives, our money, our
future depends upon it.
save us.
have you seen this person
someone loses a watch,
a ring
a dog, or cat,
a glove, a wallet,
a favorite hat,
a loved one,
so they post a picture
on a pole
with a phone number attached,
then wait.
they've been waiting
for a long
time for what's
been lost,
to come back. sometimes
it never does.
a ring
a dog, or cat,
a glove, a wallet,
a favorite hat,
a loved one,
so they post a picture
on a pole
with a phone number attached,
then wait.
they've been waiting
for a long
time for what's
been lost,
to come back. sometimes
it never does.
5 a.m.
I wake up early
with things on my mind,
five a.m.
an ungodly hour.
meant for early risers,
paper boys,
milk men,
the old, or very young
in a crib.
people brag about how early
they get up.
good for them.
I like to sleep in.
sleep long and late
until someone shakes me awake.
5 is much too soon to join
the world
and be part of it again.
with things on my mind,
five a.m.
an ungodly hour.
meant for early risers,
paper boys,
milk men,
the old, or very young
in a crib.
people brag about how early
they get up.
good for them.
I like to sleep in.
sleep long and late
until someone shakes me awake.
5 is much too soon to join
the world
and be part of it again.
tomorrow is such a long time
the voice
sounds strangely familiar.
soft and lilting.
the message
on the machine spills out
the words.
halting, but clear.
I listen to them again
and again.
I write down the message.
I look at my
watch, the calendar.
I look out the window to
the turning leaves.
tomorrow is never
quite here.
sounds strangely familiar.
soft and lilting.
the message
on the machine spills out
the words.
halting, but clear.
I listen to them again
and again.
I write down the message.
I look at my
watch, the calendar.
I look out the window to
the turning leaves.
tomorrow is never
quite here.
different cookies
a cat cannot be a dog.
nor vice
versa.
the bird is just that a bird.
wings
and feathers.
that sort of thing.
never once, confused
with a frog.
and me and you.
we can't be one, we're always
different.
until the end
of time, we are who we
are,
not better, not worse, just
the way we were baked,
and came out of the cookie
jar.
nor vice
versa.
the bird is just that a bird.
wings
and feathers.
that sort of thing.
never once, confused
with a frog.
and me and you.
we can't be one, we're always
different.
until the end
of time, we are who we
are,
not better, not worse, just
the way we were baked,
and came out of the cookie
jar.
home sweet home
I come home to a clean house.
plates of cookies.
a pot roast in the oven.
she greets me at the door with love.
the dog barks, his tail
a fan
against the blue sky.
the boy leaps into my arms,
the daughter too.
I am missed. I am beloved.
all is well with the world.
home
is where I need to be.
home sweet home. at last.
plates of cookies.
a pot roast in the oven.
she greets me at the door with love.
the dog barks, his tail
a fan
against the blue sky.
the boy leaps into my arms,
the daughter too.
I am missed. I am beloved.
all is well with the world.
home
is where I need to be.
home sweet home. at last.
Tuesday, September 3, 2019
mail on the floor
i sort through the mail.
nothing of interest.
a few bills.
no postcards.
no letters written long hand.
no notes, no holiday greetings.
no invitations to speak of.
just coupons, and the phone bill.
inquiries though from,
my dentist.
my doctor.
my lawyer.
my plumber.
my maid.
and someone who wants me to have
new windows.
last chance.
nothing of interest.
a few bills.
no postcards.
no letters written long hand.
no notes, no holiday greetings.
no invitations to speak of.
just coupons, and the phone bill.
inquiries though from,
my dentist.
my doctor.
my lawyer.
my plumber.
my maid.
and someone who wants me to have
new windows.
last chance.
who are you today
if someone lies to you.
betrays you,
deceives you on a daily basis,
it's not love.
if someone uses affection
as a game.
words, feelings, if someone
shows no regret or remorse
for all the pain they cause,
it's not love.
if they hide their phone,
their books,
their lives.
the status of their health.
if they continue to secretly
see old
boyfriends and husband
behind your back.
it's not love.
it's not love at all.
it's sick and you wonder how
you ever ended up with
such a dark
unspiritual person.
betrays you,
deceives you on a daily basis,
it's not love.
if someone uses affection
as a game.
words, feelings, if someone
shows no regret or remorse
for all the pain they cause,
it's not love.
if they hide their phone,
their books,
their lives.
the status of their health.
if they continue to secretly
see old
boyfriends and husband
behind your back.
it's not love.
it's not love at all.
it's sick and you wonder how
you ever ended up with
such a dark
unspiritual person.
arrival
there's a handful of leaves
in the yard.
I let them be.
let them have their day
against
the ground.
it's still summer.
still warm and muggy.
no need to rake.
there is more to come.
more to fall.
in short time the woods
will empty itself
once more, then
soon the snow will arrive,
a cold whiteness,
to cover
us all.
in the yard.
I let them be.
let them have their day
against
the ground.
it's still summer.
still warm and muggy.
no need to rake.
there is more to come.
more to fall.
in short time the woods
will empty itself
once more, then
soon the snow will arrive,
a cold whiteness,
to cover
us all.
feet in the sand
the father
follows the young girl down
to the shore.
she's maybe three,
rushing
rushing to the sound
of waves.
her small feet denting the soft
sand.
her eyes
blinking at the wonder
of it all.
the blue of water,
the shine of a yellow sun.
he picks her up and swings
her about.
she'll never be happier than
this you think.
how quickly it all fades,
how fast
they grow
and will be gone.
follows the young girl down
to the shore.
she's maybe three,
rushing
rushing to the sound
of waves.
her small feet denting the soft
sand.
her eyes
blinking at the wonder
of it all.
the blue of water,
the shine of a yellow sun.
he picks her up and swings
her about.
she'll never be happier than
this you think.
how quickly it all fades,
how fast
they grow
and will be gone.
all you can eat
before nine a.m.
they're buying beer while
eating ice cream.
fried chicken for lunch,
pizza
on the beach,
sub sandwiches in between.
no one starves
here at the beach.
every sign blinks come on in.
all you can eat.
you name it.
crabs.
steaks.
baked potatoes.
flounder galore.
captain john's, captain jack's,
captain Ahab.
Mr. donut,
Mrs. Crepes,
Uncle Joe's food emporium.
unbuckle that belt,
put your wide pants on,
your big shirt,
your big dress and hunker
down
to something buttery,
something fried,
something sweet.
it's vacation time, time
to eat, eat eat.
they're buying beer while
eating ice cream.
fried chicken for lunch,
pizza
on the beach,
sub sandwiches in between.
no one starves
here at the beach.
every sign blinks come on in.
all you can eat.
you name it.
crabs.
steaks.
baked potatoes.
flounder galore.
captain john's, captain jack's,
captain Ahab.
Mr. donut,
Mrs. Crepes,
Uncle Joe's food emporium.
unbuckle that belt,
put your wide pants on,
your big shirt,
your big dress and hunker
down
to something buttery,
something fried,
something sweet.
it's vacation time, time
to eat, eat eat.
the white gulls
I see the bridge
from the window, the long array
of cars
heading home.
another summer come and gone.
the stores
are closing.
the food stands, the life
guards are packing
it in.
the kids are piled
into the backs of cars.
dogs,
and chairs.
t-shirts, five for a dollar.
salt water taffy
and shells.
I see the bridge
from the window, the cars
heading west,
heading home.
tomorrow the beach will be empty.
no out there but the white
gulls, and us.
from the window, the long array
of cars
heading home.
another summer come and gone.
the stores
are closing.
the food stands, the life
guards are packing
it in.
the kids are piled
into the backs of cars.
dogs,
and chairs.
t-shirts, five for a dollar.
salt water taffy
and shells.
I see the bridge
from the window, the cars
heading west,
heading home.
tomorrow the beach will be empty.
no out there but the white
gulls, and us.
bringing it home
I've got sand
in my ears, my nose,
my shoes.
my hair, such as it is.
there's sand
in my mouth.
the ocean too.
the salt of the sea
I've taken home with me.
I brought back the wind.
the sights.
the memory of water
against
the shore.
the waves. the days.
the nights.
in my ears, my nose,
my shoes.
my hair, such as it is.
there's sand
in my mouth.
the ocean too.
the salt of the sea
I've taken home with me.
I brought back the wind.
the sights.
the memory of water
against
the shore.
the waves. the days.
the nights.
Thursday, August 29, 2019
a slight pause
I check the time.
the clock has stopped. is that
an omen?
or just a dead battery?
I replace the battery, everything
continues.
the second hand
sweeps forward. time moves
on.
all is well, again.
the clock has stopped. is that
an omen?
or just a dead battery?
I replace the battery, everything
continues.
the second hand
sweeps forward. time moves
on.
all is well, again.
washing dishes
when you wash the dishes.
wash the dishes.
each wipe of the hand.
each scrape,
feel the weight of things.
of forks and knives.
the bowls.
feel
the warmth or cold of
the water as it rushes down.
have no other thoughts,
but what you are doing.
listen to the water.
to the sound it makes
against your hands.
observe
the movement of things.
the clinking
of glasses, of plates.
dry gently and set things
aside.
lose yourself in this,
and in doing so, you will
begin your journey
home.
wash the dishes.
each wipe of the hand.
each scrape,
feel the weight of things.
of forks and knives.
the bowls.
feel
the warmth or cold of
the water as it rushes down.
have no other thoughts,
but what you are doing.
listen to the water.
to the sound it makes
against your hands.
observe
the movement of things.
the clinking
of glasses, of plates.
dry gently and set things
aside.
lose yourself in this,
and in doing so, you will
begin your journey
home.
an act of love
it was an act of war
the man says,
so we had on choice to but
to go and kill
and destroy, as best we could.
they crossed a line
that we could no longer ignore.
but what happens if there
is an act of love,
an act of compassion, an
act of tenderness, do we act
we an equally strong response?
the man says,
so we had on choice to but
to go and kill
and destroy, as best we could.
they crossed a line
that we could no longer ignore.
but what happens if there
is an act of love,
an act of compassion, an
act of tenderness, do we act
we an equally strong response?
Tuesday, August 27, 2019
life is good
he gets paid
on a Wednesday,
so he disappears into a fog
of drinking,
carousing with his pals.
plotting some nefarious
scheme.
like boys in a tree house.
he doesn't show up for work.
he's not at the spot where I pick
him up.
sitting there with a cigarette
and his thermos
of god knows what inside.
his painter pants on,
his shirt inside out.
he's flush.
he's got dough now. his wallet bulges
with disability money.
food stamps.
hand outs. fat on three squares
a day
at the shelter.
life is good.
getting the big C
was strangely
the best thing to happen to him.
on a Wednesday,
so he disappears into a fog
of drinking,
carousing with his pals.
plotting some nefarious
scheme.
like boys in a tree house.
he doesn't show up for work.
he's not at the spot where I pick
him up.
sitting there with a cigarette
and his thermos
of god knows what inside.
his painter pants on,
his shirt inside out.
he's flush.
he's got dough now. his wallet bulges
with disability money.
food stamps.
hand outs. fat on three squares
a day
at the shelter.
life is good.
getting the big C
was strangely
the best thing to happen to him.
it's getting there
i binge on Dylan
while i work through the day.
the house is empty. the music
echoes
down the flat
walls, the bare wood floors,
through the
barren hallways.
i sing along.
is there a song of his i don't
know the words to?
don't think twice it's alright.
one too many mornings.
tangled up in blue.
i started listening to him
when i was 14.
every word rang true.
still does.
throw your ticket out the window.
things have changed.
it's not dark yet, but it's getting
there.
for him, for me, for you.
while i work through the day.
the house is empty. the music
echoes
down the flat
walls, the bare wood floors,
through the
barren hallways.
i sing along.
is there a song of his i don't
know the words to?
don't think twice it's alright.
one too many mornings.
tangled up in blue.
i started listening to him
when i was 14.
every word rang true.
still does.
throw your ticket out the window.
things have changed.
it's not dark yet, but it's getting
there.
for him, for me, for you.
not everything is said
some people you can talk to all night.
the hours
go by like minutes.
the sun sets, the sun rises
and yet
not everything has been said
that wants to be
said.
tomorrow night, she says.
to be continued.
I look at her and smile.
tomorrow, I reply.
alright.
the hours
go by like minutes.
the sun sets, the sun rises
and yet
not everything has been said
that wants to be
said.
tomorrow night, she says.
to be continued.
I look at her and smile.
tomorrow, I reply.
alright.
welcome the night
it's a wink
of an eye, this life.
every old person I've met
says
the same thing.
enjoy your life.
it'll be gone before you know
it.
don't waste a single
second
on things you can't control.
things you can't
change or make right. go
forward
move on.
work, be good, make love,
tomorrows may
never come.
don't look back, today is
all you have.
savor the day, welcome
with open arms the night.
of an eye, this life.
every old person I've met
says
the same thing.
enjoy your life.
it'll be gone before you know
it.
don't waste a single
second
on things you can't control.
things you can't
change or make right. go
forward
move on.
work, be good, make love,
tomorrows may
never come.
don't look back, today is
all you have.
savor the day, welcome
with open arms the night.
for the good times
i nearly fall asleep
listening to al green
on the stereo.
I've got the vinyl spinning
on the turn
table
like back in the old days.
i like the scratches,
the click of the needle.
the vibration of its life
going around.
i grew up on this music.
grew old with it.
it still resonates.
it still
hits home in happy times,
or bad.
each song
i find a line to own.
when it's over, i wake up
and put the needle back
to the first cut.
i play it again,
for the good times.
listening to al green
on the stereo.
I've got the vinyl spinning
on the turn
table
like back in the old days.
i like the scratches,
the click of the needle.
the vibration of its life
going around.
i grew up on this music.
grew old with it.
it still resonates.
it still
hits home in happy times,
or bad.
each song
i find a line to own.
when it's over, i wake up
and put the needle back
to the first cut.
i play it again,
for the good times.
Nine O'clock
it's been a month
milagro texts me near midnight.
stive. we will come tomorrow.
I get out of bed
and begin cleaning the house.
hiding money.
hiding check books.
shuffling papers.
what time, I ask her.
nine she says. thank you.
nine means 3 o'clock
in her world.
which is fine. she's in and out
with her three
helpers in no time,
but everything is perfect.
I put the money on the counter,
the key under the mat.
I can hardly wait to get home
to a clean house.
a month? where does the time
go?
milagro texts me near midnight.
stive. we will come tomorrow.
I get out of bed
and begin cleaning the house.
hiding money.
hiding check books.
shuffling papers.
what time, I ask her.
nine she says. thank you.
nine means 3 o'clock
in her world.
which is fine. she's in and out
with her three
helpers in no time,
but everything is perfect.
I put the money on the counter,
the key under the mat.
I can hardly wait to get home
to a clean house.
a month? where does the time
go?
an old number
I reach into my pocket
and find
a number written on an old
strip
of paper.
curled and folded.
it looks like it's been
through the wash
but the ink is still there.
the numbers still
visible.
there's no name.
I take out my phone and begin
to dial.
but stop.
it's not my turn.
and find
a number written on an old
strip
of paper.
curled and folded.
it looks like it's been
through the wash
but the ink is still there.
the numbers still
visible.
there's no name.
I take out my phone and begin
to dial.
but stop.
it's not my turn.
Monday, August 26, 2019
i believed her
a dozen years ago
I met a woman who owned
a gun.
it was pink.
it look like a giant
piece of gum
shaped into
a gun.
she said it was loaded.
I believed her.
not because she had an
alligator purse.
or snake skin boots, but
because she had
a look in her eye.
she had the look of someone
who knew about trouble,
and what to do if
it came her way. she told
me that no one
robs her mother's
liquor store when she's
around.
I believed that too.
I met a woman who owned
a gun.
it was pink.
it look like a giant
piece of gum
shaped into
a gun.
she said it was loaded.
I believed her.
not because she had an
alligator purse.
or snake skin boots, but
because she had
a look in her eye.
she had the look of someone
who knew about trouble,
and what to do if
it came her way. she told
me that no one
robs her mother's
liquor store when she's
around.
I believed that too.
not made for this
there's a wreck on 95 nearly
every morning.
fenders crumpled, hoods
thrown
into the air, wind shields
cracked.
cell phones. cigarettes.
relationships
gone south.
kids. a crazed deer sprinting
towards
the other side.
coffee. the weather.
distractions.
we're not made for this.
it's a wonder there's not
more.
every morning.
fenders crumpled, hoods
thrown
into the air, wind shields
cracked.
cell phones. cigarettes.
relationships
gone south.
kids. a crazed deer sprinting
towards
the other side.
coffee. the weather.
distractions.
we're not made for this.
it's a wonder there's not
more.
limitations
some birds
fly south for the winter.
some stay put.
willing to tough it out.
I like those birds.
but a bird has to know
it's limitations.
like us.
only so much cold we
can take.
fly south for the winter.
some stay put.
willing to tough it out.
I like those birds.
but a bird has to know
it's limitations.
like us.
only so much cold we
can take.
tomorrow
she folds
herself to sleep.
pulling tight the blanket.
the world
is still.
there is dreaming to be done.
tomorrow, too fast.
it comes.
herself to sleep.
pulling tight the blanket.
the world
is still.
there is dreaming to be done.
tomorrow, too fast.
it comes.
hug the shore
I find a new path
to the waterfall. along the back
side
of the woods.
I can hear
the thunder of the water
cascading hard
on the carved
rocks.
a century, more.
it keeps coming. it's white
in the air.
blue black
below.
don't slip, don't go in,
or go under.
stay safe, hug the shore.
to the waterfall. along the back
side
of the woods.
I can hear
the thunder of the water
cascading hard
on the carved
rocks.
a century, more.
it keeps coming. it's white
in the air.
blue black
below.
don't slip, don't go in,
or go under.
stay safe, hug the shore.
two week holiday
the traffic
is slow. less crowded. the world
is at the beach,
the shore,
the mountains, or just
staying home.
two weeks vacation.
the divider of a year
of work,
making little rocks
out of big stones.
you see them in their cars.
beach chairs
on the roofs.
bikes tied to the back
bumpers.
the inside piled high
with towels and coolers,
children
with faces pressed to the window.
school looming before
them.
the look of no hope
on their sticky faces.
a dog
with his tongue out
lapping up the wind.
he doesn't care.
he's in a world all his own.
like me.
is slow. less crowded. the world
is at the beach,
the shore,
the mountains, or just
staying home.
two weeks vacation.
the divider of a year
of work,
making little rocks
out of big stones.
you see them in their cars.
beach chairs
on the roofs.
bikes tied to the back
bumpers.
the inside piled high
with towels and coolers,
children
with faces pressed to the window.
school looming before
them.
the look of no hope
on their sticky faces.
a dog
with his tongue out
lapping up the wind.
he doesn't care.
he's in a world all his own.
like me.
Sunday, August 25, 2019
the promise
my mother said
with vigor. don't ever put
me in
one of those homes.
a place where they have
to feed me,
change me,
bathe me.
promise me none of you will
ever do that to me.
promise me.
we promised.
she spent the last three years
of her life
curled
in a ball.
sipping on a straw, being
spoon
fed baby food from
a jar.
she had bed sores.
her legs no longer moved,
stuck
from being unused.
she could no longer speak,
but would blink
her brown eyes.
tears welling up.
they brushed out her hair,
took her glasses.
her teeth.
her cheeks hollowed out.
her skin
smoothed like porcelain,
white as white can be.
she'd hold your hand though,
squeeze as best she
could your fingers,
as she listened to you
whisper words
into her ears, and read.
with vigor. don't ever put
me in
one of those homes.
a place where they have
to feed me,
change me,
bathe me.
promise me none of you will
ever do that to me.
promise me.
we promised.
she spent the last three years
of her life
curled
in a ball.
sipping on a straw, being
spoon
fed baby food from
a jar.
she had bed sores.
her legs no longer moved,
stuck
from being unused.
she could no longer speak,
but would blink
her brown eyes.
tears welling up.
they brushed out her hair,
took her glasses.
her teeth.
her cheeks hollowed out.
her skin
smoothed like porcelain,
white as white can be.
she'd hold your hand though,
squeeze as best she
could your fingers,
as she listened to you
whisper words
into her ears, and read.
post card from fla.
come to florida, she says.
we have oranges.
we have lemons filling the trees.
peaches too.
we have the ocean and warm
weather, you can sun yourself
out on the long stretches
of white sand.
you can swim in our pool.
but what about the lizards
and crocodiles,
I ask her.
oh, yeah, right. almost
forgot about them.
bring a sharp stick, if
you come.
we have oranges.
we have lemons filling the trees.
peaches too.
we have the ocean and warm
weather, you can sun yourself
out on the long stretches
of white sand.
you can swim in our pool.
but what about the lizards
and crocodiles,
I ask her.
oh, yeah, right. almost
forgot about them.
bring a sharp stick, if
you come.
the printer
i'm out of ink.
paper too.
the printer screams to a halt.
stop.
no more.
quit hitting the print
button.
we give up, it says.
how much more?
paper too.
the printer screams to a halt.
stop.
no more.
quit hitting the print
button.
we give up, it says.
how much more?
before the snow
you want to bottle
these days.
hold them in a glass jar
for safe keeping.
the weather. the sky.
the mood.
you want to see a string of
days
like this.
before
the frost, before the ice.
before
snow falls.
before the first log
in the fireplace is lit.
these days.
hold them in a glass jar
for safe keeping.
the weather. the sky.
the mood.
you want to see a string of
days
like this.
before
the frost, before the ice.
before
snow falls.
before the first log
in the fireplace is lit.
Saturday, August 24, 2019
last request
we talk about our last meal
if we were on death row. what would it be.
she says chocolate and bacon.
before they pull the switch I want
a plate full of crispy bacon.
which makes me laugh. no, I tell her.
a meal, like a sit down dinner.
she says, chocolate fudge and bacon.
and wine.
if we were on death row. what would it be.
she says chocolate and bacon.
before they pull the switch I want
a plate full of crispy bacon.
which makes me laugh. no, I tell her.
a meal, like a sit down dinner.
she says, chocolate fudge and bacon.
and wine.
family outing
we take a family trip
to the mountains and by family
trip
I mean me and my dog Oscar.
he likes to sit in my lap while
I drive.
head out the window, barking
at everyone.
we love the mountains.
the cool air.
the trees, the blue sky.
it's a family day, just
me
and him.
we walk along the path, greeting
others
with a bark
and a tip of the hat.
he loves it there. so many
trees. so many trees.
to the mountains and by family
trip
I mean me and my dog Oscar.
he likes to sit in my lap while
I drive.
head out the window, barking
at everyone.
we love the mountains.
the cool air.
the trees, the blue sky.
it's a family day, just
me
and him.
we walk along the path, greeting
others
with a bark
and a tip of the hat.
he loves it there. so many
trees. so many trees.
perusing
I peruse the book store.
the amazon book store.
but end up looking at pants
and shoes.
I get distracted easily.
did you do something to your hair?
looks different.
shorter, perhaps.
I go back to the books.
a new poetry book would be nice.
or a beach read.
fiction, not too hard to digest.
something I can pick
up where I left off and not
think too hard
about where I was.
not old poetry though.
not the hard puzzling stuff
of the academia world.
the new Yorker poetry stinks.
who do you have to sleep with
to get a poem
in there?
what does any of them mean.
words. scrambled,
clever to the point of no one
gets it.
I go back to pants and shoes.
sweaters perhaps.
winter is soon to come.
the amazon book store.
but end up looking at pants
and shoes.
I get distracted easily.
did you do something to your hair?
looks different.
shorter, perhaps.
I go back to the books.
a new poetry book would be nice.
or a beach read.
fiction, not too hard to digest.
something I can pick
up where I left off and not
think too hard
about where I was.
not old poetry though.
not the hard puzzling stuff
of the academia world.
the new Yorker poetry stinks.
who do you have to sleep with
to get a poem
in there?
what does any of them mean.
words. scrambled,
clever to the point of no one
gets it.
I go back to pants and shoes.
sweaters perhaps.
winter is soon to come.
Friday, August 23, 2019
is it tuesday?
is it really Friday?
or am I dreaming and it's Tuesday again.
with much of the work
week ahead of me.
pinch me,
wake me up if i'm asleep.
pull my hair,
bite my neck.
rattle my cage,
tell me
it's the weekend, please,
I beg of you.
or am I dreaming and it's Tuesday again.
with much of the work
week ahead of me.
pinch me,
wake me up if i'm asleep.
pull my hair,
bite my neck.
rattle my cage,
tell me
it's the weekend, please,
I beg of you.
Thursday, August 22, 2019
when we get there
is it vacation time yet?
where is the beach.
the sand.
the chair facing the sea.
an ice
cold drink.
where's my book, my
hat
and sunglasses.
my long awaited week?
wake me up when we get
there.
where is the beach.
the sand.
the chair facing the sea.
an ice
cold drink.
where's my book, my
hat
and sunglasses.
my long awaited week?
wake me up when we get
there.
let cramp
I can't help but
curse
as the back of my one leg
freezes up
in a paralyzing cramp.
what the hell.
it's hard to breathe, or
move an inch.
it's a strange thing,
making you wonder if
this is it.
the end of the road.
somehow I grab an old
bottle of water
off the nightstand
and start swigging
like a sailor on leave
thinking it's beer.
finally, I crawl out
of bed, and move towards
the stairs,
step by step going down,
to
a banana in the kitchen.
curse
as the back of my one leg
freezes up
in a paralyzing cramp.
what the hell.
it's hard to breathe, or
move an inch.
it's a strange thing,
making you wonder if
this is it.
the end of the road.
somehow I grab an old
bottle of water
off the nightstand
and start swigging
like a sailor on leave
thinking it's beer.
finally, I crawl out
of bed, and move towards
the stairs,
step by step going down,
to
a banana in the kitchen.
the ice cream melting
I see her with her handful
of coupons,
in line ahead of me.
one for every item in her full
cart.
she has her check book out.
this could take a while.
she has a list in her hand
that she looks at, then runs
off, down another aisle
for something she forgot.
I look at my small basket.
at the ice cream melting.
bananas going to rot.
of coupons,
in line ahead of me.
one for every item in her full
cart.
she has her check book out.
this could take a while.
she has a list in her hand
that she looks at, then runs
off, down another aisle
for something she forgot.
I look at my small basket.
at the ice cream melting.
bananas going to rot.
the massage
all the day, the girl
massages
the arms and legs of strangers.
kneading
backs, using her tight fists,
her elbows.
getting deep into the tissue.
down the spine,
the hand, fingers too.
she listens
as her clients grunt, or moan,
or sigh
with pleasure.
right there, they say. there.
that's good.
there is no judgement here.
all shapes, all sizes lie
there in time.
it's work.
it's good work.
the pain in all of us needs
be out.
massages
the arms and legs of strangers.
kneading
backs, using her tight fists,
her elbows.
getting deep into the tissue.
down the spine,
the hand, fingers too.
she listens
as her clients grunt, or moan,
or sigh
with pleasure.
right there, they say. there.
that's good.
there is no judgement here.
all shapes, all sizes lie
there in time.
it's work.
it's good work.
the pain in all of us needs
be out.
one more meal
at times I can smell
what
my mother is cooking in the kitchen.
the onions and carrots,
the meat,
I can see her at the stove.
over the boiling pot
making stew,
lost in her own thoughts.
her seven children
bone thin
in the street, oblivious
to the news.
I see her slicing celery
on the board,
chopping potatoes.
before dark she'll call
us from the screen door.
tired, but happy
with one more meal behind
her.
what
my mother is cooking in the kitchen.
the onions and carrots,
the meat,
I can see her at the stove.
over the boiling pot
making stew,
lost in her own thoughts.
her seven children
bone thin
in the street, oblivious
to the news.
I see her slicing celery
on the board,
chopping potatoes.
before dark she'll call
us from the screen door.
tired, but happy
with one more meal behind
her.
Wednesday, August 21, 2019
something new
strange how
the light is this time of day
from
the back window.
something is amiss. something
is up.
i can feel it.
a change is about to occur.
good or bad,
i have no clue. but my spider
sense is tingling.
something is in the air.
something long
overdue. i feel the vibration
of change.
of something new.
the light is this time of day
from
the back window.
something is amiss. something
is up.
i can feel it.
a change is about to occur.
good or bad,
i have no clue. but my spider
sense is tingling.
something is in the air.
something long
overdue. i feel the vibration
of change.
of something new.
the neighborhood cult
there was a religious cult
in
the old neighborhood back in the 70's.
they wanted
money mostly, using pretty
girls
to reel in the wide eyed boys.
cash only.
there was music and prayer.
lots of candles.
singing in a big circle,
holding hands.
mumbo jumbo using the Bible,
their version,
people talking in tongues.
prophesizing. putting their
hands on the ill, attempting
to heal. it was a scary time.
The Way I think they were
called.
and then they up and
disappeared without a trace.
no forwarding address. no
refunds, I assume they went
to hell.
in
the old neighborhood back in the 70's.
they wanted
money mostly, using pretty
girls
to reel in the wide eyed boys.
cash only.
there was music and prayer.
lots of candles.
singing in a big circle,
holding hands.
mumbo jumbo using the Bible,
their version,
people talking in tongues.
prophesizing. putting their
hands on the ill, attempting
to heal. it was a scary time.
The Way I think they were
called.
and then they up and
disappeared without a trace.
no forwarding address. no
refunds, I assume they went
to hell.
leaving the door open
I leave the door open.
no need to lock
it anymore. the windows
are unlatched.
there's no one I want
to keep
out,
or i'm afraid of.
let the light in,
the cats
and dogs,
the neighbors too.
friends and foe.
let them gather around
the table
and drop their swords.
no alarms, no barbed wire.
no security camera,
no guard
at the gate.
i'm dreaming of course.
it's way way
too late
for such a peaceful
world.
no need to lock
it anymore. the windows
are unlatched.
there's no one I want
to keep
out,
or i'm afraid of.
let the light in,
the cats
and dogs,
the neighbors too.
friends and foe.
let them gather around
the table
and drop their swords.
no alarms, no barbed wire.
no security camera,
no guard
at the gate.
i'm dreaming of course.
it's way way
too late
for such a peaceful
world.
Tuesday, August 20, 2019
hardly time to sin anymore
the faces
tell you everything.
cold masks hung grey on
the timber of bones.
the long lines of traffic.
white knuckles
gripping the wheel.
the kids at home.
the wife unhappy about
something you don't quite
understand.
the bills piling up.
the factory awaits.
the mine,
the shovel, the pick and axe.
forty years of panning
for gold.
for a two car garage.
a cruise.
a new suit.
a yard without weeds.
to put the kids through school.
it's not longer nine to five.
it's 24 7
with the phone.
what's the answer these days.
the church?
hardly time to sin with
so much going on.
tell you everything.
cold masks hung grey on
the timber of bones.
the long lines of traffic.
white knuckles
gripping the wheel.
the kids at home.
the wife unhappy about
something you don't quite
understand.
the bills piling up.
the factory awaits.
the mine,
the shovel, the pick and axe.
forty years of panning
for gold.
for a two car garage.
a cruise.
a new suit.
a yard without weeds.
to put the kids through school.
it's not longer nine to five.
it's 24 7
with the phone.
what's the answer these days.
the church?
hardly time to sin with
so much going on.
cheers
i ask him, what triggers him
to start drinking.
to get drunk and pass out.
he says good fortune does.
bad luck too.
having money. having no money.
being in love.
being out of love.
a rainy day. a sunny day.
holidays.
funerals.
birthdays.
all that lies in between.
cheers.
to start drinking.
to get drunk and pass out.
he says good fortune does.
bad luck too.
having money. having no money.
being in love.
being out of love.
a rainy day. a sunny day.
holidays.
funerals.
birthdays.
all that lies in between.
cheers.
we do the best we can
I saw a woman
steal a can of cat food once
in the grocery store.
she put her fingers to her lips
and shook her head when she
saw me watching her.
I said, ok.
they stopped her as she left
the store.
she began to cry.
but the cops came.
they took her coat off.
there were grapes, and packages
of crackers.
soup.
tuna fish in cans.
she must have been eighty at
least.
she didn't seem to mind
all the attention.
they sat her in back of
the police car.
she looked at me as I walked
by
and shrugged
through the window,
smiling, not unhappy, not
worried.
we do the best we can.
steal a can of cat food once
in the grocery store.
she put her fingers to her lips
and shook her head when she
saw me watching her.
I said, ok.
they stopped her as she left
the store.
she began to cry.
but the cops came.
they took her coat off.
there were grapes, and packages
of crackers.
soup.
tuna fish in cans.
she must have been eighty at
least.
she didn't seem to mind
all the attention.
they sat her in back of
the police car.
she looked at me as I walked
by
and shrugged
through the window,
smiling, not unhappy, not
worried.
we do the best we can.
the 25 dollar short story
I wrote a short story years ago
on an electric typewriter,
the kind with the ribbon.
the cartridge that you had
to replace time and time again.
the keys would get stuck
and the ink would smudge.
but it served me well.
I won twenty five dollars
at the local community
college for the story.
it was about a marriage.
a man and a woman falling
apart at the seams.
it's snowing, but the man
leaves, tries to leave
in the snow covered car,
but the snow is too heavy,
the car won't start.
his wife comes looking for him
out in the sleet and wind,
the heavy snow.
she finds him in the car,
almost asleep, shivering.
she opens the door
and gets in with him.
she tells him she's sorry
for the years of
arguing, for the pain she's
caused him, he tells her
the same. they talk.
they look different in
the shadowy light of darkness.
they talk about when they
first met, how they used
to drive this car to the
eastern shore, stopping
along the way for fruit
and vegetables at stands
along route 50. she moves
closer to him, puts her
hands around his waist.
they say nothing for a long
time as the snow continues
to fall, covering the windows.
flakes as large as leaves.
the streets are silent.
the lamp lights sends a
glow upon them as they
huddle against the cold.
somehow in the cramped seats,
they make love.
they start again. that's
how my story goes.
on an electric typewriter,
the kind with the ribbon.
the cartridge that you had
to replace time and time again.
the keys would get stuck
and the ink would smudge.
but it served me well.
I won twenty five dollars
at the local community
college for the story.
it was about a marriage.
a man and a woman falling
apart at the seams.
it's snowing, but the man
leaves, tries to leave
in the snow covered car,
but the snow is too heavy,
the car won't start.
his wife comes looking for him
out in the sleet and wind,
the heavy snow.
she finds him in the car,
almost asleep, shivering.
she opens the door
and gets in with him.
she tells him she's sorry
for the years of
arguing, for the pain she's
caused him, he tells her
the same. they talk.
they look different in
the shadowy light of darkness.
they talk about when they
first met, how they used
to drive this car to the
eastern shore, stopping
along the way for fruit
and vegetables at stands
along route 50. she moves
closer to him, puts her
hands around his waist.
they say nothing for a long
time as the snow continues
to fall, covering the windows.
flakes as large as leaves.
the streets are silent.
the lamp lights sends a
glow upon them as they
huddle against the cold.
somehow in the cramped seats,
they make love.
they start again. that's
how my story goes.
i remember everything
i remember everything
to a fault,
words said,
the time of day,
the night,
what month or hour
when who said what.
i remember what she
wore,
what i wore.
what we ate and drank.
the look on her face.
where a chair was placed.
the movie we watched,
the warm
or lack of an embrace.
i remember everything.
an elbow,
a knee, lips.
the snow out the window,
the evergreen tree covered
in white lace.
the good, the blessings,
the trouble.
everything.
to a fault,
words said,
the time of day,
the night,
what month or hour
when who said what.
i remember what she
wore,
what i wore.
what we ate and drank.
the look on her face.
where a chair was placed.
the movie we watched,
the warm
or lack of an embrace.
i remember everything.
an elbow,
a knee, lips.
the snow out the window,
the evergreen tree covered
in white lace.
the good, the blessings,
the trouble.
everything.
honeymoon in mexico
we took a honeymoon
in
mexico.
had our pictures taken
as we
posed on burros
draped
in striped burlap.
we each had a sombrero
on.
tilted in the sun,
we smiled for the camera.
a tourist
trap along the way.
we were young then
and in love.
you can see it in our
eyes.
the joy we had
for one another.
how simple it seemed,
the road ahead
was green and alive.
how good was that life?
in
mexico.
had our pictures taken
as we
posed on burros
draped
in striped burlap.
we each had a sombrero
on.
tilted in the sun,
we smiled for the camera.
a tourist
trap along the way.
we were young then
and in love.
you can see it in our
eyes.
the joy we had
for one another.
how simple it seemed,
the road ahead
was green and alive.
how good was that life?
walking backwards
I used to see her walking
before
the sun went down.
her long strides,
her ear phones
on.
her arms at her side.
the setting light
in her eyes.
her hair tied back
behind her.
around, she'd go.
past the church, the trail
beside the woods,
the stream.
walking walking, alone.
up the hill, out of sight.
she was chasing something,
not the future, not
the present,
but the past, unable to
catch it once more.
unable to make it
come back.
before
the sun went down.
her long strides,
her ear phones
on.
her arms at her side.
the setting light
in her eyes.
her hair tied back
behind her.
around, she'd go.
past the church, the trail
beside the woods,
the stream.
walking walking, alone.
up the hill, out of sight.
she was chasing something,
not the future, not
the present,
but the past, unable to
catch it once more.
unable to make it
come back.
finger in the wound
there are miracles.
trust me
on this one, I've seen
three
at least in my life time.
a disbeliever may call
it coincidence, or
synchronicity,
or chance, but I prefer
to think along the lines
of faith,
an answered prayer.
a specific heart felt
request, on bended
knees with tears.
an angel perhaps
intervenes in your life
to alter
the direction
you are heading in.
a feeling of when to turn
left,
or turn right.
whatever you want to call it,
whatever your faith,
an answer does appear.
it's hard to ignore,
or dismiss when one happens
in your own
life.
but, sadly, and it's
the human condition,
we have to keep putting
our finger into
the wound
to believe once more.
trust me
on this one, I've seen
three
at least in my life time.
a disbeliever may call
it coincidence, or
synchronicity,
or chance, but I prefer
to think along the lines
of faith,
an answered prayer.
a specific heart felt
request, on bended
knees with tears.
an angel perhaps
intervenes in your life
to alter
the direction
you are heading in.
a feeling of when to turn
left,
or turn right.
whatever you want to call it,
whatever your faith,
an answer does appear.
it's hard to ignore,
or dismiss when one happens
in your own
life.
but, sadly, and it's
the human condition,
we have to keep putting
our finger into
the wound
to believe once more.
we found something
doctors rarely have good news.
they never tell you
with a smile, looks like you're
going to live another fifty
years or more.
no worries. just keep doing what
you do.
instead they say. sorry to tell
you this,
but we found something. we
need to run tests. it's a lump,
a mass, a strange dark spot
on a lung. let's get you in here
to find out what's going on.
they tell you not to worry, but
it's too late for that,
your life has suddenly turned blue.
they never tell you
with a smile, looks like you're
going to live another fifty
years or more.
no worries. just keep doing what
you do.
instead they say. sorry to tell
you this,
but we found something. we
need to run tests. it's a lump,
a mass, a strange dark spot
on a lung. let's get you in here
to find out what's going on.
they tell you not to worry, but
it's too late for that,
your life has suddenly turned blue.
small store
it's a small
store on the edge of
a small town.
three steps up.
wooden,
rotted, a broken
hinge
on a torn screen door.
it's seen better days.
the pickle jar
still on the counter.
lotto tickets
for sale.
pork sausages on a spinning
metal grille.
mom is gone.
pop too.
the daughter runs it now,
four kids
and a husband who took
a wrong turn
and just kept going.
she's pleasant enough though.
sees that you're
just passing through.
tells you
where to turn to get
to the interstate.
gas, a motel
if you need to spend
the night.
y'all take care she
says.
as you carry out your
water, your
ring dings, your bag
of chips
and a map to get back
to civilization.
store on the edge of
a small town.
three steps up.
wooden,
rotted, a broken
hinge
on a torn screen door.
it's seen better days.
the pickle jar
still on the counter.
lotto tickets
for sale.
pork sausages on a spinning
metal grille.
mom is gone.
pop too.
the daughter runs it now,
four kids
and a husband who took
a wrong turn
and just kept going.
she's pleasant enough though.
sees that you're
just passing through.
tells you
where to turn to get
to the interstate.
gas, a motel
if you need to spend
the night.
y'all take care she
says.
as you carry out your
water, your
ring dings, your bag
of chips
and a map to get back
to civilization.
Monday, August 19, 2019
still here
i sit and stare
out the window.
where did the day go.
the years.
how could I be this old
so quickly.
where is the summer
of my
youth. my long hair,
my skin and bones
physique.
where is the girl
next door,
the meal on the table.
my mother
with a pitcher of cold
ice tea,
waiting for me
to come to the table,
to pour.
where are the Saturday
nights.
the stars,
the buddies, the girl friends.
the movies,
the park where we would
drink.
where is the long
months between school
ending
and starting again.
our blue jeans,
our white t shirts,
our grins. our bats
and gloves, baseballs.
the leather football
ready to spin through
the blue sky.
where is the red car,
the Chevrolet, washed
and waxed ready for Saturday
night.
where's the after shave,
the brylcreme,
the black comb in my
back pocket.
where is the night is young,
and so are we.
the radio on. songs that
we knew all the words too.
where is our innocence.
our optimism and joy
about what's to come.
out the window.
where did the day go.
the years.
how could I be this old
so quickly.
where is the summer
of my
youth. my long hair,
my skin and bones
physique.
where is the girl
next door,
the meal on the table.
my mother
with a pitcher of cold
ice tea,
waiting for me
to come to the table,
to pour.
where are the Saturday
nights.
the stars,
the buddies, the girl friends.
the movies,
the park where we would
drink.
where is the long
months between school
ending
and starting again.
our blue jeans,
our white t shirts,
our grins. our bats
and gloves, baseballs.
the leather football
ready to spin through
the blue sky.
where is the red car,
the Chevrolet, washed
and waxed ready for Saturday
night.
where's the after shave,
the brylcreme,
the black comb in my
back pocket.
where is the night is young,
and so are we.
the radio on. songs that
we knew all the words too.
where is our innocence.
our optimism and joy
about what's to come.
dog days
it's too hot,
but we go at it.
arms
pulling, pushing. our
legs climbing.
we work
in the heat, the air
still without a breeze.
we are wet,
soaked to the bone
with sweat.
covered in paint,
the debris of sanding,
scraping.
we cough and bend
to the weight
our bodies.
we look at the clock,
we suck down
water.
it's an oven of a day.
but we
make it through.
relieved by a setting
sun,
a night approaching
and the home
that awaits.
but we go at it.
arms
pulling, pushing. our
legs climbing.
we work
in the heat, the air
still without a breeze.
we are wet,
soaked to the bone
with sweat.
covered in paint,
the debris of sanding,
scraping.
we cough and bend
to the weight
our bodies.
we look at the clock,
we suck down
water.
it's an oven of a day.
but we
make it through.
relieved by a setting
sun,
a night approaching
and the home
that awaits.
do as we say
our eyes
are on our parents at a young
age.
we mimic them.
pick up clues on how
to live,
or not live
the life they choose.
does anger work,
compassion,
does a quiet word
with love
work, or is it the belt
and punishment
that we carry with
us to our own
children. their eyes
wide open.
watching, listening
learning.
carrying on as we do.
are on our parents at a young
age.
we mimic them.
pick up clues on how
to live,
or not live
the life they choose.
does anger work,
compassion,
does a quiet word
with love
work, or is it the belt
and punishment
that we carry with
us to our own
children. their eyes
wide open.
watching, listening
learning.
carrying on as we do.
hole in the cup
some cups
have a hole in them.
no matter how much
you pour
into them they never
get filled.
some souls
are like that too,
they
can't hold,
or absorb any truth.
it's useless to give
them words
of wisdom.
no experience is learned from.
out it goes.
through the hole.
starting all over again
and again.
have a hole in them.
no matter how much
you pour
into them they never
get filled.
some souls
are like that too,
they
can't hold,
or absorb any truth.
it's useless to give
them words
of wisdom.
no experience is learned from.
out it goes.
through the hole.
starting all over again
and again.
the one star movie
it's a bad movie,
I've never found anything
the manson family funny,
but it got great reviews,
and the big stars are in it,
so we go.
what is there to lose,
but time,
and money.
the chairs are big and comfy.
reserved seating.
a wine bar.
hot food.
almost like at home but
at home we can change the channel
if the movie
stinks.
here, we're locked in, too
crowded to get up
and go.
so we see it through
and when it's over we shake
our heads and say,
what the hell was that about.
I've never found anything
the manson family funny,
but it got great reviews,
and the big stars are in it,
so we go.
what is there to lose,
but time,
and money.
the chairs are big and comfy.
reserved seating.
a wine bar.
hot food.
almost like at home but
at home we can change the channel
if the movie
stinks.
here, we're locked in, too
crowded to get up
and go.
so we see it through
and when it's over we shake
our heads and say,
what the hell was that about.
Sunday, August 18, 2019
post card from LA
the son
calls from La La land,
on the left coast.
we talk movies.
we talk scripts and writing.
we talk
about relationships.
ghosts.
it's a good talk.
he's putting gas in his car.
i'm cutting a sandwich
in half in the kitchen,
phone cradled under my chin.
we talk about
girlfriends.
death, love, sin.
we laugh too. don't get me
wrong.
it's rarely a dark talk with him.
he has a life.
i'm glad for that. a real life
without me
or his mother pulling strings,
feeding him.
he's on his own, but still
not far from being under my wing.
it's a good talk.
calls from La La land,
on the left coast.
we talk movies.
we talk scripts and writing.
we talk
about relationships.
ghosts.
it's a good talk.
he's putting gas in his car.
i'm cutting a sandwich
in half in the kitchen,
phone cradled under my chin.
we talk about
girlfriends.
death, love, sin.
we laugh too. don't get me
wrong.
it's rarely a dark talk with him.
he has a life.
i'm glad for that. a real life
without me
or his mother pulling strings,
feeding him.
he's on his own, but still
not far from being under my wing.
it's a good talk.
a long time ago
when i was younger, much younger.
like a year ago.
i thought about life differently.
i thought
the world should go according
to how i wanted it to go.
i wanted people to behave like me.
but not anymore, which was a bad idea
from the jump. i'm not a role model
by any stretch.
but i was younger than, very young.
unwise, burdened with things i
had no business being burdened by.
i wanted people to change.
to be good,
to be better.
to be who i imagined them to be.
i saw the halo on almost everyone
i'd meet.
not anymore.
it's too hard thinking like that.
worrying about such things.
but i was younger then,
what the hell did i know way
back then,
a year ago.
like a year ago.
i thought about life differently.
i thought
the world should go according
to how i wanted it to go.
i wanted people to behave like me.
but not anymore, which was a bad idea
from the jump. i'm not a role model
by any stretch.
but i was younger than, very young.
unwise, burdened with things i
had no business being burdened by.
i wanted people to change.
to be good,
to be better.
to be who i imagined them to be.
i saw the halo on almost everyone
i'd meet.
not anymore.
it's too hard thinking like that.
worrying about such things.
but i was younger then,
what the hell did i know way
back then,
a year ago.
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