the laughing girl

i hear the sweet sound
of the baby crying next door
in the yard.

the father holds the child
in the air,
bouncing her up and down
gently.

soon, the girl stops crying
and laughs
with her new
pink face, her sterling
blue eyes.

life in its kindest moments,
breaks your heart
with hope, makes you wise.

dope money

the summary
of savings appears in the mail.

stocks, etc.
equity in the house.
personal savings.

change in the jar on the fridge.
pocket cash.

I remember having four hundred
dollars in the bank once,
and feeling pretty damn proud
of that.

I had enough to get a haircut,
buy and new shirt
and take my girl out.

now I get nervous as the market
jumps
and stalls, falls backwards.

seven figures seems hardly enough
anymore.

will there be enough at the end
of the road, to keep me
in clothes.

oatmeal and diapers,
a nurse to hold my hand,
strangers caring for me,
people
that I don't even know.

will there be
enough syringes full of quieting
dope

so that I forget I've grown
old?

a place for everything

it's been years
but I remember the house in falling
water
west virginia.
frank Lloyd wright's.
how clean and efficient
the lines were.
the brick, the rail, the stone.
built into
what God laid down before
hand.
a house inserted
into land
and water.
solid within the trees.
no extras, nothing superfluous,
no bling,
or opulence.
just the quiet and patient
vision from
his mind.
everything in its place,
a place for everything.

the water fall

the waterfall
is white against the blue sky,
the concrete
slab
curved to give it a poetic
nudge
in nature.
how it over flows with a rush,
the rumble
of its push towards
a larger cause,
the river into the bay.
I could stand here for a long
time
and not avert my gaze.
no words,
no mantra, no meditative
saying,
just water moving
over the fall.

the party lights

I see the police
out in the parking lot,
their party lights are on.

there have been break ins
into the cars.

tires are gone.
electronic gizmos, wallets
and phones.

it's a feeding frenzy for the boys
from the hood,
or local
kids with nothing to do.

good suburban kids with moms
and dads,

dogs and homework to do.

but this is more fun
breaking into cars, stealing
what isn't
nailed down.

out you go praying for the best,
that this
time they missed you,
leaving your car alone
before they left.

taking the boat out

I think about taking my yacht out today.

my big blue boat, maybe sail over to the bay,
with my bikini babe
on board.

i'll drift around the docks and wave.
slowly sail down
ego alley in Nap town,

making sure i'm seen. yelling out
to all my sailor buddies, saying hey.

i'll blow the horn at other boats.
wave my captain's
hat. my girl will stand up and shake
her booty,
making them all wish
they had something like
that.

it's a glorious day of sun and blue
skies,
I think i'll take my boat out today,
buy a case of brew,
what else is there to do
when the wife is out of town?
Hooray!

a failure to communicate

what we have here is a failure
to communicate,
ain't that right luke?

I feel that sentiment nearly every
day.

with strangers, with loved ones.

people don't know how to talk
or to convey their feelings, they

have no clue how to get their point
across.

it might reveal a true self.

an intelligent thoughtful conversation
is aberrant to them.
instead they burrow down inside
and go silent.

go dead.

which in a way is communication,
the point well made,

although unsaid.

jumping for joy

I hear a commotion out the door,

people are in the street with horns,
banging on pots and pans.

jumping for joy. doing a jig.
blowing whistles and clapping their hands.

I lean out and ask what's going on.

didn't you hear they yell and scream,
what? I say, what?

it's Friday. it's Friday. it's Friday.

the week is over.

I go out to join them in my slippers
and robe.

banging on my tambourine.

after i was gone

I remember
when my son was barely a month old
and staring into
his eyes
with wonder.
this person did not exist
a short while ago.
I shed tears,
not of joy
or sadness, but a strange
feeling
of amazement at the miracle
of life, I held
him,
wondering what lay ahead
for this boy.
what troubles, what fun,
what love
was in his future,
what journey would he be
on, most
of which would take place
after I was gone.

what once was

and in the end,
she says nothing and I say
nothing in
return.

we used to talk until three a.m.

and now there is quiet.
cold, deathly silence.

how does the wind stop,
how does the sun
no longer bring light.

how does the ocean dry up?

how does
what once was love, what
once seemed
right,

get lost.

each step

each walk at night brings
me back
in a circle to home.

I find solace in the dark,
the new chill
of autumn
as the trees unfold

I walk by the church and stop
to sit
for a moment
near the statue of Mary.
the candles lit.
a light upon her blue
white robe.

then move on.
I prayed here once or twice
in joy, before the fear
took hold.

around to the small chapel.
locked tight.
closed.

towards home, up the path near
the road.
through the lane of trees
and homes with most lights off
at this late
hour.

I know the turns by heart
after fifteen years of this same
walk.

taking it all in stride.
what comes, what goes.
the friendships and loves
remembered in each step,
in each breath I blow.

he's back in the game

jake tells me about his
new girlfriend,
she's got her own room now,
nine large a month
over in south Alexandria.
she's got a toaster oven
he says, her own dishes,
and shares a bath,
a kitchen too.
she works over at the chicken
coop
diner
serving breakfast and lunch.
two shifts.

after asking me about my love
life, and getting
absolutely no response,
he then
he tells me more than i need
to know about his, he
tells me that him and his
new friend
haven't gotten busy yet,
which makes
me cringe. i do notice
though that he's lathered
himself up with old spice cologne
and has slicked his hair
back with a dab
of brylcreme.
he's back in the game,
such as it is.

keeping the faith

my brother found
God when a door to door evangelist
knocked on his dorm room door
with the good news.
he was then suddenly wearing bow ties
and plaid shirts,
strumming a guitar
and singing gospel songs.
he was pat boone.
totally disregarding the catholic
church he was raised in.
this was something new,
he was born again, which somehow made
him comb his hair differently
and wear funny looking shoes.
he carried a thick bible
with him wherever he went,
and a parcel of religious tracts.
he was not shy with his faith,
if you ran into him,
you'd know about Jesus in
two shakes of a lamb's tail.
on the boardwalk, on the beach,
in a store, the fire burned within
him.
on sunday morning, he'd awaken
all of his heathen brothers and
sisters, pull back the sheets,
turn on the lights and announce,
let's go, get up, we're
all going to church. reluctantly
we went, some of us hungover
from the night before,
living on two hours sleep
with bite marks on our necks.
in time we were all on the same
page, and he let up on
the sermons, but those early years
were rough getting hit over
the head daily with a wooden
cross and doused with holy
water to the point of
being water boarded. he meant
well. still does.

don't slam the screen door

don't slam the screen door,
she'd say
as we ran from front to back,
dogs behind us.
wash your hands, is your homework
done.
eat your peas.
don't talk with your mouth full.
say your prayers,
brush your teeth.
don't pull your sister's hair,
don't tease.
take a bath and use soap
this time. get behind your ears.
pull up your pants, roll
up your sleeves.
be a good boy, don't get into
trouble
at school today,
please. please. i have enough
on my plate.
let me see
your report card.
come home before dark,
don't wander far.
i can see her now at the door,
her black glasses
on her nose,
her apron on.
the sweat of the kitchen
on her brow.
let's go, she'd yell to the seven
of us,
dinner's ready.
it's on the table.
time to come in. not tomorrow,
but now.

lunar memories

i remember nights when the moon
was irresistible.
you had to stop what you were doing,
pull over,
or linger on a sidewalk
and gaze up at this celestial wonder.
how silver, how cut, how golden
at times it could be.
large or small,
a mere eighth or whole,
it hung in the sky
as if a promise that there is so much
more going on in this life,
that we don't see.
we just have to have faith,
move forward,
and believe.

no room

I have no room
for another bag, another box,
or dish,
or fork, or spoon.
the drawers are full of clothes.
the closet floor
is littered with shoes,
some new,
most old.
I have no room on the walls
to hang
another picture,
another clock, another mirror.
the house is full.
i'm done with adornment.
it's just within
that needs filling, needs love,
true love
again.

close shaves

I appear out of nowhere.

the mirror
agrees.

the water in the basin holding
my image
says so too.

life is full of close shaves,
I think
as I dab a heavy cloud of cream
upon
my face.

with the ball of my fist I circle
out the steam
so that I can see myself.

I take the razor and go down
one side then the other, under,
and below,
over, until smooth.

I splash water upon me
and feel for the grit of whiskers,
but there are none
to be found.

a close shave indeed.

they win

I miss the eighth inning,
the ninth and tenth too.

I figure they're going to lose.
they've hardly had a hit
the whole game.

how could they possibly win.

but they do
which I find out in the morning
when
I check the news.

i'm amused. from now on
I might have to
watch
the games half way through,
then snooze.

don't fix what isn't broken.

fast asleep

I lean into sleep,
onto
the cold side of a pillow.

I pull tight the sheet,
the blanket.

the room is dark, the way I
like it.

I breathe and let go of others,
their pain,
their anger, their troubles.

there is nothing I can do about that.
I can barely take
care of myself.

I fall fast into dream.
a sweet dream.

one that makes me smile when
I awake.

it will stay with me all day,
and forget
what came before it.

i probably won't go

another high school reunion creeps
up.

the emails begin.
the onslaught on face book.

i never liked high school.
i wasn't going to die for my school
my team.

i knew it was all temporary, like
the crib was, the sandbox.

i liked math. i like art.
English.

but the rest of it was nothing.
teenagers
running wild.
smoking dope.
drunk. fights.
just like the world to come,
but here you had
no way out until the bell rang.

you just kept your head down.

there are a few though, still alive
that loved it.
they gather like birds on a wire
every ten years
to remember it all.

to romance those three years.

who died, who moved, who got married
or divorced. who's in prison,
who used to be a man, but changed
sides. who got rich, who lost it all.

they'll have it at pj skiddos, or
some other dive
along the avenue,
with beer and chicken tenders.
it'll be over by ten because everyone
is old.

i probably wont go.

the penny jar

i see that the penny jar
is nearly
full.
nickels dimes and quarters have
found their
way in.
it overflows.
it's time to take it to the bank
and slosh it into
the machine.
it makes the teller, Kamil,
grin.
a white turban sits on his head.
he's brown
and old, but friendly
and knows my name.
we talk about the weather,
just that and
the count
when the receipt is printed out
and i take the cash
instead.
very good, he says. very good.

halloween woman

she puts out her ghosts
and goblins,
her pumpkins carved,
her grave stones and spider webs.
she's a cup of crazy
but fun in a way.
she's all over Halloween with
her witches costume,
her broom, her boiling
cauldron of brew.
her shiny apples and bowl
of candy. she can hardly
go a minute without
letting out a scary shriek,
or just a friendly, boo.

no forwarding address

i'll go somewhere,
at some point, call it a day.
hang it up.
sell
the house
and all that's in it.
cash in the chips
I've saved and
disappear, i'll
ride off into the sunset.
go west,
go north.
go anywhere but here
where the roads are worn
with my wheels.
i'm almost there, tired
of so much.
so many mistakes I've made.
i'll go somewhere, most likely
alone.
not a bag, not a memory,
not a whisper or
word said,
no forwarding address,
no notice, just adios amigos,
i'm gone.

when the deal goes down

I wonder lately about
my mother's
old husband, at ninety
and lashed
to his surroundings with
cancer.
crawling
from door to bed,
to the bath,
to a phone.
I wish him not a painful
death,
or misery, despite the decades
of abuse
he heaped upon
his wife, my mother for over
forty years.
never once calling her by her
first name, marie,
never
showing an ounce of tenderness,
or kindness.
he watched her
go mute with stroke
after stroke, letting her
sit there until she came to.
he laughed about it.
how quickly he got out the shovel
when she was in a comma
in the hospital.
the grave bought.
the deal in his mind had
gone down. she was never
allowed in a grocery store.
cheap to the core.
every pill and penny accounted
for.
he washed his car in the rain,
broke lightbulbs
if left on with a broom handle.
turned off the hot water
if you were in the shower too long.
never to a movie, or on a vacation,
never
far from his reach, his leash.
his wicked words of hate.
and now,
as he lives out his final days
alone, I wonder
if he thinks about her.
if he thinks about all the children
that never
stop to say hello.
does he think about the life
he led? is there remorse?

the broken box

the box is damaged.
the corner pushed in as if from
a fall, or drop
by careless hands.
the insides are torn,
the cardboard ripped open
to show
the stiff white
styro-foam
protecting what you bought.
do you buy it still,
bring it home?
do you trust
that it's only the outside
that is broken,
not everything
that lies within?

oasis in the blue

at thirty two feet in the air,
i'm in the trees,
in the blue.
leaning against this old house
with a brush
and bucket, reaching
for the board.
i'm with the birds, above
the wires.
above the sidewalk
and streets below. i'm up
here again.
it's what I do, what I know.
it's quiet
up here, away from it all.
not a sound, just my breathing,
my heart,
the fury and confusion
of the world so far away,
an oasis I have found.

forever saved

there was the drug store
on the corner
where we caught the bus for school.
poor white boys and girls being
bused to the white schools
where the money was.

across the street was meade's
liquor, a drive thru, where
the cars lined up each morning
to get their pint of courage
in order to face the day. i'd see
my father pull through in his
turquoise chevrolet, throwing
us a wave.

the shopping center was across six
lanes of unending traffic.
eastover.
penny's and krogers,
g.c. murphy's.
a high's ice cream store.
down the road, up south capital
street at the intersection
of Atlantic avenue
was a movie theater. on
the weekends they showed
three flicks one after the other.

a bright red curtain would be
pulled back when the first cartoon
started the day.

my paper route ran from Audrey
lane to Winthrop street
and back home to Dorchester.
I pulled my wagon for years
full of the Washington post,
my dog walking beside me.

the ball field was the pavement
behind the bowling alley,
where we threw duckpins on
Saturdays, and threw our
rubber balls into painted
strike zones in the back.
stick ball until our hands
were red with blisters.

a drainage ditch separated
Maryland from dc.
a concrete bridge led the way
to church, st. Thomas More,
where we confessed our sins
on sunday. sometimes we had to
run back, a pack of boys from
d.c. would be waiting for us,
knowing we were from the other
side, of another color, not black.

there was ernie and mike, jimmy fitz,
Sidney, ike and fran, snookie,
dexter, Bernie, Donnie and
dale and tommy, karen, my first
main squeeze. peggy smith
on the corner, chic and linda.
and all six of my known brothers
and sisters, earle and gary,
Debbie and Theresa, randy and Maryanne.

summers turned into winters, we
grew up. we grew out, we went
our separate ways, that childhood
locked up in each of our memories.
each moment a gem of some sort,
forever saved. forever lost.

raking leaves

i spend the afternoon
raking
leaves in the back yard.
it's deep
in yellow.
the vines have slowed down,
so have
the weeds.
it's a small yard, but it
takes
time to go from side
to side, front
to back, to rake and sweep.
to carry them
out the gate and slowly
move them into
the woods.
each year it's the same
for them, though things have
changed
considerably for me.

come sit next to me

if you don't have anything
nice to say about
anyone, come sit next to me, she
used to say.
let's talk.
she wasn't into empty
conversation,
she wanted the dirt,
the skinny,
she wanted to know what
went wrong,
who was up to no good,
who was cheating on who,
what gossip was there to sling
around.
she wasn't mean, or evil,
just bored.
it kept her in good spirits,
as did the gin
and tonic too.

new friends

a new stack of books
arrive
in the big white truck.
I find them on the door step
when I get home.
slowly I cut
the bags open
and find a soft spot to
lie down
and dig in.
I will savor the peace
and quiet
of these new words,
these new friends.

but in truth, never

how misunderstood we are.

no one truly knowing us. the good
in us.

they see only what affects them.
no deep thought
into what
makes you tick, your sadness,

your healing your dimmed fire
those
crackling embers, those broken
sticks.

at night when you lie down to
gather it all together,

to rehearse your dreams,

you reach out to touch someone
who was here once,

but in truth, never.

through different eyes

I look at that closet
differently now. that chest of drawers,
that door,
that clock,
that rug I walk upon.
I see the walls
in a different light,
the windows too.
the way the fan turns,
its swing and hum at night.
I see the world through different
eyes now.
for better or worse
I've swallowed whole the past,
drank all that I could
of what was, I've quenched
my thirst.
and now I go with nothing,
a cleansing and
enduring fast.

die on the vine

in time, as it always does,
your anger subsides.
the tide of red
recedes and you're under
a different frame
of mind.
a necessary evil, perhaps.
no emotion should be buried
alive,
it needs to die
on the vine, or stay
poisonously intact.

deftly upon our eyes

is it the pink in the sky
that gives us
hope. the bloom of sunset, or
sunrise,
the spray of yellow,
the easing of new light upon
the fresh land
awakened from a long night.
is it color
that we need, inspiration
of subtle type,
the prism of the sun through
clouds
through rain,
falling deftly upon our eyes.

hit the road jack

we're done, she says.

I've had enough of you.
next man up.

hit the road jack
and don't you come back no
mo, no mo, no mo, no mo.

I get it.
sometimes you don't fit the bill.
you ain't
what she's looking for in a man.

you be short on a lot of issues.
you're a square being pushed into
a round hole.

oh well, you say and sigh,
packing up your bags,
but you completely understand.

super powers

we all would like to have
super powers.

strength or invisibility.

flight.
x ray vision, perhaps.
but would we use it for good
or evil.

we could say that about everything
now.
our talents being many, but
how are they used.

are they squandered on worry
and confusion.

sorrow and misplaced emotions.
or do we take
the gifts we have and be good
towards other.

are we honest, do we look into
one another's eyes
and listen.

do we care?

compassion is a super power,
so is honesty,
and love,

forgiveness. what we want is
already within us,

it's already here.

a life of mayhem

the longer you live in tranquility
and peace,
in quiet, monk like,
the more aware you are
of what trouble is, what
normal and safe feels like.
all in hindsight. the twenty
twenty vision
is crystal clear now.
avoid those troubled
souls at all cost. your
life depends on it.
you can't change them,
or save them.
being alone is better
than being with someone
who is crazy, trust me
on this. it isn't love
at all. it's mayhem.

the guard dog

it's a big dog at the door,
barking,
baring her teeth, golden
in color,
collar on, protecting the owner
and all
within,
scratching at the glass
with bear
like claws,
but when you enter, she melts
in your arms,
she can't lick you enough, rolling
over to let you pet
he warm fat belly.
she wags her tail
to beat the band,
and croons like a lover
arriving after months away,
now home again.

the sickness

h.l. Mencken

was quoted as saying that
love

is the delusion that all women
are different.

i'm not so sure about that, although
at times
it makes sense.

I suppose the same could be said
about men.

which you would like to believe
is untrue.

I think that love is a sickness
that can only
be cured by

another love, and that love,
by another love,
and

unfortunately, so on.

ice cream and cake

my old doctor used
to point out things on my skin.

you should have that looked at she'd say
putting her finger
on a red welt.

that bump. not good.

stop drinking so many cokes, and eating so
much processed food.

chips, cakes, cookies, ice cream.
you have the diet of a 13 year old boy.

I can't disagree with that. when you
know what you like, well,
there you go.

I don't smoke, or hardly drink, rarely
carouse around
in the night life anymore,
got no loose women hanging around, so

what the hell. I need some vice.
i'm open for suggestions. but

for now, it's ice cream and cake.

mud pies

she says, why do you keep
writing about that nut you were married to?

I laugh and shake my head, I know,
I tell her.

but trust me, i just need to vent every
now and then, blow off some steam,

get her out of my head with a few jabs.

in reality i mean her no harm. i hope she's happy
with the boyfriend, or the husband or whoever
she ends up with.

i wish her well. i just need to sling a few
mud pies her way, every now and again.

it don't mean a thing. just part of the process.

it's the garbage out kind of thing.
you have to get it out of your system,
if you don't it will fester and boil over.
poison you from within.

in time, i'll completely be done, finished.
it's only been six months since that hell
on earth ended.

no worries, it's coming. almost there. almost.
just a few more pies
to sling.

the pills we take

we live in a pill drenched world.

the brown bottles
line the sills, the medicine
cabinets.
stuffed in purses, in drawers,
in glove compartments.

filled with little white tablets.
for the body,
the mind,

they hold us together.

depression, sadness, sleeplessness,
hunger, pain,
too much energy, not enough.

a pill for sex, a pill to not
get pregnant.

give me a pill to go to sleep,
one to get up,
another to put a smile on my
face.

one to keep me from jumping of
a bridge, another to face the day
without hurting anyone,

or me. take two in the morning,
one before sleep, three after
you eat, and another one just
for the hell of it.

I can't read the label, pour
a few out
for me.

I shall be released

her divorce lawyer
calls.

it's dragging on like a horror movie.

let's get on with it, I tell them.

should I come in and hand you my wallet.
do you need my blood type too?

they want my social security number,
apparently she doesn't have it.

what else?
my name and address? my mother's maiden
name.

the car I drive.

do I sleep on my stomach or on the left
or right side,

height weight, age. occupation.

from start to finish this nightmare
has been
painful and gone on too long.

my hand hurts from signing waivers
documents written in legalese.
my eyes are bloodshot
from reading the fine print.

fourteen months in prison and they
still won't let me out.

I bang on the bars with my metal
cup, and beg for release.

the rain

the rain needs
no translation, no words,
no
voice.
there is no song to it.
it's just rain
hard and fast
against the pavement.
pounding the roof,
slashing at the windows.
no working in this.
you think you're in charge
but the rain
says otherwise.

skin deep

beauty, as they say is only
skin deep.
sometimes
it's only as deep as
a coat of paint,
a swab of lipstick,
a haircut
or a new pair of shoes.
once you catch the drift
of what lies
beneath that glossy
surface,
it's time to decide
what life will
be with them,
lonely and cold forever,
or
hit the road and find
joy elsewhere,
it's time to choose.

you're fired

the coach gets fired
after too many losses,
the man
in the assembly line, too
slow, accidents
all the time,
he's done.
the gardener if everything
is brown
or dies, he's
gone.
the cop with a wild
gun,
adios,
the zoo keeper
letting out the lions
or the monkeys
leaving the cages
unlocked, fired.
we're all on a short
leash, easily replaced
when things
go wrong,
shown the door
with hardly a thought.

hooker witches

i'm not sure how Halloween
became the biggest
holiday of the year,
but it is.
I think it's the candy
makers of the world
driving the bus
on this one.
the pumpkin farms and
hallmark cards.
what is there to celebrate?
ghosts, demons,
death?
spider webs in the bushes.
the costumes
of the dead,
women dressed as hooker
witches.
children as ghouls,
even dogs
are wearing masks
as they howl at the moon.

no respect

I listen to an old
Rodney
Dangerfield
album,
no respect. the bulging eyes,
the sloppy suit
with the red
tie and sweat soaked
white shirt.
all new York.
a cigarette and a drink
in hand.
no respect. he's still
funny.
still old school.
funny to the bone.
most women don't get his
coarse sense
of humor,
dark and self decrepitating.
but
I laugh with each line
as if it was the first
time
I heard it.
my wife, she wants to
have sex in the back seat
of the car, he says,
yanking at his tie,
pause,
and she wants me to drive.

get a job

my father used to say
get a job.
do something, all that
schooling,
get a job.
i tell my son that too.
i tell all the sons in the world
to do that.
get a job.
something, anything.
work with your hands.
sweep a floor,
wash a car,
clerk,
dig ditches, carry bricks.
put a paint brush in your hand.
build something.
quit whining about how the world
owes you.
it doesn't.
get a job.
anything.
quit wasting your life away
at home.
you're twenty five,
you're thirty.
forty is right around the corner
and you have
nothing, still.
there's grey in your hair.
get a job.
grab a shovel
grab a broom.

the cheap motel escape

in an effort to gain clarity,
sanity and to reflect on the dismal
state of affairs my life was in
at the time

i stayed in a cheap motel off of route
one
back in the late nineties.
skid row of Fairfax county.

my wife at the time was cheating on me
with my son's
karate teacher, Carlos.
I couldn't even beat him up if
I wanted to. three black belts.
he could break six bricks with his head
alone.

i needed to get away.
it was an insane time. fear and jealousy
drove me
out.

i remember the thin walls of the
motel, hearing
the coughing of the man
in the room
beside me. the cheap television
turned up loud,

his cigarette smoke tunneling
through the vents.

the mattress was hard, the cover
stained.
the striped pillow a rock.

the place smelled of urine,
of lost causes. of people at the end
of their rope.

i stayed one night, then went home.

i did the same thing last year,
a different wife,
this time she was cheating
with two men.

an ex husband and a married boyfriend.
it was the same thing all over again,
twenty years later. I could beat the tar
out of either one of them, but what's the point,
it would be like
beating up old women, and she loved
them both dearly.

how in god's name did i end up with
such wives? such liars.
immoral to the core. falling like
a fool for their fake charms.

again i went to a motel to get some clarity,
to figure out the path
of my life. how to straighten out
the wrong turns i took.

the room was nicer this time though.
smoking wasn't allowed.
the walls were thicker, but it still smelled
of failure, of lost causes,
people at the end of their rope.

i managed three nights this time around,
then went home. back to my house,
my once peaceful sanctuary,
no wiser.
ready for the next round
of pain and heartache, a batch
of lies.

I prayed to find a way to end it.
and once that prayer was answered
and she was gone,
i made a vow to never
leave my home again.

no more cheap hotels, it would
be five star from here on out.

no direction

in limbo
is a strange place to be.
neither here nor there,
not down
or up.
somewhere in between.
I look at the arrow
on
the roof to see which
way it points,
but it's still, as
dead in the non wind
as metal can be.
I turn to each direction,
which way,
looking down the hollow
roads,
which way will this
feeling of being lost
end, which
way will set me free.

chopping wood

I go out into the yard
to chop wood
for the fireplace.

the almanac says it's going
to be a cold
one.

I spend half the day with
my axe.
the logs, one by one
on the stump
split into halves,
then quarters.

bang, it goes, bang again.
the sharp blade
does its job.

there's no thought to it.
my mind is elsewhere.

what i'm chopping violently
isn't wood at all,
but other things.
the intangible thoughts
of the past webbed in
my mind.

in time I've stacked
the logs beside the house.
i'm ready for
what's coming, what's next.

let the fire burn bright.

forget about it

i think about what i miss.

nothing comes to mind,
but cookies.
freshly baked cookies,
right out of the oven
on aluminum trays.

dozens of them, all sorts,
all kinds. warm and gooey,
with
nuts and powdered sugar.
chocolate chunks,
almond.

some soft, some crunchy.
sugar and butter that will enlarge
my winter girth.

she made them in

all shapes and sizes neatly
arranged on plates,
or into plastic bags.

it didn't even have to be
a holiday.

i miss that. but only that,
the rest, sadly so,

forget about it.

from the same ball of dough

how different we all are
despite being
of the same blood, coming
from the same
mother and father.

one eats too much, one starves.
one smart, one reckless.

one dull, a few dumb in the common
sense department,
but book smart.

three calm and reasonable, three
emotional messes
forever on the therapist couch.

you would think that baked
from the same ball of dough
that we'd all be the same

when coming out of the oven,
but no, not so.

the open window

i open the window
to let some air in, there's
a nice breeze going
on tonight.

the siren i hear in the distance
doesn't bother me at all,
nor does the barking
dog, the blaring
horns, or
the planes in the sky
flying low.

not even the kid crying next door,
or the neighbors drunk
and arguing gets under
my skin.

the air feels good.
the trees look good, almost
ready to let go
of what's been.

i'll start without them

I plan a feast for the night.

inviting all my imaginary friends.

sally, joe, vanessa, slim jim and jane doe.

they're all light eaters, so more for me.
I light some candles.
put some music on.

I put a bottle of asti spumante on ice.

they should be here any minute now.
I should get out of this old ratty robe,
these flip flops.

I should take a shower, brush my teeth.
take the pizza out of the oven.

it will be a night to remember.
the stories that will be told.

I look out the window, not yet, but

they're always late, maybe i'll start
without them.

it's going to be a long cold winter

i get the cold shoulder,
the silent treatment, the freeze out.
the ice box.

i get it.
I've been getting it my whole life.

my father used to do it.
ex wives, new wives, current wives.
future wives.

it used to bother me, but not anymore.
you come into this world
alone,

you leave alone. i embrace the cold,
the quiet. i button up.
put a snug hat on. gloves
and boots.
it's going to be a long
cold winter.

I've been there and done this.
i keep a shovel and a bag
of salt by the door.
it's the life i know.
the life i own.

the train ride home

we ride the train home.
it's packed, there's
nowhere to sit, so we stand and hold
onto
each other, the pole,
the person in front of us,
the strap of his back pack.
we'll get through this together
he says.
he's young and strong.
optimistic.
we look at one another and nod.
oh, to be young again,
that fearless
and strong.

some dylan

if you see her, say
hello,

she might be in tangiers.

sings Dylan.
i play it again.

she's living there i hear.

whatever makes her happy...

there is blood on the tracks.
both mine
and hers. but

there's another train coming,
don't the brake man look good
hanging on the double E,

just around the curve.

it takes a lot to laugh,
but a train to cry.

boy, she was fast

the grocery clerk,
a mere boy of eighteen
tells me
that it's his first
day on the job.
he scans my groceries,
bags them,
and carefully places them
in my cart.
i'm saving for a car, he
tells me.
my girl friend wants
me to get
something small,
something good on
gas. a foreign car,
perhaps.
i smile, and remember
my first.
maroon with baby moons,
stick shift
and hot tires,
she was Irish with
long black hair and green
eyes, boy
she was fast.

is it all sand

is it all sand.

all wind blown, or turned
over
and over again
and again
by an uncaring ocean.

does anything stand
still,
does anyone
stay put.

or is it all something
lost
though held firmly
in hand.

tomorrow night for that

midnight
strikes on this cold night.

I put an extra blanket
on the bed.

look out the window one last
time,
before blowing
out each lamp behind me.

I hide the glow of the clock
with a book
that's been hardly
read.

perhaps tomorrow night
for that.

these nights keep adding up.

the inner earth

it's an unpleasant
conversation, terse.
the anger
flows
like lava
seeping up from our
inner earth.
forgiveness will be hard,
if it comes at all.
a grudge held hard
and fast
to the heart.
one never knows when
love ends, when
it's time to say farewell
and part.

what next will come

the sky is woven
in steel cloth, it rolls
unbroken
as far as the naked eye
can see.
a field of blue
and grey.
a good day for a burial,
it seems.
our time will come
and others will stand
beside our
grave
and say words, or say
none. to each his own
reward,
off to heaven or to hell,
who's to know
what next will come.

new growth

the bare space in front
of your
house, once the old tree has been
cut down,
is haunting.

an empty spot.
a metaphor of sorts, perhaps.

but the grey dirt begs for green.

wants new growth, a bush,
a tree. flowers?

something to fill the yard and bloom
with hope
and promise.

smiling with love when you
get home.

heel, beg, roll over

no matter
how hard you try,
you can't
make everyone happy.
nor can they you.
such is life.
God forbid
you don't heel,
and beg, roll over
for some though, become
their lap dog,
the punishment
will not
be light.

chumming for friends

I see that my numbers on face
book
have dwindled.

lost a few in the divorce.

so many of my close friends have
deleted me.

dang.

and we were all so close, sharing
pictures
and stories,
recipes, insightful posts.

I need some new friends
to get my numbers back up to
where
they should be.

I really am a lot more
popular than it appears,
just wait and see.

I plan on cracking the twenty
mark by
the end of the year, i'm
on a new friend mission,
with only a few being
relatives, or recently
deceased.

a clear view ahead

I take a clean cloth
some water, vinegar and go at
the windshield
with vigor.

inside and out.
until it sparkles without
a drop of dirt,

or smudge or dust.
no streaks to block
my view.

I can finally see clearly
what lies ahead.

the back windshield i'm
no longer worried
about.

never reaching port

it's no longer about money.

most of what I've saved
will be left behind.

how many forks do i need, beds to
sleep in?

cars to drive?

what don't i have that i can't buy,
or even want?

it's no longer about the dough
ray me.
it's something else.

structure, a thing to do, a world
i'm used to.

a business to attend to and to
get things done.

even at this age retirement seems
a long ways away.
i'm on a ship that will never
see port.

which is fine, i believe,
as i set the alarm for six on
Monday.

back at it.

scorpion and the frog

I read the fable about
the scorpion and the frog.

how they both need to cross
the stream without drowning.

the scorpion asks the frog for
a ride on his back,

promising, swearing on his mother's
grave
that she won't sting
the frog and kill him.

so the frog agrees and lets
the scorpion ride along
as they cross the water.

but half way there, the scorpion
stings
the frog, and they both begin
to drown.

why the frog asks did you do
that, I trusted you.
you promised, and now
we'll both die.

and the scorpion before
they go under says, it's just
who I am.
it's my nature.

some people are like that.
it's who they are.
when they show you or
tell you who they are,
believe them. don't
let them take you down.

her photo

she disliked having her photo
taken,
rarely a smile,
always uncomfortable
being
the center or even part
of any
unnecessary attention, so
I wonder what she would
have thought of the photo
I placed
in the paper with
her obituary.
smiling, but subtle,
a sense of grace hiding
a grumble or curse
she was fond of.
the light held nicely
on her face,
hiding any age.
I heard her girlfriend
snipe acidly that she
hoped someone would find
a good picture of her
too, when it was time
to post it at the end.

no queen

i take a chance.

a risk.

i throw in all that i have
into the middle of the table
and call.

a deuce appears, my next card.
not the queen o hearts,
i hoped would show.

unlucky in love,
and this too.

each fallen leaf

time is a luxury to have.

more hours to read,
more days to sit beneath
a shady tree.

more minutes to ponder
stars,
to write about you,
about me.

time is precious, so much
is wasted on
what was, what can't be
changed.

time to savor the love
we hold, time, to
admire each fallen
leaf.

the dining room walls

it's zig zag pattern of paper.
dizzying
no matter the angle you look at it.

grey and white, tiny dots
arranged in
blocks and stripes.

it takes all morning, into
the afternoon to hang, but I
get it done.

the bones in my hand sore
from the cuts and smoothing
of each sheet.

how many more is there to do,
this week, this year,
this life, before I'm through.

we're leaving

for most of your life people
have been telling you
that they're leaving you.

they write notes and leave
them
on your pillow.
on your door, on the kitchen
counter.

they leave phone messages,
or text, or
call and leave a voicemail.

all with good reasons.

you're fired, your bosses tell you.
we don't need you anymore.

your father gathered you all
to the table to announce
his leaving.

wives, girlfriends,
we're breaking up they all say
and point out the myriad
of faults you have.
they don't love you anymore,
or love someone else more
to stay.

brothers and sisters.
you're dead to me, they write,
and mean it.

even
friends at time hit the road,
but often without a note
or word spoken,
they just go,

but we're leaving they all say,
you won't see us around here
anymore and most of the time,

you don't. I can hardly blame
them,
i'd leave too, if I could.

down the hill

i'm slipping down this hill.

my feet won't hold,
i fall to my knees
and grip the grass with my
hands
but the slope is too steep.

my weight is too much,
the gravity of the world
turns me over,

i tumble and roll down.

i knew this day was coming.
i knew it
when i stood at the top
and looked over
and saw
what could be, what i felt i
deserved.

but no.
instead i roll and roll,
hoping that someone will catch
me and help me
up again.

forever old

he coughs up a crimson
splatter of
blood into his handkerchief.

he's dying.
he lights another cigarette
and says

oh fuck.

he laughs to make me laugh,
then shows me
his wallet stuffed with
cash.

disability money. he's on the dole.
he's happy.

he's dying.

he has no philosophy or
religion. there are no regrets,
or confessions
to be told.

he's going out the way he
came in,
smoking, drinking, scheming
a world,

born into it, forever old.

innocent

there's a moment, it seems,
at least to me,
looking back
with hindsight, that there
was a time
of innocence.
of being pure and unaffected
yet by the world
taking you
by its crooked hand, it's
subtle whisper, calling
you to be less a boy
and more of a man.
it was before relationships,
before money,
before
all that lay ahead in your life
that would bring
pleasure and pain
in unequal doses.
it was just you.
innocent, a mere child,
kneeling in a church, praying,
your back against the hard pew,
wondering what tomorrow
would bring.

up in the air

we juggle so many balls
into the air.

work, and children.
friends.

lovers, past husbands
or wives
that are no longer there.

worry and fear.

into the air
they all go from hand to hand.

how long
can we keep it up,
keep
things from crashing down.

no different than us

the building,
twenty stories high
sits
beside the bridge.
some windows dark and others
alive in yellow light.
we can see people
through the windows,
their sliding glass doors,
catch glimpses
of faces, children,
husband, wives,
of dinners being served,
of lovers
in embrace.
each a poetic venture of
sorts. known but unknown,
strangers who will remain
strangers, but
no different than us
who travel home.

examining grief

another's grief is different than
your own.

you've been touched
with this darkness many times.

one more severe than another.
you have stared through the glass
darkly,

and expected wrongly
that others will understand,
that their world will stop
as yours has.

how can they not know
this fear, this sorrow that consumes
your soul,

but it's not true. we can't
stand or walk
in another's shoes. we cannot
fathom
how deep their grief is,

how real and true.

we couldn't live, or comfort
them, if we did.

i start driving

I fill up the tank with gas
and start
driving, pointing the car east.

not fast, but slowly in the right lane.

I have no destination. no goal.
no place to be.

i'll just keep going until I
run into the ocean.

then i'll stop, get out of the car
and start swimming.

i'll swim as far as I can. stroke
after stroke.

not fast, but slowly so as not to drown.
i'll kick my legs, breathe side to side,
trying to avoid the big waves,
the sharks.

when I hit land, france perhaps,
i'll climb out of the ocean and get
something to eat and a glass of red wine.

i'll find a café in paris
and sit and write about this trip
with a black beret on.

i'll learn the language and find love.
find joy.
find happiness.
find peace.

feeling a wee tired

tired
of this heat, this elongated summer
with no relief.

i'm tired of the phone ringing
with telemarketers.

i'm exhausted
by work, by so many people
being late
or not showing up.

tired of waiting for checks
in the mail for work done.

tired of cancellations, or
people saying i need it done
yesterday.

i'm tired of drama, of thinking
about the past.
tired of ruminations, of regret,
of making mistakes.

tired of losing teams.

tired of getting my car inspected.
of getting the oil changed.

tired of people not being who
you want them to be.
which is on me.

tired of farewells and starting over.
tired of people I love
getting sick and dying.

tired of siblings.
tired of parents.
tired of selfish mean people.

i'm beat down by the news.
bad news, day in day out.

i'm tired of driving everywhere
I need to be.
tired of the long week.

i'm tired of being tired.

tired of being alone.

i am not mr. vincent

i scan
i send. it comes back.

no,
they say.
we need a scan not an image.

but isn't a scan an image,
i reply. this is a scan, i just scanned
it ten minutes ago.

and no my name is not mr. vincent.
that's her name,
well her second husband's last name.

not mine.

i'm a man, once married
to the woman that this concerns.

back and forth we go with the so
called simple
divorce documents.

the ineptness is astounding.
misspellings all over the page.

finally, i give up and put it in
an envelope,
lick a stamp, address it and drop
in the mail.

like everything else
ever connected
to her
it's a web
of trouble
and lies, deceit.

nothing every seems right.
she's been nothing but a nightmare
since I met
her.

morning noon and night.

between the lines

hardly a day goes by
without being misunderstood.

which is fine.

I thrive on turmoil
and drama. I get up after each
knock down
to fight again.

I live daily with
reading and writing between
the lines.

it's exhausting always having
to explain
and defend what you say,
what you write,
what's in your eyes.

but so it goes and this
too
will be scrutinized.

what else

a new building goes up.

it wasn't there yesterday.
but suddenly there it is.

twenty stories high.
it appears out of thin air,
it seems.

I drive by and shake my head.
what else
am I not seeing.

your life

you bend over backwards to
understand
the complications of others lives.
you give
and bend,
you arrange your life
around theirs.
you wait by the phone,
you wait
until their ready.
you wait your turn.
their life is more important.
what you do with your
day makes no difference
to them.
it's always been that way,
but it's time that it ends.

ahead

it's the whirlwind.

the drama. the voices in your head.
the past is
a train
that roars by.

another day, another year.

full speed ahead.

just one simple love is all you
ask.

one kind and warm heart,
who understands
and respects the life you
have.

the empty tree

the tree in full bloom
is full of birds, and why not.
it's green. the sun is high.
the air is sweet with summer,
it seems as if it will
never end. this youth
so full of loves.
such is our lives,
our trees,
so full of life, but in
winter
how it empties, each bird
having vanished
one by one to somewhere
beyond, off into another
season, out of reach, out
of sight.

my summer sang in me

while soaking
in the smooth warm
waters of my
bath, I stumble upon
Edna St. Vincent Millay's
poem,
'what lips my lips have kissed,
and where, and why'.
she wrote it when she was 31
and living in Greenwich village
during its halcyon days
of the nineteen twenties.
it's a bittersweet, nostalgic
piece of work. terribly sad
and beautiful. my summer sang
in me, she writes.
remembering those days
and night.
the lovers are referred to as ghosts
tapping at her window.
she's alone, the world outside
dark,
as I am now, listening
to the rain, contemplating
loves that have come and gone.
who hasn't been there? Sigmund
Freud said that all literature
and poetry
is about love and sex, and perhaps
death.
I don't deny that and neither
did she,
I imagine.

what doesn't kill you

it's all a blur.

a dream. a disaster
that never should have been,
but it's over.

i wake up clean
and sober.

free at last, the shackles
off,
the die cast. i'm

back on my feet.
out side the walls
of Shawshank.

what doesn't kill you
only
makes you stronger.

i could lift that building
over my head
right now.

she was hardly here

my father's companion of
30
years dies
in her sleep.
wordless, as she was in
life.
i could count on one
hand
the things she said.
she was a small bird,
just bones
and skin,
big brown eyes,
but a quiet soul,
always with a smile,
her hands folded in
her flowered lap.
polite and mannered,
raised down the road
in Carolina.
if she picked up, she
was quick to say, let
me get your father on
the phone.
childless, friendless.
always to herself
in her own room.
at times it seemed
she was hardly here,
and now it's hard
to imagine that
she's even gone.

some dinner

i wake up to a
sink full of dishes.
on the table
too.
the bones of a chicken
are strewn about.
there's
a dollop of mashed potatoes
on the floor.
i have gravy
on my shirt, red wine.
a string bean is stuck
to my arm.
my pants are on backwards.
the tv is still on,
the cushions of the couch
are thrown about.
some dinner last night.
a broken high
heel lies on the stairs,
a dress,
a stocking with a long tear.
i put my finger to my
chin,
lean my ear upwards
and wonder who else is
here.

inhale exhale

i empty
the chest, the lungs of
air.
inhale
gently, exhale again.
out with the toxic
past,
in with new
memories, drama free,
serene and content
as
new life
takes hold.

let em run

I think about getting a dog,
but thankfully
that notion passes the second
I see someone
passing by bending over with
a baggie,
their dog on a leash squatting
in the lawn.
I remember how my dog, moe,
would eat
anything dead he found in
the road, then i'd have to
take him to the dog mayo
clinic to have his stomach
pumped, blood work, and
an iv stuck into his little paw.
three thousand dollars later
he was back home, good as new.
yes. I like the wagging of
the tail, the chasing of
the ball. the love they
give without conditions, but
aren't there conditions?
food, water, shelter, sleeping
on the bed?
I think about the hair all
over the place, the stains
in the rug, the chewed
furniture, the barking,
the needs they have that
never seem to get met. selfish,
yes? I admit it. but I've
done my hard time with pets
and come to think of it, wives
too. they're so similar
when you think about it.
who needs the trouble
just for a little fun
and so called companionship.
as soon as they see a crack
in the door, off they go.
let em run, i'm done.

we're never ready

we're never ready for death.

no matter how long
the journey is.

how obvious that it's coming.
we wait,
not for healing, but for
ease
and comfort for those
closing in.

finality with respect.

we're never ready for death.

but it comes and comes.
live with joy,

have no regrets.

the same old news

I ignore the news.

had enough of the same thing
day in day out.

so it goes with you.
the same problems, the unsolvable
issues.

there is no silver lining,
no
way out.

just repeat and rinse
again and again.

you're always right back where
you started.

it never seems to end.

rainy day museum

a rainy day is a good
day
to visit the museums downtown.

so we go
on the train.

we stroll and stare at
the wonderous
pieces of art.

the paintings, the sculptures.
it's beyond
our imagination
how anything so beautiful
could be made.


we point and are stunned
at what we see.

life
can be so dangerous
and ugly,
or it can be this.

this beauty that we observe
and welcome
into our minds,
on this rainy
day.

table for two

we make reservations at the big
Chinese restaurant
off of route 7.
it's been there for ages.
always packed,
crowded, tables inches
away from one another.
red and black décor.
tassels swinging from
the gaudy chandeliers,
but the food will slay you.
the drinks are strong.
it's a hustle and bustle
place nestled in between
a post office and a hair
salon. come early, come
hungry, come thirsty.
we'll seat you soon, it
won't be long. parking
is sketchy, don't leave
anything of value in
the car. table for two,
but there is now view.

the discount lawyer

lawyers are fast
with their words, their talk,
their
legal documents.
even the cheapest ones make
the simplest of tasks
more
difficult.
written in a strange language
half English
half latin.
the more confusing it is,
the more you pay.
sign here, sign there.
layered thick with legalese
and misspellings,
punctuation out of
sorts.
have it stamped and notarized,
they smile
and shake your hand
as you finally start a new life
and walk away.
next, you hear them say.

when she slips away

we get word from afar,
late,
that she has taken her life.
slipped under
a warm bath gone pink.

we sit with this news
in the kitchen, drinking our
coffee.

we have no words to say.
although
who didn't see it coming.

she was a light flickering
on and off,
as if a storm inside of her
never settled,
never passed.

you could see it in her words,
the way her
hands shook, in her
eyes, how dark
and still
they'd be when joy
should have stayed.

her papers will be sifted through
for clues.
her phone, her
electronic devices
that she was glued to.

but the reasons are not
one, or two,
but many. so many that
there was little,
her doctors, her friends,
her lovers,
her children could ever
do.

someone will collect her clothes,
her things,
her books,
her necklaces and rings.
her world, such as it was.
all of it
will be packed away in boxes
and shifted
to some dark place
to be forgotten.

sentimental

I stack up
my nostalgia at the door
for the trash man.
my sentimental bones
of things.
my collection of stamps,
cards,
love letters
and old poems.
I gather up the dead
roses,
the vase they came in.
the mementos,
the touch stones
of all the past years.
a jar of tears,
an envelope of regrets.
photos.
out to the porch
they all go
for pick up. I need
the room, what wasn't
real,
must go.

the grey haired band

the band is old.

grey haired men with bellies
and pony tails

singing songs from a long
long time
ago.

they've been practicing in their
basements all week long,

strumming their guitars,
banging the drum.

their voices shot, their faces
lined
with age,

but into the night they go.

it's soft rock that the women
like, who sway and swoon
wishing they were
young again, singing the words
to every song.

they stare up at the stage,
through the glare of lights,

and drink their wine,
remembering betters days
before them, the band and
the world got old.

hammer and nail

we each have
a hammer of some sort
that we
take to the nail, the problem
at hand.
some use anger.
some
use brains and others
fake
love or altruism
to get past
the pain.
some use humor
or lies,
or drugs or drink,
even sex
can be a sledge
hammer of sorts.
the day is full of nails
that want to be
driven
back down.

and a cherry on top

for awhile my brain was like
a monkey in a banana tree.
going every which way
in an emotional tizzy.
(not sure if tizzy is still
a word, but i like it just
the same)
i couldn't think straight.
full of crazy thoughts,
indecision, wild emotional
swings of irrationality.
relationships will do that to you.
but now. i feel like i'm
one monkey, with one banana
and i'm not even in a tree,
i'm stretched out on the couch
in my pajamas.
i might even cut it up
and put it in a bowl
of ice cream with hot
chocolate on it and nuts.
whipped cream and a cherry
on top.

true dedication

the second
my ex found out she was pregnant
with our son
she quit her
job
and stop working forever.

her dream had come true.

I still scratch
my head at her decision,
thirty years later.
she found a way to live
off the kindness
of strangers and has been
quite successful at it.

she was pretty enough
to pull it off.
a brilliant move.
good work, or non work if
you can get it.
I admire her dedication
to what she believes in.

she definitely was no fool.

thinking about baseball

I spring out of bed,
okay
maybe spring is the wrong word.
I ease myself
off the mattress
and limp slowly to the bathroom.
the third trip since
going to bed last night.
but it is Friday.
a cold shower, a cup
of hot coffee and i'll be
almost ready to face
the day.
I send Julie a text and tell
her, hey, what
time tonight?
then realize that I sent
the note to betty.
betty, says, oh, I didn't know
we had a date.
she sends me a picture of
a new pair of sexy
high heels she just bought.
like em? she says.
i'll wear them tonight.
oh well, I say out loud.
it'll work out somehow.
I rub my eyes and try
to think about baseball.

a day at confession

I get in line for confession
at the local
church
St. Bernadette's.
it's a slow moving line,
people have been so
damn bad lately,
whoops, I put that on the
list. cursing. not good.
men, women, children
with sticky fingers.
I see a few familiar faces,
there's Joe, the gambler,
Jake the snake, who takes
money out of the basket instead
of putting money in,
and Suzi in her short black
skirt with a pocket book
of diamond rings
and a trail of broken hearts
behind her.
I wave to them, they smile
and wave back.
the line inches up.
I look over their shoulders
at their lists.
lots of lying going on.
cheating, deception,
stealing, the usual array
of broken commandments.
adultery, slander, lust
and greed.
after an hour or so,
the priest comes out
to put a sign at the end
of the line, saying,
the line ends here.
he's sweating in his long
silvery green robe.
wiping his forehead
with his arm. Jesus,
he says out loud, staring at
the long line, then
goes back into the confessional
booth.
I look down at my list
and see the usual three things.
I wonder if he's going to
yell at me, or just sigh
and give me a penance of
three hail Mary's and two
our father's like he always
does.
my feet hurt from standing
in line for so long, but
just thinking that feels like
a sin too.
I do wish I had a drink
though, some ice tea or
something.

the sugar bowl

a string of black ants
appear on the kitchen counter,
a line
moving against the white
flat surface.
they reach the sugar bowl,
where spoons have spilled
the luxurious sweet crystals
and stop to load up.
there's no talking, no music,
no bickering, just work,
a procession of life staying
alive at all costs.
it would be easy to kill
them all. easy to convince
myself that they're just
insects, invaders and should
be taken out, but I don't.
we are all looking for our
own sugar bowls, working hard
to get there.
I open the window and spill
the sugar down, then carefully
take each one back to from
where they came, then pull
the window tight and shut.

turning back the clock

I buy a dozen syringes of
botox
to try and erase some of the wrinkles
that have
accumulated over
the years.
sun damage, worry, laugh lines.
drinking and carousing,
thinking too hard about
things
I can't change.
the weather, work,
sleepless nights.
it's an impossible task, but
I give it a shot
and manage to shave a few months
off
the calendar. turn back the clock,
a smidgeon.

Cupid at the Coffee Shop

I run into cupid
at the coffee shop and give him
a piece of my mind.

hey, what are you doing here?
I ask him.
shouldn't you be out and about
shooting your little arrows
into people's hearts
making them miserable with love?

I beg your pardon, he says to me
in a surprisingly adult tone of voice,
despite being a chubby
child in a diaper with little
white wings protruding from
his back.

poison darts are what they
really are, I say to him, 

putting my finger into his
soft Pillsbury dough chest.

oh, bug off, he says.
the arrows don't always work,
you know. some are bent, some
are rusted or dipped in toxic
paint.

it's a factory thing.
the work is farmed out over seas
to undeveloped countries.
they don't have the same standards
as we had in the old days.
and well, sometimes i've had
a long day and my aim is a little
off.

whatever, I tell him.
stop shooting those arrows.
do you have any idea the pain and
suffering you cause? how many self
help books I had to buy last
year? the therapy, the hypnosis
and psychic healing I had to
go through because of that last
arrow you shot at me and you
know who? you turned my life into
a freaking nightmare.

you're a menace to society
and mental health.
you call that love what you gave me?
for crying out loud. you should be
ashamed of yourself. and what's
with the diaper. get a pair of
big boy pants, for god's sake.

well. I was just trying to make
you happy, and others too.

Well guess what, it's not working.
I wrestle his
quiver away from him and throw
the arrows to the ground, stomping
them into little pieces.

oh, great. that's just great.
cupid says, flapping his wings.
you just blew my whole afternoon
schedule.
you know I used to think that love
made the world go around, but
now i'm not so sure. you'll be
hearing from my lawyers.

I reach over to grab him
by his curly head of hair 

and give him a good smack, 

but he's too quick with those
wings and flutters off out
the door with a grande
vanilla no fat soy latte
in his tiny fist.

turning on the light

we spend much of our lives
overcoming
our childhood, our parents,
or lack
of parenting.
so much of those we choose
in our life
reflects the lack of what
we were given.
we keep searching, reaching
for a love
that never came. always
grasping for the wrong
person, the half person,
the sick reflection
of a mother or father
that wasn't there. we
try to get whole
by putting two halves together.
if poor, we buy too much,
we try to fill
our lives. we look into
the mirror too deeply
for affirmation. there's
too much food on our plates,
clothes in our closets
too much
of so much to fill our
wanting hearts.
it never works, but when
the light goes on,
it stops and hopefully
health and true love
begins.

an old photo

i find an old photo
stuck
between the pages of a book,
a card
too, signed with love,
from me to you.
i can almost smell the scent
of a familiar
perfume.
it's a sweet card, all the words
fit
the time, the mood,
the memory of what was.
i slip it into the basket,
along with
everything else
that wasn't true.

the writing class

I ponder another writing class.

another meet up of poets and writers,
critics
with red pens, eager
to crush
your spirit and tell you
what you've written
needs work,
that you need to start all over
and try I again.

I think about it. new people.
new ideas,
new temporary friends
found in the high school
at night
in Arlington.
but i'm so easily annoyed these
days
by women and men.
the clique of them.
the audacity of them
critiquing me, pfffft.

maybe, maybe not. we'll see
what the next day brings.

cold shower therapy

the cold shower
startles me awake, thirty
days
and still going strong.
shivering
but alive and well, once
the thrill of it
dies down.
of course it's ninety
degrees outside,
let's see how long
I can go
when the weather changes
and there's frost
on the pumpkin,
or me.

the love knife

it's like the story
of the wolf
that finds a knife near
an old campfire, he licks
it, cutting his tongue.
the blood on his lips,
in his mouth is salty,
warm
so he licks some more.
cutting himself again
and again. in time he dies.
what he thought was good
for him, has killed
him.
we often do the same,
licking our own shiny
knives.

a bowl of health

I stare at the slab
of bacon
in the fridge, but resist
the urge for a salty fatty
dose of
heart stopping nitrates
and make a bowl
of oatmeal instead.
cranberries, brown sugar,
walnuts,
and a splash of milk.
it's a bowl of health,
but my mind is elsewhere,
romanticizing that
bacon sizzling
on the grille.

give it a day or so

I have eight sticky notes
on the desk.

the maid has arranged them
in a long line.

she rearranged my eggs too
in the ice box.
the milk, the water.
each side by side.

socks have found their mates.
the basket full
of folded clothes.

the pens are in the drawer,
the books aligned,
the sheets tucked and tight,
pillows stacked
just right.

the rugs are vacuumed,
the hard wood shines.

the bathrooms are immaculate.

the blinds half raised,
the curtains parted just so.

it's clean for now, give it a
day or so.

halcyon summer

it's been a summer
of peace.
of calm.
a halcyon string of months.
sweet and warm.
bring it with you
now
into fall, into
the depths of a cold
winter.
no more
stress, or walking on
eggshells,
no more concern
about what was,
no worries, no fear
from this point on.

should we move

it's almost like you don't
care anymore, she says to me
while putting suntan lotion on my
bald head.

I don't. I tell her.

I really don't care anymore about
a lot of things.

I used to care, but things have
changed.

I put my hat on and stare out at the wide
green sea.

it's beautiful and lovely. serene.

a minute later,

a family of six screaming kids
with a wagon of gear
set up their enormous tent
right in front of
us, blocking the view.

they've brought a pizza to the beach
in a giant brown box. each with a slice
dangling in their greasy fingers.

should we move, she says, shading
her eyes with her hand.

to where, I ask. mars?

when you've had enough

you reach an age
where you get tired of people.
not all people, just

bad people.
losers, liars, lawyers.
politicians,
abusers. toxic dark souls
who wander the earth,

those that are full of themselves.
stuffed
with their own
bullshit and want to spread
it around
on everyone else.

it's an epidemic of narcissism.
a wave of greed,
a storm of bad behavior,
fakes
and phonies,
thieves. liars.

your empathy has weakened
for them. your patience is thin.
it's too much for
too long. their drama, their
permanent victim pleas.

you can only tolerate bad
behavior so long, before you
break,
before you have to speak up
and tell them
to get out of your life,
that they have to leave.

it's too short. these days,
these hours,
to be around lost fools
like these.

which way from here

bored to tears,
I sit on the front porch and talk
to myself.

what the hell has happened.
how did life
come to a screeching halt.

there's a part of me that wants
to stir things
up, make some big changes,
and another part
that wants to crawl under the bed
and get away
from it all.

i'm in the middle of something.
i'm floating in the Saragossa sea.
stuck in the eye of a hurricane.

okay. you get the picture.
i'm neither here nor there on
almost everything.

I stretch and yawn in the hot
sun while
a cat comes up to me
to rub it's back against my
leg. she looks at me with
her wet green eyes
and sighs, meows.
yup, I tell her.
I know. I know.

Hazmat situation

I move the bed
to center of the room,
and cover it with a drop cloth,

I find covered in dust,
a gun, a wig,
a whip.
handcuffs, a bottle of
Wesson oil
and high heels
under the mattress
under the box spring
and the frame.

there's a video camera too.
a pack of gum,
clothe pins,
a crate of condoms, cigarettes
and matches,
candles,
and strangely a black and white
picture of someone that
looks vaguely like you.

what the hell.

oh well, I carefully,
cover it all up and push it out
of sight with my shoe.

such is life. I get to work
and try not to think
of what goes on here
at night.

five things you need to know

the speaker at the mike
has five things
you must do to live a good life,
the woman over there has seven,
that man in a black suit
has nine things you need to do
to be successful.
another has ten.
there are volumes of books on how
to find love, to get love back.
there is a book
on how to win friends
and influence people, how to
be positive in spite
of a careless life. subscribe now,
half price.
six ways to find a husband,
an honest wife.
there are books on love and
wealth, how to get
in touch with your inner
child,
your true self, how to reach
the dead in the great beyond.
if you need religion, dig in,
there's plenty there.
lost and lonely, more than
you'll ever need for a lifetime.
troubled and lost, abused,
confused, conflicted, there's
a hell of a lot on that too.
you tube, therapists, self help.
centers and groups, meet ups,
societies, classes and
gatherings to stroke your needs,
your desires, to make right
all the things
in your life that you've
managed to fuck up. start now,
time is running out,
get well, get healthy, eat
this eat that. go to the light,
be the light.
trust God, trust science,
buddha,
trust the stars, the planets,
numbers, vibrations, sun spots.
vitamins, sleep, exercise,
deep breathing, sex, drugs
and rock and roll. find a way.
there's at least five, or maybe
more. there's a book out
there on a shelf somewhere
to get you started.

a toast

we tap our glasses together.
cheers

to life
to love
to now.

then we drink while
the champagne is cold,
the bubbles
loud.

what does anything matter
but
family
and friends, loved ones.

it's a brutal world
softened only by a kind word,
a gentle hand,

a kiss.

a toast, a vow.

so it goes

i burn my hand
on the oven, a blister arrives
quickly.

i run it under cold water
from the sink,

letting it pour as i look out the window.

there is a throbbing pain,
redness and swelling, but

i don't curse the stove,
the hot iron,
the flame.

i did this to me. no one else
is to blame.
and so it goes
for almost all things.

september memories

i wake up with a half smile.
the window is open
the curtains pushed inward
to the bed.

what? she says.
what?

nothing, i tell her, just
thinking of something that happened
once this time of year.

the air, the breeze, the weather
has struck a chord. but it's

ancient history. not to worry,
nothing to fear.

she rolls her eyes.
you remember everything, don't you.
the good or
bad. words said, or unsaid.

things done,
or left undone to you.

unfortunately, yes. i do, i tell
her. so much is crystal
clear.

but it's different now,
i tell her, so different,
my perspective on it all,
has changed
ever since i met you.

the shadows of her life

I sit with the old woman,
drinking tea
in the shadow of her yard,
the willow tree,
the long fence, the clothes
line
full of white sheets.
I have no regrets, she says,
looking off
to a place I've never been.
no regrets.
mistakes, yes. but necessary
to get to where I am.
she turns to look me in
the eyes. have no fear about
love, or life, or death,
she says, touching her plate,
a piece of bread.
all in good time.
be good, do your best.

the mystery of girls

we had a secret handshake,
we cut
blood and mixed it.
palm against palm.
brothers
for life, which lasted
one summer.
a boys club of sorts.
angels by day, devils
by night.
we were young and full
of ourselves.
school and summer pools,
sports.
still unraveling the mystery
of girls.
which still goes on.

postcard from italy

she sends me a picture from Italy.

she's in white.
her dark hair down around her shoulders.
bare
and tanned in
the Tuscan light.

she's happy in wine.
in food from the villa down below,
below the wall where
she stands, the olive grove,
smiling in her pose.

a horse and carriage
with a man holding the reins
waiting nearby.

Italy, she writes. i'm happy.
content.

it took an ocean and a year
but i'm free from him.

beyond the clouds

we wave goodbye in the rain.

the car pulls away. there is no
looking back.

only forward. the wipers working
hard to clear the way.
there is no time
for mistakes.

life gets shorter every day.

enjoy, embrace, endure whatever
pain
that came your way,

but move on, move forward,
no looking back,

just wave. new love waits
just beyond
the clouds, beyond the falling
rain.

thank god it's monday

I see him
limping, coming up the street.

what? I ask. what is it now.

his arm in a sling.
a patch on one eye.

he coughs, then spits.

rough weekend, he says.
smelling of rye.

do you have a light, he asks,
pulling a lucky
strike out.

weekends are tough, thank
god it's Monday.

Easter at Home

she used to set out the good china
for this holy day.

set the table
so that martha stewart would be proud.

the cloth pressed and neat,
the edges smoothed,

flowers in crystal vases.
silverware, correctly
positioned. candles would be lit.

the house would be clean.
the food cooked
from her favorite
recipes.

it was a feast. a meal fit for
a king and queen.

it was all perfect, the trouble
and darkness of her
life, of the hell she
lived in
and brought to the house
was hidden and unseen.

the wedding party

the wedding
is much like many weddings.

the bride in white, the groom in
his dark suit,
the cake, the band.
the relatives tired from
their long flights.

but there is joy.
smiles and laughter.
children, like bees set about.

dancing, drinking, eating.
the swirl of new hope
that love has been found.

the music plays on deep into
the night.

we dance in one another's arms.
around and around.

it's a good party, a good wedding.
there is a prayer
that blessings will be upon
them. that they will love one
another
be faithful, and always kiss
at the end of a day,
goodnight.

out of the fog

we rise out of the fog,
slowly,
the thick grey
air
that swamps the land
we walk on.
no light, no sense of
direction.
it takes time, to find
our way through.
it's confusing, unnerving,
to believe one thing
but know
that the truth is
something else.
the cognitive dissonance
makes us dizzy.
what is real, what isn't.
slowly and carefully
we find our way through.
touching the ground,
the trees with our hands.
finding the path
back to light, out
of the fog, at last.

losing the will to live

be attached to nothing,
the swami says,
the guru says, Jesus says.
my therapist, Lee, says.
I even say it to myself.

I agree in the lesson of letting go,
to surrendering
all things, having no attachments,
they cause pain,

but I really love this black sweater
I wear nearly every other
day when winter comes.

it's so soft and warm and goes with
nearly everything.

if something happened to it,
if a dog chewed it up, or bleach
got on it,
I don't know what i'd do.

I may lose my will to live, especially
if Lord and Taylor's
stops carrying it
on the floor.

We Had Nothing In Common

we had nothing in common.

nothing.

some love, some affection, but
most of it was
unreal.

fake, imagined.

her charm and wit seduced me.
fatal
kisses.
sex. a warm embrace.

it was toxic from the start.
and stayed
that way
until the very end.

I still see her face
at night her
blank
stare. i
hear the lies that fell
from her mouth
so easily.

the deception and betrayal
so prevalent
and now so clear.

we had nothing in common,
but I closed my eyes and dove
into
a living hell.

so long ago

the pale light of late day
softens
our face,
the violet
glow of a long September
sun
stripes us in yellow
and shadow.
we want to bottle these times.
catch them
in a glass jar,
save them for when things
are not so good,
when love
and peace are nowhere near,
but left
someplace in the past,
someplace
so long ago and very far.

come clean

are we on stage.
actors.
are we pretending to be who
we want to be
to make others like us,
hiding what lies below
the surface
of our clothes,
our skin, our smile
or frown.
do we ever come clean and show
the world
the truth about
who we really are,
is it all just a game,
moving pieces around?
will that truth set us free?
at what point do we say,
this is me,
love me the way I am,
for who I really am,
for better or worse,
or pack your bags
and leave.

leave the leaves

she worries about the leaves
in her yard,
on the driveway, the deck.
on the roof.
don't worry about them, I tell
her.
leave them alone,
they worked so hard all year
to become green, but
now they're old.
let them rest for awhile.
they're so beautiful
in death, ruby reds,
burnt orange and gold.

be home by ten

i crawl under the old chevy
to turn
a screw to let the hot black
oil
drip into the pan.
it's 1978 and i'm trying to
save a buck or two.
i pour in the 4 quarts
of quaker state
after twisting off the filter
and replacing it
with one that's new.
i adjust the points with
a match book cover,
screw in some new spark
plugs.
i wash the car next.
rub a coat of turtle wax
into it's dark blue skin.
it's Saturday morning
and I've got a date at 8.
plenty of time to put
air into the tires,
get a haircut and go to
the bank.
when i pull in front of her
house to pick her up,
her father will look out
the window at the rumbling
car, clean as a whistle,
and shake his head.
he can probably smell my
after shave from where he
sits. he'll
be worried, as he should be,
and will tell his daughter
to be home by ten.
midnight, dad,
midnight she says.

one door closes

one by one
each light dims then flickers
then dies.

no matter how strong
the flame,
the memory,
there is only so much
light
they can give before going
dark again.

but in their absence
there is room now for more.
for new
memories to occur.
for new love to find its
way in
through a different door.

a better road

the sun sparkles
against the road on this sunday
morning.

glimmers like a path of diamonds.
I listen to an old
song
on the radio.

I know every word by heart
and sing along.

i've been down many roads on
many of different mornings, but
I like this one more than the others.

it's peaceful and serene.

it's hard to explain, but it's
better than the rest.

before it melts

take this with you, she says,
at the door
as you pack up to leave.

a slice of apple pie, still warm
from her oven.

the potato, the steak, in halves.
oh,
and the ice cream too.
rush home
so that it doesn't melt.

then she blows a kiss out the window.

pumpkin time

it's pumpkin time.

forty five days before Halloween.

pumpkin candy, cake and pie.
pumpkin
latte,
pumpkin wine, pumpkin
soup,
pumpkins in the window
on the porch
carved
in a scary design.
pumpkins are everywhere,
they're falling
from the sky.

wake me when it's over.

proof is in the pudding

the proof is in the pudding.
they say.

and what exactly does that mean.

what pudding are we talking about here?
tapioca?
rice, chocolate.

it's pudding or it isn't. what's the mystery
here.

milk, sugar, maybe an egg, stirred
and left creamy
almost like a sauce, but a tad
harder.

best served cold.

we need more information for this cliché
before it's used again.

bring it inside

i hear laughter out
on the sidewalk. the husband and wife
with the two kids.
something said
by someone has made them
laugh.
i see the sun in their eyes,
they shake their heads and smile
as the laughter
subsides.
i open the window and tell
him not to stop, in fact bring
here, bring it on inside.

no stamps

the check is late in coming.

months late.

it's not much money, but still payment due.
I text and call,
leaving one message after the other.

finally he calls me back.
sorry, he says. I've looked everywhere
in the house and I don't have any
stamps. my wife even checked her purse.

where do you get stamps these days?

I tell him the post office or any grocery
store, but no worries, i'll send him some
with a self addressed envelope,
to make it easier.

thanks, he says. life is so complicated
these days.

get the bum out

he's an idiot, she says, staring at the tv.
watching
cnn switching every now and then to
CNBC.
he's a buffoon in ill fitting suits.
not to mention his dopey children and wife.
he's a tyrant and a bully,
a charlatan, a liar and a narcissistic
creep. how in the world has he become
our president?
he's dragging the world down to a dark
dark dangerous place.
she shakes her head, and rolls her eyes
as he swings his golf club at his
own resort.
he's nero playing the fiddle while
rome burns.
I know I know, I tell her. I used to feel
the same way about Nixon, back in the day.
I said I wouldn't get my hair cut
until he was out of office.
it seems that nothing really changes.

he's changed

he was smart, she says. so smart.
world traveled.
he was loved, and gave love in
return.
he knew everyone, everyone
by name and they in return knew
his.
well respected, liked and admired.

now he sits there, beyond all
that youth, all that once was.
the work done. retirement setting
in.
he sits on the porch and stares
out at the cars going by and
waves.

everything he once was had faded.
the world once so full of color,
vibrant and alive, has turned
to grey. even the children admit
that he's changed.

we need some

we need ice cream.

any flavor, cone or cup.
it reminds us

to enjoy life to its
fullest

before it melts away.