the old school

they took the old school down.

bulldozed it all away,
the brick, the beams, the walls,
the blackboards,

what was left of chairs,
desks.

they knocked down the stairways
where a first
kiss took place,

where friends
were made, enemies too,

all the cold mornings
getting off the yellow
racket of buses,

the tests, the homework,
that you would
never forget.

the alley between buildings
where cigarettes were
smoked, gone,

where cards were played,
dice rolled,

pints of southern comfort hidden away
in the pockets of
winter coats stuffed into
the metal lockers.

it's a bare lot now.
no fields where we played,
no library
where you fell in love with books,
with words.
no cafeteria where inedible
meals were made.

the teachers, the coaches,
the principles.

each kid that crossed your path,
all gone.

everyone and everything gone.

as the day unfolds

one never knows
what the day will bring.

what will come in the mail.
what call
will ring.

the day is a clean plate
of hours
waiting to be filled.

what will you find out,
what will
be known.

each day a mystery as it slowly
unfolds.

as we shall see

sometimes you need to come clean
and get things off your chest.

you need to pull the curtain back
and see who is behind
there, pulling the levers, punching
the buttons, lighting
up your life with lies or truth.

indeed, the truth will set you
free, but we are so afraid of it.
so afraid of what others will think.
of losing someone
you think you need.

some live a life of charm, hiding
who they really are forever,

pretending to be who they never
have been, it's all a charade.
some get away with it. some
don't, as we shall see.

which is it

do we create
the life we live, or is
it destiny,
fate, an unstoppable
set of circumstances
already set in stone.
is God's hand involved,
or are we
free
to choose the mistakes
we make
alone.
which is it
that makes us who we
are, nurture
or nature,
or a combination of
both, even in death
will we ever know?

and in the end

we speak of karma.

of the universe paying back what one
deserves.

a wrong for a wrong.

in the end we all get what's coming to us,
whether good
or bad.

sometimes it seems like it never comes,
but it will,

what's done will be undone,
we'll get
what we deserve.

no need for wishes

it's birthday for pops.

another one in a long line of birthdays.
the family gathers
around with cards
and gifts.

a cake with 79 candles.
make a wish, they all say, and he smiles.

hunched over,
he huffs and puffs
and blows out as many as he can.

life is good, even at this ripe old
age,
limping towards home
with a bad heart
and no money.

what he doesn't know, can't
hurt him. the secret still safe
for now.

he thinks
his prayers have been answered.
no need for wishes.
good luck with what you got
back.

it's too early

it's too early.

I really want to go back to bed.
but no.

work awaits.
coffee, another cold shower to wake
me up.

clothes, put the key under
the mat
for the maid.

leave out her money.

what i'd like to do is go back to sleep.
up too late
watching
a game.

reading, pondering. in eight
hours
i'll be back though to
start it all over again.

he makes another day

he's near the end.

he's dark,
the color of wet leather.

he can hardly get up from the floor,
or get down again.

brush in his hand.

weary, his eyes yellow.
his breath warm
and foul.

a pack of luckys in his pocket.
a can
of beer
waiting for him
at the end of the day.

he talks of another round of chemo.

talks of linda.
how he might be in love with her.

he talks about making love to her.
he's dreaming.

he talks about his son in prison.
the hundred dollars
he gave him
for the commissary. he's

day dreaming.
he's dragging, but wants to keep
at it.

keep working. what else is there
to do.
so I let him.

he makes I through another day
and I drop him
off in the rain
at the shelter.

no place like home

I click my high top
chuck
taylors together
three times and repeat

there's no place like home
there's no place like home
there's no place like home.

and suddenly i'm there.

I think of all the places I've
lived.

beat up one bedroom apartments.
sharing a room
in a flat roof duplex in the hood
of oxon hill.

renting townhouses.
apartments with roaches,
with mice.
with noisy drunken neighbors
above.

I've lived in places
where people have jimmied the locks,
trying to get in.

where the car has been keyed,
where the newspapers have been stolen.

fires, floods, the walls as thin
as paper.
busted ovens, rusted water in the sink.
noisy places
with the trash room
in the hall.

I've been next to the railroad yards
and heard the trains roar by,
rattling every dish in the place.

I've been
next to the racetrack and listened
to the call of the harnessed horses
as they circled the track.

I've been next to woods where
the homeless kept a fire going, next
to highways.
billboards, gas stations.

I've looked out my window and
seen hookers
plying their trade.

seen the mail man get robbed,
the milk man get laid.

but i'm not there anymore with
the rent going up each year.
new neighbors every six months.
foreclosures, evictions.

cops pounding on the doors
for dead beat dads and drug dealers.

no. i'm here. home at last.
nestled cozy in a house I've
longed for.
brick with wood floors, woods
and stream out back.

there's no place like home.
I think it's time for a nap.

one more game

i used to run.

five miles three times a week,
then four sessions
of basketball
on the other days.

then work, up and down
tall ladders,
but things have changed.

the cartilage is worn
away.
bone on bone.

but I've left nothing on
the table,

no regrets, no wishing i
had run one
more time up the trail,
or played one
more game.

the same holds true for love.
I've given it
my best shot.
no regrets, despite the pain.

no wishing
i had met one more
woman, asking me, why
aren't you kissing me,
whispering my name.

off the track

sometimes the trains
just don't come.

you stand at the station looking
down the tracks,
but there's nothing.

no rumble, no blow of the whistle.

no faces in the window.
no arrivals
or departures.

you look at your watch.
you get tired of waiting on trains,
on people.

so many off the track.

lady at the bus stop

she's in her winter coat
already.

the fur.
the scarf, those leather gloves.

she's old but she ain't dead
yet. two stripes of red upon
her lips.

I see her at the bus stop going
downtown
to shop
for a new dress.

a new hat, perhaps, or just
for a cup
of tea,

to sit and reminisce
about her lovers,
most dead,

to wonder where
all the good times
went.

mind reading

my mind reading ability
has
diminished
over time. I know longer know
what women
want.
or don't want.
perhaps they don't know either
and that's why
the signal is fuzzy
and lost.
I concentrate as hard
as I can
until I feel a migraine
coming on, but
I got nothing, not a beep
or a buzz,
so I stop.

skills

my computer skills
are minimal,
just enough to get me into trouble
online.

to take me places I shouldn't go,
to buy more things
that I really don't need.

email, google, print, save.

create a file.

send, receive, delete.

it's enough though to get me by.

to write
a few of these self
serving poems
which I write for no one
anymore.

just for me.

i've seen the worst

I don't let these dreams
get to me.

they are no worse than the real
life I endured
for a couple of years.

I eat these dreams for breakfast.
monsters,
ghouls,
people breaking in. pffft.

I laugh at these dreams
after what I went through.

is that all you got mr.
subconscious?

falling out of buildings,
drowning, fires,
and bullets. Ha.

bring it on.
I've seen the worst of what
women can do.

dreams got nothing on me.

cold enough for stew

I've made it so many times.
beef stew.

but I look up a recipe just to see
what else I can do,
to add to the mix.
spice it up perhaps.

potatoes, of course go in.
carrots,
onions.

garlic.
pepper and salt, hello.

beef broth
and red wine, pinot noir,
of course.

then there's the meat,
kosher
cubes of kobe beef.

lots of dicing on the big
wooden board.

sipping wine as we go.

braise and boil, soak
and slow
cook on the low burner.

a few hours, don't forget
the loaf
of bread, French
with a crust.

see you at six.

what happens next

as I swing on this
hammock stretched out under
the blue
sky
on a late Monday afternoon
I sigh.
I let out a deep long breath
of relief.
exorcising all pain,
all grief.
I let go.
it's a gentle swing, back
and forth.
to and fro.
it carries my weight well,
between the clouds
and the earth,
I let the past completely
go.
I surrender to what lies
ahead. to the life
I've yet to know.
let's see what happens
next.

the shredder machine

i love my shredder.
that noisy
machine
in the office. it's silver
toothed
mouth devouring
whatever it is i dispose of.
cards and letters.
printed things.
ribbons and bows.
photos.
false memorabilia of
once sentimental things.
how quickly it chews and
spits them out
confetti like.
what was mistakenly
important, is no longer
to be seen.

monday list

it's a long
list of things to do
that I ignored
over the weekend.

paper work. phone calls.

bills.

taking the trash out
to the curb.

dishes in the sink.
clothes in the basket
ready
to go down.

is the bed made, no.
is that spider still in
the house.
yes.

is the water turned
off
before a winter freeze
over takes us. no.

it's on the list.

witches about

are there really witches,

demons, devils,
strange dark evil spirits
that walk
the earth.

those empty souls
that wreck and dishevel
the lives of
others.

I believe there is.

very often you will find
them kneeling
in church,

keeping their brooms
outside,
their dark hearts
hid.

be done with fools

anger is good, for a short while,
it will get
you through
the tough times.

it's there when needed.
but hung
on to too long

will poison you. rob you
of
life.

be done with these fools,
enjoy
the wealth of true
love,

savor the joy you find,

and do not
go gently into that good
night.

three the charm

your best friend dies,
then another, then one more,
three
is that the charm?

how quickly the world disposes
of us,
our youth,
our fashions, our sense
of style.
the words we utter.
our souls.

each to his own
serving of miles.

it means no harm,
this singular orb,
it just
is.
spinning coldly
under a dying sun.

that which fades

the moon slipping
away, ghost like,
as morning rises, the snow
on the ground
losing
its whiteness to the traffic
of foot and wheel
that the day brings,
another night is lost,
slow in its farewell.

why is there such affection
for that which fades.
even false love has her
dark hand upon you.

the infallible gut

what you don't know can't hurt
you,
they say,
but truly, you know in your gut,
your heart
everything, every lie,
every deception and betrayal
is revealed to you
in a different way.
you don't need to hear the words,
or see proof,
your infallible intuition
and mind
tell you all
you need to know about the person
you live with,
you feel it,
she's evil, and now
you must give
her a strong swift
boot.

judgemental

we judge.

we can't help ourselves but
to think
badly, or good of others.

do they lie, cheat, steal?

do they open doors,
or
let them slam into your face.

are they kind,
or mean in what they say
or share.

we can't help but put a robe
on
and strike a gavel
upon
the desk and judge what is
or isn't fair.

and they, in turn,
do likewise.

dead weight

we are ships
and we must save ourselves
first and foremost.

to stay afloat we must throw the dead
weight over
into the sea,
or go down with them.

cruel to be kind, indeed.

some are so called friends, some
are wives,
or husbands, relatives
dark souls
who steal what you eat.

some need a push, or a shove,
and others, well,
the plank
is as good a way as any to
have them
leave.

do we become them

do we become our mothers,

our fathers,
or can we distance ourselves
in time.

despite the fair skin,
the blue eyes.

the hands, the way the shoulders
set, the legs bend,

so many similarities,
this we can't deny.

but what about within, do
we have
to be the same.

can't we better, be kinder,
be more
aware
and compassionate.

or are we stuck with them inside
us, their ill will,
and dark side,
dragging
us down until the end.

how old are you

oh, it's your shoe today.
a blister.

a lace broken.
indigestion, oh no, not
again.

yes, traffic.
yes.
you have the blues.

yes, it's raining.
the market is down.

the milk has spilled.

yes. yes. yes to everything
gone awry.

and why, why now, suddenly
at this age,

is any of this news?
how old are you?

boy on a swing

I see the boy on the swing.

it's not me,
but it could be.

the rusted seat, the squeak
of the chains
as I push
off with my boots,

upward with a crow like
creak.

the sand is brown,
a trough dug out where other
children
have swung,
shoes dragging with each push.

swinging as the sun set,
quietly pondering the bluest
of skies,
the tilt of roof tops,
the chimney with it's ashes,
a darkened plume,

seeing the world as it really is
and isn't, swinging back and forth,
higher and higher,
until at
last we are found.

i should have known

she used to take the butter
off the table,
remove it from the recipe,
salt too,
sugar was nowhere to be found.
she took
the fat right off the steak,
the oil
went out the door.
no seasoning, no flavor,
and certainly no spice,
or fun.
I should have known what
the future held.

the lion and the lamb

I have been a jealous man,
a desperate man,
a man
of anger, of fury,
of hatred.
a roaring lion, a beast
ready to devour
those who block my
path.
I have been all these
men
at one time or another.
but deep inside
i'm soft, there is
a lamb within,
wanting only
love and kindness,
respect and a gentle
person beside me.
I don't want to be this
other man.
i'm split right down
the middle at times.
knowing what's right,
what's wrong, always
trying to get back
on track, trying to cease
the roar
and find the love
I lack.

the mystery box

a package arrives
in the mail. you bring the box in,
set it on
the table.
no return address, no
sign or clue of who it's from.
you shake it,
toss it in the air.
you turn it over and over
again.
you listen to the side
for a tick,
you put it to your nose
for a scent.
it's a brown box, no ribbon
no bow,
no idea who it's from or
where it
came from. it's a mystery
box. you set it in the corner,
unopened,
next to the others.

they are no different

the dog cannot
apologize for what he's chewed
and wrecked,
but you can see the guilt
that he has,
the angst of being caught,
but no remorse, no regret.
I have known
women like that, but
it takes time, and
wisdom to see that
they
and the unconscious
dog are of the same mindset.

desire

you know in your heart
that desire leads to sorrow,
and that sorrow
leads
to more of this,
and then emptiness.
but we plow on, we wait
for rain,
for sun, for the elements
beyond our control
to raise flowers
from the ground,
to bring
some sort of happiness,
yet
received.

someone the complete opposite

my life coach,
jimmy, sits down with me,
a cold beer in his hand, and a lit
cigarette in the other,
okay, okay,
he says, we're on the clock.
what's going on.

i shrug.
women, i say. just that one word,
women.

we might need more than an hour,
he says. get you a beer?

no, i'm good.

so, he says. what do you want in
a woman.
describe to me your ideal
partner,
your soul mate, your dream
come true,
your girl next door.

well, i say, looking out the window.

i like legs.

stop, right there, he says,
blowing smoke rings towards the
ceiling.

i'm talking about the inside.
not just the outside. we all like legs,
and the other parts.
we all want
pretty and shapely. but beyond that,
what kind of woman
do you really want in life.

well, i start again. smart is good.
funny.
a sense of humor.
a good mother to her children if she
has any.

kissing skills.

no. stop right there. the inside,
the inside.

okay, sorry. ummm, well i like
someone who can relax and take it
easy. not too high strung,
or mentally ill, or a liar.

jimmy punches out his cigarette
into the ashtray and finishes his
beer, crushing the can in his hand.

think positive, he says. no one wants
a nut case.

okay, positive....ummm, baking
skills is a plus.
so is compassion and understanding.
loyalty. no criminal record and not on
too many crazy pills.

someone the complete opposite of the last one.

good, good qualities. but don't shoot
too high.

what you need to do is write this all
down, make a list, and use your imagination.
you've heard of the laws of attraction?

yeah. i have.

well, you will attract what you want,
if you put it into your mind.

how long will this take? i don't have
a lot of time. kind of wasted a lot
of it on my last train
wreck of a relationship.

forget that one. an anomaly, an aberration.
she was a looney toon.
sometimes what you're looking for
is right in front of you.

okay. time's up. now go make the list
up and put it under your pillow. read
it every night, and watch the magic
happen.

sarah speaks

I listen to sarah
speaks
on her you tube channel.

she's as clear and concise
as
a bell rung
on a cold winters day.

she's got the low down,
the skinny
on lots of abusive behavior.

most of which she's been
through,
having gone down that road
with many of
disordered, sick
men.

in time i'll discard the whole
lot of these
self help gurus,

a growing community of
narcissistic experts,

but for now, a tune up
every now and then
keeps me from
coming unglued.

her flip side

if you don't come tomorrow
she says,
well then,
don't come at all and i'll find
someone else to
do the work.

she's harsh. mean.
a witch on a broom,
then slams the phone down.

in person though,
she's as sweet
as cotton candy,

as plump and friendly
as a fresh baked apple pie.
my oh my how people
fool you.

the paper moon

we live in a world of paper.

for the news.
for tickets. for legal documents.

books
and magazines.

greeting cards, invitations.

confetti.
it's a paper moon above the stage.

the ink upon them
bringing enlightenment,
or joy,
or sadness.

each page with its own mood.

thin sheets of paper
in our hand. the centuries of them
piling up.

yellowed and saved,
forgotten or burned.

I've done both, but lately more
to the flame
instead of
the safe.

dying in the wind

the old man
with his bad heart,
nearing 80 likes his warm milk
before bed time.

a kiss upon the cheek.

he's bent,
arthritic and cold in this wind
as he rakes
the leaves. waving a crooked
hand
to his crooked neighbor.

he's lost in his mistakes.
his criminal life,
the promise
of youth and fortune have
failed him.

it's sad to see him in his
stolen yard,
grey, barely
able to kneel
and pray
each morning at his pew.

believing that the church will
save him,
but much too late,

as those around him,
his children,
his wife,
patiently wait to
dig his unpaid grave.

i've got milk

I could use a cake.

a nice round two layer affair
with chocolate icing.

I put the cake signal into the sky.

it shines at the end of my
beam, from
my rooftop
onto the clouds.

emergency. come soon,
bring cake.

bring two, one for me,
one for you.

I've got the milk.

run fast, not slow

intuition
is gold. listen to it.
respect what your body, your heart
tells you.

it's the truth.
don't ignore its whispers.
it's the voice of God
saying
no.

pay attention to it,
it will save you a world
of trouble
in the short and long run.

it's all
you need to know.

trust me on this, run fast,
not slow.

i know about cats

the cat slips out the door
and runs into the street.
off she goes
never to be seen again.

it was a house cat.
unaware of what
lies
beyond the door, the couch,
the window sill.

it's tragic.
and saying that there are
a lot more cats in the world
doesn't help
the person who lost the cat.

so you say nothing of the sort.

but in time, another cat
does appear curled in
your bed, warm, purring
safe upon your lap,

you think it's true love
at last,

until she too runs away
and disappears,

then another. the world,
indeed, is full
of cats that disappear
without a trace, cats you
thought you knew but
don't.

I know about cats, they
can't be trusted.

something fun to do

a free day falls into my lap
unexpectedly, what to do?

the lake, the store, coffee, a book
to browse,
a poem or two.

a white plate of hours is ahead of me.

come over and play,
we'll find
something fun to do.

so much is missed

together we row across the inlet.
pushing free
from the brown sand
by the hotel.

our paddles strike softly against
the green
waters
of the atlantic.


pulling us out and towards

an island,
not far off,
reachable for the hour we've been
given.

the gulls fly close and loud
to where we row.

there are fish in the air,
silver stripes arched above
the water.

the plaid backed shells of turtles
dipping heads
as we approach.

so much of life is missed,
so much is ignored.
so many beautiful things are
dismissed,

so often we're too busy with
our rowing, digging
harder with our oars.

the scars to prove it

when someone tells you
who they are,
through words,
through actions, through
lies and
deception.

believe them.

this is what you'll be
dealing with
for the rest of your life
if you don't
escape their spell.

trust me. I know.
I have the scars to prove it.

unforgiven

so much talk
about forgiveness.

forgive, forgive, seventy
times seventy.

but why when there's no
remorse, no
regret no
apology, no change of heart.

instead they keep doing what
they're doing,
but more secretly.

i'm done with forgiveness.

the orange field

I fall asleep
in the lush field of
orange trees,
resting in
the soft furrows of soil,
rich and black.
the oranges
are full
and ripe, thick with the nectar
of juice.
I will sleep here and dream
of love.
of tomorrows, i'll
stay under the stars.
the world will be fresh in
the morning.
life will be right.

a passing thought

I was thinking about taking up
golf
the other day.

it crossed my mind for about
three seconds.

walking the links with my clubs
and friends.
shanking balls into the woods,

strolling the cemetery
grounds,
manicured and green. going
from hole to hole,

checking the lines, the flag
in the wind.

but then I come to my senses
and put that thought to bed.

the sports car thought, the boat,
the beach house, no thanks to
all of them.

into the pink

the sky is a silk
scarf
pink and white, draped
loosely
across the arms of blue.
the sun
sinks, the sun dissolves,
the sun
does whatever it wants
to do.
like me, like you, in
the long run, we pick
and choose
the colors we paint with.
the image we create,
what we want to be true.

cleaning the erasers

i remember busting erasers
out behind
the school, slamming the black
soft pads
free of chalk,
free of numbers,
and history, Columbus
and Lincoln, of
sentences being diagramed,
pounding them against
the redbrick wall,
the clouds of white powder
filling my nose,
my mouth.
punishment for teasing
the girl in front of me,
pulling at her
pig tails,
or tapping a pencil against
her chair.
true love is always hard
to find,
and rarely goes
without some kind of pain
and punishment.

flying high

i had a dream the other day
that i was dunking
a basketball, that i was literally
flying through the air,
effortlessly and dropping
the ball through the hoop.
a fun dream.
in my youth, when i was bone thin
ands strong, i could leap,
but still i could barely
touch the rim, then as time went
on, i could barely touch the
net, and now. dribbling is
a challenge, reaching my shoes
to tie my laces is a victory
of sorts.

a gun to your head

when someone you once
believed in and trusted,
holds
a knife
to your neck, or an
emotional gun
to your head,
you acquiesce, until
you're able to get free,
and get away.
safely.
then the hate and
the resentment sets in.
it's a poison, for sure,
but one that
makes you see the truth
of who you were dealing
with, there is no
forgiveness or love,
and never will be for
them.

the road home

good to be back
on a rainy day, the splash of
it
on the roads, the wet
ribbons
that lead me home.
quickly I disrobe, and turn
the heat up.
I spy the rum cake,
and fix a cup of coffee.
a book, a blanket,
a doze.
what's missing is you
here beside me, snuggled
and spooned
side by side. your long
arms around me.
your heart beating
next to mine.

the anniversary tree

she asks me for the truth,
if I've gone back
to the path,
to the tree
deep in the woods
where I discovered the true nature
of the
so called love of my life,
my devious
and deceitful bride
of a few months, marking

the callous and sick
betrayal
of her with a married man.
leaving him
photos and cards,
valentines and birthday
greetings,

anniversaries, with hearts
and sweet nothings
pinned to the bark
of their anniversary tree,
where he carved
a heart and nailed
a plaque
forever holding the dates
of their adulterous affair.

I tell her no. never again.
I washed my self clean
of the sickness of others.

they deserve the life they live.
i'm thankful to be free.

there's no reason to go back,
let them have their tree, all
seven of the trees they've
carved.
let them have their misery.

a new look

I need a new wardrobe.

a complete do over. change my
look from
the shorts and t shirts,
the ball cap.

that never ending college attire.

new shirts and shoes,
pants
and coats.

maybe even a new styled hat,
one of those Russian
deals.

tall and furry.

something to keep me warm on
those cold
Siberian nights
when i'm out and about with
natasha.

I like the clothes they're
wearing
on peaky blinders.

my new Netflix binge indulgent.

quite spiffy.
maybe i'll go in that direction.

get hip.

the sky is not falling

the sky is not falling, it's
not the end of the world
as we know it.

doomsday has not arrived. so
relax.
have a drink, rest and stay
inside, put your feet up
and breathe.

it's just another day. another
headline,
another blurb or tweet
or message from afar proclaiming
defeat.

not true. it's just another day.

a bug going around

there's a bug going around.

people are sneezing, coughing,
gagging

on the corner, in the shops,
on the street,
on buses and trains,

there's hardly a person walking
by without

a fever, without a shake,
or shiver.

there's a bug going around,
be careful the air you breathe,

whom you come across.

the long flight home

the snow was falling in Denver.

we could see the mountains from the hotel
window.
larger than life.
blue with white peaks.
the thick green of the forest
rising.

the field in front was flat and brown.
we weren't in love,
but this is where we
were
this week,
so far away, so far out of town.

I watched her walk through the field
from the window.
kicking stones. not
looking back. soon she disappeared
in the curtains
of snow falling.

it was a long flight home.

beach food

as the plane
drags the banner slowly through
the sky,
barely above
the blue ocean
we read it to ourselves.
all you can eat,
chicken and fries.
23rd street grease palace.
write that down I tell her.
i'm starving for
a drum stick and a plate
of fries.
no, she says.
plant based tonight, I won't
have you
dying on my time.

the altar of avocados

some don't eat meat.

red meat.
or chicken.
even fish is off the table
for them.

they devour asparagus
and leaf
green lettuce, romaine or
ice berg.

fruit salads.
a grape or two, a banana.

no pasta, no cheese, no bread,
or milk.

they worship and kneel
at the altar
of avocados.

you see them teetering on
the sidewalk,
pale and weak. disoriented.

tilting with light headedness.

gaunt like death warmed over,

but smiling,
and always, and always
so fashionably
thin.

catch and release

we used to fish
down by the bridge, close
to blue plains.
when the herring were
running we
snagged them with three
tiered hooks,
blood worms
for cat
fish, and perch.
the golden grail
of enormous carp,
the rare rock fish that wandered
into the cove
where we sat
on rocks in the warm
summer months of 67.
it was catch and release
back then
as young boys yet to
make mistakes,
or do anything
with our lives
that we would regret.
unlike how it is now,
once more,
once again. catch
and release.

until it's cold

in the dark
I draw a hot bath.

I wait for it to fill
then slip
into the still water.

each muscle melting in the heat.
under I go.

under I go.
savoring the warmth,
the calm of quiet.

not unlike love,
I stay until it's cold,
as usual.

the living dead

the ghosts
are out and about.

the stairs creak.

I can smell them in the air.
the cool
breeze they
travel in.

crowding dreams, pushing,
elbowing into
my thoughts in the middle
of the day.

I see the bones of them,
those blank eyed stares.

I hear their words.

they will haunt me
for a long long time.

as the dead often do.

in the wind

he turns
the screw with his hand,
the tool
slipping into the slot,
around
and around,
until
the plate comes off.

we spend so much of our lives
doing
what we need to do
to get to the end of
the day.
sometimes it's all a blur.
like paper
in the wind, these years
just drifting away.

the wedding ring

i'd rather
run through a forest fire,
jump from a moving
train,
i'd rather walk a tight
rope
between two towers,
or leap
from a jet plane.
i'd rather have someone
stick needles in my eyes, or
wrestle an alligator
or put my head
into a lion's mouth.
i'd rather
dive into a pool
of ice water in
the middle of winter,
or stand naked
under lightning in
the pouring rain,
I'd rather
do almost anything
dangerous in this world,
take any chances
in life, instead of,
once again, insanely.
slipping on a wedding ring.

crossing the pond

the ice is thick
as we carefully cross the pond
in the white dead
of winter,
listening for cracks,
for a fissure
that might make all things
come undone.
how quickly we would sink
into the cold brine,
a bluish green
on this winter night, without
a moon
to guide our way.

christmas lite

Christmas
lite
this year.
a penny for your thoughts.
a sandwich,
a cold
cold beer.
one candle lit.
no tree,
no wrappings,
no carols or holiday cheer,
no wreathe upon
the front door. it's
Christmas lite this year.
but better
than the year
before.

the closed door

sometimes the door slams in your
face,
while other times,
it's pushed slowly closed
and locked behind you. I've seen
many doors open,
and just as many close.
some for good reasons,
and others you just never know.
I used to pound and knock
to get back in,
but not anymore.
I say farewell through
the crack, turn and walk
away, accepting reluctantly
the decision to say no.

go slow

be still
be quiet, let your heart
relax.
say nothing, do nothing.
don't react.
let it all
go, let life become
what it wants
to become
and be a part of that.
tomorrows will appear.
make the day
a good one, go slow.

at the lake

we circle
and circle as dogs do before
lying down.

getting still
in the warm puddle of sun.

how nice
to relax, to feel the warmth
of a fall

day upon your face,
your arms
your chest.

stretched out on a bench
before
the blue
lake.

a welcome destination
away from drama,
away from haste.

not always about love

I was out on my horse the other
day riding the range.
checking out the lower forty.
we galloped along at a fast pace.
through the woods until
it opened into a flat
green plain.
it was a beautiful day.
we went for hours until
we reached the stream that bordered
the land.
then we stopped. we ate, we drank.
we stayed and slept.
we let the moon come out
and guide us home under
a silver band. it's not always
about love.

the math of you

the math of you.

the numbers don't add up.

the decimal point is out of place.
I've added, when
I should have subtracted.

divided when I should have multiplied.

you're a quadratic equation.
a formula
I haven't seen. this is astro
physics,

complex to the point where I
need a white board
and a week of sundays
to try figure you out.

you're an obscure theory
without a fact.

my abacus and slide rule just
don't compute.

chicken dinner

i hear the smoke alarm
go off,
that means the chicken
is ready.
charred just right, not
quite on fire
but close.
i run up the stairs,
and stir the potatoes.
shred some lettuce
into a bowl and pour a glass
of red wine.
dinner is served,
well almost.

forgiveness is hard

I think back to a year ago,
at this time, this same month.

the leaves falling, a chill in the air.

there was no joy in looking forward to
the holidays.

just anxiety and fear.

the brutal hell I was going through
will never be forgotten,
in love with an imaginary woman,
a liar.

sharing a home and life with someone
who was betraying me
with a married man, her lover
of seven years.

each day was worse than the next,
each clue I found was
cruel and harsh.

I was grateful for the help I got,
from friends,
from books, therapy.
a sweet woman who gave me comfort.
all of them telling me to get out.

they saved my life. got me off
my knees. it took time. a lot of time
to see the light, but even now
with this fall wind, the cascade of leaves
it brings it all back,
the sting of it all feels fresh at
times, and the cut will bleed.

forgiveness comes hard, forgetting
even harder.

a little off the top

seems like you're having a mid
life crisis,
my mentor Antonio, my hairstylist,
says. he sees the sad look on my face,
my shoulders hunched.

what's a matter you?
where's my boy?
you just a be going through some
problems, he says, waving his scissors around
in one hand
and a comb in the other.

ah, don't a worry about so much.
women.
pfft. they come, they go.
they're like cats, where can't you
find another cat?

most of the misery and mistakes I've
made in my life
is because of women, I tell
him, while itching my neck
and looking at myself in the big mirror.

he sighs, snipping away at my long
curly locks.

be happy alone, he says, nodding his
head.
be happy alone and then the right one
will appear.

when you get happy alone, tell me.
my sister has a friend. mamma mia.
her name is Victoria.
she's a widow, kids are grown, she
has her own money, her own house.

she has the heart of a saint.
her lasagna alone is enough
to fall in love with her.
I tell her about you. but like I said.
get happy, get healthy, then you
can meet her.

okay. great, I tell him.
just a little off the top,
and trim the eyebrows.

dog with a bone

sometimes you get a thought
or an idea
and like a pit bull with a bone
you can't let go of it
no matter how hard you pull
and try to remove
it.
you chew the hell out of that
bone. that crazy rumination,
gnawing it, grinding on it,
until finally your brain hurts
and you give in, and let
it go. which seems to be the key
to life.
the let it all go and move on.

when the snake bites

she was spoiled to the core.

a bad apple with a worm inside.
dented brown
and soft with rot.

a horrible human being.
a whip in one hand a plate of cookies
in the other.

as phony as a three dollar bill,
as they used to say.

sinister. deceitful. but charming,
insincerity to the nth degree.
ask anyone. but

she couldn't open her mouth
without a lie falling out.

a praying woman. altruistic
and kind,
until you got her behind closed
doors.

then there was hell to pay.
the fangs appeared,
the mask came off
and her true self came out,

suffer and obey.

it took some time to get her
out of my system,
as it does with most poison
when bitten
by a snake.

but I did. thank god, I did.

no plan

when we
worked in the factory
down along the river, we were
happy.

happy to have a job, a paycheck
every other Friday.

the soot filled the air,
singed our lungs, our hands
were never clean,
cuts that never healed.

we never got the grease or
grime out
of ears, our mouths.

we coughed as we ambled
down the gravel road,
through the wired gates
to the pub
where we drank
and chased
the women that wanted
to be chased.

it was hard money. but we were
happy.

we were young and had no plan,
other than
to get paid,
to find love, or something
that resembled love,
and to get out of
this town.

decorating for fall

I put out my glass
pumpkin,

the size of an apple,

onto the window sill.

it's orange and catches
the light
in an amber glow.

I sigh,
and sit back to relax.
i'm done with
my fall

decorating
for another year.

when the river overflowed

the water rises suddenly as the river
overflows.

people are shoeless walking
through the knee deep water.

people take pictures, gather around
to look
at how the river
has risen
and taken the corner, half way
up the block.

there is almost joy in the air,
a festival
of sorts. even the police are happy,
with their orange batons
and lights
flickering.

the energy of something gone awry,
making everyone
wide eyed and
curious, getting close
to where the water rose.

wondering which way now to go.

grey rock

you grow quiet.

grey rock. silent in the storm,
the lingering
but fading storm.

you toss in the towel.
no more words to say, no more
misgivings
or apologies.

you sigh, and move on.
go quiet.

if spoken to you
you answer in clear concise
sentences.

saying just enough to
respond, then move on.

your emotions are numb.
your heart has slowed.
you breathe
just to breath, there is
nothing left to hold.

grey rock.

through the cracks

things begin to slip through
the cracks,
appointments are forgotten.
numbers written in haste
are in the wind.
names and addresses
are blurred.
keys are lost, bills going
unpaid.
birthday cards unsent.
you're not as sharp as you
once were, the world has
softened around you.
in time, you'll get to these
things, but there is
no hurry, and you're
unbothered by the trend.

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.