thrown under the bus

good luck, she says in her note
and card,
take care of yourself,
bye bye, she says
and waves before pushing
me out the door.
I roll under the bus,
the wheels crushing
me flatter than a flap jack
at I hop
on a sunday morning.
see ya, don't want to be ya.
adios.
don't let the door hit you
on the way out. I brush my self
off as I get up.
rebutton my torn coat,
find a stick to brace
my broken leg, then
wipe the blood off my face.
oh well, I say, looking down
that long empty road,
here we go again, then put
my thumb out.

i'm walking on sunshine

sometimes a song will creep
into your head
and stick with you the whole
day long,
depending on the day, the mood,
what state of emotional
turmoil or not you are currently in.

yesterday I was singing
I ain't got nobody that I can depend on,
as i was hard at work.

and the day before that was
I can't get no satisfaction.
no need to extrapolate on that.

today I've been humming the beatle's
Yesterday
all day long, and tom wait's
inbetween love.

i'm hoping tomorrow
it's katrina and the wave
with
i'm walking on sunshine. I really
like that song.

out of context

I see my dentist
at the coffee shop.

she's had her hands
full of syringes,
drills
and water pics
putting them
inside my mouth for ten years.

but we don't recognize one another
right away. our meeting is out
of context.

she's not in her white coat,
but wearing a mink stole
and a leopard print pill box hat.
I see her getting out of a chauffeured
limo.

we make eye contact
and then it hits us both at the same
time that we know each other.

I open my mouth widely to give
her a look
at the thousands of dollars
of work she's done,
and she says,

oh, oh, yes. hey, how are you?

the fairy tale

in the fairy tale

the lovers after an emotional trial,
go back
to one another,

they kiss and make up.
they sit together
and talk things out.

they meet in the middle
and become lovers once again,
but better
people for the mistakes
and forgiveness
they've both learned from.

their bond is stronger than it
ever was.
they live happily ever after.
they grow old together
in the comfort of
each other's love
and affection.

in fairy tales,
this happens.

today we look into our phones
and move
on.

i can't eat this meat, it's stringy

it was years ago, but I remember it well.

we went to the West End dinner theater on Duke street,

to see the local theater group's production
of the west side story.

the jets versus the sharks.
who hasn't seen it, or doesn't know many
of the lines by heart.

Puerto Ricans versus the white bread
boys
and girls of the Bronx, or some other
borough of new York city.

leather jackets, stiletto knives,
chains and slicked back hair.
lots of gum chewing.

dinner was served by the performers
in between numbers.
there was a lot of swish going on.
the boys were, well, not quite as menacing
as one would think,
off key,
forgotten lines, impossible to duplicate
the music
and score of leonard Bernstein.

the audience was mostly senior citizens
bused in
from jersey or the eastern shore,
or local
old folk homes. they clapped mildly,
more worried about their
food and drinks.

I remember one man, who was somebody
once upon a time, short
and bald, with a raspy voice who jumped
up in the middle of Maria
and yelled out, I can't eat this meat,
I can't even chew it,
it's stringy, and it's cold too.

to which everyone clapped, but the song
went on. at the break someone brought
him a new plate of meat and mashed
potatoes. I think it was one of the Jets.

throwing the first stone

i feel bad about some things I've
done.

blowing up someone, ratting them out,
letting the world
know who they really are,
but then i think.

they deserve it.

then i think, well, who am i to
toss stones, I've been
equally bad,

no sin being greater than another.

then i look at all the bruises
and cuts,
the bandages around my
head and arms,
my busted heart and torn psyche,

and think, what the hell, why not.
it's your moral duty
to call them out.

it' a dilemma trying
to decide what to do.

sometimes you let them off the hook
while other times,

you know it doesn't matter
what you do,
they will be who they are until
the end of time.

your exposing them will just
be a minor bump
in the road

and off the go, doing what comes
naturally to them.

deceit, corruption, immorality
and lies.

The Secret

into the wee hours

I watch the movie the secret
about the law of attraction.

how we are all vibrating energy
attracting the things
we send out
through thoughts
in waves.

everything you want is there for the asking.
love, money, cars and boats.
houses.

just imagine them and soon
they appear.

I buy into it. I get it. I've
had experiences that
prove it works.

midway through I try to attract
a ham
sandwich.

I visualize it in my head.
I ask
I believe.

today that will come true.
I will go to the Italian store
and receive.

it works.

cats with nine lives

they survive.

no matter how they live their lives,
depending on the kindness
of others,

they have learned
how to land on their two feet.

human cats with nine lives.
full of stealth
and lies.

no matter what they do or say,
how immoral
or corrupt they are,

they find a way, a place
to live in comfort,

to have what they need to get by.

they survive.
somehow, they are forgiven
and allowed
to stay.

they have once more pulled
the wool
over everyone's
eyes.

art worth framing

I start with a blue sky.

taking the brush, dipping it into
the little tub
of blue.

I add some clouds, dabbing white.

then the ocean...some green, some more
blue.
I swish
in some waves.

drop in a gull or two with a fine
brush.

I throw in some rocks along the shore,
then a sailboat
with the sails full of wind.

I stand back and take a look. it's
a mess.
a primitive van gogh
at best.

a ten year old could do better,
but I think i'll have it framed

and hung with others, in the den.

it's in me

she tells me
she's not reading my poetry
anymore.
she's done with it.
this is supposed
to hurt my feelings
i guess.
get in line.
they all say that
at some point, but they
read on
regardless of how much
they despise me
for my lack of attention,
or love,
or regret.
it's all in there, but
i keep it buried. keep
these emotions
locked up.
I've spent it all, it seems.
the tear ducts are dry.
the heart
a soft beat of fatigue.
it's in me, and they know it,
but
like Bukowski's bluebird,
why change course now,
and have people think I've
gone soft.

everywhere is home

some days you can't get to where you're
going.
detours,
traffic, the lights are all red.
but it's okay.
you're in no rush.
you'll get there. there's no one
waiting at the end
of this road.
no one at the door or window.
there's no hot meal
on the table.
no lover waiting in my bed.
so why go fast, why be bothered
with this slow roll home.
this is home.
everywhere is home when you're
alone.

get back up again

after awhile
you stop looking. stop waiting,
stop
thinking too hard about
it all.
you move on.
there are books to read.
movies to watch.
poems to write.
you get your house in order.
your life.
you get tired
of being tired.
you don't even check your phone
anymore,
or your e mail.
and at night, you just lock
the door
and go up
the stairs. there is a whole
other world
out there. it reaches a
point of giving
up and finding someone who
really cares.
it's not how we fall, but how
we rise
and get back up again.

a midnight decision

when we were young
we'd pile into the car at a whim.

and down route 50 we'd go
to the eastern shore.

to ocean city.

we threw our money together for gas
for food.

sleeping bags in the trunk.
no girls.

just boys, still boys even at nineteen.
we had the doors
on the radio.

Dylan.
Hendrix.

we waved and yelled at the girls
in cars going in the same direction as
we were.

we had nothing but hope. nothing but
fun and joy in our hearts.

no jobs, school an afterthought,
but we had each other.

we had the beach, the ocean once
we got there.

and that somehow was more than enough.

it's 2 a.m.

the waitress,
mid life in pink. her hair
up
in a yellow ribbon.
her hips
thick,
her legs once could stop
a clock,
coming or going.
too much lipstick, to much
sauce.
what brings her here
at two a m.
carrying plates of ham and eggs,
scrapple,
and coffee
to the night crowd,
half lit from beer, from wine,
from gin.
the truckers, the cabbies.
she's seen it all.
done it all.
the kids are grown, the husband
run off
with a best friend.
she's working.
she's alive under this silver
moon.
her feet hurt.
her pockets full of change,
and closing time is never
quite around
the bend.

no closed doors

there are no closed doors.

no locks. no bolts. no screws
to keep them shut.

they all swing freely
allowing you to pass
in any direction you want
to go.

the right one is in front of
you,
if you ask
an answer will arrive,

which one to choose, will
then be known.

the smile is gone

when the deal goes down,
things change.
the world is no longer what it once
was.
you see it in the eyes of
others.
they know just enough
to alter the course
of life.
what's hidden is out there
for all the world to see.
the light is on.
the curtain pulled back.
now what, she says. now what.
the deal is down,
there's no longer any
need for all of my masks,
the fake smile is gone.

another tail

like a dog
sometimes you chase your own
tail
around and around
in a circle you go.
it's fun for a while,
but then you get bored
and need someone else
to chase.
another tail.
sorry.

the days are nights

some have no funny bone.

laughter is hard. there is no
joy,
no sense
of humor.

they live in the dark,
weighed down

by chores, by responsibility.
by seriousness
all the time.

the world is hard.
they see no light at the end
of any
tunnel.

it's a cave without joy.
even the days
are nights.

they all can't be winners

I read a line
in brennan's book ruthless trust,

that everyday is not a ten.

and agree wholeheartedly.

such expectations we have,
making each day
a gem,
a polished stone of accomplishments
and growth.

sometimes it's less.
a five,
or even a two at times,

an on occasion a zero, barely
able to catch your breath
and get out of bed.

we want so much out of life.
love and money.
affection.

and the world lets us down
time and time again.

there are no tens, not in days
or people.

take what you get, and surrender
to it.

they all can't be winners.

just wait, you'll see

if you had to explain
to a child
what love is, where would you begin.

what words
could you explain in simple
terms
such a complex
thing.

a feeling, the butterflies,
the joy,
the anticipation,

is it the absence of someone,
or the presence.

is it longing or clinging,
or is it letting
go when
one is no longer
wanting to go on.

is that true love, giving
them a way out.

it's an impossible task
to tell
a child what love is,

so you just say wait,
you'll see.

you ease into it

you ease into it.

this age thing. the minor aches
and pains,

the grabbing of rails
to get up a flight of stairs.

being called sir
and having doors opened for
you.

slowly you rise in the morning,
or from the car
after a long drive.

stretching out those legs,
those tight
once reliable knees.

you laugh at it though.
you remember bounding nearly everywhere,
a step ahead,

impatient to get from
here to there,
brushing by the slower crowd,

and now you let others pass,
you slow
and stop to breathe,

to take in the moment,
realizing how quickly youth
has passed.

blue is a nice color

the boy at the window,
and I say boy,
only because he is so much younger
than I am,
although he may be twenty,
or even older,
but the boy,
making me coffee and taking
the change from my
hand says,
are you painting today?

I nod, yes. I am.
I can see it on your hands,
he says.
on your face.
your hat. you shirt.
I look down and smile.
he tells me that he'll be
painting his room
tomorrow on his day off.

he's getting married, he tells
me in the few minutes
that we have.
she picked out a blue, he
says, and she wants to make
clouds out of white,
like the sky.

blue is a nice color, I tell him.
i'm happy for you.

and I truly am, as I see
the joy and hope in his eyes,
so young, so new to this world
and what it will bring.

I take my coffee from his hand
and drive off.
there is more work to do.

the baker

the man spends his night
at the wide wooden table
making bread.

folding over the dough
into flour.

the sugars go in, butter,
salt, whatever it takes
for things to rise,

he bends to the power
of his hands,
against the white board.

the dust of baking is in his
eyebrows, his nose,
it clouds his hair.

his mind though is elsewhere
as he thinks
about love,
about his children, what
tomorrow might bring,

he wonders about his
life, should there be more
than this.

he slips
into the ovens what he has
molded . onto the hot shelves
where each loaf
hardens and softens
at the same time.

at the end of the night,
he sits.
he stares at the bread ready
for the morning,

when the bell rings
and the patrons come to stare
at glass cases,
at his work, pointing,

but he'll gone by then,
home,
dreaming of how he did
not one thing, but many,
many good things.

feeling at times that
life is more
than fair.

the critic

how generous she was
with her critique, soft on my
unbearable poetry.
the runaway train that it is.

but she said nice things.
encouraging things,
though much it was never her
cup of tea.

she preferred sonnets.
love poems, true love poems.

Emily Dickinson. or even frost
when he wasn't
dark and morbid.
Rilke and Rumi.

which is fine.
but she'd read them line
by line.

my raw boned stuff and smile.
saying cut here,
add this.

but she knew, she knew
deep inside
that i'd never change a bit.

an irish embrace

she was small but fierce,
as the Shakespearean quote
goes.

those crystal green blue
eyes.
the black hair.

the irish freckles splattered
about her pale
face.

that prominent nose.

an odd girl, strange in a delightful
sort of way.

an English teacher
in calvert county.

it wasn't love, it wasn't meant
to be,

but it was fun, interesting
for the length of
its brief

embrace.

good news

you get good news
in the mail.

a kind letter.

hand written, which is the best
of all.

the smudge of ink,
the misspellings,

the punctuation all wrong.

it's wonderful.
it's gold.

you'll fold it neatly back
into the envelope,

you'll keep all life long.

get off the wheel

what you want is on it's way.
ask

believe
receive.

it's that simple.

life is not to endured,
or survived,

but enjoyed and lived
to its fullest.

get out,
get off the wheel
of negativity,
that downward slide,

get off the ride.

it's time to open
your heart,

your eyes.
ask, believe, receive.

there's still time.

the ice scraper

I hear the scrapping
on the windows of cars, and look
out,
the dreaded coat of white
ice
is upon us.
I see people bent
over the hoods of their
running cars,
crunching a plastic
spoon against
the windshield.
good lord, it was eighty last
week
and now this.
I need a new wardrobe
to handle
this sudden weather change.
I have no idea
where my hat is,
my gloves,
my big boots and shovel.
what happened to global
warming?
only six more months til
spring.

ghosting

ghosting is the new way

of breaking up.

just disappear. no word. no mail,
no nothing.

into the wind we all go without
a sound.

it's easier that way.
the coward's way out.

what you thought was real,
is not.

you can put your hand through it.
the apparition
of love
and affection.

nothing drags on. it's the guillotine
the quick hanging.

the chair.

and off you go, another ghost
without a place
or soul
to haunt.

a blue light and knock

it's a dark
bar, a strange unlit place

on king street.

you have to knock to get in.
the blue light
outside the door.

the bartender is more of a scientist.
mixing
his drinks.

with his apron on.
his suspenders.

his well groomed beard
and slicked hair.

it feels like 1899 in there.

there are tubes and flasks,
the ceiling is tin.

the bar a hard carved
slice
of mahogany.

you can hardly see your hand
in front of you
as you sip

your strange drink.
it may be gin. it may be
something else.

but down it goes.
then aspirin.

another gift

it's Christmas
everyday with amazon delivery.

the big white truck
stuffed to the brim
with gifts.

another book, another shirt,
another pair
of shoes,
another something I don't
really need.

from me to me.

thank you. thank you.

two bags left

i have two bags of candy left.

it was a small
bunch of goblins and witches
this year.

i know that if i open them
i'll eat
every last bite sized bar
of chocolate.

and then feel guilty about it,
pinching my
waist to check the damage
done.

so i put them in the freezer
where everything

goes forever, never to be
seen or touched again.

my personal Siberia for leftovers.

the chewing gum solution

I think every kid in school
should chew gum.

it relaxes you.
takes the edge off.

have a can at the front of the room
for disposal
once the flavor falls flat,

or the gum gets too hard
to chew, and the risk
of swallowing it
becomes clear.

spearmint, double bubble,
whatever.

even the teacher should chew
gum.

and then time out could be called
from
all the learning
to blow bubbles.
snapping and popping them
loudly.

it's too stressful all
this teaching and studying.
tests and quizzes,

class after class,
give them gum, I say.
give them gum.

it'll help everyone relax.

revisionist history

after the dust settles,
the chaos
subsides, the wind dies down
and we
finally sit back
and relax, we think about
what happened.

we begin to review
and examine what was said
and done.
we reroll the tape, looking
for clues as to what
went wrong, or right.
what could have been said
differently.
what other roads could have
been taken.

with a fine tooth comb
we sift through
the debris of our life.
the raw reels of it all
are sprawled upon
the floor.

editing and revision will
follow shortly.
it'll still be our story,
but we'll take great pains
in crossing the t's
and dotting the i's.
deleting, and rearranging,
until we get it
right, with everything,
at last, leaning towards
our side.

turning over a new leaf

I look the window
at the maple tree, in glorious
disarray
of colors
and falling leaves

and I think I can do that.

I can turn over a new leaf.
(again)

so I write down all of my
errant ways.
my destructive
patterns of thought
and behavior and truly
decide to change.

to be a better person.

this takes awhile
and a lot of paper
and ink,

but I get it done.

I date it, sign it
and tape it to the wall.

i'm way overdue for
some positive changes,
to take my life in a new
direction,
for these dead leaves
to fall.

the caretaker

the caretaker
of the land, the two houses
where we
lived,
trimmed the hedges,
swept
the pathways,
raked and repaired
the wood,
kept the fences up.
the pool clean.
he was kind and quiet,
efficient
at his job. rarely saying
a word,
just a tip of his beret.
a satchel of wine
around his
neck.
it was in Barcelona
and we were children.
and how surprised we were
when the man
took a burlap bag
full of kittens,
just born, down to the
sea to
drown them.

our addictions

we all have our addictions.

our sugar.
our cake,

our desires that run amuck at time.
whether
food or drink,
affection.

we all need comfort from some source.
through
exercise,
or art, or serial love.
even work or

movies, books, television.
a drug,
or drink.

we need
some sort of escape

to keep us sane, to give
our minds
our hearts a break

from what bothers us,
most
of which started from day
one

in the embrace, or lack
of embrace from
who made us.

turning back the time

how nice to push the clock
back
an hour, to get that
extra
sweet time
for rest, or sleep,
or making love.
but how better life would be
to push
back a year,
or two.
and start fresh with a new
calendar,
a new
day, knowing what
you know now.

black birds on the wire

how simple
their lives are, these black birds.

wings glossed black,
the pointed beaks,
those
perfectly
round eyes, unblinking
at the future,

at the past.
how easy it is for them to
move on.

from tree to limb, from
wire to wire.

no care, no regrets, no
sorrow.

unlike us, they have wings,
carefree
as they glide
away,

no worry as to what's next.

at the end, saying yes

you visit the old folks home.

they are lined in a semi circle
in wheels chairs

and overstuffed couches. you wonder
how they
can up, having sunk in so deep
and for
so many hours in front of
the tv.

one sings.
one cries, one reads.
several have fallen asleep.

you ask each one if they have
any regrets,
what they would have done differently
if they had
another life to live,

they all say yes, then look off
into some distance
you'd rather not know about.

you don't want to be one of them,
at the end,
saying
yes.

all in it together

three brother
and three sisters, most
of them
in the wind, doing their thing.

hardly a word comes back
or goes out to any of them.

I remember how we lived
as children,
stuffed into a small duplex
house

off the beaten track.

one bathroom. the absent father,
the panicked mother.

we didn't think much of it.
the poverty,
the lack of space
or privacy.

we were all in it together,
surviving on the good
will of the church
and neighbors,

at peace
for the most part,

strange how good things
come to an end.

thank you thomas edison

I want to thank you
Thomas Edison
and other inventors
for providing us with light,
for telephones, for running water,
for toilets
that flush,
for buildings
with elevators, and blankets
that keep us warm
at night.
thank you world for
milk in a carton,
meat
and eggs
ready to go.
for figuring out how to squeeze
a grape
and make wine.
for fountain pens.
thanks to all those before
us with
their crafty ideas
on how to
build, how to make this
a livable world. how they must have
been up all night
figuring these things out.
tossing and turning.
thank you for glass,
for steel, for
the printing press,
another great idea, and
polyester, vinyl,
plastic. cotton sheets,
never iron shirts.
the medicine
that keeps us alive,
keeps us sane, keeps
up on our own two feet.
the cars, the boats, the trains,
everything that
rolls.
the wheel. thank you so
much for the wheel.
and let's not forget fire.
good lord. fire.
i'm not sure what I would
have done
in a world without fire.

my feet are cold

my feet are cold.

not wanting to go out into
this wilderness
again.

I look at the snow on the ground.
the ice
hanging on the trees.

the sky steel blue.

the world is sharpened
like a knife
in this weather.

the wind cuts and cuts
until
we bleed.

my feet are cold, do I
really want
to go out into this wilderness
once more.

is there really anything
out there

that I need?

the circle

is life a circle?

I hope not.
I really don't want to start all
over again
and end up

where I was a year ago.

i'd prefer
a different shape or form.

not a square, or rectangle,
or triangle.

something open ended perhaps.

a straight line
would do it, or a graph

showing the ups and downs,
with no ending

as zigs and zags about.

i miss a mirage

I miss her.
not who she really was,
but the mirage of her.

the hope and beauty that our
minds conceive.

I miss everyone.
the friends who have passed on.
I miss
what was, what was imagined.

I miss love.
even the fakery of love, the
false, the faux.
the imaginary love.

I miss
knowing, I miss not knowing.
I miss it all.

what I thought it was,
what it wasn't.

I miss what I wanted life
to be, but wasn't. romanticizing
wrongly so much.

I miss it all.
despite knowing it wasn't
true.

it wasn't true, and never
would be.

it's all the same
in the long run.

I miss who I wanted her to be.
but most of all
I miss you,
especially you,

that you can believe.

young couple at the bar

you see them at the bar.
a young couple, married for a while.
her ring is thick with
diamonds, the glare and glow
obvious
as she holds her phone in her hand.
staring into its abyss.
and the husband,
too, looking into his,
there is food in front of them,
plates,
dishes, and glasses forks and knives
but they are a million miles away.
there was once love there.
romance, talking.
listening, staring into one another's
eyes and wondering
about the night ahead,
the romance, the seduction, the craving
for love, for acceptance,
for sex.
and now this.
at the bar, filling a Friday night with
what.
with ambivalence, the hunt over,
the game up.
the years ahead,
a desert, an ocean, a drowning
of what was.

love advice from pete

my therapist
who is also my bartender,
pete,
is quite generous with his advice.
he puts an ice
cold apple martini on the bar,
slice of granny smith
apple
on the rim and pushes it towards
me.
go easy, he says, it was a heavy
pour.
I gulp the first sip, and wipe
my mouth with my sleeve.
thanks, I needed that.
so what's up, he says.
wiping the bar off with a rag.
the place is almost empty,
just me and him.
it's almost closing time.
there's an old couple in
the corner making out.
she's taken her teeth out
and set them on the bar,
and he's using his cane to stay
upright in his stool.
ahhh, to be in love, I say to
pete. he laughs and gives me a bowl
of pretzels.
they just met about an hour
ago.
wheel chair convention
at the holiday inn across
the street. she just had
a birthday, 73.
good God, I say, and take another
drink.
just shoot me, I tell him,
if that's me in a few years.
he laughs. I think you said
that to me ten years ago.
no luck out there? some good,
some bad. some horrendous.
mostly catch and release, I
tell him. it's brutal out there.
the herd has definitely thinned,
figuratively speaking, of course.
stop looking he says.
standing in front of me, staring
right into my eyes.
huh? I say. taking another swallow
of my martini.
trust me, he says, stop looking
for awhile. just do this one
thing, and then you'll see
what happens.
I look over at the couple in
the corner, he's got his hand
on her knee, creeping up her plaid
dress and she's tugging on
his yellow necktie. his toupee
has slipped a little, and his
face is red as the exit
sign in the corner.
they going to be okay, I ask pete.
yeah, he says, they'll be fine.
i just had my CPR certification
renewed,
and I have a defibrillator behind
the bar just in case.

love like that

we used to wave
from one window to the next
across the street, the alley,
above
the drug store, ten floors up.
we'd blow a kiss
to one another, but had never
met, not in person.
never a spoken word between us.
no rain or snow could stop our love.
we were silhouettes
in front of the light,
behind a pane of glass. but
this was good enough. true
love in two windows far apart.
nothing could go wrong with
love like that.

a cashew of a girl

we talk on the phone.

don't ask I say as she goes ahead
and asks
anyway.

oh no, she says.
yup.
I reply. yup.

and what about the ex,
that cashew
of a girl.

in the wind, I tell her.
in the wind.

or in an asylum, or jail.

no news is good news,
as the cliché goes.

delete, block, erase, burn
and bury.

cancel my subscription
to cupid
and the love fairy.

cut the cord and don't look
back.

the effervesence

the bottle
has gone flat. the fizz
is gone.
the carbonation has
evaporated
into thin
air.
the taste is blah,
the champagne has lost
its fizzle,
its pop, its effervescence
and taste.
time for a new
bottle.
something French this time,
or Italian,
there's little
time to waste.

what you believe

your first love
is your first heartbreak.

it doesn't get easier
from there.

they keep arriving,
like seasons, ever changing,
ever leaving,

but do you stop looking,
stop
wondering where
she is.

do you give up and throw
your hands
in the air,

perhaps you should, but
you don't.
there is something within
you that believes
in miracles,

that believes in the power
of prayer.

a new set of sins

let's talk about forgiveness.

sometimes I can,
many times I can't.

if there is sincerity
in the apology,
remorse regret and a genuine
effort
of being sorry,

well of course.
i'm partially in. forgive
a little,
forget never.

how many times can you allow
a person
to abuse you
again and again.

How do we become Christ,
and turn
the other cheek, how do
we tell ourselves
or others
go and sin no more.

how do we let our guard down?

like st. paul, we realize
how hard it is to
always do what's right.
it's hard
no matter how many times a
week
you go to church
and repeat a prayer.

tomorrow comes again.
a new day.
a new set of excuses.
a new set of sins.

still here

i stand at the mirror
and look
at my wounds, my scars, my
tears
and bumps,
the bruises of life,
of living
this long, of surviving
childhood,
and parents, getting past
another love
gone wrong.
i hold my arms
in the air. i
turn left, then right.
i'm here.
i don't know how,
when so many that I've
loved have passed on,
but i'm still here,
strangely, still here.

small comforts

the cotton new sheets,
blue
as a robin's egg
are soft
and welcoming as I lie
upon them.
small comforts in this world
are necessary.
coffee
and music.
a new book you can't
wait to read.
the quiet of birds.
watching
the stream flow beyond
the fence, the bending
of trees.
a simple kiss,
a hand in hand.
two bodies
curled in the bliss
of love.

codes and passwords

shuffling through
the drawers
in an effort to clean things out
on this
cold Friday
the first of November
I come across a note or two.
codes
and passwords,
all the things she gave me
too late
in the game, trying for
false proof.
it was too late, i'd seen enough,
more than enough
to change the locks
and put her things
in the yard.
she was already done
and through.
it's funny and sad at the same
time.
what we think is love
is often a mirage,
untrue.

the yellow wind

it's an orange, yellow wind
blowing wet
across the lawn, in the air,
the swirl
of leaves,
catching sunlight,
the sparkle of left over
rain.
there is no art,
no poetry
or song
that can ever compare
to what
nature brings upon us,
in
this uncertain world,
after
year.

my left foot

my left foot starts shaking around
a song by al green comes on the radio.
al green.
let's stay together.
I look at my foot and smile.
hey.
what's up, I ask my foot.
it keeps going,
keeping the beat, suddenly my
mouth begins to move
and i'm singing the song.
my hips are moving,
my head begins to dip
and swing side to side.
i'm all over the room.
let's stay together.
i'm suddenly al green, holding
up a water bottle for a mike
and singing to the crowd
to their ooohs and ahhhhs.

there by the grace of God

each corner on the main
roads
of the neighborhood
there's a man
or woman standing or
sitting there with a bucket
and a sign.
sometimes i give, sometimes
i don't.
it's a hard life, i realize.
but most are well
dressed, clean,
heavy with shelter food,
tanned from being outdoors
all day.
i can't imagine
being out there, with life
having reached that
point
of hard luck
and despair,
but one never knows, there
by the grace of God
goes all of us with
a sign a bucket
and a chair at the side of
some road.

bowl on the porch

i put a bowl of candy
on the porch
and let the kids go at it.
taking
as much as they can.
bite sized bars, gum,
the usual sugary
sweets you buy
at every store.
the boys take way more than
their share,
while the girls, polite and demure,
take one,
or two, then go to next
house.
in ten minutes it's all gone.
that was easy.

the last laugh

we put a message
in a bottle and tossed it out
into the sea
after she died.
each writing a personal
note to the deceased.
the waves
brought the bottle back in.
we tried again.
no luck.
I swam out up to my neck
and heaved it
from there.
again, the tide washed
it ashore.
so we gave up. she had
the last laugh
but would have loved
the effort and sentiment.

the past is present

why write about the past
she asks
move on
from that, delete, dispose
erase
what lay behind
you.
but no.
bring it.
carry it until your finished
with what it was
then drop it
and go forward. these are things
we carry.
for better or for worse,
in sickness
and in health,
love, hearts, souls,
the people
we have known.

this is fine for now

I remember a night,
my friends and I after carousing the bars
of Georgetown,
drinking,
dancing, chasing the young
girls
from Marymount,
how we found a diner
on the side of the road.
it was snowing,
we were tired, but thirsty still,
hungry,
defeating the wind,
the cold
in our winter clothes,
Christmas scarves around
our necks.
we found a booth and ordered
eggs and toast,
bacon. juice and coffee,
a thin steak, waffles.
we were lucky.
young still in our twenties.
just out of the gate.
I remember looking
out the window
at the snow, how it gathered
so pristine and white
upon the road.
my friends full of laughter,
the wonder of it all.
I could stay here forever,
I thought,
right here.
who needs what's next.
this is good. this is fine
for now.

don't write

don't write to be loved,
or for money or fame.
don't write
if it's too hard, if the words
don't come
as you hunch over
the keyboard, stop
if you can't think of a thing
that's boiling out
of you.
don't write
to impress, to be read,
to be hailed as
some sort of creative
genius.
throw down the pen if it's
too difficult,
too shallow
and not from the heart.
move on, move on to other
things if you can't find
the words
or the time, or you're too
busy
to even start.
don't write, don't fool
yourself
and waste your time.
it's not for you.
the bookstores yawn with
your kind of writing.
the shelves sag with defeat.
don't write if it's not
like beams of light
emanating from you soul.
don't write.

halloween politics

i buy three bags of candy
for the onslaught of children soon
to come
knocking at the door.
little vampires.
walking pumpkins, devils
and princesses,
goblins and ghosts.
little children dressed
as the president
with big yellow hair and
a mouth that won't
stop flapping,
the scariest costume of all.

before dinner chores

after a grueling hard
physical week of work,
i'd take a trip over the bridge
to visit my mother.
finally saying yes to
the innumerable requests for
dinner. immediately she'd hand
me a list
of chores
there were leaves to rake
before hand,
things to move
about the house,
the king mattress down into
the cellar.
oh and could you
carry in those bags of groceries,
and that new
water heater.
she'd hand me a broom,
the leash to her dog.
give me a dust mop and a
bottle of windex.
I can't reach that window,
the ladder is out back.
oh, and the room needs painting.
and when you're done with
those things,
the oven needs cleaning.
i'd look over at her husband,
sleeping on the couch,
a dead cigar in his mouth
and wonder what's up with that.

back into the wild

back into the sea you go,
back into
the wild.
tossed under the bus
and over
the side
of a relationship gone
south.
the water is cold, dark,
the woods
deep and endless.
the profiles are pieces
of chocolate,
not all with creamy
fillings to your liking.
there is catch and release,
bite and spit out.
it's a wacky
world we're living in.
but what are the options,
mars,
venus, both too far
away.
so it's small talk,
and calamari.
drinks and pats on the back,
luke warm
hand shakes,
kisses on the cheek.
it's a nightmare,
but I guess i'm back.

the hopscotch kids

the kid
next door draws a bunch
of squares
on the sidewalk
with a stick of white chalk,
then gets a game of hopscotch
going
with a bunch of her
little buddies.
i'm sitting on the porch
with a beer
and a book,
stretching my legs out,
letting the sun
careen off my face.
the dad is out there with
them, the mom too,
holding the next baby
in her arms. they
keep the game
under control,
dampening the screaming,
keeping score.
it's a wonderful thing
to be a kid
playing hopscotch
and not worrying about
tomorrow.
a truly glorious thing.

splendid isolation

I try not to join any clubs,
groups,
meet ups,
gatherings of those
with similar interests.
no group therapy, or dance classes,
or spin classes,
or running groups.
I don't want to sing in
a choir,
or go to a bible study,
or make pancakes
on sunday morning with
the men's group.
or attend a writing class
and have
things analyzed
and torn to shreds.
I actually try to stay away from
most of my family.
or the family of others who
get under my skin.
it's not a good trend, what i'm
doing here.
but at this age I truly
don't give a damn.
I've paid my dues doing all
the things I don't
want to do.
I just can't do small talk
anymore with a bunch
of fools.
spare me. and trust me, I know
it's not cool.

waiting on my number

floundering in my late teens,
with long hair, and a solid
three years of community
college under my belt,
I pondered
the idea
of joining the navy

so that I wouldn't get drafted
into the army
and have to go to Vietnam
and kill be people.

I had nothing against them
yellow men, as Cassius Clay
once said.

the bell bottoms and snappy
white hats
somehow appealed to me.

join the navy, see the world.

being on a ship for months
on end
with a bunch of animal men,
well,
that didn't sit well with my
tender sensibilities.

no windows. are we there yet?

would I have to
get a tattoo
on my arm, saying mom,
or death, or
a skull and cross bones
with angel wings?

would I have to smoke and drink
and do whatever it is
that sailors do?

going wild on liberty looking
for dames
in the dockside bars.

I didn't see a future in the navy,
so I waited
with my fingers crossed
on the draft.

hoping that the war would end
before my number was called.

got lucky with that.

falling in love once more

you dive into a hardback copy
of Charles Bukowski.

The Essential Bukowski.

it's poetry with a hammer
and
nine inch nails
driven into brick and board.

power saws and shovels
cut and bury the world in hard
struck letters
on his manual typewriter.

a lot of blood, blisters,
hard boiled
sentiments
and words.

and then you come across
a poem
called 'bluebird'

slipped into the mix
of drunkenness
and whores,
racetracks and bad luck,

and you fall madly in
love
with poetry once more.

the girls in their summer dresses

i go visit my boy jake,

at the local ICU
facility.

his head is wrapped like a turban
in white gauze.

they've cut him open to stop the bleeding.

his eye is black.
he's grey and brown, bruised,
his leathery skin
is drawn
tight and loose at the same time,

he's immobile, tethered
to the humming machines,

but he's still here.

he laughs when i come in.
i guess you're not working today
i tell him.

no, he says, maybe tomorrow.

the nurse spoons some apple sauce
into his mouth,
then the juice.

i tell him about the job. i can see
in his eyes
that he wants to be out there,
brush in hand.

on a ladder, smoking, cursing,
whistling at girls
walking by in

their summer dresses.

gourmet shopping spree

i take a small loan out

to go shopping at the big new grocery
store down the street,

where everything is fresh, organic
and
wonderful.

so much green to behold,
cabbages were hugged as they came up out of
the ground.

salmon were read to every night
before going to sleep,
and the chickens all
had names like binky and Susie,
jimmy and spike.

the clerks are perky and smart.
each aisle has a bench so that you can sit
and read the labels.
study the ingredients.

how much sugar, how much salt.

fresh fish, thank god, no one wants
old fish,

same goes for meat, or freshly baked
bread.

no, on second thought give me the stale
loaf, i kid the kid in his
starched green apron.

and yes, i did find everything i was looking for,
if i didn't, why
would i be in line?

there will be more

I grab the strap of the train,
riding
through this tunnel, it's gonna
be a bumpy
ride the conductor
says over the garbled
speaker, sounding much like
betty davis
when she hit her crazy
woman stride.
a job falls apart, you get
a dear john letter
in the mail.
someone wants a refund
for work undone.
there's a wet spot on
the ceiling.
it seems, as always, that
many things, good or bad,
happen at once.
I grab the strap and hold on.
I've been around this bend
before, and expect before
it's all over that times
like this, with rain and wind,
defeat and sorrow, well,
there will be more.

cat lady

lonely for love,
she started with one cat,
but one soon became two, it seemed
only kind
and natural to give
the one a friend to spend
the day with,
the night time too.
soon, though, three cats
were there,
then four, and when the fourth
had kittens,
well there was little
to be done,
but tell no one, and shut
the door.

almost a moon

it's almost a moon.

a piece missing. such is the sky
at night.
the spin of the earth,

the sun too.
all things are not always aligned
the way
you want them to be.

it's almost a moon.
look up.
see.

stay calm, breathe

how do we handle
traffic,
the long line, the loss
of power,
the middle seats in
life.
the small inconveniences
like rain
when you wanted sun,
a broken lace,
a loose thread,
someone forgetting your
name,
taking your space,
wrongly thinking that you
are to blame.
how do we overcome these slights?
we don't,
we exhale and move on
without a thought
to what they may or may
not mean.
move on, stay calm.
breathe.

the father son talk

i call my father for advice
in the love department,
which is a crazy idea to start
with, knowing his track record.
he quickly changes the subject
to baseball though, saving us
an awkward and pointless
conversation. we talk best when
nothing really gets said.
the weather, sports, his garden.
the price of milk, bread and eggs.
gas is two thirty nine for regular
he tells me before hanging up.
how's it up where you live?

practice

I put a turkey in the oven.

a small bird.
throw some potatoes into a pot
of boiling water.

corn.
beans.
sprouts.

gravy of course and stuffing.
cranberries.

bread. red wine. sparkling water.

it's a practice run for the holiday.
need to get it right
this time.

practice makes perfect.

make it cold

anxious
for cold weather. I stack
the cords
of wood for the fireplace
near the door.

the chill is late in arriving.
i'm ready though
to be snowed in.

for a deep freeze. a killing
frost.

i'm ready for the ice
to cover the roads.
ready to bundle up and let

all that's behind me sink in.
i'm ready for comfort food,
for the furnace,
the hot burn of the fireplace.

the hot drinks.
the blankets pulled tight.

bring it on, father winter.
bring it on,
make it snow. cover the earth.
cover it whole.

make it cold.
then start life in april
all over again.

down shirley highway

we would dive for copper
pennies
in the deep end of the airman's pool
on base
at Bolling,
down Shirley Highway, or
South Capitol street,
depending on how brave we were
on our bikes,
weather and parents
permitting.
we had our military id's,
and a pocket full
of change for sodas
and hot dogs
at the concession stand.
we were not brave boys
or girls who
who traveled those roads
in southeast dc, but
we were young and strong,
innocent and naïve.
we would dive for pennies
in the clean blue water
of the pool.
lined in black, the ropes
for those swimming
doing laps.
down we would go off the side,
like skinny white
tadpoles,
diving, diving to the bottom
where the steel drain was,
our eyes blurred with chlorine,
red and stinging,
our ears popping from
the pressure.
we were tanned and burned,
lean. we through ourselves
into
cannonballs off the low dive,
the music over the loudspeaker,
sixties pop, the smell of coconut
butter,
the girls in modest bikinis,
the lifeguard with his whistle
keeping us between
the lines.
life was wonderful,
and it felt like it would
never end,
it seems now like a distant
impossible dream.

different woods

i go for a walk into the woods.

no, not those woods with the infamous
heart carved in the tree
woods.

where my ex and her married boyfriend
would rendezvous
and hold hands like
children
hiding from everyone.

no not those woods. God no.
but a different forest, a different path,
with a different stream
beside it.

i know that the weather will change
soon, and that
the leaves
will eventually give
way.

so today is as good as any to stroll
through
the woods,

quiet and calm.
a peaceful walk on
this drama free day.

reversible belts

I don't trust
anything reversible.

belts, or coats, hats,
gloves.

any type of clothing.
don't tell me I can wear
it inside out
and it's okay.

even
phone calls, when they
reverse the charges.

if you don't have a few quarters,
just write me a letter.

something just doesn't seem
right.

seem kosher.

just make it one way and leave
it at that.

I don't want a brown
and black belt
in one.

give me one or the other.

the lie detector machine

I make a trip down to the old
fbi
building to pick up a few things
that they're throwing away
or selling at dirt cheap
prices.

I have my eye on an old fashioned
lie detector,
the kind with the arm cuff
and the wiggly lines
that
zig zag all over the place
on the scrolling sheets
of paper.

I wished i'd had one of those
a few
years ago,
or thirty years ago, as a
matter of fact.

there's a dozen women
I've dated
or had relationships with
that I would have loved to hook
them up to the machine.

oh, the mistakes I wouldn't
have made.
a few simple questions would
have saved me a lot
of money, heart ache,
jewelry and
flowers, not to mention
scratches down the side of my car.

although the last relationship
would have blown the machine
up and made it catch fire.
you couldn't get the truth
out of her even with her hand
on a bible.
she was allergic to the truth.
still is.

let's get this work day started, yo

at some point i'll get to work.

feeling lazy.

lethargic. maybe this double espresso
will help.

I look into my phone.
nothing.

I got nothing. no sweet good mornings.
I love you,
I miss you can't wait to kiss
you.

boy I miss affection.
if my libido ever settles down,
maybe life would be easier.

how much longer can I have the desire
of an eighteen year old?

I think about getting a dog.

then take a cold shower and shake
that idea out of my head.

pants, shirt, socks and shoes.
stuff a few dollars
into my pocket for lunch.

the coffee and cold shower
seem to be working.

off we go.

i hate to complain, but

I get in line at the complaint
department.

the line wraps around the building.

my list of grievances is short,
but strong.

I look over the shoulder of the
woman in front of me.

her list is longer.
I read it quietly while
she continues to write.

illness. betrayal. children,
husbands,
a litany of lies.
sore feet, headaches,
kidney stones,
money issues. adultery,
flat tires, pink eye.

it goes on and on.
I look down at my list
and realize that my life isn't
so bad after all.

I crumble up my little piece
of paper
and toss it in the can.

I feel better already.

stolen

if you leave things
lying around, they may get taken,
stolen,
lifted.

your wallet, your keys,
you car,
left running.

a half a sandwich on the table,
the dog
comes along
and takes it.

there is part of this world
without
a conscience.

they take what they want
without guilt or remorse,
regret.

if you make yourself vulnerable,
open your heart,
the door to your soul,
that too is gone,

taken like a thief in the night.

they just move on, and take more
when no one is looking

and the coast is clear.

the giant rubber eraser

i'd like to take a giant
rubber
eraser
and erase parts of my life away.

yes, I know, childish, foolish,
a ridiculous notion, but

oh the pleasure it would bring
to my psyche
to carve
out a half a dozen knuckle headed
mistakes I've made.

I'd take that eraser and scrub
the words out of my mouth,
actions, behavior,
desires,
crazy notions of love, or anger,
most of the dumb
things I've every had the audacity
to say.

it would have to be a very large
eraser,
so I might need help with it.

come on over, will make it a day.

planning ahead

I make a plan
for the next day. it's not
something I ordinarily do,
but I need to get more organized.

I plan on stopping by the ice
cream store
on the way home from work
tomorrow
and getting a double scoop
of rocky road and mint chip

ice cream on a sugar cone.
I've written this plan out
on a note card.
three by five, blue.
my favorite color.

I've set the card beside my keys
so that I won't forget it
in the morning.

I go to sleep more soundly
now.
my plans for tomorrow all
set
and written in ink.

solitary confinement

I remember those long nights in prison.

on my stiff bed, the thin cold mattress
without a sheet,
a hard sand bag
like pillow for my head.

I remember the stripes of
the iron bars, their shadows
long in the corridor.

the sirens, the beams of searchlights,
the rattle of cans
and the whimpers of those
in the cells beside me.

how we whispered into the night
what we'd do when we got out.

the meals we'd eat, the drinks
we'd pour, the places we'd travel,
the women we'd love.

I remember looking up at the ceiling,
listening to her breathe,
hearing her nightmares
come out of her mouth in small cries,

curled like a cold stone in her own
arms, a foot between us in the same bed,
but a thousand miles away.

I scratched another mark on the wall.
another day, another night
without love, without trust, without
freedom.

more alone than I've ever been
in my life,
married
and stuck behind these bars.

the devil will get his due

we make handshakes
with the devil,
a moments pleasure for a life
time
of grief.
steal the money,
cheat on the test,
marry the pretty girl
and ignore
what's best.
it never turns out the way
you wanted it.
the devil will get his
due, all in good time,
on that you can bet.

i'd really like to know

this
other thing, this other
problem.

this issue,
this mysterious secret,
this cloud,

this dark current,
this undertow,

this quiet storm above,
below.

do all things pass, or
do they
continue on and on and on.

i'd really like to know.

broken

broken laces,
broken
valves broken
windows
broken locks
broken vows.
broken hearts broken
gates,
broken chairs,
broken vases.
busted dreams,
busted
lips, broken noses,
busted hips.
broken shoes, broken
bottles,
broken children,
broken
tools, broken beds,
broken
women, broken men,
broken lives,
broken bread.

the nomad

another move is near.

more boxes. more tape.
more pens
to mark
the places where things
have been

where they'll remain, or
go next.

kitchen, basement, bedroom.

books and dishes. the borrowed,
the rented,
mementos saved from
a distant past.

a new nest is needed, another
bus stop
along the tour
of a disheveled life.

love farming

relationships
form roots, vines...weeds
and flowers.
you never know what might
come up
from under the ground,
fruit
or poison ivy.
lemons,
or oranges.
it's a sweet and sour planting
of seeds
along the way.
each day plowing the earth
of love,
or hate.
we need sun, we need rain,
and sometimes we need
a plow to raise
the field and start all
over again.

waiting on karma

they tell you that anger
and resentment, jealousy,
envy,
etc.
are poisons that harm you,
not the other person
these dark emotions are
directed to.
but there are times when
you can't resist
the hard punch of
revenge, of getting even,
shedding the light
on those with no remorse,
regret or guilt.
they walk through life without
a care, a worry
for the destruction
they leave behind.
they continue on with no one
the wiser.
you grow
tired of biding your time,
waiting on karma
to come around, although
it will, it always does.

the only one at home

tired of being alone.

night after night, she joins a club.
a meetup.

she goes on hikes, sees movies.
knits
and bikes.

she takes a singles cruise,
learns to dance.

she buys another book, loses
weight once more,

new shoes, a new dress, new
hair.

she's tired of being alone.
the grind of it.
the absence of love, of pillow
talk,

of intimacy and joy, of sharing.

she stares into her phone
in desperation, in fear. the world
is a hard place
to live in

when you're the only one at home.

hoping to find an answer

you come up for air
in the black pool of night.

having swum through a myriad
of dreams.

you are wet with fever, with
imagination,
with truth, with lies
barbed
against your skin.

your arms are weary.
legs heavy with fatigue.

your lips are covered in
the brine of salt. your eyes
blurred and red
from the sea.

you have traveled far
and yet have gotten no where
once again.

the light of day and work
will fade what you
went through, and when night
arrives once more,
you'll dive back in,

hoping to find an answer.

sunday fast

i boil some eggs.
six in all.

brown, organic.

three minutes in a black pot
of water.

i run the cold tap over them,
until
they're ready
to be cracked

and peeled.

one for each day of the week,
excluding sunday.

i'll fast when that
day appears.

as usual

let's sleep on it,
she says.

decide things in the morning.

the morning comes.
the afternoon arrives.

the sun sets.

and darkness falls upon
the land.

as usual, nothing
is decided.

the dead quiet

it's deathly quiet.

I pick up the phone, shake it.
no ring,
no sign of life on the outside.

I look out the window to see
if there is a mushroom cloud
in the distance,

but nothing is there.

now word of plague, or
an apocalypse,

no zombie dead walking about.

it's just quiet.

I yell out the window,
but I get nothing in returen.

there's not even
an echo.

no voice coming back.

the dry well

it's a dry well.

the bucket hits the bottom
and sends
up a thud.

no water at the bottom
of this
bricked
encasement.

the stream is done.
the spring
expired.

no love here. no affection.
no desire.

just dirt and dust,
the dry bones of others
who went
down

for a drink and couldn't
make it back up.

there is work to do

it's a yellow flicker
of light, peeking between the clouds.
the cat
senses it too
and goes to the window
to look out.
the birds will
come,
the squirrels will arrive.
everything
taking shelter will
come out of the shadows
and get busy with life,
knowing there is work
to do
before winter comes.

she's come undone

you know that in order
to move
on you have to drive the final
nail
into the coffin
of what was.
it's a necessary evil, self
serving for
sure, but a thing that
must be done.
those in the dark must
have light.
those who have chosen
to live
a life of lies, regardless
of the pain
they cause others,
must
come undone.

ice cream on the other side

my father, with his muscled
shoulders
and tan,
his blonde hair a mass
of unkempt
curls,
and steel blue eyes,
would put us all
in a wooden
boat to row across cape
cod bay.
I keep a picture of him,
in black and white,
of him standing
in the puddled boat,
smiling broadly
with his
five children
that would so easily drown
if the boat
capsized.
I remember the clank of
oars, his deep
breaths, pulling us across
the blue,
as my mother stood on
the shore, feet clenching
the sand, her hand on her mouth.
he promised us ice cream
on the other side.
that's how he lived
his life,
putting all at risk for
a promise
he couldn't keep, but
would often try.

love comes

love comes.

love goes. the seasons change.

take it from nature. it's a lesson right
outside
your window.

in time those trees will fall.
the stream will
overflow,

change course.

your heart will mend.
new love arrives.

we too, will grow old,
and hopefully
learn to let

all things go.

on her broom

I saw the ex the other day
on her broom flying over the lake.

she didn't wave, she seemed ticked.
more angry than most days.
even more depressed, if that's
possible.

she circled around with her
flying monkeys, then
wrote in the sky
with puffs of black smoke,

i'll get you for
this
my pretty.
just wait and see.

her skin was green and there was a
pained look on her
face

as if she had been found out,
or just eaten a bad
egg,

she looked as if
the world had found
her out, that she was
exposed,
that her fake life had been
unmasked,
and at last the truth
to everyone was known.

getting lucky

is it luck,
is it positive thinking,
the law
of attraction,
or are we just bumbling fools
stepping into
the good or bad of what life
puts in front of us.
the energy within goes out
into the universe
and comes back. a reflection
what and who you are.
who we meet,
the jobs we have, where we live,
we bring it on ourselves
it seems.
so maybe it's a lot of things.
spirituality, genetics,
environment, nature
and nurture. and maybe
just maybe, somehow
luck is tied in.

time well spent

when you were a boy
you prayed for no rain.
rain meant
the fields would be soggy,
that the street would be slick.
you'd be stuck inside,
with ball in glove in hand,
face pressed to window,
looking up at the dark
grey sky.
but now.
bring it on.
bring on the rain. the deluge.
keep me in.
there are so many books
yet to read,
so much
to write about, so many movies
to see,
naps to take,
meals to cook, let the clouds
break, let the showers
come. it will be
time well spent.

significant strides

you make significant
strides
in becoming a better person,

but it only last for a day or
two,
then you're back
being what you've been for most
of your life.

half good, half bad, a third
indecisive.

rinse and repeat, clichés
again.

you promise yourself to not write
in the victim
mode,
to leave the harm that others have
done to you alone,

but it's easy and strangely fun
to scratch at old wounds,
pick the scabs, tear at them
and have
the old blood run.

the pendulum of your heart
swings back
and forth
from revenge to apathy,
each
wrestling with one another
for attention. trying
to steer your day.

in time though, you know
that indifference and
good cheer
will eventually win out,
that all of this
insanity will at last be
finished.

off the chain

I like seeing the stray dog,
unkempt
as he zigs through the woods,
across the highway,

the wandering dog without a leash,
a ragged collar
around his neck. his tongue
hanging out.

he's answering to no one.
he's off the chain,
out of the yard,
no longer tied to the tree.

he's not longer
being yelled at to stop barking,
or to get off the couch,
or being sprayed for fleas.

he's on his own.
happy, and looking for true
love, a new bone to chew on,
finally
he has only himself to
please.

turning the other cheek

sometimes you can't
turn the other cheek, you
have
to strike back.

you can't let evil rule
this world and get away with
what they do, leaving a path
of wrecked souls
behind them.

you have to fight.
to give it back as good
as they've given
it to you. give them what
they deserve.

there are times for peace,
times for a truce,
or even retreat.

and then there are other
times,
when you fire up the cannon,
scale the walls
with sword
and flaming arrows,
and attack.

that new car smell

that new car smell.

who doesn't know it, or like
it.

a fresh start with a new set
of wheels.
hardly ten miles on the odometer.

never a flat,
never having left you on
the side of the road.

everything about it, in tact.
no leaks, no dents, or bruises,
no vague past.

she's full of gas,

shining brightly with factory
paint,
a factory wax.

look how clean she is
inside and out. ready for the road,

ready for you to hit the pedal,
and go. it's the best
relationship
you'll ever know.

dead dogs

I remembered visiting
the pet cemetery one fall,
on a day like this.

the graves coated in slick
sleeves
of orange
and yellow leaves.

the dogs and cats all tucked
neatly into
the earth
in their own steel caskets.

we walked along until we came
to hers.
then his.

I looked the other way. even
dead dogs
were getting under my skin.

we're watching you

there's a time
in everyone's life when you
hide
things.
what you read, perhaps, or
write.
or look at,
you keep your private imagination
to yourself,
telling no one,
not your friends, your
wife
your children.
you keep everyone in the dark,
out of fear.
shame, maybe.
caught up in your catholic
upbringing of guilt
upon guilt upon guilt.
you hide even your art.
you mean no harm to anyone,
but you're ordered to not
utter a curse, don't think
those things,
avert your eyes,
stop being human, obey,
and be quiet. get along.
be normal, be kind, be
one of us,
walk the straight and narrow
line, we'll tell you when it's
okay to sing.

to survive

you see it in the grocery
clerks, in their eyes,
the stock boy, the gas
station attendant,
those hanging onto
the straps
of the train, buses.
it's in the stare
of the homeless,
the factory workers,
blackened men
down in
the coal mines, the mills,
on the fishing boats
with their heavy
nets out in the green
sea.
the poor, born poor,
and forever poor,
those in line for a ticket
out,
a lottery number.
the drunks, the whores,
the addicts.
the priests who hear the sins
of others all day.
the strippers on the stage.
the single mother
on the dole, in the long
line at the unemployment door.
it's a stare, a low
flame
of fatigue. of feeling like
the game is up.
weariness set in, with
no way out,
trying to figure out how
they arrived where they are,
when as children
it seemed as if there was no
other way
but to win, not to just
survive.

phone won't charge

i get a piece of something stuck
inside
my phone, the little opening
where i insert
one of a handful of chargers
i have lying around
the house
and in the car.
but i can't get the charger in.
there's a shard of plaster
stuck inside,
or a donut crumb,
or paint, or some bread pudding
i had for lunch
the other day.
could be coffee, or a soda
dried and clogging up
the works.
i'm down to ten per cent.
my life is about to end
as i know it, i'm in a panic,
the phone cost 900 dollars
and it's about to die
an early death,
so i take it in to the phone
shop,
where the guy takes a tooth
pick out
of his mouth and cleans
out the tiny rectangular
opening,
he plugs it in and says,
there you go. you're back in
business.
i shake his hand like a madman,
i give him a giant bear hug,
grateful and happy
for his technical assistance.

the lube job

the guy at the oil
lube
place,
calls me out of the waiting
room.
I can hardly hear him as he yells
out my name over the blaring
tv stuck
near the ceiling in the corner.

i put down my
people magazine with liz taylor
on the front
and get up.
I stare at the brown cold
pitcher of coffee
on an unlit burner, then go out
out to my car
for a diagnosis.

air filters, cabin
filters, oil filters, wipers,
lights,
tires, shocks,
transmission fluid, on and on.
anti-freeze,
wiper fluid.

each part of the car
needs a screw turned,
a bulb replaced. some orifice
topped off.

I don't know how I've been
able to drive around in this two
year old car
for so long.

just oil I tell him.
he shakes his head and sighs.

okay.
it's your car, your life.

a book is moved

a book is moved.

the sofa, the chair.
someone's been here.

the bed is made. the curtains
pulled back.

the bathroom is clean.
there's a hot meal
on the table.

a vase of flowers on the buffet.

a note on the fridge saying
i'll be right back.

I hear music
from the speaker on the shelf.
softly playing
veedon fleece,

van morrison, she knows me
so well.

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.