new love to rise

i walk up to saint Bernadette's
to sit
outside
the small chapel
near the lighted statue
of mary.
there are flowers there.
gifts
of all sorts.
i see an old man on his
knees
near the wall.
praying, tears in his eyes.
i give him room,
walk home. I've
been there too,
sat in the cold
waiting for old love
to heal,
for new love to rise.

love wins out

she caught a cold,
I caught a cold.
we shared Kleenex.
Tylenol.
lemon tea and chicken soup.
we were two bed
bugs in misery.
but it was love. love
over comes nearly every
thing,
or so I've heard,
though yet to see it
happen with me.

the night before

I prepare my self
for black Friday. I line up

all my credit cards
in a row, on the desk

in front of the computer.
I can't think of anything I
really need

but there are so many great sales
going on

there must be something,

a micro wave, a phone, washer
and dryer,
a fourth tv.

I scratch my head and sigh.
but I have all night to think
about it.

the clock is ticking.

the phone call

I put the phone on speaker.

draw a hot bath.

she babbles on and on and on.
every now and then

I pick the phone up and say,
uh uh. yup.

then set it down again.
I take a bath.

I shave.

I relax and read. I can hear
her go on and on and on,

uh uh, I tell her. yup.

I agree.

she has so much to say and it
really doesn't matter
if i'm there or not.

it's a long talk, I don't want
to interrupt
her, she has so many important
things to say.

finally she stops and catches
her breath and says
she has to go.

she has other calls to make.

we'll, nice chatting. we'll
have to talk again soon
i say, before
hanging up.

take care.

when the music stops

I find my old black book,

my go to rolodex
of old flames

that flamed out for one reason
or another.

everyone is gone.
busy.
in love, married, dead,
or have moved
to florida
because they've given up
or grown old.

settled nicely into some senior
home facing the water,
or highway,
or billboard along the road.
rocking and knitting
with a cat in their lap,
or looking up
a soup
recipe on their phone.

one by one, the ones that
can be reached
all say they same thing.
i'm done. i'm shot. I hate men.

the book is tattered.
worn,
frayed at the edges.
stained with coffee and apple
martinis.

calamari grease.

I throw it into the fire
along
with things they left behind.

stockings and heels, negligees,
lotions and creams,
whips and toy guns,

books on tantric, cosmo
magazines. polaroids.

it wasn't the mensa club by any
stretch of the imagination,
more of a circus
troupe on tour, a wild bunch
of women.

but it was fun until the music
stopped, which was a long
time ago.

the massage appointment

i make an appointment

with amber, my massage therapist.
i need a serious
rub down i tell her.

back, legs, the whole works.
i need the full treatment.

it's been a hell of a year,
i tell her,

don't get me started. that wonderful
woman i told you about last year
ended up being
the wicked witch of the east.

more of a cell mate than a soul
mate. someone should drop a house
on her.

so i need some massaging.

use your knees, break out a rolling
pin
if you have to.

every muscle and joint in my
body needs kneading.

make it for two hours, i don't
care what it costs.

who is this, the woman on the other
line says.

this isn't amber, this is sally,
amber doesn't work here anymore,

she booked a few months ago.

she met some dude on the internet
and took off in his van.

took her table and all her massage
oils and candles too.

dang. i tell her. how's your hands,
are you strong?

we need to run some tests

I put a call in to my doctor,
she wants
me to come in for a visit.

I ask her if there will be tea
and cookies.

she's a cold fish, a sturgeon
pulled out of an ice
hole
in the north pole.

she doesn't laugh, she has no
sense
of humor,
her funny bone was removed at some
point in her educated life.

we need to run some tests, she says
in her dead pan voice.

like what? I tell her, thinking
back to when I used to take my
dog, moe, to the vet.

always with the blood work.
500 bucks a pop. he's a dog for
god's sake.

he ate a dead squirrel, or
a few grub worms, that's why
he's throwing up.

give him some pepto bismol
and he'll be as good as new.

I tell this to doc W, who I haven't
seen in five years,
and she says something like,
whatever.

alright, I tell her, let me
cash in some of my retirement money
and wheel it over
to the waiting room.

is noon okay?

stuffed celery

my mother would set out a tray of about
three hundred
olives on the thanksgiving table.

she'd put them in her special olive
dish she picked up for a dollar
at some yard sale.

the olives, black, green etc. were
all stuffed with cream cheese, or something.

you couldn't help but take a handful and
throw them down
while you waited for the turkey to
finish cooking.

there'd be stalks of celery too, cut
in half, lined up neatly on another dish,
also filled with cream cheese.

they'd all be thrown away.

not once in fifty years did i ever see
anyone eating any of the celery she put out.

the olives, yes. the nuts, the candy,
the chips and chocolate covered pretzels
all gone,

the celery, no takers, but it never stopped
her. every year with the celery.

the good deed

i see the mailman
through the window with his heavy
leather bag,

today he has two.
filled to the brim with letters,
cards,
ads.

he's dragging, so i throw on some
clothes and shoes
and got out to ask him if can help.

sure, he says, giving me his
hat and lighting a cigarette.

you take the odds, he says, and
i'll take the evens.

i look at him and say, but i'd
rather have the evens.

he blows smoke into my face, no,
he says.

it's my way or the highway.
well?

oh for god's sake, i tell him,
i'll take the odds,
and start my route.

but i resent it the whole way.
and it's not as much fun as i
thought it would be.

why are all these dogs barking
and trying to get through
the door to bite me?

june and ward

it's a heavy stone
we carry.

strapped to our backs.
making each
step harder than the one before.

childhood
can be a beast when you don't
set that rock down
and let
it roll away.

how often do you hear the words,
my mother
my father
did this or that,

fifty years ago.

if it wasn't for them I wouldn't
be where I am
today.

which can go either way,
I suppose.

there is the rare june and ward
cleaver
out there as well.

milagro

I know I say this all the time,

but I love my maid
milagro.

not love love, but love in the sense
of how
she cleans my house
to a nice pine sol sparkle.

the sheets changed.
the pillows stacked just so.

the kitchen gleaming,
no grease on the stove.

the bathrooms are perfect.
the folded towel.
the new bar of soap.

the fresh clean rug, and that
tub.
oh my that clean white porcelain
tub.

books aligned and placed in rows.

let's go into the basement now.
look how she vacuumed it so nice
into v shaped patterns.

flowers in the vase.
wine glasses on the stand.

the laundry folded. the socks
sorted.
shirts and towels
so neatly
placed in a basket.

milagro, she's gold.

help me, i'm poor again

we all do stupid things,

take my sister for example.
okay,
bad choice.

the list is too long there,
and she
means well.

a very kind heart, though
misguided at times.

but we all have lapses
in judgement.

don't give money to people
who don't have
money.

not the poor and indigent,
the lost
souls,
but those that have worked
their whole
lives
and blew it all on wine
women and song.

or sex drugs and alcohol.

they will recover, they always do.
given time,
given enough ways to dig
their way out of the hole
they've dug
themselves into for the tenth
time.

some people are the proverbial
cat
with nine lives.

and when they're in mid flight
when falling
their hands are out,
begging for help.
I've seen it over and over
and over again.

he used to whistle

he used to whistle
all the time
in his yellow sweater
his silver
gabardines.
his polished wing tips.
no longer working.
retired from the railroad.
AA cleaned him up pretty good.
he loved to whistle
and drive
his big white caddy down
the boulevard.
going to the barber shop for
a shave and a flat top.
he knew everyone's name.
hey sport, he'd say with a smile
when he saw you
coming up the walkway.
he was bing, frank, dean
all wrapped in one.
old school. very old school.
those kind have come
and gone.
I miss him.

night reading

there's beauty
and grace
in silence.
no cross words spoken.
no rolling of eyes.
no resentment,
no betrayal or lies.
just the soft night
light
on a book
as you read and thank
God,
you've come out the other
side.

out of hell

this time last year

I was on the street. the black
wet street.

in another part of town, walking
in the dead of night.

trying to figure out my life, how
I got mixed up

with some crazy nut I met online.
tangled with up vows
and a ring.

insanity to the nth degree.
but I got out somehow, crawled

through the sewer pipe like
andy Dupree. over the fence, out

of Shawshank. finally free.
no cell can hold me now.

naughty or nice

I don't think santa is coming around
this Christmas eve.

just a feeling.

no socks, no books, no stockings
filled
with little treats.

not a gizmo under the tree.
I might get coal. it's been that kind
of a year.

I've even taken down the mistletoe.
no kissing going on here.
that sled has slipped away.

but i'll set out a slice of pie
and a glass of milk

just in case ole nick
changes his mind.

three bottles of wine

i see the small woman in the grocery store.
shuffling
with her cart,
the wheel giving her fits,

but she seems

happy as she lifts a twenty five pound
frozen turkey
into her cart.

ten pounds of red potatoes are in there too.
sweet potatoes.
onions, celery. a bag of sugar.

olives, of different sorts.

bread for stuffing, cranberries.
pies and
vegetables.

her face is blush with tiredness
as she moves on
under the fluorescent lights,
making it all
seem dream like,
this supermarket.

i can see her thinking of gravy,
of who's coming,

who can't make it this time.

she's in her glory, her element.
a purse full of coupons and a long
list
she doesn't really need.

she's been down this road,
these aisles before.

what now, of course, she puts in
a large bag of marshmallows.

then wine, not one, not two but
three
bottles,
others will bring more.

give me some

skin hunger

is everywhere. who doesn't need
the human

touch.

the closeness of another.
who can

live without a hand in yours,
on your shoulder,

surrounding you
in sleep

or in pain.

we all have skin hunger.

babies die from the lack of it.
children fail
before they start,
adults
wither and die

without it.

give me some.

taking a higher road

whether drink
or drugs, or sex, or exercise,
or work,

we find something, or someone
to soothe
our aches.

to alleviate the pain we've
accumulated
after life on earth

hasn't been so great.

we need a fix of some sort,
or we bury our heads
in the sand
and submerge

our troubles, never getting
right,
or healthy.

it's the easy way out, the one
we've always taken,

not the other road, the hard
road,
the path to freedom, free
from the bonds

the mistakes we've made.
it's a difficult way to go,
but it's the only
way.

the gold watch

i look at my gold watch

that the company gave me for my retirement.
i put it to my
ear.

it ticks loudly. it's a fine watch.

i earned it after thirty years
at this desk,

shuffling papers, watching the seasons
change out the window.

there is grey in my hair,
marriages have come and gone.
the children are grown.

the boxes are full of pictures, proving
how wonderful my
life has been.

and now this watch strapped to my wrist.

it's not quite over, this life,
the clock is ticking, but its nearly
at the end.

smoking dopes

i remember when in college
smoking
the wacky weed.

inhaling the smoke, the mary
jane
as we sat around

like dopes, listening to Hendrix,
Joplin
and doors.

it just made me hungry, tired,
paranoid and bored.

an imaginary state of being happy.

i can do that on my own now
without a joint,

those that i knew that still
indulge, have no memory.

wasted still at this old age.
stuck in the past,
with the same music, the same
incurable
needs.

christmas gifts

i used to send books to my father.

but his eyes are bad now. he's done with
books.

he's given up on sweets too.
so no candy, or cakes
are coming in the mail.

meals on wheels has him covered
for food.

so what does he need this Christmas,
his ninety first
on the planet.

perhaps a visit. a loved one
bringing nothing
but a voice, a heart.

just me.

time to move on

i'm done with waiting.

done.

I quit, it's time to move on.
pack the bags,

gas up the car.

get out, have fun,
reboot this life of other's
misery.

waiting, always waiting for
them
to come around.

to be less busy,
less complicated.
more happy.

it's time

to get over it.
they'll never be who you want
them to
be,

and likewise, the same
holds true for you.

the clean slate

the clean slate.
the wiped board, the new white
sheet
of paper.
the sharpened pencil,
the jar
of ink.
a new start, a new way,
a new
beginning.
the rolodex is frayed.
time
for the new,
new love, new work,
a brand
new day.

into thin air

it's not magic,

there is no slight of hand,
no trick
to it.

no abbra cadabra,
no false box,

no mirrors, no smoke.
no
chant or spell,

no lesson learned from
Houdini's bag
of tricks.

people just disappear
when
they're ready.

into thin air.

the apple martini shower

I was in a bar once,

at a table, celebrating someone's
birthday.

a swanky place, with chain
link
curtains,

marble, glass and steel.
blue lights.

the waitresses dressed in leather
skirts and fishnet
stockings.

we all ordered martinis,
the six of us around the table,

and out they came on a teetering
tray
carried by a young waitress
in heels,

wobbling all the way.

when she reached our table,
she tripped
and down

they all came on top of me.
glasses, tray and all,
six apple martinis
on my head, my clothes

onto my lap.

the waitress ran away, screaming,
out the door she went,

down the street, she's probably
still running.

they offered to pay for dry
cleaning, but I said nah, it's okay,
and ordered
another drink.

way behind on the holidays

i'm way behind on my holidays.

i'm still on the fourth of july,

with the flags up, the fireworks
still in the yard,

charred black and tilted in the tall
grass.

I haven't even carved a pumpkin yet.
in fact
it's soft and mushy
on the porch.

i need to run to the store for some
swanson frozen tv dinners.

turkey, before they run out.
then go to the mall for a plastic
tree.

i'm way behind this year
on a lot of things. but i have
an old

ten year bottle of asti spumante
for new years eve.

so i got that night covered.

the relationships

each relationship has been
different
but alike in so many ways.

what's missed?

depends.
conversation. sharing life.

intimacy.

coffee in the morning. tv
late at night.

the presence of love in the room,
in bed.

skin against skin. lips
against lips,

small things. a touch, a smile,
support
and trust.

the life ahead.

but there have been bad ones
too.

tears, a separation,
each
to their own side of the bed.

the cool wordless mornings.
the silence,

the fear and tension that
would fill
the day ahead.

loneliness beyond words,

the worry and anxiety of misplaced
love.
both stuck in quicksand
with no way out.

walking the lake

it's a good day to run.

the winds have stilled. the sky
is blue.

a chill in the air. on days like
this
i'd be at the park
by now,

running.
through the woods, along
the gravel path,

the mud, the wet trees
hanging over.

my lungs would burn,
as my legs churned around each
bend, up
each hill.

forward, ever forward around
the lake.

but times have changed, now
i bend over
for a stick

and walk it, but glad for even
that.

her lingerie

i find another piece
of her lingerie

in my closet. the week i told
her
to get out of my house,

she left behind
a bag of chocolates,

a hand written note of apology,
fake of course,

a bottle of vodka
and lingerie
on a hanger

in the closet that was once
hers. one can see how her
psychotic mind
works,

but now i find another slip
of hers,
a silk black teddy

on the top shelf of my closet,
out of sight for all these months,
a reminder of some dark sort.

she has become gum
stuck to the bottom of my
psyche shoe.

i think about throwing it
in the yard of her ex husband
where she lives now,

next door to her married boyfriend,

but don't. i toss it in the trash.
and wash my hands.

the chocolates however, were delicious.

the bank teller

the guy at the bank, Kamil,
wears a turban, has a long white
beard.
he's normally in lounge wear,
a white robe
or light blue of some sort.

years ago, I was in a bad place,
angry
at something or someone
for some
small thing, it was the heat,
the work,

on my last nerve, going through
a horrific relationship,

but I just lost it and yelled
at Kamil
when he told me
I had to go inside the bank

to take care of my transactions.
he had just started work there
and was cautious.

I said something like
I've been banking here
for fifty years,

and I can't believe this.

the manager came over to the window
and straightened it
all out.

I was embarrassed, felt dumb
and ridiculous. but since then,
we've become friends.

we talk weather and family,
count your change, he says,
smiling.

we've come to know each other

as much as one can with a teller
at the bank, pushing out the metal
drawer for your slips
of paper.

the iron fence between us

as kids
we would take the bus up
to the Atlantic movie
theater
for a three flick matinee,
all day.
and then afterwards
we'd wander further up
south capitol street
to St. Elizabeth's.
the asylum, red stoned
and surrounded by an iron
fence, a guarded gate.
it's where they kept
ezra pound, the poet at
once upon time, and other
distinguished souls.
we'd see the men and women
wandering about, disheveled
and lost
in their own clothes. talking
to themselves, or the sky,
or to trees.
men in suits, women in
their summer dresses, hair
done. shoes, neat and clean
as if their minds were fine.
but they weren't.
we looked in at wonder
at this strange island
of the mentally ill.
our hands curled on the iron
bars that separated us
from them. there was
no laughing, no pointing.
we said little to one another,
taking it all in, but were
deeply affected by what
we saw.
so when my mother was checked
in, I knew what it was,
where she would be.
I prayed it wasn't going
to be her end.

the millionaire

there used to be a television show
called
the millionaire,
the whole plot of the show
was how
a guy would go around
and anonymously
give out a million dollars
to someone who deserved it.
that seems like it would be
fun. but how would you choose.
who gets the dough, who is
deserving of such a gift.
will money make their lives
worse, will they waste it
as so many lottery winners
do, losing friends and family
in the greed driven process.
would you give it to the man
or woman on the corner everyday
with their cardboard sign,
or to someone sick and dying.
would you give it to a kid
wanting to go to college
without a parent to help them.
would you give it to anyone
who has already lived a life
of excess, living beyond their
means daily, accumulating bills
and insurmountable debt.
who gets a million dollars
these days, the church? with all
the shenanigans that go on there.
a hospital, orphans.
how do you know who will put
the money to good use, or abuse
it. you know that the money
won't change character, won't
make anyone more moral,
or caring. it won't change
a thing. so how do you find
someone good, who needs it.
is there anyone good anymore?
it might be a just one episode
if it was made today.
because maybe no one
would be found worthy.

that christmas spirit

you need to get into the Christmas
spirit she says,
spraying whipped cream into her second
glass
of spiked eggnog.
there's a white frothy mustache
on her upper lip
and her eyes are glassy.
come on she says, putting andy
Williams on the stereo.
let's dance. quit being such
a scrooge.
it's the most wonderful time
of the year, she sings along
with smooth andy.
I get up from the couch
in my pajamas and put
the newspaper down. I take
her hand and away we go.
around and around until
she gets dizzy and falls into
the tree, then has to run
to the bathroom where I hear
her groan.

served cold

revenge is best served cold.

they say.

but they say a lot of things you
don't necessarily agree with.

who are they?

but it is a dark sweetness
to finally
have the last word.

even way down the road.

to pull back the curtain, to
show
what's been hidden
for so long.

it's what they fear most,
being found out.

happily you oblige
to set them free and not
a second too late.

more or less

more of this.

less of that. more listening.
less
talking.

more rest.
less being busy.

less worry, more hope.

less stress,
more fun.

less boredom, more
wonder.

more exercise, less
food.

less looking backward,
more forward.

less evil, more
love.

the farmer's market

i go the farmer's market
in the early morning. I've heard
through
the grapevine
that they have tomatoes.
ripe and red, straight from
the farm, hand picked.
god knows i need a good tomato.
i may have bought one once,
last summer.
but they have bread too,
home made by some woman or
man with braids and a peace
sign t-shirt, still living
in the ether world of
Woodstock.
gingerbread, yup.
bricks of it wrapped up
and ready to go.
they have pumpkins too.
and apple cider, real apple
cider, squished in wooden
barrels by blue eyed children
without shoes.
sausages, and cakes.
scarves and bracelets.
it's a festival. it's the sixties
all over again.
i hear someone strumming
a banjo,
and someone else banging on
some bongos. there's
organic carrots, organic lettuce,
organic lambchops, and carob
muffins, freshly baked.
grow a beard, put on a pilgrim
dress. all year long.
it's the best.

the daily horoscope

I used to look at my horoscope

just to see how
my day might go.

what might be around the bend,
what good luck
or bad I was in store for,
after all

it's so scientific.

why not put a gypsy on board too,
with her own

column, her tarot cards
and Ouija board,
her crystal ball,

telling us our fate. it can't
be any worse
than

the real news, though often
even that is
claimed

to be fake.

the soft gloves of leaves

it's as if the sun never rose
on
days like this.

not gloomy in particular, but
a lighter
shade
of blue, nearly white,

the serrated clouds.
the cold sun
hardly up,

dappled between the bare
trees,
the soft gloves of leaves,
orange and yellow,
still hanging on.

it's a non day. a day
with no name,
no signature. nothing
to hang
your hat on,
as they say,

just here, just getting it
over with
in some
casual way.

the dance club

we used to meet at a dance
club
in a hotel around the beltway.

name tags were given out.

there was a long line of senior
citizens,
and younger,

dressed to kill, or casual
as a summer
day.

hair done, cologne dabbed on.
the ballroom
felt like a cruise ship.

the rows of tables,
the food line.

drinks at the bar, then
the music would start and the lights
would go down,

and everyone would look a little
younger,
a little better

as they reached out for a hand
in this shadowy world,
to dance
to a well known song.

just words in the end

i go through the file
and start deleting all the emails

I've sent over the past
few years.

wrenching stuff. brutal words,
pathetic
and crazy. making a case
for myself.

a case for love and truth,

telling the same story over and
over again.

letters sent, printed and folded
into envelopes.

letters left on pillows.
on desks.
letters, to anyone connected
to the pain i was in.

i wrote myself into a cell.
a box of my own take on reality.

thinking heartfelt words could
change someone,
or fix things somehow.

i can't even read them now,
it's like sipping on her poison
once more, so
i just click and off they go,

never to be seen or read again.

words are powerful, mighty swords
but
people are who they are,
and all the words in the world
will not fix them.

all that you wrote, meant nothing
in the end.

so you go on

the scramble for survival is pretty
much over with.

somehow you've
gathered enough to see yourself
to the end.

which is hard to believe at times seeing
where you came from.

the struggle, that particular
struggle has slowed down,
not stopped, but slowed.

it's difficult to imagine life without
structure,
to quit the game and be done.
to be home free

so to speak. to not have a place
to go.

I see the retired souls
wandering around the stores,
or at the parks. throwing bread
to the fat ducks in the lake,

they look shell shocked and weary.
lost,
the spark gone.
their spirit diminished,
like light at the end
of a day.

so you go on, you go on.

fast food

it's an old joke,

one I've told my father a few times
over the years,

but at ninety one,
the memory bank is not what it once
was,

although he could be playing me
and
thinking that I've lost
a few marbles.

but the joke goes like this.

a woman asks her date if he likes
escargot

and he replies, no I prefer
fast food.

my father laughs, I laugh.
he's always been good for a laugh
as long

as you don't dig too deep into
his past.

the tainted well

when the water is tainted
you can't drink it.

you can no longer drop the bucket
into the well
and pull up a fresh clean
drink.

something has died and fallen in.
it's over
for that supply,

no more love, no more quenching
of any thirst.

so it goes with sin.
unforgiven, unforgotten,
repeated
over and over again.

hit the open road

it feels like Friday.
but it's only Thursday. I think
though that
i'll make it my Friday and skip
work tomorrow.
I can do that. not put anything on
the books.
not schedule a single thing to do.
maybe i'll hit the road.
fill the tank, go south, go north.
go where the wind blows.
put some music on and see where I
end up. just go. tell no one,
and hit the open road.

this cat from texas

her name was cat.

she was an old cat, not a cool a cat.
but a nervous
Nellie
kind of cat.

but she liked getting up early
to sit on
her balcony to watch the sun rise.

she told everyone that.

I told her that's wonderful,
take a picture
and send to me. so she did.

she purred, she scratched, she
arched her
back. she wanted more than
a bowl of milk,

with her sexy meow, her yellow
hair,
her green eyes that twinkled
wet in the suns glare,

but I was allergic to cats.

drooling at the ding

you can google anything.
anyone.

dig up their graves, their past.
see where they
are now.

who they're with.
where they live, the cars, the houses
the money
they have.

there is no privacy anymore.
the disease
of social media
is upon us.

we are all infected, staring
sickly
at our phones all day,
anywhere we are.

the garbage man, the doctor,
the man on his boat,
the kid on his bike.
the priest, the prisoner.

the ding. the ding. we are Pavlov's
dog,

drooling at the sound of it.

keep the dopamine coming,
it feels good, give me more.

what do you want

we imagine what we want.

we bring to fruition the thoughts
we linger on.
whether good or bad.

the power of our imagination
bringing life
to what isn't, but will be
given time

and effort.

whether love, or money.
things, ideas.
relationships.
success or failure, expect either
and you will
succeed.

it comes in the way you want
it to be.
it's a law of nature,
and it can't be changed.

we are all subject to its
power,
not unlike the law of gravity.

wake up thinking about it

some days you wake up
thinking about pizza. pepperoni
and sausage,

lots of mozzarella
piping hot, right out of the oven.

(unsure of the word piping)

but a thick crust,
a red sauce bubbling like
lava
out of a lit volcano.

the thought sticks with you
the whole day, your stomach
yearns for it.

gurgles with wanton hunger.

you want it badly.
you lust after a juicy bite.
the nibble, the crunch.

licking the sauce off your hand.

and then there are days
when you wake up
thinking about betty.

and the same scenario
holds true for her.

sex and money

we used to fight
about two things.

sex and money.

there seemed to be not enough
of either
in the relationship
to satisfy one another,

which wasn't true at all,
but when
you make that statement.

well there you go.

you got the ball rolling.

dark afternoon

the shadows are long.

though the grey sky holds no sun.
no warmth
to speak of.

you can hardly breathe in this
thick air
of doubt, this haze
of what now.

but you press on.
up the hill to where you parked.
up the steep
walkway.

one foot after the other.
it's how you've always moved on,
with or without.

the shadows are long,
one belongs to you. a single
silhouette
in a sunless

dark afternoon.

just shoot me now

if I move the chair
over there, i'll be happy, she says.

my decorator insists i'm a red
person,
but I prefer blue,

not baby blue, or robins egg blue,
but a grey blue,

what do you think? you're in a lot
of houses,
working.

I hate this rug, but it was so
expensive
I can't get rid of it,

and that picture on the wall,
my mother painted it,

I can't take it down, she'll
wonder where it is when
she comes over.

I like suede, but not all the time.
do you like it?

and wallpaper, it's coming back
isn't it?

i'd like to paper my ceilings,
maybe a mural
like the Sistine chapel.

that would be spectacular, what
would you charge
for something like that?

good memories

she used to keep
the ashes to her dead dogs
in boxes
on her desk.

good memories.
pictures of her lover
in her purse.

she kept her son's first diaper
in a bin,
along with his first band aid,
and baby shoes.

more good memories.

the key to her ex husbands house.
keep it he
said, when she left him
for the married man
next door.

you might be coming back
one day.

and he was right.
more good memories to be made
for all of them.

where is that wreathe?

i take a vote.

tree or no tree this year?

i say no.
then i say yes.

it's really up to me, but
i can't decide.

a part of me says go for it.
another part
says no way,

it'll just bring back bad memories
from last year
and the year before that.

forget the tree.

just put a string of lights out
on the buffet like
you used to do.

get the snow globe out.
the little reindeers.
that's plenty. maybe throw
a wreathe
on the door.

a few red candles.

where is that wreathe?

she found a way

i understand depression.

my mother had it bad, but with good reason.
a lying no good
husband who cheated on her
with every woman
that crossed his path.

seven kids, no money. one bathroom.
and no way out.
who wouldn't be depressed.

but she did her best to block
it out.

she made doll houses, put puzzles
together.
she knitted until her fingers bled.

i remember her in the garden
swatting away the bees,
gloves on,
avoiding poison ivy,
out there all day
in the wet grass, on her knees.

she found ways to forget, found
ways to remember.

i understand depression.

where i live

it's no fun moving.

I did it three times in five years once.
brutal.

the boxes. the tape.
the packing, wrapping. taking
things off the wall.

clothes, dishes. books.

I've moved twenty three times in my
life.

mostly against my will.
but where I live now is my choice.

the best house I've ever lived in.
surrounded by woods
and water.

a cul d sac. an oasis,
an island.

a good place to have landed
after so much
upheaval.

each chair I picked. each bed,
each
picture on the wall.

each rug, or vase, each drape
each set of blinds.

all chosen by me, self indulgent,
and mine.

going out of business

two for the price of one.

get the third one free.
buy one,
get the second one half price.

everything must go.

going out of business.
relocating.
moving. it's a fire sale.

a smoked damaged, flood sale.
slightly used.
hardly stained.
broken in.

we need the room. our
stocks are full.

under new management.
we aim to please.

drive it away today. no
questions asked.

we want your business.
no credit, no problem.

no salesman will visit your
home.

no refunds, no returns.
one size fits all.

going out of business.

leaving the child behind

we talk about money.

the son and I.

the lack of it, how at thirty
a light goes on.

how we suddenly are awakened to
where we are,
and what must be done

if we're ever to make a go of it.

we talk about money.
children.
love,
marriage. houses.

the beginning a grown up life,
leaving

the child in us behind.

so you wait

she's undecided.

uncertain. feeling unloved,
unwanted.

she wants a new start, a new
beginning.

a do over.

but she can't find the words,
the emotions.

she can't heal her
broken heart.

so you leave her alone, and
wait.

frozen in time

we cling
to those not good for us.

addicted to their gifts,
their charms,

their love
bombing. all doing their job
in keeping
us high,

loaded on a false sense
of security. a feeling of wellness,
ignoring
the sickness each kiss hides.

the future faking, the little
cards
and mints
upon our pillows, the songs
we both
shared,

the places we went.

all part of the plan to keep us
infected,
keep the fever in tact,
keep
us close by, lost and confused,

our identity frozen
and forgotten in some long
ago time. we excuse, we bend,

we listen and accept the lies,
the betrayals,
the deception,

the golden time will come back
soon, we tell our selves.
this craziness is just
an aberration. a temporary set
back,

but it isn't real, it's all a
mirage, this is the life you've
fallen for,
getting out will be hell,

but you will.
you knew it from the beginning
but ignored the obvious tells.

the board members

I see a few of the board members
tarred
and feathered
after the last
community meeting.
feathers are flying all over
the place
and they have a hard
time getting into their cars,
keys
stuck to their hands.
I take it things didn't
go well with last nights
vote concerning
their outrageous
demands.
no, volunteers will not
get paid.
and we will not bow
and call you our royal
highness when
you pass our way.

she can write

she can write.

it's clean, efficient and bright.
no fluff,

no extra,
just right to the point.

the heart.

it's a clear glass of water,
cold
and refreshing going down.

i'll have another,
please.

another short story, another
poem.

read it to me, read
it once more,
out loud.

anchored down

when I worked in an office
a thousand years ago,

I could see that almost everyone
was basically

unhappy with their lives.
side by side,

shoulder against shoulder
heaping
paper onto papers.

it might as well been coal.

I knew I wouldn't be there long.
I wasn't cut
from the same cloth as they were.

my wings were clipped, a caged
bird that wasn't singing,
sorry angelou,

but I stuck it out, did
what I could

to get the job done, earn
my keep.

but it was more about the coffee
break. happy hour.

the picnic, the parties,
the new secretary

that I couldn't wait to meet.

the work meant nothing to me.
a grind
and I could see it in those
around me,

but they had no way out,
no way over the fence, with
children
and families.
mortgages, bills,

life had anchored them down.

all there is

is it all a dream.

this life. these feelings
ever changing.

the world is wrong, the world
is right.

colors fade,
get brighter, loves
are stars imploding,

disappearing in some
distant night.

hard to know what's real
anymore.

do we wake up to it,
or is this
it,

all there is, all there ever
will be.

mystery on top of mystery
forever unsolved.

moe

the dog was a genius.

a mad genius.
an idiot savant if you'd
prefer.

his vision was such that a plane
in sky
was barkable.

television was his nemesis.
whether a real
or a carton cat or dog,
cow, or bird, any image
of an animal
felt his bite.

he'd circle the set
determined to get what was inside.

put him in a locked cage,
he'd find a way out.

he'd chew through wires, cables,
shoes,
purses, hats and gloves.
hungering for some deep
lack
from his childhood, or inbreeding.

he could read minds, knowing
when you were about to head
out.

it was a love hate
relationship. he crazy as a loon,
but brilliant.

I miss his bark, his hogging of
the bed,
his wagging tail and licks,
though not enough
to get another dog,

at least not too soon.

let's just do coffee

I dip a toe
out into the cold.

what to wear?

shorts, perhaps. just
for a run
out to get coffee and a paper.

it's not raining.
the wind has died down.

I see the cars lining up
next door for mass.

the church a stones throw away.

I could slip in and get a dose
of the holy
ghost, but

would the ceiling collapse?
perhaps.

let's just to do coffee.

why are you making so much noise?

she came down into the kitchen
once.
eight o'clock on a sunday morning
and screamed,

what are you doing?
I can't sleep because you're making
so much noise.

I was buttering toast.
making a cup of coffee.

her eyes were bugging out of her head.
she'd be angry for the next
week.
with no words said.

I was dead to her after that awful
incident.

then there was the time
there was a thin coat of ice on
the cars.
which melted as the sun rose,
or was quickly wiped away
with the brush of a hand.

and she screamed and said, my
married boyfriend would have warmed
up my car
and cleaned my windshield for
me. maybe I should go back to him.

maybe you should, I told her, which
sent her off into a rage.
a bomb about to explode.

one snowy afternoon
she saw me looking at her book,
the modern version of the joy of
sex which made
her start crying.
why are you looking at such things,
she said. and I replied.
ummm, it was on the table, and
it's your book, you bought it
and brought it into my house.
just getting some ideas.

she ran upstairs and curled into
a ball on the floor,
in a darkened room
and rocked back and forth for hours
on end, pulling at her hair. moaning.

another time,

I asked her why she kept a photo
of her married boyfriend
in her worn copy of
the bridges of Madison county,
in the nightstand next
to our bed,
a book she had underlined over
and over again, believing her
affair was just like how it was
in the stupid maudlin book.

he's my best friend, she said.

I tore the photo up, which she
quickly replaced with another.
their photos of one another were like
rain drops, endless.

and so it went. you can't argue
or reason with crazy. you want
them to be normal and see how nutty
they are, but they'll never see
the light.

there is no light inside their
dark souls. thank god I escaped.

the bend in the road

the bend in the road
does not
indicate the end
of the road, but if you
don't make the turn,
it can be.
so you slow down,
adjust your speed,
and turn the wheel enough
to alter
direction, as it
should be.
a life without change
is unsafe
at any speed.

the faces

the faces
you have known, have aged.
as
I have.
some, though, are frozen
in time.
death having come
early.
never to grow old.
these lives,
these souls
are vines, that run
up
my tree of life.
forever are we entwined.

charity

the man at the pot
in front of the store has arrived
early.

two weeks before
thanksgiving.

he's wearing a Christmas
costume
of some sort. red with white
trim.

he rings a bell incessantly.
hello.
hello.
hello.

he chants to the open air,
to anyone walking
by
with their lists, their
carts,
their minds
elsewhere.

the ringing never stops.
you drop a dollar
in.

some change. only two
more months
of ringing to go.

the funeral march

the so called honeymoon period
was brief.

I think it lasted a few weeks.

then the orchestra started playing
Beethoven's
funeral march without a break.

suddenly the doors closed.
the sun
went black.

a cold wind swept through
floorboards,
from
the cellar to the attic.

there was much weeping
and gnashing of teeth.

I know i'm being overly dramatic.
but it felt
like that.

peace be with you

occasionally we'd play
the parish of St. Thomas More
in a practice
game of football. we were a rag
tag
bunch from oxon hill.
hardly enough boys to take the field.
the one thirty five pound team
in a scrambled league.
the coaches thought it was
a good idea to play them.
it would toughen us up.
we were in junior high
too small for the varsity.
they'd beat us to a pulp.
smarter, faster, more disciplined.
they seemed to find pleasure
in grinding us into the ground
after going to mass just an hour
before the kickoff.
communion wafers just melted
in their mouths.
their brilliant white uniforms,
with red stripes
and a small red cross emblazoned
on their chest.
there would be nuns on sidelines
with blood thirsty cheers.
priests, sipping from flasks.
high fiving after each blow we'd
take. it was a blood bath.
and in the end, we'd line up
and shake hands,
what was left of us and
listened as one by one they each
said, peace be with you.

let's go to mars, yo

let's go to mars
they say. let's settle
the red planet.

come on, it'll be fun.
expensive as hell, yes, but
hey,
we can take it out of the education
fund.
or siphon it off from
cancer research,
or how to stop global warming.

let's go, they say

completely forgetting that there's
no air,
no water, no
Starbucks there.

don't they realize
that humans will
be inhabiting
this strange red planet.

look around, are we doing a good job
here.
hardly.
what would be different a million
miles away.

are we sending jesus, and ghandi.
mister rogers?

no, we're sending the likes of us.
human, with all our
faults, our prejudices, our
troubles and cares,
our woes.

maybe fix earth first before
wrecking another planet, just a
thought.

mindfulness

apparently to sell a book these days
all you have
to do is put the word
mindfulness in the title.

cooking with mindfulness.
running,
walking, eating, talking.

work.

sleep.
make love with mindfulness.

mow the lawn,
rake the leaves, scrub
the pots and pans.

be in the moment. be in
the now.

empty your mind. still the waters
of your
chattering brain.

be mindful.

whatever.

two cans of whipped cream

I get an early jump
on thanksgiving and buy two big
fat drumsticks.

some stuffing and cranberries too.

it's a preemptive strike
on the big meal.

I take out my cookbook. I can
never get the gravy right.

it's like building a nuclear
reactor. complex.

I ponder a pumpkin pie, but decide
to wait until
I get my stretch waistband pants
from amazon.

and my big sweater too, the one
with reindeers on it,

and snowflake.

I do stock up on whipped cream
though.

you can never have too many
cans
of cold whipped cream
ready to go in the fridge.

sunny side up

I don't like going to the dentist
but I go.
tax time, I dread, the paper work,
but it beats
jail time.
car inspection is painful.
waiters that are too friendly.
baristas
too.
I don't like long lines,
or crowded rooms, big events,
i'd rather be alone.
I don't like needles,
tetanus shots,
flu shots.
any kind of shot where a sharp
needle punctures my skin.
i'm not happy with the weather
when it's too hot
or too cold.
scraping ice or shoveling is
not my thing.
answering the phone these days
is tough.
so is writing an email, or
a letter or sending out a card.
all that writing. stamps
to put on.
loud people. get away.
stingy people.
crass and crude people, out the door.
pea soup, no.
lima beans, or liver. good lord.
carob
or kale? check please.
indian food, or food I've never
eaten before.
forget about it.

the small print of attraction

I've been reading all these
law of attraction books, and how
what we think we attract.

thoughts are things. we put out vibrations
to bring in like vibrations.

which scares me when I think about it.

did I attract that person into my life
with how I thought. yikes.

so I start thinking differently.
erasing all negativity as best I can
with my child like mind.

what do I really want, what kind of
person.
what are her attributes, etc.

tall, short, lean, stout?
smart, sexy, fun and patient?
sure why not.

financially secure, not too messed
up mentally by their childhood
and parents? okay. put that down.

just a small amount of crazy meds.

someone with girl parts, no need
to draw a picture there.
kissing skills, okay, yes to that.

someone with an edge, but not too
edgy, but a little sarcastic.
artsy, creative, a positive thinker
and knows how to bake a cake.

of course I need to work on me
first and clean out the attic,
drop a few pound and do some push
ups, but hey. we're thinking positive
now. no more of that gloom and doom.

let's see what we attract now.
i'm leaving wackadoodle out of the mix.

but then again, happiness should
come first. be happy being alone
should be a priority and then
if God willing, the right person
comes along, so be it.

closing time

it's impossible that another year
is almost over.

how can this be?
where o where did the days and weeks
go.

I look back and try to remember
significant
events, days where something good,
or even
bad occurred that will
be remembered for a long time.

unfortunately most of the memories
in the first four months were
horrible,
with a few good ones sprinkled in
the mix.

once the chain was cut though,
and the dead weight was thrown
overboard, things
did get better, and the sailing
was smoother.

but it's closing time on the year.
and everything must go.

tack the new calendar to the wall.

wring out the old, ring in the new,
or something like that.

breathing is a good thing

my man, my main man at jiffy
lube, Ed,
says
you need a new cabin filter.
he brings it into
the little
cell, called a waiting
room and shakes his head.
there's a leaf
and some dust in it.
ninety dollars, he says.
but you need to breathe,
right?
I think about it for a
second.
then agree, breathing is
a good thing.
put in a clean one, I tell him.
oh and the wipers, they
ain't working too good
are they?
seems to be smearing
the windshield when
you put them on. as your
oil technician I would advise
that you put in
new ones, it would be good
to see where you're going,
wouldn't it.
I put my ten year old
people magazine down
and nod my head yes.
seeing is also a good thing.
thanks, Ed.

too much

it was hard to tell where the sea
left off
and the sky began,
both a soft muted blue
with no separation, no clouds,
a sun rising
against the wet stretch of
sand.
it's not unlike looking at
the stars
at night, when
the radiance of each star
is sharp, a silvery
white.
there seems to be no end
to this,
no end to us, what we are.
you can't wrap your head around
eternity.
it's too much, way too much
to even try to
understand.
you just accept it. accept
the mystery, and go back
to your own small
world, fighting all fears,
all doubts
with faith, if you are
so blessed to have one.

Is that all there is?

somehow the peggy lee song,
is that all there is comes on the radio.

oldies. xm 60's channel.

it was followed by jimi Hendrix
are you experienced.

but I really like the peggy lee song.

it's quite maudlin and ridiculous on
many levels, but
I really like it.
and once I hear it. it sticks in my
head like bubblegum
to my shoe.

if that's all there is my friend,
then let's keep dancing....

I often say that when I pull the last
potato chip
out of a bag,

or when I go for the last slice
of chocolate cake,

or when I tip the bottle of grey
goose and few drops
trickle out,

or when the love of my life turns
out to be
not the love of my life, but some
figment of my fertile
imagination.

that shallow, really?

is that all there is?

i'm thinking of getting that phrase
tattooed to my
arm,
or on my chest.

is that all there is,
after I have the word next removed
by a laser.

I hope no one ever says that to me.
is that all there is,
although,
I think they have.

this one is just right

i ask a woman standing by the stack
of avocados
to help me pick one out.

what makes a good one, i ask her.
she looks
at me like i'm a crazy person,

but sees that i'm basically a
harmless man
pushing a grocery cart around

with nothing but meat and ice
cream in it.

okay, she says, picking one
up. this one is not ready. too
hard. feel it.

i take it from her and nod.
i see. i see, i say, pressing
my fingers against the tough
green skin. it is hard.

she picks up another one, and
this one, too mushy.
i press a finger into it.

oh my i say. very soft.
too mushy.
that can't be good.

the third one, she holds
up to the light and cups it in
her hand. this one, she says.
is just right.

feel that? perfect.

she hands it to me and says.
there you go.

making passionate love

are you done,
she used to say,
when we were
making hot passionate
love.

is that it?

I can't tell when you're finished
sometimes.

no, I'd tell her, just resting
a bit.

oh, okay. I thought you were done.
let me know, okay?

okay. just give me a minute to catch
my breath
and grab my inhaler.

just going to roll over and reach
into the drawer.

hold that thought, so how was work
today?

busy, she'd say, staring up
at the ceiling. very busy.

and you, the new boss?

same as the old boss I say,
inhaling deeply into the inhaler.

come soon, please

for some reason my house
is a mess.

i'm the only one who lives here.
no dog, or cat.
not a single living plant.

no wife underfoot with her clothes
and makeup
and avocado skins,
yogurt cups left about.

no, none of that, just me.

so many wet towels, and shoes
tossed about.

who did this?
these crumbs and cups left
on the table.

the sink piled up
with dishes. a tray
of chicken wings, cold
in the oven.

who left the light on in
the basement? the door ajar.

who forgot to pull the plug
on the tub,
or put the milk back into
the fridge?

guilty as charged.
not sure if I can wait two
more weeks for the maid to come.

I might have to throw up
the beam of light,
with the broom and mop, shine
it against the clouds,
to signal her rescue.

the good doctor

I talk to my doctor
on the phone, she has a pleasant voice.
she's busy.

very busy. her life is stacked with notes
upon her desk.
patients at the door,
on the other line.

I envy her.
the work she does. the healing.
the importance
of her day.

she was born to be what she is.
a life not wasted.
not a minute or hour,
not a careless thought,
thrown away.

one more time

you hear down the grapevine,

the whispers, the confidential cupping
of hands
to ears

that someone has gone off the deep end.

millions lost
houses and cars. investments.
tossed out of another rented room.

and now he's behind the wheel of a yellow
cab.

it's not an unfamiliar story.
up and down.
the rollercoaster life, the chaos
he embraces,

I understand, having living under
the same roof
with him as a child.

it's sad. but there is nothing you can
do. or anyone else.
it starts with him to turn his life
around.

again.

the good sister

the sister used
to dye her hair blue, streaks of blue.

she was over sixty.

her and her boyfriend loved to eat.
ask them
where to get the best chicken
legs in town
and they'd give
you their top five places,
the addresses and streets.

both retired. both living small
on what came in.

food seemed to be their primary destination.
it was a feast when
the Chinese boxes arrived.
a duck, a fish, fried rice
with no end.

they kept a clean house. some guns
were lying about.

no cats though, or dogs.
a crazy sister in the mix. a set
of aging parents
who

battled daily over the salt shaker,
or sugar bowl.

but i really liked them. they were
real people.

eccentric and odd, but genuine souls
who lived and let live.

they were fun. generous and bold.

the eight o'clock pick up

i used to pick jake
up down by the metro station in old town.

he liked the steps there.
he liked watching all the young girls in
their summer
dresses heading for work,
getting on the train.

sometimes he'd whistle, or say something
offensive.
but he meant no harm,
sitting there with his lunch bag,
and baby blue thermos,
a cigarette dangling from his
bearded mouth.

he'd be in his white painter pants
and paint splatter coat.

his hair slicked back from the shower
he just took at the shelter
before walking over in the cold.

howdy doody, he'd say, as he climbed
into the truck and then start in on
the goddman shelter, or his goddamn
doctors, or his goddamn brother.

those were the days he was in
a good mood.

the condo board of cardinal square

through the slot
the uprising of the neighbors
comes through in a hurriedly printed
note.

come to the board meeting.
we need to burn these people at the stake.

they want to be paid
for doing volunteer work.

they want to take away our parking spaces.
our shrubbery.
they want to raise the fees.
hire relatives.

chop down perfectly good trees.

they want to rule our little world
with an iron fist.

it's strange how even the small get
corrupt once
they gain a thimble full
of power.

her bags of tricks

i see the ghost of her at the airport.

in uniform, her airlines
pin on her navy blue jacket.
her starched white blouse,
and a printed scarf.

the not too short matching skirt.
her shiny black hair.
her heels.

her bright brown eyes. lipstick
just applied.

hand on her hip with that come hither
look
that flight attendants
are trained to do.

one bag at her side, but heavy
as a load
of bricks.

her bag of tricks.

my intuitive skills

it's not a good sign
when they stop calling and texting.

leaving you sweet voice mails
on your machine.

when you get nothing in the mail
any more.

there are no packages.
no bags of cookies, or cakes
on the porch,
left for when you get home.

there's nothing. just empty air.

in time, because you have great intuitive
skills,
you realize that hey, this relationship
is over.

I am under the bus again.

it stuns you at first, but then as
you look back
and see all the clues, the evidence
that has piled up.

you know that you're probably right.
but you never
know, the governor might call
at some point, at some midnight
hour
and save your life.

but not for long

you're so dramatic
she'd say
as I set fire to the valentine's
card
that she was going to send to her
married boyfriend.
I laughed and nodded.
I guess in a way I am, I said,
as I put the love note
into the pan
and lit a match.
I knew it was just one card
of a half dozen endearing cards
that she had hidden in her purse,
or car,
in a drawer behind things,
or at work.
she didn't budge, or try
to grab the card, signed with
love.
I wish I could tell the world
how much I love you,
she wrote
with little hearts around it.
I told her that I wished
someone would send me
a card like that sometime
as I watched the five dollar
card go up in flames.
I wish I had a wife who cared
about me that much.
and then put my finger to my
chin while the ashes floated
up to the ceiling and said,
wait a minute, you are my wife.
but not for long.

how to cook a duck

i watch an hour show of a guy
cooking duck.

i just get caught up in it.
i couldn't watch any more of the senseless
babble
of the impeachment hearings.

he's guilty. hang him, hang him
high,
or pull his pants down in public
and spank him.
but be done with it.

isn't there work to do. people to feed.
jobs to make. healthcare, education,
etc. etc. etc.

both sides of the aisle sound like
a bunch of old
women fighting over some loser.

anyway. back to the duck.
it looks really juicy and tender.
there's boiling involved and frying.

my mouth waters by the end of the show
and i decide to get my own
duck real soon.

that's my plan

what are your goals, she asks you.

what's your five
year plan.

where do you want to be five
years from now.

tell me.

I look at her and smile.

I got nothing, I tell her.
I stopped planning for the future
a long time ago, especially when
it involves other people.

in five minutes i'm getting
a cup
of coffee and going to work.

beyond that is a mystery.

that doesn't seem too wise, she
says, shaking her head.

we all need plans, goals. something
to look forward to.

I look forward to a hard
day at work,
then a nap and dinner.

and hopefully seeing lula belle
on the weekend.

that's my plan. you have yours.
I have mine.

in reverse

he had a pale blue
chevy.
57.
gull wings.
baby moons. for a while
it only drove
in reverse.
the transmission
busted.
but it didn't stop
him from driving
around the neighborhood.
backwards.
he lived his life
like that.
in reverse.
starting out so old,
a boy scout, walking
the straight and
narrow,
but getting
younger
as the years went on.
trouble on top of
trouble.

she loved to gossip

my mother loved to gossip.

over the fence while hanging wet
sheets on the line,
or on the phone.

she kept a list of everyone
she knew
on a sheet of paper, laminated,
hanging on the kitchen wall.

the hot line.
she liked the juicy stuff.
she liked
knowing the dirt, the skinny
on everyone.

she'd always share it with you at
some point,
you could easily break her down
by showing up with a cheesecake.

you couldn't keep her quiet.
she'd start out with the weather
and then
away she went.

she just had to tell you what
was going on
and with who.

but then she'd put her finger
to her lips and say,

don't tell anyone I told you this.
but I swear, every word,
all of it is true.

sometimes you hate people

sometimes you just hate people.

the way
they drive, or talk.

or need to get past you
at the store.

you dislike it when they're
loud
and obnoxious.
when they pretend to be what
they aren't.

when they preen or brag.
the way they constantly stare
into their phones.

or when they don't say a word.
not a polite bone
in their body.

no thank you.

there are times when you don't need
people.
you can live without them
quite easily

in splendid isolation.
but then are nights where you roll
over
and wish

for love.
but again that involves people,
doesn't it?

some came back

i remember when older kids
in the neighborhood got drafted
and went off into the army.
went overseas to germany, or viet
nam.
some died, some came back
with that stare in their eyes.
they left with long hair
and came back with crew cuts.
wearing green, with black boots.
we hardly recognized them.
their medals, their sewn on
patches. they showed us their
scars, the ones they could.
they were never the same.
these kids. these boys on skate
boards, bikes and hooligans
hanging at the bowling alley.
they came back no longer boys
in the neighborhood, but different.
they came back as men.

the sky sure does look religious today

i wrote a story once,
quite a few years ago about a small
boy going to church with his mother.
i had one line in it that
i still remember.
the sky sure looks religious today,
don't it mother?
the little boy said.
it was a light story, no one died
or got killed,
although there was a car wreck.
there was infidelity involved,
and a dog. and a church going mother.
like i said.
it was years back. but even now
i can relate to it.
eventually i had it published in
a small college magazine, but by
mistake they put someone else's name
as the author. my name was no
where to be found.
it didn't matter though, payment was in
copies, which i got a few.
they had my address right, at least.

the last letter

i write a letter.

a long letter. five pages in all.
took me hours
of writing, editing, revamping.

then i print it off,
read it again before tossing
it into the trash,

crushed into a ball.

i get nowhere with letters like
that.

I've sent so many, trying to make
right things right, or get
even
in some maniacal way with some
fool girl
i got entangled with.

the poison pen and all that
nonsense.

the little man in me shouting,
i'll show you!

but in the end. you just have
to leave people alone.
move on.

you can't change them. they were
sick before you met them,
sick when they were with you,
and will be sick
forever more.

get on with your life.
shut the door and don't look
back.

to hell with letters.
i won't send them anymore.
except for this one, the one
that took so long to write,
but that's it,
no more letters,
i'm done with that.

no school tomorrow

we'd be out in the snow
until midnight. sledding down the packed
slush and sleet,
the ice
before the trucks came
onto the back streets
with their salt and wide
hard shovels.
there'd be no school tomorrow.
the moon was out,
the snow finished for the night.
our hands
so cold, red and raw.
we found socks to cover them
when the gloves
got soaked
and froze.
there was joy in those nights.
riding the curve of the road
down Winthrop street
to Dorchester.
the dogs would be out there with
us,
running beside our sleds
we laughed and hollered,
raced, seeing how far
we could go.
to the mailbox, to the pole,
to the street over.
those nights were gold.

another dope

it's hard to watch the news.
especially
when it's politics
all day, all night.

nothing done. repeat
and rinse.

the babble is endless.
nothing changes. just new
faces.

deception and lies.

new criminals running the show.
flags on their lapels.

the band plays on.

people starve, grow old.
another war,
another scandal.

another vote, another dope
from either side
of the aisle,

away we go.

back to square one

I keep checking my mail
for the thanksgiving
holiday invite.

I ask the mail man everyday.
anything. anything?

and he shakes his head no.

I check my email, my texts.
I shake my phone.

nothing. no dinner invitation.
no room at the inn.
every one is booked.
not an extra plate even at
the kid's table

of any friends.

finally I go to the store
for some turkey wings.

and look online for a gravy
recipe.

I buy a pumpkin pie and some
whipped cream.

back to square one.

the crowding room

as if in the fog
people fade.

they slowly disappear
losing
form

and color. their voices
no longer
in reach.

their footsteps
gone.

they add on to the others.
the crowding
room of ghosts.

past friends, relatives.
lovers.

leaving, always leaving.
never to return

or be heard from.

the benefits of not being married

there's some simplicity in not
being married.

having waffles at nine o'clock
in your under wear
sitting in front of the tv.

lathering on the butter and syrup.
eggs and bacon, go for it.
put a rib roast in the oven
before you go to bed
and set the timer.

you can even leave the butter
out all night, if you so desire,
you can leave
the dishes in the sink, or even
on the table.

all sticky. leave as many books
as you like all over the house.
open to where you last read them.

the bathroom is all yours.
wet towels on the floor.
so what.

why bother setting all the clocks
in the house back
when they'll spring forward in six
months anyway. leave em.
who cares what time it is.
look out the window.
it's day, or it's night.

you can throw your dirty clothes down
the steps. who cares.
leave your shoes all over the place,
no one's around to complain
about how they keep tripping over them.

it's okay.
the tv is all yours. watch what
you want.

your jailer is no longer around.
maybe pulp fiction one more time,
or the big Lebowski. another binge
on Netflix. it's been weeks since
your watched Bad Santa
or the Shawshank redemption.

she used to like cartoons.
or the catholic channel.
Disney movies, the hallmark channel,
the kind of stuff
she used to watch with her kid
or her parents
in an effort to show them how
wonderful she was. ha.

mindless for the most
part, though painful in a painless
sort of way.

I know though that this fun, this
freedom will end one day.
i'll meet someone new, fall
in love again and the party will be
over. this freedom will be
extinguished like blowing out
a candle.

i'll be scraping ice off their
car windows, or be at the grocery
store asking them
what kind of seafood they want
for dinner tonight and if
they want kale or spinach,
as sides.

oh well, need to enjoy it
while I can with a cold coke
and a bag of waffle chips by
my side.

he's in town

beware
of those who attend church
religiously.
they punch god's clock,
as if he's
keeping score.
a time sheet, that he'll
review when the end
comes.
they think of him as santa claus.
have you been naughty
or nice?
better watch out.
he's coming to town.
but I've got news for you.
he's already in town.
he's in the bars,
in the basements, in the attics,
in the bedrooms,
in the whorehouse,
the meth labs, in the crooked
banks.
the casinos,
he sees the murders,
the robberies,
adultery. the lies upon
lies. the sickness
of mankind.
he's there right now.
he's not waiting at the altar.
he's here.
he's in town.

the love manual

most of what i know now
has nothing to do with school.
teachers,
classrooms.
in fact most of what i learned
there,
i rarely use.
what's of value came later,
came today,
or yesterday.
looking into people's eyes.
finding out who they
are, what they're made of.
no one teaches you about the heart.
about love.
about pain and sorrow.
there's no manual
for any of that. you learn
that on the run,
on the street.
the teachers are too busy
with math
and English, history for
god's sake.
the pain you felt the first
time your heart was broken,
is no different than
the last time,
how do you even begin
to teach a child something
like that?

i'm working on it

i wish no ill
on anyone, and yet there is within
me
a streak of mean,
a flash of red in
wanting revenge on those
who've hurt
me.
it's a human thing.
not turning the other cheek,
that sick ego doing what
the ego does in
keeping us alive.
it's a problem, but
i'm working on it.

the drive home

it's cold.
grey.
the wind is harsh,
stings like shards of glass
against my skin.
I have tears
in my eyes as I drive
away.
heading home
this late in the day.
I put the radio on,
the song doesn't help the mood.
nor does the traffic.
the horns.
the fists of clouds,
violet in the dusk,
an angry blue. I don't know
why I have tears
in my eyes, but I do.
they roll down my cheeks.
I don't wipe them away,
I let them come.
it's a good cry.
some days are better than
others,
like memories, and
some you wish would fade.

the high rise

it's a high rise.
a giant building sitting between
a dozen
big buildings.

the roads are tight
in this valley of concrete
and glass.

no sunlight. it's dusk all day.

you have to push the button
to get in
after stating your name.

show your id, explain why you're there.

tags to your car.
how long?

and who are coming to see.
there's no parking.

you get a pass for the dashboard,
then go back out
to move your car
out of the visitors spot.

no easy way to get from the lobby to
the tenth floor,
you find the elevator to the east wing,

you walk, you walk,
it's quiet.
not a soul around,
and those you pass in
the darkened hallways
say nothing.

they keep their heads down.

you zig zag, reading the signs,
the numbers,
you knock.

and finally, someone lets you in.

behind closed doors

I lived in a house
once
where doors were slammed.
doors were locked,
shut tight.
no talking things through,
no kiss goodnight,
just the dead
silence
of anger simmering.
it was hard to sleep in
a house
like that.
you could feel the pain
through the walls.
the secrets,
the hidden things
under beds, in books,
in drawers,
in closets.
beware of those behind
closed doors.
it's the tip of the ice
berg
of what you know.

take the higher road

it seems that those
who get the short end of the stick
get
it all the time,
or at least most of the time.

they trip and fall,
the miscues are endless.

they throw their hands up to the sky
and say why me.
what now.

I have no good luck.

and so it goes. it rarely changes
until
they stop saying that, thinking
that and
accepting the road
they'[re on.

go left, go right, go in
any direction but the direction
you're headed in.

and stop saying, woe is me.

where he would be found

she had an old horse.
sway back, bleary eyed and brown,
thin
in legs, it's tail constantly
at the flies
that filled the barn.
your eyes watered when
you entered.
the cats, the mice.
the wet hay, the steel tub
of tepid water.
she didn't ride him anymore,
but brought him carrots
and apples
which he nibbled at with
broken teeth.
she'd brush him, and wash
his coat.
she couldn't let him go.
couldn't say goodbye or take
him down.
he'd have to do it himself,
he'd have to wander
out into the farthest pasture
and fall
into a pool of sunlight,
where he used to run, where
he once was young,
a place she knew, where he
would be found.

the smiling mask

her first husband
used to beat her, she said. so
that ended
quickly

and the second one, did the same,
but worse.
she settled though, thinking
this must be how it is
with all marriages.

I might as well stay
and pretend
that everything is fine,
that nothing truly hurts.

two dozen years later,
nothing has changed.
her smiling mask in tact,
a wasted life of hidden
bruises,
with no one but her
to blame.

into the valley

the traffic slows
to a crawl, then stops
for the funeral
procession.

the beams of headlights
reach out
from each car
in the half dark of day.

the black hearse rolls
slowly towards the green
hills, dotted with stones,
to the freshly cut
grave.

there is not much to say.
the usual words.
the open bible,
the talk of into the shadow
of the valley of death we go.

there are women crying in the rain.
men too.
children
bewildered by it all.

life is hard,
we swallow it uneasily,
death is strange.

no news is good news

i hear nothing back
but the roar
of silence
from the ex.
no footsteps creeping
up the alley.
no cars idling in the lot.
no mail,
snail or otherwise.
no text or call.
no cookies baked.
it's good to hear nothing
back.
no news is good news.
i got the monkey
off my back.

the seven year itch

I found him,
she tells me, I found the one,
my soul
mate,
the love of my life,
my knight in shining armor,
my boy next door,
the one I've been waiting
for forever.
and as soon as he leaves
his wife,
he's all mine.
he even crossed his heart
and hoped
to die, if he's lying.
I trust and believe him.
he's honest and true,
good
and wholesome. he's
everything to me.
how wonderful life will
be when we can stop sneaking
around,
and he files for divorce.
it's only been seven years
of us together,
but I feel that this is
the year, he'll tell her.
tell his wife adios and be
all mine until the end
of time.

when elmo went to war

i used to read to my son
before he went to sleep.

but over time, we read so many
books over and over
again
that i had to change the lines.

i took the cat in the hat story
into a whole
other direction. barney and elmo,
Kermit.

the cat robbed a bank,
or stole a car,
or barney got drunk in a bar.
Elmo went to war, or became
an astronaut.

my son played along, and before
you knew it,
he was telling tales.

making up his own stories,
and now he's doing that
from three thousand
miles away
in Hollywood.

it's okay if you're late

it doesn't bother
me
when people are late.
I used to care
but things have changed.
i'm fine
twiddling my thumbs,

or reading,
or staring out the window
at the falling rain.

sipping on a drink
and observing the world
around me.

there's no place
i'd rather be
than be with me.

I have a better time
alone
these days than
reliving the tales of
someone's yesterday.

all the way to love town

I see the pattern of my ways.

i'm very self aware
at this stage, this late
in the game.

sorry for the language but

I've fucked
up time and time again,
making bad choices
when it comes to
women.

but I get it now. the road is
full
of mistakes, looking back
at the wrong turns

with the wrong person.
a trail of lies and broken
promises.
diamonds on hands that didn't
deserve them,

detours, wrecks,
cars over turned and burning.

I let them have the wheel.
trusted them
to drive me
all the way to love town.

I went to sleep, happy to have
them at the wheel,
the radio on,
their hand on my knee,
taking me along to where
I've always wanted
to be.

take me to love town,
mon Cherie.
take me all the ways to love
town.
and then we'll marry.

it was raining hard in frisco

some can't handle
money. can't handle success.

they can make it. make millions.
have cars
and houses.

women and trips to exotic
places.

they wear gold rings,
expensive watches.
they have pianos
and chandeliers.

to the outside world

that have it all.
they're suntanned
and fat. happy with the lot
they've earned,

but
it's a Richard Corey kind of thing.

one day you
here what's happened.

they're gone. they're driving
a taxi

living in one room
in a basement
on the outskirts of town.

they've lost it all.
again.

so you say

i'm depressed she tells me.

i'm sad.

i'm lonely. i'm disappointed
with life.

i'm thinking about ending it all,
maybe jumping
off a bridge,

or taking a handful of pills
and drinking myself

to death.

she tells me all this while she
spins around
in the room in her new
shoes and a new black dress.

have you seen my stamps

he used to collect stamps.

all kinds.
different countries, rare
stamps,
limited editions.

it's what he thought about
morning, noon and night.

it was his life.
these tiny squares with the

faces of presidents on them,
inventors,
writers,
poets and astronauts.

he kept the books in a safe,
but was quick
to bring them out when anyone
came over.

did I show you my stamp
collection, he'd say,
and regardless of your answer

they'd come out. hour after
hour
he'd turn the page
and give you the history
of each

stamp, there was no escape.

and when he died, they got
tossed into bags
and thrown out.

I miss him. crazy stamp collector.

there was no turning back

what is your intention with my
daughter

her father asked me.
he was Italian, old school, muscled
and
hard with
whiskey and cigars.

a tattoo of a ship was blue
on one arm.

I sat on the edge of the couch,
twenty two.
nervous,
ready to run out and call the whole
thing off.

I want to marry your daughter
I said softly.

what? he said. I didn't hear you.
I said it again, but louder this time.

I thought so, he said.
do you have any money? a job, a car?
a place to live?

yes, I said, thinking about the eight
hundred dollars
I had in the bank,

and my beat up car that hardly ran.
I had a one bedroom apartment
across the tracks

and a job waiting on tables.

I wanted him to say no. no you
cant marry her, she can do much better
than that,

but he didn't, he like everyone else
didn't stop us.

two children. deer in the headlights
of oncoming life.

and then the cake
was ordered
the invitations put in the mail.

there was no turning back.

time has a way

time has a way of erasing
nearly everything.

it all fades, gets lost
in the turning
page.

what seemed so important
is less.

people that you once loved
have left.

there is no new water on this earth.
it just takes
a different shape.

as we do as time
takes our lives, our memories
and begins
to erase.

love can be like that

I remember falling in love
with an imaginary person.

I carved her out of stone.
kissed her lips as if they were real.

I felt her skin
against mine.

I listened to her voice and believed
every word
she said.

I fell, I fell. I left. I wandered
into
the deepest darkest
depths

of hell.

love can be like that, even if it
doesn't exist.

and was never real

I moved forward. but the scars are
there.

the wounds.

the brutal lies still ring within
my ears.

nobody reads poetry

nobody reads poety anymore.

they don't even read the paper.

they read, emails and texts.
notes written on the run.

beach books.
mysteries and easy to digest
efforts,
that make you weary, make you numb.

no one steps out and reads the hard stuff.

the real thing.

the blood of us, the bones,
the heart of who we really are.

we soothe ourselves with soft
lullabyes, with
the inane, the middle of the road,
what the masses want.

little thought, little strain,
let's go gently in to that good night
with never knowing who we are,

why we're here.

let's change the channel and surf
the wasteland
without tears, without fear, without
a soul.

a life unlived and never whole.

the chicken sandwich

i read in the paper where a man
has been
stabbed and killed
over a fried chicken sandwich.

he cut into the long line,
too anxious
for his meal to wait,
and get in line where it began,
out the door and around
the back.

how horrible, i think at first.
what craziness.
the poor guy, the loss
to his family. his own life.

and then i think about the sandwich.

how good must these sandwiches
be

and where can i get one,
safely.

damsel in distress

i see her on the side of the road,
hitchhiking.

her thumb out. crying as usual.

one bag slung across her back.
she's on the road again.

where to now?

who's the next knight in shining armor
to save her?

what set of eyes can she pull
the wool over
this time?

not mine. mine are wide wide open.

i got no more saving damsels in
distress
in me.

been there, done that.

someone at the door

there's a knock at the door.

do I answer it?

I lower the television and peek
out the peep hole.

the shadow of my eye
is clear
to whoever it is that's standing there.

a stranger.
a woman. what now?

she knocks again, harder this time,
with some
need, some problem, something
that I really
don't want to deal with
at this late hour.

I see a clipboard in her hand.

she could be part of the neighborhood
coven of witches that run
the condo board.

I let her knock and knock again,
until she finally gives
up

and goes to the neighbor next door.

I feel good about my decision
to not open up.

just seems that way

you can change a lot of things
in your life.

the clothes you wear, where you live,
your husband,
your wife.

but who you are inside seems to stick.

you make adjustments,
learn and grow, but the core of who
you are,

seems to stay the same no matter
how much
religion you get,
or therapy,
or how many books you read.

you try, try hard, but the increments
are slow
and slight.

most people that are bad stay bad,
and the good ones
stay good.

just seems that way.