sex at the drive in

we discovered
sex
at the drive-in. well,
it wasn't exactly like
Columbus
finding the new world.
we knew it was there
all along, and on the shore
there were
no Indians, or scratching
of our heads and saying,
what the hell, where are we?
but I remember the steam
being so
thick in the car
that we couldn't
see out the windows.
which was fine, because
the movie was a horrible
three feature
festival of vampires,
ghosts
and Frankenstein.
we really didn't get anywhere,
not even to third
base as it was often
called.
the bucket seats,
the stick shift, the cramped
cockpit of
the camaro made it nearly
impossible. but I remember
how raw
our faces were from kissing
while the tinny scrabble
of sound from the speaker
hanging in the window
blurred the air.
we gave it a good effort,
with the no's becoming
yes's, but
the complications of zippers
and buttons,
clasps and tight jeans
saved us
from sin, going all the way
home
would have to wait.

fine and dandy

there are days when
nothing happens.
when not a single
bad
or good thing
appears on your plate.
it's just a blah
sort of day,
neither good or bad,
just so.
no memories haunting you,
no mental traffic,
no troubles in
your way,
which is fine and dandy
as
my uncle louie used to say.

carefully happy

she was carefully happy
in
her faith,
which had the ebb and flow
of a river,
always moving in
one direction,
a direction that she figured
to be heaven, a final home.

sometimes the water receded
and other times
it overflowed the banks,
but she stood by it most
of the time, her feet in it.
whether warm
or cold, she felt it move
under the current of
life, seeing the lightness of
sunlight on the surface,
but always
wondering about the darkness
that rushed below.

the unexplainable,
the tragedies
that appear in all our lives,
would take her breath away,
and she'd put her feet
to the fire
and ask all of those
unanswerable questions
about how God could allow
this happen.
What kind of God is this,
that permits
such things in our world.

but in the end,
exhausted by no answers,
she'd give up, and
back to the river she'd go.

a few simple things

it truly is
the simple things
that hold us together,

that tighten the bond.

the kiss at night.
the words
i love you, or i'm
sorry,

i was wrong.

a warm embrace, a note
left on the sink.

a vase of flowers.
a gentle nudge,

a held hand, a wink.

of course there's
more.

but in the end it
truly is just
a few
simple things.

old man

i remember thinking
how brave he was, saying what he
wanted,
yelling in a restaurant for
someone to close the
goddamn door
as a cold wind blew in.
he was old.
at an age that i'm fast approaching.
but he didn't care
anymore
in being quiet, being unheard.
speaking his mind,
not suffering fools gladly.
not to say he wasn't good,
or wasn't kind,
just fed up with the fakeness
of so many,
having endured
so many lies. he was torching
every rotted
bridge he crossed.
the veil had lifted,
and now
his voice
was heard, for better
or worse for those that
he was around.

nothing in return

the pain of other's
brings you back.

your problems are less in
their light.

as it should be.
one never knows where another
one truly is.

how deep their troubles
are,
how broken.

we're too self absorbed.
too
inward with our thinking.

it's a hard thing to do,
to give
and give and expect nothing
in return,

but it's the only way to
cure
the darkness within us.

to use the lessons that
we've learned
to help another get up,

get going,
get whole once again,
or to

touch them with love
before they leave
this earth.

it's still her house

a past love of mine,

aren't they all past

at this point,

died in the house
I live in,

fifteen years ago, almost to the day.

they took her body
to Manchester, but the ground
was too cold
to dig.

the burial would wait until spring.

we listened to the words said
at the memorial
for her short life.

just forty three years.
she was told as a child that she'd
never become an old
woman.

a doctor's prophecy fulfilled.

in a way it's still her house, 

she's here.
despite the changes made.

the different paint.
all of what she owned is gone.
her garden,
her wreathe upon the door.

but
I see her at times
in the shadows,

coming up the stairs.
I hear her voice, her laughter,
her honesty.

I feel her tears.
I see her standing beside
me
looking at the snow laced
woods

beyond the gate,

her wondering if this would
be her year.

a cold glass of water

what do we want out of a poem?

clarity

directness, truth?
why wrap
a mystery into the ordinary.

why disguise the pain,
why
hide between the words,
the allegory,

the lie. if there's joy,
say joy.

if the day is hard, write that.
your heart is broken?
bleed
onto the page.

why pretend that all is okay.

we do it all the time in talking
to one another,
so rare

to say what we mean.
but in a poem, we have a choice
to make.

forget who reads what you write,
who you might offend,
or what
they'll say.

just write. be honest,
be direct,
be a cold glass of water
on someone's summer
day.

one for the road

a burglar breaks into the house
while
i'm asleep.
i hear him, or maybe it's a her
going through
the drawers in the kitchen.
i see the wave of a flash
light
swing in the hallway,
up the stairs.
i yell down.
hey. who's in here?
no one, she says. a woman's
voice, a familiar
voice.
i just left a few things,
and I've come to take them back.
i hear her open the knife
drawer, the rattle of knives,
then it closes.
i must be dreaming, i think,
my heart is beating
like a rabbit.
what are you looking,
for,
i yell down? how did you get
in here, i had the locks
changed.
it was unlocked, dope, she says
coming up the stairs.
i place an extra pillow over
my lower abdomen.
she comes in to the room,
a large knife in her hand.
what's with the knife,
i ask her.
oh, this, this is mine,
my ex husband gave it to
me thirty years ago so i'm
taking it. is that okay?
it's a ceremonial knife that
Saddam gave to him when
he went to Iraq on business,
before the war.
whew, i say. sitting up.
yeah sure take it. it looks pretty
ordinary to tell you the truth.
in fact i cut a pork roast
with it the other day.
yeah, it's a good knife, she
says.
so how are you? i ask her, what's up?
miss me? she comes over
and sits on her side of the bed,
or rather,
what used to be her side.
she lays down, the knife
still in her hand.
yeah, i do miss you sometimes,
not the fighting, the crying,
the chaos, but the sweet
moments. ah, yeah, i say.
few and far between. i could
never get enough of that, i say
emphasizing the word, that.
she looks at me and laughs.
i laugh too.yeah, we did have that
going for us, but it just wasn't
meant to be, we both say at
the same time. i look at
her, she looks at me.
one for the road, i ask.
sure she says, why not?
the knife falls to the floor.

two ticket stubs

I find two ticket stubs
in an old jacket. the jacket
doesn't fit anymore,
but I try it on just the same.
tight. I have too much muscle now
I say to myself,
and laugh.
I look at the date, the movie.
it takes a few minutes,
but it all comes back to me.
it was a bad movie, we almost
walked out.
ahhh, I remember her well.
we went to one movie together.
I didn't know it at the time
that it would be our last.
i'm not big on sentimentality,
but I put the tickets back
into the pocket and hang
the coat in the closet. I'm
tempted to look into the other
old coats hanging in there,
but I don't. No need going there.
I shut the door.

the boy on the trampoline

you really should get curtains,
I remember telling her
as I watched the strange boy
next door
jumping on his trampoline,
looking into her second story
bedroom window.
the sun poured in as she rubbed
her eyes, pulling the blanket

over her bare legs,
she looked over at the wide
red face of the boy
as it came bouncing into view
then held her hand up to wave.
and he in return waved back

on the next bounce up, smiling.

the facts

just because we ignore
the facts
does not
make them untrue.
which holds true
for bad food,
or drink
or smoke, or being
reckless
with one's body or soul.
don't ignore
bad behavior. don't
forgive
and forget.
don't listen
to the words, but watch
what they
do.

doubt is truth

there is so much
in a kiss

that reveals.

so much in a word spoken
or not said

that tells a long story,
in short form.

what we leave
behind

says more about who we
are

than in staying put.

doubt about love is
the mind
being truthful,

the gut is never wrong,
trust it.

listen to it,
listen well,

or fail.

to better things

do not fear being alone.

embrace the quiet,
reflect
and let go of those that

were not meant to be.

they were stepping stones,
as you were
to them

to better things.

be whole without someone.
there is no one
that will

complete you if you are
incomplete.

find peace within and love
will find
you.

knocking on heavens door

it's a dark hall,

a bad band. grey haired
and pony tails,
with old man voices,

but people are dancing
just the same.

a woman from across the dance
floor comes to my table
and says to me.

you look just like my father.
you two could be twins,
separated at birth.

she's maybe sixty or so.
she doesn't seem drunk, and yet,

it worries me.
he was a handsome man, she says,
trying to take
the puzzlement off my face.

I pick up a spoon and look
at my reflection
in the curve of stainless
steel.

is he still alive, I ask her.
oh hell no,
he's been dead for thirty years.

I feel relieved a little.

dance? I ask her, as the band
makes a valiant
attempt

at Knocking on Heavens Door.
sure, she says.
come on dad.

a light snow

just a light snow.

a sweet icing on the cake outside
the window.

the wind keeps it afloat.

kids are rolling in it,
dogs are barking.

sleds are being pulled up the hill.
and I sit here
and wonder

about you.

proverbs with coffee

eat while you still have teeth.
pray while you still believe.
sing while your lungs are open.
watch each sunrise as if it was
the first,
each setting as if it could be the last.
hold onto love until it hurts.
embrace new love, it will
quench the hearts thirst.
run while your legs are strong.
listen to music and children
while you can still hear their wisdom.
write and paint, create while
the mind is free and able to think
without fear.
let go of the past, don't let
it weigh you down, it won't
take you anywhere.
be young, even if the years say
differently. do not go gently into
that good night. life is to be
enjoyed, not endured.

to each a turn

visiting the sick is hard.
for them
for you,

for the nurses.
it's lunch time.

soup. a sandwich.
jello.

a plastic fork, a plastic
spoon.

the smell of antiseptics
clouds
the bright air.

the starch of sheets,
the metal basin, the rail.
the cold
feel
of everything.

I put my card
and a bouquet of flowers
on the tray, then
I look out the window.

I wonder if there is anything
I can catch in here.

I go to the sink and wash
my hands.

so when you getting out, I ask.
but she's asleep,
or unconscious. it's hard
to tell.

I touch her hand. it's warm.
I see the long vines
of blue veins.

I look at the tubes,
the wires all connected to
some hospital brain

somewhere.

i'm not looking forward
to my turn.

the argument

we disagree.

me and the weather, she insists
on being cold,

windy.

she's unresponsive to my
desires,
my needs.

almost heartless
in how she changes and lowers
her temperature
by a dozen degrees.

we are not seeing eye to eye
on things.

I want it warm
and bright, she wants it dark
and wet.

she is the face of gloom,
a blue fist
on the horizon.

i'm holding my ground though
as I stand outside
in
a thin jacket,

barefoot and hatless.

but she's winning this argument,
I don't think

we'll ever get past this.

box of chocolates

the box of chocolate
analogy
is
a good one
when it comes to online
dating. you truly
never know
what you're going to get
until you
take one from the box
and take a bite.
what's inside that little
clump
of chocolate, sitting
in a cute
little dress
of paper.
what kind of nut,
what kind
of horrible goo
lies within.
raspberry, butterscotch,
or god forbid
a stiff old raison
that breaks your teeth
when you nibble
and bite down.

the new car

I don't need it,
but
I ponder the new car. two door.
a low
to the ground model.
fast as hell.
sleek.
hear the growl.
six on the floor.
two seats, no kids allowed.
no dogs.
no trips for seed or
mulch in this one.
it's for flying.
for the beach, for those
winding roads
into the hills,
the country, to all roads,
north or south,
west
or east.
I've got room for one,
come on.
I'll pick you up.
life is to be enjoyed
not endured,
it's time for fun.

the long night

there are no ashes
to sweep away,
the wind took care of that.

no embers hot with
flame,
no debris from what was
left
to sweep.

it's all done now.
all words
have faded, all images
gone
white.

it was hard, but it's finished
forever,
that long long
night.

her blue eyes

I remember the brown dog
in the window.

the white cat
in the alley. the fox
in the moonlight,

on soft feet.

the panther, the lion,

I remember, the woods
full of flashing eyes.

the blue
of yours, that animal
within

come alive.

the dr. phil show

I start flipping through the channels
and get stuck on a dr. phil episode.

it's about a married man and a woman,
both cheating on each other.
pathological liars, narcissists,
but good cooks.

she knows her way around the kitchen
always with a hot plate of cookies,
and he's no fool in the barbeque pit.

but he catches her with the neighbor
and they have a fight, so dr. phil tries
to smooth it out and get them back
on track.

You people need to stop hurtin one another,
Dr. Phil says, leaning forward in his chair.
Now i'm dead serious here.

when she picks up a steak knife
and stabs you in the hand with it,
you don't pick up one too, and stab
her in the arm, or hit her over the head
with a jar of texas hot sauce.

you need to stop reacting and start
responding.

what the hell does that mean, the wife
says, standing up, and moving closer
to her husband in the other chair.
she clenches her fists as the veins
in her neck bulge out.

now, calm down, calm down.
sit back down, Darlene. Let's all
go to a happier time, dr. phil says.
now Frank, do you love your wife?
be honest.

sometimes, he says, I mean i used to,
but when she cheats
on me, I feel minimalized.
I feel small.

maybe cause you are, the wife says, getting
a laugh and long applause out of
the audience. maybe if you were more
of a mister man I wouldn't have to go out
and get me a young stud, like the boy
who cuts our grass.

but he's in the tenth grade, dr. phil,
the husband says. she's a floozy,
a jezebel.

we have laws in this country, my dear. you're lucky
you're not in jail, dr. phil says, wagging
his finger at her.

damn right, the husband says. damn right.
lock her up.

the audience begins to chant, lock her up,
lock her up.

all right, all right, now settle
down. i'll clear this studio if I
have too. now look, here's what you two need
to do. he rubs his mustache from side to side.

first of all no more stabbing each other
with kitchen utensils, can you both agree
on that?

the wife crosses her arms and reluctantly
nods yes. the husband, says, okay. i'll
try, but I can't make any promises.

okay, okay. that's a start.
second of all you need to stop lying
and cheating on each other.
it's just plum wrong, what would
your children think of all this infidelity?

I don't even know who half these kids
are anyway, the husband says.
she sleeps with every tom dick and harry
that she runs into.
yesterday I found the mailman taking
a nap in our bedroom.

the woman laughs and throws her long blonde
hair back, then adjusts her low cut sweater.
maybe he had a special delivery for me,
she says, smirking.

the women in the audience let out a loud shriek
of laughter.

okay. dr. phil says. let's settle back down.
none of this is funny,
but I get your attempt at trying
to lighten things up. now,

I know this is going
to be difficult, but why don't we
bring out the children and see what they
have to say about all this domestic turmoil.
let's bring out all seven of them.

the kids come out, each of a different race
and color, all different sizes and shapes.
none of them look alike.

now, dr. phil says to the wife, pointing
at the long row of children, tell
me. Just how in the world
do you explain this?

I don't know, she says, adjusting her
fishnet stockings under her short skirt.
maybe I am just a tad frisky at times.
oh and by the way,
I baked you some cookies Dr. Phil,
I left them backstage in the green room.

thank you, thank you. very kind of you.
i'm sure my WIFE and I
will enjoy them.

okay, before we take a break,
we have one more person to bring out
to join in our discussion.
Let's bring out Brad,
the boy next door who cuts the grass
for these two.

a skinny young man in shorts and grass
stained tennis shoes comes out, he's
wearing a torn t shirt, he takes
his ball cap hat off and waves
to the audience as they applaud wildly.
he's chewing gum and smiling
ear to ear.

how it ends

she's a silhouette,
a shadow,
a slender
link of bones
and flesh.
starving.
all eyes
and hair.
a mouse nibbling
at crumbs,
loping towards
tomorrow.
the next day,
then the next.
up the stairs
then out
twelve hours
at a desk,
then home, then
down
the stairs.
alone.
alone.
alone.
staring out the window
across the yard
to him,
remembering her
yesterdays,
all
of it in her
phone.

the middle of the month

January moves
like an iceberg.
an inch at a time
dragging you along with it.
the slow parade
of white,
of wind, of blue
ice
pulling the world
along.
you ride it out.
dig in, build a fire.
wrap the bear skin
rug around you
and call for help.
tomorrow always
seems like the middle
of the month.

the bald eagle egg

I see on the news
a man
arrested for breaking open
the egg
of a bald eagle.

there are laws,
the cop says.
we need to protect our
wildlife.
our precious natural
resources.

but it was just an egg,
the man pleas,
it wasn't even born yet,
I wasn't killing
an eagle,
no, just an egg,

there's barely a heart
beating inside
that thin fragile
shell.

yes, the cop says, but
it's more of what
it could have been,
it's our national bird
for God's sake,

it's not like a real
baby.

emotional vampire

she wasn't a real vampire,
no.
there was no sucking of the neck,
biting
into a vein
to drain
the red stuff
from your body. no.
she was more of an emotional
vampire.
which was actually worse.
death would come
daily.
sucked dry
of life, of fun, of some
semblance
of normality.
she did not fly on bat
wings,
nor roam about when the
moon was full at night.
no.
she wasn't that kind of
vampire. no,
not at all,
her nature was to prey
on her
victims with charm,
in the broad daylight.

The Dating Pool

this dive into
the dating pool once more,
won't last long.

it's murky and cold.
the women flail their
heavy arms
to stay afloat, everyone giving
it one more shot
to be young, act young,
and not limp.

everyone is blonde and on keto.
a yoga mat in the car. a botox
appointment set
for tomorrow.

the baggage is endless,
luggage
strapped
to so many backs,

stacked by the altar of hope.

lawyers, doctors, waitresses
at ihop.
teachers and those living off
the fumes
of someone long gone.

I open their medicine
cabinets to see the other side.
the dark
side of who they are.

the amber prescription bottles,
half empty,
too many to count.

I peek into the ice
box to see their ex husbands,
shivering
in rows. their monied teeth
clacking with fear.

I pick up the phone when it
rings,
and it's a room of children
ungrown,
in need of mommy.

under the bed, I see more secrets.
the dust balls of lies,
of inconsistency,
deceit. a black cat
with green eyes.

I see the dust on the books
they read,
or don't read, that line
the shelves.

but we meet and

I feed them, I buy them drinks,
I make small talk into wee hours
of Tuesday nights. ten p.m. .

the check comes,
they all get up to
go to the bathroom.
their purses strung tight with
cob webs.
feminists with no shame
in them.

the apples

the apples,
serene and washed
in their red jackets
sit
like fat buddhas
under the bright lights
of the supermarket.
they await for
what comes next.
the worst has already
happened. like us,
so often,
they go with no
resistance, plucked
and placed
within a basket.

in search of

i think about moving.

getting far away from this town.
i got nothing
here.

parents are old or dead,
siblings
dispersed,

most of my life long friends
have checked out,

either passed on, or about to,

despite what facebook says.

my son's three thousand miles west.

it might be time to cash in the chips.
put it all on the table
and hit the open road.

but it would be more fun to do
it with a significant other,
a love interest.

someone low maintenance, perky
and bright. low on the crazy
med pills.

no kids, no pets, no ex-s clinging
to their skirt. someone who doesn't
mind not talking

when it's time to be quiet.
smart, funny, clever with kissing
skills.
is that asking too much,

probably.

what's for dinner

you know you care about someone
when
you have a good knock
down, crazy
fight. tossing words
and accusations around like
punches
in a heavyweight fight.
if you don't care, you sort
of sit there
and wait for the storm
to blow over,
then say something like
what's for dinner tonight?

the shape of us

is it the circle of life
or more of
a square, or triangle,
I don't see
the roundness
of it all, at least not
yet.
I see a parallelogram,
an obtuse
triangle,
a rhombus, or two lines
running side
by side into infinity.
there's so little closure
in the lines
we draw,
the shapes we form. maybe
we're just dots
of light on a black sheet
full of scribblings
with no true
rhyme or reason.

the morning walk

the trees are of less interest
these days,

each branch known, each crest of wave
on the full pond
against fallen
trees.

the green stench of it all
awaiting new rain
to make
it clean.

the crisp air, a startling blue
between
branches, forever grey,

birches shedding a cream
colored bark,

but it's those who walk
that I see.
cameras in tow, in ones and twos,
a child
in hand, making three.

what brings them here
so early
in the day, lost in thoughts,

walking alone,
taking pictures of a bird
in flight.

what are they remembering,
who
have they lost, who
has strayed,

leaving them quiet in
this walk.

it's an old story

it's an old story.

you enter the room, she's with you.

you both set your bags
onto the floor and look around
at the empty rooms.

this will do, you say to her.
yes, she says.

you are in love, and she with you.

this will be our home. we will have
children here
and live our life.

that's the beginning.
the middle is different though.

boredom sets in.
the children are unruly. work
is hard.

the lawn reminds you each day
of what tomorrow
will bring.

love dissipates. anger surfaces.
long faces
are made. sadness
sets in.

old age never comes.
one moves, the other stays.

it's an old story.

don't be late

don't be late
I tell her. I won't wait.

i'm here now,
early as usual. having a drink
at the bar.

let me know
if you can't make it, or
if it rains

or if there is no
parking,

or the dog needs to be
walk, or the kid
is sick.

don't be late.
i'm tired of waiting.

exhausted by the needs of others.
i'm selfish now.

I've earned the right
at last,

it's all about me, done
with indulging
others,
forgiving, being lenient

with
their issues, their chaotic
present,
their gloomy past.

i'm tired of
being last.

don't be late, I won't
wait.

Going to Goodwill

i take three enormous
green
lawn bags full of old
and new clothes
down to the local clothes
depository, the goodwill store.
some with tags still on them,
never worn.

why i bought an orange shirt,
and green
pants, i'll never know.
a suit with gold
stripes? what the hell.

the woman at the counter
pours everything
out and says.
these all clean?
yup, I tell her.
have you checked the pockets?
no sharp objects?
nope, i don't think so.
this shirt has a stain on it,
what is that? lipstick, mascara?
take it back.
it'll wipe off, i tell her.
i don't care, she says,
we want clean clothes.

and this sweater has a loose
thread. look at that, one pull
and the whole thing unravels
and someone freezes to death.
i can't have that on my conscience.
we'll can't you just cut
it with a pair of scissors?
no.
i'm not a tailor, and
what's the deal with all
these shoes.

you got a shoe fetish or something
some of them look brand
new.
dude, you got some issues,
don't you?
and all this underwear you
stuffed into the bag.
men's, women's. you've got to
be kidding.

what happened to what's her name?

whatever happened to what's
her name, she says,
while
washing her little red
sports car in front of
the house. the hose
is in her hand,
with a bucket of suds
at her sandals. it reminds
me of that scene
in cool hand luke.

who?
I say, sitting on
the porch, looking up
from the paper as she leans
onto the car,
scrubbing
the hood in her daisy dukes.

you know, that woman
that lived here for
a few months, Sheila, or
Betty, that jezebel
you were seeing for awhile.

oh come on, you know.

string bean, lanky
sad kind of girl
with the haystack hair.
big pair of oversized
glasses
hiding her face.
she seemed terribly
depressed. always carrying
four giant handbags
on her shoulder.

oh, her.
I have no idea.

I watch as
she sprays the windshield
with water, having it bounce
back onto her white
t shirt, soaking her.

I clear my throat, cross
myself and try
to think of baseball.

I think she went back
to her ex husband,
or married boyfriend, or
her mother's basement.
out of sight, out of mind,
she disappeared.
packed her few
belongings and adios.

by the way,
you know you missed
a spot
on the door. right down there,
no there, lean
towards the tire.

there, you got it.
don't forget the bumpers.

refillable glass

it means little
that the glass
is half
full,
or half empty,
for what's true,
is that
no matter
what the case may be,
it's refillable.
so do that,
and relax.
there's more where
that came from.
trust me.

visiting her grave

i visit her grave,
despite the fact that she's
still alive.
i go to lay flowers
at the stone
that bears
her name.
i say a few words, rambling,
trying to find
some semblance of peace.
trying to figure out how any
human being can
be such a liar, so full
of sickness
and deceit.
i stare at the ground,
the dirt
covered in green.
i look around at the other
graves.
some fresh, some
well kept, some, like hers
rarely visited
or seen.
but i'm here, so relax
old girl,
and quit
nagging me. get off my back,
out of my life, my brain.
at some point, i'll
be healed and i won't
be coming by
again.

a girl from mars

I meet a girl
from mars, she's interesting.
different, green skin,
and almond eyes.
medusa like hair.
she's something to behold
in the light of day,
but is there chemistry?
does she like to read
and do fun things like travel
to the beach
or new York city for
a few days.
does she like to binge on
Netflix and stay
in on a cold winter night
and eat popcorn,
snuggling on the couch.
is she on any crazy meds
or in therapy
because she wasn't hugged
enough as a child,
but she's from mars,
so things are different
where she's from.
we're in the honeymoon stage.
taking it slow,
nice and easy,
plus she needs to adjust
to our gravity, not to mention
the traffic
and getting from point
a to point b
flying around in her cute
little spacecraft.

back into the crowd

you spend
an afternoon under the spell
of tom waits.

in between love.
I hope that I don't fall in love
with you.
closing time.
back into the crowd.

he sets the table, the mood.
it's like
he's been in every room.

been in your attic, your cellar,
your kitchen,
your bedroom.

sometimes you think he's there,
at the piano,
a hot cigarette burning in an ashtray,

the blue smoke a genie
out of the bottle,
a tumbler of amber whiskey
nearby.

a woman you once loved,
on the doorstep,
crying.

ghost world

we disappear.

but I repeat myself. I've said
it so many times
before,

with the same words, but
arranged in a different order.

the field is empty.
those once loved, or almost
love have wandered
away,

into the woods, into the sea.
they have
gone,

faded into shadows, into fog, into
ghosts,
transparent in the haze.

they have gone away.
not a word spoken, not a word
written,

not even a look
backwards to meet your eyes,
not even a wave.

nothing left behind.
what's done is done.

right before the dawn

how easily
we are fooled by tears.
by sadness.
by fear.
we think these clouds
will never part,
this rain
will never stop,
that tomorrow will never
come,
the heart will never heal.
how wrong we are
when in the dark.
how foolish,
unsmart to not know
that the darkest
hour is right
before the dawn.

home sweet home

my mother rarely saw a plate
that she didn't
want to throw at my father's head.
whether it had food on it
or not, hardly mattered.
he became quite adept at dodging,
ducking, sliding side to side.
the next morning was like
a war zone, broken glass everywhere.
a coffee pot thrown
threw a window, lying
in the yard.
forks and knives,
red sauce on the ceiling,
the phone cord
cut, a door knob broken,
a hole the size of a fist
straight through the other side
of a door.
fun stuff.
she'd be on the couch, asleep,
a strip of white adhesive tape
holding her
glasses together,
a new cast on her arm.
and he'd be gone, somewhere.
sobering up in someone
else's arms.

that is not love

I bend to the power
of water, let it flow into my mouth.
quenching
the thirst I've carried with me
for so long.
but it isn't love.
I lie in the warm sun, exposing
my skin
to the radiant heat
more generous than one could
hope for,
and yet,
that isn't love.
what's on my plate, seasoned
and filling,
a king's meal, I finish it with
bread,
with drink, but still,
as you might expect, that is
not love.
the book upon my lap,
the last page read, the satisfaction
of a story well told,
one I will forever
hold, and yet, that too
isn't close to being
what we're looking for, but
perhaps it will be
enough.

her snake boots

i see her now in her plastic
boots
white with small umbrellas painted
into
the fabric.
red, green, yellow, orange.

to say she was eccentric would
be an understatement.

she called them her snake boots.
and out she'd go

into her broad wooded yard,
the winter sky
mirrored in puddles,

wearing close to nothing,
to fetch the paper at the end
of the gravel
driveway.

a rake in hand, just in case.

the far wall

I see the smiles
dropped
and left upon the lawn,
side stepping them
as I move
towards the far gate
where the wall
needs fixing.
I see the rise of
clouds,
banks of memory, promises
made
and unkept.
the trees are caves
of words
unsaid.
silent as if holding their
breath.
I reach the wall and lift
an old stone
into place.
I tamp it down with
cold hands.
it will hold through
winter,
then i'll be gone.

shades of brown

shades of brown.
mud, wet along the bank.
beige off the boot,
crumbles, now
dried
and set aside
by the door, the worn
floor,
once glossed in wax
on polyurethane
now faded
almost into yellow, or
harshly
scuffed towards black.
the withering trees,
near grey.
the brown dead leaves,
matting the earth floor,
heaps
of paper mache.
all color gone.
it's the browning of nearly
everything, once
green, once fresh
and new. a world of unlove.
the mood,
forlorn.

not so intelligent design

I meet my friend jimmy over at the local
Fridays for lunch and we start to have
a deep discussion on evolution versus
creationism.
first we get an order of onion rings
for the table and a couple of beers.

it's the big bang, dude, he says to me,
making his eyes go wide, staring at me
like i'm a moron.
there was this big explosion, boom.
he spreads his hands apart and shakes them.

that's how it all got started, then
lighting hit a puddle of mud and water,
and voila,
that's where we came from. don't you
ever watch carl sagan, or listen to
that real smart guy who uses that robotic
voice thing?

So, fish, birds, apes, men, women, rhinos
and chickens? I ask him. everything
came out of that one single puddle?
just like that?
hell yeah, he says, dipping an onion ring
into some ketchup.

we all came out of the same puddle, me
you, the waitress, like where is she,
i'm starving here. Michelangelo, Einstein,
Madonna, everyone came out of that
big pile of goo, after it was hit by
a bolt of lightning.

Madonna? I say. Never mind.
come on now. and who made the lightning?
the earth, stars, the universe?

what about trees, and plants, fruits
and vegetables, insects. microbes.
there seems to be some sort of intelligent
design going on here. don't you think?
there seems to be an order to life,
a set of scientific laws that are immutable.

huh? he says, and grabs another onion ring,
so look, here's the deal, Darwin,
you know who Darwin is right?
white beard, kind of creepy looking guy
and all that, well, he
said it in his book, you got your puddle and
lighting, then bam, lighting strikes the goo.
the goo gets stirred up with electricity
then a few billion years
go by and voila.
fish, birds, monkeys, apes and then us.
next thing you know, here we are
having lunch.

he snaps his fingers at the waitress,
hey hon, he says, two more beers here
and a plate of ribs and slaw.
you? same, I tell her. same thing.

okay, she says. got it.
she walks away while jimmy shakes his head
looking at a tattoo
of a butterfly on her leg.
hey, he says, i'm thinking
about giving her my number.
she's kind of cute, don't you think.
girls with tattoos are on the crazy side.
I like that.

ummm, yes. she is cute,
but she might be twenty three
at the most, you're fifty two.
fifty one, he corrects me. but I
feel a lot younger, ya know.

okay, so where were we, he says. you
know I got an uncle that sort
of reminds of a gorilla. uncle Max.
I think I have a picture of him
in my phone. this dude looks
just like an ape, but without
all the hair. he looks just like
that guy in the evolution time line.
Here, take a look.
is he from the Bronze age, or what?

the honey jar

you can get lost
in an amber jar of honey.

holding it just so in the morning
light.

a world unto itself.
the thick
wobble of it all.

the color, the way it
slowly
goes
from side to side,

majestically thick.

a bee's life and work
caught inside.

and when opened, touched
with a finger,
then taken to your lips

you go even further into
that world,

a place that wonderfully
exists.

radio preaching

i listen
to the radio preacher for a short
spell
in the car. driving
somewhere,
the wipers slapping hard
against the glass.
he's going on about abortion.
the deaths
of millions of babies
since that law
was passed.
it's a hard topic, a hard subject
to deal with,
to digest.
we take a life, to save a life?
i don't know.
he talks about remorse, regret,
sin and salvation.
i break out into a cold
guilt filled sweat.
after a while i switch channels.
then again
then again,
and finally turn it off and listen
to music
of the rain
instead.

the bloom is lost

she closes herself
as petals
do on a rose
in darkness,
she needs light
and air
and water to keep
who she thinks she is
alive.
the admiration of others.
but the dirt is cold
she sleeps
in. her shallow breath
a desperate
effort to be relevant.
the weeds are at her
feet,
she's stuck, she's awake,
she's asleep.
the bloom is lost.

sugar is the devil

I talk to my nutritionist,
Shirley,
no relation to hazel,
Shirley Booth, but she knows
her business
just the same.

you need to cut out all
sugars, she tells me.
all carbs,
no meat, no fish.
but sugar is the devil.

hmmm, I say. shaking my
head.
sugar is the devil?
I thought joel osteen was
the devil.

well, yeah, she says, him
and his cupcake wife
are both demons in disguise,
but we're talking about
food right now,

not prosperity preachers
who really don't believe
the bible to begin with

and live an opulent life
style, pretending to be holy.

okay okay. I can cut out
sugar. it's going to be hard,
but i'll give it a shot.

what about a donut once in a while?
no.
no sugar.

lost in the woods

you wonder if you could survive
in the wilderness

with nothing, no food, no water, no map,
no knife, or axe.

no coffee.

could you rub two sticks together
and build a fire.

kill an animal and make a jacket
out of the skin,

eat the rest.
would you know which plants
to chew on.

what pond of water is safe
enough to drink.

could you follow the stars
for direction, or know the basics

about slapping together some
limbs and branches to make a shelter?

probably not. clueless, you'd
be dead in a few days.

so you start yelling as loud as
you can for help.

the dream inside the dream

as I stand here shivering
in the falling
snow
waiting for the bus,
I think about my life
and how it's come to this.
being cold and alone,
my shoes soaked.
my body shaking to the bone.
a few dollars in
my pocket, going nowhere.
just catching a bus
to get off the street
and get out of the cold.
but it's only a dream,
and I wake up
and look next to me
at my mail order bride
from Russia, natasha,
curled up tight on the pull
out bed in our trailer
in west virginia,
and I realize
how lucky I am.
outside, hanging on
the window I see a raccoon.
looking in, so I throw
a shoe at him,
and go back to sleep.
it's hard to tell what's
a dream and what
isn't anymore.

jesse james on the high seas

we want you to paint our house
the email says.
having found me on some site
like yelp

or angie's list, or some other
hackable advertising site.

he's a mysterious stranger who lives at some
undisclosed location,

who says he's on a ship at sea in the north
atlantic

making it impossible to talk by
phone.

what's the address, I ask for
the third time. what exactly do you
want done?

colors, etc. inside, outside? I can
meet you there tomorrow.

no reply.
I want to deposit the payment
into your bank account, he writes.

and when it clears, you can
begin work.

no name, no address, no scope of
the job. nothing, just give me
your bank account number.

another jesse james on the high seas.

baby steps

we talk of baby steps,

but what baby can actually walk?
few
in the first year.

it's mostly a long crawl
anywhere
across a room.

not to mention the crying,
and drool.

that's more of what we do
at first
when the time to leave
is past due.

we crawl
out of the muck,
but in time
we rise to our feet.

we grow in truth,

no longer crawling but
running as fast and hard

and as far away
as one can get from you.

The Mistress Gets Everything

we use the word so carelessly.
love.
I love you the boy says
to the girl.

but does he mean it.
or does he just want to make
to love
her.

does the bouquet of flowers,
the card,
the poem,
the heart carved in a tree
say more?

perhaps. or maybe it's done
out of fear, out of having
no self
love,

from some deep parental lack.
hoping to not lose
their prey,
they try harder.

it's why the man gives so much
time and affection
to the mistress
while the wife at home,

gets less, crumbs, if anything
at all.

she's already taken,
her life is just another day.

the later wins out

many days
are caves that we live in.

holding the canary in the cage
to see
where air
is or isn't.

we take our torch and go
forward.
pick and axe in hand.

helmet secured. striking at
the walls around us.

will there we a diamond
in the black stone of this hard

mountain, or will we bring
back just enough

to go home, to eat, to be
with the ones we love, or
don't love,

and start again tomorrow.

the later seems to win
out for most.

we bargain

we bargain,
we haggle and squabble
with ourselves
over what to eat, what to spend,
who
to be with,
deciding how the day
begins, how the day
ends.
we choose which book
to put into our hands,
which words will tumble
out of our mouths
into phones, or
through cracked doors,
when knocked upon.
we decide
whose lips to kiss, if
such an option
does exist.
what memory
to revisit, in what
chair we will sit
to ponder all of this.

time forward

one would like to think
of time
as moving forward, as if
the past
could be left behind, but
not so.
we tend to drag
with us,
the dead, the lost,
the loved ones born
into our hearts a long
time ago.
it's movement to be sure,
but not towards
some clearing,
some peaceful field,
but to a smaller place,
darker and haunted,
stacked and crammed
with all
that we once feared.

what's new

what's new,
she says, nothing I tell her.
same old.
and you,
me too.
still with what's her name?
no,
she flew the coop.
yeah, mine
too.
seems to be going around.
so true.
well, nice catching up.
yeah.
have a good day.
ok, same to you.

promises

the check is in the mail.

it'll be there on time.
I promise.

cross my heart, hope to die.

till death do us part.
in sickness and in health.

honest.
I sent the check yesterday.

you should have it by tomorrow.
if not
call me.

i'll send another. you know
i'd never
let you down.

what war?

did you hear
we might be going to war,
no,
I've been busy, what up with that.
I hope
it doesn't interfere with
my ski trip,
I've been planning for it all year.
no,
it's over there, the usual, bombs
and rockets.
tanks, guns, people dying,
so tired of it in the papers
and online all
the time. war war war.
skiing sounds like fun.
you should be good, where are
you going?
Vale?
great, great, some nice lodges
up there.
good food and drinks too.
yeah, I just bought a whole new ski
outfit too, and boots.
white with red and blue stripes.
sort of like the flag.
oh, how cool.

the tantrum

when I refused to buy
my son at the age of four
or five,
some toy, or magazine full of
comic book
super heroes, seeing that
he had more
than he could carry, he went
crazy for a few minutes.
turning red,
screaming, begging for
what he wanted. so I picked
him up in the store,
to settle him down, and he
looked at me and said,
dad, I love you, but i'm
mad at you right now.
it almost worked.

it's not love if you feel like this

in the cold,
hands deep into the wells
of my
coat pockets, I stand,
stamping my feet
and wait
for the subway train
to arrive.
I haven't been to the zoo
in some time.
although
I lived in one
for a couple of years.
but now
I just want to see what it's
like,
behind cages and bars,
with me on
the other side,
looking in, not out,
as prisoners do.

Your Honor, I object

I've been studying the law
for some time now
and feel that i'm ready to take
the bar exam.

most of my education though
has been through
television and an assortment of
movies,

like to kill a mockingbird,
or the verdict,
my cousin vinny, not to mention
perry mason,
judge judy
and divorce court.

I've had some hands on experience
there.

sometimes, I yell out, I object,
your honor
when in an argument with someone
I disagree with, an angry ex wife,
or when a surly friend rambles
on about something
making no sense whatsoever.

where were you on the night of...
I might say, or
isn't it true that you need glasses
when you drive?

or

isn't it true you were having an
affair with the deceased,
and that you work for a cement
company
down by the river where the body
was discovered
tied to a bucket of hardened
cement? well?

remember you're under oath!

may I approach the bench your honor?

ladies and gentlemen of the jury,
I stand here...etc. blah blah blah.

I've seen enough legalese,
and depositions in
my life time to
write up a will, or a divorce
decree. piece of cake.

sign here, initial here,
repeat over and over with
each new triple spaced page.

how to end a relationship

I want to see what I can't see.

hear what I can't hear, know what I don't
know.

I want the light on.
I want to know what's on your mind,

inside your heart.
I want the truth, not
the dark.

I no longer want to wonder
what's a lie,
and what isn't.

can you stop pretending to be
what you aren't

and be real for once in your
life?

perfectionists

some people are perfectionists.

it's a stressful life.
the thread, the lint, the scuff
of shoe.

a zipper that refuses to pull.
the day
is ruined so easily,

by ice, or rain.
how quickly it all goes south,
that feeling
that everything is ok,
slides down
the drain,

when the tire goes flat,
when
the call is late,

when the stocking runs, or the
heel breaks. one single strand
of hair,

out of place.
the roots going grey,
the unmade bed, forgotten
on the way to work. all terrible
things,

imperfect, to the point
that life is killing them.

reassamble

when the sun slips
into view, the world reassembles
to what it
was before it set.

we are no different.
rising
each day to make right
whatever life

we choose. putting things
in order.

fixing what we regret.

women love babies

women love babies.
whether it's theirs or belongs
to someone else.

grandbabies. babies of all color.
the smaller, the fresher
right out of the oven

they go crazy over them.

they see a baby and they scream
like a seagull

finding a sardine
on the beach.

they gather around the new born
baby

and lean into the crib or stroller
and wheeze
like air
leaving a punctured balloon.

women love babies,
they poke, and hold,
pinch their fat little cheeks,
kiss and cajole, they can't
get enough of them,

while men
nod at one another and stare,
and think things like, yeah.

I made that, that kid over there.
the one they're passing around.
that's mine.

when the world went cold

she used to love
the snow, before she moved south
to the keys.

come over she'd say.
bring
snacks, bring drinks, bring lips.

come to me,
before the roads are thick
with it.

before the ice forms.
before
I fall asleep. hurry, she'd
say.

I miss you.

but looking back I think it was
the snow
that made her
like that,
not me. her attempt at staying
warm
when the world went cold.

fish on ice

the fish,
silver stripes,
on ice,
still glimmering
in
made beauty,
the fluorescent lights
upon them.
lying still with
black eyes.
marked for sale.
how they once swam
splitting the water
with ease.
never knowing that this
future
lie before them.
no different from
them are we, perhaps.

You May Need Some Gum Work

what about tomorrow
at 7 a.m.
the dental receptionist says,
trying to fill
her January calendar.
x-rays, cleaning?

I just had a cleaning a few
weeks ago.

june, she says. and no x-rays.

but my teeth are good.
haven't had a tooth ache
in forty years.

7 a.m.? she says again.
the doctor says you really need
to get in here.

she wants to talk to you about
your gums.

my gums?
yes, she says she can transfer
skin from other places and reinforce
your gums.

we can do a seven step skin graft.
you're getting long in the tooth.

I almost tell her to jump in a lake,
or something to that effect, but
instead say,

sounds expensive.

I go the mirror and look at my gums.
they look nice and pink.
perfectly fine.

okay, i'll be in tomorrow at 7,
but no gum work.

just a nice cleaning.
okay. it's your mouth, she says.

7 sharp, don't be late.

the interior decorator

he had a full length black
bear coat
that fell to the floor.

and wore a ring on each finger.
one more gaudy than
the next.

he knew his colors, his
style.
louis the 14th, Versace to Oscar
Wilde.

let's go out,
me and you,
he said with a seductive wink.

let's get happy at happy hour.

i'm sorry I told him, but I
don't roll
that way.

plus the fact that I have a kid
and I'm happily married
she's got a pot roast
in the oven
waiting for me.

you don't know until you try it
he insisted.

his lisp more pronounced
with each sip of drink.

no. I told. I know. I've known
since the age of five.

back when natalie wood was alive.

object dissonance

what to keep, or throw away,
is not always easy.

how many shoes can
one person
own
and not use,
stacked in a closet

full, books, rakes, tools.
and that
machine to wash the house,

what year was that ever used.
some people keep
everything.

giving a value to each.
attaching to it some memory
ticket.

holding on for dear life
to what it meant,
fearing its absence
would be the end of things.

as if it never happened.

she had his guitar, his book,
his pictures
all within hands reach.

her son's first diaper
stuck in a large baggie.

a ribbon or bow. photographs
by the hundreds.
a patch for his eye, a book marker
signed.

a magazine he scribbled
on. a pen from
a hotel in St. Pete.
a hair brush. a glass
from some island. a half
empty bottle of

a soured red wine.
his voice mails. full of pain
and tears.
she loved that the most.

without exception

in all honesty
there is very little complete
telling
of the truth of who
we are.

who comes clean fully?
we all
have secrets,

whether in love, or money,
sex
or what we think

about her or him.
we cower in the shadows
in prayer,

that no one ever finds out
completely

what stirs within.

in all honesty,
we lie, we deceive,
without exception,

we pretend.

the math of love

what is the math
of love.

the equation, the formula
that makes
it work.

what numbers should we use.
how can we and subtract
divide
or multiply in order to
arrive

at the right answer.
it's not simple math
by any stretch
of the imagination.

it's almost unknown, but
you know
when you finally get there.

when the equation is solved.
then you put the chalk
away, hold her and try
to never let her go.

peace and love

it wasn't really peace and love.

the sixties.
it's a myth.

the drugs, the music.
the concerts. the revolution
never happened.

it was mostly a mess. the runaways.
the homeless.
the mud. the overdoses.

the disease, the free clinics.
the addicts.

but we sweep all of it away, and pretend
that those years

were some sort of Shangri la.
hardly.

it was an age of assassinations.
LSD.
Nixon.

Vietnam. women's rights. civil rights.
gay rights.
everyone was on the street.

marching with a sign over something.

but it wasn't really peace and love.
it was a crazy time

painted in day glow colors. long hair.
free love, not really.

nothing is free. the sixties
never happened like
you see it in the movies,

or on tv. it's a myth.

when the well runs dry

you see it in the dying man's
eyes.
some semblance of hope,
believing this is just temporary.
i'll be out of here
in no time, back to work.

you see in your parents eyes.
the love for their children, they'll
be alright.

give them time. given them schooling.
money.

it was in my mother's eyes as she stared
out the bare
kitchen window on a Friday night.

he'll be home soon.
he'll be home soon.

it was in our eyes on Christmas eve.

it's in the eyes of those in church.
those in the unemployment line.

the drug addict in rehab.

in the beggars' eyes on the corner
as the next car arrives.

it's in the eyes of single people,
clicking
endlessly online.

the waitress pouring coffee at three
in the morning.

the janitor mopping halls.

you see it in the eyes of men
coming out of a coal mine, their blue
eyes surrounded
by black.

everyone hoping there is a better life.

there's hope every where you
look.

it's in the eyes of husbands and wives,
hoping
that somehow love
will return, just wait, pray,
be patient, it will arrive.

hope.
the elixir that keeps us going
until that well
runs dry.

the river of time

how time is swift
from start to finish.

a powerful force moving on.

the first kiss, the first time
you make
love.

the first movie together.
meals.

walks, hand in hand through
the parks.

the first time at the beach.
the waves upon
our feet.

the collection of moons we
photographed and sent, saying

can you see it from where you are.

the cards and letters, the texts.
the long talks
into the cold nights when
winter kept us home.

birthdays, Christmas.
so much of life became our own.

but how swiftly time moves on
and things end,

to never see or hear from this
love again.

still life

it's a simple wooden
bowl
holding fruit. an orange
and apple,
grapes.
it sits on the table
under a bright light,
across from
her easel and chair.
how easily she takes her
hand
and dips the brush into paint.
the canvas
is her home.
and soon, without a word
an empty world
is full, what's in her
eye is born.

imaginary musing

there are days
when you miss someone.
miss them dearly.
you forget all the pain and agony
they brought into your
life.
you miss the imaginary
person
they pretended to be.
not who they really were.
a mirage.
it's hardly different from
missing true love.
or so they say.

i'm there too

I hear the whistle of the train
as it crosses
the trestle, no more than a mile
or two
from where I sit.

through the woods, across a narrow
stream.
I imagine the lives
within the cars, leaning

onto the windows, cold,
mirroring the pelting
rain.
so far from home,
from loved ones.

needing rest and food,
affection
and comfort. on the rails again.

i'm there too.

coup de foudre

is there such a thing as love
at first sight,

the bolt of lighting when
catching someone's eye?

the coup de foudre.

a brush of luck or destiny,
call it chance.

two strangers in the night.

who's to know, but it happens,
that gut feeling

of immediate attraction,
the longing

for romance.

it's happened once or twice,
in my life,
but in the end.

it was not unlike a bottle
of champagne

popped and drank,
full of fizz and fun,

but
then once the bubbles
were gone, the love

went flat. we were done.

dating criteria

i get an email from a woman
on venus,
another from
france,
one from mars, two from
a woman
in New Zealand.
despite my narrowed
profile criteria.
the dating site,
Disharmony, has expanded
my search for
the next love of my
life.
looks, distance
apparently don't matter.
height, weight,
direction of eyes.
green skin,
two heads, smoke like
a chimney,
never been
to school, no problem.
illiterate and medicated,
go for it.
they just winked, or liked,
or viewed you.
they've lowered my standards
to the nth degree.
(or maybe lowered theirs)
incarceration,
no teeth. devil worshiping
women with
six kids and a husband
living in the basement.
why not, they say,
give them a chance.
they all have good hearts,
good intentions.
give it a shot, get off
the street.

give me one of those

i pick up some indian
food,
carry away
from the local new restaurant
next to dominos.
a bag of what, i don't know.

i just point at a line
on the menu

and say one of those,

but it gets the best of me.
it's a long dark night
of sweating,

and prayer
on the cold bathroom
floor.
i have to stick with what
i know.

she did a dance

she did a dance once.
throwing her arms into the air,

tossing her black mane
of hair around
her shoulders.

alone.
in the living room.
her music on.

don't move she said.
sit there and enjoy the show.

she was limber,
and moved in a fluid enticing
flow.

full of drink, tipsy
to the point of falling over

I told her enough.
no more,

but she insisted and danced
until she
fell upon the floor.

two hours later,
gently
I knocked on the bathroom
door.

in a minute she said.
in a minute,
i'll dance
some more.

not sleeping

at night, not sleeping.
wide eyed in the dark

i pondered the shadowed
ceiling, staring at
a quiet fan in spin

bringing some relief
to summers thickened heat.
I wondered

what she was thinking.
asleep or not, a foot
apart, but in retrospect
a thousand miles

between us.
then I realized that all
my thoughts were
trained on her, while

hers were elsewhere,
on someone else.
which in the end made
it reasonable and easy

to abandon a ship that
was listing, and sinking
quickly to darker sand.

this might hurt a little

every now and then I go in
to the dermatologist to have her
freeze or scrape off
a bump, or blemish, or something
she looks at with
raised eyebrows and an oh my
grimace on her face.
she yanks out this gizmo
cannister, which I prefer over
the scalpel, and pulls the trigger
at the top of my head. a blast of
freezing cold chemically induced air,
pulverizes
the suspicious spot.
where can I get one of those,
I ask her. amazon?
no, she says, laughing. you
have to go to med school first
and get a white smock, like
mine with your name on it.
get an office, blah blah blah.
you're no fun, I tell her.
shut up she says and roll over.
take your shirt off, I have
work to do. you really like the sun,
don't you, she says,
as I feel the blast of cold air
hit my skin.

only two channels

half the time the radio
didn't work.
and when it did you could only
get a few
am
stations on the wobbly
dial.
the Spanish channel,
or the religious channel.
I listened to both
from time to time, getting
equal amounts
of information.
the religious channel
seemed broke, they were always
asking for money
before each preacher began
his sermon,
the call in shows, send
money, send money, we
can't stay on the air
if you don't send money.
if you want your crops to grow
send a check.
if you want your wife back,
send a check.
if you want your kidneys
to work again,
send an envelope full of
cash.
they seemed to have a deal
with God. a
quid pro quo sort of thing.
you give us your hard earned
money and we'll get on the line
with the almighty and take
care of your problems.
I almost sent in a few bucks
after I caught my wife
with her married boyfriend
again, but got lunch instead
and met this wonderful
waitress from Sperryville.
the lord works in mysterious
ways.

a rough night

there was the time he showed
up,
still drunk,
for work.
8 a.m.
shaky. red faced.
a new black eye blooming
on one side.
he trembled as he lifted
his 7 11 coffee to his lips.
you ok,
I asked him, as he
looked bleary eyed
from the truck
to the house
where the ladders and
buckets sat.
yeah, he said, lighting
a cigarette.
no ladder work today, I told
him
as he slunk
behind the wall, sleeping
it off in the warm
sun for half
the day.

what to eat

if you want to get a splitting headache
in like a new York minute
start looking up what's healthy to eat
on youtube.
within ten minutes you'll find
that meat is good for you.
that meat is bad for you.
eggs are the devil. eggs are good.
lettuce will kill you.
avocados are full of fat.
coffee is bad. salt and sugar, evil.
too much fruit, too little fruit.
no milk, no dairy, no gluten.
no pasta, no bread, no fish
full of mercury. sardines
and anchovies, yes. but not
in oil. no glucose, or syrup,
or candy,or cake. nothing in a bag,
or a box, or a barrel
you only feel safe
with celery, or parsley.
raw vegetables and all the while
I look at my ninety-two year
old father smoking a cigar
and eating a steak.

what are the reasons

is it timing.
is it good luck or bad,
fate
or an act of divine intervention,
or divine apathy
that keeps, or throws
us off track.
is God playing dice with
the universe,
despite Einstein's
pondering?
is anything set in stone.
is the future
ever known? what are
the reasons for
the ones we love,
the ones we let go?

becoming known

as children we put our ears
to a glass
and held it to the wall
to listen to the neighbors fight
and curse one another.

they hardly made a sound
outside their walls,
church going and proper,
the yard a fine trimmed
lawn, a car that shined,
but now
at night,

they'd go at it, with pots
and pans,
breakables thrown,
uttering words we rarely
heard, becoming known.

this will not last

we pause, we sigh,
we wait at the light
as the motorcade
slowly slides by
led by the black hearse.
the drizzle of rain,
the drizzle
of time. so many go quickly,
though most prefer
an easier way
and slowly die.
who knows?
but we wait
and let the line pass.
lights on in single
file.
our turn will come.
be patient,
this will not last.

buying flowers

we haven't seen you in a while
the florist says
as I stop in to smell
the roses.

ah, yes, I respond, it has been
a fortnight or more, hasn't it,
perhaps longer
since I last
bought a hurried bouquet
of roses, or an orchid, or
daffodil.

things change, I say softly,
studying the garden under
lights and glass. I actually
enjoy flowers more these days
when I purchase them.

but I buy them not with a note
of apology, or heart felt
poem attached. trying to soothe
or buy a love back.

it's different now, I buy them
for me,
for my own pleasure, my own
home, no longer for someone
I once held dear, no longer
for someone that took me
so often to task.

were you ever in the military?

were you ever in the military
the woman asks
as she fill out my form at
the social security office.
she looks up at
the top of my head,
at the shorn locks
down to a fine bristle.
nope. I say.
just the cub scouts when I
was in the second grade.
but I hated it. the uniforms.
the rules and regulations.
someone always above you
giving orders, telling
you to tie a knot,
no not that knot,
I want square knot.
or being forced to study
which plant was
poison ivy and which plant
wasn't. leaves of three,
let em be, leaves of four,
eat some more.
it drove me crazy
all that discipline, so
I went awol, tossed my
little blue hat, my red
scarf, shirt and pants,
and waddled away,
down the creek
so that I couldn't be tracked.
so, you're answer is no,
the woman at the counter says,
looking up from her
computer screen. yes, I mean
yes my answer is no.
not really. just the cub
scouts, like I was saying.

the ant farm

there are days when you don't
really want to talk with anyone,
socialize or interact in any way.
you just want to watch, observe.
study what's going around you.
look at people in a scientist
kind of way. like having an ant
farm, and checking it out from
time to time, to see what the deal is.
if there are any new tunnels.
watching them carry bread crumbs
down into their caves. they all
seem to have a plan of some sort.
without so much as a wiggle of
their antennae they get
whatever the heck they're doing
done.

the Harley couple

I pull up next to a Harley
at the light
and look over. a little American
flag is stuck on the back.
he's a beefy guy with
a grey mustache circa 1979
and a squirrel like pony
tail hanging out the back
of his helmet.
his belly hangs out from
his unzipped leather Harley jacket
touching the front handle bars.
his babe is on board behind him.
with her dark glass helmet on,
she looks 25, skinny with long blonde
hair, but when she takes her
helmet off to talk with
her man, she could be 70 or
older with a deep well
grooved tan. they look over
at me, looking at them, and
I give them the thumbs up.
he revs the bike as loud
as he can and gives me a wide
smile. a smile that says,
ain't it lucky to be me.
she winks and slides
her helmet back on.
wiggling her waif like torso
towards him in a snug hug.
off they go into the sunset
with a rumble and roar.
it's wonderful to be in love.

they tell you who they are

you can't change people.

you can't reweave the fabric
of their soul.

dark stays dark and light stays light.

for better or worse.
it's in the blood, the core.
the heart.

once you realize that, you move on.
it's pointless
and exhausting to do otherwise.

life is way too precious to be
with the wrong person.

they will tell you who they are.
don't look back.
just go.

time to go

no need to get up,
I say.
pulling at my collar.

i'm just passing through.

just going to the other
side of the room.

to look out the window
the one with
the view.

don't get up, don't move.
i'm fine.

so nice to see you,
and you and you.

is that the exit sign?

failure to communicate

she was fluent in several languages.

and yet, we couldn't
communicate.

she'd stare blankly at me, without
so much
a word, or shrug, or grimace,
or smile
upon her face. the eyes were dead.

she was a hard read.
but her actions spoke loudly.

I still feel the impact of
her screams.

harvest

too early to rise,
and yet
you're up and on the road.

work.

you harvest the field when
it's ready.

the world tells you
when it's time to go.

so you go.

dry clean only

the new sweater,
slipped into the mix and mash
of clothes
being washed
has shrunken down
to almost nothing.
it might fit a small
thin child now. tightly.
I hold it up, out of the dryer,
warm and soft,
I try to stretch it,
tugging at the sleeves,
the collar, but
nope, it's done. game
over for this sweater.
I peel back the label
hidden underneath.
dry clean only.
damn the small print.

tofu ribeye

i try to mold some tofu
into the shape

of a rib eye steak. i throw some
onions into
the pan, mushrooms.

a smidgen of olive oil.

but it's not working.
where's the grease, the splatter,

the scent of charred meat
that I've been
eating since two.

steak was at the top of the food
pyramid when i was in
school

right below that was butter
and milk.

white bread,
ice cream and cake.

now a soy bean is king.
sitting
in its slender green jacket,
smirking at us all
as we try to make do.

flying on her broom

I knew there were skeletons
in
her closet.

I just didn't know how many,
and how
many of them

still had flesh on their bones
and were
texting her night and day.

it was Halloween year round.
lots of
creaking floors,

closet doors closed,
secrets unburied
in so many tombs.

I lost count of her
left over lovers, the shadows
in the yard

that she'd meet at the park,
flying on her broom.

how love was

the running sky above,
seems impatient,
trying to get to where
it needs go
before nightfall.

wrapped loosely
in garlands of pink,
a tangled ribbon of blues.
nowhere is there
a sun to see.

it's below us now, but
the clouds go swiftly
in the remaining light,
as we gaze in wonder,

and watch as if for
the first time, this
earthly magic,
like how love was
between me and you.

Men

when I see the aged men
in long coats,
the cross hatched stitches
of life and stress
upon their faces,
grey and smoking, legs crossed
on the benches in
central park, glancing at the young
women running by, I can't help
but think that
it's a blessing and a curse,
this drive,
this sensuality
that appears
in early boyhood, and goes on
into the years,
even now, hardly a day
passes without
giving it thought. does
the world
truly revolve around this?
there's a strange almost
insatiable
urge
to be in love, to have
intimacy.
men wear it on their sleeves,
it's in their eyes,
it's coded in the language
of their smile.
it's primitive in a way,
a craving, an appetite
for the opposite.
you wonder when, or if it
will ever wane.

black and white

nothing is black or white,
despite
the notion that it could be.

so much of life is between
the lines.

the small print of us.

all are not
evil, or good, just human.

there are shades of light.
swipes of black, or shadow.

but if love appears,
a glorious rainbow
of color makes so much doubt,

so much of the darkness
disappear,
and turn to white.

but no more, please

we used to fight a lot.
bicker all the time,
then there'd be sulking

and the silent treatment.

i'd come home from work
and she'd be happy
for a while, but
the house would be a mess.

I was hungry, she was hungry.
she wanted to go for a walk,
or sit on the couch
and stare out the window
at the swaying trees.

she wouldn't leave me alone,
always pulling at the chain.
needing constant attention,
always in my lap
when I tried to read or
write a poem.

how she'd sit up and beg.

she wanted to watch tv
together, or curl up next
to me in bed,
pulling at the blankets
and sheets. taking my
favorite pillow for her own.

she drooled a lot too.
and had fleas, and would drag
things into the house

that were disgusting.
her barking was endless.
each trip to the vet would
empty my wallet.
she was a great dog, I miss
her,
but no more, please.

no christmas card this year

I used to get more Christmas
cards
than I did this year.

the box was full of red envelopes
with little
santa claus stamps
stuck on the corner.

I go through the list
to see who has dissed me in such

a despicable way
this holiday season.

ex wives ex girlfriends.
siblings. not a peep out of any
of them. not a card, or a cookie
baked.

the ex in-laws, nada.
the sister, nothing.
the son, the brother in law.
zippo.

and I was almost friends with
these people.

in the past all the cards were
signed, with love and best
wishes for the holiday season,
so and so.

but I guess the love is gone,
or maybe it was temporary,
or not at all. oh well.

it's a shame.

which diet to choose from

I peruse the new diets,
trying to lose a little weight before
spring.
not that i'm going to be prancing
around on the beach
in a speedo, or anything.
but just to drop a few pounds
for health, to be lighter on my
feet for those long nights
out dancing. that's a joke.
but there are so many diets
to choose from.
the all chicken diet.
the poultry only diet, anything
with wings that can't fly.
all meat, which entails all
four legged animals, too slow
to run away from the butcher.
just plants.
the botanical garden diet.
just fish, just water and bread.
the Alcatraz diet, it's called.
the jungle diet. snakes and bugs,
with an occasional rhino sandwich.
the island diet. berries, nuts,
bananas and mangos,
with a coconut milk chaser.
the city diet, which is my favorite
pizza, bagels with cream cheese,
pretzels and steak subs
all washed down with a big gulp.
then there's the grandpa diet,
for those without teeth.
oatmeal, soups and grilled cheese.
jello with cool whip.
then there's the lost in the woods
in west virginia diet.
squirrel stew, raccoon brisket,
and pan fried field mice.
basically road kill.
it's a toss up, not sure which
way i'll go, but it's time
to think about nutrition
and health to get the new
year started.

end of the reel

the beauty of time and distance,
no contact
is that you wake up one
morning completely free.
hardly a thought passes by
about someone.
they're gone, almost as if
it never happened, as if
they never existed except
in some old movie that you saw.
it's the end of the reel.
story over, done, fini.
all gone.

skin and bones

some need the shine,
the glimmer
and glam, the bling
of life.
the four star meal,
the four star room,
those jimmy choo
heels. the prada bag,
the gucchi coat.
some need paris,
or rome.
a luxury liner.
a gold phone. some need
a mansion a Mercedes,
a ranch, a cabin,
a beach front home.
the black card, diamonds,
the driver, the maid,
the butler.
some need the attention,
the admiration to prove
their worth,
to yell out, this is where
I've been, this is what
I own, but in the end.
without love, without
compassion, we're
empty,
we're all just skin
and bones.

A Flock of Geese

I see a flock of geese flying overhead
in a v formation.

thirty or forty of them.
I can hear them talking in their bark
like way.

what are we doing, the second one on
the left says
to the one behind him.

what do you mean what are we doing?

are we really flying south
for the winter?

seems silly. it's not even cold
out. maybe we should just go halfway
this year with global warming
and all.

the other one shrugs. I don't know.
i'm just going because I have
a friend in palm springs.

he's got extra room in a nest
on a golf course. says I can stay there
no problem.

the golf course is covered in
pieces of bagels
and cream cheese. loxs
and civilta fish. these people
take a bite and throw
it away. oy vey.

what do you mean exactly by these
people?

nothing, nothing. i'm just saying
you don't have to worry about looking
for worms down there.

I just don't see the point anymore.
we haven't had snow
or ice in ages.

i'm not as young as I used to be.
I've only go so many
miles left on these wings.
look at my feathers, do these
look like the feathers of a young bird?

you know
my uncle Al got hit by a drone last
year doing this, a younger goose in the third
row says. true story.

maybe we should go
part of the way this year,
the one says,
like stop in Charleston,
and check the long range weather
forecast. find a deli.

ahh, quit your kvetching, and
start flapping those wings
instead of your beak. we're
halfway there.

the light is everywhere

I tell my therapist,
to take the sharpest knife
out of her educated
drawer and start cutting.

slice me to the bone.
eviscerate my soul.

I know it's going to hurt
more than
any pain I've ever known,

but please, for the sake
of sanity, for the life of me,
begin, let's get to the bottom
of why

I've made the same mistake
over and over.

seeking the most chaotic and sick
individuals to fall in love with,

the incurable narcissists.

so she does. okay, she says.
here we go.

I scream, I cry, I bend over
like a child
and let it all out. I weep my
heart out.

but in the end I get it.

i truly see the cause, I see the origin
of all lies.

hello father.

it isn't just a light at the end
of a tunnel.

the light is everywhere.

the empty house

the empty house
with its darkened windows,
the unkept yard,
is for sale.
a yellow sign bends in the wind.
I stop for a moment
to look.
a family lived there once.
two children.
a dog. a husband
and wife.
never friends, but we waved
as time
went by.
rarely saying a word to one
another.
but still, they were familiar
to me,
as I to them.
it's sad in a simple way,
how easily they've slipped
away unnoticed,
the way a light
rain might fall when
expecting sun.

if it snows

survival
used to be on my mind.
the dollar made,
the dollar saved.

each bill waiting on the desk
to be paid.
tomorrow, or the next day.

keeping the home fire burning,

but it's different now.
the hunting has slowed.

the cupboards are full.

there's no more holding my
hands over
the hot stove,

sharpening a stick to go out
to kill something,
or
waiting for the phone ring.

there's no worry,
no wondering about the roads
if it snows.

no doubt

it's not funny at all,
but
it's hard not to laugh at it
with so
much time and water
under
the clock
and bridge, passed.
soul mate.
cell mate.
oh well. better to be alone
without
then to be alone with.
no doubt.

taking out the hammer

i see that metal
will not burn and melt down quite
so easily.

so once the fire dies,

full of cards
and photos, clothes,
ribbons and bows,
books and other
sentimental
things that no longer
have value,

i pluck out the thick ring
and hold it warm in my hand.

hardly scarred, or worn.
not a nick
or graze upon it.

this calls for a hammer.
which is what
i do.

the same story

our stories match
to a certain degree.

so many do when hearts are tied
to

darkness.
lovers who were liars.

she said, I cried my make up off
so many times.

came unglued. she tells me
her story.

then mine. but we both have tired
of it. it's not ancient history
quite yet.

but give it time.
it will become a tale told
in the third person.

in the field with birds

in looking back.

I see the scarecrow
in the field, hung upright among
the stalks

of endless corn.
the straw hair,

the long face, made up.
in clothes
once worn to dance in,
perhaps.

bright in color, soft to the touch.

an unpleasant woman, 

set out
on a task
to keep the crows at bay.

the exaggerated lips
and eyes, stitched in black.

arms stretched in cross like
submission.

it reminds of so much.

but she's still at last,
except for
a wavering wind,

that blows between the seams.

crickets

I do hear crickets on
nights like this.

in from the cold, together
or alone.

the tiny snap of their
arms,
the slap of their thin hands.

what's with the noise?
wouldn't it be better to hop
in silence.

safer.
I think that on occasion.

keeping my mouth shut, lying
low,
waiting
for safety.

waiting for better times.

i love the dress

she tells me about
her first husband.

then her second.
finally her third.

she has descriptive
harsh names for each of them.

loser
liar
cheater

in no particular order.

never again, she says, as she flips
through a bridal
magazine.

never again, although I do love
this dress.

being misunderstood

Oscar wilde said that he feared
not being
misunderstood.

I like that.
it says so much about being
different.

not being who they want you to be.

being alive and not one of the masses
heading over
the cliff
in droves.

most art of value, most writing,
most
music

occurs that way. not grey
but a rainbow,
an array of color,

full of joy, full of pain.

a splendid opening of the heart
and mind

outside the box.
against the grain.

the sound of a hammer against a nail

I remember the fallen
horse
in Barcelona, lying on the street.
the wagon
turned over,
the man
with a broken arm, bleeding,
now in our car,
our back seat.
my brother and I in the front
as we sped to
a hospital.
my father in his navy whites
now streaked
in red.
his hands on the wheel,
he looked as scared as we were.
as he turned
the car around, I heard the shot.
the sound of a gun going off.
like the strike of a hammer
on a nail,
and looked back
to the policeman in grey,
his black holster open,
standing over the lifeless horse.
the steam of blood
still in the air.

walk away

you can't help angry
souls.
you can't argue, or agree to
disagree.
it's just best to leave
them alone,
let them be,
let them stew in their
misfortune.
don't let them infect
your healing soul.
they are too sad,
too lonely and hurt.
life has not gone their way,
and most likely never
will. walk away.

again you find your stride

the blue lake
is a beauty, a gem, a coin
shining in
the sun on this perfect first
day of
the year.
it's candy to the eye.
a lover that wants
to be embraced and held
and remembered.
it's why you go, it's
why you return
time after time.
each lap around, each tree
a friend of sorts,
a familiar home.
again you find your stride.

the first day

the kid in front of me at the ABC
store
is happy.
the clerk is in the back
he tells me
breaking a hundred
dollar bill
that he got for Christmas.
happy new year, the kid says,
grinning ear to ear,
oblivious still
to death, disease, divorce
and the rest.
happy new year to you, I tell
him, setting
my bottle of vodka
onto the counter.
so far so good.

bon appetit

you watch a show about meat.

the slaughtering of caged pigs,
chickens, cows and sheep.

you no longer want to eat meat.
you put it onto the list,
along with milk
sugar, eggs, bread
and mercury contaminated fish.

what's left?
you're down to beans.
lettuce.

parsley and leeks.
bon appetit.

closure

she slips a note
through the door, late at night.

I don't hear her,
i'm sound asleep in the floor above.

I find it in the hall
when I arise.

it says nothing,

but is signed at the bottom
with her name.

it's the most
concise and revealing
thing she's every written
to me.

the blank page.

it says everything.
closure.

please don't die

the room is cold.

these old windows made
of glass

and wood, do little to keep
out the wind.

the glare of sunlight flies
in,

but I like them.
circa 1968. it's who I am.

mid century modern.

the computer is sluggish.
so am I.
I offer it coffee, but

it stutters, it's sleepy,
it has no
reply.

my fingers rest on the keyboard.
waiting.
waiting patiently.

please don't die.