the newspaper blues

the sunday paper stinks
these days.

thin, hardly any news you've never
heard before
twenty times over
what with television
and social media.

you don't read the comics.
or the tv guide.
the lame parade magazine is
the size of a slice of bread now.

the editorials are slanted
so far left,
slightly right of
socialism.

the sports page is exactly
one page.
highlights. scores
and schedules.

everything you already have
on your phone.

the paper stinks, but I still
buy it. at least the ink
doesn't run in
your hands anymore.

I like to sit with a cup
of coffee pretending to be
a grown up,

and lick my fingers as
I peruse, then
turn each page.

lying on the internet? no way

I can't remember how old I am
anymore.

I've put down so many different ages
over the years
on dating sites.

lied through my teeth about height
and weight.

the number of marriages, kids and money.

i'm actually an 80 year old man in solitary
confinement
in prison for

embezzling funds
from senior citizens. maybe.

i'm a doctor, a lawyer, I take
care of animals at the zoo.
i'm all about family.

I love babies and kittens
and cuddling. I can't wait
to meet your children.

my photos are air brushed.
all of them glamor shots from jc penny's.
i'm a Rhodes scholar.
i'm a barker at the carnival.

I can sell ice to the eskimos.

I have four or five different names,
all with a passport.

I'm wanted by the police, I am the police.

i'm Italian, French and from new jersey
half the time. I know people.

I own a liquor store, I have a white
Cadillac and a boat the size of the president's
ego.

i'm rich. I wear a toupee. I've had
plastic surgery and a tummy
tuck.

my wife is dead, but not literally.

i'm from Nigeria and want to borrow money.
i'm a fourteen year old boy
in my mother's basement with the door
closed.

I cry at movies on the hallmark
channel. I've been a vegetarian for
three days now. we're so alike.

i'm a cowboy, a gambler, a senator
from North Dakota.

my face belongs to someone else these
days.

you can call me johnny, or joe,
or jim,
or jack, or even marge, as I was
at one stage. I couldn't decide.

I like to dress up in women's clothing
when the weather's nice.

but I box too. marital arts and
karate. i'm catholic, budhhist, i'm
a converted jew.

I have only one tattoo
which covers my entire back, but
I've left room for you.

I like to cook. I own a restaurant.
I just got back from paris and before that
I was an astronaut
going to the moon.

some of this is a lie, some of it
is true. it's the internet, come on,

lying is what we do.

The Long Vacation

I think about joining the space
program.

just to get out of town for a few weeks.
go someplace new.

get away from the ex-wives
and their lawyers.

have an adventure, to mars,
or back to the moon.

but I worry about the lack
of air there.

the lack of bathroom facilities.

it's like going to Greece or Venice,
and you can't
find a
starbuck's anywhere.

you can't get a coffee to go,
God forbid
you take your cup
and leave the premises,

after all we did for them
in world war two. pffft.

but Mars could be fun.
I like tang, and little space
sandwiches made
at mission control.

little space treats, protein
bars and what not.

it's a long trip, so I could
finally catch up on my reading.

It's not like I don't have
astronaut skills.
I could do the count down.
ten, nine, eight...etc.

i'm pretty good with numbers.

after momma left

I used to like the farm
life.
me and my cows, goats, chickens.

the cats to keep the mice
out of the barn.

the plow horse, Billy.

hearing the rooster crow
at the break of dawn.

I used to enjoy plowing the lower
forty.

harvesting the alfalfa
and corn, but since momma
ran

off with the fuller brush man,
it don't seem

the same anymore.

I just don't have that get up
and go.

it got up and went and now
without momma, life's
one

big chore.

the number one

give me three eggs over easy
I tell the waitress

in her pink dress, a color that
hurts my eyes
at this early hour.

not unlike the color of my
own eyes.

if my mouth wasn't so dry,
and I didn't have a headache

I might actually try and flirt
with her.

she looks to be my age within a few
decades or so.

bacon, I tell her. six strips,
crispy, none of that soft
and floppy bacon, please.

wheat toast, butter, jam
and coffee.

two waffles too, with syrup.

keep the coffee coming.

rough night, she asks, taking
the pencil out from behind
her ear and hair.

sort of I tell her. sort of.
did I mention hash browns.

no, you didn't.
well, I want those too. lots
of onions and slice
up some jalapeno

peppers, if you can manage
that. and orange juice, no pulp.

and three Tylenols, no aspirin,
i'm allergic to aspirin.

okay, she says. so you want the number
one.

I look at her and laugh.
yes.

yes, give me the number one.

you got it hon. be right back
with your coffee.

the long gloves

there was a time
when sophisticated women wore
long gloves.

thin and tight,

maybe they still do
on park, or Madison, or
5th avenue.

haven't been there in a while.

but the long gloves were
a fashion.

white, or black, stretched out
over a long slender arm,

ala Audrey hepurn, or
liz taylor
perhaps.

it wasn't so much to keep
the cold out.

it was more of a statement.

I can see them now, a cigarette
in a holder,
elbow bent

with eyes a flutter.
a cat like smile
in place, the ribbons

of smoke about them.
cool and reflective,

so confident with those long
gloves on.

hello darkness, my old friend

we used to greet him

with the words
from a paul simon song,

hello
darkness,
my old friend.

he could see the cloud
in
any silver lining.

the joy
in any pain.

the fun in any catastrophe.
he actually
liked

being in the Vietnam
war.
the jungle,
the killing,

the mines and mortars,
the choppers
flying about.

bankruptcy, no problem.
divorce.
jail.

a heart attack, whoopee.
no problem.

you had to love him.
he could make
it rain

on just about any sunny
day. wherever you
are today,

hello darkness,
my old friend.

help get me out

some people can't be helped.

you get close
to

the pool of quicksand they are
stuck in,

struggling since childhood.

you throw them a rope,
but it's not enough.

they want you to come in
and help
drag them out. they want
to take
your hand,
and let you sink down with
them.

in the past you would.
you'd be

suckered in, being the empath
and person
that you are.

rescuing the wounded is
your mission in life,
it seems.
others in distress
breaks your heart,

but this time, you say no.
take the rope
and pull

your self out. I won't
go in, this is all on you.

not me, not ever again.

the devil's box

you grow weary of cell phones.

the constant
beep
and ring of them all.

the addiction.
the need to look and look

to see who is there,
while the person you're
sitting
with

doesn't matter as much.

it's the ones in the phone
that count most.

holding them close to the vest.
cradled in hand.

sleeping with them
like metallic lovers,

texting incessantly, emojis,
links,
emails
and the rest.

they're adored,
this little box
of technology gone amok,

all warm and fuzzy, buzzing.

they are the best, real people
who are present,
are out of luck.

the loose thread

we all have loose threads,

small
strands of our past
or present

susceptible of being pulled
and having

it all come undone,
unraveled.

the truth at last, exposed.

there is so much more to us
than

what meets the eye.
for better or worse.

Father George and the New Confessional

I stop by the old church
to see how things are going.
the priest, Father George, sees me

and throws his hands into the air,
and to what do we owe
this great honor, he says,
rushing over
to give me an uncomfortable hug.

uh, just passing by,
I wanted to see my old pew where
I used to sit nervously
in a state of anxiety, twitching,
with the ex-wife.

come on in, come in.
would you like me to take your
confession? we just renovated
the confessional booth.

mahogany, with new
plush cushion for those long
confessions,
one hundred per cent
cotton, cardinal red.
the kneeler is made of memory
foam.

i'm telling you, the new booth
is something to behold.

sound proof.
it even has wi-fi and blue tooth.

it's very comfortable in there.
in fact one of our parishioners
fell asleep in the middle
of her confession,
just as she was getting to the good
stuff.

he gives me a wide smile
beneath his thick beard, showing
the large gap between his front teeth.

nah, I don't have that many hours,
I've got a date tonight with
an unregistered nurse in Baltimore,
she's working her way
through med school as a  dancer.
maybe another time.

oh my, do tell, he says, scratching
at his beard. a dancer, you say?
how is the ex by the way, 
you had your own personal road
to Damascus with
that one, didn't you?

he swirls his finger around
his ear then crosses himself.

who knows, I tell him. who cares,
out of sight, out of mind.

ha, he says, good for you, don't
look back. I think the apostle Paul
said that.

no, that was Bob Dylan, I tell him.

oh, yeah, right, I get the two mixed
up sometimes. oh well. 

are you hungry, thirsty?
we just opened up a new box
of wafers, straight from
the Vatican, red wine? he says,
then laughs, just kidding,
but we do have some snacks

in the lunch room.

low carb, no sugar, he says, we're
all giving that keto thing a try.
I could fry us up a pound of bacon?

Father Smith lost fifteen pounds
the first week. we had to get
him a new gown, he was floating
in the old one. He actually had a smile
on his face. It's the happiest

i've seen him since the new

altar boys arrived last summer.

i'm good, I tell him, real good,
well, you know what I mean.
i'm not literally good, I tell him,
using air quotes around the word
good, because we're all sinners, right?

that's right original sin starts
at birth, the second you take that
first gulp of air, you're pretty
much going to hell in a hand basket.
those are the rules, sorry Charlie.

well, if it's okay with you,
i'll just go sit in my
old pew for a few minutes, 

reminisce a bit, I tell him. 

sure, sure. go on in.
kneel and pray if you'd like.
talk to the old man, he says,
pointing upwards.
good to see you again my son.
see you on sunday?

we've got some guitar players
coming in from Brazil, 

and some bongo players from Cuba, 

it should be a great mass. 

Sister Rosemary
has been practicing a new hip
hop conversion of an old hymn.
Rock of Ages,
you'll love it. it gets
the crowd jumping.

I don't know, I tell him.
maybe. i'm kind of into an R and B
mood these days,.

you know Al Green, Marvin

Gaye, that sort of thing. we'll see.

happy hours

i remember happy
hour.

actually is was happy six or seven
hours

after work, a short drive
from the office.
tie on,
a cheap coat from Simm's
wearhouse.

the johnny carson suit with
a fat tie
and wide lapels,

or was it a thin tie,
with thin lapels, who knows.
the nineteen eighties are a blur.

but we drank, we sang, we told
stories.
we embellished.
we flirted and misbehaved as much
as possible

without breaking the city laws.
hoping to get lucky
with some
girl on the other side of the bar.

sending her over a whole
draft beer in a glass, no less.

we'd take a lap around
and say clever pick up lines like,
hey. what's up?
come here often?

we drank one dirty mother after the other.
large mugs of white Russians.
eating
loaded potato skins
with sour cream and bacon.
onion rings
and greasy burgers.

we were a mess. mangling
born to run,
or love me tender by elvis
at the top of our
lungs,

or Alison by
elvis Costello. but we were
young, foolish,

desk jockeys in brown shoes,
and a small paycheck about to be
half spent.

Her Secret Life

her life was full of secrets.

the hidden phone,
the closet full of hidden notes
and rings
and clothes.
the hidden scale.
the hidden
cards and letters.
the secret post office box.
the secret rendezvous.
the secret tree
in the woods.
the secret
texts.
the hidden health issues.
the secret
laxatives
and pills.
the hidden pictures.
the secret
lovers, the secret
food,
the secret books
and magazines.
the secret videos.
the whispers behind
closed doors.
the stalking, the searching,
the constant
hypervigilance
about everything.

she was a shut book.
a dark tomb. paranoid
and scared.
a black heart full
of secrets
and gloom.

the clean slate

clean
slates are nice.

to wipe the board. to erase.
to sweep

and dust.
to eradicate and flush.

to start anew.
driving fast and far
from what was.

the sweet fresh smell of
a new day.

a spring in your step.
a grin,

a smile. back to your old
self.

the clean slate is nice.
a new start.

Charm School

beware of charm.

beware of those who smile
and
accommodate
that bend

to your desires, your
needs

your wants. don't listen
to the siren

voice, don't look at what
lies outside.

slowly you will fall into
their web.

there is only one way
they
can capture you and that's
pretending to be
who they aren't, by

using

charm to the nth degree.
don't fall for it.

if they showed you their
true self

they'd have no chance
at gaining

a new supply of love
and admiration, adding you into
their
sick harem of weak men.

don't be a fly.
don't be a bug caught
inside the living hell

that is their life.

keto madness

coffee is good for you.

no it's bad.

red meat good. tomorrow bad.
no milk.

no bread.
no pasta.
no fish full of mercury.

no potatoes.
no donuts. no potato
chips.

no vegetable oils.

no cake. no ice cream.

i'm starving and dying a slow
unhappy death

chewing on tree bark
and eating eggs.

I want a pizza covered
in sausage and cheese
so bad.

the snake skin

I find an old snake
skin

in the basement.
a serpent has crawled in,

shed one of her other selves.

and vanished into thin air,
finding
the smallest of cracks

in the house
to get out.

what else did she leave
behind?

a tube of lipstick,
and a mirror,

the echo of lies,
is all I can find.

maybe in the morning she says

we used to make love in the morning.

both too tired
at night to make any romantic
moves.

we're old, I guess.

the thought crosses our mind
at midnight,

a kiss, a casual grope,
a wink,
or suggestive pose

but we brush our teeth
get out of our clothes,

set the alarm,
check our email and before you
know it,

one or the other has dozed
off and so there it goes.

the early morning storm

it's a lovely
early morning storm.

sheets of silver rain, cold
and hard

blow across the window panes.
the colors
of the woods, streaked

in a magnificent work of art.
nature
at its finest.

dabbling with brush
and wind.

the bare trees, grey and brown,
the ancient sky

low and rumbling.

i'll sit and watch until
it's time to go,

but for now. i'll sit by
a window,
crack it slightly to listen
and watch
the show.

how can you write such a thing

I read your poem
about the state of the union, she writes,
and i'm
so sorry that you
are in such a bad frame of mind.
who's hurt you
for you to write such
mean and unkind
things?

she loves her country.
she's red white and blue.
she'll vote again for the king.

she loves
her country club,
her cars, her bling.
how can you say that things
aren't good.

the stock market is booming.
I have all the botox
and i'll ever need.

we just bought a new boat.

we're going to Europe
in the spring.

our beach house is grand.
our chef is amazing.

we can't wait to open up the pool
and have you
over for a party

to celebrate four more years
in a landslide win.

the oriental rug

he tells me the story
of his oriental
rug.

how he haggled the price,
felt it,
smelled the fibers,
turned it over,
stood back
and nodded, nice.

he told me how
he can tell the difference
between
the real thing
and fake.

no machine made for him.

I've been to turkey, he tells
me,
Istanbul,
Greece.

I know a good rug when I see
it.

please, take off your shoes,
the socks off your
feet,

be careful and

let's walk a around it,
I just had it cleaned.

A good year for the roses

it's a good
year for the roses.

look how bright they are.
the petals

flush with color.
rich in
red
and gold,

white
and bronze.

i'll pick a dozen for
the one i love.

place them in a crystal
and carry them to
her,

set them on her porch,

if she hasn't yet
moved on.

the ball turret gunner

she couldn't sleep.

guilt, shame, distress.
hunger.

worry, fear.
regret.

the list went on and on.
so she'd take

an ambien or two
with a glass of wine.

and out she'd go
into hibernation for eight
straight
hours,

curled in a defensive
position
beneath the blanket.

a clenched fist of a body,
arms wrapped
around her legs
and boney torso.

knit tight in her
self made womb,

not unlike the ball turret
gunner
in the belly of a B-52 bomber
over berlin.

finally still

and free from reality
and dreams.

almost dead, but not quite.

southern hospitality

I remember the time
I moved
into
a new neighborhood
and a woman showed up at the door
with a giant
pan of
tuna casserole.

you shouldn't have, I told
her.

welcome to the neighborhood,
she said
and smiled, straining
her neck into my house
to look around.

are you all alone, here,
she said in that southern
sort of gentile way.

a man all alone in this big
ole house? my oh my.
what a shame.

well, yeah, sort of, I told her,
trying to close the door.

just wanted to say howdy
new neighbor.

enjoy the casserole.
just stop by with the dish
when you're finished.
maybe have a slice of my
famous

blueberry pie.

I live right across the street
where you see that little
rocking chair
on my porch.

I like to sit out there at
night and watch the stars.

time helps

time doesn't heal
despite the myth that it does.

but it doesn't hurt either
if you do the hard

work. the self examination,
the self love,

if you stand back and be honest
with yourself.

you have a responsibility
for your own welfare,

to keep toxic, disturbed people
from invading your
life.

disturbing your peace
and happiness.

you can't let your guard
down. these snakes are everywhere.

narcissism is pandemic
in the world.

their charm always precedes,
their bite
and once poisoned by
one,

it's hell to get them out
of your system.

but time helps.

Which Card to Buy

I can't decide what kind of birthday
card to
send.

my ex used to have a dresser drawer
full of greeting cards.

covering all the holidays and special
occasions, anniversaries, etc.

saving them for her harem of
men that she was secretly seeing.

it was quite a stash.
but now i'm out there on my own
going down the endless rows

of cards. what to pick for someone
you care about, do you go

mushy, friendly, funny, or
one that opens up and plays music
for five minutes.

then there's the one with a bracelet
attached.

the one that smells like flowers
or perfume.

I like the card that opens up
and it's
a work of art,

a small town, or village appears
with people singing

happy birthday.

there's one with lights, one with
beads
and little stones resembling
jewels.

one shaped like a glazed donut.
I really
like that one.

I might have to go with the blank
this year,

or fold over a piece of typing
paper and
send that with
a few meaningful, heartfelt words.

the fly swatter

there's one fly in the house,

I think it's a fly.
it has wings

and is moving rather fast,
but awkwardly.

I did leave a glass of wine out
last night,
half full.

I wonder, if she got
into it.

I grab my swatter and begin
to hunt
her down.

but she's too quick, too
elusive. I see her metallic
greenish eyes

glimmer in the light.

she's buzzing like crazy,
she has a lot
to say,

apparently, although I don't
have a clue as to
what it might be.

some things never change.

can i put you on hold for a minute

I talk to one of my daily scammers

today, not the pharmacy one,
or the IRS one,

or the social security one,

or the credit card one,

but this one is a call from
my old friend
Natasha

in the Ukraine.

she wants to come visit, but
first she needs a few hundred bucks

to order her online applications
for an RN job
in Northern Virginia.

go to Walmart, she tells me
and get me a steam credit card.

I just got my scores and I am okay
to being work now.

I have no idea what in the hell
she's talking about.

she sends me a few inappropriate
photos of herself to sweeten the deal.
a lot of clothes, some clothes, then
just her in a pair of cowboy boots
sipping on an RC cola.

she wants to move in and be the next
love of my life. she asks me if I have
a BMW.

oh brother, I say on the phone.
to which she says.

is your brother there too, i'd like
to meet him.

I have a friend who looks just like me,
how you say, in American,

we are twins, duplicates, carbon copies.
I send you her picture too.

sure, I tell her, bring her along,
bring all your buddies, if they look like
you.

i'll put up some bunk beds in the basement.

hey, look, can I put you on hold,
Wen from china is on the phone,

i'm supposed to pick her up at the airport
tomorrow, after the check clears
that I sent her.

No Refund, No Returns

if it's too good to be
true, it's not true,
she was silly putty,
gorilla glue.
wax and glow,
miracle wash,
the copper pan.
she was artificial
grass,
she was a placebo.
the exercise ball.
the mattress queen,
the ronco gizmo.
the foreman grill,
the cancer cure,
the paleo diet,
the wrinkle cream,
she was every
fake and over rated
thing
you can think of
under the sun.
a fraud, through
and through, but I
stepped right up
and bought her,
then paid my dues.
no refund, no returns,
no apologies.
live
and learn.

the life meant to be

i find a poor old grape
on the floor,
having rolled
from bowl or hand
onto the rug
then finding a resting
place beside the lamp.
it's hard now.
no longer sweet.
it could have been there
for days,
for weeks.
i feel bad for it,
away from its friends,
never bitten into.
never lived or died
in the life
that was meant
to be.

black and white thinking

black and white thinking.

it's all good, it's all bad.
there is love
one minute,

then hate the next.

the boss is good today,
horrible tomorrow.

life is wonderful, life is hell.

you're amazing,
you're a terrible human being.

things will never change,
things
are great just the way
they are.

i'm beautiful, i'm ugly.

imagine living with someone
who thinks this way.

it's a roller coaster,
a ride with no end
every single day.

just visiting

it's a mini mansion,

amongst a small neighborhood
of mini mansions.

black and grey cars line
the drive ways.

audi, Mercedes, bmw.

a jag or two.

they all have pools. tennis courts.
dogs, trained
and well behaved.

the kids go to the finest schools.
they glow
with health.

one plays a tuba, the other a violin.

it's a fine place to work, to paint
a wall or two,

a room,
or paper a border around the ceiling.

the women are ageless, the men at fifty
are thirty two.

they ski, they golf, they go to Europe
on a whim.

it's strange being her, having
been from where I
began.

but it's nice to visit time and time
again and comforting to know,

that i'll never be like them.

I See Her Walking in Thais Park

I dreamed I saw her walking
down the path,
her hands full with a satchel
of birthday
and valentine cards
for her married boyfriend.
pictures in baggies.
little pink hearts cut out
and colored
with crayons. I saw her in
the fog,
walking alone, looking over
her shoulder
as she turned into the woods,
a pocket full of pins.
a bouquet of plastic flowers,
her buttons saying hippy or
Harley chick, ready to be
fastened to the tree
where he carved his mistress's
heart. I dreamed that I saw
her bone thin and tired.
drained of hope.
haggard and sick.
the ache of starvation
upon her, full of guilt
and regret,
weary with her life
and those around her.
thinking endlessly about
ending it all.
still
unable to let go, still in
a trance, even at 61,
lost, a ghost in her
perpetual night.
it startles me when I
awaken. I shake my head
and put my feet onto the floor.
then look to where she used
to be, asleep curled
in bed, trembling,
soured and rotting
to the core. thankful,
thankful that she's gone.

Sheila

her name was Sheila,

a long tall string bean
of a girl.

sea green eyes, brown hair down
to her shoulders.

we went to the same community
college.

the best six years of my life.

we used to make love on a hill
overlooking
rosecroft raceway.

the field lit up.
the stands full of gamblers,
drenched in whiskey,

a cloud of cigarette smoke
hovering grey
over mud,

yelling at
the harnessed horses

as they bent towards the finish
line.

that was part of it.
the excitement of the crowd,
the rumble of hooves,

the call being made.

it wasn't love exactly, but we
liked each other as young people do.

and that was enough
to get us around the bend
towards home.

all about me

if I got a cut as a small
child,
my mother cried as if it was her
hand bleeding and
needing stitches.
if I fell,
or tripped, and bruised
a knee or chin, or was done
wrong
by someone, she took it on
as if
it was her injury.
when I was broken hearted
after losing
at love,
it was her
heart
that was broken
and disappointed.
she had a way of twisting
life
around
to make it all about her,
and I see the pattern
that I found,
being with women just
like her.
all victims to some degree,
self absorbed,
lacking truly
in sincere and heartfelt
empathy.

the opening

I have to go to my house
in st. michaels,
work on the boat,
defrost the fridge,
and then feed my kids,
then walk
my dog, then go to work,
then
wash my car,
have it inspected, then
take care
of my mom
and dad, then do my taxes,
then
go get a pedicure,
then have my hair done,
then go
to the store, then get
gas,
then, go to the post
office. then I have
a few doctor visits,
the dentist too,
and my therapist, I need
a session with her,
but I think I have an
opening on the third
Tuesday in April if you
want to get together.
let me know if that
works, you know how things
change.

nearing an end

it's the end of small
talk.

the end of the mundane.
the end
of
planning

a regular day.

it's the end of back and forth
texting.

or a call
returned.

it's the slow death of love,
the withering

branch,
the brown leaf

on a unwatered plant
it's the death

of a friendship that is hard.

romantic trips

I've been
places, like Santorini
with
people
I don't want to be with.
in Venice,
or on Broadway,
on a bench in central park,
on a ship,
on a hillside, on the deck
of a large
ship
staring at the Turkish sky.
where there
should have been love,
romance,
a bonding of two hearts,
there was nothing,
nothing by the longing
still
unsettled,
deep inside.

The White Snail

the snail
is a wonder.

white striped in it's cap
of shell.

dragging itself
slowly from point A

to point B.
it's hard
to tell if there is a plan.

a mission
statement of some kind.

not unlike you, not unlike
me.

ten horses

the older one gets
the faster the days roll by.

ten horses galloping
forward

pulling the wagon of you along.
the wind
putting grey
into your hair.

creases around your mouth,
webs
at your eyes.

wasn't it just yesterday you
were a child
at the bus stop

with a plaid
lunchbox,
a book bag under your arm,

wondering
what to do at the end of
this long
day.

the high rise apartment

there was a woman
who
walked around her apartment
nude.

going from room to room.
the lights all on.

we could see her from across
the alley,

our apartment twelves floors
up,
like hers.

she didn't care. she was neither
young or old.

red hair.
she go to the kitchen
then
to the bedroom,
then down the hall.

it was interesting at first,

but as the weeks went on,
we pulled the blinds,
closed the shades.

we'd seen enough.

then one day I saw her on the street,
dressed in a winter coat,
a black beret, a scarf,
and a long wool dress
that touched the ground.

I tipped my hat.

she scowled and sneered as if
to say
how dare you.
we don't even know one another.

taking the dare

to have it in full
one must be open, vulnerable.

willing almost to lose
it and
end one's life

in doing so.

there are elements that must
be
had,

as in all things,
the earth made up of water

and minerals,
the life
that lives and expands

with each year that passes.

but love
is equally complex.

souls need to be bared, trust
must come
like a sun,
or moon
exerting light and hope

upon those that dare.
it isn't easy,

it's almost impossible to
hold,

like mercury in your palm,
it's slippery.

rare.

not a moment too soon

the more you know, the more
you realize you
don't know.

this doesn't just hold true
with book learning,
or what
you might view
in a microscope
or telescope pointed at
the universe beyond.

it's true for people too,
it comes slowly.
a word,
a glance, an opened phone,
a subtle clue.

a lie.

and suddenly everything about
them
has been altered,
what was once true

is no longer true,

the game has changed,
forever, and not a moment

too soon.

a never ending mystery

there are some old flames
that you
have fond memories of, there's no
hard feelings,
no remorse or regret, just the sweet
reminiscence of
what you had together.
you remember the
fun, the love making, the laughter,
the walks,
the conversation.
the trips you took to the beach
or fair,
to new York.
and then there are a few relationships
that you think
back and there's not a single
good memory to recall,
there's absolutely nothing there,
no fun, no joy, nothing
but sadness and sorrow,
pain.
why you ever with them, will be mystery
until the end of time.

judgement day

is there really going to be a judgement day?

what will that be like?
will there be a house and senate debate.

a supreme court judge.

will they put videos of us saying and
doing bad things

over and over again.

then voting to see if we go to heaven
or hell?

will someone stand up for us, and
litigate our
mistakes,

a lawyer, pointing out in a scholarly
way
that we were victims,
due to our circumstances
and our misguided parents?

will every word, said, or action,
or key stroke made
be revealed?

will there be witness? oh God,
I hope not.

girl scout cookies

the girl scout appears at the door
with her little
knock.

her parents behind her smiling.

boxes of cookies to be delivered
in their arms.

five boxes of thin mints, the little
kid says,

checking her list.

yeah, that's me, I tell her.

and a gallon of whole milk.

oh, we don't do milk, she says.

damn, I say, I mean darn,
that's a shame.

inching forward

we inch forward.

it's a long march in
all kinds
of weather.

you stop when you can to
rest,
rub your feet,

have water.

then you move on. you
go as far away

as you can from the place
you used to be.

you move further
towards yourself.

inch by inch, away from
who you
became

when you were with her.

the hunger artist

there are those
who
have no lick of art
or music,
or anything creative
within them, at
least that's
what appears
to be true
on the surface.
a lack of imaginative
talent, when
actually they have a whole
world
of creations,
most within their darkened
minds, and you
and others provide the canvas
where they
strike with blood
and black ink.
perpetual lies.
you're lucky to escape
with your life.

My Father's Sex Life

when my father called
me
to see if I could get him Viagra,
I laughed.

can you get me some on your phone
he said.

as if my phone was a microwave
oven, or a fax machine
for prescription pills.

he's 92 going on 16.

his new girlfriend is 83, a woman
he met in the 1970's.
someone he cheated on my mother
with
for awhile.

but they're back together, and
apparently the notion of
getting busy has crossed his mind
and other parts

of his aging anatomy.
I don't want to start something
I can't finish, he tells me.

I hold the phone away from my ear
and grimace.

he can hardly see, hardly hear,
hardly walk or breathe,
he has high blood pressure
and god knows what else, and yet

he's still a hound dog until
the bitter end.

I tell him no. I tell him
to go to his doctor and see what
he says.

he doesn't sound happy with this
advice and when we hang up,

he calls my sister, to see what
she can do.

the sand dunes

I remember how cold the sand
was
as we lay down
under a full moon, the ocean
spread noisily
beyond the dunes.
we were alone, just the two
of us.
we wanted to make love,
but there was the sand to deal
with.
we had no place to go,
no room, no car.
we were young and deeply in
some sort of infatuated,
child like love.
we did the best we could,
with shirts and sweaters,
the cold sand.
I wonder even now, so many
years later, if she
remembers how surreal
and wonderful it all was.

the asterisk

when something has the ring
of truth about it,
you nod and take note. file
it away
as something to be remembered.
a tale told,
or an obscure fact.
but strangely when a lie
is said
and you know it's a lie, that
too gets filed away,
never to be mistaken
for a truth,
you put an asterisk by the
person's name who spoke.
beware,
you write below.

the blocked numbers list

I look at my list of blocked phone numbers
on my cell phone.

I scroll down through
about five hundred of them.

most are telemarketers, then there are a few
relatives.

old loves.
new almost friends. trouble makers,
agitators.

etc.

a few wives are on there too.

it's funny how you can go from talking
everyday.
texting.
sending little heart or kiss emojis
to being blocked

and discarded as if they never existed.

i'm sure i'm on a few lists too.

oh well.
the phone's ringing, got to go.

the new love of my life

she's Rebecca from sunnybrooke farm.

she's a vamp, innocent and sweet,

a burlesque dancer, an angel
in church.

she's standing in a wheat field
in the Ukraine.

the wind blowing at her short flowery
skirt.

blued eyed, blonde. slender as a
reed
with just enough curves.

she's the latest love of my life.

she just needs my bank account number,
full name and address,
then she'll fly

to the states
and be my wife.

get out of bed

it's a risk.

what isn't. leaving the house
is a risk.

anything could happen.
a bird could fly
into your head.

getting dressed,
a shoe lace breaking,

a sweater ripped.

meeting someone for lunch
then

saying the wrong thing
at the wrong moment,
or
reaching over
to give her a kiss,

because you've had one
too many bloody marys

could be a disaster.
ordering Indian food instead
of steak and potatoes,

turning right,
and not left.

the whole day can be a cup
of crazy,

but at some point,
you have to get out
of bed.

grain and seed

we push the plow through the open
field.
we seed, we plant
we sow.
we wait for rain, for the heavens
to open up.
it's
all we can do, then wait
for grain.
whether time is on
our side,
who's to know.
no need worry, or fret
or turn
and toss through a sleepless
night.
once all is done that can
be done.
just breathe, just rest.

the married woman

she told me she was married,
averting her eyes,
to the plush blue hotel rug
her shoes sunk in,

but that she wasn't happy.
I love him, she said,
and he loves me, but I don't want
to leave him,
his money, the house.
we have a dog, a cat, a
picket fence.

yesterday we had the place painted,
and bought a new
kitchen sink.

I just want more fun in my life.
more pizzaz, excitement.
there has to be more than luke warm
sex
and watching tv.

I looked at her sitting
deep into a chair at the Westin Hotel,
nervously looking at each person
who came through the revolving doors.

her arms were folded tightly
across her chest.
hat on, coat buttoned tight.
a light scared woman,
not unattractive, but pale
and thin.

a brush of rouge on her cheeks.
a stripe of lipstick, pink.

i'm sorry, I said, I
can't help you with that,

you're very nice and smart,
but I can't go down
that road.

I couldn't do that to him,
or me, or you, or anyone
for that matter.

i'd even feel bad for the cat
and dog.

I've seen how that all works
out in the end.
my ex wife was just like you,
a lying adulterer.
sorry, but no dice, it's a shame
the mess you both are in.

cortisol spike

my cortisol was going crazy
last year.

my blood pressure was out the roof.
I trembled,
and would cry at a soap commercial.

fear, stress anger, jealousy, etc.
had me
seeing imaginary grizzly bears
at every turn
of the mile.

so I ate. I drank.
sugar, meat, cupcakes.

rocky road ice cream.

I found the bottom of every potato
chip bag I bought.

suddenly I had a roll of belly
fat hanging over
my belt.

I found new lovers and misbehaved.
I was a madman out of control.

I knew the source of this spike
in cortisol,
but I didn't quite know how
to stop it, until she left,

my deranged significant other.

suddenly things
were back to normal
and my weight dropped, my
skin

cleared and once more I had
a happy spring in
my step.

the sun will rise

to bear sorrow
and yet not speak of it
is hard.

to carry a load alone.
to bend in
the wind without scarf
or coat.

to live in isolation,
without being touched, or

hearing a kind word.

to feel the sting of betrayal
for so long,
and keep silent.

these are holy times.
these are blessings in disguise.

go through this,
fear not,
the sun will rise.

becoming a woman

it's a good day to go shopping.

a good day for
sales,

coupons, fifty per cent off.
I've got a handful.

DSW, BED BATH AND BEYOND,
macy's, lord and taylor's,

but what do I need? how many more
shoes
can I possibly own.

black sweaters, I think six are
enough.

coats, jeans, pants, dress shirts.
I could dress an army
with the clothes that fill four
closets.

I see the empty vase
on the counter and think
I could use a bouquet of flowers.

I've become a woman in my old age,
but without the lipstick
and mascara.

i'm standing at the stove now,
holding a spatula,
wearing an apron,
looking out
the kitchen window.

Food Donation

I go through my kitchen cupboard
to get rid of things I no longer eat
or want.

boxes of rice, bags of rice. brown,
white, spiced, plain.

packets of tuna, of salmon.
a bag of red potatoes.

six cans of black beans.
two cans of vegetable soup, still
unexpired.

a bag of white flour, a bag of white
sugar.
pancake mix.
muffin mix.
gravy packets.

I load them all into a box and take
it down to St. Bernadette's
where
they have a food donation bin.

I fill it up. not because i'm a
wonderful person,

but because I can.
I remember well how the church
would
feed us,

leaving baskets of food
on the porch,

on those cold stark mornings
in Maryland.

The February Blues

i used to like February.

a good month. a holiday tucked in
there someplace.

a birthday. a valentine's day.
a nice cold month

with an occasional romantic snow.
a good month to burrow in
with a loved one,

to snuggle on the couch, make
love and watch a show.

a good month to read and relax,
to sleep in
and get whole,

but after last February, i don't know
anymore, i'd just as soon
skip this one.

just this one, once this passes,
and fades from
memory,
next year's February
will be all mine alone.

stay in your lane

stay in your lane,
she says, it's the new
saying bantered about.

it's like a light slap
from a parent or
friend,

or colleague, wife
or husband.

don't go there. this
is none of your bees
wax.

mind your own bitness,
etc.

but why?

why can't we venture out
on occasion,
get into the other lane,

nose around a bit,
peak under
the covers, so to speak.

investigate.

when people tell you what
you can't do.

it's the first thing you get
up and do when
the sun comes up.

no pain no growth,
I say.

Diamonds In the Rough

I wonder if things get bad,
if the economy dips
and the bubble bursts once more
if I can get back all the jewelry
and engagement rings I've given
to women over the years.
what if i'm living in the woods
in a pup tent heating up a can
of chef boy r dee chili over
a barrel of burning sticks.
damn i'd like to have some of
those diamonds back and locked
away in a wall safe.
most were given in some
confused state of anxiety
and fear, not out of love,
or hope, or admiration, no,
most were given in the heat of
some infatuated moment
because the sex was so good.
so shouldn't I have them back?
seems only fair. it's not
like they're going to wear
them again, most of these women
already have boxes of rings
and jewelry from other men,
other boyfriends and lovers,
husbands that
they've swindled and charmed
the pants off.
it's only fair. I mean it's
like stealing. dag nab it.
I want my rings back. please.
don't you women have any self
respect, self esteem, dignity
or class? well, that's a dumb
question, one I probably
shouldn't ask.

Ironing to Do

I remember watching my mother
iron
for hours. standing at the board
with a basket of clothes
at her feet.
she was there, but not there.
caught in the moment
of doing something so simple
that it hardly took thought.
each shirt stretched out,
the sleeves, the creases.
dress after dress, pants, even
sheets were pressed warm
then folded. the breath of steam
from the hot iron,
the spray of starch.
she was safe there.
the world was another place
beyond this tight laundry
room, with a dangling light
and a curious son on the floor
watching.
the world could wait, she
had ironing to do.

being imperfect

you do not have to be perfect,
not in word,
or work,
appearance
or action.
we are no less because
of our
imperfections.
look around you,
few if any
have it down,
being human is hard,
but it doesn't have
to be.
go slowly, love slowly.
forgive yourself
as you
would others.
trust your instincts and
be who you are
meant to me.
no more, no less.

wake up laughing

it's funny how you wake up
one morning,
and you have a wonderful epiphany
about where you are
now, that you no longer
care about someone
you once agonized over.
you almost start laughing at
the insanity
that person brought into your life.
instead of worry and anxiety,
fear and pain,
you feel nothing. the sweet and clear
cold
water of truth and freedom.
all that cliché stuff.
it's refreshing.
why it took so long, is meaningless,
what counts is that
you are no longer attached to
a lunatic, a wolf in sheep's
clothing. the poison
is gone, the dark cloud
has moved on.
you do a dance as you jump
out of bed, throwing your
hands into the air,
spinning gaily around.

The Old Suit

i have a suit in my closet that i wore
when i was twenty two
years old.

it's a pale grey, with cuffs, no less.

it looks like the suit for a small
skinny child. which i was.

i'd have to be dead for a month
in order to fit into it now.

but i think about the time gone by
since i wore
that suit.

the relationships that have come and
gone. real love, fake love.
imaginary love.

the jobs, the houses and apartments
lived in.
the cars i drove.

the places i went.
i think about all the friends
that I've had,

some still here, others, long gone.
i look in the pocket and find the ticket
stubs

to The Way We Were from a theater
on glebe road in Arlington.

it's hard to throw away a suit like
that,

something that reminds me of the beginning.
i hold it up
to the light,

then hang it back to where it was.
another year
and we're both still here.

the long distance call

I remember the long distance
phone call,

standing in a phone booth with a
pocket full of change.

the operator listening in,
telling you when it's time to
feed
the slot,

to gain more minutes to talk.
it was usually raining,

or snowing, or the wind was
blowing so hard through the creases
of the glass
booth

that you could hardly hear
the person on the other end.

they'd get half of what you
were saying,
and you'd get the same
from them.

you'd stamp your feet on
the slab floor trying to stay
warm,

dropping coins everywhere,
bending over to find them in
the flickering light.

it was strangely romantic though.
the gallant effort made

to talk to someone you loved
and to tell
her all the things

you needed to say, and then
to hear
her say the same

on that thin wire that somehow
connected two souls
together

in the pouring rain.

call your lawyer

i find a snake
in the shed.
a copper head.
curled, cold in the dark
corner.
stitched in it's familiar
pattern.
she eyes me
with a sinister grin
on her thin lips
then shows me her sharp
pointed tongue. she
reaches back in a stiff
coil, ready to strike,
as i stumble away,
unbitten, unharmed.
i shut the door.
trembling with fear.
I've dealt with snakes
like this before,
so i know what to do.
i call my lawyer.

the relationship totem pole

you look for someone who
can put you
somewhat near the top of their totem
pole.
as you have done for them.

a relationship
where you're not an accessory
for dates,
or holidays,
or to be paraded out
on festive occasions.

you want more.
you want to be above the ex husband
the married
boyfriend,
the priest, the parent.
the dog.
the therapist,
the nutritionist,
the treadmill or salmon
and avocados.

true love. equal love and compassion
for one another,
is what you want, not some
crazy half in half out,
convenient and lame relationship.

you're just barely a spot above
God on their pole
of affection. which says a lot.

you don't want to ninth,
or fourth
on the pole or even third.

second, at the very
least would be fine. you can
live with second.

new is not better

new
is not always better.

sometimes the old needs a nudge,
a push.

some oil
in the right places.

a twist of a screw,
or tightening
of a seam with glue.

a wire tied tight, if loose.

why go new, when the old
works
perfectly well.

outdated, perhaps, but
still
working,

stick with those who
will last.

lemon love

it's a bitter fruit,
sour
and strange,
a hybrid of sorts,
lemon, just the word
itself is
used
as a disparaging name.
the car, or something bought
that breaks
within minutes of
buying.
but even love can have
a lemon quality about
it.
so bright and yellow,
at first glance.
cheerful and gay in
color and shape,
but one bite will tell
to stop,
add sugar, use sparingly
for flavor,
or throw it away.

the first date

when our knees touched
I felt
a thrill,
and then when her hand
reached over
and took mine,
I thought I might pass
out,
and finally when
she moved
her lips towards mine
and kissed
me,
all worry left my heart,
there was no longer
any doubt.

fission and fusion

it's complex.
but it's not nuclear fission
or fusion,
or the theory
of relativity.
it's nothing compared
to science,
or mathematics.
astrophysics, no,
not even close,
but it is hard, no doubt
about that.
men and women.
love? that tenuous school
of thought.
will it ever work out?
we want
straight A's in that,
not C's, or even
B's. forget failure,
or being expelled,
no one wants to wear
the dunce
hat.

retreat

in retreat, I fall back, take
off
my clothes
and let the sun
arrive
upon me.
I have nothing left to say
that hasn't
been said
ten fold.
I fall back like the French
army.
the white flag
waving
in the cold air.
I lie upon the earth
and say
to God, okay.
I give up. now you
take hold.

the oil of tenderness

it's the squeeze of the can
of oil
onto the hinge,
the rusted gate
or chain,
or door
that won't close,
it's not unlike what
a smile
will do,
or gentle kiss
when leaving or
arriving.
the thoughtful word,
or gift.
a single rose
instead of a dozen.
we need this oil,
this tender
lubrication of love
to get
through
each day, or night
that enfolds.
a drop or drip
is fine, but
be generous with the can,
each dollop of affection
shown
is precious.

Spiritual Armor

I read in the bible
about
the armor
of God,
the belt of truth,
the breastplate of righteousness,
the shield of faith,
the helmet
of salvation.
so I go to my closet
to find
this outfit
before going out.
and instead I find
the shroud
of doubt,
the hat of fear,
the shoes
of worry. the umbrella
of anxiety.
so I yell up to my
wife,
where is my spiritual armor?
and she yells
back down,
in the cleaners,
should be ready by
Wednesday.

the deep freeze

there is frost on the pumpkin,
on the leaves.
a smooth silk
of ice
is layered thinly
upon everything.

even her, as she lies there
not sleeping,
but with her eyes close
so that she
doesn't have
to talk
or see me.

frost is upon us.
the deep freeze can't be
far behind.

popcorn and netflix

I make a batch of popcorn
getting ready for a night of binging
on Netflix.

I pour in a little oil,
then the hard tiny kernels
of corn.

I turn the heat up, but then
the phone rings

and I walk around talking as
i'm prone to do.

upstairs, downstairs, talking
with my hands. engaged
in the conversation.

catching
up with an old friend.

when I come back into the kitchen
the popcorn is everywhere.
on the floor,

the counter,
on the fan, the pictures.
on the window sill.

I forgot to put the lid on.
this is when I miss my dog,

the canine vacuum cleaner
that he was.

catch and release

it's a world of catch
and release.
we reel in love, or work,
places
to live,
cars and things, it's
all replaceable
temporary,
throw them all back
into the sea
if they don't fit
your needs,
rebait the hook,
and cast away.
the ocean is deep.

dead fish

only dead fish
go with the flow.

don't be a dead fish,
use those

fins, that tail, those
gills
and swim towards

your true life, don't
get caught
in the web

of other's wrong thinking.

dual citizenship

I apply for dual citizenship
in Canada.

I've never been there, but I
like the look of it.

and I like maple syrup on my
pancakes in the morning.

they look happy up there in
the cold.

all that ice skating and hot
cider.

they seem to be more relaxed,
more down to earth
than we are

down here.
I have a little French
from high school under
my belt,

so that helps. it might
be a nice place

to summer. get a plaid shirt,
some boots,
a hat with ear flaps

and an axe. they don't
seem to care about the rest

of the world, which fits
in with my thinking too.

just leave us alone, we're
fine.

ask me if i care

you have nineteen new messages
on linked in,
sixteen people who you
might know,
seventy two
notifications on
facebook,
ten new friend requests.
a hundred and twenty one
unanswered e mails,
a thousand in the spam box,
sixteen phone messages,
and there's a note
on your door asking you
why you put
the trash out early,
before the sun went down.
ask me if I care.

making a decision

some decisions are made
in anger,
when the coals are hot,
while others are rational,
cold
and calculated.
things measured out,
the balance sheet
the good, the bad drawn
onto paper.
some decisions are
made in the throes
of emotional
turmoil,
grief or heartbreak.
to stay or go.
to fight for love, or let
it fade
without hardly a thought.
just reacting
to what's
going down.
it's hard to tell which way
is best.
in the end
they all seem right
in the moment, where
there is little regret,
or little doubt.

talk again soon

I draw
a sketch on a piece
of white paper
while on the phone, I have
no interest
in the conversation, but I
can't hang up.
I doodle,
I draw lines intersecting
lines.
circles upon circles.
all in black ink.
i'm certain that a psychiatrist
could take one
look at it
and declare me crazy, or
depressed, so I turn
the sheet over
and make a heart,
then draw a ragged line
through it,
but I digress.
I say yes on the phone.
then no.
then okay.
then, talk again soon.
we'll get together,
let's.

the dark side

what difference
does it make, she says,
tipping the bottle skyward
after blowing smoke
rings. in fifty
years
we'll all
be dead.
who cares, why wonder, have
fun.
eat drink
be merry.
don't be afraid, the worst
will happen,
it's guaranteed.
no one gets out alive.
so far
it's one hundred per cent
deceased.
there is no heaven,
no hell.
this is all we have.
so come here and sin,
kiss me.

the warmth of home

there is warmth in familiarity.

the scratch on
the worn record,
the tear
in a favorite sweater.

your finger finding
the hole.

the stained page of a cookbook,
finding an
old letter,

tucked back into the envelope
it was sent in.
farewell words.

that creak on the step
when your weight
steps on it.

the rattle of pipes,
when the water goes cold.

there's the suit worn
once,
the shoes covered
in dust, set neatly
below.

the pillow, blue and faded
from the sun
propped up
to where you read,
and ponder
a new poem.

the sunday visit

i can still hear
my mother's voice on the phone.

that Wednesday
call.

that guilt. why, she says, haven't
you come over
lately.

come sunday, i'm making stew.
i know like stew.

bread, salad. i made a cake.
it's no
occasion, just

visit.

what time, i ask her.

five she says, but one is okay too.
bring nothing,

just you.

The Rocking Horse Woman

when i'd find her curled up in a ball
in a darkened room,
crying, her tears making jagged lines
down her mask,
she'd say I wish I had the courage
to kill myself.
to do myself in like those people on
the news.
then all would be well. I wish I
was brave like them.
I'd touch her shoulder, sit beside her,
as she rocked back and forth, nearly
in a catatonic state
and try to comfort her. what about
your son, i'd ask her, what would
that do to him, what about the people
who love you? who, she would say.
who really loves me? I had no answer
for that, for I didn't even love
her anymore, not who she really was.
my love was for the imaginary person
she created to snare me into her
sick world. look, i'd say to her,
i'll leave you alone.
i'd stand up and watch her rock back
and forth, back and forth,
then i'd close the door,
and go the phone to call her therapist
to see what she could do.
which was nothing, because this was all
a game.
this was pretend town once again.
and the therapist would say something
like, we've been down this road
many times before, not to worry.
she'll be fine. she's trying to find
a way out, because you've discovered
her, you see the truth, and now
she needs to get out and find
a new supply to worship her. she'll
be back to her old husband and
married boyfriend in no time.
be calm, be patient, your life is
about to change for the better.
your nightmare is almost over.

on eggshells

so much of your life,
the happiness, or sorrow
found,
has been through others.
their affection
or lack of.
it's been
a wrong
road. long and tedious.
you've grown
weary
of
the pulls and tugs
of heartstrings
held in someone else's
hands.
it's a curious path
of insecurity, always
walking
through the world
on eggshells,
your smile
or frown dependent on
someone else, not you.

the snow engagement

I remember my neighbor,
Linda,
a music teacher at the local
high school.
always banging on her piano
with some little
kid.
i'd hear it through the walls,
the ping
of keys being struck
by small hands, and her loud
voice, saying
no, no, no.
then one day it snowed
and she introduced me to a man
she met on catholic match dot com.
he was tall and quiet.
this is my fiancé,
she said in the cold
sun, shoveling.
we shook our gloved hands
and I said congratulations.
he smiled
and said nothing.
by spring, she was gone,
as was the snow
and the piano against
my wall.

no one in the middle

don't forget to vote
the boy
says,
standing out in front of the school.
handing out
leaflets
for his choice.
blue, red.
is there any green
I ask?
any middle.
anyone with a lick of common
sense
and decency?
the kid looks at me,
and scratches his head,
no.
of course not.
this is politics, what are
you crazy.
if you like guns, and money,
oil
and racism,
go over there, but if you
want to ban abortion,
save the whale,
and give food stamps to
everyone
and free health care,
well, go to the other
door. vote there.

little green men

she talks in whispers,
leans over
to the table where we're gathered,
a stranger
wanting to join in,
and says,
do you believe in aliens.
my friend says,
you mean people from
other countries, no, no,
she says, obviously
deep into a bottle of
red wine.
I mean aliens, she points
to the ceiling and twirls
her hand around.
from outer space, she says.
then makes her fingers
wiggle on top of her
head as if to indicate
antennae.
sure, we all say. why not.
come and join us,
if you'd like. so she does,
then we listen to her talk
excitedly
about the time she was
kidnapped by a group
of aliens, examined, then
let go. she shows us a little
scar on the back of the neck
and says,
I think they put something
in me. she whispers. they're
watching me.
she's serious, so we don't
laugh. she looks sleepy,
exhausted from the alien story.
the bill comes, and we all
walk her out to the curb,
where we call an uber for her.
and wave, she puts
a finger to her lips, rolling down
the window in the car
and whispers
don't tell anyone. they're out
there, she says,
pointing to the sky.
be careful.

it was a clean room

it was a clean room
with a view, as requested,
over the outstretched lot

to a bulging sea, neither green
or blue, but a
whirl of violet
under no sun.

the squared room was

tidy, hardly a speck of dust
on
the dresser, or sill.

a simple sink,
a toilet. a black comb
left behind
by someone.

a mirror to shave in.
a rented room on the way
somewhere.

his suitcase on the bed
opened

to the next shirt he would
wear.
the black pants, a tie.

dress shoes,
polished before leaving,
still holding
the shine

of yesterday.

it was not a plan he saw
coming. the gun, a fist curled
black
in its case,
the silver pill he slid into
chamber.

it was just time to end things
there,
in this clean room,
with a view, as requested.

the factory of us

the hum
of our brains can be deafening.
the machinery
of thought.
the wheels churning
oiled by
love
or hate, despair
or joy.
what will tomorrow bring.
what have
we lost?
even in sleep the factory
of us
goes on.
the smoke from
the chimney apparent
in each dream
formed.

in need of a miracle

there are days when you need
a miracle.
a parting of the sea,
the blind finding new eyes,
the healing
of
cancer, or a broken heart.
you need
to see beyond the drudgery
of work.
the mundane,
the everyday hustle we
endure.
you need to see someone
walking on
water, or a simple
thank you,
when opening a door.
a miracle, you think, would
set things right
for a while.
but only for awhile, you
do believe.

summer cottage

it was a summer cottage,
abandoned
with an unlocked door we
found
off the screened porch.
no lights, no heat, no
sound,
just the moonlight leaking
through
the ceiling rafters
as we made our
bed upon the floor.
two lovers, hardly born,
but sharing
the wealth of youth,
making love as if only
that was all the world
held as
truth.

No Forgiveness

how do you forgive someone
who wasn't real.

a figment of imagination.
a charade,
a mask,

an actress in a play.
the devil in disguise.

how do you
forgive someone
once you have seen

straight through to who
they really are,

and realize
it was all a sick game,

how do you forgive evil?

you can't, is the answer.

instead you erase, delete
and burn
and vow
to never
be fooled again.

the plant on the sill

the green plant bends
towards
the warm light of morning sun.
accepting the water
I pour
with a thirsty
mouth of dirt.
what a simple life she leads.
master of no
one,
full of no regrets,
no remorse.
she just is.
green and wonderful
in her short sweet life.
she wonders not
when i'll
return, where i'm going.
there is nothing
she needs to know, or to learn,
just water,
just sun.
settled, and rooted
in this old glass
urn.

on the dole

on the dole,
in line with john
at the low brick building in
Bladensburg.
the cold hands of wind
screaming through
our thin coats, our thin
shirts.
gloveless and hatless
as the line crawled
forward.
bad times
to be out of work.
but we were young. this paltry
sum
of money,
government cheese
would see us through.
give us a log for the fire,
a dozen
eggs and pint
of milk.
we shivered below
our smiles, our jokes.
stamping our feet on the iced
sidewalk,
seeing the old folk
in line
behind us, happy that we
weren't them.
for what did they know now,
about hope.

what brave souls do

we tend to think
that without the work we do
we'd be less,
without her or him in our lives,
what next?
without how we look, once age
takes hold,
what then,
how will we go on,
possessions taken away
by fire, or flood,
it makes no difference, we're
still here,
despite all things gone,
no different within,
nothing has changed or truly
gone wrong.
we get up and start,
as brave souls do, all over
again.

no doubt

the body will fail,
no doubt,
the blur will come.
the colors
fading,
the voice retreating into
murmurs.
bones will
break, as memory
cheats us
of what was,
but inside is still
the child
your mother gave birth
to.
that will never end.
no doubt.

autumn

it is true
as Tolkien writes that all that's
gold does
not glitter
and that all who wander are
not lost.

it's a powerful poem of few
words.

sung to the old.

deep roots not being bothered
by frost.
dead ashes stirred
bringing the fire
to life again.

it would be a shame to give
in
to wrong turns of the world,
the narrative
not one expected,
to set
the book

down and read no further.
fear not the autumn of life,
instead
go bravely,

be bold.

bathing with Sylvia Plath

I know them well,
my favorite books,
you can tell
which ones
I favor,
whether poetry or fiction,
biography,
or play,
by how
they've wrinkled and aged,
with sun
and water, steam
from the hot tub,
softening the binding,
each dogeared page.
we bathe well together.
Sylvia and Anne,
Larkin and Strand,
Bukowski.
old salinger goes in,
and updike
and cheever. Henry Miller.
Grace Paley,
wally lamb. ray carver,
there's room
for phillip levine too.
some old
some second or third buys,
and occasionally
I take a dip with someone
new.

the snow fall

can you think of a snow
where you haven't bent over

to make a snowball
and then throw it at a tree

or lightly towards
a friend or loved one in

play, or glee?
if you can think of such

a snow, perhaps it's time,
it's way overdue.

fun, has nothing to do
with being old.

another path

there are moments in the haste
of day, when going in hustle from
one place
to another, that we see a face,
and wonder,
what price they've paid.
we see our own reflection
in a plate glass window and turn
away.
our homes behind us, our loved ones
safe.
we have hammered down
the nails upon our roofs, made
sure of so much.
we think about all that we have
earned in school
or in pay, and think how life may
have been different if we had
chosen another way.

older and wiser

my oh my,
how time flies.

a year, just like that, gone by.

the blink of an eye.
sweet Jesus,

how the clock moves on.
the calendar pages turn.

four seasons
in the rear view mirror,

as well as a few toxic people.

all of them,
water under the bridge.

older and wiser?
yes.

a resounding yes.

the way i like them

I see the neighborhood
cat
has made it through another winter.

she purrs
and comes out from under a car,
approaches me
as cats do,

slowly. uneasy.
but she comes and sits on
the porch with me.

her green eyes are bright
shards
of glass.
her coated a matted black.

I bring out a saucer
of milk.

she laps it once or twice,
then rubs
her back
against my leg.

she has very little to say.

she's a strange cat. aloof,
and wild,

distant.

the way I like them.

it's all we have

life would be easier

without a clock, a watch.

a calendar. it only reminds
you
of what's
come and gone.

throw away the sun dial,
the measures,

the orbits and revolutions?

who needs a number to designate
an age.

lets ignore time altogether.
let's live
as if today

is all we have and there
we'll stay.

last rites

I see her
in the hospital bed.

white as the sheets.
the bones of her

are sticks without flesh.
the blue
veins,

roped in her hand,
sewn down her
slender neck.

her brown eyes set deep into
her skull.

not young, not old.
but nearing an end.

there's numbered breaths. she's

brittle as if left out in the sun.

what waits in the next life
must be
better,

she's told, as the priests
come. the parents,

the son, all
bewildered

with doubts of their own.

stir the pot

we have to stir the pot.

mix what's cooking
or else it burns,

the stew, or soup will

stick to the bottom.
nobody likes that.

the dish is ruined, the pot
hard
to clean.

so be patient at the stove,
as in love,

go slow
and stir the pot, be careful

with the flame,
not high,
not low.

the two hour marathon

she could talk and talk and talk.

mostly about herself. her work, her
life, her kids.
her dog.

her illnesses, her ex husbands.
where she wants
to go next.

not a question for me.

after about an hour I left my body
and ascended into the air.

I floated above the table,
watching her, watching me.

I saw myself fidgeting, bored
out of my mind. not saying a word.

hoping it would all end soon.
praying that she wouldn't order
another drink,
or god forbid, food.

I wondered, as I often do when
meeting people like this,

what in the hell am I doing there.

the cake poem

I sat down with all the intentions
in the world of writing
a serious poem,
but I got up and baked a cake
instead.

it took a longer amount of time,
but at least when it was
ready, I had something to show
for my hard effort.

something that I could share
with others and make them happy
instead of sad
and sorrowful, depressed or
mad.

once it cooled and iced, I cut
a slice for me, and went back
to my desk to try once again to
write a serious poem.

something, that i'll go back
to later, and shake my head at
and
probably regret.

quick sand

there are quicksand
jobs.
quicksand
beliefs, quicksand loves,
quick sand
house
and cars.
towns.
relationships.
the world is full of
quicksand
if you don't watch out.
soon,
you'll be up to your
ankles,
then knees,
then hips and before
you know it,
thirty years have
gone by
and it's not where
you really wanted
to be.

how to get out

you know you're way around.

the back roads,
side
roads,

how to avoid traffic.
how to avoid the lights.

you know the road not taken,
the alleys,

the over, the under pass.
you've been here

long enough to not get
stuck.

you could navigate this town
blindfolded.

you know everything there is
to know
about this

congested world you live in,
everything
but how to get out.

the odd marble

I have a brown marble,
a cat's eye
a nearly round piece
of glass,
but it's unbalanced,
different.
it rolls on its own
uneven and
wobbled path,
never straight through
the dirt circle
to strike the others out.
an odd fellow
a van gogh of sorts.
that's why I kept
it all these years,
since a child.
it need to be saved.
it's precious,
too good and different
for an earthly
world.

true love

some cars you fall in love with
the second you see
them.

the second you turn the key
and take it for a test drive.

it's everything you ever wanted
in a car.

the shine, the gleam, what's
under the hood, those
soft leather seats.

the contour of her body,
the curves, so sleek.

how fast she was when
I pushed her pedal,
how she sang
to me.

some cars are your true love,
your roadster
soulmate,

your destiny. she never failed
to turn over
on a cold winters morning.

she was built to please,

those headlights, that grille,
I miss her so,
my hands upon
her warm
steering wheel.

she was everything I dreamed
she would be.

a golden leaf

a single golden
leaf
arrives
on your arm.

it's fallen and become
part of the wind.

you sit
and wait for more,
perhaps
another, a once
close friend.

trees and life.

all change, all move,
the world
goes from darkness

into light.

love like weather
is not
for us to decide.

i see a red door

i paint my front door red.

not the dull burgundy red
the condo board insists on, but
a wild cherry red,

a Christmas red, a Chinese red.
i nail a red wreathe of berries
onto it as well.

i know i'm in trouble.
eva braun will be coming by
with her storm
troopers

at some point, as they make
their rounds with their clipboards
and cameras,

and i'll get a notice,
a warning, another warning
and then a final warning.

but i like my door, and i want
to see how long
it lasts, before they

hang me in the public square.

Hello, Welcome to Walmart

when lynnie was alive
she used to tell me that she loved
going to Walmart
on the weekend.

she said that it made her feel
skinny
and beautiful.

there was nothing there that
she wanted to buy,

no ten pound bags of marshmallow
peanuts,
or snow tires. no polyester
underwear,

or fishing tackle, no.

she just wanted to walk around
amongst the other shoppers,

to stroll about the aisles

and feel good in comparison,
like a queen on a float
in the Easter parade.

she said she felt like
Elizabeth Taylor
before all hell broke lose
in her life.

the cat on a hot tin roof
years. sexy, sassy and slender.

when we get to paris

when we get to paris,
she says, let me do the talking.

and take that beret off,

what's wrong with you?
and that horizontally striped

black and white polo shirt.

are you a mime now?

no, no. just trying to fit in.
look I have these
pointed zipper boots too.

oh my god, she says, packing
another suitcase.

just try to blend in and walk
behind me a little.
and stop chewing gum.

can we get a baguette when we
get there? sit outside
a small café and sip espresso.

I want to write poetry
with the Eiffel tower in view.

I want to have an epiphany
while i'm on the Left Bank.

shut up, she says. i'm not
talking to you anymore.
did you pack? one bag
for seven days?

oui, I tell her. stroking

my new magic marker mustache.

many chances

we get many chances.

second, third, plenty of chances.
but to do what?

to go where,
to be with who?

to live where? at a certain age,
no one
instructs you

on what to do next. you're
on your own.

school is out, you're off
the chain.

you decide which way to turn.
there is no
parent, friend,
or school

shadowing you. there is no
one left to blame.

rigamarole

I spend the morning

picking petals off a daisy.

she loves me, she loves me not.
then I switch over
to I hate her, I wished i'd never
met her.

obviously, I've lost my mind.

what do to about that.
I ponder the prospects.

be alone, see out the string of years
in a blissful state of
solitude
and quiet,

or find someone and go through that
whole rigamarole again.

I look up the word rigamarole,
to see if it's an actual word.
apparently it is, but i'm not using
it in exact definition
of the word.

I don't care.

I flip a coin. peace and tranquility,
heads.

or another possible nightmare
relationship?
tails.

I flip it high into the air
and wait for it to land in my hand...

like you wish

there's not a cure for everything,

although you can
placebo up just about any
disease
or ailment,

or maladjusted mood.

put on a red dress and let's go
out,
I used to tell her,
when she rested her cheeks
on her hands,
depressed,

elbows dug into the couch,
staring
glumly out the back window
while squirrels
swung sideways on the bird feeder.

is that your answer, she'd
say, without even turning
her head
to look at me.

I'd sigh and reply, okay
well how about you

put on a red and dress
and let
me slowly peel it off
you,
then bite your neck,

how's that, better?

to which she'd say something,
to effect of
like you wish.

botox

i hardly recognized her,
her face
was so stiff with botox injections.

she was 63 without a single wrinkle.

her brow was clean of lines,
her mouth, around her eyes, nothing.

it was like she was wearing
a porcelain mask,

not forever young, more of a
still life, stuck
in neutral

without a past.

a life unlived, no emotion, no
joy or pain,
no wisdom
seen. her skin shone
like an

apple, darkened within,
but on the outside
was a perfectly smooth
and empty sheen.

Ditto

what are you looking for
a complete stranger writes
to me
on the dating site.
becky from Toledo, ohio.
she has one picture of her in
a blue and white checkered dress.
she's fifty seven
but has pigtails and is
holding a small dog in
her lap.
I think of Dorothy in
the wizard of oz.
I see that her profile
states that she loves to bake
and that christmas is her
favorite time of year.

i'm looking for a soul mate,
she writes before
I can answer.
i'm looking for the love
of my life. someone I can
grow old with.
someone smart and has a good
job
who will love and adore me.
someone I can do things with.
someone who loves to laugh,
loves to travel and eat out.
someone who is adventurous
and loyal. who likes to kayak
and hike.
not too much baggage.

are you still there? she writes.
I look at what she's written.
my fingers on the keyboard
but not moving.
I want to ask her if she's
on any medication, or is delusional,
but I don't.
I write.
same, same as you. ditto.

winter love

for years I preferred summer.

spring and fall were fine,
both still warm enough
to be outdoors and play,

but summer was everything.
the sky seemed bluer,
the sun
warmer.

the girls in their summer dresses.
the moon at night.
fireflies
and dandelions.

the windows were open,
the top down,
there was the beach, the sand,
the curl of waves.

but I've changed.
I've learned to love winter,
finally,
which in looking
back
is strange.

ice and snow, that cold
wind.
being inside for days
at a time, unable to get
out, unable
to go.

I like the way the trees
are bare.
grey and empty. the icy stream.
I like the way the roads
are closed.

how the snow has narrowed
life down,
has kept us together,
kept us home.

dead horses

you're really hard on your ex's
she says,
she being a non romantic friend
that was never an ex.
she's good at holding the mirror
to my face.
I know, I know, I tell her.
it's the child in me, the anger,
the ego, the lack of self esteem
rearing its ugly head.
when someone hurts me,
when someone is a fake and a liar,
I have tendency to lash out.
fire all the barrels in the pen,
and reload.
she nods. I get it she says.
I really do, but you have to let
them off the floor at some point.
ever heard the term, beating a
dead horse?
i'd never do that to a horse,
I tell her.

The Calvert Bridge

the future is not what it used to be.

it rarely is.
once you get childhood
out of the way.

things change quickly, and the world
you envisioned
is different
than you imagined.

but you stick with it. what
are the choices.

I talk to my friend cathy about
this on the phone.

I ask her, kiddingly,
if the net is still up on the Calvert
Bridge.

she laughs, and says. I think so.

there are days like that, for everyone,
she says.

and nights too, I tell her.
and nights too.

seeing the pattern

she used to tell me
each morning when I woke up
that today
the sheriff is coming to arrest you.

at first it was amusing,
but as she kept it up,
I began to worry.

I wondered what I had done.

she continued on as we were separated
in the house.
still sleeping
in the same bed.

she had a boyfriend on the side
which I slowly began to find out about.

if you don't leave, she'd say,
i'm going to accuse you
of horrible things.

I remember staring at the ceiling
and thinking
i'll never ever be with a crazy
woman again.

twenty years later, it was worse.
this one too had a boyfriend,
and an ex husband still in her harem
of losers
that adored her,
and once again
I was staring at the ceiling,

saying, never again
will I allow this to happen.

I began to see a pattern.

a fresh start

I start with a plant
in the window.

green, healthy. new. just
bought
and carried in
from a grocery store.

I give life a shot.

it's a new beginning
having been
kid free,
pet free
wife free,
girlfriend free
for a while now.

maybe a living breathing
thing
in the house will
reboot

the system. build trust.
something I can care about
and be responsible for.

i'm rusty at that.

I give it a sweet talk.
welcome home
I say.

well, your new home. I turn
it towards the sun
and give it a drink.

she's quiet and green.
she looks hopeful in her
little red pot.

it's a good start.

my agent calls me

my agent calls me early
sunday morning. i'm shocked.

hello, I say, puzzlement
in my voice.

it's me, Jeremy, he says.
your agent.

yes? this is a surprise, I
tell him.

I read your script he says.
I was up all
night going through it
line by line.

as usual, well written.
the characters are well fleshed
out.

I like the plot, the story.
it all rings true, but...

but what I say, sitting down.
the dog comes over and licks my hand.

he wants to go out and looks
longingly at the front door.

well, he says. you need more
sex and violence.
there's not enough chills and thrills
in it.

but, it's a story about two
people that fall in love
and the woman gets sick
with an incurable rare disease she got
while feeding peasants
in India.

yeah, yeah. but that's old.
we've all heard that story.
remember Love Story, Ali Macgraw
and what's his name.

schlock.

what about a car chase, or an
ambulance scene with sirens
and all that. getting the girl
to the hospital
before it's too late. the cure
is being flown in on a chopper
in bad weather.

maybe the guy's a cop
instead of a poet, a hard boiled
guy who lost
his job because of drinking,
and cheating on his wife with some
hottie who became his partner.
maybe he still carries a gun
because the mob is after him.

are you still there?
we could do this 3 D thing...

yeah, i'm listening. Keep talking.
I put
the phone down and grab the dog's
leash.

it's walk time.