Saturday, February 22, 2020

once worn

I can smell
the past in these clothes
hanging

in the far closet, the one
least used.

a white shirt and tie of indigo,
black shoes.

a once worn wedding suit.

I sense
the loneliness of these
things

no longer wanted, no
longer used.

collecting dust.

there are no good memories

in this dark
closet.
today is as good as day
as any

to empty it, to scour
then paint it bright

with any color
I wish to choose.

a drawer of things

there are things

in the drawer that seem to have always
been there.

that ring.
that note, a scribbled number
on
a napkin.

an earring, just one.

a thin chain with a cross.
spare
change

that neither grows or departs.

lipstick
bullets, chap stick.

a bible
next to a bottle of
oil.

so little says so much
about the turn

of things. the days that have
gone by.

the loves that have come and gone
in your life.

one sparrow

a slender cat,

bone thin and grey,
slips into the yard

through
the open gate.

she has green eyes,
delicate and soft,

but willing to put
death upon her plate.

cautiously she moves
forward,

her stealth learned
through the centuries,

bent low in the tall
grass, ready

to pounce
on the shallow bowl

where a single sparrow 
has come to bathe.

in distress

in her turmoil,
distress
mud up to her knees.
the wet
fringes of a heavy
dress.
boots
and leggings, the pulled
tight hat.
against the wind,
running short
of time,
age having caught up
to her,
trouble up
to her neck.
is there a gentleman
to get her
across the street.
someone to rescue
her.
or has she been waiting
all week,
all life
for that helping
hand,
her charm
inviting the blind,
the rich, the boldly
meek.

the new snow

the snow that tumbles
gently
from the unseen sky is
quiet in voice.
hardly a whisper in its
weight
and sly way
of building upon itself.
covering the ugly
of land,
the past dissolving
under its
welcoming hand.
new love is like that
at times.
slow
moving, gentle and light.
pristine
in whiteness.
freshly fallen
with hope and
strange delight.

what they could have been

in the window
of the storefront, the lifeless
curves
of mannequins
stand upright in the dim
snowy
glare
of street lamps
as we walk by.
they have little to say
in their absence
of clothing,
of coats or furs draped
across their stiff
shoulders.
smileless and aloof in
manner
and yet we turn our
eyes to them,
there is still some
hope of beauty
in the shape
and promise
of what they could have
been.

third base chevy

the blue chevy was third base.

it sat there for years
on our narrow street.

unmoved, undriven.
one tire flat. the antennae
bent.

the windshield cracked
and seats
apart at the seams.

we never saw it move,
two or three summers in a row.

but it was blue, a peacock blue,
cleaned
by rain
or snow.
still a factory shine to its
curved glow.

third base.
then one day it was gone.

so we found a cardboard box
to flatten

and take its place.
our game went on.

the Italian Vase

the table
on a wobbly leg,

a hair line fracture in the wood,
antique.

collapses
easily with a slight push
out from

the corner.
the vase goes down then up
into a cloud
of

Italian dust.
it's hardly a bang, more

of a thud, then
mush,

then a grey plume rising.
she laughs.

i'm going back to venice
in the spring.

no worries. i'll buy another
one,
it was a gift
anyway

from a former lover. I
can't even remember

his name.

we need snow

we need a hard snow,

she says, getting into her car
with packages

and bags.

a bundle of fresh cut roses.

she's going somewhere, but she
gives
me her take

on the weather, the climate,
the environment

before she goes.

the ground needs to be saturated,
she says,

a heavy snow to kill what lies
below
so that we have a good
spring

so that things will grow.
she has more to say on the subject,

but she looks at her watch
and waves, a cloud
of blue exhaust

behind her.

Friday, February 21, 2020

what's gone

strange how we long
for what's gone.

whether cake, or love,

sweets
of any kind.

we miss the sea when
we haven't
been there

in a while.
a town, a bed,

we miss the moon when
the clouds

cover it.

a face, a smile, a voice.

does absence truly
make the heart grow fonder,

or just remind us
of a past that can't
come back

again.

the leaks in the roof

it was an old house
with leaks, there were buckets
everywhere

catching the drips
and drops

when the rain fell.
but no one seemed to mind.

the percussion of water into
water
making music of a gentle
kind.

it was a of life,
one they forgot about when

the sun came out to shine.

setting the clocks

is there a clock in the house
with the right time.

none that I see.

batteries have weakened,
the power has gone
out.

so many are blinking, stuck
on the midnight hour.

i'll wait until we spring
forward
again,

that will take care of a few.

but do I really need any
of them.

I have windows
with a view. the sun and moon,
the clocks

of my youth.

one of few

I cancel
the nights plans.

call and make up some excuse
to not go out.

home is a good place
to be on a cold
windy night in February.

I throw a log on the fire.
bring the books

down.

the quiet is good.
I've made the right decision

one of few.

dry clothes

soaked from stripping wallpaper
all morning

I come home to change
and to eat scrambled eggs over
the kitchen sink.

I look out the window.
I see the mail man
with his bag,

his mind on other things.
the neighbor,
retired and
limping with her groceries.

waving to someone.

i'll go back to work soon
in warm
dry clothes.

hands in my pockets to this
February wind.

the whistle of the train
in my ears. another day
at it.

my mind drifts
to another year,

I think of an old friend.

boy, have i been there

there's a man,

and a woman too, in old town
who

hold conversations with
others

that aren't there. invisible
people

that don't talk back. but you
see them

in deep conversation,
back and forth.

crazy talk. wild loud talks
on the sidewalk,

arms flailing, eyes popping,

ignoring those passing by.
it's a one way

conversation, but it's
fierce and full of meaning to
the person

talking, he feels as if he's
getting somewhere,

that his points are being made.
that he's actually being
listened to by the person

he imagines to be real.
finally he's being
understood.

his side of the story is at last
heard. all of it an illusion.

boy oh boy, have I been there.

some mornings

there's an ugliness to the world

some mornings.

the headline of the black and white
paper
a cold
baton
on the porch.

the way the trees have fallen in
the woods.

tumbled upon each other
in the cold
rain of night.

their grey trunks, having
given up.
the others, young and strong

still holding them up.

there's a bitter chill
in some mornings, waking up

with the taste of a bad dream
in your mouth. having not slept well,

but got stuck on some past
mistake.

the sand in your eyes of
some desert you crawled through
to get to
morning.

there's an ugliness that you
try to shake off

with a shower and coffee,
the dial of the radio, settling
on

an old song you know
by heart.

Thursday, February 20, 2020

something sweet

sometimes you need
just a nibble
of something sweet.

dark chocolate, or a small
slice
of cake would be nice,

just a bite.
a spoon of rocky road,
or lick

from a sugar cone.
a handful
of candy, something
small

and sweet,
even your lips against
mine
would suffice,

a kiss would be dandy.

the third string candidates

it's a sad weak group

of candidates. who is the david
to strike down

goliath?

who can take the bully out.
they all seem

so weak and undefined.
the third string is in the game.

the lightweights on
the stage.

where are the leaders. the
martin luther kings,
the Robert kennedys.

who will turn the ship around
before it sinks,

before we burn
it down?

the devil in disguise

as clear as a glass of cold
water

I remember the moment
when I made

the decision to be with this
person

who had come into my life
mysteriously.

as if she crawled out from
some bog,
some dark, dank swamp.

a reptile that transformed
herself into a human figure.

I remember thinking, and feeling
in my gut.

this is not going to be good.
there is something
wrong with this person.

beneath her skin is a demon
lurking.

don't be tricked, don't be
fooled by her
lies, her womanly ways,

her charm.

I thought to myself, I should
end it now, right this second.
call it all off.

but I didn't.
and I paid the price dearly,

two years of my life
with this devil in disguise.

I was warned, but didn't listen
to the truth that spoke
inside.

you can leave your hat on

i start thinking about hats.

hats to keep the sun
of my smooth

rounded dome.

maybe a beret, or one of those
caps
like the irish wear.

or a fedora.
something a writer might wear.

a houndstooth hat.
or a gangster hat like in those

noir movies. like the ones
cagney and bogart
would wear

while blasting away with their
38's.

or a cowboy hat with a shiny
star in the middle.

maybe a pith helmet, or a little
beanie.

my ex would say, a dunce cap,
but i'm

thinking one of those tall hats
like the ones the pope or a bishop wears,

about a foot tall made of
gold threads,

with jewels embedded.

or maybe a turban. yeah.
or better yet, a miner's helmet
with

a little light on the front.

rock bottom

i meet my friend jimmy at rock bottom
a new bar
in town.

hey, he says.
fancy meeting you here.

shut up, i tell him
and order me a drink.

bitter, he says, laughing
as the bar tender comes over to
pour me

a gin and tonic.

lime? i ask.

hell no, the bar keep says, we're at rock
bottom. but he cuts
a lime anyway
and splashes my drink with it.

so what brings you here, i ask jimmy.
women, he says. and you.

women. too many, the lack of, stupid
women, brassy women,
lazy women.

prudish women. smart women.
cheating no good lousy
women.

lying women. ugly women, beautiful women.
blondes, brunettes, redheads.

sexy women. all shapes and sizes.
i'm sort of sick of them
all to tell you the god's honest truth.

all their women troubles. their emotions.
their moods,
their crazy thinking.

they are impossible to figure out.
they're like goddamn
cats. aloof

and self absorbed.

i'm sick of love.

yeah, he says. drinking from the bottle
the bar tender left on the bar.
me too.

fuck em.

can't live with em, can't, well,
you know the rest.

hey, i ask him, tapping him on his
arm.

who's that babe at the end of the bar,
never seen her in here before?
very attractive.

i think she just looked over here.

maybe i'll send her a drink. what is
that, a cosmo?

keep your dime

I run out of milk,

of bread,
olive oil, sugar and spices.

I run low
on detergent.

soaps
and towels.

things that make my life
go.

the hot water gets cold
before the shower
ends.

the lights flicker,
the show

starts, stops then
begins again.

dates are cancelled.
estimates
delayed.

telemarketers are on the phone.

work is stalled. no one seems
to be
there
when they said
they would.

i'm tired and weary, I've
run out of patience.

out of time. out of focus.
i'm losing my mind.

my ability to be kind.

the world has gone corrupt
and
rude, full of
narcissism
and lies,

thoughtless and selfish.

brother can you spare
me some love,
you can keep your dime.

if love was currency

if love
was currency, measured
in dollars
and cents.

i'd be broke right now.

the safe emptied by
thieves

disguised as lovers,
almost friends.
i'd have

no cash, no checks,
no gold

to spend.

if love were currency,
i'd be on
the dole, out on
the street

with no where to go,

homeless once again.

back straight

with each unspoken
word.

the old words
fade.

the old memories cease
and move
on to their

watery graves.

funny how we survive the worst
of times.

back straight,
eyes forward.

at last
healed and ready for new

memories to be made.

the familiar place

the dent in the rug
tells

where the chair goes, the table
is set.

where the grandfather clock
will

rest until it ticks
and gongs
no more.

all things in their place
since
day one.

and will be forevermore.
safety in sameness
I suppose.

and you,
are you not so different

having moved back into the dent
you once
made?

the familiar
and safe place.

Wednesday, February 19, 2020

fear not old age

fear not
old age for it has a sweet
feel
about it.
how the memories have piled
in soft
sacks.
like letters to oneself.
be not afraid
of those aches, the limp,
or lean
of bones decayed.
the blur
of light, the dampening
of sound.
it's nothing
to be alarmed about.
instead embrace
all that you have learned,
rejoice in loves lost,
the loves found.
friends made
and gone to their own
gentle graves before you.
it's part of it,
in time, each to his own
turn, if lucky
to not stay young
and die.

the home life

i miss
things that I've never had.

but miss them
as if they were mine all along.

simple things.
the wife
at home.

her kiss hello as i come in from
the day.

the children in the yard
rushing in to greet me,

the dog at my feet, the aloof
cat on the sill.

i miss the hot meal.
the talk

of what everyone did with their
day.

the talk of tomorrows. of summers.
of where we would
go.

i miss the pillow talk of a loved
one.
the touch of her,
the silk of her.

the glow of her smile.
the words she said.

the sleepy yawn before bed.

i miss us dancing.
the children too, beneath us,
on our feet as we moved
about the kitchen

the songs we all knew.
i miss all of this, as if it happened.

the same goes for you.

the shoe shine

I stop after work
for a shoe
shine, before I board the train
home.

to my wife and three children.
I live in Connecticut now.

up on the hill in a fine white
house.

trees all around.
a driveway that curves in,
then out.

but my shoes, brown and worn,
have lost their shine.

I take my hat off and sit
on the tall seat with the new
York times.

the war is over and another
one looms
on the horizon

as it always does. men being men.
restless in peace.

always sharpening their swords.

but on this autumn day with leaves
falling
in colorful whispers, I stop

to smoke, to sit and have my
shoes shined

before heading home. i'll tip
the boy well.

remembering having been that boy
myself.

hit the road jack

when young we tolerate
the foolish.

the insane
the bothersome.

the liars and those full
of themselves.

we play along. we say okay.
they're young,

they're learning,
they'll grow up in time.

but in time, never comes.

and now,
at this ripe age

you don't want to be in
the same room

with them.
conversation is pointless.

love or even like
is difficult if not impossible
for those

of that kind.

dante's inferno

why are there bubbles?

will the seams go down.
there's paste
on the sink, the door knob.

what's up with the pattern.
in the light

it looks to be a different
shade.
was orange grass cloth
a bad idea?

can you do that wall over.
i can order more
paper,

i can get it over night.

can i scrub it? what if i
change
the mirror,

the light, can you patch the paper?
if i get tired of
it.

can you strip it and do
a faux finish.

i was in an Italian
restaurant the other day,

and the wall looked like marble.
i felt i was in

Tuscany.

have you ever been to Tuscany?
you should go.

it's where i got this idea
for my powder room.

marry me i say on bended knee

I finally find someone
who can fold

a fitted sheet. it's been the holy
grail

of dating. it used to be baking
cookies,

but that was a disaster.

she says, stand back and watch me,
take notes
if you must.

I stand there and watch her as
her hands
move rapidly like a cook
at a Japanese steak house.

before I know it, the fitted
sheet is nicely

squared and tucked, folded
firmly into

shape, ready for the shelf.

wow, I tell her. come here and
kiss me. I've been looking
for you

my entire life.

in front of the linen closet,
on bended knee
I ask her to marry me.

sunday at the park

the old men
would gather around their cars
at the park.

in the shade of trees,
while the women
would cook and watch the children
down by the river

where the white sheets of
sailboats
slipped by on the blue sleeve
of water.

they'd put the hoods
up on the cars
open the doors

and drink beer.
they'd take a chamois cloth
and rub the fenders.

they'd lean on the grill
and talk
about the engine,

what their blue collar money
had won.

they'd look off to where
the women
were and talk about them.

there would be music, and
quiet laughter.

it was summer, they were no
longer young
and in the hunt, they were
where they

wanted to be. there was little
left to be done
but put a shine on the chevy.

Tuesday, February 18, 2020

Donna Reed with a Whip

for years I've been putting
that little
description onto my dating profiles.

in search of donna reed
with a whip.

what does it mean exactly?

a woman like donna reed,
in the movie it's a wonderful life.

but in color, not
black and white.

someone with an edge, a wink, a grin,
a smile

a sexy je ne sais quoi about her.
kissing skills
required.

not literally a whip in hand,
not into that,

but figuratively.

someone that i'd want to lasso
the moon for.

loyal and true,

a woman with spunk and life,
smart,
wholesome and real,
the girl next door,

but with a healthy dose
of spice.

it seems impossible at times.
few have come close.

pretenders, most. but

there's still time.
i hope.

the omen

i remember the time
she came
over and drank three or four
large

glasses of pina coladas.
she went from giddy
to wobbly

in no time.

she spent the next four hours
curled around
the toilet
on the bathroom floor.

i checked on her
to see if she had expired.

a groan, a moan eeked out
from under the door.

i watched a movie.
made popcorn,

had a sandwich. talked on
the phone.

ordered more things i didn't
need on amazon.

checked on her again,
then finally dragged her out
and

up the stairs to put her in
the guest room.

i set a glass of water on
the table beside her.

two aspirins and an ice
bag for her head.

i pulled her shoes off,
then gave her
an extra blanket.

told her i'd be down hall
if she needed anything.

all of it an omen as to what
lied ahead.

call from new york

I see four, maybe five books,
maybe more.

there 's so much here,

the publisher says
on the phone.

you have to come up to new York.
the whole office

loves your work.
we're eating it up.

of course, not all of it is gold.

but there's a rich
mountain of publishable pieces here

that we think
would sell.

where have you been?
we've been waiting for a poet
like you.

accessible and real.

someone who tells the truth.
bleeds.

is raw and sensitive. vengeful
at times
and yet compassionate too.

you leave nothing on the table, do
you?

keep at it. don't stop.
your day is way over due.

your ship has come in my boy.

let's go.

I could be wrong

of course I could be wrong.

I could
be lost.

I could have taken a wrong turn
at the last
light.

or maybe this is the way
I was supposed
to go.

free will, or destiny,
you tell me.

are there coincidences
we're we meant to meet?

does each life intersect
for a reason,

or is it all a gamble,
does God indeed

roll dice
with the universe?

we grew up and left

when the ice cream

truck rolled down the street
we appeared.

a motley crew
of children holding sticky coins

found
between cushions, or
taken
from a mother's purse

while she was hanging clothes
on the line
out back.

the bell ringing, the music
a strange
recording,

a carnival in a blue boxed
truck.
pictures of his fare
stuck
to the sides.

and the grinning man inside,
unshaven
in a white t shirt, white
pants.

taking our change, whether
it was enough
or not.

he watched as we grew, summer
after summer.

then he never came down our
street again.

not this, instead

deep into the book
I lose
track of time.

I move the blinds
and see
that the sun is gone.

cars have arrived.
the children are no longer
playing

in the school yard.
parents have brought
them all
inside.

I dog ear a corner
of the last page read.

I'll go back to it later,
after
a meal,

a walk,
some thought,

then bed. I thought things
would be

different this time.
not this,

instead.

is anything finished

is there anything done.

or is all unfinished.

this poem
i'm about to write I may never
read or attend
to again.

will the house ever be
just right,

the yard. the colors
of the sun
as it sets
beyond the silver sage
of trees
bending to wind?

is anything ever finished.
complete?

old loves.
do they end with a bang
or is it a whimper.

a gentle mist fading
like
oils
on a painting to the weathers
unconscious
taking.

can we go back again?
start over.

first words. a first kiss.

a first thump
of heart felt in some
strange
throw
of love.

can we erase the past and begin?

is there anything truly finished
or done?

is there truly an end?

surrender

fear, pain
rejection, loss of love,

of money.

age, perhaps.

betrayal.

what brings you to your knees?
what makes

you finally, at last,
say okay.

I surrender.
it's no longer up to me?

what Job
like scenario needs to occur.

what catastrophe,
locusts,
the plague, disease?

a flood or fire.

death?

what will it take to say,
stop it.

just stop God, I get it
now, please.

the birthday card

his card,
arriving late,

is no longer in his hand,
but sent
just the same
with stamp
and signed within.

his eyes too blurred
to see
what happens with a pen.

but it's the thought that
counts.

as they say.
not how,
or when.

it won't be long when
no cards
will come.

or be sent.

hunger will make you hunt

easy keeps you young.

easy keeps
you unaware, naïve.

you stay the buried seed,
never knowing
rain,
never knowing sun.

while death
will bring you to your knees.

disease or lack
will strengthen you.

hunger will make you hunt.

a broken heart
will cure

the boy within.

give me a struggle
anytime.

give me truth,
be blunt.

two tickets

a find a coat,
not mine, deep into the well
of a dust
laden closet.

it's on a hanger
beside a
coats of my own.

who put it there is unknown.
who it belongs
too,
I don't know.

it's a fine coat though.
long,
black with buttons
still holding shine.

I dig into a pocket,
there's a brush,

a hat,
a scarf tucked within.
two half tickets

to a play. two thousand
and nine.

I wonder how she is these
days,
and if she misses

her coat, or me, though
she was never mine.

the unseen self

it takes time

but we learn to prefect who we aren't.
we

embrace whatever style suits our
fancy

for the day or night.
we listens and absorb
those around us, their words,
their light.

we make ourselves, like clay,
into something

less ordinary, less slight.
thinking

if I behave this way,
all things
will be right,
and yet

still it's not who we are.
that

is rarely seen.




Monday, February 17, 2020

this bruise is nothing

this bruise is nothing.

the plum rise of blood on skin.
the thickness
of the strike.

how easily
we bump into things,
or things into us.

this strange part of life.

with age we
touch the table to move
across
the room,

go slowly up the staircase.
as if on
ice we

negotiate the wet floor
of the kitchen
or bathroom.

but this bruise is nothing.
hardly a wound
worth mentioning.

i'm sure there are more to come.
both inside
as well as out.

its colors will go towards
green
then yellow, then back again
towards a fleshy shade of white.

an arrow more precise?

is there any worse
death
than that of betrayal?
any worse
injury
to the soul, the ego,
than a lie
told
over and over
as if it's true.
is there any less poison
than that of a lover
gone astray,
gone secret and cold
and yet still returns
each night
as if
things were fine.
find me a sharper
knife,
a more hot bullet,
an arrow more precise
and i will
say no.
not hardly.

Just Image

is there anything real.
anyone
out there

honest and true.
loving and kind?

is there a box without a bright
red label,
with ingredients
you've never
heard of.

is there

a soul
with a heart. not an image
formed
for mirror


that in the light falls apart.

is there anything not for sale.
without a balloon
tied to it.

or music blaring from a horn,
without
a broken wheel?

anyone unpretentious?

anyone
real?

please tell me.
i need to know.

those summers

those
were real summers.

slow drawl of time.

not like now.
is anything like now
that was?

how we stayed up, lying on
the picnic table

at night.

not yet lovers, just friends.
twelve and thirteen.

afraid to touch hands.

those summers. those sweet
melon
summers.

of falling stars.
black cherries in the trees.

the oasis
of the pool, the sun
in our hair.

glorious and free, yet to
know

what a broken heart was.
still
open
to love, to possibility.

forgive me not

i disappoint you?

i'm sorry, in a disingenuous
sort of way
that i

haven't lived up
to your expectations.

the things you once liked,
have suddenly
become
the things that are in
the way.

forgive me, or not.

go find a daisy and decide.
pluck the petals
one by one.

i may be here,
i might be gone.

but this i know,
time is no longer on our side.

made whole by subtraction

nothing is missing anymore.

there is no lack.
no dark
surprise

arriving by letter or
package

through the slot
of the door.

i feel no cold hand upon my
arm.
no stranger in my bed.

the house is full of me.
made

whole by subtraction.

my lovers

i sleep with books.

each is a mistress. a lover,
a wife.

i place them
beside me on the bed.
beneath a pillow.

on the nightstand.
they are in easy reach.

the words are comforting
in the shallow light
of morning.

the twilight of dusk.
they keep me warm. they keep
me
alive.

I've never known love
like them before.

they give and give and give.
and ask
for little in return.

just read me, they say,
please read me again.

which i adore.

i've gone inside

the yard
left to itself for two years
now,
has little to say,
less to remember.
the rough cut
of bushes down to nubs.
the slash
of weeds, tugged and pulled
on sore
knees.
the gravel
below the inch of grey
soil.
what grows here is not
my decision.
I let
the wind decide.
I let time, rain, the gentle
moonlight
bring out
what needs to be
alive.
it's no longer my yard,
I've given
it up
to the birds and squirrels,
other life,
I've gone inside.

enjoy your life

a tree fell in the woods,

but nobody heard it

because somebody's wife kept
talking, he says.

I laugh.

that's a good one, I say
to the guy
in line

in front of me. he laughs with
me as if it's
the first time
he's told
that joke.

he's old. he remembers
when
this coffee shop
was a barn.

when there were horse trails
where the highway
is.

when my wife was alive, he says,
his eyes going soft,

she loved to ride
these hills. she was something.

we stop talking
and he turns back around
to get his coffee.

when he leaves, he touches my
arm, lost
in some memory

and says.

enjoy your life, my friend,
enjoy your life.

homeward bound

some things you miss.

new York, for instance.

greasy, bubbling cheese
on a thick

crust with pepperoni.
you miss the wind

off the harbor.

the lights and mayhem
of times square.

the shows, the diners.
museums.
the long walks
through central park.

Chinatown and the village.
a stop at the zoo.

soho, NoHo.
tribeca.
you need your fix again,
real soon.

it's been too long away.
but just a few days.

whose got that kind of money
or strength

to last much longer.

new wings

I yawn,
I stretch. I jump out of bed
into the cold
stream
of a shower.

energized and ready for the day.

work
on this holiday.

but it's good.
a sweet
new day in February.

untroubled, untethered,
a bird
with new wings.

a cup of joe,
the radio.

and off we go.

Sunday, February 16, 2020

Being Thankful

there is so much to be thankful for.

I have so many pairs of socks
it's embarrassing.

shoes too.

underwear still wrapped in plastic.
I have four new suits,
black and charcoal that I never wear.

I have ice.

water, hot and cold.
a house. a yard.

a very comfortable bed.
I have electricity.

my health.
my son in California
doing well.

I have brothers and sisters,
a father
at 92.

there's money in the bank,
more than i'll ever need
or spend. there's food
in the freezer.

I have work. I have a car,
a truck.

a washing machine, a dryer.

televisions, radios, stereos.
speaker all over
the place.

a cell phone, a land line.
I have hands
and legs,

eyes and ears.
teeth.
a heart that beats on a regular
basis.

I have old friends, new friends.
so many good memories.

I have the past, I have now.

I have peace. I have joy. I have
so much

through luck, and hard work,
and by being blessed.

but I know that like Job, things
could at any moment could take
a turn for the worse.

No Longer the Hood

I drive downtown
to go look at a job.

it's in the middle of the city
and takes an
hour with normal

traffic.

it's where the hood used to be.
it's where the riots
were in

the late sixties.
gangs,
drugs, hookers. the whole
catastrophe
was in play

up 14th street and Georgia
avenue.

now I see the strollers
being pushed.

daisies coming up out of yards.

the houses are painted pinks
and blues.
new picket fences.

dogs are barking, kids are
on swings.

there's a barbeque going on
in the corner house,
with Biff and Molly,

Hillary
and Hugh.

this will never work

i'm lactose intolerant

she tells me.

that means, no milk, no cheese, no yogurt,

and I only eat grass fed meat
or poultry.
lean cuts.

the fish have to be fresh caught,
nothing frozen
or farmed.

vegetables should be organic,
and local.

no bread, no sugar, no dessert or
coffee for me.
just sparkling water

on spring water ice. a slice
of organic lemon.

and i'm allergic to cats.
you don't have a cat do you?

and is your house mold free?
I have a severe reaction
to mold

and by the way,

I prefer to drive in the day time,
and if it's rainy
or too cold, or windy,

let's try another time.

oh and I don't drink alcohol.

relationship amnesia

it's not uncommon, in fact
it's quite ordinary

for one to get relationship amnesia
when you've been away from someone
for awhile.

you romanticize the few good
things that occurred

when you were with a significant other,
time and distance making

the heart grow erroneously fonder.

you completely
forget, as if your brain
has been doped, about

the lying, the cheating and betrayal,
the emotional
abuse and
constant turmoil.

you gloss over the insanity of the time
you spent with this person.

it's like you go into a coma
unable to wake up

and remember the hell
you went through.

crazily, you actually think
calling
this person, unblocking them
from your phone

and social media,

texting or sending them a letter
and reminiscing about
all the good times.

then you come to your senses.

the letter would be short,
a few words, perhaps.
the texting
one line,

the call would last ten seconds.
what good memories?

hardly any come to mind.

so few if any, from what
what I can recall.

5:30 a.m.

after a rough night out
I wake up
and lean on the cold rim
of the white porcelain sink.

I fill it with ice water
then drop my head into it.

I shake it off, then look
in the mirror.

what the hell, where did that
new crease in my brow come from?

these wrinkles are coming out
of nowhere.

i'm beginning to look like my
mother and father
combined.

which I guess makes sense.

I slap on some shaving cream
and mow away the stubble.
silver and white flecks of what
used to be luxurious
brown hair.

but I haven't given up.
I flex my muscles and put
some visine in my eyes.

I hear a voice coming from the other
room,
what are you doing in there?

are you okay? come back to bed.

brushing my teeth, I yell back.
be there in a minute.

hold that thought.

I brush my teeth, gargle,
spit. take a zinc pill,
then turn the light off.

it's five thirty in the morning.

Your Lucky Day

a stroke of luck.

a penny found.

the shooting star, the wishing
well.

each to its
own small reward

of good fortune.
don't look that gift horse

in the mouth.

be thankful for what's come
and what's gone.

the road is clear
for what should be.

Go Fund Me

I want a new car so I start
up a go fund me
on social media.

the money rolls in.
friends
relatives
people I hardly know
send me their hard earned dough.

I want to take a cruise.
another go fund me.

marriage and a honeymoon.
yes.
go fund me.

my dog is sick.
i'm sick.

my phone broke.
my computer is on the fritz.

I want a house, a boat,
I want
I want
I want.

but why work for it
when I have

go fund me dot com.

work is for the weak, the dumb.
the losers
that I can bleed.

go fund me.

having drinks

one drink is fine.

a nice calm feeling,
sublime.

no rush, no hurry, just conversation.
a meal.

a relaxing sigh.

two drinks, though. can get you talking,
thinking.
wondering.

all the maybes in the world somehow
come to light. you're funny

and light.

the third drink has you reaching
for the phone.
groping,
saying things you'll regret
come morning.

you believe that anything is possible.
all the world
is gold.

love can be retrieved.
life can be as wonderful
as you once were told.

the fourth drink should never
be in your hand.

it's the dark side. the wounded
animal side.

thinking revenge and getting even
for slights long
gone.

the part of you that no one,
not even you
understands.

investing

we are investors.

we put money in the bank.
we hand
it over to millennials to make
our retirement safe.

we throw pennies into the jar.
we buy clothes that will last,
shoes that can be
cobbled.

we get our blood pressure checked.
we make sure the water
is turned off for winter.

the dog has it's shots.
we get our teeth cleaned to prevent
decay.

we invest in the yard.
sod and seed.

we do cross word puzzles
to keep our brains
in order.

we cut coupons and look for
discounts. we're investing,
we're looking towards a future.
it's not greed.

we tuck in the children,
we check their home work,
we
find books that they'll read.

we give flowers and cards.
we buy gifts for loved ones.
we invest in their hearts
our desires, our needs.

we are squirrels in the woods
burying acorns
for when it snows.
for winter says no more.


Saturday, February 15, 2020

what was kind

when love ends

we unhinge, we uncouple.
we separate

and move
onward to a different place.
no longer
skin to skin.

it's different now.
no whispers
to be heard

no finishing each other's
thoughts

with words.

we go slowly into the white
hollows
of time.

of memory.

we are set apart from one another,
untethered.

thinking only
of what was kind.

the sea

the sea is incoherent,
a different
language

in my ears. I want more.
I want clarity.

but it gives me none of that.
the salt
of air,
the brine,

the dredge of green
that comes and comes
and

goes.

the thunder
of it.

I want a voice. I want to hold
a white shell
to my
ear and know

all what I need to know.

not just about you, about
tomorrows
too.

I want to know what lies
below.
what the dead
have to offer

for us still sailing
adrift

wondering which way to go.

My Friend Ariel

i sink into the big Saturday chair.

a worn brown leather
sofa beside
the big window with
enough light to read the fine
print.

i go back into Ariel.
an old

dark and mysterious friend.
the bee poem.

daddy. lady Lazarus.

the brilliance of her pen.
so much
reminds me of someone.

so much
is a rich bruised memory, best
left
unstirred.

untouched. there is no going
back.
there are no amends.

seasonal fruit

I see the peach.

it's summer ripeness. the plum
the cherry.

the fall apple.
I know the taste, the juice
of it.

the sweet unchanging
history
of the fruit

that you've come to know
since birth.

a red melon, the orange lope,
the blackberries
making blue
an entire field.

you've known
since the first bite
the smile
your body makes

as the dribble of it runs
down your chin.

each season to its own
fruit.
its own harvest, taking

you home again.

the devil that you know

sometimes
the devil that you know is
better than
the one that you don't.

I've seen it time and time
again.

having gone through it myself.
staying put in hell
and stopping,

waiting as if hell will
no longer
be hell,

hesitant,

instead of getting out,
running to the other side
to the nearest exit.

it's a persuasive argument
your mind and heart makes,
trumping
your gut instincts,

your true and infallible
self.


Solomon's Island

she was off the grid.

a little quirky, on the far end
of the spectrum.

she wore what she called snake boots.
white plastic
boots with pictures of umbrellas
on them.

her yard was full of snakes.
she didn't believe in electricity
and pondered

solar panels.
no tv
no radio.

a few lights scattered about,
40 watts.

i slept on a horse blanket in the basement
between pillars
of magazines
from the 1980's.

there was a compost pile
at the far end
of her sloping yard
where all the trash
would go

and where the raccoons would
gather and hiss
at you when

you brought a new pail
of garbage to the pile.

she liked to recite Shakespearean
sonnets
when the mood struck,
taking the floor with grand
gestures

and facial expressions.
valentine cards from her third
grade class

fifty years ago
were scattered about her laundry
room floor.

she was fun, interesting, but a
giant cup of crazy.
like me, but not like me in
so many ways.

Come to Florida

come to florida
she says in her birthday card.

come to the sunshine state.
we'll make
love in an orange grove.
we'll drive along the beach
with the top down.

we'll change our names.
we'll
wear white clothes.
we'll become who we really are.

we'll pull silver fish
from the sea.
we'll drink strong drinks
under the moon

of Miami beach.

we'll be each other's lovers,
pals, confidants.

we'll be our own movie stars.

come to florida, she says.
i'm waiting with open
arms.

come to me. come and be free.


the last leaf

I look out the window
at the man
in a mask with a leaf blower.

it sounds like a jet plane
about to crash
into the cul de sac.

he's chasing, pushing,
in pursuit of
one leaf

to be sucked up into his enormous
truck
which is running
loudly on the street.

a great diesel cloud of black smoke
rises from the exhaust.

it's early. hardly a bird is up.

I watch for a few minutes
then go fix a cup of coffee.

I go back to the window.
he's getting closer
to the truck. inch by inch

the little brown leaf moves
onward. he's

real close. another thirty
minutes and he'll have
the leaf at last.

i'm almost ready to clap.

the love bugs

they were a strange couple.

tethered together by asking
each other
at the crack of dawn,
what and where she we eat today.

her with blue
hair,

him with his guns and plaid array.
her far side
glasses perched low on her nose.

quite the pair. but love has
no eyes. love
hears no words.

love just knows what it knows,
what goes
on in-between

it hardly cares.

cheek to cheek

we go out dancing.

cheek to cheek, hand in hand.
the rhythm of our
feet
capturing the beat,

the ebb and flow
of strings

the piano. no words are said,
no words are needed.

it's a lovely night, of warmth
of joy
of love

going slow.
dancing cheek to cheek.

Friday, February 14, 2020

Cherry Pie

I meet this charming southern belle on
a dating site called

daisydukes.com. well not actually
meet her, but

we do the email, texting thing
ad nauseum.
for all I know she could be a freckled
face
teenage boy in his mother's basement

with the door closed.

but we hit if off just the same.

she tells me that if she lived closer,
she'd be all over me

like a chicken on a june bug.
I make a note to look up what a june
bug is.

I know my bugs, but june bug is a new one.

so how are things down south, I ask her.

and she says. things haven't been the same
since the northerners
began their war of aggression
on us.

I tell her, that was a long time ago.
a couple of hundred years. I try to do
the math in my head, but give up.

my daddy says that the south will rise again.
my nickname is dixie, she tells me.
they all sing Dixie for my birthday
instead of the usual happy birthday song.

and by the way, I don't mean any offense,
but Abraham Lincoln wasn't all that!

he had nothing on Jefferson Davis or Bobby Lee.

I don't want to get bogged down
into a political discussion
with her, so I move on
to talking about her pie making skills.

your profile says that you make a mean
cherry pie, I tell her. is that true?
I like that one picture of you holding it
up at the picnic table.

sure nuff, she says. I won the blue ribbon
four years in a row, although I got
beat last year by betty jean mulberry, that tramp
from Atlanta.

you should have seen what she was wearing,
i'm telling you it left no room for imagination.
them judges weren't salivating over her pie,
mind you.

well, if we ever get the chance to meet, maybe
I can sample a slice of your award winning pie.

it would be my pleasure, she says.
i'll bake a whole one just for you.
special, just for you sweetie.
maybe we could meet at the apple butter
festival this year in Winchester?

sure, I tell her. why not.

I like to enter my jams and jellies in their
contests
and my daddy likes to sell his wooden
bowls and big salad forks and spoons
at the festival. he whittles
them out of trees stumps that he finds
in the woods when he's out
possum hunting.
people just
love them wooden bowls.

sounds like a plan, I tell her.
I could use a new bowl.

well, I have to go now, she says.
one of our cows got loose down on the main
road
and I have to go fetch her.

toodle loo sweet potato. you behave
until we meet. followed by six heart emojis,
a dixie flag and a tiny cherry pie.

sticky notes

i collect my assortment of yellow

sticky notes

webbed in a pile on my desk
and try to decipher the week
of phone calls.

i need to tell myself to take better
notes.
more detail. time, date, names, numbers.

it's a rubik cube of paper.
i scratch my head.

rub my eyes.

i take a nap.
it'll all sort out in the end.

it always does.

the maddening crowd of one

I love the blah
stretch i'm in.

the kind world

of apathy. the calm relief.
the dull

uneventful
pocket of time I've
come into.

drama less.
word less. the house is at
last a home

once more.

the grandeur of nothing,
nothing but

the pleasant sigh of boredom.
the infinite joy
of quiet.

the satisfaction

of nothing, of no one
needing

or bleeding me
of life. no locked doors.

no hidden agenda.
no thrills. no fear.

far away from the maddening
crowd of one.

the oil painting

it's an oil painting.

the flea market
has shelves lined with such
portraits. but this one,

thick with paint. alive
with the gossamer

of linseed oil,
the slick veneer is of
a woman in a silk robe,

burgundy like lust, cherries
ripened.

her yellow hair, like grain
bright
and aglow
in some sunlit field.

Nebraska, the Ukraine?

I hold it away from me.
arms length.

the frame is too large,
too heavy,
too ornate

for such simplicity.

paintings like this bring me no
small
dose of pain.

I turn it over for price.
and think
where would I hide it,

or how could I throw it away.

Please, tell me more

I hear the door open.

are you home, she yells up the stairs?
where are you?

in the tub I yell out. soaking.

she comes up and sees me lying back
in a thick
room of steam.

a candle lit, a book, wet on
the floor.

she leans down to kiss me.
and says

have I ever told you how much you
mean to me,
how loved you are,
how much you are adored.

i'm so glad we have each other.

i smile, and pull her towards me.
i kiss her.
my hands on her face.

please, i tell her, please,
tell me more.

Thursday, February 13, 2020

Mary Triplett's House

the owner of the house
a small indian
man,
older than time itself,
tells me
the story of the crumbling
abode.

it's three hundred years old, he
says.
turning slowly around
with his finger out.
pointing
at a mantle, the staircase,
the planked floors.

it belonged to mary triplett,
he says,
then touches her picture on the wall.

she was the prettiest girl
in the county,
the belle of the ball

he tells me. men dueled
over her
quite often. men died to have her.

I believe him. the portrait
is blurred, but you can see
the fine
lines of her face,

the beauty of her,
the hair thick
and full, piled luxuriously
on her head.
she looks
happy, thrilled perhaps to
be fought over.

would I take a bullet for her,
I think
as he goes on and on
about the house.

i'm not so sure, I've done it
once,
but not again, knowing what
I know now.


how memory works

this is how memory works.

it starts like this.

you open the window on a cool
new day
and you smell the beginning of spring.

young leaves, the rich earth
full
and soaked with winter.

there is life in the air.

you think of the first time you were in love.
how beautiful she was.
how young you both were.

the entire world was green.

you stand at the window and look out.
the sky is more blue
than it's ever been.

the clouds more white.

this is how memory works.

again and then again.

writing her a letter

before email,

before computers, before cell phones,
or texting.

before
this world went crazy
and illiterate,

i'd take a pen to paper
and write a letter to a loved one

or a friend.

i'd take my time
and say exactly what I meant.

long hand.

then fold it over and into
the envelope it went.

a stamp licked and pressed
into the corner.

the address affixed.

then i'd drive to the post office
late at night

in the snow. no one else out but me.
I can still see
the flakes

like bright confetti melting
against the glass

as I drove in peace. wanting to
place my letter in the box.
to be read at last.

We Come Close

we come close
at times to pure joy

while on earth.
it may happen in the middle
of a kiss.

the first blush of love,
infatuation.

the thrill of life
is
indescribable when it occurs.

the read book,
the satisfying meal.
a job well done.

helping a stranger, or loved one
without pride.

the poem that fell off your fingers
so easily.
finished before it
began.

making love when in love.

these things are hard to understand,
and no
need to try.

just savor their sweetness,
for they may
never come again.




searching

she tells me about how she's looking
for the man of her dreams.

her dream boat, her life boat,
her soul
and cell mate all wrapped into
one fantasy born
in childhood and continues
on from here to
eternity.

I know he's out there just
waiting to be found, my perfect match.
the love of my life.

the man that will complete me.
the one i'll grow old with
and live happily ever after.

and what about you, she says.
what are you looking for?

my car keys, I tell her. I can't find
them anywhere.

Wednesday, February 12, 2020

waiting my turn

while waiting, i take
out my notebook

and write down a few observations.
that woman over there
with that boy.

he has a rash on his wide forehead.
it's hard for me to make
a diagnosis from here,
but i'm thinking poison oak
or ivy.

the man
limping down the hallway,
with the drop step.
sciatica.

someone coughing behind
the closed door. your basic flu.

there's a teenage girl
twitching her leg,
looking at her phone.

could be anything from
pregnancy to restless leg
syndrome.

it's not my turn quite yet.
i have my id cards in hand.

i look at the blue carpet.
the salmon colored walls.

i cross my legs in the stiff chairs.
see the magazines
on the table.

ladies home journal. i don't touch
it.

When the Music Died

there was a short period of time

when there was no music in my house.
no dancing.
no singing.
no television on.

no joy, no fun.
just the eternal gloom and darkness

of a lost soul
invading my life.

I had lost my way.
let myself be dumbstruck

by a fake.

no laughter.
I had somehow been caught
and trapped into

a horror show. a nightmare
unable to wake up

or get out. I look back
at that year, stunned and amazed
at the evil

I let in.
confused and dazed.

each new morning now is a blessing.
a gift to which
I give thanks,

and praise.

irish beef stew

I ask my therapist to read
some of my
poems.

she says why.

I say why not. I've basically
cut open a vein
on my wrist

and dipped a pen into the pool
of blood.

it's everything you need to know.
from top to bottom
inside out.

I've bared my soul, cut a window
into my heart.

you want childhood, angst,
relationships gone bad.

fear, anger, depression mixed
with anxiety and a dose of madness,

well
there it all is in black and white.

it might save us some time.

okay, she says, nodding in that
mildly
condescending way of hers,
writing something
down on her legal pad.

what are you writing, I ask her,
leaning towards her off the couch,
if you don't mind
sharing.

just making a shopping list.
I was making dinner tonight
and was trying
to remember what I need at the store.

have you ever made irish beef stew?

the elephant in the room

there were elephants
in the room.

name a room and dumbo was there.

kitchen.
bedroom.
living room.

you get the idea. I won't
go through the entire
house
naming rooms.

but the elephant was there.
ignored
but present.

big and pink, an enormous
problem

always sitting between
us, quietly

waiting to be heard,
in a wobbly chair.

two sweet and lows

the woman
makes me coffee. two sweet and lows?
she says
in her sweet voice.

i'm from the phillipines, she says,
tipping
her man's hat

as she shuffles in her pink
slippers to
the kitchen.

she's beautiful in her old age.
browned
and wrinkled.

a glint of humor, a smidgen
of a life lived
still in her eyes.

behave, I tell her when I leave
for the day.

I only behave when i'm asleep she
says to me,

then waves. tomorrow I make
you coffee

again.

sure, I tell her. two sweet and
lows.

Tuesday, February 11, 2020

almost a friend

he was Shakespearean
in nature,
and by that I mean fully fleshed
out
in character.
there was no doubt
as to who he was, the role
he played.
bigger than life,
and bigger, he thought,
in death,
but untrue.
how he drank and ate,
held
the table
with ribald tales,
each story came back
around to him.
boisterous, loud
and large.
stop me if you've heard
this one, which didn't matter,
because you were about
to hear it again.
he was the sun.
no lesser planet
was he,
no moon. no melting star,
at times he almost
seemed
like a friend.

come spring

the stitch of
trees, unleafed, withered
in
the depths
of winter
without bird
or green,
the bark
like skin tired
of it all.
the slow parade
of snow
and wind.
but undead. as undead
as we are.
let's start,
like them
again, come spring.

those were the days

i remember the time she bought
me a pair
of red silk
underpants for valentine's day
and i bought her
a complete outfit
of stockings, heels,
and seductively sheer
lingerie. there may have
been a riding crop
involved, but i'm not sure.
costumes for the night
as we drank champagne
and ate lobster.
blocking off the stairs
so that the kid
couldn't come down and ruin
our amorous holiday.
the next day, as he was
eating his cereal, he
looked up at me and said,
why was mommy screaming
last night. i couldn't
sleep.
oh my, i said. i
don't know, maybe it was
just a bad dream.
he let it go at that
thankfully,
those were the days.

the soft rain

it's a soft rain.
the tinkle of ivories
falling
from the sky.
the anticipation of green
amongst the grey
stalks of lonesome trees.
it's a fine
silt of moisture
falling from
the blanket of grey.
it's okay.
we won't melt, we're
not made
of sugar, you whisper
taking my arm
to walk me away.

quarantined on the Aegean Sea

we were quarantined
in our cabin as the ship sailed
along
the Aegean Sea.
I mistakenly asked the ship's
doctor for
some pepto bismol
after the long flight
and eating nuts
and crackers,
and the next thing you know
we were
under lock and key
with a guard at the door.
they took our blood for two
days and finally
gave us a clean bill of health.
but it was a long two
days in captivity since
the person I was with forgot
to take her pills.
her crazy meds. and her therapist
was ten thousand miles
away, so I had to
sleep with one eye open
and with a butter knife
in hand.

the other foot

the other foot drops.

you were waiting for it
for a very long time
and finally

it arrived. the thud of the boot,
the closing
of the door.

what you once feared
is now
embraced with joy.

the other foot has fallen
you fear
nothing
anymore.

Monday, February 10, 2020

the library in Ephesus

we were in Turkey
at the time

seeing the sights. the trip
was full
of religious discussion.

her saying, it's all a myth.
they didn't
even have books back then.

or paper.
no one even knew how to write.

within minutes, the travel
guide
was schooling
on what we were looking at.

an enormous library at Ephesus
the stone
structure
crumbling, but in place.

which made me turn to her,
and comment, saying how
interesting,
they built a library before

they even invented books.
it didn't go well from there.

the dark side of the moon

the moon splashes
its

light which doesn't belong
to it,
not really,

the sun is sharing what it has
across the coin
of dust
and rocks,
craters.

shiny remnants of vistors
past.

but she's full, this orb.
this thief of light.

a wife.

a glow. an image.

we're in love, me and this moon.
this pure
object
of desire.

not real, the heart says.
not real.

the dark side, is her true
self.
not what's in
your sight.

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.

Sunday, February 9, 2020

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.

Saturday, February 8, 2020

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.

Friday, February 7, 2020

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.

Thursday, February 6, 2020

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.

Wednesday, February 5, 2020

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.