My Kind of Place

bad weather made me pull into the gravel
driveway

off the interstate.
a red neon sign flickered, motel.
it was just outside
of a town
i never heard of. the low brick building was
carved roughly into a patch
of woods

inside the steel shadows of an iron
mountain, that seemed to be growing.

it was a bad marriage that put me
on the highway.

i kept the radio off and stewed about
my life with her.
ending each thought with a curse.
telling her to go fuck
herself.

i had one bag of essentials in the back seat.
my uncharged phone, needing a wire.

a pocket full of cash. weary and out of
tears, out of ideas, out of luck
and faith. we were past therapy, past
books and conversation, past all the bullshit
that couples do
to try and save a doomed marriage.

the house was burned down. ashes.
her thousand lies and a life of cheating
revealed to me an awful truth
about me, about her.

i was pretty much flat broke of hope
or reconciliation. not that i
wanted that. i just wanted
the pain to stop.

i sat there in my fogged car,
the wipers slapping loudly on the glass
and looked at the rain pocked
windows of the fleabag motel.

i just needed one night. i could see
the faces looking out
as my headlights streamed in.
the heavy curtains pulled back
just enough to reveal
a long line of mug shots.

it was the kind of place where murderers
hid out, drug dealers heading
south,
where women or men came to kill
themselves, sick of love,
sick of the world and what they
couldn't get out of it.

the kind of rooms where the lonely
met up with other lonely
people to have sex and smoke cigarettes
and drink bad whiskey.

nobody truly in love came here.
it's where virginity was lost, where tired
housewives
slept with handymen and local lawyers.
salesmen and whores.

my windows were rolled up tight, but
I could smell the musty beds, the shag
carpet, I could see the peeling paint
and taste the weak coffee from the machine
out in front of the alley office.

free cable, the sign said. vacancy.
hourly rates.

I turned off the car and went in.
my kind of place.

who are these people

some people aren't there.

you're with them. side by side.
but they

aren't there.
there's no one home to speak
of.

yes, the lights are on,
but the rooms

are empty, the cupboard bare.
you never

truly know who they are.
they don't even know.

but here they are, beside you.
as far away

as anyone can be,
unreachable,

unlovable, not a single clue
as to who they are,

or who they want to be.
they mirror

the world, they play a role,
whatever
is needed
in the moment,

behind the curtain though,
there is nothing,

just an empty shell,
pretending,

there is nothing there to see.

lion and lamb

there is a lion

in all of us. a lamb too.

sometimes they lie together in
the soft
sun

of day.
while other times.

they need their own
space,
to have their own say,

and they go their separate
way.

greeting cards

I abhor

the hallmark card.
the sap

of the tree turned
into ink.

hollow words, for
the weak

and hopeful. the desperate
lovers

wanting
all of it to mean

more
than what it really is.

they pop up like magic
kingdoms,

they sing,
they play music.

they laugh.

they are good for
starting
fires.

I've watched so many burn,
watch them light

up into a dark wind
of ashes.

the ocean motel

we wake up early on this april
morning.

our feet cold in the damp room
of the cheap

boardwalk motel.

we hear the crash
of waves rushing towards
shore,

the fine print of wind
blown salt and sand
in our eyes,
our hair.

we pull the heavy curtains back,
and as if a broadway

show, the glitz of sun appears,
over a gem of an ocean,
the plateau of sand
before it.

we stand there and say nothing.
so much blue sky
to take in.

we've already made

love, but if we hadn't now would
be a good time to start.

she kisses me on the cheek
and says no,

let's go, she says,
bundle up, it looks cold.

let's take a walk.

the glow of apples

i see the grocery clerk
with his

cloth, shining apples.
buffing them below

the fluorescent lights
of the super market.

then stacking them in red
rows.
some less red
than others,

across the aisle are
green apples, they too
have a certain

unnatural glow.

must there be a shine
on everything we
possess, or own?

take old love for
instance,

once past the skin, there
was little
you wanted to know.

the boarder

he wakes
up to

the alarm of heavy shoes leaving
the boarding
house
stirs him from a feather bed,

his door ajar,
the wood warped around the frame.

it's a ship
of a house, going slowly down.

local
oak and timber.
from the 1800's.

somebody once lived here,
the house keeper
tells me

as I pull down the scales of
wallpaper
off dust laden walls.

the boarder, in his room
for seven
years

comes out.
says hey in passing.

he looks like a man who owns
more than one
gun.

a cigarette, a beer in hand.
he wanders into
the tight kitchen,

fixes himself eggs and sausage
on the common
griddle.

he uses the back staircase
when he's done.

I won't see him again.
the rent
three months overdue.

the morning news

we talked
over coffee at the round table.

black, the newspaper opened
and flat

between us.
old news.

and what was the news
of us.

what page needed to be turned.
should we
go straight

to the obituaries?

of course.
the rest of the news,
the comics, the weather,

entertainment, the classifieds,
all absurd,
why bother

with the lives of others,
when our together

was so full of drama,
so oddly

disturbed.

the unpaved road

the workers

in bright orange
lime

green, highway vests, tight
and full

around these men
with shovels

and picks.
signs
and rubber cones.

they smoke and laugh.

the day is young as they
grumble
forward

to the long unpaved
ribbon
of road
ahead of them.

there is work to do
under
the melt of sun.

it's early, hours and hours
left to go

before they're done.

i fall asleep in your arms

i fall asleep in
your arms

but you aren't here.
i lean
upon
your lap

stretched out, exhausted
but content,

but you aren't here.

i feel your warm hand
upon my back,

i hear your voice,
the whisper of you saying

things
i need to hear.
i smell the perfume
that you used to

wear,
skin against
warm
skin.

i fall asleep in your arms,
but you aren't
here.

unfinished thoughts

I find some words

on the sidewalk, discarded letters,

unfinished thoughts,


fragments of conversation,
they adorn

the road,
the roof tops

like fallen leaves.
wind swept

with no rhyme or reason.
I collect them

stuff them into my bag
and take

them home with me.
this is how I try to make

sense of a world gone
wrong.

I need meaning and maybe
this will help.

i can do that

after watching

show after show of professional
chefs

whipping up delicious meals,
desserts

etc.

I say to myself at the end of
each.

that looks easy, I can do that.

then I go into the kitchen
crack open

a few eggs
and scramble them.

salt and pepper,
butter.

the shadow self

the shadow self

is a dark
mysterious side within us
all.

it comes
in the night.

no stars, no moon,
no shine

or light.

each to his own dark
side.

finding its way out
in fear,

in flight.
it's not a side you

want to see, or have others
know.

but it's in there.
in there.

lurking, waiting its
turn

to make things right.

without you

at times
you are the hard boiled
soul,

the shell
of you protecting,
defending

trying not crack under
the hands
of others.

writing with a poison
pen.
retaliation, revenge,

but deep inside there
is softness.

a kind heart. a gentle spirit
wishing

no harm no hurt upon
others

despite all they've done.
their sickness

belongs to them.
let them alone with it.

let them carry their burden,
their illness
of mind
without you

piling on.

in the rear view mirror

in the rear view
mirror

things behind you get smaller
and smaller

as the odometer clicks
off the miles

in rapid succession.

what lies behind
is reduced

to the fine
of point of disappearing.

the straight line
of the highway

out of town, leaves much
behind,

just the silt
remains on the windshield,

the crust of
ancient rust on the undercarriage
of a relieved
mind.

you take some of it with you.
but for
the most part,

you're done, it's gone. you're
gone.

forward the wheels spin,
pedal to the metal.

as rome burns

sometimes

you have to move the chair
or the table

just an inch
to the left of right.

to make
things work,
to have that okay feeling

that everything is exactly
where it should be.

the lamp
on the table.

the plant on the sill.
the pillows
on the couch, each

positioned just so.

it's a strange feeling,
but it feels

good when the world is
crumbling around
you,

to have just this little
bit of control.

some sort of harmony,
feng shui
as rome burns
below.

breakfast in bed

I nibble on the ten
pound

easter ham
sitting on a plate

in the ice box.
potatoes gathered around

it like hard
buttered pillows.

I move the foot tall
milk chocolate
rabbit to the side

and look at the asparagus
lined
up, leaning upon

one another in some green
disturbing way.

I reach in and find
the pie.

boston cream.

that's a good start.
no need to slice,

just bring the tin up
with a fork.

a good day to go back to bed

a deluge,

the streets roll with
rain.

I open the door and feel the cold
wind
of Monday

against my bare legs,
my feet
wet in

the rising water.

a good day to go back to bed.
there have

been a lot of good
days
to go do that

lately.

what she needs

I was going to bring her

flowers for easter,
chocolate

and a sweet card, but she said no.

I need wine and toilet paper,
and

paper towels,
six rolls.

six?
yes, she said, or the twelve
pack

super strength
if they have them
at

the store.

blessings

don't let the external

change the internal.

all things will change,
all thing will pass.

but what lies within is
the rock
you need to stand on

and be firm,
be resilient

relying on faith.
through suffering and pain

we get blessings.
sounds crazy, I know.

but I know.

game over

in a cleaning frenzy

I throw away all

the board games but scrabble.
words,

not trivia
melt my butter.

I carry the boxes out to the curb.
games
of another life.

with their little pencils
and scores.

I stack them up
like bricks in a wall.

someone will find them,
or not.

makes no difference
to me. game
over.

it's mercy

it's beyond quiet,

she says,
holding a finger to her lips,

peering out the window
at the street.

it's mercy,
is what it is.

it's the silence of gold,
of peace.

shhhh, she says, don't
say a word,

don't even breathe.
let's enjoy

the moment. let's wait
for one second.

okay. enough, now kiss me.
please.

those you love

you try not
to think about the evil in the world.

the prisons
and the white house

the senate and congress
chock full

of men and women
full of greed and power,

bent on making their world
great
again,

not yours.
you try not to think about how
much

corruption there is,
how much abuse

there is at home and away.
how even those close to you can

can be wolves in sheep's
clothing.

stealing your joy, your life,
your faith.

you try to dwell on the good.
the handful

of friends and siblings.
those you truly

love and love you in return.
you go there. because going
elsewhere

is too hard to face, day after
day.

easter morning

she would rise
early

before sending us off to church
each
with an envelope

with coins
for the basket.

like ducks in a row
we'd go.
she'd

wave from the door as we went
to mass
at St Thomas More.

then it was
to the sink to scrub vegetables,
to put

a ham in the oven.
to bake
biscuits and pies,

a cake.

when we returned there would
be seven plastic

baskets of treats
on the table, the colored
sheets

glimmering in the early
light of day.

the howl

I hear the fox

under a full moon. the scream
of it.

it's mournful howl.

wanting what?
love,

affection?
something that he or she
doesn't have.

who hasn't been there
on a cold
night,

rolling over
with a sigh and wondering,

where,
why? thinking something

just isn't right.

the end of the beginning

the water is rising
as the ice caps melt.

the fires
burn.

the virus swims in the wind
into
each lung.

the markets fall.
the wars

go on.
a gun in every hand.

as Churchill once said,

it is the end of the beginning,
but not

quite the end.
there's a long ways to go.

buckle up, it's going
to be a bumpy
ride.

the empty tomb

he's
not in the tomb.

or in the church,
or

at the bank,
or on the water.

he's not in the stores
or
on the mountain.

he's not on the cross,
or
on television.

he's not a face in the crowd,
or
on the moon
or in the stars,

he's not in your food,
or
your drink
or drug.

he's not there.
look within.

there you'll find him
or

you won't.

most people

most people have never stood

in an unemployment line,
or a breadline,

or at the door of the pawn shop
holding a watch

or a toaster oven.
most people have never tasted
meat
out of a can heated
up over

a barrel of fire,
or slept in the woods, or felt
the rain
down to their bones

as they hitch hiked
out of town, going nowhere
in particular.

most have people never stood at the
window
waiting for the mailman
to bring a government check
to cover
the electricity, the water,
the gas.

they don't know what powdered
milk tastes like,
or week old
bread,
or meat gone bad, with
the green trimmed away.

most people have never looked at
their bank statement
and have seen a row of zeros,
or had a check
bounce,

or collected change
between the cushions
of their couch to go find
food, any food.

most people never felt the cold
at night,
or heat when summer
arrives. lying their in their
own sweat
waiting for God

to wave a magic wand.

most people.

all dolled up

there's too many
words
with no end,
no result, no real plan
but hunker down
and don't kill
each other.

it reminds me of growing
up
when my mother had
to leave the house
for groceries
or to meet frank
the coca cola man
who parked his big red
truck
around the corner.

i'll be back in a while,
she'd say,
all dolled
up as best as a woman can
doll
her self

on food stamps.

we'd look up from the tv,
from our
comic books,
or homework
or bologna sandwiches
and nod.

okay. we'd tell her.
then the door would close.
sometimes she'd be
back
soon, sometimes later,
and other times we'd have to
go out
and find
her the next morning.

upstream

we go upstream

to cast our lines into the muddy
water.

we say nothing.

quiet in the august heat
under
the looping green of long
branches.

the insects screaming
in their whispery way.

it's beyond hot, beyond
muggy.

it's a wet oven.

here, he says,
looks good to me.

we set up our little camp.
find a fallen log
to sit upon

then cast out into the brown
water
and wait.

no need to talk about what's
bothering us.
no need at all.

we're fishing.

the long call

I listen.
I wait. I listen some more.

I put the phone down
and go
fold

some clothes.
fix dinner.

I go back to the phone and
say, yes.

right, I know.
I read a book.

I stretch and yawn.
I look out the window

at the fast array of strong
trees

putting their new
green
cloaks on.

yes, I say into the phone.
go on.

go on. yes. I say.
tell me more.

you realize that what she
needs
and what you need

are two different things.
which is fine.

it's just a phone call,
a phone call

gone on way too long.

going old school

I haven't heard
from mary in Miami.
she's ninety five, or will be,
or was.

I didn't get the card this year.
the Christmas,
the birthday card.

the new years call.
she was going
blind, so maybe that's why.

or the cancer final got her,
or she tripped
and fell.

or, or or.
there's a thousand ways to die.
some new.

some old.

i'm not fond of the new ways.
give me the old way
of dying every time.

I hope she went out old school,
i'll dial
her up

later, maybe i'm assuming things
too soon.

waiting, waiting

the sun

is a cold globe
of despair.

it shines a yellow dress
of light

upon
the wet grass, the low
lying
homes

with latched doors
and windows.

not a soul
trespasses the yard.

all stores are closed.
no church

bells are ringing.
shadows

are in the windows
peering out.

no one is looking in.
everyone waiting.

waiting.

for Godot to end things,
to figure it
all out.

further and further away

the further you're away

from them.
the closer you are to you.

the light of self
is clicked on

once again.
all the bullshit and pain

you endured, thinking
it was love,

evaporates.

the fog clears.
your eyes are focused.

your feet once more are on
steady ground.

it's an earthly miracle
in some
strange unpoetic way.

getting out of hell and
being free,

never to make the same
mistake.

imaginary flowers

it takes

time.

but life will show you where
and who

the thorns are.
you'll

see as you walk through
your life.

down the primrose lane.

you'll feel the bites of beauty,
the sting
of hope,

the pain
of wanting what isn't real,

the imaginary flowers of the world.
you'll hold
them

in bunches, put them in
vases.
you'll think,

godammit, things are good.
I've conquered
this life.

I've got it made in the shade.
finally it's

all going to be all right.

the bare essentials

he didn't say much

anymore. not that he didn't have
a lot to say.

but he'd said most of it already.
why repeat yourself.

his face had
been carved down
to the bare essentials.

his ice blue
eyes now smaller in the construct
of his
face.

he sat, he rocked.
he looked out from the old porch
with it's
rotted
boards

and bird nests stuffed
into the upper corners.

people waved when passing by,
tilted
their heads, their caps.

children laughed at him.
the mailman

put his mail on his lap without
a word.
he had a don't fuck with me
look

about him.
but really, all he wanted in
his life,

then and now was love.
true love,
not the love

the world, and most
women dole out.

another unread book

I buy

another anne tyler book

and make it through about ten pages.
my hopes are quickly
dashed.
it's thick

and heavy.
a great writer, but boring as
all get out.

if I want boring, I go to my
own life
for that.

is there love, passion,
something

to stir the blood. not really.
just your everyday

reality.
grey, dull.
no adventure, no blood.

no sex
or much chaos.

it's the inner dialogue
kind of book.

i'm tired of my own inner dialogue,
let alone
someone else's.

i want my sugar back

i want my cup of sugar
back.

i want my
words, my poetry,

my kisses, my affection returned
to me.

i want my feelings
sent
to my address,

along with my love,

all of it box carefully
and packed, sent
back.

i want my cup
of sugar.

i want all
of that emotion,
that tenderness
and compassion, all of
it,

I want it
back.

I want it restored

in me. saved for someone
more deserving

than you.

thin ice

there's a man
drowning in the lake.

I can see him from the window.
his hands
flailing in the air.

he's walked out onto the ice
too far.

the weather too warm,
the ice too thin to hold his
weight.

and now, he's drowning.
I wave to him,

there's nothing I can do,
by the time I get there,
it will be way too late.

a crowd gathers around the edge.
they throw him
ropes, branches,

they yell at him, asking him
why he walked
out on the ice.

they berate him, you knew that
this was dangerous, how
could you?

he has no answer as he turns
blue in the cold water. he tires,
he says he's sorry.

he says he regrets what he's
done, he regrets his
entire life,
he wants forgiveness,
but it doesn't matter.

his life has come down to this.
to drowning
in a lake.

it's like riding a bike

it's like
riding a bike, she says.

you don't forget.

just hop on
and start pedaling.

then away you go,
hold on to the handle
bars,

head up, back straight.
once you

get your balance
and the wobble goes away,

you'll be fine.

okay, I tell her, and what
about us.

oh us?
that too. it's like
riding a bike,

you'll see.

out of time

the rain keeps you home.

the virus.
the news.

life has become a gamble,
a toss of the dice.

food or no food.
water.

each gulp of air a cloud
of uncertainty

entering your
faithful lungs.
is today the day

you get it, tomorrow
the day

you die. it's a gamble,
this life.

in living, in love.
are those church bells ringing,

are we running
out of time?

the phone call early 70's

a rare
coin appears in your hand.

you hold it up
to the light.

read the letters,
the date.

what road has it traveled
to get
here
tonight.

now lying in your hand.
poised

to go into the slot.
you shuffle your feet

in the cold
damp
glass box along the highway.

the thunder of trucks
rolling by as you stare at

the paper smudged
with the number.
is it worth it

to hear her voice one last
time.

down it goes. we'll see.

what you feel has a name

despite my age

I had the clarity of what was.
what came
before

what was to come.
I could see the ocean stretched
out
before me.

the dark fists of blue,
the wind
of purple, thinking what if,
as I clung

onto the frozen rails,
between my mother's shoes.

I could feel death right there,
the absence
of tomorrows
on this iron
ship sailing across
the atlantic,

those arms open
and waiting
whispering

to me, into my childhood
ears.
I am here, I am always here.

come when
you're ready.
no need to fear, what you feel
has
a name.

lying in the sun

the sun

feels good upon my face.
the front
porch

of white cement is warm.
the trees

smile with green.
a stack of books beside
me

waiting to be read. the pages
willing

to give me
what I need.

the sun feels good
on this

new day, new morning.
it feels

like a wonderful dream.

what are you talking about?

I remember having a conversation

with an imaginary person.
it must be exhausting

to be you. I tell her,
sitting across the room.

her eyes red and sunken from
fear and fatigue.

it must be hard keeping track
of all the lies,

all the things you do
and hide
in your crazy disordered life.

why the charade?

aren't you tired of being this way?
pretending to
be someone you're not,
I ask,
shaking my head in wonder.

she doesn't answer, instead she
smiles grimly
and says

I don't know what you're talking
about.

control

we all have
our little thing.

some small crazy habit
that goes

normally unseen.
the touch, the count.

it's control we want
on a world

gone wild.

make the bed, fold
the sheet just so.

turn the plant
towards the sun.

left shoe, then right.
one last

look with a brush
in the mirror,

all systems go.

the slowing train

the train slows

down as it crosses the trestle,
blowing it's

loud horn, screeching almost
to a halt.

the wheels grinding against
the steel rails,

over the planks
and boards,

the starched gravel, shards
oiled
and grey

in this morning sun.

two fools are on the track
with their dog, they smile
and

wave. their lives so close
to ending.

so close
to finding a freshly dug
grave.

the engineer presses onward.
finding speed again.

wondering.

the first cut

some days
and nights prepare you for
other days

and nights.
the wound, the cut,
the slice

now healed is a reminder
of what's
next,

what might come when someone
holds
against your heart

another knife.

the first cut is the deepest,
they say,

but not so.

it's the little cuts, that
linger,

that bleed and keep you weak,
unable

to pack, to pick up
and say no more,

it's time for you to leave.

hello, my friend

some save

some spend. some don't care,
don't keep

count of the beans
kept
in the bin.

they live in the moment,
spending all
they have.

and then the day comes.
when all hell

breaks loose
and there they are at
the door

with hands out,
a sheepish smile
on their face,

saying

hello my friend.

the bird feeder

there was a bird feeder

on the far fence.
a metal house

on a black pole.
once the word got around
it was

full and swinging, tilted
with every
imaginable creature

with a pair of wings.

red, blue, black, brown.
together

they'd share the bounty of
seed
we placed
within. all day long.

their hunger was impressive.
pre winter,
pre snow.

pre life as it is now,
with the feeder
taken down,

and another bird gone.

a bag of macaroons

my father

tucked tight in his little
apartment

near the ocean
sounds

good on the phone.
at 92

he's doing fine.
meals on wheels.

the television always
on.

neighbors stopping by.
waving,

bringing him cakes
and pies.

his nine
or more

children completely
out of sight

out of mind.

he's safe in his little
cocoon, without a worry,

a care.
sitting on the porch

with a cup of black coffee
and a bag

full of macaroons.

maybe tomorrow

I stare at all the frozen

food
in my freezer

and wonder, is this the day
I take it out

set it in the sink
and defrost it.

maybe even cook it,
eat it.

no.
I've become attached to it.
why

let go now.
it's there. it's useless
at the moment

but I have it
safe

and secure in the ice box.
maybe tomorrow,

she'll come around.

a midnight snack, yo

it's midnight

but i'm thinking about a steak
sub
sandwich,

onions, cheese, grease.
all of it fried

on the big iron griddle
over

in southern Maryland
by some large women
with names like

Maybelle and Sassy.

jiffy's was the name of the place.
a big yellow sign hung on the roof
with half the letters
blacked out.

the joint was the size of a phone
booth,

but they knew how to fry
up some thin
cut steaks

and make a foot long
sub out of it.

mayo, tomatoes, lettuce.
they'd wrap it in paper sealing

up those precious greasy
juices

then wrap it again in foil.
you stood outside in the cold
with your hands in
your pockets, then slid your money
under the caged window.

the whole car

would smell of that sandwich
for days on end.

jiffy's. maybe i'll do a drive
by. it's only midnight.


I haven't been there in forty years,
but i'm sure they're open.

going back to sleep

I wake up
from

being frozen in an ice berg
for a few years

and yawn, stretch,
get out of my wet clothes

and head to Starbucks,
but it's closed.

what the hell.
everyone is wearing masks.

no one is going to work.

the shelves at the grocery
store are thin.

no toilet paper anywhere.
I call up

my friend betty to see if
she wants to go

have a martini or two at
Mike's. pete the bartender
will figure this
out.

she tells me it's closed. I ask
her if I can come
over.

i'm starving, hungry
as a bear after being asleep
for so long.

no, she says. social distancing.

what the hell is going on?
I yell out
walking down the middle of
the street.

newspapers are blowing by
like tumble weeds as my

voice echoes down the canyon
of empty buildings.

this is crazy, I say to myself
and head back to the ice berg.

I crawl back in and wait it out.

dear daddy

she memorized
the daddy poem by Sylvia.

she performed it
in the mirror, at dinner.

in the moving car.
the affected accent giving
it rhythm

giving it life, as if it
was her life

lived, not hers. each word
a nail

in the coffin of a wretched
father.

siege heil.

and now strangely, I know the
poem too

by heart, but it's not about
him

but her this time.
each of them,

not miles, but mere inches
apart.

sour dreams

her skin,

witch like in the green
jello

mask

was frightening. the last
vision
seen before

the lights went out.
even now

years later, I cringe
and bite

my hand in remembrance
of that.

the hair yanked back
into a yellow

knot.
the rack of bones,
whitened
like flour poured from

a hole in a sack.
I stayed on my side of
the bed,

her to hers, lying still
in the cold darkness

on

the dungeon rack.

the cards are marked

she likes to gamble.

poker, the wheel, the slots.
she'll

throw her money down on any table,
raise

the hand
on any pot.
the dice are loaded,

she doesn't bluff, or
ever fold, instead
she cheats,

the cards are marked.
she only wins.

don't get in a card
game
with her. you'll lose
the horse you rode
in on,

you'll lose your heart
you'll lose everything.

all the lights are green

don't miss the past.

don't sweat what came before
and left.

don't worry about
the dust

the debris
you see in the rear view
mirror.

the small things.

the road is straight ahead.
all the lights

are green

what's behind you is ablaze
in red.

be patient, be calm, just wait, don't die

it will be the roaring twenties

once again,
when this thing ends,

she says, sipping on her apple
martini

doing her nails a hot pink.
the sun

is in her blue eyes. she knows
her history.

you'll see she says.
i remember after the war to end
all wars.

it will be chaos, but fun chaos
and calamity.

booze and love will overflow.
the bars
will be full,
restaurants will
have lines out the door.

the circus will be in town.
fireworks will fill the sky.

babies will be born by
the truck load.

music, dancing, cavorting.
it will be back to the good old days
of living the lie.

you'll see she says, with
a wink
in her pretty blue eyes.

be patient, be calm, just wait,
and most importantly,

don't die.

the black thumb

some people have a green thumb

everything they touch
grows
and blooms

blossoms. it's the same
in life

too, friends abound, love
is everywhere
with these green thumbed
souls.

there's hardly a cross word
spoken, not an enemy
to be found.

whereas others, the thumb is black,
and where the seeds
went in

nothing rises, what was there
dies,

weeds and vines
take control.

they'll strangle you if
you don't take

the hoe and cut them off
at the root.
nothing around them
will ever see the sun,

and grow.

the cookie jar

there are so many children

walking around
in adult bodies.

hands in the cookie jar
of life.

getting caught time and time again.

they don't regret their behavior
they just
regret being seen,

being busted, found out.

no sin is too large or too small
to cover up.

beware of those in church
covered

with cookie crumbs, their
hand

just left the jar.

the coin tossed

there are two sides
to every story.

sometimes three, if the coin
rolls
that way

and gets stuck into a crevice.

but usually it's your side
and her
side.

there is no jury
to decide
which is true, which is false.

we walk through life
with both

sides in our pocket.
the coin

tossed.

whatever happened to....

i start watching

the movie, whatever happened to baby
jane,

followed by
blue jasmine, a woody
allen homage to

a street car
named desire.

the plot lines so familiar.

recent personal history
on the silver

screen.
i make some popcorn

and nestle into the big
couch

in the basement.
lights off, the long night

planned ahead,

safe and far away from
what was.

mirror mirror on the wall

there's a point

in life

when the mirror starts reflecting
back the life
lived.

what's on the inside
is now
on the outside.

a road map in reverse
of where you've been.

were there laughs, joy,
friendships and love,
or was it a life filled with
sorrow

and pain, self inflicted?
each line tells you the truth
of

what transpired.
anger and lying.
deception

and cruelty?

there it is in the folds
of skin, the fine lines

below the eyes. around
the lips. the furrowed brow.

the mirror is no longer
your friend
if that's the game you played.

day thirty texting

what are you doing?

i'm folding clothes, you?

i'm looking out the window
at a cat going under
the car.

I might try to make a mask
out of an empty ice cream box
later.

did you eat?
yes. again. running out of eggs
though.

need more wine?

yes, and almost out of vodka and toilet
paper
again.

what are you doing later, Netflix?

watched everything. nothing left
to watch.

watching a rerun of I dream of Jeannie,
and then

the match game on the retro channel.
I might try and read a book.

really, a book? wow. I remember those.

did you hear the news?
the latest death count?

our country has the greatest
numbers now.

we've made America great again.

nope, haven't watched the news.
done with the news. wake me when it's over.
I trust our government to fix
things.

lol

lol

what are you wearing?

boxer shorts, t shirt black socks.

sexy!

you?
bathrobe, I haven't washed my hair in
three weeks.
my scalp is itchy.

haven't shaved my legs either.
planet of the apes
over here.

see you on facebook later? more
stupid jokes

and stuff to read and hit
the like button. everyone's a jokester
now.

some new cat videos on there.

yeah, yawn. I might take a nap.

but it's only noon.

yeah, I know, but folding this
laundry
is exhausting.

maybe we can sext later, feeling
lonely and frisky.

maybe. if I can get to the liquor
store. I could use a bottle of
captain morgan.

love the captain, arrrgh.

yeah, okay.
bye for now. text me later.

k.

darkness taking hold

does spelling count
anymore,

punctuation?
grammar, does it matter

if the numbers don't
add up,

that fractions can
be rounded up or down

without a care.

is rudeness acceptable,
the unheld door,

the rush to be first.
the silent treatment.

love so easily tossed away.

is it normal to accept a lie
as being

part of it.

that bad behavior is okay,
if so

then darkness has taken
hold

of the day.

where we're meant to be

it slides

through your hand, the flat
stone

from
the cold
sleeve

of stream that rolls
languidly
behind
your home.

you kneel into the soft
mud
and grab another

to skip across the silver
plate
of
wrinkled water.

off it goes, one two
three

then a four
before sinking down to
a place

that was meant to be.

rise, rise

fresh

from a good nights sleep.
I open

the window
and let the air in.

I shake the blanket,
make the bed.

I reach out
to push the sun up
further.

to dash away the clouds.
I talk
sweetly
to the sky,

come on now, you can
do this.

get warm, get blue.

giddy up mister sun,
it's time
now.

rise, rise.
we're all waiting

on you.

running in the rain

she didn't see a yellow

light she couldn't beat.
out of the car

in the rain,
why bother looking both
ways,

just run across the street.
impulsive

and risky from the moment
she woke up. a dog off
the chain.

an adult body with a ten
year old brain.

strange.

medicine and politics

a crowd
of one, or two
walk

by.
holding hands.

keeping their distance
from strangers

and other loved ones.

the sky is full of prayers.
knees
are calloused.

as bodies stack
up

like lumber, the forest
falling

in dozens. politics
and medicine

don't mix well.
a strange brew of fear

and anxiety
is everywhere.

the infected dollar bill

i find a lucky

dollar on the street, i see the wind
pick it up

and place it at my
feet.

i think about it for a second,
but
leave it there.

i have no idea where it's been.
who's hand

last touched it.
maybe someone in a card game,

or buying a ticket
somewhere.

someone in the circus,
a hooker
maybe, a pole dancer,

perhaps it fell out of her
thigh high stocking

after she left work.

my mind wanders, or maybe,

it's some kid's lunch money.
or a nun took it out
of the collection basket
for a bus
to the zoo.

i look it at lying there.

is it worth the risk.
luckily i have a gallon of bleach
with me

so i pour some on the dollar,
flip it over with a stick, then

pour some on the other side.
i wait a few
minutes, then with my surgical
gloved hands

wring it out, shaking it dry
in the sun and wind.

carefully, with a pair of tweezers,
i put it into a plastic
bag, from the box i carry around

with me now. i look at the sterile
bill snug tight
in the bag. you never

know when you might need a buck.

it's a good day, money made
just by walking down the deserted
street.

snack time

i think about baking a cake

but it would
go against my new keto religion
which is starting to

get on my last nerve.

i'm sick of bacon.

i look at the box, eggs,
eggs are good.

but what about the sugar,
the flour.

what the hell.
and who is around to eat
this cake

when it's done and cooling
on the window sill.

just me.

i resist the devil,
actually the devil's food
chocolate fudge
cake mix

and put the box back on
the shelf.

almonds again and strawberries.
just shoot me.

those missing years

they go through

my files, holding me under
house arrest.

photo albums are brought out.
cards
and letters.

the black box,
the computer scanned
with all
their fine
tooth comb forensics.

i'm under the big light,
sweating,
cuffed.

we have a problem, here
the bogart man
in the big hat says, leaning
over

to blow smoke into my
face.

we have a gap, there are
almost three years of your life
missing.
nothing.
no record, no pictures, no
texts,
or emails. no memorabilia.

it's like your life went
blank for awhile. those days and
months,
years have been swept clean,
deleted from

your files.

what was her name?
tell us.

I give it to them, I spell
it out,

first last, middle, maiden.
they all stand back and gasp.

oh my, Bogart says.
we had no idea.
let him
go, uncuff him. we owe
this man

an apology. he's been through
hell and back.

we get it now. sorry to have
bothered you.

have a nice day. we'll see
ourselves out.

this is how it ends

i wait for the bus

but it doesn't come. i stand
there

all morning.
not a soul around.

pigeons pace
nervously

beside the empty benches.
i walk to work, but
there's no one there.

the doors are locked.
the windows
shut tight.

a newspaper blows by.
a tumble
weed

of ancient news.

i go for coffee, the doors
are closed,

then head over to the church.
locked tight.

not a confession being
heard.

i stare into my phone.
everyone is
at home, but me.

there is no where left to
go. this is how

it ends. i suppose.

the smile has slipped

the blue
sky

betrays the feeling.
it should

be a good one. april
in

her spring
dress.

the green arriving on
time.

but something is amiss.
I can't
exactly

put my finger on it,
but the world

has tilted
the smile has slipped.

the wind swept church

the roof of the old church

has blown off in the harsh
winds

of a brutal winter.
the pews

what's left of them are filled
with pigeons.

they have prayers too,
it seems, to be answered.

the steeple gone,
the altar

turned over. the stained glass
shattered
on the ground.

broken shards
of emerald and ruby,
still catching light.

the path is overgrown where
we walked

and entered the wide arched
doors. me in black, and you
in white,

where we stood and said I do.
making vows
that neither of us were born
to keep.

the long shadows of the late
afternoon,
the ribbons of light

between the trees

falls upon what's left of the old
church.

the long cold night

some music

would be nice. slow
dancing

in the kitchen under
the low

light of stars
out the window.

our arms around each
other.

our feet moving
to the soft shuffle

of the song.

some music would be nice.
together

once more, making love
long into

the cold night.

bob's sunset

i think about my old professor,

dead now close
to two years.

i see his smile behind his red
beard.

a maestro in front
of the class.

half joke, half serious,
never a dull moment.


it was showtime for two hours.

brilliant with words
and wit,

metaphor.

i remember how he rushed us
all out

to the stairwell to look out
a window

to watch the sun set.
the bourbon

that he sipped after class.
the night

lingering on about books
and authors

poetry, no one wanting to
go home
and quit.

one sided

i see
the woodpecker on the steel
pole.

he's been at it all day,
into the night.

banging his beak getting
nowhere.

I've had those conversations
with people

before.
it's a long day,

painful, fruitless.
one sided.

you get the deaf ear,
nothing more.

a box of donuts

while holding a hot
cup of coffee
in my hand

I stare down a box
of chocolate

donuts at the grocery store.
my mouth waters.
my hands tremble.

it takes awhile

but I finally walk away
in a cold sweat.

that was close.

go and sin no more

because of the virus

and the lock
down

I see that the church across the street
has a drive thru
window.

I see the priest outside
in his gown,

his black mask
holding a hose spraying
holy

water
over the line of cars.

you speak your confession into
a box,
not unlike taco bell.

three hail marys the voice
comes back.

two our fathers.
and
say the rosary seven times.

put your money in the basket
and wait

for the barrier to rise
and the light turns green.

then go and sin no more.

bless you my child. next.

the apology on april first

I get an apology from
my ex
narcopath
wife in the mail.

it reads like this
on the blank

card.

i'm sorry for treating you
the way I did.

for all the lies I told.
the cheating,

the betrayals.
the deceptions.

i'm sorry for how I
behaved.

the gaslighting,
the triangulating,

the silent treatment
night after night.

the lack of affection.
i'm sorry for being so mean,

so cruel, so cold.
for keeping you walking on
eggshells
everyday of our life together.

I know I need psychiatric
help.

I promise to change and become
the person you
imagined me to be

so long ago.

it was always me, not you,

oh, and by the way.

April Fools.

remember me, sweetheart

I scribble out a letter
to my loved
one

as I huddle in the mud
of a long
trench with other soldiers,

shivering in the rain.
tomorrow we go out,
go across
the empty field

where so many dead lie
and
begin

the push forward to
the end.

I write to her as best
I can
in the darkness, my

hand cramped from

the cold. my boots wet,
my helmet
on.

my rifle and bayonet beside
me.

I love you my dear, I write.
my heart is yours,
if I am to do die tomorrow

remember me, sweet heart.
remember always
the love we shared.

don't forget me.
you were my light.

keep the light on

when the light goes

on.
you want to keep it on.
you want

to keep the trespassers
away.

keep the burglars
of your
heart

beyond the gate.
the emotional vampires
that prowl

the night.
the thieves

the wolves in sheep's
clothing

out of your life.

when the light goes on,
keep
it on,

even while you sleep
for in darkness

is when they do their
best work.

man versus nature

all the fences go down.

the posts, the gates, the long
line

of wooden walls
behind the houses.

they dig and break the concrete.
they are out there

an army of men
with shovels and picks

tearing down
then building it all up again.

a new wall goes in
to keep the houses from rolling
down

the hill into
the stream, then into the lake
and onward.

man versus nature,

a vaccine of sorts,
we do
what we can.

is this a nice neighborhood?

the real estate

agent knocks on the door,
and asks

me if i'm ready to move.

sure, I tell her.
where to?

I just need to pack a few
things.

no, she says. I mean are
you planning to sell
anytime in the near future?

well, I tell her, the future
is not what it used to be,

but go ahead and

name your price,
give me
your best number.

she smiles and looks around,
straightening
her bright yellow
jacket.

is this a kid's neighborhood,
she asks.

quiet and peaceful here?
no trouble?

not anymore I tell her, it
was for a short while.

but that's all over now.
we burned her at the stake.

briefly immortal

i used to drink more.

was i happier, not really.

but i had more friends then.
men and women,

who also drank more.
and liked to roll out into
the wee hours dancing,

but
we're older now.

wiser? hell no.
but it takes longer to recover

from the drinking,
from the things we used to
do

because of drinking.
foot races
under the stars,

trouble in the woods.
we had our day,
our nights,

but i miss the dancing.
the making out in the car,

or in an alley. the tug
and pull

of it all, being that young
and invincible.

that immortal, if only for
a short while.

cat and mouse

when she tapped my phone,

I laughed.
when she had me followed,

I waved to those following
and
they waved back.

when she looked under the rug
for money,

peeked into every drawer
when i wasn't there,

I left a note,
reading not here honey.

it was a cat and mouse
game for over a year.

she thought she was the cat,
but I was

way ahead of her, by a thousand
light years.

in the end, she put the ring
up for sale,

the house, the toys, the things
we accumulated.

none of it mattered anymore,
it wasn't love to begin
with,

what
was important

was that I was now
far far away from
her.

all the word's a stage

the quiet

of the world is a resounding
whisper

of what now.
what's next.

how's the script going to be
written,

played out.

who lives, who dies.
is there a hero

a protagonist, a villain?

does the plot thicken
or
does it end,
is there more

to the mystery, or
does it fade away

with a whimper, with hardly
a bow?

next door neighbor post

the new back yard
fence

is the neighborhood
next door postings.

all day long they pop into
your phone.

did you hear gunshots last night?

why are her kids
out this late at night.

what's with the dogs barking.
does anyone

know about that strange car
parked in

the street?
I saw a woman walking

down our sidewalk the other day.
does anyone
know her, do you think

she might be a hooker?

does anyone have a recipe
for
a cherry pie?

I need someone to fix
a leaky

toilet, any recommendations
out there?

what's up with the moon,
doesn't it seem

closer to the earth,
than it did a year ago?

the pharmacist

i remember asking the pharmacist
for the largest bottle

of aspirin he had, the strongest
over the counter

headache medicine he had
on the shelf,
or in back.

he said, try this
and pushed a brochure to aruba
across

the counter.
there was a beautiful

long legged woman
in a bikini
on the front.

she was holding a drink
in her hand

and was dripping wet
from the sky blue
ocean.

go alone, he said. don't take
the soon

to be ex.

headache will be gone like
that.
poof he said, snapping

his fingers.
I've got something though
for hang overs,

you'll definitely need that.

drawing the short stick

sometimes we draw the short stick

on love.
a disaster.

the worst few years of your
life,

or longer.

we look at that stick and shake our
heads.
what the hell.

how did this happen,
how did I end up here with this

nutcake?

you throw the stick into
the back
yard with all the other short
sticks.

you can do better.
you can upgrade and stop

choosing sticks.

beauty queens

there are beauty queens,

normal and natural,
women who don't even have to
try to be
beautiful,

and then there are women with
a hell

of a lot of make up
and nice clothes,

who play the game.
a new mask each day they
leave the house to go out and
bite

someone on the neck.
my son at the age of five

once told me.
dad, he said, it seems

like women are trying to trick
men

with all that lipstick
and mascara.

I looked at him and said,
welcome

to the real world, my little
wise friend.

all of her bugaboo

she used to follow the stars

and ask what sign
are you

whenever meeting someone
for the first time.

I thought so, she'd say.
you act like a leo,

or an aquarius,
or pices.

let me do your chart.
let's have a look see.

she lived her life by the book.

astrology
checking the paper
each

morning to see what she was
to do,

what was going to happen,
who was going
to win

or lose.

she wore big clunky jewelry
and peasant dresses.
smoked grass
and always had a candle going.

i'm not sure why

that mattered, but at the time
it seemed connected

to all of her bugaboo.

the layered life

it's a layered cake.

this life.
the sweet bread.
the icing.

the warm pan
it sits in, unsliced.

divisions of color.
of space
and time.

the rising of flour
and sugar.

sublime.

and when it's all gone,
what crumbs

that are left of us,
of our
memories and dreams,

are swiftly pushed
aside.

the summer wind

I put on some music.

the summer
wind

sung by frank.
it's a beautiful song.

one I know the words of
by heart.

it's everything
in a song

that needs to be there.
it's about

love.
holding hands.

two sweethearts
in the summer wind,

walking on the sand.
what more

could you ask
of love and happiness.

it's that simple.

the first act

you'd better hurry off to church

her father would say,
from his

leather chair, his legs up
feet wrapped
tightly in

tension socks.

better hurry, he'd say
or you'll miss the first act,

then laugh
and laugh.

still not in his foxhole
quite yet.

eat drink and kiss mary

this is just a taste

of things to come.
this is catastrophe light.

a slight bump
in the cosmic road.

so eat drink
and kiss mary,

you ain't seen nothing
yet.

nothing of biblical
proportions quite yet.

it will it get worse,
given time,

read revelations
and see how it shall
unfold.

hidden beauty

there is hidden beauty.

I've seen it.
I've seen it in an old face
ravaged

by time.
by wind,
by pain.

I've seen it in her eyes.
the glimmer
of yesterdays
gone by.

when love was new.
when the world was green.

when everything and
everyone

she ever knew was still
alive.

I've seen that beauty.
it's in
the stars.
the prism of color.

the rainbow after the rain,
when the clouds
split apart.

fire or ice

i'm sick
of love.

sick of lies.
of betrayal. sick

of a world
gone wrong.

an earth on its head
spinning

out of control.
the world is mean

and the people ugly.
is it time

for the next great flood,
or will

fire do?
ice perhaps.

but who are we to choose.

smoke from the barrel

I can write mean.

or soft.
with compassion,

or vengeance. the pen
is in my

hand, but out of it.
I can't
control

what others do, it's
their blood

I dip into.
the long pointed quill,

feathered white,
or is it the black fist
of a gun.

i'm not sure some days.

I just write
and write into the fading

light, then walk
away.

letting smoke
from the barrel
blow,
and fade.

tomorrow begins

as we sit

in the back yard,

talking about love,
drinking gin,

the white
limbs
of trees

alive in the wind.

the sky
like her eyes. mysterious
and green.

the glass umbrella
above us.

all that we know, was known
from the beginning.

every truth born within us.

we just add on
small details.

punctuation,
and spelling.

then a final print, tomorrow
begins.

the dark night of the soul

some deaths
are slow, self inflicted.

by drug
or lack of food,

starvation of the heart,
the body
not whole.

I've seen both.
I've witnessed the worst
of a person,

wasting away,
rocking in a ball on
the cold

floor. skin
and bones.

crying like a child,
wanting to be

taken home. there is nothing
one can do.

no pill, no magic
wand,

no psychiatrist with
a book
full answers, there are
none.

you can only let them go
or hold them

as they disappear
between your arms,

into
the night.

the dark night of their soul.

the bag of tricks

we all have a black

bag of tricks.
ask the pope,

he has one.
the salesman,

the neighbor, the wife.
the child

in the other room.

we're all in the game
one way or another.

we reach into our bag
each

day after day,
to pay, to bribe,
to keep

our lives safe.
this is how we survive.

the bag of tricks,
if you don't have one,

well,
you'll never
stay alive.

finger in the wound

doubt is for the weak,
the unsure,

the unsettled mind.
the broken
hearts,

the timid, the unbrave,
the cowards

with bent sword.
doubt is for

the unbeliever,
the liar,

the deceiver. doubt
is

is a terrible thing.
put your

finger in the wound
and doubt no more.

cave paintings

the heart can be a cave,
the echo
of past loves

seen in

the ancient paintings
on the walls.

the mind
a dull light
swinging

in an attic.
the body can ache.

the limbs tired,
cranky
and sore,

slow to move.
the creak is not the floor
but bones.

it's not hell getting old.
it's
hell

being there
with no one to hold.

more than enough

how quiet mornings

are when alone. no other voice,
no other

footsteps
across the floor.

no one being ignored,
or asked

or told how are you,
good morning.

no eyes to look into
to find
an answer, to guess which
way the day
may go.

how sweet

the silky sun is out
behind
the clouds.

the trees reaching for it
like children

about to be born.
it's a quiet start,

the energy of one, being
me,

more than enough.
more than enough.

in the garden of good no evil

pillars of rain falls

upon the grey stone statue
standing

upright in the corner
of an unkempt

yard.
wind has toppled

the bird feeder,
freeing
it of seed.

the umbrella tilts
on the iron table.

chairs are on their sides.
a small
storm

arrived while sleeping.

but there she is. standing,
hands

out holding two empty plates,
balanced with
a placid smile.

morning coffee

i stop

into dunkin donuts for coffee.

just coffee.
it's a long line.

six feet apart we all stand
with coins
in hand.

at the front is a man
in a wheel chair, late twenties.

he has no legs.
he's buying a dozen donuts.

a tray of coffee.
he's laughing, joking about

something.
laughing hard.

he's in a place we all
want to be.

free from
small worries. he's arrived,

or so it seems.

new health

i'll meet you in the middle

I tell
my doctor.

let's start fresh. start over.
forgive me.

give me another chance
at health.

kiss me where it hurts.
listen

to my heart. it beats for
you.

weigh my indifference
for what it was.

the illness I was going
through.

take my pulse.
look into my eyes.

hold me, no need for pills,
no need

for therapy, or rest.

no need for a new prescription,
just you.

over due books

I hear music

next door where
the two librarians
live.

I've never heard music
before

coming through the vent,
vibrating the walls.

for years they've been
quiet as church mice.

but what's this,

laughter?

are they dancing?
I see other people arrive

walking up the sidewalk with
plates of food

bottles of wine.
I see the door open, the hugs,

the smiles
the joy in their eyes.

it's a party. I slump
into the big

chair, the dog hops
into my lap.

licks my face. then I see
the stack

of books on the table, all
of them

months overdue. I understand now
the non
invite.

the fault is all mine.

gone fishing

he could stand

all day
on the low bridge
fishing.

his tackle box, his bucket,
his
beer
beside him

on the cold grey day.

sometimes the fish would
bite,
sometimes
nothing.

not a wrinkle in the quiet
pond
below him.

but it wasn't about fish.
about
the sport
of it all.

it was something else,
a place
he needed to be outside

his walls.

no game

the boy

in the window, elbows
on
the sill

stares out
with moon eyes to the street.

there is only inside
these days.

no ball, no yard,
no swing of bat, or run

around the bases.
all games have stopped.

even the one between
you and me.

wordless under stars

the silken

sheet of sky pricked
by

the broken glass
of stars

has nothing for me
tonight.

no wishes upon them.
no

glitter in their shards.

so you get up from the porch
wordless

and go back
inside.

don't run out of gum

she was a country girl,
she had that going
on,

the down on the farm
twang with

the checkered
blouse, the boots,

the daisy dukes. everything
but a strand of straw
dangling from her pouty
over sized lips.

before
she made love, she liked
to chew

on a fresh stick of gum
or two,

chewing it in my ears
while we got
busy

with each other.

smacking it, clicking
it
with her tongue
and teeth,

blowing an
occasional
bubble or two,

popping it loudly
at certain

moments, nearly
bursting my eardrum.

was it fun and different.
a little cup
of crazy,

yes, but

I made sure to keep a pack
of juicy fruit

on the nightstand.
god forbid

we'd run out of gum.

the feeding

the vultures

are busy, but patient
in their oil

black coats, arms snug
and tight

under their narrow shoulders.
no guilt no shame

in feeding on the dead.
they gather

and pace,

huddled under
the cold blue sky.

soon, they think. it's inevitable,
death

will take place.

how long before we make love

nearly everything

is cancelled.

schools and clubs,
restaurants,

the theater,
stores

pubs.

everything is on hold.
even us.

you over there,
me here.

how long before we kiss
again,

make love?

attachments

what we leave
behind

is everything.

all that we once possessed
and clung
to

as if each item
were some cliff we needed
to dig

our fingers in
in order to not fall.

what we leave behind
is everything.

don't let it own you,
leave

it now while there's still
time.

finding the pattern

we all fall

into patterns. friends and lovers.

the same
types

year in year out.
chasing what our parents
didn't give us.

right or wrong,
we chase

the love we never had,
mistake

after mistake allowing trouble
in.
toxic souls
by the handful.

so it goes, until you hit
an emotional

rock bottom, and then,
and only
then does the light go
on,
and

you do not go back again.

across from the zoo

from her window

you could hear the chatter of monkeys
across
the street

in the zoo.
the roar of an occasional
lion,

yawning.

a flock of captured birds
flapping
wings, all at once,

together. the screech
of an owl.

the splash of a seal,
the stomp
of an elephant

marching across the grounds.

i'd lie in her bed
and listen

while she slept quietly,
unbothered

by the world outside.

the pick up

i see a black van
pull up outside

and two
men get out wearing white

uniforms.
there's a woman too holding
a clipboard
and a photo.

they have a straight jacket
with them
and
a syringe in

their hands. a long
canvas
stretcher.

they knock on the door
and ask

where is she. we need to take
her in now.

enough is enough.
who?

i ask. they show me her picture.
her name
written at the top
of a list.

they open the book on her

and regal me with
her nefarious deeds.

oh, her. i remember her.

but she's not
here anymore. hold
on,

i'll get you the address.

she likes to sleep

he likes to cook

she likes to eat. he likes

to clean
the house

she likes to watch tv
then

go to sleep.
he likes to work and save,

she likes to shop
and spend.

whatever works for them.

each to his
own

way of doing things
but

it's brutal in
the end.

once the war ends

maybe this will

make people better, make
people

more compassionate and kind,
helping one

another,

maybe they'll see the light
now
and change
their ways,

stop lying and abusing,
betraying
one another,

finally getting their lives
straight.

no. it's not going to happen.
people rarely
change.

they may pray for a
while in
the fox hole,

making vows they'll never keep,

but it's business as usual
once the shooting

ends.

quit whining

the blue

station wagon only drove
in reverse.

the transmission
nearly shot.

but it didn't stop him from
driving.

he figured it out.
got it done.

went to the store,
drove
his kids to school,

all of it while driving
backwards

down the road.
sometimes you have to

find another way
and quit whining.

howdy neighbor

low on bacon
and vodka,

i venture out, risking my life.

the streets are empty.
a strange quiet

across the land of strip malls
and fast
food restaurants.

no honking of horns, no shouts
or curses.

no tail gating
or hurry.

no nothing, but the calm
breeze,

birds in the sky.
the bright voice of the kid
next store

waving as i come home.
howdy neighbor,

she says, having just seen
her ten minutes ago.

darkness into light

i feel a twinge of hope

when i see
the stripes of light fall across
the bed.

the sun hasn't given up
on us yet.

i see a kid already
up and out in the street kicking
a red ball.

singing, and skipping
along.

the parent on the porch
quietly reading

a book.

the ebb and flow
of it all is so crystal clear

when thinking
of my own life

over the past three years.

there is complete darkness
and then

there's light.

i go into the basement and
find a ball

in the closet, tucked away
tight.

the bank teller

my bank teller,

omar, with his turban and long
white mustache

used to be friendly
and accommodating, give me a lolly
pop

or two when I went through
the drive up
window.

handling my transactions,

but now, he's angry, wearing
a mask,

demanding all my money,
holding a gun to the window.

you haven't made a deposit
in over a week

he says loudly into the garble
speaker. empty your pockets,

pour out the coffee cup full
of change into

the tray and drive away slowly.

let it be

i go back through
my

journal, my faux diary, my
online

record of my day to day activities
over the past three

years.

i think about rewriting some of it.
tidying up

the histrionics, the emotional
outbursts

for posterity sake, but
say no. what the hell. let

it lie where it is. dead and bleeding
in the road.

you can't stop what's coming
and you
can't change

what happened. let it be,
ala paul,


forward we go.

kiss me like we're strangers

when this ends

she says. let's get married
and move
away from it all.

buy a farm house out
in the middle
of nowhere,

have goats and chickens
a cow.
a horse.

a field full of wild berries.

let's get away from it all.
sure
I tell her, rolling over
to look

into her magical eyes.

why not? but first come here
and kiss me

like we're strangers.

conspiracy

she tells me about
her theory

about the virus,
john kennedy,
global
warming,
aliens and how all things

starting with the pope
are involved in

a conspiracy.
I know the world is not black
and white,

but many layers of grey.
the truth is only
partially
known

almost all the time.
but I prefer blindly, perhaps,
to think
that are not

as many puppet strings
and puppeteers
out there in the world

as it may seem,

controlling everything.
I put my rose colored glasses
on

and skip along the road
singing la dee da.

new prayers

a blue
knob of clouds appear
above
the white.
some sun.
we bask as one does
in winter.
old birds
out on the stones.
it's the park
bench.
the long afternoons.
the end
of the beginning,
the beginning
of an end.
we pray, but are
there any
new prayers left
to send.

come soon

I search

the house for something sweet.
a piece
of chocolate

a stripe
of candy,

a pebble of sugar,
something to soothe

the craving.

a kiss from you might do
as well.

come soon.

this is not your home

i hear the slight knock at the door,
just barely a tap
of knuckles
upon the wood.

i get up from the couch
and peer through the peep hole.

i see an old woman, a waif
of a person
standing there in the cold.

skin and bones, her eyes hollowed
out from fear
and worry.

she's crying and scared.
i crack the door open,
and ask her what? why are you

here. she's broken, trembling,
in need of something.
who knows.

her hands are empty,
no words fall from her lips,

but I've been down this road
before
and tell her, sorry, but

i don't know you. go away.

i have nothing left to give.
you have to go.

this is no longer your home.

the wide stretch of sand

my father always asks

how's the gas up there?
how much?

he sold his car last year,
so he doesn't even
drive anymore.

meals on wheels delivers
his food.

his new girlfriend bakes
him a pie.

I give himthe run down on
regular unleaded,

then premium.

cheaper here, he says.
by a dime at least.
you should drive down

and fill her up.

I smile and think about
the four hour

drive. the Hampton tunnel.
the traffic.

the hotel on the beach
where I would stay
for a night or two

looking out the window
at the wide stretch of empty
sand

as the steel blue ocean rolls
on and on and on.

this shall too shall pass.

rest in peace

each poem

a tombstone of sorts.
moving

on from one thought to another.
the burial

of someone
or something, long
dead

and waiting in the morgue
of the mind

to be boxed and tossed
into the cold
hard ground.

without a flower or
a prayer.

here's another.
rest in peace, dear one.

no harm done

we were in Chinatown
at the end of our relationship

the day after
Christmas.

the blue cold
of the ocean reaching us
even here.

it was during the transit strike
in new York city
and everyone

that hadn't driven in years
was driving now.

the woman behind us slammed
into our bumper
at the red light.

no damage, but we all got out
of our cars,
bundled in gloves
and scarves

to survey the damage. there was
none.

we drove back to the hotel
saying nothing to each other.

everything had already been said
and decide on
before the accident

which seemed like punctuation
in a way
at the end of our sentence.

no harm done, just go home now.

the grapevine

there used to be a grapevine.

one sister
was the main grape
who squeezed the juice,

had all the sweet gossip
that she

passed along religiously
from one
phone line
to another.

my mother was the switchboard,
relaying
every little secret
that hit her ear,

always saying, don't tell anyone
I told you this,
but....so and so...etc.

I'd throw her a bone every once
in a while just
to see how long it would
get back to me,

but the vine
has grown old. the news
isn't as juicy as it used to be.

all the grapes have
been squeezed, they're
just aren't any good

surprises anymore.
no fun, no jaw dropping
news,
no mystery.

still ticking

I have a drawer full of old
watches
that I used to wear.

relatively cheap time pieces.
not a rolex
or mondavo in the group.

mostly timex, or swatch or some
other

run of the mill clock,
but they tick, still
sending the little
hand around,

pushing the big hand forward.
some are gifts
from loved ones.
ex wives. old girlfriends.

some bought on a whim,
because I liked the shine,
the style,

the color upon my wrist.
will I wear them again, doubtful,

but I like to know
they're there,

in the drawer keeping track
of my time,
like dear old friends.

the old is in

i move things around a bit
to get
a better

feel, a better look
when coming home.

a new vase, with flowers.
new
art
for the hall.

new is good sometimes.
but old

is fine too. the comfort of an
old shoe,
an old sweater.

old friends, hearing their
voice on
the pone again.

the comfy chair
with all it's dents and bruises,
wrinkles

and frayed edges, that too
can be sublime.

sweet monday

work awaits.

I peer out the door. dip a toe
out

into the cold rain
and smile.

socks and shirts go on.

work clothes.

hat, gloves, my books,
papers.

some money from the jar.
keys off the hook.
it's good.

all good. Mondays. sweet
Monday.

rain, wind, clouds and cold.
lovely.

just lovely. once again,
away we
go.

the headache

as I reach

for the aspirin, the big
thousand

pill bottle

I try to think as to why
my head
is throbbing.

the veins pulsing. there's
a freight train

of thought
racing, crowding the station
with
passengers

I want to unload.

what's the cause of this
headache.

I look at the calendar.
ah yes.

and away we go. I take
two

and wash them down with a
cold glass

of water. it's that easy
now.

the revolving door

is it a revolving door
going round and round,

an automatic
door?

steel or glass, wooden
frame

perhaps?

is it one way in
one way out.

is the door locked, or
bolted.

a knob, a latch?

or does it swing freely
letting
anyone

come and go as they please.
the story
of your life?

I'm not sure

anymore,
but don't let it hit
you

on the way out as you
exit

stage left, or
stage right.

pig's feet

there's a single

jar of pigs feet on the near
empty shelf

at the grocery store.
apparently

it's the last one. it's come
down to that

now.
we're eating animal's toes
to stay

alive.

I put it in the cart
and wonder,

broil, bake or

pan fry?

turn on the light

we chase

what we don't have
as if

it was some brass ring, some
pot
at the end

of a beautiful rainbow.
get real.

get a life.
the money, the girl, the house
the car

the wife.
means little in the bigger
scheme

of things.
stop chasing, stop running
after

what you think
you need to be happy.

it's not out there, it's
in here.

right here, no need to need
to wander

in the dark any longer.
you already have what
you're looking for.

turn on
the light.

i want my nature back

suddenly people

are enjoying nature,
out and about pointing at
squirrels

in the trees. holding
hands
and walking slowly
down the path.

they are
in my way.

this was my trail
before the virus crisis,

my wooded path. my waterfall
and lake.

go back home, go inside,

why now
with these long walks
and bike rides.

it used to be so peaceful
and quiet,
but not anymore.

all this jibber jabbing,
strollers
and skate boards.

I want my nature back.

trust

I leave the door

unlocked.

living dangerous these days.
I write a note and
tape it to
the door.

I tell

the delivery boy
to set

the food on the table.
money is on the counter.

i'll be home soon, I write.

I shake my head and laugh.

I trust complete strangers now
more than

I did my ex
wife.

awaiting moderation

I ponder the comments

awaiting moderation.

isn't that what we all should
do

before reacting
instead of responding.

to take a minute, count
to ten,

sleep on it,
or back away and let a cooler
head

prevail.

I read the words, mull them
over

and smile. delete, it's all
better

that way.

no matter where

how distance
and time

works. the perspective
from afar.

the clarity of hindsight.
the deep

sigh of relief
that you've come so far.

to stretch and breathe
in the spring

air
without the burden
of another.

to go forward in life
with lessons

learned.
with self restored.

to be content now
in where you stand,

to find joy in life,
no matter where.

easy money

i think about growing a beard
during the crisis.

a long scraggily beard
ala

walt Whitman, or
a neatly trimmed one like
Hemmingway.

maybe let the few strands
of hair
on my head
grow out

and drag them sideways,
like the old
days.

i'll have a different look.
blend
in with the maddening
crowd.

get a cup, a sign,
and stand

statuesque at a corner
along the highway.

easy money in these times.

how are you?

is it every man, every
woman
for themselves.

it does feel that way
lately.

all wrapped up in their
own
problems.

every one busy with what
not.

survival and such.
suddenly

out of touch, they've
sailed
to a port

I don't visit much.
i'll take my phone for
a walk,

just in case anyone wants
to talk, or ask

how i'm doing and wish
me luck.

we have a problem here

the celebrity
chef,
she admired
was in the news.
telling how
he gently tied
a rope
around his neck, then fastened
it
to the rafters,
a pipe.
kicked out a chair
and swung
until
he had no more
air.
she said to me.
how brave.
how courageous he is
to do that
and be done.
to leave his wife,
his children,
his family
and friends
behind, without
so much a word.
and I looked at her and
thought
we have a problem
here.

they never arrive

they stay busy

not to be busy, but to actually
survive.

the bee,
the bug, the squirrel.

the fox
wandering at night.

but we
are different we work
beyond

what needs to be done.

at the desk, the phone,
the screen.

nothing ever finished. we
work

to hide. to keep ourselves
from memories,

to keep ourselves
from all the tomorrows

that will never arrive.

skull moon

the skull of moon

appears
upon

the blue sheer of sky.
an apparition,

a ghost
in orbit.

such are other's lives
in ours.
an image whispered,

not here or there,

but a flimsy reminder
of what
wasn't real.

swipe left

bored

i look at my phone
to clean

it out.
pictures, old messages.

the debris
of contacts come and gone.

the dead
litter
the way.

to keep or not to keep
them?

the odds are they won't
be calling
anytime soon.

i'll deal with that later,
the living
dead though,

those old so called peeps
are gone.

swipe and delete
forever more.

just bring you

I dip
my toe outside.

the air is cold, but not
so
much

that I can't venture out.
after shoes
and clothes,

of course.

it's quiet and still.
everyone
hunkered down

glued to the news.
what's next?

what more do I need from
the store?

nothing.

just bring you.

you can't stop what's coming

this thing
called karma comes around.

no need to worry
about taking revenge on those
who
have wronged you.

relax.
karma is a cold
hard
bitch that will rock your world.

she takes her time
sometimes,

but she's never late, never
misses an

appointment.

she's got a list and is working
her way
towards you.

she'll tap you on the shoulder
and when least
expected

and say hello, it's time.

it's coming. you can't stop
what's coming.

another night on earth

I light a cigar

and pour a tumbler of scotch.
I take a seat
in the big

chair.

it's quiet. nice and quiet.
just a few
kids
outdoors

being kids.

I think about putting some
music on,
but i'd rather listen
to the children outdoors.

the woods are almost in bloom.
the yard

almost green
again.

there is so much bad news,
but
that's fine,

having lived long enough,
why worry.

this shall pass too.
I wait for the stars to appear,

then go out
to stare upwards. another
night

on earth is upon us.

the birthday party

it's a fine
birthday party.

everyone is there,
meaning me.

just me.

it's a happy
time,

a cake, balloons, confetti
in the air.

gifts on the table.
the candles lit

and wishes made.
i sing loudly as she smiles
and blushes,

pushes back her thick
dark hair.

so nice to
celebrate
the life

of someone so loved and warm,
so open
and honest,

so full of grace.
her patients are blessed

to be under her care.

may you live to be hundred
i tell her,

as I lean over to kiss
her and whisper in her ear.