the firefly of summer

i prefer

the lightning bug,

the firefly of summer

as opposed

being struck by a line

of electricity

dancing in the sky.

i prefer the subtle

jolt of love.

not the sting and fury

of

arrows from above.

just a simple

kiss.

a warm embrace.

that's enough.

different shades

different shades

of color.

likes and tastes.

design.

no one quite alike

exactly

though similar

at times.

is there middle ground

to shake

on,  a decent compromise.

maybe.

maybe not.

time will decide.

Milagro

i throw down

some extra money for milagro.

she works hard.

cleaning

my humble

home.

it's just me now

and forever more,

me making all this mess

of

dust and

crumbs, things tossed

about on

the floor.

does she wonder why i have so

many shoes.

what are all these

bathrooms,

and towels for.

she puts a shine on the dull.

the bed

made.

the clothes folded.

the windows

wiped.

she brightens up the day,

she leaves

the key

beneath the mat after

she's finished,

locking the door.

in the blink of a wet eye

circumstances beyond

your control

change everything.

not just the rain, and the wind.

not just traffic,

or past lives,

not the way the stars have

refused

to align

once more.

things change in the blink

of a wet eye.

again.

help yourself

all these bottles

of wine.

i don't drink wine. does

anyone drink

wine.

red, white.

cheap, expensive wines.

crushed grapes

from some far away

vine.

i'll set them on the stoop.

have at it.

i have blue cheese

too

and crackers.

help yourself, have

a party.

the left overs

i feed the trash can

the leftovers

uneaten

untouched.

down goes bread

and noodles

cheese

and olives.

the remains

of salad.

the dishes scraped

clean.

the glasses poured

out.

i wipe

the table, the counter,

flip the switch

for wash,

then sit.

all of it goes away

so quickly.

as if it never

happened.

the confusion of sin

i walk over to the church

through

the narrow path,

the slender patch of woods

where

the gravel ends

and dirt begins, before

pavement.

the bells are ringing. i'm

late

once more for mass,

but i'm not here to enter.

but

to think about what is now.

what was then.

i'm very done with 

forgiveness,

repentance, 

the confusion of sin.

raking leaves

we all have moments

of insanity.

strange

behavior.

erratic thoughts and words.

you're out of

touch

with your real world.

lost in

some unseasonal weather

of doubt

or fear.

the world isn't right

for

a short while.

you need to gather yourself

and go outside.

the leaves need to be raked.

your

mind cleared.

sunday visit with Ernie

he would bring out

a plate

of grapes

and cheese. crackers. nothing

fancy.

a knife, a fork.

some cold cuts.

he'd stumble forward

in his hat

his glasses.

his thick socks.

gentle and wavering.

a wizened smile

creased upon his face.

let me know, he'd say,

when

you're ready for a drink.

popcorn?

the bird bath

my yard needs help.

a tree, perhaps. some sort of flower

beds.

what about carrots, though,

or lettuce.

or soy beans.

a mini plantation of cotton

and corn.

ridiculous, i know.

i see the bird bath, a shallow

circle

of stone full of water

surrounded

by the ruffage

of weeds and tall grass.

there's a  blue bird

in it.

which means everything to me,

it makes

my dusk

seem brighter.

smell the roses

i smell the roses,

as told,

i take the time

to breathe.

i stretch and bend

toward the sun, in 

an attempt

at treating myself

all in the name of self love.

that's what the book says to do.

i am in the moment.

in touch

with my inner child,

my true self.

my center.

and then when i'm done

and in my

happy place.

i sit by the window

and it all slips away, again.

temporary magic

it's hard to not embellish,

to not

confabulate

a story.

to bring it back to life.

to color

inside

and outside the lines

with splashes

of wishful thinking.

to put a shine

on things that were truly

dull

and hard.

it's hard not to stare at

a rainbow

and make it more than

what it is. just

light through

a wet prism held aloft

in the sky.

but lets call it lovely,

call it beautiful

and remember how lucky

we were to find it

in our wandering eye.

five days in mexico

it rained for five

days

and nights

while we were in mexico.

the room was

full of wind blown water.

we were full of bad food

and tequila.

we fought about the weather.

about the floor

being wet.

about the future

which wasn't meant to be.

would i have loved her

more or less,

if i'd known

she only had a year

to live.

maybe.

would she have loved me?

it's hard to know these

things

so many years later, so

many years gone

by after that last kiss.

across the miles

we tend to think

of those

in thought

about us.

the vibration of energy

knowing

no

sense of distance,

barriers

or days gone by.

we linger

on the sound of a train

whistle

not far away.

we stay

in the moment and say

hello

to what was.

even now

even now

the bones shine with light.

the pillows have

been filled

with dreams.

stars

align

and candles light

as if by

themselves

strung like

gems across the night.

even now,

there is more to come.

more to know.

more love

to bring home, more

of everything

good to be done.

the hand written letter

i see the mailman

get out of his truck.

he's carrying a letter

on a gold plate

with both hands.

i open the door.

this is for you, he says.

it's so rare.

it's a personal letter.

there are tears in his eyes

that he wipes away with his

grey sleeve.

someone has taken the time

and effort

to sit down

and with their hand and a pen

and write

a letter.

we opened it at the post office.

we just had to know

what was said.

we hope you don't mind.

sadly

it's not good news.

but i'll leave you to it.

the land line

i stare at the phones

in

each room.

sitting there, silent except

for telemarketers,

or an old client, a wrong

number.

the police wanting money.

land lines.

how long do you hold on

to them.

it was

how my mother would

call when it snowed

or rained hard

or she had a secret she could

no longer keep to herself.

my number was inscribed

on a laminated list

of names and numbers

thumbtacked

to her kitchen wall.

there was always  red

sauce

dried on it, or cookie dough

where she

moved her finger down

the list making call

after call

until she found the right

son or daughter

who would visit.

the praying mantis pose

what do you do for fun, she asks.

skipping rope

and 

and then doing yoga

on her red

mat.

stuff. i tell her.

like what?

you know. beach. woods.

museums. biking.

what was the last museum

you went to

she asks,

as she stretches herself out

into a praying mantis

pose.

ummm. the museum

of sunken ships, i think.

boring, she says.

i'm taking a ballroom dancing

class.

do you want to take

it with me.

you know. i think i left

something in the car.

i'll be right back.

a soft knock at the door

what isn't clear

not always becomes clear.

sometimes

you need more time, more space.

more room

to figure things out.

sometimes you need a stiff

drink

or a long walk along

an empty shore.

other times it's just sleep

that will untangle the mystery,

another book, another

poem.

another soft knock a the door.

you enter a room

you enter the room.

it's the same room you've been

walking into

for years.

many seasons have passed

since the first day

you came

into this house.

you sit in a chair and watch

the trees.

you smell the change.

you hear the wind.

feel the air through 

the open window.

you've entered this room

so many times

with others.

so many times alone.

it has become your place

of refuge.

of thought and desire.

of past sorrow and healing.

it has become

a true home, a place of joy,

a place

you may never leave.

you enter the room,

it's the same room you've

been walking into

for years.

love story was wrong

i look back and think

is there anyone

left to apologize to.

is there anymore damage

of past

relationships to repair.

and at the moment the answer

is no.

i go through the checklist

of former friends and lovers,

wives

and girlfriends. each has

been

told

i'm sorry, some a few

times over.

but now,

i think i'm all caught up.

the cruise

there was this one time

on a cruise

down the Aegean Sea

when she took a swing at me

in a restaurant.

i was able to duck the punch

but then

she disappeared and hid

herself on the ship.

it took hours to find her

as the crew looked overboard

in case she had leaped into 

the water.

she forgot to bring her meds

along. serious meds,

on this voyage, so she kind

of lost it for a while.

there was no way to reach

her psychiatrist back in 

new york.

i slept with a butter knife

clutched in my hand when

we went to bed,

as she tossed and turned

and muttered something

in Latin beside me.

but by the photos everything

looked peachy.

interpretative dancing

she asks me if i dance.

swing, shag, two step or salsa.

ballroom?

i shrug. i used to. back in the formative

years.

but now it's mostly

in the shower

or if forced to by an aunt

at a wedding.

occasionally if a song comes

on the radio

i might do a few spins in

my socks

around the kitchen floor, but no

dips,

or fancy moves. it's mostly

interpretative dancing.

i have to work the next day, so

i keep

it simple.

it's not all good

the times

have changed.

for the better though.

it's

not as bad

as it was

in the middle ages.

the black plaque and all that.

so quit crying.

quit whining.

we have indoor plumbing

and coffee.

we have netflix

and jello.

it's not all good, but

it's good.

red shoes

when i was

young man

if i saw a woman's shoe

tossed aside,

near the bed

it would

get the whole ball rolling

all over again,

especially if it was

a black heel

or red,

or a pair of boots,

and truthfully

nothing much has changed

about that.

too many balloons

she buys

too many balloons

for the child's party,

and when she gets outside

up she goes.

lifted in the wind

over wires

and poles.

somehow she holds

on.

she laughs.

she whistles. she shouts

hey look at me.

take a picture,

i'll throw you my phone.

how to carve a turkey

i remember

her mother taking the knife

out of her

husband's hand and saying.

sit down.

you don't know how to

carve a turkey.

i got this.

we sat there in stunned silence

as she

masterfully cut

into the bird

roasted brown.

legs and wings came

off,

the breast

cut clean and careful

in thick slices.

see, she said, that's how

you do it, while

the husband

poured himself another

scotch on the rocks,

mumbled something

under his breath that

he would pay

for later, then tossed

the strong drink down.

thumb prints

i find a thumbprint

in

the pudding.

a small slender

thumb.

i see footprints

wet from the rain.

someone

slight of stature has

come and gone.

she's been

in the ice box,

in the cupboards.

nothing is where

it was before.

i see

on the bed.

the ruffled sheets

the pillows

on the floor.

there is no note.

no sign

of her.

nothing, as i look

down the street

before closing 

the door.

the sweet and sour

do we

need the sour to understand

the sweet.

the pain

to feel the joy.

is it possible

to

get there without

a struggle,

or do we have to knock

and bang

on every door.

must we taste

and test

each thing before

we swallow

it whole.

gypsy woman

some souls

are forever gypsies. 

never finding a place

to call home,

always on some road.

going somewhere

without a map

or plan.

without a true north.

it's in their blood

to keep moving.

to keep settling and unsettling

down.

carrying boxes in

carrying boxes out.

it's been that way

since birth.

and nothing

ever changes but the

address.

a postal box.

another new life

in a another new town.

four out of five doctors

i see a group

of doctors outside the hospital

smoking

cigarettes

and drinking beer.

they still have on their

surgical gowns

and booties on their shoes.

my doctor sees

me and waves.

come on over and have

a beer with us, he says.

my next surgery isn't 

for an hour.

i go over and pop a can.

they're talking about

operations gone wrong.

sponges left inside

of patients. scalpels

and whatnot.

my doctor starts telling

the story about

the time

he got the hiccups

and all the nurses started

laughing so hard

they cut

off the guy's oxygen

and barely pulled him

back to life.

i finish my beer and go home.

i don't feel 

so bad after all.

sending out a signal

i send out my version

of the bat signal into the sky.

but instead of a bat

it's a chocolate chip cookie

with nuts

in it

that illuminates itself upon

the clouds.

warm freshly baked cookies

is what i want.

i send out the emergency

signal and wait.

i pace back and forth with

my cold glass of milk.

i wait patiently

for her to begin to bake

and then deliver.

saturday came around

we saw each other every tuesday

for years.

it was in ink.

a standing date.

we never questioned why

or how it got that way.

tuesday was our night

to meet and catch up,

shoot the breeze.

we both

had other lives to attend to

and

we never

crossed a line.

there was no me and mrs. jones

going on.

no thing going on.

just a friend. a tuesday friend.

and that's all it was.

so sad

that it had to end.

when saturday came around

and  drew her

line in the sand.

the hotel room

you leave the hotel

room

not quite as neat as you 

had found it.

newspapers, cups.

bags

are strewn about.

both beds unmade.

why not use both for

your two day stay?

you look around.

you look under the bed.

under the blankets,

toss pillows aside.

you have no idea what

you're looking for, but

you don't want to leave

anything behind.

you find a quarter on the floor.

you look into the drawers

you never used,

open the closet door,

and say, oh, an iron.

there's nothing though

that you haven't packed

into your one small bag.

you pull the curtains open

to liven the place up

with beach sun.

then say adios and hit

the road.

loose change

i tumble coins

into the slot as the machine

loudly

grinds on

counting

my loose change.

it takes a while

as i dig

out nails and screws.

mexican coins

from a trip

to cancun.

a canadian half dollar?

there are paper

clips

and buttons.

receipts. ticket stubs.

small tumble weeds

of cotton.

toothpicks

and batteries.

strange things once

in my pocket

and tossed into the blue

bowl

on the counter.

pounds of coins roll

down

into the mouth of the bank.

while the rest

goes back

into my pocket.

careless love

i see how

they turn over the fruit.

the plums

and apples.

how they turn over 

the melons, tapping

at their

hard skin.

tasting a grape.

i see how they inspect

nearly everything

before

putting it into the cart

and moving on.

holding kiwi to the light.

i wonder

if i should do the same

and stop

being so

careless with love

again.

more than what it is

i see how wide the stream

has grown

overnight.

the onslaught

of a storm

filling it to the brim

and beyond.

the sleeve of dull water

reflecting

a sky that pellets down.

i see that it wants to be

more

than what it was planned

to be.

a river perhaps, something

larger, a bay,

an ocean,

a sea.

more ambitious

than what it was before.

who doesn't think 

like that?

This age

this age means little

to me

these bones

that

grow smaller with each

passing day.

the grey wind

that has passed across

my body.

the blurring

and muting of sound

and sight,

the morning aches,

and early

rising.

this age means nothing

to me.

i am still the same

boy

mother kissed

before leaving, 

as she stood at the door

and waved.

telling me

to be good.

make up sex

can we not fight tonight,

 i ask her

politely.

can't we just

pretend we had the fight

and then

have great make up

sex?

i really don't want to argue

with you.

it's been a long day.

she looks at her list of

grievances and shakes her

head. but i've been working

on this list of

all the things that bug

me about you.

and it's friday, you know how

we always fight on friday.

can't we just do one?

one item, and that's all.

okay, okay. sure. give me

your best shot.

okay, she says.

why do you always put

a wet towel on the bed?

what are you talking about,

i never do that, ever.

okay. are we good now?

making new friends

it's a  room with a view

of other rooms

other people looking out

of their windows.

do you wave?

do you ignore them

in their half

dress, you with a towel

around you,

toothbrush in your mouth.

colgate suds

on your lips.

sure, why not.

i wave. give the the ole

queen's wave

as if i'm in a parade.

they wave back.

it's good to make friends.

the book about me

is there a book in all of us?

a long

winded tale

of our escapades from

the jump

until the near end, or should

we wait that long

and just 

go up till now?

is there enough drama,

enough

heart ache,

enough pain and sorrow,

is there birth

is there death, two necessities

to any great novel.

how much do you embellish,

expand,

extrapolate,

polishing the key components,

are you the hero,

the villain, or both?

tell me about the protagonist.

the plot line,

the complexities

of it all.

who would want to read this

memoir,

this biography of self?

would it sell. 

would there be a movie,

a series.

a season two.

a sequel.

or would it just be paper

binded and hard bound 

forever

holding up one end

of your wobbly ikea shelf?

until now

i resist

change. despite how good

it would be

for everyone involved,

especially me.

i hang on

to the cliff despite

the drop being a mere

two feet above the ground.

i hold on to too many things.

like hearts

and memories,

places and things 

not meant to be.

i resist change.

until now.

the quiet sea

the flicker

of moon is enough to get

me through

this night.

a quarter of its shape

above the quiet sea,

slipping under

the torn clouds.

the rolling sheets of stars

above us.

if you were here

i'd say look, look up, 

look there.

see how

lucky we are.

the accident

we slowly pass

the upturned car on 95

bodies strewn

like dolls tossd

the rain

in black sheets, split

by headlights

moving in slow

procession.

you can almost hear

drum beats.

we don't weep. we

want to get home

to our beds,

our meals, our children.

we just want

to be off this road.

the blue lights are there.

the red lights.

the trucks.

the stretchers.

people are rising in the air.

she's alive

there is electricity

in her eyes.

the tips of her hair.

her fingers.

her lips her body.

every thing is connected.

she's alive

with things you don't

understand.

but you're getting

there. she wants to

take you there.

she's been to bedlam

and back.

she's ann sexton

in a white dress,

drinking a dirty martini

one finger, held

high.

she's alive.

breakfast all day

i find a diner

open

all day for breakfast.

it's on a side road not

far from the beach.

there's a car

with a flat tire in the gravel

lot.

i'm the only one there at two

in the afternoon.

the waitress

is in the back

on her phone.

she has streaks of blue

in her yellow hair and a small

tattoo 

on her arm which i see when

she greets me with a wave.

she brings out the coffee.

two eggs over easy,

i tell her.

bacon, toast. juice.

hash browns with peppers

please.

she seems tired

and doesn't write anything

down.

i see a spill

on her pale blue apron,

a smudge of jelly, coffee.

today's my last

day, she says. i'm quitting,

in fact you're my 

last customer.

where are going?

i look at the name tattooed

on her arm.

it says BILLY., she rubs

it slowly. 

i don't know she says,

pouring the coffee and taking

cream out of her apron

pocket..

i don't know. i'm open

for suggestions.

then she walks away.

and cake

there is new age,

old age,

middle age. if we're lucky

we'll pass through them all

without too much pain and sorrow.

and leave

with a smile on our

face,

sand in our shoes

and the fullness of love

and cake.

at your feet

the ocean is at your feet.

your chair sunk

into the cold sand.

it's november after all,

but 

the sun refuses to give up

and feels warm

upon you face.

gulls sweep in but you have

nothing to give.

the waves neither whisper

or roar,

they just fold over

and over

like days do as

ships in the distance

press onward.

waiting for sweets

she's very kissable.

i can see that from

here.

a pastry

with icing, 

sitting on a shelf

behind the window.

i've been out all

night in the cold.

i stand

and stare

at my watch waiting

for the sign

to say open.

for the lights to go on

for the baker to say

come in.

come in come in where

it's warm.

tell me what you want,

why you've waited so long.

we adapt

we adapt.

we are creatures

of survival

crawling out of the muck.

we find our way

through the dark

with a stick of fire.

we find a way to fight

off the cold

or heat.

we do what we need

to do

to keep going,

we hunt

we kill we plant seed

we learn how to live,

how to be.

but now we do it all

by phone.

the safari

i go on a photo safari.

deep into the woods of 

springfield.

which ends

at the edge of the mall

and 495.

i have my

camera on.

ready

for the next wild beast

to appear.

i bring a chair

and a book.

a bottle of water.

i have on my LL Bean

sweater

and boots laced to my knees.

i'm patient.

and not scared.

even if it is my first

safari.

then i see linda coming

up path

singing and drinking

her coffee.

she's oblivious to my safari.

i wave to her

to be quiet, to settle down.

she comes over

and says, what's up. what are

you doing.

shhhh. i say. i'm waiting

for the lions

and zebras.

the elephants to come around

oh brother she says. you've really

lost it. haven't you?

shhh. you can stay if you want,

but sit down.

and no talking.

oh look, she says. a squirrel.

quick, take it's picture.

a few more blocks

i could stop and take this

stone

out of my shoe

anytime i please.

i could find

a bench, or a set of steps

in the sun

and remove

the shoe and shake

free this sharp

pebble that presses

against my skin.

i could do that

at any point i choose.

but i don't, not yet,

a few more blocks

of remembering,

and then i'm  done,

free of everything.

retail therapy

she spends

some money on things.

a treat.

an afternoon of shopping

with a friend.

there's a little guilt involved,

but she gets over

it quickly

as she slips into 

a dress, new shoes. and

stands at the mirror.

the boxes and bags

strewn around

the floor.

why not? she says.

why not?

we work so hard. why

not reward ourselves.

what are we living for?

no rescue

i try to save

the drowning woman.

she flails her arms, screams.

she's too far

out

to swim back.

so i go to her.

i can do this, i think.

swimming swiftly

to her rescue, but when

i get there

i see what's holding her

in place,

tied to her arms and legs

and neck

are the loves of others.

the baggage

that will weigh her down

until her death.

i tell her sorry, but if you

can't let go

you can't move on and live.

you'll never get to shore,

and i'm sorry but

i don't have another life

left to give.

polishing the apple

i'm not finished with this poem.

there's a lot more

to be done.

spelling and structure.

grammar. there are

more words,

more thoughts to be put into it.

more ruminations

about love

and loss, about hope

and faith.

i need to polish it like

the dying apple

it is. off the tree, just a day

away from turning

brown while a joyful worm

burrows happily,

thrilled at what he's found.

where are the elephants

there are certain

times and places,

like when in wal-mart,

when it feels like the circus

is in town,

everyone looks just a little

bit odd,

a little out of sorts,

strange.

something about

their faces,

their physique, even 

their names,

have an exotic bent to them.

at any moment

you expect juggling to

break out.

or handstands,

or someone with fire

coming out

of their mouth.

every size and color of

the human species

appears

with blue or green hair.

fishing hooks

dangling from 

noses and ears.

they smell of cigars

and sawdust,

whiskey.

you look around wondering

where the elephants are.

the obituary

i wrote an obituary once

for a woman

i had been in a relationship with

for several

tumultuous years.

up and down.

break ups and reconciliations.

modern love

such as it is.

but i wrote a glimmering

embellished tale

of joy and goodness all of which

she possessed.

not a instance of wrong doing,

of arguments, or disharmony

appeared in any line.

even her picture was angelic.

but when we were together,

and alive, she nearly drove

me out of my mind.

i can only imagine what she would

have written if

she'd had the chance

to write mine.

fat on her peaches

i could get fat on her peaches.

her cherries

and

apples.

what love there was in her

hands.

blue

veined and long

kneading the dough.

hardly a month would go by

without

a cooling tin

upon a kitchen sill,

and the joy she felt,

was a joy

you tasted as she carved

a slice

and told you to sit. sit boy.

here's milk.

go on, begin.

beware of goodness

beware of those without problems.

those who

sleep soundly through

the night.

those unbothered by the new.

those who smile too much,

shake hands too long,

or want to hug you

with each meeting.

beware of those who want

you to know about their

church attendance, about

their donations, about the orphans,

their education,

the marches they attend.

they books they have read, and

that you should read too.

they will tell you they have voted.

they have all recycled their

bottles and cans.

they bleed in public, they smile

at children, they stop to pet dogs.

beware of goodness of

those who weed all day long.

they are never angry, never blue,

good neighbors, good citizens

of the world. beware of them.

they are deeply sad and lonely,

and are unloved. there is  

something within them that is

terribly wrong.

cheesecake

she says

i don't eat meat,

or chicken or bovine

or fish

or eggs. anything

with a nose

or eyes.

i don't drink milk.

or booze.

or tap water.

or wine, the white

or the red kind.

what about cheesecake,

i ask her. holding my breath.

and she says, of course.

anything to do with

cheese is wonderful.

that will be fine.

to cash in

is it time

to cash in and find a place

to ride

out the waves,

the sun.

to breeze through

the later

years,

without a care.

no longer working,

under some self imposed 

gun.

is it time,

to call it a day and go

gently into that good

night.

sleep in, sleep late.

perhaps soon but

not yet.

not even close.

but i'll know when

the time is right.

they lie in wait

i see the fish

cold on ice. rows and rows

of

their limp bodies.

beautiful

in the store light, 

dressed still in colored

gowns

of grail, but

asleep

in dream

of the oceans they were

pulled from. they lie

in wait, like many of us,

who always will.

the next day

another door opens.

then another.

we go through

and see what's next, what

new phase

of life is waiting.

around the corner.

the next

house, the next love.

the next

day.

it's a mystery how

many we

have left.

blue or green

so many shades of blue,

of green.

one fading in the light,

one brighter

in the shadows.

each eye to his or her own

taste

of what

will work, what pulls the room

together.

making it

serene.

picking colors is hard,

seeming simple,

as are many things

in life.

one boat together

it's hard to row

as one, both in the same boat

together.

stroking

paddles into the cold blue

lake,

under

the sun.

it's hard to go in a straight

line.

one being more strong

than the other.

pushing left or right.

each with their own idea

of which

shore,

which landing needs to

be reached

in peace, without a fight.

there's always more

there is always more to know.

another page

to turn, or story to be told.

so much of us are just tips

of the ice berg.

it takes time to

discover all that lies below.

and even

then, there's more.

very confused

i don't want complex.

i don't want

to strain

to understand the text.

the equation

of you.

the math of you.

the mystery of you.

the abstract nature of

your brain.

i don't want simple either.

i want a mixture

of edge and fun,

of quiet and thoughtful.

loving and kind.

yeah.

i guess you could say,

i'm very confused.

if they make you laugh

if someone makes

you laugh

hold onto them.

they are lights in the world,

guiding the way

down a long dark path.

usually they have been

through more

suffering than you'd

like to know

or care to ask.

but they've found a way

to make life

work.

they see the humor

whether light, or black

in most everything,

themselves included.

two cups and waiting

i need to sweeten

the cup.

to pour

a dollop of cream

into the black pool

of coffee

to lighten

and make the taste

more to my liking.

two

lumps of sugar.

stir

and taste.

then sip while it's

hot.

i'll have a second cup

while i wait,

i'm really

not surprised that 

you're late.

at midnight

you hear

the rattle of paws.

the creak

of boards.

the scratch and grind

of what

might be

teeth

or claws.

the rustle of something

beneath

or above

the floor. is it in

the attic,

or between the walls.

it could be

nothing.

just wind, just rain,

just fear. or maybe it's

nothing at all.

down the line

to settle 

is something we all do.

not quite

perfect. but good enough

we tell ourselves.

this will do,

for now.

but we know in time

the boxes

will be packed

and we'll be somewhere else,

with someone

else

at some point

down the line.

without regret

there is the effervescence

of affection.

the cork

popped

on new love.

the bubbles

and spray of joy and

warmth.

the cold bottle

in two hands

poured

into the overflowing

glasses.

there are fireworks

outside the window.

there is noise.

streamers.

there is tomorrow, but

let's not go

there quite yet.

let's drink.

make love.

bring in the new year

without regret.

be ready

there is always more to do.

more ground

to break.

more

things to learn.

there is always another

stone

to turn over along the way.

a book

to read,

an ear to lend to a spoken

wise word.

there is much left

to be learned,

or unlearned.

be ready.

love, it's simple. boy meets girl.

love is truly simple.

boy meets girl.

boy falls in love with girl.

girl falls madly in love

with boy.

boy meets another girl.

the girl

meets another girl.

an old

girlfriend shows

up.

an ex husband appears.

there's a line out the door.

it's a crowd.

no one knows exactly

what's going on or

how they feel about each

other any more.

it's a mess.

as the years go by.

then one day they get

old and tired.

a few die off,

then everyone is finally

gone.

and well, that's that.

it's a wrap.

the kitchen window

i was standing at the kitchen

window

the other day,

eating, and thinking,

not unlike how my mother used

to do when

she was waiting

for my father to come home

after being

out drinking and gallivanting

with his buddies

and some

bar floosie.

pulling up in his turquoise

chevrolet with another dent

in the side.

but i was standing there eating

a tuna sandwich

when it occurred to me

that i actually have a dining

room table,

with dishes and plates.

silverware. etc.

and could i sit down and eat

any time i wanted.

my mother could too. but

this was her favorite place to

worry, as it has become mine.

i work for a non-profit organization

in the washington

dc

metro area

so many people

say they work for a non profit organization.

that used to be called the church,

but not anymore.

it's an actual business where people

get paychecks.

but no money is made.

it sounds

like volunteer work.

out of the goodness of their

heart

they show up every day

and do something.

what they do exactly is beyond

me.

i assume there are telephones

involved.

computers. papers to be shuffled

on desks,

i assume there's 

a coffee machine somewhere

down the hall.

i get sleepy when they go into

the details, putting toothpick

into my eyelids to keep them open.

my first yawn occurs

when i hear the words non-profit.

what does that mean?

or worse.

i work for a think tank

on foxhall road, upper northwest

near the French Embassy.

it takes

me a few minutes to wrap my head

around that.

i find a bottle of extra strength

tylenol at this point.

i imagine people in a sealed

steel tank

with pure oxygen pumped in,

they all have their hands

on their chins,

tin hats on their heads as

they think deeply about stuff.

steam coming of their ears

as they ponder

solutions to the world problems.

and then they break for lunch.

the new bedroom chair

i buy a chair that i'll probably never

sit on.

off white. 

i set it in the corner.

right away i can see that it's

going to be a receptacle

for clothes.

it looks nice in the lamplight

though.

low to the floor.

it has a nice sexy curve to it.

it took six weeks to get here,

but well worth the wait.

i pick my jeans and shirt and socks

up off the floor

and fold them neatly,

then i place

them all on the new chair.

the list of new years resolutions

i start working on my new years

resolutions, trying

to get a positive jump start

on the next

12 months.

i lay out a clean sheet of paper.

unwrap a new ball point pen

after wrestling with

the plastic package for ten minutes,

finally opening it

was a hammer.

i like these pens though.

the roller kind. very smooth

but they have a tendency to smudge.

i open the window. quite nice out.

i breathe in the fresh air then

pull up the shades.

i adjust the a little lower

and open the slats.

i yell out the window to tell

the cat

to get off the bird feeder.

it raises it's paw at me and frowns.

okay, where was i. 

new year resolutions.

i'm feeling a tad thirsty.

i go down and make a cup of tea

and bring it back

up to the desk.

i stare at the blank sheet of paper.

right.  resolution number one.

i tap the pen against my forehead

leaving a line of ink

on my face.

new years resolutions.

i got nothing right now.

maybe i'll make a sandwich.

the local butcher

i go the local butcher shop

and stare at the long glass enclosed

counter. it's

full of red meat and fish, 

poultry.

the men are busy sharpening knives

as I take a number.

the walls are painted white.

the floor is black and white.

it's clean

like an operating room might be.

there's a bell on the door

and a picture of a pig on the wall.

a fat man

in a bloody apron,  yells at me

and says,

what's it gonna be.

we've got some rib eyes just cut.

you look like a rib eye kind of guy.

how could he possibly know that?

the childhood wound

we talk about the childhood

wound.

that's the key

the therapist says. the books say.

Jung Freud, etc. etc.

mother, father.

they fucked you up.

not me, not them,

no one in this room.

it's  about closing that wound.

sewing it up

tight

and healing.

you don't have to be this

way.

you don't have live like this.

solve your past

or stay in it, not later, but

soon.

the white feather

you haven't changed a bit,

have you,

she says

in a dream,

brushing a white feather off my

shirt.

you're still the same

boy

inside.

a glass of milk, a slice of cake.

the devilish grin,

the glint

of mischief

in your green eyes.

you haven't changed a bit,

have you? she says.

you're the same boy

i knew 

when i was still alive.

we could get away

we could get away.

i've got a car.

i've got a pocket full of cash.

we could run.

drive to the west coast

or to canada.

maybe Arizona.

let's go. don't leave a note.

no need

to call or tell anyone. just

me and you.

let's go.

pack a bag.

let's hit the open road.

what are we waiting for?

why stay here and live

out our lives in misery.

come on.

be bold, be brave, be mine.

we could get away.

let's go while we're young,

before we're stuck,

let's go while there's still

time.

a cigarette break

we all find a way

to numb

ourselves 

from pain. whether drink

or drug

sex

or gambling, or some other

sort of 

self indulgent

dark habit

that helps us handle

the day.

and the nights are even worse

when the storm

arrives.

at times you even see

the priests

out back, smoking a cigarette

and shaking their

heads.

wired above us

the wires were strung

from

pole to pole on every street.

little below

ground,

telephones

and power exposed.

a web

of sorts.

each house connected

to a source

beyond our imagination.

one storm. a blizzard,

cold

snow

and it would flicker,

then black out,

and back

to the bronze age

we would go.

sentimental drinking

i can't be around a phone

after

a drink or two.

cell phone, pay phone.

hotel phone,

anyone's phone.

i stare at a telephone wire

and want to climb

the pole to hack

in and dial someone up.

i suddenly need to talk,

or text,

or send a picture or an

emoji

to someone that i haven't

seen or heard

from in years.

most of whom wouldn't

pour a glass of water

on me, if i was on fire.

i have no control over

my fingers.

i have the will power

of an infant when it comes

to sentimental feelings

set loose under

the delusion of a gin and tonic.

my undying devotion

and love

rises to the surface

like a dead body

under water.

here take my phone.

take the battery out and put

it where i can't see it.

tie my hands behind my

back and gag me until

i come to my senses.

the hot tub

i ponder the hot tub,

perusing the multitude

of choices

online.

everybody and their sister

sells them

now. walmart, home depot.

i think even

the grocery store is offering

a deal

on one.

but it would be nice,

to come home

snowy cold or summery hot

and soak in the bubbly

commotion of water.

the jacuzzi spray hitting those

sore spots.

perhaps one

built for two, or three

or five?

an odd number seems odd.

two just right

in case love is in the air

or too many white russians

have been consumed.

i envision a built in

little bar for ice and beverages.

music.

some party lights strung around.

but what about the neighbors

and their

spying eyes.

i'm already on the hot seat

with the board

and their coven of witches.

i never should have painted the front

door red.

they definitely won't

be invited over

on opening day, not even if

they beg.

drinking hose water

was there anything worse

than

drinking water

out of a garden

hose

on a steamy summer day.

tired and dying

of thirst

having been playing

ball in the field

where there was no fountain.

it was impossible

to wait

for the taste to change,

for the water to become

cold

not lukewarm like

it was 

as it sputtered out.

we ate a lot of bugs

in the summer.

got gnats in our eyes

and ears,

got stung by a lot bees,

and 

chiggers got under

our skin.

but that hose water was

the worst.

one day

if i could do it all again.

i would.

i'd say things differently

not

do things

that i'll regret to the end.

but there

is no

turning back, no time machine.

there is

only change,

only

hope

that one day we will be

friends.

a string of summers

there were a string of summers

when we were young.

the wet grass under our bare feet

in the cool of night.

the fire flies we'd capture

in mason jars.

the lamp posts gleaming

yellow as we

ran between chalked lines

on the black top street.

parents on the porches, it was

too hot to be inside.

fanning themselves,

with drinks in hand.

discussing their complex lives.

the hydrants set free sending

fountains of water upon us.

we'd lie on our backs with strands

of weeds between our

teeth and stare up at the stars,

pointing at the comets

flashing by.  it was before so much

in our life was to take place.

the first love, the first heartbreak.

it was when everyone you knew

and cared about was still alive.

was still a door away, a call

upon the phone. a letter sent

their way.

trying to be a better person

i'm working on being

more patient, more

understanding,

more kind to the unkind.

more compassionate

to the mean

and unthoughtful.

i'm trying to a better person.

to not roll my eyes

so much.

to not grumble and curse

beneath

my breath when something

annoying happens.

i'm letting people in

when the line is long

and traffic is heavy, even if

they don't have a signal on.

i'm getting into the habit of giving

people the thumbs up

when i see them recycle on

wednesday. or is it tuesday?

i'm trying so hard to forgive

and forget.

the forgetting part is really

really hard.

but doable.

i try to be more sincere.

to listen

more and not

talk while others are talking,

trying to finish their slow

moving thoughts.

i'm trying to be nice to this

one neighbor who

keeps putting notes on my door

telling me it's too early

to put the trash out.

i know that. i've been living

here fifteen years. i know what

the rules are.

namaste.

i try very hard

to stop being

so sarcastic

and making fun of everything.

again, very very hard.

but doable.

i'm trying.

the last twenty years

i go through the lost and found

box

in the basement.

it's quite a collection

of odds and ends.

black heels. one shoe.

stockings.

ear rings.

watches.

rings and necklaces.

ticket stubs and hair brushes.

under garments

of pale unearthly

colors.

tubes of lipstick.

cell phones.

road maps with my house

circled

in red.

a small pink gun, unloaded.

one whip.

one mask.

a coiled rope

and a pair of leather gloves.

small size.

a pack of gum,

mints.

an empty bottle of cheap

perfume.

a dog collar and a leash.

a stewardess pin.

a polaroid camera with

the film still in.

one wig, red.

a swiss army knife,

a frisbee and

one unopened package

of twinkies.

i shake my head and laugh.

it's all a blur now.

i take the twinkies and go

upstairs

for a snack.

the little blue pill

i stand in line

at the pharmacy and the guy at the

kaiser window waves

to me. calls out my name.

says, yo. look who's in the house.

hey. he says.

oh my god.

he knows my name now.

i'm one of them.

i'm in here so much, i'm a regular.

the usual, he asks,

as i go to the counter.

yeah.

sure.

wrap them up to go.

how's the leg, the lungs?

sleeping well.

any issues down below?

i've got a special

on the blue pills.

and zinc.

what do you mean?

you know. come on. we ain't

spring chickens anymore.

hey, can you keep your voice

down.

jimminy crickets.

her name was lola

her name was lola,

not really

but she reminds me of the woman

in the barry

manilow

song back in the day,

i know. i know.

just shoot me now

and get it over with.

but she was a show girl.

that part is true.

that was forty years

ago

when there used to be

a show.

three husbands later,

she's still in the mix.

i see her

climbing into a cab

going out

and coming home.

her hair up in a bee hive.

heels

and a short black dress

wrapped

tightly on.

she waves and smiles

as i look out the window.

i get it how that beat does

go on.

house for sale

it's almost done.

there is nothing left to hang on the walls.

new windows

new stove

new dishwasher.

all have been installed.

the new tile

shines.

the walls are painted a soft

grey blue.

the curtains hang just right.

the furnace

rumbles gently with heat.

everything is wonderful

and so

sublime.

i stand there and look at

what has become

of this humble abode,

then go out front

to take the for sale sign

out of the yard.

i've changed my mind.

what's for dinner?

are you watching

the election

she asks me, as i yawn. no.

who's in it this year?

oh right.

him and him.

sleepy and the big mouth

guy.

oh what a world

we live in.

it's like

saying you have two choices

for dinner

tofu, or kale. an

indigestible state of

affairs.

the last party

we don't have parties

like that anymore.

drinks and food

flowing

on the table.

the counters. people

all over the house.

everyone over served.

the bartender not keeping up.

the music so loud

that the cops show up at your door.

cars parked on the lawn.

dancing breaks out.

we don't

have gatherings

like that

these days.

strangers kissing under the 

mistletoe.

the lights,

strung out around the house.

the tree

in the corner

full of tinsel.

the room gets so hot we

open the windows

to let in the cold from

outdoors.

we don't fall in love at parties

anymore.

but we remember them.

don't let it bleed

blood drips

and drops

but it doesn't mean a thing.

how much

do you

really need. you realize

how dull

and bland

how colorless your life

truly is

until you cut a vein

you see how bright what lies

inside

can be,

but don't cut too deep,

don't let

it bleed.

you give me reason to live

you can leave your hat on

i tell her

stealing an entire song from randy

newman.

baby take off your coat.

take off your shoes.

take off your dress.

yes yes yes.

come over here.

turn on the light, no all the lights.

come up here,

stand on this chair.

wave your arms up to the ceiling

and shake em.

you give me reason to live,

you give me reason to live.

you give me reason to live.

you can leave your hat on.

suspicious minds are talking.

they're trying to  tear us apart,

but they don't know what love is.

they don't know what love is.

i know what love is.

standing at the cross road

we all have crossroads.

intersections

where we stand

and turn to each empty

road

and try to decide which

way to go.

which direction will your life

take, now that there

is nothing or no one

to answer to.

you are a child again

but with less time to sow.

turn on the light

there is a big drawer in the kitchen

that holds

every sharp

instrument with which to cut,

serrate, slice

or dice. chop or make

mince meat out of

something on the big wooden

board.

it's heavy, this large drawer,

the wood old and wobbly, 

but it holds

four different shapes

of knives.

scissors.

peelers. shredders.

openers,

unknown devices that

have arrived

into my life that i have

no memory of.

it's a dangerous drawer.

one best turn on the light

before sticking a hand in.

be patient and wait

when i see someone i know

or don't know,

or barely

know

going off the proverbial 

deep end.

i breathe.

i sigh.

i've been there. i've spent

much time

in the dark night of the soul.

i don't wish it upon

anyone.

to travel to this place

where you hold your head

in your hands

and wait desperately

for relief, for the saving

hand

of God's grace.

there is little you can do

or say to help.

you can only hold them.

stand by

and whisper, it's coming,

it's coming

keep your faith. be patient

and wait.

what we take with us

at a certain age

we have most of the things we need

in a material sense.

our basic

needs for survival

have been taken care of,

unless the worst has happened

as it occasionally does.

but anything

we can touch, or has a physical

weight to it

has been bought

or earned.

we fill our houses,

we fill our pockets with things.

things that will remain long

after we're gone.

at a certain age, you see the  comfort

of these things. but none of them

mean anything,

or stand up to

what a friendship brings.

what a true love brings.

what family brings.

those are what we take with us,

when

we at last leave.

four out of five

my list of needs

and desires, 

used to be a mile long.

but lately

i've whittled it down

to a few basics.

food, clothing, shelter. 

cable.

and love.

four out of five ain't

bad.

fur coats in the garage

after irwin died,

she called me that afternoon

and told

me he had a heart attack while

sitting behind

the wheel 

of their Lincoln,

stopped at a red light.

go irwin, she said, hitting

his arm,

why aren't you going?

Irwin, look at me,

are you deaf?

people are honking their horns.

why aren't you going?

a month later, she shut the house

down.

and told me she was moving to Miami.

she put all her fur coats on

racks in the garage

and told me to come and take

a look.

take whatever you'd like,

she said.

maybe there's something here

for your wife,

or your girlfriend, or

i don't know, maybe if you're

like Irwin.

you have both. 

rebuilding bridges

i look behind me

at all the burned bridges

that i set fire to.

the charred remains

of wood

and iron.

smoke fills the air,

all of them in flames.

it's going to take a lot

of work

to build them

up again.

but i will, or least will

try.

i need bridges.

i hate goodbyes.

birthday wishes

i see her

with a cake and candles

lit

upon the table

her friends and family

gathered around

her,

singing.

i see the gifts.

the cards.

the balloons hanging

in the air.

another birthday.

another

well spent year.

age is not a number,

but what

lies within is her

true beauty,

go forward and have

no fear.

whatever you're drinking

you've changed she says.

you're different.

you seem

calm

and at ease.

you seem unworried.

you've got the world

on a string.

content, and oddly

happy,

i must say.

tell me.

tell me please.

i need some of whatever

you're drinking.

it's strange to see you,

at last,

this way.

your own way of walking

we find a style

and stick to it, finally

settling

on a look.

shoes and pants,

shirts.

etc.

the way you comb

your hair, or don't.

a ring, a watch.

the way you walk.

the way

you leave or come

into a room.

the way you say hello,

or wave.

make small talk.

you've found out who

you want to be

at last in life.

you have found your

drummer

and walk to your own

beat.

the made bed

there are people that make

their bed

everyday.

it sets the table

for their life.

neat and organized.

the sheets and blanket

pulled tight,

the pillows positioned

just so.

and then there are those

that don't.

i can go either way.

depending on the time,

the weather.

the mood.

what took place,

last night.

blistered

two blisters

appear at the tips of your fingers

pulling

a hot pan

from the oven

when the heat was on.

the skin

singes with a burn.

turns red, then white.

you know better,

you know better

about so many things,

and yet.

you reach

without thought,

again.

a new town

the land shrinks

as more 

bulldozers appear,

cranes

and machines bent on

extending the city.

new trees appear

as forests go down.

new stores.

new families

sprout like fresh grown

produce

from the turned soil.

streets are paved.

pools are dug, schools

are built.

we can hardly remember

when we walked

through these

woods

in love, each season

different

in its quiet.

the day ends as it began

i feel a draft in here.

a door

feels open, or a window

half closed.

there's

cold air

coming in from somewhere

as i sit

building a fire,

sitting here alone.

i turn a light on.

find a blanket. a book

that

never seems to end.

the night is young.

the night is long.

the day

has ended as it began,

with darkness.

the child within

you make amends.

you pray for forgiveness.

you confess

your sins.

you do penance.

you close your eyes and

let the tears

fall.

you bare your soul.

there is nothing more to

do.

you've come home again.

to the child

within. 

walking home from 

from St. Thomas More,

in the cold,

the snow.

the wind.

the art appraiser

nearly five years ago

i met

this man

who

appraised art, and furniture.

vases

and silverware.

all things old and of value.

estate sales

filled his house.

the rug,

the lamp, the drapes, all

from somewhere else.

someone gone,

departed,

but leaving behind,

for his hands

to find a place

to stand,

to dust until once more

they shine.

and now he calls 

once more,

his walls need help again.

so many nails removed,

the holes ready

for repair, for paint.

to make fresh

for something else to hang.

magnetism

the push

and pull of magnets

is hard to understand.

but

it's true

with this metal holding

on

to other metal.

it's strange

how 

the energy unseen keeps

us apart

or keeps us

together.

the vibrations of all things.

is it love, or some unseen

force

that draws us 

near

yet still so far.

when you get there

when you get there,

it's okay.

the seat maybe cold or warm,

or uncomfortable

but

it's fine, and will do.

you stop complaining

stop

trying to change

your surroundings to make

yourself

feel better.

leave the window open

or closed.

really, it's up to you.

when you get there, you

accept

within reason other's behavior.

it's not

your job

to change them, to correct

them.

or preach to them

your views.

you let them be

who they are. you set down

the stone.

that's all you can do.

you stop

trying to fix the world

to your liking, instead

when you get there you do

what you do best.

you forgive, you go home.

it's why i like you

we like what we know.

what to order.

what we like to wear.

where we like to go

when

we travel.

we like a certain kind 

of

food,

or path along the lake.

we like

our own music,

our own way of decorating,

our art

is our taste.

we know what we like,

the familiar,

the known. what brings us

joy

and comfort.

it's why i like you.

why

go different, 

why make a mistake.

three closets full

i have to get rid of some of these

clothes.

why in the ham sandwich

do i have so many shoes and shirts,

socks and pants?

three dressers full.

three closets stuffed. on hangars

suits

i never wear.

there's enough clothes in here

to open a store.

not to mention the linen closet.

the towels,

the wash cloths.

the sheets.

i have one bed and six sets of sheets.

most of them a shade

of blue.

if i never bought another thing,

i think, while driving

to Nordstrom's,

i'd be well dressed until i reach

a hundred.

you don't look good

you don't look good,

my friend

emily says, standing at the door

with her hands

on her hips.

what's up?

you've lost weight.

you look a little beat, and tired.

come in, i tell her.

get out of the rain.

i made you a tuna

casserole she says, but i forgot

it,

left it on the kitchen counter.

it's okay.

thanks for not bringing it.

i can't keep anything down

anyway.

she puts her hand on my head.

hmmm. she says.

no fever.

open your mouth. say ahhhh.

i do as she says.

huh. looks good. all pink

and rosy in there.

no  sore throat, no aches and pains?

nah, just feeling blah.

you know.

did your team lose, cable out?

run out of cake?

what up?

nothing. nothing really. just you know.

don't forget to vote

i get another text, the ninth,

saying

tomorrow is election day. don't forget

to vote.

who will you vote for, it asks.

red or blue.

i respond back.

thanks for the reminder.

i wouldn't have know this if you

hadn't of written

again and again, and yet

again.

thank you for the reminders.

is that you mom?

by the way,

who's running this time around,

i ponder,

anyone i know?

what if i don't like both?

developing trust

when the maid

comes

i hide nothing.

i put money out all over the place.

loose change, folding money.

i put rings

and jewelry on the counter.

i put a cake on the table

with a knife

and fork

beside it.

i unlock the liquor cabinet.

i leave my journal open

to be read

by anyone walking by.

full of my dreams and desires.

i leave a note and tell her,

your check

is on the counter, but please

whatever else

you need, take it.

it's yours.

a stack of books

immersed

in so much. so many books.

fiction

and non fiction.

self help

and theology.

spiritual tomes.

breathing techniques.

how to live with others,

or live alone.

get a dog, one book says.

join

a church.

donate, volunteer.

take a trip,

get a massage.

pray and meditate.

forgive others, forgive yourself.

the list goes on and on.

you get it.

self love comes first.

you really get it, but maybe

there's something

you don't know yet.

the next page will tie it

altogether

and suddenly all is known.

location

we speak of location

of where we are

how convenient it is from

here to there

the stores and work,

family,

the park.

a sleeve of water running

by.

it's a selling point

by the agent pointing

at the boat

sailing softly across the water.

you can't beat the location,

he says, and smiles.

we talk

of it as if it means we've

arrived.

we are close to all we need.

to everything

we need to comfortably

survive.

climbing trees

we would climb

trees

when we were young.

any tree.

up we'd go.

boosted by the hands

of friends.

no reason.

just dumb kids

with nothing to do

but to show

off how brave we were.

how strong

and nimble

to scurry up the trunk.

and look

out across the land.

and then

there was always that

moment

when you're heart sank,

and you thought,

how am i going to get down.

don't go in there

i'm afraid to go into my shed.

it's dark.

it's wet.

the door creaks.

there's not much in there

but the fuse box,

a few rusted shovels

and rakes.

a bag of christmas lights.

a trowel,

some dirt in a bag.

there's no light overhead.

it's a chamber of horrors,

the mildew,

the cobwebs.

and that ever present

snake.

love in a locket

some love

doesn't fit into a locket.

as the song

goes.

some love

needs more room.

it needs to spread its wings

and fly.

to corner it

or box it will

end it all too soon..

it's not a card, or a ring.

or some poorly

written poem.

some love doesn't fit

into a locket,

some love

needs to breathe

and be free,

or watch it die.

falling in friendship

a sweet

harvest moon appears

over our heads.

it's face

upon the lake.

cider in hand.

the chair rocks as we say

nothing.

why ruin the moment.

we

we were young once.

it was a different love then.

unsettled love.

lustful love.

it's better

now though.

we've grown as friends.

the vandals stole the handle

i go to the faucet

to turn

off the drip.

impossible. words

keep

coming out.

i squeeze harder, press

down

on the knob.

i take a wrench and

turn

at the pipe until

it groans,

but no.

the imagination

won't turn off.

it's a runaway train,

the opposite

of writer's block.

i'm knee

deep in paper.

the number two pencil

there is something 

about a pencil.

new and slipped out 

of the box.

a number

two yellow

pencil

that holds

about a thousand memories

of school.

of a girl you once

knew.

cute as the eraser on top.

it's an easy straight line

from sharpening

the point to remembering

how funny she

was, and how perfect

she'd be for you,

attachments

do i need

another bed, or house, or

car,

do i need a pool

to swim in,

a tv the size of an entire

wall,

do i need more food,

more drink,

more shoes,

more books (maybe).

what is that i lack

that i can't go out and

purchase.

that i can't swipe a card

or write a check for?

what is this void we

try to fill,

a cup without a bottom.

what is it that we chase

from the moment

we first cry

lying on our backs

in the crib.

dependent on others,

for love, for touch, for

safety,

will

that infant attachment

every go away, will

that feeling ever die?

for what's there?

the cold pushes

you inside, your

hands stiff,

your face brushed red

with wind.

the leaves dance

in crazy circles.

the branches bend

and bend and bend.

clouds

stream by.

the low sun

does nothing to warm

you up

so you cut the day

short.

you put the tools away.

you set the ladders

aside.

maybe you'll head for

home or

maybe not, for what's there?

maybe you'll

fill up the tank and go,

just drive.

we're not lost

we leave markers to find

our way home,

deep into the woods.

the sun

striking low in a soft

melt between

the stiff branches, bared

by rain and wind.

but we press on as if we

had a place to go.

dropping bread crumbs

behind us.

perhaps a lake awaits us.

a road,

a cliff or waterfall.

let's not worry ourselves

too much.

but walk on, once there,

we'll turn around and

head back home.

life on other planets

there is no life on

other planets

little air or water

to speak of.

no place

to put your feet up

and enjoy a show.

no dog about

barking.

no wife, or children to

worry you

and make you groan.

but it's far away

and costly to get there.

and then once

there what is there

to do?

unless of course i

bring along, someone

as sweet as you.

pushing snow away

the parents

took this change in stride.

they embraced

wind

and chill

and

politics. they were able

to set

aside

and move on, live

a life,

and not be swept under

by changes

they could do little about.

and now

you too

see the wisdom

in this 

learned detachment.

you take

out the shovel

and push the snow 

away.

scratch mine, i'll scratch yours

i used to tell her

please

in the middle, no up, no

a little down

to the left,

now right, okay, right

there, right there.

pull my shirt up.

scratch.

scratch harder.

in a circle.

dig. use your nails.

i think there's a bug

bite there

or something.

i could almost feel her

rolling her eyes.

adding it all up

i take account of money.

i make a list.

incoming versus outgoing.

if i live

to be 95

i'm fine, even

if i never make another

thin dime.

i live within my means,

whatever that

means.

this is when you wish you

had more

children, not

to take, but to spread the wealth

around.

perhaps there's still time.

the bird feeder

the bird feeder exhausted me

after a while.

the squirrels

the raccoons.

the black birds, large,

in groups

of five.

how they rocked the house.

flipping it

with seed,

side to side.

emptying what wasn't meant

for them,

but for me.

as i sat by the window

to watch

what would fly in,

fly by. where is the 

hummingbird.

the blue bird

and cardinals.

where is the wood  pecker.

with his bright

red mane.

where is the dove, white

as an angel

on brilliant wings.

on second thought

don't remember me that way.

in that light, in that

dark

night of the soul.

forget those words i said

and wrote.

dismiss those glances,

that constant frown

and grey sadness upon

my brow.

cancel those memories.

it wasn't me. we're different

when lost than we are

once found.

repairing life

i try to put things back together.

so much broken

to deal with.

shards of glass. bent

metal.

splintered wood.

i get the glue

out.

the tin snips.

a pair of pliers

and a box saw.

i set all the pieces onto 

the table

and spread them out with

wires and screws.

i don't know how this happened,

actually i do,

but here we go.

i fire up the welding

torch, the soldering iron.

i  flip down my mask,

then begin to put the pieces

back together.

one by one.

i hope that's enough

i couldn't paint

a sky like that

 if i had a thousand

years to learn how.

i couldn't write a song,

or play

the piano,

or sing,

or draw a portrait of you

if i tried.

but i can love you.

i can hold you.

i can do that

from now until the day i

die.

i hope that's enough.

the corner store

the corner store

is good. small and clean.

a well lighted place.

the fruit, the vegetables.

way over

priced

of course.

but they're friendly

and nice.

always with a question

about the kids,

the wife.

always telling you

what's in season,

what you should or shouldn't

buy.

they miss when you

haven't been in for awhile.

and they wave and smile

when you say

goodbye.

but you can't help feel at

times,

that they're up to

something.

it's already come

we keep a spare

key

under the plant box.

there's

a spare

tire

in the trunk.

an extra set batteries

are on the shelf.

there's things

frozen

in the ice box

in case

all else fails. we have

back up

generators. gallons

of water

in the cellar.

we have dried food.

we have

toilet paper by the rolls.

we have things

we'll probably never

have to use.

we have 

the landline, the chargers,

we are fully

prepared

in more ways than one.

we have a bunker

and booze.

we live a life

of waiting

for the worst to happen,

not realizing

that

it's already come.

if

if you

are truly good.

saturated with the word

and 

love

if you are to the bone

a decent

human

being,

seeking wisdom

and humility.

full of surrender

and forgiveness.

if this is so.

you let go of anger.

you let

go of sadness.

you reach out a hand

to help

another rise.

the red barn

how slight

the traffic is 

at this hour of the morning.

the sheen of rain across

the pillowed hills

of turned leaves.

i see the red barn

deep in the woods.

the house no longer there.

just a stone chimney,

and fallen lumber,

a border fence,

the gate still swinging on

its post.

a metal sign, with rusted words

saying welcome.

all of it feels like failure.

you can almost hear the breathing,

of the dying,

of the long departed hosts,

on the their knees in dirt,

praying for rain.

the unlicensed life coach

what have we learned

i ask

my mentor

as she flips through a magazine

in her office.

are you talking to me,

ummm.

yes. i believe so.

i am paying for this session,

aren't i.

oh right right.

i'm your life coach slash mentor

slash therapist/friend.

she puts friend into air quotes.

sorry, go ahead, you said something

about your mother.

a dream you had, yadda yadda.

isn't she dead now, why

are you still thinking about her?

i shake my head.

it's not important.

i think i need new hobby,

i tell her.

she puts her finger to her chin,

looks at her nails,

then takes some polish

out of her enormous purse.

i like that idea.

maybe arts and crafts?

do you like to sew, or do

origami?

what are you talking about?

no.

oh, well. i don't know what else

you could do.

you know. i'm not getting

a lot out of these talks

anymore, i tell her.

ditto, she says, dabbing

little blobs

of purple nail polish onto

her nails.

do you like the color? kind

of has that Halloween flavor.

don't cha think?