do i know you?

let's watch the game,

she says.

standing there in 

her football jersey

and little else.

it's coming on in five

minutes.

she sets down a plate

of sandwiches

and snacks.

then carries out a tray

of drinks.

just one more game, she

says. please, please,

don't make me beg.

i'll show you my cheerleading

dance. okay?

who are you, i ask.

do i know you? what planet

are you from?

okay, another game.

now come over here

and sit beside me 

and tell me what's your

name.

one more story, please

we couldn't fall asleep

until she read to us.

we'd be gathered

at her feet, around

the couch. in our pajamas.

our eyes closing

with each word, but

wanting one more page

one more sentence

before we went to sleep.

i can still hear her voice

in every book i read,

quietly and softly

sending me off into

a dream.

i think that's elenore

i have so many old

pictures excluding the ones

i burned

in the great fire,

but there are many ones

tucked away

in books,

in stacks,

in boxes, in envelopes.

online and off.

joann

and jodie,

diane

and sally. lynnie blank

and LB,

there they are in

drawers

on shelves.

in my wallet is alice

from alaska.

i find

betty in the kitchen

drawer,

and gretchen

beneath the couch,

stephanie on her horse

taped to the back

of a door.

there's donna

and the other donna

side by side

stuck together by a

spilled martini.

and who's that in

the pocket of my

coat. is that stacy

on the gondola,

karen in shorts?

patty O,

not patty rehab after

her divorce.

and there's one more,

dressed scantily

in white and black.

i do believe

that's Elenore.

what more is there to know?

we fall deeply into like.

we like

the same foods,

the same television

shows.

we like the same

seasons.

the same beaches

and the same

amount of snow.

we like dogs.

we like to sleep in late.

we like

bread and wine.

we like steak.

we like it when the wind

doesn't blow.

we like so many things

that there are to

like.

we've fallen deeply into

like.

what more is there

to know?

a can of beans

uncareful

with the can, it opens

in a ragged

jag

with the old opener

from

three marriages ago.

i still have the same

bottle of

tabasco sauce too.

the beans spill

unceremoniously onto

the floor

but the dog, my personal

vacuum is there

to save the day.

he's wondering where

the pork is

though.

what the inner child wants

when we let go

it all gets easier.

when we unhold,

ungrip

take our hand off the wheel

of drug or

or love

or smoke. the sugars

of the world.

whatever it is that

keeps

you afloat

you win. that nearly

impossible

surrender

will free you from

what

the inner child still

needs.

a flavor i've never had

you remind me of no one.

which is perfect.

your voice,

your hair,

your eyes, the way you kiss

me at night.

you bring up no memory

of anyone

in the past.

dead or alive.

you're a scoop of

ice cream

on a slice of cake,

a flavor i've never had.

illuminations

with age

comes small portions of

wisdom.

not intelligence

exactly

but experience.

you realize your limitations.

how smart

you aren't,

how small you are

in this enormous

world.

it's humbling

and illuminating to find

out

you're just another

boy, or

just another girl.

no black book

i keep no notes.

no

diary, no journal.

no

record of dates

of birth

or anniversaries.

they mean

little to me.

i have no black

book

no rolodex

upon my desk

that keeps track

of you.

i have no knowledge

of where you

live,

your phone number,

or what you do,

but i'll be here,

if you're ever in trouble,

in case you need

me.

a moon filled night

we take

for granted the unborn

being

born.

child

or lamb,

boy or girl. the world

has a way

of refilling itself

with life.

no different than each

heart,

once  vanquished,

finding new love

on a moon

filled night.

if sunlight were love

if sunlight

were love, then no one

would

be happy

this time of year,

this month

of winter.

stuck in the throes

of january.

no hugs to be found,

no warm

embrace,

no semblance

of joy

no love being made

beneath

these heavy clouds,

impatience

not fast enough,

i think,

staring into

the black pot

of water

sitting cold

on the largest

burner

of the  stove.

i tap my foot

as i wait for it to boil.

it's so slow,

what shall i do 

while i wait?

there are still

so many seconds

left to go.

fame and fortune

we decide,

fifi and me,

to go to paris once the book

is published.

and the readings have

been done. my hand 

will be cramped

from signing

so many copies.

my voice hoarse from

the interviews.

the various appearances

across

town. after all the awards

are given out.

the nobel

and pulitizer.

the national book award

etc.

i'll need another shelf.

i'll need another house.

i'll have to change my number

because of the fans

and those pesky stalkers

wanting a piece of me.

i'll be more aloof and more selfish

than ever before.

i won't have time for the littles

anymore.

don't worry, though, i won't

forget you,  there's always

a key beneath the mat,

but from now on, if you could,

please hop the fence,

and use the back door.

she winks across the bar

i see her across

the bar.

she's alone.

she's beautiful

she's everything

i've ever dreamed of

in a woman sitting

in a bar on a tuesday

night.

i think i want to

marry her.

i've fallen in love

over the past

nine minutes since

she arrived

and sat down.

i see no ring on her finger.

she's so delicate and fragile,

a flower

come to bloom.

she looks my way

and winks.

i think, or maybe there is

something in

her eye.

she winks again.

but it's the other

eye this time.

i smile.

she smiles, i think

about making my move

and buying her a drink.

but then

she takes out

a tube of visine

and squirts it in

her eye. then the other,

then a man arrives

who kisses my new love

on the lips.

it's back to the drawing

board

once more.

this is how we roll

what or who

doesn't make

your life better,

only worse.

purge, delete. block.

burn

crush

roll it out the door.

dispose and be done.

trash,

carry it to the curb,

bundle, bag,

box.

this is how we roll

in twenty one.

the white feather

i watch a white feather

drifting mysteriously

alone

in the still air

of my room.

i let it fall into my

palm

and wonder

where the rest of

her could be.

empty problems

we list

our disappointments

in our mind. 

the slights

and insults.

the betrayals

and lies,

which all add

up to nothing really.

all them

empty problems.

they make

us realize who

we want

and don't want in our

lives.

a stretch of winter

it's a beautiful stretch

of winter

that we lie in.

a lovely

delay of life. a place

to contemplate

the past,

and to organize

the present.

the bare lines of trees.

the metallic

stream.

how kind the grey skies

are

keeping us indoors,

our ears to the window

awaiting another storm.

with no where to go

no pressing engagement

to attend to.

we stay put with

loved ones.

let those north winds 

blow

and blow

and blow.

across the pond

i fall annoyingly 

into the habit

of speaking

with a british accent

when bored out of my mind.

i feel smarter somehow,

more witty

and cultural when walking

about.

saying good day old chap,

cheerio, while tapping my

churchill cane

upon the ground,

unpleasant weather we're

having, aren't we?

blimey.

ending every statement

with a question mark.

is it tea time yet?

bloody rain has made

a mess of my garden party,

wouldn't 

a ray sunshine be nice,

my love?

we've quite had our fill

of showers, haven't we?

reminds me so much of

the war  years when we had

to ration our butter pies,

remember that?

who's next, she asks

the widow puts aside

her black

dress, her black veil

of mesh

her black

coat,

the black

umbrella and the rest,

then looks into the mirror

and thinks

who's next

as she applies red

lipstick.

to her pouting lips.

after all it's been almost

a week

since the dearly

departed

has made his long

awaited exit.

turning over the new leaves

a new book arrives.

a new

coat

a new lamp

a new piece of art

for the wall

a new

rug

a new hat

a new pair of gloves

a new book of stamps.

a new magazine

to read

a new rake to sweep up

all of these

new leaves.

at sixty two

she confesses that she hasn't

made

love

in years.

i'm waiting for the right man

she says.

someone loyal

and trustworthy.

someone who will adore me

with unconditional love

ignoring all the horrible

things i do.

someone not

married would be nice,

although married

is okay too.

someone smart and sexy,

healthy and smart. someone

with a lot of money.

someone emotionally available.

not just around

once a week.

he has to have a boat

and a car too.

she says.

i know, i know, she smiles.

i'm setting the bar

really high this time around.

one brown shoe

i find one

shoe.

a child's shoe

on

the street.

it's brown, with the laces

still tied.

the sole worn smooth.

where is the other one?

where is the leg

the foot

that belonged 

to it?

how does one lose

a shoe

in this cold and move

on?

settling in

we settle.

we give in give up. we

surrender

and say

this is good enough.

we

tire of the game,

the search.

we cash in and get up

from the table.

this will have to do.

knowing that regret

will set in,

not later, but soon.

the blue cheese

when i take a bite

of this blue cheese

i spit it out

and think of you.

the bitter taste lingers

in my mouth

for hours.

no matter what i drink

or eat all day.

i can't seem to get

the rancid taste

all the way out.

i look at the label

and see that it was

bad before i put it

in the cart and took

it home. an easy, but

never again, mistake.

go and sin no more

because of covid

the local church has pulled out

the hose

and is spraying

cars down

with holy water.

father smith is in his

rubber boots

and cold weather clothes.

a drive through

confessional

and communion station

is located under the awning

before you

go back onto the road.

just follow the orange cones.

it's quick and efficient.

no fuss no muss.

go and sin no more.

no need anymore to even

get out of your car.

and if you need another

dose,

circle back around, they

understand how sins

lately are completely

out of control. make sure

your wipers are on

and the windows

not rolled down.

sunday morning trail clean up

we need volunteers

the sign

says.

we need help. we need

your assistance.

the donation of your hours.

we need

a strong back,

a brave soul,

to save the world,

someone to help us

in the short run to get

things on track.

someone to pick up

bottles and cans,

cigarette butts,

chicken bones and what

not. empty bags.

sign here.

and here and here.

it's just a waiver in case

no one comes back.

wear orange.

it's hunt season.

the next someone

the sick

become the dead

and the dead become memories.

and then

there's dust

to deal with.

decay.

a wind that blows it all

away.

maybe a book will

preserve

someone.

a movie, a memory.

a yellowed

face book page,

and then

all of that goes too.

it's how the world works.

get used to it.

there's always someone

to take the place

of you.

the expiration date

there is an expiration

date on the side of the can,

the package.

the box.

even friendships

can run their course

go sour, go soft, 

no longer a part of what

you want,

their value lost,

and then of course,

there's us.

winter sheets

her dress

upon the floor tumbled

into a pile

like cut roses.

the petals strewn

and her body

poured out upon the bed

asleep

in the folds

of sheets

as white as winter

snow.

all of her

will melt away 

before

you know.

folding clothes

after folding clothes

for an hour

in the dimly lit 

basement,

with a square of light

from a winter

sun bleeding through.

i stop and sit

on a metal chair

beside the washer,

still warmly churning,

and think hard about

the things 

i have no control over.

one being you.

then i get up and take

the clothes upstairs

to a closet, to a shelf

where i've made

sufficient room.

if i were to say a final word or two

if i were to say

a final word or two,

what would they be 

in closing.

farewell.

good luck?

i wish you all the best?

or something true,

like i never really loved

the actual you,

it was just my imagination

taking hold

of me. I loved who

You pretended 

To be.

come along with me

we are never lost.

not really.

we may be in unfamiliar

territory,

a strange land perhaps,

but never

never lost.

we are where we are

supposed to be

awaiting the next

step forward.

take my hand,

it's not dark yet,

come along with me.

hanging on too long

i've hung on 

to many cliffs

throughout my life.

my fingers digging into

the side of dirt and stone

unwilling to let go

of what i thought 

would save me.

a job, a home, a love

that wasn't right.

how wrong i was to

hold on so long, fearing

the drop below.

only to find that the fall

was only two feet 

off the ground.

where i landed

without a scratch.

how foolish

it was to not let go.

what was it?

i can't remember what i was even

worried about.

i shake my head.

what was it that so concerned

me, that kept me up

at night, tossing and turning.

what or who disturbed my

life to the point going crazy.

i can't remember.

there's no evidence to speak

of. it's funny how the mind forgets

once trouble is down the road,

completely out of sight.

move it along

when the story goes on

too long

i yawn.

as i expect others to

yawn at 

my embellished tales.

the eyes heavy

and folding closed,

getting

sleepy.

we only have so much room

and time in our lives

for tales

long told.

last leaf on the tree

it's the last leaf

on the tree

that i'd admire. most.

i see it

out the window

holding on for dear life

to a branch not far

from my reach.

it  clings to the world

it knew, 

through rain and snow.

it was there yesterday,

and is there today as well.

it has stamina

and resilience, 

it's steadfast,

i'd like to think that it

admires me too.

strangely alive

ankle deep in the blue

drench 

of water,

the ice given way

to weight

and the settling

low sun

of winter.

i move on, the next foot

down to

the gravel bottom.

i can feel the current

move against

my skin,

my wet legs,

below my shins,

i feel strangely alive

for the first time 

in days.

the blank canvas

it is astounding,

the block of stone 

turned into

life.

the sculptor's

hand

chipping away, but already

knowing what's in

there.

what will in time

see light.

as is the blank canvas

before the artist

puts a brush to it

with all the colors he

has,

and the blank page,

waiting waiting

with the pen in hand,

at last be ready

to write.

the three bag lady

i see her with three large

bags

going out to the car.

she can barely

carry them. she never leaves

the house without them.

bent over,

bone thin, the wind blowing

her in half

as she hauls the baggage

of her life.

i wonder what's in there.

what's so important

that it has to be lugged

around like that.

what's she hiding these days,

while covering

up her tracks?

why won't it print?

i don't want to know

how to cut and paste.

how to make a spread sheet.

how to do

graphs, or manipulate

the machine with multiple

screens. i'm amused

that my downloads are

all over the place.

i don't want to know how

to move this over

there into another file.

or make a note to remind

me of another task.

this font is fine, as is

the double space.

i want to keep it simple.

turn it on and write

then print. is that too

much to ask?

carving out alone time

you don't understand me

i tell

her on the phone.

you're right she says.

i don't.

i don't understand how

instead of seeing me

that you'd rather be

alone.

it's not you, it's me i plead.

nothing to do

with you or us, or anything

like that.

it's just the need to be

by myself sometimes, nothing

more, or less than that.

sometimes i need to

read, or watch tv, or run

up the steps if inspiration

strikes and carve out

something that may resemble

a poem.

one drink and out

drinking

is not what it used to be.

how easy it was

when young to drink all night

and get

up the next morning

ready to go.

and now, one gin and tonic,

or a single shot

of tequila

has you

reaching

for the ice pack, 

the glass of cold water,

the extra strength bottle

of tylenol.

getting the house ready

each new neighbor

when

moving in

rebuilds the house inside.

i hear the hammers,

the saws.

the ripping and tearing

out of things.

it starts at 7 and goes on

until 7 pm.

the trucks come and

go as the workers

parade in and out.

five new tenants

in ten years and they all

do the same thing.

i wonder if that house

will ever be just right

and ready to live in.

it's a small thing

it's a small thing.

this tiny

screw that holds the world

together.

come loose

and look what happens.

the same goes

for a little lie

or two.

once turned out

and you see

the truth,

it becomes the end of 

me and you.

the whole package

do i really need another

computer

in the house,

the three that i have work

just fine.

but i see this one in the store

window.

very cute, very sleek and slim,

white casing.

a backlit keyboard.

all in one, the sign says. who

wouldn't want an all in one

machine.

she's the whole package.

she's

wireless too.

she can be my new girlfriend.

no strings attached.

she's beautiful.

those lines, so lean

and sexy,

that smooth bright screen,

those legs that tilt her

so flirtatiously

towards me.

as oscar wilde once said,

i can resist everything but

temptation.

i'm gong in.

okay, i get it now

she can't stop talking about

her pies.

apple, cherry, peach.

mince meat.

the oven, the ingredients,

the mixing.

on and on.

always with those pies.

my eyes glaze

over.

please stop. i tell her.

enough

with all this pie talk.

then she slips a slice

of blueberry

crumb pie

in front of me. and now

i can't stop talking

about them.

the politics of love

we vote.

we hold a hearing.

we debate.

we demand a recount.

we want a special

commission

to decide matters

for us.

we filibuster,

we get nowhere

in this relationship.

my left.

her right.

we bang the gavel

of the door.

there's little to be

discussed,

to be agreed upon

anymore.

ham and cabbage

we'd smell

cabbage boiling as we

came

off the street

with our clothes dirty.

our faces

smudged.

the bat and ball, the glove

thrown into

the closet by

the door.

we'd look at each other

and whisper

oh no. not again.

we'd sigh and say at least

it's

not pea soup once more.

the haircut

there are blonde

clips of your hair 

on the floor.

shaken

from the striped sheet

wrapped

around your body

in the barber's chair.

your mother

outside the door

giving you a wave

with  a tear in her eye.

watching

you grow up

before her very eyes.

knowing that in time

you will be leaving

to the side

of your own life.

conversation with my broker betty

i tell my broker

betty, who also does my hair.

what's left

of it

to secure my stocks and bonds.

it's reached

a level of, okay. that's enough.

i don't want

some psycho messing my

retirement up.

she says, i'll get back to you

on that.

you don't want to miss out

on the wave it's on right now.

going up and up and up.

please, i tell her. i don't want

it to all blow away

because someone starts a war,

or another virus

pops up,

or God knows what happens.

just put it all

in a suitcase and

send it to me and i'll put it all

under my mattress.

enough is enough

a half day at a time

i'm living a half day

at a time now.

it used to be two days

at a time

when i was young and

needed

the dough,

then i narrowed it down

to one.

but a half day

of work seems to suit me 

best

right now.

from noon to 3

and then i'm done.

seemed like a good idea at the time

it's rare

that you see the animals

in the woods

riot

and behave badly.

they have

no leader to press

them on.

no conspiracy to go by.

it's food

and shelter, procreation

that takes up

most of their time.

they're too

busy with life, 

and survival, to go

crazily

out of their minds.

there are times

there are times

when you

feel the absence of God.

when death

arrives, 

for one.

the cupboard bare.

when sickness overcomes.

when war

breaks out,

when crime

occurs

of a deadly kind.

when the heart is broken.

we wonder where He is.

up there,

out there. somewhere

in some sky.

is He watching, does He

care.

or are we fools to fold

our hands,

get on our knees

in prayer?

a clearing up ahead

the mud

is deep. a slosh of dirt

and rain,

the risen creek.

the fallen trees, the broken

rocks

the sand

the debris of woods

along the trail.

i press on.

my boots sinking

into the muck.

these prints will be here

for a long time,

or until the next storm

comes.

but i'm unworried

as dark approaches,

i see a clearing up ahead.

as i knew i would.

anything is possible

it's possible. 

anything is possible.

maybe you were

wrong.

maybe

you saw it all wrong.

you needed time

and distance to get a better

view,

a more clearer perspective

on the issue at hand.

maybe you

made a mistake,

you spoke too soon.

maybe you should have waited

a little longer, been

more patient.

before you took a stand,

maybe,

but doubtful.

indelible ink

ink

is hard to get out.

on the shirt

or page,

the skin even.

what words we write

are rarely erased,

they live

to spite another day.

the heart

upon a bicep.

a anchor

on a chest, a poem

upon

a tree.

there it is, though 

just for a short

while.

not eternity.

how we felt

strange how when things

heal

we forget.

was it the right leg or the left

that i 

broke in the fall.

i can't remember

which tooth hurt

the most

before it was pulled.

which love

broke my heart more than

the others.

funny, how things go that

way, forgetting

how we felt.

okay, i get it

find your purpose.

your joy.

don't die with your music

still in you.

don't waste your life.

find your passion,

your way,

your true purpose.

the reason that you're here

on this earth.

okay.

okay, i get it,

but some days i really

want to do nothing,

but take a walk,

eat,

sleep and read, then

have betty come over.

together we sit

sad to hear the news,

but less

sad than

the person giving it.

for how can

i get that close,

to know

the feeling of grief

that they possess.

and in turn,

they too, have no way

of knowing.

the pain i've suffered

and felt.

but try as we do,

our hand

goes out to theirs.

and together we sit

quietly and

we wait.

the routine of rising

how routinely

the world rises

as the yellow

lights

flicker on

across the rolled hills

and flat

plains

into cities with winding

roads.

one after another 

each working

man and woman

lifts their heads

from dream

and step into their roles.

it's how we want it,

finding comfort

in unchange,

in knowing what we

know.

the yard sale

the yard

sale begins at nine a.m.

i see becky out there

at seven

getting set up with the same

things she put

out last year.

a rusted bike

with flat tires,

a painting of flowers

from a motel,

and a yellow

play pen with a hole

in the side.

i watch her pin

the five dollar tag on a rag

doll.

then another one on

a bottle of wine,

unopened.

a dollar tag goes on a 

toilet plunger

and one on a mop,

slightly

used.

she puts her chair out in her

yard.

settles in with a book

by mark twain,

marked fifty cents,

and waits.

remembering the single life

i nudge my new bride

with my chin.

are you sleeping, i ask her.

my hand

on her hip, reaching

down to make

a soft circle on her thigh.

almost, she says,  not quite,

but not tonight, okay.

maybe tomorrow morning.

or maybe this weekend.

plus i have a headache.

and i'm worried about work

and my parents getting old.

and my unemployed son.

didn't we just do it last week?

i think this house might

have mold, she says, rubbing

her nose.

i've had this stitch in my

side too, have i told you 

about that?

the doctor thinks it's

probably nothing,

but you never know, it might

be kidney stones.

so, maybe this weekend,

okay? sunday night?

say around seven, after the news.

i roll back over and sigh.

remembering the good old days,

the single life.

another piece of fish

tuna again,

i say, looking at the cold

plate,

with a slab

of fish belly up

with no seasoning, no

taste.

we had salmon last night.

and cod

the night before.

i'm growing gills here

my love,

let's mix it up

and get at least one

more cooking skill

before i go faint

and pass out on the floor.

the dead weight

we have to bail water

at times

to stay afloat.

bucket after bucket

of trouble.

bad folk.

soured dispositions.

those

without love

or hope

within them.

we have to toss the dead

weight over

the side

and press on, raise the sails.

put the oars into

the water

and get to the other side.

good to have a friend

we find a way

to get around, a  crutch,

a rail

to lean on.

we use each other

to make it

down the trail.

shoulder to shoulder,

hand in hand.

it's good to have friend

nearby when

life begins

to fail.

the ballerina

her feet are sore

from dancing, 

she lifts her leg

to the bar

and stretches out

her arm.

she's in white.

no longer the flower

she once was.

the sun

is breaking across

the city.

she wonders how

much longer

can she go on.

the sixth grade teacher

as punishment

the young teacher

would make the bad

boys

take the erasers

and bang them against

the wall

behind the school.

clouds of white dust

would billow

from the soft black

boxes.

the boys coughed,

with their faces whitened

by the chalk,

but i would volunteer.

she was beautiful

and kind.

i just want to make that

clear.

i wasn't bad at all,

just in love.

sick of love

i'm on the wagon.

enough

is enough. i'm

thoroughly sick of this

thing

called love.

let it be like or lust

from here on out.

i'm done

with commitment

and such young

and foolish things.

no vows will come

off these lips,

no knee will ever bow

again

in this life time.

no ring will slip upon

a finger,

with the intent of forever,

not hers, or mine.

i've  once again

learned my lesson.

we all have something

i have to tell you something,

she says,

over cocktails

in the outdoor covid tent

beside

the boarded up restaurant

burned down

in the peaceful riots.

what?

i ask her. pulling my mask

down to take

a sip of my drink.

i have restless leg syndrome,

she says.

i thought i should tell you

now before we go any

further.

you mean the jimmy leg?

i ask her.

ummm. yes. i think that's

the non medical term for it.

the table starts to jiggle

and i look under it to see her

foot kicking the leg of the table,

and chair. if it was in a tub

of milk, we'd have butter

in about an hour.

it's okay, i tell her, we all

have something.

we're on a recorded line

my mother calls me

and says,

this is your mother and we're

on a recorded

line.

please do not hang up.

we'd like to sign you up

for nine consecutive 

visits for the upcoming year.

a meal

will be included.

there are no monthly fees,

although flowers

and a gift for mother's day,

birthdays

and holidays are required.

we just need you to docu-sign

on the dotted

line when you receive our

email.

do you agree, if so, press one

and we'll connect

you,

with an agent. who is also

me, your mother,

who hardly ever hears

from you, let alone sees you.

putting the whip away

the bell rings

and i casually roll,

not  jump out of bed.

but i leave

the starting line

just the same,

and go at it again.

no longer in a sprint though,

it's more of a casual

trot.

i'll get there when i

get there.

most of the hard races

have been won.

it's gravy time

from here on out.

i put the whip away

unless of course,

it's just for fun.

so far apart

i slip into 

your dreams

as you do mine.

we are on cat's feet

as we move about.

never quite sure 

where

the other one is.

quiet with our lives.

quietly sleeping,

beside one another,

so far apart.

one from the heart

bring me a plain dish.

something

simple,

not fancy, not complicated.

bring me

the easiest thing

on the menu, with

ingredients

i know by name.

something that doesn't

take all day

to cook, or a degree

from the culinary

institute in france to fix.

bring me

something from the heart.

something delicious

and satisfying, something

that resembles

who you are.

no different

a cloud appears.

then

leaves.

the same horizon is never

there.

it changes.

we change.

we move, we rearrange

what

isn't wrong, or

isn't right.

no different than any

sky.

your tuesday girl

let's get serious she says.

i don't want to be

your tuesday gal.

i want the weekends too.

so i agree, reluctantly.

let's take a trip, and see

how we are together on

the road, and so we do.

let's move in together,

she says,

it's much more

convenient, and cheaper

to live as two.

again, i say yes.

let's get engaged.

so i buy her the ring.

let's set a date.

i say next year, she says

why wait,

let's get married, and once

more i say okay,

next week would be great.

let's get a cat, a dog,

why not,

i say. why not.

let's a have child. sure, sure.

let's.  and then have another

for a matching pair.

let's get a bigger house

with a bigger yard.

okay. i agree once more.

twenty years goes by

in a flash and then she turns

to me one night and says,

i don't think it's working out

anymore. let's split up, 

separate, let's get a divorce.

sure, i tell her.

once again you're right.

i'll see you in court.

what the fudge

in a quest for

spiritual purity

i try to clean up my

language

by using words like dang,

or fudge,

or jimminy crickets

when something goes awry.

when i hit my thumb

with a hammer,

or spill a gallon of paint.

or when coffee spills

on my new white

shirt, or when i call someone

in the middle of making love

the wrong name.

dag nab it 

just doesn't have the

same impact.

your order has been delivered

i get a notice

that my amazon order 

for a nine ounce

bottle of organic sensual

massage oil has

been received.

then another email saying

that it's being

shipped

and then another one

saying that it's on the way.

then one more saying

that it will

be there in the next few

days.

then one saying your

order has been delivered 

with a picture attached 

of the box

on the porch.

and then one saying

tell us how we did.

we haven't heard from you

the next one says.

is everything okay?

are you enjoying your

massage oil?

the side effects

she shows me her arm

after the flu

shot.

it's about three times the size

of her other arm.

she's cut all the sleeves

off her clothes

to get them on.

and it hurts she says.

pointing

a what looks like a red

button

the size of a half dollar

where the needle

went in.

otherwise, i'm good

she says.

except for the headache

and when i move

my eyes from side to side

real fast, like this.

ouch.

under new management

about every other year

the dry cleaners

puts up another red banner

on the wall out front.

under new management.

you may have seen it

while driving by

trying to get onto

the highway.

it's a white brick building

next to the 7-11

next to the trailer court

next to the prison

next to the ravine

that floods, next

to the swamp,

next to the sewage

plant, next to 

the shut down nuclear

power facility.

i'm not much a business

man, but i think there could

be a problem

with location.

red ruby shoes

i see a lot of people

clicking

their heels lately, all of them

wearing ruby red shoes.

men and women,

children.

old and young.

they want to go home.

they want to go back to normal

and get out of oz.

it's been way too long

in this madness.

you hear them chant

with their eyes closed,

holding their little dogs,

there's no place like home.

there's no place like home.

i'm trying  a new pair on.

letters at the P.O. box

when people

move

a lot

for one dramatic

reason or

another,

or have some secret

life going on,

that they prefer

to hide from others,

they like to have

a post office box

where all

their mail

goes. 

personal correspondence,

indeed.

don't trust anyone

without a home

address.

their life is usually a 

complete and utter

mess.

memes

i weary

of memes.

enough already.

everyone

is aristotle or

socrates

these days.

without so much

as reading

a book.

just a click of the mouse

and jung

and einstein 

gandhi,

and oscar wilde

are in the house.

com si com sa

it's a normal day

with normal weather

a normal

cup of coffee

a normal feeling of

blase

about the normal news.

no drama

to speak.

no trouble, no pain.

com si com sa

about what to do today.

a normal day.

i wouldn't have it 

any other way.

north of the border

i haven't seen her

in a while.

my old friend up north

of the border.

she may be back in

canada.

on her father's farm.

her horses

waiting for her return.

we haven't talked

in some time.

this happens even to

the best of friends.

we've grown apart.

the things that tied us

together have frayed

or broken.

we have little to say

to one another.

we can't pick up where

we left off.

and yet it doesn't feel

quite over.

maybe tomorrow i'll

give her a call, or maybe

she'll call me.

a fire like this

i set the wood

into the pit and light a match.

i sit back

in the cold

night air

and watch the flames grow.

it's magical.

the heat, the warmth.

i rub my hands

against it.

how it crackles and speaks

to something deep inside

the soul.

the memories

are in there.

the friends i've known.

with a fire like this

i don't mind

growing old, with,

or alone.

we can change

i'd like to believe that

we can change,

become better people,

but i see it proven

wrong almost every day.

there is nothing

more disturbing

than to be looked

at in the eye and lied

to. that can't be changed.

trust will never come again.

the night nurse

her eyes were

green isles

on her pale placid

face.

she had a smile.

as she

leaned towards me,

doing what nurses do

when we're in

a hospital bed.

she said this

won't hurt

but a bit.

and she was right.

as i leaned upward

and stole a kiss.

the three tiered cake

how soft the icing is

upon

the cake.

the sweet swipe of cream

spread wide

and thick.

is your

kiss an equal

to this?

of course it is.

a thousand times more.

come here

and prove it to me.

you are the cake,

three tiered,

that i adore.

waiting my turn at the needle

i practice

getting the vaccine

by sticking toothpicks into

my arm.

it hurts,

but i'm getting ready.

getting tough

and brave

for when the needle comes

along

with my

turn at the juice.

i hardly scream anymore

like a little girl,

the patch of skin

is toughening.

i've got a nice

calloused circle, a landing

zone

for the syringe. 

you ask me why it didn't last

she didn't drink

or smoke.

she didn't eat red meat.

no sweets.

she didn't

like the beach

or the carnival.

she had no interest

in fiction

in poetry

or essays, or the news

paper.

she wasn't fond of

cats,

or jokes.

or laughs.

she couldn't cook

and never

cleaned.

she ruined every holiday

as quick as

they came.

she never saw a bridge

she didn't

want to jump off of.

she was bad with money.

movies weren't her

thing either.

no tv.

no staying up late.

no riding a bike,

or dancing the night

away.

making love was a thing

of the past.

and you ask me why 

it didn't last.

when you return at night

once you find

peace.

tranquility, the quiet of being

alone.

you don't go back.

you don't return

to the asylum.

you smile at the empty

house.

the clean

table.

the ordered shelf.

there is nothing hidden.

no secrets.

no lies. no argument

to be had.

it's the way you leave

it

when you return at night.

it's a joy once

again

to be alive.

the blue shadow

i see jake in the creases

of the cut,

the breezeway

up at city hall, 

where the stone fountain is.

where tourists

come to take pictures.

it's where he drank

from his paper bag,

smoked

and whistled at the girls

going by half

his age.

where he asked anyone

walking by if they could 

give up

their spare change. 

i see the ghost of him.

that blue shadow that he was.

i hear his voice.

people are never really

gone.

are they?

the white mirror

there's one mirror

still

here.

a white mirror on a white

wall.

i don't think anyone has

ever looked into it.

it's more of a decorative

mirror with

metal scrolls.

the  veined glass heavy

with an antique

look.

i'd like it to stay right

where it is.

in the spot where someone

else hammered

the nail

and hung it on the wall.

it seems like

yesterday when she smiled

at me and said.

right here

with no measuring at all.

a mile down the road

i can smell trouble.

like

fish

on the shore washed up.

like

the rat in the alley

belly up.

the can

turned over.

the trash truck rolling

by.

i've got a fine nose

these

days for who i don't

want to be

around.

whether underfoot

or a mile down

the road.

i've learned the hard

way

to keep the stink away.

the rear view mirror

there reaches a point

where there is more 

years in the rear

view

mirror

than what's ahead of you.

but it doesn't stop you from

keeping your foot

on the pedal and moving

forward.

you look back and laugh,

as it all falls away.

you take with you the lessons

learned

and the light luggage in

the trunk that you packed.

it wasn't me, honest

if i see a cop

on the street,

i always feel guilty about

something.

i tell them no. it wasn't me.

before they

even ask me a question.

i take an alibi list out

of my

pocket

and pick one.

i was

out

of town.

i was in the hospital

having surgery.

i was walking my dog.

or i was in church.

i have bible study

six nights a week.

west side girl

i used to date this vampire

from

the west side of town,

near the cemetery.

she was always dressed

in black,

very pale skin,

which i didn't mind at all.

great teeth.

a little on the skinny

side though,

she could a sandwich

once in a while

i never saw

her during the day, only

night

and she had to be home before

sundown. it was fun

for a few months,

but then she flew away

leaving me with strange

bite marks on my neck,

feeling weak and numb.

not unlike the one before

without wings.

the inspector

i decide to carry a clip

board

around all day.

for no reason.

i put on a hard hat too.

a white one.

and an orange vest.

i'll look at things along

the way. intently

inspecting things.

a pipe, a roof, a sidewalk.

i'll touch a tree

and shake my head, then

write something down.

i'll have people

ask me questions

is there a problem here,

or what's going on.

i'll tell them to

go back into their

houses where it's safe

and warm. it's nothing

to be concerned about.

i really can't talk

about it right now.

putting you on speaker

i can only be the phone

so long

before i say in a louder voice

than what i'm

using,

alright.

which indicates, let's wrap

it up here. my ear hurts

and i'm losing my voice.

i like your stories,

but they're a little too long.

a little bit

too much detail, i suggest

getting to the point,

the punch line. be a little

more precise.

or else it's speaker phone

from here on out.

she'll be up all night

it's a wonder

how

the spider works all night

to create

her masterpiece.

the intricate webs

connecting

from pole

to fence.

she's persistent

and hungry.

unconcerned about

what or who

will enter,

unworried about

how easily it can

be destroyed

with the wave of a hand,

the time spent.

she'll make another.

she'll be up all night 

if she has too,

again.

it's all about the sauce

i hear people talk,

they say

it's not the pasta,

or the meat,

the chicken,

bland and ordinary

as they might be.

it's not that at all.

it's all about the sauce.

and finally i know what

they mean

after meeting you.

living dangerously

i like the danger 

of the couch

on a rainy sunday.

the fear of deep cushions

and hot tea.

the thrill of an old book,

a plate

of oven baked

cookies, all within reach.

i like the chances that i

take

when i pull the blanket

up tight,

around my neck,

my head on a feather pillow,

sinking in.

the doors locked,

the alarm set.

a sharpened pencil

and a crossword puzzle

nearby.

i like living on the edge,

thumbing my nose

at death.

her unfilled cup

i pour myself

into her cup.

but it has no bottom.

she

wants more, just the same,

holding it out

towards my

heart.

keep it coming

she says.

i need more of you.

don't stop.

but i do.

there's only so much

of me 

i can pour wastefully

down the drain.

finding a photo

i look at a thousand 

or more

black and white

photos

to attach to the cover.

a child,

a dog, an ocean, the woods

a rushing stream,

a horse.

empty buildings,

wrecked rooms.

rusted cars.

a castle in cesky.

rain puddles.

a cemetery, a church.

a tree without leaves.

people kissing in a bar.

a man

zipping up a dress.

a woman

crying. and if i had

one,

one of me perhaps, 

or us.

attachments

i am attached

to my car.

my clothes. my money.

i very much

like this belt that attaches

my pants

to my body.

these shoelaces

attach

my shoes to my feet.

i am attached

to this coffee that wakes

me up

after sleep.

i'm attached to music.

to art.

to books on my shelves,

even the ones

i've yet to read.

i am attached to the old

things,

to the new.

and despite my

buddhist leanings i find

myself attached

to many things,

but not you.

write it down

keep notes.

write it down so that you

don't forget.

keep a journal

a diary.

make a list.

scribble and jot

the details of your

thoughts, keep

at it. don't quit.

in time, it will all

be lost

in the age of fog,

the mind will slip.

taking control

we seek order.

we

want to feel some sense

of control

that the world is really not

some random

cascading

stone.

we line things up

in the drawer.

the spice rack

hung on the door.

the size determines

where the next dish

will go.

the pots and pants.

a separate slot for knives

and forks.

we set our shoes

beside one another.

white shirts

on hangers, one after

the other

before the blue begins.

the spare key

it's a decision 

you don't take

lightly.

to give

the spare key

to someone new in

your life.

what does it mean?

what exactly 

are we doing here?

and if things fall apart,

as they tend to do,

will you ever

get it back,

or will you once more

have to change

all the locks.

closing time

it's closing time.

the sign goes up.

the chairs are on the tables.

the door locked.

the floor swept and the money

counted.

i look around the empty

room

once filled with friends

i knew.

i sit and pour

one more

for old times sake.

one more

for the good old days.

then i let myself

out the back

and drive home

to where a new love waits.

arrive early

there is no where

to sit.

so i stand.

i look around the room

for someone

to leave.

but everyone has settled

in.

i could be here all

night.

and into the next day

awaiting my

turn.

or i could just leave now

and go home.

with my lesson learned.

the darkness behind me

each light lit

goes

off behind me as i rise

from the chair

and move

across the room.

the lamp,

the overhead,

each switch going off

and darkness

following.

up the stairs,

down the hall.

one more in the bedroom

and then the eyes

close.

that's all.

the crowd

strange how the birds

fly as one,

a fluttering cloud

of dark

on wind, each wing

tilted

towards where the lead

goes.

no words are spoken,

no sound, just a sense

of direction,

whether right or wrong,

that only they seem

to know.

keeping a blind eye

i love you so much

that i would do anything 

for you,

i told her in the heat

of passion.

anything.

which she took to heart.

i didn't know

what was to come.

how hard it would be

keeping a blind eye

to all the things

she'd done.

but we're mistaken

there is some skill, 

some creative

talent in all of us.

it might be music

in your veins.

or science, or planting

seeds,

plowing a field,

harvesting grain.

is your talent

to write a sonnet,

to sing, or 

paint a portrait

of the queen, is it

raising a child,

or dancing to make it

rain. maybe it's the way

you smile

and grieve,

your empathy for others.

your honesty.

sometimes it seems

like there's nothing

there to speak of,

but we're mistaken.

the ticking clock

i prefer the ticking clock

over

a silent one.

i like

the bell, the bird who

juts out

on his perch

and makes a noise

announcing

an hour gone by.

i prefer to hear the second

hand swing.

the hour

counted down.

i want to know how

fast

it's all moving. how

quickly the hour glass

spills

towards empty,

telling us how soon

the end has arrived..

jumping the line

i join the fire department

to see

if can jump the line for a vaccine

shot, to become a first responder,

but they won't

take me on account of

my age

and lack of experience.

i quickly do some pushups

and sit ups to demonstrate

my physical condition.

i tell them about the grease

fire i put out on my stove

last night when deep frying

some calamari, and the time i

used the garden hose to spray

a roman candle that fell on

its side last fourth of july.

still no dice.

and now i'm at the end

of the line.

three suitcases

there was the time

i saw

her three suitcases sitting

in the hall.

she turned the light on

so they couldn't be missed.

i ignored them.

i had socks to iron,

underwear to fold.

she looked at me,

waiting for me to ask

what's up, where might

she be going. she

looked at me, waiting

to see  tears begin

to fall.

sister's house? i finally asked

looking up from

the basket clothes.

if so, leave the keys

on the counter and slip

the parking pass through

the slot, let it fall

to the floor. let me know

where you end up

so i can forward

the rest of what you own.

this made her stay another

few months.

the suggestion box

i make a suggestion,

writing it

down

and slipping my thoughts

onto paper

then into the box.

i could say it out loud,

but you don't really

want to hear

it coming out of my

mouth. so this will

have to do. 

if you find the time to

read it

and all the other ones i

put inside the box

throughout the year,

perhaps you'll see 

the light and change

you bad behavior

or maybe you won't.

you've never been

all ears.

wishing it was mine

it's a thin book

of poems.

The Colossus.

i flip

through the pages

and think i could finish this

in one sitting.

i smile

and take it with me

to the park.

to read under the warm

hand of a winter sun.

but i get stuck on

one poem.

mushrooms, that i

read over and over

again.

wishing it was mine.

the want ads

i browse the ads

for farm girls in the ukraine.

some sun

kissed beauty

standing in a corn

field

holding a pale of milk

from a nearby

cow.

blue eyes and blonde.

long legs

and arms.

a smile that would light

up an old

man's heart, giving him

a new reason

to live and go on.

but the language might

be an issue

and then i think, 

what about ireland,

a raven haired lass

with a tray of ale,

but once again, 

language could be a

problem.

you don't want to know

tell me a story

grandpop

the neighborhood

kid says sitting

on the porch next to me.

i look at him

and point out that he's

got chocolate

on his face.

which he precedes to

lick off

with a stretched out 

tongue.

i'm not your grandpop

for one thing,

i tell him.

and you don't want

to hear

my stories. you won't

be able to sleep for

a week.

so run along

and take your bat and ball.

isn't that your dog

running down the street?

that was then

she looked good in a long

black cadillac.

her shades on,

her blonde hair

under a wide white hat.

her lips

a glossy red.

smiling for the camera,

a long leg dangling

out of the swung door.

she looked good and she

knew it. how the heads

would turn,

but this is now and that

was then.

another hour of sleep

i need to go back to sleep.

but the coffee

is keeping

me up. the sun is

stretching its warm

arms

upon the woods.

i just need another hour.

one solid

hour of dreams.

it's too early to be up.

too early to

begin the day.

and yet outside the window

i hear a bright bird

sing.

behind bars

i go the zoo, taking

the bus across town.

it's cold.

it's raining. but i don't

mind.

i just need to see what's going

these days

behind

the bars, the cages.

i want to hear

what the monkeys have

to say.

the elephant, half

in the water.

i want to hear the lion

roar. to see the glassed

in snakes. the peacock

spread his wings.

i want to tell them all

not to worry, don't give up.

you will, if determined,

find a way to escape.

the winter orange

the winter

orange

has promise. the round

cold

fruit in your hand.

somehow

it's traveled far to

reach you.

you can almost taste

its juice,

as it runs down against

your chin.

is she sweet

inside as she is on the out?

anymore, you're wise

to be unsure 

about what lies

below the skin.

the splinter

the splinter finds

its way

in

so easily.

crouching hard and fast

beneath

the skin.

a little blood, but

not much.

it reminds you of many

things.

a word

spoken, a favorite

dish

fallen, and broken.

a promise

unkept.

gently you pull it out.

and try

to forget.

she wore velvet

she liked to wear velvet

when out

in public.

it's what her mother did

and her mother's

mother wore when out

and about.

she showed me

the photos of them

walking around

in purple jump suits,

or a dress, a gown.

their long dark hair,

exactly alike

all hanging down

to the middle of their

backs.

she said she was canadian

so that somehow made

it okay.

you wanted to pet her

like a cat

when you saw her

on the street.

sometimes she'd purr.,

and other times she'd

give you a deadly look 

and say, don't do that.

let's go

we need the spark,

the flame,

the touch of a match,

for the fuel to burn,

we can ignite

this engine get this

love off the ground.

get it in the air.

don't be afraid.

take my hand,

get on board and strap

yourself in.

i'll take you there.

sitting down to write

it's not unlike

when i was a runner.

it took a good mile 

or so to hit my stride.

to catch my breath,

to feel the legs and arms

get loose, for my body

to find its rhythm, 

to relax my mind, but

once that happened

then away i'd go.

i felt like i could fly.

we used to go there

we used to go there.

we used

to walk along that trail.

we used

to hold hands.

we used to stop

and kiss when we crossed

that bridge.

we used to do a lot

of things

we don't do anymore.

i wonder where she is.

black and white wedding

it's a black and white photo

of a young

girl

smoking a cigarette outside

the courthouse,

her lover

is holding a bouquet of

flowers

and a velvet box

with rings.

both bone thin souls

are afloat

in borrowed clothes.

they're waiting for the doors

to open

to get married.

she's looking away, at 

something unreachable,

something that might have

been. while he looks

at his watch, feels

the stubble on his chin.

i wonder what their names were

as the last stick of furniture

leaves

the house next door

and the truck

pulls away in a cloud

of grey fumes.

i wave.

they were good neighbors.

quiet neighbors.

seven years.

and now they're gone.

i wonder what their names

were.

the emergency visit

i call my maid

for an emergency visit.

i need you, i tell her. stat.

i'll pay

double.

what time can you get here?

she laughs.

one p.m.,  she says.

bring a hazmat suit, i tell her.

it was a crazy night.

and bring a ladder.

there's a few

things

dangling from the chandelier.

lacy things

in black.

just vacuum around anyone

that might

still be sleeping.

i'm heading up the hospital

for an iv

and 

a vending machine snack.

fancy crackers

i check the cupboard

for what

might be around for a new years

dinner.

i see a jar of crunchy

peanut butter,

and a box of fancy crackers.

the word

fancy makes me smile.

i've known a lot

of fancy women in my day.

but deep inside

they were really just like

you and me.

the car won't start

it's early morning.

i look out the window

as i get dressed

and see

the sun, a  hard yellow

cough drop in the sky

just barely over 

the exxon station down 

the street from her apartment.

she's still sleeping.

i find my keys and phone

and tip toe out the door.

i find a stick on the ground

to scrape ice

off the windows of my car,

then get in, rubbing my gloveless

hands together.

it won't start.

i pump the gas,

turn the key, the clicking

noise is sad. 

a chirping sound.

no growl from the engine.

i can't see out the windows

because of the frost.

i wait.

i try again.

nothing.

she's probably looking

out the window

wondering why

i don't leave.

maybe she's thinking that

i love her.

that i can't bare to 

drive away without coming

in one more time

to kiss her. to tell her that

i want to spend

the rest of my life with her,

and then there's a knock

on the window.

it's her

with jumper cables.

new years eve

i pick up two fat live

lobsters,

a pound of shrimp

an ice cold bottle of champagne.

some cheese

and olives,

crackers.

some caviar. we

make

cocktails with funny

names.

we put some music on,

we dim the lights

and dance

across the floor.

we kiss.

we whisper sweet words

into one another's ears.

then head upstairs

tripping on our clothes.

by eleven we're

sound asleep,

but happy in each other's

arms.

send me a memo

i'm confused by your confusion,

but i'm trying to work it out,

sort through

the debris

of thoughts.

of ideas.

propositions and possible

scenarios.

the outcome is sketchy

to say the least.

my pay grade is way too

low

to analyze where this might

be going.

send me a memo

when you've reduced it down

to a line or two.

then i'll know.

the flight attendant

after she dies

her husband calls and says

how could you?

how would you like it if i did

that to your wife?

i pause and say to myself,

ummm. what wife?

i look at the phone.

i say sadly. i'm sorry. i didn't

know.

she said it was over.

you were gone.

divorce was pending.

there was no love between you

anymore.

silence.

i hear him breathe and sigh.

okay,

he says.

perhaps i'm wrong.

take care.

sorry to have bothered you.

i have a lot

more calls to make

as i look into her phone.

i should go.

untidy lives

there is clutter.

sweeping to be done.

closets

to be emptied.

all the lies and secrets

are stacked

up high.

there they are in

the attic,

boxes and bags,

in the cellar. 

in the shed outside.

beneath the bed.

so much hidden.

so much to be cleaned.

to be the taken

to the curb

before the world

knows

what you've been

up to,

before you're dead.

trauma

trauma

is a beast, the fire

you

get caught in, the near

death by

drowning.

the car accident.

food poisoning.

love betrayed.

the list goes on and on.

it's a frightful

thing.

and you remember

it all

as if it was yesterday.

strange how

pain

sticks to us.

fresh in our minds

with the slightest

of triggers. though less

and less

as the years roll on.

the melted candle

my candle, which is me.

is melted down

into a puddle.

i've burned both ends

for months on end

and found a way

to find the middle.

it's a hard shell

of wax now,

stuck to the table.

what a year it was.

getting permission

do you mind if i 

nibble on your

neck a little

before the check comes.

i ask her

politely on the second date.

sure she says.

no problem,

have at it.

she lifts the collar of

her wool

turtle neck

and leans towards me.

i slide over

to get into position.

go ahead.

but no biting, she says.

promise.

i promise i tell her.

cross my heart.

i don't have your back

who has your back.

who's behind

you

ready in case you're 

in trouble,

attacked.

who's

beside you in a line

of fire,

when life hits the fan.

who's got the hand

to reach

down and pull you

from the ocean

before you

drown.

the list is few.

and it surprised me,

stunned me in fact,

when i found out 

none of them were you.

a name in the dust

i don't worry about 

the dust anymore.

i'm

not wiping down

the tables,

or shaking

the lamp shades

clean.

i'm not taking a broom

or cloth

to what lies

around in fine silt.

silky sand.

it's in 

the air we breathe,

the outside coming in.

i like to run my finger

through

it when it mounds

on the shelf,

a small dune

of dust, unstoppable

a distant relative

of rust.

i write a name within

it with a finger.

one name

is enough.

we all make mistakes

there is something dead

in the cellar.

you can smell it

all the way to the third floor.

a rat,

a bird.

some creature that has

crawled

in

and couldn't get back

out.

perhaps a mouse,

a snake.

all the same.

but we all make mistakes.

find the broom, the pan.

hold your breath.

this is nothing

compared to what's 

to come

when all of us face

our unexpected death.

we always know

we always know.

we

get it before we admit it.

the gut.

the brain within

tells you in no uncertain

terms to run.

to fight, to flee, but

whatever you do

get ready.

something's about

to hit the fan.

despite everything

you think you know.

she is not your friend.

her string in a ball

her string in a ball.

old keys

in a drawer.

her little gold nails 

that have

been pulled

from walls.

a jar full of tacks.

a box full of

matches,

rubber bands from

the store.

post cards

from afar.

what seems silly

and sentimental

at times,

is what she adores.

and that's

where i come into

the picture.

quick on the trigger

i'm quick on the gun,

the trigger.

quick to pull

and empty a chamber.

to delete and erase

at the first

sign of trouble.

i'm out the door, down

the road.

exit, stage left.

on my horse and riding

out of town.

not waiting for the sunset.

giddy up and go

in a cloud of dust

with no regrets.

finishing the book

i'd like to think better

of you.

but i don't.

it's not in me.

i can't rewrite, i can't 

turn back the pages 

and start over.

at this point revision 

is out of the question.

i've read too much into

this book

to believe otherwise.

i know the plot,

and each character by heart.

i'm one page from the last

page of knowing

who you really are.

i'll finish it tonight.

the ending of another year

we wait on the ball

falling

off the building in the city

as the countdown

begins.

the champagne is poured,

the hats are on.

the confetti is in the air.

we hug each other 

in the wind and cold.

we're both happy 

and sad about

the ending of another year.

we make no promises,

no vows or resolutions, we

just say i love you,

and let it go from there.

what's it going to be

she says

i need a commitment.

i need to know

where this is going.

are we

together on this or not.

i squirm in my

chair

like a school boy

who hasn't done his

homework.

made an example of

in front of the whole class.

well, she says.

standing over me

with a ruler, 

smacking it in her hand,

what's it

going to be.

are we a couple,

are we monogamous,

and if so,

when do i get

the ring?

anniversaries

some people i know keep

track

of things.

they're very good at remembering

dates,

anniversaries.

no matter how sad

or disappointing the event may

have been.

but they know when the day

arrives

and go deep into their mind,

remembering.

never able to escape the pain

they were in.

this will continue until the day

they die.

whereas i tend to forget my own

birthday sometimes.

what's below the surface

i watch the divers

go in.

the soft splash as they enter

the dark

water

dropping off the boat,

along the coast.

what are they looking for?

what's down there that isn't

here

on land and breathing.

i think the worst

as i often do, but don't stand

around long

enough

to find out. i'd rather not

know these

things.

next in black ink

i was relieved to have

the last

tattoo lasered off my back.

i'm done

with that.

all that ink wasted.

all that art,

hearts and arrows,

cupid's bow.

those poetic words

beside the names.

the dates of when

it all began.

but no more, i'm forever

a clean slate.

just one word

has replaced them all

with next in black 

ink, small print,

lower case.

red sauce

it's not

blood, it's tomato sauce

dripping down my side.

although it looks like

she finally got the best

of me.

all day

i have to explain

the stain upon my shirt.

people shake their

heads and sigh.

they put their

hand on my shoulder

and say we're so

sorry, we know what

you've been going through,

but we're happy

you're alive, can we

take you to the emergency

room.

i tell them no. it's just

red sauce, showing them

the remnants of onions

and mushrooms,

but they don't

believe me as they weep

and hold me close.

let's go camping

from the camp site,

half in, half out

of our baby blue pup tent,

her choice,

i can see the motel

up on the hill with its

red vacancy sign

blinking open. i sigh.

she says. this is fun,

isn't it?

camping out under

the stars.

cooking on an open

fire. beans and dogs.

maybe we can make

smores later.

it's so romantic.

she claps her hands

together, giddy with

happiness.

i pull a large bug

off of my neck, wiping

the blood with my

hand and say, yup.

i find a marshmallow

to put pressure on the wound.

oh honey, i say to her,

while you're out there

stirring those beans,

could you hit that coiled

snake over there

with a rock or something.

i think he's getting

ready to strike. no not

that snake, the other

one making the rattling

noise.

sure, she says. anything

for you my dear.

it's friday

i ask my new dark love

what she's doing with that long

black whip

in her hand.

those leather boots

and that come

hither look in her eyes.

what's up

i ask.

going somewhere

tonight? no she says.

i'm here with you,  have

you forgotten? it's friday.

ringing in my ear

all day i hear ringing in my

ears.

is someone talking

about

me behind my back, or do

i need a match stick to

get it clear.

it's like a live wire

buzzing,

a busy signal from the brain.

i try to ignore it.

like i used to do with

you when you talked

about your mother

for hours on end,

but it's impossible.

it may drive me insane.

fare thee well

we split the check,

not because

we'll never see each other again,

but just for a change

of pace.

i tire of seeing the cobwebs

on so many purses,

rarely opened on a 

meet up date.

it's the black box in

a plane.

so in a huff she finds

her credit card and pays

for her meal

her drink

her valet parking

and i do the same.

we shake hands and say

good luck, take care,

best wishes,

and adios

my two hour friend.

it's been real.

and by the way

i'll be late again.

i know.

but just one more thing

i need to say

before i go

and then

i'll leave, leave you

alone

to ponder and decide

on everything.

anything i need to add

to that

i'll save for later.

but meanwhile think

about what i said,

whether or not

you want to leave

or stay,

and by the way

we're completely out

of bread

and butter, milk

and eggs.

tap water

if she needs

sparkling water

from france

in a glass

with ice

and will never touch

a plastic bottle

or tap, and certainly

not water

from a hose

out back,

run, don't think twice.

you'll never quench 

her thirst.

she will shorten

your life.

what could be the harm

don't let beauty fool you.

don't let

words

whispered into your ear

make you swoon.

don't let

a gentle a touch on

your arm,

a kiss upon your lips

trick you into thinking

this is good.

what could be the harm.

don't go there

this time. 

there is something

within this bed of roses

that will make you 

bleed,

we call them

thorns.

again with the orange light

i should get the oil changed

in one

or both of my

vehicles.

the truck, the car.

each with

an orange light burning

a hole

in my retinas

when i start them up.

i know.

i know, i tell them as

i drive.

an oil change, i get it.

please go away.

take your little sideways

wrench and go dark.

raise the bar

do we lower our expectations

or raise

them even

higher.

do we set bar beyond

a reasonable height,

one

that most cannot reach.

i say yes to that.

don't settle on second best,

or third, or fourth,

resist

the notion

to shrug and say okay,

that's good enough,

i guess.

i can't remember

i can't remember

the last time i kissed you.

or made

love to you,

or sat beside you

and held your hand.

i can't remember the last

thing we said

to one another,

how you looked as

you were leaving

for the last time.

were there tears in your

eyes, or mine?

i can't remember a

thing these days.

the past is such blur,

and the days go by

so quickly,

but i hope you're doing

fine.

driving all night

driving all night

to get away from you,

i fall asleep at the wheel

and end up in

a corn field

on the outskirts of town.

i wake up

as i roll to a stop,

then get out to check

for damage.

nothing of consequence

to me,

not the field.

i get back into

the car

and turn on the radio.

i roll down the windows

and listen to

the symphony of crickets

the sway of trees

on the other side

of the narrow road.

i'm out in the country

under a sheet of stars,

a thousand miles

from nowhere.

tired and alone,

but it's okay, because

you're not here with me.

cow on the side of the road

i see cow

on the side of road,

she seems

to be wandering.

lost perhaps.

i pull over and roll

down the window

and ask,

are you okay?

are you lost?

she looks at me and

offers just a short

moo, then continues

on.

i'd give you a lift,

i tell her

rolling up to her as

she moves,

but as you can see,

i just don't have

the room.

i don't believe you

i don't believe you.

not a word.

not one single word

leaving

your mouth is true.

you know it and i know

it.

the world knows it.

so what do you think

of that?

would you like to start

over with

something new.

try again. let's try again.

now look into my eyes

and tell me,

for once in your life,

the truth, where were

you?

the old friends on the shelf

the books i love to read,

i read again.

dogeared and worn.

the pages coming apart

at the seams.

coffee stains,

and tears.

they have become

old friends.

i underline what's true,

what feels important

to me.

then back onto the shelf

they go.

waiting for the next time.

when i have nothing

new to read.

my weakness

i can't be around chocolate,

or sweets

of any kind.

cakes

or pastries.

a bag of candy from

the five and dime.

i can't be around a pint

of ice cream,

or cherry

pie.

sweets are my weak spot.

and it's the reason

i can't see you anymore.

good bye.

the next stop

is every person

we meet

for a reason, a step forward

in

the right direction.

is there purpose

in them

being in your life, even

for an hour,

or a year or two.

is the person sitting next

to you

there for you,

or you for them.

are they meant to be

a part of who are,

a lover, a teacher,

a friend, or just someone

getting off at the next

stop.

the measure of you

we are measured 

and weighed

from birth and in

all the days in between,

until death.

our height, our weight,

the pounds

we are.

the length and size

of us.

shirts and shoes.

pants and hats.

we are measured in other ways

too.

our grades.

the way we speak, 

the way we work.

the money made.

what school?

and yet the most important

measure of all

is how we were loved

and gave love,

lost in the measuring,

somewhat ignored.

new worlds

like astronomers

we discover new worlds

when we gaze

out into the night,

leaving this one behind.

there are other planets

to live on.

to find love.

to get it right.

it just takes time to get

there.

we just need to saddle up,

be courageous

and take

flight.