launching the ship

i pop the cork 

on the champagne

i've had on the shelf

for three years

or so.

the green bottle

from france.

i wipe it clean

and set out a glass.

will it still bubble,

will the cork fly

and make that noise

they do?

will i drink enough

in celebration

to dance across the room?

the answer being yes.

i will launch this

ship

and toast it's journey

into the unknown.

if i had another fifty years

once out into the world.

the ink

dried.

the book finished,

i shake my head and

worry.

there's not a rhyme

i wouldn't change,

a comma

or word i wouldn't remove

if i had more time.

say another fifty

years or so

with a blue pencil

in hand.

sifting through the lines.

maybe then

i'd be finished,

maybe then

everything would be fine.

an honest glass of water

just ice water please.

a slice of lemon.

crushed ice.

a clear glass, tall.

that's all i need for now.

that's

all i ever wanted in anyone

to be truthful,

an honest glass of clear

cold water

with a slice of lemon

on the side.

i could drink that all day.

all night.

all summer long.

the dry martini

the x-rays come back

and the doctor

holds them up to lighted

screen

oh my, he says.

hmmm.  and hmmm, again.

i say what?

what is it?  how long

do i have?

give it to me straight doc.

i can take it.

oh nothing he says.

shrugging.

nothing important.

but after seeing all these

green olives in you

i thought that after

work i too might have

a dry martini.

we've been around so long

is that shadow still

there, a part of me,

not giving up.

the dark side

perhaps

lingering behind,

quiet and careful

in form.

i can hardly hear his

footsteps,

his breathing

as we walk along

beneath the sun,

we've been around

so long.

changing culture

the word culture

is everywhere.

what we need is a new culture.

to change

our way of thinking,

our way of doing things.

politics,

sports teams.

businesses. all crying out

we need to change

this culture

that we have here.

did the ancient greeks

ever

say such a thing,

the ming dynasty,

or the roman empire?

no.

who decides these things?

what price to set

on a gathered group of poems

in a thin

book

thrown out into the world.

eleven ninety five,

perhaps.

or six dollars

and change.

or free. maybe that will

build up readership

more easily.

is canada less or more.

who decides 

these things?

i can think of two

i can think of two.

two women who i once loved

that i no

longer love,

or even talk to.

significant others.

important as stepping stones

along the way.

but the rest

are fine. a dialed number

from them or me,

takes us

back to another time.

friends forever,

as it should be.

the child leaving home

it's not overnight.

although it

feels like

it as i click the tab to publish.

there it goes.

a childhood dream

of sorts.

one book out

there into

the world.

a thousand words collected

and named

numbered.

and then sadness

sets in.

strange how that is.

not unlike a child leaving

home,

for his life to

begin.

this is a better story

tiring of the old story.

i'll make up

a new one about you.

how you

robbed banks.

how you carried a gun

and wore

steel tipped boots.

the hidden knife up

your sleeve.

i'll tell everyone

about the scar on your neck.

the booze

you drank.

always with a cigarette

dangling

from your pouty lips.

i'll tell them about

your tattoos,

your earrings, how you

cursed and whored

like a drunken

sailor

on leave.

i'll paint a dark picture

of you.

and that will explain

everything about what 

happened between you

and me.

did i miss your call

did i miss your call.

did i miss

your knock at the door.

i was out for awhile. so if

it was you.

call back.

come again.

i saw your footprints

in the snow.

i won't be gone long.

i checked the mail

but there was nothing

there from you.

no card, no letter,

no package.

i know the mail is slow

lately,

so that's a good excuse.

but it's fine, no worries.

i'll leave

the light on for you.

come soon.

now it begins

after school

is when real life begins.

the books

don't matter anymore.

the grades, the hours bent

towards

learning.

that's over.

now you learn the real

lessons

as you punch the clock

pick up a shovel.

find a desk

and dig in. forty years

to go.

good luck dear boy,

begin.

not with your kind

take your woes

and go.

pick up your dirty laundry,

wipe

your bloody nose.

depart with gossip

and lies.

bundle up your troubles

and take the nearest

door

and fly.

we don't want you here

anymore.

we can't live

a happy life with the likes

of you,

your kind.

as the headlights appear

as she drives home

in the cold

the roads wet, the wind howling.

her dog

waiting by

the window.

she's full.

she's happy in the moment

with the making

love behind her.

the highway clear as 

sleep awaits,

the dog

more happy than anyone

could imagine,

as the headlights

appear.

the weight of work

it's herculean

at times.

this work, this life

of mine.

the climb gets steeper

with every day.

the steps

getting harder,

the weight

of hours heavier

with each lifting

of another bale of hay.

but it's not for money

anymore.

not at this age.

it's not for bread

or shelter, or ale

when it's time to close.

it's for something else.

something

that i don't even know.

burning bridges

we came up for air.

bloodied and bruised.

we stopped fighting

for a moment and went

out for a walk.

it was a sunless day in march.

we knew the end was near,

but the right words had not

been said, just the wrong ones.

all the evidence was in.

the jury, the judge.

we were just waiting

on the verdict.

the walk meant nothing

but a stretching

of our legs. fresh air

in our lungs.

no hands were held.

no tender moments stopping

to kiss on any bridge.

they had all been

crossed and burned

a long time ago.

juggling skills

bored with life

i take up juggling.

i start off light and easy

with

rubber balls

then work my way up

to small animals,

frogs and gerbils.

i work in a few knives

and chain saws

as i get better,

then go with burning

torches.

shards of pointed glass.

people are amazed

at my juggling skills,

especially sally, and betty

and thelma,

knowing how poor i was

at juggling them.

party of one

party of one

i say to the hostess as i enter

the restaurant.

well, hello again,

she says. long time

no see.

no date?

what happened to your girl?

you're bride to be.

long story,

i tell her. trust me.

you don't want to know.

it involves

exorcism, demonic

possession.

things like that.

hmmm. she says. i see.

your usual seat

at the bar? is that okay.

no, let's try another

the last one was bad luck,

let's see if we

can change that

today.

i'm in big trouble

according to the last

five phone calls i've received

from unknown numbers,

i'm in deep trouble with the irs,

about to be arrested

any minute now.

the cops are on their way.

social security has suspended

my accounts

and my credit cards

and identity have been stolen.

my computer is infected with

a virus, and someone 

on amazon has ordered 

an expensive camera

using my password and my name.

not to mention that the warranty

on my car has expired 

and i'm about to lose my chance

to renew if i don't call back

right away. i used to worry

about library books being overdue, 

my how things have changed.

passion

it's not about 

the check list.

the qualifiers,

the attributes,

the wants and desires

of your heart.

it doesn't matter

where you're from

or what you've done.

beauty

in the long

run is just a distraction.

it's not about what you

want in another

person,

in the end it's about 

enthusiasm

for each other.

the rest is okay, but

at the end of the day

give me passion.

the cold beach

the beach is cold

this time

of year.

the sand is rough

and dark,

a wash of pebbles

line the surf,

broken shells,

a coat of armor

wet

in the sun.

the wind cuts.

the salt is in your eyes.

but you keep walking,

your feet sinking

with each new

step.

the pier is miles

away.

the past is never far

behind.

staying in shape

it's not too late

for breakfast, is it?

i yell

up the stairs.

it's twelve noon.

french toast?

or eggs?

nothing for me she

says.

i'm on a diet.

maybe i'll stop for

a donut or two

after my run.

okay, pick me up

a pie if you could.

i'll be at the gym

when you get home.

old friends

we have favorite

coats.

favored shirts and pants.

shoes

and hats.

we pick them over so many

others waiting

on the shelf.

hanging in the closet.

five sweaters that are black.

grey jeans.

the right color. the right

size.

they are who we are.

they have what the others

lack.

how to dance

she teaches me 

how to dance.

listen

to the music, she says.

open your heart,

and breathe,

become what you hear,

relax and move.

feel my body

against yours,

put your arm here.

take my hand, now let's

glide across the floor.

there you go. 

there you go, i could

dance all night

with you,

you have it my dear.

small rewards

funny

how a new pair 

of shoes

makes you feel good.

puts a spring in your step.

a fresh coat of paint.

that feeling you get

the hour after the maid

comes

with everything clean

everything in its place.

small rewards

can make your day,

put a smile on your face.

one dark piece of chocolate

will do the trick or

an ice cold martini,

or better yet, 

a sensual kiss.

road kill

i'm on the fence.

i'm

undecided.

i'm

leaning both ways.

i'm the squirrel

in the road

going nowhere

fast.

darting

left

then right.

it's so hard to decide.

the pressure on,

eyes growing

bigger

in the oncoming

lights.

who are these people

i find another way home.

a wrong

turn

making a longer trip,

but i'll find my way out.

how long has

the back road

been here.

it winds in and out of

shadows

and light.

these trees, that pond.

i see an old barn 

in red beyond the field.

i see a tractor

with a man in a straw hat

upon it.

he waves.

i see his wife in a

pale blue dress

coming through

the corn,

bringing him

water.

she waves too.

who are these people?

working hands

my hands

curled around tools all day.

the knife,

the scissors, the brush.

they are thick with

use

calloused and raw.

cuts

healing, some new.

they bring home the bread.

they

pay

the bills.

these hands awaiting something

softer

to hold them

one day.

the first draft

i read the first draft,

then the second.

it's horrible.

what was i thinking trying

to get

a book out of any of this.

babbling

all the time about me,

for the most

part.

self indulgent to the nth

degree.

but what the hell, what

are we

living for.

why not throw it all out

there into the world.

and if no one cares, or likes

any of it.

so what.

i'll write more and more

and more.

until there's nothing left,

not a word

not a thought

inside the well.

the same story

it's the same story.

over and over

and over

again.

the long marriage.

how trapped they all 

are.

no love.

no longer friends.

the kids keeping them

together,

the house, the dog,

the cats.

the neighbors

the in laws.

and money. with no

way to make it end.

sleeping in separate

rooms.

living separate lives.

keeping secrets.

telling lies. he has a

mistress, she has a friend.

a long life

of pretend.

not knowing how

to escape.

it's same story

that i hear,

over

and over and over

again.

hearing the news

i find her

on the front steps crying

when i get home.

i sit down beside her.

her face

is dark

and wet with tears.

she's shaking

in the cold.

i put my arm around her.

and tell her

in a whisper.

i know.

i know.

tickets torn in half

i keep no

keepsakes. no receipts,

no half torn

tickets

or playbills

from what we've seen.

i'll save no pictures

of you

and me. no cards

or letters,

or love notes

left behind.

there is no reason

to remember

anything, there never

was a you

or me.

i'll leave it at that

as i try to be kind.

i'll meet you there

i'll meet you there

my love.

i'll meet you where the bridge

is below

the hill,

across the slender

stream,

before 

the bluff. at

the bench where we first

met.

where we fell in love.

i'll meet you there

once last time

before dark,

before we say what must

be said. before

we change our minds,

before we part.

i'll meet you there.

mid century parenting

get up, you're going

to be late.

take a shower. use

soap. brush your teeth.

get dressed.

get your books,

your lunch box.

behave in school.

wipe your feet,

don't let the screen door slam.

close the refrigerator.

lower the tv.

use your inside voice.

don't make me pull

this car over.

go wash your hands.

pull up your zipper,

comb your hair.

wipe your face.

eat what's on your plate.

don't talk with your mouth full.

get your finger out

of your nose.

do your homework

quit teasing your sister.

go walk the dog.

take the trash out.

go brush your teeth.

say your prayers.

now go to sleep.

the law of attraction

i give the law of attraction

a shot.

i think hard about someone

i'm enamored with

to see if they

text of call.

i concentrate on their face,

their voice,

their essence.

i sit and wait with my eyes

closed, believing there

will be an answer.

and then the phone rings,

i'm startled out of my trance,

but it's not her,

it's my mother

asking me why i never visit.

i need more practice at this.

i'm a little off.

two out of three

i keep waiting 

for the coin to come

down

in my hand.

i've flipped it high

into the air,

awaiting my fate.

heads or tails.

i'm letting my life be

decided this way.

but in the back of my

mind,

i know that

i can always do two

out of three.

give me the ocean

it's laughable

the phrase,

better to have loved

and lost

than to never

have loved at all.

give me a break.

it's better

to fall off a mountain,

or drop from  a plane,

or drown

in the ocean, than to

go through that again.

the sounds we know

there are sounds

that stick

with you

even in black darkness

as you lie

dying.

a bird's whistle,

a cat's meow.

wind in the trees.

a door closing,

a lock

opening.

a window being raised.

the rustling of leaves.

the sound of shoes

coming

into a room.

a sigh. a cry.

the clapping of hands.

the spin

of a wheel. 

a new born crying.

the ocean,

the sound of a heart

against your ear.

it's a small world

the far left

the extreme right.

the middle.

i've never seen or known

so many

angry people.

the pendulum swings

with each

new era

come upon us.

but it swings quicker

now.

the world having

grown

much smaller and

sicker.

the weight we carry

we pick the weight

we carry.

the burdens

of others. we make room

for them

out of the goodness of

our hearts.

we put them on our

shoulders.

we strap them to our

backs.

we go the extra mile.

listening to their woes,

helping them

as best we can.

it takes a lot of carrying

a lot wasted time 

to finally

realize that their

troubles never end.

the space program

no need to go

to mars.

go out into my back yard.

there is very little

difference.

no life forms.

just rocks and debris.

sand.

okay, yes there's air,

there's weeds,

the occasional snake,

and a rusted grill

i never use,

but besides that it's no

different than

the red planet a million

miles away.

save yourself a buck

or two

and come over,

plant your flag

and call it a day.

excuse me, i have to go

he's a bad story teller.

i'd give

him a 
C minus on most attempts.

occasionally

a B

if he keeps it short

and i've  never heard it before.

he circles

and circles, takes

a detour,

veers off the road

at times

never quite getting to

the punch line.

it's good to have a bathroom

near by,

to point at and say.

excuse me, but i have

to go.

escape plans

no jail can hold you.

no prison,

no shackles.

there are no bars strong

enough,

or barbed wire

sharp enough

to curtail your life.

you will escape even

false love

if you want to.

there's always a way out.

a way to get free.

start now.

start tonight.

a place called home

we need a place.

the split trunk

in a tree.

the hollow.

a rock to burrow under.

a cave

to crawl in,

a tunnel 

beneath the dirt

a place

to call home.

a place where we're

safe.

a sanctuary of sorts,

with our kind.

where love

is returned.

everything alive seeks

the same.

impeachment

i feel bad for all the peaches

that are in the news

lately.

they never did anything to anyone.

so juicy and sweet

in season.

the soft felt fuzz on their

skin reminds me of you

when you kissed me.

i could hold one in my

hand all day before taking

a bite or two, being careful

of the seed that lay inside.

a basket of them would be

nice. a layer of them on a cake

or pie.

who doesn't love a peach?

not I.

she had good bones

on weekends

i'd raise the hood of the old car

a brown

chevy

handed down

three or four times

to repair or replace,

the oil pump.

the plugs and points,

the water pump.

the shocks,

the fan belts, there

was always something wrong,

a battery gone

dead. a leak,

a light out,

but i had the tools,

the time, and felt that the car

had good bones.

i was willing to learn

with little money to take

it to a garage.

so i fixed it on my own.

but now, so many years

later, i can't find

the latch to open the hood

on this new car,

or turn the dome

light on.

the best meal ever

it was the best

meal

i ever had.

a slice of pizza in new york

city.

we stopped

while

walking back to the 

roosevelt hotel.

the cheese,

the pepperoni,

the thick crust warming

our hands.

we sat on a bench

in central park

and savored

the moment.

winter had emptied 

the trees.

patches of snow lay

upon the walk ways.

we were happy.

our appetites filled,

our hearts beginning

to fill as well.

the bride's mother

you should have been

there last year,

at the wedding.

the bride rode a horse into

the castle.

a white horse.

it was an open bar,

sit down dinner for two

hundred

and thirty five.

they wrote their own vows.

a live band performed.

jugglers and clowns

appeared,

magicians did tricks.

there were fireworks in the sky.

politicians gave speeches.

celebrities showed

up in fancy cars.

it was a marvelous wedding.

you should have been

there. but not to worry,

if we're still in touch

you can come to the next one,

next year,

trust me, it will

be even better.

going through the motions

i keep praying she says.

i keep

asking

for forgiveness. i keep

going to confession.

i listen to the catholic channel

all day and night.

i have rosary beads

in my purse,

on my dresser, hanging

from my rear view mirror.

i go to communion.

i know all the priests.

i wear a crucifix the size of

a spatula around my neck.

there's a glow in the dark

statue of Mary

on my desk.

i put a can of beans in the box

each sunday.

i attend mass on holy days

and never leave

early.

i keep asking

for peace. i keep asking God

to make things right again.

i want to be good.

He knows that, right?

why do i feel so bad all

the time

despite my life of rinse

and repeat.

when my son was five

when my son

was five or six, he looked up

at me

as we sat

outside the ice cream

store

as parents

passed by with their

children,

cones in hand

and he said to me, looking

into my eyes with

ice cream on his chin,

dad, he said,

i think women

wear make up to trick

men.

the all night card game

neither good nor bad

at cards

i get bored.

the pot is too small

or too large

for me

to involved.

i fold with three aces

and go stand by

the window

with a cigarette

in hand.

the lights are blue 

outside. the other

world is asleep.

i hear the ocean

approaching,

relentlessly,

wave after wave

crashing into the sand.

what is will pass

the tide will come

in.

don't worry. what is will

pass.

what's written

or built upon

the sand

will not last. so much

of what you fear

is temporary.

don't worry.

the tide will come in.

what is

will pass.

put on hold

i'm put on hold.

music begins to play.

violins.

i lean back in my chair.

i sip

my drink.

don't worry the voice

says,

it won't be long now.

only thirty three

more callers ahead

of you.

the music

returns. it's soothing,

relaxing.

it's like a dream.

i almost forget why

i've called this number.

but i have all day.

i can wait.

i've been on hold before.

many times.

the funeral processon

i get stuck in a funeral

procession going down

the highway

and can't get out.

i can see the hearse five

cars in front of me.

someone rolls their window

down and yells for me to turn

my lights on.

i yell back, i don't even know

this person.

and they yell back, no one did.

no one even liked her.

but turn your lights on,

pay some respect.

so i turn my lights on and keep

going, unable to turn off the road.

i go to the funeral

and stand by the gravesite

as people speak one by one.

then someone says to me, it's

your turn.

and so i go on and on.

and say how despite the fact

that we didn't know her

very well, she was a good

person, one of us, trying

to find her way in a world

as best she could. people

begin to cry. someone hands

me a handkerchief to

wipe my eyes, a woman pats

me on the back and says,

good job.

all that wasted dough

as i walk by the greeting card

section in the grocery store

i think about all the money

i've been saving

over the past couple of years

from not  buying any

of those cards about love 

and friendship,

devotion and joy.

soulmates, please.

i shake my head and sigh at

all those gift bags, those ribbons

and bows.

and then there's flowers. 

good Lord, what

i wouldn't do to have back

all that wasted dough.

you have to promise

after my mother passed

away

while living in a semi

conscious state for five

years, curled in a ball

with her eyes blinking

yes or no, in hospice,

i remember

what she said to me and others

before she became ill.

don't ever put me in a home

like i've seen my friends

go to, she said.

don't ever take me there,

with only strangers around.

no matter what happens, you

have to promise me

that i won't end up there.

let me die in my own house, 

in my own bed, surrounded

by my own things. even

if i have no memory, if

i've lost my mind, if i can't

walk or move a muscle,

no matter what happens

don't let them take me there.

you have to promise.

is this what i want

is this what i want,

or what you want?

this meal.

this choice.

this place to go and relax.

is this

the right the car

for me,

the right shirt, the right

pair of pants.

and these shoes.

black or brown.

is she the one to settle

on,

the one

i want to be around until

the end of time.

is this house

the right place to live.

is this paint

i'm rolling onto the wall

the best color

for me. will it make me

feel at home.

or should i pick another.

tell me.

the end of the story

you stop telling people

the things

that happened.

you've run dry

of the story.

your story.

it's done.

the last ember in a roaring

fire

has died.

a peace

like no other overcomes

you.

how easily you walk now.

how quickly

you smile. 

you stop and point

upwards, 

saying to strangers,

have you ever

seen such

a wonderous blue

sky?

it's not funny

it's one thing

to not be able to tell a joke,

but another

thing altogether

to not get one.

to not understand 

or see the humor

in this life

is a darkness 

you'll

never get out from

under.

the porch light on

we leave the porch light

on.

we want

who we love

to return.

to knock gently as we

sleep,

so that we can peek

out the window

and let them in again.

but when the light

is off.

they know to keep

walking, there is

no coming back,

we've truly reached 

our end.

a sky full of stars

once out in the country

away

from the city lights

how quickly

the sky becomes alive.

you see at last what

stars are really like.

the beauty and splendor

of what life can be.

your eyes are opened.

it's almost too much to

take in. 

you had to get away 

to see again.

spilled milk

a glass of milk tips

over

spilling

across the table

in a wet

sea

of white, it

ripples and collects

between the glasses

and plates.

it's just milk 

my mother says,

nothing

to get upset about.

no need to worry.

she goes to the kitchen

and gets another

cold bottle

from the ice box.

then pours

another glass.

she wipes the table

clean.

we sit, we pray,

we eat.

that's that.

what happened in my sleep

what happened in my sleep

that

i injured this leg.

this arm.

where was i 

in my

dream.

what's this bruise on

my chin,

this scrape on my cheek.

i'm sore

from head to toe

as if i went fifteen rounds

with a heavyweight.

and i thought

she was gone.

we're past that point

i'll wait until the sun gets up

before going

out to scrape

the ice off the windshield

of my car.

i'll sit with another cup

of coffee

and read. i won't bother

you with the weather

as you lie there, still

asleep. no need to wake

you up before i leave.

we're past that point

of discussion.

fool's gold

i break a tooth

on fool's gold.

it looked real glimmering

in the cold

stream,

sifted and panned

as i bent

over on sore knees.

the world news

i cancel

the paper, the channels,

the magazines.

i turn off

the radio.

tired and weary

of news of the world.

i'm relying now

on

only what i see.

and from

here.

things look fine.

i'll stay

in this spot for awhile

until

the rest blows over.

the dead language

our intentions

are lost

in the mix of half texts,

words

misspelled, punctuation

gone slack.

slang

and jive.

cartoon emojis.

a crazy stew of words

taking the place

of what

we grew up with.

the literature

of our youth

is dead.

no one is exactly clear

on what

one means.

ambiguity thrives.

just browsing

just browsing, 

i tell the clerk.

as i circle

the enormous store.

is there anything

i can help you find, 

she asks, staring

at my empty cart.

i look at her and smile.

do you want the short list

or the long list?

i'll know it when i see

it and when i do,

i'll make her mine.

fork or spoon?

what's your theme

song,

who would play you in a movie.

what's the title

of the book

all about you.

if you

were a bird

what kind of bird

would you

be.

what kind of animal

best tells

me who you are.

what's your favorite

color.

if you could be anyone

else who

would you be.

what would be your

last meal on earth

if you knew

the end was coming

soon.

maryanne or ginger?

fork, or spoon.

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.