two coats please

if this room gets painted

a brighter color,

she says, then

life will be better.

it will change everything.

this gallon of paint

will embolden me to move on.

yesterday won't matter

anymore with these old

walls brightened.

fix me, the label says.

fix me white and make

the world right again.

two coats please, 

i don't want the past

to bleed through.

the relic

the relic

in her black dress,

a walking antique.

still

intent on catching the eye

of each man,

each woman passing by.

those better days

are pages turned

in a book written

long ago,

which doesn't

seem to bother her.

a splash of perfume,

a wig for hair,

a stripe of lipstick

go a long way

in masking the fear.

delusion is a grand

thing as we age

and slowly disappear.

before the first cup

some things we know

before we know them.

mystery solved.

by opening our eyes.

there are no surprises

when you do.

everything is revealed

and the truth is known

before that first cup

of coffee goes down.

the field mouse

the cat comes in

from the cold and stares

at her

empty bowl.

her mouth bloodied

with a field mouse

she's left

at the door.

all night she's hunted

and this is her

reward,

bitterness sets in,

and she becomes

more aloof than 

ever before.

there is no other story

we want to believe

in little green men. we want

the loch ness monster

to be swimming

below the water.

giants in the woods.

elves upon our roofs.

we want conspiracies

and half truths,

we need to imagine beyond

this reality,

because this is hard.

this simple life.

everything being what

it appears to be.

there has to be a man

behind the curtain.

the real story

out of view,

another meaning

to the words. can everyone

be lying,

or just those close to you.

twilight too

we have our colors.

the shade

or hue

that brings us some sort

of elusive

peace.

i pick blue.

indigo.

the sky at night.

an azure haze.

the stream beyond

this window.

a spring sky

ready for

what's new.

twilight too.

behind the old house

i see her with her

satchel,

in her high boots,

carrying

a small broom, 

a shovel,

the instruments

she'd dig with.

a fine tooth comb,

and into

the dirt she'd go.

on her knees,

gently prodding

the silt and dirt,

seeking another man's

tooth,

a woman's hair clip,

or bones, not

worried about silver

or gold.

sweeping away

the time

which covers us all

before long.

when it's time to go

the dog, a friend of sorts,

a warm voice

when you enter the door.

the tail wagging in joy.

how sad

it is. and yet

how kind, to let them go,

to hold them

as they've grown old,

gone blind.

the muzzle white.

no longer

jumping onto the bed,

running up the stairs,

chasing whatever

it is that thrills them.

but it's time.

and with it goes those years.

those nights.

those days.

a life well lived

and loved,

impossible

to not shed tears.

some faces

some faces

you remember. even years

away from them,

the picture is clear in your mind.

the strike

of eyes, whether blue

or brown.

the length of chin,

or nose,

the shape of cheek.

the hair,

if it's short or long.

you've held that face

in your

hands before.

you've visited those lips,

never really letting it go.

canned peaches

there are canned peaches

on the shelf.

in light syrup no less.

pitted olives,

black and large,

tuna fish in water,

one in oil.

canned soup,

clam chowder and chicken

noodle.

black beans,

tomato sauce, tomato paste.

canned salmon,

canned peas, a bright green.

where have all these cans

come from.

who's been shopping

for me?

post card

her red cheeks

are cold, like apples.

but her lips

are warm against mine.

we'll stand in this

nook of woods

and kiss awhile, wrapping

ourselves in each

other's arms.

this is what love is

all about.

craving

it's not attachments,

but craving

that causes suffering,

desire for what you don't have,

or what you have

and wanting more.

the insatiable need

for something out of reach,

or someone,

that longing is what

destroys you.

leaves you on the floor.

a disposable world

i used to have a raincoat,

with a belt.

i used to have real boots with buckles.

i used to have a tv

with rabbit ears wrapped in foil.

i used to have a push mower,

heavier than me.

i used to have an ice tray, made

of metal with a pull up

handle to break free the cubes.

i used to have a milk man

bringing me milk and eggs,

leaving them on the porch

each morning.

i used to get the mail twice a day.

i used to have neighbors that i knew,

that would stop and say hey.

i used to have a photo in a frame

that i kept on my dresser.

i used to have dog.

i used to have a wife.

i used to have hair,

my eyes were once clear,

and i could hear out of both ears.

the only thing i've kept

throughout the years are books.

all the books i've read

and will read again.

i keep them near. 

in time i've learned 

what's disposable

and what i hold dear.

some many choices

some choose to live out

their life

and leave the world against their

will by

disease

or accident or

some unfortunate slip on the ice.

while others take

matters into their own hands,

with rope

or knife, a bottle of pills,

a ledge or bridge,

to leap from 

in a great swan dive.

but others choose 

a slower way

with smoke or drink,

enormous amounts

of food, another wife,

finding some vice that will

kill them,

but more slowly,

taking their time.

heard it through the grape vine

as more close friends

and relatives

die

the news is traveling slower

than normal

down the pipe line.

the grape vine

has rotted.

if you can't say anything

nice about someone

come sit next to me.

gossip ain't what it used

to be.

i've lost touch

with the dark side,

the nosy side,

the fun side of life.

where have all the blabber

mouths gone?

unoriginal sin

what is original

sin,

the apple?

for God's sake, it's just

an apple

or is it a metaphor

of sorts.

temptation

taking its course.

bite this

and go to hell.

is it that simple?

from where i sit

it seems that

sins have become

less unique,

less original.

the best medicine

you can laugh too hard

or not enough

or not at all.

it's a funny thing,

this thing called laughter.

but when it's real,

sincere,

you can hardly stop

and even a week from now

you'll be bent over

remembering the moment

and in tears.

sediment and sentiment

i save the day, mark

it on my calendar

to clean out the boxes,

the bins

that are stacked

in the high closet.

there is no order to things,

piled upon each other

by my thoughtless hand.

it's an archaeology dig

of sorts.

the layers of years.

sediment and sentiment,

some losing luster

others gaining.

old bills and letters.

unopened mail.

pictures of ghosts

stuck to one another.

each holiday card scattered

as if some wind

had brought it all together,

which it has.

pieces of you

there are pieces of you

lost

down through the ages.

small

slices of your heart

and soul.

hair and bone.

blood

and skin.

so much of it lost

in the pursuit of love,

in trying to stave

off another

bitter end.

the unmarked grave

when her mother died

she began

to count the money

almost in hand.

emptying the tea pots,

the jars,

shaking each book free

of dollar bills.

she begged to know where

it all was.

her inheritance.

where did she keep

her mad money.

buried in the yard,

stuffed in some attic box?

surely there must be more.

she thought,

standing over the unmarked

grave, still warm.

the senses

which sense would you

give up

if need be, if forced by some

dark god

to surrender.

your sight,

your sense of smell, or taste,

or touch,

your ears

perhaps. empathy?

compassion?

which could you live

without

and still go on as 

if all is well, as many do.

taking count

even if you tried

could you count the stars,

the rain drops,

the leaves that fall.

the steps you've taken

with your feet,

each beat of your heart?

could you count

the true loves of your life?

of course you could,

there's a task

that isn't hard.

the janus mask

as we look through

the glass

we see the moon 

more clearly.

the pock marked face.

that janus mask.

the stars are more certain

of their place.

the trees,

each leaf etched

in winters ice.

we see the limbs 

bare and grey,

heavy and wet.

we see as far as we

can see.

but she's not there.

not yet.

the ice pond

this ice pond, 

so blue,

mirroring in

a distant sun.

a smile of winter

that we best not walk upon.

though tempting

as all things are

that appear beautiful

from a distance.

the history of man unkind

while i stir this pot,

watching the dark stew boil

i see into it the history

of man unkind.

it's not good.

but what is there to do.

what changes

can be made at this point.

people being people

now and forever more.

you can only stir.

you can only eat.

you can only find good love

and bolt the door.

the borrowed coat

it feels strange to borrow

another's coat.

to slip your arms

down the long sleeves,

with more room

to it than you need.

to button and clasp

it to your chin,

but it's cold out,

it's winter and we do what

we must do

in times like these.

another love in kansas

slowly they drag

the brown pond between

the houses.

her note left on a pillow

suggested

that drowning may 

be possible,

but there is nothing to be found.

no one dead

resides here.

she must be somewhere

else someone says.

and she is

somewhere else, asleep

on a bus

in a state of calm,

going to kansas

where she may or may not

find another love.

it feels like nowhere

it feels like nowhere, 

but it isn't.

the clapboard shack

riddled by wind,

softened with moss

and mildew.

the unhinged screen door.

a shutter askew.

one crutch leaning on 

a broken porch beside

a pair of outside shoes,

the chimney with its

slender flag of smoke

whipping against 

the sagging roof.

there are so many clues

that you are not nowhere,

but somewhere.

a place quite familiar to you.

both cruel and kind

what is this face

about,

a study

of life lived.

a soft world

of deepened lines,

laughter

and tears somehow

finding

themselves together.

woven

into who we are

under this light,

both cruel and kind.

the more i know you

the further

i travel, the more miles

below my feet,

the more turns of the clock

that awakens me

from sleep

the more i know you.

all becoming less

of  a mystery. i see clearly

who you are. what wasn't true,

there was nothing there

to keep me.

the more i piece together

the fog of you

the more i realize

how strange and true

it all was

and that it had nothing

to do with love or peace.

mail and the milk

more careful at this age

we are

as we step

down the icy stairs

gripping a frozen rail,

we shuffle to the gate,

searching out

tufts of green grass .

cautious

as we bend for

the newspaper, a baton

of ink under melting glass.

how quickly the time

has passed,

closing in on

a whistle around our neck.

the cane by the door.

the neighbor

seeing to our mail

and milk.

rising early

without alarm,

each day earlier

than the day before.

rest here

rest here, 

you tell the child

come home

from

being young

now growing old.

rest here

and tell me what's right,

what's wrong,

what  path you're on.

rest here

and let us talk 

until the sun has gone

until  the moon appears.

rest here,

we'll eat, we'll drink,

we'll talk some more.

then we'll go up to our beds

and sleep,

we'll sleep until sleep

awakens us, and then

we'll carry on.

what learned book

what brings one man

to the knife

and another to 

the cloth.

mother, father,

nature running its course?

how can answers

be found

below the skin,

deep within the well

of thought.

what learned book

will help.

but as we often find,

over time,

that what isn't fixed 

will soon be lost.

save yourself

there is no one 

coming to save you.

no one

on a white horse.

no wishing upon a star.

no mother

or father.

no friend, no relative,

no angel 

from the sky.

save yourself.

it's the best you can do

in the worst of times. 

take hold of the reins,

it's your life,

your ride.

bee stings are fine

i'm thinking about getting a

push up bra,

betty tells me over the phone.

okay.

i tell her. good idea. beats

the other options.

i just want my clothes to fit

better.

right, i tell her. of course you do.

no really, when i look in the mirror

i'm like a surfboard, i got

nothing going on in that department.

men always look at women

with big bazooms.

i sigh.  bazooms?

well, do what you have to do.

it's your decision, your body.

stuff some kleenex in there if you want.

so you're saying no. stick to what

i have.

which is small case A cup

i got zero cleavage. zero.

pfffft, so what.

men don't really care,

i tell her.

whether you have enormous bazooms

up there, or bee stings.

it's who you are inside that matters.

what kind of person you are.

oh my god, she says.

who are you?

how many martinis have you had

tonight?

wait for book three

she tells me 

i'm going onto amazon

and give your book

the best review 

in the history of reviews.

seven stars.

i tell her,

there's only four stars possible.

and besides you don't even read poetry,

you hate poetry

until i write something about you.

that's true, she says, i'd read more,

but you haven't written about me

in years.

what does a girl have to do 

to get a poem written about her

these days?

please, i tell her, don't go there.

perhaps in book three

you'll appear.

the unmended heart

people like to pull up 

a pant leg

to show you a scar,

where the leg broke

in a fall.

there's always a story

to go along with it.

they roll up a sleeve 

and say look, 

look at the teeth marks.

sand shark off the coast

of the florida keys.

they show you a broken tooth.

a bent finger. they point

to where a bullet went in 

and never came out.

at last they get to what

they really want to say,

putting a hand over 

their heart, while

speaking softly about

the love they once had,

and then lost.

going dark

when the bulb expires

making a soft

explosion within itself,

going black

making the room dark,

you sit there for a moment

and ponder

this new state of affairs.

you could feel your way

to the shelf

where the new bulbs lie.

you could turn

on a light to help you

across the room,

but you sit there

and wonder if there's

a reason for this sudden

darkness. is the world

trying to tell you 

something new?

the cold water well

we dip

the cup into the well

to quench a thirst

that's never quenched.

tomorrow

we will want more.

and the next day too.

no matter how cold

and sweet the water

is going down,

how it feels and fills

us with lifes waters,

there is always

the need for one more.

one more cup

to see us through.

unchain my heart

i remember in the cold night

with a thin saw

in hand

cutting myself free from

the iron clad

shackles that bound

my feet and hands.

the dust of metal piling up

beside me

as i furiously sawed

against the chains.

not stopping until they were

off and i was running

free and happy once again.

the bittersweet

the bittersweet

often arrives after the too

sweet

has been licked clean

from your

mouth, your lips, the essence

of hope

erased from your eyes.

the bittersweet

has its moment.

a kind slap

against your cheek

awakening you to the reality

of what you were

never meant to keep.

a thin coat of ice

it's just a thin coat 

of hard ice

that spills

me in the early morning 

as i make my way

to the mailbox

at the end of the yard.

upended but unharmed

i lie there

and stare up into the sky.

a flat grey sheet

of nothing,

wringing out more rain,

more sleet,

the cold wetness dripping

into my blinking eyes.

i could lie here all

day, i think

if i wasn't so cold

and didn't have other things

to do.

something black and silky

i fear a woman with

hands on her hips

when talking to you.

they mean business.

there's no fooling around.

they've taken a stand,

holding their ground.

you're in for a long day

when you see a woman

like that standing at 

the end of your bed

holding something

black and silky in

their hand, not hers.

peanut shells

there's a trail

of peanut shells in the living room

going up the stairs

to the bedroom.

i have no one else to blame.

i rub my lips,

salty and dry.

i'm very thirsty.

i look at the calendar

and see that it's twenty

more days until

the maid comes again.

i wonder where the vacuum

is. did the ex take it with her

when i asked her

to leave and never contact

me again.

no. there it is in the basement

closet covered in

dust and spider webs.

i could go out and buy

a new one, i suppose.

it's what i do. 

get rid of the old.

replace it with new.

don't look at my groceries

the clerk, cheerful, because he

was told by

the day manager in the early morning

meeting before

the store opened, to be cheerful,

to be friendly,

smiles

and comments on my

groceries as he slides them

across the belt.

making a cake today, i see,

he says.

he places the flour and sugar

into the bag together.

the eggs. the oil.

the icing in its round tub.

a box of candles.

i like cake too. my mother made

me a cake for my birthday, he says.

then looks at me for some sort

of response.

but i give him none. i don't like

people looking at my

groceries.

the waiting room

in the waiting room

we sit

side by side, or across from one

another

with our quiet ailments.

we sift through

the magazines

on the table.

it's not quite our time

to go in

and spill our troubles

for a swift fifty minutes.

some twitch, some sneeze,

some wrap their arms

around themselves.

others stare off into a place

where only they can see.

everyone looks as if

they're on the verge of

tears, or a breakdown.

tapping their feet.

keeping a beat to a

drummer only they hear.

second hand smoke people

when you're with

people

who are out to lunch, off

the chain

abusive and cold, full

of despair, dysfunction

and disdain. you get sick

with them.

stay in the room long

enough with such souls

and you too

will go off the deep end.

they are like second smoke,

and soon you too

will be coughing, 

choking,

unstable with the same.

toll booth woman

the toll

booth woman, in drab grey.

grey hat.

her hair as red

as red can be,

bunched in a brillo

like style,

a color not found in any

crayon box,

or in nature.

but she's civil in

the way

her hand reaches out

for a dollar.

all day.

her civility never fades

with almost a smile

on her weary face.

almost.

the lemon

the lemon fools you

into thinking

of something sweet.

how could such a 

sunny piece of fruit

have such a bitter taste.

what a strange twist 

of fate it is,

for someone  to appear

to be one thing

and then to find out

they're another altogether.

the waitress

how do you like your eggs,

the girl

asks me

as she stands with a notepad

in hand.

she's very pretty,

which she doesn't know quite

yet.

which is the best pretty

to have.

over easy, i tell her.

she marks that down.

coffee?

yes.

toast?

wheat, i tell her.

bacon?

of course.

she jots that down and away

she goes.

i watch her turn the corner

of the diner

and disappear.

i wonder about her happiness.

not mine.

with me it's all clear.

with nothing else to say

with nothing else

to say she says

the weather,

is quite cold.

we may get a storm

by the weekend.

it's too early to tell.

but it feels like snow.

it's going down well

below freezing and a cold

front is moving in.

we both look up

into the sky.

we don't talk for awhile.

what more is there to say.

and when

we  get home, we look

out the window.

and she says.

it's starting to snow,

and i agree, going down

to the cellar

for the shovel.

feeling lonely

being lonely

is natural. wanting to be with

another.

the absence of a hand,

the touch,

the kiss.

desiring a warm body,

a kind voice

beside you. it's natural.

normal.

we want companionship.

we seek it out for most

of our lives.

but there is no

worse feeling, no deeper

loneliness than when with

someone you don't

love or like, or 

even lust anymore.

those are long, and the nights

unbearable.

rare love

when we talk about love

we often

include intimacy,

as part of it.

sex.

the act of love.

two bodies entwined

in the spirit

of success.

but of course there's more.

the world is full

of sex without love,

love without sex.

finding both at the same

time

is rare. 

say yes

i need a couple of yes people

in my life.

everyone else keeps saying no.

no you can't eat that,

no you can't buy that,

don't read that, don't watch that,

don't write that.

no you can't do that. no, take

your hands off of me.

not tonight. not now. not ever.

no, you have to wait. no, no, no.

i need to hear yes once in a while.

maybe something like,

of course, sure, why not. let's do it.

that sort of thing. yes. yes. yes.

life would be so much easier

and fun, at least for me. yes?

i want to bite her neck

i don't mean to bite her neck,

my vampire friend Vladmir

tells me

as he adjusts his cape

sitting near the fire.

it just happens

in the heat of the moment,

something comes over me

and i just can't help myself.

she has such a nice neck.

so slender and sexy.

the veins, so blue and enticing.

her perfume, the way her

hair hangs down.

i shake my head and hand him

a napkin to wipe the blood

off his lips. i point at his chin.

he dabs at it.

maybe you should just

nibble a little, kiss. not bite.

show a little restraint 

on the first date. cool your jets.

now you can't get rid of them.

they're all down there

pale and weak waiting

for the sun to rise, hanging

around your crypt.

no sugar tonight

someone tells me 

that they haven't

had sugar

in any form for

over twelve years,

no a single spoonful,

not a packet,

not one lump to sweeten

their day.

and they're all 

the better for it.

i look at them and smile

and think to myself.

maybe we should have

a parade.

it's been twelve minutes 

for me, i say, 

wiping the crumbs 

of a donut

off my shirt, the chocolate

off my face.

one of many watches

i shake the watch

one of many tossed 

into the drawer.

unworn.

keeping time.

it's on the job.

i put it to my ear

and listen.

it still ticks.

still reminding me

that the end is always

near.

the vines

the vines are relentless.

up the fence,

the brick wall, they 

are grow. invasive,

gripping all that we own.

wrapping tightly

around our throats with

their hard knit bones.

see how they get

under your skin, right to

the heart they go.

who is your vine

today?

the green ice

the water, green, settles

into an icy pond

behind

the garden, where the statue

stands.

the birds will come

when the sun rises

and warms up

the world,

melts the ice.

we are all waiting for that

to some degree.

the love machine

i used to save things.

sentimental things.

cards and gifts.

photos signed with a kiss.

small things seemed large

at the time.

but then i bought this crushing

machine that i keep

in the yard.

it burns things too.

it has a button, called the

insincerity button.

it's red. one push of the button

and all that junk

given to you in the guise

of love is gone.

come valentine's day

it's a busy little machine.

patty the plumber

i go to plumbers dot com

to find a suitable

plumber to come and fix

my leaky toilet.

it runs all night and all day

no matter how much

i jiggle the handle.

i swipe left, then left again

on a dozen or so men

in overalls and jumpsuits.

bearded men with ample

bellies. men with glasses

on, men with bald heads

and a glint in their eye.

men holding up pipes

and wrenches, men standing

by their trucks painted

with logos and images

of commodes and sinks

beside them. finally i

settle on Patty the Plumber.

she has a shamrock on

the side of her white van.

and she's wearing a short

plaid dress with long boots.

her is black as night

and her greens eyes

are smiling

i swipe right. but she's booked

six weeks in advance.

i can wait.

the final draft

instead of a poem

i bake a cake instead.

so much easier.

much more likeable

in the long run.

lets stress and wringing

of hands.

in a mixing bowl is where

i'll say what needs

to be said.

with butter and cream,

oil and eggs.

it's the oven that will

make it rise

and grow, bring it to

fruition.

once gone i won't have

to go back

to read it again, to edit it.

this cake will be a final

draft.

the apples

all day the man

stacks apples on 

the square board

in the well lit store.

they grow

into a pyramid.

one by one, he puts a

shine on their red skins,

then carefully finds

a place for each of them.

he's wearing a store shirt.

blue with yellow

birds upon it, but

he's not a company man.

it's just a job.

making pyramids out

of apples.

and at night when he goes

home and lies

in bed, alone.

he thinks about his apples.

how quickly the days

of his life are going.

the new bruise

when bruised 

we study the bruise.

we touch it 

in wonder

at it's new color. 

it's stiff mound of pain.

the blue

and violet of it, 

turning green, tomorrow

a sunrise yellow.

we show it to others. 

we say

look at this.

pulling up our shirt,

and they say, how did you

do that?

and you shrug, and say

i'm not sure,

but it hurts.

cat woman

i wouldn't 

call her a cat woman

mainly for the reason

that she didn't have

any cats,

not to mention 

that she didn't

even like cats.

they were too much

like her, aloof

and distant, self

centered

with a head of straw

like hair,

but besides that 

she really was a cat

woman with all 

the loony quirks

attached.   

already?

i negotiate with the sun

rising

through the window.

a yellow stream between the slats.

i say soon.

a few minutes more of lying

here.

it's a quiet discussion,

mostly in my head.

the sun is silent as always.

it can't be that early i plead.

how quickly the night went

by. i still have so many

dreams left

in my head.

time sits still

when someone passes

and time

sits still

for a while we wonder

why others are unaware

of how fragile

this life is.

we want to shake 

them to stop

what they're doing and

listen to what you

now clearly know.

how temporary all things are.

but sorrow is holy

ground, full of dark wisdom

and you can only

stay there so long

before you to go back

to it, back to whatever

life is left,

your feet once again

on the ground.

the fallen tree

no one can get over 

the fallen tree

in the yard.

the great oak

that's been there forever.

they stand with hands

on hips

and shake their heads.

they take pictures.

they call to tell others,

saying remember that tree,

well, it fell last night.

you have to come and see.

the men are cutting it

into pieces and taking 

it away. i'll never forget

that tree, they say,

the shade that it gave.

but they do.

bring you, to me

don't bring me whisky

when i die

lying

still on far side of

life.

don't wet my lips 

with anything,

but yours.

let your face be the last

one i see.

your voice the last

one i hear.

don't bring me whiskey

as i take my last breath,

bring you

to me.

through the alley

so rare we turn

into an alley on our own,

in twilight,

by mistake, but there 

is something

magical and dark, old

about a long stretch of

wet brick and muck,

of cans turned over,

of those lost

unconscious against barred

windows.

the rotted doors.

boys with knives,

and women

waiting with open arms

and legs for who's next.

careful of the rats as

we transverse

this hollow

with its echoing sound

of sirens and screams.

we wonder if we can get to

the other side,

through this unmapped cut

to another street.

in song and wine

we soothe ourselves

in song

and wine,

in the rapture 

of false love,

the thin

disguise

of fame, the gold

in our hands

that turns green.

we ease our pain with

prayer,

with food.

with the comfort

of ignorance, allowing

us to sleep.

fashion choices

who wears checkered pants.

bold striped

shirts.

pink ties

or polka dots.

suspenders?

not I.

give me black,

blue,

or grey. and on a special

occasion

white.

don't humiliate me

with an orange

jumpsuit

when they catch me

and i have to do the time.

the running man

the running man,

at his finish line,

at such a young age.

i see him now

barefoot in the rain

going forward.

his feet splashing against

the pavement.

strange how life ends

so soon,

too soon for our liking.

but he keeps running,

leaving a trail

behind him

as he continues on

without us,

lighter and faster than

he ever was before.

scratch biscuits

her apology comes 

in the form

of scratch biscuits

hot from the oven,

a pad of land of lakes

on a cold plate,

a flat knife

to break them apart,

the swipe of butter

melting in the crumble.

she says nothing.

but it's an apology of sorts.

i don't ask her why,

i don't ask her 

what she has done.

it's over now 

whatever it was.

eat them, she says, 

eat them

while they're still warm.

in another town

I look for the squeak,

that lingering noise,

neither pleasant

or unpleasant

but keeping us awake

into the wee hours.

i rise in the dark

my feet on the cold boards 

and seek it out, 

this noise this pest of

sound reminding me 

of a night

in another room

with someone else,

in another town.

infidelity

there is always 

the danger of desire,

of lust,

like wind removing

apples from a tree.

they fall to rot

in the heat

of infatuation,

to be hollowed out

by worms,

then turned sour

in the tiny mouths

of secrets.

in times of need

you imagine money,

enormous bundles of green,

more than you'll ever need.

suddenly it's in every drawer,

in every pocket.

there is money in the toilet,

in the oven, in the ice-box.

it is piled up in your yard

like leaves. you take your wife

and hold her in your arms,

you squeeze her.

money comes out of her mouth.

neighbors press their faces

against your windows.

the phone gets hot in your hand.

the door bell plays on.

relatives parachute in out of

nowhere. they drop from the sky

with smiles on their faces,

fruit cakes clutched

in their trembling hands.

the sick rise and come forward.

even the mailman winks

as he brings you word from afar.

you imagine burning money.

the parents below

out the window an orchid moon

opens violet and blue, a flower

lush in sorrow, planted in the crib

of youth. the moon spills

its sour milk down me. it curdles

in my belly as i listen

to the argument burn below.

the gases rise up the stairs,

seep beneath my door,

they singe my moonlit lungs.

their liquored curses stain me

like the wet sheets, yellow

and cold in the morning.

the bright pinch of ammonia,

its memory simmering up, even now

at this age, into vapors of shame.

in a cool room

here i lie, twisted in my bed,

surgically cut from here to there.

belly up in the lather of shaved ice

behind the slant of glass,

my cheek limp where the hook went in,

jelled eyes, a stiffened spine.

i can still remember the ocean,

the wind of water in my fins,

the easy bend of body

through warm, then cold shadows,

a turquoise wash of light

upon my scales and skin.

i was perfect in form and color,

in purpose. my life laid out before me.

now as they come in white schools

and point, checking their lists.

i imagine a black numbered sign

staked near my head,

marking me up or down,

dollars per precious pound.

houdini

under layers of light

and water, you think

about sinking,

of opening your mouth

and drinking

the world dead.

you think of escape.

the danger of losing touch

with air.

this is what you dream of

before you arise,

before you begin

in the shallow waters 

of morning

to pick the locks

that fill you day.

where they find you

you enter the room

and find a chair.

it is not the one

you would have chosen

had the room been empty.

it may not even be

the most comfortable chair,

but it's the closet one,

the one available.

and so you sit.

the chair becomes yours

before the day is over.

it is the one you pick

when you return again,

then again.

as time goes on,

it is where others expect

to find you.

it is the place

that will be empty

when you die.

one season

i tell her

that i know nothing

about trees.

and have no desire

to learn anymore

than what i see.

from green to gold

to bare,

then back again.

and because of that

our love won't last

a season.

in shiny wonder

my mother,  

God rest her soul,

lived across the bridge, 

unmoved.

there was no where else 

she wanted to be.

nowhere else she wanted 

to go.

there was the blue sofa.

a yellow bird

singing in a cage,

a simple garden in the yard.

she never laid her eyes 

upon the pyramids, or

the Eiffel Tower, or 

the Empire State building,

although she once knew 

a woman

who leaped to her death 

from that great height.

she never flew across the country,

or took a cruise 

to some exotic land.

her feet never touched 

the ocean on either shore,

but if you asked her where 

the canned tomatoes were,

or the black olives,

large and pitted,

in the grocery store,

she'd smile and tell you 

with great pride,

the aisle and row,

the position on the shelf

where they sat

in shiny wonder.

visiting the horse

the barn was full 

of cats.

and horses.

it smelled. you could hardly

catch your breath.

and yet, you stood

and washed,

you fed your horse.

taking your time.

you whispered into his old

ears, stroked his

long back.

calling him by name.

i remember the winter

light coming through

the other end

as i watched

you in your boots.

your long black hair

down your back.

i watched a tenderness

that i never knew

was there.

a picture of you

there are twelve poster notes

stuck to the wall.

yellow flagged

reminders of what needs

to be done.

names and numbers, places

yet to go.

stuck before my eyes. telling

me what to do.

and there you are beside them

your picture

curled with age, 

a younger face,

and dare i say, a happier

version of you.

canned peaches

the peach was not enough.

it had to be picked

and carved,

sliced into quarters

and factory canned

with syrup to make it

sweeter than it ever was.

than a picture goes

on the side.

a tree full of peaches 

luscious and fat,

so hard they tried.

say no

say no

to someone and find out

who they are.

it's the magic word.

it will pull

back the kind curtain,

and reveal

who you are dealing with.

say no.

then say it again.

holding your ground.

it won't be long

before you see who

they really are,

and then strangely

and suddenly they are

not longer  around.

when the dying die

when the dying die

after a long

fight with it, and we've

been there by their side,

and at last

it ends for them,

for us, we go back to

what we were doing before.

as if nothing happened.

there is no other way

to go forward, no other

way to go on.

we have to set them down,

and live again.

ancient history

the museum is cold

with

ancient history.

we walk down the marble

steps,

down the hall

and stand and stare 

at a masterpiece

that's found its way

through the centuries

to this great wall.

it hangs before us.

two people once in love

but no longer there.

the heidelberg bakery

you take a number at the door

of the German bakery.

the line is long,

the air is warm.

people are holding lists 

of what breads to buy. 

whole wheat and white,

sourdough or seeded rye.

what dinner rolls

and sweets to take home.

the glassed cases are aglow

with precious wedding cakes 

iced in yellows and white,

rounded and tiered.

tiffany blue squares.

so much to choose from.

each bite a memory

holding so many years.

don't forget

the aisles are filled

with easter

already

and valentine's.

st. patrick's day can't be

far behind.

and then the fourth

of july.

what's next?

don't forget the birthdays,

the anniversaries,

flag day. so many days

we must buy for

and keep in mind.

what's so funny

the funny bone

is hardly funny when struck

on the corner

or sharp edge 

of a door or table.

no laughter arises,

no good humor

appears.

just the sudden pain

and tingle of struck nerves.

funny

how you struck my funny

bone so often.

but without bringing

a single laugh,

just tears.

matching lamps

she had matching lamps

sitting

on matching tables

beside matching blue chairs

the curtains were parted

evenly, as were the sheers.

flowers on the table,

centered.

the books aligned by height

and color.

each can or jar positioned

just so in the cupboard,

dishes by size

and weight together.

everything was in its place.

even her husband.

sitting still, in his khaki pants

and matching sweater.

drive-thru therapy

i see my therapist

at her new business. a drive-thru

where the old bank

used to be.

she's at the window.

you roll up and tell her your

troubles and woes

in fifteen minutes or less

and she gives you an express

diagnosis.

there's a line wrapped around

the building.

interfering with traffic going

into chic filet. 

i pull up to the window

and she shouts, hey.

how are you, been awhile.

what's up.

please don't tell me you went

back to that nutcake?

i laugh, no, no and no.

done with that.

i just thought i'd say hello

and see how you're doing.

i'm great she says.

just fine and dandy, business

is booming.

i see, i see, i tell her.

well, i'll be on my way now.

okay, she says. that'll be

fifty dollars, cash or check?

or you can bring me lunch,

i like that spicy chicken

sandwich and the waffle fries.

you got it, i tell her. be back

in an hour or so, you know

how they be.

maybe

once you retire

have you ever thought of going

back to school.

or learning how to play golf.

maybe you should

take out a map and hit the road.

start a new business.

write another story, another

poem. a book perhaps.

maybe you should

buy a boat, or jump out of

a plane, or take a cruise.

maybe take up fishing, or

hunting, something like that.

have you ever been to italy,

or spain? take a yoga class

and learn how to mediate

on a cushiony blue mat.

maybe. or maybe you should

just rest a while and do something

you're really really good at.

like taking an afternoon nap.

no different than him

the lone wolf

long legged and red eyed

awash in

grey snow

coming out of the woods

stares you down,

friend or foe.

his teethed bared

in fear.

you stand there and let

him pass.

he has nothing

against you and you have

no qualms with him.

you just want

to go on your way

in this world,

to be left alone,

no different than him.

salt and sugar

the sheer weight of the world

is almost too much

to bear.

the days add up like

lead sometimes.

keeping you bent over

in a direction

you'd rather not go.

only sleep or love keeps

you going. the taste of salt

or sugar on

your tongue

or writing a word or two

on here.

a night time visitor

i find the cellar door

ajar.

someone has paid me a visit

in the dead of night.

i peek inside

the dark chamber

of cold webs.

blackened dust.

a mound of what looks like

a pile of coal.

i yell out is anyone

in there.

is there anyone home?

and a mouse

climbs out of a box

of old clothes.

i smile.

sorry to disturb you,

my little friend.

go back to sleep.

i thought it was someone

else. please make

yourself at home and

stay awhile.

so nice to see you once

again.

not quite dead

in their nineties.

living on machine pumped air.

the shelf

lined with pills.

what is the strategy here?

to live another day,

another year.

holding on to counter tops

and doors.

the walls scraped

with the falls of

walking bones.

unable to sleep unable

to wake up.

afraid of being alive,

afraid of being alone.

a cup of tea.

a bowl of soup.

bread.

the food of the incarcerated.

hardly alive.

not quite dead.

the apron strings

too much mothering

becomes

smothering, not love.

the child stays attached

to apron strings,

always in the shadow.

his life

becomes long and hard

in finding a job, or 

intimacy.

who or what can

compare to mother,

the bar set

high and wide.

these children stay stuck 

in childhood,

never straying far

from the home,

the room they were set

in when born.

thirty years passes

quickly in

the blink

of a mother's selfish

eyes.

let them eat cake

if you're having trouble

with someone

bake them a cake.

it they're disagreeable

and angry with you for 

something you may have

said or done,

if they are cantankerous souls,

bitter and mean

for no apparent reason.

bake them a cake.

go out and get the ingredients.

make it from scratch,

with flours and eggs and all

that you need to make it right.

and when it's done 

bring it to their door

as a peace offering, 

a kind attempt

to make things right.

and if they say no, 

if they refuse it,

then take the cake home,

and you eat it.

hide under your beds

they keep counting

the deaths.

the tote board is lit up

with fear

by numbers.

it will get worse before

it gets better,

they promise, so hold

your breath.

stay indoors, hide under

your beds.

they find fault. they find

no answers.

it's what people want to hear.

how many more

will die

because of this.

and we are here to keep score.

to keep you

watching.

updating, correcting the count.

you could be next.

stayed tuned.

we'll be right back after

this brief commercial message.

finding the end

sometimes the blue sky

is a sharp knife

reminding you

of pain.

those winter mornings

when leaving the house.

and sitting

in your car crying.

the cold of night

upon you.

the sun was nothing.

the promise of spring

was nothing.

the blue sky was enormous.

and silent.

how much further could

you go.

before finding the end.

the next door neighborhood watch

the next door neighborhood

network

is quick

to ask

did anyone hear that noise

last night.

it sounded like gunshots,

or fireworks.

has anyone seen my cat.

it's a black and white

with a red collar.

she doesn't answer to her name,

which is sugarplum.

there's been a strange

man circling in a white

van with rugs

sticking out of the back.

there's a woman walking

around with a baby

in her arms. she seems lost.

is anyone upset about

the closing of sex store

up the street?

are you hearing that screeching

in the woods at night?

coyote, or fox?  sheila

my ex wife, perhaps?

who has good chinese

food around here?

dissecting the whitsun weddings

the book club 

has resorted to zoom

for their get togethers.

the connections

though are weak.

sit closer, speak up.

one says.

what are you drinking. 

hold the cup

up to the screen.

i should put some clothes

on another says.

i've been in this bathrobe

for weeks.

what's the book today. or

tonight. it is dark out, i guess.

does anyone here

know how to sync pandora

to my speakers?

the whitsun weddings,

ingrid says.

take out your books

and turn to page 17.

we're going to talk about

poetry today.

i hate poetry, one man says.

they never say

what they mean.

what else?

you don't look that old, 

she says.

sipping her second martini.

you don't act

that old either.

you have a spark 

in your eye.

a fun side.

and you appear to be

very strong.

i flex my arm to let

her feel my muscle.

oh my, she says.

i wave to the waitress 

to bring

us another round

of drinks.

go on, i tell her. what else?

the unreadable book

i should return this book 

to the library.

they must be wondering

where this copy 

of Ulysses is.

this thick unreadable

book, hard back

in a deep worn blue.

i've had it for over twenty years.

the fine must be enormous.

i'm still on page six. 

four hundred more

pages to go.

it's made 

a fabulous door stop 

though,

all these years off the shelf

of the library.

silk stockings

we lose speed

over time.

the race having been run over

and over again.

the fast cars

have slowed, so have the fast

women you

used to know.

they want relationships now.

they want to sit

by the fire and knit

with a cat in their lap.

bring me a hot tea,

they say,

the tequila days are over,

wearing the silk

stockings,

and lamp shades.

rusted armor

it takes awhile to get dressed

these days

with no squire to assist you

in putting on your armor.

your metal boots,

strapping on the breastplate,

the helmet. handing you

your sword, your shield,

your knife.

you do it all on your own

before going out for coffee.

clanging down the street.

it's not easy these days

being a knight.

the atlas map

i don't know how to get there

from here.

i'm lost.

i'm wandering in a circle,

as i often do.

going left when i should

have gone right.

i have the dome light on

and staring into

my phone. i take out the old

atlas map with

the numbered grids.

it must weigh twenty pounds.

i haven't used this map since

i met the lady in red

in wheaton.

twenty years ago.

i've still have the skull 

and cross bones etched

in black indicating

where she lived.

skin deep

strange how beauty fades.

even in a short time.

how you once

looked at someone and thought

she was the most

beautiful woman in the world,

but when her heart went

dark you could hardly

put your eyes upon her, 

let alone hold her in your arms,

or kiss her.

seven feet down

i remember when i was about

18 or 19

years old and digging

ditches for a living.

it was so cold the blade

of the shovels 

or pick axe would break

beneath the strike of my boot

or the swing upon the hard earth.

we went down along the sides

of new brick town homes

shabbily built and leaking.

we found the cracks

and parged the walls.

it was good money at the time.

helped to feed and clothe

the other five children living

at home. gas money.

electric money. i didn't complain

about the work.

the frost and snow, the brutal

winds. i just went in and 

someone pointed at the ground

and said dig here.

and once i was seven feet under

it wasn't so cold after all.

thin mints

i'm low on thin mints.

but i haven't

seen a girl scout around here

for years.

where'd they all go

with their list of cookies,

their order chart.

i've got the money right here

on the counter.

i want three boxes of thin mints.

i need them within a week or so.

i'm ready to place my

order pronto.

i just need a girl scout

to knock on the door, or ring

the bell. i'll even get a box

of those peanut butter things

just to unload them

off you.

when i get back

when i get back, we'll talk.

we'll sit down

and discuss things.

figure out where we're going

or where we're not going.

we'll make a plan

and decide what to do.

we'll stick to it this time.

we'll be strong.

when i get back, we'll talk.

it's over due.

like many things we've put

off the end for a very

long time. you know it

and i know it too.

blimey

i see that my book sales overseas

are not going well.

one book in one month.

how am i ever going to get that

new bmw,

the fur coat i've always wanted.

how can i afford

that beach house with three dollars

and fourteen cents royalty

from the UK.

i can't even get a large coffee

on that paltry sum.

i get it, i'm no dylan thomas,

no philip larkin.

hell i'm not even dr. suess,

but hey. give the brother a break.

blimey.

making excuses

in the old days

there were different excuses

for not seeing

one another.

my horse is in the shop.

he needs new

shoes.

or i got my hand caught

in the butter churn,

and i lost a few fingers.

i need to plow the lower

forty come sunrise,

and my cow has a cough.

the chickens have all flew

the coop.

the bridge is out.

a storm's a coming.

there's a little war going

on, the blue and the grey,

perhaps you've heard about it.

my trousers are torn

and i'm out of a proper 

needle and thread

to mend them.

closure

i used to wait for an apology.

a long letter, or an e mail,

even a text. some form of

communication would have been

nice. some sort of statement

of regret. of sincere sorrow over

what was done. an admission

of guilt. a falling on the sword

with a spiritual awakening.

i used to wait

for something like that to arrive

in the mail for closure. 

but no such luck.

silence actually says more

than you'll ever need to know

to close that door.

when people tell you who 

they are, believe them,

and go on.

leesburg pike

they've been working

on the road for about six years now.

large men in hardhats

and bright green vests.

cranes and trucks,

orange cones as far as the eye

can see.

the detour signs.

the piles of dirt being pushed

here and there by tractors.

jersey walls and striped

barriers.

they built the empire state

building in a hundred days.

irish and italian, greek

immigrants, chinese men.

we can't build a road five

miles long in a decade.

whoops, our bad

don't call us, we'll call you.

so you wait

by the phone.

you pick it up to make sure

it's working.

you hear that buzz of the dial tone.

it doesn't ring.

nothing, for hours, for days.

for weeks on end.

you're in a line somewhere.

but you don't know how far

back or when.

we're making more vaccine.

honest they say in an email.

we didn't realize so many

people were dying.

we should have made more.

who knew that we needed

three hundred million

doses of vaccine. it took us

by surprise. our bad, whoops.

we might have ten shots

available in your neighborhood

by march. stay tuned.

try to not to die in the meantime.

a necessary end

it gets stranger and stranger

with each passing day,

each new face

each new turn of the page.

the plot is hard to follow.

characters come and go.

what you thought was real

isn't real anymore.

what once was untrue is true.

everything i believed

is on its head. the world is

upside down. spinning 

fast, tumbling to some

necessary end.

tell me you love me

i'm cold she says.

lie next to me. closer.

put your arms

around me

and hold me tight.

throw your legs

over mine.

i'm shivering.

i've never been this

cold before

in my life. perhaps

i'm dying.

maybe this is the end.

tell me that you love me.

even if it isn't true.

help me make it through

this night.

the new hammer

i can't find a hammer

so i take out a frozen

piece of fish from the freezer

that a previous tenant

left behind and knock

the nail into the wall.

the picture looks perfect.

it's lovely hanging there. 

then i put the hammer

back into the freezer.

no doubt, there will be

more nails to bang 

into the walls.

running out of names

after you break up 

with someone

having nearly

died in the storm,

the whole thing

having torn the roof

off your house

and flooded

the rooms.

you can never again

date anyone 

with that name.

you don't even want

to say it, let

alone hear it.

but like hurricanes,

you're running

out of names.

the crab feast

i remember those summer

crab feasts.

the newspapers

spread on the the picnic

tables.

warm pitchers of

stale beer served

in paper cups.

bottles of vinegar.

bowls of melted butter.

boiled crabs piled

high in the middle of

each table.

a mallet, a pair of pliers

and s sharp knife

to work with.

they would go on for

hours. after about three

hours in, i'd have to take

a lunch break and go

get something to eat.

a pizza or a hamburger

from up the street.

i'd be tired with my fingers

bleeding

from the sharp edges

of shells. i'd need a break.

lunch and a short nap.

after that i'd i'd go back

to the picking of crabs.

my hands bandaged

and swabbed with 

hydrogen peroxide

to hold off infection.

only three more bushels

to go.

it's what i would do

this sweet snow silence

is a treat.

an opportunity to do nothing

but read

or sleep, or walk

once the wind dies down.

i see them outside

now.

dogs on their leashes.

walking through the woods,

on the snow.

the path still known.

i imagine they will walk

until they the reach the point

to turn around

and go back to the comfort 

of their home, it's what

i would do.

townies

some people

never leave the town

they were born in.

they stay put, stay close

to where they went

to school

where their parents still

live, growing old.

there's the church.

the stores.

the fields. all the people

they used to know,

and still do.

they can never leave this

town.

their feet are planted

forever in this ground,

which is where

they'll be buried when

the time comes.

the radio

it wasn't easy

back then turning the dial

on the small

transistor radio

to pick up the station you

wanted to listen to.

carefully you nudged

the red line

until you found a familiar

song.

then you pulled the antennae 

up until the static cleared..

you set the small red box

on the window sill 

above your bed

and let the world come in.

kenmore in the flesh

when i open up

the freezer section 

of the refrigerator

i think of her.

when i feel

the frosty air

hit me in the face,

surround my hands

when i take out a frozen

steak or crack open

a tray of ice cubes,

i think of her.

not kindly of course.

it's who she was.

a kenmore freezer

in the flesh.

the strange ones

the strange ones

look into your eyes without

blinking.

they have no fear

in standing on the side

of the road for months

begging for money.

they do odd things,

make crazy talk.

it's hard to discern the truth

from a lie

with most of them.

they usually have nice

hair though,

good skin.

sometimes the strange

ones are even closer,

sitting next to you

on the bus with a hand

made sign.

or waiting at home for

you after work

broiling a piece of salmon.

they might be

beside you in bed at night.

you never thought

of them as strange.

but now you do.

and they probably feel

the exact same way

about you.

we got to get out of this place

is there a way out of here,

besides the obvious.

is there

a clear exit.

a well lit sign

with arrows, with

words

saying clearly come

this way.

go here.

this is the plan, this

is the way out.

don't run, don't push.

go slow.

we got this.

you're almost in

the clear.

he looks wonderful

i run into the maid

out on the street, she's with

her husband.

he's wearing my long black coat

and my hat.

he has my gloves on,

and those look

like my shoes.

he looks wonderful,

quite dapper,

as they pass by.

is that my umbrella too?

are you still here?

i read her letter

left on the table. it says

i'll be moving

before thanksgiving.

 i'll be out of here

and in my own place

once more.

it just isn't working out

and besides,

i love somebody else.

i laugh having read

this letter so many

times before.

i fold it up and place it

where it was found.

i wonder why she's

waiting so long.

i have the boxes 

and a roll of tape,

i'd like to help her pack.

gone by spring

the footprints

in the snow could be anyone's 

they could be yours.

they're small

enough to fit

your shoe.

they almost reach 

the door before

they turn around and go

back to from where

they came.

they should be gone

by spring.

surviving every test

the order of things

is this.

birth.

life. death.

the in between is sort

of up to you

if you don't let

the others

decide for you

which path is best.

that's the hard part.

finding your own way.

protecting your

heart and surviving

every test.

we can't find her

with no stone,

no bench, no marker

to find

where her body lies

beneath the dirt,

with the new grass

overgrown.

we wander the grave yard

and point.

we say maybe over

there.

near that tree. there was

a tree, remember?

or was it by the gate?

i distinctly remember

the curve of a road.

i was out of breath

by the time we got up

the hill to where we stood 

and said our goodbyes.

let's try there.

what we deserve

if you never learn the lesson

that life

isn't fair

it will be a long hard

life.

if you don't learn

to enjoy and not endure,

each day

will be a challenge, each

hour full of

worry and concern.

who told us such a thing,

that we will get what

we deserve?

all is well

if i was a doctor

i'd only want to have healthy

people as patients.

no x-rays needed.

no hearing from worried faces

how it hurts here

when i do this with my arm.

no opening of mouths

to look in, or ears.

the second they got sick

i'd get rid of them.

no dying,

no limping into the office.

no pills to prescribe.

no irregular heartbeats.

who needs that kind of trouble.

who needs the drama

of illness?

just give me

those without a problem,

those with no issues.

i'd only want to hear the words,

hello and goodbye,

and all is well.

black bird on the table

i find her asleep on the couch.

no clothes.

an empty bottle of wine

on the floor.

the door is open.

the cat has run out into the street

never to return.

there's a black bird

on the table eating off a plate.

i sit down

beside her,  covering her legs

and try to think

of the words to tell her

that this is never going to

work out.

then she wakes up and looks

at me, smiling.

it's still not over.

problems

i don't want to hear about your

sick grandmother,

your lost cat,

your money problems,

or the dream you had.

i'm in a bad place right now

and have no patience

for things like that.

i don't want your world

to seep into mine.

then i have to try and save

you, like i did the others,

and there's no turning back.

winning

i fight with the ketchup bottle.

tapping,

tapping it upside

down against the counter.

how can one

possibly eat french fries

without ketchup?

slowly, the last few dollops

give in and slide

out onto the plate.

it's a small victory, but one

i won't forget.

i remember nearly every loss,

and every win.

surrender

you lose your taste,

your sense of smell,

your sight.

your legs no longer work

they way once

did.

you no longer want

what the world gives.

you no longer care to

dig in your heels

and fight.

there is no

beauty anymore.

desire is a thing of the past.

there is no joy, no love.

no hope.

you surrender all 

attachments to this life

and let go.

and at last now you

see the light.

off its hinge

i see the fence

leaning

out along the road. the

gate

off one hinge,

a steady snow

blowing, 

the old wood banging

in the wind.

i'll get out there today.

and fix it.

but i need to wait

and try and understand

what it all means.

how this too

is connected

to nearly everything.

snow quiet

is that silence i hear?

what

a wonderful sound it is.

the snow

a cushion

of noise.

muffling the world.

keep coming.

keep falling.

make it deep, 

make more.

phone tag

we play phone

tag.

we miss each other's calls.

we don't

see the texts. the emails

get lost in the slush

pile of spam.

time goes by.

another month.

another season.

the years pass.

we never have that lunch.

that dinner date.

we never meet.

we grow old. we die.

namaste

we eat, we work.

we supply our minds with some

sort of

distraction.

some pleasure,

some numbing of the soul

to wring the worry

out of us.

i cringe at the word namaste.

how little we really

know of life.

pretending, breathing,

still wanting

our just desserts quickly.

not overnight.

never quite satisfied

no matter how long you

sit there

in your pose

and stare into the light.

the longest month

there are days.

deja vu

days

of childhood

snow

and wind.

ground hog days.

when the needle

is stuck

on the record,

playing

the same word

over and over again.

they usually occur

in february

the shortest but

the longest

month by far.

not yet asleep

i don't crawl

into bed, or slip between

the sheets

it's more of a joyful

leap.

especially

when you're there,

glistening in candlelight,

not yet

asleep.

wanting more

she couldn't hold her

drink,

nor her money,

or her men.

all of it and them

slipped through

her fingers,

not unlike a cup

of sand.

it was always more,

wanting more.

never reaching or

understanding

that forever her purse,

her thirst and

her heart would always

be poor.

come spring

a blue cold 

settles hard into your skin.

it's the winter

season.

a time of endings.

more days of this until

change.

white ice.

a starlit night, scattered

like broken

bits of glass through

the arms of trees.

you've been here before.

everything before you is

what you've already

seen.

but as always,

you'll get to the other

side.

you'll be alive once more

come spring.

a year in the life

in time

wounds do heal.

but they leave scars

behind. they leave

a trail.

a story told in each

slice,

each raised line

of skin

where the knife 

took hold,

where

the bullet went in.

they do

heal, they fade,

but not completely

they will always 

be there

to remind you of that

brutal year.

once out

once out.

you run and run, until

you no longer

hear the dogs behind you.

no longer

hear the whip,

the gun,

the stomp of boot.

the voice

of discontent.

you go up stream

swimming madly

until you reach the sea.

never will you go

back again.

never to be with thirst,

or hunger,

at last you are free.

get it done

get it done 

while there's still time,

while there's still light 

in the sky,

get it done

before the sun sets,

don't wait.

don't delay, don't

wait for the planets

to align.

get it done.

get it done now,

for tomorrow may 

never arrive.

the storm hunger

she looks at me

with her hands on

her hips, staring out

the window

and says

i need to go to the store.

but it's snowing,

i tell her. the roads.

they haven't begun to plow.

it looks treacherous

out there.

i don't care

she says.

i need bacon.

i can't live like this anymore.

i need eggs.

potatoes.

toast and jam.

don't try to stop me, i'm

going out.

i need bacon.

angels in the snow

while most 

of the little girls

were making

angels in the snow.

she was making

devils.

the trouble it would

have saved me

all these years

later,

if only i had known.

finding an answer

i used to love math.

still do.

how nice

it was to have an answer.

the problem solved

with a pencil

and paper.

to sit back and look

at the numbers.

clear and concise.

the equation solved.

no question as to if

it's wrong or right.

it can be no other,

which is so unlike 

our love, this life.

the fireplace

we rub our hands

in front of the fire and say

nothing.

we let the flames

talk, the wind of heat,

the crackle of wood,

the floating of ashes

rising up the chimney.

what is there to say.

what haven't we said?

let's just watch the flames

and keep warm

before one of us leaves,

and the other one

stays.

someone kind

hard to put

things back together once

they've fallen

and crashed to floor.

hard to glue

and tape the shells

of what we

had into one piece again,

nothing sticks,

or holds it in place

like it used to.

we've fixed this broken

thing so many times.

perhaps it's time to give

up on us,

and find someone new.

someone unlike me or you.

someone kind.

another day another pill

he had everything on his shelf.

tucked away

in his medicine cabinet,

inside of drawers,

on the window sills,

pills,

bottles,

vitamins.

zinc, calcium, magnesium.

things i never 

heard of.

a dose for every part of

his body.

from kidney,

to bones,

to eyes.

somehow they were keeping

him alive.

despite a life of 

debauchery, drink, fast

women and cigarettes,

and an unbreakable 

penchant to lie.

prince on a white horse

there is no

oz.

no fairytale land,

no prince

on a white horse.

no knight in shining

armor,

no disney,

no magical

kingdom.

no dream boat

running across

the sand.

but you can't let

go of such

notions. it's what

you were fed by hand.

it's what you were

told, what

you watched

and read

in books and movies

so long ago.

but you keep waiting

and waiting

as you look out

the window 

hoping against hope,

slowly

growing old.

she's late again

she stops

to get her nails done,

her toes.

her hair,

to buy a new dress,

some heels.

a wax.

a sheen

a shine.

something frilly to

sleep in.

she's a busy

girl,

no wonder she's

late again.

shopping online

it's not what i ordered.

it looks nothing

like the picture.

in fact it's broken in

several places.

bent and discolored.

it's cheaply made,

glued together, just

barely keeping

its shape. i've been

duped before, but 

nothing quite like this.

the description she

wrote doesn't fit.

it's a fake, a fraud,

a replica of a person

that doesn't even exist.

and now what?

can i send her back or

am stuck with this?

that's as far as i'll go

so much of life

is knowing 

what you want when

you see it.

you stroll through the aisles,

waiting for a meal

to jump out at you.

something or someone,

that says, eat me.

take me home, tear

off the wrapping

and devour me,

bones and all. 

i'm yours.

but that's as far as i'll go

with this poem.

the apprentice chef

i've tasted it, 

i've swallowed

it whole.

i've carved it up.

i've sliced

it with a serrated knife.

i've made it tender

with a mallet,

i've seasoned it.

marinated it for days

in the cold. i've

baked and broiled,

i've fried, i've let

it sit for hours on a low

burner, setting the timer

on the stove.

i've stood by the skillet

so that it doesn't

boil over,

i've been careful,

keeping a watchful eye

on things burning.

i've done so much to cook

this love, but to no avail

perhaps one day

i'll get it right,

but it seems right now 

i'm still learning.

another persons shoes

it's impossible to put

yourself into another

persons shoes.

to start with

they probably won't fit.

too snug, too tight,

the wrong color, the laces

round, not flat

like you prefer. 

we can't go there. 

we can't sit and tug

with all our might

to get them on.

there is little understanding

as to why or how

people behave

the way they do,

or why they choose 

such horrible shoes

to wear.

it will be your turn

even if you

play badly, play. sing

out of tune.

don't stop.

two left

feet don't matter

dance

and fall

get up, and begin

again.

practice.

write until your hands

bleed, no

matter that few

will read what you wrote.

make

the finest dish

and eat it, even if

it burns,

don't stop with your

talents,

no matter how weak

they are,

no matter how much

they are ignored.

practice, then practice

some more.

keep going. keep going.

it's your world.

and in time it will be

your turn.

the last of her

i drive to the outskirts of town,

to a shack

on the side of the road

to have a tattoo removed.

i show the old woman

the name i want removed.

it swirls across my arm

in floral lettering.

she laughs, i did that name

just last week, in fact

three fellows came in with

the same exact name.

boys, she says, shaking her

head, boys. moths to the flame.

so what's it gonna be,

chemical or mechanical?

mechanical i shrug.

she takes me to the back

and hands me a jar of whiskey

and says you might

need this. then gives me

a leather strap off the hook.

that has teeth marks in it.

bite down on this, she says, 

distract yourself by

thinking of all the pain

she put you through.

the lessons you learned.

she cranks up a circular

sander, looks me in the eye

and says, shall we begin.

the eater of whole pies

i stare at the pie in the tin

half gone.

a fork left behind

on the empty side.

i realize that if i continue

on with it

it will mean that i've 

eaten an entire apple

pie all on my own.

how do i live with myself 

knowing this.

how can i go on knowing

that i am the eater

of whole pies.

where does it go from here?

i must keep this to myself.

and not let the world

know who i truly am.

parking meter

the parking meter

reminds me

of how the world

can be.

how a quarter gives you

just three more

minutes.

it doesn't seem fair,

as you continue to feed

more coins into

the metal face.

nickels and dimes.

it swallows them with a gulp.

hungry for more.

until you reach

a mere hour.

that's all, 

that's all the time

you get. now move along.

an afternoon of catch

the boy and his father

on the field

in the cold sun of early

march, but warm

enough

to play a game of catch.

their hats on.

their gloves,

they look alike.

the father

instructs and praises 

the boy with

each swing of the bat,

each ball caught.

he's growing before his eyes.

does it remind you of

your life, your father.

the green of the field,

the blue skies. the long

afternoons together?

no it doesn't,

it was nothing like that.

on the wrong train

i get on the wrong

train,

but it's okay.

i feel like riding today

and watching

how others

live their lives.

i want to know how

their time is filled

while

going from here to there.

staring at the maps,

listening to garbled

instructions from

the conductor, naming

each destination

once arrived.

it's a long day. so many are

lost, so many

are confident in where

they're going

when to stay put and ride

a little longer, and when

to get off.

the faces are distant,

the eyes holding

that traveler's gaze,

not here.

they seem to be already

off the train, but

not you. not yet. but

soon. soon you'll

be there.

all the broken wings

tired of the broken 

winged birds

i walk by the next

three that lie on the ground,

twisting

in their small

bodies unable

to fly away.

i want to help. i want

to stop

and listen to their tales,

to mend their

broken bones,

but i just can't,

i can't let their hell 

become

my mine anymore.

meeting olga for lunch

i circle the block

looking for a space.

i see her in line

for bread. a black

handbag

on her shoulder.

a scarf

wrapped around her head.

her grey overcoat

lumpy

and pilled.

her shoes squared

in the slush of snow.

i'm suddenly

in st. petersburg

meeting olga

for lunch.

no surprises

i don't want to be surprised.

no party, please.

no one jumping

out of the closet or cake.

i want to know

what i'm about to eat, 

what i'm in for with 

this drink, so

tell me before i make

the drive over.

i want to know what's hidden,

what hasn't been said.

no secrets before me.

tell me, before we go 

any further,

for once in my life,

i'd like to hear words

from a mouth that

doesn't lie.

beach day

the child looked

more boiled than he did burned

from

the sun.

his day at the beach would

be remembered

not for joy, but for pain.

how red

he was, how tender

his skin had become

under the rage

of an unrelenting summer sun.

and now when

i look back at the photo

and see me smiling,

shovel and bucket in hand,

bare skinned

with the green Mediterranean

sea beyond the sand, 

i wonder, where my parents

were. arguing

no doubt, somewhere.

waiting on the news

as i sit here

in my hotel room

awaiting news 

of my father's death.

the clock ticks.

the wind blows.

the dust of the desert rises

and falls.

my hands are folded,

not in prayer,

but in submission 

to a world that takes

its toll.

out of arrows

i reach back for one more

arrow

to sling

but i'm out. not a single

one left in

the quiver.

and what use is there

in killing the dead

over and over

again.

let her rest.

let her crawl beneath

the rocks, into

the darkness,

back to the life

that she knows best.

the wolf moon

the wolf moon

startles you in the cold

black

night.

you stop what you're doing

and look up.

it's white

and full.

it's beyond you to 

understand

such natural beauty

in the sky.

so rare to find something

so true,

so real,

authentic. a constant

that is new.

the nearest bridge

what's your dope?

your joy.

your drug of choice.

what keeps

you going.

the drink,

the needle, sex.

what is it that melts

your butter, eases

the pain.

your art,

your work,

your children.

what

keeps you wanting

to live

and live

and not leap off

the nearest bridge?