the machine breaks down

machines break down.

the nuts and bolts

rust.

the washers rot,

the wheels stop turning

as the belts

fall loose.

the middle comes apart.

you see where

i'm going here.

in time we all need

a tune up,

an overhaul,

a complete cleansing

of the heart.

we want more

we all want more.

more words,

more love, more interest

in one another.

we want to be thought

of as special.

as the one and only.

we want the heart

carved in the tree,

the initials etched into

stone.

we want the locket

with the picture 

tucked inside. and even

then with all of this.

it's not enough.

we are never

satisfied. 

what lies beneath

is it better to clip

the loose thread, rather than

pull and pull

revealing how

threadbare

the cloth really is.

and that what lies beneath

is nothing

but trouble. i say pull

until your heart's content,

while others, less

curious, say clip.

straddling the fence

half in half out.

is no way

to go through work, or

love.

in the end,

one gets the same result.

you're fired,

we're done.

off you go to begin

your search

again, good luck.

the wedding store

in the cold

with their friends, or mothers,

the young

girls

wrapped tight in adolescent

clothes,

waiting

breathlessly for the doors

to open.

peering into the window

at the cake like

dresses,

the chiffons of pinks

and unearthly greens and

blues.

it's mid march, but oh

how time

erodes our list of things

to do

before bells ring, before

the altar is approached

and the words

are said, i do.

roses are red

please, don't send me

your poetry.

i beg you.

i can be cruel. i will punish

you with

a sharp knife.

editing.

slashing at the drivel,

the meandering lines.

i can't read it.

i don't know what any of it

means. i'm lost.

i can barely read mine.

and in the end

there is seldom clarity

in a dream.

or in a day

for that matter. what it all

means

is elusive.

confusing. each day a mystery

of what went down.

the turns.

the words said, or gone unsaid.

the coming and going

of so many.

in the end

i see myself lying there

in bed, surrounded by those

still left,

and asking, what the hell

was that all about.

he went to Mexico

he went to Mexico.

and

never came back.

it was fifty years ago.

just a kid.

the rumor was he died

in a car

crash

somewhere near the border.

i remember him.

his face.

his hair.

his glasses.

his wild blue eyes.

i imagine him still alive

somewhere.

blending in to the dry

browned hills.

he escaped

before life even began

to tie him down.

we look the other way

in time

we disregard

murder

and robbery.

cold blooded

things that occur

in the light

day,

the darkness of night.

we learn

to ignore

the sins of others. 

those that lie, those

that betray. we

say to one

another,

so goes the world.

we look the other way.

we move

on with hardly a glance

we turn

the page

and find which team

won.

who advanced?

planning the future

i could never figure out

how so

many kids

in school knew exactly what they

wanted to be

when they grew up.

i'm going to be a mechanic,

or a chef.

or a politician, they'd say.

they had their minds

made up.

a builder, an artist

or a singer.

i'm going to dance or act,

you'd hear them

discussing their future lives

in the cafeteria, or on 

the yellow bus back home.

but i couldn't get

past the next

day. worried about what

clothes i had to wear,

what shoes didn't have a hole

in them.

what would i eat for dinner

that night.

would my father beat up my

mother tonight and would the cops

come in time

to save her life.

after the war

it's hard when men

come back from war

after being shot at

and killing a bunch of people

they never knew.

get these kids out of the house

before i go nuts,

i'd hear my father

say, stomping his

army boots on the floor.

he'd rub the tattoos on his arm

while pouring himself

a glass of whiskey with

a camel cigarette

dangling in his mouth.

he'd go out onto the back porch

to think, he'd tell my mother.

don't bother me

for awhile.

and tell your son

that there's no way in hell

we're ever buying

a japanese car.

pop the hood please

i used to change

the oil.

lie under the old heap

and fix

things.

the shocks,

the carburetor,

adjust the points.

new filters, no problem.

air in the tires,

check the fluids.

tighten the belts.

then wash and wax

the exterior,

before wiping down

the dash

and running the vacuum

on the mats.

but now sadly,

i have no idea how to

open the hood.

which latch?

ignore them

did you see the rabid

fox,

the neighbor says.

the raccoon.

the deer. they are all standing

at the edge of

the woods

staring.

their mouths are open.

their eyes glazed over.

be careful.

don't get near them.

they look sick

and dangerous.

it could be deadly if one

bites you.

i smile and say,

been there done that 

in that last

relationship.

ignore them, they'll 

go away.

wind

it just comes

out of nowhere. the stiff wind.

the fury

of it

rattling trees,

straightening

flags. the cold

telling us

that winter is still

here.

we tighten up our coats

and press on.

going quickly

to where we need to be.

there's nothing there

i cringe

at new poetry. both mine

and others.

raw

and bleeding.

jackson pollack has

nothing on

these abstract ruminations.

tossing

house paint

onto canvas.

random words plucked

out of the air, slapped

down upon a page.

no matter how close

you get, or how

far you stand away,

there's nothing there.

game on

there isn't always

a reason.

no clues

given. no written explanation

as to why

things go the way

they do.

they just do.

and you move on.

you precede to the next

level

of the game.

game on.

paradise in 1 A

the metal door

of the apartment, 

hardly keeping the cold 

at bay,

the edges wheezed

with wind.

and the windows, old

and stuck,

letting nothing out,

nothing in.

the ceiling above shared

as a floor

for those in 2 A.

you could hear their 

footsteps, the bark of their

dog, the symphony of bed

springs

into the night.

one bedroom, a galley

kitchen.

a stove,

a sink. an ice box.

the trash

carried to the dumpster

at the far end of the court.

the early years.

it felt like paradise.

what love is

a man works all day,

leaving as the sun rises

then comes home

to show his wife,

his children his hands.

the blood and grime,

the cuts, the black

beneath his nails 

he says look, look,

this is what love is.

but they don't understand.

trouble shooting the furnace

i find the manual to the furnace.

and read the small

print, turning to the page, of what

to do if.

if the there's no heat.

if the red light is blinking slowly,

or fast, or has stayed

on, without ever going off.

i wipe my eyes. the tiniest letters

i have ever seen.

i'm on the chinese page. i turn

to the hispanic page, then the greek

then the german.

i pull off the front panel and examine

what things i can touch without

breaking them, or catching the house

on fire.

gently i feel the wires, the buttons,

the mysterious innards of this beast.

i'm helen keller in a new room

full of sharp knives.

finally i see a switch on the wall.

and try that.

boom. there it is. i've got heat again.

i'll let her sleep

i'll let her sleep.

she's best when she's asleep.

things are good when we aren't talking.

when she's curled

in a dream filled state,

pillows and blankets, her

hands upon her face.

i'll let her sleep.

i like there, best of all.

the quiet of the house, at last.

no need to wonder

where she is.

what is a lie what isn't.

no more farewells or hellos.

no more suspicion.

i'll let her sleep.

we get along so well when

she's like that. asleep.

she misses snow

i miss the snow

she says.

i miss the warm cold blanket

of white

outside the window.

i miss digging.

the shovel. the gloves and boots.

the hat.

the play of it.

the crunch of shoes going

down.

the wetness of it

as you open your gleeful

mouth.

i miss how it covers up everything

without a choice.

i miss it.

the immense strangeness

of snow.

i miss it.

like i miss an old lover

that i used to know.

nothing to wear

they're selling tickets to go to the moon,.

i think about it for a few moments

and decide no.

do i want to put my hard earned money

into such a venture.

the whole thing about no air being up

there, bothers me.

a long trip too.

what if you're stuck with a bunch of

people that you don't like.

over eaters and talkers, similar to those

who are always on a cruise.

i've got nothing against the moon.

i like it.

up there floating around, always

giving you some sort of inspiration

to whip out a poem or two. but

i think i'll stay on the  ground, i mean

what would you wear if you went

to the moon?

if you see me walking

you selectively wave

or say

hello to people on

the nature trail.

you try to read them

to see who needs

a friendly greeting.

some do the same for you.

they look you in the eyes

and say hey, or good morning

and pass by.

while others are in the stars,

eyes to the ground.

surrounded by others,

their phone, their music,

their walls of sound.

it's mostly the old, or the

very young

who want or give the wave,

the courtesy of nodding,

tipping their hats

and saying, have a nice day.

the ticking clock

i like a clock that ticks,

a heart

that beats, a  rolling stream

i can hear

from my window.

the rain too.

the percussion of drops

against the pane.

i like to hear the birds

as they chatter

in the trees,

the whistle of a distant

train,

but most of all

i like the sound 

the floor makes

when you walk across

towards me.

it wasn't love after all

she arranged her pills.

all white

as silver stars

into a smiling face and

added the words,

goodbye, farewell,

i'm glad we met, but

now it's time to go.

i waited for the call,

which came the next day.

i'm fine she said.

sorry if i scared you.

maybe it wasn't love,

after all.

nothing is just yours

others have found their way

down and around

the fallen trees, hopped

across

the stone laden stream,

others have discovered

your secret path

through these heightened

woods giving birth to green.

you thought it was yours,

and yours alone,

but the markings of

boots and wheels are

sunken deep, sadly you 

must accept that it was never

just yours to own.

others will come, others

will widen

the path and see what you

have seen.

daffodil yellow

i'll put it in pencil

the woman says, scratching 

the name

and number, the date onto her

large lettered

calendar.

richard is going in for

a heart valve

on monday

and you never know, he

might not make it.

but let's plan

on wednesday.

i've selected daffodil yellow

for my paint.

don't you think it's lovely?

the carefree wind

the way the scrap

of paper that

twirls,

rises and falls, spins

on a carefree

wind,

not knowing

where it may or

may not go,

tells you everything

there is to know

about so many

things.

it wasn't meant to be

i run into the ex at the grocery store.

we stare at each other,

but say nothing.

she's putting avocados into her

cart.

salmon and lettuce.

lemons. sunflower seeds.

whereas i put a bag of oreo

cookies and beer.

a gallon of rocky road

and a slab

of rib eye steak into my cart.

she shakes her head, i shake mine.

we move on.

it just wasn't meant to be.

holiday changes

finally, i decide to take down

the christmas tree.

it's become a fire hazard.

there are no more needles left

on it. the branches are dried

bones. i can see right through 

to the other wall.

i drag it out to the woods

after taking down

the ornaments and lights.

then i get out my porcelain

easter bunny, i fill it with

candy for guests.

who's your daddy?

i pour a few gallons

of toxic

liquid down the stuck drain

to clear

the pipe.

it doesn't work, despite

having three

skull and cross bones

across the label.

do not drink, it says.

do not touch. wear gloves,

wear a mask.

don't breathe it in.

see a doctor if you feel faint.

i can't imagine the fish this is

killing on the other end.

i plunge the drain,

i put my back into it.

i talk nicely to it, 

come on sweetheart,

who's your daddy?

swirl and go away.

but no such luck.

it's plumber time again.

buying the myth

if you watch tv enough,

toothpaste will make you happy.

as will beer.

as will a new car, or truck.

a trip to some island where 

everyone

is tanned and slender with

good hair.

if you watch the screen for

a lifetime

you

see how unreachable happiness

is.

how can you possible

have all that.

get the girl, the money,

the house when you're here

on the couch, watching this.

it makes you want to quit.

the two year lease

i sign a two a year lease

on the new relationship.

extended warranty.

a collision clause, collateral

damage.

she signs too.

but we're holding hands,

and bumping

knees anxious to get home

and go at it again.

what's a document anyway,

a contract

for an emotion that will surely

never end.

sign here, and here and here.

initial here.

see you again in two years.

the extra warranty

would you like to buy extra warranty

on these, the young clerk says dutifully,

as he rings me up.

but they're just batteries.

i tell him.

six double A batteries.

we can extend the warranty to

twelve months,

or two years if you prefer in case

something goes wrong

with them.  and i see that you're

a member so, we can take

ten percent off that plan.

but, i say again, what could go wrong.

they're batteries.

so, your answer is no?

you want to take a chance

that they could die on you and

then what?  you 're up a creek

without a paddle. 

No thanks. 

so you don't want

this extra warranty? is that

what you're telling me?

yes, i mean, no, my answer is no.

okay, he says, shaking his head.

just trying to help you out.

it's your life.

the washing of hands

i see him at the sink

washing his hands again.

over and over.

he can't get them clean 

enough

as he goes at it with the bar

of soap

a brush,

under the nails, the skin

on top.

the hot water runs and runs

as he tries to remove

something in his mind

that he can't get out.

the last supper

she has a long

painting of the last supper

hung on the living room wall.

a crucifix

in the kitchen,

over the stove.

a picture of Jesus

positioned such that His

eyes follow you wherever

you go. there are

plagues holding bible

verses in the bathroom

in the hall.

a copy of the shroud 

of Turin is her bedspread.

above the doors are palms

from palm sunday.

there's a basin of holy

water on the stand

in the foyer with

an open bible and

a replica of the dead

sea scrolls.

and yet, somehow she

may be the meanest person

i've ever met

in this world.

name dropping

i feel out of place

when others are dropping names.

names of people

in the news, people

that they sort of know,

or have met.

celebrities.

the senator,

the actor on netflix.

the athlete,

the famous chef. a former

president.

i stand there silently

while they show me 

their autographs, their photos

on their phone.

they have all brushed up

against someone of great

importance,

but have i no one, no

name to drop.

just a cousin in jail who

was in the paper

for a car he stole.

a crowd of one

a crowd of one

joins me at the bar.

talking. talking.

too friendly

for my taste.

asking questions.

wondering

why i'm here alone.

interrogating me

like a divorce

lawyer on the other

side.

the drink isn't strong

enough to drown

him out.

i give him the long

distant stare,

the one soldiers have

after a few years

in battle. but he persists.

sometimes the world

won't leave you

alone long enough

to figure things out.

another detour

is it true, 

that it's all in the first kiss.

that miraculous

joining of lips,

the thrill of faces pressed  

together, nose to nose,

beneath a well lit moon.

no words can be said

in this embrace.

is there music playing?

has the wine been poured,

is this 

the beginning of something

new, or just another 

set of lips, another detour

until the real one comes

along.

just practice?

it's different now

it's different now.

at this age, looking back,

with more behind us

than in front of us. we

still want the same things,

the same kind of love

we wanted back then.

the same dreams come up

in sleep. the same thoughts.

the same wishes.

we pray each night our

souls to keep.

but it's different now.

not better or worse, but

different.

my relationship history

it's hard not to feel sorry

for someone

with a cast on their arm,

a bandage

on their head,

with crutches, limping

along,

it's hard not to hold

a door, or to help them

cross the street, or

get past the trouble

they are perpetually in.

it's hard not to be loving

and kind,

to tenderly care for

their wounds

as they begin to bleed.

you listen intently as they

spill everything

that's on their worried

minds.

i'm easy 

when it comes to victims.

look it up.

it's my relationship

history.

the key under the mat

i leave a key under the mat,

one on a hook

in the shed,

another in the window

well in a magnet box.

there's one on the ledge

too, and under the potted

plant, not to mention

the loose brick beside

the garden hose.

she has no excuse not

pay me a visit now up 

the stairs, make a left,

then down the hall.

i'll be waiting, no need

to call.

this paint will change everything

maybe a new coat of paint

will make

them happy.

a new dress for her,

a new coat for him.

perhaps a new car

off the showroom floor.

another house,

another child,

another trip afar.

maybe this new coat of

paint i'm rolling on

will change everything

and at last make them

the nice people they've 

always wanted to be,

no longer rude and brusque,

frugal and cheap.

the plaques on the wall

say in God we trust.

maybe then we can

be great friends. doubtful,

but let's see.

four seasons

if it was warmer

i'd be happy, she says.

if we had more snow,

if the wind wouldn't blow.

if it was spring

then i'd feel better.

if the rain would stop

and the sun

would shine, then,

then, i could

at last be content.

things would be fine.

the summers are too hot,

the winters too cold.

maybe next week, next

month,

next year i'll get out of here.

i want one season,

not four.

maybe i'll move to arizona

where the air is drier,

the skies more clear.

being misunderstood

there is nuance,

the subtle clues, innuendo

and glances.

words curbed

in such a way

as to be confused.

cryptic

lines

and slight of hand.

nothing said

directly even if he

could.

as oscar wilde once

said

he feared not being

misunderstood.

captain of the cheerleaders

she was the high school

monitor her whole life.

captain of the cheerleaders.

turning people in for

what she deemed as

bad behavior. smoking

behind the school.

wagging her finger

at strangers, or friends

alike. telling them, no, you

shouldn't be doing that.

texting at the light.

you should be living

your life at a higher

standard. stand up straight.

listen when i talk to you.

don't roll your eyes at me.

stop chewing your gum

and tapping your foot.

stop reading that.

or watching that, you're going

to infect your brain.

let's get going, we're going

to be late for mass again.

be like me, an angel of light.

but it was perfectly fine

for her to lie and cheat,

deceive and betray,

to sleep with  

her neighbor for years,

a married man.

she's going to hell on a speed

pass, i do believe.

a simple cup of coffee

the more complicated

the drink

the more obnoxious

and hard

to get along with

is the person

who stands

in line in front of you

at the coffee shop.

when you hear

the words,

iced Ristretto, ten shot Venti

breve, 5 pump vanilla, 7 pump

caramel, 4 splendas

poured, not shaken

you know it's a long

day for the person waiting

in the car

with their plain cup

of coffee.

not far out of town

it's not far out of town,

not too

long down the road, where

the world

has slowed down,

and rolled just a little

backwards

or froze.

you see the filling station

family run,

the small stores

with porches where the old

folks come

to talk of things

they've heard.

the water tower is visible

from every window.

a dog for each yard

and a flag raised

on the town pole.

it's quaint in a curious sort

of way.

why are they here,

what makes them stay?

little left to say

you lose a few friends

over the years.

they come

and go.

but the loss is hardly felt.

we change

and go our separate ways.

some were like

pebbles

that made you remove 

your shoe

and shake, while with

others there was just little

left to say.

her ice tea story

she'd talk about her home made

ice tea for hours

on end.

how she'd put the tea bags

in the jar

of boiled water,

then slice the lemons

just so,

then add sugar.

then at last setting it out

in the sun

on her porch.

on and on she'd go

until i reached the point

of hating ice tea.

i never wanted another glass.

i had to get out of there

before she started talking

about her home made brownies.

i'm sort of sorry

i try to take back

what i said,

apologize,

recant my harsh words,

even though 

they are all true

and hit their mark.

i fall on my sword, 

but not really,

i want to live, 

so i miss my heart. 

a flesh wound

will have to do

for this half felt 

apology.

the day over

i like the tired feeling.

the end

of a long day, after a hot bath.

nestled in the warm

bed with clean sheets,

hot tea.

the covers up to my chin.

a book in hand.

the day over.

the phone unplugged, 

the tv off.

a sliver of moon

out the window.

just me and me, before i

fall to sleep

and dream 

of a gorgeous blue sea.

costume party

the pope

wears a costume, 

with his tall hat and shiny

robes.

the king

and queen. royalty

with crowns and capes,

billowing pants

and dresses.

the priests in black,

the monks in brown.

the policemen with all those

glimmering badges.

the orange robes

of the cult.

the dancers, the waiters.

the army and navy.

with their blues

and greens.

everyone in costumes

but you and me, or

maybe not.

the outlet

the only time i spanked

my child

was

with one hard slap to his

diapered bottom

nearly spraining my wrist

on his fully 

loaded diaper. 

yelling No, which startled

him. he was about

to put a screw driver into

the slot of an electric

outlet.

did i save his life, probably

not, but there would be

other times for that.

unseasoned

i unseasoned,

i call it.

bland

and plain, 

nearly tasteless.

too easy to swallow,

to ignore

and forget.

almost unborn.

a flower on the wall

amidst the paper.

not shallow,

not deep, just there.

not one

to keep.

visiting hours

when i went to visit the ex-wife

in the psych ward

she was in a straight jacket

but fairly calm and rational.

the guard stood by as i

approached her padded room

and leaned towards the window

where i could see her smiling.

but chewing on her leather

straps. i didn't think i'd ever

see you again, she said, growling

in english and then something

else in what i think was latin.

i looked at the guard,

but he just shrugged.

what did you do to your hair?

i asked her.

i like it like that, all wild

and frizzy. is that from the shock

treatments?  nice.

thanks, she said. i like it too.

by the way,

i can't find my extra phone

charger, i told her. do you

remember where you put

it?  did you take it with you

when they took you away?

and my copy of  catcher

in the rye. i can't find it

anywhere. other than that.

just wanted to check in on you,

see how you're doing.

how's the food here

in the cafeteria? i'm starving.

no big deal

as we sat 

in the waiting room 

like cats

in a room full of  rocking

chairs,

we looked

at our phones,

our hands,

at each other, awaiting

the dreaded needle.

and then it was over.

and we all smiled

at one another

and said,

that wasn't so bad.

the high shelf

as i reach up

onto the high shelf, my

bare feet

on the pushed chair

i think of her.

how easy

it must be to have

everything in reach.

to pluck things out

of thin air.

to be above the crowd.

up so high

in the stratosphere.

such beauty

is so rare.

magical thinking

dear darwin

i beg to differ with your

ideas

of evolution.

a puddle of goo, a strike

of lighting

and then there are a billion

or more

life forms,

perfectly formed

and instinctively

knowing what to do.

it's less

about science and more

about magical

thinking.

dismissing the miracle

of it all.

what brilliant force

allowed

all of this?  no accident,

i insist.

but it's time

you see the grown children

floating in the sky, 

their hands

tight around

the strings of great

balloons.

the wind will take

them where they need to

go, no longer

tethered to the ground,

to the parents who wish

they'd stayed longer,

be small, be young.

be forever around,

but it's time.

one step more

alone at sunrise,

i remember

the water getting colder

around my waist

as i walked into the bay.

inching my way

along the soft sand.

there were sunfish beside me.

golden and flat, 

gentle as they rubbed

against my legs.

i was only seven.

the water covered my mouth,

my nose

as the blue sky

vanished.

i struggled to breathe,

then swung my arms

frantically.

digging my feet into the shell

laden bottom.

one step more

and i'd never be here,

doing this.

under the knife

when the scalpel

finds

what it's looking for 

you are asleep,

dreaming

of a far away place, a place

you've never

been before.

life will be better

when arrive there, when

this sleep

ends.

when the knife is done.

all will be well, 

they promised as much.

but so many

make promises

they can't

fulfill. 

a can of tuna

i open a can of tuna

but that's as far i get with it.

i stare

at the thick strands of beige

colored fish

floating in oil.

i'm not in the mood for this.

i wish i had a cat

right now.

vaccination day

how quickly the needle

goes in

then out

of the alcohol swabbed

spot on your upper

left arm.

you hardly have time to flirt

with the nurse

in her blue scrubs

masked

and having none of it.

you can go now,

she says.

it's over, we're done here.

follow the green

arrows out the door.

but what about us,

i ask her rubbing my arm.

i thought we had something

here. something

that might lead to love

ever lasting.

psychiatry is on the fourth

floor she says,

take the elevator

on your right as as

security leads you out.

we have too much

we have too much.

too much food,

too many shirts

and shoes.

we have too much free

time,

too many books to read,

too many

things to do that mean

nothing.

there is too much money,

too many rooms,

too many forks and knives,

silver spoons.

too many ex wives,

there is no struggle

anymore to survive, it's

more about what now?

what was the point

of all this.

did we swallow whole

a brilliant lie?

horse country

she's crying 

as she drives

by the old woman

on the corner

with her life in a bag.

a sign in her hand,

a cane in the other.

her pony is sick.

how will she go on

without him.

she wipes her tears

away with the sleeve

of her riding coat, 

her long black

boots glimmering

in the soft light of 

horse country.

her life in boxes

her life was in boxes.

carried

from one place to the next.

all temporary stops

along the road

of failure.

marked kitchen

or bedroom,

basement.

some waited never to

be emptied,

others

were opened and closed

dug through

for a book, a spatula

a dried rose.

color tv

a color tv

was something back then.

no more

black and white,

no more shadowy faces,

grey woods

and dark oceans.

the world came to life.

the colors were

more real

more bright than one

could ever imagine.

but never coming close

to first love.

that comet in the night.

a world gone mad

why do we care about

them.

celebrities, the prince and princes.

what purpose is there

in knowing

their troubles

when we wake up with our own.

rushing to catch

a bus in the pouring rain, 

our lunch in a bag.

with children to be raised.

she said, he said,

as if it's news, but it is in

some way,

news of a world gone mad.

a way out

when you discover

truth.

it is the cold clean glass

of water

that quenches

doubt.

you know.

you know

you know.

and this frees you,

allows you

a way out.

the penny prayers

we pray

when we need something.

when desperate,

when in pain,

or in sorrow.

we want a way out.

an easy

answer.

a magic wand to be waved

to make all things

right.

we pray.

we get on our knees

and beg.

we make vows we can't

keep,

but our prayers are pennies

tossed into the well.

when it takes more than that,

it takes the whole soul

to go down, before

rescued from hell.

on the other side

there is the other place,

the beyond

land

where the dead lie

but not dead all, they

have survived

this trip to the other side.

they are there,

there is too much beauty

in the world

to think otherwise,

too much love

gone wasted if it isn't

true.

we say less

we say less of how

we feel,

filling our spaces

with weather,

with mundane things, 

who answers

in full when asked

how are you?

who shows their scars,

their recent

pain?

and if we do, what then?

our paths might never 

cross again.

planning the day

i make a plan for the day.

that's who i am now,

a planner.

i get out a pen and a

piece of paper

and sit down

to make my list of things

to do,

things on the back burner,

things to get out of the way.

but first i need coffee.

and i should answer this

text from Phyliss and one

from LB.

i have to put a few bags

of trash onto the curb 

before the truck comes.

but i should put on pants

first, maybe brush my teeth

and shave.

i'll get to the list later.

it's so nice out maybe i'll

take a walk today.

namaste

there was the time

my soon to be ex yoga wife.

came up behind me and put

me in a choke hold

that her

karate boyfriend had taught

her.

my son was standing 

nearby practicing

his drums.

he kept playing, his eyes

wide open,

and saying. mom?

i could barely breathe but

managed to whisper

in surrender, namaste.

when shyness falls away

when you see it

for the first time,

shyness

fallen away,

there is joy inside you.

that sparkle

in another, that wisdom

in a word

or glance.

that humor that trickles

out,

almost by chance.

you have

a revelation that there is

more to this soul

than you first imagined,

and a kiss is

in order.

the fond farewell

there are fond farewells

with tears

and hugs,

the long embrace

before the taxi takes one

away.

there is waving

until out of sight.

and then there is the other

kind.

a slammed door locked

on a rainy night.

glory days

he speaks

of the old days. the glory days.

remember that

the game,

we played,

the bar we hung out in.

remember that car

you drove.

the girl with red hair,

what was her name.

remember

the time

we did this, we did that.

we were so young.

where were we that night?

who else was there?

it was fun, so much fun.

i think about those times

all day

as i sit here on the porch

with a setting sun.

everyone gets a trophy

everyone gets a trophy

just for showing up.

there are no losers anymore.

a patch

a photo

a dinner, a pony.

everyone gets something

for doing nothing.

even last place

is fine.

a pat on the back, a hug,

a ring, a gold medallion,

something that shines.

don't worry, you stink at

this game,

zero and ten, but we'll

post it online.

some winter afternoon

while we embrace

there is a bloom

of breath 

between us as we

try to decide whether

to kiss

or not kiss

as we part

outside the pub.

have we gone too far,

too close

too soon,

or not far enough.

are we

willing to take

a chance

to see one another

again

on some winter 

afternoon.

soft blue, and warm

inside the hollow

knot

of the tree, far off the ground

i see the head

of a snake,

black

as black can be.

neither good or evil,

just him

being who he's

supposed to be.

but what of the eggs

he's found inside

the nest, 

soft blue and warm,

what of the birds, 

not far off, now watching.

the hour glass

as we age,

our skin 

becoming parchment,

the print

of our

words, our deeds

etched

upon our face

we are startled

by its quickness.

even the arms

and legs

are tells

to time passed.

we wake up

cold to the knowledge

that there is less

sand

than yesterday

in the glass.

so close to home

as we walked into the woods,

deepening

with darkness

the snow fell faster 

and hard.

the whitened world was

at a slant

in this blizzard.

the quiet of cold sinking

into our bones.

would we die together

out here,

hand in hand

as our boots sank

deeper into the snow.

is this how life would end,

together,

our love just beginning,

so close to home.

the new hawk and dove

they cry

over the old bar,

the run down joint on the edge

of town

home for the lost,

the poets,

the laborers, 

beleaguered politicians,

fast women,

the fringes of society.

the wobbly stools,

the carved

bar,

the unflushed toilets,

and wet floors.

the lighted juke box

in the corner.

saturated with a hundred

years of smoke.

they cry 

as the iron ball swings

through the walls,

they groan as

the plows pushes

through the rubble.

it's where they fell in love

for a night or two,

where they

drank away their cares,

their blues.

and now it's gone.

they grieve it hard,

their old stomping

ground,

soon to be replaced

by something new.

the wrong kind of love

i wake up hungry.

not just for pancakes 

with syrup and a side order

of bacon.

but for affection.

for physical love, for the kiss,

the skin,

the sin of it all.

hungry

and thirsty for the wrong

kind of love,

not just a taste, not 

just a crumb,

but the kind of love

that makes you weak

in the knees,

without inhibition,

the kind that fills you up 

until you're satisfied,

leaving you 

with a crooked smile, 

a sleepy grin.

it's hard to ever know

so much talk about forgiveness.

about healing

and moving on,

freeing yourself from those

that did you harm.

forgive

their misdeeds, their lies,

their betrayals

their sick and disordered

minds.

forgive them

for they know not what they

do?

or do they?

it's hard to ever know.

sunday mass

i see sadness

in the church, the crowd bent

towards

the door

weighed down

by guilt and shame

pouring in

their pennies

to be free and clean

again.

i see sadness in the priests

feeding

them wafers

and wine.

all the while hiding beneath

the gold,

the shine,

their tattered cloaks,

their doubt filled minds.

different at night

are we different

in the night,

does the day shine too hard

on who

we wish we were,

who we pretend to be,

and then when darkness

falls

the truth

comes out. the mask

falls to reveal

our fangs, our wounds, 

or halos?

our third world country

there's a line outside

the drugstore

people with their sleeves

rolled up

weary

from the wait.

begging for a shot.

they're online,

they're

at the hospital, banging

on the windows

the doors

they don't want to die.

they want

the needle,

the cure.

they hold up their

babies,

they tear at their clothes.

they show

their id's,

a list of their ailments

and underling

issues with lungs and hearts.

but they can't

get in.

the web site is down,

the doors are closed.

come back tomorrow.

we will let you know.

praying with snakes

my friend jimmy asks me to

go to his new church

with him.

so i look at my watch and say,

okay, why not.

maybe there's some single

women there.

he shakes his head, and says

that's not what it's all about.

whatever, i tell him.

so we go.

it's wild. people are throwing

snakes around to each

other, speaking in tongues.

rolling on the floor 

having convulsions. 

what the hell, i say out loud.

and jimmy laughs,

i told you it was wild.

look out here comes a 

copper head right at you.

go ahead and pick one up.

he shows me the bite marks

on his arm, swollen and red.

if one bites you and you live,

it means that God loves you.

and if you don't live,

well, that's a shame.

straight to hell you go.

i'll never do that again

i hear people say

with wise

determination,

i'll never get married again.

or i'll never

drink sloe gin again

and get on a ferris wheel,

or drive with no hands

going down a mountain,

or i'll never go camping

in the woods

where bears are really hungry,

i'll never buy a used car,

or put my hand

under a rock down by

the stream again,

or i'll never eat indian

food again, or live sushi.

these vows are always

connected

to something that

has gone horribly

wrong, something that makes

them pledge to never

go back again.

it usually takes about

two or three trips to the altar,

to reach that point.

moleskin

does no one care

about all the moles being

skinned

and made into

purses

and things.

my phone case for instance.

what about the moles,

i ask my friend betty who

knows a little bit

of something about

everything.

we need to free the moles.

what kind of a world

are we living in

skinning little animals

like we do.

she laughs.

moleskin is a man

made product

she tells me.

woven cotton, both

fuzzy and soft.

she lifts up her leg to show

me her alligator

shoes.

who needs alligators, though,

right?

the broad knife

i think about this butter

knife

in my hand.

passed down to me by

someone

no longer here.

buried deep inside the cold

ground

in manchester.

but this knife,

this broad shiny knife,

how well

it knows butter

and jam.

wide and reflecting

the sunlight that comes

through her

kitchen window.

after one gin and tonic

it's not exactly

an epiphany

or a coming

to jesus moment, 

but there is a light

that goes

on somewhere

in your cavernous head

telling you 

the truth about

many things.

about people in general

and what you

need to do

to survive among them

you find a way to live

with or without 

them.

one moment of gin induced

clarity

tells you that

contentment and 

happiness lies within.

you don't need to stare

into a candle

or wrap your legs

around your head 

like a pretzel,

or become a monk

to get it.

stop caring so much

for what isn't important.

there has to be more

we'd like

to think that there is life

beyond

this life.

another planet,

another world where

another way

exists in a different

shape

or form.

a higher intelligence

to show us the error

of our ways.

this isn't enough

for us.

there has to be more.

how sad to think

it's just you,

and your shirtless neighbor

out there

at 7 am mowing his

lawn.

the striped sweater

when you need your

cane

to answer the door,

or 

your spy glass to read

the daily news,

when you no longer

hear the smoke

alarm because your hearing

aid is not in your ear,,

when you need to find

your teeth, but don't care.

when the little blue

pill won't work anymore

despite her standing in front

of you in her

silky underwear,

when

there's oatmeal on your

favorite striped

sweater and it's killing you,

it might be time

to go.

the right roses

i see the men

bent over the store roses,

grey with concern,

unsure

of which bundle to buy.

are they fresh,

are the petals dry?

so many colors to choose

from.

is a dozen yellow enough, 

or white,

or should i go

deep red

to apologize?

how it begins

it's learned early

and never leaves us.

how we go

about our day, our method

of seeking

what we need or want.

the first cry

sets the stage.

keeps them coming

through the door.

the tears, the play.

some 

grow up while others

linger longer

in the crib.

they prefer life that way.

someone to look up to

she was someone

i looked up to.

her being six feet tall,

what choice did i have.

she put her arm around

my shoulders 

as if i was a small child.

i felt safe with her.

and she liked 

being in charge.

vertically we were challenged,

but horizontally

we matched.

if i needed something

off the high shelf,

there she was.

cobwebs in the corners,

no problem.

i'd have to stand on a box

to kiss her.

sometimes i'd ask

how the weather was

up there, and she'd laugh

despite being asked that

all the time.

she called me short bread.

i miss her and still think

about her, but sadly

it just wasn't meant to last.

who is she?

my brain

was like a monkey in a banana

tree,

jumping from one

branch to another.

i couldn't think

straight or sleep.

my heart was beating

like a rabbit.

so i went to see my therapist

for a check up.

a little tune up

to see what the deal was.

immediately,

she said.

who is she? what's her name?

fashion statement

the world has reached an age,

or a state of mind,

where few care what they look

like anymore

when going to get the mail,

or to the store.

there were years

where most got dressed,

showered 

and combed their hair.

they looked decent 

as they went out

into the street

for a gallon milk,

or to church.

and now we're all in pajamas,

in tights and shorts,

with flip flops

on our feet.

the second hand store

i would never buy new

she tells

me.

my car is used, my clothes

are second

hand.

there's nothing wrong

with day old.

this house has been lived

in many

times.

these shoes

i bought at the second

hand store.

i believe in the flea

markets,

in sales,

one man's trash is another

man's gold.

you should meet my husband,

he's my latest,

the third one is the charm,

so i'm told.

arguing in the trees

the birds are arguing in the trees

this morning.

some in the air,

some sitting

on limbs and branches.

they are full

of themselves, 

squawking 

in disagreement.

their breasts puffed

with ideas.

i get dressed and go out

for coffee

and sit outside on

the stone chairs.

here too, it goes and on.

the chatter never ceases,

the same here

as it was there.

when the great oak falls

when the great oak falls

the neighbors gather. never

have i seen such

emotion

poured out by so many.

the tears,

the hands on their mouths.

the shaking of heads,

they touch the fallen

trunk,

lying sideways now,

the length of it across

the lot.

pictures are taken, children

gather

to climb aboard

but are held back.

dogs are barking, sad about

the tree they knew so well.

such sadness there is

by the community board.

the treasurer, the comptroller,

the vice president

and the secretary. they

roll out the yellow tape

to keep everyone safe.

then the president approaches

me and tells me

that i have the wrong shade

of red painted on my door.

i'll be fined daily

until it's painted over.

the secret rendezvous

for as long

as i can remember,

playing sports at the local parks,

basketball 

until the sun went down

i can still see

the cars parked in the shadows

of trees

along the gravel lots

where the married men

and women,

met secretly.

the windows rolled,

the darkness of their lives

unfolding before us,

but we were children,

ignored, for

what were we to know

or care

this was their world,

our eyes gave them 

little to worry about,

they had no fear.

coming home late again

when he'd arrive home,

late.

a cold plate of dinner on the table.

fork and knife

beside it.

an empty glass too,

he'd tip toe

across the room

and put his finger to his

lips,

motioning upwards

to where my mother

would be asleep

in their room,

telling me to be quiet.

and then

he'd turn the music on

softly, and take me

for a ride on his large black

shoes across

the floor,

whiskey on his breath

giving way

to another woman's perfume.

everyday evil

if you are careful

with your words

when around them,

walking gingerly over

the eggshells

they've laid down,

if you are careful of

the music you play,

the books

you read, or don't read you,

what you watch

on tv, if you sit quietly

without speaking

what you believe,

you have fallen

under their thumb,

under their spell.

you have lost your way.

they have won.

it's not your turn

after falling

from the ship,

i wake up in the sand.

washed ashore.

the sun

on my face.

my clothes wet, and caked

in salt.

the ocean says

no,

not yet. it's not your turn,

come back when we're ready.

it won't be long.

the underground

i went underground

with her.

deep into the catacomb,

where the dead lie.

cold, and damp.

what little light there

was

came from desire.

a small flame

burning slowly out.

i could see my name

etched in the stone.

i could smell death coming,

hear its footsteps.

a long black night it was.

until i left.

and whoever she was

remained.

one step farther

to go farther than this

will be too far.

one step

more and there will be no

turning back.

no return

to who we were.

do we go forward,

do we leave the safe

present,

the heavy past,

do we leap into tomorrow,

of who we need to be?

do we have to ask?

quitting

i'm unregistering to vote.

i'm quitting

the book club,

deleting my memberships,

taking my

name off the lists.

i'm unfriending everyone.

cancelling my

associations with anything

i've joined.

i'm handing in my pool pass,

my discount cards.

i'm going underground.

off the grid.

i'm done with this new world,

i'm very annoyed.

what are you doing here?

when you worked

on a job

a construction job,

a laborer

pushing wheel barrows

or carrying

tools for carpenters

or brick layers

you'd take a lunch.

and grown men 

with families, or fresh

from the jump would take

out their wallets

to show you

a pay stub showing

how much they made

in one day.

each one topping the other.

those were the days

they'd say.

things have changed.

you can't make money any

more doing this.

you need to learn a trade.

and what about you

kid, they'd ask.

why are you here?

dinner date

when i get home

i see that my dog has been in 

the liquor cabinet again.

he's on the couch,

talking on the phone,

smoking a cigarette

and reading the national

dog show magazine.

he's wearing my good

suit.

where do you think you're going,

i ask him,

as i hold up the near empty

bottle of scotch.

i'm on the phone, he says.

shhhhh.

i'm meeting kitty for dinner

later in the alley.

don't wait up. i'll come

through the door

in the back, and by the way

we're out of purina.

and if you  could, i need help

with my collar,

it's a little tight.

take your time

i used to love her more 

when

she was asleep

or at work,

or on a trip, or when

she went out for a walk,

or made a run

to the store.

absence made my heart

grow fonder.

for when she was around me,

i couldn't wait

for her to leave again,

take your time, 

don't hurry back,

i'd tell her,

as she went out the door.

cancer sticks

there was a time

when everyone smoked,

my mother,

my father,

every relative and friend,

i used to cough.

my eyes would water.

the film of nicotine

coated everything.

the tap tap tap of the pack

against the table.

the matches. the lighters.

the ashtrays full of ash.

doctors smoked.

people smoked while

they ate. lighting up

at their desks at work.

on the bus, the train.

you couldn't escape the cloud

of grey.

and still, even now, people

smoke despite

cancer and heart disease

that cause

fifteen hundred sick souls

to die each day.

where's the tote board for

that?

look at me

everyone wants to be famous

for doing nothing.

nothing

but sticking their tongues

out and taking a picture

to post on instagram, or some

other pointless venue.

look at me. i've done nothing

with my life, and yet

i have so many followers,

so many likes,

i must be doing something

right.

say less

don't explain

your troubles. don't lay out

the past

too much

for those whose ear

you have.

in time

that will be all you have

to talk about.

better 

to say little, to say

yes.

i'm fine. and you?

thank you for asking,

again.

baloney

i hear my friend rattling on

and on

about politics,

and the state of the world.

if everyone would

just believe what

he believes and act

accordingly, the world

would a better place.

he has no clue what he's talking

about.

so i say.

that's baloney.

and he says what?

baloney?

why are you talking about

deli meats

when we're in the middle

of this deep

conversation?

the age of entitlement

we're in the go fund me phase

of civilization.

i need a car.

i need a house.

i need a vacation.

i want to get married,

i want to go france on my honeymoon.

send me money.

as much as you can spare.

i know it's the third time around

with this begging 

for cash, but please,

go fund me,

you have a job,

and it's only fair.

the price of eggs

i'll come to your

party, i tell him, if we don't talk

about politics,

or religion,

or money, or current events,

or the price of eggs.

i'll come if we can just

sit there silently

and eat, drink, occasionally

cross our legs.

the stain

she scrubs

and scrubs at the spill on

her wood floor.

on her knees

with a bucket and brush,

a rag.

she puts her shoulder

into it,

her hand are red

and raw from

rubbing at the stain.

in time you realize

it's not this,

that needs to go away,

it's about something else

altogether,

a buried shame.

her worry stones

after she died

he carried her worry stones

in his pocket.

smooth

glass pebbles of blue.

they reminded him

of her.

always nearby

to touch, or rub between

his fingers.

nestled in the deep

bottom beside his keys.

he was never

this close

to her when she was alive,

somehow, cold

stones

were easier to deal with.

the mail order bride

i completely forget about my

mail order bride

from the Ukraine

until she's standing on the porch

with her one suitcase,

ringing the bell.

i look through the peep hole

and see her shaking

her long blonde hair,

and smacking her puffy red lips

together.

yikes, i say out, loud. Olga?

i open the door and let her in.

what the hell, she says,

in her russian accent.

i've been out here ten minutes.

you treat me like a dog.

where have you been?

you call this love. a marriage?

i don't think so.

in my country my brothers

would kill you with an axe

for such rude behavior.

sorry, i was in the bathtub

reading a new cook book

about intermittent fasting.

i'm hungry, she says, throwing

herself onto the couch.

no fasting, kill me a pig

and cook it, then

fix me a drink. no ice.

yes, my love i tell her.

oh, and where's my ring. i want

a big diamond, like you give

all the girls.

and take my bag up to my room.

playing with fire

i decide to play with fire.

put my hands

in it, waving my fingers in

the heat.

i jab it with a stick,

then throw

a broken bottle into the flames

to see if it

blows up.

i throw some newspapers

in there.

some old sheathes of poems.

photos

of now insignificant others.

i put a marshmallow

onto the end of a 

skewer

and make some smores.

i throw some water onto

the blanket

where it catches fire

from leaning in.

i swab some neosporin

onto my burns

and blow on them, before

getting the butter

from the fridge.

i'm having a good old

time playing with fire.

the yearly review

i have my annual meeting 

with myself

and meet in the conference room,

out on the back

deck with a vodka tonic.

the sun is just going down

through the trees.

leaving a nice pink splash

of color on the stream behind my house.

shall we get started, i ask myself.

sitting up straight.

i take a big sip of my drink,

then i begin.

i ask myself where i want

to be in five

years from now.

i shrug. alive, i guess would

be nice.

maybe on a warm beach

with heidi klum.

i nod, and smile. okay. okay

not realistic, are we. but

okay. we appreciate your

humor. it's served you well

throughout the years

and through all the turmoil 

you've been through.

i've been looking at your

notebooks, and network of clients

and i see that you

are a very dedicated employee.

honest, hard working.

always on time, and fair to

your clients.

i also see by your bank accounts

that you can retire at anytime,

you have no issues with money

whatsoever.  all those divorces

haven't seem to hurt you one

bit in the financial department,

so we must ask you,

why do you want to continue

working for us? it's very hard

work and we aren't getting any

younger, are we?

i don't know, beats me. 

i guess i don't know what else

to do. i don't fish, i don't play

golf, i don't own a stupid boat,

or collect stamps, so i guess

i actually like working.

okay. well, that does it for

this year and hopefully we'll

see you again next year.

enjoy your evening and your drink.

the north explorers

i look into the freezer

and imagine

explorers

heading to the north pole

to plant a flag

to say we made it.

there are the frozen peas

to contend with.

a stiffened bag

of carrots.

the mystery packages

to climb over.

unmarked territory.

trays of ice.

a box of waffles making

a barrier

that they must go around.

i see the sled dogs

pulling them 

up the frozen pizza,

the frozen meat loaf.

the cookies and slices

of cake, all wrapped

and frozen solid.

i put a small bottle of

vodka

in there to help them

along.

a roll of the dice

there is always a decision

to make.

go left or right.

something to eat from

column A,

or column B.

what to wear?

what to write.

so many small decisions

to decide on

which may lead

you down the right

road,

or the wrong one.

destiny, fate, or a roll

of the cosmic dice?

oh happy days

was there ever a happier day

in your young

life, when you got the call,

that your girlfriend

was not going to have a baby.

your baby.

it was new years,

christmas, every holiday

wrapped into one.

there was dancing in the street,

champagne flowed,

confetti dropped from the sky,

and then of course,

more love making. but

very very carefully now.

closer and closer to fun

how much further is it,

the child says

as billboards fly by holding

the faces

of other children laughing.

not far, the mother says.

be patient.

the ocean is up ahead.

smell the salt in the air.

look straight ahead you can

see the rise of the coaster,

the spin of the ferris wheel.

not far my dear.

we're getting closer and

closer to fun. then

she catches her father's

eyes, darkened,

in the rear mirror.

when the plague ends

when the plague ends

we'll

travel.

we'll have fun again.

we'll go out dancing.

we'll be

free to go abroad,

to fly

or sail on an ocean liner.

will buy new clothes

to wear,

we'll be happy again.

we'll go the zoo,

the park,

the circus.

we'll buy a pony and ride

him around town,

waving our hats

and saying

howdy to everyone.

every day will

be a banana split day.

with lots of whipped

cream

and a cherry on top.

into the wee hours

i used to stay up late,

into the wee

hours

back when i was out carousing

with the boys.

downtown.

chasing skirts

in the city.

M street,

19th street.

we road the carousel 

for as long as we

could.

and then love got in

the way.

marriage and kids.

a mortgage.

bills to pay.

responsibility.

and as i turn to look

at the clock,

ten thirty, i grab my book,

to read a few

more pages before

i go to sleep.

a dozen brown eggs

i remove the welcome

mat

from my front door, i turn off

the phone.

i tell the mailman

enough.

no need to deliver here anymore.

i cut the wires

to the internet.

put the computers on the curb.

i'm off the grid.

i'm out of touch, out

range.

i'm buying a chicken ranch

in Middleburg. 

if you need a dozen brown

eggs,

come on out, otherwise

forget you ever knew my name.

the moon walk

you've changed, she says,

meeting me on the street.

you almost seem happy now.

i'm taking dancing lessons

i tell her.

three nights a week.

i show her a few steps,

tapping my new shoes

on the sidewalk, then

spinning around to a non

existent beat.

oh my, she says. can you

do the moon walk?

i laugh, does a chicken

lay eggs, and i give her that.

towards the orange groves

everyone is going south

for one reason

or another.

the climate, the taxes,

a divorce,

or new spouse.

they have their reasons

to pack 

their bags, throw

away their boots and

overcoats.

leave behind their shovel

and salts.

they put on flowered shirts

and lotion

to block the sun,

they point the car toward

the orange groves.

their life is done.

shrinking

his chair swallows him

as he grows

older

with each passing day.

the mountain that he was

is a small

hill now. sinking

slowly into the leather couch.

the fear you felt, has turned

to pity.

he shrinks

and shrinks from the memory

of what he was.

the monster

that he pretended to be.

over the wall

once over the wall

once out

you don't look back, you

run.

you go as far away as you

can,

and fast.

you did your time.

you paid your dues.

a lesson learned.

the rest of life is up to you.

tell us how to feel

what should we care about

today.

what will they tell of such great

importance

that it will

worry us,  make us pray.

what news

will fill our eyes and ears,

and make

us sad, bring us to our knees

in fear.

tell us, how to feel.

we have no minds of

our own.

the tombs

she carried them everywhere

she went.

the places

she was sent to by the choice

of others.

having worn out her welcome.

the boxes.

dust laden tombs

of pets that she regarded

as saints.

the names engraved

in gold letters.

on her desk they would go.

nearly in tears

each day when seeing them,

still not understanding

what true is love is.

i need more fun

i tell her that i need more fun.

please,

don't argue with me anymore,

don't point out

my many faults,

that there's spinach in my

teeth.

don't tell me what to do,

or say, or how to act.

don't tell me that the house

is too cold,

that the bed is unmade.

don't tell me how to chew

my food.

give me a break.

i need more fun and i see

that it's no longer possible

with you.

fun while it lasted

followers drift off.

they go

away.

they've had enough of this.

reading

late into the night. finally,

bored, and done.

the repetition too much

to take.

fun while it lasted

they say and

i agree, having said

that more than once.

at the machine

i quit, i hear the man say,

as he stands up

from his machine,

having been

there all day. i can't work

here anymore

at these wages,

under these conditions.

i have a family

of four to feed.

look at my hands.

look into my eyes.

do you see what i see?

but tomorrow

he's there again, for what

is there to do

beyond this.

what else is there to be.

lovers at the pond

the pond is frozen.

i can see the skaters out there.

circling.

in their red scarves,

their gloves and hats,

red cheeked

and smiling in their youth.

they will be there into dark

as a quiet moon

appears.

some will become

lovers and look back on

this day with wonder,

some will go home in tears.

yesterday

yesterday seems

a long time ago.

but forty years gone by

seems

near.

strange

how the past clings

to us

the more time that passes

in between.

i can still remember

the perfume in her hair,

the way

her arm moved

when reaching towards me

in the air.

surrender to it

the pull of the ocean

tells

you something about this world.

the force

of a riptide

keeping you out.

there's little you can do

to swim in,

you can only surrender

to it

and let it push you

further down

the shore,

where you may survive.

the pool party

he wants to have a pool party

in the middle

of a pandemic.

fill up the old

swimming hole

and skim out the frogs

and dead

raccoons.

it sounds lovely, i tell him.

when?

in a few months, he says,

probably june.

great, i'll be there,

i'll bring potato salad,

and my hazmat suit.

double taxed

your being double taxed

now,

the lady says,

handing back my 

assortment of forms,

electronically filed to the man.

you made too much

money last year.

he gets you coming,

and he gets you going.

my suggestion to you

is to buy a safe

and go cash from here on out,

stuff it under

the mattress,

between the cushions

of the couch.

the more you make, 

the more they'll take.

the only other option

is to pack your bags and

move south.

slings and arrows

we pick up

words along the way.

words to use,

to remember, to save

for when we need them.

is there anything

better than

saying the perfect phrase

with the perfect arrow

in your quill

ready to be aimed and fired,

loaded onto the bow,

to slay.

the blind heart

the blind

see and hear what we don't.

cautious in their

walk,

tapping their cane.

an ear

to the road, to each

soul

they come across.

they touch

and taste

beyond our capabilities.

we are too

distracted with beauty,

or worse

the ugly of things.

and yet,

they too have their

hearts broken.

lightness of foot

there is a lightness

of foot

when things begin, 

and yet they

bounce even higher

when there is 

a grateful end.

balloons are released,

confetti floats down,

your heart is lifted up,

and suddenly

the world once more

starts to go around.

the rain day

there were the scars

of course,

the sullen repose against

the window.

each day

a rain day,

how she embraced blue.

both arms around its

welcoming 

dark hue. in constant

pursuit of hunger,

her life long friend.

each wrist

having two thin threads

across a vein, two seemed

better,

more balanced then one.

there were scars of course.

but most

remained unseen,

tucked within,

those she kept to herself.

sharing them

would be too hard

to explain.

Maybelline

you read about the elephant,

the old elephant

in the circus, Maybelline,

who goes wild and stomps

it's handler to death

as she stampedes

out of the big top tent.

who can blame her.

disgusted with her treatment.

peanuts, really?

who hasn't wanted to do that

at one time or another.

for the queen

strange, how the bee stings,

regardless

of who you are.

it matters little that you mean

them no harm.

you will not touch

a single one,

you will leave the honey,

the cave like hive alone.

but they don't care. you've

gotten too close.

and as you rub the new welt

upon your arm.

scratching at

the itch of a sting,

the bee flies off to die.

as we all do so often

for a queen.

all the love there ever was

there is a point

in each relationship where

you suddenly

feel

the cold air around you.

there's the dark

eyes.

the less said. the distance

one keeps

when lying

in bed.

it's as if a window

has been

left open and all the love

there ever was

has slipped out.

south beach christmas

we spent a week

in south beach between 

christmas

and new years.

the pink hotels

around us.

the white sand,

the crystal blue water.

seventy five degrees

on a cold day.

no clouds as we lay out

on our chairs

to sunbathe.

merry christmas, she said

to me,

taking her bikini top off,

like everyone else had,

merry christmas i told her

and took a sip of

my pina colada.

where to put them

there is the problem of money.

so much for so little.

what to do

with the elderly.

the ones left behind.

where to put them, where

they feel at home.

close enough to visit.

a room with a view.

a cafeteria with food.

new friends to sit around

the table and play cards with.

nurses in white

in case you fall, or don't

answer when someone 

comes to call.

chasing a chicken

if i had to kill an animal,

like a chicken,

for instance,

i probably wouldn't eat one,

same goes

for a cow,

or pig.

there would be no bacon

frying in the pan.

no lamb chops.

no stew on the stove.

i wouldn't be wearing

these alligator shoes,

or this bear skin coat.

i'd be hungry and cold

staring at the ground

waiting for cotton and

potatoes to grow.

a mere forty years

when young,

at the first job, the first desk,

the first boss

upon you,

you think, how much longer do

i have to do this.

forty years more?

impossible.

and then forty years passes

and you leave 

to go home.

at last you are done.

you remove you shoes,

take off your clothes,

you turn off your phone.

you lie down to rest.

and you miss it.

nothing changes

carefully we enter the cave,

tendrils

of wet light slip down

the rock,

we hold the flame up to

the etchings.

war paint, arrows

and spears.

animals and men

facing death.

does nothing change, or

just

repeat itself.

we know the answer to that.

internet dating 101

when i binged dated

after

getting a divorce from cruella one

and two,

licking my wounds,

i learned

a lot about

women out there on the sites.

no matter how much money

they made,

no matter how

feminist they were,

no matter how successful

and rich

they had become

with alimony and child support,

they almost

never helped pay

for a drink or meal

when you met them.

as soon as the check came,

they ran to the bathroom

to powder their nose.

i saw cobwebs on their purses.

i didn't mind

paying.

but after a three course

meal, three glasses

of wine and dessert, plus tip,

i couldn't afford

a hundred and twenty dollar

night very long,

every week of the month.

the women kept

getting bigger

and i kept getting poorer

in my search for my

next cell mate. whoops,

i mean soul mate.

money from heaven

as a kid i delivered

the washington post.

a hundred and twenty

newspapers rolled

into tight batons

and thrown onto porches

up and down

the streets of the projects.

mostly running.

my dog beside the wagon.

four in the morning,

done by five.

and back in bed,

covered in sweat despite

the snow and wind.

it was money from heaven.

i still have the IOU note

from my mother 

for the time

she borrowed forty dollars

to buy groceries 

for thanksgiving.

it took a while, but eventually,

i let her slide.

we make a toast

we toast the day.

each other.

we clink glasses together

and give

thanks for all we have.

we salute

the moon, the stars.

we hold our

glasses high

and toast those near,

those far.

we pour and toast

until there is no more,

then we stagger up

the stairs

and she says with

a kiss, let's wait until

morning,

as i begin to snore.

bemused

there are the poor

and then there are the poorer.

having been

both.

a truth sticks with you.

a dime

means something.

a pair of shoes

bread.

the heat on.

a bed to sleep in.

and when you dream, do

you dream about

not having

what you have.

no wood for the fire.

no milk?

and yet if you tell another

soul,

a son, or father,

they look at you bemused,

they'll deny it ever happened.

liar.

all is else is forgotten

when she speaks 

of dancing

you can hear it 

in her voice

that this is what she loves

to do.

she's a fish in water 

once the music starts

and she spins 

across the ballroom floor.

she's in her element.

everything else 

is forgotten.

life now

feels way too short,

it comes naturally

it comes naturally

or it doesn't come at all.

the flight, the spin,

the arc

of the ball,

thrown and caught.

nothing to it.

it happens easily,

without nary a thought.

the motion of

the arm,

the twist of body.

you either have it,

or you don't.

i try to keep her there

we smooth things out

with a few

drinks

and a night on the couch.

it gets

better as the night goes on.

she doesn't

bother me about my

lack of gifts

or flowers on valentine's day.

not even a mushy

card from the drugstore.

she's in a good mood,

and i try to keep her there.

you need to go to kansas for a real pie

people take pride

in where they're from.

texas,

or kansas,

michigan.

they take it with them

wherever they land.

within two minutes

they're bound to tell you

where they were raised,

and where you should go

before you die.

you don't know ribs

until you

get to carolina, they say,

or you never had chowder

until you've been to maine.

you want maple syrup,

go to vermont.

up north we do things

differently with a pot roast,

down south fried chicken

is our claim to fame.

they're just lines on a map,

but it sticks with them

from the cradle

to the grave.

the tax lady

her wig

askew. her glasses fogged

with the work

of doing taxes in her

tiny cubical,

she greets me at the door

as the bell settles down.

how are you?

so good to see you, we've

been talking about you.

wondering

when you were coming in.

please don't tell me

you made the mistake again.

everyone laughs, 

and laughs and laughs.

i slide her my books,

my papers across the counter,

i imagine that this joke

will never end.

harmonica time

i don't know where 

it came from,

or how it got here,

but there it is,

this silver harmonica

in my drawer.

i pick it up and blow.

finally an instrument i can play.

all morning

i keep it going. accompanying

bob dylan on the radio.

i've got this, i think.

until i hear banging on

the wall.

it's how they roll

you can tell where

someone is in their life,

mentally and

spiritually by how they

drive their car.

it's a dead give away.

ignoring

the rules of road.

taking stop signs as

suggestions.

going too fast.

everyone is in their

way and going to slow.

always lost, always

making a u-turn

and never asking for

directions.

they believe they can

make every yellow light.

beat every train

across the track.

it's how they roll

both in the car and out.

we take nothing with us

we own nothing.

not really.

everything is borrowed.

rented.

leased.

we take nothing with us.

not even

love, or heat ache.

it all goes away.

be patient.

be kind.

don't hurt anyone today.

taxed again

the dining room table

is the war zone.

the tax papers stacked

in clumsy order.

the adding machine

out and plugged in.

a pot of coffee on.

sharpened pencils.

a magnifying glass

for the pesky small print.

receipts and the debris

of paper work collected

throughout the year.

insurance

and debts, fees.

spent money, money earned,

a record of all the good

and bad deeds.

slowly i sift through

the piles,

filling in numbers.

then coming to the point

where i find the box

that asks

filing separately or

married.

or single. i put

a giant check there

and write the word happily

next to that.

sacred sages

with the tip of a candle flame

i light

the smudge stick and begin.

the scent of sage

and lavender fills the air,

sweet grass.

slowly i walk

around the house, starting

at the front door,

to each room, down to the basement

and up again.

to the kitchen,

the living room,

up another flight to the bedrooms.

i let the smoke fly

in soft ribbons.

erasing the dark memories.

the lingering negative

vibrations of someone

who once lived here.

no one was there

there was no one pacing

outside his door

as he slept

in intensive care.

a day away from Christmas

the day he would

die on.  i saw no flowers.

no cards.

there were no children

gathered at bedside.

no mother no father,

no siblings.

no wife.

i didn't see a single friend

of his

as i stood there

listening to the machine

give him air.

no one else was there.

they were doing their 

mourning, their waiting

elsewhere.

the saved

will we gather in heaven?

will there be loved ones

and the others,

the ones who broke our back.

will peace be made, or will

it go on as it is

here on earth.

is the bible right?

is there a house in heaven

for all that believe.

is it a mansion.

a split level.

something along the lines

of frank lloyd wright,  perhaps.

clean angles with windows

overlooking the sea.

will there be a choice in colors

of angelic sheets?

sandals or sneakers?

can you be alone, 

if you want to,

or will you have 

to participate in singing

and clapping of hands.

i hope not.

i won't like that.

i just want to be me.

mingo

i remember his hands.

brown leather,

his face worn with sun.

with life

and time

passing. always in his yard

reaching.

a garden hose in hand.

his white hat tipped

to hide the sun.

the grapes across

the trellis.

the sunflowers taller

than a man. tomatoes

and corn,

lettuce translucent

and green.

everything would grow

under his kind words,

his gentle command

each seed pushed down.

as a child how could know

who he was,

what this was all about.

but now as you kneel

to ground, and wait,

you understand.