casting out

anything?

i ask the man as he casts his

line out into

the rough lake.

nothing,

he says. not yet.

he has a styro-foam cup

of live worms

at his boot.

a tackle box open

with hooks and lead weights,

plastic bobbers

and a knife.

he reels in again,

then casts out once more

in a different direction.

he takes a silver flask

out of his jacket

and takes a sip.

he waits.

we're all waiting for

something.

in search of

i want more drama.

i want to argue, to be told

things about

myself that i already know.

i want someone

that's high maintenance.

up and down,

hot and cold.

someone with a mean streak,

in therapy,

a woman with a whip

who hates her father.

a problem maker.

i want someone medicated

with lingering lovers in the shadows,

someone on their phone

every second of the day.

i want a liar,

a loser. a scary person

with lots of mascara.

someone who gets under 

my skin.

someone i have to worry

about as i sleep with one

eye open.

the pill parade

she takes her saturday pill

with a glass

of water.

then closes the plastic

door

to the rest of the week.

some white,

some blue.

some squared or round.

she laughs better

on saturdays. more calm

and almost

happy.

although on sunday tears

may fall

until mondays pill goes

down.

for the record

i'm driving forward

but it feels like backwards.

a tunnel

of sorts

on a blue lit day,

let's call it Easter for the record.

it's no different than

it was five years ago,

the inlet, the same.

the arched bridge,

the cafe where we sat

in near silence

and decided both to go

on our way.

our bench is warm, as i

sit here.

the same seagulls swooping

down,

the same sailboats

plowing gently across

the sound.

nothing much has changed.

a window left ajar

a window left ajar

on this chill night in april

has brought me

closer to you.

see how intimate i can be,

my body near yours

seeking warmth,

not pleasure for once.

just heat.

where it needs to be

if i pull

the window open high enough

and lean out,

i can hear

the water rolling against

the rocks.

the banks

of the wide stream.

it stretches

like  a green sleeve

from left to right.

as far as i can

see. it's full of rain

now. 

it knows where it needs

to go.

so unlike the river 

that rolls in me.

resistance is futile

there are things i resist now

that have somehow

become painful.

high mass being one,

confession,

the dentist for a cleaning, 

or god forbid a drilling.

the dmv for new plates.

doing taxes.

getting the car inspected.

the doctor probing me

with her

worried gaze.

the long visit across

the bridge, the birthday party.

the pool party.

jiffy lube.

no i don't want my tires

rotated.

and yet somehow

they get done.

almost every day.

the symphony

as the washer chugs along.

the dryer too,

the dishwasher

spinning,

the hum

of the refrigerator

as the tv

blares on with some

old news,

as the radio in the background

plays a song,

my phone dings,

i can't help but think

that something

is terribly wrong.

the bird feeder

as is with many things.

you don't know

what you're getting into

until you're in.

that bird feeder for instance.

it was endless.

the early joy of red birds

and blue, the woodpeckers,

the crows and sparrows

was fine, but

their hunger was without

measure. no matter

how quickly you filled

the bins full, they were

empty the next day.

it was a sign.

i never should have

married her. 

it's already done

as i push the wheel barrow

full of new

dirt down the sidewalk

around the house

i'm thinking of other things

besides the garden

i'm about to plant.

in my mind. i already

see the flowers.

see the sprouts rising

in the rain.

i'm already done 

with this hard work,

before it even begins.

her happy poems

i enjoy 

her happy poems.

such a delight

when up against mine.

so light and airy.

sweet and cheerful.

they are pastries

on a plate, 

waiting for me

to bite.

the fun middle

we all want candy.

we want the moon.

we want

the good times.

the happy ending.

the fun middle.

we want to be filled, 

our bellies full,

our sweet tooth

satisfied.

its hard to get there

on a daily basis.

but we do try

and try and try.

live and let live

as i get older

it gets harder to smoosh a bunch

of ants

with my shoe

as they crawl across

the kitchen floor carrying

grains of sugar.

it's hard now

to spray a poison on them

and watch them roll

over and die.

as a kid, no problem, but

as i approach

that receding light, i'd

rather live and let live

and just

shoo them out the door.

bees,  no problem

flies and spiders,

wasps. lady bugs and crickets.

all good. who could kill

a cricket anyway. not me,

not anymore.

i'm a really good listener

i buy a plant.

i want to see if i can do this.

take care

of something

that needs me.

i can do this, 

the long term relationship.

i know i can.

i have water.

i have sunlight.

i have the time.

i'll talk to it everyday.

i'll listen if it needs 

to tell me something

important. i mean

really really listen.

i can be a good listener

if i put my mind to it.

i'll spin it around

on the sill making sure

it gets

enough rays

on each green leaf,

massaging the stems.

i'll add a little rich top soil

once in a while.

spreading it around with love.

maybe give it a little friend too.

a smooth rock from

the yard, or maybe a frog

if i can find one.

together we can make

this work.

day one.

so far so good.

boom shakalaka

i've been scolded by the best

and the worst of them.

guilty as charged.

as usual.

it's a painful ordeal hearing

the truth.

being wacked over the head

verbally.

boom shakalaka!

dope slapped by a significant

other.

this is who you are and

there's no getting out of it.

so this is why she  broke up

with you.

so this is why you're all alone.

so this is why you write

such sad, pitiful poetry.

so this is why you don't have

pets, or plants, or more

than one child.

this is why you've been married

three times.

gulp.

i do all the work in this relationship.

all the driving.

i do everything for you

and you just don't seem to care.

i look for the sad face emoji

to send her,

but accidentally hit the one

rolling it's eyes.

don't roll your eyes at me

mister mister, she writes back.

you have some nerve.

give me your number, i promise, i'll call you

i find a slip of paper

in my wallet. 

a phone number without

a name.

it could be anybody.

an old friend,

a lover,

an ex wife,

a work related thing.

i hold it up to the light

trying to determine

which decade it came from.

what year?

any coffee stains, or chinese

food smeared

on the narrow slip

of paper.

not a single piece of rice

attached.

i smell it, feel it, rubbing

it between my thumb

and finger.

no perfume. no clue.

it looks local though.

maybe someone is still waiting

for me to call.

i should do the right

thing and dial the number.

that's a good idea, but

maybe later when i have

more time.

i fold it back up and slide

it into my wallet again.

changing light bulbs

i drive four hours in the rain

to change a light bulb for my father.

he hugs me

and hands me the bulb

as i enter his apartment.

he points down the dark hallway

and says, that one.

i reach up and spin

the dead bulb, replacing it

with a new one. seventy five watts.

can you reset my clocks, he

says. i almost forgot.

the time changed again.

but that's the list.

we eat a sandwich together

at his kitchen table. 

he's very stingy with his egg salad.

he seems nervous. he looks old.

his blue eyes are crinkled and

sad behind his bushy eyebrows.

i love you, he says at the door,

handing me a bottle of water

for the ride,

i love you too, i tell him.

then i drive home.

new love

do we cross the frozen lake,

can the ice

be trusted?

shall i go first, or should

we go together

hand in hand.

if we make it to the other side.

we'll be happy.

if we don't.

at least we tried.

arm over arm we go

as i backstroke down the wide

wet lane

of the community pool,

roped off in twirls of red

and blue.

i stare up at the rafters.

the white beams,

made of steel and timber.

the lights on, bright as stars.

arm over arm i go,

kicking my legs.

breathing from side to side.

i'll get there soon.

i can feel the wall nearing.

i have a knack for endings.

waking up

we awaken

from a deep sleep.

suddenly we get it. 

we understand

nearly everything.

everyone.

every why is answered.

we know who every

who is.

every what, decided.

it's a glimpse

of bliss. of complete awareness,

and then we go

back to sleep.

it's easier that way.

the truth being what it is.

a cold beer

the simple things are

more apt

to bring one joy than the complex.

the taste

of a peach.

the slice of sun upon

one's face.

the gulp of cold cold

beer

on a summer day.

the first kiss.

a breeze from a fan.

the smell of the ocean.

a poem

just read still in your hand.

get out of this place

i could easily get in my car

and start driving.

fill up the tank.

spin the globe and point

then go.

i could easily pack a bag,

grab some cash,

a cup of coffee.

i could be on the road by

sunrise.

i could be somewhere

by noon. i could be out of

this place.

far away to the dark

side of the moon.

no need to leave a note,

for who would be here

to read it.

just go, just drive. and 

drive and  drive.

get out while i'm still

alive, and this time

mean it.

sew your lips together

not wanting drama.

not wanting

to say things

you'll regret you sew your

lips together.

you tie your hands

behind your back.

you close your eyes.

you lie still.

you've been here before.

you surrender to what

comes next.

there is nothing you can

do.

but accept it.

the red wagon

as a child

who didn't want a red wagon

to pull

or push.

to gather all you owned

and take

it room to room,

then out the door,

down the hill

to get away.

the red wagon

was everything

and still is now.

the hopeful feast

there is quiet

in the yard.

knees in the dirt,

a spade in hand, seeds

going under.

then water.

then wait.

giving birth is

easy when compared

to what comes next.

the growing

years.

the weeding,

the pruning, the harvest

and hopeful feast,

before there is death.

papier-mache

not enough.

there is little to say.

we disappoint. we don't live

up to what

they need, what they want.

we're imaginary

people

cardboard cut outs.

papermache.

we can't be

what we aren't

no matter

how hard someone

tries to make

you that way.

spinning the wheel

furiously, hands

on the wet clay.

the chocolate easter bunny

the disappointment 

of easter

was often

that the chocolate bunny,

nine inches long,

was hollow.

and made of milk chocolate,

not dark

and bitter sweet

with almonds.

it turned to goo

in your already sticky

hand, as you bit

the head off,

feeling gypped

and annoyed by so

many loose jelly beans

in the pink straw.

it was a beautiful ham

it was a beautiful ham.

a hundred dollar ham.

sweetly glazed and laced in rings

of pineapple. but

the line was long in the april wind.

i was dressed too light,

unwarmed

by this strange cold weather.

and the others.

in long coats. staring at the ticket

in their hand. together

we inched forward.

peering through the window,

wondering when we would

be served. it was saturday

and the next day. the in laws

would arrive, new friends.

a family modernized

for these times quickly made

through the magic

of finding one another online.

one easter, one ham, one

nice time, and we were done.

the sunday car wash

the car wash is a temple,

a synagogue, a church of cleansing.

the heavens open up

with white clouds of soap,

with hot spray

of water. our sins are washed

away so easily.

the hands of angels arrive

and swiftly scrub away our 

dirty troubles.

we move forward

towards the light as

the hot blow of God's mouth

dries us to a new shine,

we are given another chance

to go out and change.

to avoid the pit falls, the mud,

the grime

the pot holes of the day.

we are cleansed again,

we are given the green light to

move forward,

to be better than we

were before. all is forgiven.

go and sin no more.

the summer dresses

the flowers

full of sun and rain

and all good things that

are spring

scream yellow.

yell pink.

bellow blue.

they want to be seen.

look at me.

look at me.

look at how wonderful

i am. pick me.

the day is hers

she's happy.

i can see it in her eyes.

hear it in her voice.

she's very happy.

content.

secure.

the day is hers.

tomorrow too.

why mess it up with

love,

with someone

like you.

the snooze button

in the morning.

we'd spoon.

we were two silver bodies

aligned

beneath the sheets

of  the cool room.

we'd talk

and listen.

we'd say things like,

we should get up now.

but it's so warm

and cozy beside you.

the alarm

would go off and she'd

hit the button.

she'd say, okay,

we have ten minutes,

let's not waste

as second.

no one comes to see me

they buried her in a place she'd

never been.

never loved.

never seen.

never had one ounce of desire

to visit.

but it was a cheap grave.

half price.

the unmarked

spot on a rolling hill

not far from

the quick mart.

the power lines, the highway.

and now few go

and visit.

it's the same complaint

she had when

alive.

self help

we inject ourselves

with another dose of self help.

a book in the mail.

a session

with the therapist

a binge of you tube

vids

steering us towards

some enlightened

point.

a friend jumps and gives

you her take

on things.

words of advice.

have fun, let go. move on

and don't think twice.

we want the pill, the syringe.

the drink

of love.

we want to be held and

made whole again.

if only it was that easy.

an easier way

she asks me

if there is a cure for love.

to ignore

perhaps.

to write someone off,

to not answer the call

or text back.

it's so hard to do.

there must be an easier

way to end things

when you're still in love.

and i tell her yes there is.

get married.

and it will end

soon enough.

the world to win

we all want more.

we want

more love, more time, more

sleep,

more of that,

more of this.

we want another spoonful,

another kiss.

we want what we can't

have,

and dismiss what we do.

we want

each other to be different,

to be like us.

we crave, we cry ourselves

to sleep.

it's only at the end,

as the light dims,

do our hearts say enough,

letting at last

the world to win.

the quiet of lips

no need to have a weapon.

no blade, or gun.

you've chosen

yours.

silence.

the quiet of your lips.

the turn

of your back.

how vicious this is.

how dungeon

like

the room becomes when

you've gone

cold. when you've

decided to punish those

who bring

the sun.

there is no choice

the underbelly

of the caught fish

so soft, so wet and cool

in hand.

still alive,

twitching, coughing

in the air

that chokes it.

full of feathered bones,

how slowly it dies.

eyes, flat

and black, staring towards

the sun.

the guilt runs up my arms.

one holding

this life,

the other a knife.

there is no choice but

to throw it back.

once doused

once doused

this flame is hard to set again

into heat.

once burned

out and washed

against the waters

of disagreement. it's hard

to light it

once more.

hard to find in cold darkness

whatever it was

we had before.

cut flowers

the cut flowers in the vase

don't remind

me of you at all.

how beautiful they are, full

of color and life.

vibrant and filling

the room

with the scent of spring,

new life.

they don't remind me

of you at all.

but in a week or so,

they will.

i have some news for you, sit down

she called me once on

this same

day.

april first.

and said. i have some news

for you.

sit down.

i'm sorry to tell you this.

but i'm pregnant

and i'm pretty sure it's

yours.

we don't have to get married

but if it's a boy

i want to name

it after you and if it's

a girl

i want to name her after

my mother.

i poured myself a drink

and stared out

the window.

i thought of the endless

soccer games

i'd have to go to on cold

weekend mornings.

and then she said.

are you still there,

are you okay?

april fools.

the brown shirt boy

as a boy in his brown

shirt.

arm stretched out in salute.

he marched

with the other boys.

carrying sticks

for guns.

too young for war,

but willing

and believing in

the new world that was

yet to come.

and now at ninety, he

remembers

and smiles. 

slipping on occasion,

as he reminisces, 

revealing

his true nature, his arm

snapping upwards.

his lips whispering,

siege heil.

the crooked smile

her  crooked smile.

her bent stick, her lean over

posture

as she limps

once more around the lake,

across the wooden

bridges.

then back again.

reliving each wrong doing,

each mistake.

she lifts a hand to wave

then goes home alone

once more,

to her new found

grave.

mob mentality

we can't discuss

things anymore. we can't say

what's on our mind.

we have to curb

our thoughts.

pretend to agree, that all

is well.

fine.

we can't have a different

thought than

the mob

outside, we have to get

along

and be silent. no one is

wrong if everyone

is right.

the less fortunate

the less fortunate

those

on the other side 

of the proverbial

track.

the lost

and lonely,

the desperate, those

carrying the weight

of an imaginary

world upon their back,

are more aware

than most of where they

are in life.

while the rest

go on, blindly,

living life by rote,

in a learned trance.

having steak at home

i convince myself

as i cut into the sizzling

rib eye that

i could eat a steak

every night of the week.

and potatoes.

and bread.

and salads and a dark

chocolate mousse.

i could eat that every night

for the rest of my

life and not be bored.

not stray, not look at

another man's plate.

it's how i think of you.

the less said

the crisp paper.

white and ready in the printer.

unused.

waiting patiently

on me

to click the button to send

a letter

to a loved one, no longer

in the picture.

but the printer

will have to wait, and

so will she.

the less said

the better.

over age

i remember being

underage

when sipping my first beer,

having snuck

into a bar on atlantic street,

called someplace else.

i can still taste that beer now.

the cold suds

on my soft chin.

i can hear

the music, and see the sway

of young girls

coming into the back door,

we were young once.

a long time ago.

and now we're over age.

contentment

excuse me if i fall asleep

in your arms.

you see, i'm very tired.

not sad, not sorrowful,

but plum tired.

bones and muscles.

the ache of work, the ache

of age.

sorry if i doze off in your

kind embrace.

we don't have to call it love.

we don't have to call

it anything.

let's just call it contentment,

a very

a happy place.

where's lois?

what circumstances

aren't under

our control. we fool ourselves

into thinking

we've got this day,

this hour, we've got

the world by the tail,

life on a string.

it's only up from here.

up up and away. but

where's superman when

we need him.

where's my lois lane?

find a thick limb

a handful

of silver, a pouch of gold.

a betrayal.

a hanging.

who hasn't

been there, ready to 

give up

and move to the next

life

when this one has

failed.

find a tree,

a thick limb

that won't break,

enough with love,

with trying to please,

with writing poetry.

getting dressed for work

some mornings i can't decide

what to wear to work.

which long sleeve

black shirt to wear, or should

i go with white, since

the weather has changed.

i open the dresser drawers

and look at my ensemble.

it's a dilemma, so many.

i choose one that has as nice

white stripe of paint going

down the front. some red drops

of christmas red from

the Mendelson job in south east.

i look in the mirror.

oh, wait. pants. i mustn't forget

pants.  khaki, with blue speckles

off latex eggshell.

perfect.

good morning sunshine

when you live alone

for a while.

you begin to talk to machines

in the house.

the printer,

the computer.

the tv, the washing

machine and dryer.

hello furnace.

hello ac.

i tip my hat to mr. toaster.

good morning dishwasher.

how are you today.

ready to clean?

the conversation is mostly

one sided with me

talking, but there are

some gurgling sounds,

some rattling.

occasionally i might

even get a red light

smile.

which is an improvement

over who used

to be here.

watching the detectives

they drain

the lake looking for one of my

ex wives.

i stand at the window

smoking a cigarette

and drinking a good morning

bloody mary.

they'll be coming by

soon to ask me

questions.

none of which i'll have

answers to.

she was a fine woman

i'll offer.

i gave her the best six

months, three weeks,

two days and nine hours

of my life.

i know where she is though.

the nordstrom shoe sale

is on this week.

check there.

underwater

it's a sluggish

feeling.  a woozy wake up

you feel

leaden.

you want to see where this goes.

how you will

walk from the front door

to the car.

will a cold shower help,

a cup of coffee

strong.

for the first time in a long

time,

you're not even in the mood.

maybe things

will change though,

by late afternoon.

the unfine china

i am reluctant to throw

out the chipped dish,

the cracked plate, the cup

with the jagged edge.

they have served me well

through the years.

a hot meal carried,

a bowl with soup, a cup

filled with

coffee to the brim.

they have become strange

friends.

relied upon day after day.

i feel for them

as i gently wash and dry,

once more finding

room on the shelf,

to put them away.

getting the juice

as we stand in line.

shirts rolled

to the shoulder, prepared

for the needle

by a kind worker in white.

we shuffle forward.

we don't want to die

just yet,

so we trust the juice,

we have faith

in the doctors,

the science. hoping

for once

that they have it right.

the long haul

some sleep

is not sleep at all, but a half

dream

half

awake long haul

through the night.

the turn

and toss, the pillows

never right.

the blankets loose,

the sheet

crimped

and balled tight.

it's in a state of fatigue

we are

when at last

we arrive into the dawn,

cringing at the creeping

of persistent

light.

you can only do you

when you understand why

people

are who they are,

where they've come from,

how they've

arrived

you let go a little.

you let them be who they

are meant to be.

for better or worse. it's not

your job, or place

to correct the world and make

it yours.

you can only do you,

not them.

the grass lot

as the children run

in circles

in the grass lot across the street

i see

the parents

nearby, shadowed by the new

green of trees.

who knows how

quickly this all passes,

it was just

yesterday

that i too was there, 

watching as my son grew

and grew

his life becoming his own,

and soon it was time

to leave.

the next great flood

the earth wobbles.

you can feel it when you wake up.

the trembling of ground.

you can smell

fear in the air.

hear voices.

you can taste the darkness

that is about to come.

the anger.

the lack of kindness

and compassion.

it's every man for himself

armed with

knife and gun.

maybe it is time

for the next great flood.

a cat or bird instead

when i read about the monkey

that kills

the owner

of said monkey, 

i shake my head

and wonder why

after years of treating it

like a human child

it suddenly turns on them,

chewing off fingers

and gouging out eyes.

biting ears in two

like dried fruit.

i come to the conclusion

that i don't ever want to have

monkey as a pet.

i'm fine with going to the zoo.

maybe i'll have a cat

or a bird instead.

book covers

she tells me her book cover would

be a bright yellow

with dandelions, unicorns

and rainbows.

there would be a frosting of

bright stars.

children would be skipping about,

happiness in their

hearts. gumdrops for eyes.

sugary sweet.

i show her my book.

and the next one.

i'm thinking skull and crossbones

for the third.

or a dungeon

with a slender ray of light coming 

through the barred window.

back to the drawing board

strange changes occur

when least

expected.

someone comes into your

life, or leaves

it. and the world suddenly

is different.

someone dies

and leaves you a boatload

of money.

or someone steals everything

you have,

including your heart.

and you're back

to the drawing board with

a piece of chalk

in your weary hand.

the next hour

the future

is not what it used to be.

that's very clear.

i'm not a fool, though

i've been hard at work

sometimes disproving that.

i never x off a day

on the calendar

as to what i might do

or not do,

making plans is not

my cup of tea.

canada, florida?

who knows.

don't ask me where 

i'll be in five years.

i can hardly

figure out the next hour

in front of me.

a new place to be

a change of scenery

would be nice. new faces, new

places to eat and drink

wine.

a new sun, a new moon.

a new me

waiting on the next you

to come

and be mine.

the get away car

who doesn't rewrite their own

brief history

who doesn't

embellish or leave out

important details.

allowing others to see

just the shine.

not the dirt, the hidden

truth behind

the lies, between the lines,

but i'd rather hear

the truth than find out later

who drove the get

away car for bonnie

and clyde.

it's on you

go build your house

on the flood plain.

go erect a home

where the winds

carry fire

and burn everything

to the ground.

fall in love

with a lie. in the end

it's on you.

it's all the same.

your permanent record

the guilt hardly leaves you

when raised

in a catholic

church.

each sin a blot on your 

permanent record.

a blemish only erased

by confession

and prayer

and humble contrition.

the penance

of rote prayers.

rarely does a sin go by

without remorse

and fear.

the priest in their long

gowns.

the bishops, the cardinals

all looking

down from their shaky

pedestals.

it's a carnival

of pretend.

with true faith hardly found.

may the best child win

we were competitive

as children.

who could run faster,

jump higher.

who could hold their

breath the longest

underwater.

and it was no different

when it came

to the easter egg hunt

on easter morning.

a brutal war

between siblings

and other unnecessary

children.

may the best child win.

i saw it first,

it's mine.

the illumination

at some point

i'll get out the tall ladder

and set it

on the stairs

and climb.

i'll spin the dead bulb

gone black

months ago

and replace it with one

that shines bright.

an illuminating

white

with more watts than

need be.

i'm in a place now

where i want to see 

what's in the dark.

unlike so many yesterdays

with blinders

set firmly on.

fresh eyes

life is larger

as a child.

the memory of the street

you lived on

made

different by fresh

unsullied eyes.

and only in going back

do you realize what

it truly was.

the innocence

long gone. 

what remains

i don't have to reach far

to pull

things out.

the box is shallow,

just a hand reaching

down

will reveal

easily what's in my heart.

what's left

behind.

what remains and

who departs.

the final season

a time will come

when the last summer will appear

and go.

the final fall

will be upon you,

then snow.

a time will come when all of this

will be gone.

even the memory of

it as you

move on.

holding in place

i slip into the stream,

legs

then waist,

arms below the green,

as the flow 

of summer water

caresses me.

it goes where it needs

to be. unlike me.

the bottom

sand is

between my toes

as i grip

to stand, and hold.

i slip into the stream.

and wonder

where you are.

store bought cookies

i married once

for freshly baked cookies.

okay.

sex was involved,

of course.

but the first bite of the cookie

made me

go to my knees

and ask

this person in a

chocolate stained apron,

will you marry me.

it's store bought

from here on out.

best not ask

you don't try to be

a mystery.

there is no intent, no reason

to keep

things short.

the past being what it is,

the past.

you don't attempt

to cover up

your feelings, your

motives,

your inclinations

and worries about tomorrow.

it's just who you are

in the moment.

it's better sometimes

not to ask.

the taking of the hand

in the moment,

the unexpected moment

when

someone takes your hand

as you walk along

the boulevard,

your heart soars

if that's what you want,

or sinks

if it isn't.

making a new nest

you make it official

by opening all the windows 

in the house.

by beating the rugs

with a broom

against the fence.

a fresh coat of paint

goes on the walls.

away with the winter

clothes into the cedar chest.

you begin again,

just as the birds do.

imagining 

new love to come,

once more

making yourself a nest.

the funny hat

in the midst

of divorce, the marriage counselor,

nearing retirement, 

sitting owl like

in her stiff chair,

suggested

that to ease

the tension in the house,

that when i went

home tonight,

to tell a joke, or

to put on a funny hat.

my heart sank.

i sighed.

whatever she was charging

i suddenly wanted

my money back.

it was too late anyway.

i was

at the firehouse asking

for help

when everything had

burned down

to  ash.

always at work

it's hard to explain

how you sit there and observe,

mining

the raw material

of the moment.

anxious to get home

to the keyboard

and put it down in words.

it's impossible

to let someone

know that you're always

at work.

listening between the lines.

staring into the shadows.

rehearsing the next poem

in your mind.

what we mean to say

with some 

we need a lot of words

to get across

what we mean to say.

while with others,

a wink, a glance,

or a whimsical smile

will do.

no need to circle about

what's wanted

to be said,

when you look into

their eyes you know.

your unshaven legs

give me your

unshaven legs.

your coffee stains.

your spills and hurts,

your dust

upon the shelf.

give me

your unbrushed hair

your lipstick smeared.

i want to see you in the light

of day

not under this muted lamp

where we sit

and eat and drink and

converse about our day.

give me your

scars, your ample skin,

your bruised

brow, your real name.

give me that

and then i'll know whether

to go,

whether to stay.

a bag of frozen peas

i make a vow

to eat those frozen peas

that are in the freezer.

an artic crust growing on

the single bag

of green peas. it stares

at me every time i open

the door to crack 

ice out of a tray for

a gin and tonic.

i lift the bag, and tell it,

soon. please. don't

worry. i'll boil you in

hot water and put

butter on you. i'll

sprinkle you with salt

and pepper. it will

be all about you.

be patient. it's only been

three years or so.

i promise. soon.

the next day and the next day

someone took the time

to put these bricks 

on top of each other.

someone made a day

of it,

creating this wall.

the mortar mixed.

the water poured, 

all stirred

and pushed

in a wheel barrow

to where the wall would go up.

someone made a days

wages with this work

then took this money home.

he showed it to his wife.

he bought food and drink.

he bought flowers.

they ate, they watched tv.

they made love.

and this was enough to give

him hope 

to give him courage

for the next day,

to get up once more

and do it again.

the sharp knife

it is the sharpest knife

in the drawer.

the one i go for first.

the steel blade quick

and clean

to cut

whatever lies below it.

one swipe

and a whole becomes

two.

two slices makes four.

and for once

there is a poem

that has nothing

to do with you.

from up here

from here, up here

on this steep ledge of roof

man made

i can see

the mountains.

the roll of hills, almost

green,

still blue with a winter

coat,

from here

i can see

the church bell, quietly

unringing, as

the birds float by

below me.

up here i can see so

much that

i can't see from the ground.

it's livable 

this life

when you rise above

small things.

just like me and you

we expect lawyers

to be smart.

doctors too.

businessmen, generals

and politicians.

athletes in the news.

we expect the best of them

to be honest,

to be true.

and yet we're shocked

and dismayed

by their stupidity,

aghast at the scandals,

how can they be 

just like me and you.

day in day out

busy with life, 

we forget to do

things

like enjoy

it.

we grind

we push, and pull, we heave

ho

throughout

the day.

we are miners

shoveling coal.

farmers

harvesting hay.

fishermen with nets

pulling

fish

from the bay.

and then we go home

to lie down

with our bellies full,

as another sun

sets

on another town.

wild flower

the blue

flower in the yard.

wild.

somehow it's grown.

survived the winter.

the ice.

the snow.

and there it is 

against all odds rising

in the spring

sun.

how can such

life

not give one pause.

the wall safe

as i slip

money into the black safe

behind

the portrait

of no one that i know.

i stuff

in important papers that

i don't want

stolen by a thief,

or lost in a fire.

pictures too,

things deemed 

irreplaceable.

some gold

some silver,.

and as i close it,

spinning the numbered

dial,

i wish it was large 

enough

to hold the likes of you.

who do i have to sleep with?

i move to new york.

ambitiously.

i figure to get a poem published

on the pages

of the new yorker

magazine

i'll have to meet 

and sleep with someone 

on the staff.

i'm in over my head though.

all columbia grads.

harvard,

the ivy league schools.

how will i get past

the guard.

how will i schmooze

my way into

their arms

with a poem taken from

my stash.

it seems hopeless,

as i sit in a cab

on fifth avenue

eating a hot pastrami sandwich

and a deli pickle,

from Katz's.

the lost cause

it's not from a lack of effort

that i keep

missing

the can

in the corner with balled

up paper.

my aim is off.

each miss reminds me

of someone

i used to know.

striking the edge,

hitting the wall, never

quite on target, or

to the center does

it fall.

the yellow dress

she knows

she looks best in the yellow dress.

it's the dress

that makes

her stand out in the crowd,

the one that

turns heads her way.

it's what she wore

when she

had her way with me

on that fateful day.

write drunk, edit sober

they said,  he said it, but he

didn't

hemmingway.

in fact

he proposed to stay clear

of all alcohol until

the task was done.

neither the first draft

or the last

should have the touch

of booze upon it.

metaphorically it works.

word bomb the page

and then in the clearer

light of day

take the knife to it. but to

write drunk, edit  sober.

is a myth.

often debunked.

my happy clothes

feeling perky

i put on my happy clothes

today.

my grey shirt

instead of my black one.

my light

colored jeans

instead of the indigo

ink jeans,

almost black.

i go with white socks

and white

underwear with a red

tag on the back.

i feel aglow.

i feel like i can  conquer

the world

in these clothes.

i even  go with the loafers,

seldom worn,

but a nice soft buttery

brown that says, hello.

the curled rope

the snake in the shed

was a gleaming

silk hose. beautiful

and cross hatched.

how was i to know

what it was.

reaching to grab

this shiny rope.

thinking someone

had left it behind

when moving.

and when the head

rose and hissed,

ready to strike,

i fell back,

meaning no harm,

disappointed and sad

that he wanted

to attack.

this will change your life

when someone tells

me that

something has changed

their

life

i think of love, or death,

or money.

or perhaps moving

to another country.

i rarely think it's an

air fryer, or a heatable

knife that can slice

through cold butter.

it makes me wonder

how lame your life

has been lately.

magical things

i remember vividly

the brown

wooden clock 

in my great grandmother's

row house

in south philly.

i can see the the bird

coming out on a small

plank.

the loud bell clucking

off the hours

each day.

i can see her frail body,

holding

the stick to move

the stone pine cones

hanging on chains,

getting them to sway.

as a child and even now

there is still such wonder

in so many small 

yet magical things.

sending up the bat signal

my house is unusually dirty

at the moment.

and i still have six more days

until the maid arrives.

i'm not sure how this happened.

where did all this clutter come

from. who's been here

making this mess. the sink

is full of dishes. the sheets

on the bed are in disarray.

so many coffee spills.

newspapers and magazines

are scattered everywhere.

who would leave a half eaten

chicken sandwich on a plate

going up the stairs.

each can full of kleenex and

wrappers, there's an inch

of dust on the shelves.

moving is an option, i suppose.

or i could send up the bat signal

telling milagro to get here

soon. i need her help.

prosperity preachers

it's hard not to watch, at least

for a short

while

when the prosperity preacher

goes on and on

about the power of God.

you know they're all going

to hell on a speed pass,

but you sit and watch

for a few minutes.

it's the lights, the music,

the oil in his hair,

the audience gripping hope

as they drown

in despair.

he is so enthused as he

works the crowd, insisting on

his pledge

to cure you of your ailments,

your cares

and woes.

for a hundred dollars

God will remove

that bunion from your toes.

for two hundred.

you get a whole new leg.

for five hundred

you will now have the body

of a twenty year old.

for a thousand dollars, he

will reunite you with

loved ones who hit the road.

there seems to be no end

to what God will do if you

send in the right amount

of hard earned dough.

a room with a view

when we shuffle off the old

with sweet

words, and bags packed full

of what they'll

need to get along,

we feel a sense of guilt,

but relief

as well. 

for now there will be someone

else to help as they

waddle down towards

cemetery road.

and who's to say they won't

like it there?

with new friends

to be acquainted with,

a different set of likewise

old.

with bingo on fridays.

a movie on sunday.

the pastor will stop by and

sing from his hymnal.

there will be visitors too.

starched clean and bright

just for you.

deep into the woods 

the building will sit,

a sleeve of stream between

the roads.

there won't be a single room

without a pleasant view.

when one door closes

as they say,

when one door closes,

another opens,

but sometimes you have to

stop and turn around 

and take a hammer

to the old door

and nail

that sucker down.

i got nothing at the moment

i really want to write a dark

and gloomy poem.

with words that plath or poe

would be proud of.

something

about death and dying,

sickness,

betrayal and lies.

all that hard stuff that weighs

the world down.

i want to write about crying,

and sadness,

sorrow. mud and dirt.

cold hard rains with stiff winds.

i want to write about

all that ails the planet, 

hard times, but

i just don't have it in me

today. since i met you,

i got nothing like that to say.

i'm walking on sunshine.

funny how things take a

turn that way.

out of context

when i run into my

dentist at the local bar,

who was runner up ms.

brazil

in the year 2008,

i look at her and wonder

who she is.

she looks at me.

and thinks the same.

and then i smile

and take a sip

of my drink

and she sees my teeth.

oh, she says.

it's you, and waves

across the bar before

sending me a package

of floss and another drink.

the winning horse

when i found

the bag of micro mini cassettes

holding

the recordings

of when my ex-wife

number one tapped

the phones

i thought it was a small

miracle of sorts.

going straight to the trunk

of her car

and lifting up a tire,

and then

when i found the tree

in the woods

where the next ex was

meeting her

married lover

and posting sweet nothings

onto a carved heart,

again, i thought,

wow,

another miracle. 

in a trance and walking

into the forest

for no rhyme or reason.

is there nothing i can't

find out about?

i really need to put this

supernatural

intuitiveness to work.

maybe the racetrack tomorrow

and betting on the winning

horse.

the peach fuzzed children

each new set of peach

fuzzed

children that comes along 

believes

that are the ones

that are woke.

they invented

philosophy, spirituality.

they know what it's in every book

without reading one.

despite having two ears

they listen less than

they talk.

they've invented sex

and poetry.

music and art. they have yet

to learn what came

before them.

what made their lives

possible. there is no passing

of the torch.

just a new one lit as the old

burns out

and smokes.

window shopping

i stare into the window

of the bakery

and think

i'd love to have a cake

like that.

three tiers and

white iced.

just one slice of that sweet

confectionary delight

sitting on the shelf

would make my day,

change my life.

a perfect day for rain

 it's a perfect day

for

rain.

to be inside with you.

come over

and kiss me.

bring your arms

your legs

your hips, too.

it's a perfect day to

do nothing,

to do nothing,

but spend the hours

making love

to you.

the ninth hole

i quit playing golf

because i was gaining too much weight.

the beer,

the bar food.

the cart driving me around

with my bag

of old clubs.

it reminded me of a cemetery

but all the dead

were up and walking

cursing

each swing along way.

i had to quit the game

after hitting my head

on the windmill

fetching the ball

stuck inside the cave.

that deadly kiss

my dear friend.

the angry one. confrontational.

loud

and aggressive.

what's happened to you.

where has that

sweet boy gone.

the funny one,

the sly and gentle man

i once knew.

what's happened that's

put this chip on your shoulder?

who or what has changed

your life, turned you into this.

i remember the day

you sent me the photo

of you and your new bride,

two years ago,

how she made

you pose for that deadly kiss.

some days are worth keeping

some days

you tuck inside your jacket

and hold onto.

you slip them into a book

folded,

when you get home,

placing it on a shelf

where you can

see it when you want.

some days.

are worth keeping,

holding a sweet memory,

while others

aren't.

all the world's a stage

how many more

acts are there to this play.

how many more scenes

to go,

new actors to arrive.

a new plot to unfold.

how many

more lines are there written

and left to say.

when does the curtain

close.

and the lights go up.

how much more is there

before enough is enough

and we go on our way.

mister softee

the ice cream truck

would roll

by after dinner and sit

in front of our house.

we'd scramble for coins.

as he sat there playing

the music.

sitting on his stool

dressed in a white

t-shirt and white apron.

how gently he would

hold the wafer cones

beneath the cold

twist of ice cream, folding

down from the metal

spigot. three swirls for

small, five for large.

then off he'd go.

it's time

after a while.

you no longer show 

people your scars.

your wounds.

your healed bones

once

broken in two.

you pretend health.

that all is well.

that the world is fine,

after all the lessons

that you learned.

you are at last,

supremely wise.

ready for what's

next. it's time.

the gathering crowd

it's nature.

how the birds flock together

and swim in

one wave of wind

upwards

and down. a swirl.

it's the energy they possess.

no words

need to be said.

no sound.

intuitiveness.

not unlike us,

in a gathering crowd.

winstons on m street

i look at the photograph

of me

and two friends,

three girls 

from marymount 

our arms around each other.

a beer in hand.

i can still smell 

the smoke of the small

club called winstons

on M street.

i can hear the music

thumping

through our bodies.

i see the smiles on our faces

wishing that this

night would never end.

where are they now?

she fits

we fall in love

with a pair of jeans,

a coat,

a pair of shoes.

it's us,

it's who we are.

we find  comfort in 

familiar things,

and old friends

such as you.

those party days

we used to have parties.

legendary

parties.

the music

the drinking, the dancing

the flirting.

the laughter.

cars on the lawn.

the place packed with

friends and strangers alike,

happy to be together.

singing.

eating. someone lift

the needle on the skipping

record.

how quickly two in the

morning arrived.

it was never a good

party unless

the cops showed up

once

or twice.

don't worry about the rug,

the table.

the bottles and cans.

the debris of food

leftover.

don't worry about a thing.

sleep over if you have

to,

the couch.

the bedrooms. the floor.

tomorrow.

tomorrow.

will come again.

the sun will rise.

what now?

when the power goes out.

when the channels

disappear, when the phone

goes dead

when  technology fails,

we look at each other

and say oh no,

what now

my dear?

do we have to talk?

i don't remember how.

no time left for you

as the world

goes mad.

to hell in a handbasket.

guns

and riots.

etc.

etc.

we look for a safe place.

a warm

embrace.

the arms of a loved

one.

a home

which is an island

of sanity

and peace.

unfriend the unfriendly,

be done

with the unkind.

set the angry ones free.

you no

longer have the patience

or the time

to deal with crazy.

the easter ham

i remember standing

in line

for two hours

for the easter ham.

the police had blocked

the road to keep

the traffic moving.

controlling the crowd.

with flares aglow

and whistles blowing.

it was

a cold day.

my frozen hand holding

the number

of my order.

the line twisted and turned

as we stood in

the wind.

staring into the window

wondering what's

taking so long.

and will there be enough

sides

to go around, will

the ham be big enough

when we all dig in.

what about leftovers?

santa in the sky

God

is not santa claus.

nor is He,

or She if you prefer

not

a punitive

teacher

with a ruler ready

to slap your hand

when you

disobey.

he's not a wishing

well,

or falling star,

or some mythological

creature

with  a beard

holding a bolt of lighting,

ready to slay.

it's not that all.

it's protection

and provision.

please, don't make your

God

so small. with free

will

you make or unmake

your own

personal hells.

the hammock day

to have an unworried day.

an unhurried day,

a day

of no intent. is a good

day.

a listless

and sleepy day.

a day for the hammock

swinging

gently in the sun.

let the rest of the world

do what it

does without you

for once.

tomorrow comes

soon enough.

breaking glass

there is little

difference

in the sound

of glass breaking

and than the sound

someone crying,

heart shattered and in

despair.

two things broken,

but with one

there is a chance

of being

put back together, 

while the other

remains

in disrepair. 

wear something poetic...the book tour

as i prepare to go on my book

tour

after releasing my independently

published second

volume of so called poetry

that mocks nearly everything

in the world, including me,

i call up my literary agent

jimmy to ask him if he has

any tips on what to say, what

to wear.

he's still sleeping when i call.

it's nine am, he says. and i told

you to never call me here.

where is here? isn't this your

cell phone?

what do you want?

two things. i'm about to

start the book tour that you lined

up and i just have a few questions.

how come i've only sold

three paperback books on amazon

and one kindle reader.

and

not to mention

one of my looney tune

ex wives is about to sue me

for slander, do you know

any good lawyers?

women, he says, laughing.

you can really pick em.

oh, by the way,

do you think the walmart

book section is a good place

to start?  i didn't even know

they sold books.

yes, they have books. it's

near the tire center.

make a left at the area where

they sell those giant bag

of orange marshmallow peanuts.

can't miss it. let me know how

it works out. wear something

poetic. black, i guess.

i'm going back to sleep.

oh, and the lawsuit, no worries.

i've got a friend in jail,

Jake, who's been studying law 

for years.

he'll take care of it.

the nine dollar greeting card

when i used to peruse

the aisles

at the hallmark store 

to give a so called loved

one a sentimental greeting,

i'd see

the other men

nervously

reading the cards, looking

at the price

on the back.

music would play

as they opened up.

sparkles would fall.

glitter would stick to their

palms.

we wouldn't look at one

another, for what

was there to say about this

endless string

of holidays. pick one

and be done with it

and hope

the flowers don't die

before they get there.

one can only pray.

a world gone stone

when you see

a thread of green, a small

leaf

rising in the crack

of worn cement, it gives

you hope

that all things

can be over come.

that love

can exist in a world

gone stone.

they've even chosen you

i'm easily persuaded 

by the power

of suggestion,

someone says

let's go here,

and i go.

eat this and i open

my mouth to chew and swallow.

you should do this

for a living.

you're good at that. so i do.

the color blue serves you

well.

and black. i shop

for exactly what i'm told

looks

best upon my back.

i wait for oprah to tell me

what to read,

what to watch.

i study the commercials

on tv

to guide me on what car

to buy,

what trip to take.

what investments i should

make before

i die.

you should be married

by now, they say.

own a house.

have children. 

a dog too. so i succumb

to the pressure,

and there it is. at last

i'm exactly who they want

me to be.

they've chosen even you.

a drive in the country

as i drive out west

towards winchester, 

i squirm in my seat and wince.

i really need to pee

before going any further.

sixteen ounces of coffee

is ready to leave the building.

so i stop at a gas station

selling fresh fruits and vegetables,

and venison, assorted

road kill on ice.

an old woman hands me

a key to the bathroom

that's attached

to a two by four.

she looks at me suspiciously,

giving me what i call

the evil eye.

i hardly want to touch it,

but i have to go badly.

it's a horror movie in there.

grey tile.

a checkered floor, with a pool

of what looks like

blood and vinegar puddled

about.

my eyes water,

the urinal is half off the wall.

a seatless toilet

in a beat up stall.

with names and phone numbers

etched in ink,

with crude art work of

oversized anatomy parts.

there is a description

of what they'll

do for you when you call.

i recognize one of the numbers.

an old girlfriend,

a cheerleader in high school.

captain, in fact.

Lullabelle.

i guess she finally graduated

and left her job selling pretzels

at the mall.

people of the lie

everyone is capable 

of it.

lying.

the darkest of dark lies.

the cheating,

the betrayal.

adultery.

the white lie.

a fudge of a number

on your 1040.

your age online.

your height, your weight.

the last time

you engaged in sex

with another.

some sort of lie

is within us all.

the polite lie.

this dinner is good.

you look great in green.

the priest,

the lawyer.

the politician.

some need a wheel barrow

to push them

all around,

while others

keep them tucked away

neatly in a match

box

in a kitchen drawer.

some are scattered about

the floor

while others

are never to be seen.

boys and girls

the girl

with her play doll.

pushing

the stroller,

she's already thinking

of the future

while the boys

are in the woods,

with sling shots

and arrows

thinking of theirs.

no pet zone

i stare at the drawer

full of extra large plastic baggies

and think

do i really want

another dog again.

taking it out

in the rain and snow.

taking it to the vet for another

five hundred dollar

check up and stomach

pump to get a dead

bird out of him.

the barking, the shedding.

the guilt of leaving

him at home.

i love dogs. cats are fine too.

but no.

upstairs downstairs

i push the button

to have my butler, Gerald,

come up

and bring me coffee

and toast.

the sunday morning paper.

i think he's

having an affair

with the french maid.

he has lipstick on his face

and his shirt is unbuttoned.

i get it though.

when you work this

closely with people

things are bound to happen.

i tell him

raison toast, please.

and he says, yes sir.

and oh, i say, pointing,

at his waist,

pull your zipper up 

and tell

Francine

we need to talk.

going home again

i drive by the old

neighborhood

to see what's shaking.

i roll up the windows

and double lock the doors.

it's frightening.

the pit bulls chained to

trees.

rusted cars on blocks.

graffiti on the walls.

same as it ever was.

the drive thru liquor

store is still there,

but the bowling alley

is gone.

barbed wire surrounds

the storage unit now.

there's a wooden backboard

nailed to a pole, a bent 

rim with no net.

the same metal trashcans

in front of the old house

are still there.

lying on their sides.

a haven for rats.

a fresh chalk

line in the shape of a body

is on the blood stained

pavement

where a drug deal 

went bad.

i roll slowly down the street

i once lived on.

catching the eyes of people

in windows, fearfully

holding the curtains back.

i hear gunshots.

i hear screaming.

i don't look back.

the enormous weight

is there karma?

or is it a myth that we all

get what's coming

to us

in the end. or sooner.

sometimes i think it's true.

when i see where

others end up

after living a life

of betrayal and lies.

their world gone small.

into the box

they live.

four walls.

and the enormous weight

of memories of what

they did.

almost drowning

it doesn't take

us long

to discover the pain of fire.

or the cut

of a knife.

how the fall hurts

if we're not careful

where we step.

and yet.

when it comes to love

we keep diving

in head first.

unlearned by the last

lesson of

almost drowning.

the coal cellar

the cellar spoke

of other years, when coal

came through the window.

when the streets

were cobble stone.

when horses pulled wagons.

and the air was black

with soot.

you could smell those years

as you crept down

the thick plank stairs

of your grandmother's house

in south philly.

the brick walls,

darkened, the musty scent

of time

and lives that have

come and gone.

their breath still lingering

in the shadowed air

before you

as the window shone

a gray stab of light

inside.

a cat in the sun

like a cat she stretches

out on the long

couch that's in the sun.

sleep is in her eyes.

in her long

arms and legs.

her shoes are off, she's tired,

but  she's not.

it's saturday

and there is no reason

to leave the house,

there is no one 

to answer to.

it's just her in the sun.

languidly alone, 

a contented cat

free of things to do.

what's left behind

when she

leaves behind her earrings,

her coat.

a stocking.

a book.

her half bottle of wine.

i wonder if she's telling

me that she'll be back.

or that everything

she has

is mine.

a single scoop of ice cream

it's just a scoop of ice cream

on a hot

summers day.

just a cone.

just a small treat

as you sit

on the bench with a loved

one.

licking away.

you have all the time in

the world.

there is no place you'd

rather be.

knee to knee.

two cones. 

sitting in the shade.

everything

you've worked for

comes down to this moment.

just you.

just me.

the new yorker subscription

i stare at my stack of new yorker

magazines.

how do they do it.

writing, writing writing.

they come in the mail

relentlessly.

i have to stop the madness.

i don't have time for this.

so i cancel my subscription.

i'm getting better at ending things.

with magazines

and people.

i call up my father to give him

the bad news.

1984

we clink

glasses together. full of ice

and booze.

the lights are low.

the music

is familiar.

al green

on a vinyl platter

spinning

gently on the stereo.

the rug

is an orange shag,

the hot tub bubbles

outside

the sliding glass door.

it's 1984

all over again.

i'm chad 

with a silk shirt

emblazoned with sailboats

and she's buffy

with big hair

and shoulder pads.

all that's missing is

a few lines of coke

and a rolled up hundred

dollar bill,

the po po banging

at the door.

chaos, home sweet home

how did you let

this happen, how did you

let your guard

down.

you aren't dumb,

you aren't without self awareness.

how did

the devil get in

the door?

what were you thinking?

haven't you been down

this long

hard road before?

i shrug.

i know. it's unbelievable to

me as well.

chaos has been my home.

since childhood,

i've found my way into

another person's hell

so many times,

but no more.

i promise you this.

no more.

life isn't fair

it isn't fair

the child says, as the mother

refuses

to give in

to sweets.

and the pattern is set.

life

isn't fair

from birth to death.

we don't get

what we want,

not always.

so we pout, we wish

for more than

we were meant to have.

growing up is hard.

staying a child,

isn't.

the intelligence quotient

intelligence

trumps nearly everything else.

almost.

but it makes

up for a lot.

size and color.

age.

all the shallow instincts

that we

are born with

or have learned.

to have a conversation

with someone

without rolling

your eyes and looking

at your watch

is a blessing.

one that you crave.

more black ink to come

i see that the ink well

is nearly dry. nearly empty.

i dip my pen 

into the black bottom

and get the last few drops

of truth,

then i begin.

the first word leads me

to the last

on the clean white page.

i'm almost out of pain.

then what?

i'll need a new source

of anxiety and angst

to start again.

a new chaotic life with

someone new. but in

truth none are, most of

who i've chosen are

exactly the same.

a cup with a hole

i don't understand

the mansion.

the gravel driveway.

the ten rooms

the pool, the tennis court.

the maid.

the cook.

six bathrooms.

i don't quite get the need

for so much.

the three car garage.

a tv on every wall.

the viking stove.

the sub zero fridge.

the wife,

a mistress on each 

coast.

the excess that you indulge

in.

with your lobster bib.

it tells me something

about you,

i'd rather not know.

the filling, the constant

pouring of things

into a cup with a hole.

the morning hike

she likes to hike.

to find a new trail

a new path to the waterfall.

she likes

the wind in her face.

the blue skies.

the deeper the woods

the more

she's free

and sure of herself.

one foot in front of 

the other

as she figures out the next

stage of her life.

of where she's yet

to be.

medium rare

you can't eat steak

every night.

or buttery potatoes

with sour cream and chives.

toasted bread,

drinks

and then dessert, a mousse

to die for.

you can't eat like

this all the time,

but once in a blue moon

you need

to break free

and enjoy this life

you live,

indulge

and quench your

appetites,

not just endure,

not just survive.

take my hand

it's a narrow bridge

on a narrow path

up the steep mountain.

death awaits on either side.

one misstep

and you're done.

down you go

into the rocks, the great

sea below.

so hold my hand.

grip hard. i won't let go.

we can get to the top

together

and when we do we

will see everything

more clearly,

we will know at last

where we need to go

from here.

something died in here

smells like something died

in here

i tell my son,

as i visit his dorm room

at the college.

he shrugs and says. i don't

smell anything.

i look at his pile of clothes

on the floor.

his wet tennis shoes.

a half eaten bag of french

fries and

something grey that looks

like a chicken leg.

maybe open a window,

i suggest.

hmmm. good idea, he

says. i will later

if i can find a screw driver

and a hammer.

it's your lucky day

the rabbit wasn't so lucky

i think to myself

as i rub

the soft fur of the key chain.

and that penny

lost, lying there for god

knows how long.

who cares about

a penny anymore. lucky

my foot.

i'm stepping on cracks

all day.

walking under ladders.

breaking mirrors.

the neighbor hood cat

is jet black and dances

in front of me with her

glass bottle green eyes.

laughing.

we make our own luck.

work hard. keep your nose

clean. don't hurt anyone

and maybe you'll live

another day before they

throw a shovel of dirt

on you.

sifting for gold

you've been in the game 

so long.

too long maybe.

it's exhausting. you stare

at your worn

hands, your dwindling desire.

the money wasted.

the time.

the words, the effort.

you've been sifting gold

on your knees,

dipping the pan into

a cold dead stream.

thinking that there has

to be one good heart out

there, one true soul.

but no. you've been

going through one nugget

of fool's gold after another.

the mountain is empty.

all the good ones have

been taken. time to pack it

in and go home.

kiss me like a stranger

when we meet again.

let's not

talk.

let's not say a word.

let's pretend

we're strangers meeting

for the first time.

and if we kiss,

if it comes down to that.

kiss me like stranger.

kiss me with no

memory of the past.

leave me wanting

more, not less

like the last time

we went at it.

is it loaded?

i've never liked women

who carry guns with them on a date.

when i see the pistol

at the bottom of their

purse as they pull out

a compact to apply some

mascara, i cringe.

is it loaded, i say. 

of course she answers. what's

the point

of having a gun if there's

no bullets in it.

it's a very polite date.

a romantic night cooking together

we cook dinner together.

it's saturday night.

she gets

the phone out.

i dial.

i tell the person on

the other

end of the line

what i want, and then

she gets on

and gives her order.

we both say

no msg at the same time,

then kiss.

we light a few

candles, set out some paper

plates, forks and knives.

paper towels for napkins

folded into triangles.

we put some music on.

we dance across

the kitchen floor until

the doorbell rings. it's 

dinner time.

dead flowers

there's something

important

about dead flowers in a vase.

the water

gone,

the stems limp,

the petals dried and falling.

there's a message

there

i think.

coffee tea or debbie

she never forgave

or forgot

what her mother told her

as she helped her with

her shoes

and socks

before school. she said 

that she'd never

get a man with those piano

legs of hers.

so she spent most of her

life

proving her wrong.

leaving a broken

heart in nearly every town

she flew into.

the thrill of it all

when i see people

fishing

i slow down in my car and roll

the window

down.

i yell out.

safeway has fish now.

no need to stand

there and

wait to trick a fish onto

a hook.

but they laugh

and say

it's the thrill of the hunt,

the fight

of the fish,

and i say but you're

a grown man against

a half pound

perch

at the end of a steel hook

in it's mouth.

there's a sale on grouper

right now,

on ice. fileted and

thawed for you

convenience. 

the lesser of two evils

when you listen

to the politician, watch him

standing there

giving another speech, you

wonder what

makes him do what he's

doing.

why he became who he is.

full of words

and the promise of good deeds.

his teeth white,

his hair aglow in the lights.

you want to believe

him, trust him

and think that he's one of you.

but rarely

is this true.

you have no choice,

but to vote

and choose the lesser

of two evils.  nothing

changes and there's little

you can do.

the new yellow bird

the turn of the spade

as we

bury

the bird

in the yard. a yellow

bird.

sweetly singing

each day

for my mother.

and there she is in

the window.

hands on her face,

crying harder than i've

ever seen

her cry before.

but tomorrow

a new bird will

be in the cage and this

one, 

to it's grave,

won't be thought of

anymore.

the mail arrives

the new crate and barrel

catalog arrives in the mail.

i see it slide through the slot

and fall heavy

to the floor.

i run to it and quickly settle

onto the couch

with the big light on so that

i don't miss a thing.

so much is on sale.

if only i had more rooms,

more wall space, more

closets. i need to make

more money and move,

or get married again to someone

with a house in chevy chase.

and then i find the i hop

ads stuck to the back.

three eggs over easy and

strawberry pancakes all

day with a side order of bacon.

i can handle that.

friends

i ask her what does she

call men

shorter than six feet tall,

and she looks at me and smiles,

and says,

friends.

three strikes

as we walk deeper into the woods

we delve deeper

into our lives.

she tells me about her three

husbands,

and i tell her about my three

wives.

i tell her that the first one

was only for a few months,

and was annulled by the pope,

and the second marriage took

place in a foreign country,

so it probably wasn't legal

to begin with,

and the third

was through fraudulent means,

an escapee from St. Elizabeth's

asylum, 

so that didn't count

either.

what about yours, i ask her.

and she says, thinking for a moment

or two,

trying to find a common

denominator in all of them.

they were all smart, she says,

they could all finish the sunday

new york times crossword

puzzle before lunch.

the age of entitlements

we are in the age of

entitlement.

go fund me.

give to me.

grant me my wishes.

send to me a check

in the mail.

work is too hard.

who wants to punch

the clock anymore.

get up and go dig

a ditch.

the young want fame

without the work.

not fifteen minutes,

but a life time

of living easy.

let's sleep in, not

read, not learn.

we deserve more.

let me sit high on

the hill and fiddle,

while the rest of the

world burns.

arrivals

we prefer arrivals.

late or early

makes no difference.

just come.

bring me what i need

or want.

with open arms.

an open heart.

i'll wait.

it's departures

that are hard.

the bank teller

the guy at the bank

window

in his orange turban

knows me, at last.

nine thousand deposits later

he knows my

name.

we chat, as strangely

as one can

behind bullet proof glass,

and a speaker

full of static.

we're growing old together,

making small talk

about the weather,

as we exchange

checks for cash.

making choices

there is nothing wrong

with peanut butter

and grape jelly

on wonder bread,

for dinner,

i say to myself as i stand

at the kitchen sink

looking out the window

at a boy riding by on his bike.

i pour a glass of milk

and drink it down.

nothing much has changed

since back then, but

now i have a choice, 

and i choose what i like.

let's see how far this goes

shall we dance.

shall we

take each other's hand

and glide

across the floor.

shall we

keep twirling out

onto the lawn, shall

we keep going.

further and further,

until we can't go

anymore.

shall we dance,

and see how far

this goes.

words of advice

the last thing

my tax lady says as i leave

her office is

stay single.

i laugh, she laughs.

the bell above the door

jingles

as i close it behind me.

she's got nothing

to worry about

when it comes to that.

the cold shower

taking a cold shower

with you

defeats the whole purpose,

i'm trying

to douse the flame,

the desire, not enhance

it.

but sure,

come on in.

join the party. try not

to scream.

the nature walk

i soak the blister 

on the back

of my heel,

red and oozing,

after a five mile walk through

the woods,

taking pictures

of birds and things.

the stream.

an empty can of beer

next to an old mattress.

everyone seems to be

getting busy in these woods.

it's spring time.

i study the wound

on my foot

then wash it out. i dry off

the raw skin, swab

on some neosporin.

gently i pull on a sock,

then a shoe.

i'm not much for nature 

these days.

sugar dumpling

we used to greet one

another with

honey pie, or

sweetie, or baby.

cakes or 

sugar dumpling.

you're the apple of my eye.

sweet pea.

darling.

boo.

we used to say thing like

that.

back when love was new.

back when

love could give you a

confectionary heart

attack.

but now it's hey.

or yo, or more to 

the point. hey you.

love like this

don't go away.

don't leave me.

stay a little longer.

i like the pain, the punishment.

the chains

and shackles.

can't you see how happy

i am

with you around.

don't go.

stay another week,

another year,

another day.

love like this will never

come again.

i pray.

it wasn't going to work

before she left

to get married,

i gave her back all her plates.

she was so

kind with her

leftovers,

her meals, her cookies,

her cakes.

always thinking of me

as a holiday

came around.

i'd look through

the peep hole

when she knocked on the door

she'd see that i was home,

the lights on.

the television through

the wall.

she tried so hard.

borrowing

things. a hammer, a cup

of olive oil. 

did i have time to talk?

carrying with her a bottle

of wine.

she was a good neighbor.

but it wasn't

going to work.

each day, no different than the next

sometimes you feel like

digging.

so you go out

into the yard, with a shovel

and begin.

by lunch you're about six

feet down.

you have a sandwich

and examine your work.

you wave to the neighbors

looking over the fence.

they rush in, saying nothing.

then you get back to it.

down you go, needing

a ladder now to climb in

climb out.

you dig all day, and into

the night.

when you look up from

the deep hole you can see

the stars. it's just you

with this squared window

looking up.

tired and cold, but satisfied

with what you've done.

tomorrow you will fill

the hole.

each day, no different

than the next.

the edge of the world

i pack light.

a bar of soap, a toothbrush.

shorts

and jeans.

a few shirts,

a sweater, black of course.

a book

to read.

the phone.

let's go. let's go

to the end of the world.

and look over

the edge. let's

see what there is

to be seen.

slim pickings

delete.

sweep clean. block. go 

and

find a place

where no one

is there

that you know.

keep your guard

up.

the world is full of fools.

full of lost

souls

one hand in your pocket

a knife in your

chest.

another 

in your back.

is there anyone out

there

not in the game,

anyone

you can trust?

there were rumors

i didn't know her well.

but i knew

of her.

eccentric

in an old fashioned way.

sweet was a word

attached to her, a label

to explain

who she was.

hardly a friend to be found,

though in church

every sunday.

frugal

with her clothes

and things.

nothing ever thrown

away. there was so little

known of her, but

words find a way to get

around

small towns.

there were rumors

some say. 

her clocks were famous.

all of them

on time,

a house full of crickets

ticking off the hours.

it smelled of rosewood

and dust.

wet leather.

and when she

died, what was there to say.

few came

to the funeral home where

she lay in a flowered dress

found in her

closet, hiding on a hook

behind it. a whip.

a chain.

it's less and less and less

it's less and less

and less

about money, fortune or fame.

it's a good night

sleep

and love.

a warm place to live.

food

for comfort.

it's conversation and books.

it's the quiet

fire.

the stars at night.

a caring embrace,

a kiss.

it's everything that brought

you pleasure

when young,

and as you circle back

you see that

everything that was true

before,

is as true now 

as it was back then.

no vacancies

despite

our intuition, or interior

skills

of knowing what or who

is good

for us,

we veer strangely

off course at times

and let those in the door

who should be

left out.

you have no vacancies

for trouble.

for gloom, for those

lost and wandering

in the cold night.

your empathetic

soul will get you killed

if you keep this up.

it's best to send

them on their way

and turn the light off.