picking strawberries

lost in God's country,

i make a right at the light,

then left

at the filling station.

there's a billboard

the size of a drive in

movie screen 

asking me to vote for

Stanley Kowalski for sheriff.

i see the water

tower up ahead and veer

to the round about,

which i go around

a few times and get dizzy.

i look at my phone,

my garmin, my road map.

i'm in the middle of 

nowhere. i pull over and

stare a cow on the other

side of the fence.

he looks at me chewing

his cud, whatever cud

may be and shrugs.

and now i have to pee.

i call becky jean and tell

her i'm going to be late

for out date picking

strawberries.

jimminy crickets

was it the pepperoni

or the jalapeno peppers

all washed down with a 

white russian

that sent me into a wild night

of dreams.

vivid and in technicolor.

i woke up and was 

in a storm of sheets.

sweating, and exhausted.

you were there, she was there.

he was there.

the whole gang was in on it.

i knew it was a dream

as i was dreaming it, but

still, jimminy crickets,

what a night.

grey black and white

the colors of cars

are down to three or four now.

black, grey, white,

and the rare red or blue.

hardly a green one

in the bunch.

why so few?

the palette of colors

are endless and yet,

the choices are those.

no mint, no robin's egg,

no florida orange,

no pink, no bright shades

for you to choose.

three rooms in a cul de sac

as i paint another room

in another house

on another street, hang another

sheet of wallpaper

in a dining room,

stain another deck.

climb another ladder

stand in line at the paint

store for one more

gallon of latex, i ponder

what's next.

a boat, pick up golf.

travel, eat and get fat.

a dog perhaps?

then the phone rings, 

someone wants an estimate

for three rooms

in a nearby cul de sac.

i'm saved again.

five bucks starbucks

a christmas card 

from my mother

arrives about ten years late.

somehow it got lost in the mail.

slid between a counter

somewhere down the line.

i open it up and a five dollar

bill falls out.

have a few cups of coffee on

me, she writes. merry xmas,

love mom.

i laugh out loud,

with five dollars

it's now down to one.

reading for nourishment

i send him my list

of favorite poets, but state

early on

that hallmark is not one

of them.

nor dr. seuss.

i mention mark strand,

and elizabeth bishop,

some sexton, 

phillip levine,

of course

and the coarse

bukowski.

larkin near the top, as

is plath. so many to read

and choose from

if he goes down

this path. but keep

reading, keep writing,

until you find your 

own voice.

don't stop.

clean money

i find twenty dollars

in the dryer.

clean and crisp.

it feels like found money

although it came

out of one pocket or another.

i stretch it out

then put in on the ironing

board for

some steamed heat

to get the wrinkles out, 

i then fold it and place it

back into my pocket.

i'll get that pesky change

rattling around later.

okay, i'm ready, let's leave now

i could stay at my mother's house

for about an hour

before i began to sweat

and had to leave.

it was a half an hour at my

ex in laws house.

twitching like a cat

in a room full of rocking chairs.

about twenty minutes at

a pool party in maryland,

with a paper plate of potato

salad and a hot dog in my lap.

ten minutes at a funeral home

no matter who died.

nine minutes at a birthday party,

one minute if it was mine.

five minutes at the dmv

before i'd break out in hives.

a pup tent. thirty seconds

and then i'd jump over a cliff

or into a raging waterfall.

it's all good

it's all good for a short while.

things are fine until one wants

more than the other

can give.

throw in sex

and you've got a street fight.

one calls it a relationship

while you

call it a fun night,

a pleasant time.

it never ends well 

in situations like this.

it never does.

and it all starts with that

one simple kiss.

the red radio

it was a red transistor

radio

that drove my older brother

crazy

as i kept it on

throughout the night.

as low as i could

turn the dial and

held to my

ear, but he had hearing

like a bat.

he'd yell and scream

for me to turn

it off.

turn it down.

whether he had a love

for music, i never knew.

we went our

separate way in life,

and still do.

mother's little helpers

take one of these

my friend says, take one,

as she jiggles a little

white pill into the palm

of my hand.

you'll feel calm

and relaxed you'll be able

to do all the things

you hate doing without 

too much angst.

spending time with

strangers, no problem.

you'll be able to visit

those you don't like and make

small talk. you'll be

pleasant and kind.

you'll be one of us then, 

happy as lark, smiling

blissfully with your new

numb mind.

a square of yard

as his eyes went wet

and webbed in

strange darkness he continued

to dig in his garden.

a small square

known to his hands, his

knees.

the feel of soil

the smell of it.

up came carrots again,

tomatoes,

and lettuce, out went weeds.

the rabbit fence

was strung from post

to post.

and with his nose he knew

what was ripe and what needed

more time

to soak up sun and rain

on the fragile vines.

and if he still was unsure,

he took a bite.

Irma La Douce

my friend jimmy calls me at one

in the morning. he sounds depressed,

almost to the point of tears.

dude, dude, what's up? are you

okay. where's the new bride, lulabelle?

she's in the other room, sleeping

with the door locked.

i'm banished to the couch

in the living room.

she's mad at me again.

but you've only been married for

three months now. yeah, i know. i know.

i think i made a big mistake.

dang, i tell him. walk me through it.

why is she so mad?

she won't tell me, but i think it's

because i had my feet up 

on the coffee table,

or maybe i was watching netflix

which she has banned from the house.

he's whispering now, almost sobbing.

but the worst thing is that

she doesn't want to have sex anymore

and her mother is coming

to spend the summer with us.

both of them are vegetarians.

i'm up to here in kale and avocados. 

she was insatiable up until she moved

into my house and the ink on

the marriage certificate dried.

she used to be an animal in bed,

i couldn't keep up. i was taking zinc

like a madman.

and now she has a headache nearly

every night. 

maybe she has a brain tumor, or something, 

i tell him.

i wish it was that simple, he says.

she goes to bed now in her volleyball

t-shirt that's never been washed.

she doesn't even brush her teeth anymore

and has been eating a lot of onions

and garlic lately.

i feel for you brother. i went through 

the same exact thing a few times.

it makes me understand why prostitution

has been around for so long.

if i could get back all the money

i spent on stupid internet dates, feeding

half of the single women in the metro

area, i'd be a rich man right now.

getting to first base with them is harder

than breaking into fort knox with

a water pistol. i've seen it all my friend,

not to mention, being wiped out financially,

by half in the divorces.

at least with an escort service, you select

the one you want, have your date

and then you're done. easy peasy.

no listening to a boat load of 

psychiatric problems.

no one yelling at you for leaving

the seat up, no one nagging you

about the laundry or cutting the grass.

no visiting their parents, or meeting

their troubled twitching kids. 

when it's over, it's over

and you leave, or she leaves.

it sounds like a dream to me now,

jimmy says. why didn't we have this

talk three months ago?

because you wouldn't have listened.

just like how i wouldn't have 

listened, we're basically idiots

with a sex drive and that's how

they sucker us in. they're no better

than drug dealers. it's all cheap

and easy for the first few hits

and then, they got you.

as the song says, goddamn

the pusher man, or the woman 

as is in this case.

i'm not like that, honest

she tells me while

holding my hand,

you sound bitter and cynical,

exhausted by it all.

and i say.

maybe. just maybe i am.

but i've found that all women

cheat, all women lie.

all women pretend to be

someone who they aren't.

it's a game with them.

let them in and they'll

break your heart.

but not me she says.

stroking my arm,

i'm not like that. i promise

you, you'll see. i'm different

from the others.

despite my past,

and every thing you know

about me,

i'm really good inside.

the cluster of stars

we stare up at the stars

as if for the first time.

having driven out into the country

where there is little light

and suddenly the clusters

of sparkling stars

are there. fistfuls of diamonds.

shocking us, like new love,

with delight.

when things expire

i've let things go too long

in the fridge.

a ball of brown lettuce

once green

and crisp,

that wedge of cheese

now black,

the milk gone sour.

that slab of meat 

green at last.

nothing is edible

despite the cold, despite

how neatly it

was packed.

there was nothing i could

do, as each expired

as most things do, some

slow, some fast.

the careful bonfire

tricky having a bonfire

in your back yard

these days.

the dry woods to deal with,

the neighborhood watch,

the community board,

the law itself about burning

things in the open.

it used to be you could

just toss things into

a pile, old memories,

douse them with gasoline

and have a go at it.

what a pleasure it was

to see an old world die.

red cardinal

a sparkling red cardinal

arrives

and sits on the edge

of the fence

against a grey world

of long trees

and fallen leaves.

it's a wonder what the

world can give you

when you open your

eyes and look outward

not in.

candle light

the candle burns down

to a puddle

in the glass dish.

just a nub is left,

a tiny stem

of wick.

but there is still a 

flicker of light burning,

despite the shortness

of its life. 

hope remains.

i don't remember it like that

our memories are different

of each other.

and somewhere the truth lies

in between.

i heard one thing,

while you heard another.

you called what we had this,

i called it that.

funny how life is.

remembering the same things

differently. so much

is unseen, or unheard,

a lot gets missed.

the dull knife

i keep the dull knife

around

for old time sakes.

rattling in the kitchen drawer

with a new one.

it served me well throughout

the years

cutting bread,

cutting apples into quarters.

cutting steaks.

it was there when i had

no where else

to turn when slicing off

a piece of packing tape.

who throws out a knife?

it's a friend for life.

almost everything

the weather persuades me

to stay in,

stay close,

keep near.

why bother with this rain

and wind.

why go out

into the hail,

when everything you need

or care about

is here.

almost everything.

my ruby red slippers

when trapped

in an unbelievable

set of

circumstances

surrounded by knuckleheads,

losers and liars

the bottom feeders

in life.

i pull out my ruby red slippers

and put them on,

then stand with my eyes

closed and repeat over

and over again.

there's no place like home.

if this doesn't work,

i jump out of the plane

and pray

for a soft landing.

out of gas

in order 

to have an ending

you need a beginning.

and a middle,

i guess.

but you have to start 

somewhere

before it ends.

sometimes it takes years

to get there, 

while other times 

it doesn't take long 

to run out of gas.

they were just here

is there a cobbler

around,

a seamstress?

someone with a box

of tubes

to open the back

of the television and

fix it.

is there a milk man.

a man

pushing a cart full

of shaved ice,

with jars of flavor.

is there a chalk board

with erasers to bang

against the wall out back.

a ball field

in the street where

the chevy becomes third

base.

where is the duck pin

alley,

the phone booth,

the juke box,

the coke machine,

the junk man with his

horse.

the shoe shine boy

in the bus station, where

have they all gone?

just enough

for an empty pop bottle

we'd get two cents.

a nickel for the large ones.

a half dollar

for the wooden crate

they came in.

it added up

over a summer.

plus

the yards we raked,

the grass we cut,

the snow we shoveled.

the cars we washed.

anything

to make a buck.

and in the end, somehow

is was just enough.

mary and kenny

mary

once told me when she was

seventy five

that she felt like she was

still a young girl

near twenty

working as a secretary

as the war

raged on.

it was fun she said.

the excitement.

riding the train up from

north carolina.

meeting kenny, the man

she'd marry.

and eventually bury

after a long sweet life.

i could see the sparkle in her

eyes.

almost in tears,

but smiling.

oh my, she'd say. my oh my

how the time

does fly.

i see you got the large jug of milk, interesting

i had to stop

going to one grocery store

near me,

because the clerks 

in their hawaiian shirts

were too friendly,

always commenting on the food

i was buying.

ahhh, they'd say.

sandwiches tonight.

as they moved the salami

across the counter,

or soup, i see.

chicken noodles is my

favorite, but this chowder

you have here

is also a good choice.

do you ever crush up crackers

and sprinkle them on top?

i do.

nice roses, by the way,

flowers for the wife?

it felt like they were all

drugged or hypnotized,

drinking the koolaid of

big brother Joe.

scary places

there's the filling station

bathroom, of course.

or the phone booth

on the side

of the interstate.

or the bus depot

with neer do wells

nearby.

the dive bar along

the canal.

the back seat of a cab

speeding

down broadway.

a motel

with a sign that says

vibrating mattresses 

available now.

there's the grill

at the waffle house.

the soup line,

the shelter.

the wedding altar.

a lion's open mouth.

the next

i agree

that  much of this is my fault.

troubled relationships

due to my

imperfections

that i have honed

to a fine point since

childhood.

choosing the wrong people

to be in my life.

the victim mother,

the toxic father.

but that said, so what

is there to do

about it.

nothing. not much.

just try again.

rinse and repeat until

the next inevitable end.

never been married

i insist for the record

to never

have been married.

the first one

lasted just a few months.

we were peach fuzzed kids.

she walked back

to her mother's 

home one evening

with a toaster oven

under her arm, an

uncle's

wedding gift

and that was it.

the second one was in

a foreign country.

not even in our language,

who knows what was

really said, or agreed

to. completely in lust

and out of our heads.

strike that one

off the list.

and the third, well.

what can be said about

that one,

that hasn't already

been said.

the psychiatrists and priests

agree,

that that one we should 

just forget.

what we fear

most fears

are rarely fulfilled, 

as we go

about our day.

the sky is not falling,

the lighting

has not struck.

even this ship we're

sailing on

will not sink,

but with love,

i'm sorry to say,

you're out of luck.

living alone

it is the little things,

the light on too long as we

ready for bed,

the flushing

of toilets,

the brushing of teeth,

the thump of bare feet

across the floor

as one goes down again

to check the latch on

each window, each door.

the snoring,

the pulling of sheets

and blankets,

that small night long

war.

it is the little things

that make us believe, not

so much in love,

but in living alone.

one wedding dress for sale

she left behind one of her

wedding dresses.

there it hung collecting

dust and cobwebs

in my closet so i tried

to sell it on e-bay.

i posted pictures

and described how white

it was,

how it flowed, the layers,

not unlike a beautiful

cake.  a cotton blend, no less

made in Italy

the tag read.

worn once, for an hour

or two, 

no stains, no tears, or rips.

just like new.

and there were shiny

white pumps to go with it.

this caused a bidding war.

i managed to get the price

up to fifty dollars

before it sold

for fifty one.

first this day and then the next

when my mother

spent a few weeks in St. E's,

we fended

for ourselves

for awhile.

the last kid came out hard

and wrecked

her for good.

sent her down the deep

hole

of depression.

things would change though

when she came

back home.

her wrists in white

bandages.

her mood no longer blue.

they put her back

together somehow.

with tape and meds,

some sort of

psychiatric glue.

soon she was back to

doing what she did best.

pretending that all was

well.

helping us through

this day,

and then the next.

bread crumbs

to find my way

home

i leave bread crumbs behind

me.

the birds follow too.

there's a cat

a dog,

a lizard.

they aren't lost like me,

or you.

they're just hungry.

a night in paraguay

as we sit

beneath the tent in the rain.

waiting

on our food and drinks.

the soft chatter

of others

around us,

it feels like paraguay.

or some

land

far far away.

we've been here before

it seems,

it's nice to be back

again, maybe this time

we'll stay.

one night in miami

she's not the same

when she comes

back from miami. 

she's speaking

in spanish now.

her skin is dark,

there's a flower behind

her ear

and she's wearing

a provocative white dress

that flows

like a cloud around her.

there's a fresh tattoo

of a rose

upon her neck and

i smell tequila

on her breath. her lipstick

is smudged.

i take it was a good trip,

i tell her.

bueno, she whispers

breathlessly,

it was.

dandelion wine

i stumble through

a field

of freshly grown dandelions

and begin

to pull at the petals.

she loves me

she loves me not.

this may take all day,

but i'll get an answer

at some point.

her violin

the violin 

was her instrument

of choice.

all day,

all night, she'd be at it.

moving

the bow across the strings,

the violin

tucked between shoulder

and chin.

it was a long sad

symphony 

of poor me, 

nothing's my fault,

i'm a victim.

the farmer's market

i head on over to the farmer's

market

early in the morning to beat the rush

on tomatoes

fresh from

the local farms.

i only need one for the week,

but i hustle over

just the same.

the bins and boxes

are full

of leaf lettuce,

onions and asparagus.

sweet corn.

some have the stickers removed

from safeway

and giant,

some don't.

jugs of apple cider

are coming off the backs

of pick up trucks

by little children farmers

in denim overalls from oshkosh.

i see one couple

who have their name tags on,

Ole Joe it reads

and his wife, Sallie Mae.

they have a twang

in their speech.

custom made for the delray

market, although their faces

say manhattan.

or maybe Queens.

peeeechez  are special this

year, she says,

holding a long plastic strand

of alfalfa between her teeth.

buy three, i'll give you 

the fourth one half off.

let's have a picnic

it's our first romantic

day time date.

we pack the picnic

basket

with sandwiches.

cut fruit.

cut vegetables.

potato chips.

she's made her mother's

potato

salad.

and i made brownies

a recipe off the box.

betty crocker's, i think.

we bring

wine, water, little cute

cups,

a table cloth.

napkins,

plastic plates and

forks.

bug repellant.

she brings a giant

umbrella

in case it rains.

which it does the second

we plant ourselves

on the ground.

a howling wind

suddenly roars through,

tossing everything around.

there's thunder

and lighting.

let's get a room, i tell her.

she laughs and says okay.

i grab a brownie

before we get up,

leaving everything behind

as we run away.

what's going on

this is all a trick,

right?

imaginary. nothing is really

real,

correct?

life death, work.

love, all of that.

this is all a game

and

at some point someone

is going

to make an

announcement

and tell us what the hell

is really going on.

right?

say yes.

the weather girl

in the workshop

i was corrected for using

the term

weather girl

in my short story. how dare

i deem

a woman, a professional

woman

that was a trained

meteorologist,

a mere girl.

they glared at me,

these fellow writers.

wagging their proverbial

fingers.

shaking their heads.

i had to change 

the wording in my next story

when i called

a woman 

a sweetly iced cupcake

that i couldn't wait 

to bite into.

what else is new?

another scandal.

another mass shooting.

another

fire, another tornado

ripping

through the county.

another

politician  caught with

his pants down,

another liar.

it means nothing to you

anymore.

you are numb

to it all, both personally

and with a world view.

you shrug and change

the channel.

what else is new?

an inch becomes a mile

an inch

becomes the mile

the second

you give in and go against

what you

know to be true.

the cheek is turned,

the blinders

set in place.

you allow this to happen.

and in the end

there is only you 

to blame.

behind closed doors

the world is full

of hall

monitors, captains

of the squad

all

approved  early  in

life

in high school.

and with many it never

ends.

they feel

the power and need

to correct the world,

erasing fun.

they were the ones

that told

you to not chew gum,

to be quiet,

to listen.

to not smoke behind

the auditorium,

and yet they were 

the worst

of everyone.

doing the same things

but behind closed doors.

the impossible journey

the one small ant,

an adolescent ant, perhaps,

has found

his way

onto my desk.

he or she seems lost

going from mouse to book

to pen

then back.

a feeling i know quite well.

some how, on some

seemingly impossible

journey it's made its

way up

the brick, from the yard

and into the window

then crawled 

up the side of my crumb

laden desk.

will he put the word out

with his fine

antennae and inform 

the rest of them?

the fox at midnight

we look at each

the passing fox and me,

i'm sitting on the far bench

near the woods

late into the evening.

he stops. surprised

that i'm there, unscared.

his slight blonde body

stands still

in the moonlight.

we have nothing to say

to one another.

i nod at him. he goes on

with whatever he's

doing with his life.

i do the same.

first world problems

she can't decide

on which dress to wear, which

car to buy.

which horse

to ride.

where should i go for holiday.

what school

should my children

attend.

harvard or penn?

why is the maid so late.

the gardener

untidy with

his snips, his rake?

are crabs in season yet?

or should we go 

with lobster, or filet

mignons.

it's so sad that we

have to wait.

too long for this

i've lost my appetite

for the fight,

the squabble,

the he said, she said

dialogue

that we've all been through.

i can't live

like that anymore.

how about i'll be me

and you be

you.

let's call it quits. life

is too long

for this.

gimme a slice to go

it may be too late for pizza.

perhaps.

but i don't want the local cardboard

fair,

the quick delivery

the corner

shop

with thin crust and stingy

mozzarella and

weak sauce, the

pepperoni tossed about

like dimes.

i want pizza from the city.

downtown.

original ray's.

a thick slice or two.

hot and gooey.

a dinner and breakfast

all in one.

something from 

the bronx, or second

avenue.

there is much to do

spent

by a day of work. i linger

too long

on the sofa.

there is much to do.

i have a list.

but everything can wait.

why worry.

why despair, why bother

with such thoughts

if tomorrow comes

perhaps then i'll find the time,

if not.

who cares.

south beach for xmas

one christmas

day while lying on the beach,

south beach,

the waves rolling

gently in like kisses

to the white sand, i looked

to my left

to my right

and was amazed

by the topless women

lying on their towels,

with drinks

in hand.

christmas no less.

i thought of snow, i thought

of mangers,

of church

and trees lit by the fire,

but

made no protest.

a slice of lime

it's the lime,

sliced

green,  the pale

cool

citrus reminding

me of ireland

that slides

onto the rim of the tumbler

poured thick with

gin

on ice,

that makes the day

go away,

makes it easier to accept

the night.

all that has fallen

the rain is a surprise.

i go about 

each window and pull

them down.

awakened by the cool air.

i stop at the back

and watch the stream go by.

it's wide, and full.

a long muscle

of grey water,

rolling as it does

taking with it all that has

fallen.

she make me smile

she makes me smile.

this long

attractive woman.

this fully engaged

person.

so nice to be

with a grown up.

smart

and kind. funny.

so easy to talk with.

to listen to.

such gentle souls

are rare, so glad to

know one.

waiting in the hot tub

some see a mountain,

a snowy airless peak

and want

to climb it.

others, including me

see it and say

no thanks,

i think i'll stay here.

have a sandwich,

a cold beer.

but i'll be waiting for

you in the hot tub

for if and when you

do return.

so many boats

so many boats

docked, tied neatly, wrapped

for winter

like easter

baskets.

the clink of anchors

sunken deep.

and the old captains and their

wives,

or mistresses

sit in the sun, or shade

and talk

of the sea. long ago voyages,

escapades.

prim and proper

in their blue striped

shirts.

their scarves, their tilted

hats,

they sit and drink, they pick

at salads,

at crabs.

write it down

a verse or two

comes to mind. but just

as quickly

slips

out of thought, decides

to hide.

so quickly gained,

so quickly lost.

to have a pen

handy

a pad of paper,  to save

these flashes

of light

would be a good idea.

the clearance

it's the end of the month

clearance

sale.

everything must go.

no refunds,

no returns. 

as is, the sign says.

the scratched,

the old and dusty,

the dented,

the marred.

the wobbly legs,

the scarred

frame.

the rips and tears of life.

what's left over

is out there for one

last shot.

it's not a good dating site.

at the end of the line

to be a doctor.

to be the one waiting

to hear,

to see,

to listen.

to put an ear to a chest.

to look

deep into the mouth,

the eyes.

the rest.

to be someone who

is at the end

of the line.

the one who says

you're good to go,

or that you're

about to face death

is unimaginable.

where is this relationship going?

where is this relationship

going

she asks me.

i feel like you're not into me.

that i'm

way down on the food

chain of your interests.

it almost seems

that you could live your life

perfectly fine

without me.

how is this possible.

if you don't succumb to my

wishes, i believe you're

going to live out your life

alone, and with no one around.

locked in your own world

of books and movies

and writing.

you'll be without a single

person to grow old

with.

but quite at peace and happy

i add on

when she finishes her lecture.

i don't hate it

i ask the waitress how

the coffee is today.

i don't hate it she says.

it's black,

it's hot. it's ready if you

want a cup.

i think we made it yesterday.

you're quite the salesperson

i tell her.

i'll have a cup,

though never getting

past the first sip.

wiping a particle of 

bitter grind

off my

burned lip.

swiping left

i swipe left

then left, then left again.

i look at my

calloused thumb.

i grow weary.

so many maybes.

so many far away.

so many

still married or holding

fish,

or babies.

so many desperate for

the one.

the one and only.

the prince on the white

horse.

still waiting at sixty

to be saved.

on the fence

she tells me she's a vegetarian.

but that she's

not a communist,

as if the two go hand

in hand.

although i am quite

liberal in my political

views, and you?

i tell her i'm on the fence

with all it,

i can vote either way

if it's the right man

or woman for the job.

even meat.

i can't decide medium

rare, or well done

half the time. but i do

like asparagus too.

the fresh wound

i stare at the cut along

the fat of my

thumb, palm up,

a nail having grabbed

the willing

skin and pulling it open.

i rinse the swirl of

crimson down the sink,

then wrap a rag

around the new wound

and let the blood

soak through.

it's heavy and dark,

then another, and another.

i hold it tight, 

trying to squeeze it to

a stop, then go

back to work.

there is always work to

go to, when healing.

this is where they sat

the bench facing

the long stretch of water

that leads

to the sea

is marked, eleanore

and john

meese.

a tarnished square of metal

tacked firmly

to the plank

where we rest our backs.

they are

long gone, i'm quite sure.

but it's not hard to wonder

how many sunlit

days,

or moonlit nights they

sat here hand in hand.

in love, i hope.

who could not be in love

with such a view.

birds are doing what birds do

she says the birds 

are doing what

birds do

as we walk

down the paved path

towards

the south river

beneath a cloudless sky.

they fill the trees with

chatter

and wings, and nests.

their world not quite

green but

all things moving forward

with spring,

regardless.

the oven cleaning

my eyes burn

and i choke on the fumes

as i spray

the inside of the oven

with

a can of death

called easy off

oven cleaner.

it's a lovely foam,

not unlike how the sea

washes up

in the winter,

both brown

and green.

i'd like to say that it

reminds

me of something,

or someone i knew,

but it doesn't.

when the mind strays

who isn't delusional?

who isn't

a bit crazy, a bit shy

of a loaf.

disturbed.

but we play on, don't

we?

we press forward,

knowing that

to belong we have

to get along,

that we have to tuck

these wild emotions,

these strange

ponderings away.

what point is there

in telling anyone

these dark and wonderful

thoughts.

but then there's this,

this pen and paper,

a place to put it all down

when the mind

does stray.

musings

we are living in the age

of memes.

short bursts of positivity.

posters,

blurbs,

quick words of advice

or clever

musings.

wry or sublime.

finding what others

have said,

what others have

gleaned.

who has time anymore

to think for oneself,

to be unique.

he was good at it

for the first twelve years

of my

own life

i can't remember

my mother not

being pregnant.

seeing her rounded

belly as she stood

in the kitchen,

scrambling eggs,

or boiling  bottles

filled with formula.

seven made it, two did not.

and where

was the maker of all

these babies?

good question.

but he was good at it.

is it over yet?

slowly people are coming

out

from under the rocks

they've been

hiding beneath.

wearily

looking out the window,

opening doors.

is it over yet?

are we done with this.

can we go to a bar

and sit

and have a drink,

can we go dancing again.

can we at last meet a stranger

and kiss.

the matador

after watching 

the documentary

on E. Hemingway

you come to hate him,

to love him,

to admire him,

to be disgusted by him.

to laugh at him, to praise

him, to shake your head

in dismay at him.

a genius, a fool, 

a pretender, an artist.

with his wars

and bullfights,

his many wives,

his cats, his insecurities.

he's everything it seems.

he's me, he's you.

that knocking at the door

it's probably indigestion.

this heaviness,

this strange feeling

in the chest, nothing

to worry about,

perhaps caused by worry

and mexican food

at midnight.

quickly i think i should

get dressed.

i should straighten

up the house,

sweep up the lingerie

left behind

by a guest,

and put the dishes

away, maybe write down

one more poem,

just in case that

knocking at the door

is death.

the safe door

i turn the dial,

my ear to the belly

of the black safe,

listening to the click,

i roll left

then right

then back again until

i hear the latch

go free.

it opens.

this is how i live each

day.

listening, 

carefully to each word

said to me.

easy on

i remember trying to get

that ring

off of my finger

using butter, and olive oil.

running my hand

under cold water.

i tugged and pulled

at that fat silver

metal, i yanked.

banged it against

the counter. it wouldn't

budge.

pliers didn't help.

i did pilates with my fingers

trying to unfatten them.

for the life of me 

i couldn't get it to slide

off and be done with it.

and it was so easy

slipping it on.

no monkey business

the bank

teller is purposely blah.

quiet

and serious

at his job.

with his grey suit,

his plain blue tie.

tapping his finger

at the keyboard

as you slip your id

below the window.

no joking here.

no frivolity.

it's a bank.

it's where the money is.

what's more

important than money?

although

in church i get the same

feeling too.

you need to keep

a straight face

there as well.

no monkey business,

please.

here comes the basket,

get ready.

just roll your eyes

anger is a good emotion.

used wisely

of course.

it helps you move

on from

evil people. but

you can't get mad at everyone,

or everything

although there are usually

good reasons to roll

your eyes and mumble

something snarky

beneath your breath.

but true anger.

red heat anger.

cursing with the hair

on your neck rising, that

kind of anger

is rare, best save that for

life and death

situations.

putting distance between us

ten miles won't do it.

another county,

another state, is still 

too close.

in fact a thousand

miles won't be

enough distance

between us.

let's talk geography,

continents,

let's go even further.

let's talk the moon,

the planets

another galaxy.

now we're getting close,

can we talk time travel?

maybe then.

smoke em if you got em

nearly everyone smoked

when growing up.

all the kids in the hood,

moms and dads.

everyone had a camel

or a winston dangling from

their mouth.

behind the school,

in the bathroom, pregnant

women,

men in bars.

at work.

ashtrays were everywhere.

got a light

the pope would say,

leaning over with a cig,

holding his hat on his head.

the president smoked

doctors smoked.

grandmothers chained smoked

while they knitted booties.

i saw a baby once smoking

a cigar

while being pushed down

the street

in a stroller.

dogs smoked.

squirrels had tiperillos

in their mouths

as they broke open

nuts.

e harmony

her e disharmony

profile said that she was the whole

package.

fun,

no drama, low maintenance,

spiritual

and light hearted.

loyal and true.

well read,

loves to cook, loves to snuggle,

to cuddle,

loves books. poetry too.

the glamor shots

were wonderful, airbrushed,

not a wrinkle in her brown,

not pimple

on her chin.

she was cleopatra come to life.

the woman of my

dreams.

what could possibly go wrong

again?

catfish are jumping

it's just one wall.

but he has books and books

of wallpaper.

all opened and marked.

paint to blend in.

six strips will do it.

but is this the right color.

is it too bold,

too plain.

i'm not sure about graphics.

although i am 

modern.

no flowers no birds.

something that says me,

he says, a paper that explains

who i am.

i stand and listen, i nod.

it's one wall.

two hours work.

my mind wanders, i almost

think about fishing.

one more one more

when sylvia

placed her head in an oven

having had enough

of this world

leaving her last manuscript

on the table,

her children in the bedrooms

sealed off from

the gas,

did she think that maybe

just maybe 

this isn't a good idea,

and wanted to run to the table

to write one more poem,

one more brilliant

piece,  one more effort

which wouldn't be her last?

sirens out the window

i'll go back and work on these

so called poems.

delete,

erase, edit.

i'll clean them and go

easier on

those i've come to dislike

or like.

the names will be changed

to protect the guilty.

be patient with me.

don't yell at me.

i'm doing the best i can here

with these fingers.

with that siren

going on out the window.

a bite of blood

it's a small cut

of the thumb, a bite of blood,

a reveal

of sorts

that yes you are alive.

how bright

how quickly you open

your eyes

when hurt,

the sudden

epiphany,

no more with the thin

disguise.

a tree in the woods

it takes so long

for the tree to grow, 

to become

what it's supposed

to be. to become

full, the trunk

thick,

the branches long.

a home for birds,

for squirrels, a beauty

in all seasons

giving shade.

it takes years, decades,

a lifetime to us

and then it falls.

no fanfare, no eulogy.

no history.

soon forgotten.

another sprout beside it

to take its place.

just a tree in the woods.

that's all.

when you get the itch

when i'd get the itch

after a few drinks

i used to call up betty, but she's

been in the wind

lately.

she said something about

mexico, but that was

months ago.

i go through my rolodex,

looking for a betty

substitute.

i got nothing. old numbers.

numbers changed.

blocked me.

deleted me.

ex wives, ex girlfriends,

ex online pals

from assorted dating sites.

no one's picking up.

i look through my thick folder

of restraining

orders to see if any

of them have expired yet,

nope. it seems 

i'm all alone with this itch.

why are they bothering me

the neighbor, an older 

gentleman

who i've seen once or

twice throwing a frisbee

to some kid,

bangs on my door at four in

the afternoon.

my first instinct

is to not answer it, to duck

down and crawl

back to the couch.

but i'm in the kitchen

standing at the sink

having dinner,

a peanut butter and jelly

sandwich on rye,

the only bread i could find.

i'm in my underwear,

but i think, too bad,

that's his problem

to deal with it.

i open the door, jelly on

my favorite white t-shirt,

and say, what up?

he asks me if my toilet

is backed up, if the plumbing

is draining out

water in the basement.

i tell him no

and advise him to call

a plumber.

he says. i did. so i say, okay.

anything else.

he looks at me and says no,

but perhaps

you should put some pants

on when you answer the door.

i'll think about it, i tell him,

as i take another bite 

of my sandwich.

the flounder sandwich

the flounder

sandwich is a spring special 

at the fast

food drive-thru.

four ninety-five,

it says on the sign.

which includes fries

and a medium

drink.

limited engagement.

i wonder if i should take

a chance.

i haven't had fish in over

two years now.

just calamari,

rubber gaskets from the sea,

batter fried and dipped

in an orange sauce

to give it taste.

a basket of those set

me back

three bills at the ER.

save it

if you want me to disappear

tell me what i can't

read, or watch,

what i shouldn't write.

tell me the food i should

be eating, how much water

i should drink.

tell me about kale,

about spinach, about squash.

take the gin away,

the cake,

the ice cream too.

go ahead, try and be my boss.

inform me on how to live

a more productive life.

preach to me about purpose

and direction. go ahead

i dare you.

if you want no more of

me tell what to wear,

how to love, how to walk.

instruct me on

what to say, what to believe

in. trust me, at this point

in my life,

i know who the hell i am

and don't need to hear it

another time, over and over

again. get lost.

the charade

she would pray over every meal.

bowing her head over

the avocado 

sliced in two.

there were rosary

beads hanging from the mirror.

an altar in the house with

candles and statues.

a cross in every room.

she played the catholic

channel on the radio 

and sang the hymns 

in church.

she put a can of beans into

the charity box each sunday.

cash for each

passing of the basket.

she knew all the priests by name.

there were wednesday 

ashes on her forehead.

her knees were calloused from

publicly kneeling.

i'm going to church again,

she'd say. don't wait up.

amazing.

if you only knew then what

you know now, her adultery.

glow in the dark mary

my mother

put a glow in the dark statue

of mary

on my father's dashboard.

meant to keep

an eye on him, and

have guilt

wash over his sinful ways.

it stuck

below the mirror.

in front of the wipers.

did it stop

him from carousing,

hardly.

it may have found him

more women

once they saw this sensitive

side to him.

life boat

listing, the ship

takes

on water.

the sails are torn,

the engine

smoking.

we may go down

so put your life vests

on.

it's been a good trip.

lovely.

take one

more picture before

we drown.

a placed called home

it's just a box.

a one room flat near the man

made lake.

a squared

off place to rest one's head.

you can hardly

hear the traffic

on the interstate

a block away.

outside

is the water, still and green,

the path.

the neighbors with their

dog.

the new borns in carriages.

it's home.

it's shangri la in your

head.

down goes the welcome

mat.

the plant on the table.

the posters up.

the wobbly table, the tv

in the corner.

death arrives long before

its time.

working on the chain gang

i remember working that hard.

nose

in the screen,

back aching from sitting so long.

at the beck and call

of bosses.

so far  down on the food chain.

i remember

those long hours,

weekends,

holidays at the desk.

no extra pay.

it was what was

expected of me.

self inflicted slavery.

cracking your own whip

upon your back.

i remember it well as i see

you go to work now

at the break of dawn,

seven days a week.

through rain and hail,

ice and snow,

how long can this go on.

i can't go far

i can't go far,

she says.

i have a dog, a cat.

a bird.

i have things to look out for.

amazon

might deliver a package.

i have strings

attached.

the mail will come

and pile up.

neighbors will wonder

where i am.

milk will expire in the fridge.

i can't possibly leave

town

for more than an hour

at most.

perhaps we can zoom,

or skype

or face time.

we can still be close.

the high perch

when the day is bad,

not going

well

it's good to find a tall

tree

and climb,

or a building higher

than any

others that are around.

go up

to the roof,

as high as you can and

look out.

see how small

everything is, and realize,

that once more

all will be fine.

down to earth

she told me 

that she was

very down to earth,

and i said,

that's good,

because

i'm currently 

living on earth,

although i'm on a

long list

to exit,

but for now,

this could work out.

church mice

when the church

left a basket of food on our porch

for thanksgiving

one year. i

ran into the house

after delivering my

paper route,

and woke my mother up

from the couch

where she'd been sleeping

since my father

left a year ago.

she started crying when she

saw the basket.

the ham.

the turkey. the potatoes.

the canned goods.

the pie.

it was the first time  that

i realized 

that not all tears were 

about sadness.

the trailer in berlin

his trailer, in Berlin,

not far

from ocean city, is wide,

is long.

three steps up

to the door, like any other door.

it's not bad he says as far

as trailers

go.

you wouldn't know it

when you get inside,

that it

was wheeled here,

from Timonium,

that it has aluminum sides.

no leaks.

sit down. let me pour

you a drink.

tv? or something to read.

or just talk.

let me pull the table down,

a game of cards?

with hand on her heart

when we turned the key

and entered

her studio apartment. 

she was lying

on her back

in bed.

her glasses on.

her curled red hair,

unfinished.

her skin white.

stiffened in her pose,

hand on heart.

the iron still on, the blouse

she was to wear

to work,

draped across the board.

i don't remember

her name.

or where she was from.

just that she was nice,

polite,

shy almost as she pushed

the button in the elevator

to go up,

alone.

beware of charm

beware of charm,

of pretty,

of articulate.

beware of the smile,

of the polite.

the unnecessary 

apology.

contrite.

beware of what

slithers gently

up your leg.

it won't be long

before you feel

that bite.

another act or two

i figure i've got a few more

acts left to go.

act one, two and three,

seem finished.

the curtain closed.

what's next?

a comedy, a tragedy.

high drama,

or something dull and

sleepy for a change.

i don't know.

there is no script, no

director, no lines to 

rehearse.

i'll just wing it

like i've done in the previous

three episodes,

see how it goes.

all in motion

everything is in motion

the earth

spinning,

the sun

the stars, that carousel,

across the way,

the pinwheel

in a child's hand.

the swirl

of wind making

ripples

in the puddle

where you stand.

nothing sits still

for long.

your heart,

your thoughts.

your longings, even

in sleep it goes on.

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.