fast asleep

in truth, 

i liked her best

when she was asleep.

fast asleep in the snow

of sheets and pillows.

she almost seemed nice

and honest

as i listened to her breathe.

her silence gave me a feeling

of hope

that one day

she would leave.

the key drawer

when i go through

the key 

drawer, which is not just

for keys, but

for pins

and needles, too,

scissors, that sort of thing.

i wonder

what keeps me

from tossing these old

keys out.

browned or silver,

bent or straight,

forgetting which

lock they turned,

looking back i wish i would

have made

a scrapbook with each

key, and beside it made note

of when and where

they unlocked 

a door, and who else

had another, besides me.

the mirror

i read somewhere

that a mirror

shows your face

while a poem

reveals your soul.

if that's true,

i'm in big trouble

here.

don't be like us

we expect too much

from people.

presidents and kings,

priests

and cops.

we don't want them to be

like us.

we want them to be better.

to live

their lives

at a higher level.

without scandal.

we want to trust.

it's an impossible thing

to do.

and yet we expect

so much from them.

much more than we do

with me

and you.

getting her act together

the sky appears

disorganized. the clouds

unmatched

the sun

a cold melt of yellowed

white.

a patch of grey

lingering

along the range of

hills.

it's early in the day.

maybe by lunch she'll

get her act together.

auchtung baby

in the heat of the moment,

Rimute

yelled at me,

and said, don't do that.

stop that,

in her thick German accent.

i am not a race horse

she said.

do not do that again,

or i promise

you, that you will regret

such behavior.

my bad, i told her.

i'm sorry.

it was an errant hand

that hit your behind.

so so sorry.

okay, she said, you are

forgiven, but remember

i am not one of your show

ponies, now auchtung

baby,

continue on.

we need our wins

we spend a good part

of our lives

waiting for that ship to come in.

the job,

the love,

the house,

the big break.

the corner window.

a lawn without weeds.

some ships are small though,

mere boats,

row boats.

a drop the mike moment.

saying just

the right thing.

the wish for clearer skin.

or to be first

in line

at the coffee shop.

the first anywhere

to get in.

to make the yellow light.

the last second kick.

we need

our wins.

define love

define love

i ask her.

and she looks out

beyond the walls of this

dive bar

playing the eagles

on the juke box

and says.

love is never wanting

to lose somebody.

we clink glasses.

nailed it

i tell her, then we

both sing along with

the eagles,

you can't hide your

lying eyes.

where do i begin

i stare at the rock

i found

down by the creek.

i've wiped off the mud

and algae after lugging

it up the hilll. i've swept

away the little insects

that are crawling

all over, now staring 

up at me.

it has a marble like look

about it. some sparkle

and shine,

as if it may be of value.

maybe it can be

broken down into

valuable gems

that can be given to

love interests on special

days.

valentine's, birthdays, etc.

i can probably, with the right

tools and mining equipment

get fifty rings out

of this rock.

maybe a necklace or two,

but where do i begin.

a little whipped cream

my barista

asks me how i'm doing.

but i'm not in a good mood.

i just found

out my ex won the lottery.

how are you,

he says again.

feeling okay?

what are you a doctor?

i snap back,

then immediately say

i'm sorry.

i'm having a bad day.

extra shot of espresso?

he asks, maybe a little

cinnamon

on top? whip cream too?

sure, i tell them, that 

should take care of things.

unlike the silent treatment

it's different than the silent

treatment

it's the constant babble

treatment,

when anything that comes

to mind when angry,

gets said.

not unlike striking a beehive

with a bat.

out they come,

the words,

the barbs and stings,

the future regrets.

the silent treatment

the silence

is deafening. saying

nothing

is saying all there is to say.

everything

is clear

in the purposeful

absence of words.

it's not golden

it's not

bliss, it's a terrible

thing

to wait, to sink lower

and lower, 

without so much

as murmur

into

loves abyss.

finding Betty's house

we had maps back then,

i tell my son.

big thick maps

that weighed twenty pounds.

they had grids.

numbers and letters, it was

not unlike what the bombers

used during world war two

over Berlin.

we would turn on the dome

light in the car and pull

over to the side of the road.

squinting, we'd drag

our finger down the lines

of the right page

until we found our target.

Betty's house.

what it's all about

we all remember

the first time we made love.

the age,

the place,

the person.

that strange feeling of

really,

is that all it is.

you recall the wet

grass,

or the seats in the car

or the bed

in your mother's house.

the quiet of it all.

the touch, the smell.

the secrecy.

the fear, the doubt.

is this the beginning of

love,

of growing up.

it left you bewildered,

and

to this day, you aren't

quite sure

what it's all about.

indifference

indifference

overcomes you at times.

a grey cloud

of fatigue.

not caring

as much as you once did

about the news.

about the neighbors,

about old loves

or the job you're on.

you do your best,

but surrender.

you avoid arguments

or debates.

you have no opinion

you wish to share.

you find it best,

to leave it all be,

and just walk away.

midnight walkers

as kids we used

to drive down

to 14th street to peruse 

the street walkers,

drive around

the Mayflower hotel

to see the fare there.

what was this world

of painted ladies?

we were just old enough

to drive, and to have

enough money

to buy a tank of gas

and food at the window

of the little tavern

where they pulled out

palm sized burgers

from a drawer,

fried the day before.

there was always

one instigator leading

us down the wrong path.

Ike, or Jimmy.

cigarettes rolled up

in their sleeves, self inked

tattoos on their arms

of skulls, or bees.

a year older, but so much

more wiser

than their age.

was it wisdom, perhaps

not. the world had just

caught them by the tails.

d. c.

it's a town

where who you really are

doesn't matter.

it's what do you do,

what's your job in life,

how big

is your house,

what car do you drive.

where did you go to school.

where do your

kids go now.

let's put a sticker

on the back window

to show

that we've arrived, that

we may be better

than you.

sketches on napkins

i save up enough money

to go to Paris.

a week or two.

i've bought my chapeau,

a black

beret.

i start smoking,

and talking about baguettes

and cheese,

bordeauxs.

i begin to recite poetry

and to make

sketches on napkins

ala Picasso.

i peruse

the map, where to go, what

to see.

the 

West Bank, the Tower,

the Museums.

but in truth,

it doesn't matter

where we are,

i just want to hold your hand.

i want you to be

with me.

the tipping point

just one drink,

one stiff gin and tonic

with a slice of lime

makes you happy,

increases your light hearted

mood,

then two arrives

and suddenly

you're smarter,

saying clever things,

bordering on wise.

and with three, well,

that's the tipping point.

flirtations begin,

and your mind starts to 

wander about where

the night might end.

what ended us

even now,

i smell your hair,

your skin,

i feel the touch of your long

hand upon me.

i taste

your lips,

hear the sigh of your

heart

after making love.

even now, with time

and miles

between us.

i wonder

what it was 

that ended us.

because

sometimes the only reason

we possess

is the word

because.

it contains everything said

or unsaid.

the beginning or the end

of love.

or loss.

why did you do that, or

this.

because. just because.

that's all i have for now,

maybe tomorrow

i'll have more.

don't be surprised

why do people surprise us.

the priest

in jail.

the politician

caught with his hands

in the till.

the teacher,

the lawyer, the doctor

gone awry

with pills.

the wife who cheats,

the husband

with his double life.

why does this still amaze

us that there seems

to be more wrong

in the world, than right.

milk and butter

my father

at ninety-two

tells me about the one room

school house

in nova scotia.

his horse,

his cow.

the old stove where

his mother

would keep biscuits

warm.

he talked about the wealth

of milk and butter

on the farm.

how the gate swung.

how

the rooster crowed.

the corn grew.

i can see in his 

soft blue eyes,

that he wishes he was

forever young.

before you go home

you don't create art,

you find it.

it's in there. already

in the stone,

the wood.

the blank canvas

that waits

for paint,

life to be drawn.

the words

come out already

formed.

all is there. you just

have to find it

before you return

home.

first frost

when you come of age

and discover

for the first time frost,

the thin layer

making the grass white,

the windows

glazed.

you kneel down to touch it.

and now,

at this age, it still amazes

you. leaning over

gently on your knees,

to wave your hand across

the tendrils of frost covered

grass and leaves.

blowing a circle

onto the wintered glass.

before night ends

not all poems

are meant to be read,

or printed.

some

instead, are just thoughts

fallen

from the tip of your fingers,

or the point

of your pen.

a memory.

a pain,

a laugh.

it's all there waiting to

be on the page.

some

will stay

and have a second chance

at life

while others won't last

and will be

gone, before the stars

appear

at night.

there is no starting over

it's not about starting over,

rebooting

your life.

that's impossible.

you can't just leave

something,

or someone without taking

part of it with you.

starting over

never happens, 

you can't go back to

the line, as if that race

had never

been run, instead

it's a continuance

of things, but

now with wisdom

gained to take

a different path than

the one you were on.

does your ladder reach those lights?

it's a week of stragglers.

last minute

paste beneath an unruly 

seam.

a dab of white

on the door frame.

a dining room wall

painted blue.

people are coming over,

so we must get ready.

all year,

we paid these things no mind,

ignoring the frayed

edges of the rooms,

until now.

what about that ceiling

stain, can you caulk

the tub, can you paint

the front door red

does your ladder reach

those lightbulbs

in the hall, brighten

up the gloom?

pass the stuffing, please

i don't give

a fig about cranberries

until

thanksgiving rolls around.

same goes for

sweet potatoes,

or roasted brussel sprouts.

not a single

thought is given

to pumpkin pie,

or turkey.

it's all a one shot deal.

gravy

and olives stuffed with

cheese.

celery in rows.

pass the stuffing please.

and yet

it's my favorite holiday.

la dee da

i admire the genius

of those who have found a way

to avoid work.

to live

off the state,

or big brother,

or sister.

a mother who never

untied the apron strings.

the wife

at home.

the husband pushing

the stroller.

the trust fund baby.

they've found a way

to walk la dee da down

the path.

how nice

to not worry about where

the bread is coming

from, the car,

the gas.

how to afford a trip

to Paris.

they've got it figured out.

i've been too dumb

for all that.

punching the clock for

years,

hoping the job lasts.

falling out of favor

i fall out of favor

with a few

people.

i can't exactly put my finger

on what happened

or why the communication

has dropped

off to zero.

the year is all a blur

now.

something i said, or did,

or didn't do,

i suppose. but

i don't spend my time on

worrying about

such things anymore.

after reading the last page

finally the book is done.

i've read

the last page, and now

my heart is broken.

i'll miss these people.

this story.

this tale that held me captive 

for so long.

i'll keep it nearby

on the nightstand,

like a picture of an old love, 

an old memory.

i'll keep the book nearby,

within reach,

until a new one comes

along.

i'm sorry that i'm not sorry

i didn't mean to slam the door

behind you

when you left.

i really meant to gently

close it.

lock it tight.

and go upstairs

to at last get some

long awaited rest.

i didn't mean to yell

and scream and curse

at you, calling you names,

that i should regret.

but don't.

that's not who i am.

and when i tossed you out,

with all your things,

your bags,

your clothes, your purse.

don't take that as a sign

of some sort

that i'm done with you.

i am of course,

but it's best we part

not as friends, but as two

people who never should

have met.

waiting on you to arrive

maybe it's the water.

the atmosphere, the environment.

plastics.

maybe it's the news.

the media.

our phones.

our constant need for attention.

politics and crime.

maybe it's

the end of the world.

the end of good times.

or maybe i just

need a good nights sleep,

and for you

to arrive.

a bad hair day

it used to be

when i had a bad hair day,

it was about

the cowlick,

the part that wouldn't part.

the shape,

the cut,

the length of it,

nothing could be done

to straighten 

things out, or make

it look okay.

but now when i say

i'm having a bad hair

day

it's about my ears,

or eyebrows.

my nose,

the stubble on

my chin, the few 

remaining strands that

i miss

when i shave.

the night is like the day

i dream of water.

blue water,

black.

deep water, violet

and violent

at times.

mysterious lakes.

i'm swimming, or riding

on the next

enormous wave.

it's not a fearful dream,

but one

of survival.

there is nothing i can't

cross

or stay afloat in.

nothing,

the night is just like

the day.

the yellow sticky notes

i make a note

to do something tomorrow.

but i can't read it.

it's scribbled

as if by a chicken's claw

crawling across the page

with ink.

i should have been a

doctor.

i have doctoring skills

it seems.

when hurried, 

my handwriting

stinks.

when trouble has gone

we rub out hands

against

the fire, 

the pit in the yard

burning bright.

the crackle of wood.

our coats on, a blanket

thrown around

us.

we can see the stars

of white embers,

the rising flames.

this is what life is

when trouble

has gone.

let's go out

it's an old

bar

stuck between

a dry cleaners

and a

burger joint.

the writer's center

nearby

where i've listened

to poetry.

the bar is neither

long or wide,

but the food is good,

the drinks

strong.

the crowd neither

young or old,

but hungry

for life again,

willing

to wander out

into the darkness,

into the saturday

night cold.

don't hope

hope is a dangerous

thing.

it rarely arrives, though

we keep

waiting, longing,

standing at the kitchen

sink,

looking out the window

for him

or her to return.

my mother was full of

hope.

getting off the train

the woods call us.

the mountain. the lake.

the ocean.

we need them.

places to recharge.

to get away.

to stop the train

and get off for a while.

we need places

where we're unknown.

where we have no

name.

when i get older

i need to throw

in a religious poem,

a spiritual rendering from time

to time,

to prove that

i don't just think about

sex all day.

women.

and then i fall off the wagon,

and go right

back at it.

does the hunger

ever subside?

a decline in appetite?

i thought it would by

now at this age,

maybe when i'm ninety nine.

proper attire

she surprised me

when she showed up in her

leather pants.

a shiny black pair

with boots no less.

ummm, i said. where

we going tonight?

to which she

said, no where.

now get undressed.

like and lust

afraid of love.

that lush banquet

where we over indulge,

you never get close to anyone.

you put

out your arms

to back away from the table

and say, that's enough.

you avoid

saying how you feel.

you don't ever want

to go through that kind of

pain again.

it's a hard life, 

but you manage by

living off the crumbs

of like and lust.

the culture police

the culture police

are busy with the new dictionary.

every word in the english language

that begins with man

is being replaced with the word,

people.

man hole is now people hole.

it's confusing.

Manchester is now Peoplechester.

Manhattan is now Peoplehattan.

you can no longer say, you need to man up.

come on,

people up. people up.

etc.

you get the picture.

the end of the world is near.

it's 1984 once more.

George Orwell call your office.

the weather report

brittle,

is what i'd call this day,

if was the weather man.

don't go out there.

stay home.

the roads are slick.

do you really need to go

shopping.

eat what you have

in the cupboard,

the fridge.

so what, it's saturday.

i'm telling you straight

up,

don't go out there.

the wind will

blow your clothes off.

you'll be stuck

in a ditch on the highway.

it's cold as

a penguin's butt out

there.

stay home.

ice, snow, wind, sleet.

don't be a dumbell.

stay home.

now back to the news,

Jimmy, how's that virus count?

what do the polls say?

we are all politicians.

smiling for the camera,

making sure we're seen 

in the best light.

posing.

mincing our words,

getting our hair,

our clothes, just right.

we want to be liked.

we want every vote.

we want to win this

election, 

this life long campaign,

this fight.

turn up the volume

you know

that things will change.

you've felt that.

you've stood in a crowded

bar

with the music going,

with all your friends

and thought,

this too will end

at some point. we will

grow out of this,

grow older.

get married, have children.

this kind of fun

will come to a close.

and it did for a short

while,

but now it's back again.

and where

this stops, who knows.

Breaking News

breaking news.

breaking news.

we're sorry to interrupt

your regular broadcast but

something terrible has happened.

we don't have any details yet,

but this is what we know so far.

something has happened.

we're not sure where

or what, or who was involved,

all we know at this point

is that something has happened.

and that it probably occurred 

on this planet, earth,

investigators

will go the scene once

they know where it is.

we will keep you updated

on this event that we know absolutely

nothing about as more

information becomes available,

so stay tuned to our news

team four. Bill, Chuck, Dave

and Daisy. Weather on the fives.

the sports wrap up is at nine.

and now back to your

regular programing.

how about this weather?

the cold

gives us something to talk about.

we've pretty much

worn out all

the other topics.

avoiding politics and religion

altogether,

ex wives and husbands.

we pull up our collars,

secure the top

button on our winter coats,

and say.

whew. this wind.

something, isn't it?

really whipping up today.

feels like snow is on the way,

doesn't it?

another cup of coffee

i press the button

to signal

my butler to come and take

my empty cup

for a refill.

but he doesn't answer.

i yell out his name,

Frederick.

still nothing.

I call for the house keeper,

Sophia,

nothing.

no reply. hey, i yell out,

is anyone

working today.

and then i look out the window

and see them

together,

hanging clothes on

the line,

the sun is in her face,

she's beautiful.

he gently kisses her neck.

she's in love with him.

i'll miss my hot coffee,

but for them

it's time.

the divorce party

it was a party for the ages,

the divorce

party.

there was a cake

and champagne, music

and dancing.

confetti fell from the ceiling.

there was wild laughter.

food and more food

catered in from Alta Strada.

friends arrived

from out of state.

siblings, kids. dogs.

all welcome to celebrate

not the end of something,

but the beginning

of something wonderful,

a chance at a new life,

celebrating the great escape.

chicken thoughts

i think about

chickens a lot lately,

as i throw some thighs

into the air fryer.

how many millions of chickens

are killed

and eaten everyday.

i guess i could google that.

i shake my head

and push the button.

it's a little blue icon,

with the face of a chicken

on it.

i guess i care about the lives

of animals,

but not enough to not

cook and eat them.

it's a dilemma a conundrum,

oh well,

past me the salt.

the new yorker magazine poetry

i try, i try again

to read some of the poetry

in the new yorker

magazine,

but i get a headache

at line one.

i really want to know what

the poem means.

honest i do.

but the words just bounce

off my brain.

yet, i'd like to

raise the bar and write

one, that will not

come back to me

after i send it with my

tattered resume.

i want to write a poem

just like the one i'm

reading,

puzzling and full of 

bizarre references, ancient

mythology.

i want to confuse

the reader, make him struggle

and think that he's

not smart enough to get me.

please i beg of you,

new yorker magazine,

pick me, pick me.

the dented cans

although you've lowered

your expectations,

still you expect more

from others.

but no.

we are at the dented can

stage of life.

the last chance bin.

the day old bread,

the meat with the red tag on.

get it now,

half price. sadly the herd

has thinned.

fighting a cold we peruse

the used car lot

fenced in near the woods.

see the balloons

tethered to their hoods.

no money down, drive it

home today.

no credit, no problem.

but there are no guarantees.

raising the rent

the rent was 215 in my first

bedroom apartment.

a one bedroom garden unit

on the ground floor.

i was twenty one.

scraping by,

but doing alright, a car,

a watch,

a gallon bottle of aqua

velvet by the door.

clothes, food and beverages,

you know,

the usual thing.

it had a stack washer

and dryer

in the hall closet.

a dishwasher,

a big tub.

a sliding glass door that

opened up to the woods

which bordered

Rosecroft Raceway.

i could see the basketball

court outside the window.

a pool too with a diving board.

it was paradise.

guest parking for anyone

i was seeing

back in the day.

and then i got the notice

in the mail that

rent was going up to

235 next year.

that was it, i had to get out

of there.

over the bridge to Virginia

where Susie, Michelle

and Donna lived.

did you hear that?

what's that noise,

she says, startled,

waking me up.

i hear

footsteps,

the creaking of stairs,

something

rattling

in the attic.

did you lock the doors?

shut the windows.

it sounds like

someone is in

here.

go back to sleep,

i tell her,

looking at the clock.

it's 3 a.m.

just a few ghosts

from my past.

this is when they like

to get up.

the smart guy

the professor rubs his hand

against

the dry paint.

a worried look on his face.

he squints at

cabinets.

how long will this last,

he asks,

rubbing harder,

now dragging his nails

against the wood.

look,

it's chipping already,

he says,

looking up at me.

well, stop doing that,

i tell him,

slapping his Harvard hand

before going back out to

the truck to get another

wet brush.

beware of beautiful

beware of beautiful people.

men and women, alike.

beware

of their glow,

their kindness, the nectar

of them.

none of it is real,

or earned.

beware of the words that leave

their mouth.

the twinkle in their eye.

they haven't worked

yet for what the rest of have.

and they want it

badly.

you'll never be more lonely,

if you let one

into your life.

the love note

after i pour all the change

into an

empty peanut jar.

the two pound size.

i pick out the nails

and screws,

the lint, the little

pieces of paper,

the strands of string,

and receipts, shreds

of coupons that i'll

never use.

a paper clip, a twist or

two. a rubber band.

crumbs from a cookie

i had for lunch.

an old stained

love note from you.

i realize that

my pockets are a perpetual

waste basket.

walk?

i dip

a leg out the door.

it's sunny,

quite warm.

walk?

i ask the dog.

she runs for her leash,

twisting herself

in joy,

bouncing

on the floor.

this is why we

grieve

so hard when they're

gone.

the best xmas card

i look at my dwindling

box of

christmas cards.

it started with a hundred.

the bulk box.

everyone getting the same

card.

the tree, the gifts beneath it,

the lights.

the fireplace, the dog looking

up the chimney where

the stockings hang.

dad, mom, son,

friends.

etc.

i sign them and send them

out.

and then i look at the card

the exxon station

gave me last year.

a picture of baby Jesus

in a manger on the front.

signed by all the greasy mechanics

the guy who inspects

my car,

the oil change guy.

the girl at the counter.

with love and affection,

it reads.

have a warm and safe christmas.

we appreciate your business.

happy holidays.

don't forget, in january,

your emission test is due.

no mending of things

i admit it.

guilty as charged.

i throw myself onto the mercy

of the court.

i'm rough on things.

clothes

and chairs.

cars.

past lovers, or

strange friends.

i get the most out of a pair

of shoes, or gloves,

then replace then

at the first

hole or tear.

i'm not looking for the glue

or needle and thread,

or tape.

i'm not into mending things,

as you well know.

patching things up,

is not for me.

i just move on.

the frozen rain

they're not unlike

barnacles,

some memories.

a voice from the near past,

stuck to the vessel

of you.

most scraped clean from

the hull,

but a few remain.

just words, phrases,

crazy things said

as we sailed aimlessly

in the wind and frozen

rain.

ready for what's next

they're not war wounds,

exactly.

but the day to day

collateral

damage of work and play,

of careless walking

into doors.

who hasn't stepped of a curb

and twisted a knee.

slipped on a sheet of ice,

bruising our head.

who hasn't rolled out of bed

to trip on a shoe or dog,

or glass from

last nights martini.

to the bathroom we go

for aspirin,  a cold compress,

a bandage or two,

and we're put back

together,

ready for what's next.

are you awake?

the earlier we rise

the more

we get done.

and as we age we

don't want to miss

a moment

of raking leaves,

doing laundry

going to the store

for something

we don't need.

it wasn't always this way.

for so long,

i never saw a sun rise,

unless i felt your

hand upon

my shoulder, asking,

with a tempting voice,

are you awake.

the red dress

the yearly yard sale

begins

at dawn.

the tables set up with

the metal folding chairs.

the same old things

dragged out

from the attic

or cellar.

books and dishes,

pictures and lamps.

a bed

with broken springs,

stuffing sticking out

for anyone to see.

on a hanger,

there's a sparkly red

dress with a tear,

a matching

pair of heels beside

it, one broken

in need of repair.

on a wobbly table

are two champagne glasses

on a silver tray.

i stop and take a look.

there has to be a good

story somewhere in there.

the truth shall set you free. com

having learned

my trade the hard way,

my new side business

will be ratting people out.

married people.

people in relationships.

anyone cheating

and lying, betraying

their spouse.

i'm for hire.

phone tap, i'm your man.

tracking,

breaking into e mails,

hacking phones.

no problem.

i'll wait outside the

motel on the outskirts

of town.

i'll check out the parks,

the empty lots.

i'll check out their lunch

dates,

their happy hours.

i'll eaves drop,

i'll snoop around,

i'll put my binoculars

on them.

i'll put my ear to the ground.

you want pictures, 

no problem.

all them will be busted.

no money down,

trust me. low monthly fees,

all work guaranteed. 

i'm your man.

you don't deserve

to have scum

in your life. give me a call.

the truth shall

set you free.

waiting on bread

it took a while but at last

all my

appliances match.

each one

black.

from the stove to the fridge,

to the coffee

grinder and pot.

the dishwasher too.

the only outlier

is the toaster, which

i hardly ever use.

she's waiting patiently

for bread

to come back.

the new frontier

trouble is

that i've fallen into a state

of total uncaring.

no longer bothered

or worried,

about what's said or done

by others,

near or far.

i've arrived into the age,

of so what.

it's a land

of peace and quiet.

mistakes were made

we all make

mistakes.

big and small.

decisions made in haste.

hurried

ideas,

love pushed too soon.

endings

forced.

we all

err in our ways,

going forward,

but seeing

the past in a different

way.

growing up and out

some made it out,

some didn't.

some graduated

from beer

to wine,

to mary jane,

and beyond, wrapping

a band around

their arm

to find a vein.

most that went that

far, i never saw

again.

i like to think of them

before that.

on the street

with a bat and glove,

hat on,

and smiling

for the camera as

we played stick ball.

with rice in our hair

she was a back seat

driver.

look out, she'd scream

when a squirrel would run

across the road

in front of us.

stop here, park there.

i just saw a spot, didn't

you see it,

go around the block.

it's too hot in here,

roll the window down.

speed up, you can

make this light.

you can get across the tracks

before the train comes.

you drive too slow,

too fast, turn the radio

down. when was the last

time you vacuumed this car,

or washed it, put on

a coat of wax.

and this was leaving

the wedding chapel with

rice still in our hair.

nap time

the salesman

tells me about the trunk,

how big it is, what i can

load into it.

it's roomy he says.

you can pack a lot

of groceries in there,

toys for the kids.

and take a look at that

back seat,

he says opening the door.

go on. sit down.

take a seat.

corinthian leather.

they're heated, and yes,

that's a charger

and six speakers for

your music.

four adults can

fit in there.

so i get in, and lie down.

he's exhausted me.

close the door,

i tell him, i want to take

a nap now.

over night

the corner store

is gone.

the windows boarded,

the doors

locked tight.

it was there forever

it seems.

it's where you bought

your first

pop,

your first candy bar,

your first

comic book.

and now, like many things,

it's gone over night.

radiator love

the clunk

of the old radiator is

a pleasant sound,

the heat

shining out

with steam

beside the bed.

and as we lie here

together,

wrapped as one,

we listen,

we breathe. 

self advice

we are all good at

giving advice,

words of wisdom to someone

off the rails

and yet it's hard

when we're the ones

with our head

in a vise.

hang in there, we say,

be strong,

this too shall pass,

hold on.

what's changed

why are you so happy now,

she asks me.

you laugh so much.

you joke around,

i've never seen you so content

with life.

so full of joy.

what's changed.

and i put my left hand out.

just this, i tell her.

just this.

no ring.

the good book

give me

the dogeared book

with the frayed

cover.

turn to the page

where the coffee stains are,

where

the ashes burned

through.

show me the underlined

phrases and words.

show me that book

i want that book

to be mine.

finding a way to unlove her

like a ball of yarn

i unraveled her

by pulling on a single

strand.

a single lie.

i found a way to unlove

her.

with each yank

of the thread, with

each pull 

i could see that she wasn't 

that pretty

after all,

or that smart or

that kind, she was none

of the things

she pretended to be.

in the end, 

she was nothing

of value,

and now i was free.

nothing is lost

things are never lost.

they still

exist, but they lie elsewhere

to be found

by another.

so much slips

from our hands,

or dropped and left

behind.

people too.

down they go between

the seats

of life, onto some floor,

or forgotten

stop.

just row

as we row

away from  trouble,

we look out across the wide

sea

we can't see the other side,

it's too far,

but there are

decisions to be made

before we begin.

who comes along.

is the ship able,

strong.

what will the weather be?

are there pirates,

rocks beneath the calm waters.

and when we get there,

what then?

none of it matters.

what matters is leaving

and not looking back.

set the sails,

take an oar, and row.

the religion of vegetables

there are new religions

out and about,

the religion

of vegetables is one,

kneeling to the power of

carrots

and legumes. 

praising the potato,

the turnip,

the celery.

worshiping the onion

and lettuce.

the mushroom.

singing the songs

of soy

and carob. staying clear

from the sins

of meat.

holding onto the walls

as they walk,

feeling faint,

feeling weak.

you can hear their whispers

as they try 

to speak.

six days a week

be funny,

or go home.

i'd rather be alone

if you're

going to be sad

all the time.

tears

in your eyes. 

that woe is me look

upon your face.

go home

and leave me be.

i need

less sadness.

less darkness,

not all the time,

but at least six days

a week.

a time will come

a time will come

when i'll forget your name,

forget your

face,

your hands,

your legs.

a day will arrive when

you will be

a vague

memory, a person who

was barely

alive.

the dust will have gathered,

the rust

of years,

the death of you, will

be sad to some,

but to me,

it will bring no tears.

we want it

we want it.

we desire it, we seek it

from

the cradle

to the grave, we want

to be liked,

to held

and touched. we want

kind words

and kisses.

we want it like water,

or food, 

or air, we want

this thing called love.

careful steps

you remember

bounding

up the stairs, or down.

that's what we called it.

bounding.

our legs

strong. our lungs 

still fresh.

the blood within us

still new,

still young.

you remember those

days.

they seem close,

not far away,

at all,

as you grip the rail

and carefully

step up, or down,

minding your way

to avoid a fall.

the lightness of being

despite

the world. the calamity,

the distress

and pain.

despite the waging of

war

and sin,

of bad things.

we go on.

many with a happy heart.

with joy

and laughter,

the lightness

of being

prevails

over darkness in

the end.

the rabbit ears

i look at my insane

verizon bill.

a landline,

a cell,

three tv's.

the internet,

and then there's

netflix and prime.

crazy. crazy times.

i used to pay this

much in rent

for my first apartment,

back when the rabbit ears

and a wall phone

worked just fine.

can't get enough of your love, babe

she asks me what my

deserted island songs

would be, 

the music

i'd have with me if 

shipwrecked out at sea

for a month

of days.

what would it be.

some blues of course,

al green,

tom waits

and dylan,

early elvis costello.

perhaps a little chet baker

too.

van morrison has to come

along for the ride,

as well as marvin gaye.

what about barry white,

she asks me,

teddy pendergrass?

well for them you'd

have to be there with me.

on the first day of christmas

it's november tenth.

i see the store

santa setting up shop

outside

the supermarket.

the black swinging pot,

the red suit on,

the fake beard,

the pillow belly, the bell

that's ringing

because of the wind.

he's been drinking

beer, budweiser,

and it's only

two o'clock.

a sandwich from subway

is in his hand.

twelve inches

of italian bread

and salami hanging out.

i see that he's sweating

when i walk by,

a dollop of mayo and

oil on his lips.

i hand him a handkerchief

to mop his brow.

and greasy condiment

drips.

thank you, he says.

merry christmas.

then let's out a loud

sort of musical burp.

fruitless

i can't handle it anymore,

my tolerance

and patience

for such

ineptness has dwindled down

to nearly nothing.

i try one metal basket

after another, searching

for one

that doesn't have a wobbly

wheel.

it's fruitless, so i give up,

reluctantly,

and push the broken

shopping cart

down the aisles.

squeaking,

shaking, veering into

the rows of bananas and peaches,

knocking over

a stack of apples,

and kiwi from the west

indies.

when butter melts

look at that,

i tell her,

as i stare

at the squared pad

of butter,

rich and yellow,

melting

onto the brown

hot slice

of toasted bread.

just look at that,

have you ever

seen anything more

beautiful

in your life?

it's exactly what

you do to me,

she smiles

and says, 

then asks me

if i'd like some eggs.

no snow to speak of

is that a sheet of ice

on the pond,

a grey

wet layer

of what's to come.

is that the mailman

with his

hat and gloves,

his nose

red, his big boots on.

is that

a bag of salt

beside the road,

a shovel set by the door.

do i hear a plow

starting up.

is it coming this year,

or will

it be another winter

of vague cold,

with no snow

to speak of.

what war does

courage

comes in the moment.

or it doesn't.

brave

yesterday, but

unwilling to die, today.

who isn't a coward at times.

protective

of self,

unwilling to give

one's heart

to another.

war will do that to you.

how warm it feels

it's not that we agree

on everything,

in fact

there is always 

something to bicker

about.

but now,

as we sit here,

on this cold bench

at the park.

we resist the temptation

to argue, we nod

and smile.

we just enjoy the sunshine,

both agreeing to

how warm

it feels

as the breeze moves

the leaves

about.

eye candy

our eyes like things.

shapes

and sizes. 

shiny pretty things.

whether

a car

or person, a ring,

a tree full of leaves.

that rainbow

draped

above the trees.

we turn our

heads to gaze

and enjoy

what we see.

who isn't prone

to staring

and enjoying 

the worlds 

ever present and

abundant, eye candy.

the easy way

he came into money.

through

the death of parents,

the selling

off of property,

of things the dead

leave behind.

a fat inheritance,

a law suit or two

along the way

added to his accounts

and he

lived just fine.

he rarely worked

at anything,

but he was always

in the best

of ways.

never short of anything.

and as you slaved

away

at your daily grind,

for your crust of bread,

you wondered

whose life was better,

his or mine.

all the good times

the old friend

is getting older and what

that means

is that i am

too.

which is fine.

we see the past in

each other's eyes,

hear it in our laughter.

we're in the age

of grey,  and lines.

we're still here though,

despite so much.

and we remember

gladly all 

the good times.

start again

an empty shore

lies before us,

the lick

of cold blue waves.

the gulls

floating, hoping

for what we might bring.

we walk, our feet

sinking into

the sand.

we see the end of

the pier

and when we get there,

we'll turn around

and start back

again.

getting undressed

how the trees surrender

to what's

next.

letting go of green,

draped in new

golds,

new reds for a short

while before

getting

undressed.

more than enough

there's plenty to go around.

more than enough.

the world

is bountiful

with so many things,

and yet

there's a lack

of love.

the world is getting younger

i call up my broker,

Jennifer,

who handles my finances

and investments

at Slocum and Kravitz.

she looks like she just graduated

from high school.

a cheerleader, maybe,

or at the very least, a pom pom girl.

i tell her i have a little

extra dough

lying around, that i need

to move into an interest

bearing account, like pronto.

she laughs.

how much, she says. what

are we talking about here?

i whisper the amount

into the phone so that none

of my ex wives can hear,

even though they all live

miles away.

sure, she says.

maybe we can do some bonds,

or drop a little into blue chips.

you won't get much out

of a money market, and cds

will lock it down.

i can hear her eating from a

bag of potato chips.

crunching them one by one

on the phone.

i'll get my new intern Brad

to draw up

a few ideas.

how soon can you get that

check to me, she asks.

i'll drop it into snail mail

tomorrow, i tell her. but

i have to get stamps first.

what's that, she says?

taking a gulp of her soda.

the sweetness and the bitters

funny how we hear

what we want to hear

when we want to hear it.

or see

what we want to see.

but taste

and smell are different,

we can't ignore

or forget such things as

the sweetness of life,

or bitters.

wounded faith

your faith is tested

by new death.

new troubles, new bumps

in the road.

but you press your hands

together

and press on.

you will get on your knees

today

and pray

for those less fortunate,

for the rich,

the poor,

yourself, and all others

who have been led astray.

the new wishing well

the priests gather around

the new wishing

well, just off the diocese property

of St. Bernadettes.

make a wish,

the sign says.

one dollar for a small one,

five for a big one.

we're losing money here,

father smith says to father

o'connell, shaking their heads.

and grappling with their tight

white collars.

people are donating less and

less into our wish baskets,

i mean baskets for the poor,

and they're throwing

more into this wishing well.

we need to get to the bottom

of this, both literally and

figuratively, they say to each

other, one reaching down

with a net to scoop up some coins.

what are you doing friday night?

where do you

live?

how long have you lived there?

where did you live

before that?

kids?

divorced?

do you work, at what?

did you go to college,

which one?

do you have any pets,

any hobbies?

are you religious?

what do you like to do for

fun?

are your parents still alive?

what's your favorite kind

of music?

your favorite food,

your favorite color,

do you watch netflix, or prime?

she asks all these questions

and i ask

just one.

what are you doing friday

night?

a good day

carrying an arm full

of things

i drop my wallet

on the way to the car.

it slips out of my grasp

without a sound.

it lies in the street all day.

unbothered, untouched.

and fortunately

on a sunny day.

when i get home from

work, there it is,

right where i dropped it.

funny how it is 

that on some days

things work out

in a good way.

attachments

i'm not one to keep

sentimental things. i delete

pictures

with the swipe of a thumb.

i toss out

past memories quite

easily.

a ring, a watch,

a hallmark card,

anything that reminds me

of someone

i no longer want to be a part of.

i take the broom out

and go at it.

the closets, the basement

the attic.

and yet, when i open 

the freezer, there are a dozen

or so frozen

packages that have been

there forever.

unmarked, undated.

but somewhat permanent

fixtures in my life.

things i apparently can't live

without.

a new book

i need a new book.

a big 

fat book of fiction

or non fiction.

a bio

or something.

a poetry anthology,

perhaps.

anything but self help.

done with that.

i can't be helped anymore

and i don't

necessarily want to be.

i am what am.

olive.

her white golfing gloves

she greets me at the door

in her leathery white

golfing gloves

and nothing else.

except those red heels

that make her

almost as tall as i am.

hungry, she says.

purring like a kitten

wanting milk.

always, i tell her.

how's your game today?

a big big day

yesterday was a big day.

a big big day.

i can't under emphasize

what kind of a day it was.

the recipe called for six egg whites.

and by hand

for the first time in my life,

i separated the whites from

the yolk, going back and forth

with the cracked eggs,

back and forth,

dropping the whites

into a bowl for mixing.

then i picked the shells out.

nobody likes shells

in their cloud bread.

on second thought

some days i wake

up

and think, i'm a really a good person.

i'm kind,

i'm nice to people

that i don't like.

i show up on time.

and for the most part

i'm considerate

and generous.

i'm really wonderful

and a joy 

to be around.

and then i sit down and start

writing.

putting someone on

the spit, to slow roast.

damn good cup of joe

she makes the best coffee

in the morning.

i've had a lot of coffee so i know

what i'm

talking about.

it's hot, it's black and dark,

with a rich bold

flavor.

a little cream, a little sugar.

i could drink

hot coffee with her all day,

shooting the breeze,

but then

i'd start to shake, and before

you know it 

we'd be going upstairs again.

exchanging photos

she sends me a picture

of her leg

in a stocking.

i send a foot

without a sock.

tomorrow we may progress

to the knee,

but i see

a suspicious mole

on her

thigh, i'm not so sure

yet,

if she's the girl for me,

further

inspection is needed.

up close

and hands on.

earth, it was a good run

when it ends.

when it all blows up

into smithereens.

who will

take the broom and sweep

up the buildings,

the glass,

the broken dreams,

the debris

of life,

etc.

where is the dust pan,

the bag,

the can.

who's job will it be

to clean up

this mess we've made?

the moneychangers

flipping through

the channels 

i come across the smiling

face

of joel and his wife.

two shiny

people preaching the word

of prosperity and riches,

positivity.

their wealth is legendary,

the houses,

the exotic cars.

taking mostly from the mouths

of the poor

and hungry.

the desperate souls

searching for an answer.

you wonder why God hasn't

taken them

out yet.

one giant lightning strike

upon their domed

bank, pretending to be

a temple.

making love last

we have nothing in common.

we don't laugh

at the same jokes.

we don't read the same books,

or watch the same shows.

she likes the summer.

whereas  i prefer the fall.

she's a princess with a tilted

tiara, while

i'm just an ordinary bloke

on my hybrid bike.

she's always dressed

to the nines.

whereas i lounge around

in jeans and sweatshirts

most of the time.

and yet somehow we make

it work.

separate rooms to sleep in, 

long days at the office, 

little conversation

as we pass in the hall.

is it your turn to walk

the dog, or mine?

our marriage may last

forever if we can keep

this charade up.

the country club

it's no secret,

this thing,

this thing called dying.

and yet

we're surprised

that anyone could possibly

die.

how could they?

they were here

just yesterday, 

we shook hands

after a night

of hard drinking

and said goodbye.

he was the picture

of health.

he had his golf clubs 

with him. 

a gift from his wife.

all new for Christmas.

he just shot par on the back

nine.

had an eagle.

we made plans for Sunday.

his mistress

and mine.

famished

it's a strange kind of joy

to be hungry

beyond

hunger, famished.

starving

for food.

for drink.

to long for a meal

of nearly anything.

to taste it all

as you slowly bite

down, and swallow.

and the same goes

for fatigue.

what joy there is in

finding

a bed at the end of a long

day, a long week.

falling into the feathers

with a sigh,

barely finding your lips 

to say good night.

the beauty of it all

as if i have a field

to plow

and worry on,

as if i have a barn

to hold the harvest,

as if i have

a horse, a cow,

a pen of pigs, i go on.

looking up into

the sky

concerned with rain,

or sun,

things being too wet,

too dry.

i go on.

i get up, alone

i lean into the new day

with coffee.

the radio on to music,

not news.

there is only one kind

of news these days.

bad news.

so why bother.

i look out at the field.

the fences.

the tilt of the scarecrow

the direction

of the weather vane.

i see the beauty of it all.

of hard work.

of true love.

i go on.

the ocean city boardwalk

i miss the smell

of the boardwalk, the salt

in the air,

the fried sugar,

the seafood and chicken.

pizza by the slice

from a window.

the swirls of cotton candy

stuck to the face

of children.

i miss the ping and bells

of the pin ball

machines.

the ocean at night, rolling

on and on.

the lace of waves.

the bloom of fireworks.

the lovers, just children,

hand in hand.

wanting life 

to always stay

this way.

the dull dark eyes

the brown body of a bat

was stuck

between the drain and brick

of her house.

it looked like the smallest

of gloves.

with eyes

and a mouth showing

teeth as sharp

as needles. a portent

of bad tidings

to come, perhaps.

who's to say how long

it was there.

no one taking the time

to remove it,

no one caring.

call it what you will, but

it told me so much

about her.

oh well, good luck

we meet at the zoo

for a walk.

we don't hold hands anymore.

that part

is over.

but we need to talk,

to bring

things to an end.

closure

some call it.

so we walk past the cages

holding lions.

holding

zebras,

wild birds in the air,

nets keeping

them from flying off.

we say little that hasn't

already been said.

we too were trapped,

i think, staring deeply

into the eyes

of a beast

holding tightly to the bars.

she hands me her keys,

kisses me on the cheek,

and says,

oh well. i guess that's it.

good luck.

the broken black crayon

you can watch a child

with a box

of crayons

go at it on the floor.

a coloring book open.

you can see

how it's going to go

in the coming years.

the one keeping the color

between the lines,

careful

to pick blue for the sky.

green for the grass.

and then there's the child

all over place,

with no reason or rhyme

to which crayon chosen.

they can't get enough of black.

crazy seems to start

somewhere between

three and four and from there,

there's no turning back.

before the next full moon

it's a crazy thought,

a politically incorrect way

of thinking,

but if all the people who

owned weapons

and ammunition

were sent to the moon,

or passed away,

wouldn't that solve the

problem of guns,

not in years to come,

but before the next

full moon.

when they say, i've changed

i like to hear

the story of when people change

for the better.

they've done the work,

the therapy.

they've read the books.

church is in the mix.

confession.

they've turned over a new

leaf, they tell you, 

and anyone that will listen.

they want the past

forgotten.

they want their life

to have a new start,

with all forgiven,

they are

full now of magical thinking.

and you accept that,

with your mind,

but forgiveness comes hard,

or never when

you deal with a heart.

the wide dark porch

her house

was next to cemetery.

a white clap board

arrangement,

ordered through

the Sears catalog

in 1932.

it had a large wide porch

to rock on.

to sip tea,

or eat.

to gossip, or laugh.

and in hard times,

weep.

there were chimes

that sang

all night.

she'd sit there

under the stars,

mostly alone in later

life, and look out

across the rolling hills

of the dead,

and wonder

what will mine be like.

the sharpened claws

we each have a set,

not unlike the lion in the wild.

we have claws,

but being

the civilized

part of the animal kingdom,

we keep

them inside,

retracted, not ready

in the moment

to strike,

to kill,

to defend our lives.

at least it used to be that way,

but now

i see them out.

i see the fear

in so many eyes.

it's a constant world

of live or die.

the memory gum

we choose what

we want

to remember.

what was said or done.

whether

good or bad.

not unlike

what's stuck to

the bottom of our

shoes.

there it is,

that sticky grey wad,

reluctant

to let go,

to come undone.

whisperings

forgetful at times.

too busy

to remember, or is it

at last the whispering

of old age.

leaving a key in the door,

forgetting

it's the day the maid comes

to clean

the bathrooms, the kitchen,

scrub the floors.

you forget

to buy what you need,

or why you

came to the store.

who's birthday have i missed?

what day is this?

feels like monday. 

but it isn't, is it?

i'm running late

we don't like when people

are late,

or delay,

or cancel at the last minute.

in no hurry to arrive.

what excuses are there

to make them that way?

the dog, the cat.

the traffic,

the weather.

or just the lack of interest

perhaps.

no promises

i don't want to discover

or uncover

a damning clue

about you.

sinking with a hole

a sturdy ship.

please be who you are.

hide nothing,

be transparent and true.

i'll try to do the same.

but no promises.

the steamed mirror

as i stand

in front of the steamed mirror

naked

and wet

a towel half

around me.

i  see my parents.

there they are, the lines

of my father

engraved.

the worried eyes

of my mother.

the hair line

the shoulders,

they way i lean

towards

the water to wash my

face.

it says nearly

everything there is to say

about who

i am today.

beer and a sandwich

some climb

the highest mountain,

some jump from planes.

some

go to the frozen

tundra

to prove something

about survival

in weather extremes.

they take a picture

at the summit,

of them falling

with arms spread wide.

some leap

from bridges

tethered to a cord.

they raft the wild gorge.

some wrestle

alligators,

putting their head into

a lion's mouth.

they need the excitement

the danger,

the thrill of it all.

whereas i like

to watch it with a sandwich

and a cold drink

from the comfort 

of my couch.

in her yellow dress

in her yellow dress

she was a different person.

she smiled more.

felt lighter,

more alive.

others took notice of her

when she wore

her yellow dress.

she was a wild spring

flower

in the sunlight, 

separate from the rest.

men and women alike

made comments

on her grace and style.

who are you

they wondered.

come sit near us a while.

fool's gold

some gold is not

gold.

it's fool's gold.

mere stones colored

to resemble

something of value.

you see where

i'm going with this

don't you?

as i write with 

my tooth 

and heart chipped.

the long distance writer

i will write myself into sleep.

i am the long distance

runner of words.

one foot before the other.

my lungs full of air.

empty of air.

i am neither in love, or without

love.

i stride towards a finish

line that isn't there.

not a gallop or sprint, but

a weary gate.

i keep at it.

running. writing. alone,

purposely alone,

away from others, but

knowing that

there are those out there

that miraculously care.

eternity

i  believe in kindness.

compassion,

the touch,

or kiss.

i'm easily persuaded

by beauty.

by the smell of love,

like a flower

held.

i believe in all the things

we learned

as kids.

forever and ever.

eternity.

impossible things

like this.

two drinks and tomorrow

strange how a drink

or two,

or at most

three, takes you into another realm

of thinking.

love is blurred,

life is

suddenly a sepia

photograph taken long ago.

the edges hazy,

the words slurred.

what is real

is less.

the curled edges of time

lie before you.

a sip of gin can take you there.

you forgive,

you forget.

you're willing to do things,

that in the morning,

you will regret.

and so it goes

and as the women

brushes

the child's hair in the mirror,

and the dog  is walked,

the dishes done.

the doors closed

and locked,

the man sits in his chair

and ponders

a  different world,

not this one.

it's his secret. his own

life beyond what is knoen.

she'll never know.

he'll never tell her about

the one he truly loved,

life will go one.

and so it goes.

the loving smother

some can't cut

the apron strings, 

they need to

stay close

to the offspring.

there when needed

with cash

or food, or clothes to be

washed,

grievances to be

soothed.

the mother or father

smothering

the child,

never quite letting 

them go, to be alone,

or grow.

casting a long dark

shadow 

that smothers them

until

one dies, or 

eventually grows old.

the factory parts

they're putting new

hips into people

up at the senior village.

new knees,

new shoulders, new

hearts even.

new lenses

for the cataracts,

new kidneys.

they're rerouting

arteries. shaving

off bone,

breaking and setting

twisted arms

and legs

from getting old.

but i'm holding out as

long as i can,

keeping my factory

parts

until the bitter end.

the blur of high school

i don't know a single person

from high school.

not one

soul is still in my

ever decreasing social

circle,

fifty years down

the road and still

there is no one from that time

period

that i call, or text

or visit. it's the same 

as it was back then,

nothing has changed.

one raised eyebrow

when

she lifted her eyebrow

in your direction,

you

stopped

talking.

you were in some

kind of trouble

and there would be hell

to pay

before the night

was over,

leading all the way

through morning and

into the next day.

the recipe

the recipe

of life is very simple.

don't hurt anyone

and don't get hurt.

oh how easy

that sounds.

when our hearts are

filled with

imaginary love,

our heads 

in the clouds.

a carton full of cracked eggs

i should have opened

the carton

of eggs,

like i see people do in

the store.

looking for the broken

ones.

but no.

i took it home,

sight unseen.

more were cracked

than uncracked.

the shells crumbled.

the yolk spilled.

the whites running.

i should have vetted

the carton

better.

you'd think i would have

learned these things

after the last

relationship.

same old

vote for me,

he pleads on the phone.

please.

won't you come to the polls

today

and pull the lever

for me.

see how i smile.

i want

what you want.

i want success and health

and wealth.

i want

all men and women

to be free.

don't tread on me.

look, i'm waving

my flag on

the highway.

be a patriot, an American.

vote, you must vote.

it's what keeps

us free.

luck be a lady tonight

with no need

to apologize to anyone

anymore

for the wrong things

i may have

said, or

done, or left undone.

i haven't bought

a bouquet

of flowers, or

a heart shaped box

of chocolates

in ages.

no special hallmark card

with music.

or song.

no lengthy letter

explaining my deeds,

no ring or bracelet from

Kay Jewelers.

not a single poem.

i feel lucky to be walking

around guilt free.

what am I

there is strange

confusion of sex

gender

these days,

whatever

the case may be.

don't call me she or her,

or him

or he.

we're not sure

anymore what to be.

so let's use

an ungrammatical

term like they

or them

to muddy the water.

no need to lift my

dress or drop

my drawers to determine

which restroom

i should use, 

when i need to pee.

a dying flower

it's inevitable.

but we all become irrelevant

at some point.

live long

enough

and you become

an after thought.

someone who used to be someone.

loved and embraced.

now you're a dying flower

turned towards the sun

watered with words

but for the most

part no longer

a part of anyone's thoughts.

shadowed by a curtain

of lace.

two black bags

when i see the man

carrying

two black garbage bags down

the path,

i nod

as he passes, he nods

back.

i turn around and see him

set the bags

down.

he walks away. saying nothing.

i want to know

what's in the bags,

why here at the end

of the path, 

near the stream, 

why not set

them on the curb for monday

pickup.

strange. indeed.

i go on.

preferring mystery instead

of drama

and what i might find,

and see.

finding a tree to hug

i'll forgo

the christmas tree

this year, as

i did

the pumpkin,

the valentine heart,

the easter

basket

and the fireworks

on the fourth

with a hot dog and beer.

i'll forgo

labor day too,

and memorial day with

the flag

raised above the roof.

i'm all about

arbor day

this year.

i'll go out and find

a tree to hug

then rest upon its roots.

when you know you know

you get an itch

to get out,

to bail

in the presence

of certain souls.

who pretend

a friendliness of sorts.

too loud, too brash,

too quick to

praise and slap

you on the back.

you know but don't know

what exactly it is

that's wrong.

you just

know. 

you know?

the game

so much is a game.

a roll of the dice,

save,

collect, borrow.

work.

shelter and food, coming

first.

the nest.

than a wife,

or husband, a child

or two comes

next.

keep socking it away

beneath

the mattress.

get old. get older.

then hauled away

to be with

strangers,

then laid to rest.

the remedy for sadness

when i'm sad

and lonely, when the world

around me

has grown dark,

when it never seems

to stop raining,

and my aches and pains

have gone

on too long.

i stop and think of you

with absolutely

nothing on.

it surprises us

it surprises us

when the light burns out

with a mute pop,

the spoiled milk

in its box,

smelled.

we are slightly shocked

at the tire

losing air, the absence

of gas

to get us there.

the end of love.

we know these things are

coming, but still

we almost never expect

them to happen.

survival

survival is surrender.

we give in to the rain.

to the weather.

to others.

no longer putting up the fight.

we let the ocean carry

us.

the wind in our sails,

we give permission for

the world

to take us where we need

to go,

we throw up the white

flag. we

go with the flow.

passing through

the gate is resistant

to my pull.

the hinges rusted, the latch

loose.

not many that have

wandered here

have passed through.

i have to lift,

then give it a careful tug

to open.

it reminds me so much

of you.

our secret lives

we all have a secret life.

no one

knows everything about us,

nor do we

know them.

it's best this way.

no need to allay one's fears

and desires.

wearing

our true emotions on

our sleeve.

let's keep our lips sealed.

let's not be

judged by who we truly are,

let the image rule

the day.

I Wove You Too

i think i wove you, she says.

after we make

love for the third time

in ten hours.

we lie in bed exhausted,

a foot apart because

of the sweat.

we've got nothing left.

what?

what did you say?

i said i think i wove you.

what does that mean?

i've never heard

that word before.

Wove?

it's a new word, she says.

i made it up.

it's somewhere between

like and love.

saying love, is bad luck.

oh, okay.

i wove you too.

you're not wearing any pants

the neighbor knocks lightly

at the door,

i see her bespectacled face

through the peep hole.

it's nearly eleven o'clock at night.

excuse me, she says.

as i crack the door open,

don't mean to bother you,

but the lights on in your car,

oh and you left

your keys in the door, and um,

you're not wearing any pants.

thanks, i tell her, running

out to turn the lights off, ignoring

her last observation.

finding shangri-la

we're in horse country.

wine country.

everyone blonde and wearing boots

half way up

their legs.

there's a white mercedes.

a black

jag,

a cream colored bentley.

money is blowing

in the streets like leaves.

it's a skinny world,

of tight skin

and tight jeans.

you need reservations for

coffee.

everyone seems to know

everyone.

no one being who they seem

to be.

and look up in the field,

by that

white mansion

there's a horse or two.

some cows.

it's shangri-la, this is where

we need to be.

4th grade instructions

they told us

to wrap our arms around

our head

and ball up

under our desks

when the alarm sounded.

once the initial

blast is over, grab your

books and your

coats and

run home, those of you

not on fire

and find your parents.

okay.

now let's all have lunch

and then

recess.

perhaps a nice game

of tether ball.

done with wild things

i used to like the wild girls.

the crazy ones

with big hair and big eyes,

big lips,

big other stuff too.

but i've changed.

i don't need that kind

of excitement anymore.

the brash and bold big

mouth girls that you spun

around the dance floor.

give me the wallflower.

the quiet one. the beauty

reading a book, or

shyly looking over, with

a cat like look.

a change of season

they know what's coming.

the birds

the fox.

the nocturnal beings

lurking in

our shadows.

they feel the air,

the altered clouds,

a shift

of wind.

they get ready, as we do,

as winter begins.

unlearned,

no words, no books,

no voice to guide them.

they just know.

how good it is to

just know.

the vine yard

the hills roll westward,

the vines

dormant.

a pink yellow sun

blends

into the blue

beyond the trees.

we have nowhere else to

go, so we stir the fire,

we warm

our hands over the flames.

life should always

be this good.

we have no worry for

now, at what

tomorrow might bring.

buying the food scale

do i really need

a food scale?

has it come to that.

measuring by

weight instead of volume.

being exact

with my

recipes for new dishes.

leaving out the carbs

and sugar

and keeping in the fat.

when in my life

have i ever

been so precise?

maybe never,

but times have changed,

so we adapt.

the basics of life

they don't teach

you

the basics of life in

high school.

it's all trigonometry

and science,

learning

the periodic table,

so much history

to memorize.

they don't tell you

how to scramble

an egg, or fix a flat.

they leave out the part

about love

and marriage,

children

and all that.

dead roses

even when the roses

have died,

limp in the vase,

petals

falling to the side,

that once

beautiful bouquet

now dried,

even then

it's hard

to toss them aside.

the shortening christmas card list

some people are just not

good

at staying in touch.

an occasional call, or card,

or text.

while others stay in touch

too much.

full of information you don't

give a fig about.

and then there

are those who have disappeared

off the face of the earth.

never  to be seen or heard

from again. maybe it was

something said, or done,

or undone.

oh well, farewell.

so sorry that our friendship

had to burn out.

testing testing

i test the water

before jumping in, 

dangling

a foot

into the glossy pool.

i test the tea

before i sip, 

i blow upon the steam.

the soup too.

the stew.

the marshmallow off

the fire.

sticky with goo.

i'm testing everything

these days

before i let them in,

even you.

shot of love

none of us are bullet proof.

we can't

dodge what's coming out

of the barrel,

we can't stop it with our

hand, there's no time

to duck, or run,

or hide.

we all get nicked

or driven to the ground at some

point.

live long enough

and you'll find a bullet

in your heart, never

to forget the bang.

just a pinch of salt

all day

she spends in the kitchen.

at last coming out

with a spoon full of sauce.

taste this, she says.

tell me

what it needs, if anything.

i close my eyes and

taste,

then tell her maybe just

a pinch of salt.

she sighs, and mutters,

i can never please you.

my mother was right,

this will never work.

finding trust

we have to trust.

there's no way around it.

we trust

the trains, the buses.

the planes we board.

we trust,

that our shoes will get us 

to where

we need to go.

we trust this drink

in our hand,

this food.

we trust the cop on the street,

the vendor.

we trust the lights,

the water.

we trust and believe

the doctors holding our

lives

in their hands,

we trust so much in the world,

but sadly not each other

remembering cars

i remember

the cars.

each color.

how they drove, the smell

of them.

the sounds they made

going down

a road.

i remember washing them,

waxing,

changing the oil.

putting air into the tires.

cleaning them up for a date

i had

that night.

the blare of each horn

as i pulled up

to her house.

the bang of the door

as she got in.

the vinyl back seats.

i like them now

i change

my mind about them

when i hear

the music coming from

their window.

the sultry blues,

the horns,

the strings, the longing

voice

of etta james.

i like them now.

where as before i wasn't

sure.

where do they go

i wonder

where they go, when in trouble.

those

who have no God,

no religion.

no prayer

in their heart,

no pleading to a higher

power

for a truer path,

no bending upon one's

knees

to clarify the troubles

at hand,

or needs,

where do they go?

strangely

they are so unlike me,

who is not strong enough

to not believe.

between the years

we come up for air.

we relish

this small hour between

work.

between days

and years.

it's all very slow,

very fast.

but a moment in the sun

is fine.

lying here

in the grass,

we breathe, we close

our eyes.

we are going forward

without the past.

coming out of the water

when she comes

out of the water, shining

in the wet

and sun

unaware of her own

beauty,

i remember

what it was like

to be alone.

but that was then,

and this is now

as she smiles

and sits down beside

me.

finding the middle ground

i want the four star

hotel.

she wants a sleeping bag

by a campfire.

i want room service

and a rib eye

steak.

she wants to open

a can of beans with a pair

of pliers.

i want the big screen

tv.

she wants the stars at night.

i want quiet,

she wants crickets

and coyotes

howling.

there has to be a middle

ground somewhere.

watching the detectives

as a child

i wanted to be a detective.

i couldn't wait

for get smart to come on,

or james bond,

or columbo in his wrinkled

rain coat.

i studied

their investigative

ways.

how they pieced the clues

together,

one step a time,

one fingerprint

or hair fallen away.

they knew how

to follow

and eavesdrop, they

lingered in the shadows,

or wore

disguises.

i had no idea that i'd

be using it all one

day

in a marriage gone south,

with a wife who

ran astray.

she almost resembles you

two drinks

seems to be the limit now.

and even

then when morning comes

i'm reaching

for the aspirin,

the tylenol.

it was different back in

the day.

how we could drink

and dance

and eat

and flirt until the clock

struck two.

remember that

remember how it was

with me and someone

that almost

resembles you?

see you in the spring

turn back

the clock, go ahead

and

lose the hour of daylight.

i don't mind.

take what you want,

what you need

from me.

i'm just renting things

to begin with.

none of this

is really mine.

so have your extra

hour

of darkness.

it's fine with me.

see you in the spring

if you're still

around.

water under the bridge

at some point

there is more behind us

than ahead of us.

which is not a bad thing.

water under

the bridge they call it.

be glad for

the river that pulls the years

away.

to have them all

pool up in front of you

would be unbearable.

be thankful

for this new rain, this new

water, this new day.