Reading and reading and reading the red comet

i make a new years 

resolution

to finish

the book i've been reading

for nearly a full year.

the life and times of

Sylvia Plath,

called, The Red Comet.

it's endless.

thick as a cinder block.

it records nearly every word

she spoke,

every thought she had

in her mind, every meal she

ate, boy she kissed

and a dissection of

every poem she wrote.

she only lived until the age

of 30.

whew.

i can only imagine

the size of the book

if she had made it to my age.

my story may be

an illustrated

comic book, at best.

a day off

the day

off is like finding

money.

finding a gold nugget.

finding

a kiss in the cold night

on your lips.

the day

off is a wonderous

lazy thing

of doing little

but reading and sleep.

a bite

to eat.

a flurry of words on

this old

machine.

the pink eraser

the worst gift

i ever

got for christmas was

a pink rubber

eraser.

we picked names

from

a hat in school

to buy gifts for one

class mate.

the name

i picked was Ernie.

a big kid

who sat in the back

biting his nails

and making

strange noises

from his bean filled

diet. he was the kind

of kid

who was always asking

you to punch him in the stomach.

go ahead, he'd say.

you can't hurt me.

i wrapped up a nice

model truck up for him.

took all my

savings.

it was bright red

and reminded me of

the truck his father

would pick him up in

after school.

i was stunned when i

unwrapped my

tiny little gift.

a pink eraser from some

kid who could barely

speak English,

recently arriving from

Russia.

oh well, there would be more

disappointments

to come.

he was thoughtful boy

there a was kid back

in the old

neighborhood, Jimmy Click,

who always wore a black

beret and a long

black trench coat,

who would

give out nickel bags of

weed

for christmas.

high quality stuff,

not your weak home grown

basement plants

with a light pointed at them.

this was refined weed,

with the seeds shaken out.

he'd tie up the dope in little

burlap bags with a nice

festive red bow.

he was very generous

and thoughtful.

sometimes he'd add

in some rolling papers,

or a small homemade

pipe created from tin foil

and an empty toilet paper roll.

i always felt bad that

i never got him anything

for the holidays,

or visited him

when he went to jail.

what?

i let the ex

take over the finances one year.

after

a heated session

at the marriage counselor

they broke

me down.

okay, okay.

you take over the check book

i told her.

you pay the bills.

i handed it over

to her.

it had a solid two thousand

in the account.

back up money.

emergency funds,

etc.

the next month i took a look

at the account

and the balance was down

to zero.

i asked her what happened

to the reserves

and she said, you told me

to balance it out,

so now we're at a clean

starting point.

zero.

out with the old

i look at last years christmas

tree

still up in the corner,

not a needle

left on the branches,

bare as someone

getting out of the shower

without a towel.

the lights still work though,

the tinsel is a little limp,

but hanging in there.

the bulbs, the angel 

at the top. i turn the little train

on beneath it just for fun.

it had a good run, this tree.

this fifty dollar tree from

st. bernadettes parking lot.

i got my moneys worth.

i've had marriages that have

ended quicker than that.

just keep it another year

it's hard to discard

the comfy chair,

the table in the hall that

wobbles,

held steady

by a match book cover.

the bent spoon,

the chipped cup.

the frayed lamp, that

shimmies on and off.

it's hard to 

get rid of friends that have

been there since

day one,

though now old

and cranky, under the weather,

always with a problem

for you to solve.

get out of town

i sign up

for the space program.

i just

need to get away for awhile.

it's a round

trip

to mars

which may take

a year or so, but

i've got some free time

on my hand.

i have no astronaut

skills,

but maybe i can do

the cooking on board,

bake some cookies

for the long trip,

point out the stars.

i think i can drive

for awhile when they

go to sleep.

i used to do that for my

father

when he passed out

behind the wheel

in his big comfy car.

the funeral march

i cringed when i came

through

the door

and heard her fingers

on the electric

piano.

slow and deliberate,

like a child's

first lesson,

cautious as she plunked

left then right

across the keyboard.

it was a sad song,

a dirge,

a funeral march.

one she played so often

i felt like it was mine.

her baby grand

he let the tub overfill

which led

to the floor falling

through the ceiling down

below.

which

wrecked the Persian rug,

the chandelier,

the baby grand piano

which propped up

the wedding photos,

that she held dear.

but none of it mattered much.

in fact it was a high note

of a very bad year.

yours or mine?

your book, or mine

i ask

as we separate our things

before

moving on.

i look inside and see

her handwriting,

the note that says

with love always,

forever yours.

yours, i say,

and place it in her hand.

poison gas

when the word

marriage

is thrown out there in casual

conversation.

how wonderful it is.

i quickly hit the floor

as if poison

gas has entered the room.

i crawl quickly

to the nearest exit.

inhaling fresh air,

not a second

too soon.

slide over

the earth has shrunk.

no where

can't be reached with the right

ticket punched.

we are closer

to one another more

than we've ever been,

strangers

are now friends.

enemies

are closer.

something has to give.

slide over,

you're sweating, i can't

sleep skin

to skin.

the grateful hour

will i live longer without

you.

perhaps.

just maybe.

but i have no worries

about that.

my main concern is

now.

today,

this grateful hour of

peace

that i dwell in,

due to

the absence of you.

the old poet

i never saw him

without a girlfriend, a new

one,

or an old one.

he didn't work.

he went to the race track

every day.

he smoked and drank.

cursed.

he was average looking

at best,

and yet on his arm was

some new blonde

or brunette,

some harlot with long legs.

most of them, he never

knew their name.

but they loved him.

he had something going on.

something

that they liked.

the poetry perhaps, it's

what got me into the game.

fair weather people

we've reached the age,

both men and women 

where you hear them say.

i don't know.

i'm not comfortable driving

after dark.

it might rain.

and the wind is supposed

to gust.

i remember

going out in ice, in blizzards

to drive downtown

to go dancing,

drinking

and getting into mischief.

we had hats

back then, gloves.

the women had mittens

and boots.

we buttoned up our coats

and dug our cars

out. there was little in

the way of weather that could

stop us from having fun.

down to four

i look through my

box of 

christmas cards trying to

remember if i sent

that one out

last year.

the one with the snow

falling down

on a norman rockwell town.

it would be a holiday

faux pas

for sure if i sent the same

one again.

i may have to go out

and buy more.

although my list is down

to five or six,

check that. after Betty's 

demise,

i'm down to four.

just shoot me

i hear people say

that when they retire they want

to travel

the world,

the country.

in a van maybe or a big

winnebego. 

criss cross the states

taking the blue

highways.

taking pictures

and eating at every dive

bar along the way.

come on, it'll be

fun they say. grab

a bag, your hat,

and come along with me.

the grand canyon awaits,

the red wood forest,

let's go see some

big trees.

juggling skills

i can't juggle anymore,

i can't hold

three balls

in the air, three knives,

three

of anything.

i don't have the energy

or will power

to perform

with such a skill.

i can barely keep you

above the ground,

let alone

the others.

loose ends

please don't pull

the thread

on me.

leave it alone,

let me

cut it off 

when i arrive

back home.

i have special

scissors

for such events,

ending

ties cleanly,

separating all

loose ends.

this i doubt

i see

the wander in her eyes.

as she

walks

thread bare

through the empty

christmas

streets.

it's all caught up to her now.

real

tears this time

tumble out.

do i feel sorry for her.

yes.

i do. 

will things change

in her life,

i doubt.

st. elizabeth's farm

we would slip

under the wire in the dry dirt

then crawl

through wide

patches of melons

watered

in rainbow

rows beneath

the august sun.

nearly half our size

we each would

twist a melon

free from the vine.

then run.

looking back, 

despite our Catholicism,

there's

no guilt,

no regret or shame,

just a sense

of childish fun.

let it ring

i don't answer

the door anymore.

it's never good, it's like

picking up the ringing

phone

after midnight.

only trouble arrives

at that hour.

best get a good nights

sleep and deal

with it in the morning.

the dead are very patient.

the knock at the door

is usually

a neighbor

wanting to borrow a cup

of sugar

or olive oil,

or a salesperson, 

or a clean shaven mormon

with evangelizing

tracts,

or someone

you don't know holding

a pair of jumper

cables.

the bad dream

the relief

of waking up, no longer

in the bad

dream

is wonderful.

how scared you were,

how lost.

how not

yourself.

your heart races

with that old fear.

but it was just a dream,

a bad dream.

relax now,

she's no

longer here.

the cry for help

i understand

why people cut

and hurt themselves.

a slice

of skin

to draw blood.

testing life.

they want to know

they are still alive.

they need

to know

there's more to this

world

than shadow.

three pulls of the chain

i like the train whistle

as the wheels

cross the trestle

through the grey woods.

i like to know that

others are going places,

or coming home again.

three blows, three pulls

of the chain, let's me

know that the world

is right again.

paroled

when he left

prison

to mop the floors in the high

rise

building,

his face was grey.

his hair

slicked back,

his elderly shoulders

strong

from lifting weights.

he said little,

but was polite as he

carefully went

his own way,

still behind

the shadow of bars

until his dying day.

one morning

when ill, when struck with

virus,

whether

in thought or body,

we think we'll never return

to good health.

we can't imagine

being strong again, as we

lean

against the sink,

the stove.

we walk carefully through

the world

when sick.

with hearts exposed.

we never think that there

will be an end to this.

and then

one morning.

there is,

and off we go.

this is where we rest

my grandmother

would walk us

through

the north reading woods,

the same

path she took

when she was a young girl.

there was an

old stone wall

half over

that she would say,

this where we rest,

let's stop here.

i remember

her blonde curls

around her blue framed

glasses,

lighting a cigarette,

blowing smoke into

the cold Massachusetts air

as we

grew further

and further towards

our own lives,

our beaten paths.

nothing out there

so far, nothing yet, 

as we reach outwards

to distant stars,

grasping

for straws, blinking

lights,

emitting waves

of sound.

either there's nothing

out there, or

they're choosing to

ignore us, seeing what

we've done

to our own home town.

two feet at least

i want the deep snow.

the killing frost, the roads closed.

i want the wires down,

the trees heavy

with the white stuff.

i want the world 

to shut down

and get back to normal.

turn back the clock please

to 1960.

before everything we know

took place.

i want to go out

and talk to neighbors

and say things like, we haven't

had snow like this since,

God knows when.

scratching the itch

i like having

a hand

around, to reach

the itch i can't reach.

i like her

long nails, her patience,

her soothing

words,

as she says, there,

higher,

lower.

maybe all around.

i nod

head on the pillow

facing down.

falling snow

as i slip

my hand into the new

crust of snow

i remember

things.

faces and words,

all the true loves

i used

to know.

and as the snow

keeps falling,

the coldness brings

it all back,

as if new.

i turn my face up

to the sky

and drink and drink,

remembering

you.

the long way around

i haven't lost

my way.

quite the contrary.

i've found it.

i just took the long

way around

to get there.

with detours

and bridges out.

fires,

and flood,

false loves,

and trouble makers

slowing me 

down

to get there.

the slush filled shoes

who can't remember

the first

slush

in one's shoes, wet

and cold

in the hard sleet,

giddy with speed

against

the wind filled snow,

barreling down the hill

on your flyer,

with numb hands

and toes, face

as red as apples.

who can't remember

such times

and wish them 

back again, trading them

easily 

against the warmth

of fire

and home.

a true blush

innocence

is appealing, as is shyness,

a true blush,

a quiet

way of speaking.

this is a person

you want to know.

what's inside,

what secrets are they

keeping.

give me the calm

soul

every time over brash

and loud,

owning the room,

falsely wise.

no forwarding address

like cold wind.

ice,

you decide without reserve

that you

don't like

these conditions anymore.

you do your best

to tolerate

them, layering clothes,

gloves,

and hats.

ignoring the pain.

but then you reach a point

of deciding no

more,

and head south

with no forwarding address.

a sort of kind of day

it was a day

of sort of.

sort of hungry, sort of

tired.

sort of lonely.

sort of sad.

sort of 

busy, sort of annoyed.

sort of blase.

sort of

glad.

sort of content

and relaxed.

sort of nervous.

i could go either way

the whole day.

and at night

as i climbed in bed

i was

sort of tired,

but not quite

enough to make

me stay.

a natural response

i went through

a period of time where anything

could make

me cry.

i had become a woman,

a girl,

a blouse wearing poet.

i started to watch hallmark

movies.

the ones where the woman

returns to her

small town

to find that her old high school

sweetheart is

still there

and needs help

on his Christmas tree ranch.

i start crying

and have to change the channel.

soap commercials.

standing in line

for coffee.

i'd start with the water works.

i finally went to my 

therapist and asked her what

the deal is.

she said, you're grieving

a loss.

not just the last relationship,

but every relationship that didn't

pan out.

you're grieving your absent

father, your mother.

childhood.

everything behind you is part

of you now.

and crying is a natural response.

it will end at some point.

let it flow. let the tears shower

down.

say that i again, i tell her,

i think i may use that some day

in a poem.

let me write that down.

what matters most

we speak of what we need

in terms

of food

and shelter, the basic 

necessities.

a roof,

a pair of shoes.

a shovel

to dig with.

a wheel barrow to push

and pull.

we need the earth

to respond

to our hands.

we need rain.

but without someone

beside you.

someone to love,

and loves you in return,

it all seems

to be in vain.

my gift to you

i have no stomach

for arguing anymore, no desire

to prove

my point.

you can be right

all day now.

 it's okay.

i'm fine with that.

i've slipped into the realm

of indifference.

so save your words,

your breath,

your speech.

it doesn't matter anymore

to me.

a sky gone pink

when i look out 

the back window

i see woods.

i see the sleeve of blue

water

rolling along

i see birds,

deer, a fox or two.

woodpeckers

against the trees.

i see the sky gone pink

through

the bare limbs,

the thick trunks

of oak

and birch.

i see the sky

delighted with itself

in settling in for the night.

as i will.

that's what i'm talking about

people used to have

cobblers,

maybe a seamstress

or a gardener.

someone that they called

their own.

my plumber,

my painter, let me give

you the number

of my divorce lawyer,

my neighbor becky said.

she's the best

in town.

yelp gives her four

skulls and cross bones

for her ability

to slay

the defendant.

she's handled my last

three divorces.

see that car out there.

it's a Bentley.

that's what i'm talking about

willis.

express flight to Barcelona

when my father

hit the lottery, they posted

his picture

on the internet.

he doesn't have a computer,

so he had

no clue that his face

and the big

check was being seen

by all nine of his children,

or by anyone who googled his

name.

i called him up

and asked him what he was

going to do with

all that money,

new car, house, boat?

all of the above?

and he said.

what money. i don't know

what you're talking

about.

then he packed his bags

and moved

to spain.

wedding bells

i go to the blue light

facial treatment for round number

two.

i'm ready this time

for the pain.

the sting, the waffled rays

of electric heat

making my skin 

turn red.

but it still hurts, just the same.

reminds me

of other things i've done, 

despite knowing what's ahead.

only the good die young

for some reason it's disturbing 

when bad people

live a long time.

people that never

did a sit up, or ran around

the block,

or did yoga or put a piece

of fruit in their mouth, let

alone broccoli. 

they never went to church,

never volunteered, never

helped anyone across the street.

selfish, unempathetic people,

pretentious and mean.

and yet, here they are

at ninety two, ninety three.

friendships

i used to think

i was waiting for something to happen,

or for someone

to show up in my life

to change things. 

a new love,

a new job, a new house, or car,

some possession,

to assuage my worldly

desires, a step up

for the better, of course.

it was a vague feeling

that followed me around

for years, decades, in fact.

a feeling of treading

water, of not arriving just yet.

but that feeling is gone,

thankfully. it took awhile

to understand that

friendships are everything

and for that,

i feel blessed.

no worries, come here

in truth,

if you do enough soul

searching,

therapy

and book reading,

if you come out the other

side of hard

pain and suffering,

you come to the conclusion

that it's all about your mother.

it's mom that we call out to 

after taking a bullet

and bleeding out

in the trenches of war.

not a word

is uttered towards father.

we want the milk,

the womb,

the arms of birth

around us.

we want to return

to the safety of 

unconditional love,

whether real, 

or imagined.

we want to hear the words

i have you,

no worries, my dear.

come here.

alone with cats

she tells me

she doesn't smoke, or drink,

or swear,

or kiss on the first date.

third base

is off limits until

there's a ring

and a potential wedding

cake.

i ask her

how it feels being alone

with her cats.

don't get captured

in order

to do anything creative,

and do it well, to

show your true self

in your art,

you can't

get captured by

the world,

by the day,

the culture

that we live in.

you have to live

out in the wilderness,

surviving

on your own wits,

rejecting all doubt.

you can't

surrender to what's

come before you,

or listen

to the throngs of

critics

that thrash you about.

cutting wood

he shows me

how to measure the long

piece of wood.

from end to end,

marking

the spot

somewhere along the middle

with a pencil

stripe.

cut there, he says.

hold down the lumber

with your hand.

grip the saw

and let it do the work

for you,

pulling back

and forth.

watch the suds of 

sawdust

fall to the ground. 

go slower at the end.

make a clean cut.

and then,

we'll do it again.

what is she doing in there?

i'm the first in

the car.

it's always been that way.

i'm ready to

go before everyone else is.

i beep the horn.

shake my head, say words

i wish i hadn't

said.

what's taking them so long.

the hair,

the makeup,

the phone.

i want to get on the road.

come on.

turn off the iron.

use the bathroom again,

lock the back door.

check the stove.

let's giddyup, 

let's go.

salt and pepper

i have nearly

fifty spices

in my cupboard.

quite an array

from

turmeric

to garlic, to

sage,

but i only use three

or four,

five at most if i can

ever find

the nutmeg, hidden

somewhere

in the corner.

another wound

some people

send

pictures of flowers,

or the cake

they just baked.

their dog or cat.

snapshots of a child,

or a friend,

a lake, a stream,

a wooded

trail,

a beaten path.

but not her, she

sends me

a picture of

a fresh wound on

her thumb

where a knife cut

into the skin

drawing blood

in crimson puddles

upon a white

napkin.

and this, this photo

tells me almost all

i need to know

about her, nearly

everything.

thirteen months

i can't imagine being

a lawyer

defending someone that you

know is guilty.

a proven liar,

an immoral person

with no desire for the truth,

no remorse or regret

for what they've done

or are about to do.

their whole lives

are built on deceit and

manipulation.

empty to the core.

i can't imagine being a

lawyer representing such

a reprehensible

human being, or being 

married to one either,

which i was for 13 months.

don't visit the stone

don't go

to the stone, to cry.

to beg

forgiveness, to visit,

to make

up for past times.

don't leave

flowers on my grave,

don't kneel

in the wet grass

with your

late sorrow.

do this before

i die, not now.

harvest now

we have our season

when the fruit is ripe,

the peaches luscious

and plump, the apples ready,

when sweet grapes hang

from the vine.

make the most of it,

harvest as much 

as you can. get full

on the joys of life,

because there will be

a day when the trees

are empty, when the fields

lie bare and dry.

shipwrecks

we flounder

at times, on thin ice with

our beliefs,

our fragile faith.

we question God and the

universe.

why pain,

why an early death, 

disease,

why so much

hate in the world.

do something about it

oh great and

mighty One, we pray,

we plead.

we listen to the deafening 

silence

between

the falling snow,

the falling leaves,

but we plug on.

we tend to our wounds,

we bandage

our hearts,

we salvage what we

can from

the shipwrecks that come

along.

the girl is happy again

the  girl falls off

a horse.

the girl breaks her arm,

her leg.

the girl cries.

the girl says i'll never

get on a horse

again.

the girl heals.

the girl sighs.

the girl goes online

and finds

another horse

to ride.

the girl gets on

the horse

and waves to me as

she gallops by.

the girl is happy again.

the girl smiles.

her love poems

she sends me

a love poem. one that she's

been working

on since

high school.

kept safe from other's

eyes

between a mattress

and springs.

it's a lovely poem.

full of moons

and stars,

rainbows

and flowers,

butterflies with yellow

wings.

hallmark

should get her number,

they love

this sort of thing.

before it goes to hell again

after the maids

come.

i walk around gingerly.

trying

not to mess things up,

careful

with my cups,

my dishes,

my crumbs.

wiping where there's

no wiping

to be done.

i gently slip beneath

the tightly made

bed 

for sleep.

i give it a few days,

maybe a week

before

it all falls apart

again.

her crazy dog Wiggly

it's not

the sex, or the conversation,

or her

wonderful

meals

and strong coffee

in the morning.

it's not the way she

laughs,

or does her hair,

or hugs

me when i come through

the door.

it's not

her positivity

and faith,

her fishnet stockings

and heels. or

how she makes

a gin and tonic.

it's beyond all that.

i like her

crazy dog, Wiggly,

i'm wildly attached.

bailing water

it became

a long distant relationship

after a month or

two.

even though we slept

in the same bed.

communication

was garbled

misinterpreted,

words were few.

we nodded as we passed

each other in the hall.

two ships

sinking from the weight

of silence,

mistrust,

emotional abuse.

it would go on for

a year as

i bailed water,

taking her lies as truth.

in hard times

i remember

when

things were going bad

with my mother,

when 

her husband,

my father wouldn't

come home

for a few days,

or if he did, he

was 

weary and beaten

soured

with drink

and carousing.

the money would be

short,

the children crying.

she'd

rearrange

the furniture,

hang a new picture

on the wall.

put a vase

of flowers on

shelf beside the stove.

she'd put

on a colorful dress,

apply her lipstick

and brush her hair.

she found a way to pretend

that there was

nothing

to despair.

the passage of time

i like what time does.

not necessarily

the aging part, but what it

does to our

souls, our hearts.

how it distances us from

the past.

either making 

the memory better

or worse than what

it really was.

each a part of healing

and clarity.

never wanting to go 

back, but always forward.

always on

to the next best life.

no one wants to work

is it the age we are in

where

no one wants to work,

get their hands

dirty.

work is for the dumb.

all the young ones seem

to be waiting

for the old ones to die.

waiting for the pot of gold

at the end of a rainbow.

why work

when we the government

has money.

the parents have money.

why bother with

the mundane chores

that the world offers as

employment.

i'm above that, they seem

to say.

look at me, i'm on you tube,

i'm that close to being

that next big thing,

a celebrity.

what makes you happy

what makes you happy,

the therapist asks me, as i lie down

on her new

plush red couch,

that i basically paid for.

ahh, i sigh.

happiness.

let me think for a moment.

a good night's sleep.

a good meal.

a good laugh.

reading a good book, or

watching a great movie.

making love.

she scribbles something down

on her pad,

and nods.

and what about love, 

relationship love,

does that make you happy.

no, no.

i tell her, suddenly getting

a pain down my left arm

and a throbbing in my head.

i quickly do some breathing

exercises

that my mentor jimmy taught

me. no, let's move on.

dark chocolate makes

me happy and 

hitting a jump shot from

the corner.

down on the farm, yo

i think about making

my back yard

into a little farm.

simplify my life more than

it already is.

grow some kind of

vegetables. get a few

fat white chickens

that can lay me some

eggs.

maybe a pig, a goat.

a small pony

to help me plow

before seeding.

a cow would be nice

for heavy cream.

but it's a small yard.

maybe twenty feet

by twenty feet, at best.

i could put a weathervane

on the shed.

and hang a triangle bell to

ring when chow was

ready.

i could go onto 

the dating site

farmgirls.com

and find me a country

girl, with freckles

and strong arms.  rosy cheeks.

she could churn the butter.

and do other farm

like things.

why are you so happy?

i'm very suspicious 

of overly

happy people.

those that are skipping

la dee da down

the street.

what are they hiding,

what's behind

that smile,

the perkiness,

that je ne sais pas.

what's that spring

in the step all about?

what's the deal here,

don't they see what's

going on?

all of the above

is it stress,

bad food, cigarettes

and drink

that does us in.

old age

and staying up too late.

the worry of the world.

love gained,

love lost.

is it gravity, or necessity

that says

enough is enough

we need the room,

the space.

your time is up?

raking leaves

he used to rake

leaves

with his wife, before she died.

together,

they'd gather

them in piles

and place them in bags,

setting them

aside.

they were efficient.

spending hours together

in the fall.

their faces red,

the coats snug,

hats and scarves.

she'd bring out a hot drink

when done,

and they'd rest

on the green bench with

hardly a word said.

the afternoon sun at last

going down,

and now,

i look out and see him,

alone,

still at it

under a cold moon.

finding holy ground

the fragile

couple in front of me is

magically

still in love, they have

what nearly everyone

i know wants.

i can see it in their eyes.

the way,

he puts his arm

around her,

and she touches his

knee

as they find a seat

on the train.

he takes his hat

off

responding to her

nod, she smiles.

i wish i could capture

them in photograph,

but i'd never

betray such holy ground.

let's sleep, then begin

it's the small silence.

the prelude

to a nap.

the marshmallow

whisper

of wind

that pushes through

the screen.

the soft hand of the sheer

curtain.

the plump of pillow,

the sigh

from your sweet lips

as we lie

down beside me.

we are both tired.

let's sleep,

then begin.

no one gives a fig

my advice is 

don't try. don't put the pen

to paper

to write your thoughts

down

don't reveal your inner

soul,

your desires,

your troubles, stay clear

of this.

go on about

your life

without anyone 

ever knowing

what truly gives.

keep it to yourself, 

no one

really cares,

or needs to know,

no one actually 

gives a fig.

he writes the checks

when her

husband appears, at last,

at the end

of the job,

coming out to write

a check,

i'm  surprised at how

small of stature

he is. fitting nicely

into her shadow.

she's large, 

with big arms

and legs.

tall hair, red as rust, curled

in a medusa maze.

he hardly speaks

as he writes,

adjusts his glasses,

then disappears

back into the room

where the door closes

behind him,

in the dim yellow light.

the talk show

the dogs

are barking.

they run from side

to side

across the brown yard.

the chain

linked fence keeping

them in.

it's what they do.

what they need to do.

their voices must be heard,

there is no quieting them.

shaky ground

i stop listening for a while,

rude,

yes, i know,

but i grow weary

of words.

of the voices of others,

so sure

of themselves,

so certain about things

of this broken world, 

that i wish i knew.

i'm on shaky ground

thin nerved.

tired. i'm not looking

into other's eyes for answers

anymore,

i need a break

before i'm broken too.

there is proof

there is proof,

i have a few pieces of paper,

stamped and sent,

signed with mutual 

contempt

stuck in a drawer, somewhere.

there is proof,

a cracked cup

or dish, a bent fork or spoon.

there are clues

that you were here, that it

wasn't just

a bad dream,

a nightmare. an apparition

that went boo.

look, there's

a strand of hair,

a cut nail,

a tube of lipstick,

a card or letter,

a crumpled photograph 

with the face scratched out,

remnants

of the ghost of you.

the candy striper

she's a perfect

fit

for the job. bright and friendly,

excellent

bedside manner,

kind and thoughtful,

now retired,

but she looks

great in her candy striper

uniform, just

as she did when she was

sixteen.

she hasn't lost a thing

as she goes from

room to room, assisting

where she can,

making the old men

perspire.

mail through the door

i used to know

my mailman.

always with a smile,

a tip of his hat,

burly with a white beard,

the sack

upon his bent

back,

then he left, or died, or

quit.

he gave no notice, for

what notice

would there be to give.

just one more

round

of envelopes through

the door

and then gone.

the next man or woman up,

as the beat

goes on.

the twelve apostles

she has to leave.

there is no other way around it.

the mind

has slipped,

a cane is needed.

the stove is being left

on, bills

unpaid.

spills are everywhere,

sometimes she wanders

in the night,

but the strings

must be tied,

loose ends connected.

to where

all the money is,

the accounts,

the important documents

that must be signed.

what is the password

for the discovery

of her life?

what words, what numbers

has she typed in before

she says goodnight.

maybe there,

on the nightstand

her magazine

that's titled

the 12 Apostoles. 

why not, let's try.

in slow drips and drops

life ends not so

quickly for most,

but in  slow

drips and drops of lost

memory.

of new aches, new pains,

strange imaginings

appear.

the past is suddenly

large and clear

again in

our silvered heads.

the wires crossed,

the power

fluctuating between

on and off.

the world now 

has to find

a place for

us.

where we'll be cared

for,

fed and clothed,

bathed

and watched.

jimminy crickets, say it ain't so

i watch the new documentary

on netflix

that proclaims that Jesus

never existed. they insist that

there's no proof

that He ever walked the earth.

it disputes everything

that peter, paul

and james ever did or

said, or wrote, or thought.

it's a bunch of made up malarky

the atheist experts proclaim.

road to Damascus, my foot,

it says. virgin birth,

the resurrection three days later?

water into wine, get real, yo.

not even david copperfield

or houdini could pull that off.

i watch it, straight through,

cringing, nervously

clicking my rosary beads together.

they seem pretty smug and sure

of themselves.

i look at the cross

on the bedroom wall,

my bible on the nightstand

underlined according to whatever

drama i've gone through.

i rub my knees

that are calloused and scarred

from decades of kneeling

in hardwood pews.

at the end of the show, 

i quickly switch over to watching 

it's a wonderful life,

with jimmy stewart

and donna reed.

i really like her.

will you visit me on that day?

my mother would start baking

cookies

and shopping for christmas gifts

sometime

around the end of july.

then she'd brag about it,

slapping her hands together

and saying, i'm done.

i'd look in her freezer

and see the wrapped parcels

of cookies, a stripe of tape

across with our names

written on top in black magic

marker.

the gifts would be in her sewing

room, stacked up in the closet.

christmas made her happy.

so when i visited her in the senior

home years later

and told her that tomorrow 

was christmas, she looked at me,

and said, really?

i didn't know that. will you come

to see me

on that day?

the eggnog

as a kid

i remember sneaking

a sip

of my father's eggnog

when he

left the room

to go yell at the other kids

to be quiet

because he was watching

it's a wonderful life.

what the hell, i said out

loud,

burning my tongue

and lips

on the whiskey infused

drink.

who in their right mind

would want to 

drink this.

and now, as i sit by the fire,

stockings hung,

my sugar plum

beside me, snuggled

against my hip,

i sip away, kind of liking

the taste

of it.

the ball of christmas lights

who hasn't struggled 

with

a ball

of wires, christmas

lights

in the box.

searching to find the one

dead bulb

when the whole string

won't light up.

all of them

unraveled from the tree

a year ago,

come new years

week.

and there you sit on

floor,

beginning to weep,

giving up

and going to the store

for more,

a new string,

a state of the art string,

to hang on the plastic

tree.

it's all good

before lunch

then recess,

i remember my third

grade teacher

taking me aside and putting her

hand on my shoulder,

tenderly asking me

what was wrong, what was

i so worried about,

afraid of, why are you so shy?

you're way to young to

have all those lines.

i couldn't tell her about

my father beating my mother

last night

after coming home drunk,

pulling her hair

and breaking her arm,

giving her a black eye,

or that she was pregnant again,

so i put a smile on my face

and said, i'm good.

can i go out and play now.

the other kids are 

already outside.

the neighborhood forum

i like reading

the morning posts on the neighborhood

forum

website.

it reminds me of the old days,

when people

would

talk across the fence,

or while walking the dog.

did you see those lights in the sky

last night.

did you hear that bang,

what was that?

someone was in my yard

this morning, or it could have

been a deer.

the clerk at the store was rude

to me again. i'm not ever

going back there.

does anyone have a good chicken

recipe?

i'm having company

tonight.

the saturday morning pancake prayer meeting

one of my wives

made me a join a church

during the second year

of our marriage.

she was holy for a while.

this was

a few years before she started

sleeping with my son's

karate teacher, Carlos.

she signed me up

for the saturday morning

men's prayer meeting pancake

breakfast.

i was to make pancakes

and bacon

for the men in the congregation.

i knew nothing about pancake

batter, where to start,

where to begin, plus i liked

to sleep in and then

go play basketball,

so i didn't go. i was a no show

and got written up

in the sunday bulletin.

it read:

for those who sign up to

do things in the church,

who volunteer in the name

of God to help out

and don't show up with

no explanation, we pray

for you.

the basket case

when she took up basket weaving

i began to worry.

she'd sit for hours

on the porch, not speaking,

but with a strange smile on her face

her hands busy with long

strands of bark.

the push and pull seemed

mindless, as the house fell

in disarray. 

she'd go at it from morning

until the sky grew dark.

they were beautiful baskets.

small and large.

she'd fill them with fruits

and cakes, small jars 

of jams and jellies

then pass them along as gifts

for holidays, or birthdays.

at some point they took her away.

two men in white coats came,

a woman with a clipboard

for me to sign. from the back

of the van, she smiled,

she even waved.

a change of seasons

i knew we were drifting apart.

i could feel it

in the way that one does when

the weather changes

and a new season begins.

the air is different somehow,

cooler,

as it is in here

where we sit in separate rooms,

reading or deciding

what to do next

while love ends.

please, don't hug me

i must admit,

the man hug is awkward,

other countries

seem just fine with it,

including the double peck

upon the cheeks,

but here,

specifically in my neck

of the woods.

the hug

must last about one second

and be a quick

embrace,

maybe with shoulders

barely scraping against

each other.

no lingering, please.

several hardy pats on the back

are fine, but

no full on

chest to chest, belly to belly

hugging.

no arms around the waist.

in fact, let's just bump

our fists together,

or do the old fashion

manly, strong handed shake.

there's a knock at the door

i look through the peep hole.

the line is long.

it wraps around the block.

it's the we're mad at you line.

and we

want an apology,

or an explanation for all

the things

you've done wrong.

for the way 

you live your life

like you don't care.

that's not fair when we're

struggling

from day to day with

everything.

you don't understand the pressure

we're under,

the challenges we face.

we've all had terrible childhoods

and we must be heard.

we can't stand your callous

and carefree air.

we demand some answers.

i signal the bowman

on the roof to fire at will

and to turn over the vats

of boiling oil, when ready.

the bakery window

i stop by the bakery

before it opens 

and stand at the window,

staring at the cakes.

the donuts set in place,

the pastries arranged

according to creams

and icing.

there's a birthday cake

on the top

shelf, a three layered

wedding cake

on the bottom.

eclairs and scones.

cookies.

breads and muffins.

i hear the door open, the bells

ringing

as a waft of warm air

caresses my face.

the baker leans out,

and says,

are you coming in.

we miss you.

where have you been?

come in, come in,

it's early but we don't want

you to wait.

between the mattress and the sheets

i ask a few

somewhat knowledgeable people

what to do with

a little extra

cash i have lying around.

some say bonds,

others suggest 

that i put it all

into the stock market,

another suggests long term

health insurance,

annuities,

cd's, a saving account.

my broker says, send me the check

and we'll figure it out

later.

another says

take it to vegas and put it all

on black.

someone says, take a trip

around the world,

or buy the car you've

always wanted.

update your 1968 kitchen.

put it into bit coins, or

rare stamps. it's confusing

to say the least.

as i stuff another stack

of bills between the mattress

and the sheets.

the wonderful few

most of my life

women

have been telling me

what to do.

mothers, grandmothers,

teachers,

lovers and wives.

they've been telling me

what time

to be home,

who to hang out with,

where to go.

what to wear, how

to comb

my hair.

do this, do that.

don't be late, chew your

food,

sit up straight.

is there one that i haven't

walked on eggshells

with.

some.

not many but

a glorious and wonderful

few.

please, no encore

some,

just some are different

off stage

than on.

when the play ends,

and the lights go down

and they retreat

back stage

to remove their

masks,

their sparkly gowns. 

it's then

that you see them 

for who they really are,

the sweetness gone,

the angel

now an awful bore,

but wasn't the performance

grand

i'll remember that,

but won't stand and applause,

or yell bravo

for an encore.

what's happening?

having not watched

the news in seven months

i'm behind

on the shootings, the celebrity

marriages

or divorces.

what brad pitt is up to,

or the kardashians.

i've lost track of the body

count for the virus.

what trump is doing

in his big

blue suit and red tie.

what gaffe

has biden done, or said.

has he fallen down

the ramp again?

what's the latest scandal.

who's gone missing this time?

are the ice bergs melting.

what about the fires,

the floods,

oil prices, bread, the food

chain. who cares, who knows?

what's the point.

are we back to wearing

masks again?

it seems to be the same old.

same as it ever was.

don't tell me,

i don't want to know.

where's hank

he loved to grille.

to put his apron on, his tall

white hat

and stand by the heated

smoke

on the patio

flipping meat.

patties and sausages.

chicken legs.

vegetables for the girls.

it was his go to place

for the party.

no time to make small talk,

no time to join

the crowd, to

sit down and drink.

he kept his beer in hand.

guzzling while he cooked.

a cooler at his feet.

his face red.

his eyes blurred.

you could always find him

there, when you arrived.

where's Hank?

you'd ask, and someone

would point with a thumb,

he's out back.

cooking.

i got this

you have to be careful

who you ask

for advice.

worried about your money,

you don't just

ask anyone

where to put it.

your love life, the same.

not every mechanic

can fix your transmission,

not every doctor

can mend a bone.

not every therapist can

straighten out

the nightmare you're

having at home.

careful who you hire.

sometimes in the long run

though, it's best 

to figure it all out,

quietly alone.

stealing from paul

when i was in my cell.

there were rules

that she insisted on.

lights out by nine.

bland food.

the disney channel

on the tube.

no books that gave a

clue as to what she

was up to.

no movies. no fun.

no sex. no laughter.

no puns.

punishment was silence.

punishment was another

day behind the bars.

never seeing no one

nice again, like you.

a turn of the screw

i set aside the day

to fix things. to go through

the house

and take

care of the drips,

the squeaks,

the creak in the stairs.

the hinge

on the door.

a valve, a washer,

anything that needs a turn

to be tightened.

i get out my tools.

and go at it.

i'm good at fixing things.

i can fix nearly

thing, anything

but you.

working in a skiff

people like

to tell you that they're working

in a secure place.

a skiff, or some other

jive joint

where it's hush hush

sweet charlotte.

i can't e mail, or text or

make calls

from there,

they say.

the information we have

can't ever leak out

or be shared.

you look at them and laugh,

put your lips together

and go pfffft.

really?

what's the big whoop?

just tell me one single

secret, one tiny itty bitty

little secret

that the rest of us can't know.

is it the chinese,

the russians. aliens?

something about the virus.

i can't they say,

i'll lose my job.

but we do play gin rummy

a lot

when there is no scare.

the traveling show

she wore me out.

not in a good

way though.

she tore my ticket in half.

she turned me inside out.

upside down.

spun me around.

she was a carnival

ride,

the fun house.

the house of horrors.

the freak show.

the lady with the beard

the hunger artist

the lion tamer

i was shot out of a cannon

my head

placed inside an alligator's

mouth

i was slung around

on the roller coaster

dropped from the high

wire.

i was the sad clown

with big shoes

and a bulbous nose.

i was under her tent,

the big tent

cleaning up after the elephants

in her traveling

show.

and i have

about twenty years

ago,

while riding my bike,

an old

man in a straw hat

yelled to me as i spun by,

enjoy your life.

he said,

enjoy your life, 

i looked back and smiled

as he waved,

limping

gently down the path.

and i have.

the narrow path

my brother in law

loved to 

fish. he spent most

of the last years

of his life

waist deep in water.

both on shore

and off.

i can still see him,

when we

were teenagers,

casting

out, the line snapping

in the late sun

of summer.

his heart was good.

but like most

of us,  he struggled

on the narrow path

down to the river.

she won't get in tonight

i go out into the cold

night

to check

the barb wire.

the electric fence.

i pet the dogs.

feed them.

i turn off the search

lights

and set the alarms,

adjust the cameras.

i raise the draw

bridge at the moat.

get the vats of boiling

oil ready

in the tower,

along the high walls.

i'm ready,

so ready.

she won't get in

tonight.

a bowl of rice

to each man

his idea of fortune.

for some, it's gold.

for others

it's power.

the trinkets of life.

what glitters

for some is fine.

to have and hold

a lover

is for others suffice.

the hungry

soul, just a dish,

a simple stew,

a crust of bread,

a bowl of rice.

if i told you, i'd have to kill you

i like when people tell you

their favorite recipe for their

patented dish,

but then tell you i can't

reveal the one secret ingredient

that makes it so special,

as if they're holding

the blue print for nuclear fusion

or a cure for cancer.

usually the secret is

ketchup, or brown sugar.

maybe paprika, 

or shaved coconuts.

who knows.

but they will go to their grave

without revealing

everything it to took

to make it so wonderful.

that's just the way it is

on occasion

you look at someone 

and think

i'll never see or talk to this

person again.

this moment that we're

in, is pretty much

the end.

whether a friend,

an acquaintance, an

ex wife,

or girlfriend.

a stranger on the bus.

it's over.

done.

there's no reason to

ever see each

other again. you will

never cross paths with

this person.

it's just the way it is.

off we go

without a care,

flying into the wind.

the coin is in the air

i have a friend

that plays the banjo.

i don't like the banjo.

it's annoying to my ears.

not my musical cup of tea.

but he's always strumming,

he takes it with him

everywhere he goes.

he puts a long

piece of straw in his mouth

and plucks away

like he's on a porch in the grapes

of wrath,

with the dust in the wind.

he's the banjo man.

but i have to make a decision,

either

the banjo goes,

or i do.

life is full of choices.

hard choices.

i've made more than

my share,  quite a few.

the coin is in the air.

the love of my life

i fall in love again.

with myself, though,

not another.

i take myself

out to dinner.

i buy myself some new clothes.

a fancy

new watch.

a car.

i get a massage.

i fill the tub with bubbles

and put some music on.

i light candles.

it's romantic, to say the least.

i'm totally in love with me.

it took a while,

but when i look

into the mirror, i say wow.

look at you.

where on earth have you been?

so glad you're back.

i wrap my arms around

me and squeeze.

what do you want

to do today, i ask myself.

tell me.

anything. i aim to please.

the long steel pan

i wonder

what happened to the long

rectangular

pan that my mother cooked

on for decades.

it stretched out across

two burners.

big enough to cook for

seven children

and herself.

it should be hung in a

museum, somewhere.

i think of all the pancakes,

the bacon,

the pork chops,

the chicken that was cooked

on that pan.

unbreakable, sturdy.

reliable.

like her.

don't do that, it's stupid

i give her the look.

she ignores it

and goes back to cross

stitching

another plaque to hang

on the wall.

no place like home is one.

love makes the world

go around

is another.

what's this one say, i ask

her.

never get married, she 

says, laughing,

then turns to me,

making a little heart

with her two hands.

don't do that, i tell her.

i hate when people do that.

it's stupid.

i know, she says.

i know, it's why i do it.

the arrival of winter

i see a  squirrel

with a  small plaid coat on,

l.l. bean, perhaps,

a scarf.

a wool cap.

he's blowing

his breath onto his paws

while scraping

frost off an acorn.

i guess it's here.

winter

has arrived.

it's all in the kiss

sometimes it's all in the kiss.

does it

light the flame,

melt the proverbial butter,

or is it

nothing to write home

about, bland

and cold,

nothing that stirs

the fire.

one never knows until

lips connect

to see if there is further

desire.

burning sage

after burning 

a stalk of sage and waving

it about,

i rework the extra room,

the one with the white leather

couch.

it's a nice calm space,

once a dark, gloomy corner

of the house,

with a storied bed,

but the walls are painted a pale

blue now. bright pictures

on the wall. flowers adorn

the dresser. the closet is

painted white, the shelves

clean. there's a book case there.

a vase in the corner.

a clock.  a small tv.

the sheer curtains are parted

to bring in the light, the shine

of sun, or moon.

not far are a bouquet of trees,

the silver stream.

at last, once more, i love

this room.

i'm pleased.

writing while soaking

i hate when i get an idea

for a poem

while soaking in the tub.

i have to get up, grab a towel

and drip my

way to the chair in the office

where the computer is

and log on.

then, with the double

log on system, find my phone

to confirm that it's me,

then start typing,

by then though, most

of the poetic idea has left me.

so it's back to the tub,

to water that's going cold.

and i have to twist the hot

knob to bring back up to an 

acceptable tub soaking

temperature.

best not to think too hard

when in the tub.

twenty minute christmas shopping

there was the one year

when i gave

everyone a pair of gloves.

black.

leather. nice gloves.

good for

driving, or making snow

balls

if it came to that.

ten pairs.

all a variety of sizes

depending on the person

i was giving them to.

male

or female.

i got the last xx large for

my friend

Olga

from the Ukraine.

massive hands.

i wiped out the glove rack

at Norstroms

for the day.

but the xmas shopping

was done.

finally.

privileged?

i know

the push cart days.

the punched clock.

the boss

peering, not far away.

i know the grind,

the hustle,

the uniform, the short

lunch

the long day.

i know dirt,

and grit, paint and

debris.

dust in my eyes.

the heavy climb.

i know what it is to

break a shovel

against the frozen

ground.

to shiver in the wind,

waiting

for the food

truck to come around.

i know sweat, and blood.

fear. callouses

cuts and bruises.

i know

how to stretch a dollar.

how to save

a buck.

i know how to count

and make

it to the next week.

so don't tell me i'm

privileged because

of the color of my skin.

i have to go now.

work

awaits, again.

around the world

the dream

made me happy.

i went around the world,

the blue skies

full of clouds, soft

and sublime.

i flew slowly

across the oceans

with arms stretched out.

i wanted it to last,

but the alarm of morning

woke me up.

as usual the good things

run out of time.

above water

when looking

down

into the clear water

we see

the life

of fish.

the swirl and bend

of bodies,

smooth

and swift.

living without

effort.

do they look up at

us

and wonder

what the problem

is.

you can be whatever you want to be

they lie to us early.

santa claus,

etc.

you can be whatever you

want to be,

they tell us.

whatever you set your heart

and mind to,

it will happen.

but so few make it.

so many fail, setting

the bar too high,

out of reach for many

reasons.

they are rarely

taught that the greatest

achievement 

lies in finding peace

within,

not outside in the world.

the rabbit hole

i fall down

into the rabbit hole of tik tok.

i suddenly

don't like the world anymore.

i don't like people.

how they behave.

what they do with their lives.

what's gone wrong.

it feels like the end is near

after scrolling

through a dozen or so

inane posts.

i'm scared.

too early for that

someone says to you,

it's a marathon

not a sprint.

you tell them to shut

and go away.

you're in no mood for

platitudes

and memes this early

in the morning.

go post that junk on fake book.

it's not how you fall, it's how 

you get up,

they say.

i have nothing to throw

at this person, so i

just shake my head, putting

my fingers in my

ears as i walk away.

rise and shine again

it's on cold monday

mornings

like this

that i think about quitting.

stopping.

getting off the work train,

how much

more money is needed.

at this point i know i'll

die with most of it 

in the bank, or in the safe,

or the kitchen drawer.

why work?

why keep at it. pounding

the pavement.

but i shrug and rise,

i shower

and shave, make coffee.

i am my own slave.

worms on a griddle

no man wants

to hear

the words. we have to talk.

we need sit down

together,

to discuss

where we are,

what our future looks like.

men become

worms on a griddle

when we hear those words.

we can't imagine what

the problem is.

everything seems just right.

but sure, we tell her.

sure.

maybe tomorrow,

if that's okay? next week?

no she says, hands on her

hips. standing

in the doorway, no.

we're having this discussion

tonight.

just words

we tell the worried not

to worry.

we tell the impatient

to be patient.

we tell them that

time will pass,

you'll see.

it will get better, but

for most of us we're already

there.

and all the soothing words

don't make a dent.

it's too late despite

they're care.

the lamp repair

he bends over the wooden

table

glasses perched at the end of his nose.

i can't place

the accent,  maybe german,

but he speaks clearly

as he takes the lamp apart, 

holding the curved

waist of the jar with one

hand. he looks

for the loose wire,

the thin metals that may

have broken from too many

turns on, or off.

i can fix this for you, he says,

looking up. no problem.

then he gives me a ticket

and a price.

i can fix, he says. will

after the holiday, be alright?

promises

how soon, before we say

i do,

she asks.

picking petals off a sunflower.

do you really 

love me,

or is that silly to ask.

of course i love you,

i tell her.

soon, soon.

it might be may, it might

be june.

no need to worry,

it won't be long

before we say i do.

rough love

you want the bitten lip.

the ache

of it.

the blue blood drip

of violent

love.

the rough and tumble

struggle

to be free,

to be caught. the hair

pulled,

the clothes torn off.

you want 

the anger, the pulse,

the drum

of heated hearts.

you want it all, you

want it all.

now kiss me, i'm

not asking, now let's

start.

get off the couch

give me the blustery wind.

the ice capped

waves.

give me the steel curtain

of frozen rain.

the sinking vessel

split from stem to stern.

throw me into the ocean

and let me

flail in the storm,

adrift in a hurricane.

at least then

i'll know that i'm alive

before i drown,

before i die.

a day at the dmv

if there is a hell.

a place where we'll burn in eternal

damnation

with the gnashing

of teeth, forever

in pain.

we may all be in trouble.

those without sin

remain seated, while

all the others

step forward

when you hear your name.

i think the dmv prepares

us for such

a fate.

taking a mulligan

there are days when

you'd like to take a mulligan on life.

to get another

chance,

another shot, another swing

at the ball

on the fairway,

or a short putt.

knowing what you do now.

how you

don't keep your hips straight

your eyes down,

your swing fluid

and sound.

how much better the next

round would be

after so many games played.

come on.

put a new ball on the tee,

find the flag and

let's swing away.

a pocket full of sand

in time

things rise to the surface.

like the ocean

giving back

what came.

so much

is uncovered and floats

to the top

as if in

a dream.

a picture without

a frame,

a slip of paper holding

a number

without a name.

ticket stubs, a bracelet,

a vacant

jar of perfume.

a pocket full

of sand.

winter breakfast

how can you not fall

in love with someone who yells

up the stairs

and tells you

breakfast is ready, come and

get it.

the smell of bacon

rising to the bedroom,

eggs

and waffles.

coffee in the air.

you hear the pop of the toaster.

the fridge door

opening and being closed.

how could this not be the girl

you've waited for

your whole life?

to say the least

is it fear

of losing someone that

defines love.

or is it more than that

selfish

feeling

of possession?

it's confusing to say the least

once

the arrow

has pierced your

welcoming heart,

ready to bleed

and even die for another,

the life

of you oozing out.

can i put you on hold, God is a little busy right now

God is so busy

during the football season.

all the players and fans

praying,

raising their arms

to the sky,

asking for the kick to go through

the uprights.

help us to get this first down

and go into

overtime. they plead

and beg from the stands,

or on the sideline.

it's a busy time

of the year for God

with so many games, not

to mention Christmas.

you have to get in line

with your own prayers.

petitions or otherwise.

you have to be patient and

wait your turn,

to have His ear.

the company we keep

i ask him,

the elderly man, though

not much

older than i'm about to be.

i ask him

why does he take

such long walks

through the cemetery.

and he says,

i enjoy the company

of people

close to

the same age as me.

it's just your turn

it's in the face,

the eyes.

the look of a person.

just a glance

before they notice you

and you can read the story

of their life.

relaxed and calm,

a gentle smile, someone

quick to say hello,

or a grimace,

the carved lines,

as if they're holding on

with both hands to

what's missing.

to what's gone wrong?

they hardly notice you

as you pass them,

dark and forlorn.

sometimes it's your turn,

and other times

it's mine.

the last piece of pie

i'm full,

she says. rubbing her belly.

i'll never eat again.

i promise you,

as God is my witness

i'll never

put another forkful of

pie in my mouth.

ever.

there's one piece left,

i tell her.

split it? be a shame to

throw it away.

you know, the starving

people in India.

okay, she sighs, but

after this.

never again will i

eat pie.

any whipped cream left?

shake the can.

carrying the weight

we all have a weight that we carry.

some large,

some small, some with a hole

in the bag

spilling out as you

walk along.

some want to set it down

and talk about it.

others want to keep it going,

carrying it on

their backs like their own

personal cross as they 

they drag it to Golgotha.

shake it off

there is too much

space

to wrap your head around

and understand.

too many stars, too many

galaxies, more than all

the grains of sand

on every beach in

every land.

where does it end,

or begin.

you can only think about

these things so long

before your mind

begins to spin,

and you shake it off

and go for coffee.

is it too late for me?

i can't kiss just anyone,

she told me.

let alone

do the next thing, or the next.

oh my, she said,

slightly blushing,

or was it the wind

against her cheeks?

it was too cold to sit out,

but we did just the same.

she wanted to catch up.

i always felt bad when

we left each other.

carrying coffee cups

towards our cars.

i could never find the right

words to make her

feel better.

i know he's out there,

she'd say in parting.

the perfect match. my 

soul mate.

it's not too late for me, is it?

never, i'd say cheerfully,

then hug her as she tried 

to smile

the tears away.

the work out

my mother's arms

were strong.

i remember watching her

twisting a wet towel

in the cool sun before pinning

it to the clothes line

in the yard.

then our dungarees,

our sheets,

our socks and shirts.

she said nothing

as she bent over, pulling

one heavy piece of clothing

after the other,

twisting the cold water out 

with no complaint.

if alive, i'd imagine

her chagrin at all the women

her age, the age she was then,

lifting weights,

rowing

and stretching

riding bicycles at the gym.

the fool in me

as if there are two of us,

the fool

in me does many things

i wish he wouldn't

have done.

he has so often

taken me down the wrong path,

accepting the wrong

job, or marrying the wrong girl,

when i should

have passed.

he's said things that i wish

i had never said.

i want to make him stop,

but at times he's

the stronger of the two us,

and i give in

instead.

the almond story

in a moment of complete

insanity

i almost

mutter the words,

i love you.

but i somehow choke them

back and give

a fake cough.

what, she says. what?

did you say something?

something in my

throat, i tell her.

had some almonds earlier.

you know how

they stick to the back

of your throat sometimes?

no, she says.

you said something, i

heard you clearly.

did you say that you love me?

i look at her, the almond

story suddenly

behind me.

maybe, i tell her. maybe.

well. it's about time,

she says,

after ten years of

being together,

and at last i hear those words.

holiday shopping

i admit,

i'm bad with gifts.

i either give too much,

or too little.

always the wrong size,

or color,

or something.

it's nerve wracking this time

of the year.

i remember buying

something for

the first wife, or was

it the second,

standing in line at

victoria secrets for a special

gift

to bring us closer

together.

to celebrate this season of joy.

the leather boots

and the whip

may have been taking it too far.

oh well.

the waldorf salad

there was this one woman

who always

brought

waldorf salad to the dinner.

you know.

cool whip,

nuts, fruit, a gooey mess

of sweetness

that no one touched.

it's been awhile,

but i can still remember

turning my head

as i used a long

wooden spoon to push

it down the disposal.

a good man is hard to find

when jake

was alive and kicking,

i'd pick him up for work.

he'd be sitting on

the steps at the 7-11.

he was usually

half sober

at eight in the morning.

smelling of cigarettes

and last nights booze.

he'd have a new

cut on his face or a fresh

black eye.

i'd ask him to roll his window

down when he got into the truck.

rubbing my nose, inching

away from him.

he'd be sleepy and tired,

exhausted from the weekend.

but then he'd see a girl

walking by and wake up.

he'd whistle to her.

hey baby. hey baby.

he'd see a pregnant woman

pushing a stroller

and yell out to her.

asking her what she was

doing later, then

turn to me, and say

with a loud laugh, you

know what she's been up to.

it was a long day

with jake the snake.

but he could paint.

have i lied to you, yet?

i remember how,

she put her finger

to her chin

rolled her eyes around,

pondering hard

my question.

have i lied to you yet,

she said,

tapping her finger

against her cheek.

let me think about that

for a moment.

probably.

but it's just a start, more

to come my dear.

i'm just getting started.

the season of miracles

i stare into the great

cool mouth

of my sub zero fridge 

and sigh.

i've wrapped so much in

plastic

and foil.

yesterday's uneaten food.

i'll give them each one

more day

before tossing them

in the can.

it's a positive thing though.

my new optimism

towards food.

left overs.

the possibility that i might

reheat them

for another meal.

i'm proud of myself,

how i've changed for the better.

this may leak over into

my feelings about love.

who's to know.

it is the season of miracles.

the i'm sorry poem

i'm sorry that i snore.

don't blame me,

blame my mother or father.

heredity.

the alignment of my nose.

i'm sorry, that i'm late,

and that i forgot your birthday

again.

our anniversary.

or that i forgot once

more to close the gate.

the dog will come back

at some point.

i promise you.

i'm sorry for being so

forgetful, but the clocks will turn,

the calendar

will circle back

to the same day.

i'll have another chance

at pleasing you,

if you let me.

i'm sorry for all the things

i've said,

or haven't said.

or done, or haven't done.

believe me, i'm sorry.

it's exhausting being with you,

oops,

i'm sorry for admitting

that too.

tell me less about you

tell me less

about you. don't give

me the blow by blow

details of

gloom and doom.

leave out the train wrecks,

the heartbreaks,

the missteps,

etc.

give me the shiny

bauble of you.

tell me your favorite

colors,

your favorite food.

tell me that your

life is wonderful and

it's always been that way.

look into my eyes and tell me

that no one needs

to rescue you.

too much of a good thing

sometimes

too much of a good thing

is just enough.

we spend so much time

on moderation.

taking careful steps,

speaking

cautiously while

walking on eggshells.

what is life about?

to be cowards,

to be less than what

we're born for?

eat, drink, be merry

and make love.

have your fill of the world

before it's gone.

for the night ahead 

is terribly so long.

santa's skin rash

i get into a conversation

with the pretend

santa

up at the store.

he's so unlike  the real

santa.

his arm is about to fall off

from ringing

that bell.

it's loud and annoying.

he scratches his skin

below the fake

beard.

it looks like an ugly rash

has spread down his neck.

i drop a quarter

into the bucket.

that's it, he says. a quarter.

yes.

i tell him

but i'll give you ten

if you stop ringing that bell.

a hundred,

he says.

twenty, i counter.

twenty five, he says.

take checks, i ask him.

by the way,

you should have that neck

checked out

before an infection sets in.

land ho yo

if i was on a ship today,

i'd be worried.

the breakers, the wind,

the cold.

i'd be screaming for the captain

to drop anchor

and go down

below.

who can sail in this weather.

what the hell.

who's idea was it to go

fishing

on this november day.

safeway has fish now.

scallops, crab,

flounder,

and tons of old bay.

finding her man

in the first time in years

i don't hear

from the jersey

girl.

no call, or text

on this

holiday.

i figured she's found her man

at last.

no longer

lingering

as i often do 

in the near past.

the morning after

the war

is over. the skeleton of a turkey

sits on the counter.

heaps of cold

vegetables are stuck

to the bowls.

mounds of starch

and hardened butter

once full of warm promise

sit still in the cold

battlefield.

we were ravenous.

animals

yesterday.

the blood of cranberries

is splattered

on the floor.

knives and forks

lie crusted

in the sink, having

eaten the beast.

a bottle of red wine

is dry, tilted with one

red tear

still in its eye.

i want to wake you,

but i don't. i want to run.

i want to hide.

who blushes these days

who blushes

these days. the young boy

or girl?

perhaps. but

hardly

anyone above a certain

age

is surprised anymore,

embarrassed

by what the world offers.

we have opened

pandora's box.

so much of what was

hidden

is no longer

behind closed doors.

what do you need?

are you going,

my friend jimmy asks me.

it's black friday,

everything is on sale.

everything.

his eyes are bugging out of 

his head.

come on,

hop to it, we're going to be

late.

for what?

i ask him.

what do you need, what is

it that you so

desperately want to have

at this stage of your life.

at any price?

i don't know, he tells me.

i guess i'll know

it when i see it.

now let's go. the store opens

up in three hours.

we have to get in line.

the windy day

the wind is so intent

today,

so sure of itself

in the shaking of every

leaf

off every tree, and even

us, it pushes

around,

making us lean upon

each other, unsteady

on our feet.

the lug wrench poem

i realize

that i'm out of control.

if i stare at a rock long enough,

which is three seconds,

i have to write a poem

about it.

same goes for a paper clip,

or a lug wrench.

i've lost my marbles,

speaking of which, i still

have the same one

from when i was ten years

old.

there it is on the sill, full

of wonder, a clear glass orb,

with a story waiting

to be told.

across the pond

she goes to London

for the holiday, a short four

day

jaunt across the pond.

where are you

going, she asks, as she

spreads butter onto

her biscuit, sipping 

a cup of earl grey tea,

preparing, no doubt,

for her journey.

oh, i'm not sure yet,

i tell her. i'm pondering

several invites. 

Jack in the Box, Popeyes,

or Denny's.

they make a mean turkey

dinner i hear,

from homeless

people on the street.

7 a.m.

it was about this time

that my mother would be up,

putting the turkey

in the oven

to the music of dean martin.

the tree would

be decorated,

her snow globes out.

a wreathe on the door,

stockings hung on the wall.

a little train set circling

her fantasy world.

the windows stenciled

with fake snow.

candy canes, and stars.

this was her happy time

with everyone coming over,

at last, driving from points,

far and far.

i doubt it

could i move

for love.

relocate, pick up my stakes

and say

adios

to this house, this neighborhood,

my friends.

could i say goodbye

to the woods

beyond the fence,

the stream.

the path i visit daily.

could i leave

this place i've made

my own,

for love, for that

elusive dream?

maybe.

we'll see, 

but i doubt it.

the last organic turkey

as i go back to the store,

having forgotten

a can of black olives,

pitted, i see three aging

hippies wrestling

in the parking lot for

the last organic turkey.

each with a coexist sticker

on their car.

but for this all bets are off. 

it's not love, but war.

that's all i need

i'd like

a glass of water.

that's all.

a clean, cold

cylinder of 

water.

spring water.

that's all i need.

for now.