through the grapevine

i got the news
second hand, or
was it third, it
doesn't matter.
bad news keeps.
you can put bad
news on ice, like
a dead fish,
for a week,
or more,
and it's good
for a long long
time. but
eventually
the news will
reach you. you'll
hear about it.
one way or the other
it will trickle
down from ear
to lips and go
round and round.
i think marvin
gaye sang it best.
i heard it through
the grapevine,
not much longer
will she be mine.

january will be good

everything will
be fine in january.
you'll see, she
says, we'll work
this out, we'll
shovel snow together
and find a new
path to our hearts.
let's get through
these holidays
and have fun.
she's smiling and
her arms are full
of christmas
decorations.
no need to break
up this happy
home, no need to
rush off into
someone else's arms.
we can do this.
we can celebrate
our love with a
new month, a new
year. a fresh start.
and i look at her
while i pack my
bags and take off
my ring to set it
on the dresser. it's
not a good look
i'm giving her,
it's a bad look.
you're right, she
says. i don't know
what i was thinking,
we're doomed.

you can leave the light on

slow down she
says, go easy.
you're moving
way too fast,
i hardly know you
and i'm not that
kind of girl.
i don't know
where you got
the impression
that i was easy.
so, please just
stop for a
minute and let
me catch my
breath, hand
me that glass
of wine and cool
your jets. whew.
okay. now where
were we. hey,
where are you
going, why
is your coat
on, you're not
leaving are
you, was it
something i
said? come
back here, and
kiss me, and
by the way, could
you please leave
the light on
this time?

violet

someone rings
your doorbell
and you look out,
there is no one
there. but before
you close the door
you notice a baby
in a cardboard box
with a pink blanket
wrapped around her.
you figure it's a girl
because of the pink,
but you're not being
judgemental.
you look down both
sides of the street
but see no one. it's
cold, so you take the
baby in. you put the
box on the dining
room table. she
stares at you with
pale blue eyes.
she is pink like
a cone of cotton
candy and her
face is fat. she
has no teeth. the
hair on her head
is wispy and light,
like cornsilk. she
is beautiful.
she stares at you,
as you stare back.
you decide to call
the baby violet.
you've always liked
that name for a
girl. and you begin
to question the
baby. where are
you from, violet,
where are your
parents,
who put you on
the porch. but the
baby is speechless,
that will come later
much later. there
will be a time
when she is grown
and you won't be
able to stop her
from talking, but
for now, she's quiet.
and you wonder if you
can keep this baby,
if maybe you could
raise her. she
could take care of
you when you are
old and feeble, when
you really need
someone to watch
over you and love
you and hold your
hand when it's time
to die. your love
for this baby is
suddenly overwhelming,
but then she begins
to cry. you aren't
prepared for this.
she seems hungry,
she's twisting
around in the box.
the box is wet.
her face is pinched
with tears.
the fingers on her
tiny hands are
clenched tightly
into a fist,
turning white.
you realize then,
that no, you can't
keep this baby.
you call the police.
there's a baby
here, you say, her
name is violet.

an angel on the street

it was strange
how this stranger
approached me
and left a verbal
message, a slight
and short but
insightful note.
why are you wearing
those clothes, he
asked. his blue
eyes were radiant.
his a hair an
explosion of brown
locks. it was cold,
rainy, the wind
rattled my car
and blew in when
i rolled down the
window to see what
he wanted. he had
nothing else to
say expcept, to
nod, to smile,
to back off and
say, have a
blessed day. and
the heat that entered
me when he left
was a furnace of
warmth, it filled
me up for a few
minutes and i
began to cry, not
your normal tears,
but deep, soul
wrenching tears
of joy and
amazement at
this sudden filling
of fire within. it
was strange, very
very strange indeed.
things haven't
been the same
since then.

just once

mention to me
this book or
that, this song,
or melody that
you love, a movie
that you've seen,
a poem you may
have read or
written, a prayer
you just had
answered, and
i'll listen.
speak clearly with
passion about
something other
than others, or
rumor, or scandal,
or dirt from
over the back
yard fence. surprise
me with integrity,
dignity and
class. just once.
is that too much
to ask.

her house

you wish that you
could change this
weather, but
you can't argue
with rain, or
bargain with the
clouds that hang
low, they are
as still and unmoving
as your hand is on
the wood sill,
you have paced
this room before,
when she died,
you walked into
her shadows, and
peered into
the closets where
her clothes still
hung. you didn't
touch her shoes,
her things, this
would be done
by others. but
you sat there, as
you do now, and
watched the rain,
as she did from
the same window,
from the same
chair, on the
same day, minus
seven years.

the holiday spirit

you decide to become
a holiday person.
you buy a red
sweater, a red
tie with little
green wreathes down
the front. you buy
a tree with lights,
and a set of silver
and blue ornaments.
you string multiple
sets of lights
along the front of
your house to best
the neighbor's paltry
attempt at being
festive. you hang
stockings on the
fireplace mantle.
six of them despite
the fact that you
live alone. you toy
with the idea of nylon
stockings, but think
better of it. you keep
putting change into
the salvation army
bucket where the
tired santa's helper
has been ringing that
bell since a week before
thanksgiving. you give
him some advil for his
arm. you begin to greet
everyone with a loud,
merry christmas. ho
ho ho. this
goes on for a couple
of days, or more,
but then you realize
that you still have
three more weeks to
go before christmas
and that keeping
this up would be
a cup of crazy. so
you buy some eggnog
and a good bottle
of johnny walker
black, and you get
comfy in the big
chair, with your cell
phone, your laptop
and your little dog
with his miniature
antler rack
on his head. you
take a swig from
your large glass
of eggnog, point
the remote at the
tv and you
see if there are
any holiday games on.

turning over a new leaf

how's the new
leaf working out
my barrista asked
me the other morning.
that new leaf
you were turning
over? a cloud
of steam was in his
face as he churned
out another latte.
it's not, i said.
i've got a tree
of leaves going
on right now, and
they are all turning
over, back and
forth on a windy
daily basis. gotcha,
he said. extra shot?
sure, i said.
why not.

tangled up in blue

i used to care,
i told her, but
things have
changed and she
said, isn't
that a bob dylan
song, and i said
what isn't. and
i looked her
and said, she
makes love just
like a woman,
but she breaks
just like a
little girl,
oh brother, she
said, then
i said it takes
alot to laugh,
and a train to
cry, and she
winced. another
one, she said,
don't you have
anything original
to say these days,
and i said.
all i really
want to do,
is baby be friends
with you, but i'm
tangled up in blue,
she left the room
at that point.

arrgh!

i'm low
on caffine.
i'm edgy.
this traffic
is annoying.
i can't get
anyone on
the phone.
my doctor
called
and said that
he was holding
my x-rays,
then the call
got dropped.
it's too
cold, too
windy, my
client
is driving me
crazy, which
at the moment
is a very short
drive. am i
complaining,
damn right.
why does that
cop have his
lights on
behind me.
i thought i
made it through
the yellow.
arrgh.

small gifts

small gifts
are often
better
than large
ones,
so are soft
kisses and
a gentle
hug. the
whisper is
heard easier
than the
shout, the
wry smile
more touching
than a laugh.
a simple
loving word,
not a book,
written to
be held
forever
on a small
piece of paper
you can fold,
is better than
keeping love
within,
untold.

on stage

i see him
on stage, this
boy, this child,
this son of
mine and am
amazed at how
fearless he
is, or how well
perhaps he hides
the fear, but
it stuns me,
this bravado,
this chosen field
of his that will
take him far
and wide within
himself if
not to other
shores and cities.
he has cut
the strings so
sweetly of
being young and
on becoming who
he is. my heart
and hands
applaud his life,
and the journey
that he's on.

it's early

and i hear you up
in the morning,
before me. you
have already walked
the dog, put the
coffee on and
done a dozen other
things. your
energy is boundless.
i have no clue
how you go from
one end of the
day until the
other without
stopping. i only
want you to stop,
to come back to
bed, to listen
to the slow soft
beat of my heart
and rest. the day
will take care
of itself, as
will tomorrow.

twelve steps

i've gone twenty
four hours without
a pastry and i'm
shaking, trembling,
look at my hands,
i'm salivating
right now over a
web site called
epicurious dot
com, the bakery
centerfold page.
there is a cake
the size of, well,
a cake, and people
are eating it,
their faces are
radiant with
pleasure. there is
icing dripping
off of their
forks, i have
my sponser on the
line and he is
trying to get me
off the ledge. all
i can think of right
now is biting into
a deep dark slice
of entenmman's
chocolate cake. he
keeps telling me
breathe in and out,
to focus, to let
it go, just let
it go, but all i
can think about
are cupcakes, of
scones, of angel
food cake and
cookie dough. it's
going to be a long,
long night.

in passing

don't under
estimate the loss
of life, for you
or others
you may know,
stand
still in silence
and give room,
no need to make
a sound, for
those in sorrow
and mourning
are on holy
ground.

black sweaters

having purged my
closet of so
many unworn clothes
i stand in line
with a brand new
black sweater
in my hand. it's
not unlike the one
i'm wearing and
the two that are
folded neatly
in a drawer in
my bedroom. in
fact there may
be one more
in the dryer. all
of them black, and
thick and waiting
to be worn. i have
no explanation for
any of this, i just
know that it must
be a desperate
cry for help. yup.

going home

i watch the ship
struggle in the
wind as it moves
up the river, sails
down, powered by
a small engine,
plowing through
the unblue water,
sullen and colored
like iron from
the low sky.
thick with december's
weather. a small
flag is stiff in
the breeze.
there is no one
on deck, it's too
cold, too raw,
it's just an
empty vessel, or
so it seems, trying
to get to port
again. trying
to get home, like
all of us.

spilled milk

spilled milk
but the cat
is happy, watch
her lick the
floor, her
paws wet
within the white
puddle. she
looks up
and smooths her
fur and lips with
a pink hard
tongue. she
is in bliss with
this spilled
milk, but now
for me, not that
she cares, there
is none.

the priest

i find the priest
in back of the rectory.
he is smoking and
walking. he's
wearing black. he's
feeding the pigeons,
a motley grey persistent
flock, from a small
bag of seed in his
coat pocket, they follow
him with nervous
footsteps and i follow
behind them.
i yell out, father,
can i have word. and
he stops and turns.
he is old and his body
sags with the weight of
countless confessions.
his hair is white
and thick, uncombed,
but his eyes are blue,
like one would expect
heaven to be, kind
and gentle. even now,
here in the cold as
he walks, he's ready for
one more. he doesn't
know me. i rarely go
to church despite the
fact that i could walk
there in two minutes,
but i have things to
ask him, things to tell
him, but i don't want
to now. feeling the
calm and trust in him,
and seeing him like
this with me in pursuit
humbles me, and does
more to answer my
questions than any words
he could say.

over time

there is much more
to the story, as is
true with most stories.
there are not just
two sides, but three
or four. there are
edges and ends,
slivers of truth
and half truths with
shades of grey in light
that bends. there is
much more to this
than i could ever sell
but over time, the
story we keep is one
we always tell.

she could sing

the girl
could sing,
her voice
was beautiful
and strong,
and she wouldn't
just save it for
the shower, she
was a songbird,
morning noon and
night. walking,
driving, before
she went to sleep,
her lungs were
full of song,
and this is why
we fell in love
and this is why
we are no longer
together.

red tailights

packed, with
her hands upon
the wheel,
you tap the car
farewell
and off it goes.
the tires churn on
the cold cinders.
she doesn't look
back. dusk is lying
down a soft grey
pallor of light
behind the hills
while slow geese
rise and fall gently
towards water.
and you watch the
red tailights come
and go from view
as the road winds
in and out, down
through the shallow
palms of the land
where the covered
wooden bridge
seems to catch the car
then let it go.
your hands are in
your pockets, your
dog is at your side,
neither barking, or
wagging his tail.
he knows something
isn't right. he
pants gently not
wanting attention,
but letting you
have this moment.
and when the final
flash of red slides
into black, like
stars behind a cloud,
you go inside and
let her fade from view.

show business

i call it the
tap dance of love,
she says and does
a little shuffle
which makes the
cat run for higher
ground. her shoes
click and clink
across the floor
while her arms
are doing some
sort of complicated
waving semaphore.
and i tell her
that she should
have been in show
business, and she
winks and says,
oh but i am in
show business
and lifts her
skirt just enough
to show me what
she means.

love and marriage

you decide on
a whim to marry
the next girl
you fall in love
with. it's a crazy
idea. marriage.
to actually live
again with someone
under the same
roof, sharing
the same house,
throwing everything
into the pot as
one. insane to sign
a business contract
for an emotion such
as love. but you
decide, why not.
why not live
dangerously, throw
caution to the wind.
you're not a young
man anymore. go
for it. weddings
are fun you reason
to yourself.
you love cake and a
good party. not
to mention a fun
vacation that you'll
call a honeymoon.
but then you awaken,
and someone is holding
an ice pack on your
forehead and they
tell you that you've
been out for hours,
dreaming, mumbling
to yourself about
someone, some girl
you used to know.

the dominatrix

she talks about
books, books, books,
writers, fiction
and poetry, she
goes and on through
out the night
about the craft
of writing, about
films and stories
the art of literature.
she is aglow with
hemmingway and plath,
steinbeck and t.s eliot.
she loves it all.
her face is flush
with interest as
we go back and forth
with this discussion.
she tells me she has
lots of books. we
finish our drinks
and dinner,
and then i walk
her to her car,
which is filled up
with paperbacks
and hardbacks, books
are everywhere,
stacked in the back
window, on the
back seats, she
opens the trunk
of her car and
there are boxes of
books. new and old.
she asks
me if i want any
and i begin to sort
through them, but
then i see a large
leather bag, it's
black and stuffed
with something, a
silver zipper is on
the side like a long
shiny scar. what's
in the bag i ask her,
and she says you don't
want to know, but
i insist, and so
she opens it up. pulling
the zipper down with
a hard deliberate tug,
it's full of whips
and chains, cuffs
and masks, things i've
never seen before.
there is a long
spatula instrument.
toys of every size
shape and color.
i look at her, and she
looks me. there
is silence for a minute
and then she
asks me, interested?
and i laugh and say, no
i'm sorry but no, but
i will take a book
if that's okay.

D

she's light
on her feet,
as if little wings
were attached
to them. she
dances like
fish swim, like
birds fly, like
i write. easy
and fast, with
little or no
effort, or
thought given
to what i'm
saying, obviously.

naked man with harley

my friend dawn
from pittsburgh, no
relation to dawn
in lorton, virginia
who found an animal's
heart in her yard
today, just a heart
no body, tells me
the story about
her new date, a man
she met in a bar,
but who was also
on a dating site that
she uses. it's not
a good night, not
a connection, he has
no compassion, no
sense of self, or
humor, no heart,
and later the next
day when she gets an
e mail from this
man with a picture
of himself naked in
front of his harley,
she knows for sure
that they aren't
a match and that
there won't be
a second date.

the droid abyss

it's a blizzard
of lights and buzzes
and pocket dialing,
and missed calls,
and screens that
move from left to
right with the soft
touch of a finger.
it's a christmas
tree in the palm
of my hand.
everyone i know
is there, at the
touch of a lit
screen or button.
it's crazy. but i
like it. i like
getting all of
that spam e mail
at my fingertips.
i like walking
around now like
everyone else, in
a zombie state
of mind at the end
of the world,
staring into the droid,
it's dark abyss.

sunday morning

you need the
two, he says
while lighting
a candle.
faith plus
hope equals
trust. and you
confess what
you know to
be true. your
sins, your
thoughts, your
pattern of
misbehavior.
you are only
human, he says.
God forgives
you. i know
that, i say.
i understand how
weak and strong
i am, but it
changes on a day
to day basis.
i want
consistency. he
laughs, give it
time, give it
time. how much
has this worry
helped you in
your life, he
asks, what has
worry done for
you today,
yesterday. it
has done nothing,
i tell him.
nothing. then
let it go, he
says. let it go.
and trust.

losing balance

she shows me
the scar on her
leg where a horse
stepped on her
last year while
changing a shoe,
and broke the bone
in several places.
it's healed, but
it's a frightening
scar that shows
the weight, the
wild instincts of
animals who don't
want to hurt, but
will stumble and
trip, and lose
their balance
on occasion and
cause unintended
harm, not unlike
us at times.

on the couch

on the plaid
uncomfortable
couch for an hour
with beth, she
charges a mere
hundred and ten
dollars, but she
gives it all she
has. she is kind
and gentle,
compassionate
and yet will give
you a good
spanking when
you need it, when
she thinks you
deserve it. there
are old pictures
on the wall,
behind the couch,
the kind your mother
might have, charcoal
sketches of dogs
and windmills. a
few country mice,
stuffed with straw
are on the shelf.
smiling. and there
is a framed
copy of her degree
under glass near a
window that shows
the highway down
below. there is a walmart
in the distance
already lit up for
christmas, the mouth
of it's white doors
open wide for business.
a blue vase of plastic
flowers bent with dust
sits in the corner. they
almost resemble daffodils
leaning towards
sunlight. there are
boxes of tissues
to the left and right,
at arm's reach in
case you need them.
it is not a very
pleasant place
to be with beth, and
the overhead lights,
old neon, flickering
beneath the thin
vinyl shield of a
dropped ceiling
gives shadowy movement
to the room. but beth
is a good listener,
she doesn't lead
or want you to follow,
she wants you to
be truthful, to tell
all, to come clean.
it's the only way she
can help you. make
you whole again, and
it's working. she's
giving you a good
solid hour and making
you sweat.

new dating rules

no cats allowed,
no dogs, no reptiles,
no kids, we have
rules now. please
check your baggage,
if it fits,
into the overhead
bin and have your
id ready. we don't
want any problems,
or incidents of
any sort. behave.
open wide and say
ahhh, we just need
a little blood now,
a small pinch, okay.
put that cotton ball
on it. there you go.
show me a bank
statement and your
tax return from
last year. oh, and
a divorce decree,
with dry ink.
incarcerations?
medications? empty
your pockets into
the tray and please
step through the
scanner. shoes off.
ever been a member
of the tea party? do
you own any clothing
that says one size
fits all? is face
book the center of
your known universe?
do you twitter, do
you tweet, do you have
calluses on the tips
of your fingers from
texting? no, well
good. move to the
front of the line.
now be quiet,
and all will
be well. we're almost
done here.
be patient and sit
tight. there's
coffee right over
there. someone will be
with you in a moment.
and by the way,
special exceptions
will be made for
well behaved
kids and pets,
so quit rubbing
your hands together
and fidgeting.

the long night

the fire
was slow to
burn out.
the logs
were stacked
high,
and the heat
was fierce,
the flames
roared,
and the wood
and kindling
crackled
throughout
the long night.
and you kept
stirring it,
poking it,
rubbing your
hands close
to the fire, it
kept you warm
for awhile, for
this short winter
in the middle
of your life,
and in
the morning,
you stirred
the cold ashes,
you let them
be. there will
me more fires,
more flames,
a different me.

insatiable

my hunger for words,
like love, is insatiable,
my desire runs wild.
i can't get enough,
my nights are filled
with seducing long lines
of words, of rhymes,
of finding ways to say
what i've already said
a thousand times before.
but it doesn't matter.
i have an appetite to fill,
a thirst to quench.
my hands are full of forks
and knives, they gleam
sharply in the dull
light of my room,
i am carving my soul,
my heart and serving
it up for you, with vodka
and lime. ink runs from
my mouth. i cut a vein when
that well runs dry
and i dip my pen there.
i have to keep going.
there is no other way.

kiss me you fool

in the morning
when you awaken
and quickly go
brush your teeth
and gargle, i know
that you are coming
back for more. so
i do the same
and beat you back
between the sheets.
you are laughing
when you tumble in,
naked and tanned
with your wild hair
and olive skin.
you purr like a warm
soft kitten as you
whisper, kiss me
you fool, kiss me now
and ravish me
some more.

happy ending

you find her
on the front
porch. she is
wearing the blue
dress she wore
when you first
met her several
months ago. she is
smoking a cigarette
and rubbing her arm
as if trying to
remove something.
you open the door
and ask her if she's
okay. but she
doesn't answer.
her cat runs out
to rub against her leg.
she tells me she's
been with
another man and
that she just
returned from
making love to
him. she looks
up at me with tears
in her eyes. i'm
sorry she says.
do you forgive me?
you don't say a word.
you go back inside
and shut the door.
she's on her own
now. you don't do
betrayal well. you
have no compassion
or forgiveness
for that, and she
understands. you look
out the window,
and see her walk
up the street
with the cat under
her arm.
the moon is suddenly
hard on her, and
in this light you
see what you could
not see before.
a car pulls over
and she gets in.
it's another
happy ending.

the caged bird

the ex wife
had a large bird
that didn't sing.
his cage was enormous,
it filled up
the room. and
the bird was yellow
and red, and
couldn't fly. and
as it was biting
your finger,
drawing blood you
couldn't help but
notice how
beautiful it was.
but it ate, and ate
endlessly and it made
a high pitched noise
that hurt
your ears. it gave
nothing in return
for all the sweet
talk that was given.
all the love and food,
the affection,
and attention, yet
nothing came back. it
just stared past you
with it's dark distracted
eyes and waited for more.
i have dated women
like that for years.

starting over

you want to start
over so you decide
to give everything
away. you put your
furniture in the front
yard. your clothes,
your books, your dog.
you tie him to a post
and give him water and
food. you ignore the
look he is giving you.
you carry out
the television and place
it next to the lamp,
the rolled up rug.
you place your dishes
and pots and pans on
the diningroom table.
eventually everything
is there. your shoes.
your pictures. you carry
out the pot roast from
your refrigerator, the
milk and bread.
you take off your belt,
remove your pants and
shirt, you take your
hat off and socks, your
watch, you put them
all into a neat pile.
then you go back
into your house
and stare out the
window. you wait for
life to start again.

you aren't there

when you awaken
you are in a strange
room but you are not
alone. everyone
is there. anyone
that mattered, and
they are dressed
nicely, some have
flowers in their
hands, some are
crying. many are
quiet, awkwardly so.
and they gather
around you and stare,
they whisper things
you cannot hear.
there is music playing,
and everyone is polite
as they move about
and mingle,
you want to join in,
but you can't. you
are asleep and yet
awake. this is not
the end you want to
tell them, but the
beginning of your
life. you want to
comfort their sadness
and sorrow with words,
but you cannot speak.
you have used up
all your words when
you were with them. you
want to put your arms
around them and tell
things they need to
know, but you can't.
you aren't there.

she's come undone

out of gas,
the tire flat,
the sun going
down, it's cold.
rain is not
far away. suddenly
it's fall, when
a few minutes ago
it was summer.
everyone
is now a stranger
in this town.
she puts her hands
into her pockets,
but there is
nothing. no
money, no credit
card to save her.
her phone has died.
she is on the side
of the road.
it took awhile,
it took alot of
miles of carefree
driving on the
freeway, of ignoring
the posted speed limits,
the dangers, the
pot holes, but she
is finally there.
she gets
out and sizes up
the moment. she
looks into the
window and sees
herself in the
closing dark. she
is older than when
she started, she
has gained weight
and her hair is grey,
she is no longer
a young woman,
no longer the first
one chosen. she
remembers what love
is, what love was,
and that there was
someone once, but
she can't remember
his name. but that
means nothing now, on
the side of the
road, without gas,
with the tire flat,
with no direction
home.

this mountain

the mountain
is beautiful and
you believe that
you can climb it
easily. it's lush
and green at
the bottom, there
is snow on top.
the mountain is a
postcard of beauty
against the open
blue sky.
everyone knows this
mountain, they come
to stare at it, to
be in her presence.
and so you begin,
you take nothing
with you but what
you've learned
from other mountains
you have tried to scale,
your ignorance is bliss.
and you climb, one foot
in front of the other,
one hand over the next,
and quickly, before you
know it you are past
the soft start,
the easy part, the worn
paths where others
have come and failed,
the thick cluster
of trees, and shrubs,
the noisy slush of stream
are below you, but
you go further, wanting
more, and the air
begins to thin, your feet
slip. the rocks are sharp,
you look downward when
you reach the halfway point,
but you can't turn around
now. you want more
of this mountain, you
want to embrace and
know her soul,
you want to get to
the top and see the view
from there, to be loved
in return. you want
to know what it is
like to have it all
and isnt that what
love is? so you keep
going, but you are out
of breath, your limbs
ache with cold, your
lips are blue, and
clouds of warm air
escape from your lungs
like poetry. your hands
bleed from the sharp
edges of rocks, your
feet have no where
to stand, they are
numb from climbing.
your face is pressed
hard against the silent
mountain, your heart
beats faster. there is
only the wind that
blows you from side
to side and fills
you with fear. dark
wings of birds hover
nearby, waiting for
you to fall. you no
longer see the beauty
in her. what you thought
about her has changed.
she is dangerous and
cunning, but still you
press on. your head
is in the clouds, you
are delirious on this
mountain, you squint your
eyes into the harsh sunlight
and see that the peak
is still so far away,
the mountain owns you
now, and she knows it,
you can't go up, you
can't go back down.
you have lost your way.

in any direction

you try to remember
where you live,
but it's unclear.
they ask you who
you are, what your
name is, but you
don't know anymore.
and it doesn't seem
to matter.
you are not lost,
you are just here.
they stand you up
and check you for
a wallet, for id,
but you have none.
there is a picture
of a small child
in your pocket, and
a woman who looks
beautiful in a white
dress. they ask you
about them, but you
have no answer. you
have no money.
you've been walking
for hours, maybe
days. your shoes
are worn out, your
pants are torn
at the knees. your
hands though are
clean, they are
the hands of an
innocent man, so
they don't take you
in. they shine a
light into your eyes
and see nothing.
they dust you
off and tell you
to be careful, to
watch where you are
going. you have
broken no laws,
and so they leave
you to yourself.
to go in any
direction. which is
how this started.

the punch

the punch caught me
off guard, i didn't see
it coming, right below
my chin, it was an
uppercut that lifted
me off the canvas, just
a little, but enough
to know that i was air
borne. and the lights
above grew brighter, like
stars suddenly bursting,
silver fires of light,
in my darkening eyes.
and i could taste blood
in my mouth as i went
limp, as my spine no longer
held me up, and my arms
dropped, and my legs
suddenly were no longer
a part of who i was, and
as i hit the floor, the
thud awakened me just
enough for me to glance
around at the melting
faces of the crowd, and
to find you, you in the
first row, smiling, happy,
to finally see that
i had gotten mine.

the trains

before the train
crosses the trestle
that rises over the
hill then lake,
he blows his horn.
i can hear it at night,
when the traffic has
died down, when most
people are sleeping.
when the world has said
enough for one day.
but the trains run all
night, they keep moving,
like dreams, like
clouds, like oceans
pulled from side to side
by the power of a pale
thin moon. and the sound
of the horn gives me
comfort, it lets me
know what i need to know.
that time is moving
forward once again.

where to begin

i want so badly
to see a poetic
tear go down your
cheek, to see that
hardened heart just
break a little, soften
for just a moment.
i want to feel the
warmth, the love, that
is so far buried
deep within, and
has been for years.
but i don't know how.
i don't even know
where to start. i only
know how to end. i'm
not asking you to
break, but just to
find a way to bend.

stay the night

stay the night.
no need to leave,
no need to run off
into the cold.
it's late, so late.
plus you've had
too much to drink.
it's very dark
out and the roads
are wet with ice,
with sleet. stay
the night. i'll
keep you warm, i'll
tell you what you
need to hear. i'll
tuck you in, i'll
even say your prayers.
stay the night.
just one more night.
it's late, it's
cold, no need to
to go back home, to
get on the road,
to leave me here
alone.

half mushrooms half green peppers

if you leave me
i'll never forgive
you, she says while
painting her toenails
with a bright red
color called raspberry
splash. i'll hunt
you down like the dog
you are and file
papers on you. she
doesn't look up,
she's on the tiny
small toe, with that
crazy small nail,
concentrating. i laugh.
file papers. what
are we, married or
something? are we a
corporation. i don't
think so. she starts
on the other foot now.
dabbing the little
brush at her nails,
still not looking up
at me, my cousin jimmy
knows people, she says,
they'll find you and
break your knee caps.
really, i say. i'm
scared. you should be,
she says. you should
be trembling. you don't
know the power of a
woman scorned. that's
not how it goes, i
tell her. whatever.
hey, i'm going to
call in a pizza, what
would you like on it?
she finally looks up
from her toenails
and polish. she squints,
hmmm, half mushrooms,
half green peppers?
i roll my eyes. okay.
okay. i won't leave you.
half sausage and half
mushrooms. call, she says.
make the call.

red wine

get a glass of
red wine in her
and she'd start
dancing. alone,
or not, she couldn't
stay still, she'd
be up all slinky
and cat like with
a smile on her face
and she'd begin to
move, twisting
and sliding, tapping
her heels across
the hardwood floor.
get two drinks in
her and it was
dancing of another
sort altogether,
and that was good too.
and more fun
than the first.

bad connection

i can't see you
anymore, she says
on the phone while
i'm standing in
the phone store
trying to buy
a new phone. what,
i say, i can't
hear you, who is
this. Gina, she
says loudly. i
don't know any
Ginas i tell her.
what are you talking
about, we went out
two nights ago.
oh, i say. i thought
your name was sally.
sorry. so what were
you saying. we're
breaking up. we
were never going
together dope, she
screams. i'm just
telling you that
i don't want to see
you anymore. i'm
not sure why. i
can't put my finger
on it, but we're
just not....what,
can you speak up
i tell her, it's
really really loud
in here with all
of these phones going
off. nevermind, she
says. then silence.
hello, i say, hello,
are you still there,
sally, can you
hear me? sally?

my new phone

i have big
plans to buy
a new phone.
a super phone,
with wings and lots
and lots of colorful
aps and stuff.
i have been
told recently
that i am lumbering
about in this
high tech world
like a dinosaur
during the ice age.
i resent that.
but i understand
completely why
she thinks that
way. staring
at her blackberry
in her hand is
like looking at
chinese algebra,
but i'm game, i
can do this. so
i'm signing up for
the best, the most
complicated, the
most expensive
phone i can find.
and i'll wear it
on a chain around
my neck like a
gangsta rappa just
to prove a point.
it will take pictures,
movies, it will sing,
it will mow my lawn,
it'll take the trash out,
get stains out
of the carpet,
it'll help the kids
with their homework.
it will improve my
love life. it will
send e mails
and texts, and
it will tell me
where i'm supposed
to be every day
of the month. it
will be my personal
assistant, my girl
friend, my bud, my
go to point of
reference when i need
to google a dating
site, or find out
where the nearest
dairy queen might be.
i'll never be lost
with this phone,
not geographically
or spiritually. truly
my life will change.
but okay. how do i
turn it on?

the lost dog named iowa

i get a call
that her siding
is loose, and some
has fallen to the
ground, pieces
are scattered in
the wind, the house
is leaking, water
is coming through
the ceiling, and i
tell her that i don't
do siding, but now
she is crying, she
is telling me about
her life, her husband,
how he's run off with
another woman,
how her dog has run
away. she tells me
that she has posted
signs all over the
neighborhood with
his picture and that
she is offering a
reward. and i
tell her gently again,
i'm sorry, but i don't
know anything about
siding, i'm not sure
if i can help you.
she pleads some more
though, and i give in.
she is crying.
i tell her that i
will be there today,
before it's dark,
i'll bring a ladder
and see what i can do.
she blows her nose and
says thank you, thank
you, you are so kind.
and when you come over,
on the way, can you
keep an eye out for my
dog, he's small and
black and i am so lost
without him. could you
do that for me? he
answers to the name
iowa.

iowa

you decide
to move on
with your life.
you pack a
bag and go
to the bus station,
you buy a ticket
to iowa. you know
no one in iowa,
which is a good
thing. there will
be plenty of
strangers there
who won't be
bored by you
and what you have
to say. it's a
fresh start. and
when you board
the bus and find
a window seat and
the bus pulls out
from the station,
you wonder if
you've made a
bad decision.
perhaps you should
have given things
another chance.
perhaps you should
have done something
that you haven't
thought of yet.
it's foolish, this
kind of thinking and you
fall asleep for a
very long time, and
when you awaken
the windows are
full of fields,
full of corn, wheat
like burning brush
as far as the eye
can see, long
stretches of
green fields with
arcs of water criss
crossing the rows
and rows, and rainbows.
but this saddens you.
you are already
bored with iowa
and it's farms and
endless planting
and harvesting. you
decide that you
hate iowa and
that five minutes
there is four too
many. you realize
suddenly that leaving
is harder than it
looks.

wanda

you want to take
her with you, but you
know better. she
can't leave what
she can't leave.
even if you were a genius
you'd never ever be
able to figure out
a way for this to
work, and you ponder
this dilemma until
you get sleepy
and drowsy, but it's
too early for sleep
so you call up wanda,
who has a kind heart
and is very patient
with problems,
she used to live
next door to you
and baked you bread
when you didn't
want bread and
brought you wine,
when you wanted
something else. but
she was willing.
and now all you
want from her is to
listen to listen to
your problem, to be
quiet and listen.
but wanda wants to
come over, she wants
to talk in person
and says that she
can be there in
twenty minutes or
less, she just needs
to take a shower,
put on some make
up and get dressed,
and walk the dog.
i try to stop her,
but she hangs up.
and now i'm really
sleepy, so i post
a note on the door,
wanda, i'm upstairs,
the key is under
the mat, if you bring
food or wine, put
it in the fridge.

the note

you find a hand
written note
on your door
when you arrive
home from work.
but you don't read
it. you'd rather
not. you'd
rather believe
in what the note
might say. you
are an optimist.
and this makes
you feel good,
not reading the
note. and you
decide suddenly
to live your life
this way, to ignore
all notes, all
forms of
communication that
could take you down
a dark road. you
want the note
to be one of
praise, one of
luck and hope,
one of renewed
love and affection.
so you fold the note
and place it in your
shirt pocket. you
feel that the note
is a blessing of
some sort, that
life has changed
for the better.
and then you go to
your car to leave,
but the engine won't
start. and you take
the note out of
your pocket, unfold
it and read it
and it says 'you
left your headlights
on, we knocked,
but you weren't
home. sorry.'

you don't know me

you don't know
me. not really.
what you see is
just a glimpse,
a mere facade of
smoke and mirrors,
me pretending to
be someone i think
i should be. these
are not even my
clothes, or shoes,
or hat. these gloves
barely fit. i
am wearing another
man's watch. at
night i sleep with
another man's wife
and take his child
to school. i walk
his dog. i am
not who you think
i am. the money
that's in my pocket
belongs to someone
else. my desires
are not mine, but
ones that i have
learned through
reading and
observation. i
have stolen all
of my beliefs from
others while on
the train listening
to men cry and
confess to priests
about their sins
and wasted lives.
i am growing old
in someone else's
body and will
be buried under
another name. you
don't know me,
not really.

inexhaustible needs

you realize
that you have
inexhuastible
needs. you need
food and water
sleep, love
and affection
and sex. these
needs are constant
with varying
degrees of desire
and want. and
you spend so much
of your time
trying to fulfill
these needs
or ignoring them.
but they won't
leave you alone.
they call to you
every day. they
tug at your shirt
sleeve, they
stir you in
the morning, or
late at night.
and with every need
there is a choice,
a good one, and
perhaps a bad one.
and so it goes.

this is where you'll live

you decide that this
is where you'll live.
this is where you'll
open the boxes of
your life, put your
furniture, hammer nails
into the wall for
your pictures, place
your bed against
the wall that gives
the most light. you
decide that this is
where you'll be for
a long time. and you
will drink coffee at
the small table in
the kitchen, and let
the cat sit on the
sill above the sink.
and the dog will lie
on back of the couch
and watch the birds
and squirrels. you
decide that this is
where you'll sleep,
where you'll fall into
dreams deep into
night, when winter turns
to spring and you will
be happy in your solitary
life, you will
find comfort in your
choice living here.
you will embrace
the seasons from your
back window. and you
will lie to yourself
everday, over and over
and say that this
is enough, my books,
my house, my pets,
my writing. you will
try so hard to believe
that it is enough, and make
it come true, but it
isn't so. and
the absence of love
will overwhelm you and
you'll fear that this
is it, that this is all
there is and you'll
question where did
all of that time go.

the world

don't believe
the world. don't
shake your hand
with it, or join.
we are born into
this, but you can
choose. you can
take another road.
the narrow road.
higher ground.
don't believe
the world. it
offers little that
will last and cure
your lonliness,
fill you up, or
quench your thirst.
don't believe the
world, and it's
sweet kiss, it's
sultry whisper
that it can
give you more
and more, as if
that will ever
be enough. it never
is. don't believe
the world.

when they find me

when they find me,
i am alone.
i am who i used to
be when i was
young. i am youthful,
my hair is thick
and brown, my limbs
are lean and strong,
i can run with
the wind of summer,
i have no lines
on my face, my
life is suddenly what
it used to before
time erased so
much of it.
i am alone when
they find me
and i have forgotten
what love is,
how love hurts and
destroys you. i only
see the good in
everything, in
everyone. i only
know the possibilities
not the closed
doors. but i am
alone when they
find me. i am
young until i am
told that i am
dreaming. that i
am an old man
near the end,
and someone
whispers into my
ear as i lie
there in the tall
grass of my youth,
in the ashes
of my spent life,
the future is not
what it used to
be, and i begin
to cry, i begin to
sob, knowing
that it's true
and i reach out for
her hand, but
she's not there, i
am alone when they
find me.

thin ice

i'm in a dangerous
place right now.
i can hear the ice
cracking below my
feet. the weight
of me is shattering
the thin sheet
spread like icing
on a cake across
the frozen lake. my
lips are blue, my
heart has slowed
to a point of near
unconsciousness.
the bloom of hot
air that comes from
my lips are slow
small clouds. i am
bleeding life, as
i stand still,
neither leaving, nor
coming. i am too
afraid to do either.
my life is in
your hands, reach
out and either push
or pull me in. i'm
exhausted at this
point and would be
fine with either.

simply this

i'm willing.
i'm here.
i'm open for
discussion.
look at my
arms. see how
wide they are.
look into my
eyes and see
how clear
they have become.
it's up to
you. no strings
attached. what
this is supposed
to be will be,
nothing more,
nothing less.

another hundred miles

another hundred
miles and we'll be
home baby.
sit tight, relax.
roll the window
down. another
hundred miles
and we'll be there,
we'll be in
each other's arms,
we'll make love
all night when
we get there.
another hundred
miles and you'll
see what i mean.
you'll understand
exactly how i feel.
just hold on,
another hundred miles
and we'll both
be home. it's not
far from here.
believe me, just
another hundred
miles. that's all.
that's all. i
promise this time.
trust me, we'll
get there. another
hundred miles.

sailing

as your ship
slowly sinks
and mine
sails on. i see
you on deck
waving for help.
mouthing the words
throw me a rope.
a line, something
that will float.
and there is a
part of me that
wants to speed
up, to watch you
go slowly down
into the deep
dark sea that you
so casually ignored.
but you know that i
won't leave you
this way,
that i won't
go and let you
drown, that i
will turn this
ship against
the wind, reset
the sails and
come around.

outside looking in

neither kind
nor unkind,
this way you see
the world, this
girl. but there
is a passive
sigh of, oh well,
that rises to
the top like
cream. you have
somehow managed
to step outside
yourself and truly
see what is real
and what isn't
what it seems.

cherry tree

we used to
pick the cherry tree
clean every year
when they ripened
black and fat
upon the fragile
limbs and branches.
and the man and wife
who owned the house
knew, and turned
off the lights
inside so that we
could have are fill
and think that
this stolen fruit
was the best
fruit of all. and
the juices would
run down our skinny
arms onto our white
t-shirts. and when
so many of us grew up
and stopped our harvest,
moving on to our own
trees in life,
we heard that
the wife had died
and that the man
had taken a saw
and cut the cherry
tree down.

not how it works

she wants a clean
jesus. an uncut
savior in white
linen, two feet off
the ground. she
wants a superman,
a man of steel,
a christ without
the suffering, or
blood, the anguish
of the passion.
she wants him off
the cross and in
the clouds, no
crown of thorns, no
death, no why
have you forsaken
me spoken as the
viel is rent and the
earth broken in
two. she wants a
statue of christ
on the dashboard,
one that glows in
the dark, she wants
no sickness, no
sorrow, no sadness
in this world. but
that's not how
it works, is it?

awaiting news

the old moon
comes out yellow
tonight. a harvest
moon over the bland
empty field that
separates homes
from factory, over
the single black road
in and out of
this town. and
the woods on the
far reach, where
the rubble is
stirs with movement,
kids of age seeking
love, or what they
percieve love to be
at sixteen. and a
an old dog howls
somewhere, and a
the cars have nowhere
to go at this hour.
and the blue lit
rooms with televisions
pulse with the slow
heartbeat of old
age and no age
and another tomorrow
awaiting news.

what's new

there was a time
when i wanted new.
a new car, new
clothes, a new watch.
a new set of lips
to kiss. the old
television
wasn't good enough
anymore. i wanted
to move into a new
house, with new
neighbors, get a new
dog after the old
one passed away,
but i've changed.
i've grown accustomed
to the old. gotten
used to the memory
of what is gone.
i've lost interest
in the new. and that's
where i am right
now with you.

bacon and eggs

he was an old man,
who came to the same
bench everyday where
i walked my dog
in the park,
and sometimes we
would sit and talk.
small talk for the
most part. weather,
sports, small change.
sometimes we'd discuss
the poetry i was
writing. but that week
i wasn't in the mood
for talking, and each
day i would avoid
the bench where the
old man was sitting.
i had just come out
of a relationship
with someone that
i loved, or at least
preceived to be as
love, and i was
dragging, tired,
and bedeviled by
this girl who i
had probably no
business being with.
i had no appetite
for life at the moment,
and the old man yelled
at me from his bench,
hey, what's wrong with
you. mr. poet, you can't
stop and say hello to
an old man anymore?
i thought we were friends.
i smiled and went over
and sat next to him
and told him my story,
which by that point
i was tired from
telling. after awhile
the story becomes
you and you become
the story and that
is what all anyone ever
sees in you anymore.
but i told him just
the same. and he smiled,
he gave my dog a treat
from his pocket, as
he always did and then
he said. i was in love,
once, truly in love.
i am eighty seven and
i can honestly say
that it only happened
once in my life. i
was a very young man
at the time. much
younger than you.
he looked far away,
his eyes were wet with
the memory of this woman.
we were like bacon
and eggs, he said.
i'm not sure who was
which, but we were.
he laughed and nodded.
bacon and eggs. and,
i said, so what happened,
where did she go.
it doesn't matter, he
said. none of that matters.
the only thing that
has meaning is that we
were in love and that
is forever, you can't
change that, you can't
erase that, not even
death will take away
what love is, how rare
and wonderful it is to
have and hold. and then
he looked at me and
smiled. embrace your love
for this woman and let
her go. you will always
have the love, right
here. and he tapped
his chest. right here,
he said again.
bacon and eggs. yes.

the endless games

when my son was young
there was always
a game, a place to
be, a jersey that needed
washed. each sport
having it's season
and then some, as they
overlapped into one
another. it seemed
endless at times,
the long saturday drives
to a field far away,
and the games dragged
on in the rain, or
heat, or cold winds.
and for the most part
it was fun, it was
amazing to be there
standing beside him
as he grew up. it
seems like yesterday
those ten years like
that, those sweet
games of youth,
how quickly this
time comes and goes.

when we were young

there are things
unsaid, that need
to be said, and yet
won't be spoken.
that is the way
of this world.
silence is cruel
like that. it
only deepens what
isn't, stills
the water, clears
the sky to unveil
the awful white
of a new moon.
and the years will
pass, and what was
will fade over
time almost as if
nothing had ever
happened. and i will
age, as will you,
and our lives
will end apart
in separate rooms,
with only the
memory of a sweet
kiss under the warm
and brilliant
summer moon.

mercury

with time
there is less
of her, and
more of me.
and you realize
that with
space and
distance, and
the absence of
voice, that
the balance
of love or
like, or
infatuation
is impossible
to hold. like
mercury spilled
upon the floor
in a a prepetual
roll away
from hand,
and heart.

writing

when you
were young
each day
was different,
each time
you came
home everything
had changed.
someone had
arrived, someone
had left.
chaos was
the order
of the day.
and so you
found yourself
in dreams,
you stepped
backwards into
yourself to
save yourself,
and to eventually
do this, to
write it down,
there was no
other way.

the broken washing machine

my father who turns
eighty three in june
and who won the lottery
a few years ago for
a hundred and fifty
thousand dollars and
tried to keep it hidden
called the other day
to tell me that his
washing machine had
broken down and he was
wondering if i knew
of a good washing machine
mechanic who could come
over and take a look
at it. he said that
he had already wasted
forty five dollars on
it by letting the
handyman who cuts grass
at his condo work
on the motor, but it's
still broken. he has three
retirement checks
coming in on a monthly
basis and hasn't bought
a new pair of shoes
or a shirt in years. he's
never sent a gift or
a card to any of his
seven children.
he never dials long
distance, he waits for
you to call. and he
will die with all of
this hard earned
money. he will pass
away without any of it
being put to good use
towards his children,
his grandchildren or
anyone in this world
that might need
a helping hand. it
may be harsh to say this,
but it's true. he will
never truly get those
clothes clean, not in
his twenty year old
washing machine, or even
in a brand new one.

bon fire

don't refrigerate
your sorrow or
wrap it tight
and tape it for
the freezer, or
store away your
pain and sadness
in the attic,
to collect dust
and cobwebs,
don't save a drop
of those tears
in a bottle like
rain water for
a dry day. don't
tuck away that
bad memory between
the a pages of
a book, pressed
like fallen
leaves. instead
immerse yourself
in all of it,
bathe in the darkness
that you breathe,
then have a bonfire,
and let it all
burn and burn
and burn, and be
done for all
the world to see.

as it is

as the hand
moves towards
her hand
and there is the
soft sigh, and
there is the subtle
blink yes
of the eye,
and the night
slips quietly
by, and when
you lie down
together, and
see the moon
just over the
lip of the window
sill, and hear
the breeze move
brush and limbs
across the open
field, don't
even try to
understand, or
figure it out,
or where it might
go. this moment
is good enough
as it is.

the fourth tv

i felt the urge
to purchase
another tv,
so i set the alarm
for four am to go
get in line.
three is just not
enough, not cutting
it. there is room on
the wall going up
the steps where a
nice 46 inch plasma
would fit just
fine. i could
take down my
oil reproduction of
the rembrandt painting
the prodigal son
and hammer a
nail dead center
for the tv to hang.
no need to plug it
in. they just look
so good right out
of the box, shiny
with that plastic
black trim,
and they are all
on sale for five
dollars at the local
big barn electronic
shop celebrating
the economic holy
day, black friday.
maybe i'll buy two
just in case the others
break at some point.
back up is always
good. i might need
some new phones too,
maybe another camera.
they're all so cheap,
why not.

poetry blog disclaimer

there is an inkling
of truth in some
of this, but then
again, there is
embellishment
and fiction
interwined with
a grain of absolute
reality. it's
not all black
and white. there
are various shades
of colors mixed
within. loves
do come and go,
sadness and
sorrow do sometimes
turn into gold, and
goodness often lurks
on the other end
a darkened street,
or not. but alot
of this is just me
spinning yarn,
muck if you will,
shaking it up,
having fun, relating
tales that may
or may not be true
or false, they
are imagainary
wanderings for
the most part. there
are no intentions
of hurting or saving
anyone with these
words, save judgement
for later, i am neither
as good, or as bad
as others think i am,
i'm just on the road,
on a journey,
and i'm sure that
holds true for you too.

butterflies

i see her coming
up the trail,
running, her red
hair in the wind,
her legs lean
and strong pulling
her up the hill
and we stop, and
stand there, laugh
for a second,
we hug and kiss,
and enjoy this random
moment of running
into one another.
she leaves me
wanting more,
another night,
another kiss. it
feels good.

the lobster roll

i fell in love
the other night
with a lobster roll,
fresh and cold
on a hot toasted
elongated bun.
i washed it down
with a sweet apple
martini. it was
so thick and fat
with meat, that
i could hardly pick
it up in both hands.
it dribbled down
my arm, got on
my lips, my cheek.
and as we devoured
our little feast,
i couldn't help
but think what
biting into you
would be like too.

buyer beware

she likes
the darkness,
the cold,
the damp and lonely
night where
she can stay
and grow old.
she wants nothing
more than to
take you with
her, take you
down and under,
she sweet talks
you with sadness
and sorrow
and a sultry
pair of lips.
buyer beware,
this can only end
one way. badly.

a place to go

your hands are cold
your feet too.
as is your nose,
the extremities
of you are icy, and
red as we stand
and wait for the
express bus down
town. we shuffle
in place to gain
heat. the sky hangs
low without
movement, the clouds
almost touchable
grey and white, silver.
perhaps the buses
aren't running today,
or are late, or
have taken off
because of the holiday.
it makes no difference.
it's standing here
together, with
a place to go
that seems to matter
more, not
the destination. not
the cold.

tell me where it hurts

tell me where it
hurts. come here,
step closer.
stand in the light.
does that hurt when
i press my hand
into yours, no. how
about now when i
kiss your neck
and whisper into
your ear. tell me
where it hurts,
what about now
when you curl your
body, warm and tender
next to mine, is
there pain, is there
the slightest
twinge of discomfort,
no. well good.
i think you're healed.
we'll have to
repeat this now on
a daily basis until
further notice.

surprise snow

like love,
the whisper
of snow falling
in the night
puts a light
cool layer upon
the ground, it
comes that way,
in a surprise,
the moment of
affection, a
feeling of newness
about to come.
about to rise.

i'll tell you later

you seem distracted
she says, on the phone.
i can hear you typing
in fact. why are you
typing on your computer
while i'm telling you
something very important
about us. so i stop.
what, i ask her, what
is it that you want to
say. then i start typing
again, because i'm in
the middle of writing
a poem about her talking
to me on the phone, and
about to tell me something
of great importance about
us and the future of our
relationship, but i can't
finish the poem until
she tells me what she
has to say, and what
is so important. so i ask
her again, and stop and
say, what. tell me. and
she says, never mind. it's
no big deal. it's just
that, that, and then
she drifts off and i
hear her washing dishes
in the sink, banging pots
and pans around. so i
write that down too.
just tell me, i say again.
what kept you up all night
and made you call me so
early in the morning.
i'm shaking my head now,
but still typing. i hear
the water running and
the dishwasher go on in
her kitchen. i'll tell
you later, she says. we
can talk about this at
dinner. so i stop typing
and say, well. okay.
see you later then.

to the moon

okay, so now
you know that
your heart is
not made of glass
that can shatter
into a million pieces,
or stone, or wood,
or steel, or even
a liquid that can
evaporate in
extreme heat or
freeze when
life gets cold
and unbearable. no.
none of that. your
heart is made
of something else
entirely.
it's made of
some sort of
vulcanized space
age rubber that
can withstand all
conditions and
rebound and regroup
and love all
over again. it's
capable of going
to the moon
and getting you
safely back
home again.

photo albums

you forget sometimes
how far away you are
from the start.
the photo albums
seem surreal at times
and you wonder who
that is in the photo,
with a head full
of brown hair holding
up your two year old
son, near the christmas
tree. and everyone
looks younger, your wife
is lean, and pretty
and as usual dressed
as if in church. and
somehow everyone appears
to be happier, even
me, although i know for
a fact that that isn't
true. it was a
different world then,
illusionary, and yet
real, all at the
same time. holding
on to a pretend
marriage, because it's
what you had to do.
what she had to do,
until it was time to end.

the manger

while filling up my car
with premium no lead
gasoline, because that's
all it takes, standing at
the pumps, listening to
the christmas carols
on the loudspeakers
i can't help but notice
how beautifully decorated
this gas station is for
christmas. i almost forget
the oil spills, and
the toxic fumes that
rise by the minute into
the air depleting the
ozone layer, causing
deadly radiation to give
us skin cancer. the blinking
lights are everywhere,
on every bonsai tree
and bush and strung along
the faux stone wall around
the pagoda garden. blues
and whites, magnificient
reds and greens, i wish
that whoever did this winter
wonderland of joy and mirth
in lights would come
to my house and give
me a helping hand.
there are balloon filled
santas and reindeer on
the roof, floating about,
elves with fat red cheeks
dance in the wind,
tethered to the air pump
and new tire racks on
the side. and in the corner
near the bays where the cars
are worked on and inspected
is a manger scene lit up
with a gold beam of light,
with charlie brown and linus
as shepards, lucy is mary,
pig pen is joseph and in
the mangager is a blowup
figurine of snoopy as jesus,
savior of the world, himself.

theresa in richmond

my friend theresa
in richmond who once
wrote to the pope
in rome for love
advice was quiet on
the phone today.
i got the call while
opening up a can
of black olives
that were intended
for thanksgiving day,
her new love, her
new beau, her new
long term relationship
and man was suddenly, or
perhaps not so suddenly,
tip toeing backwards
down the hall. his
calls were shorter,
his texts were weak,
his love making skills
were diminished and
well, let's just say,
quick and to the point.
i could hear sadness
in her voice. this
newness had worn off.
again. a big sigh.
and i listened, i
told here where i was,
how whole i was now,
after a long period
of grief, and she
said she was happy as
she began to cry. i
ate an olive or two,
and told her not to
worry. trust. just
trust. ruthlessly.

chop sticks

somehow i'm losing
forks, at last
count i only had
three left. a year
ago i had twelve,
i'm not sure where
they are going,
or who is taking
them, but it's an odd
thing to say the
least. they are not
heirlooms, or even
sterling silver, my
great grandmother
did not pass them
down to me,
they are just your
basic bed bath
and beyond, grab
a handful of them
off the shelf forks.
i've looked
everywhere they
might be. sometimes
when i eat chinese
food in bed, i'll
bring a fork up,
since i refuse
to use chop sticks,
and it will end up
on the floor,
under the bed,
or between
the sheets. it's not
good, i know. but
there is no one
here to yell at me
for that, so i get
away with it. i
do have a suspect
or two, but they
aren't talking to
me at the moment.
i'm sure they're
wondering where their
earrings are,
and necklaces and
the occasional
mood ring. i keep
them in a drawer
with the chopsticks,
but so far no one
has asked.

survival skills

my mother had
seven children
and when my father
left her for
the avon lady,
her best friend,
she went to work
in a strip mall
bar, first
as a waitress,
then a hostess,
then finally
as a bartender,
with which she
excelled.
being italian,
dark eyed, dark
haired and bosomy
she got it done.
sometimes at two
or three in
the morning i'd
hear a car, or
a truck, or
a motorcycle
dropping her
off in the street
in front of our
narrow brick
duplex. i never
looked out the
window. that part
i didn't want
to know. i didn't
want to own that
memory. and in
the morning,
reeking of smoke,
and beer, and
the cheap cologne
of the men who wanted
her, with her lipstick
smeared, still
in her shiny short
dress and her black
apron, her shoes off,
beneath the coffee
table, she'd
be sound asleep
on the couch, with
seven neatly stacked
piles of coins,
lunch money awaiting
us before we went
off to school.

voice mail

my mother likes
to leave sad
messages on my
voice mail. and
she talks as if
i'm listening,
as if i'm there,
as if the machine
is an ear, my
ear. and she
goes and on,
about this and
that with
no reply from
me, which is not
unlike our real
conversations
either, now that
i think of it.

hop on

i think i can
carry you across
the street, over
that very large
black puddle you
call today. but
that's about it.
i can set you on
the other curb
of your chaotic
life, but i can't
make it through
the alleys, the
freeways, the tunnels,
over the broken
bridges of your
troubled world.
i don't have the
energy or the years,
or the degree
in pyschology to
get you to all
six boroughs. i am
not an ordained
minister.
but how about you
hop on my back and
i'll get you over
there. okay?
it's a start.

illness

i prefer to
see you when you
aren't sick. when
you aren't coughing,
or green, or covered
with little bumps
that make you itch.
i'd like to see
you without the limp,
or the lisp, or
the broken arm, or
sweating with a fever,
and a sore throat.
is that too much
to ask, i tell her.
and she answers. okay,
and how about you
show up without a
broken heart one
day. fair, that's
very fair, i tell
her. a little mean,
yes. but fair.

chicken wings. now.

my friend, rimute,
from germany, all
blonde and brassy
and bold, and not
afraid to smack
you around a little
if you got too
frisky. i'm not
a race horse, she'd
say, slow down.
when she arrived
in town, and
entered her hotel
room she would open
her suitcase and
toss everything in
it into the air,
letting her dress,
her pants, her
shoes land anywhere.
no dresser for
her. and that was
how she lived. and
i asked her if
she'd like to go
to a museum, or
to a show, or to
see a monuement
downtown and she'd
laugh and say, no,
what for. i came
to see you. i
prefer room service.
call them. i want
some chicken
wings. now.

the room of dreams

i went to
the room of
dreams. it's
a place i keep
everything i
conjure in my
sleep. in fact
i added and
addition to
the attic of
my mind to keep
them all there.
there's no
dewey decimal
system to keep
them all in
place though,
they are just
randomly tossed
about, alive
and moving,
ready at the
blink of a
sleepy eye to
come back and
play again.

discarded friendships

i don't know why
i'm so often
surprised at how
hard people's
hearts can be. it
stuns me. i don't
understand
that closing door,
the tightness
of feelings locked
away, thrown
across the room,
onto the floor.
love and friendships
discarded as if
they never meant
a thing. it's
beyond me this way
of thinking.
it catches me
off guard, this
behavior. i'll
never get used
to it.

circling

my sister in florida
keeps moving from one
new house to another,
to be closer to
the beach, to a city,
to something she can't
quite ever get to,
but she tries. she
tries so hard to find
that spot in the sun,
circling like a tired
pup, before settling
down, at least for now
in that oval spot
of sunlight on the rug.

the next party

when you stand
there like that
in your red coat,
like a cherry tomato
out of season,
posing for a picture
against the shimmering
white snow, the
sun setting low
behind us, i can't
help but think
of where you'll
be a year from
now, still in that
coat, cold and
shivering, outside of
arm's reach. awaiting
the next party
to begin with someone
new, and someone
else holding
your camera.

pink balloon

that balloon
you see, way up
in the sky
is you. it's you
floating,
a pinkish hue
into the white
sun. so easy
it floats,
so quickly it
sways and moves
between the clouds
beyond the trees,
over the lake
where we once
rowed together
that late fall
day. and you refused
to wear a life
jacket, that's
how you lived,
how you died, no
rules. that was
years ago,
nearly eight
years. and that
balloon is never
quite gone
from view. i liked
that in you
and still do.

chaos

it's easy to make
the wrong choice,
leave the umbrella
in the car,
i do it all the time,
take the wrong exit,
or make a left instead
of a right. go north
instead of south,
grab the wrong coat,
or put on the brown shoes,
when black would have
worked just fine. it's
easy to ignore the red
flags and go forward when
the danger signs are
everywhere and blowing
brightly in the breeze,
so clear. chaos seems
enchanting, not unlike
you. why is that.

the great wall

i get an e-mail
from china as she
walks along the great
wall. wish you were
here, it says. it's
a really crazy, and
big wall they have
here. not unlike
the one you keep
around your heart.
funny, i tell her.
very funny. don't
fall off, don't
slip and go tumbling
down into the mouth
of a panda bear. that
would be just awful.

litmus test

she's says, come
on, just one more
kiss before we go,
before we leave
this cold parking
lot where the moon
is sharp and round
above this empty lot,
as vacant and white
as freshly fallen snow.
just one more kiss,
before we hit the road.
lips are the litmus
test for the next
encounter, she says,
and gives my lower
lip a healthy bite,
almost drawing blood.
i'm in trouble i
think, as she says
goodnight, please drive
carefully and keep both
hands on the wheel.

don't hide it

lay it down.
set it on the floor
or the counter,
but don't hide
it. put it out
where anyone can
see, where you
can pick it up
and hold it,
touch it, feel
it against your
skin. stare deeply
into what it is
and isn't, and
what it will
never be. and in
time, it will
no longer be
necessary to do
so. you will have
gained another day,
another step
towards wholeness.
and this thing
that you hold onto
so dearly will
be put into it's
rightful place,
and you'll be free.

it keeps coming

in a short time
of rain and cold
and wind, the trees
have been stripped
bare out in the woods,
just beyond the window,
past fence. and you
can see the deer,
the fox run, if you
watch long enough,
and you can see
the smooth silver
reflection of the autumn
stream that feels cold
from even here, on
the second floor.
you can feel the moon
rise, as the sun
melts just barely
high enough to cast
a shadow. there
is no pause in nature.
it just keeps coming.

The Big Bowl

over drinks and pad thai
at the Big Bowl she tells
me about the time she
was in a state of grace
and angels, and where her
heart was still and quiet
while she immersed herself
in prayer and i nod and
laugh and say, hey, i know
exactly what you mean.
the sparkling warmth,
that surreal state of peace
where everything is known.
and the crowd, the pulsing
music and the line
within the restaurant,
and the waiter that
scurries in and out with more
water, and the dessert
tray, are blurs within
our conversation. and here
i thought i was going to
have to find a window,
or a back door from which
to escape from.

staying put

it's safer sometimes,
you want to believe,
to stay put, to stay
in chaos and confusion.
to stay trapped.
no one can get to you
that way. your heart
is protected from new
love, from having it
broken once again.
your survival skills
lock in. and so
you stay. you sit in
the fire and let the
world around you burn
over and over and over
while the ashes of
your once proud life blow
in the soft warm wind.

giving in

don't try to take
my plum pudding from
me. it's mine, all
mine. get your own.
i'm not afraid of
sharing, not at all,
it's just that you
offer nothing in
return, nothing.
so the plum pudding
is mine. no. not
even a small teaspoon
of it will find it's
way into your sweet
parted lips. what's
that you're saying,
you're whispering into
my ears, making me
flush, hmm. well.
okay. just one
spoonful, but
that's all.

glenda the good witch

there was a time
when my ex wife would
ride her broom across
the threatening cloud
covered skies and write
in black smoke, surrender,
stephen. but that was
a long time ago, and
she's pretty much gotten
over that. but there
have been others up
there on similiar brooms,
with equal passion and
chilling anger. i tend
to lean towards the bad
witches, but i'm trying
to change that, i really
am. glenda, where are you.

almost covered

i'm covered,
i've got car insurance,
home insurance,
health and liability
insurance, i've got
an extra policy on
my new washing machine,
my i pod, and lap top
and i pad and toaster
oven. i'm covered
from head to toe.
my roof is insured
in case the wind blows
a tree onto it,
as is the fence around
the house. i've
got life insurance,
whole and term, i've
got dental insurance,
and insurance on my
travel plans, flight
plan and cruise to
the fiji islands, i've
got assurance from
my priest who says that
i won't be going to
hell. the flu shot
i got the other day
insures me against
the flu, well, at
least that strain.
even my dog has a policy
on him just in case
he needs a new kidney.
like i said, i'm covered
with insurance, but
not compltely. there's
one thing not covered for,
and i think you know what
i'm talking about.

shelf life

when things break
down, it's easy to
tear the mess apart
and get to the problem,
analyze and complain,
examine it from within,
but maybe, just maybe
it's shelf life has
run out and it's time
to get a new one. whether
it be a fridge, a fan,
a car, a computer,
a phone, or perhaps
the dog you've loved
so dearly is now way
beyond it's years,
and the fact that
it can't see or
walk, or bark, or
stand up and pee anymore
is a sign that it's
day has come. love
can be like that too.

silence

silence is the true
church. the real place
to go and worship.
in the hollow of
your quiet, without
words, without a
plan or point, or
purpose, no petition,
no asking, but just
the open silence.
this is where you
will hear the words
you need to hear.
in that stillness
you become whole, you
enter the place
of light. no singing.
no beating of the
chest, no bells or
lectures, or homily,
no choir. silence
is the cathedral of
your faith.

the fast clock

there are times
when the clock moves
too fast, the calendar
pages flip over
and over as if the
wind was involved.
and the world
seems to spin at
a clip that makes
you hold on to the
rail, plant your feet
and take a deep
breath. a week, a
month and a year
transpire like
nothing. each season
is just a blink
of the eye, the new
love you embraced
in may, has become
just a distant memory
in december.

panning for gold

leaning over
the stream
in the hot sun,
knees resting
on rocks and
sand, dipping
the pan into
the thin sleeve
of water that
rushes down
and out from
the mountain
that is full
of snow, and
maybe gold,
sifting through
what comes along,
with heavy arms,
the broken pieces,
the pebbles that
have that shine,
but aren't who
you think they
are, looking for
that one nugget,
that gleaming
gem upon which
to rest upon.

lighting the tree

as the tree goes
up, and the furniture
is moved in order to
make room in the
far corner and the lights
are strung around,
and the bulbs and
ornaments are carefully
placed throughout
the thick green
branches, and the tinsel
is thrown sparingly
about, the angel
placed on the top,
and you hit the
switch in the darkeness
and stand back,
well, it's a good
thing. a very small
and good thing to behold.

victim status

there is a long
line at the counter
for victim status.
it's a grey dark
line that wraps
around the corner.
the lonely and tired,
the jobless, the
divorced and widowed,
the sick and
disenchanted are all
there in their long
coats. they
want to wear that
crown of thorns,
they want to be
known for all that
can't be, for all that
they have lost and
won't get back.
they want you to
know and know and
know the mess that
they are prepetually
in. they want you in
their corner. they
don't want out, they
want to stay in,
and they want you
to join them everyday
for a cup of tea
to discuss it. i can
can do one or two
such cups, but then
it's time to move
on when they don't
listen to a word
i'm saying or refuse
to seek help.

ghosts

in the shadows,
ghosts arrive
from years gone
by. ones you loved,
or thought you loved,
but have revised
that notion with
enough elapsed
time. but these
ghosts linger
in the hallways of
your mind. turning
on the lights
rattling the pots
and pans of your
emotions. but it's
okay, this too
shall pass and
things will once
again, be fine.

in search of

in search of
a cup of normal.
a slice of apple
pie, the girl
next door with
the wind in her
hair and a smirk
in her smile.
edgy and bright,
with a desire
for joy, for life.
all of her baggage
can be stowed away
in the overhead
bin. you know her
when you see her,
and the kiss is not
just a kiss, it's
a beginning. a
start to what
you've always thought
could be, and yet
somehow missed.

divorce

divorce comes in
stages. first there is
the recognition that
it's over, that love
has died or at least
ebbed to the point of
lonliness while with
the other person. sex
is over, or at least
should be in the form
that it's taken. and
then there is the big
talk, the crying, the
fear, the anger, the
accusations, the admissions
of sins, confession
and remorse. okay, some
regret too. but basically
the house is burned to
the ground. then you
go together to counseling
which is like the fire
department spraying water
onto the ashes of your
marriage, it's way too
late. and then the fun
really begins. lawyers
measure you up, count
the money you have before
surrender and off you go.
but the hard part is now,
the limbo period, when
you are stuck together
in the same house, in
different rooms, in different
beds, loveless and
confused, sad and blue.
this is the hardest part.
escape. letting go of
the ties that bind,
the holidays, the furniture,
who gets the dog, the
cat, what days do we
split the child in two
and shuttle him back and
forth from new home to
new home. and money, oh
how the money begins
to matter. it takes over.
who gets the house,
who stays, who goes,
who gives in. and this
is just the beginning.
friends take sides, in
laws and neighbors.
the world will never be
the same, at least not
for a very very long
time. divorce. god help us.

cake love

she bakes cakes in her
sleep. round and layered,
tiered. angel food
and devil's food, all
floating like balloons
in the blue skies
of her dreams. she can
taste them while she
turns in her bed, her head
upon the pillow, a smile
on her lips that savors
the texture of eggs
and sugar, flour and
sweet icings all as
one. and she wishes
that her life could
be as smooth and perfect
as these cakes that
line the shelves of
her slumber and awaken
her with a hunger for
true and lasting love.

pirate girl

she's not a pirate,
but she likes to dress
up like one. with the
boots, black and shiny,
the pants, also black
and tight all the way
up. and that billowing
white blouse with three
buttons, cut loose
and alluring. she has
no sword, or parrot, or
patch on her eye, but
i like what she's got
going on. climb aboard.

the rolling boat

back and forth,
yes and no,
perhaps and maybe,
these are the
waves that roll
the boat, get you
nowhere. i'm coming
for the holidays,
no, i can't, i've
changed my mind,
my flight, my
whole outlook
on life is upside
down. i might get
back with the ex,
perhaps i'll drop
the divorce plans
and make a go of it.
we're so happy
when we are happy.
so no, don't plan
on me coming, don't
overcook, or buy
too much. just set
out one plate, you're
on your own. but
wait, let me sleep
on it. can i tell
you for sure tomorrow?

low on ink

my printer keeps
telling me that i'm
low on ink. i know
that. i really do.
you'll get your ink,
just hold still.
but it keeps
shaking and moving
back and forth,
it seems very
nervous and confused,
almost trembling
with anticipation.
it's blinking
and making squeaky
noises. i know that
feeling, it's exactly
what i go through
when i'm low on
grey goose.

social marketing 101

my friend jimmy met me
for lunch the other day. he
was really excited. i've got
this great new business
he said, bursting with
enthusiasm. what, i ask,
what is it. it's called
marketing. okay, i say.
what are you marketing.
whatever he says, it
doesn't matter. but it's
a great way to meet women.
beats the hell out of the
internet. they love this
stuff. you get dressed up,
go to happy hours and
'business meetings' and
stand around drinking talking
to attractive women. but
aren't you married? yes,
but, i don't wear my ring
when i'm out 'marketing'. i
tell her i'm out working
late. he gives me a wink.
she's at home watching
the kid, exhausted from
dragging him around to
soccer games and birthday
parties. ha. i'm working
late, babe, i tell her.
she's out like a light
by the time i get home
from work. by the end
of the night everyone
is so wasted no one cares
who's married, single,
or whatever. it's crazy,
i tell you. it's a party
three nights a week.
but what are you selling,
what are they selling, who's
buying anything? pffft, he
says, you are so missing
the point. you collect
business cards and shoot
the breeze, knock down
a few glasses of wine, flirt
around, nod your head alot,
smile, and say serious
things like, my numbers
this quarter are definitely
up or i really feel like
the economy is finally turning
around. be positive and
optimistic, women like that.
these things are a gold
mine i tell you for meeting
babes. he pulls out a stack
of business cards, i got these
last night. it's hard to
keep them straight, who's who.
it's like shooting fish in a
barrel. but, i ask him,
how is anyone making money.
he laughs. nobody is really
making any money except
the people throwing these
'events'. they collect
the fees to get in.
most people are losing money
doing this, but hey, they're
hooking up. hmmmm. so you quit
your day job to do this?
hell no, he says, i need
some source of income. why
don't you come with me
next week. put on a nice
suit. it's martini night
at the local executive's
business association, it's
at aldo's italian restaurant,
women love that place.
they flock to these happy hours
like bees around honey,
networking. trying to hit
that homerun with some guy
with dough. get some business
cards made up too. you'll need
plenty. what should i call
myself? hmmm, how about
senior vp marketing executive,
east coast division. perfect,
he says. it starts at
seven or so and runs until
midnight, unless you
get lucky. he laughs. i keep
an overnight bag in the car
just in case. well,
i gotta run, he says. i'm
working. i've got a lunch
date at one, i mean 'business
meeting' and another one at two
with these women i met
the other night at happy
hour, i mean the networking
strategy event. ha. he
waves his blackberry at me
that is blinking and buzzing
off the hook, then slaps me
on the back, see you friday,
for work! don't forget those
new business cards, buddy.
welcome to the wonderful
world of marketing.