the long way home

you know the way home.
the straight
way. but you prefer
the scenic route.
you want to delay
your arrival. it's
more about who you
are with though.
you want the conversation
to continue, her presence
to be longer. sometimes
you'll drive in a
circle, listening
to her talk. nodding
your head like a bobble
doll, agreeing
with everything she
says, even when she
talks about cats
and how wonderful
they are.

room service

you are at the age
where
a massage is
almost as good
as sex.
not quite,
but getting close.
combining the two
would be a
wonderful thing.
and room
service.
and a do not
disturb
sign on the door.

whiskey legs

one woman
had much too much
to drink
in celebrating
the wedding.
she may have been
an aunt,
or cousin,
or a relative
of some
degree.
she found a nice
spot
at the open
bar, near
a port hole
where she could
watch
the slow
movement of the
shore as the sun
upon it.
she found it necessary
to kiss anyone
who said hello
and to tell them how
much she loved them.
drink after drink.
her legs filled
with whiskey
she was unable
to walk
off the boat
when it finally docked
and had to be
strapped to a dining
room chair
where she was
carried off and set
free on the dock
to find her
way home.

dancing shoes

there might be
dancing
at this wedding
you have committed
to attend,
so you start
drinking early.
you put on
your old dancing
shoes
from back in
the eighties,
finding them
in the closet
with a dried up
tube of your
ancient
new wave
hair gel. you
shine them
up to a nice
glossy raw
umber, then
do a few moves
in the floor
length mirror.
you still got it.
you do a moon
walk and go
ooh ooh.
some people
are born to dance,
and you,
my man, are one
of them.
where's that drink?

cupcake temptation

feel
my muscles
she says, then
flexes her legs.
you say
something like
wow,
jump back jack.
they are like
steel vises.
you are afraid.
very afraid.
don't be she says.
I can bake
too, here I
made you some
cupcakes.
you are suspicious
of her
offerings, but
tempted
non the less.

she sighs

she sighs.
she
puts her hand
to her chin.
the yard
is green
and lush,
her life
is brown and
dry.
there must
be more.
something
out there
waiting to lift
me
past myself,
someone.
the afternoon
is long
and hot,
the night
even longer.
tomorrow,
she says out
loud to no one,
tomorrow.

cops

you get nervous
around cops.
it's not that you
are breaking the law,
or even thinking
of anything illegal,
but they just
make you itchy
with their guns
and hats, those
badges and big
belts full of
gizmos. always talking
in cop speak
with their
no ma'ams and yes
sirs. saying words
like the perpetrator,
that's a ten four.
your stomach jumps
when you see those
party lights go on
behind you. red and
blue, that crazy
siren. that megaphone
bossing everyone
around. cops.
pfft. where are they
when you need em?

wedding wear

the wedding
invitation says
casual dress
but with a nautical
theme.
the wedding will
take place
on a boat
on the river
in the middle of
the day.
you scratch your
head.
casual clothes
you have. in fact
it's all you wear
anymore.
but nautical,
that's a problem.
you think flip
flops, a little
sailor's cap,
maybe a blue blazer.
you could sew
an anchor onto
the pocket.
something white
with big blue buttons.
bell bottoms,
you used to have
plenty, but they went
out in the 70's.
some clam digger
pants, perhaps.
maybe you can go
with the shipwrecked
look, torn shirt,
ripped pants,
shoes with no laces.
you get out your scissors
and get to work.

the board leaders

the community
leaders,
serious with their
clipboards
walk slowly
nodding and
murmuring to
each other, taking
notes. staring
at your house,
your yard,
that tire
leaning
against your
boxwood bush.
they point
in unison at that
rusted washing
machine
that you haven't
had time to get
out of the yard.
they write,
and make check marks
on their pads.
shaking their
heads. you see
the older man,
the president
of the board
tear a red sticker
off his roll
of stickers
and then
smooth it out
on the windshield
of your car.
then they see you
in the window,
and scurry off not
knowing if you
have a weapon of
any kind.

making changes

you think about
giving up
up coffee
one day.
and martinis.
and seeing ginger
on Tuesdays
for a mid
afternoon rendezvous
in her
father's garage.
red meat too.
maybe you'll cut
down on
sweets, cookies
and ice cream.
toss that bag
of chips.
television, do you
really need it?
maybe read more,
and stop
watching dancing
with the fading
stars.
when it's sunny
out, maybe you won't
lie down
in the yard
and let the sun
wash over
your face.
maybe you'll get
up at six
and be at work
by seven.
maybe, but it's
doubtful you'll
make any of these
changes. you kind
of like the way
things are.

gum on your shoe

sometimes
you get gum on
your shoe
and it sticks with
you the whole
day. you have
clients
like that.
who keep spitting
out gum,
and letting you
step on it.
you stop, and scrape,
you take
your shoe off
and do everything
humanly possible
to get it off,
but more gum
keeps coming.
they keep chewing
and spitting.
you can't make
them happy enough
to stop.

organized madness

nothing gets
thrown away. instead
she pushes
things into separate
piles.
books in one,
clothes in another.
shoes too.
some doors are blocked,
windows
shaded by stacks
of coats. there
are areas that are
off limits.
in the yard, the
same goes
on. a pile of dirt
here, a stack
of bricks over
there. rotted wood
and dead leaves
have their own
pile too.
rakes, shovels
and brooms together
against
the rusted shed.
her life is full
of little pathways,
narrow corridors
that few can
fit through.
it makes you understand
her so much
better when
you stand back and
take a look, seeing
the organized madness
that she is.

she still goes on

your mother
is still standing
in the yard
hanging sheets
across the line.
she's still
in the kitchen
stirring
a boiling pot
of red sauce.
she's knitting
yet another set
of booties
for another
child born.
she's wrapping
Christmas gifts
in july. making
a dozen loaves
of bread with her
new bread machine.
she's staring out
the window
waiting for your
father to come home.
she's wiping
the laminated
list of numbers
that hangs
on the wall
near the parrot
cage. she's
waiting for
the phone to ring,
she's doing a crossword
puzzle with
the dictionary
in her lap.
she's not old.
she's not.
she still goes
on.

out of luck

she tells you
that she is tombstone
shopping, that
she needs
to go to north
Carolina
and look at few
that are on
sale, some already
inscribed
with names
and dates, but
those can be
ground down smooth
again,
and his name put
on. do you think
it's bad luck she
says. using another
person's tombstone?
no, you tell
her. the luck has
run out. it shouldn't
matter.

the wire fence

the wire
fence stretched
taut
between
old posts
is bent.
at night the deer
jump
in and eat
the flowers.
you can here
them
rustling
about, sipping
water
where there is
water.
listening
in case
they need to
scurry
and jump
back out.

the clearing

they've cleared
the trees,
altered
the curve
of the stream,
paved
a road in
between the new
freshly
built homes.
the trucks
pull up
and empty all
the things
that people
own, children
are born.
the elderly die.
in time
the town grows
and changes,
some survive.
they've cleared
the trees.

who?

people
disappear.
sometimes before
your eyes.
you see
them fading
from your life.
their voices
drifting off
into whispers.
before long
you've forgotten
their names.
you stare into
your phone
and wonder, who?

traveling to the moon

as we
travel to
the moon
we sleep
in each other's
arms
anxious
to arrive.
having waited
so long
to find one
another.
but it's
happened, and
now the moon
awaits
us.
the shine
of its
face
waiting to
embrace the love
we've found.

the bent nail

despite
the angle
and the damage
done
there is hope
for the bent
nail
that wiggles
half spiked
into the plaster
wall.
you can pull
it out
and pound it
straight or
take a chance
and strike it
hard
hoping that it
finds a solid
place with
which to hang
your tomorrows.

a box of yesterdays

each yesterday
keeps piling up.
you save
them
in a box, by
the window
where you can
take each one
out and remember
it.
some are blank.
some are full
of hope
and love. in
others, there
is distress
and worry,
but for the most
part it's
a box full of
good stuff,
like
your son,
and friends
your pets,
lovers, and very
few regrets.

stolen fruit

with your knuckles
you tap
the side of the large
striped
green watermelon.
you are a watermelon
expert.
you used to steal
watermelons as a kid
from St. Elizabeth's
farm near the river,
where you'd fish with
the other boys. in
the summer heat you
were barely strong enough
to run with one
cradled in your arms,
dashing through
the furrows of
the thick field.
and now
as you stand
in the grocery store,
tapping this melon,
the memory of those
days comes back
as sweet and luscious
as the bites were
from that stolen fruit
so long ago.

skipping rope

as the children
skip rope
out on the sidewalk
you hear them
sing like high
pitched birds
the rhymes their
mothers taught
them. the rope
snapping against
the pavement,
the shoes scuffing
against the walk.
how short, and brief
these summer
days are, when skipping
rope is all
that matters.

e mail from God

so much
is unclear.
God being
the mystery that
he or she
is.
but you'd like
a few answers
on occasion
explaining
a variety of
things
that confuse
you.
sure, there
are scholars
and priests,
gurus and
yogis.
there are plenty
of spiritual
people
who can hand
you a road map
to show you where
you might
be going, or
where you've been.
but all the maps
seem to be
different.
you'd just like
to get a phone call,
a message
in a bottle, or
an e mail from
God, giving you
a thumbs up, or
one of those little
smiley faces,
something to brighten
up the day.

the girl in the grocery store

you miss her.
you aren't sure why.
you hardly
know her.
in fact you've
only seen her
a few times coming
and going
out of the grocery
store.
but you've created
a life for
the both of you.
she just doesn't
know it yet.
and if you ever
see her again,
you might
try to get in
the same checkout
line with your
cart as she is in.
maybe make eye
contact and tell
her that you like
lettuce too,
staring at her
romaine stalks
next to her soy milk.
you hope she
doesn't pepper
spray you, but it's
worth a shot.

the apology

it's silly to fight
like this, she says.
coming into the room
with a tray full of
tea and toast. eggs
over easy. I'm sorry
that I called you
a stupid idiot
last night,
a moron and a fool
I was wrong to question
your intelligence,
sexuality and lack
of ambition. let's
make peace, okay?
you scratch your head
and fold your arms.
so, you're apologizing?
yes, she says, have
some breakfast you
big lunk head. I made
the eggs just the
way you like them.
but I like scrambled
eggs. you forgot
already didn't you?

he knows

he knows a little
bit about
everything.
ask him anything.
anything.
hot air balloons,
hunting,
the moon,
where Columbus
really
landed, any
animal in the zoo.
he's very smart.
well read,
eager to let you
in on a secret
or a fact of life
that you may or
may not know.
ask about
van Gogh's ear.
he knows and given
the chance,
will let you
know.

the endings

many stories
don't get finished.
the words
are all there
inside you
but they lay
scattered on
the floor
waiting to be
arranged
and set down
in print.
but you have
no ending, no
middle. you just
have a beginning.
you are good
with beginnings,
always,
but the endings
elude you.

it goes on

mark twain
pinned notes
to the tree
outside
his home
asking the birds
not to sing.
not now, not
with his
true love
away from
him.
but the birds
did not
listen.
like so much
of the world,
they went on
chirping
as if there
was no
grief or
sadness felt.

a small rain

a small
rain
would be nice.
maybe an hour
or so from
now while
I'm napping
in the cool
room, below
the fan
after a hot
bath
and a drink.
a small
rain would be
a sweet way
to end the day.
maybe some thunder.
lighting
in the distance.
nothing
too wild.
just a breeze
that goes in
the front window,
across my tired
body then out
the back.
a small rain
would be nice,
and the trees,
with leaves
upturned like
small green hands
would like
it too.

pink flip flops

your former soul, betty,
before your current soul
mate, calls and asks
if she
left her flip flops
at your house.
they're pink with little
rhinestones on the front.
you hold the phone
in between your shoulder
and chin
and start to search.
look under the kitchen
table, she says.
nope, not there.
on the back porch?
you open the door
and look out, nope.
living room couch.
nada.
hmmm. she says. what
were we doing when I
came over last week.
then you both say at
the same time, right.
okay, i'll go look
under the bed. hold
on, going up the stairs.
got em.

the metaphor

not everything
is a metaphor
of sorts, although
you find it almost
impossible not
to think in those
terms. occasionally
you'd like a mountain
to be just that.
a mountain,
for rain to
represent nothing
more than rain
watering the earth.
you'd like to look
at a fallen grey
tree along
the stream and for
once not think of
your own mortality.

the fourth martini

you can't be
more charming and clever
after one
strong martini,
stirred, not
shaken. ice cold
with an
olive perched on
a toothpick.
by the second one,
you are reciting poetry,
giving details
of why clouds
are clouds,
how it takes a
lot to laugh but
a train to cry.
at the end of a
third martini you
are on your knees
professing your love
and devotion
to someone who you
cant remember
exactly what
her name is.
you can't recall
the fourth or anything
that followed.
but there is a lingering
feeling of
regret as you
search for your
keys, your wallet
and pants as the sun
rises painfully
through a crack
in the blinds.

the wishing well

standing by
the fountain you see
people with
their eyes closed,
mumbling something
to themselves before
tossing in a coin
they've dug out
of their pocket or
purse. they are
sending wishes
up to some invisible
money grubbing
deity who may or
may not grant the wish.
at night, the custodian
drains the pool,
gathers the coins
and then refills it.
throwing in his own
coin for his own wish.
which is for more
people to want
things they'll never
have.

cat and mouse

you forget
sometimes
who is the cat
and who is the mouse.
you like
the chase,
the narrow
escape,
the adrenaline
rush of hiding,
but
the catching part
is fun too.

the baby powder solution

you call
the community hot
line
to find out how
to keep
wild animals
out of your trash.
you go on and on
leaving
a long detailed
message
about possum
and squirrels,
deer
and skunks.
all tilting
the lids off your
cans and eating
what you
didn't finish.
finally a woman
breaks
through the line
and says,
baby powder.
sprinkle it all
over your trash
and you're good to go.
plus it will
smell sweet.

in the middle

you lean
neither left or right.
you can
make a case for
both
given the time,
yes
the whales
need to be saved,
the guns
melted
into plowshares,
but things
sometimes swing
too far to one
side or the other.
there is no
middle politician,
you cant win
that way so you
close your eyes,
pinch your nose
and pull
the lever.

mean streak

the mean streak
doesn't show
itself right away.
it needs to
be teased out,
prodded from its
hiding place.
but it's there,
waiting
with dark eyes
and sharp teeth
to bite the one
who happens
to be near.

the woman with blue gloves

in her bee
bonnet
and father's
large
pants held
up by twine, goggles
wrapped around
her eyes,
and boots
up to her
knees she comes
out
of her dark
locked house
and says hello.
she's wearing
blue rubber gloves
that come
up to her
elbows. you try
hard not to stare.
turning your attention
to the work
at hand.
how's it going,
she says.
are you getting
the job done.
yes you say.
I'm fine.
great she says
then grabs
and axe with which
to chop a tree
down beside
the house.

your aura

I can see your
aura
your new friend
gypsy rose lee
tells you
over clam
chowder
and crackers.
oh really now
you say, sipping
soup from
a hot spoon.
blowing away a
cloud of fishy
steam.
your aura
is blue, she says.
you're a water
guy. she puts her hands
into the air
like she might
take flight.
you are a blue, and deep
person.
compassionate
and kind. I see
lots of blue
around you.
you look over
your shoulder
to see who she
might be talking
about.
and what about me,
she asks you.
can you see
my aura.
is there a light
above my head.
I don't know,
you tell her.
I'm not into that
stuff. plus
it's kind of dark
in here.
I wish your head
was glowing
though, then maybe
I could read
the entrees on this
menu.

wait

methodical
people drive you
insane, a short
drive perhaps,
but just the
same. you
cringe at
how rational
and slow
they are to
move, to act.
even a simple
task is made
hard by
overthinking.
you want to
plow forward.
hit the pedal,
and see
how far you've
gone. but no.
they need
a plan
of attack.
don't move,
don't touch,
wait, just wait
and it will
all be done
in good time.
meanwhile
the leaves fall,
the seasons
change, you age.

it's close enough

it's close
enough she says.
we get along.
it's fine.
he has a sense
of humor.
he treats me
well. he's
loyal
and kind.
it's close
enough, i'll
stay as
long as I can.
no need to
tell him
what's really
on my mind.

up on the hill

you see them,
the young men,
so early in
their lives,
up on the hill playing
some sort of
toss ring.
you stand at your
kitchen
sink, peering
out the blinds.
the men
and women are happy
to be on the hill
in the sunlight
tossing these
toy rings,
beers in hand,
a grill smoking
nearby where the women
holding pink babies,
like new balloons
stir the embers,
quietly talking
amongst themselves.

relatives

on the street,
there are those
that you avoid,
averting your eyes
crossing the street,
dipping into an alley
to not get into
a conversation with
them. some of these
people are relatives.
which makes it even
more strange.

a different world

to avoid
the wagon full
of bearded men
and women
in long dresses
with bonnets
and muddied boots
you slow almost
to a stop
in your car.
you turn off
the gps, lower
the radio,
stop talking
on your phone
and push the button
to let the window
go down.
you hear
the snap of the slender
whip,
the horses hooves
on the pavement.
the quick roll
of the wheels,
the silence
of the passengers
straight backed
in their seats,
in no hurry,
to let your
world go by.

the senses

each
sense keeping
him
tethered
to the world.
but
then
he didn't smell
the cats.
or hear
the birds
building a
nest in
the attic,
he no longer
could see
the mail
on the floor
coming
through the slot,
or taste
the tea
he boiled
on the stove.
there was no one
there to touch,
so that was
gone too.
and madness
ensued.

the black snake

there are
birds
in the vent.
small birds
breaking through
the fragile
skin shells
of eggs.
you can hear
them chirp,
their tiny
wings
featherless
trying
to flap.
they don't know
quite
yet what awaits
on the outside,
the black snake
coiled
nearby, ready
to snap.

try try again

it's another marriage.
another handful
of rice
thrown in the air,
another promise
of love,
another set of vows,
another
dress, another cake,
another honeymoon.
it's another marriage,
but maybe this time,
this will be the one
that takes.

former friends

as the boat
speeds through
the harbor, people
on other boats
like to wave.
so you wave back
to your new friends
sailing
on the bay.
but on land,
later, they pretend
not even know you.
turning their
heads away,
no longer as
friendly like
they were with so
much water
between you,
going speedily
the other way.

checking twice

routine
makes us safe.
or at least feel safe.
getting out
of bed
on the right side.
coffee.
two creams, two
sugars.
left shoe
first, pants
and shirt
one following
the other.
a hundred
brushes of hair.
checking
the stove,
touching the spigot
on the sink
to make the drip
stop.
circling
the room before
you leave.
checking twice
the lock.

not easy wearing green

what makes
you decide to wear
an outlandish
color
like bright
green, lime
leaning towards
apple.
what possessed
you to leave
the house
like a beaming
light
in the fog
of blues and grey.
what insanity
has been passed
down through
your strand of
dna, your flawed
genes to make
you even think
for a second that
you could wear
such a color as
green?
quickly you search
for a barrel
of fire to toss
it in.

old age

old age
does not sneak
up on you.
or whisper
in your ear.
it doesn't
hide
in the closet
or under the bed.
no.
it takes
your hand
your arm, your
leg and leads
you
into tomorrow
with a firm
grip.

sea glass

a piece
of blue sea glass
among
the broken
shells.
how can you not
bend over
and pick it up.
how can anyone
walk
past and let
beauty lie
alone
along the shore.

tell me something about you

tell me something I
don't know about you,
she says. something
new and interesting.
she bugs her eyes
out with enthusiasm.
having fun with her
own question.
you scratch your head.
ummm. I take a hot
bath everyday. what?
she says. you do?
yes. I do. sometimes
I read in the tub.
other times I turn
the light off and
just soak, letting
the phone ring.
I might stay in
there for three minutes
and other times until
the water gets cold.
once in a while
i'll fold the newspaper
into a handy square
and do that days
crossword puzzle,
trying not to get
the paper wet. sometimes
i'll stare at my feet
as they rest on the end
of the tub under
the faucet and wonder
if I should get a
pedicure. okay, okay,
she says. you can stop
now. in fact, you know
what. it's getting
kind of late. no need
to walk me to my car.
bye. take care.

look at my salad

you are so proud
of the salad
you just made
that you have to
take a photo of
it and send it out
to your vegetarian
friends. it is
a green pyramid
of health.
abundant in
lettuce and blue
cheese, croutons
and cranberries.
some eggs. they
are not impressed
though. what, no
kale they say.
where's the broccoli,
the spinach,
the chick peas,
and red onions.
you write back,
I don't know.
what they don't
see is the cheese
burger and plate
of fries, just
out of the picture
frame. lettuce
tomato and onion
adorn the soft
roll. just a dab
of ketchup. a man's
gotta eat.

a day on the boat

there are boat people.
but you are not
one of them.
noah was a boat person.
Ahab and Columbus,
were boat people.
Jonah had some trouble
with the boat
he was on.
some like
the tilt of the sail,
the hum
of the engine
leaving a wide
froth of wake
behind it.
it's nice, sure.
but you bore easily.
you think about
how far to shore
you'd have to swim
should an iceberg
be struck,
or a rock hidden
below the murky
surface. a beer
or two helps. a
sandwich. it's a
long day out on
the boat. oh look,
a light house.

finger food

you tire
of hors d'oeuvres,
finger
food and such.
crackers
with a tiny
morsel of crab
meat hanging
on for dear
life.
the bacon
wrapped
water chestnut,
the sliver
of calamari,
a stuffed olive
with cream
cheese. enough.
give me a plate
of real
food please.
a kiss, not a peck,
a long
warm hug, not
a pat on
the shoulder
farewell.
a night, not
an hour.

stuck jars

when you were younger
you thought you
needed muscles popping
out of your head,
your arms, your neck
and legs.
to have your shirts
tight with the proof
of your manly ambition
to be in shape
like a character
in a comic book.
but after awhile,
you realized that maybe
that's not the way
to get the girl.
most just want someone
who would listen
to them, not change
a tire, or open a stuck
jar of olives, although
those things are
helpful too.

too good

she tells you that
she needs
to be bad once
in awhile, that she's
too good, too
well behaved,
too catholic
and selective in who
she decides to let
kiss her.
you sigh. agreeing
wholeheartedly.

what's remembered

you remember
everything
and forget everything.
the smallest
of moments
are etched into
your brain
like oil paintings
on the vast
long walls
of your consciousness.
and yet,
your wallet
and keys are nowhere
to be found.
cell phone, you
have no clue
where you left it
or set it down.
but an unkind
word, or kind
word spoken
in casual conversation,
that is saved
and centered
on the front wall,
never to be
forgotten.

her stinky shoes

she leaves
her wet
shoes on the porch
after running.
they stink to high
heaven, whatever
that phrase might mean.
flies come a buzzing,
mushrooms
pop up from the souls.
you leave
a message on her
voice mail telling
her about
the garden that
is her shoes.
it's been weeks,
but she doesn't
care.
she apparently
has new shoes.
a new boyfriend.
she's still running,
but not towards
you anymore.

staying in

sometimes
the man
will peer out
the window
pulling
back a taped
yellow curtain
just enough
so that you see
his grey
blue eyes,
watered
and blinking.
he hasn't been
out for awhile.
maybe years.
someone, that
might be his
daughter
leaves food
on the back
porch. she probably
pays his bills
and keeps
things going.
there is nothing
wrong with
him, people
say. he's just
had enough
of the world
and wants to
be left alone.
you've had days
like that, but
never years, at
least not yet.

the anything closet

one closet
you have to open
gingerly,
just slightly
pulling on the knob
with your
knee braced
against
the center
of the door.
it's the end
of the road closet.
the big fat
t.v. that you'll
never ever use
again, and that
no one wants sits
there.
three old
comforters that
smell strangely
like an ocean.
assorted
shoes, and beach
chairs.
half broken
lamps with torn
shades. stacked
boxes of checks when
checks were
sent back for
your files.
this closet being
your file. nothing
worth keeping
and yet, you can't
find the time or
ambition
to haul it all out
to the curb. with all
your strength, after
throwing in a pair
of high heels,
you close it back
up. tightly.

if it rains

you can
see that it might
rain.
this is a good
thing.
not just for
the earth, but
more importantly
for you.
you can crawl
back into bed
and resume your
favorite dream
if sleep lets you,
or start a new
one from scratch.

the bee hive woman

you had to raise
your hand
like a child in school
to get her to stop
talking
and take a turn.
she had a lot to say
about a lot
of things.
each thought
disconnected.
her head was like
a bee hive
struck with a stick.
the words,
or bees flying out
of her mouth
in all directions.
meandering to a different
flower or tree,
or patch of skin
to land upon.
luckily you had
on your bee suit,
safe and protected
from her
stings. when it was
over you clumsily
walked away
and wondered what
that was all about.

the abstract painting

it's a boat,
no,
wait, it might
be a
shark
but it's swimming
above
the water.
if you turn
it up side
down, or
sideways it's
someone smiling
in a chaotic
soup
of blue and white
strokes
of paint.
from a distance
it's
a metaphor for
life.
maybe it should
be hung in the basement
in the back
room light.
or maybe you'll
just wait
before hanging
it. setting it
in the closet
with the others,
them too waiting
to find a spot
that's just right.

a little white pill

is anyone
not
on a pill.
head
in the clouds.
on a island
of their
own
called
almost
happy. raise
your hand,
if you can.
who isn't taking
a tiny
white dot
of chemical
chalk
prescribed
for three
times a day
after eating?
no driving
of farm
machinery
or climbing
onto rooftops,
or drinking
a gin and tonic.
it's bliss
as your life
slides seamlessly
away with
no music made,
no books written,
no art
coming from your
limp hand.

your concierge

sometimes
the spigot
of your faith
runs dry,
or just a drop
or two
drains out
despite how
hard you
turn the handle
in prayer.
you want a loved
one to be
healed,
or for patience
to arrive
or for your keys
to be found.
you even once
prayed for
traffic to dissolve
before your
eyes.
you have your
God on a leash,
asking
for him to sit
and heal.
he is your concierge
in the sky.

sweet tea

her hand
touches mine
as she pours
the tea
into delicate
cups.
sugar and cream?
yes, I tell her
and ask, toast?
sure, she answers,
blueberry
jam? why yes,
please.
and this is
how early love
goes.
no quarrel
with the tea.

the complaint booth

you get a job
at the complaint
department.
taking on
the grumpy,
the tired, the poor
and weary,
the disenfranchised,
the sore losers.
angry drivers,
bitter travelers.
they all have
something to say.
so you listen
and listen,
sometimes you give
them a dollar
or a piece of
chocolate
and tell them to
go away. others
you smile at, and
tell them a joke
about the pope,
a nun and
a fishing boat.
it's a long day,
but you aren't
complaining.
seeing how miserable
so many people
are makes your
life seem swell.

standing in the shadow of love

you aren't
as good looking as
you think you are,
she tells you in an
e mail writing
in dark blood.
you can almost feel
the force of her
fingers striking
the keys.
just because I'm
a large woman you've
rejected me.
I was once a trophy
wife, a catch.
and when I lose
this weight i'll
be back turning
heads, ignoring you.
you are no
George Clooney.
you aren't even
bozo the clown
though you made me laugh.
you're a step below
a cave man.
you may have been
a pretty boy once,
but you've aged
and now you are just
an old man with
wrinkles, bald.
shallow and mean.
I'm okay with being,
okay, i'll come out
and say it. fat, but you
will never change.
go look in the mirror
loser man and weep,
but don't cry for
me, cause I'm bigger
than that.

pancakes

the stack of pancakes
makes your
eyes widen.
golden soft pages
of fried batter.
the skinny waitress,
sunburned
and blonde, wobbles
as she carries
the heavy plate
to your table,
batting her blue
eyes and smiling.
there is a clunk when
the dish is set down.
they have been
buttered before
they arrive.
you pour a stream
of amber
syrup on the top.
whipped cream, she
asks, pulling out a can
from her deep
apron pocket.
you shake your head.
it's more than you
need, more than you
can eat, but
the the first soft
bite that lingers
in your mouth makes
you think, maybe,
you can do it, you
think about
the starving people
in india that your
mother seemed to
know so much about
despite only reading
photoplay magazine
for her weekly news.
you dig in. the day is
long. you're on vacation.

go on

you are the chained
dog
barking,
the lion pacing
behind
the bars,
you are the fish
at the end
of a silver
hook,
the bird with
a clipped wing
flying
in circles,
you are the sky
full
of rain,
the earth cracked
wide
and open.
you are the wound
that won't
heal,
the fever that
won't cool.
you are the lover
unquenched,
the son,
unloved.
the moon, the stars,
everything
below
and above, all
of which too
go on about their day.

children on the shore

with strawed drinks
at their pursed
lips
the mothers,
from chairs sunk
deep into the sand,
umbrella made
shade holding them
in place, like
mushrooms
planted,
bark instructions
to the children
of what to do, what
not to do
as they run
towards the open
arms of crashing
waves. throwing
themselves at
the perilous
world of an ocean
not yet stepped
into. already
knowing that
that world may be
better than the one
that sits behind them.

the bones

I have a bone
to pick
with you, she says.
but before
she begins.
you imagine
a plate of fish,
it's smooth
feather like
flesh
removed.
it's open mouth,
wordless
without
the sea.
it's button
eyes flattened
still
reflecting
you now.
and the bones, white
slender
sticks
that held
it all together.
what bones, you
say, finally.
what bone
is there to pick.

into the cold

how timid
are the first steps
into
chilled water.
each wave
splashing higher
onto the sun
baked
skin.
waiting for that
moment to give
up and just
dive in.
feeling the rough
sand,
the soft roll
of rocks
beneath your
feet. seeing the silver
crests, lapping,
the greens
all changing
and shifting below
the clouds.
finding the right
moment
the right height
of wave
and throwing your
arms forward,
head first
into the cold.

the lovers

you see the men
at the bar
without women.
without wives,
ruddy faced
from the beach
and waves,
perhaps eighteen
holes of
golf where no
one wins or
loses, but now
in untucked
shirts
and baggy pants,
bellies
unabashedly
hanging out,
beers in hand.
these men leaning
into one another,
hands over
shoulders,
cheek and against
rough cheek.
each talking more
loudly
than the other,
praising and
chiding
with aged joy.
lovers, more intimate
with one
another than
many true lovers
could ever be.

sand man

you have sand
in your shorts,
in your shoes,
your ears
and hair.
there is sand
in your suitcase,
in the floor
board of your car.
there is sand
in the creases
of your hand.
there is sand
in your eyebrows,
in the corner
of your mouth.
you are an hour
glass spilling
sand out. you
wonder if you left
any of it behind.

look, a dolphin

bored with
dolphins jumping
like black
parenthesis in
the blue sea,
you want a whale
or two
to appear, to
blow some steam,
perhaps a shark
to bare it's
sharpened teeth,
to make
the children scream,
or an octopus
with it's tentacles
holding
a surfer or three
in it's grasp.
where are the giant
squid,
the sting rays
and barracuda.
enough with the dolphins
and their
pretty little
grey snouts
honking like flipper.

the open ear

grief,
like happiness,
is best
shared.
both wanting
to be heard,
to be known
and have others
made aware.
sometimes it's
your turn
to be silent
and lend
the open ear.

what we know

people in love
know everything there
is about love.
they'll tell you
what you need to do
in order to find
love, how to grow
love, how to mend
the love you wound.
they are the wisest
souls in the world
when it comes to love.
and you in turn, can tell
them about the twenty
minute nap, everything
they need to know
about that.

the web

bitter
words fall
like stones
from her mouth.
the past
is in her pocket
weighing
her down.
tomorrow is
a fire to go
through,
sleep is a bed
of nails.
she wants to
shake free
of the web she's
caught in,
but the spiders
in her mind
keeps weaving
more.

beyond reach

the life guard
blows his whistle
and waves
from his chair
for you to come in.
you've gone too
far, you are too
deep, too distant
to be rescued.
you are beyond
saving at this point.
it's up to you
to swim in or
keep going.
the people lying
on the beach stand
up to watch, to
see what you will
do, wanting to
go further in their
own lives, but
also afraid, not
unlike you.

silver fish

you can see
the silver
wave of fish
in quick schools
paddling
their fins
as one.
you almost feel
as if you could
reach down
and hold one
in your hand.
but nothing in
life is so
easy.

the merry go round

when she flies by
on the merry go round.
with the music playing,
riding a white horse
with a silver mane,
waving like a happy child,
all smiles and hair,
the glow of her
spinning by, you
suddenly realize
the nature
of your relationship,
and despite wanting
more, for now,
it's fine.

over packed

with each folded
shirt
and pair of pants
you stuff
into the bag,
how many will
you actually wear
when you arrive.
not many.
but you never know,
your life
is all about
being prepared.
why bring one
pair of shoes,
when three or
four will fit
into the trunk
of your car.
three books, sure,
you'll open
each and every one
of them
and get to page
two before dozing
off in the summer
sun.

the cure

I've got the fever
and you've
got the cure,
is a line from a
rascals song, that
you are now stealing
and putting into
this poem.
put your hand
on my forehead,
take my
temperature,
investigate my
vital signs.
just one dose of
you, should get
me back on
my feet again, or
off, depending
on the cure.

cat on a sill

she sits,
this cat, on
a new
sill.
having moved
again,
then again.
but adjusting
to each
new window,
each new corner,
or vent
or door
leading where?
it's all
about finding
the sun.
finding
a peaceful place
to rest
your busy
heart.

in the sand

you sink into
the chair
that you've aligned
on the shore
facing the roll of
a soft blue
ocean. your feet
touching each
new wave
of august water,
warm and perfect
as any wave
can be. it's too
short of a visit.
too long between
coming and going.
but you're here
and the sun feels
good upon your
face. how sweet
it would be to
your chair and you
beside me.

the fling

like a bottle
of champagne,
things can be
bubbly and
sparkly at first,
letting the cold
wet effervescence
of her kiss
linger on your
lips,
but after a while
the open
bottle grows
warm, goes
stale, losing its
pop and fizz,
you no longer
want to drink
from the flute
of who she is.

your new girlfriend

you like that new
car smell.
those tires
thick with tread
with no mileage
to speak of.
the gleam
and shine of
the bumpers, how
those headlights
glow. you love
the leather
seats, all plush
and warm
ready for
you to sit in.
so many new buttons
asking to be pushed.
how smooth it
rides. the windshield
clean, no squeaks
or rattles. full
of fuel and oil.
road ready, wanting
to be loved.

tequila

she likes tequila.
she says
things like
tequila makes
my clothes come
off. it makes
me crazy.
which sounds
like fun
at the beginning
of the night.
but at three
in the morning
when she's riding
on the hood
of your car
and singing
cowboy songs,
you no longer
have an interest
in continuing
this relationship,
such as it is.

the mountain

despite pointing
out
their tragic flaws,
you can't change
people,
they can't change you.
it would be
easier to move
that mountain
that lies
in distance.
it took a millennium
to get
there,
and there is nothing
anyone can
do but wish it
well
and hope, as you
have forgiven them,
that they forgive
you too.

the lemon day

the whole world
seems to be
sucking
on a lemon
some days.
spitting
the seeds at
one another.
throwing the hard
yellow rinds
at each other's
heads.
it's usually
Monday.
Fridays are for
sweet black
cherries.
but there are
still
those seeds
to contend with.

peanut brittle

on those rare
occasions
when you have peanut
brittle
you don't like
to share it
with anyone.
you like to eat
it all yourself.
snapping it off
in chunks, wiping
the sticky
crumbs off your shirt
and chin. but
most people,
women especially,
don't want peanuts
between their
teeth, or have
peanut breath.
nobody wants to kiss
someone with
peanut brittle
breath. but if
you both eat some,
well, there
you go, here, have
a bite.

short declarative sentences

there is always
more
to the story,
more detail, more
to the plot,
more to the other characters
that drift
in an out
of scenes, but
sometimes a thin,
clean, well
written story,
ala Hemmingway
is enough.
it was cold out.
the light
was harsh. I loved
her more
than fishing.
stuff like that,
he'd say.
and you got it.
you understood, there
was no need to go
back and scratch your
head trying to figure
out what was going
on, or looking up
names to find out how
to pronounce them.
he was fond of her.
she was not fond of
him, just yet.
tomorrow would come.
today would go.

a cup of crazy

we have a long
drive tomorrow
the woman tells you
as she stops her story
about the most recent
visit to her doctor.
you welcome the change
of topics, no longer
wanting to hear
about her bunions,
ulcers, and rashes.
where are you going,
you ask her quickly
before she rolls up
her purple pant leg
to show you a vein.
me and Charles, my
husband, he's in the
other room watching
another show about
world war two, but
we are going to west
Virginia. oh, how nice
you say. backing slowly
to the door. relatives?
friends up there?
oh no. we're going up
to visit the insane
asylum, it's been shut
down for years, but
you can take a tour
through the building.
they show you where
the lobotomies took
place and the electro
shock treatments.
sometimes they put the crazies
into a tub of ice water.
you can even get in them.
can you imagine that?
when you stand in the cells
and spread your arms,
you can almost touch
each wall. sounds like
fun, you say. do they
have any souvenirs, stuff
you can buy in the gift
store. yeah, yeah, she
says. they have some old
straight jackets,
and things like that,
manacles, and guard
hats, or batons.
we bought two coffee
cups last year that have
a picture of the building
and name under it.
they're in the kitchen if
you want me to go get
them, won't take just
a second. oh, no please.
I should be going.
have a great trip tomorrow.

a real poem tomorrow

tomorrow you will
write a real poem.
something with substance,

enough fooling around.

perhaps a sonnet

or two.

something serious

with metaphors.

maybe the topic of love

will be mentioned,
most certainly
old age and death.
traditional themes.
perhaps some darker
topics will be
touched on as well.
it will not be a fun
poem. no one will
laugh, instead they
will shake their
heads and say, poor
fellow, what he must
be going through.

career change

your career
as an astronaut
did not take off.
being afraid
of heights
and easily made
dizzy did not
bode well for you
going into space,
or just circling
the earth.
you don't enjoy
cramped quarters
either, not
to mention
the bad food,
and sleeping while
sitting up.
you can barely
stand to drive
to the beach, let
alone fly
to the moon, plus
you'd miss her
kisses,
and bags of homemade
cookies,
that's the big reason
why you
aren't an astronaut.

what i learned today

if your cell
phone
falls
into a puddle,
or you drop it
by accident
into the sink
or toilet,
or spill a glass
of beer
onto it's
gleaming case,
no worries.
turn it off,
remove the back,
dry it off
then set it all
in a plastic
bag full of white
rice.
wait two days.
you're back in
business.

sticky and loud

you don't like
children.
sticky and loud.
running
here and there,
like bees
from a hive
struck with a bat.
they have no
manners,
no clue. they
just need and want.
they remind you
so much of me
and you.

circus girl

you fall
in love with
the woman who
eats fire
at the circus.
you're afraid
to kiss her.
which makes her
laugh.
I won't hurt
you she says,
but you don't
believe her
and you show
her the scars
from the lion
tamers whip.

at last

you are
most happy
when you
are warm
from a bath,
and ready for
bed.
a book in hand.
one light on
the night
stand
glowing.
the phone
away, the doors
locked.
you can almost
hear the world
sigh,
the work day
over,
approaching
sleep
at last

airborne candy

then there was
the time
you threw
a silver
wrapped
frozen
peppermint
patty
across
the room
and it hit
your wife
in the eye.
it was early
in the summer,
early
in the marriage,
but there
was an early
frost
that year.
a portent
of seasons
to come.

don't tell me anything

your secrets are not
safe with me.
they will spring
from my lips at
any given moment
after I've crossed
my heart and hope
to die swearing
them to eternal safe
keeping. but I can't
help myself.
they are like flames
that I need to
expel, put out,
the heat of them
too much to hold
inside. so be warned,
don't tell me any
more of your deceits
and lies.
the world will know
in short time.

the quiet man

the man talking
to himself
on the street
is wide eyed
and wild.
gesturing with
his hands.
speaking to an
invisible
companion about
politics and
religion,
the world
economy and
how unfair
the government
is. he rants
and raves, full
of venom.
he reminds you
of some friends
that you have.
you too have been
that invisible,
quiet man.

waiting on a train

you find
yourself on the platform
waiting
for a train
with other people.
strangers.
a line
of plump grey
pigeons
sit on the wire,
clucking
gently in the early
morning hours.
it might rain.
the sky
is a flat gun
metal grey.
the rails
gleam in no light.
they come
they go.
you do the same.

paper cut

the paper
cut
is a reminder
of how
fragile
you are.
that little
bubble
of blood
at the tip
of your pink
finger
shows you
that
you are not
going
to live
forever, or
go unscathed.
such a horrible
thought
to think
as you write
checks
at 7 in
the morning,
counting
the money you've
spent
or saved.

shades of green

how much easier
the world would
be if everything
was black
or white. no
shades of grey
to muddle up
the rights
or wrongs,
no reds or blues,
or confusing greens,
nothing in
between.
every one saying
exactly how
they feel,
speaking what
they mean.
how boring too.

the meaning of life

seeking
enlightenment
you climb
a mountain
to find
the wisest
man in the world
sitting
in a cave
overlooking
the world.
you ask him
what is the
meaning of life.
can you give
me a clue,
some direction
to live by.
you see
in his curled
old hand
a small green
tube. it looks
like a tube
of prell
shampoo.
he's
clutching it
tightly.
you say huh,
which makes
him nod
and smile,
he unfolds
his palm and
he points to
three words
on the back
of the tube.
there it is, he
says. it's
all you need to
know.
rinse and repeat.

what i want

while eating
a peanut butter
sandwich one
night in
the kitchen
i start
to think about
the things
i want
in life.
so i make
a list,
writing it all
down on the back
of an envelope.
I want
a butler
and a maid.
I want a
chauffer
and a masseuse
to rub
me down
at night
after a hard
day at work.
I want
a chef in
the kitchen
and someone
to walk my
dog.
I want my own
reality t.v.
show
and a pool
in the back
yard.
I want a
fireplace
in the bathroom
with gold
spigots
on the sink.
I want
a big thick
robe
with my initials
on it
to wear
as I stand
with my hands
on my hips
and stare out
the window
of my vast
estate. I want
a girlfriend
who has a twin
sister
named tiffany.
I want
to sail on
my yacht to
france.
I want, I want
a new pen.
out of ink.

early to rise

when you were young
you could sleep
until noon.
but now
you wake up at
the first sliver
of light
eeking through
the blinds, into
the room.
you close your eyes
trying to go
back to sleep,
but it's
impossible.
you are wide awake
and it's
barely six
a.m.
your dog rolls
over and stares
you, shaking his
head, he looks
at the clock
on the dresser,
wraps his
paw around
the meaty bone
treat he saved
from yesterday,
then burrows deeper
into the blankets.

bursting the bubble

she used
to chew gum when
you made
love.
a big wad of double
bubble.
sometimes
she'd blow
a pink bubble
near your ear
in the midst
of oohs and
ahhs,
popping it at
appropriate
moments.
at first it
didn't bother
you, you thought
it was quirky
and funny,
sort of cute.
but over time
the gum chewing
drove
you crazy
and you asked
her to please
stop.
this made her
cry
and take out
her gum
sticking it
to the headboard.
things
were never the same
after that.

being catholic

having lost
something
and searched
everywhere,
turning the house
upside down. you turn
to prayer, starting
off first with
a short
but very descriptive
prayer to St. Anthony,
the saint of lost
stuff. but
nothing turns
up, and now you feel
guilty about having
used an intercessory
to reach your goal
of finding an object
that you've
lost, misplaced
or thrown away.
you pray for forgiveness,
but still slip
in that you'd like
to find
what you are looking
for, then
you feel guilty
wasting your prayers
on something
that can easily be
replaced when you should
be praying for
the poor, the sick,
and lost souls
of the world.
so you manage to say
a prayer for those
things, as you pull
the couch out,
shaking the cushions.

yoga class

sitting almost
in a lotus
position.
your legs don't
bend like that
anymore
unless you've
had three
martinis, you
stare at the
imaginary flame
of an imaginary
lit candle,
emptying
your mind,
which takes all
of three
seconds, except
for that continuing
thought about
ginger
in her leopard
print bikini.
you breathe out,
you breathe in,
you mutter
something like
ohmmmm, or ouch
as your
leg begins
to fall asleep
under your stiff
butt.
to clear your
mind of ginger
you think about
levitating,
about rising off
this yoga mat
and zipping over to
that fountain
to get a drink of
water. you
are really thirsty
it's hot
in here. why is it
so damn hot in here?
maybe it's because
there's so many people
in here humming like
a bunch of cicadas.
why doesn't
miss smarty pants,
yoga master
in her pink supergirl
outfit
open a window?
what's she doing.
how in god's name
did she get
her leg
over her head like
that. again
you think of jojo

paper airplanes

some poetry
you read is difficult,
without mentioning
any names.
you can tell
that it's been
painfully
constructed,
carved in stone.
the language,
the references
to greek
mythology,
the puzzle
of it all. you
need a dictionary
on hand
to figure out
what half
the words mean.
by the time you
get to the middle
you're ready
to fold the poem
into a paper
airplane
and float it across
the room.

a plane flies by

she begins
each conversation by
saying
I'm retired now
and waits
for a reaction.
she smiles, holding
her black
and white dog
by the leash.
I don't miss it
one bit, she says.
staring upwards
as a plane
flies by.
well, some of it
I do.
some people, then
she begins to
cry.

far across the sea

you peel
away another layer
of you,
more onion
than
snake, or at
least you'd
like to think that
way, though
others may
disagree, especially
shauna
with the light
brown hair
who lives in
a shanty far
across
the sea.

a photo

it's just
a picture. a flat
one dimensional
snap shot
of you
with the light
and
view coming
only once
forever from
that angle.
we are older
by minutes,
seconds
before
it's done.
changed, different.
how elusive
we are
even when
hand in hand.

feel my muscle

go ahead, you tell her,
flexing your arm.
feel that.
feel that bicep,
you curl your arm
and move it closer
to where she's sitting.
you put some butter
on the hard ball
of tightened tendons
to make it glisten.
like a rock you say
proudly, steadying
your shaking fist.
no, she says. I don't
want to feel it.
I don't like muscles.
I'm against
muscles. but if you've
read a good book
lately, tell me all
about it.

letting go

how strange
to let go of everything.
to loosen
your grip
on the cliff
of life.
letting yourself
fall,
tumble towards
a world free
of possessions,
letting love
fill the void
of want, of need,
of ego.
letting
compassion give
you wings to fly
past your heavy
self
and live forever
beyond this
which is all
temporary to begin
with. how strange
to let illness
win the battle
for your body,
knowing that there
is no sting
in death.

places to go

there are few
places
that you wake up and
think
I'd love to go there
one day.
but there are
friends
you wish you'd
see more of.
that you could
press a button
and be with them.
sharing a drink
a bite,
a laugh or two.
the islands
are fine,
the alps, the seine,
paris
and rome.
but give me an old
friend on a bench
near the water
over those places
any day.

marie

her feet,
still swollen, are
propped up on a stool
by one of the nurses,
they are wrapped
in striped Christmas
socks despite
it being mid july.
her blue slacks,
and flowered blouse,
misbuttoned, hangs
loosely on
her ever aging body.
the venom is
out of her tongue,
the fight is out of
her bones. the lines
of worry have slipped
almost all away.
there is the sweet
gentle smile of a child,
returning your
smile as they like to do.
the workers
call her marie, come here
Marie, let me
tie your shoes,
eat your vegetables,
chew your food.

just one flaw

you'd like
her to have one flaw.
something
to make
you feel more at ease.
if she would
only say something
dumb,
like asking you
if the earth is
larger than
the sun, something
along those lines.
if she wasn't so
smooth and fashionable,
the hair just
right,
the lips and legs
unbearably nice,
if only she would
trip on a chair,
or curb
once in awhile,
or dribble
some blue cheese
dressing onto her
perfect blouse.
something, anything
to give you
an edge.

being naked

it's awkward
being naked
in front of people
especially
the first time
you are about to
make love.
you prefer
dim lighting,
maybe an overhead
fan for some
sort of wind
distraction.
liquor should
be involved
and lots of pillows.
it wasn't always
that way,
when you were
eighteen
and had the body
of a greek
god you'd do
jumping in jacks
in front
of your new love,
then ask her
to do a few too.

the broken nail

when women
break a nail
on the car door,
or on a dish
being set into
the sink, or
somewhere,
it's a big deal.
they show it
to you, saying
look, I broke
a nail, we
men have nothing
to compare it
to. they always
have someplace
to go where
having a broken
nail seems
to matter.
can you believe it,
they say,
I have a party
to go to next
week and I
broke a nail.
we stare
at the short
nail, rounded
at the tip
of the finger
and shrug,
saying something
like, hmmm.
it'll grow back,
right?

i don't

you are so glad
to have
bought this portable
personal
time machine.
just strap
the gizmo
to your head
and you can go
back into time.
no more stupid
things coming
out of your mouth,
just go back
and nod, or stay
silent, or better
yet, bring
back a witty quote
from Oscar wilde.
no more ordering
the wrong thing
off the menu,
marriages
and relationships
gone awry, no
problem, just
set dial to a
minute before
you said I do,
hit the button,
go back
and say, I don't.

the gypsy reading

the gypsy
slowly, dramatically
unwraps her
crystal ball from its
red velvet
cover, then sets
it aside.
she picks up her
lap top computer
from the floor,
sets it on
the table,
dims the lights
then says,
spell your name,
last name first,
middle initial
too. let's
get started.
let's see where you've
been, where you
might be headed.
are you on facebook?

try it on

when she died
she left all of her
clothes to be
sorted through
by her friends.
old clothes.
new clothes.
shoes not worn,
dresses
wrapped in cellophane.
some with tags
still on.
hats and gloves.
underwear.
slowly the women,
her still
alive friends
went through the mountain
of clothes on hangers,
folded in drawers,
picking out the plums.
trying them on,
standing in
the mirror where
she once stood
to see what fit.

lefty

there was
a kid with one
arm
in your neighborhood
who had
picked up
a live
downed power
line, bringing
him close to death.
but now he was
fearless
with his limb
severed
below the elbow.
baseball, no
problem,
girls, plenty.
he was a pirate
set loose
in a sea
of children
with his silver
clasping hook
for an arm.
there was nothing
he could do,
and do it
better and faster
than everyone
which gave you
hope and depressed
you at the same
time.

local wine tasting

you see two
bums,
bums being an
old fashioned word
for purposely
homeless, jobless,
and inebriated
people with
dubious track
records of
employment who
have been in
frequent
scrapes
with the law.
but they are in
the alley
at a wine
tasting.
each one passing
the other
one a bottle
wrapped in a brown
paper bag.
now taste this
one, one says to
the other.
close your eyes.
swish it around.
rose or merlot?
I'm not sure, the fruit
flavor is
throwing me off.
let me have another
swig.

fall asleep

fall asleep
without
these things.
leave
them behind.
set the day,
aside.
push those shoes
beneath the bed
and slip
between
the sheets.
let the head fall
fast onto
the pillow.
let the eyes close.
let darkness
and the light
of dreams
reside.

the whip

we go too hard
each day,
we put the whip
to fast use,
pushing
our bodies
forward,
around the next
bend,
the next turn,
but there is
no finish line.
no end in sight.
no stops,
just starts
and starts
with each new
morning.

the boaters

the boaters,
loud and wobbling,
near
drunk
trying to tie
their
line to
the pier.
looping it over
and over
again
with near
misses.
laughing, with
one hand
on a beer.
above
the seagulls
are low
and slow against
the pink
rails of sunset.
their white
wings soft
against
a warm summer
breeze.

side by side

i'll follow you
far.
through the unknown
woods
across the pastures
and fields.
i'll keep up
behind you as we
climb
and descend
a thousand hills,
letting you lead
the way.
i'll go as far
as I can go,
before we have
to stop and decide
on another
road, but
this time side
by side.

when things are right

the light
stays light well
into the late
afternoon.
it's midsummer
and the trees
are full.
the sky a blue
white layer
of time moving
slowly
over me, over you.
it's best
to say nothing
as the day moves
forward
into night.
silence being
the best conversation
when things
are right.

time and time again

there are days
when you open up
the old grandfather
clock
that never stops
ticking
and hold the metal
hands down.
you want time to
slow, or stop
completely, life
being that sweet
and kind
and full.
then there are
days when tomorrow
can't come
soon enough, so
you turn to the
calendar on the kitchen
wall and flip
the page
to another month.

the cake of you

it's not
the meringue
of you,
the frosting,
or sweet
topping
that intrigues
you, and wants
you to take
a long slow
lick,
no, that's all
good and fine.
but it's more.
you want to
pull up a chair,
dig
your fork in
and see
what lies below
the surface
have the cake
of you dance
upon your chin.

the phone booth

you miss
the phone booth.
the glass enclosed
enclave
with the heavy
folding doors.
the thick
book of numbers
with pages
torn out.
it protected
you from the rain
and wind. snow.
the black phone nearly
unbreakable
with its
metal cord.
the scars of it
being banged,
grooved into
the top.
graffiti
scribbled on every
flat piece
of grey metal.
the doodles of
names and numbers,
crude drawings of
stick figures
making love.
each booth a
container of
lost stories,
of hands that slipped
dimes, or quarters
into the bell
ringing slot,
talking to an
operator who would,
after feeding more
coins,
connect your call.

the juggler

you fall in love
with a carnival
juggler.
a curvaceous vamp
with long black
hair and blue
eyes. she escaped
from eastern
Europe during
the cold war.
using her skills
to survive. she
throws up
three swords in
the air,
a chainsaw,
bowling pins,
flaming torches
and a few cats.
juggling everything
seamlessly.
finally, you've met
your match.

quiet time

a single
bird
sits on the sill
outside
your house.
she never
moves when you walk
by.
never flutters
a wing
or opens it's beak
to speak.
you lean down
to look closer.
to see if it's
injured. it's
wing
broken or a claw
disfigured.
but nothing.
the bird sits there
still as
the brick
it rest upon.
quietly
you go back into
the house.
we all need to
rest and do nothing
sometimes.

the talk

I can see now why
you think
that.
of course I don't
agree, but
I respect your
feelings, and admire
your honesty.
I hope that
we can work things
out, but
if we can't the
door is always
open
for you to leave.
but remember, if
you do leave,
I can't promise
that i'll take
you back, or will
be here waiting
with open arms.
we've both made some
mistakes. but
we are only human,
well, I am, you're
still a dog.
a nice dog at that,
so don't take
it the wrong way.
I've always enjoyed
your company except
when you bark
too much at the tv.
like I said,
you want to jump
the fence and see what's
out there, go right
ahead. have fun.
but keep in mind what
I've just said.
here's a treat for
the road, and I'm
not asking you to sit
up, or roll over, or
play dead. I'm giving
you this treat because
I love you.

all in a day

there are itches
that need
to be scratched,
appetites
that need to be
satisfied.
bridges to cross
and burn.
places
to go and never
to return.
it's going
to be a busy day.

a bad feeling

go down
Madison street,
as if you are
going straight
to the river, but
don't go into
the river, make
a left on
river place.
i live there.
not in the boathouse,
but on the second
floor of the ninth
house on the left.
if you get lost.
call me.
but first you
have to promise
that you will
be there by one.
can you do that.
let me hear you
say that. i don't
like to be kept
waiting, and i
expect a fair
price. i won't
stand to be
gouged just
because i live
by the river,
and drive a nice
car. it's a small
powder room that
should take you
two hours to
wallpaper,
are you still
there?
bring me three
references and a
copy of your license
and insurance.
don't be late.
i'll be waiting.

pork chop

she lifts her leg
to show you her new
shoes.
they dangle like
white stripes
of candy on the toes
of her tanned
feet. the nails
are red. you lose
sight of the shoes
as your eyes follow
up the curve
of her shapely
calf, to her legs,
her thighs and
to her hips.
my shoes, she says.
my shoes.
look at my shoes.
why are you looking
at me like I'm
a pork chop.

wake up call

she likes
to call you at six
in the morning
just to see if you
are up,
or at home.
to which you answer,
where else
would I be?
I don't know, she
says. you
tell me, stray
cat. you
tell me.

scratch off winner

your father wins
a princely sum of money
doing the scratch off
lottery
from the machine
coming out of
the grocery store,
four cherries
line up in a row.
at the end of the week
his picture is
posted online,
a grim mug
shot of him
holding an oversized
check with
the cashed out amount
boldly printed
in large black numbers.
you call him to ask
him what he's going
to do with all
that new found money,
to which he replies,
what money?
how did you find out?
when you explain to him
how, he shakes
his head. I don't know,
he says.
maybe get the belts
on the washer
replaced. buy more
tickets, I'm not
sure quite yet.
I could use a new pair
of shoes.

one quarter pounder big bite

near death by starvation
you go into a 7-11
and stare into
the rolling metal
bars of a hot dog
grille. you look around
to see if there is
anyone in the store
who knows you,
then you whisper.
one big bite, quarter
pounder, which makes
the man say what.
I can't hear you.
speak up buddy. what
do you want. you look
around again, then say.
one quarter pounder,
please. he shakes his
head, putting on his
plastic gloves.
he grabs one out of
the steamy, greasy
glass enclosed
box of culinary death,
but you shout out no.
not that one, the other
one, the third one
from the top. yeah.
that one, you say, as
he disgustingly grabs
each individual hot
dog with his gloved
fingers. they're all
the same, he says.
but you beg to differ.
some are more brown
than the others, you offer.
which makes him say
whatever dude.
mustard, you ask, as
you pay for your small
red box containing your
life support nutrition.
over there, he says,
whipping off his soggy
gloves. ketchup, mustard,
relish, onions. over
there, near the chili
dispenser. thanks you
say, picking up some
rolaids at the counter.

nuptials

you get an invitation
to a wedding.
it's a gay wedding,
but still a wedding
just the same.
two women tying
the knot, so to speak.
the last wedding
you went to was also
a gay wedding, but
with two men tying
the knot, so to speak.
the gifts are a problem.
they have been together
for years, over a decade,
so blenders are out.
a mr. coffee machine,
forget about it.
they have everything
any adult needs to have.
the invitation says
no gifts, but you know
how that goes.
you'd be the only person
attending without one.
dress is casual, but
do they really mean
that, or should you wear
a suit, or a jacket
with a nice shirt
and dress shoes?
is it too hot for a
turtleneck sweater?
you are leaning towards
a light blue seer
sucker number with
a fluffy white shirt,
but you don't want to
draw attention from
the wedding couple.
maybe a nice pair of
khaki shorts with a t-shirt.
so many decisions.

S and ML

she texts you an
abbreviated message
that you don't
understand, but
you try really hard.
you get out
the scrabble board
and scatter
the letters all over
the table, duplicating
what she wrote,
you fix a drink,
staring at the mystery
of her words, half
words, one and two
letter short cuts
in the English language.
you get out the dictionary,
the thesaurus, but get
nowhere. it's
still a mystery.
is it because she's
a girl and you're
a boy, or are you just
dumb when it comes
to texting.

spinach blues

you don't like
small boats.
how they list
and wobble.
sway in the current
get tossed about
by the slightest
of winds or
wave. you turn
green as you
hang on to the side
of the bow, the aft,
the stern, who
knows. Ahab
you're not. in
fact you're not
even popeye. which
brings you around
to spinach.
please. stop
with the spinach.
there's not enough
butter, salt
and pepper, or
garlic powder
to make you want
more.

covering home plate

as a kid
you once found a pair
of women's
underwear
and stockings,
a set of heels
behind the drugstore
where you played
stick ball.
there may have been
a girdle there too,
although
you wouldn't even
know what that was
at that age.
they were all
neated piled up
below the strike
zone that you had
spray painted
on the wall.
they sat on your
virtual home
plate, as if
someone had stepped
out the clothes
and disappeared.
your friends
and you scratched
your heads, removing
your gloves and
hats, staring
at one another
until someone said,
hey get a stick
and gets this stuff
out of here.
lets play ball.

explaing to do

tipsy, under the gauze
of two shared
and rather lethal
martinis
you stop
into a tattoo parlor
along the boulevard
to have the name
Ginger
inked into your arm.
but first they
have to painfully
remove Mabel,
your wife's name
who is wondering
where you are at
three in the morning,
picking up milk
and bread.

a fine world it woud be

the dog,
all teeth
and tongue,
a muscle of white
short fur
and a bulldog
face
jumps with joy
when you
enter the room.
he doesn't even
know you
but is pleased
to bite, nibble
lick and bark
at your feet,
pawing you with
pleasure, saying
in his dog
like way.
I love you
complete stranger.
give me some
love back, which
you do.
how fine the world
would be with
this dog
in charge.

easy to be happy

you wake up with
cookie crumbs
in your bed.
some chunks
of chocolate
warm on the pillow.
this makes
the dog very happy
as you see him
licking the inside
of a small
box where
the cookies
once were. how
easy it is to
please him.
you could take
a lesson or two.

all i really want to do

you don't want
to marry her, or own
her, or tell
her what to do with
her life,
her money, her job,
or cat.
you don't even
want to be her best
friend, although
you'd give it a shot
if it came down
to that. no, you
just want to make
love to her. that's
it, then see where
it goes from there.
is that too much
to ask?

the bingo cheating scandal

you notice
a priest out
in the parking
lot at the local
catholic
church. you've
seen him before on
bingo nights
calling out
the letters and
numbers.
but today, on
sunday, he's
out there with a
hose hooked to
a large truck
marked
holy water.
liberally he
sprays down the crowd,
forgiving
them of their
sins. then you
hear him say in a
loud voice, go
and sin no more.
bingo at eight.

farewell

there are people
you know you'll never
see again.
you just know
that this
is a final farewell,
so do they,
but neither of
you mentions that.
instead you say
have a safe flight,
or drive. I'm
glad that you came,
please remember
that you are always
welcome back.
which is enough
said to offer
up a wave
and send you on
your way.

in the morning

you measure
a length of wood,
marking
it with a pencil
where the cut
should be.
slowly you move
the saw
against the soft
smooth
plane of the board,
letting
the dust snow
down onto the floor.
all day
you measure mark
and cut,
the blade of the saw
getting hot,
while the hammer
and nails
wait patiently
nearby
for their turn.

freshly baked

you break
a tooth on the cookies
she just
baked especially
for you.
now you whistle
when you speak,
emit a slight
but annoying
drool. you should
have dipped
it in milk
or tea, she says,
unapologetic
about her baking
skills, but here,
I made you some
donuts too, frosted
with sprinkles,
please,
try these.

her celery

then there was the time
she threatened
to leave you, so you
yelled at her from
the couch, saying,
well, if you do finally
decide to leave, take your
damn celery with you.
my celery, she says,
coming into the room
to look at you.
my celery is bothering
you. my celery is
cramping your style
crowding your bacon
and salami. we have
some serious issues to
discuss and all you can
come up with is,
take your celery with
you. this makes you
shrug. umm, yeah,
you say meekly,
I want that celery
out of my house,
and your hummus
and cheese chunks too.
and those olives
from the olive bar,
oh, and those
wheat crackers, they
taste like card board
no matter what kind
of jelly you put
on them.

the great escape

you tell her that her
eyes look
pretty when she cries.
the wetness of tears
brings out the emerald
in them.
this does not please
her, so she cries even
harder. no really, you
tell her, trying to
gently pull her
hands from her face.
look up into the light
you say, those eyes
are beautiful, like
gems sparkling, washed
up by the sea.
really, she says,
wiping her nose with
her wrist.
sure, you tell her,
handing her a box
of Kleenex.
let me get that mirror
off the dresser and you
can see what I'm
talking about. you
bring it over as she
continues to sob,
her shoulders shaking.
look, look at those
eyes. good god they
are absolutely stunning.
liz taylor has nothing
on you baby.
she looks, trying to
catch her breath
as she begins to hiccup.
I guess they are kind
of nice, she says, moving
the mirror around.
I'm telling you those
eyes are amazing.
it is too bad about
your cat though,
let me get you some
water, honeybun.

t-bone

apparently your new
neighbors can
cook out every
night of the week.
they go through more
coal than an old
train rumbling down
the tracks.
sometimes you hear
a mooing sound
coming from their
basement and then
you hear
distinct, loud
chopping sounds,
followed by no more
mooing. they like
steak. they like to
grille. they've
never met a T-bone
they didn't like.
just once you wish
they'd throw you a
bone and invite you
over.

feeling lucky

you miss
the plane
that crashes on
the runway,
no one is injured
but you still
feel lucky
just the same,
and when the ocean
liner goes down
you feel that you've
made the right
decision on not
taking a cruise
to Italy
or spain.
so when she doesn't
show up
for dinner
that you slaved
over for a whole hour.
you feel like
you're on a roll,
a lucky streak
that you
don't want to break.

mayor for life

you see the mayor
on tv
in handcuffs,
unhumbled in his
pin striped suit
with Italian
shoes. still
dashing and well
groomed with
money and crack
cocaine falling
from his pockets
as they whisk
him off to the police
van. he's smiling
for the camera
still running for
office.
taking this little
bump in the road
as an opportunity
to campaign,
showing that he
truly is a man
of the people.
in November, he shouts
out as they dip
his head into
the van, vote for
me. i'll be back.

house in the woods

she moves to the woods
to be in
nature.
trees, a stream
down below the hill.
the brilliant
shine of stars
against the black
sky at night.
an orchestra
of crickets filling
the silence with
the neighbors
far enough away
to see just a glimmer
of their light.
but then the deer
want in,
jumping the fence
to eat her new flowers.
a possum crawls
into the chimera
to sleep,
a black snake winds
itself up a tree
for robin's eggs.
a band of yellow
striped bees
are in the clover,
even a small black
bear stops by
to open
the front gate
to eat from the compost
pile
and say howdy.

your new friend

the waiter
introduces himself
as Charlie with an
ie, not a y.
he's all teeth
and enthusiasm.
answering and asking
questions
about you and
the weather before
you speak.
you don't want
or have room in
your life for
a new friend, but
apparently you
have one.
he tells you
the specials,
the appetizer that
he absolutely
loves, and his
favorite entrée,
the drunken rib eye.
this makes him wink
for some reason.
you nod and nod
some more
staring into
the dark menu
waiting for Charlie
to stop talking, but
he needs to tell
you about the desserts
first.
they are all amazing
he explains tapping
his flat twenty three
year old boys belly.
finally he puts his
hands on his hips
and says, so what'll
it be my friend.
vodka you say.
a tall vodka with
tonic, and a wedge
of lime.
pour with a heavy hand.

at sea too long

you drop
anchor
in a new port
called
Shirley.
she's open
all night.
breakfast in
the morning.
she tells you to
wash the salt
and brine
off of you
before coming
to bed.
you do what
she tells you.
she isn't pretty,
or very smart,
but
you've been at
sea too long.
you need a place
to rest,
and this port,
though not on
a map, is as
good as any.

the mother of invention

you wonder sometimes
why very few new things are
being invented, but
then you think about ben
franklin, and how he had
so much time on his hands
going back and forth
to france meeting new
babes all over the new
world and the old world.
he was doing a lot of
lounging around, or flying
kites at the request,
probably, of his wife
back in Philadelphia.
after plumbing, electricity,
the cotton gin, and
supermarkets, cars
and computers, that's
pretty much all you
need. why wrack your brains
trying to figure out
something you don't need.
ben needed a lot of stuff
back then when it was
lights out at eight.
we don't, except for a
new cell phone every
few months.

a new world

two very quiet
and nice
Asian women knock on
your door, politely
asking if you are the owner
of this house.
yes, you say. we are
not asking for donations
the taller one says,
but if you'd like to,
we will accept one from you.
tax deductible, the other
one says.
they hand you a brochure
about the new world
coming.
a one world government
that will bring
peace and prosperity
to everyone.
they are wearing light
blue dresses
with thick nun like shoes.
each has a satchel
of brochures. you notice
a pack of mints
in one of the satchels.
you ask if you can have
a mint, they look at
one another, surprised,
then back at you.
no, they say. those are
our mints. but what
about this new world.
won't everyone get a mint?
no, you have to get
your own mints.
so this world will be a
selfish world, you say,
hands on your hips. a world
where there is no charity
or compassion.
you broaden your shoulders
and stand straight up.
they look at one another.
okay, okay, they say.
you can have one mint,
but don't tell anyone.
the smaller one digs into
the bag and places
a small wrapped mint
into your outstretched
hand. happy, she says?

the wedding dress

after this ice cream
cone, she tells
you licking it as it
melts in her hand,
I'm going on a strict
diet. lettuce
only, lots of water,
and maybe some
tofu, or soy beans.
something like that.
I have one week to
fit into my wedding dress
and twenty pounds to
lose. I didn't know
you were getting married,
you say to her,
biting on the bottom
of your sugar cone.
I'm not she says,
but there's this dress
I saw in a window
the other day and I just
have to have it.