the unpromising land

it was a break up
of biblical
proportions. forty
nights
and forty days
of back and
forth negotiations.
you almost
built an ark,
the tears were
so frequent.
she cursed you
with plagues upon
your home,
then forgave you
in a fit of compassion,
even folding
a pile of
your clothes.
at some point,
exhausted, you
took a nap
together, during which
you made your
move with a closing
of spoons, causing her
to say, what do you
think you're doing?
are kidding me?
to which you
replied, this has
nothing to do with
our break up argument.
I just thought
maybe we could use
a little fun,
some relaxation.
men, she screamed
and ran out of
the bedroom
to find her suitcase.
finally, the sea
of our love had
been parted
and she was crossing
from the unpromising land
without me.

self help manuals

needing more shelf
space
on your set of shelves
holding
so many of your books,
you evaluate what can be
tossed, or
given away. you go
to the self help row
and find a dusty
array of possibilities.
divorce for dummies,
a fat yellow book,
that describes in easy
to follow step by
step instructions of
how to get a lawyer
and send your soon
to be ex packing,
or vice versa.
there is a diagram
on how to saw furniture
in half. another chapter
advises on what kind
of candy to give
your children to make
them stop crying.
then there's the venus
and mars manual and
dvd attached. telling
you how men and women
are different. shocking
revelations.
such enlightenment
one never knew.
how to boil an egg,
is another book,
containing that
and other after
the divorce recipes,
toast, how to get it
right the first time
and every time. nine
things to do with
lunch meat before it
spoils. you'll
save this book.
how to meet girls, is
another, post divorce,
manual. step one being
revamp your wardrobe,
discard anything plaid,
or with holes in it.
step two, shave off those
mutton chops and
the hair from your nose
and ears. step three,
go easy on the cologne.
another piece of
good advice.
so many books that got
you through those tender
and frightful early
hours of being single.
it's hard to throw any
of them into the fire,
just yet.
maybe you'll just buy
more shelves.

we're sending a man out

you by a new smart tv.
it has a degree
from Columbia
and a phd from
MIT.
it will connect you
to worlds you've
never been before.
you will be a cyber
space traveler
traveling at warp speed.
able now to watch
old reruns
of leave it to beaver,
the love boat,
and dallas
at the hit of a button.
the trouble is
you barely made it
through high
school without cheating.
the print on everything
is so small.
smaller than black ants.
so many wires,
and directions.
cables
to plug into
so many little colored
cubby holes.
you call the hot line
to get help. it's the only
thing with big
black numbers.
the first question
they ask
is how old are you?
when you tell them,
they say. sit down,
hang tight
we're sending a
man out.

i'm here now

you don't love
me, you don't care
about me.
would it kill you
to pick up
the phone once
in a while.
we are hardly
even friends, I
don't hear from
you for weeks on
end. you come over
and eat. and leave.
our relationship
has deteriorated.
perhaps we should
take a break,
and see where we
are at the end
of it. okay?
mom, you are so
over dramatic
sometimes, what's
in the fridge.

a name by any other name

your friend mike
tells you one day
that he no longer
wants to be called
mike, he prefers
Michael now.
people think I'm
illiterate, he
says, when they
hear my name is mike.
they think I'm just
a regular joe
with a monkey
wrench. okay.
you tell him.
Michael it is.
hey Michael, you
say. let's go
get a drink.
what, you talking
to me. yes.
I called you
michael. oh
right right, I
guess this will
take some getting
used to jimmy.
call me james, you
tell him. maybe add
a mister on to that
too. Mr. James.

the new town centre

it's a dead
night.
quiet on the streets.
of the boulevard
with freshly planted
trees. it's
littered
with strangers
in nice shoes,
lingering
on the corners
waiting for
the apple store to
open,
smoking E cigarettes.
brooding.
looking at
their phones and
you as if you
don't belong.
hometown is not
what it used
to be.
everything has
changed. everything
is new, but already
feels old.
you miss the smell.
not a stray dog
to be found.
all the dumpsters
hidden
somewhere behind
the façade
of progress
and money.
how you long to see
a rat
scurrying scared
at the sound
of footsteps
as you cross the street
towards a greasy
spoon,
not the gourmet
sub shop next to old
navy.

making choices

the juggler
with his chainsaw
and bowling
ball
and hatchet
throwing them
all up into the
air at once
is missing a few
fingers,
there is a scar
across
his nose,
and one foot is
bent like
the letter z.
his hat on
the ground is
full of coins
and dollar bills.
job applications,
from worried
people, hoping
he'll try something
else. but
he keeps at it.
this is his
dream.
the life that he
has chosen.
so unlike yours
as you sit
an hour away from
work, stuck
in traffic.

guilt ridden

you don't vote
all the time.
these politicians
bother you to no end.
you don't recycle.
you don't
pick up after your
dog when you're
in the woods.
you don't hang
your parking sticker
on the mirror.
sometimes,
you put the trash
out a day early,
or after the truck
has rolled by.
you don't eat
all your vegetables,
or drink
bottled water.
you don't have
a compost pile, or
give your old
clothes to the church.
you don't send
out Christmas
cards, or birthday
cards, or get well
soon cards.
sometimes you go
weeks without visiting
your mother, or
calling your father,
or your son.
when the clerk asks
you if you want to donate
a dollar to the st.
judes fund, you
say no. hell no.
you're a bad man.
bad to the bone.
and you feel bad about
it, for a few minutes.

in the rough

no matter
how hard you try,
or she does,
neither of you can
squeeze this
relationship made
of coal
and make a diamond
out of it.
so just throw
it on the fire
and let it
burn away.
it's okay.
dig deeper next
time, squeeze
harder, or longer.
or find it lying
in the rough.

new wing tips

you get a new
pair of shoes in
the mail.
boots actually,
ankle high.
they are brown
with thick
soles. leather,
and rubber
combined into
a nice wing tipped
pattern.
you put the boots
on. and walk
around the house.
they go clickety
clack on the hardwood
floor.
they make you
wish you had a
horse, and a hat,
maybe a holster
with a six
shooter, perhaps
some clothes on
besides these black
socks. you are
happy that the
blinds are down
on the front windows
and that there are
woods in the back.

a symphony

without a plant
or pet,
or child
you listen
to the splendid
symphony
of silence
that plays
it's strings
and percussions
throughout
your house.
the drip
of the faucet,
the bass roar
of the furnace,
the wind
whistling
gently through
the parted
window.
only her fingers
tapping
against
your door would
make
it perfect.

the splinter

high on a thirty two
foot ladder
a splinter
finds
it's way
beneath
your skin, along
the fat
of your thumb
as you push
sandpaper
across a
ragged board.
there is blood,
some pain,
but not enough
to stop
what you are doing.
you pull
the splinter out
with your teeth
and spit it away,
you suck
the blood with
your mouth
slowing
the bleeding.
you wrap
a rag
from your back
pocket around
the fresh wound,
and keep
going. the sun
is low
in the sky.
it will be dark
by five.
you think about
the time she said
to you, why are you
so worried
about money,
you'll just
paint more
houses.

red stockings

you find an
unopened pair
of red sheer nylon
stockings
in your dresser drawer.
medium size.
you turn
the package over.
then back again.
you scratch your
head,
you look in
the drawer for
what else might
be there.
just socks though,
your socks.
you put the stockings
back into
the drawer and close
it. you are
optimistic about
so many things
in life, beyond
reason.

three nights in richmond

weary from travel
you book three nights
in Richmond.
a room
near the airport,
because
it's snowing
and cold
ice is on the road,
icicles are
hanging
from the tip
of your nose.
you flop down
in the bed, watching
the red neon
shimmy in the window
from the bar
across the street.
you lean over
and slide a quarter
into the machine
to make the bed
vibrate.
you are a human pin
ball
machine.
you are weary from
travel,
you wait patiently
for the phone to ring.

don't worry about it

there's more
fish in the sea
people tell you after
a break up.
you'll be fine.
you'll meet someone
new, you'll
upgrade and find
a better person,
someone that suits
you, someone that
you get along better
with, you'll see.
there's more
fish in the sea,
they say, smiling,
telling you
to shrug it off,
there's more squirrels
in the trees.
don't worry about it.

cooking together

we should cook
together one night, gina
says, jumping up and down
in her new
chef's apron
with embroidered
loaves of baguettes
down the front.
she slaps you playfully
on the head
with a new pink spatula
she picked up at home goods.
sure, you tell her.
that might be fun.
whoo hooo, she says,
spinning around
like a top.
i'll start making a
list, we can do it at
your house, okay?
why not. what are you
thinking? burgers,
fries, I've got some
frozen drumsticks
in the freezer.
oh fiddle dee dee,
she says.
we can do better than
that. do you have
a garlic press? no.
how about a milk frother,
or a digital
candy thermometer?
ummm, nope. a rotary
whisk, or a potato
ricer? nope, not
the last time I checked.
cheese grater, you
must have a cheese
grater? for what,
I just peel back
the plastic from the
slice of cheese and put
it on my sandwich,
why would I want
to grate it?
food processor?
what's that?
I see she says
sadly, so, does
your oven work?
of course silly.
okay, okay she says.
let's have burgers then.
fries, i'll make
a nice chopped salad.
do you have any
mixing bowls?
voila, you say
pointing at the floor.
I'm not a cave man
for god's sake.
it's right there
on the floor,
I use it sometimes
when the dog needs water.
you can fit a lot
of lettuce in that bowl.

you forget

you forget
how beautiful she
was,
how strange
and soft
her whispery
voice was
as she tried
so hard
to say something
meaningful
and smart.
how fragile
and other
worldly her
essence was,
always trying
to please by
taking her clothes
off, submitting
to men
and their
desires, not
hers.
you forget how
quickly
her life passed.
never getting old.
how tragic,
how bittersweet
and easily
she slipped away
in her bed,
dreamily
in her sleep.
MM.

the plaid shirt

the plaid shirt,
heavy and itchy,
forest green on red
squares on
yellow. it's
partly wool
the label reads,
wool and other
assorted
blends of fiber,
made in Minnesota
with large wooden
buttons from
pine trees.
it has two pockets
that are
oversized.
perfect for lures,
for bait,
and chew, perhaps
a swiss army
knife.
you say, oh my
when you open
the box. well would
you look at this.
do you like
it, she says. try it on.
my father has one
just like it.
he says it keeps him
toasty when he's out
ice fishing.
try it on try it on.
you reach for your
eggnog
and knock it down
after a healthy
shot of scotch.
gets pour into
the mix. I love it,
you say.
what choice is
there, but that?

a walk in the park

it's gravy
from here on out.
most of the hard
work is
behind you.
keeping your
nose clean
and avoiding
pain is your
motto now.
so that eliminates
many people
from your plan.
it's not a race
anymore, it's
a slow savoring
walk through
the park, feeding
the ducks,
making love
and writing this.

blue notes

the cheeks
of the sax player
expand
with air
as the notes
fly
out in a syrupy
blue
mix of bitter
sweet love
and mystery.
he doesn't
need words as
his body bends
and aches with
his tale of woe.
this
instrument
doesn't need
lyrics or a
voice. it's
more than enough
to wail
sexily
in the soft
blue light
from
the corner, that's
all you need
to know.

she's an animal

jimmy asks you
about your
new girlfriend,
the one he's seen you
with at the grocery
store,
and out having
dinner. what's up
with that, he
says. tell me about
her.
you shrug and say
something along
the lines of
she's an animal,
dude. (this is the stupid
way grown men talk
now)
which makes him
give you a high
five. yo bro, he
says. you the man.
he slaps your hand
hard enough to
make you wince.
you try to rub
the feeling
back into it,
shaking the sting out.
he never asks
what kind of
animal she is though,
a zebra, a mountain
lion, a cheetah,
or maybe a minx,
which makes you
glad, because you
aren't quite sure
yet, instead he
asks if she has any
sisters, or friends
who might want to
meet him.
to this you say.
no. sorry dude, but
i'll keep my eyes out
for you.

half vague

you see
them
leaving, scraping ice
off the cars.
coffee cups
set
on the roof tops
as the blue
exhaust
chugs from the tail
pipes.
the briefcases,
the lunch
boxes.
the children
already on the buses.
the dog
walked,
the key under
the mat for a
maid or plumber.
the spaces
emptying, as
everyone drives
off into
their day.
feeling Monday
in their
bones.
half blue, half
vague.

the conversation

if you could
go back,
if you could have
one last
conversation with
her. to
sit down
and face one
another, to see
what went wrong,
taking
her hand in yours
if she allowed
it. looked her
in the eye,
you'd still
have nothing
to say, nor
would she.
the silence
would say everything
for the both
of you.

the little king

the fat
kid
red faced
blown
up with candy.
already over
sized
for his age,
big
boy boots
and pants,
shrugging at
his young world,
already
in charge
of his mythical
kingdom.
you see him
holding
court
in the school
yard,
making his
demands
on the littles,
asking
and getting what
he wants.
the red ball
in his hands,
held high,
knowing
that this is
how it will
always be.

how it ends

you can see
that she is dying.
it's in
her eyes.
in the slouch of
her thin
body,
she takes in
little food,
her face
brightened
by mascara, her
wig
at a silver
tilt, like
an odd shaped
moon.
how soft her
voice is,
hardly heard
behind her teeth
which
show when she smiles
and asks
how are you.
when you take her
hand
you can feel
the whole
weight of
her being pulled
towards you,
the bones
in her back
are brittle sticks
as you press her
body
to your chest.
you can hear
the air
leaving, her
life nearly over.
her death about
to begin.

what must be done

it's an endless
task.
this folding.
this
washing, this
repeat
and rinse.
this drying.
shirt upon shirt.
the hot iron
sliding across
a sleeve
on the propped
board.
the clothes
being
neatly stacked.
the pants,
sheets
and towels,
assorted socks,
all going up
up,
to where they
need to
be, some
resting in
a spare room
on a bed
that isn't used.
the smell
of starch
and bleach,
the cleansing
of what we wear.
a small
portion of
your life, that
no one else will
do.
you are blessed
in this small
thing that must
be done.

the field

how little
has changed in
the field.
the grass, trees
all grown and cut,
or gone.
new stones appear.
the fresh turn
of dirt. new
fences
where the old
ones fell,
rusted,
bent by late
night kids
with bottles
of southern
comfort.
places to make
love.
the hollows of woods
a sanctuary
for those still
alive.
how wide the field
is. the gentle
slope
always the same.
the crosses,
the crucifix,
the marble,
a star of david,
plain slabs
imbedded in the ground,
inscribed.
my dear one.
my beloved.
how beautiful
the field is.
how lovely in any
season
it sits, hardly
changing.
the gentle slope
always
the same.

the yellow bus

you remember
the gold
mustard colored bus,
it's hard
green seats
of vinyl.
how cold the rails
were, the window
always stuck.
the heat never
reaching the back.
you remember how
it chugged
up the hills,
as the driver
who also
served food in
the cafeteria,
still in her
hair net, smoked
a cigarette,
grinding out
the gears,
staring into the long
wide mirror
to yell
at someone running
down the aisle,
or throwing
pencils like arrows
into the air.
you can smell
the bus, you can hear
it in your sleep,
feel it's bounce,
it's sway.
see the bobbing
heads
of half asleep
children as it took
you towards school
and the rest of
your tomorrows.

this wind

the children run
in circles as the leaves
rise in cylinders
of wind,
fresh and cold.
they are bugs with
wings clipped
trying hard to rise
above the playground,
brimming with strange
happiness of what
life can be.
not knowing yet what
love is, what
joy there is in small
things, the vast
array of pain and pleasure
still unknown
within in them, but
they run, they circle,
their joy is
immeasurable,
they know that something
is about to happen
in their world,
something that lies
beyond this playground,
this wind.

where are you?

her car
won't start.
the engine whirrs
and whirrs
clicking
in the cold.
she says a few
words
normally
reserved for
conversations
with her
ex husband, she
presses on the pedal,
but nothing.
now it's silent.
she can smell
gas.
she shakes
her head, takes
out her phone
and calls
you. it's seven
a.m.
do you have jumper
cables,
she says.
beginning to sob.
maybe,
you tell her.
maybe I do,
maybe I don't. why?
I'm making
pot roast tonight
she says.
home made
bread. salad.
wine.
so, where exactly
are you,
you ask her,
hopping out of bed.
let me write
this down.

it's a latin thing

explain to me
this zumba
thing you're doing
on Saturday
morning, you ask
your friend
selina
as she slips
into her tights,
which may not be
called tights
anymore, but
that's the only
word you know
that describes
the red body suit
that squeezes
her together like
the casing of a pork
sausage.
zumba, she says.
is a latin thing.
there's a beat,
a count, a
mathematical
progression that we
dance to.
one two three four,
she says, throwing
up her hand
and fingers. one
two three four
and five.
this goes on as
she shakes and
jumps, bounces
around. throwing
her enormous head
of hair around.
okay, okay.
you tell her.
I think I got it.
it reminds me of when
I used to do the hustle,
and the bump
back in the day.
quite a work out
those dances were.
so what time are you
coming home?

breakfast in bed

a plate of you
would be fine
this morning.
with gentle
cuts
of the fork
and knife,
easy
nibbled bites,
the cupping
of a cold,
soon
to be warm,
spoon.
a plate of
you would be
nice
this morning,
breakfast
being such an
important
meal to start
the day right.

keep running

you hear
the mother in the store
screaming
at her son.
the son,
keeps running.
she screams
louder, calling
out his name.
she threatens him,
she throws
a handful
of coins at
the child. stop,
she yells, but
he keeps running.
you can't
help but believe
that he'll always
be running from someone
or something.
he's learned
how so well.

the easy vote

it's easy
to vote for war
when you
don't have to fight
one, or send
a son
or daughter
to die in one
or come back
mutilated and
changed for life.
it's easy
to cast a ballot
from a behind
a desk, a flag,
an idea
and say go,
go over there and
kill. go over
there and die
for us.
we must preserve
our freedom.
it's easy.
let me know how
it turns out.
we'll be here,
waiting. we've
voted and wish you
all the best.

whatever works

sometimes
retail therapy works.
sometimes
you just need a stiff
drink,
or to throw
things away
that she gave you.
sometimes you
can go on a long
run, and sweat
the angst out,
or sleep, sleep is
always an option.
other times you call
up Sheila
and tell her
to come over, you
need a shoulder
to cry on.
you try all of these
ideas, then finally
you sit still in front
of the screen,
hammer at the keys,
and decide to
write it through
to the bittersweet
end.

wanting to say more

your father,
approaching
eighty seven
calls and leaves
a message.
he asks where are you.
makes a joke
about an approaching
storm,
ebola, and marriage.
all dangerous
and eventful
scares.
call me he says.
coughs, then waits, as
if you might be
listening, then says
goodbye.
you hear the phone
jostling in
it's cradle,
you hear
the empty cloud
of his voice,
breathing, his
wanting to say more.

in the fog

there is genius
in her silence.
the white canvas
of her heart
is open
for interpretation.
you take
your pen and scrawl
out a few
scenarios, none
of them make
sense.
she baffles you
by her sealed
lips, her distance.
her stance
in the fog of lost
love.

we are all renting

the world does not
love you.
it tolerates
your presence.
makes room for
you as others
leave
against their
will.
we are all renting.
there is not
room enough
for everyone
to live forever,
so some must
go. either
by their own
hand, by old
age,
accidents
involving trains,
or cars,
disease.
there are so many
ways to die,
to depart
to make room
for those not
yet born,
or conceived.
they are approaching
the place
where you stand
this very moment,
to take it
for their own.
the world does not
love you.

waiting

unsmiling,
you stick a foot
out the door
to check
the weather.
cold, wet.
slight wind
blowing. you
shiver and
bring it back
in. only
four more months
till spring.

where are my keys?

stay the night
she says,
holding you down
in bed,
crawling on top
of you.
I won't let you
leave.
sleep over,
stay with me,
please. but you
say I can't.
the dog is waiting,
the cat,
the plants,
I may have left
a window open,
the oven on,
the iron too,
now that I think
of it.
I can't stay, but
next time,
maybe next time.
did you see
where I put
my keys?

not just me

without
the sun
this cold morning,
there are no
shadows.
no shine upon
the leaves,
no glimmer
in your blue
eyes.
the world is
grey
as far as I can see.
we need to build
a fire
to keep this
thing going,
to stay warm,
it'll take two
this time,
not just
me.

a man in uniform

oh my,
she says. I
love a man in
uniform,
as we pass
the toll booth
holding
a slouching
man
in a grey
shirt
and tie.
i throw a
quarter
into the metal
basket
making the
light go green
and the gate
rise.
it stirs
my inner girl,
melts my
butter, she
coos, leaning
in closer
to kiss
me while I drive.
you hit the pedal
speeding
through
the next five
miles, ignoring
the exits
before another
toll.

the first freeze

you'd give
a million dollars, if
you had that
sort of money
lying around in
cash
to stop sneezing,
and blowing
your nose.
your physician,
mr. web md
says it's hay fever,
pollen,
grasses,
invisible dust
and mites
floating
in the air.
you get on your
knees and
pray to mother
nature, father
time, and any
other assorted lesser
gods to please
bring on the first
solid freeze
so that you can live
again,
and breathe.
right now you are
staring at brochures
for real estate
in Alaska.

three bags of candy

you wake up
and stare at three
bags
of candy
on the table.
where are the children?
what happened?
where were
the goblins,
the witches,
the skeletons
and ballerinas?
what happened
to satan's
minions,
the little red
cloaked
demons
and devils
with their pitch
forks
and tails
dragging along
the sidewalk.
the dogs and
cats, with fur
coats and whiskers.
the cowboys,
the Indians,
the vampire
bats.
these kids got nothing
these days.
and now they don't
have my candy.

fly fast

she says I'm coming
in December.
we have some
things to talk about,
to wrap up, catch up.
we need to clear
the air, reminisce
perhaps eat,
drink, steal a
nervous kiss.
your legs go weak
on the phone, and
you say, what, only
one night? it might
take longer
since it's been so
long since our
last eventful tryst.

getting hip to that

you don't want a turkey
made and shaped
from soy beans, you
tell your nervous
girlfriend, who
hasn't eaten real
meat in a decade.
you want a turkey.
for dessert
you don't want a cake
that looks
like a chocolate
cake, made
from carob beans, no.
you want a real
cake. three layers
with icing, dark
chocolate. and milk.
a cold glass of milk.
you want cow milk.
not soy milk.
there is no milking
of the soy bean.
and when she gives you
a kiss, you don't want
a peck on the cheek,
or on the head,
or a mere quick touch
of lips.
you want a kiss ala
francais. can you dig
it? are we yet on
the same page yet?

the quiet sign

you put
a no talking sign
up
in your house.
it lights
up with red
letters, quiet
it says,
and you point
to it
when you want
someone to be
silent,
and if they
keep babbling
on and on
about something
you have no
interest in, you
ask them to
come to the window
and look
at that cute
kitten
out in the street,
when they
are standing
where you want
them to stand,
peering outside,
you push a button
which releases
a trap door
that sends them out
with a whoosh
to the sidewalk
on a slide.

good work

look, there's betty.
she had some work done,
shelly
whispers to you
behind her
latte cup, watch,
watch her when
she comes out
of the bathroom.
she's got that
monkey face thing
going on, all
the skin pulled
back and knotted
behind her
blonde hair.
blonde, right,
she adds in,
licking the foam
of her gingerbread
latte off
her lips.
wait, wait, here
she comes, don't
look, don't look.
okay now.
last week I swear
she was thirty
pounds heavier.
someone stuck a hose
in there and pulled
those scones
right out of her.
unless she had a baby.
this makes
her throw her
head back and she
chokes a little
as she laughs.
I'd never ever have
that kind of work
done, she says.
look at my face, do
I need work done.
hell no. say hell
no. hell no, you
answer, but then turn
your head back around
to check out betty
who looks
pretty darn good
from over here.

unwritten

they too slouched
in their
easy
chair on a Friday
evening, staring
numbly
at the tv
with a cat on
their lap.
once full of Shakespeare
and wordsworth,
Ginsberg
and Miller,
now this.
these fallen stars,
these rising
moons,
these setting
suns.
each wandering
at midnight
into grocery stores
lit like
tinsel
easing a cart
down
the sterile
aisles.
searching
for something,
anything to fill
them.
all words they
were to write
gone unwritten,
the poems
and plays, the novels.
the years fallen
away too quickly.
the tree empty
of leaves
with one quick
harsh wind.

the widow and her child

the widow
and her child.
who will always be
a child.
prepares
the meal.
stirs the pot.
warms
the oven.
sets the dishes
out.
the ghost
of her husband
is in
the chair
across the dining
room.
you can see
him sitting there,
staring
not at you,
but at a place
we are all going
to be one day.
but for now.
the table is set,
his wife,
the widow,
is spooning food
onto your plate,
she's
pouring wine,
and the child
with her hands
together, ready for
prayer, sits
quietly,
and waits.

the lesson

a clean slate,
washed free of chalk.
all the lists
you've made
are gone.
the diagrams of
what love
is or shouldn't
be.
the necessary
elements to make
things work.
now dust, chalk
beaten against
the old school wall.
but you'll
try again tomorrow.
you'll press
your hand
and heart
to the board
and begin the lesson
over, one
more time.

the quiet storm

a calm
before the storm.
a lull
in the wind
and rain.
a quiet respite
from
her anger.
she's too tired
to come
ashore.
too exhausted
and sick
of love,
to say, or do
anything more.

sexy costumes

the costumes
are quite sexy this year.
at least
the ones for
women and girls
of all ages.
the hooker
waitress is fun,
the hooker maid,
the hooker
teacher, and let's
not forget
the hooker
secretary, student
and nun.
all that marching
has to come
this on Halloween.
I'm still
waiting for the
hooker feminist
carrying a placard
proclaiming,
in her stockings
and heels,
women's lib.

tight lipped

words
to her are
diamonds
found
in the rocks
of her quiet
cave
like mind.
but when
they do get
forced out
into the light,
some,
though flawed,
have a nice
mercurial
shine.

tickets please

the amusement park
tries
so hard
to woo you.
its colors of red
and green,
bold blues
and yellows.
the arrows showing you
the way in,
the way around.
the funhouse,
the wheels
that spin.
the gypsy wants to
guess your weight,
your age,
your future.
take hold of the water
gun, throw
the rings, the ball
into the hole.
swing the hammer
and strike
the bell.
let the cotton candy
stick
to your cheeks,
the splintered
candied apple
wedged between your teeth.
how the sawdust
smells,
rising like some
distant memory.
someone old you used
to know with a cigar,
and bad shoes.
the sad
elephant in the small
cage, with
a girl on top
wearing pink slippers.
the fat lady
on a stool, on a
stage, behind
a curtain that
never closes.
the string of tickets
in your hand,
with always some to
take home.
always.

where ships go

when you cried
at his
bedside.
him unable to speak.
his body
wrecked
wrecked as any
ship
struck over
and over,
slipping, ready
to sink, ready
to go where ships
go.
he waved you
away.
he pulled a tube
from
his stiff grey
lips
and said, get him
out of here.
so you left.
rowing, rowing
to shore,
alone with what
you've seen.

the eel

with her eyes
open, unable
to close
like an eel
bent and curved
under the green
water
of night.
she is tired
of everything
that she
has made,
or unmade,
but cannot
sleep.
she is coiled
in her bed,
waiting
for another
life to happen,
waiting for
another skin,
to shed.

undone

unsure
of what this pain
could be,
so early in months,
she stood wet
and limp
against
the cold
tiles
of the shower.
the blood
in rivulets,
like thin screams
down her legs,
puddling pink
at the drain.
why would she
even
tell him,
what was to come,
or end.
he had so little
to do with this.
and now.
pale, limp,
crushed under
the weightlessness
as it
leaves her
body in broken
pieces. so much is
solved, so much
will always be
unanswered.

a nice guy

for his entire
life
he hid in
his closet
the secret
that he
was really
a nice guy.
the shame
of it was,
was that
no one
knew, not even
the few
who came to
his funeral
after he
died.

babies in the window

because
she never had
babies
her dog
and cats
are her babies.
they get
all the baby
treatment.
the goo goo talk.
the little
gifts and toys,
the photos
hung on the walls,
and secured in
wallets, or
phones.
I have to get
home to my baby,
you hear
them say.
she has to pee.
she has to eat.
she's waiting
in the window.
or at the door.
she knows
when I'm coming
home, and we
do miss each
other so.

gift cards

when you were a school
boy
you made things
in shop
class to give
as gifts for the holidays.
pot holders,
that looked
like tea pots.
shaved flat wood,
jig sawed from paper
templates, then
sanded and glossed
with stains
and sealers, small
pegs slotted
in for hooks.
then there were
the key chains, twisted
plastic,
braided in red
white blue.
or the ashtrays
ball peen
hammered by your
small hands for hours
at the thick wood
benches, beating
the metal
into small
shallow bowls.
how you still have
fingers and eyes,
is beyond you.
thank god those
days are over.

the nudge

it's a small
turtle, squared
green, that crawls
on top
of the bent
beer can
floating
in the dammed
lake, two feet
deep across,
but still not
without
a photographic
beauty
when the sun
is just
right and the trees
are mirrored
in blue water,
but it's the turtle
that strikes
your interest.
how his life has
come to this,
to be stranded
at such a young age,
his neck
twisted outward,
in a place
he knows nothing
about.
nothing has
prepared him for
this, or the nudge
that you give
him with a long
stick, knowing
that we all need
a nudge at some
point.

lola's red dress

the party started slow
the music
turned down,
being careful not
to annoy
the neighbors.
the chatter stayed
mostly in
the kitchen,
a tv buzzing
in the corner
for a game
someone needed
to watch. the finger
foods were passed
around, someone
stirred the fire,
and warmed
their hands before it.
there were polite hugs
and handshakes,
old friends,
new friends being
found, small talk
was had about
books and movies,
trips to be taken,
or just arrived
from,
and then lola
showed up
with a bottle
of tequila
in her red party
dress and her own
music.
no one remembers
much
after that, but
the sense was
that it was fun.

diamond girl

she learned
to love
diamonds,
knew the cuts
and colors
where they were
formed
and how old
they were.
she wore
them around
her neck
on her fingers
bright stars
stuck
into the lobes
of her pink
ears.
she loved
diamonds.
it was nothing
but the best
for her.
and you,
as you soon
found out
were just
costume jewelry,
doomed
from the start.

the farmers market

the farmer puts
on his
overalls,
his farming boots,
loads up his
truck, drives
a half a mile
and brings
his tomatoes
to the market.
he secures a long
strand of straw
in the corner
of his mouth,
and acquires his
limp.
it's seven a.m.
on a sunday
and the city folk
want tomatoes,
and corn.
home made
jams
and bread.
they'll pay
nearly anything.
the farmer
is no fool.
he brings his
art work too.
the popsicle
sticks he's glued
together
to make vegetable
sculptures.
they sell like
hot cakes. it's a
living.

not guilty

I'm not judging you
she says,
in her black robe,
and high shoes,
banging a gavel
against the kitchen
table. but your
behavior and attitude
lately leaves
something to be
desired. I have no
choice but to sentence
you to a life
without me.
how do you plead?
she says sternly,
rising from her chair.
not guilty your
honor you say.
not guilty, by reason
of insanity.
which is the reason
I am here with you
to begin with.

reward yourself

you reward
yourself
with ice cream.
you are a child
at heart.
if you had
a box crayons
you would draw
a yellow
sun above a green
field
and sketch stick
figures
walking about.
a cow perhaps
would appear,
maybe a chicken.
and a fat pink pig.
you would use all
the colors
you could in
your crude barn yard
mural. then you
would reward yourself
with ice cream.
you do this
because you can.

cat in a bowl

the cat,
uncurious and
uncaring
about the mouse
peeking
around the corner
lies curled
in a bowl
in the center
of the table.
the sun
stretches a
band of warm
gold across
her grey striped
back. there is
no hurry to this
world, no place
needed to go.
her green
eyes, slivers
of cut glass blink
sleepily
at it all.
it's hard to figure
if you are
emulating her,
or her you.
both being so much
alike.

the red velvet cake

having never tasted
even a single
morsel
of a red velvet
cake,
you purchase one
at the local grocery
store.
it's heavy
in your hand.
a cylindrical
brick of soft
red cake
and cream cheese swirled
somehow
in the middle.
you try to read
the label
on the clear
plastic casing,
but the ant like
print
is too long,
and the words
beyond your comprehension
let alone
being able to
pronounce
them correctly.
it's not what you
expect when
you take a fork
and slice
off a tiny triangular
slab.
it's a sweet strange
mush in
your mouth.
you don't like
the red velvet cake.
it's promising looks
have failed
you.
so often this is
the case.

unchained

unchained
you roam the earth,
you are a wild
eyed
dog
running through
the brush
and briar
of fields
that stretch
before you.
no fence, no
walls
can keep you
now that you've
tasted
what water
is on the outside,
what food
is what
air is.
your freedom
has pinned
you into a corner.
unable
to ever go back.

what women know

you never
used to take things
back
to the store,
to the return
window,
having tried
on the shirt
or pants, tearing
off the label
and throwing
the receipt into
the trash.
but after so
many pink or
oranges shirts
and green cuffed
pants, suede shoes
in your closet,
you've learned
to keep the bag,
the paperwork,
the labels on,
and return
things
promptly.
women seem to
know this at
birth.

quicksand

quicksand
is not
a metaphor
for marriage,
although at
times it might
be construed
as that
in a New Yorker
cartoon.
the bride or
groom
slipping into
the soft wet
trap
of love,
slipping
ever downward
with each
struggle
to stay
on top.

each turn of the page

you want the book
to last.
you don't
want it to end
but you
want to get there
too. new
love is like
that. savoring
the hours,
each day, each
turn of the bright
and happy
page.

it might rain

so much
is undecided.
i'll just
leave it at
that, but
even the weather
can't make
up its mind,
it might
rain,
or it might
pass.

room with a view

needing a room,
a cheap
room
for the night,
you see the amber
glow
of a sign
just beyond
the curve
of the highway.
59 dollars,
cable t.v.
pool,
balcony,
a continental
breakfast
in the morning.
how's this
you say to Shirley,
sitting next
to you.
she's sleeping
having had
too much
chardonnay
and ambien,
and something else
you aren't sure of.
you tap her
shoulder
as you pull in
to the gravel lot.
she wakes up
and yawns, where
are we?
we're home honey,
i'll go
get the key.
okay, she says
putting her heels
back on.
see if they have
any cigarettes.
and maybe a room
with a view
of the pool.
as you walk towards
the office
where surely
norman bates
is behind
the desk you
look back and
see her
putting on her
lipstick
in the overhead
light.

the rich

the rich
want to be tanned
and thin,
or very pale
and thin.
rarely in between.
they want
the look of having
been somewhere.
to have
that refreshed
and happy
look of
too much time
and money on
their hands.
photographs are
not quite
good enough.
they need oil
paintings to capture
this look.
large family
portraits,
with dogs
on the beach,
blue skies,
cotton clouds,
smiling wide
with white teeth,
all the whiter
by their golden
sun baked lives.

soup season

it's soup
season, she says,
standing at the stove
throwing
carrots
and potatoes
into a simmering
broth.
I love soup,
she says,
sweating
as she cuts
more celery
and onions.
it'll be ready
in a few
hours. you look
at your watch
and tell
her i'll be
back shortly,
grabbing
your keys,
your wallet
and hat,
heading straight
to the burger
shop.

missing an angel

when you met
you lathered her
with sweet buttery
words and phrases
saying hallmark
things like
heaven must be
missing an angel.
god broke
the mold when
he made you,
how difficult
it must be
being miss universe
and doing all
the wonderful
things that you
do. but things have
changed, and now think
coldly to yourself,
how the devil must
missing one of
his demonic minions.
what went wrong,
who knows, but
you sleep with
one eye open
and the door locked
and closed.

a storm

she is
a storm rolling
blue
bruised
across
the violence
of ocean.
she bangs like
metal
against
the impossible
span
of deep.
her irish up
her green
eyes ablaze
with jealous
rage,
mistrust,
fear.
she is a storm
full
of cold,
the frost
of her
broken soul.
with fury
she beats her
winds across
the jagged stones
of your shore.

the greyhounds

the old
grey hound
bus station on
eleventh street
was a place
you went to
if you wanted
trouble,
or to leave
town because
of trouble.
it smelled
of wet despair,
smoke,
urine. half
eaten sandwiches
tossed
to the ground.
it was a flea
bitten
crowd that sat
scratching
at hard to reach
places.
tickets bought
with change,
crumpled bills.
the buses, long
steel wagons
with the greyhound
on the side
sprinting,
idled loudly
at their docks,
the diesel engines
belching out
dark
blooms of exhaust.
sometimes they would
fill, but most times
they were half
empty before
pulling off towards
small towns, large
cities, depositing
the lost and
lonely
to destinations
barely on a map.

dream of flying

the dream
of flying is real
and surreal
as you sleep
soundly
through the night.
how easy it
is to run
and set sail
into the air,
flying
high above the
world
without fear.
it's your will
and belief
in what you
are doing that
keeps you aloft.
no fairy dust
is needed, no
magic, no wizard
with a wand,
there is nothing
but faith
in who you are
that gives you
wings, takes you
up higher and higher
up to where
you belong

reach higher

you read a slew
of plath
poems
and you too want
to find
and oven
to lean into
and go to sleep.
it's brutal
and brilliant.
each image
carved out
with a the sharpest
of scalpels,
inked
in blood.
it's not your go
to reading
on a bright autumn
morning,
but sometimes
she calls to
you, and says here,
come here.
this is where
the bar is set.
reach higher,
you're barely off
the ground.

nature boy

three martinis
makes
you say things
that you
don't normally
say.
things like
we should
take a trip
someplace warm,
a tropical island
where we
don't need
clothes
and we can drink
coconut milk
and eat
fish
all day.
what do you think?
she says.
I think we
should see if
we can make
it through this date,
our first and
take it slow.
here, drink some
water,
nature boy.

that zen feeling

in yoga class
you get your legs
stuck
in one of those
pretzel like poses
and they have
to roll you
around the floor
to unstick you.
it's very
embarrassing
to have all these
women in tights
pulling at
your legs
and feet, tugging
at your limbs
to unravel you,
but it's kind
of fun too,
and makes you
happy in a zen
like way.

it's a man's world

what is with men
ginger asks you,
sniffling
into the phone,
blowing her nose,
fighting back
a full onslaught of
tears,
are all men cavemen,
please, tell me
it isn't so.
by caveman, you ask,
do you mean
primarily concerned
with food shelter
clothing and sex,
in no particular order?
yes, she says,
why do they want
things to move so
fast, pressuring me
to succumb to their
animal desires.
why can't they
understand that
women are crock pots,
we are slow burners,
we like to simmer
and bake, go
slow when it comes
to romance.
yeah, I've heard of
women like you,
you tell her, it's
tough out there
in the dating world.
it some ways it's still
a man's world. but...
but, but what, she
says, honking her nose
again into the receiver.
it's a man's world,
but it wouldn't
be nothing without
a woman or a girl.
who said that, she asks?
Sigmund freud, jung,
Aristotle?
no, you tell her,
my main man, James
Brown. love that song.

yard work

boots, pulled
up high, rake in
her hand,
curled cold
around
the handle,
the shovel nearby.
a cold sun
rising
along the slant
of river
and hill.
the dog sniffing
at the edge
of a broken
fence where the deer
jumped in,
it's a long
day in the yard.
her flannel
shirt, sticking wet
against
her pale skin.
her life
slipping,
slipping as she digs
her boots
into
the ground,
bracing against
the rake.
the quiet of trees,
of birds.
a harsh blue
slash of river
showing itself between
the leafless
trees.

starting the fire

your neighbor
is often
putting notes on
your door,
or slipping an
envelope
into the slot
about some charity
she wants you
to donate to.
the notes vary from
putting
the trash out too
early,
to why is that ladder
still on
your truck,
to perhaps
that bush in your
front yard
should be trimmed
back. it's
attracting bees.
sometimes it's an
invite
to her yoga class
that she puts on
in her living room,
or a cookout
she's having
in her back yard.
she's quite the writer.
her penmanship is
superb,
always signing
it, your neighbor
becky.
they are handy little
notes, good
for getting the fire
going in
your fireplace.

the easy way out

it's hard
to forgive, you
understand
that. hard
to accept
what's true,
despite
how gently it
is said.
it's difficult
to listen
to what's wrong
with you,
hearing the list
of so many
things
the other person
has issues
with.
it's hard to sit
down and talk
things out.
see if there
is hope, or not.
to see if love
is worth saving.
these things are
hard.
being silent
and disappearing
are not, but it's
so like you
to take the easy
way out.

a small flame

she was a flame,
a minor
one at best.
small
and tender
on the tip of
a white
candle, but her
light was
dim, the heat
scarce.
still you held
it for as
long as you
could,
carrying it
with you,
hoping it might
get brighter,
start a fire
within your
heart, but
no. it just
burned slowly
dripping,
flickering,
to be
finally snuffed
out in a cold
hard melt.

do it again

you've let go
of a lot
things.
places, things
you once held
in your hand,
things you thought
you could
never live
without.
friendships
and lovers
included.
you lost the energy
to keep
them near.
lost interest
in the pain
of it all.
so you let them go.
in the long
run,
all the grieving
and tears,
all
the wringing of
hands, does
nothing. in
the end, it's
all the same.
it's not how you've
lost them,
but how you go on
to do it all
again.

the roller coaster ride

your mother tells
the story
of when your uncle
and his girlfriend
got stuck on a roller
coaster,
how it slammed
everyone forward,
lurching to a halt,
causing him
to beak his nose
on the safety bar.
the blood was
all over his white
suit, she says.
using her hands
to demonstrate
how that would look.
oh, the blood.
she stops the story
at this point,
shaking her head
and says, why would
anyone wear a white
suit to a carnival?
your uncle was a strange
man, she says,
then continues on.
the firemen had
to put their ladders
up to get everyone
down. they all had
to climb down from
the rickety rails
and boards, the metal
cars. everyone was scared
and crying. then everyone
got lawyers and sued,
she says, they all got
thousands of dollars.
thousands, but not me.
I was too scared to
get on, but I wished I
had. I wished I had.

honey bear

your new girlfriend
says that she wants you
to pour honey all over her
from head to toe
and slowly
lick it off, but
you shake your head
no. now way,
do you know how
hard it is
to get sheets cleaned
of honey? that stuff
is like glue when
it dries.
who cares, she says,
it'll be fun.
don't you want to
have fun?
I do. I'm all about fun.
but these are my
good sheets. hotel
sheets, 620 count.
Egyptian cotton. I've
only had them a month.
why don't we pour
that honey on some pancakes
later, or something.
now come here and kiss me.
you know what, sissy boy,
she says,
maybe you're not
the man for me.
she hops off the bed
and puts the plastic
bear container of
honey back into her
purse. maybe I should
go. maybe I should
find a man that wants
to please me the way I
want to be pleased.
yeah, maybe you should
you tell her, lying
back on the bed, feeling
the smooth comfort of
those blue clean sheets.

some work

he didn't look
like himself, jake
says, on the phone.
jake has been drinking
since noon.
you can hear
him tapping out
a new pack
of cigarettes,
unwrapping, lighting
one up.
he found out two weeks,
ago, he says.
cancer of the gut.
two weeks, the doctor
told him to get
his house in order.
he didn't look like
himself lying there
in a suit, stretched
out and stiff
in that frilled coffin.
I don't know,
he says. I don't know.
he pauses to smoke
his cigarette,
the says,
so how are you?
got any work coming up?
I could use
some work.

when you arrive

when you arrive
you will know it
by how
blue the sky is,
how better
food tastes
in your mouth.
how cold
and quenching
the drink is on
your lips.
when you have
arrived, there will
be music playing,
there will
be someone to open
doors, to shine
your shoes,
someone to
whisper into your
ear, how much
you are adored.
the women will be
beautiful beside
you. your friends will
be new and informed
on how to keep
you happy.
when you arrive, you
will leave
those behind that
are unnecessary.
those with the problems
you no longer have.
you will stand
on a balcony and wave
with two arms
at the applauding
crowd.
when you arrive,
you will know it,
and so will a world
the sets upon your
head a golden crown.

don't judge me

when I die,
she tells you, you
have to clean out
my closets
and everything under
my bed.
promise me that
you'll do that.
promise, say it.
I want you to say
it out loud.
I promise, I promise
to clean out
your closet and
everything under
your bed, you
say, sure, but why?
what are you
hiding? nothing,
she says. don't worry
about it. just don't
judge me, okay?
the green plastic
trash bags are
under the sink,
and you know where
I hide my extra
key? right? yes,
yes, you tell her.
okay, now shake on
it. you put your
hand out and she
shakes your hand
firmly, then says
whew. that's a load
off my mind.

when are you free?

this saturday
i have to go to my
zumba class,
she says, so i can't
meet you for
a drink, Sunday
is yoga, then i run,
Monday i have
a spin class,
and Wednesday
I'm doing hot yoga,
which makes you say,
huh?
Thursday,
i lift.
Friday is stretching
and i rehydrate,
get a massage
with hot stones.
so i think
that leaves Tuesday
night.
are you free?
umm, let me check
my schedule.
I've got a nap
at four, but after
that I'm all
yours.

from greenland

people ask you
where were you born,
as if that
meant something
important, gave
them some clue as
to you are, or might
be. sometimes
you'll say
Greenland, I'm
from there. you
never say france
or Italy, this
will make them
happy with small
talk. so you
say greenland
and add in, but it's
not green, not
really. it was just
called that to keep
people from
going there.
this makes them nod,
politely,
hand on their
chin. thinking of
anything they can
say about geenland
that will keep
the conversation
going. but there isn't,
which makes it easy
to say, good day
and go on about
your business.

her womanly traps

you ignored
her voice. the scotch
gargled
scar
lining of her
thunderous
throat.
perhaps glass
chunks,
not ice
were in the tumbler
as she let
it roar
down her pipes.
you ignored
the smoke
rings that she blew
in circus
circles into the
yellowed ceiling
fan as it spun
as slow as the world
does on it's
frozen axis,
almost dripping wet
with nicotine.
you let go
the language that
she used,
every other word
involving someone's
mother,
a dog,
or worse.
you ignored so many
things about
her. the way she
chewed meat
with her mouth open.
her opened toes
shoes,
her finger nails,
browned, bleeding from
being chewed.
you were unable
to escape her grasp,
her unkind
love, her broken teeth
and heart.
her witches brew,
her womanly
traps.

the love list

you make a list
of what
you like about her
and what you
don't.
it's brutal.
where once there
was so
much good,
so much on
the plus side
of the paper,
now it's gone
the other
way.
she'd hate to see
the list
you've made,
as you would
the list she's
made about
you. better
crumble it and throw
it into the fire
before she
gets here,
maybe things will
change for
the better, if
she stays
another night,
another day.

fitted sheets

she likes to call
you
when she's doing laundry
at the Laundromat.
you can hear
the washers
banging against
one another,
the dryers in full
hot throttle
clinking with buttons
and zippers,
change fallen
from pockets.
hey, she yells
in the phone.
I'm doing laundry.
what are you
doing?
I'm folding clothes,
you tell her.
having trouble with
this fitted sheet.
yeah, i'll be doing
that in an hour or
so once my stuff
dries.
I hate the fitted
sheets. me too, you
sigh, me too.
this may be love.

her poetry

her poetry
is a dry
kiss upon your cheek.
it's not
quite there.
it's a friendship
kiss,
a kiss hello,
a kiss farewell.
it's not
I'm staying
the night kind
of kiss, the kind
you want.
no, the words
leave you needing
more, more
of her, more
lightness,
more darkness,
more hope,
perhaps
more fear.
try again, you want
to tell her.
it's almost,
but not quite there.

this train

set the bag down.
let it fall
from your hand
or place it
where it needs
to be. release
the weight,
the burden of
what it holds.
let the train
carry you.
let it roll down
the tracks.
relax in your
seat, gaze out
the window
at all that
is possible, at
all that you
are leaving behind.
it's gotten you
this far. this train.
the journey is
far from over.
set the bag down.

setting cats on fire

in the neighborhood,
roaming the streets
at night
there was always
a kid
who wanted to throw
a rock
through a window,
or set a cat
on fire, or
flatten a tire
with a knife
he stole from his
mother's kitchen.
he'd encourage you
with wild
blue eyes, and
freckles like
bees captured
alive on his face
to join him,
but you'd look at him
and shake your
twelve year old head
and say, what are
crazy? hardly a day
goes by without
reading the paper
and waiting to see his
face and name

the green in her eyes

the day
is night
with these clouds.
with this
rain.
this harsh
wind full of wet
stings.
darkness has
won out.
the world
has gone grey.
only
the green
in your eyes,
that I remember,
keeps me
moving forward
with hope,
keeps sadness
at bay.

the broken window

her broken
window, says
everything.
the cardboard
patch
taped down
by her long
fingers, slipping
loose as
the weather
changes to cold,
peeling
it back.
the wind
whistles softly
into
the house.
it curls around
her arms,
her neck
as she sits
in her room,
sipping tea
to stay warm,
pondering what
was,
not thinking
what next.

applause

the play
leaves you wanting.
dry.
still thirsty
for substance,
for a drink
that will cool
your desires.
but you clap anyway.
we always clap
even if it's not
good. we
are trained to clap.
to think
good thoughts,
be positive
in the face
of adversity.
clap, even if it's
stale, and worn,
clap. but
the actors know,
some do,
as they shyly bow
for their curtain
call, knowing
that they missed
their mark. but
the clapping goes
on and on.
meaning nothing,
perhaps encouraging
more mediocrity.

her new red hair

you like her
new hair doo.
it's red, the color
of rust, like
the rust
on the back panel
of your father's
59 chevy impala.
it's as natural
as a three dollar
bill.
you feel that if
you could turn
her upside down,
like a human
cutip
you could use
her head to steel
wool a stretch
of wrought iron
railing, or scour
a tenement tub
in old hell's kitchen.
but she likes her
hair.
it's a statement.
it's an idea.
it's an insane tumble
weed upon her head,
but she wears it well,
and you say
to her, something
along the lines of,
I like your hair.
nice. it's you.

free will

the store
down
the street was
no longer
offering free
will.
the stakes had
gone higher.
the rents were
out the roof.
everything has
a price.
now free will
has one too.
the man,
with his
cigar, standing
at the counter
shrugs
when you question
what he's
done.
I have to make
a living
he says.
buy something,
or be gone.
you've had your chance.
your whole
life you've
had free will,
but now.
it's over. at
your age, it's
others who will
lead you,
who will take
your hand
and tell you where
to sit, what
to eat. what
time you go to
bed. you have no
more free will.
it's going to cost
you now.

her cup

the cup, her cup.
the one you bought
for her. yes, her
cup. is cracked.
a small fissure
has run from
circled edge
to bottom,
enough to cut a lip
if not careful.
but it's her cup,
not yours. her
life. her problems,
and now her
broken cup. you'll
put it back
upon the shelf.
it's not yours.
it's hers. her cup.

the shower

the rain surprises you.
surprises
everyone as they
dash for cover,
how quickly
it comes.
how fast the clouds
move in
to cross over
a late fall sun.
it's neither cold
or warm, just a shower,
enough to wet
everything.
enough to throw
mirrored puddles
upon the street
where you walk and
look down
at your own reflection,
your legs, your hands
your arms, your
shoed feet.

the cheerleader

shauna says
I've moved to Easton.
I have a new job.
to which you reply,
why,
and where is that?
left at the light?
she adds
in for good measure,
I've lost
weight, I can
wear my cheer leader's
uniform
from high school,
in fact I'm wearing
it right now,
as I jump into
the air
and do the splits.
tell me more
about Easton,
you say to her.
how long would it
take to get
there, how's
the parking?

crime of dispassion

arrested emotions
cuffed
at the station,
sitting on a hard
bench,
awaiting
confinement
in a dark cold
cell.
neither love
or disappointment
seeps out
of your pores.
only silence screams
of your guilt.
you show nothing
to the judge,
or jury
of your peers,
especially not to
me, the key witness
in this crime
of dispassion.
what other choice
is there,
but to find another.

in the morning

the women,
after the men have
left for work,
the children
have gone off
to school
come out to the stoops,
the marbled
white slabs
of porch, and sweep.
scrub, scour
the dirt away.
the steps gleam
in the city sun
along the long
street, where each
house shares
a wall.
the women nod,
and say hello
to one another,
speaking in low
whispers
the things
that no one else
will know.

a tear drop

each generation
believes
they invented everything.
every new thought
is theirs, art
and science,
literature and making
love is something
they came up with.
but this is a good
thing. it keeps
the world
fresh and interesting.
it takes time to
realize that you know
very little of what
this world is all
about, that you hold
only a tear drop
of knowledge of
this ocean.

laundry list

after spending an hour
folding laundry
you begin to wonder
why you have some many
shirts and pants
of the same color.
so many socks, so
many sheets and pillow
cases. what makes
you keep buying
things you already
have. blankets
and shoes, hats
and gloves. the list
is endless, which makes
me think of Lucille,
and sarah, lisa,
donna, Debbie,
and you.

when it's over

the roses
that you send will
not
do the trick.
nor will
the hand written
note
expressing love
and affection,
devotion.
the chocolates
won't help
either.
there is really
nothing you can
do, when it's
over. but let
it be over.
then she'll come
back around.

forgotten lines

like an actor
frozen on stage
waiting for a cue
from below, or
from the right or
left, or another
actor waiting
for you to speak,
you too have
forgotten your
lines, where to
stand, what comes
next in this
love affair, this
comedy of errors
that we endure.

they move as one

so strange
to see the birds as
one,
moving like
magic, like
the black hand
of god
or the devil
forcing them
in circles,
together,
up and down
above the wires,
beyond
the trees,
tireless
with their wings,
a quiet
flocking of
life, doing what
needs to be
done. no different
then we are
upon the ground.

vacant

one day
the house down
the street is vacant.
all the cars have
gone.
five mattresses
lean
against
the no parking
sign
and hydrant.
a bloated t.v.
sits next to a box
of clothes.
you see a yellow
dress,
a pair of children's
boots,
a plastic doll
with a missing arm,
her blue marbled
eyes staring up
into the sky.
a neck tie for
Christmas, red
with mistletoe
dotted
along its length.
the wind
curls into the open
windows of
the dark rooms,
the power down,
the door
unclosed.
you remember saying
hello to
them
just yesterday
and the man
responding
with a hearty wave.

the blue eyed cat

how simple
she keeps her home.
the blue sofa
coming close
to the color of
an October sky.
the rug, woven
in braids, in reds
and golds.
a chair, unrocked
for ages.
the pillow
stitched with
the words home
sweet home
sitting dusty
upon it.
how quiet the home
is.
the organ in the corner
holding plants
and photographs
of those
who look like her,
but not quite.
the blinds
tilted to
look out, not in.
the blue eyed
cat bending it's
lithe body
around the corner
to see
what there is to
see, which is
the same
as it was
each yesterday.

i love you too

she says I love
you,
then waits.
two beats, three,
four,
an uncomfortable
span of time
ensues.
it's awkward.
did you hear
me, she says.
did you hear what
I just said?
I said I love
you. oh, you say.
I thought you said,
where are my
shoes. but
thanks.
I love you,
too.

cut backs at the A&P

the grocery store
has cut back on employees.
so you bag
and ring up your own
things.
you bring a bag too,
so as not to be charged
for a new bag.
in the back of the store,
there are cows
and plastic jugs
that await you.
stools with which
to sit on as you tug
and pull for your gallon
of milk. then you
gather the eggs from
the chickens
who roll them out on
their own terms.
the pigs in their
trough run in circles
as you hold
the butcher's knife
for bacon and chops.
the fish are in a tank,
and you use the net to
capture the one you want,
tie him to a string
until the air seizes
his lungs and quiets him.
you are a member of
the store, so you do
get a discount on gas
mileage at the station
around the corner.
the music is pleasing,
as it seeps out of
the speakers imbedded
in the high ceiling.
it takes a minute to
hear what song it is.
the days of wine
and roses, sung by
andy Williams. how nice.
you stay for the entire
melody before carrying
your bags to the car.

everyday

I could never
do that, the man
in a clean pressed
suit says
to you, as you both
watch the workers
climbing high onto
the roof, the weight
of tiles and nails,
tar and glue
bending them thickly
in the sunlight,
their legs angled
so as not
to fall and die.
I could never do
what they do, he says.
could you? everyday,
you tell him. with
no place else to go.
everyday.

new to the group

she has become
part of a different crowd,
having joined
the silent
band of ghosts
that you awaken
with in the still
darkness of
early morning.
she is in the front,
because she's
new to the group,
and it fits
who she was when
she was real,
and here and telling
you things,
that still circle
like feathers
tickling your heart,
your ear.

who you were

the world does
not welcome you with
quick glad
tidings but with
a slap, a scale,
a tape
with which
to measure
and weigh
the size of you.
this taking stock
of you goes
on and on, into
old age. the markings
into ledgers,
of grades.
the scores of tests.
the band tightly
around your arm
giving a reading
as to the stress
you've endured,
or are under.
the scrutiny
of numbers, all
adding up
to something,
giving a tangible
glimpse of
who or you were.
recorded in your
permanent
record along side
the words,
gets along well
with others,
with some
exceptions.

make up donuts

I bought you some
donuts,
you tell your wife
who is mad
at you for reasons
too complicated to
mention.
she opens the box
and takes out a powdered
apple filled
donut, looks at it
in her hand, takes
a big bite, then
throws it at your
face. it hits you
between the eyes.
jelly and powder are
all over the place.
this makes you reach
into the box and select
an éclair, which you
hurl like an arrow
at her head.
she ducks but you
hit her in the ear.
it fills with a yellow
cream, the chocolate
smeared against her
cheek. this goes
on until there are
not more donuts left
to throw,
and you're wrestling
on the ground.
you kiss her madly,
she kisses you back,
you frantically rip
each other's clothes
off with a pulling
and tugging
at buttons and zippers,
shirts and pants.
you make wild
passionate love on
the kitchen floor.
it wasn't all bad
all the time.

it floated away

you carved
her initials
into the tree
with yours
below hers,
connected
by a plus sign.
you dug
deep into
the bark,
circling
the letters
with a crude
shaped
heart, and the
numbers, 03.
a year went by,
then another.
the third year
you took
the tree down
with an axe,
chopping away
at the roots,
at the trunk
until it fell,
rolled down hill
into the stream
where the currents
of time floated
love away.

white lie

a small white
lie
falls from
your lips,
it seems harmless.
like a snowflake
first
out of a cloud.
hardly matters,
as it melts
against
the ground,
but it's what
follows
that keeps you
in dark,
hip deep in
more flakes
gathered together
as one,
snow bound.

clarity

it's clear
that nothing is
clear.
the fog is
not lifting.
there is no
light
cutting through
the wet
grey rag
of sky.
there is no
obvious
answer.
there is just
this.
this fog, this
blight.
this lingering
cloud
of uncertainty
leaving nothing
to do,
but wait.

the eternal question

it's the age old
question,
the one men have
been discussing
for eons.
the one
Aristotle
and Plato sat around
in their long
robes
and debated.
Gandhi and Buddha
gave it as shot
as well, tossing
around the ying
and the yang, making
their lists
of goods and bads.
measuring one
against the other.
even St. Peter
and St. Paul
when they weren't
handing out
fish and bread
to the multitudes,
or pouring wine
that was once water,
they too asked
the eternal question,
Ginger
or Maryanne?

home cooked

what you wouldn't
do for
a home
cooked meal
by your mother's
hands.
to see her
sweating
at the stove,
laughing
in her blue
flowered dress,
her hair up,
shaking her
head
at everything
that's said.
yelling out
the window
that it's time
for dinner.
come in
and wash up.
it's on
the table,
her buttering
a plate
of white
bread.

the bell

you have a clock
ticking
in your head.
you know when things
are over.
a bell goes
off inside you.
it's time to pack
up and leave.
the clues pile
up like
laundry
on the basement
floor. no need
to argue, or
pout, or try
to seek therapy,
or get angry
or remorseful.
there is no working
things out.
you both know
it's over. just go.
the bell has
rung.

true love

you worked
with a man who every
day ate
a cheese
sandwich.
this went
on for the months
that you knew
him. worked
along side
him.
one day, he
forgot it,
leaving it on
the kitchen table
where his
wife dutifully
left it
with his thermos
of black coffee.
so when it was
time for lunch,
he ordered
a cheese
sandwich from
the deli.
white bread
and mayo, just
the way she made
it and black
coffee. true love.

the elevator

the elevator
is slow
today.
it's tired
of heaving
people up and
down,
down and up
from nine
to five
with hardly
a thank you,
a single,
hey.
it serves
the building
so well
with its
steel boxed
room,
the coiled
cables,
greased
quiet by a little
man
with thick
glasses
and a mustache
who
eats his
lunch up
on the roof.

another bottle

we need things
quickly.
fast food,
the drive through.
the microwave.
instant rice.
one minute oatmeal.
the third
date rendezvous.
we want the
cold to stop.
we want traffic
to move.
we are babies
in adult bodies,
needing, wanting,
babbling
at the full moon,
crying in our
cribs for
another bottle,
or to be held
or changed,
or sung to.

the other cheek

it's hard
to trust again,
once betrayed
or lied to,
cheated, or
ignored.
but you try.
you turn your
Christian cheek.
you sleep on it,
let it go,
let the sting
subside,
until it happens
again
then all bets
are off and whatever
there was between
you, dies.

the lesser gods

I've seen the light.
repented,
dropped to my
knees and begged
forgiveness for past
and future sins.
there are holes
in my pants where
the knees have
worn through.
I wonder sometimes
if He will stop
listening and not
take the call, will
he put me on hold,
or transfer me
to a lesser god,
a minor one who
does the weather,
or sports, or
handles those prayers
for parking spots.

the lake of you

the lake
wants you to come
closer.
to touch
it's cool
lapping
waves that
fold onto the
white sand.
so you do.
you take your
clothes off
and walk out.
beauty is
irresistible
at times,
making you
do things you
don't quite
understand.

the new world

she had a pet lizard
named lizzie,
a dog
named boo,
a cat with no
name, that she
called cat.
she had enough
metal dangling
from her face
to furnish
a tackle box.
the tattoo on
her chest was
a map of the world.
Columbus's world
when he set
sail on the santa
maria across
the atlantic
and got lost.
she wasn't coming
home to meet
your mother and father,
or siblings, or
any friends
that you knew.
but she was very
affectionate
and kind, and made
a mean pot of
delicious beef
burgundy stew.

1033 S. Lee

the stars
and moon, the planets
align
and you get
a parking space
ten feet away
from where
you need to be.
for once
in your life
you are on time.
but your euphoria
is short lived
when you realize
you are on
the north end
of the street
not south,
and have to walk
a mile
in the other
direction to arrive
at 1033 S. Lee,
late again.

give me your head with hair

being somewhat follicle
challenged at
this stage in life,
you ponder
the goatee,
the mountain man
beard,
the snidely
whiplash mustache
twirled at
the end, or
the clark cable
bold stache,
a wide black
smudge above
your broad smile.
perhaps mutton
chops would
enhance
your aging
face. maybe the Lincoln
doo,
bare above the lips,
fuzzy below the chin
would give you
a certain amount
of intelligence
and grace.
you've come
close to having
nearly every
hair style
of the three
stooges, including
Helen reddy
and bobby Sherman,
but you've
yet to find the
one that truly
suits your
fancy as did
the one when you
were in the seventh
grade, hair
slicked back,
parted on the side
with a nice wave
in the front,
ala elvis
all held together
with a dab
of brylcreme
and a fine tooth
black pocket
comb.

the angels

everyone has a guardian
angel
she tells you, handing
you a book on
angels.
there is one for
all of us, protecting us,
watching over
our lives, keeping
us safe, at least until
it's time.
how do you know this,
you ask, turning
the pages of the book
looking at
the beautiful paintings
of angels
by Michelangelo.
I just know,
I can feel the presence
of mine everyday
beside me, she says,
and I see
the aura of yours.

dropping hints

you meet her
in the laundry.
she drops something,
which you pick up
and hand to her.
it's silky
and black, but you
are kind
enough not to
stare at what it
is too much,
not checking
the size, or
anything like
that. oh, she says.
thank you.
the next day, she
does the same
thing, and again
until finally you
get the message
and ask her out.
she says yes.
you begin to date
and end up back
at her house. you
can hardly stop
laughing when you
see that her floor
is littered
with clothes, but
you leave them
where they are
and follow her up.

jake

your friend
jake
tells you about the time
he did time
in the jump.
the jump being prison.
five years.
the details are
sketchy of what
put him there, but
you know it must
have been bad,
with repeat offenses.
he tells you
about the broken
windows, the barbed
wire, how
cold it was.
the hard slab bed
and the noise,
the constant chatter
of the inmates.
grown men crying as
they lay in their cells.
the darkness
of it all.
it hasn't left him,
thirty years
later.
and when you see him
going outside
to smoke a cigarette
you can see that
a big part of him
is still
behind the walls,
the fences,
the guards
and dogs.

bird brains

rarely do you
see
the birds
outside the window
confused
and wondering
what they should
do with themselves
on this rainy
day.
it's basically
worm day
for them.
fly low, spot
a worm, eat it.
and the squirrels,
they have no
office meeting
to attend,
setting out
goals, or making
mission statements
about the direction
of their short
nervous lives.
no, it's pretty
much acorns
all day long.
find them,
break them open
and stuff them
into your
mouth
to eat or bury
elsewhere
for later.
you envy them, as
you sit here pondering
what shirt to
wear, their
days so certain
and natural.

the waiting room

you wake up in a room
where there is no light.
you are not blind,
but you are awake.
you see nothing.
there is someone
sitting beside your bed,
smoking. you hear a drink
in his hand.
the clink of ice
against the glass.
where am I, you ask.
who are you?
who is here with me?
you're fine
the voice says.
relax. lie there
and think good thoughts.
I'm here to take you
to the next place.
am I dead?
no, not exactly.
but you need a good
talking to,
so we're taking you
for a ride tonight
to tell you some things.
to help you, let's
just say live a better life.
I don't allow smoking
in my house, you
tell the man.
sorry he says.
and drops the cigarette
onto the floor
where you hear his
shoe rub it out.
you dropped that on my
oriental rug you say, annoyed.
hey, I said I'm sorry.
if you had an ashtray
in here maybe I wouldn't
have done that.
you sigh.
what things, what things
am I going to be told.
he laughs and takes
out a pack of gum,
stick, he says? spearmint.
no you tell him,
I can't move my arms
and I can't see where
I am. how can I possibly
chew gum. what the hell
is going on here?
he chuckles. hell might
have something to do with
it he says. let's just
say you're getting
a chance to right the ship.
look, you tell him,
this isn't about what
happened to me and Sheila
is it? that was entirely
her fault, I never
would have stepped
out on her, if she
had shown me the least
little bit of affection
once in a while.
calm down, he says.
calm down. you're gonna
have a stroke.
this has nothing to do
with Sheila. it's
bigger than that.
it's more general. more
about tweaking your way
of life. your carefree
life, I might add he says,
smacking hard on his gum.
well, when, when am I
going? soon, he says.
soon. they're a little
backed up right now.
just hold on, like I said.
think good thoughts.
do you have anymore scotch?
the bottle is kind of low.
and what's with the ice
cube trays, you don't
have an ice maker?
do you know what century
this is. I bet you have
a butter churn too,
he laughs, getting up to go
down the stairs to
the kitchen. be right
back, he says. like I
said, think good thoughts.
bathroom, down the hall?

i'm not a piece of candy

I'm not a piece
of candy
she says, dismissing
you
as a playa, as she
likes to say.
you are just like
all the other men.
you just want one
thing, and one thing
only. but let me
tell you this mister,
I am not a piece
of candy to be
found in a big glass
jar, waiting
for you to reach in
and pluck me out,
unwrap me and have your
way with me all night.
I'm not that kind of
girl. I want a
commitment and some
sort of agreement
to an exclusive
relationship before
your lips touch
my lips and furthermore
I want to walk on the beach,
hand in hand,
go to museums and nice
restaurants, I want
to meet your friends
and family, and....
stop right there you
tell her. repeat that first
part. you take out
a pen and write
down what you can remember
that she's said
so far. now go back
to the part
where you say,
I'm not a piece of
candy, you tell
her, scribbling frantically
in your notebook. this
stuff is gold. go
on go on, you prompt
her, go on...im not
a piece of candy....
then what?

down at the laundromat

your world
revolves on getting
to the laundromat.
everything
depends upon
those washers
and dryers
lined up and stacked
in long
neat rows below
the flicker
of fluorescent
lights.
the big window
allows you to look
out onto the street
as the snow
falls, as the cars
and trucks
roll by in the dark
hours, deep
into the night.
you half hear
the clanging of
coins fallen
from pockets, the
brittle pings of
zippers and buttons
against the hot
metal drums
as they spin and spin
your clothes into
warm fresh
newness.
you bring a book to
read and sit in the lime
green plastic chair
but you don't read,
too much is going on.
too many strangers
coming and going.
the folding,
the staring into
phones, the casual
nods or hellos.
it's all part of it,
as someone arrives
holding a heavy
basket, shaking
off the snow. slipping
coins into
the vending machine
with it's crackers
and stale candy bars,
the old coke
machine banging bottles
out the slot.
your world is here.
where everything and
nothing happens,
but the cleansing
of clothes,
the continuation
of your life,
as you know it.