folding money

he had a roll of cash
in his pocket.
folding money.
money that he liked
to flash.
always a hundred
on the outside.
rumor was, was that he
was connected
to someone in new
jersey. doubtful, but
it made a nice
story. when he died,
they searched his house.
knocked down
the walls,
tore it apart.
split open the cushions,
the mattresses.
there was nothing,
nothing but
the single roll
of cash.
the same roll of ones
that he'd been carrying
around for years, a hundred
dollar bill wrapped
around the outside.
his whole life
was about that.

finding a way

we veer
and sway, wobble
at times,
unable to stay
on the straight and narrow
line
that lies before us.
the road is not
like that. it's not
a clear shot.
detours,
bridges washed
out,
the mountain slides,
brush fires,
trails
unpaved force us to
take another way.
we veer, it's all
we can do
to get where we need
to go
at the end of any given
day.

finding a way

we veer
and sway, wobble
at times,
unable to stay
on the straight and narrow
line
that lies before us.
the road is not
like that. it's not
a clear shot.
detours,
bridges washed
out,
the mountain slides,
brush fires,
trails
unpaved force us to
take another way.
we veer, it's all
we can do
to get where we need
to go
at the end of any given
day.

unkept

she whispers
into your ear a secret.
don't tell
anyone, she says.
promise me, this is between
just you and me.
I promise
you say, rushing home
to write it down
and hit send.

unkept

she whispers
into your ear a secret.
don't tell
anyone, she says.
promise me, this is between
just you and me.
I promise
you say, rushing home
to write it down
and hit send.

the viewing

in the mix
of suits and dark clothing,
women
in vague mourning, and yes,
there are flowers,
there are true tears,
but alone
he stands, the friend,
he keeps saying
over and over again,
how his best friend,
will be missed.
it is more his party than
that of
the deceased, so well groomed,
at last,
lying in comfort near the front.
music is played,
photos in new frames leaning
towards this dim light we stand in.
and the man
in the center of it all orchestrates
the sadness
with a thoughtful whisper,
the sympathetic smile, friendly
disingenuous pats.
our day will come, he says,
now an expert on death. look
how many are here,
we'd be lucky
to have as many when our
day comes,
it's more than luck you whisper,
letting go of his hand,
stepping away from
his fun.

there is the night

these other things we do,
between
darkness and light,
the selling and buying,
the changing
of clothes,
the cutting of grass,
paying bills,
fixing
the door that won't
close tight.
these other things
have their own collective
weight,
and tilt the scales
as to making one's life
seem trivial,
without meaning,
but then
there is the night.

what to do

a flash of rain,
just a sputter,
a morning shower,
it pings
along the rooftop,
fills
the gutter,
rushes out towards
the welcoming
arms
of a stream.
it changes your plans,
this rain,
this cloud burst.
but there is so
much more to do,
or not do, before
the sun
appears again.

what to do

a flash of rain,
just a sputter,
a morning shower,
it pings
along the rooftop,
fills
the gutter,
rushes out towards
the welcoming
arms
of a stream.
it changes your plans,
this rain,
this cloud burst.
but there is so
much more to do,
or not do, before
the sun
appears again.

what's real

the gore of movies
is a constant.
as is
the flash of skin,
the innuendoes of sex
and violence.
hard not to understand
and bring into
the real world
this fiction,
when so much
of what we watch keeps
going in.

what's real

the gore of movies
is a constant.
as is
the flash of skin,
the innuendoes of sex
and violence.
hard not to understand
and bring into
the real world
this fiction,
when so much
of what we watch keeps
going in.

not here

a shallow bowl
of rain water left on
the table
outside
ripples in the wind
of wings, hovering,
birds
deciding
on where to land,
to bathe, to drink.
they come close,
but change their minds,
as we all do
from time to time.

not here

a shallow bowl
of rain water left on
the table
outside
ripples in the wind
of wings, hovering,
birds
deciding
on where to land,
to bathe, to drink.
they come close,
but change their minds,
as we all do
from time to time.

the needs of others

you have a coal miner's cough.
persistent.
it makes you bend
over in the morning to clear
your lungs.
people move away
from you when it starts
without a stop.
your face goes red,
then white.
in time you straighten up
and breathe as deeply
as possible, which isn't
very deep at all.
your blackened hands
wipe your mouth,
you go on with your life,
back into the mines.
people need heat,
need light.

the needs of others

you have a coal miner's cough.
persistent.
it makes you bend
over in the morning to clear
your lungs.
people move away
from you when it starts
without a stop.
your face goes red,
then white.
in time you straighten up
and breathe as deeply
as possible, which isn't
very deep at all.
your blackened hands
wipe your mouth,
you go on with your life,
back into the mines.
people need heat,
need light.

the flat world

there is the flat
world
that you live on.
no turns,
no curve, no spin
to it whatsoever.
your life consists
of going to places
you've already been,
then back home again.
straight lines
from here to there.
where is this round
world you keep
hearing about?

the flat world

there is the flat
world
that you live on.
no turns,
no curve, no spin
to it whatsoever.
your life consists
of going to places
you've already been,
then back home again.
straight lines
from here to there.
where is this round
world you keep
hearing about?

eating an orange

I prefer to peel
the orange with a stab of a finger,
then work my way around,
separating in jagged pieces
the hard skin
from the fruit.
she's different, taking a knife
and cutting it calmly
into four even pieces, placing
the quarters neatly
on a plate. she takes a napkin
to lift an orange slice,
then bites.
meanwhile the juices
run down my chin, the back
of my wrist keeping
the drips off the table,
the seeds, as I wipe.

eating an orange

I prefer to peel
the orange with a stab of a finger,
then work my way around,
separating in jagged pieces
the hard skin
from the fruit.
she's different, taking a knife
and cutting it calmly
into four even pieces, placing
the quarters neatly
on a plate. she takes a napkin
to lift an orange slice,
then bites.
meanwhile the juices
run down my chin, the back
of my wrist keeping
the drips off the table,
the seeds, as I wipe.

shadow

it's a shadow,
a long lean
wisp of
darkness
without light.
it holds your soul,
your life, what came before.
each step
you take, it's with you,
even as you sleep
it lies
upon the floor awaiting
your return.
without judgement of what
you do,
or where you go,
it's with you through and
through,
until the light is cupped
and shines no more.

shadow

it's a shadow,
a long lean
wisp of
darkness
without light.
it holds your soul,
your life, what came before.
each step
you take, it's with you,
even as you sleep
it lies
upon the floor awaiting
your return.
without judgement of what
you do,
or where you go,
it's with you through and
through,
until the light is cupped
and shines no more.

the green shirt

I feel uncomfortable wearing
a green shirt, or pants.
any kind of green.
I end up staring at them
the whole day.
asking people, what do you
think of this shirt?
it's too green isn't it.
I don't look good in green,
do I?
but no one gives me an
honest answer, or they don't
care enough to give it
much thought. I find it best
to not buy or wear any more
green shirts or pants.
this solves the problem.

clear goals

my goals
are clear today.
get out of bed,
take a shower,
brush my teeth,
leave the house
and get coffee.
what comes next
is up to the Gods.
let fate prevail
and lead me forward
on this rainy day
in may.

turkey slices

she didn't like
the way I cut the turkey
on holidays,
so she'd cut
it in the kitchen
to save the embarrassment
of taking
the knife out of my
hand in front of
all our living relatives.
she was kind like
that, but I still believe
in my cutting skills,
and think often
of how that task was taken
away from me.

the wig store

just for fun,
you stop into the wig store
on king street
and pick out
a few to try on.
the elvis,
the ringo,
the joe cocker, the rita Hayworth,
and then
the billy idol. that one
you like best.
you've had each before
in various stages of
your life, but
why go backwards now?

the wig store

just for fun,
you stop into the wig store
on king street
and pick out
a few to try on.
the elvis,
the ringo,
the joe cocker, the rita Hayworth,
and then
the billy idol. that one
you like best.
you've had each before
in various stages of
your life, but
why go backwards now?

enough

her dog,
blind, deaf, a greyish roll
of fatted flesh
and fur,
tumbles
down the steps.
unhurt.
he shakes it off
and goes towards
the light,
the thin veneer of his
blue eyed retinas leading
him to the balcony door,
he bumps his head
into the glass.
there he lifts
a leg onto a shoe
and pees, then
finds another corner,
a sand
box to finish things.
it's a long
day for the dog.
a long night for the both
of them.
neither quite ready
to say enough.

enough

her dog,
blind, deaf, a greyish roll
of fatted flesh
and fur,
tumbles
down the steps.
unhurt.
he shakes it off
and goes towards
the light,
the thin veneer of his
blue eyed retinas leading
him to the balcony door,
he bumps his head
into the glass.
there he lifts
a leg onto a shoe
and pees, then
finds another corner,
a sand
box to finish things.
it's a long
day for the dog.
a long night for the both
of them.
neither quite ready
to say enough.

the front desk

the woman who runs the front desk,
who has control
of the button
as to who comes into the building
or not,
is the queen bee.
if she knows you,
you're in, if not you have
to talk into the little square
speaker and state your case.
making minimum wages
she controls
the ebb and flow of the high rise.
everyone knows her,
stays on her side.
brings her cakes and treats,
butters her up with hellos,
don't you look nice today,
and goodbyes.
she takes the packages from
ups, fedex, the postman
and sets them aside.
she hands out the parking passes.
she knows the weather,
the news. who to call when someone
dies. she knows if
the mailman has come yet.
she keeps the maintenance men
in line.
where the Christmas tree will
stand in the lobby, don't worry
about it,
she'll decide.

born to be mild

he pulls up the sleeve
of his denim jacket,
the one with a skull and crossbones
patch and shows
me his zipper like scar
that runs down from his shoulder
to his elbow.
then another one on
his knee.
there is a gash, healed,
and pink on his forehead.
a few teeth are narrowed
and pointed from
hitting pavement, but filed
down nicely
for eating meat.
I love my Harley, he says.
you should get one.
I can't wait for the weather
to get nice again,
so I can get out and ride.
do you ride?
nah. not for me, i'm more
of a walker, although
some of those
scars are pretty cool.
yeah, he says. chicks dig em.

born to be mild

he pulls up the sleeve
of his denim jacket,
the one with a skull and crossbones
patch and shows
me his zipper like scar
that runs down from his shoulder
to his elbow.
then another one on
his knee.
there is a gash, healed,
and pink on his forehead.
a few teeth are narrowed
and pointed from
hitting pavement, but filed
down nicely
for eating meat.
I love my Harley, he says.
you should get one.
I can't wait for the weather
to get nice again,
so I can get out and ride.
do you ride?
nah. not for me, i'm more
of a walker, although
some of those
scars are pretty cool.
yeah, he says. chicks dig em.

the baseball game

I want to share
some of what i'm feeling
with you,
she says,
as I clip my toe nails,
and watch
baseball on tv.
the dog comes over and runs
away with one
that falls onto the rug.
no use chasing him.
I've met someone, she says.
someone I really like
a lot.
actually, he's been
a friend for a long time,
and we
reconnected on facebook.
you don't know him.
I look up from the tv,
and say, what?
did you see what Harper
just did.
my god he's the next
mickey mantle. if he could
just get his emotions
under control.
what? did you say something
about facebook.
I meant to post that cake
I baked the other
day, but forgot.
I said that I met someone
and i'm moving out.
oh, I say. wincing as
harper strikes out and breaks
his bat over
his knee.
you're leaving where. the mall?
no, i'm leaving you,
for someone else.
I stop clipping my nails
and almost turn to her,
but Zimmerman has just hit
a long fly ball
off the left field foul pole.
I get up and let out
a yell.
I look around the room,
but she's gone,
the dog is on the bed chewing
on something.

the cold box

you have a photograph of her
standing
in a store
next to an open refrigerator.
she's not smiling.
she looks grim.
the light is bright
inside the white
metal box, not yet cold.
the racks shine,
the tags still on the edge
of the door.
she's in black.
a scarf around her neck.
she looks
angry. you had a way of making
her feel that way
on a daily basis.
taking this photo probably
didn't help things.

the cold box

you have a photograph of her
standing
in a store
next to an open refrigerator.
she's not smiling.
she looks grim.
the light is bright
inside the white
metal box, not yet cold.
the racks shine,
the tags still on the edge
of the door.
she's in black.
a scarf around her neck.
she looks
angry. you had a way of making
her feel that way
on a daily basis.
taking this photo probably
didn't help things.

to the curb

it's hard
to sell old things that you own,
best
to set them by the curb.
coats and old boots,
the pictures
framed, the mattress, the toaster
oven
still filled with crumbs.
snow tires,
and the books you'll never
read
like fifty shades of grey,
one two and three.
drag all that junk
out to the curb,
and most of it will be gone
by morning.

to the curb

it's hard
to sell old things that you own,
best
to set them by the curb.
coats and old boots,
the pictures
framed, the mattress, the toaster
oven
still filled with crumbs.
snow tires,
and the books you'll never
read
like fifty shades of grey,
one two and three.
drag all that junk
out to the curb,
and most of it will be gone
by morning.

it was nice

Venice was nice.
it was what you thought it would be.
the gondolas
the glass blowing, the cathedrals
and pigeons.
the canals
swaying with water,
the crowds
taking pictures,
posing on bricked bridges.
the history of it all,
Harry's bar.
even getting yelled at for asking
for a coffee to go
in a small bistro
was okay. but
it was a long
ways to go to get there.
a long ways back.

it was nice

Venice was nice.
it was what you thought it would be.
the gondolas
the glass blowing, the cathedrals
and pigeons.
the canals
swaying with water,
the crowds
taking pictures,
posing on bricked bridges.
the history of it all,
Harry's bar.
even getting yelled at for asking
for a coffee to go
in a small bistro
was okay. but
it was a long
ways to go to get there.
a long ways back.

the olive bar

as a child
i remember black olives
in a can,
jumbo, medium, or small,
pitted or non pitted.
my mother pulled them
off the shelf for thanksgiving,
placing them to wobble in a dish
with the word olives painted
across it.
she'd spend an hour or so
stuffing cream cheese in them
if her mother in law was coming
for dinner.
don't eat all the olives
before everyone gets here, she'd
yell from the kitchen,
sweating over
a boiling pot of chicken necks.
there were green olives too.
a muddied green
with a bright reddish
orange strand
of pimento
hanging from where the pit
was removed.
today,
I am overwhelmed by olives.
the shapes and sizes,
the textures.
bitter or less bitter,
some look like grapes
fallen into vinegar. frowning
from the brine
they lay in.
mountains of them stacked
in bins
with the sign olive bar
and their names
in script below
their special lighting.
things have changed
in the olive world, at least
for me.
don't even get me started
on cheese.

the grey bus

the shuffle
of the old being helped
off the bus
into the grocery store
is a bent
grey line.
it is what this day is about,
for them.
going out.
seeing the shelves
lined with things they once
needed,
but never will
again.
the world makes us circle
back
to where we began,
being cared for
at the hands of others.

the grey bus

the shuffle
of the old being helped
off the bus
into the grocery store
is a bent
grey line.
it is what this day is about,
for them.
going out.
seeing the shelves
lined with things they once
needed,
but never will
again.
the world makes us circle
back
to where we began,
being cared for
at the hands of others.

the conference call

you try to arrange
all of your
telemarketers to call you
at the same time,
so that you can have
a conference call.
give them each a chance
to sell their pills,
their mortgages,
their roofs and replacement
windows. you want to give
each of them a chance to
explain their needs at
the policeman's fund,
the fireman's fund,
etc., some are in india
or china,
so it takes a lot of
planning, but it finally
happens. friends are made
as they all chatter at
once in their second or
third languages, you let them go
on and on with their spiels,
until finally you get
them to be quiet and you
tell them, as loudly and as
succinctly as possible,
No. and please
don't call again.

the conference call

you try to arrange
all of your
telemarketers to call you
at the same time,
so that you can have
a conference call.
give them each a chance
to sell their pills,
their mortgages,
their roofs and replacement
windows. you want to give
each of them a chance to
explain their needs at
the policeman's fund,
the fireman's fund,
etc., some are in india
or china,
so it takes a lot of
planning, but it finally
happens. friends are made
as they all chatter at
once in their second or
third languages, you let them go
on and on with their spiels,
until finally you get
them to be quiet and you
tell them, as loudly and as
succinctly as possible,
No. and please
don't call again.

where she's meant to be

her barn,
an immense collection of lumber
nailed together
a century ago, and raised,
stands wide
and tall in martinsburg
west Virginia.
the light slips through
the boards,
touches the crucifix
on the wall,
the rain too, some wind.
it sings,
this barn, it smells
old,
smells like yesterday,
you can hear
the boots against the floorboards,
hear the horses,
the stirring
of dishes in the kitchen
down below.
she leans
on the steps and holds onto
a post.
this ship will sail.
it's where she's meant to be,
where her
tomorrows will be,
the circle complete.

where she's meant to be

her barn,
an immense collection of lumber
nailed together
a century ago, and raised,
stands wide
and tall in martinsburg
west Virginia.
the light slips through
the boards,
touches the crucifix
on the wall,
the rain too, some wind.
it sings,
this barn, it smells
old,
smells like yesterday,
you can hear
the boots against the floorboards,
hear the horses,
the stirring
of dishes in the kitchen
down below.
she leans
on the steps and holds onto
a post.
this ship will sail.
it's where she's meant to be,
where her
tomorrows will be,
the circle complete.

putting air in the tires

her religious fervor
would come and go in hot
spells,
cold spells.
it was a full service church,
she went to
to get a fill up, an oil
change,
some air in her tires.
there was
a language for everyone,
a mass
at all hours, one for the early
risers, one for
the night owls.
when her life straightened
out she forgot
about God for awhile,
set him on a shelf
she went about her life,
but keeping him within
arms reach
for the next time he
might be needed.

putting air in the tires

her religious fervor
would come and go in hot
spells,
cold spells.
it was a full service church,
she went to
to get a fill up, an oil
change,
some air in her tires.
there was
a language for everyone,
a mass
at all hours, one for the early
risers, one for
the night owls.
when her life straightened
out she forgot
about God for awhile,
set him on a shelf
she went about her life,
but keeping him within
arms reach
for the next time he
might be needed.

this world

you miss the pay phone.
the bottled
coke machine, red
and round shoulder,
sweating cold,
the counter fountain
where you
could get a grilled
cheese sandwich
and a pickle,
a handful of chips
for two dollars.
you miss
the gas station
attendant running out
to wipe your
windows,
the doorman, the thank
yous, come
again when buying anything
in a store.
you miss the tip
of the hat,
the good morning
salutation
from anyone crossing
your path.
it's a different world
than the one you grew up in,
and the next
one will
be less too.

the spies next door

the federal agent
knocks at my door, stiff in her
blue jacket, white shirt.
short hair.
she shows me her ID,
her gold badge and says
do you mind if I ask you
a few questions
about your neighbor,
he's applying
for a government job.
standard procedure, nothing to be
concerned about. she hands me her
business card.
sure, I say, come on in.
i'm making tea, please, have a seat.
I bring the tea out in two
teacups that I rarely use
and set out a plate of cookies.
she's not an unattractive
woman, but she seems a tad
manly in her demeanor. I wonder
when the last time was that she was
kissed by a man, a real man.
I want to observe her, to
find something usual
about her to write about.
one lump or two, I ask
her from the kitchen.
I peek into the dining room
and see her crossing
her legs. she has nice knees
and i suspect that she might be a runner.
with a snap she takes out her notepad.
no sugar for me, she says,
just cream if you have it.
when I bring the cream out I see
that she's already into the cookies,
in fact she's bitten into about
five or six of them and set them
back on the dish.
she's eaten the chocolate
kiss from the center of
the peanut butter cookie.
so, she says, sipping her tea,
wiping the crumbs off her lap.
how well do you know your
neighbor. she points to the wall
that adjoins his house to mine.
I lean towards her and cup my mouth.
I don't know him or his wife
at all, I tell her softly. they never
say hello, or anything. they are really
quiet people, which makes me suspicious.
I truly think they might be
Russian spies.
she writes this down.
I have cake, if these cookies
are a little stale, I tell her.
my dad sends me a tin every Christmas
from swiss colony.
they're always stale. no thank you,
she says. so what else do you
know or suspect about him.
well, I've never seen him with any
weapons, or anything, but
sometimes if I put a glass to the wall
I can hear them whispering to one
another, who whispers to one
another in their own house? oh,
and get this,
he's growing a beard.
I see she says. well. I think that's
all the information I need.
thank you for the tea and cookies,
we'll contact you if we need to know
more.
i'll keep an eye on them for you,
if you'd like. I have your card.
I stare at her card. is this a direct
line to the Bureau or your personal
cell phone. she takes the card and crosses
out her cell phone number,
then hands it back to me.
have a good day she says, walking
quickly out of the house. hello, can I wrap
up some cookies for the road? I yell to her,
but she's already back into her black
SUV and driving away.

wedding dancing

painful
to watch wedding dancing.
more painful
to drink too much and join in,
finding a child,
or an elderly woman
with blue
hair to swing with.
the aunts
come out as one, while
their husbands
eat, lean back
fat in their chairs and
talk sports,
or politics.
have you ever been to
a wedding where they haven't
played proud mary?
none that you can remember.
even at your own,
they did so, without request.
and when you look
at the solid
frozen slice of wedding
cake
still in your freezer,
you remember, sometimes
you'll take it out
and dance
across the kitchen floor,
spinning, dipping.
big wheels keep
on turning, proud mary
keeps on burning.

the sister's wedding

the picture
of her at the wedding
tells all,
her sister's wedding,
the sister
who would never marry, never
keep a man
or job very long,
that sister, the one
always needing,
always taking the wrong
turn
when given two choices,
or three.
at that wedding, the good
sister
stood behind
them all on the high step,
smiling
with her new man,
her head leaning
into his wide shoulder,
eyes squinting
into a white sunlight,
her fingers
crossed.

the sister's wedding

the picture
of her at the wedding
tells all,
her sister's wedding,
the sister
who would never marry, never
keep a man
or job very long,
that sister, the one
always needing,
always taking the wrong
turn
when given two choices,
or three.
at that wedding, the good
sister
stood behind
them all on the high step,
smiling
with her new man,
her head leaning
into his wide shoulder,
eyes squinting
into a white sunlight,
her fingers
crossed.

the winter clothes

it was the day
she put away her winter clothes.
in late spring,
neatly
into boxes.
sweaters and knits
to the cedar chest,
the careful folds.
long boots,
and boots for snow
placed back
into the dark corner
of a closet.
it was that day,
that she stopped and sat
on the bed
and cried.
remembering things.

the winter clothes

it was the day
she put away her winter clothes.
in late spring,
neatly
into boxes.
sweaters and knits
to the cedar chest,
the careful folds.
long boots,
and boots for snow
placed back
into the dark corner
of a closet.
it was that day,
that she stopped and sat
on the bed
and cried.
remembering things.

the cutting

the butcher, with his wired
glove,
his white smock
stained
with the purple
arcs of blood, he cuts
all day
with sharpened knives,
each with its own purpose.
on his feet, he grows
weary in the cold room,
boots against drain,
the slap
of meat, the hooks,
the wrapping,
the scale tipping with
the weight
of each day slipping away.
it's a job, a life.
he knows no other,
it's too late for something
new, too far into
the day.

the cutting

the butcher, with his wired
glove,
his white smock
stained
with the purple
arcs of blood, he cuts
all day
with sharpened knives,
each with its own purpose.
on his feet, he grows
weary in the cold room,
boots against drain,
the slap
of meat, the hooks,
the wrapping,
the scale tipping with
the weight
of each day slipping away.
it's a job, a life.
he knows no other,
it's too late for something
new, too far into
the day.

no matter

no matter
the weather, how quickly
it changes,
or slow, no
matter how many times
people hear it,
or are told,
they aren't prepared,
they walk about
unbooted in the snow,
without a coat,
or hat,
no umbrella
to hold as the rain
beats down.
the wind cuts into
their open
shirts,
their bare skin,
whistles and blows.

no matter

no matter
the weather, how quickly
it changes,
or slow, no
matter how many times
people hear it,
or are told,
they aren't prepared,
they walk about
unbooted in the snow,
without a coat,
or hat,
no umbrella
to hold as the rain
beats down.
the wind cuts into
their open
shirts,
their bare skin,
whistles and blows.

love is like that

the slow fizz
of champagne, love is
like that.
the cold sweet
liquid
rolling down cheeks,
and chins,
upon breast
or brow.
the bubbles of infatuation
at midnight,
the corks sound,
happy in flight,
love is like that.
half drunk,
half tired, half in,
half out
of the bottle,
what remains
gone flat with time.
love too,
is like that.

love is like that

the slow fizz
of champagne, love is
like that.
the cold sweet
liquid
rolling down cheeks,
and chins,
upon breast
or brow.
the bubbles of infatuation
at midnight,
the corks sound,
happy in flight,
love is like that.
half drunk,
half tired, half in,
half out
of the bottle,
what remains
gone flat with time.
love too,
is like that.

beauty fading

the moon
sits still,
carved hard
and cold, an unwavering
milky eye
upon beauty,
fading, now
thinned, needing
disguise.
better when young
to find
more in life
than the mirror
that hangs upon
the wall.

inbetween

bored with me,
I bend
and twist towards something new,
an unstale view.
I let the wind
catch me
and heave me towards a new
a moon,
a fat yellow sun.
I want to be young again,
refreshed with love,
whether imaginary,
or real,
or perfectly
old and content,
spent and removed from youth.
this waiting, this vague
in between, this sameness
needs to go.

inbetween

bored with me,
I bend
and twist towards something new,
an unstale view.
I let the wind
catch me
and heave me towards a new
a moon,
a fat yellow sun.
I want to be young again,
refreshed with love,
whether imaginary,
or real,
or perfectly
old and content,
spent and removed from youth.
this waiting, this vague
in between, this sameness
needs to go.

the unseen

his blindness comes slow,
a gradual crawl
concluding
at eighty seven years,
the blue
of his eyes, muddled
and thatched,
he's underwater, swimming
with his ears.
listening
to what comes next.
whose footsteps are those?
the past has left,
the future is here.

the unseen

his blindness comes slow,
a gradual crawl
concluding
at eighty seven years,
the blue
of his eyes, muddled
and thatched,
he's underwater, swimming
with his ears.
listening
to what comes next.
whose footsteps are those?
the past has left,
the future is here.

the end of beauty

the green of the goose's neck
is fluorescent, chrome
in color, a bright sheen
even in this rain.
a white stripe,
a red stripe, tight bands
around it's
thin neck, curled
and folded from being struck
by a car when
crossing the street.
it's not the end of beauty,
but close, that comes later,
when night falls,
and other things
take it further.

the end of beauty

the green of the goose's neck
is fluorescent, chrome
in color, a bright sheen
even in this rain.
a white stripe,
a red stripe, tight bands
around it's
thin neck, curled
and folded from being struck
by a car when
crossing the street.
it's not the end of beauty,
but close, that comes later,
when night falls,
and other things
take it further.

here, talk to mary

here, talk to mary
for awhile,
your friend says,
handing the phone
to his wife,
leaving the conversation
in mid sentence.
you hold the phone away
from your ear and stare at it.
shake your head.
this is the world we live
in now, you think, sadly.
you have nothing
to say to her, but you
are too polite and mannered
to hang up.

here, talk to mary

here, talk to mary
for awhile,
your friend says,
handing the phone
to his wife,
leaving the conversation
in mid sentence.
you hold the phone away
from your ear and stare at it.
shake your head.
this is the world we live
in now, you think, sadly.
you have nothing
to say to her, but you
are too polite and mannered
to hang up.

the argument

the couple next door
are having a fight. you hear a dish
hit the wall.
a glass.
there is more arguing.
there is a high pitched scream
and then the slamming of a door.
the baby begins
to cry.
you look out the window
and see the man
speed off.
shaking his head, scratching
his beard.
the woman comes out, holding
the baby,
she's in tears, standing on the porch.
there is nothing
you can do or say about any of this.
you don't know them.
they don't know you. but you know
the fight.
you don't miss it.

water bottles

you have left
bottles of water in nearly every room.
half gone.
some with spittle in the bottom,
the tops
screwed on.
they are like lone soldiers
guarding
each table where they sit.
waiting, waiting for thirst
to hit.
some are filled with fog,
others,
the labels are torn,
about to fall.
none are cold,
most are just luke warm
and alone.
a feeling that you have
quite often.

water bottles

you have left
bottles of water in nearly every room.
half gone.
some with spittle in the bottom,
the tops
screwed on.
they are like lone soldiers
guarding
each table where they sit.
waiting, waiting for thirst
to hit.
some are filled with fog,
others,
the labels are torn,
about to fall.
none are cold,
most are just luke warm
and alone.
a feeling that you have
quite often.

a bad feeling

a shiver
comes to you
as you lie in bed
on a rainy sunday morning.
a feeling of dread.
of doom,
a panicky,
nervous thought crosses
your mind.
what if
there aren't anymore
oreo cookies
left in
the jar. by the stove.

an early mother's day

someone tells you it's mother's day,
and you believe her.
you believe most things that she
tells you.
she's a straight shooter, like that.
so you go out and buy flowers,
as box of chocolates,
a nice card. you are a good son,
or so you try hard to make everyone
believe.
but it isn't mother's day, but you
decide to make it so anyway.
in your mother's current mental state,
she won't know the difference,
so off you go, flowers in hand,
chocolates, signed with love,
your son.

an early mother's day

someone tells you it's mother's day,
and you believe her.
you believe most things that she
tells you.
she's a straight shooter, like that.
so you go out and buy flowers,
as box of chocolates,
a nice card. you are a good son,
or so you try hard to make everyone
believe.
but it isn't mother's day, but you
decide to make it so anyway.
in your mother's current mental state,
she won't know the difference,
so off you go, flowers in hand,
chocolates, signed with love,
your son.

the dryer world

how quickly the dryer
eats
socks.
devouring them with its
great
white mouth, spinning
hot,
around and around,
dispensing of loose
change,
silvery
after being washed.
but no socks.
just one, or two, perhaps,
but never a matching pair.
the world is a strange
place
that we visit,
then also disappear.

the dryer world

how quickly the dryer
eats
socks.
devouring them with its
great
white mouth, spinning
hot,
around and around,
dispensing of loose
change,
silvery
after being washed.
but no socks.
just one, or two, perhaps,
but never a matching pair.
the world is a strange
place
that we visit,
then also disappear.

historically low rates

it's bad news,
the early call, the late night call.
it's never good.
sometimes it's
a medical issue,
an accident, a death,
a tragic break up
with crying on the other end,
or sometimes, as it is lately,
someone with a florida
number
trying to get you to refinance
at these new
historically low rates.
they can't believe they
have a human
voice on the line, and struggle
to pronounce your name,
before they begin
their rap.
you don't hate them, waking
you up, like they do
in the middle of the night,
but there are things
with a knitting needle
that you imagine
doing to them.

historically low rates

it's bad news,
the early call, the late night call.
it's never good.
sometimes it's
a medical issue,
an accident, a death,
a tragic break up
with crying on the other end,
or sometimes, as it is lately,
someone with a florida
number
trying to get you to refinance
at these new
historically low rates.
they can't believe they
have a human
voice on the line, and struggle
to pronounce your name,
before they begin
their rap.
you don't hate them, waking
you up, like they do
in the middle of the night,
but there are things
with a knitting needle
that you imagine
doing to them.

the fish monger

I could bring you back
some fish, he says, maybe some tuna,
i'll sell them
to you cheap. my buddy's got a boat
and we're going out today.
you like tuna, don't you?
sure, I tell him, but I think
I already have three or four
little cans stack
in the cupboard. green with Charlie
on the side.
oh no, he says, there's nothing
like fresh tuna
caught right out of the ocean.
he's been drinking a little,
and continues
with his selling of the fish
he may or may not catch.
you don't like fish?
fish is brain food, it's good
for you. it makes you
more healthy and smarter.
okay, okay, I say, as I listen
to the exhaust and pop of another
can of beer on his end.
who doesn't want to be smarter.
i'll take one large tuna
if you catch any, but with
the head cut off and fileted
into nice steak sized portions.
how about two, he says. two tunas,
wrapped in newspaper, you do
the cutting?
sure. sure. okay,
bring me the stinking fish.

mornings like this

the cold and rain
allows you slip back under the sheets
and sleep
some more.
how nice it is
to be nowhere, to go nowhere,
to not have a clock
to punch,
an appointment to keep.
the world has
slowed down
to a near stop.
only the sound and smell
of coffee brewing
is in the house.
you need mornings like this,
to handle
the rest.

she wanted to go camping

she wanted to go camping.
I didn't.
she wanted to hike along
the mountain trail
and make camp beside a stream.
fish,
gather rocks and sticks
to build a fire.
she wanted
to bathe in the cold water,
study the birds.
listen to the wolves,
the crickets.
the sound of nothing but
wind
circling the tops of trees.
she wanted to sleep on the ground,
be one with nature.
I didn't.
I suggested the holiday
inn, right down the road,
with room service and a bar.
so we never went.
she went with her next boyfriend.
he was wearing
a red plaid shirt
when i saw them together.
they both had on
their back packs and boots.
they were studying a map
marking their path.
this made me happy,
seeing her happy.

sunshine

there are those
that are too happy, too bright
and sunny, so much
so
that you can hardly look at them.
it's hurts your eyes
to stare into such
unequivocal joy.
pure sunshine.
you feel like they might be
faking it though,
because you know
about the money problems,
the divorce,
the kid in rehab, the old
car. the doctor's report.
everything
coming from their mouths is
candy.
peachy.
rosy.
you want to take them by
the hand
and tell them to sit down.
to cry.
to curse the world and all
the bad luck
they've run into. but you don't.
you aren't that good
of a friend,
and you're feeling a little blue,
yourself today.

pill happy

a pill or two,
or three
to sleep, another for the food
you ate.
one for
the headache,
another for
affection.
a pill to wake up with,
a pill
to stop sneezing.
a pill
to lower your blood
pressure,
to improve your mood,
to be likable, lovable,
numb
to a world that's
blue.

business as usual

when the boy
becomes a thief, it's hard
to understand.
a dollar here, a dollar there.
when he robs
those he loves not with a sword,
or gun,
or knife, but
with a fountain pen,
you shake your head
and wonder why.
it's not evil, or malicious,
it's just business as usual
for him.

business as usual

when the boy
becomes a thief, it's hard
to understand.
a dollar here, a dollar there.
when he robs
those he loves not with a sword,
or gun,
or knife, but
with a fountain pen,
you shake your head
and wonder why.
it's not evil, or malicious,
it's just business as usual
for him.

the fainting spell

in the big store
you feel like
you might faint, so you say
I feel kind of dizzy
to no one in particular,
grabbing onto
a rack of clothes marked
seventy per cent off.
the fluorescent light is
a million black dots,
like buzzing flies
trying
to congeal and go dark.
there is the warm glow of
sleep approaching.
you worry about hitting your
head on the tiled floor, so
you take a seat
beside an old woman with
knee stockings
and a sandwich in her hand.
ham and cheese.
she stops eating to look
at you.
there is lettuce between her teeth.
are you alright, she says.
you look pale,
like you might faint,
or something.
it's the lights in here,
she says,
the music, the smell.
you have to eat something
when you shop here,
she puts the sandwich
in front of your mouth.
you take a bite, then her drink,
the long straw finding your parched
lips. you suck in a gulp
of soda and murmur thanks.
I come here every day, she
says. you have to pace
yourself.

finding gold

your knees hurt
from panning gold. from kneeling
in the wet ground
beside the stream.
your hands are cold.
you find enough to get by.
shaking the tray
until a few
golden pebbles glimmer
in the fading light.
your back aches, your vision
is blurry.
it's a hard life.
no one's to blame, perhaps
if you had
never found that one
large stone,
things would have changed.

the ring

it's the diamond you see
first.
large, grape sized on her finger.
her hand
stretches out
across the table.
flat, and empty, except
for the ring
that catches light.
what else is there to talk
about,
but the ring.
everything else is diminished
by it's power,
or so she thinks.

the ring

it's the diamond you see
first.
large, grape sized on her finger.
her hand
stretches out
across the table.
flat, and empty, except
for the ring
that catches light.
what else is there to talk
about,
but the ring.
everything else is diminished
by it's power,
or so she thinks.

how it happens

how it happens
is hard to know, how one
goes
one way into darkness,
the other
a higher road.
what decides
our fate, our destination,
a whim,
a feeling,
a conscious decision,
or something else beyond
us,
beyond reason.
a kind and loving God,
or one
who does little
but watch, and wait.

how it happens

how it happens
is hard to know, how one
goes
one way into darkness,
the other
a higher road.
what decides
our fate, our destination,
a whim,
a feeling,
a conscious decision,
or something else beyond
us,
beyond reason.
a kind and loving God,
or one
who does little
but watch, and wait.

the apples

the dead
gain luster the moment
they pass.
we shine them
up like apples.
hardly a worm is found,
or spot gone
soft and brown.
they are forever red
or green,
picked ripe in season,
rarely left to rot
upon the ground.

the world you live in

the less you say,
the wiser they think you are.
think, not know.
still, impressions are
everything,
as you babble on and on
about nothing.
passionate about the mundane,
observing
the simple ticks and troubles
of those around you,
including you,
writing them
down to go unread or read
in this silent world
you live in.

the world you live in

the less you say,
the wiser they think you are.
think, not know.
still, impressions are
everything,
as you babble on and on
about nothing.
passionate about the mundane,
observing
the simple ticks and troubles
of those around you,
including you,
writing them
down to go unread or read
in this silent world
you live in.

fitting in

when young
things were altered.
your legs grew, your arms,
sleeves
had to lengthened,
pants let out.
shoes
were discarded for
larger shoes.
you adjusted everything
each year,
more happy, more sullen,
who should you be,
everything so undecided
for so long,
taking great care to change
to fit in,
until now.
where you hope not to.

fitting in

when young
things were altered.
your legs grew, your arms,
sleeves
had to lengthened,
pants let out.
shoes
were discarded for
larger shoes.
you adjusted everything
each year,
more happy, more sullen,
who should you be,
everything so undecided
for so long,
taking great care to change
to fit in,
until now.
where you hope not to.

the velvet rope

after the decorator
designed the room, picked
the colors,
mauves
and red, a touch of grey.
a long couch,
restored to look like
an era long
since gone away,
placed on the mantle
the antique vase,
they put up a velvet rope
in front of the entry
way. stately lamps,
a muted
chandelier hung low.
from the hall you could
see but not enter,
or touch the new room.
old but new.
the oil painting they
paid too much for
because it looked like
a couple who resembled
them, on the beach,
along the coast
against a sea of blue.

the velvet rope

after the decorator
designed the room, picked
the colors,
mauves
and red, a touch of grey.
a long couch,
restored to look like
an era long
since gone away,
placed on the mantle
the antique vase,
they put up a velvet rope
in front of the entry
way. stately lamps,
a muted
chandelier hung low.
from the hall you could
see but not enter,
or touch the new room.
old but new.
the oil painting they
paid too much for
because it looked like
a couple who resembled
them, on the beach,
along the coast
against a sea of blue.

what happens in the dentist office stays

I begin by telling my dentist
how beautiful she looks today.
did you lose weight or something.
fall in love?
my god there's an aura about you.
heaven must be missing an angel.
why thank you.
very kind of you to say. I am
actually seeing someone.
you are quite perceptive.
she turns her head, blushing.
can I ask you something, I say
to her, it's sort of a favor?
sure, anything.
well would you mind removing
this mole from
the side of my forehead.
see it, it looks an abe
Lincoln copper penny stuck there.
she says, what?
I can't do that. that's crazy.
i'm a dentist. look, I tell her,
i'm here, you're
here, you have all these
sharp instruments. you're practically
a doctor. numb me up and scrape
that sucker off. i'm sick
of looking at it
and answering questions about it.
oooh, what's that, people say.
better have it looked at!
I have cash.
oh, but I can't do that, she
says, putting her hands into the air.
i'm not a dermatologist.
shhh. alright, alright, calm down.
shut the door, I tell her.
I take out a hundred dollar
bill and slip it into
the pocket of her smock. not enough?
okay, playing hardball. I slip
in another hundred.
it's yours, I tell
her. go out with your new guy,
dinner movie, whatever.
no one needs to know,
I whisper to her.
it's between you and me.
go grab a scalpel or something
and zippity do da. okay?
stick a band aid on the wound
and no one is the wiser.
I slap my hands together
and rub them back forth.
no. she says. now don't ask
me again, or i'm going to hurt
you. now open wide, I need
to stuff your mouth
with some cardboard
and take a few x-rays.

things changed

before things changed,
a bar was a place where you could
go and talk,
meet people, make friends,
stir up a romance even,
if the planets aligned
and the stars
came out.
someone might write their
number and name
on the back of a match book
cover, or napkin
and say call me. kissing you
on the cheek before
they left.
there might be one tv
in the corner,
a black and white
tv with rabbit ears,
maybe a fight was on,
or a ball game, or nothing.
there was a grown man or
woman behind the bar
with a rag
wiping the counter clean,
filling up
your drink before
you asked for another.
they called you by
your first name.
there was a dish of nuts
every six feet.
ashtrays.
the music wasn't so loud
that you couldn't talk.
there was food, real food,
not squid chopped
into rubbery fried gaskets.
not hummus, or
olives.
there was no spinach
artichoke dip.
but things changed.
not for the good either,
I tell you.

a days work

the man
in the purple t-shirt
with the leaf blower
blowing one leaf
down the sidewalk to the truck,
politely stops
to let you enter your house.
the smell of gasoline
and oil
burning fills
the air. the heavy
machine idles
and vibrates in his hands.
when you go in, he fires
it up again,
increases the power,
him and the blower,
louder than a jet
pushing the solitary leaf
down the sidewalk.

a days work

the man
in the purple t-shirt
with the leaf blower
blowing one leaf
down the sidewalk to the truck,
politely stops
to let you enter your house.
the smell of gasoline
and oil
burning fills
the air. the heavy
machine idles
and vibrates in his hands.
when you go in, he fires
it up again,
increases the power,
him and the blower,
louder than a jet
pushing the solitary leaf
down the sidewalk.

the fur collar coat

once, when we were eleven
or twelve
throwing snowballs
at cars
as all our friends
were doing
behind the bushes
at the round about,
a man,
came out of nowhere and
grabbed two or three
of us
by our skinny necks.
he had a perfectly round
red spot
on the side of his face,
a slush
of melting snow
dripped down the fur collar
of his fancy coat.
it looked like an old woman's coat.
he was angry.
smoking a cigarette, cursing.
we all wondered who
threw that one.
who aimed perfectly
through the narrow slot
of the car window
and made a direct hit.
he corralled us
near a pay phone where he
proceeded to call
the cops,
which gave us a chance
to run.
we did, him chasing
after us,
slipping in his suede boots,
we made
more snowballs,
aiming and firing as he
slipped and stumbled.
later, each of us took
credit for the perfect throw,
saying he deserved
it anyway with that coat.

the fur collar coat

once, when we were eleven
or twelve
throwing snowballs
at cars
as all our friends
were doing
behind the bushes
at the round about,
a man,
came out of nowhere and
grabbed two or three
of us
by our skinny necks.
he had a perfectly round
red spot
on the side of his face,
a slush
of melting snow
dripped down the fur collar
of his fancy coat.
it looked like an old woman's coat.
he was angry.
smoking a cigarette, cursing.
we all wondered who
threw that one.
who aimed perfectly
through the narrow slot
of the car window
and made a direct hit.
he corralled us
near a pay phone where he
proceeded to call
the cops,
which gave us a chance
to run.
we did, him chasing
after us,
slipping in his suede boots,
we made
more snowballs,
aiming and firing as he
slipped and stumbled.
later, each of us took
credit for the perfect throw,
saying he deserved
it anyway with that coat.

blocking the door

you notice
that when old people,
even
middle age people enter
a grocery store,
once in, once past
the automatic door,
and rubber mat,
they stop.
this is where they need
to think.
ponder this new world
before stepping into
the produce section.
the lights and noise
seems to immobilize them,
they need to
regroup, look at their
list and adjust
their clothing.
some will blow their
noses,
or take a flyer from the basket
to see
what's on sale.
others will open their
enormous purses and take out
a fistful of coupons.
they don't care that there
are other people
coming through the door
behind them.
they're in. it's their
store now.

the small boat

your boat is small.
too small for everyone
to get on board.
some swim,
some sink, some hang onto
the side.
you've been
in the water too,
cast adrift
by a love one,
but you survived
just fine, as they
will.

the small boat

your boat is small.
too small for everyone
to get on board.
some swim,
some sink, some hang onto
the side.
you've been
in the water too,
cast adrift
by a love one,
but you survived
just fine, as they
will.

giving

the gift
is more than the box,
the tenderness
of wrapping,
white bow,
and note, hand
written,
signed, with love.
yours always.
the gift is meaningless
inside.
it's more
than words, or money,
or anything
you can buy.
it's the act of giving
that saves
us all from ourselves.

giving

the gift
is more than the box,
the tenderness
of wrapping,
white bow,
and note, hand
written,
signed, with love.
yours always.
the gift is meaningless
inside.
it's more
than words, or money,
or anything
you can buy.
it's the act of giving
that saves
us all from ourselves.

no less strange

in time
we are all abandoned.
whether at birth,
or before,
or late in life
when those around you
fall.
enough years alive
will leave
you alone,
no different, no less
strange
than when you
were born.

no less strange

in time
we are all abandoned.
whether at birth,
or before,
or late in life
when those around you
fall.
enough years alive
will leave
you alone,
no different, no less
strange
than when you
were born.

getting on base

you can't get onto
the army base
without a strip search,
a vehicle search,
dna testing, blood samples,
a questionnaire
filled out of your known
or unknown
evil associates. they want
your name, address, id.
when was the last time you
beat your wife?
get out of the car,
spin around,
stand on your head.
go there, go there.
sit here.
wait.
wait some more.
someone will call your
name.
it smells like an army
base.
cut grass and oil.
bleached to a raw shine.
the dumbness of
green recruits at the gate,
waving you
forward to where you have
to leave
and make a U-turn
and go to the visitors
gate.
we are safe and paranoid
behind these bsrbed
fences, the red white and
blue flapping
stiffly against an empty sky.

getting on base

you can't get onto
the army base
without a strip search,
a vehicle search,
dna testing, blood samples,
a questionnaire
filled out of your known
or unknown
evil associates. they want
your name, address, id.
when was the last time you
beat your wife?
get out of the car,
spin around,
stand on your head.
go there, go there.
sit here.
wait.
wait some more.
someone will call your
name.
it smells like an army
base.
cut grass and oil.
bleached to a raw shine.
the dumbness of
green recruits at the gate,
waving you
forward to where you have
to leave
and make a U-turn
and go to the visitors
gate.
we are safe and paranoid
behind these bsrbed
fences, the red white and
blue flapping
stiffly against an empty sky.

the last reunion

in time there
will be only three people left
to attend
your high school reunion,
but you suspect
one person will be
the woman who organizes
it every other year.
her job since graduating
has been
to gather everyone together,
again and again.
searching
for former students
and teachers to attend,
and notifying all
of who has bought the farm.
she is relentless
in her pursuit,
begging you to come.
to bring pictures, to bring
memories,
to bring your own beer,
or chicken
to throw on the grille.
the days of the hotel ballroom
are gone.
no one cares much
anymore, checking
the maybe box, saying that
maybe they'll come.

things your mother threw away

in shop
you made a key chain
out of long strips of plastic.
four colors
woven into
a thick strip of rope.
then there
was the wooden pot holder
carved in wood shop.
using the jig saw,
then fine
sandpaper, the drill
for pegs
with which to hold
whatever it is was to hold.
the ashtray,
a thin plate of metal,
ball peened
and battered by
a hammer. and the bowl,
fashioned out
of clay, then glazed
and slid into the mysterious
kiln where it came
out shiny.
your goggles made your
small face
sweat and turn
red
under the heat and pressure
of the seventh grade.

things your mother threw away

in shop
you made a key chain
out of long strips of plastic.
four colors
woven into
a thick strip of rope.
then there
was the wooden pot holder
carved in wood shop.
using the jig saw,
then fine
sandpaper, the drill
for pegs
with which to hold
whatever it is was to hold.
the ashtray,
a thin plate of metal,
ball peened
and battered by
a hammer. and the bowl,
fashioned out
of clay, then glazed
and slid into the mysterious
kiln where it came
out shiny.
your goggles made your
small face
sweat and turn
red
under the heat and pressure
of the seventh grade.

solitaire

one card
leads to another.
a red three of diamonds
on four
of clubs.
the jack
of spades
onto the queen of hearts.
the ace
aside
with the club
two.
red nine on ten.
it's raining,
the light is dim.
the air cold.
it's quiet. you go
on, flipping
the cards, before
the next shuffle,
through all fifty-two.

solitaire

one card
leads to another.
a red three of diamonds
on four
of clubs.
the jack
of spades
onto the queen of hearts.
the ace
aside
with the club
two.
red nine on ten.
it's raining,
the light is dim.
the air cold.
it's quiet. you go
on, flipping
the cards, before
the next shuffle,
through all fifty-two.

the pink bush

you have no green thumb.
nothing grows
that you plant.
weeds and ivy seem to be
your thing.
you survey your square
of land
and ponder pavement,
gravel.
maybe a wooden deck
from fence to fence.
but in the corner is a bush
you didn't even know
you had.
it's blooming a pink
bright color.
maybe you do have skills
after all.

the pink bush

you have no green thumb.
nothing grows
that you plant.
weeds and ivy seem to be
your thing.
you survey your square
of land
and ponder pavement,
gravel.
maybe a wooden deck
from fence to fence.
but in the corner is a bush
you didn't even know
you had.
it's blooming a pink
bright color.
maybe you do have skills
after all.

dog in the car

the dog in the car
laps
his tongue at the window.
let's out a bark.
the doors are locked,
the owner somewhere in
the strip mall.
a crowd gathers,
some in tears, we have
to save this dog.
where is the owner they
chant,
someone lights a torch
another
ties a rope into
a noose.
we have to save this
dog, they yell.
get a hammer, break
a window. they don't see
the bowl of water,
or that the car is running,
the air conditioning on.
finally the man
returns and they chase
him around
the parking lot,
catching him, then teaching
him a lesson
by beating him
with their handbags.

dog in the car

the dog in the car
laps
his tongue at the window.
let's out a bark.
the doors are locked,
the owner somewhere in
the strip mall.
a crowd gathers,
some in tears, we have
to save this dog.
where is the owner they
chant,
someone lights a torch
another
ties a rope into
a noose.
we have to save this
dog, they yell.
get a hammer, break
a window. they don't see
the bowl of water,
or that the car is running,
the air conditioning on.
finally the man
returns and they chase
him around
the parking lot,
catching him, then teaching
him a lesson
by beating him
with their handbags.

loved the book

it's a bad movie.
you loved the book,
read it twice,
you keep it on your nightstand.
you imagined
each character to look
and be a certain
way.
you bought the ticket,
the popcorn,
sat down
in the darkened theater
and waited
for the story to unfold.
it didn't.
who were these people
these actors
filling in for
the ones you created
in your mind.
the music was all wrong,
the plot
thinned,
the ending too long.

loved the book

it's a bad movie.
you loved the book,
read it twice,
you keep it on your nightstand.
you imagined
each character to look
and be a certain
way.
you bought the ticket,
the popcorn,
sat down
in the darkened theater
and waited
for the story to unfold.
it didn't.
who were these people
these actors
filling in for
the ones you created
in your mind.
the music was all wrong,
the plot
thinned,
the ending too long.

answering the bell

some days you can't answer
the bell.
you sit in the corner,
blood in your eyes.
the sting of punches still
pulsing
in your side.
you look across the wide
canvas
to what's ahead.
someone splashes water
onto your face,
sews up a cut over your eye.
sponges your neck.
go get em, they say.
you can do it.
watch out for his left.
the bell rings.
you lift yourself
on heavy legs,
out of bed, and begin
your day.

answering the bell

some days you can't answer
the bell.
you sit in the corner,
blood in your eyes.
the sting of punches still
pulsing
in your side.
you look across the wide
canvas
to what's ahead.
someone splashes water
onto your face,
sews up a cut over your eye.
sponges your neck.
go get em, they say.
you can do it.
watch out for his left.
the bell rings.
you lift yourself
on heavy legs,
out of bed, and begin
your day.

daisies

he doesn't see,
or if he does, the line of daises
in the grass,
growing wild.
he does nothing to avoid
them.
perhaps he's taken
notice.
flowers have a way of grabbing
your eye.
perhaps he remembered
in a quick flash
a girl knew in school,
the flowers he bundled
neatly in his small
hand to give to her, to win
her over.
her smile and blush,
then running away.
he pushes the mower
forward.
trimming everything to within
an inch of the cold
earth.

the first day and the last day

in preparation
for serving time in jail.
bring cash.
bring clean underwear,
t-shirts, white
is preferred.
socks.
the rest will be provided.
green jumpsuits,
a spring like mint
for misdemeanor offenders,
a bright summertime
orange for
felony inmates.
two to a one man cell.
one gets the cot,
the other a cozy
corner near
the head and sink.
pillows, sheets and a
striped blanket
will be provided.
no phones.
a thirty minute call is
five dollars.
three squares,
curfew at seven to be
back in your cell.
sixty days, and you're
a free man again.
keep your head down,
look no one in the eye.
there are two days of time.
the first day
and the last day.
see you when you get out,
unreformed,
but wiser as to the ways
of not getting caught
the next time.

the time portal

did I leave a candle
lit, she asks, as i drive
away, already ten miles from her home.
I don't know, I tell her,
you had about twenty of them
going, two or three
in every room.
we have to go back, she says.
the cats might knock one over
and burn the house down.
i turn around and say nothing.
I get very quiet.
i want to say something about
the century we are in.
electricity, lights with switches,
but i don't.
i don't say anything about
the butter churn in her
kitchen either, or the well
in her yard, or the goats
and chicken. it's best not to talk
about these things,
or this sweater she knitted,
how it itches and gives
me a rash.

the mirage of you

I have no
interest in the desert.
the hills of white
sand,
cactus,
lizards,
the lack of water
or shade.
the ever present
sun,
white against
the pale blue sky.
my lips are parched
just thinking
about it.
the mirage of you
walking
towards me.

the mirage of you

I have no
interest in the desert.
the hills of white
sand,
cactus,
lizards,
the lack of water
or shade.
the ever present
sun,
white against
the pale blue sky.
my lips are parched
just thinking
about it.
the mirage of you
walking
towards me.

through the glass

each to his own glass
window.
whether cracked
across, never fixed,
fissured,
or spider veined,
or those stained
in ornate colors.
the glass where the bird's
beak hit,
or rock.
the window that never opens.
casement, or wooden,
a lock
on each,
the rounded attic
port, the crank rusted,
the panes thick
like bottles, or thinned
to a wafer.
each to his own way of seeing
the world,
rose colored, or through
the glass
darkly.

through the glass

each to his own glass
window.
whether cracked
across, never fixed,
fissured,
or spider veined,
or those stained
in ornate colors.
the glass where the bird's
beak hit,
or rock.
the window that never opens.
casement, or wooden,
a lock
on each,
the rounded attic
port, the crank rusted,
the panes thick
like bottles, or thinned
to a wafer.
each to his own way of seeing
the world,
rose colored, or through
the glass
darkly.

the starter dog

she wants a dog,
but not a young dog, not a pup,
not yet.
she needs a practice dog.
so she gets a fifteen year
old pug
from the pound,
an hour away from execution.
the thin blue
lenses of his eyes
makes him
bump into doors when he
struggles
to move about the slippery
floor.
he can't hear.
he sleeps and snarls
all day
in his round soft bed,
coughing, wheezing.
he's unwalkable, no tricks,
no nothing
given in return.
isn't he cute, she says,
holding him like the baby,
she'll never have,
his grey fat
body limp in her arms.

please, stop

my mother, in her fifties, once
began a conversation
about her needs, and by her
needs, i mean
her needs
in an intimate way.
she had recently remarried
a man, who for lack
of a better description
would give Hitler
a run for his money
in the evil department.
he's not a loving man,
she said, we hardly ever...
stop, I told her.
I don't want to hear
anything about this.
I don't want to
have that image in my mind
please, mom.
in fact, let's pretend
this never subject came up.
let's talk about you baking
a cake,
or decorating the Christmas
tree, or
knitting a pair of booties
for one of your
grand kids. in fact, i'd
love to have your
recipe for pot roast, i'll
hold while you get it.

digging a hole to china

your father had all
the answers, such as what would
happen if you kept
digging a hole
in the ground without stopping.
you'd reach china he'd say.
smiling from his lawn chair
in the back yard,
sunning himself, a glass
of ice tea at his side,
talking to our neighbor,
Edwina, about her garden.
her in her red shorts and
white blouse.
he seemed very interested
in her garden.
laughing and talking it up
with her about asparagus,
and lettuce,
tomatoes. it almost
seemed like he was
ignoring your questions,
your ambitious endeavor,
as you dug your hole,
towards china.

digging a hole to china

your father had all
the answers, such as what would
happen if you kept
digging a hole
in the ground without stopping.
you'd reach china he'd say.
smiling from his lawn chair
in the back yard,
sunning himself, a glass
of ice tea at his side,
talking to our neighbor,
Edwina, about her garden.
her in her red shorts and
white blouse.
he seemed very interested
in her garden.
laughing and talking it up
with her about asparagus,
and lettuce,
tomatoes. it almost
seemed like he was
ignoring your questions,
your ambitious endeavor,
as you dug your hole,
towards china.

you look familiar

you can't remember her name.
she looks familiar.
you know her from some where.
maybe you were married
for a short while
in the eighties,
maybe you had children
together, maybe.
but for now, her name
escapes you. the memory
is gone.
have we met you say,
shaking her hand
at the party. you look
like someone I used to know.
so do you, she says.
so do you.

you look familiar

you can't remember her name.
she looks familiar.
you know her from some where.
maybe you were married
for a short while
in the eighties,
maybe you had children
together, maybe.
but for now, her name
escapes you. the memory
is gone.
have we met you say,
shaking her hand
at the party. you look
like someone I used to know.
so do you, she says.
so do you.

permanent press

I notice the ironing
board
in the basement, unused
for years.
what with permanent press
now,
who needs it.
not to mention my casual
island wear
that needs no pressing.
and the iron,
it's silver face,
cold, stone like
on the shelf.
a few drops of water
still inside,
the spray starch, the can
still full,
beside it.
there must be something
I can iron, smooth out
one night.

permanent press

I notice the ironing
board
in the basement, unused
for years.
what with permanent press
now,
who needs it.
not to mention my casual
island wear
that needs no pressing.
and the iron,
it's silver face,
cold, stone like
on the shelf.
a few drops of water
still inside,
the spray starch, the can
still full,
beside it.
there must be something
I can iron, smooth out
one night.

the attaack dog

you check the crime
report to see what kind of
crime
has occurred in your
neighborhood.
some petty thefts,
a tire stolen,
jewelry from a local
business.
a pie is missing from
a window sill.
no serious mayhem
has occurred lately,
but still you lock the door,
turn on the alarm,
position
your attack dachshund
by the window
with his spiked
collar, you notice
blueberry on his nose,
crumbs on his paws.

the attaack dog

you check the crime
report to see what kind of
crime
has occurred in your
neighborhood.
some petty thefts,
a tire stolen,
jewelry from a local
business.
a pie is missing from
a window sill.
no serious mayhem
has occurred lately,
but still you lock the door,
turn on the alarm,
position
your attack dachshund
by the window
with his spiked
collar, you notice
blueberry on his nose,
crumbs on his paws.

no one home

the key won't
turn,
the door won't open.
you knock,
pull and push, you
jiggle the silver
key
against the tumblers.
you peek
through window. you ring
the bell.
say loudly, it's me,
open up.
there is no
one home.
not even you.

no one home

the key won't
turn,
the door won't open.
you knock,
pull and push, you
jiggle the silver
key
against the tumblers.
you peek
through window. you ring
the bell.
say loudly, it's me,
open up.
there is no
one home.
not even you.

changing the world

the man
leaning on the jackhammer,
rattling
his bones,
chopping pavement
in the hot sun,
is happy.
he knows what he
has to do,
and accepts the lot
that life
has given
him. there is no desire
to drive the truck
to be a boss,
to manage men.
this hammer in his hands
pushes all of
that aside.
the world changes
because of him.

changing the world

the man
leaning on the jackhammer,
rattling
his bones,
chopping pavement
in the hot sun,
is happy.
he knows what he
has to do,
and accepts the lot
that life
has given
him. there is no desire
to drive the truck
to be a boss,
to manage men.
this hammer in his hands
pushes all of
that aside.
the world changes
because of him.

it's all good

and you?
what's new?
nothing, nothing.
same old.
how's the kid, work?
things?
good, all good,
can't complain.
that's good.
still with what's his
name.
you mean bill?
yeah.
we're still good.
that's good.
you two are good together.
we are.
and you, seeing anyone?
no, well, sort of.
he's still married,
but getting a divorce as
soon as the kids
are out of school.
well, that's nice.
it's a good start.
yeah,
I have to say that
things are really
really good.
well, I have to run now,
but it's been nice
catching up. it was good
to see you again.
I hope to see you soon.
me too.
yes. have a good day.

it's all good

and you?
what's new?
nothing, nothing.
same old.
how's the kid, work?
things?
good, all good,
can't complain.
that's good.
still with what's his
name.
you mean bill?
yeah.
we're still good.
that's good.
you two are good together.
we are.
and you, seeing anyone?
no, well, sort of.
he's still married,
but getting a divorce as
soon as the kids
are out of school.
well, that's nice.
it's a good start.
yeah,
I have to say that
things are really
really good.
well, I have to run now,
but it's been nice
catching up. it was good
to see you again.
I hope to see you soon.
me too.
yes. have a good day.

the spatula

you called
dibs on licking the spatula
when you're mother made
a cake,
but your sister, who was
smaller
wanted some too.
so you gave her one side,
you had the other.
both of you sat at the near
empty bowl,
happy in the sunlight,
licking
while your mother
slid the pan
into the oven.

the spatula

you called
dibs on licking the spatula
when you're mother made
a cake,
but your sister, who was
smaller
wanted some too.
so you gave her one side,
you had the other.
both of you sat at the near
empty bowl,
happy in the sunlight,
licking
while your mother
slid the pan
into the oven.

just a phone

but he was so smart
they say
of the man, the genius.
yes,
he was basically a bad
person
to his friends, his
children
his wife,
a narcissist to the nth
degree,
but he was so smart.
look at what my phone can
do. I can't live without it.
all because of him.
we are not worthy.

just a phone

but he was so smart
they say
of the man, the genius.
yes,
he was basically a bad
person
to his friends, his
children
his wife,
a narcissist to the nth
degree,
but he was so smart.
look at what my phone can
do. I can't live without it.
all because of him.
we are not worthy.

beach shells

for some reason
I've kept all the shells
we gathered
along
the shore, kept them
lying on the table,
under the light,
white and golden,
some with a silver
shine, black streaked,
flecks of red.
each different.
it's hard to throw them
away, as each good
memory is
of a loved one.

beach shells

for some reason
I've kept all the shells
we gathered
along
the shore, kept them
lying on the table,
under the light,
white and golden,
some with a silver
shine, black streaked,
flecks of red.
each different.
it's hard to throw them
away, as each good
memory is
of a loved one.

keep rowing

there's nothing wrong.
there's a lull,
a gap.
a Saragossa sea
in your life.
the calm
is alarming.
are you in the eye
of the hurricane,
or out
of it.
we'll see, keep
rowing.

keep rowing

there's nothing wrong.
there's a lull,
a gap.
a Saragossa sea
in your life.
the calm
is alarming.
are you in the eye
of the hurricane,
or out
of it.
we'll see, keep
rowing.

back seat betty

he loves
to smoke, holding the freshly lit
cigarette
out the window
of his old
Cadillac.
the ashtray is full
of grey dust,
butts bent over,
some with lipstick
on them.
I hold one up to him
as he drives
along,
betty he says, staring
at the butt.
we went out last night.
I look in
the back seat.
some of betty's clothes
are back there.
shoes, a skirt.
an empty bottle of merlot.
he lights another
cigarette with the one
he's smoking,
crushing the old
one into the ashtray,
what can I say, he says.
blowing a string of smoke
rings at the windshield.
we can't seem to
stay away from one
another.

back seat betty

he loves
to smoke, holding the freshly lit
cigarette
out the window
of his old
Cadillac.
the ashtray is full
of grey dust,
butts bent over,
some with lipstick
on them.
I hold one up to him
as he drives
along,
betty he says, staring
at the butt.
we went out last night.
I look in
the back seat.
some of betty's clothes
are back there.
shoes, a skirt.
an empty bottle of merlot.
he lights another
cigarette with the one
he's smoking,
crushing the old
one into the ashtray,
what can I say, he says.
blowing a string of smoke
rings at the windshield.
we can't seem to
stay away from one
another.

her man in black

all day she listens
to johnny cash,
his endless playlist of songs,
she turns up her phone,
I love him,
she says.
the way he sings, wears
black.
a man's man.
I love his deep voice,
the way
he stands tall
in the saddle. I really
like that.
it's not singing, I say,
begging to disagree.
it's more like
talking.
I could talk like that
if I smoked enough
cigarettes and drank
enough scotch.
you're no johnny cash
she says
and you'll never be,
so don't even go there.
watch me play this washboard
I tell her,
dragging a scrub
brush across it then
lowering my voice
to a low low point of
sexiness.

the great barn

she envisions dancing,
weddings,
events in black tie,
she points to where the band
will play
under the arch
of the great barn,
the beams of wood
still solid
after a hundred years.
her eyes
go around the empty room,
as she points
at where the tables
will stand,
the art, the lamps,
the flowers.
the kitchen will bring up
food,
we'll open
up the barn doors on nice
nights
and let the moon come
through. it will be grand,
she says.
you'll see, watching
as a bat
beats its leathery wings
across the room.

the baby shower gift

maybe if you weren't so
lazy and stupid
you'd understand what i'm trying
to tell you,
your soul mate Carla
says to you
as you bend over and try to get
a knot our of your shoe.
you don't listen to me,
you never do, you just nod
and say okay, or uh huh.
you ignore me when i'm trying
to tell you something.
you know we have a baby shower
to go to today,
and you were supposed to pick
up a gift
at the baby store, but did you
do it? no. once again, you've
proven to me who you are.
now i'm stuck and off you go to
play softball with your equally
stupid friends.
what time will you be back?
i'm not cooking dinner tonight,
I won't have time.
I don't know, maybe never.
okay, well have fun.
kiss me on the cheek, I don't
want you to mess up my lipstick.

the baby shower gift

maybe if you weren't so
lazy and stupid
you'd understand what i'm trying
to tell you,
your soul mate Carla
says to you
as you bend over and try to get
a knot our of your shoe.
you don't listen to me,
you never do, you just nod
and say okay, or uh huh.
you ignore me when i'm trying
to tell you something.
you know we have a baby shower
to go to today,
and you were supposed to pick
up a gift
at the baby store, but did you
do it? no. once again, you've
proven to me who you are.
now i'm stuck and off you go to
play softball with your equally
stupid friends.
what time will you be back?
i'm not cooking dinner tonight,
I won't have time.
I don't know, maybe never.
okay, well have fun.
kiss me on the cheek, I don't
want you to mess up my lipstick.

look at those arms

you stand in front
of the mirror
in the morning, still wet
from the shower
and admire your arms.
what nice arms
you have, you say to no
one, flexing them,
curling your fist,
stretching them out like
a weight lifter on
the beach. people should
like you for your
arms alone
and ignore the rest.
it's a good thought to
begin the day with.

surprised

the roasted chicken,
half cut
surprises you in the morning
when you see it through
the little window,
still in the oven,
one leg in the air.
all night resting in the shallow
pain.
it smells good,
but you suspect it's gone
bad. you are always
surprised when things
go bad,
sour milk, bread
tinged in green,
the lettuce, browned
and limp. us.

surprised

the roasted chicken,
half cut
surprises you in the morning
when you see it through
the little window,
still in the oven,
one leg in the air.
all night resting in the shallow
pain.
it smells good,
but you suspect it's gone
bad. you are always
surprised when things
go bad,
sour milk, bread
tinged in green,
the lettuce, browned
and limp. us.

shelf life

the extinction
of life,
animals, birds, species
of fish.
due to climate change,
or us,
meteors
falling from the sky,
is fine.
there is a shelf life
to everything.
from shoes to love.
be glad there is no
brontosaurus
still alive, lumbering
down the road
in the morning, mindlessly
crushing cars,
delaying traffic
on 395.

knee against knee

it's easy
to see who is or isn't
getting
it.
and by it, I mean it.
the faces tell
all.
the spring in the step,
the smile,
the gaze,
that far away look
of happiness.
thinking about the last
time
and when the next time
might occur.
hands held,
shoulders nuzzled,
knee against knee
beneath
the table.

knee against knee

it's easy
to see who is or isn't
getting
it.
and by it, I mean it.
the faces tell
all.
the spring in the step,
the smile,
the gaze,
that far away look
of happiness.
thinking about the last
time
and when the next time
might occur.
hands held,
shoulders nuzzled,
knee against knee
beneath
the table.

letting it go

the old horse.
sweet and shy,
the sway back brown horse.
flies
batted by a stiff tail.
eyes matted
with tears gone yellow.
unable to walk
far.
away from the smell,
the end of life,
hardly making it to the back
fence to lie
down and die.
but she did. she did.
despite
all efforts to keep
her standing
in the stall,
to gnaw carrots and be
brushed by
a kind unwilling hand.

in orange again

I made a plea bargain
he tells you on the phone.
my court date
was yesterday.
so i'm going back
into the jump
in may.
if you have any work
before then let me know.
it's a ninety day stretch
this time,
but I could use a break.
three squares,
laundry done, some clean
living
behind bars.
let me know, I need some
cash
for the commissary, for
cards,
for dice to roll.

in orange again

I made a plea bargain
he tells you on the phone.
my court date
was yesterday.
so i'm going back
into the jump
in may.
if you have any work
before then let me know.
it's a ninety day stretch
this time,
but I could use a break.
three squares,
laundry done, some clean
living
behind bars.
let me know, I need some
cash
for the commissary, for
cards,
for dice to roll.

work and money

I've known people
who love to work.
whether selling shoes, or
shoveling coal,
cars, or meat,
encyclopedias door to door.
they get lost
in work.
a safe haven from others.
from small talk,
from love,
from pain.
the steel mill, the farm,
hands on the potter's wheel,
sunrise to sunset.
work
and money. work and money.
all day long.

alice

if you don't have anything
nice to say
about someone,
come sit next to me,
alice often said.
she lived to be
an old woman,
skin and bone,
a recluse in the end.
bitter and brittle.
but sharp.
sharp teeth, sharp elbows.
how nice or painful
it would have been to
have known her.
the things you could have
unlearned.

alice

if you don't have anything
nice to say
about someone,
come sit next to me,
alice often said.
she lived to be
an old woman,
skin and bone,
a recluse in the end.
bitter and brittle.
but sharp.
sharp teeth, sharp elbows.
how nice or painful
it would have been to
have known her.
the things you could have
unlearned.

fast food

the pigeons
are fat.
the rats too, bellies dragging,
they lumber in twilight
towards
the park cans,
the dumpsters in the alley.
the people too
are large.
the eating is endless.
the drinking.
there is no more planting
or plowing,
or harvesting.
not a muscle used
to eat.
it's yelling into a speaker
as you drive
through the narrow
turn.
holding money out to
a woman
in the window.
her arms too short, too
large
to give you your change.

fast food

the pigeons
are fat.
the rats too, bellies dragging,
they lumber in twilight
towards
the park cans,
the dumpsters in the alley.
the people too
are large.
the eating is endless.
the drinking.
there is no more planting
or plowing,
or harvesting.
not a muscle used
to eat.
it's yelling into a speaker
as you drive
through the narrow
turn.
holding money out to
a woman
in the window.
her arms too short, too
large
to give you your change.