gone fishing

she'd bring home
fish.
blue fish from the bay.
chop their heads off.
and let them
roll
into the can.
she'd cut them down the belly
iwth her sharpest knife,
cut out
the bones.
split the skin.
filet the meat.
soon the house would
smell of fried
fish
and we'd see the smile
on her wide
sunburned face.

dig a hole

the border
is closed we can't get in or
out.
we're in lock down.
away from
our country.
our flag and home.
so be it.
dig a hole and fall in.
go under, go over.
wait it out.
sadly every vote does
count.

june heat

bored with the heat
I let
the cold
water from the shower head
pummel me
into submission.
I feel a nap coming on.
I smell
the quiet of this house,
alone all
day.
all night.
the blur of my life
slowed down
to a snail's pace.
I exhale and listen
to the loud thump
of my heart.
healthy and wanting.
waiting.

ER

at midnight
the emergency room is full of
the wounded.
the shot,
the cut, the car wrecks
bringing them
in on bloodied
stretchers.
the aged with limps
and strokes.
the crazies who have
no place
to go.
dog bites and punches
thrown.
it never stops
what we do to one another,
what we
do to ourselves
finally catching up
to pay its due
on a Friday night
in the emergency room.

what we drink

we choose
what
drink
we put to our lips
and swallow
from the cup
we hold in our hand.
no one
makes us do what we
do.
we do it
because.
the past, the present.
tomorrow
all tied
into
what goes down
the hatch, no one
is to blame,
but us.

this day

I shake off tired
and get to it. this day.
I ignore
the pangs,
the old fear that wants
his say.
I grip the wheel
of the early hour and
steer it
to work.
a fresh start,
fearless
with a healed heart
I go.
I go, let the dead rest.
let the old
haunts
of jealousy and doubt
die with them.
no more of that.
let joy win out.

perhaps

the green is everywhere,
the roll 

of land.
the metal and stone
markers.
the mourners of these
dead, gone too.
the trees alive
longer
than anyone here
today.
the sky is big.
full
of blue, of white.
a june sun
seeks us out in the unshaded
land
around the tent.
the body will
be lowered later.
later, after the words
are said.
the flowers laid.
after the cars have
gone away. perhaps she'll
be happy here,

at last.

the desert

the dry faith
is a wide
desert.
the unanswered prayers
are clouds
without rain.
the knees
are red, the eyes
blurred.
where is the relief,
the blessing
from above
to ease
to still this pain.
it's part of it.
this
circle
this quiet trek
alone.
what joy there will
be when
it ends.

day one

i'm startled
by
a dream.
or is it. maybe this is
the dream.
this is the night
and the dreams
are where I really am.
nothing makes
sense anymore.
what's left is right.
what's up
is down.
turn the lights off,
let's close our eyes
and start all
over again.
pretend, pretend
that tomorrow is day one.

swept away

we dance
in the shadows.
we hear the music that others
cannot hear.
we linger
in the past, cautious
with our
steps
towards tomorrow.
we touch
the things we cherish
and store them
away.
proof positive that
another life
was once lived
but gone now.
the wind of time
won't let them stay.

down any drain

I click and click
at this machine. long into the night.
in the early
morning.
at 4 pm.
no difference to me.
love and death.
joy and sorrow.
something
will come up and find
its way upon the page, will
leave my
wilting brain
and exit out by my fingers,
some to be saved,
some
ready to swirl down
any nearby drain.

sympathy cards

sympathy comes in from afar,
from distant
shores, from
nearby
as well.
we're sorry for your loss
the cards
and e mails
read.
we didn't know her, but we
imagine that she must
have been a
peach, a work of art,
a handful of trouble,
but fun,
if the mother
was yours.

the tool belt

with her tool
belt
she could fix anything
around the house.
a pipe,
a table leg, a television
throwing off
sparks.
a computer.
the loose door, no
problem.
the leaky faucet,
the squeaky floor.
there was nothing under
her roof that couldn't
be fixed when
she picked up her tools
and snapped on
her tool belt.
get out of my way, she'd
say.
I got this.

mary

he stumbles out the door
in his bathrobe.
bleary eyed
and wet
from a shower.
toothbrush in hand.
he calls out for mary,
the love
of his life.
i'm coming he says
in traffic,
the patrol man
waving him down.
he sees what isn't there,
hears what isn't said.
there was a time
when his black hair
was parted on the side.
a smart suit
adorned him.
Italian shoes. a brief
case of ideas
in his hand,
but now, this. this
is where we end
up.
not from sin, or wrong
turns,
not from anything deserved.
it's just the way
it is,
we're born then returned.

the old dog

the kitten underfoot
is grey
striped
blue eyed and craving
attention. tiny
as small can be,
feather light,
pawing everything
she sees.
starting
just one of nine
lives, she goes
from hand to hand.
the old dog
is unhappy at
what he sees.

old grudges

the family arguments are old.
stale
by any measure. what the point
was
is lost.
but the anger remains,
it festers, burns
like old
coal, hot and white
red embers,
fast flying into flame.
it's hard to remember
who said what,
who
did what to whom, years
have gone by.
winters have
delivered snow,
summers
have folded
onto one another in green,
then gold.
is it easier to hold on
to old
grudges and never
make amends, it appears
so.
that's how it's been.

everything's fine

I remember
telling my mother about some
awful event
that had happened in my life.
not tragic or life ending,
but something
that bothered me, was on my mind.
I wanted her arms
around me.
I wanted a kiss on the cheek,
wisdom,
advice. I wanted
her to take my hand
like a mother would
to a small boy. telling me
that everything would be
alright.
instead she cried and made
the trouble her own.
I would end up comforting her.
wiping her tears away,
telling her not to worry,
that things would be fine.
I learned in time
to tell her only good things.
she wasn't ready, not now,
or ever, for the rest
of my life.

the hallway

his job
was to sweep the long hallway
that led to the pool,
mop it,
then wax and buff it.
he wore a grey uniform
with his name
on it.
Ron.
he smoked and whistled
the whole day.
his hat tilted
down
over his long face.
it was a good job though.
steady pay.
a weeks vacation after a year.
a raise.
this wasn't jail,
this wasn't prison.
this was halfway.
a paycheck at the end
of two
weeks.
enough to go home on the late
bus,
enough to get up
and do it again.
the green tiled floor
would wait.
how it shined when the door
opened
and the tenants carried
their towels
and chairs to the wide
blue pool
at the end of the hallway.
how it shined.

the long summer

we used to sit around
for hours
smoking weed and listening to whatever
new vinyl
we bought from tower records
down the street.
someone would
make a run to jiffy's sub
shop
for a steak and cheese,
maybe
a large pizza
with peperoni and mushrooms.

a case of Schlitz, was picked
up by someone with
a legal I.D.
a bottle of boones farm
apple wine too. strawberry hill.

they were long nights.
a lot of laughs.
but we were adrift, fatherless
for the most part.
the mothers holding it all
together with
low wage jobs.
still putting dinner on the table
for whoever might be home.

we were riding the soft wave
of the late 60's,
hoping or not hoping for a light
to go on,
for direction
of some sort.
meandering through classes
at the community college.
always looking for a girlfriend,
for a used car
that would start,

but we knew this couldn't last
forever,
we were bad for one another,
trapped
in a hazy world, on a strange
lifeboat, scared to jump and swim
off into the next world,
a world we weren't prepared for.

my man

her sunday best
was what she wore on Tuesday
or Monday.
what she wore
when she went bowling
or to church,
it made no difference.
I am who I am she said,
sipping on a cold
bud,
eating a pretzel smothered
in mustard.
take me as I am
or leave me,
makes no difference
to me, she said, pointing
at the revolving door.
when the right man comes
along
he won't care
what i'm wearing, or what
I say,
or how long my hair
is.
he won't ask me who my daddy is,
or where I went to school.
he'll be beyond all that.
he'll look into my eyes
and see my heart.
she pointed at her
heart
dropping a dollop of
mustard on her white blouse.
oops, she said.
but he won't even care
about that. my man.

a room full of flowers

the flowers
are too much. too many.
the air
is confused with roses
and mums,
daffodils and tulips.
it's hard
to breathe in a room like
this.
with life and death
together.
side by side.
and the mourners so quiet,
well dressed.
hugging, kissing.
polite and respectful.
wondering
wondering, who's next.

you got a friend

i'm so worried about
my friend dr. frankenstien.

in the laboratory all night
sewing
someone together. his servant
out all night
digging up graves.

victor in his white coat

harnessing lighting
from the sky.

the lifeless body
that he's knitted together
strapped by leather
on the long table.

i worry that he's lost it,
gone mad, he's become so
lonely. so in need
of a friend.

someone to confide in and give
him unconditional love.

but i get it, who doesn't
want that?

the mystery novel

i lose
myself in books, in film.
in you.
i like adventure
and mystery. i like
not knowing where things
might go.
cliff hangers.
i never not what's behind
the door,
what's in the cellar,
who's in the attic.
i'm a thrill seeker
in the mildest
of ways. don't tell me
what meat is in the stew.
give me a good storm,
full of rain and wind,
thunder. i don't
want a bad ending.
i prefer the happy ones.
where the good guy
wins. where we're satisfied
and not in the least
bit blue.

we'll get there

we're not lost. not
really
we are where we need to be.

go left or right,
it doesn't matter.


relax
and take the scenic route.

go back,

go home, go to Alaska,
take your shoes
off and stay awhile.

let me get you a glass
of something cold.

come here and hold me in
your arms.
we'll get there
together.

no maps. no train schedule.
no looking back.

we'll get there.

i drop in a dollar

that old man
on the stoop, sign in hand.
wanting bread,
wanting spare change.
stroking his
Whitman beard,
in his Dickenson clothes.
but
from the look of those
red eyes,
that nose,
he loves
his rum, his wine, his
whiskey.
he wants to sleep this life
off
and start a new one.
bread is far down the line.
but the sign
says bread.
I drop in a dollar.

already gone

the balloon of her life
has fallen.
the air
out, the basket on the ground.
we take
her now where she needs
to go,
the body.
but she's already
gone.
what we're left with
is something else,
beyond us.
beyond our blind ways,
our weak
faith
our careless days.

hide and go seek

the children
in the street loving the light
of the long
summer day
cry out
as they play hide and go
seek.
you hear the count with eyes closed.
behind trees they scramble
behind cars
and into bushes.
laughing as they run.
folding themselves small
into hiding places.
so free.
so young.
so uncaught and found yet
by the real
world that awaits them.

ruby glass

it's not a diamond
on the street, embedded
in the black
top.
it's not
a gem of worth. it's just
glass.
a red shard
in the tar baked road.
but it's enough
to grab your heart. this
ruby
of glass, holding light.
it's enough
to get you across the street
to hold onto your faith,
get you into the night.

the radio off

the music
tires us. we know the words.
we know
the song
inside and out, when
to smack
the snare drum, to pluck
a string, or
bang our hand against
a tambourine.
we know the high notes,
the low.
the symphony,
but it bores us some days,
we have no
dance within,
no feet that want
to move. not throat that wants
to let sound out.
instead we turn the dial
to off.
another day will
come when it will bring us
old joy,
but not today. not today
though.
let's get through this sadness
first.

all in a box

it's a circle
of some sort...not clean
edged or
square
is any life, no
start middle then finish.
it's
abrupt
and jagged.
a zig saw piece of work.
not art
by any stretch.
more a splatter at times
of emotion.
of love
and death. work and hard
luck.
but there is good too.
between the pain
and suffering. there is
the cry of a baby.
the first kiss.
the wealth of butter on warm
bread.
the purity of salt.
there is joy. there are stars
to be wished upon.
mirth.
it's a wild ride, a mild
spin,
it's everything you could
imagine
and then some.
then it ends and we try
to put it all in a box
and say,
that's what it was, that's
her life,
it's all we can do to
understand.

at ninety

ninety came quick
for him.
how many ships, how many children
and women
sailed through his
laborious life.
hardly a year
without a storm,
without a port to call
a new home.
he's boiled now, charred
and
aching.
some of it intentionally done,
some
done to him.
the pain knows no
difference.
at ninety i'll give him a call,
and forgive
forget,
embrace
the man he always wanted
to be but couldn't.

dead mouse

there are days
when
it's hard to accept
nonsense.
suffering fools
gladly
is not your cup of
tea
this day.
you shake your head
and groan
at what the world brings.
the grey limp
body
of a dead mouse on the door step.
the guilty
cat in the street pawing
licks
against his ear.
one good word, one good
kiss.
one good embrace
is all you need to get you
through
the night and into the next
day.

from this something good

I carve
the worry out of the tree.
slay
the lumber
lay it down
and chisel
away the bark.
to burn it would be
too easy.
to chop it into cords,
to strip
it of leaves and knots,
too simple a task.
instead
I take a knife
and envision beauty
love
and
togetherness
which I form
with my bare hands
and the gift
of nature
that God has provided.
I watch the tree fall
as I hatchet at
the roots, the trunk.
its life falls with a thud.
I go at it all night
into the next day
then lie
down
with what I've made.

another lamp

the lamp store is closing.

for years
I've gone in looking for one
more lamp
to light my life.
to put a shine on a table, or
desk
or brighten a room.
the lady with her wire rimmed
glasses
nods and says,
yes, an end of era.
twenty percent off all floor
lamps
that aren't already on sale.

there are no tears, no nothing
to speak of.
just me and her standing across
from one another with nothing more
to say.

I find one more lamp

and two three way bulbs.
take them out to the car and wonder
where
I might need more light.

st. elizabeth's farm

it was a sweet
melon
stolen off the farm
by
skinny boys
with fishing rods
in the dead heat of
summer,

a world full of flies
and the smell of dead
perch on
the sand lawn
of the Potomac river
circa 67. catfish on their
sides,
ballooned grey and slick.
the blue plains
sewage plant just upstream
warming
the water for fish,
and for their too soon
demise.

but us boys, rag muffins
with cow licks, spinner reels,
blood worms,
and lead sinkers in our pockets,

we were burnished with sun,
going down the gulley to
where the farm was.
where the white clothed men were guarded
by shotguns,
the metal barrels gleaming
in the sweltering air.
prisoners
in the field.

how sweet the red meat
of those melons were as we
ran, one for each.
ripped from the green
snake vines, heavy in our arms
laughing our fear away

stumbling to the river bank
where we broke them open
with rocks
and feasted.

thunder

a thunder
clap and then rain.
the slice
of electric
white etched on a blue
burst sky.
we huddle near a window
and count
how far, how long
after
will the boom
rattle our
ears.
so much in life
is waiting.
so hard a lesson,
this thing called
patience.

the last stop

in the soft glaze
of morphine
my sister sits and reads
to her.
another new place for her to
lie, and wait.
someone will bring flowers.
someone will
come and take a selfie
beside her.
a spoon will find her lips.
a sponge of water.
her life
has come to this.
ward of the state, of
children
she doesn't even remember
to miss.
today, or tomorrow, or
soon,
she'll be there in paradise.
out of the shambled
body,
the muddled mind. too far
gone to even
have a broken heart.

the white flag

the white flag goes up.
you crawl out
of your trench.
bloodied and weary.
bullets spent.
you drop your sword,
your gun,
your helmet.
you hold up in the fog
of war
your flag.
another word need
not be said,
no treaty to sign.
you haven't given up.
not at all.
it's just time to join
the other side.

does she remember mine

i remember her name.
but i doubt she remembers mine.
we were ten
or eleven
in the school yard
at st. Thomas Mores.
i can see her black hair,
the plaid skirt.
her silken blouse,
me in church blue, scuffed
brown shoes,
and white shirt. my head
a field of wild hair.
we loved each other,
of course.
her freckles alive
in the cold sun
as we kicked that red ball
from one end of the black
top to the other.
when i close my eyes
now, fifty years later
i can see her smile,
her bright smile. a
twinkle in her eyes.
but does she remember me.
i wonder. i wonder.
i remember her name,
but does she remember mine.

the wave in

i dream of water.
blue.
deep, dark, mysterious.
it holds me.
swallows me.
it owns my life this water
i swim in.
all night i go from shore
to shore.
i ride the waves in.
i go under,
i go over.
there is no fear, no worry
or concern.
the water saves me,
takes me where i need to go,
and when i awaken
i'm there.

the long grey line

I shift my feet in this long line.
it goes slow.
I look at my stub,
I put my hands in my pockets
and jingle keys,
change.
will work for money.
I see the same men every day.
walking
from the bus, smoking
quietly, the ashes matching
their eyes.
a smoldering.
lunch pails with them
in case
a day comes through.
hard times, with hats pulled
tight.
shirts buttoned,
old shoes
shined.
the hunger a caged lion
inside.
maybe today a finger will
point and say
you.
maybe today
there'll be drinks,
a paid bill, a bag
of groceries the rent paid,
no longer past due.

before dying

this mine shaft
where we work, hour after hour
in the artificial light,
the artificial air,
we pound and scrape
at the inside of a mountain.
we want the canary
to keep singing.
we want the ground
to be still
and not shake.
how strange to be
underground for so long,
for so many years,
before dying.

the storm

this storm
is large, wide and long.
it's full
of rain and darkness.
there is no eye to it.
no center,
no end or beginning.
it's without mercy.
it throws me around in my
small boat.
the oars are nothing
against it.
i yell to no avail.
i confess all sins.
i make vows to change my ways.
i take on water.
my lungs are full of wind.
i am in it good.
there is nothing left to
do, but hang on.
hang tight and pray.
to let a higher power
decide my fate.

home life 1987

everything seemed so close.
I was almost there.
I could almost
taste it.
feel it, smell the sweet
scent of peace
and love.
the warmth of hand in hand.
everything seemed to
enfold so easily.
so gently it fell into
my lap and I embraced it.
I was coming home.
home to the home I always
wanted
and desired
but never had.
I unpacked my bags to stay.
the flowers of home.
the woods and ocean
of home.
the smell of bread
in the oven. the cool crisp
sheets of home.
the windows open,
the dog, the son, the joy.
the loyalty and trust
of home.
a safe harbor from the world.
I pinned the emblem
of home
on my heart before it
broke. it took so long to
begin again, to let another
in. so long.

the summer pool

the water looks
nice an icy blue.
I see the sky reflected in the wide
still well,
the line of white
settled
across its bow.
a life guard in his chair
reading a magazine,
staring into the abyss
of his phone.
not a soul is in.
it's early and the kids
are at school.
an old woman is knitting
in the shade
on a long plastic chair.
a straw moves towards
her lips.
I think about my age.
how I used to lie
in the open sun for
hours, copper tone silked
across my yet lined skin.
at some point the heat
would be too much
and i'd jump into the cool
expanse
of the summer pool.
there was nothing to it.
jumping in like that.
it was a joyful
leap of faith
that the water would hold
me, that the bottom was far
away.
that the chill would
subside. I don't do that
anymore.
I've learned, as I've learned
with many things, the hard
way. Now I wait.
my winter is fast
approaching.

more sins to confess

not you again
the priest says behind the dark
screen
inside the confessional.

more bad thoughts?
he asks.

yes. I tell him. the same

as yesterday
and the day before.
that's it he says.
nothing beyond bad thoughts?

at times I don't trust God,
I think on occasion when things
are going crazy that he doesn't know
what he's doing with my life.

not uncommon, he says and shrugs
tugs at his stiff white collar.
but worry is a sin, so stop that.
what else?

I ate a quart of ice cream
the other day, I tell him.
without sharing.
chocolate syrup and whipped
cream on top.

you're a lost man, he says.
five hail Mary's and three our
father's.

go easy on the fudge sauce
and go and sin no more.

the cleansing

I stand at the sink after work.
caked
in debris, dust, dirt.
I take a bar of soap
and turn the spigot on.
I scrub
and push the bar into
my palms, my nails
and knuckles.
I let it soak into the cracks
of my hands as I rub
them together
lacing fingers into fingers.
the water is warm as
I bend to the cleansing
of what the day brought.
I could stand here all
day, all night and scrub
if it could change everything,
make this world
between work
right again, clean and new.

marked cards

the cards are marked.
the wheel
rigged.
the pony has a bum leg
and the game
is on. the dice are loaded.
where is the pea,
beneath which shell.
here,
sign on the dotted line.
the small print is
everything.
there's a wink
and a nod in everyone's
eye.
fingers crossed while
they speak.
what hope do we have at truth
when
there's so much in front
of us
that isn't what
it seems.

off the chain

is there
anything in this life
more excited
and alive
and happy than a dog
that's off
it's leash
and running wild?
set free.
look at the prance,
that tongue wagging
in the sunlight,
his splash into the water,
the joy in those bright
brown eyes.

queries from afar

I get news
from afar. messages
in bottles.
postcards from across
the sea.
things written on
the sky.
texts
and emails
calls from numbers
forgotten
and discarded.
they want to know what's
up.
what's wrong.
what's going on with
you, your life.
where's the mischief,
that grin,
that love
of life? i
smile and say all's well.
everything
is just fine.
not to worry, i'll
get to the other side.
my story is not unique
we all
have trouble, from time
to time.

blessings to come

at the end of the woods,
where the trees thin
and water begins
i'll find
a bench on a day like this,
find the sun
warm against my face.
i'll listen
to the birds.
watch the fish jump
in the mirrored lake.
i'll bring a book,
a worn trusted friend,
bring my tired bones
and rest.
I'll close my eyes
to trouble and pray
that in time
home
will be home
and blessings will soon
come my way.

sowing seeds

we plant
seeds, we plant shards
of glass.
we put things in the way
for others to see
to bump into
and grieve.
we're kind
we're mean.
our self is divided
between
wrong and right,
good and evil. the
shell of us at times
shines bright,
but often hides the vengeance
within
and acted upon.
nothing grows
from a heart like that.

candy

he loved his candy.
the bowls were everywhere.
chocolates
and hard pieces.
Christmas candy.
Halloween candy.
easter candy.
all of it in arms reach.
a sweet,
a treat.
some sugar to fill the time
between
lunch and dinner.
not to mention gum.

not guilty

finally free.
at last. it was a hard dig
out.
a simple spoon,
a bucket
and the dirt flew.
ounce by ounce.
under the walls, the barbed
fence, the tunnel
was made.
the other side was found.
imprisoned against
my own
will.
not guilty
of any crime.
how sweet to tear away
these grey
rags upon me.
to cut the shackles
from my feet, my hands,
to shower in the rain,
to be cleansed
and free
to start a new life,
again.

it's so clear now

I remember those blind
days.
those days when my eyes were
covered.
when
there was no light
above
or in front of me.
I felt the walls,
touched
the floors, each
corner that I turned
held mystery.
each step I took was
tenuous,
each voice
led me down another
corridor
wanting to keep me in
the dark
in a state of bafflement.
I couldn't see where
I was going
until someone came along
and hit
the switch. it's so
clear now.

the future

the future
is not what it used to be.
tomorrows
never come.
today
is a slug fest
of hours.
sleep is the only
elixir
that keeps you safe
and warm.
alive
and waiting for change
when the sun
rises.
the future is a lie.
there is just
now.
just this moment.
seize it before you
die.

the mouse

it's a clever mouse
that gets
in, squeezes his warm
grey
body and tail
between two bricks
and wood
and gypsum.
anything will do.
a small meal,
a crumb, a slice
of American cheese
perhaps
or two.
that muffin left
on the counter
as you hurried off to
work, the light
left on,
the window open too.

the ferris wheel

the ferris wheel
spins
round
and round.
we're at the top,
we're at the bottom.
we can see so
far,
so high above
the ground.
we point
and say look there.
look
here.
everything is so
small,
so distant,
our perspective
from this height
has changed the way
we think,
what point is there
in fear.

bat crazy

sometimes

the crazies get a hold of you.
make

trouble for your day.
you see it in their eyes.
the black
hole of nothing,
just the cloud flutter
of wings.
they have their way about them,

the bats
in their attics
are in full frenetic wind.
but
it's every thing
and every one that sends
them a flutter.

not just you.

perhaps that's enough

the wake
is short.
not everyone shows up.
it's too sad.
too
something.
drinks in a bar
and we send her off.
off to what.
she didn't believe
in God,
or did she?
who was she.
funny to the bone.
sweet
and kind.
generous and smart.
no kids.
no one who would be
called
a significant other.
stuff accumulated
now collecting dust.
we raise our
glasses and say farewell
before we leave,
off to live the rest
of our own lives,
we'll miss you.
we love you.
perhaps that's enough.

we want to get there

we ride
all night in the old car.
we drive
and drive.
i'm at the wheel,
you're asleep
head against the window.
there is nothing
to see.
trees and billboards.
it's dark.
the road is quiet.
the vacancy signs
are everywhere,
dotted neon.
we don't want to
stop.
we want to keep going,
keep driving,
straight through the night.
we want to get there.
who doesn't.

weeds and vines

it's useless
to dig
up these vines
embedded in the hard
ground.
these weeds
that were here
before you.
it's pointless
to try and kill
what lies
below,
what keeps growing
in the light, in
the dark.
no shovel
can dig them up.
no rake can sweep them away.
no poison.
they're there for
good, for the duration.
ignore and look
beyond the fence
where the flowers are.
don't let them
take you under too.

this weather

there is nothing one
can do about the weather.
clouds come,
clouds go.
then the sun appears,
for a stretch.
rain,
then snow.
bundle up,
bring an umbrella,
don't worry too much
about
whatever this weather
may bring.
don't even try to understand.
let the warm, or
cold wind
blow and bask
when it arrives in
another sweet
spring.

the snooze alarm

I hit the snooze alarm
at 7 a.m.
five more minutes
is all I ask.

but I hit it all morning.
at 8 then 9.
at
ten I look out the window
and see
the rain falling.

the alarm goes off
once more.
I reach over and push the button.
just ten more
minutes
and then i'm up and at em.

I just need a few
more winks of sleep to face
this day,
the world.
this life of mine.

at noon I rise but I don't
shine.
the music starts again.
okay, okay.
i'm up. just ten more
minutes I say, and hit
the button.
I lie back down.

mythology

some
live on the far side of the moon.
unable to
get home.
they've been there
for a long time,
having taken a wrong
around 1969.
see the dead posters
still on the wall.
the pipes,
and matches,
small bags of weed.
they speak highly
of vinyl.
of remember when.
they've taken a ride
on a way trip
to day glow paints,
lava lamps
and Woodstock
Haight ashbury
and jimi
and they ain't coming
down.
peace brother they say
with their long hair pulled
back into
grey thin tails
down their leather vests.
everything is faded
and romanticized.
blue denim and starry eyes.
free love, free love.
it never happened and it
never will.

sleep like no one is watching

plans are made,
plans are delayed,
promises are broken,
vows are tossed aside.
doors close.
windows
open.
the trap door
could be anywhere.
there are no secrets.
everyone knows, but they
got it wrong.
stay alert.
nothing is what it
seems to be.
we live in a world
of bent mirrors
and
ventriloquists.
peep holes and microphones.
words mean nothing
when shouted,
but everything
when whispered.
sleep like no one is
watching.

flight

the airport

awaits you. which silver

bird
is yours.

which
place will you land

with little

in your pocket.

your heart and soul
in hand.

an end to the end

what good are these men
trained to kill.
these
armies
with weapons. toy guns.
plastic
forks and knives.
all buffed
and shined.
what good is that wall,
that fence,
this brick around us.
the next war
won't need any of that.
it will all be gone.
in a white flash it
will be
different this war,
an end
to the end.

1966

we played
spin the bottle in her mother's
basement.
her mother's name
was marie, her father's name
was pearl but
they called him roy.
we played wake up little Susie
all night long
on the red turn table.
spinning the bottle
on the tiled floor.
the four or five
of us children.
gently letting our soft
lips touch,
closing our eyes,
lost in the mystery
of everything
to come.

sleeping on a notion

he takes
his teeth out.
sets them in a glass on
the night stand.
removes
his black toupee,
takes a pill
or two
to sleep.
finishes the vodka.
for the dog
he sets the dish down
for him
to finish
the cold stew.
it's been a hard
life
he thinks, staring
out into the alley,
wishing
that there was an
ocean
before him,
a window with a better
view.
before the lights
go dark
he looks across the room
at a picture of his
one true
love on the dresser.
he smiles. it hasn't
all been bad
he believes and sleeps
on that notion, that
it hasn't all been sad.

seeing it through

the suicide is news.
headlines.
how could he do such
a thing.
how could she, of all
people
jump.
so rich, so famous,
so beautiful.
and yet the slow dying
of so
many gets ignored.
regular souls
without names.
the lonely.
the walkers
in the park feeding
pigeons
until dark.
they see it through
until the end with hardly
a whimper,
leaving with hardly
a notice
or kind remark.

it blows away

it all comes down
in time.
the trees fall, the crumble
of mountains.
the rivers
freeze.
the houses blow
away.
and us, our lives
entwined
will disappear too
given
enough days
enough
time.

the outside looking in

the zoo
is cold in the winter.
the cages
tight
with animals.
their food and water.
how they'd love
to get out and bite,
and ravage,
to kill and hunt
as is their right
in this jungle world.
some think
the outside is no
different.

dog bite

the dog
bites my hand.
I've done nothing to the beast.
not a thing.
i'm no threat to him.
I just reached down
to say hello and give him
a tap on the head.
I didn't know
he had a bone in his mouth.
how is one to know
what mood we're in?

his one true love

he loved to smoke.
no filters, no menthol,
no
silly holder.
just fat camel
on his lip lit with
a silver lighter
with a ship on it.
he smoked until he died.
as he did with drinking.
bourbon on ice.
the cigarettes
didn't kill him.
nor did the whiskey.
Wanda did, his ex wife
the one true
love of his life
with a steak knife.

lucky

how lucky
he is, she says half heartedly
when
hearing the news
of someone
checking out.
how at peace he must be.
the demons
finally at bay having
won, gotten what
they wanted.
how lucky to be free
of this world
and onto the next.
how lucky, but not so
for
the loved ones
now left.

love can be like that

I used to love the roller coaster
at Marshall Hall.
the tall
curve of steel
that rose above
the Maryland pines,
the shiny rails
fenced off by
rickety wood slats,
painted white
and always peeling.
the screams

would carry throughout
the beat
park.

at times you felt as if
you'd fall out,
be ejected into
the starry night,
into the pink glow of
the carnival below.

but you hung on, eyes wide
shut.
knuckles red from
the iron bar you gripped.

I used to love the ride,
the frenetic squeal of the box
cars,
the slow rise of the first hill
clinging and clanging you
along until it peaked
and sent you into

a fearful but exhilarating
plunge.
love can be like that.

the hang of it

i hear the baby next
door crying.
it's a loud cry.
hunger, a change of
clothes.
she needs to be held
and loved. something
is bothering
the poor thing,
she's in need
of something.
barely a few weeks
old, just arrived
into this world,
and already she's
got the hang of it.

my itch

I can't think of anything
new to say.
so i'll just keep typing
until I think
of something.
I yell into the other room.
hey.
do you have anything,
give me
something. some subject,
some topic
with which to expound
upon and make up some
half baked poem.
no.
nothing. so this is all
I got. i look around the room.
the window.
the desk, a lamp.
a cup of old coffee.
bills on the table, nothing.
maybe tomorrow. maybe
the day after something
will inspire me.
i could use a good nights sleep
and a
pint of scotch.
someone to scratch my
itch.

my friend emily

my friend Emily
Dickinson who lives on
the floor
above, stops by again
to talk poetry.
she's very shy, but always
brings
something she's baked
while pondering
her poetic verses.
a cake, sometimes. muffins,
a blueberry pie.
she reads to me what
she's written
and then says, oh my,
when she sees the look on
my face.
you don't like it do you.
not really i tell, her
it's not my cup of tea,
but for you and so many
others, it's fine.
coffee with that pie?

hitting a nerve

he tells me
about his tooth ache.
he's seeing red
with this tooth.
his jaw is swollen.
but he's in florida, far
from home
where his dentist
could take care of it.
he's opened wide
and looked into
the mirror,
had his wife take a peek.
his son and daughter.
the maid who cleans the room.
have all looked. they
all shake their
heads at what they see.
it sounds bad.
a lot of pain.
it probably needs to
be pulled I tell him.
do you have a door knob,
some string?

green like an olive

a sweater is left
in the coat closet. it's green.
like an olive.
nothing in the pockets,
no label, or name,
no stitching
to tell me whose it
might be.
I take it out
from time to time
and lay it on the table.
i wonder whose arms
fit inside, who was warmed
by it's stitching,
it's thick wool
so neatly put together.
after a look
I hang it back in
the closet beside the other
coats
and jackets I rarely wear.
it's an old friend now.
this lone lost sweater,
green. green like an olive.

the wheels are off

my father at ninety
is bright.
there is a glow about
him.
the fine tuned
brain
still clicking at
a normal
speed,
but the wheels
have fallen off.
the motor
stalls,
the wipers can't
keep the windshield
clear.
I do the best I can
to walk
with him,
to give him a shoulder,
a hand.
something he's never
needed
or asked for in his long
hard
life, but now needs
despite the unrelenting
pride.

the fatal flaw

is it a fatal flaw
that we possess.
a breech in the wall.
a chink
in the armor. is
it the weak link
in all of us
that does us in.
kills the best of
us from ever truly
being happy.
being right. being
whole. or can we
turn things around
by knowing what it
is?
alter the course
of our history
and be free.

skimming stones

I skip
the rock across the mirror
well
of water.
the skim of stone,
the grey
smooth rock,
not unlike the one
picked up
fifty years ago.

the same sound, the same
motion of
my arm
sending it across
the pond.
not much has changed.
i'm still that boy
young at heart,
a free spirit,
searching
for the answer.

zipped lips

i zip
my lips together.
not another word
will leave
or say
the things i feel
i need to say.
no more sharing
the load
i carry.
i'm done with small
talk.
large talk.
discussion of any
sort
of any true
importance.
let the world turn.
let
what is to be,
be.
leave me alone
and let me get some
well needed
peace.

song bird

she has a good
voice
for song, for singing.
she's a yellow
bird
on the fence.
I hear her warble
and coo
in the early morning.
perched beside
the feeder, the trees.
the sky
of golden blue.

just my imagination

mostly it's
our imagination that gets
us into
trouble or
out.
we save or doom ourselves
with thought.
the ramble of
the brain is a dangerous
or lovely thing,
so hard at times
to pick and choose.

dinner

I take two pieces
of white bread and set them
on the plate.
I take out
a jar of peanut butter.
a jar of jam.
I spread them upon
the flat rafts of bread,
marry them
together, then pour
a tall glass of cold milk.
I go into
the living room
and turn on the television.
I say a prayer
for all those without
the luxury of food.
I lift my sandwich to
my mouth.
I eat.

a fifth for the fourth

she shows me her scar
from the last fourth of july.
her thigh,
the worm of an old burn
crawling
on her skin.
a roman candle, she says,
it tipped and fell
off the table,
upon my leg.
drinking was involved
i ask.
to which she nods
and smiles and says
of course, and
I hope that this year,
we can do more.

summer fruit

an apple or two
will
do.
no worms please, no
brown bruise.
perhaps a quick shine
upon it's amber
skin.
a twist of the vine,
that hard
soft stem.
a bite into the meat
of it.
the sweet summer
juice of fruit
is all I ask.
Is all I want of you.

the love boat

our ship comes in.
we board
it with our bags.
our luggage.
off we go across
the blue.
leaving troubles behind.
off we go
together. in love
forever.
just me and you.

to each his own

we like
to drink and laugh and
have a good
time.
we like to sleep
and eat,
and walk for miles
the wooded path.
we like to fish,
to swing inside
the hammock
on a sunny day.
to read and rest, to
fan away our troubles.
no need to quarrel, or
worry,
or wonder why
the sky is blue, or
why anything
is true or untrue.
enough with the whys.
let's just
go through this life
without a care,
without a blink,
or thought filled stare.
each to his own way
of living,
or dying. live and let
live, no need to be
concerned, no need
to be self aware.

phoenix

this bump,
this divot, this cauldron
of fire.
this mini slice
of dante's inferno is nothing.
I lived through worse.
bring it on
and watch how fast
i'll
be whole again.
i'll howl at the new moon,
the new sun.
the new day
and rejoice.
i'll throw my arms
into the air
and fly.

moon glow

we used to talk to
one another late at night
and say
did you see the moon tonight.
look out your window.
can you believe it.
so round, so pure and white.
we'd
talk about the moon
for a while then
drift off
into other things of less
importance.

over the horizon

the mud
is cold as I lie here

struggling
to free myself from
what I thought was dry land.

green pastures.

hills and valleys.
streams full
of fish with which to live
on.

the detour

was so easy to take.
the lesser of two roads.
but i'll rise.
i'll
unstick myself
from this deep wet dirt
that anchors
me to the earth.

i'll live.
i'll love.
it's just over the horizon.

the silence

silence says everything
we don't have words to say.
the look
the gaze, the distant
stare
of another time speaks
clearly.
clearer than any spoken
words.
the absence of touch,
the distance of lips,
the emptiness
is beyond belief.
a grind of days that
turn into weeks,
then months.
soon we will disappear
from one another.
like lights fading
in the fog.
driving slowly away.

Lynnie Blank

I have a lot of grave yards
to visit
this year.
another
friend goes down.
thirty five years in the making,
poof.
her sister calls
and tells me how and when.
we've never talked before
but we know
each other
from the many talks, the many
drinks I shared
with lynnie,
her amazingly kind and wonderful
sister.
a life long friend.
what can be said.
what can be done.
we sigh and say goodbye.
I go to lunch,
then back to work.
i will find time later
to soak it in,
to bury my face
into my hands and remember.

the devil in disguise

just a few months out

from

saying i do.

i have come to despise

the ground

she walks on.

i've grown

to hate her.

the lying. the lack of love.

the cheating with

her married boyfriend,

her decrepit ex husband.

her wayward son.

her pretending to worship

a God above.

her fakery is well polished.

i was a sucker

from the start as most are

when they meet her.

oh, she's angel, they say.

so pretty, so smart.

but i know now, what my

gut told me from the start.

she's the devil in disguise

until death do you part.

the peacock

what makes
this bird, is it a bird,
this peacock
open his
wonderous wings.
the iridescent blues
and reds, emerald.
the eyes
of it in a fan of
glory.
what ego
this is. look at me.
pick me.
I am the one.
see what I can do.
behold my resume of wings
and color
they're all spread wide
and beautiful,
all for us,
our future together,
or for someone
just like you.

we've done this before

it's a long
day in the office.
the boss leans over and says
how many times
have we gone over this,
how many times
have I told you
to click here, click
there.
don't you have the notes
you took
the last time.
I know you know, so
please,
let's be more there.
he goes back into his
office, shaking his head.
I take a sip of my coffee
and look out
the window,
my hands resting on the keyboard,
the monitor showing
the eclectic mind numbing
work I need to do.
I think about the words,
let's be more there.
I see the park
beyond the lot,
I see a lake, the path
around it.
I see a tomorrow and an
end to this, but
it all seems a long
ways off.

strange waters

the ice
is hard, deep
and wide
the tip leans out into
a blue jar of
air.
is it melting, or growing
into something
beyond imagination.
we float along,
we listen to the sound
it makes
as it scrapes against
the hides
of others.
what lies below the surface
is
what you need to know.
the danger
that is unseen
as you navigate strange
waters.

knowing

I knew
from birth
this day.
these nights. I was born
into this life.
I've seen it coming
for some time now.
as the stars
know how to align
themselves
in proper order,
as the moon
understands its place in
the sky,
as the river and streams
know
to where they must
go to empty what
they carry.
it's all so clear now.
I knew
before I was born
where I was headed.
I have known from birth
this day,
these nights.

two ways

there are two ways
out.
two ways in.
each
a leap of faith.
a jump
from a high plane.
a dive into the deepest
depth
of any ocean.
there are two ways to
look at this.
not one.
pick, choose. let it
be made whole.
let it be
undone.

even you, even me

in time.
so much happens
in time.
not now, not this
moment but later.
in time
this world will change.
this dust
will come,
the sheets we sleep
upon will shred.
the brick
this house was built upon
will crumble.
in time, these books we
read
beside one another
will yellow
with age, the binding will
falter
and the pages will
empty like
so many leaves
upon so many trees.
in time, this will all be
erased.
all that we cared about,
all that we
worried
into nothingness.
in time it will all
be forgotten.
even you. even me.

our secrets

as we sit around
the table.
holding our secrets
within.
we talk and chat,
we laugh,
we enjoy the meal
the company.
everything floats
like white sails
upon a pond,
not a ruffle in the water
or sky. but you can see it
as you look around,
that strange
dark look
of a secret trapped
inside, lashed
and buried,
never to be found.

what difference does it make

what difference
does it make.
we'll be dead in twenty
years
or more, or less.
so why give a damn,
why care
so hard
about
the road, the weather,
the love
that's come and gone.
why bother
with the tears,
the sadness. get out of
the woods,
get out of blue,
remove yourself
from the dark world
you've fallen
upon
and gotten used to.

the last dance

there is this dance
I've known
before.
a few times in my life.
it's a slow
dance.
one where you hardly move.
hardly
raise your arms,
or tap a shoe.
it's not the blues, or a waltz.
i've done this dance
so many times.
I know it by heart.
its a dance you can
only do alone.
it's your turn
to take the floor
and pray
that it will be last
dance like this,
that there will be
no more.

the edge of town

the edges

of us. the sharp, the dull,
the numb
cuts
we receive and give out

are never quite fatal
but they never heal
or leave.

we swab at the blood,
the brokenness of us,
the absolute empowerment
of grief.
we become accustomed to
rain.
to hail
and wind, the onslaught
of cold,
the falling front of
unrelenting sleet.

the edges of us grow
frost.
our eyelashes, the tips
of our fingers,
our nose. our tongues
when we open our mouths
to breathe the cold in,
to groan
at the stark reality
of what is.

in the past,
we used to warm ourselves
against others.
to curl beside a loved
one as the clock moved forward,
the stars were out then,
but no more.
now we look for shelter on the edge
of this dark town.
we look for a vacancy
on the road at 3 a.m.
for a single bed to lie in
and wait it out.

sloe gin

in high school
i got drunk on sloe gin
one night
on the high school
bleachers with
a bunch of other miscreant
teenagers.

we passed the bottle around.
perry, and jim.
wendy.
Michael may have been there too,
he hadn't left for the war yet
and died.

i haven't forgotten that night.
the blur of van gogh stars above,
the violet twilight
that morning.
the wild spin of inebriation.
i can still taste the tilt of the plum
red drink
on my lips,
the rush of laughter turned so quickly
into woe.

just the smell now, a brief
whiff reminds me
of then. of that sickness.
of being
so young and alive, so confused
and yet
unburdened
by what tomorrow could bring.

what do you want?

i have a serious
conversation with God.
He can be so quiet and aloof
at times.
or so it seems.
He keeps His cards
so close to his vest.
i tell him what's going on.
give it to him
in plain and simple language.
no rote prayer,
no rosary, or memorized
chant.
i just say what's on my
mind and ask, what's the deal.
what do you want from
me,
tell me.
i surrender. i give up.
just show me
your hand, tell me which
card to play,
to discard, to raise or call.
i'm all in i tell Him,
as i push
every chip into the middle
of the table
and wait.

the uphill climb

I remember
going up these steps when
I was twenty.
bounding up the stone
staircase
to the lake,
the rail
in place,
the tall grass and weeds
on either side.
it was like running up
into the clouds.
up to where the sun was
colored round into
the azure sky,
then over the ridge
to a pristine pool
of water
where ducks would land,
would fly.
I remember that then,
as I go up now.
slower.
holding the rail, feeling
the ache
in my knees,
the weight of me
more.
but the heart still
the same,
expecting the best after
the struggle of
the uphill climb.

why tempt them

we clean before
the maids
arrive.
straighten up the books,
pick up
the clothes.
we load the dishwasher
and change the sheets.
dust the shelves.
we hide the money too,
not that they
can't be trusted.
the jewelry
gets hidden in a box
deep into the closet.
other secrets
are stuck
into drawers.
why tempt them.

what could have been

she talks about the dead.
about
regret.
about how
wonderful life was
back then.
the effervescence
of secrete love.
she keeps this strange
adulation
alive.
keeping the pain
in tact.
the nails
still drilled into
her wrists.
the forever martyr
of what once was.

on a list

there are things
undone.
there is a list.
we've put
them on paper
in ink.
we've numbered
them
starting at one.
this is how
we get things
done.
we've made a list.
and you're on it.

the end of sorrow

I see the clearing.
the light
ahead.
I see the storm clouds
subsiding.
the shedding
of rain
at an end.
I feel a warm wind.
my feet are locked
into the wet
grass.
I hold my hands to
a full sky of blue
and breathe
in the joy of tomorrow.

grasping

we leave

so much behind.
everything in fact.

despite how hard
we grasp
when alive

at things and everyone
we loved
that has crossed
our path.

the tossed doll

the doll
in the trash.
bug eyed blue.
the string wired hair
uncommonly
of a reddish,
blood orange hue.
one arm
torn from its socket.
a missing
dolls shoe.
a blanket and toy
bottle
beside it, whose
baby
was this
and where is she now
after practicing
for so long.

the candles

another birthday
arrives.
you get beer, another watch
you'll never
wear.
thanks for the wide
striped
primary colored
sweater mom.
it's more about the cake
than it
is about gifts.
the love and kiss,
more about the number
of candles.
the glow of that soft
flame
that one day will all
be blown out.

who hasn't felt like that

the lions are not
happy
about the crack of the whip.
the chair
at their paws,
the laughter
of the crowd.
they want to eat
those
that diminish their
status
in the world.
hardly kings under
the big top.
hardly
beasts of the jungle.
barely cats.
who hasn't felt
like that.

let me think about it

the used car
is very used. the tires
bald
and rotting.
the dashboard
ripped.

she's got a few miles on
her
the salesman says,
but she'll get you where
you need to go.
she was beauty in her day.
he takes out
a picture
to show me when the car
was new and in
the show room.

but she cleans up nicely.
i'll have jimmy wash her for
you and put on a clear coat
of wax.

I start her up. it's cold
out and she won't turn over.

we jump the battery and I hear
the muffler rattle.

the pistons ping.

the growl of exhaust.
how much.
I ask.

i'll knock off a hundred if
you make the deal today,
he says

he takes the picture out of his
wallet and shows me the car
again.

she's all yours buddy. sign here.

let me think about it.

why are we here

the therapist

has no clue. she's squished in
her chair like
a fourteen year old
girl
just in from the beach.
flip flops.
her hair in wet disarray.

sure there's
a degree on the wall,
psychology today
on the table. is that a porcelain
figure of
Sigmund freud in the window
or president grant.

I see her pack of
camels.
the ashtray and matches.
an empty quart of rocky
road ice cream
in the trash.
I see the coupons she's
cut out
for total wine.

I calm myself down, wiping
tears away.

she's using a toothpick
when I sit down on the green
leather couch
and says, so,
why are we here to day.

indeed. why?

loose wire

the table lamp
wobbles
and spits out a wide
splash
of light.
half on, half out.
a wire must be loose
somewhere, or i'm
going crazy.
or both.

more to come

I can count my mistakes
on one hand,
four fingers actually.
maybe five
if I include
the decision to buy
a Pontiac sedan once,
a car I couldn't afford.
but that's it.
that's the grieving
list.
four and counting
but i'm sure
there'll be more.

the sun will come out

the flowers
are happy. the yard.
the green
of everything. the birds
wait
in the dark trees.
the rain will cease.
soon the sun will
come out
and all will be well.
won't it?

13 floors below

a stranger
arrives in a yellow cab.
she's traveling light.
running away,
or towards something, or
someone.
it's hard to tell.
tears
can go either way.
but she's crying.
she's waving goodbye.
she's waving
hello.
who's to know these
things
from the high window.
when it happens in
the street, thirteen
floors below.

the days you have left

the bare
necessities are
all you really
need.
food shelter
work
books
and love. family.
the tender touch
of a hand.
what else
is there
that soothes the soul,
allows
you to sleep
to eat and rest
in the days you live
in, the days
you have left?

another day

another day

of this.
work.

slight amusement.
sleep
and food.

the quiet.

another day slips
by

and what have you missed.
not much.
hardly a surprise.

a blue bird on the sill
but then

it's a grey
line
of days left behind.

another life

a dog
follows you home.
no leash,
no collar, no name,
no phone.
you let him in.
he drinks from a bowl.
eats then
he goes up
to your bed as if he's
been here
before.
perhaps he has.
maybe in another life.

finding gold

on my knees
I bend on the wet sand
of a cold
stream
and pan for gold.

I've been here most of
my life.
just one nugget will do.
one
solid piece
of gemstone.
gold, or silver.
a diamond perhaps.

something that will last
forever.

I've been at it so long
that I doubt
what God has told me.

but I keep at it.
pan after pan.
sifting, biting the fool's
stone.
tossing it back
again, and again.

trust

i trust
the weather is correct.
tuck an umbrella
under my arm.
i trust
that the money in my pocket
will buy
me coffee
pay for the bus, get me
home
at some point in
time.
i trust that my watch is right.
i trust my heart to keep
beating, for
the blood to course
through my veins.
i trust my eyes to see
where i step.
i trust the stairs i climb
will hold my weight.
I trust so many things,
so much of life,
and yet.

grab hold

I run towards the train.
i'm late. it won't wait.
my brown bag in hand.
my legs churn against
the silver
cinders
between the rails.
my breath is a bloom
of breath
before me. i
hold on to my hat.
my watch and chain.
I see a hand reaching
for mine,
be quick, the voice says.
you can do it, you can
make it, grab hold.

gaslight

you've been tricked.
duped.

flim flamed before, but
not like this.

not at this level of the game.
which shell hides the pea.
which card
is mine?

the rug has been pulled out,
the trap door opened
and away you go.

the trick is done,
the joke's
on you. gaslighted again.

what a shame it is
with life
so short
to be taken once more
before your very eyes.

across the nile

as I stand
here ironing a white shirt
for the funeral
I think
about my mother
holding a can
of spray starch,
a basket of clothes
at her feet.
I see her arms,
those long fingers,
he black hair
under the raw light
of the laundry room.
the cement floor.
I see her
turn up her transistor
radio
when the platters come
on. I see her lips
move with the words,
see the pyramids
across the nile.
she's was in heaven then,
as she must
be now.

everything you feared

somewhere
in the dark, you take
a wrong turn.
there's no moon
no stars,
no lamps to guide you.
no map. no friend
whispering go back
go back, into your ear.
your intuition
is broken.
your gut
out of order.
you keep going,
touching the walls,
the trees,
the rocks
along the way.
the braille of life
at your fingertips.
you feel the cold water
circle your ankles
like metal.
you hear the strange
growl of animals in
the woods.
someone shouts out
your name from a roof top.
this is not the way home,
it is everything you feared.

message in a bottle

while stranded on a deserted
island
with no food, or water,
no shelter, or way
to get home again,
I find a bottle with a note
in it
washed ashore,
I take the note out and
read it while sitting
in the wet sand.
hey, it says. it's me.
how are you?
I miss you and wonder
what life could have
been like if we had made
a go at things.
write me back and let
me know how things are going.
I laugh and stand up in
my ragged clothes.
I stroke my beard and look out
past where the waves are breaking
and see a small boat
with someone in it waving.
she has a picnic basket
and is wearing a large white
hat. a yellow scarf
is around her neck. slowly she
rows in to save me.

summer church

the air conditioning
has died
in the old church.
we sweat.
we kneel
and wipe our brows.
the robes
sag
on the priest,
the altar boys
tug at their collars.
the lights are dim,
the fans
whirl.
the doors
are open to let
a warm breeze blow
in.
the homily is shortened.
love one another,
he says.
be kind, be good, be
gentle.
the baskets
move quickly from
hand to hand, coins
and dollars
tossed together.
prayers are speeded
up
in the sweltering
air. we can hardly wait
to leave,
there's a lesson here
somewhere.

the shiny things

she puts
a bag of bread crumbs
in his coat
pocket
before he leaves the house.
cuts a hole
in the pocket
so that the tiny bits
and pieces
leave a trail
as they slowly fall out.
she knows
where he's going,
where he's
been, who he's seen.
she knows everything
there is to know
about his betrayal.
the crumbs are all over
town.
everyone knows.
it's old news.
but does it matter
that their home is loveless,
no.
she'll never leave,
never give up
the life, the sad faux
world they live in,
the shiny things and him.

a piece of you

a piece of you,
a piece of me, we tie
ourselves
together,
stitch us up
with needle
and thread.
we make a quilt
of blood and memory.
of seasons
long ago.
of what tomorrow
might bring,
of what could keep
us warm
when the cold winds
blow.
when the rains
sing.
we make a blanket
to cover
our sins, to hide
our lies, our secrets.
we begin
with a needle and thread
to start
again.

the cheap door

the wood
is warped by rain.
the door won't close.
the knob
won't turn.
the hinges run
with rust.
it's hardly old,
barely new.
so soon to start
once more,
to build another
door for which
to enter.
the carpenter
has cashed his check,
and run
away.

going down

from the shore
I stand and watch as the boat sinks.
i'm happy
about this.
I don't wave, I don't say a
word.
I don't throw out
a life jacket
or rope.
I fold my arms and smile.
I let all the lies
and deceit go down. i
let all the pain caused
go under.
i'm delighted
that finally someone gets
what they
deserve
and more.

the washing

I take out
my brain and wring it
as hard as I can
to get the bad stuff out.
I take it
down to the river
and beat it against
the rocks.
I twist and turn
it like a wet towel
full of tears
and angst.
I want to be done with
these memories
this past parade
of fools and jesters,
so full of pranks.
I clean it
out, shake it free of
all these doubts.

washed ashore

the emergency
room
is buzzing.
bells ring,
machines whirring.
patients
in disarray.
stretched out
like
starfish
against the white
sheets.
the injured
have washed ashore here.
the boys
and girl
in blue and sea foam
green, barely out of school
attend
to their misery as
best they can.
the cloaked white
doctors
are on their way.

greener grass

out of breath,
out of time, out of luck.
out of ideas
and rhymes.
out of words, spent
and tired.
bone weary. looking
for a place
to lie down.
a nice blanket of grass
beneath
a shady tree.
a single day without
fear
or grief.

a line of ants

the ants
come in during the night.

a quiet march.

small dots
of black with legs and arms,
things too
small to take notice of.

but life of
some sort.

no tools in hand.
no proclamation, or
mission statement.
but they're here doing
what ants do.

what to do?
brush them away.

a wet cloth, a hand,
a spray.

they don't know what
they've gotten themselves
into.

blue jay

the blue jay
in his thick purpled coat,
his blue
bully jacket
keeps the others away.

he's too heavy
for the feeder. see
how it bends,

sways.

some lesson to be told,
i'm sure.
beauty being
less
agreeable
towards others
that you realized.

the loose thread

a thread
pulled, and pulled,
tugged
to some end
does nothing
but unravel
the whole.
best to snip it where
lies,
cut it clean
or tie a knot
to end the trouble
where it
begins, not
further down
the line.

choices

we choose the shoes
we wear.
the shirts, the pants.
we decide
where to work.
what to eat,
who to love, or who
to dismiss
as meaningless in our
lives.
we choose worry
over faith.
indulgence over fasting.
we rush and hurry
when we should wait.
we make our beds
and lie in them.
we lead ourselves astray
taking
the wrong roads,
the wrong fates.
we do it all
and then complain
as if we had nothing
to do or say
about it.

be back soon

I slip into
a coma
gratefully. my mind
still awake
my body in a state
of relaxation.
i'm gone, but i'm still
here.
I can see and
hear
those gathered around me.
tears fall.
some tremble and sit
besides the bouquets
of flowers.
another person touches
my face,
wipes my brow with
a cold cloth.
I feel lips my forehead.
there's a hand on my
knee.
words of
love are whispered into
my ear. others seem bored.
they want to be
anywhere but here.
I want to tell them all
not to worry, don't be
concerned. go home,
go about your lives.
i'm just
asleep. i'm taking a well
deserved break. a long
rest.
I needed it, be back
soon.

unplug those lights

I buy a string of Chinese
lanterns for the back yard.
I plug them in
and let the lights glow.
red, blue, orange, yellow.
green.
it's a pretty sight to see
against the back drop
of dark woods, the full
array of trees.
I get a note in
the mail from cruella
the condo board president,
former treasurer
and v.p., one term comptroller.
unplug your lights
the letter reads.
or else. according to section
eight part B, line 12, you are
in violation of having fun
and being frivolous.
i light the letter with a match
and watch it burn, then
wait. I wait. another
letter comes.
then another. they fine
me. they threaten me.
they wait outside my door
with signs and placards.
megaphones. turn off those
lights, they chant.
they wait for me to leave
in the morning, but I
don't go out.
I sit in the yard and
stare at the lights.
those wonderful
the Chinese lanterns.

disappeared

he was good at table
magic.
cards and thimbles. dice.
slight of hands.
hats and rabbits.
handkerchiefs
and canes, boxes
with false bottoms.
but then he went too far
and made himself
disappear.
we haven't seen him
in years.
someone said that he
had life insurance,
but
his wife's not talking.
she's waiting it out.
he tried to saw
her in half once.
took forever for the wound
to heal.

going out of business

there's a sale on.

two for one.
buy three and get the fourth
one free.
buy a dozen and get
the next half
dozen half off.
it's a red tag sale,
a blue light special.

you've never seen anything
like it.

we're going out of business.
everything must go.

closing soon.

no refunds, no returns.
everything as it is.
right off the shelf.
in the crate.
off the boat, off the truck.

sixty per cent off
on Thursdays only.

ten percent off the original
price.

discounts galore.
going out of business.
moving to a new location,
opening a new store.
we're out of room, we need
to move
last years models
to make room for more.

get em while they're hot.
one size fits all.
it's make your day,
your life.
you'll never be the same.


come on by. open all night.
no credit, no problem.
cash and carry.

bring a friend, but come,
come soon. going out of business.
last chance. last chance.

old habits

the cops
are at the door.
I can see through
the peep hole their
badges,
hats pulled tight
around their brow.
I fall to the floor
and quietly crawl
back to the kitchen.
the dog
looks at me,
licks my face.
stop, I tell him.
he tugs at my sleeve.
stop, be quiet.
the popo
are at the door, I tell
him.
shh.
he looks at the door
as the loud
knock of knuckles
raps against the wood
he growls.
shhhh I whisper. it's
the fuzz.
be quiet.
he lies down
beside me,
nestles his head
against my neck.
we wait it out together.

the ties that blind

the web
of us, the ties,
the strings of the past
keep
us from moving
forward.
we sidle sideways,
stuck
in the glue,
the tether of what
was.
the muck and mud
of another time
holding our shoes.
where's the scissors
to set us free.
the shovel
to bury it,
the broom to sweep
it away.
the rope to pull
us out
and get us on dry
ground
where we can start
anew.

sweet cherries

when they went away for a day or
two
we'd climb the black cherry
tree on the corner
and like monkeys
scramble up and through,
to eat our fill.
our skinny arms and legs
would hardly
bend the tender
branches.
we'd stuff our mouths,
our pockets,
the white t-shirts
stained with the blood
of stolen fruit.
we'd spit the seeds
at one another
with glee.
we ate until we ached.
dropping down the trunk
when the car turned the corner
the owners returning,
coming into view.
two summers we raided
that fat sweet cherry tree
before they took it down
with cruel strong swings
of a silver axe.

the ice cream truck

I remember the unemployment
office
in the 1970's.
the squat red brick building
in Beltsville Maryland.
the long lines
the waiting.
a dreadful time
in so many ways.
sitting for hours
until it was your turn
to prove
you had skills, that you
were unemployed
through no fault of your own.
the check per week was
less than
a hundred dollars.
better than nothing, I said
to my friend john.
we earned it, we both said.
we worked all year
before the lay off, now
it's time
for us to get something
for nothing.
we looked for another job together.
our long hair, his beard,
and beret, our youth keeping
us from doing much
in the world
but painting houses,
cutting grass, or driving
an ice cream truck.
our classes at the community
college did nothing
for our short resumes.

john's been dead for over
two years now.

when I hear the bells
and music of the truck
as I sit on the front porch
alone, I watch as it rolls
slowly down the block.
the children
appear out of nowhere
running as they always have
every summer,
burnished with sun,
in their bare feet, with
money clutched
in their tender hands.

get happy

we buy a bigger
house. one with a better
view.
another boat, another place
to live in.
another car,
another suit, another
set of ear rings,
a watch,
a stick pin, more bling.
we lie inside the tanning
booth
for darker skin.
we get the fat sucked
out of our bellies,
our chins.
we buy a wig, new teeth,
new shoes.
we do nearly everything
to make ourselves
happy,
everything, but working on
what lies within.

no more clowns

when the clowns
keep coming out of the small
car.
I don't laugh.
I don't find it amusing
at all.
it's ridiculous.
I don't want to send in
the clowns.
there is nothing funny
about a clown,
in fact the exact opposite
comes to mind.
the make up.
the permanent smile.
the squirting flower
and horn
blowing.
I want a world without
clowns, without
their polyester yellow
jumpsuits.
their red bushy air
the animal balloons.
I want a clown ban, that
goes for mimes too.

evil dessert

jealousy
is such an evil dessert.
so cruel
an emotion there never was.
a devil's
dish
of angst.
you keep spooning it
in,
the black heart
never quite full.
the flight of rational
thinking
flies quickly
out the window.
just a word or glance
is enough
to throw a jug of
kerosene
onto a single flame
of a match struck.
it's a sick world.
crazy
and mean.
how rough the waters
can be
so quickly, though once
so placid, so relaxed,
so serene.

the barber shop

as a child
I feared the razor of the old
man,
the barber
in Barcelona.
his belly brushing against
my buster browns,
his garlic
lunch a cloud of despair
upon me.
how small I was in the thick
hot chair
that held me down
like sand.
I watched and listened
as he sharpened the blade
against a strap
of Spanish leather.
preparing me for what?
I was only six,
what possible reason would
there be
to place that shiny
knife against my brow,
my cheek,
my lineless face.
how would I look without
ears?
where was my mother to
save me
from this death.
shopping?
eating shaved lemon ice
in the promenade,
flirting with a
conquistador or a bull
fighter
in the cool arc of shade?

put the money in the bag

the first time
I robbed a bank
I didn't know what I was
doing.
my hand written note
was nearly illegible.
put the money in the bag,
I scribbled on the back
of an envelope.
the teller, a nice young
woman, asked me
what the note said.
I can't read this, it
looks like you wrote
put the baloney in
the box.
no, no I whispered
loudly, the money in
the bag. money, moohlah,
cash, dough rey me? get it?
I put my finger into my
jacket to indicate
I was carrying heat,
but she paid it no mind.
you're going to have to
go to a deli for
baloney, she said.
and we don't have any
boxes or bags here.
I gave her a paper bag,
and whispered to her
again, my hand
cupped to my mouth.
money, dollars, cash,
into the bag. now or
I might have to hurt
someone.
do you have an account
here, she said, I need to
see some ID.

In the woods

it's a long night.
I look out the window
and see
them creeping about
in the shadows.
longing for what's inside.
they're in the woods.
in the trees,
they crawl
and scratch their
way through
the thickets, the fallen
leaves.
I see their eyes,
red in the moonlight.
their sharpened fangs
bared
and dripping
with carnivorous desire.
nothing stops them.
nothing
keeps them at bay,
not even daylight
sends them back home,
back to the lives
they've made.
they stay and wait
on their hind legs,
they pant and beg.
what they want's inside.

fresca?

the gypsy
takes my hand and stares
into the lines,
she bats a fly away
from her face
and yells out
for someone
to shut the screen
door.
I hear it slam.
I see trouble, she says.
lots and lots of trouble.
what are all these
lines?
do you mind if I smoke
she says,
lighting a cigarette.
when I see hands like this,
I don't know,
it breaks my heart.
take out a handkerchief
and wipe
the dark paint off my
hand, still
wet from work.
oh, she says. much better.
she touches the clean
lines
on my palm.
things seem to be going
well for you lately.
are you in show business
by any chance.
I see wonderful adventures
in your future.
do you want a fresca?

the water color

it's a water
color
world of unskilled
strokes,
the reds
bleed,
the blues are mottled.
the greens
have
slipped into muddy
brown.
the hand moves across
the canvas
trying to make sense
of it all.
trying to put
a straight line
into view.
it's harder than it
looks,
what isn't?

shipping lanes

hardly ships passing
in the night.
more like barges floating
in
daylight,
a thousand miles of ocean
between us.
the slow crawl of our
lives apart.
not a wave or word
spoken.
not a blow of the boats
horn.
just the quiet ripple of water
in the green shift
of time
slipping by.

land fill

the landfill
is overflowing with what
we don't want
or use.
tires and books,
pants
and broken chandeliers.
there goes a heart or two
as well.
they truck it in from
Baltimore,
from
new York,
from LA,
and Brunswick.
it keeps coming.
doesn't stop.
I add my share to the pile
shoveled
onto the rising heap.
I purge
the life I led,
the encrypted world
of me,
but there's always
some newer stuff.
always.

digging out

i'm in the hole again.
lock down, solitary
confinement.
I feel the rats
slip past my body as I lie
in a curled
bow.
there is little light,
less food,
or water.
no human voice, or touch
comes near.
i'm being punished again
for things
I haven't done.
I can hardly wait to get
back to my cell
to dig once more,
to tunnel out with a
wooden spoon.
to be free once more
from this cage
i'm stuck in.

survival

I wring out
my muscles, the sinew
of an aging body.
i let my bones crack
under the weight of me.
I lie
on the floor
and stare up at the ceiling.
I've been here before
and survived.
i'll live through this
one too,
and be all the stronger
and wiser
when I come out the other
side.

don't we?

the lights
are dim. the shadows
long
this time of day.
the world slinks home
from work.
from school.
the children get off
the buses.
lovers depart
from their rendezvous
in green parks.
the day is nearly done.
we all go home
to something or someone.
don't we?

old cars

the car has seen better days.
royal blue
is now denim faded.
there's rust
on the running boards,
in the wheel wells, the radio
doesn't play.
a crack in the windshield
serrates the glass.
in the morning she
groans when she tries to turn
over. when i hit the gas.
the pistons stuck,
the gear shift, the doorknobs too.
she was a great car for
many years,
smooth as silk on the open
road.
plush and fun around the curves.
I remember the beach
on our first trip to the eastern
shore.
the bridge, the gulls.
the salt in the air.
i'll miss her, as I have all
the old cars I've been down
the road with.
but it's time to go, pull
up the truck and take her.
i'll wipe my tears away
and get another. maybe a foreign
job with a convertible
roof to let the sun in.

the clean slate

I take
the eraser and wipe
the black board. it takes
all day.
I scrub hard
at the words, doubt,
fear, loneliness, etched
in with a heavy hand.
I want a clean slate.
it's a joyous occasion.
I remove all the chalk
of yesterday. I sponge
it down, make it new
again.
the board is pristine,
ready for a new day coming.
that lesson is over.
those dark pages are gone.
the next chapter
of my life begins.
I can hardly wait.
I take a new piece of chalk
and begin to write.

when she died

when she died
i made an altar to her.
i went blind
to what it really was
and kept
photos of happy times.
i put the things we shared
nearby, glass
beads from a jar.
a blouse, a scarf, a shoe.
in every room a touch stone
of our life together.
anything to keep that love
alive. her greeting cards
signed with hearts and smiles.
a bottle of her perfume,
a ring,
her books close by,
book marked with a picture of
the two of us
and underlined
to remind me of what
i felt inside.
i framed our mythical world
beside me to keep me warm
on cold nights.
it took so much time.
so many tears and pain
before i let her go,
accepting the truth of what
it really was,
and moved on with my life,
letting others in.

two hearts

the rain is bliss,
the summer pour of warmth
from a layer
of brushed silk clouds
is fine
on this late morning.
I can hear
it on the roof, against
the tin,
the tile, the wood.
I can hear the beat of my
own tired heart
wanting two.

the hand not taken

we make mistakes.
we do things that change
our lives forever,
not for
the better but for the worse.
regrets
are sharp stones we carry
in our mouths
and can't spit out.
what could have been
rattles
around in the iron
cage of
our minds. always there,
always reminding us of
the hand not taken,
the vows not spoken.
we stay lost and mired in
the fog of doubt.

what the problem is

my new personal yogi,
guru and wise man,
jimmy,
says that my problem
is a spiritual
one.
he's turned over a new
leaf. in fact
he's turned over a tree
full of leaves
since I've known him.
but I think he's on
to something now.
it's not money, or love,
or work,
or relationships, he
says,
that's keeping you
blue, in the dumps,
it's where you are
in your spiritual life,
he says.
all of man's troubles
are the result of a
spiritual one.
who's first in your world?
who or what means most to you?
straighten that out
with the man up there
and you're home free
my brother. surrender
is the answer.
I look up to the rafters
when he points with his fork
full of rib eye steak and says
the man up there.
I see a tiny
brown sparrow looking down,
there's a small
worm in his mouth.
jimmy raises his cold bottle
of Budweiser and waits
for me to clink
his bottle with mine.
I do.
surrender man, he says
again. let it all go.
could you pass me the ketchup?

a piece is missing

a piece of me
is missing. I can't find it
anywhere.
I've looked all over
the house,
in the car, the yard,
on the street.
I've sorted through
the laundry,
shook the pages of books.
I don't even know what
it looks like,
how to describe it.
I just feel that it's gone.
a broken chunk
of me removed and lost.
strangers and friends alike
stop me on the street
and ask, what's wrong?
I haven't been myself
without it.
perhaps the x rays
will tell me more.

the hand you reach for

sometimes
the hand you reach for
is not the one
who is going to help
you get over
the side of a cliff.
it seems right
at the time,
dangling a thousand
feet above the ravine,
your life in the balance,
but they don't have
your best interests
in mind.
having done so many
climbs,
you are more wise
these days,
and so you wait patiently
for another hand,
a stronger rope to arrive.

the land line

i don't have any money
i say when picking up the phone
before hearing a word.
it's the irs.
i can hear a thousand voices
talking at once
in the cavernous warehouse.
it's about a student loan,
it's about discount
drugs
in Canada.
new windows, or the police,
or fireman wanting
a donation.
sorry, but i'm plum out
of cash at the moment i
say, then hang up
and wait for the next call.

kenny and mary

I get a postcard in the mail
from the karrikers in Miami.
come soon, it says.
we miss you.
we'd like to see you this
year.
a flamingo is on the front
of the glossy card,
pink against a pale
blue sea.
we have oranges here,
it reads. we have plenty
of room.
come before it's too hot.
before we're too old
to walk, to hear or see.
come soon before kenny dies.
he's not well.
we have cable tv.

which way

the canvas is white
today
despite the rain outside,
the emerald
green of trees
is lit
under a sunless sky.
no ink spilled or brushed
yet.
what to do.
what to say, where to go.
I stand at the intersection
of young hours
and turn
in each direction.
who's available
to paint outside the lines,
to hit the road,
to misbehave,
what trouble
or goodness can we
get into on this long wet
rainy day.