something new

is there something new
to
know,
to let sink
into your bones, some
new fact
or fiction
that will bring you
home,
settle you
into a final peace.
is there some book,
some rhyme in a poem,
a song
not heard
that will form upon your
dry lips
and go out
like a happy wind.
is there a place you
haven't seen,
a city that beckons
you to sleep in.
too soon to know.

it's up here

it must have been up here,
up this wobbled ladder
that creaks
beneath my weight,
in this
webbed attic,

with rotted wood
and scattered bones
of small animals,
bats
birds left
to be unfound.
it's up
here
that you find the grey satchel
thread bare,

holding
an empty bottle
of red wine,
a flask
of bourbon drained dry.


a slew of letters,
post cards saying wish
you were here,
now and into eternity,

it's up here where you find
her silk scarf too,
golden in shine, holding
the scent of her perfume,

it's up here
that he held it to his cheek
and remembered how it once
wrapped
around her neck
and fell to her side.

it's
up here where he must
have gone
when the wife was angry,
when the world
inside the house
was wrecked in storm.
up here


where he found a place
to go
and remember what could have
been,
what should have been
so long so long
ago.

around

at the start
you lean in your blocks,
head down,
feet
tightly in place
muscles
trembling,
fingers
just touching
the paved
ground.
you wait to hear
the gun
go off.
then rise and spring
forward,
your legs gliding against
the lined track.
it's a long race
with no winners no losers.
just around
and around
you go, no point
in looking back.

thirty years

no longer working.
he sits
on the stoop
and waves to those that go
by.
coffee in hand.
a paper.
the empty house
behind him.
what to do now.
he thinks about the last
thirty years of his life,
shakes his head
and wonders what
that was all about.

the weight lifter

the weights
are heavy, as he lifts them.
straining his
muscles, the veins, blue ribbons
down his arm,
his neck,
face.
he is in the mirror,
up and down
they go, curls and lifts.
presses.
he bends to the world
to shape
himself into something,
anything,
anything but this.

the luncheon

we unfold
our napkins and place them
on our laps.
some begin, taking
the fork beside the plate,
some bow their heads
in prayer
their hands folded,
fingers laced.
others stare out the window
not here.

the playground

it's a grey
wind that has passed over us.
aging
our bones,
thinning our hair,
our ranks,
our once smooth skin.
the bleating
of time,
the sand of it, the vapor
of it
rising into
the full sky
above the playground.
we press on,
no less thrilled at
the shot, the pass,
the win or loss that
will be
forgotten
or remembered into
eternity.the

surrender and let go

attachments
and desires are the death
of you,
the buddha
says, breathe and let
go.
be free of all
that you love, things,
people,
imaginings.
quench your earthly desires
and let go.
ungrip your hands,
open them and fall
into the grace of God's will.
do not be afraid.
He will catch you.
let nothing steal
your heart, your soul,
your life,
by taking such
a death grip hold.
let go.

just drive

i take a taxi out of town.
throw
a thousand dollars over the seat
and tell
the driver to just drive.
anywhere, just hit the gas and go.
go as far away from this place
as you can.
he looks in the mirror,
and says, okay.
one way?
one way i tell him.
stop anywhere, anywhere and let
me out.
but keep driving, keep going.
don't stop
until i tell you to.
i'm going to close my eyes
and pretend i'm someone else.
this isn't really
my life, none of this is
true.
he says okay. okay.
relax mister, here we go.
he understands.

lost and found

I peer into
the empty house.
the for sale sign in the yard.
I cup my
hands and lean into the plate
glass window.
I see where the table was.
where we gathered
for meals.
I see the couch,
the chair,
the wall where the tv hung,
the mantle where
our pictures stood.
side by side, one by one.
I look under
the mat for the key, but
it's gone.
no mail in the box.
no paper
on the step.
the shrubs are over grown,
the ivy
gone wild up the side
of the brick.
the grass
is thick and brown.
I remember living here.
I remember
her smile, the day,
that night, the wedding gown.
I remember most
everything. once lost,
then found.

the birds keep singing

the ink
hardly dry on the paper.
the flowers
wilted but
not quite dead
in the vase.
the wrappings and ribbons
still
on the floor,
champagne gone flat,
three bottles
never poured.
how quickly
the tide
comes in, goes out.
what was
isn't anymore,
and yet as I stand
on the balcony
looking backwards,
the birds are still
singing.

uncommon sense

I take a class
in common sense.
the obvious is discussed
on the first day.
look what people do,
not what they say.
actions speak louder
than words,
a long worn, but true
cliché.
look before you leap.
listen
before you speak.
measure twice, cut once.
trust your gut.
it's never wrong
and don't look back.

one last round

after the eight count,
and the bell dings,
I get up from the canvas
and stagger back to my stool.
my corner man
asks me if I can go on.
do I have anything left.
anything?
I spit out my mouth piece,
drool out a pint of
blood, saliva.

someone pours water over my
head to clear my eyes.

they suture up the cut on my
cheekbone. whisper encouraging words
into my cauliflower ears.

I look across the ring.
she's tired too.
beaten. she's weary.
her eyes are blackened.
her legs limp
as she rises at the bell.

one more round I say.
standing, slapping my gloves
together.
one final round of love
and then i'm done.

the carnival

a carnival arrives
in town to no fanfare.

they're tired people
with tired
tents
and poles.
rides
and what not.
half smiles.
half frowns.

they put it all together
in the cool
shade of night.
the lights, weak
and yellow.
the machines
that grind. someone takes
the tickets.

the smell of burned sugar
laminates the air.
cigar smoke
from old men with broken
teeth
slithers out from their
purple lips.


the crowd is young.
too young to see the pain
in their travel weary eyes.

in time they'll move
on, take apart the games,
the tents,
wheel out onto the open road
to another
strip mall,
where the glass embedded
in the pavement
looks like diamonds.

the blue blade

it all
depends on this
shovel.
this
blue blade.
where to dig, what
to bury.
what to
uncover, or leave it
as is
and let
nature run
its course.

who owns you

every life
has a dozen crossroads.
a hundred
choices of go left go right.
go alone,
or take someone with
you.
your gut
puts you there. standing
at the intersection
of tomorrow.
which way
do you go.
who or what thing owns you,
keeps you in fear,
isn't this your life?

regret

there is no
surrender in some.
they hope, they wish, they
beg for a different
outcome.
the reality
of the day is beyond them.
the truth is not their friend.
they are blind to
the facts shown daily
by sun and
the terrible harsh blue
sky above.
they want what they can't
have,
they want yesterday
to be today
and tomorrow. they
waste their hours,
their lonely hearts,
twiddling
prayers, twiddling their
dreams
and mistakes on
calloused thumbs.

your life

there are no
mistakes according to
Miles Davis.
the world is a jazz
piano,
a jazz trombone,
horn,
or trumpet,
there are no miscues.
no drum
hit wrongly,
no note out of place,
it is what your hand
has plucked, your mouth
has blown. this is your song,
no going back, no front
or sideways.
it's your life
by you, for better
or worse. accept it.

if it's not one thing

I prepare myself for todays
therapy
session
by lying on the floor
and crying
for an hour.
the dog comes over
and licks my face.
I tell him thank you
and wipe
his slobber off my cheek.
once that's
out of my
system.
I write down my list of
grievances
of all those that have
done me wrong.
I need two sheets of standard
typing paper.
then I think, what
about me, have I caused
any of this
angst or grief,
have i unconsciously caused
this turmoil
that I've been caught
in.
impossible.
me? it has to be them.
I laugh. I know it's probably
at least half
of me, if not more.
as i pack up my
brain luggage, my heart
sheaves of paper,
my laundry list
of pain, i realize
that's what I need to get to,
the me in me,
and stop believing that
if its not one thing,
it's your
mother.

down the drain

I take
some soap, a sponge, a wash
cloth.
I scrub the inside
of my
head
for an hour, rinse
then do it again.
I scour my brain,
brillo those clinging thoughts
from deep inside.
the bubbles come out of my
ears,
my mouth,
my nose runs with
dirty water.
I take the hose and give
it all a
thorough dousing.
I shake my head then
let it dry as I lie
out in the sun.
i'm ready now for new
thoughts,
fresh ideas.
the old ones have been washed
away.
down the drain they go.

lines in the sand

you draw a line in the sand.
then another.
one more,
one curved, one crossing
the other.
you are surrounded
by lines.
unable to move
or cross over, you've
trapped yourself
in a world
of ultimatums, none
of which are
taken seriously
by anyone but you, and
even then, the wave
of time
rolls by and washes
them all away.

parents

you go back to square one.
birth.
lying there
in a crib.
someone holds you.
feeds you
changes you.
keeps you warm with
a loving
embrace.
it was so simple then.
unconditional
love.
the mobile of music
above your new ears,
your new eyes.
a blanket around you.
someone singing
you to sleep,
there in the morning
when you rise.
someone who helps you
take step one,
and the rest that will follow
until you die.

friday night

there's one beer
left
in the fridge.
a single cold brown
bottle on the rack.
a half of sandwich.
ham and cheese.
a pickle or two floating
in the brine
and green water
of a round jar.
there's mustard
and ketchup.
old lettuce ready
for the can.
four eggs, a white
box of white
rice
from west hunan.
what to choose as my
stomach
growls, my thirst grows.
what
says Friday night
as I lean into the cold
light of the box.
I grab a beer
and shut the door.

the kitchen window

I remember my mother standing at the sink
staring out the small kitchen
window with a plant on the sill,
looking down the road, wondering
where my father was, if he was coming
home. who was he with, what woman,
what house or bar was he in, being kissed.
making love to someone else.
how she stared out that window
waiting for his car to appear,
smoking, running the water over her
hands, a dish, a glass.
I think about all the wives in
the world who are staring out their own windows
wondering where their loved ones
are and if they will ever come back.

I wash my hands, pour water on
the small green plant
then turn away. it's late.

blue river stone

the new therapist
reminds me
of an owl.
her round glasses, her
oval
face
and hair.
she's prim and proper
across from
me as I sit
and cross my legs
in her deep cushioned chair.
so why are we
here, she asks, pen in hand,
staring me down
using all her knowledge
to examine
and reveal
the reason for my coming,
my frown.
why are we here, indeed.
why anywhere,
why can't we leave well
enough alone,
and numb ourselves.
live and die,
walk through life
unbothered, cold
and thoughtless. silent
below the water not unlike
a rounded blue
river stone.

no looking back

I pack light for this journey.
a single bag.
some cash,
a book or two.
I get coffee on the way
as I walk
to the station.
the wind is at my
back.
a light rain falls as I adjust
my collar,
my hat.
I stand at the platform
and look down
the rails.
they shine so bright, glisten
with promise
of a new life.
I listen for the wheels
of the train,
the surge of it approaching.
I hear the whistle
as it slows to a stop,
I pick up my bag,
get on, find a seat
by a window.
I don't look back.

nothing is lost

the day begins.
the pale light of morning
brightens
up the green of trees.
the sky
is grey
and soft. a blanket
of clouds.
the birds are in the yard.
on the fence.
despite all things,
you feel
that nothing is lost.
how can you lose what
you never had,
the long night
has ended.

the bonfire

I remove my clothes.
put them into a pile and burn
them.
I take my books,
my shoes,
my hat. I throw
them into the fire.
I take everything I've ever
written, every poem,
every letter
and toss it all into
the rising flames.
I carry out a box of memories
and drop them
on the fire.
I've given up on this world.
I want a new life.
one without
the past, without the shame,
the guilt,
the pain.
I want the bonfire of my
vanities
to burn away.
I want the ashes to be
buried deep into the earth
where i'll never
see or think of them again.

the small dog

the dog
was brown with white spots.
he knew how
to beg,
to lie down
and play dead.
he would bark on cue
and
howl
at the full moon.
he was a lovely
dog
except when it rained
or snowed
and wouldn't budge,
wouldn't
fetch his leash,
but hide and brood.

smoke and mirrors

it's a house of mirrors.
of smoke
and fog.
the locked doors,
the stuck
drawers.
the traps, the hidden
agendas,
the mask.
the costume of the day,
the whispers
into a phone,
the light typing of words
to lovers
who won't let go.
pray for me,
she says,
pray for us he replies.
as you go to a window
and try to remember
a life
that wasn't full
of deception of
an endless nightmare
of black and white
lies.

almost there

each wave
that hits upon
this rock
chips away a little more.
the ocean of trouble
makes
sand of strength,
the salt of tears,
the blue pounding
of surf.
each blow
of hard water upon
its craggy soul
erodes its form,
breaks it into what
it once was
no longer stone.
but something else,
something
that the wind will
catch and blow away.
almost there.

bling

they are just things.
objects.
shiny,
bright pieces of jewelry
watches,
bracelets
and rings.
mere stones
collected and brought
together
to be worn
and held under the light.
temporary bling.
worthless.
hardly
sand, compared to love
compared to what
reins in a heart
for life.

let go and surrender

to exit
this life, one must
make plans.
otherwise
we leave against
our will.
no different than
our birth.
we had no say in
that either.
let's see out this
plays out,
as we let go
and surrender.

before midnight

I play no
music
other than this keyboard.
no strings,
no percussion,
no wood winds.
but this is enough
music for one life.
for one
stroll through the park
before
midnight.

tomorrow is another day

I get fooled
a lot.
i'm an easy mark, an easy
prey.

I think everyone
is honest.
not a lie in their heart,
no dark
secrets,
no scam or deceit,
everyone is on the up and up,
and not
part of some
play.

I look deep into their eyes.
I listen and believe
the words
they say.

I get fooled a lot.
but less and less
as I grow older,

hopefully wiser, but tomorrow,
sweet Vivien,
well tomorrow is
another day.

thinking of gin

the boy with gum
on the bus. red cheeked
and wild
eyed.
a strange blue like
broken
glass.
chewing and blowing pink
balloons.
his sharp teeth red
with candy.
a fireball stuck
within a cheek.
his brush of blonde hair
looks
aglow,
uncombed, the tail lick
up
like a shark's fin.
he pounds on the window
with two pink
hands, and the mother,
two seats to his left.
staring out
the other side.
no husband in sight,
she's thinking
of gin.

hindsight

if I knew then
what I know now, would things
be different?
would
I take off those rose
colored glasses,
unplug my ears,
silence
the nagging doubts
and fears?
would I have taken a
different path
on a different horse,
or would I
have gone forward, blind
and deaf
into the storm,
weak of heart,
stumbling into what I
thought was light,
was right,
but was dark.

the false sigh

our memory of yesterday
is never
quite what it really was.
we've shined
that apple nicely,
turning the brown bruise
away,
hiding the worm and rot.
but in the window, on
a white sill, least
for now,
those days were wonderful
and full of love,
let's pretend they were
fine, keep the apple
shined and ignore that
they were not.

sail on

old loves
die hard. they are crawling
through
the desert of lost
relationships.
abandoned
and circling.
taking the cup of water
you dole out
on occasion
that gives them
hope.
massaging their soul
with the mirage
of maybe.
the oasis of let's wait
and see,
the beginning of a new
day,
another try,
once more.
the desert is full of them.
I can see
them
in the hot dry sand,
crawling on their hands
and knees
as I sail
off into the sunset,
the mast full of a cool
breeze
with drink in hand.

a blue period

your blue period
has been
extended for another six months.

indigo.

azure. pale.

all different shades of blue
have appeared.
baby blue,
jay bird,

blue bird. royal.

oh to have wings and fly
deep into the forest
to be rid
of blue.

there must be other
colors out there.

no changes

you make no changes
in
what you
do
on a day to day basis.
you
rise early,
you shower,
get coffee.
pants, shirt,
shoes go on.
you drive to work.
the same route.
you say good morning
to those you see.
you sit
at your desk
and begin your day.
turning over page after page.
the seasons change
outside your window.
the rut is deep.
the wheels
are dug in.
you think the same thoughts.
ruminate
over the same things.
stay put
resisting change. sadly
it would take an
earthquake
to get you off this
path.

the past

it's been a year of frost.
of cold
winds.
icy roads
and blue steel.
the dullness of the sky
the grey
bloom
of a melted sun,
always low.
tired.
word is that summer
will return.
a hopeful rumor,
perhaps.
we wait
on the park bench
in our long coats
and wait out
this strange weather.
sipping on our coffee,
remembering
the past.

more

relentless
the squirrels are.
all
looking about the same.
grey
and fat
this time of year.
unpettable and wild.
their
nut eyes
never stopping to gaze
too long
at any one thing.
digging at the fallen
seed,
onto the bird
feeder they swing.
into the steel
lidded bucket
to find more.
there is no stopping
them,
their need for more,
and more.
it's the world we live
in.
no difference
between us
and them.

yellow balloon

the air
seeps out of the fun
balloon,
the yellow
thin
ball of warm air
held tight in your hand
on this summer day.
it wants to fly
but can't.
the string goes limp.
it's going soft,
going fast,
things don't always
go as once
planned.

another try

you surrender your life
to a higher power.

give everything, all issues,
all thoughts,
all problems large
and small
to God.

work, relationships, love
death
and sex.

i'm taking my hand off
the wheel,
letting you drive this time
you say from
your calloused knees.

God listens and sighs.
you hear him whisper.
again?
and you say yes. i'm
giving it another try.


good, He says. good, get
ready for
what happens next.

i'll be waiting

strangers call
and say
hello. I listen politely.
they have thick
accents.
there is the chatter
of phones
and typing
in a loud wide room
somewhere.
they want to sell
something to you.
give you
discounts on pills
and magazines.
they ask if you are hard
of hearing,
tired of living,
or just plain
run down and need a drink.
I tell them yes.
yes. yes.
how did you know this about
me.
i'm in.
here's my credit card,
send me everything
you have.
i'll be waiting.

hacked into

your life gets hacked into.

your old dating world online
is active
by some
child
in his mother's basement.

they post
new pictures of you on
facebook

you have a cat now.
a bird too.

they
are having fun in your old
skin.
sending and receiving
messages
from afar.

who you used to be is still
out there somehow.

undaunted.
they are buying televisions
on your amazon
account.

e harmony sends you ten
new matches per day.

a woman in Russia thinks you're
swell.

the cat in morning

the cat stretches

on the bed.

turns her glass green
eyes
to the thin light
etching
the sheets in shadows.

we begin the day
like most
days.
quietly.
each going towards
what work there is to do.
the cat
is beyond that.

beyond us.
thinking little
about
her life, just wondering
when
the yellow bird
will
appear.

it's not far from here

it's not
too far from here.
you can almost see it
if you
lean
to the left and stand
on your toes.
see,
there is.
just over the horizon.
see the white
glow,
the oasis of trees
and water.
it's the place of rest
you've been
looking for.

still here

i see the length me

decreasing.
the hair
gone thin, swept grey.

the teeth are
worn,
like tools in an old shed,
as is
the crepe of arms,
the plains of skin.

i am blurred in light
and

must lean towards a voice
to understand
what's
said.

i steady myself on the rail,
or take an arm to
walk with tender
feet
up the concrete stairs.

i am going fast, going slow.

i remember what i want
to remember, if remember
things at all,

amazed at times that
others are gone while
i'm still here.

this late in the game,
this season
of fall.

waiting in the rain

I look out the window
and see
you standing across the street.
your arms are folded
across your chest.
it's raining.
you have a hat on, a long
rain coat,
green, the color of olives,
or the sea
after a storm in Portugal.
we look at one another
and wave.
i'm still here. you're over
there,
across the black
wet street.
I go to bed, turn off
the lights. i look out
the window once more
before I lie down
in my bed.
I see you there, still there
waiting. patient as
any mountain, as any tree.
I wonder how long you
can wait.

a new light

a lamp arrives
in the mail, it's on the porch
when I get home.
instructions, nuts
and bolts,
a wrench inside.
i'll put it together
in no time.
it'll help take away
the darkness.
it's what I do to wile
away
these hours, buy things,
then find
a place to put them.
tighten down a bulb,
three way,
and let a new light shine.

half in

my father often smelled
of rye
whiskey
and cigarettes when he arrived
home
after the sun had gone down,
tail between his legs,
his dinner still
on the table, cold.
my mother colder still.
but he was happy
and smiling, quick to lift
us in the air
and spin us towards
the ceiling.
he'd rub his rough beard
against our
faces,
wiggle our noses, our ears.
he was never happier
than those days,
half in the bottle, half
out.
like his marriage, like
his life, never quite settled
down.

the broken pipe

the pipe breaks
and floods the basement, peels
back
the green grass cloth,
soaks
the carpet.
fish appear, small birds.
a deer is seen
in the corner of the living room
lapping
at the new pond.
in a way
this is nice too.
this new park within the home.
soon
you can come over
and paddle
on a row boat beneath
the silver moon.
we can strum our ukulele
and sing
all night long.

busy

I need to be busy.
like a bee
from flower to stem
to tree.
I need to have my
wings moving,
my mind in flight,
my legs
tapping to a song,
my head
lost in a book,
going towards
some new light.
I need the wind
in my face,
the rain,
the sun. more work
to be done. I need
to be out in all
of it, to hear
a knock at the door,
the ring of
a phone,
I have too much
time alone.

time alone

we need room.
space.
time alone.
a place to go
to sleep,
to read, to bend
to nothing
but self
and thought.
we need a soft
place
to land
at the end of a
day.
at the end of
the week.
to push all things
to the side
and close
ones eyes
and breathe.

cigarette

he used to make a big
deal
out of smoking. tapping the pack
tight against his hand,
against his knee, or rail
where he stood.
pensive
and nonchalant
in a leather coat,
greased hair,
he struck the tip of a match
head against his shoe
and lit
the lucky strike up,
then blew smoke rings towards
the girls,
who almost all darted away,
like a flock of birds, but
there was always one
who didn't scare.

places other than home

the world.
this small dot of blue
afloat
in a sea of black
and
studded stars
aglow.
what is there that isn't
here,
why should we go,
what places
other than home do we
need to know?

salt water taffy

my friendly
neighbor with her daughter
used to bring me taffy
from the beach.
a bag
from a store on the boardwalk.
soft
and chewy.
sweet. the scent of salt
and ocean
on the bag.
I hated taffy.
salt water taffy.
but she never failed in
bringing me
more and more as each
summer came and
went.
I wonder where she is
today,
and who gets it now.
the daughter grown
and off to her own life.
the house empty
and waiting for someone new
to share
the wall between us.
maybe they like taffy.

i have the bags to share.

the postman

the mailman
is crying as he slouches
with his heavy
bag.
his grey uniforms
wet from the sun and labor.
what's wrong
I ask him
as he hands me my mail.
i'm tired, he says.
tired
of this life.
the news I bring is rarely
good.
rarely bad.
it's nothing
like it used to be.
no one cares
anymore if I come or go.
if i'm late,
or don't arrive at all.
no one looks out the window
for me,
or waits by the door.
the world has
changed.

morning comes too soon

the moonlight is
lovely
as it shines
into the window,
a soft hand
upon
your face
that lies against
a cloud of
pillows,
your body stretched
out
on a snow drift
of sheets.
you are far
away
into a dream.
how morning comes too
soon.

a dish of time

I have a plate of hours,
a clean white
dish of time
to dine from on this
lazy sunday.
what to do,
where to go. who to see.
the list is short
even shorter now
as autumn approaches.
those once
a mile or call away
have disappeared,
but I have these hours
on this day with
which to fill or
unfill, a clean dish of
time to wile away.

examination

the doctor places
his stethoscope upon my chest.
and listens.
he nods his head,
makes a clicking sound with
his mouth.
hmmm. hmmm. he says.
it's a strong heart.
very strong. but
be careful with it.
there is only so much
life left.

the beach trip

from the beach
in her chair at sunset.
her book
thick and heavy in her browned
hands.
unopened yet.
the wash of
a green ocean upon
her feet.
what lies ahead is as
mysterious as
what came before it.
each new wave
does nothing to ease
the worry,
the pain, the doubt.
one can only pray
and hope that things in the end
will go
the way they were meant
to be.
that all in time will work
out.

it smells like rain

it smells like
rain.
the blue leaves
think so
too.
they've curled
their veins
to the heavens.
and the birds,
still
in the trees.
the stream awaiting
new life.
and us
on the porch, you
in your summer dress
me in shirt sleeves.
it smells like
rain.

it went by like that

the retirement looms
near.
the gold watch. the party.
the balloons.
the desk left
as it was thirty years
ago.
a coffee mug.
the pad
with which to ease
your back.
the plant on the sill
never quite
happy where
it sat.
no more good morning
so and so.
no more, so what
did you do last weekend.
did you see the game?
no more tears
at the water cooler,
or laughs
in the lunch room.
who wants my tuna
sandwich?
it went by like that
you'll say
to the new person
chipper at the keyboard.
fresh and crisp right out
of school. it all went by
like that,
and then you'll walk
away.

monday is not far off

I go down
into mine and start with my pick
and axe
against
the black wall.
I chip off a days worth
of coal
and wheel it out in a steel
wagon.

my face is charred,
my lungs wheeze.
even the birds are full of soot
above this mountain.
they shake their wings
but are never free from it.

I go to the saloon and get drunk,
then go
home to my wife
and kids.
they don't know me anymore. I don't
know me anymore.

I put the money on the table.
Monday is not
far off.

one chair

I start
with a chair. a simple wooden
chair with
a strong back.
I place it in the center
of the room.
a space that is empty
except for me,
except for this chair.
I sit down
and fold my hands into
my lap.
I am unafraid, or worried.
I have been
here before,
I've sat in many empty
rooms, alone,
and once again here I am
starting from scratch.
I look around and see
what needs to be done.
with this house, this room.
I know how to fill spaces.
I do it easily for others
and for me.

the after life

there are boxes
still in the rooms.
clothes in the closet.
a sweater,
shoes.
the kitchen has the spoon
she stirred with,
the forks
and knives she used.
there's vodka
in the fridge.
frozen peas, tv dinners.
a slice of
cake from her wedding.
her mail
sits on the table.
still coming
through the door.
her cat looks out the window,
waiting.
I paint the rooms.
we move on.
there's a knock by the new
tenants
at the door.

fine dining

the food doesn't sit
well with us.

Ethiopian perhaps.
buffalo? goat?
who's to know what the meat
is or was
that lies now in a spicy
brown sauce
on our yellow plates.

we wash it
down with beer brewed
in a Cambodian rain forest.
nibble on cake
from mexico.
thick and soft,
dripping with sweetness.

we look over at the table
beside us
and nod. we should have had
that.

potatoes and chicken.
a slice of pie.
coffee.

a world of this

i hear the couple next to me
at lunch
fighting.
i sigh and wince.
i get another drink, nibble
at the food on my
plate.
it's a gorgeous day.
mild and sunny.
a wisp of white clouds above
the trees swim easily
along
the boulevard.
i turn the other way
so as not to hear so much.
she's crying,
he's angry.

their food gets cold,
the ice in their drinks
melts over the edge of the glasses.
the waiter arrives and leaves
without a word.

i hate the world that owns
this.
i despise
the death of love, the grief
of lovers
gone sour. the betrayal
and lies
we indulge in when
it's over.

i want to turn to them and say
stop.
no more.
i want to wave a magic wand
over their sorrow
and make everything okay.
to steal a cupid's arrow
and aim straight towards each

troubled heart.

the oak tree

i've turned over so
many new leaves that i'm
an oak tree
on the lawn.
tall and wide,
rough barked.
i'm as tall as i'll
ever be with branches
reaching.
i'm just here now
for the duration.
not ready to fall
or to be cut down.
not ready for the saw
or for a summer storm full
of wind
and lightning
to have its way.
I still want someone to
climb my branches.
scale my arms,
and listen to me as a breeze
cascades against my
body. I want someone to
wrap their arms around
my trunk,
rake the leaves
that fall around me in
the shadow of my life.

it's hard to believe

I've been bullet proof
for so long
that it surprises me when
I get shot
and it goes through me,
flesh and bone.
into the heart.
I look down
and see the crimson
ribbon of my life
spilling out onto the floor.
the heat of my body
rising like a cloud.
not me.
it's never me.
it's always someone else
that's in this predicament
not me.
i'm Teflon, i'm steel.
I fall off of roof tops
and walk away.
and now this, you're
telling me i'm human.
it's hard to believe.

foreign film

under a spell
I walk
through life
with eyes half open.
legs and arms limp
with dream.
i'm in a foreign
movie,
a subtle film
with a vague plot
and people whispering
over subtitles.
the light is rare,
black and white with
blue vapors,
red tail lights,
amber
lamps under a falling
snow.
i'm walking the streets
with my coat
pulled tight
up to my chin,
my breath a cold cloud
caught
by wind.
I feel the cobblestones
under my thin
shoes.
I am going somewhere,
leaving somewhere.
i stand at the corner
and rest, waiting for
the director
who sits in the shadows
to tell me what's next.

the pause

the cows out
there
are large. some white.
some black and white.
spotted brown.
some chewing. heads
bent to the green grass.
some stare in the distance
off to where the white hills
rise. gazing
at nothing
in particular.
their tails wag
in the sunlight.
we slow the car
and look out
at them across the white
rails of an old fence
that needs tending.
we say nothing.
our thoughts too are
far away.
we pull back onto
the road and drive,
there are places we
need be.

rain check

it's too hot
for nearly everything but
this
I tell her.
touching the curve of
her hip,
laying a small
kiss upon her elbow.
the fan
is going above us.
the sheets are warm.
a trickle of sweat
eases off our brows.
she waves a magazine
against her face.
it's too hot she says.
let's sleep on it awhile.
rain check.

she lights my fuse

she lights my
fuse
with a match, stands
back
and watches as I fly
across the sky
zig zagging
among the stars.
she waits and waits
for me to
come back, to hold her
and love
her
like the old days.
to see only the good.
the fireworks
that were.

just a phase

who are you,
my friends ask.
we don't know you anymore.
we've lost touch.
you've changed.
you've lost weight and grown
a beard,
shaved your head.
are you a monk now?
have you lost your way.
what's happened to you.
and I answer, it's just
a phase.
just a phase.
that's all I can say.

on the lamb

on the run
I'm fast, I know where
to go,
how to hide.
I know every hole
in the county.
every broken lock
and door that's left
open.
I won't be caught this
time.
i'm on the run, the lamb,
i'm in the wind.
i'll lay low for awhile,
change my name,
erase my past
and start all over again.

the island

it's an afternoon of black
and white
movies.
cool in the basement.
a bowl of fruit.
water. legs stretched out
on the white couch.
it feels like sunday,
but it's only Monday.
no matter.
it's good to be home
in the quiet, in the shadows
of sunlight,
on the island
of peace.

the rotten apple

the shine is off the apple.
the worm
has made its way through
from one side
to the other.
in the light I see the brown,
the soft
bruise, the fallen fruit,
what once was gold
and glorious and red
is tossed to the ground.

the white flag

I wave
the white flag.
put my hands into the air.
i'm
coming out of the fox hole,
the dug
trench.
I climb the wire,
step over the bodies.
I throw down my gun,
my words,
my heart.
I surrender.
I wave the white flag.
i'm done.

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.