what's left behind

her father
steps out into the room
without clothes.
he's unshaven
and curt.
the steady hand
of his daughter
draws him back into
the bedroom,
to the bathroom.
this lion
of wall street,
now a mere kitten.
at the mercy
of his mind, those
brilliant years
of life
and living have
disappeared, only
the photos show what
was and what's been
left behind.

the longer night

the long day
proceeds even the longer night.
the owl
perched
under a silver moon
on a bended
branch
in thick pines,
is watching,
listening before
spreading his wings
to kill
what lies below.
a fox sides through the bramble
with something
half alive
in it's teeth.
snakes curl coldly
side by side. all the
birds have gone quiet.
the woods
are under the spell
of darkness.
a possum wanders
into the street,
blinded by the lights
surrendering his pondered
life.
and here we are inside
doing
what we do best,
we're quiet, a book
in hand
beside a low soft light.

what's wrong

count your blessings,
she says.
you have so much
to be thankful for.
look around you, who has
what you have?
she lists my
belongings,
my health, my friends
and relatives.
she throws out her arms
and says most
people would be happy
and thrilled to be where
you are,
what's wrong?

two steps forward

two steps
forward, one step back.
the chill,
the bone ache
of cold,
the hair on end
the swirl of
thoughts,
suspicion and lies,
jealousy
and pain
taking you down
once again
to that dark hole
of yesteryear.

around the bend

it's down the road.
around
that bend,
past the corn field,
the water tower,
the gas station.
keep going,
you can't miss it.
you'll know it when
you get there.
a cold drink
in the hot sun.
stretch your legs,
relax.
have a bite to eat.
true love is waiting.
you're home son,
at last
you're really home.

i hate face book

it's official.
I hate face book. the social media
in general.
you tube, myspace,
your space,
snap chat and the rest.
don't send me any more of
your cake
photos please, or tell
me where you've
been or what you're doing, or
eating,
and with whom.
that new house, or car,
or tan you got on some island
bores me to tears.
I don't want to know about who
died, or is dying.
don't tell me your medical condition,
or post a photo of your rash,
or lump,
or eye that's gone awry,
or new pair of shoes.
I don't want to attend another
reunion, or connect
with long lost relatives
or friends.
i'm perfectly content with
those I have, or don't have.
your dog or cat or grandbaby
is not
interesting to me, nor
are your political
or religious views.
spare me the gossip of
your life.
sorry, so sorry,
but please delete me,
don't tag me, or like me.
just go away and leave me alone.
it's official,
I hate face book and all that
it entails. if we're really
friends, meet me
for coffee, or lunch,
or call me on the phone.

beware the mood

everyone has a breaking point.
when
kindness and compassion
suddenly
are erased with a fit
of red rage, when
the desire to harm
and set right
the wrongs overtakes
the kind and gentle soul
you believed you were,
but aren't.
beware when that mood
strikes. beware.

sleeping dogs

the sleeping
dog
is left to his sunny
nap
on the rug.
stretched out in the warm
spring sun,
he's deep
into a dream.
let's let him lie
a bit longer,
no need to disturb
his sleep.
no need to feel the wrath
and bite
of those hidden teeth.

contact

he used to find
the smallest of reasons
to call,
to make contact.
he was a child begging
for his mother
to tuck him
in, to give him one
more sweet
from the jar high
on the counter
where he couldn't reach.
and with her
soft heart she did,
over and over again,
until he was back
in her good graces
and starting once more
the game
with no end.

to the other shore

the fog
has lifted.
I see clearly now what has
to be done.
where I need to go
from here.
the water is calm.
the other shore
is closer than I imagined.
I could swim
the last mile
easily.
I take off my pants my
shirt, my
shoes and dive in.
take my hand on the other
side,
i'm coming.

what love is

i sip
the poison daily.
small sips.
i don't want to do it
all at once.
too dramatic.
i want people at
bedside
telling me how
much they love me.
how they're going
to miss
when i'm gone.
when they leave the room,
i smile.
finally
i know what love is,
or pretends to be.

the strong wind

I see small children
in the air
flying.
the wind is strong today.
they seem
happy
as they float aimlessly
against the blue.
their books and bags
are let go.
the smiles
on their faces are
filled with joy.
their parents are desperate
to save them,
to bring them down.
to keep them
in hand, close by.
it's a trend that will
never end.

untethered

the phone is dead.
the battery drained dry
of me
calling,
texting, emailing, looking
at cats
on you tube videos.
i'm untethered
to the world I've
created.
but it's okay.
it's fine.
I can breathe now.
free
from what I think
is so important
but isn't.

the fun house

logic goes out the window.
rational thinking
too.
everything is upside down.
what's right is wrong.
black is white.
it's a fun house of twisted
mirrors.
of rolling floors
and trap doors.
the blinking lights
it's a circus of blowing
horns,
tears and laughter
at the same time. it's
maddening and scary.
is it day or is it night?

breaking point

everyone has a breaking point.
a line
in the sand,
a point where tolerance
is no longer
an option.
it takes a long time.
a lot of bending before
the break, but when
it does,
when it happens, there
is no looking back,
no regret,
no remorse,
no dragging of the lake.

the tropics

it's hard
to know when a storm
will arrive.
the day being so peaceful.
the sun out.
in an instant
though things change.
a wind picks up.
the sky goes dark.
the rain pelts
us without warning,
the air grows cold.
an hour later,
it's as if nothing
had happened.
the smile returns.

the vew from here

i like the view from
here.
the rocks. the mountains,
so layered
in blue,
the distant clouds awash
in white, grey wisps.
i like this chair
i sit in.
alone with a book,
my feet upon the wall.
the trees anxious to be
full with life once again.
like me.

my rose colored glasses

my detective days are over.
i'm done with that
I know more than enough
about what's going on.
no longer do I need
confirmation, or clues, or
tracks in the sand. I need
no dna, or blood. no photos
or texts, or emails.
I know what the truth is.
I've known it all along
but now I know for sure,
my instincts were right.
the rose colored glasses
are off, shattered
in my hand.

a square of metal

it's an addiction
this
phone. these texts.
these
emails,
these voicemails.
this constant need to
look and check
what the ding is,
what the vibration means,
what the light
glowing could possibly
be.
it's a sick world
we've made.
no conversation. no
gentle touch
of hand in hand. no
power to stop reaching
for what was,
what's ended.
we're slaves to this
square of metal.
till death do you part.

given time

i kiss February
goodbye.
i wave to it as it
finally
slips away into another month.
the birthdays
the drama,
the holidays.
enough already.
the ice of it.
the shortened light
of it.
the cold and wind.
it seems as if it will
never end, but it
does, as most
pain will, given time,
given friends.

is this life

I don't blame the animals
in the zoo
for plotting their escape.
despite water
and shelter, food,
it's the bars
that make them worry.
the lack of freedom.
they long to live and die
in the natural world.
they pace and swing from
the rafters,
swim in the shallow pool.
is this life,
they ask each other,
passing notes, whispering
in their own way
to one another.

the rare light

survival makes us forget
the pain
of what was.
we put a shine on it.
soften it
with false memory.
we ignore the scars,
the limp
of heart,
the broken trust
and lies.
we tell ourselves
it wasn't so bad.
we remember
the rare light,
despite
the darkness of
those days.

it's quiet here

it's quiet
here.
the dust has settled.
the debris
of words
have been swept up
and tossed
away. by morning
the shattered glass
of love
has been picked up.
the fingers bleed,
there is little
left to say.
it's quiet here.

his garden

he can hardly see,
but
into the garden
he goes
on bended knees.
the dirt is known.
the seeds, the spade
and hose.
the square of ground
he's worked at
for thirty years
or more.
it's just tomatoes,
peppers,
that sort of thing.
but still,
something he can hold
onto,
something to wait
and look forward
to this spring.

go left go right

sleepless
in the great room
where the cool light of
morning
comes too early.
how the cold catches you,
a leg uncovered,
an arm
above your eyes.
the conversation within
you
goes on and on.
the argument
unceasing,
go left, go right.

game on at four

i hear the other foot
finally
drop.
the door close,
the cab pull away.
i go to the window
to wave,
but it's too late.
the bags are in
the trunk.
i see the blue exhaust
blow out
as the car
turns the corner.
i sigh
and make myself a sandwich.
there's a game
on at four.

mush

it's her brown eyes.
her
smile.
her sweetness in general
and mind
that melt my bones
turns me
into mush when I
see her
and kiss her, the time
goes by so quickly.
there's never
quite enough.

romancing the past

it was hard for her
to leave
the past behind.
the sweet harmony they made
together.
the deck,
the dogs, the stream
and woods
behind the low rise
of a foot bridge.
it was hard
to not romanticize the past.
pretending
that all things
were good in that life,
no pain,
no sorrow, no
strife.
it was hard for her
when thinking back,
and harder for
me when I knew
where her thoughts
were at.

stalker

I see the stalker's
car
in the shadows, beneath
the trees.
he's waiting
for a glimpse, a wink
or a wave.
his basket full of goodies
under arm.
he'll never give up.
he's
a knight in rusted
armor, a predator
of the worst kind,
a savior of the blind.
he's as patient
as the snake is at the bottom
of a tree,
with his slithering tongue
and convincing eyes,
waiting for spring,
waiting for the eggs,
for that moment to arrive.

the earth spins

the earth spins
without our help,
the rain
falls,
the heat makes the desert
what it is.
there is little
we can do to change
things,
as in people. they
are
who they are,
not what they say.
beware of words
whispered over and over
again.
there is little truth
in them.
liars never change.

dog beach

the dog loves the beach.
the roar
of the ocean.
the expanse of cold sand.
how blue
the sky is above his prancing
paws.
the joy seen in his
wide
lapping tongue.
his dash to the waves,
chasing gulls
into the sky on soft wings.
this is heaven for him.
sweet bliss
in early spring before
the tourists arrive
and change
everything.

the new prehistoric

some are readers,
others not so much.
some
like the printed word
while
others like to stare into
their phones
looking at cats
or people falling down
on you tube.
the world is dumbing
down
at record speed.
listen to the music.
watch
the shows.
the comic book movies.
hardly an intelligent word
or thought
is spoken
these days.
it is what it is, we say,
not having
anything worth while to add
to any give
day.
we are going back
to the cave
with a stone and stick
in hand,
etching
bison on the wet dank
walls
we live in.

snow day

the snow sure does look
pretty
today, mother, the child says,
elated
with the cancellation
of school.
do you think we'll have two
days off, not
one?
the mother, stands at the door
and looks out
at the freshly fallen
snow.
she wishes she felt like
the child does about such
wonderment.

the same feeling

i can see in her eyes
the memory of someone else, not
me.
i feel the weight
of it
on my heart, but try my best
to let it go.
she goes quiet
with her thoughts, and i
know better than to ask
her, what?
what's going through your
mind right now.
i don't want to know.
and she looks at me, with
the same feeling.

hold on

my father coughs into the phone.
I can't remember a conversation
with him
when he wasn't coughing,
or blowing his nose, or asking
me to hold on
while he gets a glass of water.
I tell him a joke or two
to set the mood.
he's always been a good laugher.
the worse the joke the harder
he laughs. we've got that going
for us.

another day

the birthday
comes and goes. another day
in the life.
an uneventful
twenty four hours,
which is nice.
a cake, a card,
a candle to blow on.
a small gift
with a hand written note.
we move on,
and on, until
there are no more days
to wonder
about, and think what's
next.

the sickness of her

she is sick.

i see her lying on the bed,

groaning

in pain.

heat on her stomach,

pills in

her mouth.

ice on her head.

bone thin and gaunt.

she's sick.

and she's making me sick

being with her.

every day

is misery.

she lies, she betrays,

she's a demon

sleeping six inches away.

dear Lord

get me out of here

before i too go crazy.

from a window

the morning coffee
is
good
against the back drop
of quiet.
a blue
sky
rises
against the yellow sun.
the bare
trees
reach and bend
towards another day.
we do
too.

love balloon

she says that love
to her
is like a balloon
but with
a tight knot so that it
doesn't loose
it's air.
a red balloon, perhaps,
or pink
or white,
no strings
attached.
love is meant to fly
and be free,
to go where it needs
to go
without a worry or a care.
love is something to be
shared.
something to last.
never once though
does she think about
the thorn that lies
in every path.

bread on the table

the bread
rises in the oven.
I flick on the light and watch
the heat
do it's thing.
a simple thing.
a small
good thing as the sun
settles
beyond
the city.
the room fills up
with the scent of baked
bread.
the calmness of it all.
the taste of it
in warm slices
on the tongue,
a wealth
of butter atop
each piece,
cut or torn.
out the window,
the sky gone blue
in darkness, but there is
this,
fresh bake bread
on the table.

knockout

the boxer
in his corner on the stool
looks
out to the maddening crowd.
blood
cakes his eyes.
his nose is flattened
wide.
his ear are swollen.
they douse him with water,
clog the cuts.
rub his shoulders.
you've got him this round
they whisper into his one
good ear.
upper cut, upper cut.
he's dropping his guard.
but the boxer isn't there.
he sees a girl
in the stands. she reminds him
of a woman he used
to be in love with.
the road not taken.
he misses her, he loves her.
he'd do anything to win
her back.
he'd even get up exhausted
with no life in him
to win her love again.
so this is what he fights
on for.
the bell rings and he
charges
into midnight. he doesn't
see the glove coming
towards him,
he only sees the girl.
he goes
down and down and down
into a slag heap. he's out.

family dsyfunction

I see the pattern.
the circle of it all.
the good days
versus the bad.
I see a trail of train
wreck
holidays.
new years.
Christmas.
thanksgiving.
mother's day.
father's day.
birthdays.
valentine day.
only arbor day and flag
day goes unscathed
by some turmoil
and dysfunction.
maybe ground hog day too
is clear
of door slamming,
or sleeping
in the other room,
or the dreaded blanket
of silence for
a few days. I fear
St. Patrick's day
looming
on the horizon.
I tap my foot and bite
my nails,
what will I do wrong,
what misdeed or word
spoken will wreck
that day and put me
in the black, send me
to the dog house?

for anyone to see

I used to have
friends I could call
and tell them anything.
tell them
everything
no matter how dark
the circumstances were,
no matter who was right
or wrong.
I could rant and rave,
spill my guts to them
and they'd never turn on me.
they'd listen.
they'd hold me in their arms.
they'd put their
hearts into it
and tell me that they're
there for me
through this storm.
good friends. people
who'd listen
and love without judgement.
souls who knew me and
really cared,
but they're gone
now.
seven down and counting.
so I sit here and write this.
I cut a vein
and bleed upon this keyboard
for anyone to see.

adrift at 5 a.m.

I stumble
down the stairs on one hour
of sleep.
I can't wait to get home
and I haven't
even left yet.
I find my clothes
in the dark,
brush my teeth, wash
my face.
I don't even look in
the mirror.
why bother.
why upset me even more
with that.
I fix a cup of coffee,
find my shoes,
my stack of underlined
self help books.
I grab my keys, my wallet,
my phone.
I got nothing on the phone.
the world
has changed.
not a call, or text.
nothing. i'm truly alone
in this.
i'm adrift
at five in the morning
wondering
if life will ever be
sane again.

wating their turn

the alley
cats know their way around
the neighborhood.
where the
good trash is.
the sardine cans,
the chicken bones,
the flounder
scraped
from a pan.
they tip toe along
the fence,
jump through
the hole in the brick
wall.
the rats
wait their turn.
they sit in the shadows
playing
gin rummy
with friends.

the road we're on

the roads
at this hour are quiet.
most are at home
asleep with loved ones.
a dog
curled at bedside.
children tucked away.
but not me.
I drive the earth.
I stare up at the broken
glass
stars.
at the shard of a cold
moon.
I can drive all night if
I have to,
the tank is full.
the radio on.
I know almost all the words
to every
love and unloved written
song.

unslept

who needs sleep
anyway.
that sweet slumber is over
rated.
I can do without it,
without the dreams,
the nightmares,
the bed
going cold.
the reaching out for
love that isn't there.
i'll slug through the next
day as if under water,
but that's fine.
it's nothing new, nothing
to worry about.
it's what I do.

a mere tick

I stare at the compass.
all directions
are open.
I choose north.
I want to be in the coldest
place possible.
to be frozen,
unmoved
by circumstances.
I haven't done well with
decisions.
by choosing north, I won't
have to decide anything
anymore.
i'll be the ice man.
i'll be perfectly content
without a voice.
my heart slowed to a mere
tick.

the merry go round

it's a merry go round
minus
the merry.
there is no merry anywhere
near this
junk ride of squeals
and wheels,
nuts and bolt flying off
with each turn.
the wind bleeds my eyes.
the up and down unsettles
my stomach.
my soul is unpinned.
can't anyone hear my screams?
I hold on for dear life,
as the ride begins
again. again. again.

nights like this

I see my future.
the dry road, the bleakness
of dawn
approaching.
not a wink of sleep
will I find this night.
I burrow
down into the hole of me.
wrapped
in sheets, the window
of trees
scraping in cold wind.
I find no comfort,
no joy
or lasting pleasure in this
mood
i'm in.
I see my future. it's more
and more
not less of nights
like this.

love child

the nursery is full of new babies.
pink and brown.
freshly born.
they lie in rows
behind the glass while the parents
outside point
and say, look that one's mine,
oh look, he's ours,
it's wonderful, this child.
and a wary world hopes
this love will last.

how it goes

there is blood in her eye
from
crying.
the sallow
look
of despair.
the wrench of this night
has unloosened
the screws
and bolts, unhinged
the bones
of her. black hot oil
drips
from below.
the gas is spilled.
a match could send it all
up
in an instant.
this is how it goes.

to all of us

the store bought roses, wilted
soon in their wrap.
the simple
card.
the quarter pound of sweets
in bright foil.
our love is thin
and fragile.
the broken glass is on
the floor,
the spilled wine,
the burned meal
unserved.
I hear my father's curse,
taste my mother's
tears.
the salt is in the wound.
what has cupid done
to all of us?

the shipwreck of night

the shipwreck of night,
the tossed
waves
of light and dark,
the bitter green of ocean
unfolding
onto itself,
the worry
and concern over the sails
split down and shorn.
the mast creaking,
the water
rushing onto the deck.
the lightning shows
the shore,
the jagged cliffs,
the shoals.
how close we are to home,
how far away we are
in getting there.
where is the dawn.
where is the calm port
we wished for, when will
there be an end to this
storm.

something to do

I pick up the phone to
see if
there is a dial tone.
why isn't it ringing.
i'm here,
ready for work.
i'm idling.
going from window to door,
looking out.
it's Monday.
grey, wet, slick.
maybe there's movie to
go see.
the back row, pop corn
in hand.
candy and a drink.
just me and another straggler
under the dimmed lights
as the film
begins.
i'll stretch out
in open cavern of seats.
I've got all
day.
join me if you've got
nothing better
to do.

the hidden

nothing is ordinary.
dull
or stale.
no one
is not unique,
or
special. a star
or flake
fallen from the sky.
despite the frown
or tears
the poverty
of pocket
or soul, no one
is the same,
or lacking in spark
or
glory,
though few blaze
open
for others to see.

three boats, four wives

my friend tells
me about his boat, his second
or third. maybe the fourth.
one less than the number
of wives he's had.
they seem to sink
annually, or catch fire.
the boats, not the wives.
he's usually in a bar
when he calls,
sounding lit up and
happy. healed from his
mini stroke and hip replacement.
i'm in a tiki bar in
Solomon's he'll say.
come on down.
it's crazy.
he holds his phone up
to the clanging
of the band
attempting Margaritaville.
he'll be seventy soon,
which he reminds
me and everyone else within
earshot of his loud
voice.
he's in his silk shirt,
the one with coconut trees
emblazoned on the front
and wearing his famous
khaki shorts and sandals.
it's February. there's snow
on the ground.
I imagine he's doused himself
with his favorite cologne,
old spice.
his sliver hair slicked
back, a rolex on his wrist
that's only right just twice.
he's on the prowl and
needs a wing man, but I
tell him sorry,
I can't make it tonight.

find an answer

I look at the clock.
see
the hour
that it is.
the incessant
motion
of the second hand.
time to go.
to leave.
to wander.
to find an answer
not in a book,
or
in the words of
well
meaning friends
who worry
about me. there's
something else
out there, waiting
to be embraced,
to tell me
sweetly, everything
is fine,
come home.

trust, like ice

trust, like ice
once broken and you've fallen
into the cold
dark water,
is hard
to buy into again,
it's difficult to walk
or slide
towards the middle
no matter how many times
you hear the words,
it's fine.
take my hand
and trust me, I wouldn't
ever lie,
at least not a second
or third, or
twentieth time.

picking oranges

I've got an itch.
a
hankering
to catch
a freight train out
of town.
run with a single bag
and hop
into the open
car
heading south.
i'll leave no forwarding
address.
i'll cash in my chips,
keep my money
in my sock.
I can pick oranges,
I think.
even now
at this age.
i'll be the best orange
picker in
orange county
and be so tired i'll
finally
get some sleep.

the paperwork

the line
is long outside the door.
have your
i.d. ready.
picture please, place
of birth,
your mother's maiden
name,
your first born,
your marriages, one through
three.
siblings?
addresses
and numbers that tell us
who you are.
but that question
is rarely answered
satisfactorily,
who knows truly
beyond the paperwork
who we are.

appearances

on the outside
looking in, everything seems
fine.
ordinary
and normal.
the quiet smile,
the pleasant greeting,
a farewell kiss,
lips upon lips.
a gentle hand
upon the back.
what nice icing they've
given
to it all.
a sweet swath of cream
upon the stale
and crumbled cake.

to you

the silly
birthdays arrive. cakes
and cards.
balloons and small
gifts wrapped
with ribbons and bows.
the candles are lit,
we heave
and blow.
we make a wish.
the song gets sung.
another year,
another
promise broken.

spiritual advisor

her spiritual
advisor
tells her what to do.
despite
the fact
he's lost in
the wilderness.
but he's got the collar
on,
the sheep skin
on the wall,
the crucifix
and all the trimmings
of the church
behind him.
so why not listen
and obey,
he's got to have his
stuff
together, right?
hardly. dour and sad,
he ponders
his life, the choices
made, the roads not
taken,
the one he's stuck on.

medicine

just one drink,
he says,
staring
at the tall full
flask
of gin.
one sip will do.
one smell,
one swallow
and i'll be good
again.
one taste of
the elixir
and i'll be right.

hail storms

there aren't enough
straight jackets to go around.
hardly a day
goes by
when I wish I didn't have
one for
someone, or for myself.
a bottle of pills
to calm the nerves,
dull
the wits.
we are small
typhons of emotions.
spinning sadly,
sleeping barely.
wondering in worry,
keeping
the trouble fresh and
alive,
what our parents did.
what our jobs
do.
what the weather has
done to us
today.

love given

the really smart boys
and girls
sat up
front
raising their hands
to every
question posed.
good breeding in most.
off they go to MIT,
to Harvard
and Yale,
assorted other
ivy league schools.
NYU, for the writers in
the group.
Northwestern
and Columbia.
I found
my home
in the community college
around the corner
with professors whose teaching
position
was their second job.
thirty bucks per credit.
i'd drive my beat up
dodge
with leaky brakes
and a cracked windshield
to night classes.
walking when
the wheels broke down.
but it's okay.
i'd change nothing.
the books are out there.
the world
is yours if you
want it. Every word
written is yours to read.
every
ounce of knowledge
awaits and besides,
it's more about the soul,
the heart.
the love
given, not taken.

flying south

we fly south for the winter.
hand in
hand
on an airplane.
the ground gets smaller
as we rise.
our problems
slip away,
go under us.
they're forgotten
after the first
on flight drink.
we've packed light.
we're on easy street
as the plane
streaks
to an island
in the middle of a
crystal blue sea.

hope

a bright
sun
slips through the cathedral
of tall white
clouds.
it sings
upon the grass,
the wintered trees.
melts what's left of
the grey snow.
there is hope
in warmth,
in the glow and kiss
of a soft
pre april breeze.

hiding

from the first time
the child
hides beneath a bed,
or burrows inside
a dark
full closet, it's then
the boy
or girl realizes,
that this feels fine,
escaping
the world, it's
pain and sorrow,
it become
a pattern.
the mind is wired
to go this way,
to hide in times
of trouble,
to find rest.

missed calls

there are 13 missed
calls
on the phone.
not a single message
left.
strangers
dialing my number
wanting something,
someone
who isn't home,
someone
who won't answer,
or pick up,
too busy with more
important things,
like sleep,
like food,
like love
and all the rest.

the cellar

the cellar

is cold. there is no
wine to be found, no
hand,
no body near
to hold.

no mice,
no bats or broken latches
or windows.
no memory to rest upon.

I sit in the long chair.
against the wall.
the tv
is off.

I ponder my next move.

sipping hot tea
in the dark.
alone.
it's nearly a new day.
i'll rise
and go up
soon.

drama

the show goes on.
we know our roles by heart
at this point.
when to laugh, or cry,
which direction to turn,
where to stand
to hit our mark.
we know the cues, when
the music stops,
or starts.
we are one in this drama.
a king and queen,
for better or worse,
we are actors stuck
in a self written play.
a performance
with no fore seeable end,
both tragic
and comedic on any given
night,
any given day.

the pressure of life

the barber
would be waiting in the chair
that i'd
sit in. not my usual
barber alfredo, but
don from Greece.
he'd be smoking a cigar,
the morning paper
stretched out between
his thick hairy arms.
it's 1965.
i had a lot of hair back
then. trim, he'd ask.
short in
the back? a little off
the top? where's your mother
he'd ask.
I don't know I tell him.
but give me the usual,
like alfredo does. okay,
he'd say and wrap the cape
around my skinny neck,
pinning it at the collar.
we're gonna make you handsome,
he'd say.
all the girls
are gonna love you.
but i'm only ten, i'd tell
him
feeling the pressure of
life upon me.

key after key

i could type at this machine
all night.
grow old
as each sun rises and falls
out my window.
just bring me
a sandwich once in a while,
coffee.
every now and then
come to see if i'm okay.
come close and put your
hand on my shoulders.
lean down
to kiss me and tell me
that you love me,
then let me go at it.
key after key struck because
that's what i do,
what i need.

everyone is home now

the baby is crying
through the wall.
it's a soft
weep.
she needs to be rocked,
to be held, or
fed, perhaps read to
as she falls asleep.
I could
if I could, but
those days are long
past me.
i'll just listen
as i lie here to
the sweetness of the voice,
a warming
sound, that says all
is well. everyone
is home now.

when it's spring

it's a mystery.
a riddle.
a long way home
from here.
no direction, no map.
no clear
path.
we're in the fog.
the cold
sleet drizzle.
the mud once snow.
our ears are full
of whispers.
cold wind.
February doesn't sing.
it thuds
forward
on ice.
one boot after the other.
wake me when it's
spring.

sleeping with poetry

i fell asleep
listening to an old scratchy
record
of walt Whitman
reciting his poetry,
Emily came
next, then frost,
then William blake.
the sleep grew deeper
with each poem.
T.S. Eliot made me snore,
and frost made
me turn over,
looking for the cold
side of the pillow.
i scratched hard at my
head
with e.e. cummings.
Sylvia and sexton though
stirred me into
bad dreams,
as did Bukowski and Ginsberg.
but i was getting somewhere,
closer and closer to home.
Philip Larkin
woke me up,
as did Ignatow
and
Collins. Oliver rest
her soul, gave me hope.

to be read

the workshop
is mostly old white men,
retired
and well read, well bred.
bmw's line
the lot.
a Mercedes or two.
i don't sniff a single
struggle for
shelter or food
amongst the lot.
good boots or shoes on
all of them.
there's a sprinkling of
women too.
young and older.
quiet for the most part,
but smart
as whips, whatever that
cliché might mean.
it's a good group of
readers who go line by
line
through your small piece
of art.
your little story pulled out
of thin air.
a simple story of a first
kiss,
that's it.
no need to think much more
about it, but the words
are welcome.
feels good to be read
and liked.
who doesn't?

you've got a lot of nerve

i tell her that one day
when i'm
rich and famous, she'll
regret her mistreatment of me.
giving me the cold
shoulder
all the time.
she'll regret that,
and i'll just tell her
that she's got a lot of nerve
saying she's my friend.
at that point i'll
put on positively 4th street
and let bob
sing the rest.

land lline

the land line
is worthless, for the most part.
it's the number
that my mother used
to call me on,
though.

so it's hard to let it go
despite
the 7 hundred dollars
a year I pay for it to ring
by people I don't know.

someone from
india
or the urkraine
asking me
if I need any medication,
or new windows,
or if i'd like a no interest
loan
or maybe a warranty
on my toaster oven.

these things all interest
me, but
I just hang on up on them,
which doesn't seem
to phase them in
the least bit.


they call the next day
without fail.
same spiel, same deal,
same scam,

different day.

the project

no need for a plumber.
she's got this.
a saw,
some new pipe,
putty,
a wrench, a sleeve,
an elbow.
inside
there's the ring,
a tooth,
hair
and assorted debris
from years
of brushing,
washing, rinsing.
a mercury dime appears.
a clasp
to a bracelet, a shard
of glass
from the wine that
tilted
and made a red splash
everywhere.

the gentle splash

they sell their last house.
the sign gets hammered into
the yard.
time
has caught up
with them.
the parade of renters
is over. the painting,
the electric
and plumbing
is too much now
to deal with.
they lived there once
in the sixties.

bean bags and lava lamps.
throw rugs
and water
beds. the rooms were
full of smoke
and music,
Hendrix and Joplin,
the beatles,
the stones. books on
zen, on god, the poetry
of Ginsberg,
Frost and Whitman.


Dylan when Dylan was forever
young.
how quickly youth fades.

they're slow now, whitened
by time
the steps are steep,
the sidewalks crumbling
and too hard to navigate.
the lights too dim to read
anymore.

to a warmer climate they go.
to eat, to drink,
to bathe in the warm light
of the deep south,
to finish out the years
with a gentle splash
then swim.

the quiet zoo

the zoo is quiet tonight.

I see my life before me
as the gates
close, as the children leave,
as the keepers
depart to their own lives.

I see the wrong turns.
regret.
remorse.
I feel the sting of what's lost.

I put my head to the earth
and give
thanks for the little
I do have.

I hear the whistle of a distant
train.
the air of life escaping one
breath at a time.

where is he

the mail
hasn't been arrived
in days.
I go to the window
and look
out for the white
truck
with red
and blue trimming.
nothing.
I look down the sidewalk
for my mailman.
he's tall and lean,
Asian.
pleasant not so much
that he wants a new
friend.

he was a little careless
at times.
my mail going to someone else,
and other's mail
coming to me.
some bills were lost
during the years.
but that was rare, i doubt
i could do
any better.

I miss his quiet walk,
his gaze, his
slight smile, the tilt
of his pith helmet
on his head.
rain, sleet or snow,
he came with that brown
leather sack
weighing him down.
lightening it one envelope
at a time.

the hard work

I feel guilty.
ashamed.
the priest confirms
my feelings.
he can hardly look me
in the eye
through
the perforated screen.
three hail marys.
six
our fathers
and say the rosary
until your fingers bleed.
is that enough,
I ask him?
actually, none of that
is necessary,
just confess your sins,
He did all the hard
work
by dying on the cross.
go home and sin
no more, or at least
try not to.

veil of deception

it's the door
closed, the one with the lock
on it
that has my
interest.
it's the hidden note,
the secret message,
the cradled phone.
what's hidden and held
close
is what i want to know,
despite the pain it could
cause.
i want the truth,
not a veil of deception.

calm waters

after death
we lose contact.
the sisters and brothers go back
to their own
lives.
over the bridges
real and imagined.
they've never gone too far from
what was home.
the silence
is fine.
the arguing has died.
calm waters have returned
for most of us.
we'll be together again
though,
life has a way of ending
when least
expected.

parenting skills

my father would
flip
a quarter onto the made
bed
to see if it would bounce,
or not. to see
if the sheets
and blanket were tucked
in tight enough.
that the bed was made properly
like how it was
in the barracks during
boot camp.

that was about the extent
of his
parenting skills.

let's go

i whistle
for a cab to stop.
the door swings open.
where to he says.
new York, i tell him.
manhattan.
Chinatown.
i need some kung pao chicken
from jimmy's
in a bad way.
i'm starving, i haven't
had a decent meal
in ages. do you know
jimmy's, i ask him.
it's right next to a Greek
church.
i don't know no jimmy's,
he says, but
it's gonna take
us five hours to get to
new York.
so what, i tell him
and throw a handful
of bills over the seat.
drive on.
okie dokie, he says
then flips on the meter.
he looks at me in the rearview
mirror to see if there
is any crazy in my eyes.
there's a lot. he shrugs,
tells me to buckle up,
then hits the pedal.
my wife is gonna kill
me if i'm late for
dinner again,
he says tugging at his
turban. call her up,
let me talk to her, i'll
smooth things out for you.
i'll buy you dinner,
i tell him.
drive on.
do you like kung pao chicken?
sure, he says,
sure.
good, jimmy's has the best.
let's go.

time to go inside

I feel
the rain against
my bones.
the cold hard push
from
galvanized clouds
riveted onto the tin sky.
the drops
ping against my upturned
face.
the furrows
of my skin
lets it all roll down.
i'm tearless.
dry inside.
enough is enough.
time to go
inside.

the short drive

you don't want to open
up that can
of worms, do you?
she says.
she's cliché girl.
a bird in the hand
is worth two in the bush,
etc.
when it rains it pours.
when she's on
a roll,
well, yes.
she's like butter.
no use trying to stop
her.
she's just a kid
at heart.
barely old enough
to drive me crazy,
which in itself is a
short drive.

friday night

the bank
has all my money
but they make it hard to get it out.

I keep putting more in,
getting ready
for old age,
for the oatmeal years
when my teeth are gone.

I look at rocking chairs
in the windows
of big stores.

I think about collecting stamps,
or coins,
or taking up
painting by numbers,
or putting together puzzles
late into the night.

I make another deposit
and the young
kid behind the glass smirks.
he's thinking
about girls and food, drinks,
and fun.
fast cars
and the clubs downtown
where he can dance
all night.

been there, done that, but
right now

i'm thinking about a bowl
of hot soup
and cnn,
the antique roadshow,
a good book to curl up to
and read until I fall asleep
at ten.

fist full of pills

one of my seven doctors
is the one
I go to
to get a new prescription
of prednisone.
low dosage though.
when I get the high octane
stuff
I go a little nuts.
I want to put on my cape
and fly
around the world,
solve crime
and vanquish the world
of evil.
but the low milligrams
I can handle,
with food,
of course. it clears my
head
for a few weeks.
able to breathe again like
normal humans
who walk the earth.

the itch

it smells like
rain.
or snow.
or something wet
about to fall from the sky.
i'm bone dry
in that department.
the winter has whitened
my skin.
starched me free of
whatever summer
did last year.
i'm ready for a change.
for a new
start.
i'm waiting on a train,
for the phone
to ring.
for a message from the heavens,
telling me what
to do.
I've got an itch I
can't scratch.

pick me up at 8?

the crimson syrup
of his lungs splatters
the white sink.
i'm dying,
he says
lighting another cigarette,
wiping his mouth
with a sleeve.

what's the point
in quitting now, he growls.
fuck it.
his eyes are grey,
the blue
all gone.
the sunshine of his soul
has dissolved
into a yellow pale froth
of fatigue.

even his hair looks tired
as he combs it back
as if readying himself
for a friday night date.

i'll be okay, he says.
bending over to tie
a boot.
tucking his paint stained
t-shirt into his
white sagging pants. he coughs
and clears his throat.

i'll be fine by Monday,
pick me up
at 8?

road side assistance

I need roadside assistance.
my life
has broken down.
I need a lift,
a ride, I need
someone to get me down
the road
and into
a warm hotel, with hot
food
and a view.
someone to draw me a bath
and read
to me as I fall asleep.
it was an old car.
I may just leave it where
it died.
right there
on the highway.
it got me where I needed
to go for so long,
I trusted it,
but that's done now.
the past is past.
I need roadside
assistance, my life,
has broken down, my thumb
is out, my heart is open
for suggestions.

all night

all night
a dog barks in the yard
across the street.
I look out
the blinds
and see nothing.
he's behind a fence.
it's cold out,
the wind is fierce.
finally he stops.
he's either died or
the owner has let
him in.
I can't get back to
sleep though.
I miss the chaos.
the howling,
the sound of his paws
scratching at
the gate trying to get
out.
I listen to the wind,
the rattle of
the shutters against
the house,
the sound of metal
cans rolling down
the icy street.
the bending of frozen
trees in the woods,
ahhh. music to my ears.

crime does pay

they take
me away in handcuffs,
arms behind
my back,
after I attempt to rob
a bank with a toy
pistol.
I was running low on
money because of the shut down.
guilty of all charges.
but I don't mind.
no more cutting the grass,
taking out the trash.
no more telemarketers
calling me
up to buy things I don't
need.
I don't mind
the orange jump suits either,
or the stiff cot
they call a bed.
I could read and write,
study micro biology,
lift weights in the yard
with my new friends.
it wouldn't be so
bad,
three meals a day.
maybe I could get a job
in the kitchen
cooking up
scrambled eggs.
I didn't like my old job
anyway.
nine to five, who needs it.

when there is none

we pretend.
we wear masks, costumes.
we say our lines
accordingly. we
find our spot on the stage
and perform.
where is the real self?
the transparent
you.
the naked you
unburdened by who you
think you are, or need
to be
for others.
how we toil at the play
when there
is none.

marshall hall amusement park

I can still hear
the clank
of the roller coaster
climbing up
the first steep
hill of the wooden
dinosaur, the white
paint peeling in
the april wind.
cross hatched in wood,
planks and two by fours,
beams.
how the car slowly rose
under the weight of us,
struggling to
climb, pulled by
a chain, decades old.
the whole thing creaked and swayed.
rattled like ancient bones.
how we hung on
for dear life
as we approached
the crest where the whole
world could be
seen.
then down and down,
swiftly, falling,
our slight bodies lifted
from the steel seats,
our eyes
wide open with a fierce
wind, our lungs
alive with screams,
our fingers wrapped
tight around the bar
that held us in.
around we would go, side
to side,
up and up, hill after steel
hill, down,
the wheels screeching hot
along the way.
then finally, finally slowing
to a stop
at the flat
platform, where our parents
waited and smiled,
knowing that life
is so much like this ride,
let's do it again.

like i always do

the slightest
creak
of wood startles the cat.
she purrs and shivers
beside
me.
nothing to fear I tell
her.
lying to her
like I always do.

i remember this

i remember
the first kiss.
the last dance. the smell
of her perfume.
the beginning and the end
is easy
for me to see.
i know what's coming,
what's
not.
i can see the future,
but resist it.

i am alone in this.
i am
in a crowded room
with everyone pulling
on my shirt tail.
i forget
who i am, i remember
nothing.

i remember everything.
i am confused
and worried.
i'm perfectly content
with
how things are. i'm angry
and disgusted with myself
for being so weak.

i'm found.
i'm lost. i'm in love
with who she is,
who she was,
who she isn't. i lift weights
to gain muscles,
to feel the burn.

i answer the phone by saying,
i have no
money.
i let the sun surround me
and warm
my cold body.

i remember her in a white
dress.
the drink she ordered.
the food we ate.
the kiss
under the veil of darkness.

my mother is dead.
my father is alive and well
at ninety. although nearly blind
and deaf, and unable
to walk more than ten steps
without stopping to catch
his breath.
I've lost 7 friends
in
three years.

i think there is hope by
writing things down.

i don't think having a dog
is the answer, or drinking heavily,
but i'm willing to try.
i bake bread in the oven
and watch it rise.

i see a woman on the street
that looks like my mother,
i want to tell her that, but decide
not to, why should she feel
my pain. i leave her alone,
as she pushes her shopping cart
down aisle 6 where the olives are.

i refuse to give up. i give up.
i think about joining the army,
any army, but i'm too old too fight.
to old to kill
someone for no reason.

i'm a pacifist at heart, but
willing to take a sword
to the dmv, or to husbands who
cheat on their wives.


i want to be silent. to meditate
on the world I've created within
a world.
i want to scream it all
from
the highest roof top and let
everyone know what i know.


i want to sleep. i want to wake
up in a different world with
everything i know unknown.

i remember everything.
i remember nothing.

no heavy machinery

i buy stock in Kleenex
and sinus decongestion pills
and liquids.
the stock rises
this time of year
from my purchases alone.
the day time variety,
the night time,
the generic brand
and the luxury brand.
i try to stay away from
heavy machinery
all day.
no plowing the field,
no cement trucks,
or buzz saws.
i stick to the couch
and lean back,
relying on chicken soup,
green tea,
and slices of blueberry
pie.

spare change

I make my sign
and go stand in the ten degree
weather
at a busy
street corner.
god bless
I write.
not a veteran, not lazy,
but not very
ambitious either.
just need some cash
to see me
through the weekend.
i'd like to see
a movie
maybe grab a steak
at Mike's and have few
cold
beers.
put some gas into my
v 8 mustang.
any amount would help
my cause.
I just don't want
to crack into my 401 k,
or blue chip
stock funds, just
yet.

the other side

frozen
in
time. unable
to get
up
and walk.
my eyes are locked
down.
my mouth
sealed.
i'm beyond the shiver
of the blue
cold.
i'm
warm inside.
about to see what
is on
the other side.

the blue cover of night

unable to sleep
for a variety of reasons
I rise
and find my clothes in
the dark.
I peer out the window
at a frozen world
of grey ice
and slush.
not a dog barks, or
fox
howls.
I go down the stairs,
hearing
the creak of wood
I've listened to for
the past 14 years.
what's changed?
I feel the ache in my
knees,
the soreness of work
and age.
I wonder about the next
ten years.
what it will bring.
the woods get lighter
as the winter sun crawls out
from under the blue
cover of night.

her life

the death
of a poet goes unnoticed
by most.
a small obit
in the back page
of the metro section
of the post.
she spent her life
in the woods
wandering,
trying to extricate
what
her father did
when she was a child.
each leaf that fell
at her
feet had meaning,
each stream she bent down
to touch
was real
beyond what it was.
it never ended.
until now.

i see an island

the gypsy
smiles when she sees me coming
through the door.
she wraps a new red scarf
around her head
and pulls out the old
crystal ball.
she lets out an ugh
as she hauls it to the
round table, blows
the dust off of it.
sit, sit, she says. tea?
sure, I tell her.
earl grey with a splash of
cream.
two sweet and lows, she says,
right?
yes. I tell her and take off
my coat.
she looks at my palms first
and sighs.
oh my she says. oh my.
some year, eh?
brutal, I tell her.
well, that's all behind you
now.
not to worry. I see an
island resort in your future.
white sands.
blue skies and palm trees.
I see a tall drink in your
hand
and someone rubbing
lotion onto your back.
how's that sound, she says.
pouring me some tea.
great, I tell her.
go on.
cash or credit today? she
asks.
I pull out a roll of bills,
keep going, I tell her.
keep going.
some cookies with that tea?
sure.

i know so little

I feel the twinge of
sciatica
run up the back of my leg
from heel to spine.
I cringe at the numbness
and tingle
of it burning.
it's not old age,
or stress,
or weight, it's just
the nerve
impinging on some unseen
bone, or muscle,
ligament
or something I know nothing
about.

there is so much I know
so little about.
but the things that I do
know,
I know thoroughly,
without a doubt.

less is fine

she has frost
in her hair. go for it,
I tell her.
go silver.
go white.
go boldly into the next
phase of
your hair
life.
I show her mine
and tell her how hard
it was
at first, but no more.
I like
the shine,
the saving of time
in washing,
in combing.
a new hat fits so
nicely, less
is just fine.

soon she'll be gone

i can feel it coming.

a premonition.

the absence of her.

the final straw about to happen.

i can taste in my mouth,

the ashes of it all.

it's coming. thank God.

that my prayers 

will be answered.

finally, it's coming,

and she'll be gone.

back in time

i find a time machine on ebay
used once.
the former owner is nowhere to be
found,
although from
the dial on the machine
he may be
someplace
in the 18th century.
that's a shame.
i have the machine delivered
to my door.
there's a note on it.
be careful, this is a one
way trip, which is good news to me.
i don't want to go far.
not far at all.
i sit in the seat,
strap myself in
and turn the dial.
i push the button,
hold on for dear life,
then close my eyes. away i
go.

the session

I fall asleep
on the couch in the therapist's
office.
she keeps talking.
she keeps
telling me the same things
over and over. it's hard
not to doze off.
there is nothing new to
tell me anymore.
she takes my shoes off
and puts a blanket
over me. puts a pillow
behind my head.
she loosens my tie,
and puts my coat on a hanger.
she takes my wallet
and charges me
for the visit,
then turns the light off,
closes the door.
it's the best session ever.

one day more

I see her
in the kitchen.
at the stove.
she's mixing up something
in a bowl.
I see the ice
go into the glass
the gin
poured.
the lime cut
and set on the rim.
I see the snow fall
out the window.
I hear
the fire place
roar.
I see winter and more
winter.
she watches me as I fall
asleep
on the long
couch.
a weekend away,
just one day
more.

the blue bird inside

his time is nearly
up.
he lights a cigarette and takes
a deep drag,
letting it
soak into his rotted lungs.
I did it to myself
he says,
flicking the ashes against
the steps.
all of it.
he coughs, then spits
out some blood,
it's crimson against
the thin patch of white snow.
you'll miss me when
i'm gone, won't you,
he says,
his hard blue eyes crystalline
with tears.
probably, I tell him.
probably.
he smiles and nods.
I ain't so bad, he says.
there's blue bird in me
that I hardly let anyone see,
but I think you know that,
don't you?
yes. I know that, I tell
him.

weight of the world

the priest comes to me
in his full
black gown.
his white collar
wilted and dirty, smudged
with life.
he looks tired.
he looks
sad, dour
and done.
he asks if he can sit
for awhile
and talk.
I bring him a chair,
and listen
to his sins, his doubts.
I tell him
we're all in the same
boat
which makes him laugh.
I knew a girl once
when I was
younger, he tells me.
I loved her more than
anything under the sun.
I wanted to marry her one
day.
I wonder where she is now,
if she'd have me
back.

I bring him a cup of hot tea.
he takes it and says,
I wonder why i'm so sad
when i'm so close
to God.
I say nothing. I've got
nothing.
he stands up to leave,
sipping on the tea.
we shake hands.
I watch him walk back
to the church, down the narrow
path through the woods
with
the weight of the world
on his shoulders.
he still doesn't get it.

in times of trouble

in times of trouble
I need beef stew. I need
the house to fill
up with the scent of onions
and carrots,
meat
braised and slow cooked
in the broth
my mother taught me.
I need to see the potatoes
and carrots boil,
the sprinkling
of pepper and salt,
the celery
and bay leaves.
the cup of wine poured
in like
the blood of me.
rich and red.
in times of trouble I can
wait for the stew
to be ready.
I am patient on days like
this.
in no hurry for anything,
or anyone.
just waiting
on a meal to soothe me,
to fill the void
of cold
and warm my soul.

on ice

when I fall
on the ice, I wonder
about you.
where you might be.
I stare up at the starless
night,
cold
and harsh.
I lie there on the pavement,
and wonder
who you're with,
whose lips are kissing yours
tonight.
I could lie here
forever and never
stop wondering what went
wrong, what
could have been right.

i see

I see the suitcase
by the door.
the note on the pillow.
the taxi out front,
leaning on his horn.
I see the neighbors looking
out their windows.
I see the empty spot
in the driveway, the tracks
leading out.
I see the moon high above
the trees.
the same moon we spoke
about
so many years ago,
so many spring and summers,
so many seasons
of turning leaves,
so many hard
winters of deep snow.
I see the smile and welcoming
arms
of who you run to.
I close the door and move
on with one more glance
at a moon
that never changes.

day one or day done

the turning of the calendar
page
to the first of the new
year
means little to me.
who cares?
it's just another man
made way of
controlling how we think
and act.
forget the numbers, the years,
throw that calendar
into the fire.
every day is the first day,
or the last.
day one, or day done.

moon landing

i read where they want to
put
a colony of men
of mars,
or go back to the moon.
why?
we have rocks here.
plenty of them.
why go where there is no air,
no food, no
water, no
shelter?
why not cure cancer first?
or help
the elderly,
take care of the orphans,
the invalids,
the disabled?
why not solve one single
thing down here?
and quit looking to the stars
for answers.
look in to the eyes
of those who
need help first. that's
the moon landing
we should
be worried about.

alone

some
journeys are best taken alone.
why
risk another
life
for mine.
why bring along
a loved
one
to join me
in where I need to go?
we enter
the world against
our
will
and for the most
part leave it
against our will too.

is it weakness
or fear
that keeps us where
we shouldn't be?

moth to the flame

a moth
to the flame.
my wings are burned off.
my eyes
gone blind.
my feet are scorched
from the heat
of that light
I flew into.
turn it off and let
me fly
away into the cool
soft
night of stars
and truth.

crayons and skates

don't lose
the nonsense of youth.
don't
go dark
in old age, letting
go of
the jump
rope, the jacks, the chalk
on the sidewalk.
don't throw
away the glove
and ball,
the bat,
the bike, or skates.
don't lose
your youth in the grey
cage
of grown ups.
throw open the box
of
marbles and things
saved. that skull
and cross bone
ring,
that silver chain
with a key.
the crayons, that picture
of a loved one,
who shared
a first kiss.

shake the world

how easy it is to get lost,
to take the wrong
turn,
buy the wrong house,
order a bad meal,
kiss the wrong
person
again and again.
in our hearts we know what
we truly want.
how much sorrow we bring upon
ourselves
with indecision
and bad directions.
it makes you want to scream.
to shake
the world and make it right,
finally.

he's come undone

my poison pen
has been busy over the past month.
the point as sharp as ever.
if I could write
with both hands
I would.
let the blood spill.
no one gets out without
being wounded by my
hurtful words.
I line them and knock them
down,
one by one.
it's not revenge, or making
myself feel better.
it's just a response to anger
after a year
of being bitten again and
again by wrong doing,
to the point of me becoming
undone.

mistaking the purr

three cats arrive in the mail.
kittens
actually.
each with blue eyes
and striped
tails.
they seem thirsty
after their long trip
so I give them a saucer
of milk.
they wet their lips
with it,
the fur
going white around their
mouths.
I don't know what i'll do
with them.
I mistake their purr for love.
three cats.
I know so little about
cats,
or any feline for that matter.

i need light

black is no longer my
favorite color,
though it hardly is a color,
but the absence
of light.
how easy it is to hide
in the dark,
to cloak oneself
in black.
to pull the shades,
to douse
the lamp, to crawl beneath
the bed
and wait
life out.
I've given up on black.
I need light.

if you were here

if you were
here
i'd tell you things.
tell
you small things
that
I've never said before.
but you aren't.
if you
were asleep, i'd
lie beside you and listen
to you breathe.
i'd touch your
hand
and wait for you to awaken.
if you were here,
we'd walk
through the woods,
down by
the cold stream. we'd
find a warm
ocean to retreat
to.
we'd begin again.
if you were here i'd
tell you things
I've never said before.
but you aren't.

post card from beyond

i get a post card from my mother.
which is strange
since she died six months ago.
how are you, it says.
miss you, hope you are well.
i love you. on
the front is a picture
of the ocean,
palm trees and white sand.
the sky is a magical azure
blue. the clouds are perfect
puffs of cotton.
the world is a glossy globe
of relaxation and peace.
i turn it back over again,
and look at what is written.
it's her hand writing.
no doubt.
finally, she's on vacation.

making friends along the way

i don't smoke
but they ask me if i have one
last request before
the firing squad
takes aim
and finishes me off
in the hot Mexican sun.
cigarette, please?
i say.
and so they give me one.
i choke, i cough.
they laugh,
and point. they begin
to joke at my expense
and shake
their heads.
a drink, please, i ask.
so they give me
a glass of water.
sandwich? i plead. just
a small one,
if you don't mind.
i'm starving. i don't want
to die hungry.
tuna, perhaps, no crust.
and maybe a small pickle,
chips on the side.
they shrug and set
down their rifles.
they bring me a sandwich
and a dill pickle.
we sit in the shadow along
the wall.
we begin to talk. to learn
each other's names.
i ask about their families.
how old their children
are.
they show me pictures
of their loved ones,
their girlfriends,
their pets.
their humble homes
along the border.
then it's time. some of
them are weeping, some
are sad and can hardly
look at me as they stand
me up against the wall
and drop
the blind fold around my eyes.
they say they are sorry as
they shake my hand.
our job, they say. our job.
i hear the guns click, i
hear the leader count down,
then they fire
all at the same time.
and that's it.

starting over

I change my name.
my hair, what 's left
of it. I go to a surgeon
and remove
some lines,
some furrows
in the brow,
they smooth out the worn
stretches
along the eyes,
my mouth.
I grow a beard.
I lose weight.
I learn to write
with my left hand,
no longer the right.
I leave
no forwarding address.
I toss my phone into the river.
I'm on the run,
on the lamb,
i'm a shadow in the night,
i'm no one.
i'm starting over
this time
without the past, the present
or future in
sight.

what isn't?

the bills
are due. i line them
up on the desk,
write out the checks.
stamps,
envelope,
a ledger, old school.
i take them to the post
office,
bundled in my hand,
drop them into the blue
box.
it's a matter of trust,
what isn't?

trick of mind

distance
and time fools us.
puts a shine
on the rotted apple,
we forget
the splinter in our thumb,
the broken
bones,
the black heart
we slept on.
we paint a false picture
of what was.
whether love
or family,
friends or work. we
try and remember the good,
this trick of mind
saves
us, keeps us safe
and able
to go on,
keeps us blind to what
really was.

disappearing

if it's cancer
he tells
me i'll kill myself.
swallow a bottle
of pills,
drink heavily.
they can put me out
on the curb
after that.
food for the dogs,
the worms. i don't want
to lose my hair,
he says, putting his hand
through the thick
brown swirl, uncombed
upon his head.

i'm driving, and look
over at him,
as he coughs
up the syrup of blood.
he's
bleary eyed and cold.
he stares out
the wet window
and wonders where his
life has
gone.

i pull up to the emergency
entrance
and he wobbles out
towards
the hands that guide him
towards the end
of his life.
he turns
to wave, and smiles.
i wave and wait until
he disappears, then go.

of the essence

i put a piece tape
over my
mouth,
i bleach my brain,
cough out the moths
that have
worn
holes into my soul.
i shower,
i bathe.
i get clean.
i keep what's in me,
in me.
i shake off the debris
of yesterdays
and move
forward. time
is of the essence.

pointed towards home

he would put his shoes
on the steps,
large black or brown,
so we'd
do the same.
that's where they always
were,
until he left.

his were polished,
holding the sheen
of the stairway
light
at the top of the stairs.


but most of ours were worn
the soles turned
the sides buckled.
holes near formed.
the white sneakers marred
with the street
and woods,
the mud
of the thin creek behind us.


I look at the shoes
now
that I own. dozens.
under the bed, on
shelves.
so many of them,
some new and hardly
worn, some lined on
the steps. some black,
some brown,
but all

pointed towards home.

the wedding party

the traffic slows
for the wedding party coming
out of the church.
bells ring.
the long
black cars gleam in the winter
sun.
she's in pure white,
he's in a deep
grey suit.
flowers are everywhere,
rice
rains in arcs
from the smiling families.
friends in tears.
it's a beautiful
thing
this love,
this joining of souls.
then the cars clear
and the traffic
moves on. off we go,
there is work
to be done.

after visiting the zoo

we should
get a monkey, my son says,
as he jumps
around
in the house, from couch
to couch,
a banana in hand.
he's only
four,
but he can play a monkey
quite well.
why get one, i tell him,
when you do so
well pretending
to be one.
he jumps onto the drapes
and swings
across the room
before landing
on the dining room
table.
he makes his monkey
noises,
scratches below his arms,
shows his teeth.
i need a friend, he says,
biting on
his unpeeled banana.

resolution

i see her
list of resolutions.
it's a long
list.
goes on for several pages.
she runs out
of ink
and has to start using
another pen.
days later
she's done.
she hands it to me
to read.
i tell her good. good,
then add on
another dozen or so
for her to ponder.

how about you

she says she's happy
now
in her high rise
over looking
the interstate that rolls
both north
and south.
money isn't a problem.
she has a cat.
she still knits,
still
watches her shows
that come
on during the day,
and reads herself to sleep
at night.
she's happy, she says
again, but with a look
in her eye
that says it isn't so.
she misses
being young, being
courted,
working and living in
that whirl wind world
of youth.
I still like a good glass
of wine,
she says, taking a sip
and raising it in
the air. I have friends.
my daughter comes to visit
when she can.
i'm happy she says,
how about you?

the crazy ex wife

bone thin,

hollowed out by laxatives,

and a vegan

diet,

purging

the few calories

she took in

that day of carrots and kale,

she bends over the toilet

with a set

of boney fingers down her

throat,

then exhales.

she tells me that she wants

to leave the world,

end it all

like celebrities do

by rope or pill.

again? i say. but

i'm too tired to have this

talk again. so i shut

the door

and leave her in the room

where she's cradled

in a fetus like ball,

in darkness,

her raccoon eyes smeared

with make up

and confusion.

i go down the stairs

leaving to her woes,

and think

i'm in a bad dream, that this

is all

a crazy illusion.

turning over a new leaf

it's new years
and everyone is turning over a new leaf.
everyone will lose
a pound or two,
read another book,
attempt to be kind and nice,
to be sweet
and patient.
the lies will stop.
pies will be baked.
push ups will be done,
sit ups too.
we'll drink more water,
go to church and pray
more.
volunteer
and just be good souls
through and through.
this is the year we'll
dust off that resume and get
a new job,
we'll save some money.
take a trip
to Timbuktu.
yeah, things will be different
this year.
you'll see, just wait.
i'm going to be a different
person, fun and bright,
full of positivity
and so will you.

vacancy

there is another
road
out of this town I ask
the stranger
standing on the side of the road
with his tin
cup. he looks like
he's been in a fire.
ashen
and streaked with dirt
and mud.
I've taken a wrong turn
and can't find
my way back.
he looks at me
and smiles.
once here, you cant get
out he says.
the road you took to get
here,
ends here.
welcome home.
this is my corner, but you
can have
the one across the street,
that's been vacant now
for some time now.

the human condition

you wake up
and think about what a horrible
human
being you are
at times.
the lies, the deception.
you cringe at the hypocrite
you can be
when things get tough,
taking the easy way out,
the low road.
it's almost like there's
two of you.
the good and the bad
always at war with one
another.
the devil on one shoulder
and the angel
on the other.
it's so easy to point a finger
and say hey,
can you believe what
he's doing, while doing
the same thing the next
day.
you shake your head
and say to yourself one day
at a time.
one word, one thought,
one action. just do the right
thing
you promise yourself,
try not to be so human
for once in your life.

it all depends

would you take a bullet
for anyone
my friend jimmy asks
as we sit in the park
handing a brown
bag with a bottle in it
back and forth.
hmmm, I ask, taking a swing
of the harsh
cheap whiskey.
anyone?
probably not, I tell him.
but you never know
about these things
until it happens.
until the gun goes off
and what you had for
breakfast that day,
or your last argument
with a loved one
as you left the house
slamming the door.
it all depends.
yeah, me too, he says.
taking the bottle from
my hands, finishing off
the dregs. not sure if
everyone is worth
saving.

dogs run free

the stray
dog is in the woods.
he looks happy
in the trees,
down by the blue sleeve
of a cold stream.
the blonde brush of his hair
gleams in
the soft
light
of a low sun.
no collar, no tag,
or leash.
he's on his own.
free,
free
from whoever had him,
whoever let
him go.

real love

there was the time
we were in Chinatown in nyc.
it was near
the end of our relationship,
both done
with each other, living
on fumes, neither one
of us, as Gladys would sing,
wanting to be the first
to say goodbye.
but we were hit from behind
by a tourist
as we rolled slowly
along looking for a place
to eat.
no damage done.
we all moved on.
I remember that it was
raining, and cold.
I remember looking at her
in the early morning fog
and thinking
this has to end
at some point.
we stared at each other
with this thought in mind.
I remember that moment,
eye to eye
as we stood in the street.
the bloom of our breathing
in front of us.
hungry for real love.

the midnight oil

I keep telling myself
that next year will be different.
I make a list of all
the positive things
that i'll do and accomplish.
no more procrastinating
about anything.
i'll turn my frown upside
down.
i'll have a spring in my step.
i'll put my nose to the
grindstone,
foot to the pedal, i'll
burn the midnight oil,
and maybe just maybe
i'll stop using
clichés and be more
original. maybe.

at peace

i admire the neighborhood
black cat.
how she endures
the weather, the cold,
being put out at night
to wander.

i saw her the other day
walking slowly through
the parking lot
in the pouring rain.

not a care, not a hint
of trouble in her gait.
she's been through so
much, i think. nothing
bothers her now.

she's at peace with what
life has served her.

she almost seems to smile
with her candy green eyes
when she looks over at
me, standing in the door.

i believe she even winked
at me.

the worker

nothing is what it seems.

you look out
the window
at the painter on the ladder
at 8 am
on a Saturday morning and wonder
what's going
on in his head.

he must be cold out there.
does he have a wife,
children?
is he behind on his bills?

is he
happy
with that brush in hand,
happy to have a
job, to be working
this deep into winter.
is he in love?

nothing is what it seems.

what goes on in anyone's head
is unclear.
what they say,
what they're feeling, who
they really are
is a mystery unsolved
even in death.

this love we all want
and feel that we need, what
is it?
what does it really bring
into your life?
pain, joy, both perhaps
in equal measure?

nothing is what it seems.

I take coffee out to the man
on the ladder.
he doesn't speak English,
but nods and smiles.
he points to where I can put
the cup, then
continues with his work.

words of advice

I try to explain
to my father the complexity
of my life
right now, but he's 90
and sees only
in black and white.
his advice has always been
there's more
fish in the sea.
whether death or divorce
has occurred.
I shake my head and listen.
what is there to say.
you only want to hear the words
I love
you, and i'm here for you,
whenever
and for whatever you need.

the good life

i take the tree down.
bulb
by bulb, unwinding the strings
of lights.
the ornaments go back
into the box
marked xmas. pushed onto
a shelf in the cellar.
off goes
the tinsel, the angel
hair, the star
on top. the blanket
below
where the stand holds
tight.
the needles are dry.
it sags
in the corner.
but it had a good life
serving well
through many days
through many
holiday nights.

while the iron is hot

they say that revenge is best
served cold,
but I disagree,
I say strike while the iron
is hot.
slay the beast, the dragon
and be done
with it.
why lose another second
of sleep.
go sharpen the blade,
load the cannons,
light those flaming arrows
and let them fly,
arching like
comets into the night.

her story

her stories went round
and round.
a circus
of thoughts
flying off in all directions.
her mind
was a bee hive
struck with a stick.
each bee a word, an idea
trying to find
it's way
but never
reaching a conclusion.
but she was loved
and made
the best apple pies
this side
of the state.
so you listened and ate
her pie.
went back for seconds.

near the red barn

I take a sharp
knife
to the bark.
I sit
on a stump
near the barn.
the sun
is between the arms
and legs
of bare
trees.
there is a whistle
of wind
through the loose boards,
the rusted
roof.
I go at the thick
branch
with gentle ease.
I whittle it down
to the bone.
to the flesh.
all things must die
and become new again.

check is in the mail

the check is in the mail
I tell
anyone who
calls my phone. I've been lax
lately
with paying my bills.
lost track of time and days.
my credit score must be dropping
like the stock market.
i'm in a calendar fog.
I don't know if it's Tuesday
or Wednesday.
i'm upside down.
the new year
will set me back too.
a different number at the end.
i'll put a note
or two around to remind
me of that.

I thought I just fed you,
I tell the dog.
didn't I just pour
some water into your bowl?
a week ago?
really?

no pony

i'm surprised that I didn't get
a pony
this year
for Christmas. it was
the only thing on my list
which I handed out
to everyone I know.
my mother knew,
my father,
my entire family.
all my friends on facebook
and the real
friends too.
one pony. any color.
but no.
no pony.
I got a book,
a shirt. some socks.
some candy,
a fruit cake
and flannel pajamas.
but no pony.
the disappointment
though
will fade.
i'll survive. there is always
next year.

a late night drink

I find an open
bar
on Christmas eve.
it's late, past midnight.
the revelers have all gone home.
the wait staff is leaving,
laughing as they rush out
with cash in hand,
bottles of wine,
champagne. one drink
I say as the door almost
closes and gets locked.
the bartender
is a kind man
though and says sure,
just one
and pours me a tall one
over ice.
I find a stool and settle
in.
he tells me please
don't take out your phone.
talk to me he says,
elbows on the mahogany bar,
tell me the story
of your life
what brings you in here
on Christmas
night, alone and red
cheeked from the cold.
don't look at your phone,
or deep into the drink
I just poured,
talk to me.
okay, okay. I tell him.
join me.
and so we talk and talk
until there's nothing
left to say
that hasn't already
been said.
two stories. two men talking
about love won,
love lost.
getting old, getting back up
and doing it again.
it's Christmas eve and the bottle
is finally empty.
we're both sadly happy
and content. good night he
says and shows me to the door
as the snow
begins to fall. take care
he says.
I will, you too.

escape from cell block H

it's mostly

fear and loathing at this point.

a few

days before Christmas.

the one

year anniversary

not far away. and what a year

it's been.

lies, and betrayal.

deception and gas lighting.

no fun,

no intimacy, no joy 

whatsoever.

just tears and anger.

long sleepless nights

and days

of worry and anxiety.

it's about to end, soon, and

i can hardly wait.

but for now,

i'll lay low, and let the plan

begin.

my hacksaw is in the cake.

each year for more

the lake
is a Russian blue on this
Christmas morning.
five miles around
through woods and stones.
no boats
disturbing the water,
no one fishing.
hardly a soul
about.
the geese are on the shore
in groups
of grey threes
and fours.
it's cold. it's winter.
it's the beginning
of things.
the end of
others.
the lake holds a truth
that lives inside
me.
it's why I return
each year,
for more.

throw the dog a bone

you know something's wrong
when
you wake up
at ten a.m.
with tears in your eyes
on Christmas morning,
when you
have no hunger.
when every word spoken to you
sounds like
a lie.
the sun is a nuisance.
the cold
hardly matters.
their could be something
amiss
when you don't answer
the phone.
when your dog wants to play
and you got
nothing.
was it a bad year?
yup, but a new one awaits
around the corner.
it can't come soon enough.
clean the slate and
bring it on.

365 till next year

I see all the santas
going home,
dragging the empty sacks,
their red suits dirty
from the car
fumes.
the drool of children.
the spill of bourbon
from
flasks kept in their woolen
suits.
I see the crumbs of
cookies and pies,
the drip
of food and drinks
on their beards,
their boots.
I see the fatigue of
red in their eyes.
another season under
their belt.
they did what they could
to bring
happiness and joy
to those
who need it most
and now they go home
to sleep it off.

the abandoned mine

the abandoned mine
has a sign
outside. do not enter.
danger.
your life is at risk.
stay away.
I can't help myself
and go in
with a small flashlight
attached to my
forehead. I carry
my yellow canary
in her small cage.
my dog comes too.
we explore the danger.
going down into the wet
black
depths of an old cave.
we like the fear.
the essence of uncertainty.
chaos is our home.
our comfort zone.
we like when the earth
shakes
and the debris of the mine
rains down upon
our heads. the wood creaks.
it's childhood all over
again.
home sweet home.

what is true is seen

ah, the clues.
the finger prints, the foot
prints.
a hair, a fiber.

an unlatched door.
the window
ajar and left open.

the drip of water.
the smell of smoke.

a picture tucked inside
a book.
an amulet hidden
in a pouch.

you don't need to be sherlock
to see
what's going on here.

under the bed.
in the closet

in a mailbox with a key.

the eyes tell it all.
the voice.
the tremble of hand.

what is true is seen.

the tree

the tree lights
remind me of something.
of someone.
some decade. somewhere.
it was cold.
it was winter. another
Christmas.
another time. another age.
another world
where I once
resided.
the tree lights remind
me of so much.
and this tree too will be
a memory.

his job

it was nothing for
Benito our house keeper to
pick up the litter
of new born
kittens still cloaked
in blood
and toss them into
a burlap bag.

he'd walk them to the
the Mediterranean Sea
and drop the bag
into the cold green water
until the job was done.

no words. no remorse.

it was the way chosen
to the keep the world
at bay. it was his job
among many.

this was my life

the attic
is where I am today.
i'm into the basement too.
the deep
corners of closets I haven't
peeked into
in forever.
i'm digging into coat pockets.
finding
slips of paper,
notes in between the pages
of books.
cards and letters.
scraps with phone numbers on
them.
i'm reconnecting
with my past.
looking at old photos
and wondering what happened
to each and every one
of these young
faces still young by
kodak.
i'm in the attic.
sitting in an old chair.
I smell the rot of wet wood.
I hear the flutter
of bat wings,
the tapping of mouse hooves.
the boxes all around me
are open.
there is joy, there is pain.
this was my life.

going electric

i watch a show
at seven in the morning on
the mysterious reappearance of bob
Dylan's electric
guitar circa 1964.
some words he wrote on scraps
of paper
are in the case too.
the skeleton beginnings
of some masterpiece.

they find out it's really is.
the handwriting matches.
the grain in the wood is the same.
there's a picture of him
holding it in his hands.
it's the one he played
at Newport when he
went electric and they were
going to cut the cable with
an axe.

judas they called
him. how dare he
bring such a racket to this
crowd of folkies.

i wished they'd give it back
to him though.
let him strum it one more
time and change the world.
let him plug it in
once again
and tell everyone about
highway 61.

what fun

I buy myself
a power saw for Christmas.
a gift to myself.
it's a black and decker
with variable speeds,
both battery powered
and electric.
it has several blades.
some for trees
some for hard wood,
one for soft wood
that needs to be cut gentle.
I can hardly wait to plug
it in and start sawing
stuff down the middle,
to tear it all down
and begin to build it all
up again.
I have a new hammer too,
oh and a large heavy
crow bar too.
what fun.

click click click

there is no original
sin.
they are all old and dusty.
used
and reused.
the ten commandments
are apparently just suggestions
to most of us.
those tablets held by
moses, those words
carved in stone
are simply an ancient text
no longer in need
in these modern times.

people used to be scared
when the car
was invented.
how the lonely and
disappointed will stray
from their mates
and find love
in the next town,
so easily reached
with a tank of gas.
but now sin is just
a click away by phone
in the bathroom
with the door closed.

rosebud

what do you want
for Christmas santa asks me
as I sit on his lap
with my finger on my chin.
I don't know,
I tell him. I have so much.
a house, a car,
a good job,
my health is fine,
my son is somewhat happy
and living in
the sunshine of southern
California.
well, well, santa asks,
looking at the long line
of children
getting fidgety behind
the velvet rope.
i'm just not sure, I tell
him.
of course I want peace
on a earth
and a new president,
and hunger
to be eradicated,
not to mention saving
the environment, but
those are all givens.
love and happiness, as
al green sings, would be
nice to.
just tell me santa says,
I don't have all day,
plus you're killing my leg.
how old are you anyway?
okay, okay, I tell him.
I got it.
I want a new sled, the old
fashion kind made of wood,
with iron runners
and rope. one like I used to have
when I was a kid.
that's it? that's what
you really want?
yup.
good lord!
okay. get out of here.
next!