i'm working on it

i wish no ill
on anyone, and yet there is within
me
a streak of mean,
a flash of red in
wanting revenge on those
who've hurt
me.
it's a human thing.
not turning the other cheek,
that sick ego doing what
the ego does in
keeping us alive.
it's a problem, but
i'm working on it.

the drive home

it's cold.
grey.
the wind is harsh,
stings like shards of glass
against my skin.
I have tears
in my eyes as I drive
away.
heading home
this late in the day.
I put the radio on,
the song doesn't help the mood.
nor does the traffic.
the horns.
the fists of clouds,
violet in the dusk,
an angry blue. I don't know
why I have tears
in my eyes, but I do.
they roll down my cheeks.
I don't wipe them away,
I let them come.
it's a good cry.
some days are better than
others,
like memories, and
some you wish would fade.

the high rise

it's a high rise.
a giant building sitting between
a dozen
big buildings.

the roads are tight
in this valley of concrete
and glass.

no sunlight. it's dusk all day.

you have to push the button
to get in
after stating your name.

show your id, explain why you're there.

tags to your car.
how long?

and who are coming to see.
there's no parking.

you get a pass for the dashboard,
then go back out
to move your car
out of the visitors spot.

no easy way to get from the lobby to
the tenth floor,
you find the elevator to the east wing,

you walk, you walk,
it's quiet.
not a soul around,
and those you pass in
the darkened hallways
say nothing.

they keep their heads down.

you zig zag, reading the signs,
the numbers,
you knock.

and finally, someone lets you in.

behind closed doors

I lived in a house
once
where doors were slammed.
doors were locked,
shut tight.
no talking things through,
no kiss goodnight,
just the dead
silence
of anger simmering.
it was hard to sleep in
a house
like that.
you could feel the pain
through the walls.
the secrets,
the hidden things
under beds, in books,
in drawers,
in closets.
beware of those behind
closed doors.
it's the tip of the ice
berg
of what you know.

take the higher road

it seems that those
who get the short end of the stick
get
it all the time,
or at least most of the time.

they trip and fall,
the miscues are endless.

they throw their hands up to the sky
and say why me.
what now.

I have no good luck.

and so it goes. it rarely changes
until
they stop saying that, thinking
that and
accepting the road
they'[re on.

go left, go right, go in
any direction but the direction
you're headed in.

and stop saying, woe is me.

where he would be found

she had an old horse.
sway back, bleary eyed and brown,
thin
in legs, it's tail constantly
at the flies
that filled the barn.
your eyes watered when
you entered.
the cats, the mice.
the wet hay, the steel tub
of tepid water.
she didn't ride him anymore,
but brought him carrots
and apples
which he nibbled at with
broken teeth.
she'd brush him, and wash
his coat.
she couldn't let him go.
couldn't say goodbye or take
him down.
he'd have to do it himself,
he'd have to wander
out into the farthest pasture
and fall
into a pool of sunlight,
where he used to run, where
he once was young,
a place she knew, where he
would be found.

the smiling mask

her first husband
used to beat her, she said. so
that ended
quickly

and the second one, did the same,
but worse.
she settled though, thinking
this must be how it is
with all marriages.

I might as well stay
and pretend
that everything is fine,
that nothing truly hurts.

two dozen years later,
nothing has changed.
her smiling mask in tact,
a wasted life of hidden
bruises,
with no one but her
to blame.

into the valley

the traffic slows
to a crawl, then stops
for the funeral
procession.

the beams of headlights
reach out
from each car
in the half dark of day.

the black hearse rolls
slowly towards the green
hills, dotted with stones,
to the freshly cut
grave.

there is not much to say.
the usual words.
the open bible,
the talk of into the shadow
of the valley of death we go.

there are women crying in the rain.
men too.
children
bewildered by it all.

life is hard,
we swallow it uneasily,
death is strange.

no news is good news

i hear nothing back
but the roar
of silence
from the ex.
no footsteps creeping
up the alley.
no cars idling in the lot.
no mail,
snail or otherwise.
no text or call.
no cookies baked.
it's good to hear nothing
back.
no news is good news.
i got the monkey
off my back.

the seven year itch

I found him,
she tells me, I found the one,
my soul
mate,
the love of my life,
my knight in shining armor,
my boy next door,
the one I've been waiting
for forever.
and as soon as he leaves
his wife,
he's all mine.
he even crossed his heart
and hoped
to die, if he's lying.
I trust and believe him.
he's honest and true,
good
and wholesome. he's
everything to me.
how wonderful life will
be when we can stop sneaking
around,
and he files for divorce.
it's only been seven years
of us together,
but I feel that this is
the year, he'll tell her.
tell his wife adios and be
all mine until the end
of time.

when elmo went to war

i used to read to my son
before he went to sleep.

but over time, we read so many
books over and over
again
that i had to change the lines.

i took the cat in the hat story
into a whole
other direction. barney and elmo,
Kermit.

the cat robbed a bank,
or stole a car,
or barney got drunk in a bar.
Elmo went to war, or became
an astronaut.

my son played along, and before
you knew it,
he was telling tales.

making up his own stories,
and now he's doing that
from three thousand
miles away
in Hollywood.

it's okay if you're late

it doesn't bother
me
when people are late.
I used to care
but things have changed.
i'm fine
twiddling my thumbs,

or reading,
or staring out the window
at the falling rain.

sipping on a drink
and observing the world
around me.

there's no place
i'd rather be
than be with me.

I have a better time
alone
these days than
reliving the tales of
someone's yesterday.

all the way to love town

I see the pattern of my ways.

i'm very self aware
at this stage, this late
in the game.

sorry for the language but

I've fucked
up time and time again,
making bad choices
when it comes to
women.

but I get it now. the road is
full
of mistakes, looking back
at the wrong turns

with the wrong person.
a trail of lies and broken
promises.
diamonds on hands that didn't
deserve them,

detours, wrecks,
cars over turned and burning.

I let them have the wheel.
trusted them
to drive me
all the way to love town.

I went to sleep, happy to have
them at the wheel,
the radio on,
their hand on my knee,
taking me along to where
I've always wanted
to be.

take me to love town,
mon Cherie.
take me all the ways to love
town.
and then we'll marry.

it was raining hard in frisco

some can't handle
money. can't handle success.

they can make it. make millions.
have cars
and houses.

women and trips to exotic
places.

they wear gold rings,
expensive watches.
they have pianos
and chandeliers.

to the outside world

that have it all.
they're suntanned
and fat. happy with the lot
they've earned,

but
it's a Richard Corey kind of thing.

one day you
here what's happened.

they're gone. they're driving
a taxi

living in one room
in a basement
on the outskirts of town.

they've lost it all.
again.

so you say

i'm depressed she tells me.

i'm sad.

i'm lonely. i'm disappointed
with life.

i'm thinking about ending it all,
maybe jumping
off a bridge,

or taking a handful of pills
and drinking myself

to death.

she tells me all this while she
spins around
in the room in her new
shoes and a new black dress.

have you seen my stamps

he used to collect stamps.

all kinds.
different countries, rare
stamps,
limited editions.

it's what he thought about
morning, noon and night.

it was his life.
these tiny squares with the

faces of presidents on them,
inventors,
writers,
poets and astronauts.

he kept the books in a safe,
but was quick
to bring them out when anyone
came over.

did I show you my stamp
collection, he'd say,
and regardless of your answer

they'd come out. hour after
hour
he'd turn the page
and give you the history
of each

stamp, there was no escape.

and when he died, they got
tossed into bags
and thrown out.

I miss him. crazy stamp collector.

there was no turning back

what is your intention with my
daughter

her father asked me.
he was Italian, old school, muscled
and
hard with
whiskey and cigars.

a tattoo of a ship was blue
on one arm.

I sat on the edge of the couch,
twenty two.
nervous,
ready to run out and call the whole
thing off.

I want to marry your daughter
I said softly.

what? he said. I didn't hear you.
I said it again, but louder this time.

I thought so, he said.
do you have any money? a job, a car?
a place to live?

yes, I said, thinking about the eight
hundred dollars
I had in the bank,

and my beat up car that hardly ran.
I had a one bedroom apartment
across the tracks

and a job waiting on tables.

I wanted him to say no. no you
cant marry her, she can do much better
than that,

but he didn't, he like everyone else
didn't stop us.

two children. deer in the headlights
of oncoming life.

and then the cake
was ordered
the invitations put in the mail.

there was no turning back.

time has a way

time has a way of erasing
nearly everything.

it all fades, gets lost
in the turning
page.

what seemed so important
is less.

people that you once loved
have left.

there is no new water on this earth.
it just takes
a different shape.

as we do as time
takes our lives, our memories
and begins
to erase.

love can be like that

I remember falling in love
with an imaginary person.

I carved her out of stone.
kissed her lips as if they were real.

I felt her skin
against mine.

I listened to her voice and believed
every word
she said.

I fell, I fell. I left. I wandered
into
the deepest darkest
depths

of hell.

love can be like that, even if it
doesn't exist.

and was never real

I moved forward. but the scars are
there.

the wounds.

the brutal lies still ring within
my ears.

nobody reads poetry

nobody reads poety anymore.

they don't even read the paper.

they read, emails and texts.
notes written on the run.

beach books.
mysteries and easy to digest
efforts,
that make you weary, make you numb.

no one steps out and reads the hard stuff.

the real thing.

the blood of us, the bones,
the heart of who we really are.

we soothe ourselves with soft
lullabyes, with
the inane, the middle of the road,
what the masses want.

little thought, little strain,
let's go gently in to that good night
with never knowing who we are,

why we're here.

let's change the channel and surf
the wasteland
without tears, without fear, without
a soul.

a life unlived and never whole.

the chicken sandwich

i read in the paper where a man
has been
stabbed and killed
over a fried chicken sandwich.

he cut into the long line,
too anxious
for his meal to wait,
and get in line where it began,
out the door and around
the back.

how horrible, i think at first.
what craziness.
the poor guy, the loss
to his family. his own life.

and then i think about the sandwich.

how good must these sandwiches
be

and where can i get one,
safely.

damsel in distress

i see her on the side of the road,
hitchhiking.

her thumb out. crying as usual.

one bag slung across her back.
she's on the road again.

where to now?

who's the next knight in shining armor
to save her?

what set of eyes can she pull
the wool over
this time?

not mine. mine are wide wide open.

i got no more saving damsels in
distress
in me.

been there, done that.

someone at the door

there's a knock at the door.

do I answer it?

I lower the television and peek
out the peep hole.

the shadow of my eye
is clear
to whoever it is that's standing there.

a stranger.
a woman. what now?

she knocks again, harder this time,
with some
need, some problem, something
that I really
don't want to deal with
at this late hour.

I see a clipboard in her hand.

she could be part of the neighborhood
coven of witches that run
the condo board.

I let her knock and knock again,
until she finally gives
up

and goes to the neighbor next door.

I feel good about my decision
to not open up.

just seems that way

you can change a lot of things
in your life.

the clothes you wear, where you live,
your husband,
your wife.

but who you are inside seems to stick.

you make adjustments,
learn and grow, but the core of who
you are,

seems to stay the same no matter
how much
religion you get,
or therapy,
or how many books you read.

you try, try hard, but the increments
are slow
and slight.

most people that are bad stay bad,
and the good ones
stay good.

just seems that way.

we're here honey

we finally make it to florida,
retired,
the gold watch on my wrist.

the kids all grown.

everything we own is in the trailer
that we've pulled for the last thousand miles.

I have my flowery shirt on, my sandals.
my shorts
and wide brimmed hat.

sunglasses in place.

I grab an orange off a tree,
peel it and take a bite,
letting the juices run
down my chin.

i look up

at the ever present sun. a yellow
hot face
spreading its warmth
over everything.

the blue water and white sand
stretches out forever before us.

I notice there's a lot of old people
here sitting in chairs
fanning themselves with menus.

I tell my wife of forty years, well,
here we are.

we're done.
and she sighs and says, it's too
hot, and look
there's a lizard running towards us.

i'm getting back into the car,
and turning it around,
tell me when
you're done.

a sign

i remember the dead bat
that was stuck
between the house, the brick
and the downspout,
a small thing, grey,
a ratty ball of fur,
but with sharp wings, and
tiny ball eyes looking out.
it was an omen of some sort.
each time i looked at it,
i felt a wave of dread, a darkening
cloud if i continued with this
person. it was there the day
i met her and was still there
the day she moved out
and in with me.
it was just a small dead bat,
but it was an omen, a true sign
to run, telling me stop,
don't go any further.
but i ignored it and paid the price
dearly.

the touchstone

after she died I found a smooth
stone
in her back yard. I picked it up
and held it to the sky.
a small stone. grey, without color.
I kept it.
i put it in my pocket so that i'd
remember her anywhere I went,
no matter who I was with.
I used to put my hand in my pocket
and hold the cold rock
in my hand, feel the smoothness
with my fingers. i'd roll it over
and over. a touchstone
that reminded me of her love.
our relationship. I held
onto it for a few years, then
stopped. I put it back in her yard,
which was now my yard having
bought her house.

write a poem about me

write me a poem she says
out of the blue.

I need something to read.

I tell her where to go to find
a few thousand
raggedy scribblings

that have come out of me over
the years.

no, she says, I want a new one.
I want a new poem, something fresh.

just about me, and only me.

I scratch my head and look
at her.

her long legs, her black nails
and lips like rose
petals wanting
to be kissed.

I try to kiss her, but she
pushes me away. no she says.
I want my poem first.

there'll be none of that, not
until I get my poem.

I had work to do.

we don't need no stinking sandwiches

I asked my part time workers once upon
a time, when they were still around,
Francisco and albert,
jose and Wallace why they didn't
bring their lunch to work.
why were they spending ten dollars
a day
on greasy fast food and sugary drinks,
when they could make a lunch
and bring it with them to the job.
the money they would save.
they were all bone skinny when I took
them on. having traveled far,
across deserts and woods, being chased
by banditos at every turn.
but now they were rounded out, cheeks
filled, their clothes tight upon them.
why don't you pack a lunch I asked them,
and Francisco stood up, being
the leader of this pack of painters
and laborers, cement mixers and rough
carpenters, and he said proudly,
thumping his fist against his barrel
chest and said we are men,
we don't cook.
I laughed and shook my head,
and said, i'm talking sandwiches here.
two pieces of bread with something
in the middle. they waved their hands
at me, dismissing me in their own language,
then went back to eating their stuffed
bags full of Kentucky fried chicken.

my personal florist

I get a call from my personal florist,
Evan.

He sounds in a panic, his voice high pitched
and trembling.

are you okay? he says. please tell me everything
is okay.
I've been so worried about you.

i'm good, I tell him. just fine.
what's up?

well, you haven't bought any flowers from us in
months. that's not like you. you've
been buying flowers from us for almost
thirty years now.
I thought the worst, God forbid.

nah, still living.

you haven't put any holiday orders in,
no anniversary, no birthdays, not even your
regular bouquet of apology flowers.

got divorced, I tell him.

oh my, he says and gasps, already.
you were sending her an apology bouquet
nearly every week
i'm surprised all those flowers didn't
work.
we do miss your business. i'm so so
glad that you're okay, but

i'd be remiss in not telling you that

we have a special this month on a bouquet
of make up flowers, daffodils, petunias,
daisies, paired with a nice
apology bouquet made of red roses with
baby's breath sprinkled in.
50 per cent off for our valued customers.

it comes in a nice crystal vase with a card
that says all the things you need to say
but haven't thought of. a little mushy,
but women like mushy, don't they?

i'll pass, I tell him, but keep my account
open, one never knows what's
up the road.

you betcha, he says. we miss you bud,
hope to hear from you soon.

nothing left to eat

don't drink milk.
or eat
meat, red meat.
that chicken has been shot
up with anti biotics.
stay away from sugar
or anything
in a box, or bag.
processed food.
salt, sweeteners equals death.
msg
on the salads, on the box
of rice.
nitrates.
read the label. it's a chemistry
exam.
forget about orange juice
in a bottle. coffee too.
those eggs are bad
for you.
that piece of fish,
you don't know where it's been
swimming. it's
full of mercury,
farm raised. no.
not good.
butter, oils, not good.
starches
and wheat,
throw them all away.
even the apple, be careful
it might be sprayed.
there's not much
left to eat anymore
if you read
the papers and watch oprah.
even the
tap water will kill you.
I remember when bacon
used to be at the top
of the food pyramid,
followed by milk and eggs
and a rib eyed steak.
those days are gone.

this is not so bad

they move him
from the I C U
to a room in a hospice
for full time care.

his head wrapped where they
cut into his skull
to stop the bleeding.

his teeth are back in,
he's smoking again.

more chemo to come.

they can't kill him, nor
can he kill
himself.

he's invincible. coated
with the hard
shell of youth, of bad parents,
bad luck
and bad decisions.

he stares out the window
at the woods
and remembers living
there,
down by the creek, by
a fire, wrapped in the only'
things he owned.

this here, he thinks,
is not so bad. the tubes
and wires an annoyance,
but what the hell. it's a
bed with clean sheets,
a room with a view.

what's for lunch, he asks
the pretty nurse
as she walks in smiling
with a tray of hot food.

music in the house

there' music in the house.

at last.

it's been awhile. I sit back
and listen.

going back to the old standards
of youth,
mid youth and middle age.

it's what I know, what vibrates
joy and love

inside my soul.

the new doesn't resonate as much.
it's half baked,
a copy,
a mimic.

I want the real stuff. I want
what I like.

which holds true for most
of life.

it's hard to tell

the cat
stretches in the sunlight,

arching her back.

her day is long.
is she happy, it's hard to tell.

it's hard to tell with most of us.
we hide
our day so well.

ask and recieve

thoughts become
things.
every thought has a frequency,
a vibration
sent out into the world.
a magnetic signal.
send out joy
and joy returns, send out
hate
and resentment, get ready
it's coming back to you.
think
believe and receive.
if you focus on what you
don't want,
that's what you'll get
but if you think of what
you really
want it comes, in time,
relax, let it go, it
comes.
thoughts are energy, be
careful
with what you think,
the universe is listening.

getting the ring off

you can have your keys back,
she said, in tears,
throwing them
across the yard through the chain
link fence.
and here's your ring too.
but she couldn't get it off,
trying hard
to twist it. she even spit
on her finger to loosen
it up, but it didn't budge.
her finger had fattened up
somehow, maybe it was the weather,
or her drinking, or
high blood pressure.
I told her, let me give you
a hand with that.
so we went inside and ran
her hand under the cold water.
I rubbed some soap on the ring
and finally it came off.
her tears had dried, and she looked
at me differently in the yellow
of the kitchen.
her hair was everywhere, flying
about,
the door was still open,
the wind pushing in against us.
I should go she said, handing
me the ring. I told her to keep it,
and slid put it back on her finger,
then she kissed me,
gently at first, then harder,
and we made love on the table
after closing the door.

i never did get the ring back.

how things change

when we got serious,
when i'd go over to her house
on the weekends,
she'd stand in her kitchen,
lipstick on,
wearing something sexy,
an apron, at the stove,
she'd wink, and say
as i came in and sat down.

why aren't you kissing me?
and so i'd get up, put my arms
around her and we'd kiss
and kiss until the smoke
alarm went off. later that night
we'd fall asleep in each other's
arms after making passionate
love in her bed.

several months later
we got married.
but within a few weeks, she'd
say why are you touching me.
you've become so clingy.
i'm sleeping in the other
room tonight.
how things change.
how things change.

not knowing is a blessing

it's a selfish act.
I admit.

the pleasure is mostly all mine,
sitting here
at this keyboard.

some days I can't wait to get to it.
to see what arrives,
what dreams, what memories
what failures
get written about.

it's an island, an oasis.
a fortress of solitude.
no one can get it when I've shut that door
and begin.

I have no clue when I sit down
what might come out. it's a mystery.

it's better that way.

in fact life is better that way,
not knowing
is a blessing.

the guard dog

the old dog
barks and barks when you come in.
a stranger.
he can hardly see,
or walk,
but he's on the job.
sniffing at your shoes,
you outward hand,
keeping danger at bay
as best
he can
at this ripe old age.
he was good dog, still is
but
the tooth is long,
and not so
the day.

the corner store

we loved the corner store.

the apples
out in the sun in boxes.
red rows
and yellow, sweet, not long
off the tree.

the peaches.
the melons.
the flowers in water basins.
fresh
and crying out for hands
to be held.

the corner store. sodas
and candy.

ice cream rounded out in
with a metal scoop dug into
the bins.

I can see the deli in back.
the sausage hung,
the duck in the window.

and us with our pennies
slid across the counter,
eye high, to buy
what we could.

getting a handle on those love handles

I jump on the scale
and the scale breaks, good lord,
what the hell
happened.
then I look at the kitchen counter
there were
three rows of oreos
in that bag just yesterday,
no there's a half of one.
that pint of ben and jerry's
in the trash can,
that opened bag of waffle chips.
I've got to get a handle on
these love handles.
I laugh at that in a chubby
rubbery
bouncy sort of way.
I look at my three chins
in the mirror.
are my shoes tied, I don't
know, I can't see
my feet anymore.
my butt is in a different zip
code. the buttons on my
shirt are popping off.
I carve a new whole for my belt.
my dad jeans
are skin tight on me.
I've got pork rinds
for fingers
and a turkey the size
of a small dog
in the oven just for me.
okay.
here we go.
starting now.
water and more water.

no time

the world is
complex.
it's become harder than
Chinese algebra.
there's no relaxing.
no stopping.
no putting down the phone.
we are rats in a maze
that we created.
work is twenty four seven.
children and pets.
parents dying.
the house, the maid,
all the ex's in a row
knocking perpetually at
the door.
there are leaves to rake.
the weeds need pulling.
the phones never
stop ringing.
there's no time
for true love, for true
conversation,
no time to sit on the porch
and swing
as the sun sets,
as the breeze blows
softly against our skin.
hand in hand.
heart in heart. before
you know it, it's over
and you realize how much
of life you wasted.

fb wasteland

you dip back into facebook
out of pure
boredom, just to see if anything
has changed.
nope.
same old wasteland.
same old
stuff.
the big couch of slumber
with stuffing pouring out,
springs set loose.
cakes, and kids, dogs
and cats.
cars and boats,
affirmations, both good
and bad.
rants and raves.
do this, do that.
vote.
don't vote.
we need money for our cause.
we need hope.
we need affirmation
and affection.
like me like me like me.
a whirlwind of postings,
not a single
thing of value,
there is nothing there
to save.
the world keeps changing,
but face book
never does, I guess there's
some comfort in that.

zoo girl

I called her zoo girl.

she lived across the street from
the screaming monkeys
and the roaring lions.

right over the zoo bar that played
Dixieland music
on Friday nights.

when I met her she slept on a futon
in the back room.

and a had a television
that dated back to the late sixties,
rabbit ears and all.

it was an old building.
the halls and stairwells smelled
of cabbage
and chicken.

soups and stews boiling over.

her radiator would talk all night.
grunt and groan,
and whisper at times
in a gravelly sigh,
as if it was having nightmares
and working things
out
on its own.

there was a coffee shop down the street
on Connecticut
and a yogurt shop,
right next door
to a liquor store.

we'd take long walks up
the street to Cleveland park,
bundled in our coats and each other

in the winter wind.

the office stapler

I stare at the black stapler
on my desk.

it's the same one I stole from my office
when I worked
in IT
a thousand years ago.

if they were going to lay me of
than by god they
were going to pay dearly for it.

so I took a stapler
and a box of staples.

security walked me out the back entrance,
taking my chained badge
from around my neck.

I carried my box of papers,
pencils and erasers out with me,
the stapler carefully hidden
under a box of snicker bars and

all the great snacks that I kept
in a drawer at my desk.
I laughed knowing that the whole office
would be missing me,

seeing that I was the go to guy
for snacks.

jelly beans, crackers, chocolate bars,
gum, or beef jerky, I was the man.
fireballs and candy cigarettes, you
name, I had it.

I knew I was a bad worker,
always at the coffee pot or the phone,
so I deserved to be let go.
I hated the job. it was coal out
of a mountain. it didn't matter
that I was released from Maggie's farm.

I didn't miss the work, but I missed
my peeps.
my buds, my coffee mates,
my lunch gang, I missed
volley ball and happy hours.
the Christmas party.
the new receptionist that changed
from week to week.

they got rid of me, but I got a stapler
out of it. shiny and black
and a box of staples.

revenge is sweet.

negative results

the test results come back
electronically,

all negative.

it seems i'll live another day
or two.

years, perhaps. so i'm pleased
with that.

but the doc wants me to come in
for a visit,
a friendly
take your shirt,
your pants and shoes too,
a medical chat.

I put her off. I make up
one lame excuse after another.

it's separating sock night,
I tell her.
you have no idea how many pairs
of socks I have.

and I play bingo
on Tuesdays.
yes all day. Wednesday I
go to the movies,
and again, all day.

and Friday, well, it's fish day,
so I have a lot of scaling
and deboning to do.

she shakes her head in her
return email. my oh my she writes.
you're a grown man,
but in reality a true
scared e cat.

you need to come in and see me,
STAT.

okay, okay, I tell her.
i'll take care of it,
keep your stethoscope on,
don't lose
your hat.

thrown under the bus

good luck, she says in her note
and card,
take care of yourself,
bye bye, she says
and waves before pushing
me out the door.
I roll under the bus,
the wheels crushing
me flatter than a flap jack
at I hop
on a sunday morning.
see ya, don't want to be ya.
adios.
don't let the door hit you
on the way out. I brush my self
off as I get up.
rebutton my torn coat,
find a stick to brace
my broken leg, then
wipe the blood off my face.
oh well, I say, looking down
that long empty road,
here we go again, then put
my thumb out.

i'm walking on sunshine

sometimes a song will creep
into your head
and stick with you the whole
day long,
depending on the day, the mood,
what state of emotional
turmoil or not you are currently in.

yesterday I was singing
I ain't got nobody that I can depend on,
as i was hard at work.

and the day before that was
I can't get no satisfaction.
no need to extrapolate on that.

today I've been humming the beatle's
Yesterday
all day long, and tom wait's
inbetween love.

i'm hoping tomorrow
it's katrina and the wave
with
i'm walking on sunshine. I really
like that song.

out of context

I see my dentist
at the coffee shop.

she's had her hands
full of syringes,
drills
and water pics
putting them
inside my mouth for ten years.

but we don't recognize one another
right away. our meeting is out
of context.

she's not in her white coat,
but wearing a mink stole
and a leopard print pill box hat.
I see her getting out of a chauffeured
limo.

we make eye contact
and then it hits us both at the same
time that we know each other.

I open my mouth widely to give
her a look
at the thousands of dollars
of work she's done,
and she says,

oh, oh, yes. hey, how are you?

the fairy tale

in the fairy tale

the lovers after an emotional trial,
go back
to one another,

they kiss and make up.
they sit together
and talk things out.

they meet in the middle
and become lovers once again,
but better
people for the mistakes
and forgiveness
they've both learned from.

their bond is stronger than it
ever was.
they live happily ever after.
they grow old together
in the comfort of
each other's love
and affection.

in fairy tales,
this happens.

today we look into our phones
and move
on.

i can't eat this meat, it's stringy

it was years ago, but I remember it well.

we went to the West End dinner theater on Duke street,

to see the local theater group's production
of the west side story.

the jets versus the sharks.
who hasn't seen it, or doesn't know many
of the lines by heart.

Puerto Ricans versus the white bread
boys
and girls of the Bronx, or some other
borough of new York city.

leather jackets, stiletto knives,
chains and slicked back hair.
lots of gum chewing.

dinner was served by the performers
in between numbers.
there was a lot of swish going on.
the boys were, well, not quite as menacing
as one would think,
off key,
forgotten lines, impossible to duplicate
the music
and score of leonard Bernstein.

the audience was mostly senior citizens
bused in
from jersey or the eastern shore,
or local
old folk homes. they clapped mildly,
more worried about their
food and drinks.

I remember one man, who was somebody
once upon a time, short
and bald, with a raspy voice who jumped
up in the middle of Maria
and yelled out, I can't eat this meat,
I can't even chew it,
it's stringy, and it's cold too.

to which everyone clapped, but the song
went on. at the break someone brought
him a new plate of meat and mashed
potatoes. I think it was one of the Jets.

throwing the first stone

i feel bad about some things I've
done.

blowing up someone, ratting them out,
letting the world
know who they really are,
but then i think.

they deserve it.

then i think, well, who am i to
toss stones, I've been
equally bad,

no sin being greater than another.

then i look at all the bruises
and cuts,
the bandages around my
head and arms,
my busted heart and torn psyche,

and think, what the hell, why not.
it's your moral duty
to call them out.

it' a dilemma trying
to decide what to do.

sometimes you let them off the hook
while other times,

you know it doesn't matter
what you do,
they will be who they are until
the end of time.

your exposing them will just
be a minor bump
in the road

and off the go, doing what comes
naturally to them.

deceit, corruption, immorality
and lies.

The Secret

into the wee hours

I watch the movie the secret
about the law of attraction.

how we are all vibrating energy
attracting the things
we send out
through thoughts
in waves.

everything you want is there for the asking.
love, money, cars and boats.
houses.

just imagine them and soon
they appear.

I buy into it. I get it. I've
had experiences that
prove it works.

midway through I try to attract
a ham
sandwich.

I visualize it in my head.
I ask
I believe.

today that will come true.
I will go to the Italian store
and receive.

it works.

cats with nine lives

they survive.

no matter how they live their lives,
depending on the kindness
of others,

they have learned
how to land on their two feet.

human cats with nine lives.
full of stealth
and lies.

no matter what they do or say,
how immoral
or corrupt they are,

they find a way, a place
to live in comfort,

to have what they need to get by.

they survive.
somehow, they are forgiven
and allowed
to stay.

they have once more pulled
the wool
over everyone's
eyes.

art worth framing

I start with a blue sky.

taking the brush, dipping it into
the little tub
of blue.

I add some clouds, dabbing white.

then the ocean...some green, some more
blue.
I swish
in some waves.

drop in a gull or two with a fine
brush.

I throw in some rocks along the shore,
then a sailboat
with the sails full of wind.

I stand back and take a look. it's
a mess.
a primitive van gogh
at best.

a ten year old could do better,
but I think i'll have it framed

and hung with others, in the den.

it's in me

she tells me
she's not reading my poetry
anymore.
she's done with it.
this is supposed
to hurt my feelings
i guess.
get in line.
they all say that
at some point, but they
read on
regardless of how much
they despise me
for my lack of attention,
or love,
or regret.
it's all in there, but
i keep it buried. keep
these emotions
locked up.
I've spent it all, it seems.
the tear ducts are dry.
the heart
a soft beat of fatigue.
it's in me, and they know it,
but
like Bukowski's bluebird,
why change course now,
and have people think I've
gone soft.

everywhere is home

some days you can't get to where you're
going.
detours,
traffic, the lights are all red.
but it's okay.
you're in no rush.
you'll get there. there's no one
waiting at the end
of this road.
no one at the door or window.
there's no hot meal
on the table.
no lover waiting in my bed.
so why go fast, why be bothered
with this slow roll home.
this is home.
everywhere is home when you're
alone.

get back up again

after awhile
you stop looking. stop waiting,
stop
thinking too hard about
it all.
you move on.
there are books to read.
movies to watch.
poems to write.
you get your house in order.
your life.
you get tired
of being tired.
you don't even check your phone
anymore,
or your e mail.
and at night, you just lock
the door
and go up
the stairs. there is a whole
other world
out there. it reaches a
point of giving
up and finding someone who
really cares.
it's not how we fall, but how
we rise
and get back up again.

a midnight decision

when we were young
we'd pile into the car at a whim.

and down route 50 we'd go
to the eastern shore.

to ocean city.

we threw our money together for gas
for food.

sleeping bags in the trunk.
no girls.

just boys, still boys even at nineteen.
we had the doors
on the radio.

Dylan.
Hendrix.

we waved and yelled at the girls
in cars going in the same direction as
we were.

we had nothing but hope. nothing but
fun and joy in our hearts.

no jobs, school an afterthought,
but we had each other.

we had the beach, the ocean once
we got there.

and that somehow was more than enough.

it's 2 a.m.

the waitress,
mid life in pink. her hair
up
in a yellow ribbon.
her hips
thick,
her legs once could stop
a clock,
coming or going.
too much lipstick, to much
sauce.
what brings her here
at two a m.
carrying plates of ham and eggs,
scrapple,
and coffee
to the night crowd,
half lit from beer, from wine,
from gin.
the truckers, the cabbies.
she's seen it all.
done it all.
the kids are grown, the husband
run off
with a best friend.
she's working.
she's alive under this silver
moon.
her feet hurt.
her pockets full of change,
and closing time is never
quite around
the bend.

no closed doors

there are no closed doors.

no locks. no bolts. no screws
to keep them shut.

they all swing freely
allowing you to pass
in any direction you want
to go.

the right one is in front of
you,
if you ask
an answer will arrive,

which one to choose, will
then be known.

the smile is gone

when the deal goes down,
things change.
the world is no longer what it once
was.
you see it in the eyes of
others.
they know just enough
to alter the course
of life.
what's hidden is out there
for all the world to see.
the light is on.
the curtain pulled back.
now what, she says. now what.
the deal is down,
there's no longer any
need for all of my masks,
the fake smile is gone.

another tail

like a dog
sometimes you chase your own
tail
around and around
in a circle you go.
it's fun for a while,
but then you get bored
and need someone else
to chase.
another tail.
sorry.

the days are nights

some have no funny bone.

laughter is hard. there is no
joy,
no sense
of humor.

they live in the dark,
weighed down

by chores, by responsibility.
by seriousness
all the time.

the world is hard.
they see no light at the end
of any
tunnel.

it's a cave without joy.
even the days
are nights.

they all can't be winners

I read a line
in brennan's book ruthless trust,

that everyday is not a ten.

and agree wholeheartedly.

such expectations we have,
making each day
a gem,
a polished stone of accomplishments
and growth.

sometimes it's less.
a five,
or even a two at times,

an on occasion a zero, barely
able to catch your breath
and get out of bed.

we want so much out of life.
love and money.
affection.

and the world lets us down
time and time again.

there are no tens, not in days
or people.

take what you get, and surrender
to it.

they all can't be winners.

just wait, you'll see

if you had to explain
to a child
what love is, where would you begin.

what words
could you explain in simple
terms
such a complex
thing.

a feeling, the butterflies,
the joy,
the anticipation,

is it the absence of someone,
or the presence.

is it longing or clinging,
or is it letting
go when
one is no longer
wanting to go on.

is that true love, giving
them a way out.

it's an impossible task
to tell
a child what love is,

so you just say wait,
you'll see.

you ease into it

you ease into it.

this age thing. the minor aches
and pains,

the grabbing of rails
to get up a flight of stairs.

being called sir
and having doors opened for
you.

slowly you rise in the morning,
or from the car
after a long drive.

stretching out those legs,
those tight
once reliable knees.

you laugh at it though.
you remember bounding nearly everywhere,
a step ahead,

impatient to get from
here to there,
brushing by the slower crowd,

and now you let others pass,
you slow
and stop to breathe,

to take in the moment,
realizing how quickly youth
has passed.

blue is a nice color

the boy at the window,
and I say boy,
only because he is so much younger
than I am,
although he may be twenty,
or even older,
but the boy,
making me coffee and taking
the change from my
hand says,
are you painting today?

I nod, yes. I am.
I can see it on your hands,
he says.
on your face.
your hat. you shirt.
I look down and smile.
he tells me that he'll be
painting his room
tomorrow on his day off.

he's getting married, he tells
me in the few minutes
that we have.
she picked out a blue, he
says, and she wants to make
clouds out of white,
like the sky.

blue is a nice color, I tell him.
i'm happy for you.

and I truly am, as I see
the joy and hope in his eyes,
so young, so new to this world
and what it will bring.

I take my coffee from his hand
and drive off.
there is more work to do.

the baker

the man spends his night
at the wide wooden table
making bread.

folding over the dough
into flour.

the sugars go in, butter,
salt, whatever it takes
for things to rise,

he bends to the power
of his hands,
against the white board.

the dust of baking is in his
eyebrows, his nose,
it clouds his hair.

his mind though is elsewhere
as he thinks
about love,
about his children, what
tomorrow might bring,

he wonders about his
life, should there be more
than this.

he slips
into the ovens what he has
molded . onto the hot shelves
where each loaf
hardens and softens
at the same time.

at the end of the night,
he sits.
he stares at the bread ready
for the morning,

when the bell rings
and the patrons come to stare
at glass cases,
at his work, pointing,

but he'll gone by then,
home,
dreaming of how he did
not one thing, but many,
many good things.

feeling at times that
life is more
than fair.

the critic

how generous she was
with her critique, soft on my
unbearable poetry.
the runaway train that it is.

but she said nice things.
encouraging things,
though much it was never her
cup of tea.

she preferred sonnets.
love poems, true love poems.

Emily Dickinson. or even frost
when he wasn't
dark and morbid.
Rilke and Rumi.

which is fine.
but she'd read them line
by line.

my raw boned stuff and smile.
saying cut here,
add this.

but she knew, she knew
deep inside
that i'd never change a bit.

an irish embrace

she was small but fierce,
as the Shakespearean quote
goes.

those crystal green blue
eyes.
the black hair.

the irish freckles splattered
about her pale
face.

that prominent nose.

an odd girl, strange in a delightful
sort of way.

an English teacher
in calvert county.

it wasn't love, it wasn't meant
to be,

but it was fun, interesting
for the length of
its brief

embrace.

good news

you get good news
in the mail.

a kind letter.

hand written, which is the best
of all.

the smudge of ink,
the misspellings,

the punctuation all wrong.

it's wonderful.
it's gold.

you'll fold it neatly back
into the envelope,

you'll keep all life long.

get off the wheel

what you want is on it's way.
ask

believe
receive.

it's that simple.

life is not to endured,
or survived,

but enjoyed and lived
to its fullest.

get out,
get off the wheel
of negativity,
that downward slide,

get off the ride.

it's time to open
your heart,

your eyes.
ask, believe, receive.

there's still time.

the ice scraper

I hear the scrapping
on the windows of cars, and look
out,
the dreaded coat of white
ice
is upon us.
I see people bent
over the hoods of their
running cars,
crunching a plastic
spoon against
the windshield.
good lord, it was eighty last
week
and now this.
I need a new wardrobe
to handle
this sudden weather change.
I have no idea
where my hat is,
my gloves,
my big boots and shovel.
what happened to global
warming?
only six more months til
spring.

ghosting

ghosting is the new way

of breaking up.

just disappear. no word. no mail,
no nothing.

into the wind we all go without
a sound.

it's easier that way.
the coward's way out.

what you thought was real,
is not.

you can put your hand through it.
the apparition
of love
and affection.

nothing drags on. it's the guillotine
the quick hanging.

the chair.

and off you go, another ghost
without a place
or soul
to haunt.

a blue light and knock

it's a dark
bar, a strange unlit place

on king street.

you have to knock to get in.
the blue light
outside the door.

the bartender is more of a scientist.
mixing
his drinks.

with his apron on.
his suspenders.

his well groomed beard
and slicked hair.

it feels like 1899 in there.

there are tubes and flasks,
the ceiling is tin.

the bar a hard carved
slice
of mahogany.

you can hardly see your hand
in front of you
as you sip

your strange drink.
it may be gin. it may be
something else.

but down it goes.
then aspirin.

another gift

it's Christmas
everyday with amazon delivery.

the big white truck
stuffed to the brim
with gifts.

another book, another shirt,
another pair
of shoes,
another something I don't
really need.

from me to me.

thank you. thank you.

two bags left

i have two bags of candy left.

it was a small
bunch of goblins and witches
this year.

i know that if i open them
i'll eat
every last bite sized bar
of chocolate.

and then feel guilty about it,
pinching my
waist to check the damage
done.

so i put them in the freezer
where everything

goes forever, never to be
seen or touched again.

my personal Siberia for leftovers.

the chewing gum solution

I think every kid in school
should chew gum.

it relaxes you.
takes the edge off.

have a can at the front of the room
for disposal
once the flavor falls flat,

or the gum gets too hard
to chew, and the risk
of swallowing it
becomes clear.

spearmint, double bubble,
whatever.

even the teacher should chew
gum.

and then time out could be called
from
all the learning
to blow bubbles.
snapping and popping them
loudly.

it's too stressful all
this teaching and studying.
tests and quizzes,

class after class,
give them gum, I say.
give them gum.

it'll help everyone relax.

revisionist history

after the dust settles,
the chaos
subsides, the wind dies down
and we
finally sit back
and relax, we think about
what happened.

we begin to review
and examine what was said
and done.
we reroll the tape, looking
for clues as to what
went wrong, or right.
what could have been said
differently.
what other roads could have
been taken.

with a fine tooth comb
we sift through
the debris of our life.
the raw reels of it all
are sprawled upon
the floor.

editing and revision will
follow shortly.
it'll still be our story,
but we'll take great pains
in crossing the t's
and dotting the i's.
deleting, and rearranging,
until we get it
right, with everything,
at last, leaning towards
our side.

turning over a new leaf

I look the window
at the maple tree, in glorious
disarray
of colors
and falling leaves

and I think I can do that.

I can turn over a new leaf.
(again)

so I write down all of my
errant ways.
my destructive
patterns of thought
and behavior and truly
decide to change.

to be a better person.

this takes awhile
and a lot of paper
and ink,

but I get it done.

I date it, sign it
and tape it to the wall.

i'm way overdue for
some positive changes,
to take my life in a new
direction,
for these dead leaves
to fall.

the caretaker

the caretaker
of the land, the two houses
where we
lived,
trimmed the hedges,
swept
the pathways,
raked and repaired
the wood,
kept the fences up.
the pool clean.
he was kind and quiet,
efficient
at his job. rarely saying
a word,
just a tip of his beret.
a satchel of wine
around his
neck.
it was in Barcelona
and we were children.
and how surprised we were
when the man
took a burlap bag
full of kittens,
just born, down to the
sea to
drown them.

our addictions

we all have our addictions.

our sugar.
our cake,

our desires that run amuck at time.
whether
food or drink,
affection.

we all need comfort from some source.
through
exercise,
or art, or serial love.
even work or

movies, books, television.
a drug,
or drink.

we need
some sort of escape

to keep us sane, to give
our minds
our hearts a break

from what bothers us,
most
of which started from day
one

in the embrace, or lack
of embrace from
who made us.

turning back the time

how nice to push the clock
back
an hour, to get that
extra
sweet time
for rest, or sleep,
or making love.
but how better life would be
to push
back a year,
or two.
and start fresh with a new
calendar,
a new
day, knowing what
you know now.

black birds on the wire

how simple
their lives are, these black birds.

wings glossed black,
the pointed beaks,
those
perfectly
round eyes, unblinking
at the future,

at the past.
how easy it is for them to
move on.

from tree to limb, from
wire to wire.

no care, no regrets, no
sorrow.

unlike us, they have wings,
carefree
as they glide
away,

no worry as to what's next.

at the end, saying yes

you visit the old folks home.

they are lined in a semi circle
in wheels chairs

and overstuffed couches. you wonder
how they
can up, having sunk in so deep
and for
so many hours in front of
the tv.

one sings.
one cries, one reads.
several have fallen asleep.

you ask each one if they have
any regrets,
what they would have done differently
if they had
another life to live,

they all say yes, then look off
into some distance
you'd rather not know about.

you don't want to be one of them,
at the end,
saying
yes.

all in it together

three brother
and three sisters, most
of them
in the wind, doing their thing.

hardly a word comes back
or goes out to any of them.

I remember how we lived
as children,
stuffed into a small duplex
house

off the beaten track.

one bathroom. the absent father,
the panicked mother.

we didn't think much of it.
the poverty,
the lack of space
or privacy.

we were all in it together,
surviving on the good
will of the church
and neighbors,

at peace
for the most part,

strange how good things
come to an end.

thank you thomas edison

I want to thank you
Thomas Edison
and other inventors
for providing us with light,
for telephones, for running water,
for toilets
that flush,
for buildings
with elevators, and blankets
that keep us warm
at night.
thank you world for
milk in a carton,
meat
and eggs
ready to go.
for figuring out how to squeeze
a grape
and make wine.
for fountain pens.
thanks to all those before
us with
their crafty ideas
on how to
build, how to make this
a livable world. how they must have
been up all night
figuring these things out.
tossing and turning.
thank you for glass,
for steel, for
the printing press,
another great idea, and
polyester, vinyl,
plastic. cotton sheets,
never iron shirts.
the medicine
that keeps us alive,
keeps us sane, keeps
up on our own two feet.
the cars, the boats, the trains,
everything that
rolls.
the wheel. thank you so
much for the wheel.
and let's not forget fire.
good lord. fire.
i'm not sure what I would
have done
in a world without fire.

my feet are cold

my feet are cold.

not wanting to go out into
this wilderness
again.

I look at the snow on the ground.
the ice
hanging on the trees.

the sky steel blue.

the world is sharpened
like a knife
in this weather.

the wind cuts and cuts
until
we bleed.

my feet are cold, do I
really want
to go out into this wilderness
once more.

is there really anything
out there

that I need?

the circle

is life a circle?

I hope not.
I really don't want to start all
over again
and end up

where I was a year ago.

i'd prefer
a different shape or form.

not a square, or rectangle,
or triangle.

something open ended perhaps.

a straight line
would do it, or a graph

showing the ups and downs,
with no ending

as zigs and zags about.

i miss a mirage

I miss her.
not who she really was,
but the mirage of her.

the hope and beauty that our
minds conceive.

I miss everyone.
the friends who have passed on.
I miss
what was, what was imagined.

I miss love.
even the fakery of love, the
false, the faux.
the imaginary love.

I miss
knowing, I miss not knowing.
I miss it all.

what I thought it was,
what it wasn't.

I miss what I wanted life
to be, but wasn't. romanticizing
wrongly so much.

I miss it all.
despite knowing it wasn't
true.

it wasn't true, and never
would be.

it's all the same
in the long run.

I miss who I wanted her to be.
but most of all
I miss you,
especially you,

that you can believe.

young couple at the bar

you see them at the bar.
a young couple, married for a while.
her ring is thick with
diamonds, the glare and glow
obvious
as she holds her phone in her hand.
staring into its abyss.
and the husband,
too, looking into his,
there is food in front of them,
plates,
dishes, and glasses forks and knives
but they are a million miles away.
there was once love there.
romance, talking.
listening, staring into one another's
eyes and wondering
about the night ahead,
the romance, the seduction, the craving
for love, for acceptance,
for sex.
and now this.
at the bar, filling a Friday night with
what.
with ambivalence, the hunt over,
the game up.
the years ahead,
a desert, an ocean, a drowning
of what was.

love advice from pete

my therapist
who is also my bartender,
pete,
is quite generous with his advice.
he puts an ice
cold apple martini on the bar,
slice of granny smith
apple
on the rim and pushes it towards
me.
go easy, he says, it was a heavy
pour.
I gulp the first sip, and wipe
my mouth with my sleeve.
thanks, I needed that.
so what's up, he says.
wiping the bar off with a rag.
the place is almost empty,
just me and him.
it's almost closing time.
there's an old couple in
the corner making out.
she's taken her teeth out
and set them on the bar,
and he's using his cane to stay
upright in his stool.
ahhh, to be in love, I say to
pete. he laughs and gives me a bowl
of pretzels.
they just met about an hour
ago.
wheel chair convention
at the holiday inn across
the street. she just had
a birthday, 73.
good God, I say, and take another
drink.
just shoot me, I tell him,
if that's me in a few years.
he laughs. I think you said
that to me ten years ago.
no luck out there? some good,
some bad. some horrendous.
mostly catch and release, I
tell him. it's brutal out there.
the herd has definitely thinned,
figuratively speaking, of course.
stop looking he says.
standing in front of me, staring
right into my eyes.
huh? I say. taking another swallow
of my martini.
trust me, he says, stop looking
for awhile. just do this one
thing, and then you'll see
what happens.
I look over at the couple in
the corner, he's got his hand
on her knee, creeping up her plaid
dress and she's tugging on
his yellow necktie. his toupee
has slipped a little, and his
face is red as the exit
sign in the corner.
they going to be okay, I ask pete.
yeah, he says, they'll be fine.
i just had my CPR certification
renewed,
and I have a defibrillator behind
the bar just in case.

love like that

we used to wave
from one window to the next
across the street, the alley,
above
the drug store, ten floors up.
we'd blow a kiss
to one another, but had never
met, not in person.
never a spoken word between us.
no rain or snow could stop our love.
we were silhouettes
in front of the light,
behind a pane of glass. but
this was good enough. true
love in two windows far apart.
nothing could go wrong with
love like that.

a cashew of a girl

we talk on the phone.

don't ask I say as she goes ahead
and asks
anyway.

oh no, she says.
yup.
I reply. yup.

and what about the ex,
that cashew
of a girl.

in the wind, I tell her.
in the wind.

or in an asylum, or jail.

no news is good news,
as the cliché goes.

delete, block, erase, burn
and bury.

cancel my subscription
to cupid
and the love fairy.

cut the cord and don't look
back.

the effervesence

the bottle
has gone flat. the fizz
is gone.
the carbonation has
evaporated
into thin
air.
the taste is blah,
the champagne has lost
its fizzle,
its pop, its effervescence
and taste.
time for a new
bottle.
something French this time,
or Italian,
there's little
time to waste.

what you believe

your first love
is your first heartbreak.

it doesn't get easier
from there.

they keep arriving,
like seasons, ever changing,
ever leaving,

but do you stop looking,
stop
wondering where
she is.

do you give up and throw
your hands
in the air,

perhaps you should, but
you don't.
there is something within
you that believes
in miracles,

that believes in the power
of prayer.

a new set of sins

let's talk about forgiveness.

sometimes I can,
many times I can't.

if there is sincerity
in the apology,
remorse regret and a genuine
effort
of being sorry,

well of course.
i'm partially in. forgive
a little,
forget never.

how many times can you allow
a person
to abuse you
again and again.

How do we become Christ,
and turn
the other cheek, how do
we tell ourselves
or others
go and sin no more.

how do we let our guard down?

like st. paul, we realize
how hard it is to
always do what's right.
it's hard
no matter how many times a
week
you go to church
and repeat a prayer.

tomorrow comes again.
a new day.
a new set of excuses.
a new set of sins.

still here

i stand at the mirror
and look
at my wounds, my scars, my
tears
and bumps,
the bruises of life,
of living
this long, of surviving
childhood,
and parents, getting past
another love
gone wrong.
i hold my arms
in the air. i
turn left, then right.
i'm here.
i don't know how,
when so many that I've
loved have passed on,
but i'm still here,
strangely, still here.

small comforts

the cotton new sheets,
blue
as a robin's egg
are soft
and welcoming as I lie
upon them.
small comforts in this world
are necessary.
coffee
and music.
a new book you can't
wait to read.
the quiet of birds.
watching
the stream flow beyond
the fence, the bending
of trees.
a simple kiss,
a hand in hand.
two bodies
curled in the bliss
of love.

codes and passwords

shuffling through
the drawers
in an effort to clean things out
on this
cold Friday
the first of November
I come across a note or two.
codes
and passwords,
all the things she gave me
too late
in the game, trying for
false proof.
it was too late, i'd seen enough,
more than enough
to change the locks
and put her things
in the yard.
she was already done
and through.
it's funny and sad at the same
time.
what we think is love
is often a mirage,
untrue.

the yellow wind

it's an orange, yellow wind
blowing wet
across the lawn, in the air,
the swirl
of leaves,
catching sunlight,
the sparkle of left over
rain.
there is no art,
no poetry
or song
that can ever compare
to what
nature brings upon us,
in
this uncertain world,
after
year.

my left foot

my left foot starts shaking around
a song by al green comes on the radio.
al green.
let's stay together.
I look at my foot and smile.
hey.
what's up, I ask my foot.
it keeps going,
keeping the beat, suddenly my
mouth begins to move
and i'm singing the song.
my hips are moving,
my head begins to dip
and swing side to side.
i'm all over the room.
let's stay together.
i'm suddenly al green, holding
up a water bottle for a mike
and singing to the crowd
to their ooohs and ahhhhs.

there by the grace of God

each corner on the main
roads
of the neighborhood
there's a man
or woman standing or
sitting there with a bucket
and a sign.
sometimes i give, sometimes
i don't.
it's a hard life, i realize.
but most are well
dressed, clean,
heavy with shelter food,
tanned from being outdoors
all day.
i can't imagine
being out there, with life
having reached that
point
of hard luck
and despair,
but one never knows, there
by the grace of God
goes all of us with
a sign a bucket
and a chair at the side of
some road.

bowl on the porch

i put a bowl of candy
on the porch
and let the kids go at it.
taking
as much as they can.
bite sized bars, gum,
the usual sugary
sweets you buy
at every store.
the boys take way more than
their share,
while the girls, polite and demure,
take one,
or two, then go to next
house.
in ten minutes it's all gone.
that was easy.

the last laugh

we put a message
in a bottle and tossed it out
into the sea
after she died.
each writing a personal
note to the deceased.
the waves
brought the bottle back in.
we tried again.
no luck.
I swam out up to my neck
and heaved it
from there.
again, the tide washed
it ashore.
so we gave up. she had
the last laugh
but would have loved
the effort and sentiment.

the past is present

why write about the past
she asks
move on
from that, delete, dispose
erase
what lay behind
you.
but no.
bring it.
carry it until your finished
with what it was
then drop it
and go forward. these are things
we carry.
for better or for worse,
in sickness
and in health,
love, hearts, souls,
the people
we have known.

this is fine for now

I remember a night,
my friends and I after carousing the bars
of Georgetown,
drinking,
dancing, chasing the young
girls
from Marymount,
how we found a diner
on the side of the road.
it was snowing,
we were tired, but thirsty still,
hungry,
defeating the wind,
the cold
in our winter clothes,
Christmas scarves around
our necks.
we found a booth and ordered
eggs and toast,
bacon. juice and coffee,
a thin steak, waffles.
we were lucky.
young still in our twenties.
just out of the gate.
I remember looking
out the window
at the snow, how it gathered
so pristine and white
upon the road.
my friends full of laughter,
the wonder of it all.
I could stay here forever,
I thought,
right here.
who needs what's next.
this is good. this is fine
for now.

don't write

don't write to be loved,
or for money or fame.
don't write
if it's too hard, if the words
don't come
as you hunch over
the keyboard, stop
if you can't think of a thing
that's boiling out
of you.
don't write
to impress, to be read,
to be hailed as
some sort of creative
genius.
throw down the pen if it's
too difficult,
too shallow
and not from the heart.
move on, move on to other
things if you can't find
the words
or the time, or you're too
busy
to even start.
don't write, don't fool
yourself
and waste your time.
it's not for you.
the bookstores yawn with
your kind of writing.
the shelves sag with defeat.
don't write if it's not
like beams of light
emanating from you soul.
don't write.

halloween politics

i buy three bags of candy
for the onslaught of children soon
to come
knocking at the door.
little vampires.
walking pumpkins, devils
and princesses,
goblins and ghosts.
little children dressed
as the president
with big yellow hair and
a mouth that won't
stop flapping,
the scariest costume of all.

before dinner chores

after a grueling hard
physical week of work,
i'd take a trip over the bridge
to visit my mother.
finally saying yes to
the innumerable requests for
dinner. immediately she'd hand
me a list
of chores
there were leaves to rake
before hand,
things to move
about the house,
the king mattress down into
the cellar.
oh and could you
carry in those bags of groceries,
and that new
water heater.
she'd hand me a broom,
the leash to her dog.
give me a dust mop and a
bottle of windex.
I can't reach that window,
the ladder is out back.
oh, and the room needs painting.
and when you're done with
those things,
the oven needs cleaning.
i'd look over at her husband,
sleeping on the couch,
a dead cigar in his mouth
and wonder what's up with that.

back into the wild

back into the sea you go,
back into
the wild.
tossed under the bus
and over
the side
of a relationship gone
south.
the water is cold, dark,
the woods
deep and endless.
the profiles are pieces
of chocolate,
not all with creamy
fillings to your liking.
there is catch and release,
bite and spit out.
it's a wacky
world we're living in.
but what are the options,
mars,
venus, both too far
away.
so it's small talk,
and calamari.
drinks and pats on the back,
luke warm
hand shakes,
kisses on the cheek.
it's a nightmare,
but I guess i'm back.

the hopscotch kids

the kid
next door draws a bunch
of squares
on the sidewalk
with a stick of white chalk,
then gets a game of hopscotch
going
with a bunch of her
little buddies.
i'm sitting on the porch
with a beer
and a book,
stretching my legs out,
letting the sun
careen off my face.
the dad is out there with
them, the mom too,
holding the next baby
in her arms. they
keep the game
under control,
dampening the screaming,
keeping score.
it's a wonderful thing
to be a kid
playing hopscotch
and not worrying about
tomorrow.
a truly glorious thing.

splendid isolation

I try not to join any clubs,
groups,
meet ups,
gatherings of those
with similar interests.
no group therapy, or dance classes,
or spin classes,
or running groups.
I don't want to sing in
a choir,
or go to a bible study,
or make pancakes
on sunday morning with
the men's group.
or attend a writing class
and have
things analyzed
and torn to shreds.
I actually try to stay away from
most of my family.
or the family of others who
get under my skin.
it's not a good trend, what i'm
doing here.
but at this age I truly
don't give a damn.
I've paid my dues doing all
the things I don't
want to do.
I just can't do small talk
anymore with a bunch
of fools.
spare me. and trust me, I know
it's not cool.

waiting on my number

floundering in my late teens,
with long hair, and a solid
three years of community
college under my belt,
I pondered
the idea
of joining the navy

so that I wouldn't get drafted
into the army
and have to go to Vietnam
and kill be people.

I had nothing against them
yellow men, as Cassius Clay
once said.

the bell bottoms and snappy
white hats
somehow appealed to me.

join the navy, see the world.

being on a ship for months
on end
with a bunch of animal men,
well,
that didn't sit well with my
tender sensibilities.

no windows. are we there yet?

would I have to
get a tattoo
on my arm, saying mom,
or death, or
a skull and cross bones
with angel wings?

would I have to smoke and drink
and do whatever it is
that sailors do?

going wild on liberty looking
for dames
in the dockside bars.

I didn't see a future in the navy,
so I waited
with my fingers crossed
on the draft.

hoping that the war would end
before my number was called.

got lucky with that.

falling in love once more

you dive into a hardback copy
of Charles Bukowski.

The Essential Bukowski.

it's poetry with a hammer
and
nine inch nails
driven into brick and board.

power saws and shovels
cut and bury the world in hard
struck letters
on his manual typewriter.

a lot of blood, blisters,
hard boiled
sentiments
and words.

and then you come across
a poem
called 'bluebird'

slipped into the mix
of drunkenness
and whores,
racetracks and bad luck,

and you fall madly in
love
with poetry once more.

the girls in their summer dresses

i go visit my boy jake,

at the local ICU
facility.

his head is wrapped like a turban
in white gauze.

they've cut him open to stop the bleeding.

his eye is black.
he's grey and brown, bruised,
his leathery skin
is drawn
tight and loose at the same time,

he's immobile, tethered
to the humming machines,

but he's still here.

he laughs when i come in.
i guess you're not working today
i tell him.

no, he says, maybe tomorrow.

the nurse spoons some apple sauce
into his mouth,
then the juice.

i tell him about the job. i can see
in his eyes
that he wants to be out there,
brush in hand.

on a ladder, smoking, cursing,
whistling at girls
walking by in

their summer dresses.

gourmet shopping spree

i take a small loan out

to go shopping at the big new grocery
store down the street,

where everything is fresh, organic
and
wonderful.

so much green to behold,
cabbages were hugged as they came up out of
the ground.

salmon were read to every night
before going to sleep,
and the chickens all
had names like binky and Susie,
jimmy and spike.

the clerks are perky and smart.
each aisle has a bench so that you can sit
and read the labels.
study the ingredients.

how much sugar, how much salt.

fresh fish, thank god, no one wants
old fish,

same goes for meat, or freshly baked
bread.

no, on second thought give me the stale
loaf, i kid the kid in his
starched green apron.

and yes, i did find everything i was looking for,
if i didn't, why
would i be in line?

there will be more

I grab the strap of the train,
riding
through this tunnel, it's gonna
be a bumpy
ride the conductor
says over the garbled
speaker, sounding much like
betty davis
when she hit her crazy
woman stride.
a job falls apart, you get
a dear john letter
in the mail.
someone wants a refund
for work undone.
there's a wet spot on
the ceiling.
it seems, as always, that
many things, good or bad,
happen at once.
I grab the strap and hold on.
I've been around this bend
before, and expect before
it's all over that times
like this, with rain and wind,
defeat and sorrow, well,
there will be more.

cat lady

lonely for love,
she started with one cat,
but one soon became two, it seemed
only kind
and natural to give
the one a friend to spend
the day with,
the night time too.
soon, though, three cats
were there,
then four, and when the fourth
had kittens,
well there was little
to be done,
but tell no one, and shut
the door.

almost a moon

it's almost a moon.

a piece missing. such is the sky
at night.
the spin of the earth,

the sun too.
all things are not always aligned
the way
you want them to be.

it's almost a moon.
look up.
see.

stay calm, breathe

how do we handle
traffic,
the long line, the loss
of power,
the middle seats in
life.
the small inconveniences
like rain
when you wanted sun,
a broken lace,
a loose thread,
someone forgetting your
name,
taking your space,
wrongly thinking that you
are to blame.
how do we overcome these slights?
we don't,
we exhale and move on
without a thought
to what they may or may
not mean.
move on, stay calm.
breathe.

the father son talk

i call my father for advice
in the love department,
which is a crazy idea to start
with, knowing his track record.
he quickly changes the subject
to baseball though, saving us
an awkward and pointless
conversation. we talk best when
nothing really gets said.
the weather, sports, his garden.
the price of milk, bread and eggs.
gas is two thirty nine for regular
he tells me before hanging up.
how's it up where you live?

practice

I put a turkey in the oven.

a small bird.
throw some potatoes into a pot
of boiling water.

corn.
beans.
sprouts.

gravy of course and stuffing.
cranberries.

bread. red wine. sparkling water.

it's a practice run for the holiday.
need to get it right
this time.

practice makes perfect.

make it cold

anxious
for cold weather. I stack
the cords
of wood for the fireplace
near the door.

the chill is late in arriving.
i'm ready though
to be snowed in.

for a deep freeze. a killing
frost.

i'm ready for the ice
to cover the roads.
ready to bundle up and let

all that's behind me sink in.
i'm ready for comfort food,
for the furnace,
the hot burn of the fireplace.

the hot drinks.
the blankets pulled tight.

bring it on, father winter.
bring it on,
make it snow. cover the earth.
cover it whole.

make it cold.
then start life in april
all over again.

down shirley highway

we would dive for copper
pennies
in the deep end of the airman's pool
on base
at Bolling,
down Shirley Highway, or
South Capitol street,
depending on how brave we were
on our bikes,
weather and parents
permitting.
we had our military id's,
and a pocket full
of change for sodas
and hot dogs
at the concession stand.
we were not brave boys
or girls who
who traveled those roads
in southeast dc, but
we were young and strong,
innocent and naïve.
we would dive for pennies
in the clean blue water
of the pool.
lined in black, the ropes
for those swimming
doing laps.
down we would go off the side,
like skinny white
tadpoles,
diving, diving to the bottom
where the steel drain was,
our eyes blurred with chlorine,
red and stinging,
our ears popping from
the pressure.
we were tanned and burned,
lean. we through ourselves
into
cannonballs off the low dive,
the music over the loudspeaker,
sixties pop, the smell of coconut
butter,
the girls in modest bikinis,
the lifeguard with his whistle
keeping us between
the lines.
life was wonderful,
and it felt like it would
never end,
it seems now like a distant
impossible dream.

different woods

i go for a walk into the woods.

no, not those woods with the infamous
heart carved in the tree
woods.

where my ex and her married boyfriend
would rendezvous
and hold hands like
children
hiding from everyone.

no not those woods. God no.
but a different forest, a different path,
with a different stream
beside it.

i know that the weather will change
soon, and that
the leaves
will eventually give
way.

so today is as good as any to stroll
through
the woods,

quiet and calm.
a peaceful walk on
this drama free day.

reversible belts

I don't trust
anything reversible.

belts, or coats, hats,
gloves.

any type of clothing.
don't tell me I can wear
it inside out
and it's okay.

even
phone calls, when they
reverse the charges.

if you don't have a few quarters,
just write me a letter.

something just doesn't seem
right.

seem kosher.

just make it one way and leave
it at that.

I don't want a brown
and black belt
in one.

give me one or the other.

the lie detector machine

I make a trip down to the old
fbi
building to pick up a few things
that they're throwing away
or selling at dirt cheap
prices.

I have my eye on an old fashioned
lie detector,
the kind with the arm cuff
and the wiggly lines
that
zig zag all over the place
on the scrolling sheets
of paper.

I wished i'd had one of those
a few
years ago,
or thirty years ago, as a
matter of fact.

there's a dozen women
I've dated
or had relationships with
that I would have loved to hook
them up to the machine.

oh, the mistakes I wouldn't
have made.
a few simple questions would
have saved me a lot
of money, heart ache,
jewelry and
flowers, not to mention
scratches down the side of my car.

although the last relationship
would have blown the machine
up and made it catch fire.
you couldn't get the truth
out of her even with her hand
on a bible.
she was allergic to the truth.
still is.

let's get this work day started, yo

at some point i'll get to work.

feeling lazy.

lethargic. maybe this double espresso
will help.

I look into my phone.
nothing.

I got nothing. no sweet good mornings.
I love you,
I miss you can't wait to kiss
you.

boy I miss affection.
if my libido ever settles down,
maybe life would be easier.

how much longer can I have the desire
of an eighteen year old?

I think about getting a dog.

then take a cold shower and shake
that idea out of my head.

pants, shirt, socks and shoes.
stuff a few dollars
into my pocket for lunch.

the coffee and cold shower
seem to be working.

off we go.

i hate to complain, but

I get in line at the complaint
department.

the line wraps around the building.

my list of grievances is short,
but strong.

I look over the shoulder of the
woman in front of me.

her list is longer.
I read it quietly while
she continues to write.

illness. betrayal. children,
husbands,
a litany of lies.
sore feet, headaches,
kidney stones,
money issues. adultery,
flat tires, pink eye.

it goes on and on.
I look down at my list
and realize that my life isn't
so bad after all.

I crumble up my little piece
of paper
and toss it in the can.

I feel better already.

stolen

if you leave things
lying around, they may get taken,
stolen,
lifted.

your wallet, your keys,
you car,
left running.

a half a sandwich on the table,
the dog
comes along
and takes it.

there is part of this world
without
a conscience.

they take what they want
without guilt or remorse,
regret.

if you make yourself vulnerable,
open your heart,
the door to your soul,
that too is gone,

taken like a thief in the night.

they just move on, and take more
when no one is looking

and the coast is clear.

the giant rubber eraser

i'd like to take a giant
rubber
eraser
and erase parts of my life away.

yes, I know, childish, foolish,
a ridiculous notion, but

oh the pleasure it would bring
to my psyche
to carve
out a half a dozen knuckle headed
mistakes I've made.

I'd take that eraser and scrub
the words out of my mouth,
actions, behavior,
desires,
crazy notions of love, or anger,
most of the dumb
things I've every had the audacity
to say.

it would have to be a very large
eraser,
so I might need help with it.

come on over, will make it a day.

planning ahead

I make a plan
for the next day. it's not
something I ordinarily do,
but I need to get more organized.

I plan on stopping by the ice
cream store
on the way home from work
tomorrow
and getting a double scoop
of rocky road and mint chip

ice cream on a sugar cone.
I've written this plan out
on a note card.
three by five, blue.
my favorite color.

I've set the card beside my keys
so that I won't forget it
in the morning.

I go to sleep more soundly
now.
my plans for tomorrow all
set
and written in ink.

solitary confinement

I remember those long nights in prison.

on my stiff bed, the thin cold mattress
without a sheet,
a hard sand bag
like pillow for my head.

I remember the stripes of
the iron bars, their shadows
long in the corridor.

the sirens, the beams of searchlights,
the rattle of cans
and the whimpers of those
in the cells beside me.

how we whispered into the night
what we'd do when we got out.

the meals we'd eat, the drinks
we'd pour, the places we'd travel,
the women we'd love.

I remember looking up at the ceiling,
listening to her breathe,
hearing her nightmares
come out of her mouth in small cries,

curled like a cold stone in her own
arms, a foot between us in the same bed,
but a thousand miles away.

I scratched another mark on the wall.
another day, another night
without love, without trust, without
freedom.

more alone than I've ever been
in my life,
married
and stuck behind these bars.

the devil will get his due

we make handshakes
with the devil,
a moments pleasure for a life
time
of grief.
steal the money,
cheat on the test,
marry the pretty girl
and ignore
what's best.
it never turns out the way
you wanted it.
the devil will get his
due, all in good time,
on that you can bet.

i'd really like to know

this
other thing, this other
problem.

this issue,
this mysterious secret,
this cloud,

this dark current,
this undertow,

this quiet storm above,
below.

do all things pass, or
do they
continue on and on and on.

i'd really like to know.

broken

broken laces,
broken
valves broken
windows
broken locks
broken vows.
broken hearts broken
gates,
broken chairs,
broken vases.
busted dreams,
busted
lips, broken noses,
busted hips.
broken shoes, broken
bottles,
broken children,
broken
tools, broken beds,
broken
women, broken men,
broken lives,
broken bread.