chasing cars and cats

i see a bag of

dog food on top of her

refrigerator.

hips and joints it reads.

specialty food

for old dogs.

i reach up

and grab a handful.

it's not too bad tasting.

dry and a little mealy,

but it goes down

with a swig of coffee.

after a few more 

helpings,

my knees don't seem to

feel

any better,

but i've developed

a bark instead of a cough,

and i'm suddenly

interested

in chasing cars and cats.

if i want your opinion i'll give it to you

if i want your opinion

i'll give it to you, my once close

friend

says

when discussing politics,

religion,

movies, relationships

and the price

of eggs.

his wisdom

is that of a small child.

his world even

smaller. but he's a friend

and you're

attached

to the hip by decades of

memories.

you wonder why it took

so long to realize

that you have little in common

and

that you tolerate and endure

all

his endless

bullshit.

strangers

we pass

on the street.

each stranger that we

will

never know,

or ever meet.

we are birds

in the sky.

just passing by

on our own wings.

or fish in the sea.

a random

rainbow of colors

floating

aimlessly,

or so it seems.

broken funny bones

the political correctness

is killing

the comedians.

it's hard to be funny these days

without offending

someone

to the core of their

skewed beliefs.

what was funny last week

is now punishable

by death,

or boycott.

i saw three funny guys

on the corner, limping

with cups and signs.

their funny bones broken.

the thick book

i try to plow through a new book,

but it's boring

and dry

tiring.

the writer goes to great lengths

to tell you in detail

all the things you don't really

care about. you had such 

high hopes, it being on the new

york times best seller list

nineteen weeks in a row,

and maybe by

page 200 it will

grab you by the collar

and keep you reading, but

your impatience

has grown steadily throughout

the years.

by page ten the book

is either on the shelf or

holding a door open that

needs a hinge adjustment, or

just thrown across the room

towards the circular file.

lonely nights and lonely days

i laugh and shake my head

when i hear

someone say

i'm lonely.

don't tell me about loneliness

i say.

don't even go there.

you have no

idea what it is until you're

in a relationship

with someone who

isn't there.

someone lying beside you,

that you hope

one day will disappear.

message in a bottle

when she died we all

wrote messages to her

and stuffed them

into an empty bottle,

then tossed the bottle out into

the ocean.

the bottle kept coming back.

no matter how far we tossed it out.

we laughed.

i'm sure she laughed too,

rolling her eyes at such

sentimental crap.

going in circles

we take the boat out.

just a row boat.

wooden, with two oars.

old seats, the paint peeling.

a small leak

or two.

the water sloshing around

our bare feet.

the little boat we once

loved has seen

better days.

in the old days we'd be

there in twenty minutes to

the other shore.

we row, her on one oar

and me on the other.

there's an ice cream shop

across the pond.

we can almost taste the cold

sweetness on

our tongues.

but we go in circles now, never

arriving to the other side.

we're different now.

things have changed, our love

has faded,

our arms have grown

tired.

a failure to communicate

what we have here

is a failure to communicate.

love that line.

the movie.

the man.

hardly a day goes by

when you can't

say it to someone.

especially now in these

crazy times.

those halcyon days

in those halcyon days i kept

a box

where things left behind

would go.

where the current  love of my life,

or like,

the true ones,

the false and fake, the friends,

who had too much

to drink, even past wives,

.

would leave things

on the floor, below the bed,

between the sheets,

in bathrooms, or on

the steps. something black

and sheer

hanging in the closet

or on a door.

watches and things.

stockings and rings.

brushes and pills,

bracelets. unmentionables

and

hats and gloves, even coats

left behind in the dead

of winter storms.

i'd put them all in a box,

marked lost.

most never found again.

in the abstract

the bottle of champagne

is half empty.

it sits

on the counter

warm and still,

no cheers

are left.

no promise or vows

or toasts being made.

all done.

the sunlight streams through

the green glass

and lies upon the floor

in a soft

puddle of moss, a piece of art

in the abstract of an evening

gone.

tie it with a bow

as years roll on

friends diminish. death takes

its toll.

and the ones that remain

are no longer

close to you.

you suddenly

realize that you have

little in common anymore.

so they fall away as well.

cards and letters no longer 

come or go out.

the phone goes quiet,

but you don't care so much.

because you've arrived

at a place where peace

is all that matters.

you've had your life, now

tie it with a bow.

your new true love

once it was summer 

that became

your true love.

your season

of preference.

the sun

the surf the soft sand of time

with more before

you than behind.

but now,

it's fall, the autumn of your

years

that you embrace.

you find new love in the colored

leaves that fall,

the death of those

you once held dear.

small happiness

happiness comes in small

doses.

an unexpected gift.

a sweet

upon your lips.

a cold drink on a hot day.

a kind

word,

a poem meant for you,

just you,

the ink drying

on the decree, that 

say, it's over.

we're finally through.

the long hot summer

i smile at

each green

leaf catching the soft parade

of rain.

the sky

darkening with each

clap

of thunder, each strike

of lighting

in the distance.

i lift my head to

drink it in.

not yet, but summer

is coming

to an end.

unclogging the pipes

i call a plumber to snake

the drains.

they're clogged with long strands

of brittle

blonde hair.

wrapping up the pipes

like seaweed,

wiry strands

from the deep green

sea.

it takes a few minutes

and then

the water flows nice

and easy.

clean and free once more,

like me.

better be good

when you were a child

there was always

a surprise waiting at the bottom

of a box,

some tiny gift made of plastic

that would entertain you

for a few minutes.

there was the tooth fairy

with her dimes,

the birthday bribe,

santa and his sleigh, the easter

bunny with candy

and eggs.

it was as if the world was

preparing you for all the lies

that were yet to come.

getting you used to the idea

of disappointment.

of having things come undone.

three martinis

to be dizzy, light headed

and woozy 

rising from the chair

one drink

too many under your belt,

empty

on nourishment, but full

of self.

you grab the nearest

rail, the wall,

a fare damsel, who bids you

farewell, and you ask,

what no kiss, as you go

off into that good night,

tripping down the long

stairwell.

The Mars Talk

i meet my friend Ernie for lunch

down at the park

by the space museum.

he's a scientist from MIT.

he's agreed to answer some questions

about the possibility of men

going to mars.

he's wearing a light blue

seer sucker suit, and wearing

a straw hat.  no cane.

he brings his lunch, a tuna sandwich

with the crust cut off, an apple,

and three oreo cookies, with a few

cut up carrots in a plastic bag.

all of it packed neatly into

his star trek lunch box.

his wife has written him a note,

which he doesn't share with me,

but makes him nod his head

and say. oh my. yes indeed, then

he looks at his mickey mouse watch.

i'm having a lamb sub sandwich made

by an Ethiopian food truck idling

on the street, coughing black fumes

into the air. some of the sandwich grease

 has dripped onto my t-shirt.

why mars? i ask him, interviewing

him for my neighborhood online

column.

why not? he says, smugly, chewing

on his sandwich.

well, there's no water, no food.

no air. no electricity, no chance of life

surviving in that atmosphere.

we, as humans adapt. we are smart.

we know how to live under the harshest

of environments. 

No air, i say again, emphasizing the word

air.

we'll bring air and food, water, etc.,

he says  

there's a little mayo on his chin, which

i point out to him.

gently he dabs at it with his folded

napkin.

it''ll cost billions though, and maybe lives

will be lost.   what about the earth.

we need medicine, jobs, people are starving.

the economy, global warming....we're in

a pandemic right now with this crazy virus.

fiddle de dee, he says, now munching on

a carrot.  that's why we need to go

to other planets. a fresh start, a do over.

we'll bring back some rocks, and mars

dirt and see what gives.

but we have dirt and  rocks here.

not the same, he says. not the same.

have faith my uneducated friend.

he points at the grease stain on

my t-shirt, with his finger, i look

down, and he moves his hand up

to hit my chin.

gothca, he says.  

i roll my eyes and take another bite

of my never ending sandwich.

mars will be fun, he says.

an adventure.

wouldn't you want to go?

not really, but hey. can we wrap this

up, thanks for the interview, but

i need to find a bathroom, my stomach

is rumbling like crazy on account

of this sandwich.

there's one in the museum, he says,

pointing with a carrot...take a left

at the gemini capsule

and it's down the hall from there.

the diagnosis

the blood count is wrong.

there' a problem.

she's in a panic.

she's on the phone.

she's deep into the dive

of finding out

what's gone

wrong.

her heart races. her mind

goes numb.

can this life be over so soon.

there's so much

left to be done.

her is face broken

into tears,

her skin is blanched 

in ashes.

it's what we all fear.

a life unlived to its fullest.

we've run out of time.

we've  entered

unwillingly into our final

year.

I Don't

there are some words

you promise yourself to never say

again.

not cuss words.

who can stop that, especially these

days.

but words like,

I do.

it's a short list, i know.

but one i aim to keep from

this day forward.

the massage

i remember coming home one day

from work

hot, tired, sweaty, covered in grime

and seeing

my wife lying naked on a table

with a towel around

her butt

getting a massage from some Indian

dude.

what the hell? i think i said.

she turned her head and 

introduced me to Abdul.

he's in my yoga class,

we're doing a barter thing.

he smiled brightly and winked at me.

they had some incense burning

and music

with just bells tinkling.

i went upstairs, took my shoes

off, my clothes

and took a shower.

then i took a nap after kneeling

beside

the bed

and praying to God for salvation.

where's your mother?

i remember my father getting up

from the over stuffed

couch, beer in hand,

a pipe stinking up the room,

and going to the tv to smack

it on the side, trying to fix

the picture as the horizontal

control went wild.

back then the tv

looked like a dresser.

or a nightstand.  when ours

finally caught fire and  broke

down for good, my father refused

to get rid of it, calling

it a good piece of furniture.

I think this wood is maple, he said.

it went into the corner

where my mother put a vase

of flowers on it, as if it

was a grave site.

i learned most of my swear

words during these times

when the picture went

haywire.  he'd yell out, okay,

what the hell now?

ever since the Russians

put that goddamn sputnik

in the sky i can't get my shows on.

his shows being Jackie Gleason

and the Honey Mooners, or the Miss

America Pageant.

he'd twist some dials in the back

like a safe cracker,

then fiddle with the antennae 

and tell me to go get a roll

of tin foil from the kitchen.

he'd build up the long metal

rabbit ears, wiggle them around,

smack the side again, until

finally a snowy picture,

but unmoving, might appear.

he'd yell out,

okay, don't move, don't move

an inch, hold the dog down,

then he'd go back to

his chair slowly so as not to

interfere with the f...ing gamma

rays as he called them.

he'd sip from his beer,

take a long drag off his pipe

and  say something like,

where's your mother? why 

aren't you outside playing?

i'd tell him because it's

ten o'clock at night and it's

dark out... i think mom is upstairs

crying in the bathroom again.

a crowd with three

the phone rings at three a.m.

no voice

on the other end.

hello, i say.

then again. hello.

i can hear breathing. the soft

breathing

of a cat maybe.

a whispery breath inhaling,

exhaling.

hello, is that you?

yes, she says, it's me.

can i come over. i miss you.

i'm sorry

about every thing.

probably not a good idea at the time,

i tell her.

it would be a crowd with

three.

misery loves company

i find an orange in the back 

of the fridge.

it's not too happy.

it's flat and green on one side.

it's made friends though with a lemon

lying beside it,

grim and bitter,

also old,

and a half of head

of lettuce.

slightly browned

and crinkled.

i think about a few past

relationships, but draw no

conclusions,

or metaphors.

i hate to break them up.

misery loving company.

so i grab a beer and shut the door

i leave them

in the cool darkness

of the ice box.

my ears are ringing all night.

i have nothing to wear

i have four closets full of clothes

and three dressers,

but i feel like

i have nothing to wear.

i hear women say this all the time.

how they try on

three dresses, or pairs of jeans,

six different pairs of shoes,

and blouses

before settling on

something they say they hate.

even with jewelry, they can't

decide. which ring? which necklace,

which bracelet?

i'm not quite that bad.

it's the jeans, the blue pair,

or the grey ones and a button

down shirt,

white or blue.

maybe a black sweater

if the weather is cool.

black shoes.

a big dilemma though

just the same.

crime is up, love is down

crime is up.

love is down.

misery is on the rise.

the future is not what it used

to be.

we reminisce about the old days.

we long

for them.

the casual drink

at the local bar.

the dance floor. 

the party.

the first kiss on a fun

date.

ancient history.

crime is up.

love is down.

not strings attached

you make reservations at the old

go to pub

in town.

but it's called call ahead now,

not reservations.

table for two.

outside.

the breeze, the blue sky

as stars

appear.

it's hard to say where it will

go.

what will transpire, but it's just

nice to get out.

and have a drama free

evening

with no surprises. no strings

attached.

no history

behind us,

just what we bring in the smallest

of bags.

her buns

i'll marry the next woman

that makes

me a batch of hot cinnamon

buns

covered in icing.

fresh from the oven.

okay, i'm joking.

but we  could become close

friends.

there is something about

the scent of

cinnamon filling the house

in the early

morning hours,

while it's raining outside

that makes you feel everything

is going to be alright.

that life is worth living,

that the world is not just full

of evil people,

but there are good souls too.

the weather channel

the news

is never ending.

mostly bad news, except

for the cat

stuck in the tree

rescued by the fire department.

i'd like to wake up one morning

and turn

on the television

and hear the man or woman say,

there is no

breaking news today.

go back to bed.

we'll let you know if anything

has changed.

basically though, you're

all screwed.

i understand now why my mother

watched

only the weather

channel.

pulling weeds

i see her pulling weeds

all day

in the yard

next to mine.

bent

at it.

knees in the soft wet

ground.

it takes

her away from the real

world.

from her problems.

from

the past and present.

the future is

no where to be found.

and then

it begins to rain.

it rains all night,

and tomorrow the yard

will be filled once

more with

green,

and she can start again.

the third date

she starts telling me about her

cats.

all three of them.

it's the third date,

the dinner date at her house

and i can see

this is going nowhere.

the food was awful, the wine

stale.

jello for desert?

she has spinach in her teeth.

i fall asleep as she continues

on about

the cats.

she taps me on the foot, 

are you awake?

yes, yes go on, you were

saying something about fluffy,

her fleas, or something?

please, go on,

tell me more.

i can hardly wait.

no time to waste

it takes a small

hole to sink a ship.

just one word, that slips

from

a pair of

angered lips.

a look, a glance.

a sent message in haste.

that's all it takes,

to pick up

your hat

and leave with no

time to waste.

the higher road

there are other roads

to be on,

unlike the one you are on now.

there are higher

roads

with less detours, with 

a straighter path

getting you to where

you need to go.

first unload the weight

of those

who drag you down,

who keep you slow.

pull over and let them out,

then drive straight, drive

true, drive out of this town.

i write poetry too

she says to me,

i write poetry too.

perhaps we should share some.

i'd love

to read yours.

so i send her a few,

the blood from

my veins not quite dried

on the paper

after dipping

a pen in.

she sends me hers.

they are mostly about flowers,

and kittens.

sunsets and beaches.

the morning dew.

we never talk again.

Church Mice

i never hear the neighbors.

they are church mouse.

quiet.

hardly a cross word comes out

of their mouths.

not a yell or scream,

or argument.

no music, no sound from

the tv

against our shared wall.

no symphony of love being

made

in the early

morning.

or nights. no rattle of headboard,

or squeak

of springs.

no footsteps going up

or down

the stairs.

you hardly hear them at all.

and when

i see them on the sidewalk,

them going on

their way

and i mine,

they look so unhappy

as if 

something is terribly wrong.

the new couple

it's a small brick house.

three rooms.

a yard

for the dog.

a line for the wet clothes

to dry

in the sunlight and wind.

a chain link fence.

he and his

wife

and two kids did fifty years

there

until one died and the other

moved to florida.

the kids all grown and gone

to the side

of their own lives.

and now a new couple

has arrived.

they wave from the porch

as they

start it all over

again.

asking for forgiveness

does the thief

go sleepless at night.

feeling

the guilt of his work?

does he pray

and ask forgiveness

for taking what is not his

or hers

to take?

perhaps,

perhaps not. and those

that steal

your heart, your time,

the precious years of your

life,

do they too,

beg forgiveness, before

stealing more in 

the shadows of

broad day light.

sour milk

her skin

was milk, her lips like butter.

an angel

fallen

from the sky

with blue diamond

eyes.

words that fell from

her mouth

in whispers though,

were

lies. all lies.

Bottom of the Barrel

i meet my friend jimmy 

up at the local bar,

six stools apart.

we have to talk really loudly though,

because

of our diminished hearing.

we lean towards each other, cupping

our hands to our ears.

he tells me he's joined a dating site

and has met someone.

which site, i ask him.

it's called 
Bottom of the Barrel, he says.

it's a free site

unless you want to message them.

it's the number one dating

site at nursing homes

and assisted living

facilities, not to mention prisons.

oh, i say. sounds interesting. i've

tried them all,

but not that one.

hey, he says, at this age, what chance

do we have on the other sites.

what?

he yells back, what chance do we have...

never mind.

what's her name?

i forget he says. it might be ruby,

or sally,

something with a y on the end of it.

her screen name is foxylady69.

she's got some miles on her, but she's

cute from what i can see

from her candle lit bathroom picture.

shame she didn't flush the toilet behind

her though. 

we did a  zoom the other day and it

went pretty well.   she was wearing her

mask because her grandkids were there

on her lap. she has seven cats, by the way.

she named them all after the seven

dwarfs.

seven dwarfs. there's  dwarfs on that site?

no no....she named them sleepy, dopey...etc.

oh.

we're going to

hike rag mountain next weekend

once she gets out of the hospital.

what's she in for?

no idea. some girl stuff i guess, or her

varicose veins that are popping out

pretty bad.  she sent me a picture.

maybe i'll give that site a shot.

i got nothing going on right now,

with the virus and all that.

you never know when old cupid is

going to put an arrow through you though.

but it 

sounds like you got a keeper with her.

this round's on me.

what?  i said, this round...oh never mind.

Bartender!!

47 laminated reasons

having a moment

of relationship amnesia,

or euphoric recall

as Dr. Ramani calls it,

i quickly go to my laminated

list of 47 reasons

as to why this toxic person

should never be contacted again.

i slowly read through

the reasons until i calm

myself down

and shake the notion out

of me.

i pin it back up to the bathroom

mirror.

and brush my teeth.

the couch protester

the urge to riot

has never occurred to me.

looting, screaming, setting things

on fire.

putting on my bike helmet

and getting

some bricks from the back yard to throw

through a store window.

i'm more of a couch protester

these days.

i don't even know

what side i'm on half the time,

i can go

either way.

i've gotten lazy lately.

plus

the British Baking Show is coming

on soon

and i don't want to miss

a second of it

It's the chocolate cake

episode.

nothing has changed, dear boy

bored

on a sunday, i dig through

a cardboard

box in the basement.

it's thick with papers,

old bills,

photographs.

odds and ends of things

i apparently think

or thought we're

indispensable.

i come across a loose

leaf note book with

spiral rings

from the early seventies.

strange attempts

at poetry.

dark musings,

mostly about relationships,

parents,

money, sex. the l word,

and trying to

figure out this crazy world

we're in.

nothing's changed, dear

boy.

the weather girl

the weather girl

is excited about the rain,

she's too pretty

for the regular news.

the floods,

the tornado.

she's at the big map

pointing

in her fancy dress

her make up.

her heels

and smile that lights

up the room.

i could watch the weather

all day

with her

and never once step

outside.

My Personal Gardener

i look out the window

at the yard.

a small squared yard,

the same

as everyone else's in this row

of townhouses.

i think about going out

and digging up the weeds.

this thought passes quickly though.

the rain has made it green.

i prefer to keep it that way.

God is my gardener,

and winter is on the way.

the boy on the corner

the slender boy

with blonde hair standing on

the street corner

at the light every morning

holds up his sign.

he could be anyone's son.

he's there every day,

rain or shine.

wind or cold.

snow or ice.

he glides easily from

car to car waiting for a window

to roll down,

for a dollar or two.

there is no shame,

no look on his face that

defines madness,

or illness.

he's just a boy, not quite

a man,

a slender reed of life

on the corner, blue eyed

and young.

his life seems at an end,

not beginning.

he makes you nervous.

with his persistence.

how he looks you in the eye.

a part of you wants him

gone.

wants him home, or at work.

with his family.

anywhere but here

making you feel guilty

about something you don't

even understand.

if lamps could talk, oh my

i order two new table

lamps

for the bedroom.

on sale.  a tad pricey, but

after looking

at a thousand other lamps,

they are the only

ones i want.

i'm hoping to get them by christmas.

Portugal is a long ways away,

and in the current

state of the world, who knows

what could happen

next

before i flip the switch

on my new elegant lamps,

with the three way bulb.

and a creamy porcelain base.

crackle?

the old ones are twenty years

old.

they had a good run.

the light they shone on things

is a story unto itself,

if lamps could talk, oh my.

get your life back

as life gets shorter

you start to let go of that cliff

you've been

holding onto, cutting into

your hands,

and you laugh

at the two foot drop.

landing perfectly on your feet,

uninjured.

why in god's name did you stay

in the job for all

those years,

or stay married to that dope

who brought you to tears.

what the hell.

get your life back.

order what you like on the menu.

if you like lasagna,

get it, with extra cheese and meatballs.

forget the strange dish

you've never heard of, with a name

you can't pronounce.

forget the fish, that exotic Indian

dish.

if you need a dictionary and a

thesaurus, and a translator 

to read

what's on the list,

go somewhere else.

move, buy a new house.

get a new girlfriend when the other

one's not working out.

it's your life. get busy, or go slow

and sad

into the ditch.

the three tiered cake

i'm not good with weddings.

i've never been to one,

my own or others that lasted

very long.

i look into the eyes of the groom

and bride and wonder,

what will go  wrong.

who's going to lie and cheat first.

but i'm not against the nuptials,

not

one bit,

i believe in love,

exclusivity.  finding the one

and only,

but from what i see

it ain't happening these days,

especially with the temptation

of the internet.

the addiction to cell phones,

what not.

the grass is always greener

has never been more

true than it is now.

but i do enjoy the music, the party,

getting all dressed up,

dancing with grandma to Proud Mary,

the fun of it all and the promise

of hope

and love everlasting.

we need our fantasies,

but what i love most about weddings.

is the fresh baked,

iced thick,

three tiered cake.

forward

because my mother had seven kids,

she sort

of gave up

at some point.

after her husband found

a new honey pie.

she threw in the towel.

went back to work

and we were on our own.

a lord of the flies situation.

she'd get home

at three in the morning

from her waitress job

and line up a row of coins

for our lunches.

curled on the couch, her shiny

apron on,

her shoes on,

her hands clasped in what

looked like

prayer.

she'd mumble,.

be good in school today.

winking from the corner

of her eye.

almost cut my hair

i remember seeing

my old barber on the street

one day.

my hair down to my shoulders.

in the rebellious

stage

of adolescence.

he asked me why haven't

i been in.

i haven't cut your hair in ages,

he said.

you look better

with short hair, a part on the side,

like paul newman, or redford.

and i said, sorry, but no.

i'm making a political statement.

i'll get my hair cut when Nixon's

out of the white house.

to which laughed and said.

i understand.

i felt that way about herbert hoover.

day bargaining

we do day bargaining.

we give it one more day,

one more chance.

things will get better,

the train wreck of a relationship

will

return to romance.

just another twenty four hours,

and we'll see.

this person will see the light,

will change.

and once again, together,

we'll

be happy.

good luck with that.

try the stock market, it's more

stable

than she'll ever be.

drinking the kool aid

aren't we all drinking

someone's kool aid.

going along with the program,

because

it's easier to get along

and stay

than it is to leave,

to break free and see what

else is out there.

whether church, or the office,

the latest love

of your life.

the husband, the wife.

the politics of left, or right.

we drink up, and close our

eyes.

we're too weak, or fearful,

or weary

or all of the above

to venture out

and find new light.

the therapy session

i talk to my therapist

for nearly an hour.

55 minutes to be exact.

she says to me that it's almost like

you don't care

about anything anymore.

you have no attachments.

just exactly how have you done that?

you seem at peace

with yourself

and the world.

i laugh.

took a long time to get there, i tell

her.

a long fucking

time

of caring about things and people

i never

should have

cared for.

she nods, and says. 

congratulations.

i get that. i think we're done

here.

three books

three books

come

in the mail in one neat box.

a book

of poems,

a biography

and a true tale

of winston churchill.

there is no debate

as to which i go to first.

the others, the others,

they all must be patient

they must sit quietly

by themselves,

and wait.

buried at sea

i dream about her.

but it's not a dream.

it's something else,

a feeling,

a dark wind blowing through

my mind

in the shadows of night,

through corridors of light.

i dream about her.

i see her at the bottom of the sea.

floating.

her eyes closed, behind

her medusa hair,

her life

over.

mine just beginning.

i see the starched white

bones

of her.

the glitter of scales now

piled

upon the sand.

i smell the salt and stench

of who

she really was, the cold

green brine

of seaweed.

the lumber of dead ships,

sunken without sails,

coming in on waves.

and the sea and everything in

it

taking what's left

of memory.

i ride the pale horse

i ride the pale horse

across

the green field, the dry prairie

into the desert.

across the mountains.

westward.

a canteen on my side.

my rifle.

my hat on tight.

a kerchief to keep the dust

out of my mouth.

i ride and ride.

all day, all night

until i reach the land of apathy.

enough.

enough. i get off my horse.

and stare out

at the sea. this is where i'll

plant my flag,

build my home,

start a new life. my days of

bending,

and giving, and waiting

are over.

life in the round

there is drama

in each life.

it's inescapable, but some have

more than

others.

they are always under

some blue

cloud

of fate, some bad luck

that's

come their way.

each day a test of endurance,

rarely

at ease,

or happy,

or content.

it never ends. this play.

this tragedy.

this life in the round,

on stage.

settling for less

you have gone

through life 

settling at times.

for work,

for shelter,  taking

what's left

what's right for now,

not tomorrow.

buying on the fringe,

with money tight.

the color, the size, the style,

nothing being

quite right.

even love,

or something resembling love

falls

into the mix

of

settling. half in, half out.

waiting for

the real thing

to fall from the stars,

wondering

when, 

and why not not now.

our last words

he writes to me to tell me that

our friend's birthday

was today.

how long has it been, i ask.

he says maybe fifteen,

maybe twenty years. neither of

us knowing

the date.

we say nice things about him.

he was such a perfectionist,

we laugh.

i tell him about the time 

he held a party,

and i

moved each picture hung on the walls

of his house

and inch to the left, pointing

downward.

and how he called me and said.

i knew it was you.

i saw the smile on your face when

you left.

our last words

before his death.

shaping life

some take

their hands to wood,

carving

with sharp instruments

into the trunks

of trees, finding

what their hearts desire.

practical

and needed, the shelves,

the drawers.

perhaps a table to eat from.

and some

go towards rock,

towards marble and stone,

chipping away

at some beauty locked within.

shaping and smoothing

life out.

whereas i

suppose i find

my work in words.

no less hard, no less a struggle,

to find

an answer

to a mystery that never

ends. to put it all

down in writing,

with my

sharpened pen.

The Radio

it sat, plugged in, 

on the stand where his

keys and wallet once lay,

yellow

shouldered in wood.

the unlit dials, a clock too.

with luminous

hands,

and when

i turned it on,

the small webbed

mouth came alive

with a surprisingly

bright loud sound.

the news of the day.

warbled in adult tones,

a serious man, who i imagined

had a mustache

and a pipe in hand.

i turned the dial, through

the static woods

until music played.

can't buy me love.

then i want to hold your hand.

i wasn't glad that he was gone,

but

fine that he left his radio

for me

to play and play and play.

a lover who wants more

i pack a small

bag

gas up the car

and head

to the eastern shore.

the music is on

as i roll the windows

down.

there is nothing behind

me keeping me

there.

no one.

not a soul weighing

me down

this year.

so i drive until

the blue ocean

embraces me like

an old friend,

a lover

who wants more.

keep up with me

when women

want to flex their arms

and show

you their muscles. run.

you have entered

a contest you can't win,

or tie. 

they hold up their ribbons

and medals,

trophies, thinking this

will catch his eye.

and when you hear 

the words,

let's see if you can

keep up with me.

again, run. there will

be no fun, not now

not ever, until the day

you die.

no apology forthcoming

for some it's hard to apologize.

never thinking

they've done

anything wrong, no harm,

no foul.

guilty of nothing.

and when they see you crying,

bent and broken,

because of their

behavior, they look at you

and stare, they ask you why,

and say,

i'm not responsible for how you

feel. don't take it personally,

these betrayals, these lies.

with your ear to the door

the zoo is not far.

across the road.

we can hear the animals

from our

window.

the screech of monkeys,

the roar of lions,

the chirping of birds.

caught in the high swung nets.

a splash in the grey stone

pool

where a walrus plays.

if you put your ear to the door,

you can

hear

the screams of others,

down

the hall. a different zoo

altogether.

pass me the salt, dear

is there goodness

in everyone?

or do some lack compassion

and common

decency,

is there evil in the world,

(i believe there is)

or are we

all

in this together, depending

on the day

or circumstance

as to who shows up.

angel or devil, 

it's said

that even hitler would pass

you the salt,

if asked.

i've known

lovers like that.

our saving grace

the wrinkle

that comes upon a pretty face

means

nothing.

the lines, the shadows,

the chin

set slowly

out of place.

the grey of hair,

the weight. no

matter, my dear.

the heart never changes.

which is

our saving

grace.

bitters and sweets

it is the bitters

and the sweets that define

these days.

that taste upon the tongue

of what we

eat

and swallow.

the life we drink.

how so much fades

from

memory, of when

we were young, 

the first time through

our lips, 

how quickly it all

slips away.

who's next?

i see the nurses,

the doctors

the priests, each with his or her

own

fill

of death. you see it

in their gaze,

the long stare

of soldiers, helpless

in a world

all heading there.

they don't look into your

eyes,

they fear what you fear,

who's next.

the look at me world

we are living in a world

where everyone wants to be someone.

to be heard,

to be famous for a few minutes,

an hour.

they need the light to shine on them.

to hear

the sound of clapping,

the sound of

laughter and admiration

in the form of

a multitude of likes.

to be seen and known.

who goes off to work,

who

leads a quiet and solitary life,

satisfied with

little more than love,

the beauty that lies within them.

enough joy

to last a lifetime.

falling into feathers

there many things

about her

that there is to love.

her voice,

her smile.

her touch.

the way she lingers

in the sun,

saying things i wished

i'd thought of.

a muse i never

thought i'd  find..

but falling

into feathers

is where i like

her  best.

the unbusy day

the list is short

of what

to do this day.

which is good.

no need to rush about,

no need

to call anyone.

no purpose,

or reason to go, or

stay.

it's a clean plate of hours

on the clock.

it's a happy

feeling.

this contentment,

treading water in the depths

of an

unbusy day.

with flowers in hand

hospitals are hard.

all that dying. sick people.

the clean

floors

the glimmer of lights.

everyone in white,

or blue

or green.

the smell of alcohol,

chlorine.

a scalpel 

catches your eye,

holding your reflection for

just a second

as you pass by.

flowers in hand.

but you go to say farewell.

or

go

to get things right.

in time

we all pull up for a stay,

a visit,

or a long night.

magical thinking

if she was a holiday,

she said,

she'd like to be called

christmas.

pretty lights

and gifts.

tinsel and snow falling.

the carols

the fire.

the warmth of family.

a healthy glow.

warm cookies on the stove.

but she wasn't a holiday.

she was more

like monday.

in the middle of march.

when the harsh

winds blow.

the streets piled with

the slush

of old grey snow.

full of  misery,

self absorbed and

full of woe.

shut up

get back on the horse,

the bike,

get behind

the wheel

it's not how you

fall

it's how you rise

when down.

pull up your bootstraps,

tally ho,

rebound.

shut up.

i need to stay here

for awhile.

the french in her

i hear the French

in her.

the Paris girl.

the sophistication in her voice.

lanquid and lean in her

frilly black

dress.

i think

pastry and sex.

i see the Eiffel tower.

i smell

the wine, the cheese,

baguettes.

but she's in ohio,

not

france.

we all have regrets.

it might be sunday

not a morning person,

i

reluctantly get up,

throw

my legs off the side of

the bed

and stagger

towards the kitchen,

down a flight.

coffee. grab

the paper off the porch.

then stare out

the window

where the woods are.

some aches and pains

have found

their way in,

woozy still from

dreams.

what day is it?

maybe sunday. i'll go

with that until someone

tells me otherwise.

no fish today

i think about fishing

for a minute or two,

gazing out at a field of watery

blue,

but

i leave it at that.

worms, the line, the reel,

the hook

the sinkers.

standing on the side of

a river bank

casting out

and waiting for a fish

to bite.

swatting flies away,

hungry mosquitoes.

and what if he does strike,

then what?

dragging him in as

the hook digs further

into it's mouth.

the curved steel,

wedged between

the hardened rim

of it's lips.

his eyes looking into

mine as i pull him up

to get the measure of him.

hardly a snack, let alone

a meal.

his breathing

frantic, his little heart

behind those

gills and glistening scales,

beating like a rabbit.

no fish today, i couldn't

live with myself.

an empty space

if i knew then what i know

now

there never would have

been a first date,

let alone a relationship

or marriage.

if i knew one of her ten deal

breaking issues,

just one i would have put

my track shoes on,

and took off like a bat

out of hell, not waiting

even a second for the sound

of the starting gun.

the list was hidden from me

behind her back.

not a word or whisper

not a single clue from anyone

of how

godless she was, and what

she lacked.

a heart.

negotiating

we argue over the price.

he shakes his head.

his pants slipping down

over his thin

waist,

the bones of his hips

are wings

catching

a belt on the last notch.

i get the feeling he's

saving money

on just about everything.

pinching

pennies, squeezing scratch.

barely fixing

anything on this million

dollar

house

at the end of the cul

de sac.

i sigh and tell him.

i'm too long in the game

for this.

for that.

find another to do your

bidding. i'm going home now.

take a nap.

the devil never sleeps

the devil

never sleeps, never

takes

a break from

what's he up to next.

there is no rest

for the weary.

no slumber, or

retreat.

temptation lies

before you

in a kiss,

in a wink, in 

dark alley, a false

step on a

shadowed street.

what goes on

behind closed

doors is where

he lives,

where he breathes.

a sliver of moon

a sliver of moon,

just

a taste

clings

to the black hand of sky.

no stars.

just the frost

of a lamp post

on my

face,

my hands, glimmering

in my wet eyes.

this park

bench feels cold.

these woods, deep

and dark

beside me

have turned copper,

turned gold.

i am still amazed at

what

life brings.

what it takes away.

but the moon, the moon

is always

there.

at least a piece of

it.

the steak knife

i remember lying

in bed

one hot summer night,

anxious and exhausted after

another long

fight, half asleep

next to my new

bride, well, not quite so new,

but a few months into the fiasco

and thinking

i wonder if she has a steak

knife under her pillow.

it was a funny thought

after hearing

the rattling of cutlery as

a drawer opened in the kitchen,

before she came up to bed.

my deepest regrets, rsvp

i'm sorry, but i can't attend.

you know.

the virus and all.

maybe in the fall,

or next spring?

pool party, oh my.

again, i'm sorry but i have

to refuse

the invitation, although you

know me,

how i'd love to attend.

the wedding. gosh sakes.

no.

but tell me

where you're listed and i'll

be sure

to send

whatever it is you might

be needing.

birth of your child.

we shouldn't take the chance,

and you know

how i feel about babies.

i won't be able

to sleep

without holding it in my

arms.

perhaps when it's more grown,

say out of the diaper phase

and into college.

but you know what,

once we have a vaccine

i'll be the first to arrive

and the last to leave from all your

frequent gatherings.

honest to goodness,

i do miss our get togethers.

zoom perhaps? 

you look lovely, my dear

do i look fat in this dress

she asks

spinning around in a gold 

array

of fabrics

from the far east,

nordstrom's rack,

macy's,  lord and taylor,

or maybe target, who's

to say.

no, you don't look a pound

overweight i

reply

from the chair

where i'm lacing up my

shoes.

in fact, you look

more sexy now than the

day i said

i do.

you look lovely, my dear.

no worries.

i've learned

the hard

way

what words to choose.

slow boat to china

there's not a bone

in my

body

that wants to own a boat.

i like

the water.

but i don't want

to work

all day to get from point

b

to point a.

let's take a drive,

then a dip.

dry off and find a place

to eat

and sit

without the sway of water,

the waft

of salt,

the threat of rain,

or drowning.

a taste of what hell might be like

i was in atlantic city once.

just once.

horrible.

a dump.  the ocean can't rise 

fast enough

to erase it from the world.

no matter how much lipstick

you put

on betty davis at the end

of her career,

it didn't matter.

there were throngs

of  bused in

old people with buckets of coins.

social security

money.

petty gangsters and whores,

who would

never drown on account of

their enormous surgical enhancements,

standing in line. blue haired

seniors, shaped like gum drops

melting in the sun,

grim in the noisy

chaos.

people in wheel chairs,

wheeled

in by nurses for one last

pull of the arm

to win

ten dollars.

it seemed to be a small taste

of what hell was going to be like

for some people.

some i was once related

to once, by the institution 

of marriage.

the cold war

i'm in a cold war

with one of my neighbor's

i won't say her name, but

people refer

to her as the witch on the corner,

or just becky.

when i see her on her broom

flying over the neighborhood

looking for home owner

violations,

i shake my head.

we have stopped waving.

there's no pretense anymore

that we could ever

get along.

no more how are you' or hey.

what up?

i got nothing for becky anymore.

i see that she's spelled my

name wrong

as she writes it in the sky,

preceded by the smokey word

surrender.

it's with a ph, not a v, i yell

up to her,

shaking my fist.

things will be different if

if i move things

will be different.

if i lose weight.

change my hair,

my clothes.

my doctor.

if i get a dog,

or a cat,

a bird, a fish,

a pony

named macaroni,

then things will

change. perhaps

a new hat,

new shoes, a new

political view.

a new wife, a new

mistress.

a boat, or car, something

bigger, shinier,

something

something,

a condo with an ocean

view.

if i wake up earlier

and go to sleep late,

take vitamins,

stop drinking,

or drink more, than

it'll all come together

and at last,

that will

be that.

something's missing

there are days, when you feel

like

you've missed an appointment

or a call.

there's a gap, an empty space

that wasn't filled.

you wonder about it all day.

isn't there something i need to do.

a place

to be, a person to call

or see?

and then it hits you

after midnight in the middle of

an early dream.

you turn the light on and write

down

her name.

how come we never made love

she liked

girls. she was muscled

and brave.

she could snap a whip

at

an apple held in your hand

at twenty

paces,

throw a ball

like a man.

run like the wind.

your first love.

kissing in the shadows

behind

the gym.

taller than me, stronger.

older.

a friend until the end,

whatever end that might

be.

and when we talk,

her in california with

her life long

partner,

a girlfriend, 

she asks

how come we never made love

back in the day,

and i say,

i don't know.

it's a mystery to me, like

many things.

Forward and Backward

the future is not

what it used to be.

in childhood

for most of us, there

was

the playground

the woods,

the cold sleeve of a stream.

full of fish

and frogs.

the girl with freckles

playing jacks,

the hollow sound of

a bouncing ball.

the bowling alley

up the street

with the blue curved roof,

the jukebox playing

dusty springfield,

james brown,

where you rolled duckpins

on saturday morning

in a league.

it's where the barber was.

the pin ball machines.

the restaurant full of men

with bellies

and red faces,

smoking. cursing their

luck

or wives, or both.

it was a mix of mirth

and wonder,

a growing disgust 

with adults.

finding out exactly what sex

was. really?

the sketches on the stalls,

the condom machine hanging

on the wall.

that's what they're doing

behind closed doors?

there was school. the books

carried home

wrapped in a belt.

the lunch box.

the beatles. the stones.

baseball cards.

your first copy of catcher

in the rye.

playboy smuggled home

and hidden.

it was a different world then,

and it's a different

world today.

the only constant is change.

you fear the same things

now

as you did then.

the loss of love.

the loss of friends.

what tomorrow might bring.

your sister was there

we had a nice

time

she says, taking off her

coat,

her scarf,

setting her purse

upon

the table.

what happened,

i ask her.

oh,

nothing she says.

it was lovely.

we had a very

nice lunch.

and talked.

we had a nice time.

she looks at me,

folding

her hands into her lap.

the curl of a smile

upon her

cat like face.

well? are you going to tell

me what happened

or not?

okay, she says.

your sister was there.

devil be gone

i buy

a smudge of sage to set fire to

then blow

out

to move around the house

and let the smoke

float about

to rid

the demons,

the dark

aura

of her presence, to leave

no doubt

that she's gone.

does it work, who knows.

but anything

is worth a try

when it comes to evil,

especially in

ex wives.

the aquarium

the fish

don't last long.

so get an eye full as they

swim

in the bubbled tank.

the fake

grass blowing

in some underwater

wind.

a windmill nearby,

teetering on white

rock. there goes freddy,

swimming by,

sally,

and joe.

blue green,

one black with what

appears to be a scarf,

another

dressed

in bright yellow,

with stripes.

they rise to the hand

of god

that sprinkles

manna from the sky.

but in a week, or

two,

some, the moses of bunch

might last a year,

but he too has a short

aquarium  life,

before he dies

time to walk away

you know when to walk away.

when to throw in

the towel, throw up the white

flag.

you get it.

you're on your own.

never asked, how you are,

with  work, with health,

with anything that has

anything to do with your life.

it's just their drama, their

problems, their aches and pains

that matter.

you are just a set of ears

to listen, to shake your head

and sigh, and feel sorry

for them.

they've  got nothing for you.

not a kiss, not a hand, not 

an ounce of wonder

about your life.

nothing. they could care less.

you're 

taken for granted, stuck in a world

run amok

with narcissism.

you know when it's time to walk

away.

time to get healthy,

begin the new day.

a shade of blue

don't bother me

with your politics. 

with your uneducated

take

on the world.

your narrow views.

there's not enough

aspirin in the world

to heal the headache

you give

me after an hour or two

of babble.

please.

let's keep it to small talk,

if it's okay

with you.

the weather seems safe,

you go first.

tell me what you think

of the sky.

tell me what color it is,

what shade of blue?

sending them home again

my grandmother

would scrub the marble porch

with a hard

brush

every morning in the low

sun over

the city, stacked with

row houses in south

philly.

the whole neighborhood

was spotless.

everyone had five kids

or more.

grandmothers, families,

the street

was italian.

the market. the schools,

the catholic churches.

you could smell the food.

hear the music.

see the men playing cards,

bocci ball.

gambling in the alley,

big shots

with Cadillacs,

the ice men pushing 

carts.  the junk man

with his scraps.

the widows in black.

someone was always dying or

dead

and food

was being prepared to send

them home again.

the cold shadows of morning

i remember

tip toeing down the stairs one cold

morning

up at 6 unable to sleep

because of the emotional

domestic

turmoil i was in.

living with a mistake.

a lie,

a loser.

but i was careful to be quiet

as to not awaken

the beast

still in bed,

her phone curled in her hand.

i put a dish in the

sink.

boiled some water,

then heard her feet hit the floor

as she bound down

the stairs.

how dare you wake me up

at this hour, she said.

the nerve of you.

we're done.

that's it. we're done.

her eyes were black, her hair

wild,

the bones of her rattled

in the cold shadows

of morning.

soon, i hope. soon.

the torn check

i piece the check back together.

carefully

aligning numbers

and words.

dots.

important dashes

that mysteriously litter

the landscape of

a personal check.

i didn't mean to rip it

in half when it arrived

in the mail. but it was

flimsy in an envelope

and practically tore itself

as i pulled

at the edges.

but tear it i did,

then cursed the heavens

as i looked for

the elmer's glue,

the blow dryer,

the razor blade.

a lamp without a shade,

as i went to

work reconstructing

the check.

get angry

every now and then

you're so mad, so angry, you're

spitting.

literally

spitting out the words.

it's not you, but it is you.

a deep

primitive

part of you, that is defensive,

aggressive

and true

to yourself and what you 

believe in.

trust your anger, it's rarely

wrong or

misplaced.

to bury it deep within and turn

the other cheek

in silence and acceptance,

will only keep you in the depths

of personal

hell and angst.

i read the news today, oh boy

everyone knows everything

these days.

it's a race to be the most informed.

twelve news

channels,

twitter, and all that other nonsense.

the phone

let's you know minute by

minute if the world is about

to end,

did you hear,

do you know,

let me tell you about what happened,

you have to see this

video.

it's a must see.  

when people die, you almost

know it before they do.

war, famine, plague, pestilence.

all the biblical

warnings

and prophecies

are now on the news as they occur.

you can't stop what's coming,

can you?

this ends our broadcasting day

in the old days

when you fell asleep on the couch

in front of the tv

you'd wake up at two

in the morning to the black and white

buzz

on the screen.

the crackling static.

this ends our broadcasting

day

it reads. there's a high pitched

whistle

like a bomb

is on its way.

but now. you wake up,

and it's i love lucy is playing,

or gunsmoke, or a commercial

for ginzu knives

or how to lose twenty pounds

in twenty days

with a powder you stir into water.

in this day and age

there is always money to be made,

i take the number down.

the foundation

we measure, we cut.
we hammer.
we stand back and think
okay.
not bad.
we build
a life, day in day out.
from birth to now.
but at times it gets old.
the wood
rots,
the paint peels,
the nails and screws get
loose
and we need to tear it
all down again.
start over.
it's all about the foundation
though.
if you have that,
you're good to go.
start again.

trauma bonding

is this the person

you want to be with for the rest

of your life

i tell her

as she gives me the list of his

many abuses

towards her.

he lies.

he cheats.

he manipulates and isolates

me.

he's quiet

and withholds information

about what he's

doing, where he's going.

he hides his phone,

always texting someone 

in front of me.

he makes promises that he'll

change,

but he never does.

my friends and family don't like

him, they tell me

to move on.

we never go anywhere, or

do anything.

he stays in contact with his

old girlfriends, sees them when

i'm not around.

i wake up crying.

i'm having panic attacks.

i'm in therapy.

i've lost weight, i've lost friends.

i'm a nervous

wreck all the time.

but i love him so so much

and can't imagine my life without

him.

what do you think?

will he kill me in my sleep

the interview

is brief.  i look at him.
he looks at me.

can i be trusted, can he.
arms,
legs all in tact.

young enough to climb
a ladder,

he has a car, he's sober,

but will he kill me in
my sleep?

how long have you been
painting,
i ask him.

he shrugs and says.
a long time.

okay, i tell him, i guess
that's good enough for me.

you start monday.

paper plates

what dishes

did your parents use at the table
when
it came time to eat?

it's another mindless test
online

to discover who you really are.

a facebook stream of more nonsense.
there are six choices.

colors. style. cheap or priceless.
there is everything

from good china, to porcelain,
to everyday dishes

from the local department store,
but nothing

that we used.

which was paper plates.
a stack

of a hundred, white and flimsy.

stacked on top

of the refrigerator.

missing

i see my face,
a picture on the side of a milk
carton.

that grin, that happy go
lucky look.

missing for years.
the date
when last seen is there.

i pick up the box and hold
it closer.

i'm right here.
i see a phone number below
the photo

so i call and tell them i'm
fine now.

she's gone.
all is well, i have my identity
back.

and they say, okay,
we'll mark you down as healthy
and intact

again. congratulations.
remember always,

to stay no contact, or you'll
be gone again.

the coffee spill

you spill coffee on your bright
white t-shirt
at 7 am.

you're in the car and have
no time
to turn around and go
back home again.

all day you walk around with
a stain
the shape of italy
on your chest.

people point and say,
you have something on your
shirt.

and you answer them
excitedly
with an italian accent,

and say, i know, i know.
yes.
yes.
using your hands, to
express.

when fall arrives

some like the heat,
the sweat,
the boil of a good hard
sun
white in a pale
dry sky.
while others, including
me like
the cool
autumn breeze,
the falling of copper
leaves.
the fire, the warmth
of another,
while snuggled inside.

rolling dice

as we sit in the shade
eating,
her peeling a banana
and me
with an orange, she says
that

she believes
we came from a string of monkeys
rising
to walk
once fishes in the sea.
and i don't.
she laughs and laughs.
you mean you
don't believe in evolution.
no, i tell her,
flatly.
i don't. it's just a theory.

and so how
do you think we arrived here,
she says.
and i say,
i really don't know or care,
but i do believe that
a divine power
must have been involved at
some point.
to which she says,
oh my.

so many varied species,
just look
at the beauty
in the sky. everything
is not random.
everything appears to be
by design.
as Einstein says, God is
not rolling dice
with the universe.

you're no longer employed here

it was the last day on the job
after
the bull
woman from the main office
came down
to hand out walking papers
to a few of
us less than productive
souls.
we deserved it.
we welcomed it. the job was little
more than
shoveling coal, in the form
of raw data
collected on a tape
to be printed in legible form.
i yawn just writing about it.
i remember staring out the window
at the lawn workers,
the delivery trucks,
the painters and road
men and thinking how lucky
they were.

there were goodbyes
to say.
farewells, hugs and kisses,
but sadly
no cake. just things to say,
like call me.
let's still meet for lunch
or dinner.
or happy hour.
same time same place.
and as Barney, the old security guard,
with his black
toy gun
walked me to the door, i
carefully hid the stapler
i had stolen,
and one more thing,
something  from the counter,
a warm
and iced
sweet cinnamon bun.

a little something for
the ride home.

once more for measure

don't count me out
on account

of a limp,
a sore knee,

a vague feeling of mystery
in my

thought.
the age of fog and slow

bones shuffling
to the toilet, so far from me.

don't count me out.
not yet

dear girl.
youth though wasted
on the young

has a second wind,
about to rise,
about to come.

a promising life

pale and cracked,

the egg falls
and spills it's guts onto
the tiled
floor

a yellow pollack sort of mess.

it's beautiful
in a sad sort of way

against the black
and white,
the sheen of window
light.

still holding the cold glassy
stare
of once a promising
life.

twenty four seven

some need to work
to bury
themselves in paper, in calls,
in e mails,
in the hustle
of it all.
twenty four seven.
a second with nothing to do
would be
earth shattering,
unused
and wasted, boredom
would set in.
the constant scroll of the phone.
affirmation of life,
without a minute
rest, or stopping,
but without work,
then what would there be
to do.
have fun?

the dating profile

i see her on the dating site.
the old photo.

crimped at the edges,
a sepia tone as

the sunlight washes upon
her in some
foreign land. water in the background.

i read her words.
they haven't changed.
it's what we all want or don't want.

one script for all.
drama free, fun and sexy.
smart

and well read.
a sense of humor is a must.

it makes me smile to see her on
there.
to see
how she's moved on.

how she hasn't aged after
all these years.

the phone rings

the phone rings,
i see who it is on caller id,
i reach
for the tylenol.
extra strength.
i grab a bottle of water
and an ice
pack to place
upon my head.
i go into the cool
basement and lie upon
the couch.
hello, i say into
the phone.
what gives? what now?
i put it on speaker,
and listen.

the blank stare

it is the blank stare,
the gaze
of empty.
the far off look of puzzlement
that throws
you off, makes
you wonder
who you are dealing with.
a true self,
or someone in the game,
being
what they need to be
in order to manipulate
and control
a world she cannot ever
truly know
or believe.

kings and queens

the bent
were once straight,

those stumbling about
in grey

overcoats, and high boots
were
once kings and queens.

generals and admirals.
now
the war is with

their own bones.
the blurred eyes, the dampened
ears.

love is a distant sweet,
lost

on dulled tongues,
fallen

like shiny coins
in the wilderness

of tall grass.

no news is good news

no news, as they say, is
good news.

the set is off.
the radio
too.

the telephone is off
the hook.

even the woman next
door as she
hangs

her things upon the line
is curiously mum.

no little birds appear
to whisper

in my ear the dirt,
what's gone down,

or what is to come.

finding the fix

some find their way
in drink,

or a snort, or the glimmering
of an angel
with wings

at the tip
of a filled syringe,

with others it's the delight
of sex,

the kink,
the strange, the obsessed
fix

that flies away as fast
as it came.

there is no bar raised
that can't
be raised farther.

we choose our lives,
as often

as we choose our deaths.

as the pretty girls go by

women
don't understand, at least
many
of the ones i've had the pleasure,
or unpleasure
to have known,
they don't quite get
that desire
never dies.
that even at ninety
we will be
sitting
on a park bench,
in our long winter coats,
with cane,
and hat,
watching
the pretty girls go by.

poison arrows

sharp words
are swords, tipped in anger.
what brilliant aim
you have, but
regrettable
once
the heat has died down.
once the quill is empty.
but in they are,
deep into the target's
skin.
it will take time to heal
these wounds.
to mend,
to make
things right again.

dry eyes

love dies
in your arms, in your hands.
what
you thought was real
was a mirage,
an ice
sculpture, not meant
to last
for a season.
the light dissolves it.
the sun.
the warmth of summer
makes liquid of the lie.
we are left
to mop,
to throw a towel
in. to walk away
now learned, sober
with dry eyes.

the shave

as men
we go to the mirror
and frost our face with
cream.
we ponder the old
soul
that we are staring back
in the mirror with
our father's eyes,
our mother's grin.
we take the razor and pull
at what grows,
what thickens
on our cheeks, below
our ears,
our chins.
it is a ritual we obey
daily.
cold water
onto the clean up
then
a blue bright lotion
as clear
as the bermuda shore,
slapped with
a waking sting,
and we
begin our
day again.

in far away villages

in low lying
huts, in far away villages,

thatched and dry
in
the sunlight that bathes
them

people arise
to what day they were born
into

unworried
by the world at large.
there is fish to catch.

fires to build.
the simple things of keeping
alive.

but there is love too.
don't forget that.

ever.

by days end

someone dies.

not unusual. it seems to happen
all the time.

in fact,
so far a hundred per cent
of the human

race have gone down that road.
but
this name

sounds familiar.
someone from the past.

high school
or college perhaps.

an acquaintance, a lover?
who was she

in the scheme of things,
your cluttered
life?

was she blonde or brunette,
funny or sad?

but the vagueness of her,
the memory
for better worse, will by days
end

pass.

take your shoes off

when i hear

you need to take your shoes off
when you come
in.

i know it's trouble.
don't come before noon.

and not at two
because the babies will
be sleeping.

text before you arrive.
wear your mask.

ring the bell, don't knock,

wash your hands.
don't park in the drive.

i can smell trouble from
thirty miles
away,

but i go just the same, it's
work
after all

and something to write
about
when i  run dry.

sniffing glue

there were some kids
in the old
neighborhood that would steal
tubes of glue
from the hobby shop
and run to the woods
to sniff and get high.
they'd be wild eyed for the
whole day. sleepy
and lost,
while i went home with
my glue
and put together the model
of a battleship
or truck, a 57 chevy with
baby moons.
my fingers had a new skin,
with pieces of
the newspaper
stuck.

polishing the fender

the world
can be sand paper rough.

a gritty
day of grime and pain.

we try to smooth out the edges
of us.
put a shine
on others.

we do the best we can with
what we have
or know.

the hood, the fenders,
on bended knee we go down
with

the chamois cloth,

we look at the crazy
reflection
of a world

half lost.

keep it moving

we are as busy
as we want to be, it seems impossible
for some
to slow down
the pace.
they need the flurry of
activity
the bustle and hustle.
they need
the blur of life,
the calendar flying by.
to stop would mean
reflection.
looking deep into their
soul
why bother
with what's important
though.
let's keep it moving.
we're running short of time.

the mob mentality

they protest

that the police are scary
with their
dark

suits,
their helmets. their tear
gas

and batons.
they won't let us burn down
our city.

or toss and turn
over
whatever lies before us.

they're in the way of us
destroying

the property and businesses
of others.

how dare they.
we are the righteous mob.

we have no where else
to be.

no ambitions short of shouting
slogans
holding placards

we are jobless, uneducated,
bored
with our lives,

naive.

confession comes to mind

the rain

comes in sideways.

full of light and fury.

the roar.

the power dissolves

us into darkness.

shadows

grow.

as we huddle on the bed.

it's a good storm.

one that shows us who

really is in

control here. confession

comes to mind.