Your nimble fingers
secrete the stray
merchandise at Main
Street's Almighty
Dollar Store -
a place brimming with
inanimate objects made in
Japan and China,
transported into your bulky
winter coat's four
outside pockets

Hide that pack of gum,
those ballpoint pens,
mechanical pencils, tiny
spiral bound notebooks that
fit so easily

Conceal that paperback best seller
you were looking through earlier,
the one titled "Where is God?"
in bold red type superimposed
against a threatening gray sky

Grab that bracelet for your wife,
that string of pearls too
and don't forget a bib for the
baby, a knickknack to brighten
your mother's dingy living
room and remember to take
those black leather gloves
so perfect for the
months ahead

With your heart racing,
move toward the exit door,
walk - don't run - avoid
eye contact - that's it -
keep going, but slowly

And then, as you take a few
steps forward outside,
someone from behind roughly
grabs your shoulders

As you turn around, those
gloves fall out
of a crowded pocket,
landing on the
snowy sidewalk

The hefty security
guy retrieves the
gloves and nudges
you back into the
warmth of the store

Somewhere in the
distance, carolers
are singing "Silent Night"

Every now and then
everything seems to stop

you pause
look around
survey
and then it's as if
you go away
all of a sudden
vanish
into a state of suspension
your physical self
released
your mind    body    soul
sways
you drift
into some safe sprawling space
where nothing really
touches you
there are no borders
no boundaries
nothing audible   nothing visible
except a strong comforting light
sweeping you into its
   expanding warmth
no fear   no anguish
as you bathe in this vast radiance
this glimpse into oneself
this singular moment
of infinite grace

Suspending moments
above this spindle stretch,
the rope tugged tight
under his shifting feet,
his eyes catch the spotlight
shining on ring one.

Transfixed by the knife-thrower,
he too is strangely thrown,
hands leaping endlessly
through a somersault sky;
hands to head, hands to chest,
then to thigh,
while knives turn quickly
and a liquored mob shouts:
voices breaking
against the freak show tent.

Smiling upon her sleeping there
Graceful child with face so fair
With hair like flame and eyes so dark
And laughter like a meadowlark

Lovely child of summer light
Her prayer like music in the night
Her mind proceeds in peaceful flight
To dream of clowns and leaping kites

Sleeping through these silver dreams
Her breathing soft as gentle snow
That drifts upon December's trees
To light the darkened land below

Her quiet heart as light as wings
That fill the sky in early spring
Her hopes are bold and brave and bright
Her love as warm as candlelight

Lead me away
From the harsh face of war
From loss and despair
And all I abhor

Let me rise up
And give Earth a nod
And take a final step
To touch the face of God

Take me through glorious hoops and mazes
Mysterious, magical, wondrous places
Then join me in a whimsical flight
And let me bask in morning's light

I held her in my arms
And kissed her tenderly
I knew our love would last
Throughout eternity

She was the sweetest girl
So lovely, fair and fun
I blessed the day we met
I knew she was the one

And then she fell asleep
This angel I adored
A smile graced her face
As she began to snore

The sound would wake a dead man
So eerie was her roar
I could only ponder
"Where is the exit door?"

I thought she was so special
This girl was mine for keeps
But that could only happen
If she never fell asleep

It was our final date that night
I said "farewell" with poise
I'll never forget my one true love
...Or that unbelievable noise

Explosions of grief won't greet her death
Great men won't be summoned to speak
Bands of mourners won't wail at her passing
These gestures she will not seek

Just mingle the day with music and madness
Make the day one drooped in frost
Children must carry her down winding roads
Clarinets must moan her loss

Then at an hour no one knows
A man must visit her grave
He'll kneel and touch her tombstone
And smile a mysterious way

He'll be dressed head to toe in somber black
Conveying his grief gallantly
Just let him place one pink rose at the site
And rejoice in his memories

And what is left
but sleep
and dreams
and nightmares
more real than life?

Are we prepared
for raging winds
or
the slightest tremble
from mother earth
that may
give way
at any time
so quickly
so deftly
beneath our fragile
feet?

my sister
emily had
leukemia
but was in
remission

we wanted
to let her
know how
special she
was so we
sent away to
a mail order
place in
new hampshire
where - for
forty-five
dollars - they
sell you
title to a
star in the
sky and you
name the star
after someone
and they
send you a
celestial map
that is all
blueprint blue
with spidery
white lines
compass points
big red dots

we checked
the map out
and found the
designated
location of
what we named
the emily star
situated at the
intersection of
m and twelve -
m/twelve on
the celestial
map - a star in
a cluster of
stars in the
sword handle
of perseus the
brochure said

one freezing cold
night we all saw
the emily star
blinking like
the only light
on a tiny
christmas tree
but we could
see it clear
enough no need
for a telescope
or anything and
we cheered and
prayed and talked
about god and
love and life

then two weeks
ago right after
emily got real
sick again
we looked up
and noticed that
the emily star
was gone and
my son looked
up at emily's
window...
it had the
lightest
glow coming
from her
bedside lamp
so we just
looked at one
another and
went inside
and i quietly
walked up the
stairs and
entered her room

his eyes follow words sentences
paragraphs his mind seeks order
balance as each printed mark is
examined and a battalion of red
pencil marks pursue the perfect
page his deep blue godlike eyes
peer beyond glass seeking sense
syntax eyes that will not blink
in this selfless solitary quest

What then shall they discuss?

The sad-sweet months
when they trekked through
Europe, those hot nights
when they made love inside
a canvas tent or the untimely
death of a mother an ocean
away?

Nature, love, poetry,
art, old snapshots, a
seance that scared
them so many years
ago or that draft of an
old will found in a
long-forgotten
trunk in the attic?

Maybe they'll set aside their
memories and tasks,
let nostalgia drift away
like an  absentminded
ghost or uninvited guest.

All their energies should rise
to a final nervous pitch
when they raise their
glasses high and
wet their arid lips.

Withdrawing to an empty room
I shut out light
and breathe arrhythmically

Childlike I warm myself
with dark vibrant blankets
as I fall deeper and deeper
into a dream
within a dream

A madwoman's fingertips
skim down the side of my head,
an old man's remains
are lowered
into sacred ground,
darkness smothers
a snowman mourning
in the blue night
of winter

i took her to the vet that morning
for the last time

i remember it was raining
and the lady at the vet's office
was sweet and caring
with a pleasant voice
and a kind heart

it was still only morning
still raining
when i drove home

i parked the car
and walked toward the house
knowing that my wonderful dog -
my beautiful "rose" -
would not suffer anymore
and that for the first time
in her fourteen years on this earth
she would not be there
waiting for me

my hand shook
as i held the key
to unlock the door
and the key fell on the step

and on the other side of the door
no one would be waiting
nothing would be there

nothing
but that awful silence

I see ladies of a certain age
jump out at me,
breaking through sidewalks
with their floppy handbags
and floral dresses,
a gaggle of clowns
enjoying a last laugh,
giggling like girls
on a long-ago prom night.

Suddenly I'm charmed
by the vision
of a lovely young woman
greeting a tall man.
He hands her white orchids
and a beribboned box of candy.
The man does not see her
wink at me
as his massive arms encircle her
and the sidewalks open up again,
swallowing us up in seconds
while our aged revelers flee
in adolescent revolt.

someone still likes
the way words
race across a page
like brazen insects

someone still marvels
at the magic and movement
of poetry
rhythms that challenge
and calm the heart

someone still respects
the simple music
of a single sonnet
so sweetly sounding
the reader whirls
in exhilaration
like a ballerina
in a sunlit room

now take the words
and make them twist
and turn and jump
and rise and fall

you are their master
their leader their captain
make them bow to your voice
make them cower and despise you
call you hateful names
curse your power

bind them up
in a choke hold
watch the blood
fill their faces
their tiny mouths
squealing in pain

then release them slowly
into the night
whispering your forgiveness
currying their favor
for you know
in their naked humility
in their confusion and fear
they are
after all
only words

Three in the morning, halfway
through my shift at a printing
plant. I'm tired as always, my
mind frazzled, my eyes bleary.
I'm creeping through the night
as I proofread technical manuals
and pharmaceutical ads and
brochures aimed at type two
diabetics. I'm on life support
here, stuck in a depressing gray
environment, a vampire on the
graveyard shift, the burial
ground of too many aging English
majors struggling to make a buck
while the rest of the world is home
asleep, dreaming in color, people
whose minds and bodies will forever
have a normal relationship with
sunlight.

As I proofread, I listen to talk radio
with its opinionated personalities,
irate callers, and nocturnal candor,
all of it making those Sinatra-like
wee small hours of the morning fly
by like a moth rushing toward
a bright burning bulb.

at summer's end, she is in the
fabled city of light, drifting in
a romantic evening of soft breezes,
streets majestically lined with trees,
the brilliant and luminous eiffel tower

she is thinking of those she turned
against, people she had once trusted,
admired, adored, loved - and then spurned -
her mother, husband, sister, brother,
friends, each one falling away like
those endless bouquets presented to
her at state visits...bright, beautiful
flowers, their petals dropping, dreamlike,
from her arms, falling like little pieces
of flesh floating lazily to the ground

she faces the tunnel now, fearful that she
might disappear in the cavern of lights,
the glistening mercedes, almost airborne,
moves at a furious speed, she ends up
trapped in the car, slammed against a
wall, she does not even know, in this
moment of profound loss, that she has
no voice to speak, to call out, to plead,
her eyes fluttering wildly at the lights
glaring at her in the tunnel

It could be the duchess
Or maybe the CEO
Or the media mogul
Who almost stole the show

Consider the brash *******
(He does look kind of shifty)
Then again there is the gambler
(Everyone calls him "Swifty")

Check out the carefree diplomat
With that fake smile but no charm
And then there's the airhead heiress
With tattoos adorning her arms

My money's on the senator
Always running, always winning
His wife seems kind of suspect too
With her endless mindless grinning

And then there is the debutante
Who flirted with the football star
And don't forget the pro golfer
Who spent so much time at the bar

But after all that guessing
Throughout the suspenseful show
Turns out the butler did it
...As if I didn't know!

what happens when you're a child
and your mother sits silent
in a room
staring at you
her mind dwelling
in some secret
unreachable place

even your name escapes her
                     _

what happens when
your father vanishes
in a haze of smoke
a sea of drink

a toppled monarch
in the kingdom
of your youth
      _

and what happens
when your heart breaks

the universe tilts
stars blink and fade
your heart shatters
like a miniature army
of glass soldiers...
broken, scattered everywhere
a  thousand    armless     heroes

Lately I've forgotten names
of friends I've known for years,
and sadnesses creep over me
with an unquiet suddenness
I cannot explain.
Some brief anguish slants
across my sunburned face
and all I welcome now
are days of endless rain.

A letter came for me
   the other day,
yet I can't bring myself
   to open it.
No fear accompanies
   my reluctance -
just a reel of cryptic film
running through my mind
of things gone wrong,
loved ones lost,
times misspent.

All I have now are memories
of fleeting smiles
and frightened eyes,
of unsure lips
whispering quiet lies.

So I find myself lying still
on a floor,
waiting for a ceiling to drop
and make me move once more.

and now we sing of whitney...
nothing can contain her she
takes the shape she fills
the space she moves
through ether
nothing can
stop her
beading
like quicksilver in constant
motion she flickers and a million
candles glow at her loveliness
nothing can blur her face so
perfect that angels hush to
behold her and when she sings "i
will always love you" only the
moon can hold that
magnificent voice
soaring beyond
the crest of
everest

a ceiling of stars can only
welcome this sparkling
laughing luminous
slip of a girl as she
ascends far from
earthly cares
up up up
she glitters in a swirl of
stardust

she is almost home

She plays the victim so often,
her small shaky voice
seems as tiny as she is,
those beautiful dark
   Russian eyes pleading
like rippling pools of fear...

And now she is here -
in this dark water -
no camera to record her fear,
no sound engineer
to capture her cries...
just a curious moon
spreading no light
as her slim form slips
almost imperceptibly
beneath the surface.

I wait in the cold current,
then surge forward,
grabbing her.

She's so fragile,
doll-like almost.
I can barely make out
her perfect features
in this troubled seascape.

I hold her firmly,
her face just above the wave.
We struggle in the darkness,
no ship's light,
no miracle lifeboat,
no compass, no guide...

I hold her tightly,
our breathing labored.
I hear her whispered prayers
like soft billowing epiphanies
carrying us
quietly   gently    safely
back to shore.

Sometimes in dreams
he would sense a stray bullet
whizzing by his head

but there was nothing visible
in that moment

everything translucent as air

In the dreams there would be
a strange sound of violin bows
swiftly sawing through strings
a nagging shrieking stabbing sound
- the strings from "******" -
bouncing off the shower walls

he would wake up
   screaming in the darkness
not sure where he was
his eyes glancing down
at his  hand
the index finger
perfectly formed to pull
an invisible trigger

My baby's born
a blank page

at first, no words graze
his pale bloated belly

fresh from a nap
he giggles mindlessly
as computer keys
tickle him rudely
their dark impressions clumped
just above his knotted navel

he will not mind
as I fold him neatly into thirds
slip him into
a number ten envelope
drop him in a mailbox
en route to an editor
whose judgment will not be clouded
by flesh and blood
or
pride and joy

i come from nowhere
being far from never
floating in a mazeless void
toward a nameless ever
and if you come across me there
wave an invisible hand
and watch my disappearing form
in this silent airless land
and make certain you remember
if you mindlessly recall
who and what and where i came from
and how i took my fall
through infinite skies of empty
past petty vacant stares
a journey with no purpose
a journey to nowhere

i'm sure she's a terrorist

she drives a stick shift

and wears sensible shoes

and everything she does
arouses my suspicion

she's up there now
in her cluttered apartment
yapping about her congressman
and the debt ceiling

i hear her every sunday
yelling at her tv set
giving attitude to
all those panelists
on the political programs

and someone told me she
sneaks off to the mall
in plaid sneakers
and has four computers
and hides her cats
in shoe boxes
whenever the property manager
comes around

and she always has a smile
for the property manager

i'm on to her and
i have a plan
that involves deadbolt locks
surveillance video
and a bugging device

she's up there now going on
about the governor

give me a break

at least he isn't driving
a stick shift

Waking from a crash of glass
Sweat pouring...hands attending
In this bright room where whispers pass
I slowly feel myself descending
You thought that only words could break me
But glass, metal, time, rain
Mingled in one reckless moment
Left me scarred, seared with pain
Somewhere in my shattered mind
Where illusion can only take me now
Scenery changed just like our lives
No one will note my final bow
You thought that only words could break me
Racing from your angry glance
Bizarre, the slow lid's eerie closing
White bulb swaying on a final dance

a blank white page stares at me

it seems to be
taunting me
daring me to fill it
with lush language
and clever rhyme schemes

around the same time i imagine
a white flag waving on a full moon
a moon swimming lazily
in a galaxy of
bright
glistening
stars

this scene of cosmic perfection
enhanced by my lopsided logic
somehow inspires me

i take a long deep breath
and my pen begins its journey

The man who hated summer
smoothes on sweet scented lotions;
his body glistens like a waxed table.

Jobless and listless, he soaks in
lemon yellow afternoons
and smiles at the irony;
the season he's never sought
is the only one he has.

Now he never reads a paper
or greets a neighbor
or mows the lawn.

Instead he simmers on a chaise lounge
in a nest of mosquitoes and heat,
his flesh taut like sutures,
his eyes drawn shut against the sun.

Darkening under a paper white sky,
he holds his breath
while the phone rings and rings and rings.

Violins straining
lights playing
on the heroine's face
her eyes misty
with suffering
the handsome hero
caresses her frail hand

suddenly
her hand rests
on the chenille bedspread
her face passive
against an ivory pillow
her eyes close
soaring voices rise
lights dim

quickly
the hero
his lady
the room
lights
colors
music
screen
theater
people
you
me
fade
out

She lives without chandeliers.

Once she searched for these
and balconies
and window boxes
brimming with zinnias.
She thought reality
was a veil you lifted
where dreams were found
alive and squealing.

She lives half her days
in theaters now
safe from a careless light
playing tricks with
her cheap makeup
and thrift store dress.

She's safe there
away from her room
where love visits her
once a week
expecting no chandeliers.

Once a year
my sister visits the grave
of Montgomery Clift

She travels one hundred miles
to kneel in a Brooklyn cemetery
and weep before his
   modest headstone

I marvel at her romanticism
aimed at this mangled wreck
of an actor
this helpless mess of a man
pumped up with drugs
and rough ***
a haunted matinee idol
cavorting on the cusp
of madness

On her way home
she stares out
a bus window

She remembers his tremulous voice
and brooding eyes
his sullen features
overwhelming the giant screen

Soon she will fall asleep
dreaming of him holding her
in his anxious fragile arms
while the gray streets of Brooklyn
rush by

My new computer's quite the gift
And one I truly covet -
With all the latest features
Who could help but love it?

I surf the net at breakneck speed
As if I'm in a race
There is no end to what I'll do
Launched in cyberspace

My new computer's quite the joy
I savor dusk till dawn
Now all I need to find is
The switch that turns it on!

My mail's a daily sensation
Of dividend checks
And engraved invitations
Of postcards proclaiming
"Wish You Were Here!"
And greeting cards filled
With holiday cheer
Of birthday wishes
To brighten the day
And notes from friends
So far away

How great it would be
If all this were so
If mail was a treasure
And made my heart glow

But my mailbox holds none
Of these wholesome thrills
Instead it just holds
Bills and bills...and bills!!!

I am upset
That my car gets
Ten miles to the gallon,
And the car I bought
With a defective horn
Was obsolete
The year I was born,
And my washing machine
Has a habit each day
Of coloring my clothes
A nondescript gray,
And my calculator's been
An unruly guide,
Subtracting when I add,
Multiplying when I divide.

Should I sit back in silence,
Pondering what to do?

But my mind can't solve this awful mess.
It's defective too.

trim the fat
o weaver of words
lessen the intake
of ponderous verbs
squeeze excess out
of every line
shorten the stanza
cut back on rhyme
get to the point
don't aim for the epic
when a quatrain will do
avoid the septic
give us an ode
that's short on length
nothing so long
it saps our strength
in an age of fast food
and instant replay
and speed dating too
i'd just like to say
we're ready now
for a genre that's new
so fasten your seat belt
here's its debut:
the skinny poem's
a fresh kind of verse
low-calorie fat-free
the verse that is terse

You're waiting for me
somewhere on a pier
silent in the mist
fog surrounding you
your hands trembling -
how I miss that tremble -
your fingers moving nervously
feverishly
like knitting needles
flashing in the wind
so palpable so wondrous
and you're waiting for me

I think of you always
and will miss you forever
whatever swept you away
that brusque winter morning
has departed long ago
we never said good-bye
or held hands
or kissed
there were no final gestures

Weeks later
in a sleepless moment
I thought I saw you
standing near me
looking serious and bewildered
but I know my mind
   was playing tricks on me
now I can only hope
you hear these words
hear the ache in my voice
the longing that is ceaseless
the words rolling ever so slowly
toward you
waiting there
on that nameless mystical pier

I'm the face on a Norman Rockwell cover
and a nameless soldier honored
in a single noble tomb

You see me -
a fearful face in a
sea of fearful faces,
a part of those huddled masses
yearning to breathe free.
Armed with dreams and apprehensions,
I wave to the majestic lady in the harbor,
her torch warming my hopeful heart.

You stand with me
in the stillness of Arlington,
a grieving parent
clutching a folded flag,
remembering my fallen child.

And you listen to the sounds I love -
the music of a marching band
on the Fourth of July,
a rhapsody by Gershwin,
the soul of Bourbon Street jazz,
the roar of rock.

You know me.

From sea to shining sea,
I am America.
You are America.
God shed His grace on thee.

mix the numbers up
fill the lottery card out
give the girl five bucks
grab that slip of paper
clutch that sliver of hope

now you hold the possibility
in your veiny freckled hand

god knows it could be
a passport to riches
a path to paradise
a ticket to eden

or is it more than money's lure
this scrap of computerized pulp

it should flare like a strip of lightning
this invitation to rapture
this portal to freedom
this license to dream