There could no longer moment be,
Than the pause that comes after a prayer.
Be it final request or pleading promise made,
His answer weathers, wanders and out waits us all.

They main-lined memories,
Cooked up,
Or reheated their juiciest reminiscence,
Over fresh drip coffee and burnt toast in the kitchen.

They played the what-if game joyfully,
And injected the good, the bad and the impossible
Into their long walk
Down to the train station.

Retelling- hell,
Anthony and Emily
Rewrote their history together
With a laugh.

What if we’d had girls instead of boys, she asked,
What if we’d worked for somebody else, he remarked
Be a lot richer Emily chuckled,
And maybe a big pension too, Anthony replied,

And they snorted out loud and squeezed
Each other’s hands so tight
It felt like they were holding on
To life itself.

The only regret I have, said Emily,
Is the number of ice cream sandwiches
I stuffed in my mouth.
My *** could be half the size it is now.

My only regret is that *** isn’t twice as big, Anthony replied
So there’d be more of you to love
And lot more for me to hang on to!

It was an old joke,
Hell they’d performed it a million times.

But truth out…
They still ****** like teenagers
Only now with the kids gone,
They could be loud.
Jesus, the dog hid downstairs,
Or barked seriously
Like thieves were breaking in.

God-****** a good scream felt **** good,
And the hard work warranted some
High pitched celebration.

Hell between the banged up knees,
The stubborn like a mule hips,
And a ***** with attention deficit disorder,
A bit of applause at the end of it all,
Was a genuinely appreciated gesture.

It's the kind of thing,
Couples in for the long haul
Do all the time.

The band was exhausted,
Fall down tired and sweat happy.
But still on track,
Eye flirting and sending secret messages
To every girl they coaxed up
Onto the sandy wood plank dance floor,

But after six hours and 100 songs.
And now at 2:30 a.m. and the lights all up
A bit too drunk,
And way too tired to search out the tempo of the blues,
The drummer,
Buddha on his toadstool,
His shirt soaked with rhythm and stained dark green
From a steady sweat,
His boot, a robot after all these years,
Still tapped the bass drum lightly
As he dreamt of pizza,
Pizza in bed served by naked twenty somethings,
Who don't believe love has to hurt.


They, Bill and Sheila,the music gone
Continued to slow dance,
The beat replaced by the random ****** of shot glasses
Loaded by hand onto the top shelf
Of the dishwasher...
And to the scratch
Of the one armed bus boy with a push broom but no deadline.
The full moon had finally risen out of the sea,
Or was it the sun too tired to shine and begging for a day off.

Her arms were a tight hoop around his neck,
She knew how to hang onto love,
Her cheek to his chest, to his heart.
She'd kicked off her sandals and stepped onto his boots,
Her full weight a reminder that they weren't dead yet.

He'd always known how to lead and carried her with ease.
'Is this the end', Sheila asked him
And looked around at the nearly empty room,
'Not as long as we keep dancing' he said
And kissed her with a full tongue.

They did yet not know,
The coincidental details
Of each other’s loathings,

Or even begin
To chart
The eclipses of their early aspirations,

Although instantly,
And within seconds of hearing each other’s voice,
They suspected they’d soon share
The gasps and pleadings of the great grand hope.

Their introduction was online of course,
Their first physical meet,
A small wine bar on the south side,
Where they were served complimentary
Blue cheese, on
Crisp crackers, handmade,
Each bite a delight and a nod and a welcome treat.
A sign of so many yummy things to come.

Lisa, her full name was Lisa Lilac,
Explained, with a bit of crumb on her lower lip,
That her bedroom was the only place to have
A serious conversation.

Nothing else will matter if we don’t **** well,
Or at the very least if we don’t **** with potential, she said,
Can anything overcome the cardinal disappointment,
Of *****-shat ***?
How is intimacy even possible she asked
If the ordeal is bitter or banal.

His name was Keegan
And he took her hand for a moment,
And examined the backs of her knuckles with
A kind man’s massage of her fingers.

Her hands were small beautiful appointments,
Soft,
And he knew her touch was ******  
And capable of breaking him apart.

Let me see if I can read your desires, Keegan said
And he turned her hand over and examined her palm.

Our first kiss must be a valuable possession, he said,
A vivid memory, ****** and intentional,

From this first brush, in this famished embrace
You will find in my pursuit all of your hunger,

I will draw your lower lip out with a lover’s bite,
My tongue will pirate your beautiful mouth,
And like a jewel thief in a plush apartment,
It will search urgently and everywhere for a precious reaction.

A French Kiss, is that not the most perfectly named thing,
Our entanglement will tender to curiosity,
This very first kiss will be ours,
Our only signature of things to come.

Lisa said she wanted him to kiss her right now,
In the company of strangers and hired help, Keegan asked.
Of course, I sometimes like an audience, she said,
And I always fall for a man,
Who can perform under pressure.

In that case you must make a promise, Keegan requested.
I’m listening, she replied.
You must promise after
The first time we make love,
To let me read to you out loud,
No matter time of day,

Will there be a first time,
She asked in blush of fashion and feminine coy,
Without any doubt he replied
And consummated her with his dusk- dawn smile.

Stamp out all the clocks in me,
Bend this  glass until time breaks
Hobble the pace of everything that runs
End all noise and raw prediction.

Give me one moment with a still sun,
A pod of great white clouds in pause,
The flutter, the wind, the memory of beginnings,
I miss you most in mornings, why wake up at all.

Carla said I should furl my anxiety,
Ravel it up in a ball without conviction, she said,
Your curses can’t be creased and folded flat,
Like a dress shirt with pearl buttons and a fancy tie.
Jesus no, she said,
Stuff everything you feel into your closet
Pile it on top of your worn out shoes,
Your forgotten purchases,
And your frightening memories of your mother.

Your weakest link is concern, Carla said,
And your colossal waste of worry,
My god, you are mesmerized by outcomes,
Your pretense that life is a chess game
Is beneath insult,
Do you really think you can see three moves ahead?
There is no tidy way, she said,
To make amends with yourself,
You have dissected your life into an unfathomable mess,
The best you can do now,
Is pause…
Perhaps for a day, maybe two.

As usual I had no idea what Carla was talking about.
At least on the first go round.

I want you to walk among us
And read the story of the world, Carla said,
Humanity is desperately trying to tell you something,
Every public word, every sign, every misspelled message has meaning,
Be brave enough to stop and read things twice.

And so I went out to read the words of the world.
Words that whip and whirl around me every day.

My jam, blueberry as I recall, told me it was pure,
On every packet as bold as a White House lie.

My mechanic informed me,
He has a licensed inspection facility.
In that case, I told him
I want my government inspected
For flaws and lies and hate and deception
And of course check the tire pressure all the way round.

My gym informed me, it boldly declared
That I can burn calories,
Up to 36 hours
Post workout.
I want to burn effigies and look alike dolls
And smash the man in the face with a shovel.

My bank, the callous *****, the *****, the stain,
Told me, The more we get together, the happier we are.
And I want to get together in a march of a million angry men,
Determined to set things right, to hang the traitors,
At least by their ankles and pelt them with marshmallows,
And then smash them all in the face with a shovel.

Starbucks holds still like a library with no bound books,
The staff cling to their smiles as if they were butterflies
About to catch the next breeze and flutter away,
But their sign made my day.
Grab something good it said,
And I thought they meant an idea,
A value,
A concept,
A plan,
A truth,
But perhaps they just meant a *****
How sick and sad and stupid and insipid,
He is a monster

There were many more signs, persuasion everywhere,
Offers for my hair, my pain,
My new home complete with its own memory,
A boxing class for girls only, which seemed a bit off,
Don’t women have to learn
How to smash a man in the face with a shovel,
Why box with girls when it’s the hands and eyes,
And sniffy nose of a man that needs to be smashed flat.


Carla told me, over a glass of scotch, neat,
And a mountain man cigar,
That the world is wilting and the signs are everywhere.
Beware this one she said, he has the mind of child,
The temperament of a rabid dog
And the IQ of a Q-tip.
Yes, that’s what he thinks IQ  means, Carla said,
And downed her scotch with a frown.

The ice has turned into sickles,
Glass daggers,
Witch's fingers pointing straight down,
As if to tell me,
The only escape is that way,
Straight down.

Everything gets pulled back to the center,
God replaced by gravity, neither seen or proved,
Each a belief at its core.
One an apple eaten,
The other an apple in free fall,
Until now to our delight,
There are Apples for us all.

Boom.