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