most of the time
he drifted
in and out
of cindy's life

the man she once looked up to
was now enslaved
by the bottle
his hair receding
his face lined
his smile
furtive

he told her he had a new girl
in atlantic city
a dancer he met
in one of the resort's
endangered casinos

cindy pictured the girl as
young
brunette bangs
hard eyes
emaciated
a lap dancer
hooked on something
forbidden

the next morning
he threw a few twenties
on the kitchen table
left a note
in his hung over scrawl
about catching a
greyhound bus to a-c

he was already
out the door
on his way
to nirvana

when she read the note
all she thought was
'bye daddy...see you whenever'

It waddles across the landscape
an untidy blubbering mess
that cannot hide its hugeness
its folds of flabby flesh

Its expanding multiple chins
increase its oozing girth
a monstrous shape that maneuvers
to threaten the planet earth

It moves like a massive shadow
with its striking stature and depth
it destroys the people's planet
with one smothering crushing step

mom was on "password" once

i saw a rerun of the program
the other day
on the game show channel

peter lawford
kept feeding her
bad clues

he looked at her
condescendingly
but i suspect
she was too entranced
by his bushy eyebrows
and **** smile
to even notice

i didn't really like
his smirk
when she kept guessing wrong
and then
when his clue was "passion"
she giggled

he winced

i laughed out loud
sitting there
in my disheveled living room
rain pounding
on the awning
the dog asleep
on my lap
magazines piled high
at my feet
my mother's laughter
lighting the room
like a lovely luminous ghost

Eleven years ago, I was standing in
a field surrounded by towering
trees. As on many nights before, I
was taking my dog Scotty for a walk,
and then letting him run loose for a short
time. This particular night he seemed
anxious, restless. He began to howl - a
bloodcurdling, evil bark that shattered
the stillness on that crisp autumn evening.
He seemed to be responding to something
only he could sense and then there was
an enormous floating cloud, a sort of heavy
mist that filled the atmosphere quickly.
Suddenly a spaceship with blinking green
and yellow lights materialized and landed
not so far from where we were. I lost sight
of the dog, just heard him barking wildly in
the distance. A door opened on the spaceship
and a steel gray robotic creature with one red
eye in the middle of its head stepped out. It
was brandishing a silver sword and it was
then when the entire field became engulfed
in  an overwhelming darkness.

I was in shock and started to run.
Somehow, even with all this terror
and confusion, I made it home.
Breathless, anxious, fearful, I told
my wife what I'd seen and heard.
She approached me, grabbed my
trembling locked fist, and pried it
open; Scotty's leash fell soundlessly
on the rug. Startled and sobbing,
she shrieked, "Where's Scotty?
What happened to Scotty?"

I had no answer then.

Or now.

I am the lightning genius of Benjamin Franklin
and the gracious hands of Betsy Ross threading
a pattern that will make freedom unfurl.
My voice is an outraged plea for liberty;
my mind, a fireworks of ideas
bursting from the pen of Thomas Jefferson,
and I can sense that these ideas flare and glow,
enlighten and inspire the people.

i see faces
wrinkled from gossip,
eyes like lightbulbs,
tongues that scribble,
malicious jawbones
gouging across a page.

Suddenly a Christmas card
comes to life on a mantel
and a splendid silken angel
with eyes the color of diamonds
smirks at a mirror
while faces without features
vanish through a fireplace
already cold and white.

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 like a classic movie
One with Bogie and Bacall
Kate Hepburn in her heyday
Or Errol Flynn in a brawl

A Cary Grant comedy
Irene Dunne at his side
Bette Davis raising hell
Or Frankenstein's scary bride

I think of Ingrid Bergman's smile
The sweetest nun appearing onscreen
And Mae West's sassy manner
As she lit up every scene

Spencer Tracy wowed us
Charlie Chaplin made us roar
Great stars, great stories, great times
The movies I adore

Some victims end up in a ditch somewhere
bullet holes in their heads

Others are buried six-feet-deep
in neglected pastures
or end up drawing
a last breath
in a seedy motel room

They become falling stars
their brief bios featured on
crime shows
their sad tales
filling the airwaves
their names forgettable
histories unremarkable
victims whose renown emerges only
from their sudden shocking demise

They become fodder
for the crime junkies...
curious insomniacs
watching docudramas -
america's nightmares
playing out on millions
ot tv screens

You can sense the sheer terror
victims feel...
their eyes flickering in the dark
when someone's hands
silence them
their screams muffled by
dissonant music swelling -
a crescendo of shrieks and sounds
building toward
that awful
final fade

There's a unique "Island of Lost
Poems" somewhere in Texas, tucked
away in a corner of an office,
actually on a desk in a poetry
editor's home. They are there: the
casualties...a handful of poems,
a small avalanche of chapbook
contest entries, submissions of
varying lengths from haiku to epic.
They got lost, separated from
their envelopes, no SASEs to
identify them, no names or
addresses on them. They rest
stranded in a topsy-turvy pile,
unread, untraceable, unclaimed.
In a day or two, they will be
tossed in a blue and white
recycling basket, and then
ultimately transported to a
shredder.

A question remains about these
exiled anonymous works as they
languish on the "island."

Who sired them?

One might wonder if there could be
a poem by the next e.e. cummings
or Bukowski or Nikki Giovanni
somewhere in that nameless
shapeless hill of hope, perhaps
a work of passion and politics -
a masterpiece penned in outrage
and alienation, a brave new "HOWL"
just waiting to become the first great
poetic anthem of the twenty-first century.

When warriors sleep
they dream of peace
of perfect skies
and quiet seas

But when awake
they hear the call
and face the fight
and stand so tall

They fear not war
or words of hate
they know that strife
can make them great

And one who never
turned from the heat
who spoke his mind
endured defeat

Now rests in death
an honored man
who served us well
who took a stand

We are assembled here
this May evening of 2006
to celebrate our own
Leading Lady of
American Letters.

The tall, slender author,
her classic looks
so reminiscent of
ladies in an elegant
Victorian era salon,
reads one of her
earlier short stories
at the Free Library
of Philadelphia.

She speaks with such
feeling and precision,
we close our eyes
and envision her
youthful heroine's
anxiety and naivete
in that familiar setting
of an upstate
New York town.

Later, in another room
of the library,
I will meet her
too briefly at a
book signing.
She stands to greet me,
smiling so pleasantly
and asks, "What do you do?"
in the friendliest way.
I reply "I'm a
proofreader," somewhat
embarrassed at my
flimsy Dickensian
credential.

This was my own
personal brush
with greatness
and I find myself
tongue-tied with
hero worship.
She is gracious
and fragile, exquisitely
feminine and warm and
I would learn I was
not the only groupie
in the library throng
that evening -
a multitude of fans
lined up to meet
the literary icon.

Joyce Carol Oates,
as her critics
rightly rhapsodize,
is a force of nature,
a uniquely powerful
writer whose brilliance
rests not just in the
singularly American
landscapes she paints,
not just in the
idiosyncratic
characters who people
her storytelling,
but in the creation
of rich personal
moments of intimacy,
of revelation and insight;
she makes us witnesses,
eavesdroppers, to her
characters' deepest
thoughts, longings,
her voice reaches out
to us from the pages,
a voice as poignant
as a mother's in the
gloom of night,
reading to her children
just before prayers
are murmured and
sleep tiptoes in.

The path of
literary greatness
leads us to her heroes...
James Joyce, Emily Bronte,
Thoreau, Faulkner,
Flaubert, Hemingway;
like each one of these
celebrated wordsmiths,
she is an iconoclast,
an original...
unique,
incomparable,
our own
quintessential
national treasure.

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

that's him...
squinty eyes, maybe
thirty or so,
trim, fit, hair
combed neatly,
parted just right

mister
congeniality
with a real estate
license, he's a
trifle flirty
but he seems
proud of his
pretty wife and
two kids - plus one
in the oven - the
family ensconced
in a new rancher
in the east falls
section of town

never served
on a jury before,
doesn't want to be
foreman or assistant
foreman, just wants to
absorb the experience,
to fulfill his civic
duty, to serve,
just wants to lean back
in the deliberation room
and listen and learn

on the lunch break,
he talks basketball,
coaching a swim team,
obsessing about his days
in a garage band,
some think he's a little
young to be so nostalgic
but those shifty eyes -
a faded blue like the sea
captured in an aged
watercolor - and
that fast fading smile
reveal something else,
something nameless...
malevolent maybe?
a few wonder
what he's really
all about

juror number eight
whispers to number
six that twelve's
a ringer,
the one who screws
things up, the one who
plays reasonable doubt
tricks right before your
eyes like a smooth magician,
he's the one with the chip
cemented firmly on his
shoulder, he's in this
for the sport,
the mind games,
the unfolding drama

number twelve
spells it out
for everyone:
the cops always lie,
why believe anything
they say? and don't
believe that guy with
the new york accent
who had clearly
tampered with evidence
and tried to cover it up
...and then there's the
defendant's best
friend who sold him
down the river, sold
him out right there
on the stand! don't be
sheep, don't trust
flimsy reasoning, this
whole justice system reeks
of injustice, look at
what they think of
teenagers, parading them
around in the hallways
here in the courthouse...
young kids handcuffed,
walking around in
leg chains, they're
victimized too in
their own way, what about
their rights? think about
it! i said think about it!

juror number eight had to
be restrained from choking
him right there in the
middle of deliberations,
they almost called the
guards in to break things
up, the men and women
confused, terrified

he's become the
belligerent bully
who says no while the
others say yes, the only
voice that goes against
the other eleven, but he's
not a champion, not a
noble iconoclast, not
one of the twelve
angry men,
just one angry man
against the world,
the contrarian with
a hidden agenda,
the wild card,
maverick,
odd man out

he's juror number
twelve, he lives to
explode the case,
be the juror
who hung the jury,
eleven men and women
dangling in the
town square, sunlight
streaming down,
heads swollen,
mouths agape,
eyes wide open,
the last minute
of the last act

that must be
the final
indignity
the thought
that comes
and goes
explodes
vanishes
like some
mythical
gossamer thing
that drifts in
your mind the
vision that
completely
disappears
as if some
invisible
sprite had
swiped it
from some
troublesome
cobweb
in your brain
and hustled it
away
that image
that feeling
that number
that person's
eyes  nose  mouth
that remembrance
that funny thing
you said at
some raucous
party a few
years ago
or was it
many years ago?
you can almost
hear the
laughter from
the crowd
as if you were
there again
but what was
it you said
exactly?

and what about
that old neighbor
you liked so much
the one who died
shoveling snow?
a man you knew
for twenty years
and now you can
only vaguely recall
his body sprawled
out at the end
of his driveway
now you can't
even summon
his name
what was
his name?
what was
it?

you would be
grateful now
to dredge up
the very first
time you met
your future
in-laws your
daughter's
first dance
recital your
grandson's first
soccer match
or even that
poem you
revisited
last night
before you
fell asleep
that poem
your wife shared
with you
what was
that poem
about? what was
the title?
the audacious
first line?
all the words
and clever
alliteration
all reduced to
a hazy blur
dissipating
like those
antacid
tablets that
fizzed into
a seltzery
four ounces
swirling
midway down
a plain white
dixie cup you
left
abandoned
forgotten
on the
bathroom
counter hours
ago...could
even discomfort
even pain
be erased
so quickly
so easily
so thoroughly?

In my darkest dream,
I'm wearing sunglasses at night
while I drive...
a phantom flying down freeways

During my journey I spot
Matthew McConaughey
in his glistening Lincoln chariot -
a smug smile vanishing
from his famous face
as I speed by
on my breathless trek

I will not be surpassed
or surprised
or stifled
by any mega rich superstar
or anyone else in motion...
my eyes unblinking
as I race with frightening intensity
on this endless stretch of highway

I sense that people in power
are impressed with my arrogance
and every dewy-eyed starlet
in Hollywood
falls apart at the sight
of me
masked dramatically
in my striking shades -
my music blasting
my foot on the accelerator
my destination a well kept secret

I have an image now to uphold
so splendid
so masterful
perfectly illuminated
by the glow
of a brilliant
desert moon
lighting my way
toward a golden promised land

Pakistan.

A moonless night in May.

Inside the compound,
everything appears to be
almost pitch black.

Night vision goggles lift
the veil of darkness.

With the goggles, everything inside...
         all the details of the home,
         become startlingly visible,
         revealing all in this surreal setting
         - suffused as it is with
           a dreamlike green hue.

And then there are the eyes
of those looking on...
     Osama Bin Laden's wives, children, couriers
     peeking out from doorways,
     huddled in rooms and hallways,
     their voices whispering in Arabic;
     those large curious eyes incredulous
     as they study these invaders
     with their goggles, their strange gear,
     their weapons drawn as they methodically
     carry out their mission.

This night so far four people have been silenced by gunfire.

The raiders are certain Bin Laden
is up ahead on the third floor.

They climb slowly up the
dangerously slick steps wet with
blood, moving with deliberation
toward their target's bedroom.

They hear suppressed shots fired
by their point man
and see a tall figure flee
back into a room.
He's been shot.
The men in pursuit enter the room and
more gunfire ensues.

A small cluster of people are also
there in the room - two women, three children -
eyewitnesses to history...

They are confused, dazed, shocked.

They see this wild man,
this phantom of our most torturous dreams,
writhing on the floor,
desperate, struggling,
about to take his final breath.

late morning
we're asleep
the phone rings

i hand it to her
she tells me
it's the drugstore
her prescription's ready

later i'll remember
her voice sounding
a little weary
but there's
no pain there
no urgency
yet there's something
not right
about her voice
something disembodied
something lost

a little later
when i wake up again
she's facing me
her eyes are shut

the silence is overwhelming

i say her name
there's no response

i scream her name
nothing happens

i touch her arm
she's warm
but her eyes remain closed
her hands remain still

i phone our daughter
she says call 9-1-1
9-1-1 tells me what to do
i do what they say
then rescue people show up
and take over
then they rush her
to the hospital

our daughter
who has just arrived
drives me there

we go inside
but we don't want to

we don't want to hear what we already know

A poet's canvas is a blank white page
Waiting for outbursts of rapture and rage
Waiting for verse set in rhyme and meter
To set the stage, to reach the reader
To strike a chord and play a part
Engage the mind and touch the heart

I am the Liberty Bell's silent message,
the stained glass grandeur of Christ Church,
the sunlit windows of Liberty Place on an April day.
I join the cheering throngs at the stadium,
their enthusiasm fills me with joyful shivers,
and I ride with weary passengers on a 5 o'clock subway,
their hands clutching newspapers in the hush of early evening.

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

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.

Picture this.

Times Square on a sultry
afternoon in late June...

A fiftyish Lady Gaga wannabe
brazenly stands in the middle
of the block, a cowgirl hat
crowning her teased blonde head,
a guitar strung around her neck.

A performance street artist who
never performs, she wears a
sheer blouse featuring sagging
(almost) naked ******* dangling
just south of municipal
    decency standards.

Her short but shapely legs poke out
    of the shortest of short shorts
this side of a Coney Island boardwalk.

The heat is so oppressive, she removes
her hat. Her hair is the color
    of straw and
she has faded blue eyes misty with
melancholy, burdened with too much
mascara, her sad expression framed
in a halo of smoke.

As she puffs on a Marlboro, a
tourist stops to ask if she'll
pose with him for a photo. She
looks a little wobbly. He hands
her a dollar and she asks, "That's
all?" She looks directly into his
eyes, her fire engine red lips
break into a weak smile and she
sputters, "It's one buck per ***."
He hands her another dollar.
His friend takes the picture.
The tourist thanks the "Lady"
and heads down the block
just in time to catch his wife
swap spit with the
Naked Cowboy.

Welcome to New York City.

Alliterative alliteration
always amuses
and excuses
my silly muses

In church pews I am quiet
In libraries I'm hushed
At grave sites I am silent
In theaters I am shushed
In hospital halls I whisper
The epitome of poise
But frankly what I'd welcome now
Is some pure unadulterated NOISE!

is short and stout
(the kids in the neighborhood
  call him "roly-poly"
  but not to his face)

he's somewhere in his late seventies
cloaked in a dark green l.l.bean hooded coat
sizes too small on him
and he's shoveling snow
when he suddenly falls down
topples really
in the gathered snow
a small heap of flesh
buried slightly
where the driveway slopes down a bit

after a short time
a few neighbors run over to the site
and turn him over
one of them checks his pulse
the crowd thickens
someone cellphones 9-1-1
and then
ever
so
slowly
the man opens his eyes
starts to smile
his head turns
to look at his nameless neighbor
across the street
a neighbor framed in a window
he's a kitchen poet in fact
who stares right back at the forlorn sight

mister roly-poly's wife
runs out of her home
in a skimpy blue housedress
her damp blonde hair wrapped in curlers
she looks very angry
yelling at him
calling him "a spectacle...
a drunken *******" to be exact

in the meantime their two labradors
who've been watching the drama
from a  bay window seat inside
charge out of the house
and the wife yells  "no! no! no!"
the man sits up for a moment
the whimpering dogs run to him
they start to lick his face
and the man tries to get up
then an ambulance
races up the street
skidding on the icy patches
the siren screeching insanely
in the frigid air
the wife keeps yelling "no! no! no!"
the dogs keep licking
and all the 9-1-1 people
rush out of the vehicle
and everything looks just like a scene
from a marx brothers feature
but no one's yelling "CUT!"

This is not a poem about unrequited love
             not a poem about the changing of the seasons,
                                                    babb­ling brooks,
                                                    cloud­less skies,
                                                    Englis­h gardens in full bloom

             not a poem about setting suns, starry skies,
                                             full moons, glittering galaxies    

             not a poem about absent fathers,
                                             weepy mothers or your cranky old
                                             Aunt Clara in the attic plotting
                                             your death while her dentures soak
                                             in a Polident bath cup

             not a poem about the existence or non-existence of
                                                    a Supreme Being

             not a poem about when you abandoned your children
                                             or when your children abandoned you

             not a poem about poverty, social isolation,
                                             the Holocaust, war, the evils of
                                             capitalism, the specter of  injustice,
                                             the injustice of inequality, the
                                             inequality of injustice or any other
                                             word attached to the prefix "in"

             not a poem about ****** conquest, ****** dreams,
                                             the effects of liquor or drugs
                                             on one's libido

             not a poem that uses the f-word, the s-word, the c-word
                                                         ...or any of the other
                                                           ­ objectionable words used
                                                            ­to "front" the remaining
                                                       ­     letters of the alphabet

This
is
clearly
a
poem
about
what
is
not a poem

In this moment before birth,
I am turning,
a tiny mass of flesh/bones
struggling toward the light,
my slippery cord
    unra  v   e    l     i      n       g   ,
my head a mess of milk white fuzz
that pushes down and through,
my wrinkled eyes sealed,
arms  fingers  legs
rubbery  red  wet.

My mother's family waits outside,
a Greek chorus drinking black coffee,
relieved that the labor is over.

Someone marks the time:
one-twenty-three-a-m,
and my father, half-drunk,
plays the guitar in a nightclub
somewhere in South Philly.
He does not even know,
as his callous young fingers
interpret "Stardust,"
that his first son
has been born.

Someone gives him the news,
buys him a drink,
while my mother,
beautiful  serene  sedated,
smiling like Rita Hayworth
in a pinup picture,
cradles me with  nervous sighs.

She is tended now
by hospital people
who daydream about loved ones,
fearful and faraway,
points on a fiery map.

But I am just another baby
in an era when babies
are mass produced
like munitions.

I was conceived sometime
in the dawn of a new year,
the result of two militant lovers
    making up
while the rest of the world
lusted for the blood of boys
born twenty years before...
a war baby
who brings no peace.

It was a water-cooler rumor,
an office joke circulating,
all about 'the girl in the picture' -
a framed photo on my desk.
They called her 'the mystery girl,'
a radiant blue-eyed brunette
with a beguiling smile. They
said they couldn't believe
someone so great looking would
ever have eyes for me, would
ever care about me, would ever
share my hopes and dreams. They
thought it was a lark. They even
said she didn't exist because
they never saw her, she never called
me at the office, never met me
for lunch

Tough! I thought. She's very shy,
very timid. She's an artist, she
works out of our apartment, she's
not a people person. But they didn't
believe me because I never brought
her with me - to Christmas parties or
weddings or the company picnic in May.
They said I made her up, that the picture
on my desk was something I got from a
stock photo book or from something I
picked up off the shelf of a dollar store

Give me a break!

And then the unthinkable happened.
She left me - just like that!
There was a note and nothing else.
I still don't understand it.
I quit my job. I cleaned out my
desk at the office and went back
to the apartment...she seemed to be
everywhere...in pictures all over,
her smile beaming at me from
every room

Now in my loneliness, in my drift
toward sleep each night, my heart
is hollow. I murmur her name in
the darkness...'Arianna...Arianna...'
- a name like the wind - free, restless,
rhapsodic, an anthem bursting
from my heart, the answer to my
most desperate prayers

as dawn approaches
the man on the sofa wakes up

stockings are empty

living room looks like normandy
   after the invasion
crumpled gift wrap everywhere
ribbons and bows languishing
   lazily on the floor
the dog sleeping soundly like
   someone snuck her a bowl of gin

the note to santa has disappeared
like the fat turkey plopped down on
the dining room table, all prettied up
for the christmas feast

and now everyone is left with today

holiday depression ensues

the man on the sofa longs to see
something joyful, something that
says there's more to life
than the gray of winter
the chill in the wind
the loneliness of long
silent nights ahead

he knows he's old, tired,
too disillusioned about the world
to make sense of anything anymore

he feels that hope is an
endangered belief that eludes
too many people now

in defeat, in resignation, he
returns to the ultimate escape...
a peaceful, dreamless sleep far
from the uncertain present

and outside
the sun
like hope itself -
bright and glowing -
begins to rise

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"

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.

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.

there was a tiny girl
who lived in a shoe
she had so much footwear
she didn't know what to do:
itsy-bitsy teensy-weensy
sneakers and pumps
and microscopic oxfords
that made her heart jump

the little clogs she wore
were custom-made in france
they went well with leisurewear
like her blue capri pants

she loved her ballet slippers
(the ones that did not pinch)
and preferred stilettos with heels
a sixteenth of an inch

her favorite choice of footgear
was a gift that could not be hipper:
a resplendent miniature pair
of magical ruby slippers

and she looked quite lovely always
wearing a minuscule diamond crown
and was the belle of every ball
as she twirled in her wee princess gown

There was a poet named Nash
Who earned buckets of cash
From rhymes funny and brash
With a dollop of panache
His work was never slapdash
Always a top-drawer smash

November...
with its scent of burning leaves -
a month lacking light
casting shadows
everything dark and ashen

November...
always moving
edging into desolation
always moody
uncertain
a strange month
with its clouds
hovering close to the ground
filmy unwelcoming clouds rising slowly
all day
enveloping everything
by nightfall

Could we have a moratorium
On nature poetry please
A resounding snoratorium
On meadows, lakes, and trees

A halt to poems about sunsets,
Full moons, snowfalls and such
These tickle the fancy of nature buffs
But for others - not so much

A cutback on odes to roses,
Summer's glory or butterflies
Fewer tributes to all things blooming
And birds that fill the skies

Let's take a break from winter scenes
And the beauty of an ancient sea
Try one about the human race
Think of the novelty

Someone's staring at me
right now
here on this subway.
His eyes have not left mine.
He looks crazy and nervous,
a young guy,
a twitchy-looking young guy.
I have a feeling he's going to jump me
or rob me,
maybe shoot me
or stab me.
He's probably looking for money
for a fix.
He's going to follow me off this frigging subway car
and then he's going to slit my throat
and throw me on the tracks.
This maniac drug addict
is going to **** me
and buy some ****** or crack
or whatever these ******* scummy losers buy
to get high
and he's going to leave me on a subway track
with blood streaming out of my neck,
my mouth a pool of blood.
He's waiting for me to get off here
at the Spring Garden stop.
Well, forget it *******,
my wild-eyed doped-up piece of slime.
I won't get off here.

Wait a minute.
He just got off here
and the door closed.
I see him running up the steps
probably to catch a bus
or **** someone on the street.
Thank god he's gone.
I was sure he was going to knife me.
I had it all figured the hell out.
I even stayed in this ****-ridden
rat hole of a subway car
and now this means I have to get off
at the next stop and go over to the other side
of the station
and take another subway
back to the Spring Garden stop.
I have totally ******* up.
I talked myself out of getting off at my stop and
now I'm totally messed up.

I've got to stop thinking like this.
This paranoid crap is taking its toll.
It tricks me,
confuses me,
frightens me.
I have to be calm now,
just get ahold of myself.
I'm standing up
to get off at the next stop.

Now I'm by the door.
What's going on here?
I just noticed
two guys sitting over there
just a few seats down
on the left
and they're looking at me.
One's got a mile-long scar
on the side of his face.
These guys are trouble.
The other one just put his hand in his pocket
like he's got a gun or something.
Holy Christ!
I've got to get off.
Maybe my mind's just playing tricks on me.
I don't know what to think.
I'll just stand here by the door.
The stop's coming up.
Christ! They just got up and
they're walking toward me
and now they're standing behind me.
I can see their reflection in the door's glass.
I can almost feel one of them breathing
on the back of my neck.
I'm trapped now...nowhere to go...nowhere!
The door's opening and I step out
into the dark.

I'm a dead man.

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!!!

For forty years he wrote thousands of
obituaries at his hometown newspaper.
This selfless solitary childless widower
never dwelled on shortcomings, never
mentioned flaws. Instead his writing was
fueled by the milk of human kindness,
nourished by a wellspring of compassion.
His reputation was built on shamelessly
deifying shady politicians, duplicitous
bankers, the occasional CPA with an
affinity for loopholes. Everyone - man
or woman - no matter what personal
failings they had, was elevated to near
sainthood by the time all caskets were
lowered, all tears shed.

And then the lonely newsman faced his
own grim diagnosis, his days numbered,
death imminent as it was for all of his
subjects. When they found him alone,
disheveled and deceased, in his tiny,
cluttered walk-up apartment, they found
a little handwritten poem stuffed in his
pajama pocket:
             "I praised and eulogized
              My less than perfect neighbors.
              To my successor I simply say:
              'Kindly return the favor.'"

peter hated the house on mckinley street
in his eight-year-old brain it was a hot mess

since his parents moved there
all he heard were complaints and yelling

his mother was always moaning about the small rooms,
the lousy closet space, the faulty plumbing, the leaky roof

and the mice

they were everywhere - in closets, in pantries, in drawers,
behind the heater, under the radiators

they were in nooks and crannies, behind the refrigerator,
in the laundry room, even in the crawl space

they were almost always in hiding, rarely seen in daytime
except when they were found dead in a trap - also a rarity

traps were set methodically, enticing hors d'oeuvres were created
laced with cheese and peanut butter but still nothing worked

his mother would religiously check the traps every morning
and every time she'd mutter "those little ******* *******!"

the sly moves of mice to avoid the guillotine snap of a mousetrap
as they nibbled around a flap of cheese amazed everyone

besides traps his parents bought sticky cheese pads where the
tiny monsters would get their heads and bodies stuck permanently

one time peter observed a black mouse lying - and dying - on
a cheese pad...he pushed a second pad over its face

"i suffocated the little ****!" he exclaimed and when he told
his parents they bought him a gift card from the lego store

but every now and then one of the lilliputian invaders would
make a live unscheduled appearance

one october when the nights began to get colder his mother saw
a gray mouse climb up a cord leading to the microwave

she almost had a heart attack right there on the spot and there
was the time his father was looking in the refrigerator and

heard a strange scratchy noise behind him - he sensed
a sudden descent; a baby mouse had scurried off a shelf and

fell into a small trash can so his father immediately picked
up the can and hurled it out the back door

ultimately the parents decided to move to a swanky apartment
house and the night before peter had his last "mouse dream"

it featured a giant white mouse's head that was the size of
a billboard so big so menacing it scared him awake

finally he fell back into a gentle state of dreamless slumber...
and when he woke up his parents were taking down pictures

he looked out his window and saw a moving van pull up and
for the first time in a long time he was happy

Voices are telling me not to jump
My hands hold on to the ledge
The voices are loud, demanding
Some are crying out, beseeching me
Some are familiar, others not at all
"STOP!" they yell with inevitable urgency

I close my eyes to contemplate my fall
The shocked expressions of people
taken aback by the sight of someone
descending in a flash
as they happen to look out their windows

I'm afraid to let go now
The thought of striking a pavement
feet first (or any other way)
is a deciding factor
I just can't do this.  It's too messy

It takes what feels like forever
for most of these people to haul me up to
the balcony - two cops help me to a sofa

Maybe tomorrow I think

Where did all these people come from I wonder

Maybe not tomorrow.  Another day then

When no one is looking

Maybe I'll just go off to a motel room
somewhere in the suburbs.  Fortify myself
with something strong and bitter
swallow a shaky handful of pills
to blur my yellow streak

But no crowds next time

God my hands hurt like hell

No high-rise drama

No Dorothy Parker babble in my brain
telling me I might as well live

And no fuss

I dreamed I won three Oscars,
Four Emmys, and a Tony too.
My fireplace mantel was sagging
From the honors I accrued.

I picked up two Golden Globes,
Five Grammys plus a Pulitzer Prize.
The awards just poured in that night.
I couldn't believe my eyes.

They gave me the Nobel Peace Prize
And my very own Stanley Cup,
Then I earned a People's Choice Award
Seconds before I woke up!

One snowy night years ago I was driving home
and my ancient classically beautiful ford
thunderbird spun around in a perfect
three hundred and sixty degree
direction careening but in a
slow-motion way on slick ice. I recall pleading
in a frantic prayer to keep my car free
from collision while my body was
angling crazily like a crash test
dummy veering dizzily
but I survived.

I drove home recapturing my breathing with
renewed respect for God's good grace and
my incredible brush with mortality and I
wondered about the snow that falls
settles paints prettifies and terrifies
our universe, that never lets us
forget the drift between life
and death, between fear
and serenity.

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.

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 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!

giddy
with two gin & tonics
mary jo
reluctantly
moves behind the wheel
on this lonely
humid
moonless
night

she squirms
in the unadjusted seat
squinting
at the insects zooming
in the headlights' glare

putting the car
in drive
her twenty-second ride
begins in panic
hurtling down a
dirt road
littered with ruts
her right foot straining
to reach the gas pedal

she approaches the
rickety bridge
but its flat
anonymity
makes no impression
as she proceeds
forward and
down
into the swift current
the tidal splash of
two tons of metal
unheard
unseen

unaware
the nervous senator
walks toward the cottage
wondering if mary jo
will find her way back

he suddenly remembers that
a man will soon step
on the moon
but his thoughts
are diverted
by the fragile sound
of girlish chatter
rising from the clammy darkness
like an aria
or an omen

I. The Assassin

    Smoke and dust
    **** oxygen
    from his puny lungs
    as he rises on an
    ancient freight elevator

    At the warehouse window,
    he assumes a darker mask,
    his bony finger
    tracing the trigger's curve,
    his beady eyes narrowing in
    on the slow moving target:
    that famous sculpted
    head of state
    so perfect
    in the plaza light

    Finally he will plummet -
    a bruised puppet
    slipping through
    a surreal night,
    a phantom of smoke and dust
    blinking in the glare
    of a Dallas lineup

II. The First Lady

    Her deep whispery voice
    unspools a reel of film:
    crowds, blinding sun,
    a promise of shade
    in the distance,
    then a sudden odd quizzical look
    on her husband's face

    She recalls that moment
    of slow motion shock:
    that serrated piece of his skull
    floating lazily
    in a blur
    toward
    her
    bright
    pink
    lap

I may as well warn you.
This poem will not end in death.
I haven't decided what it will be about.
But it won't be about death.
I don't have any desire to explain it
or peddle it
or wrap a ribbon around it.

There are so many other things to explore.
Why waste time on something no one really
knows anything about?

I'm being rhetorical.

Sort of.