in the living room
we take turns wrestling a cheap guitar
forcing beauty from rigid wood.
our hands turn to plastic
nature slips away
and we feel small.

across state lines
on christmas eve
we drive,
stop for fast food,
drive more
make good time
might make it there
for christmas eve service
but i really doubt it
he says.

the sign reads six miles
to bowling green kentucky
but we keep driving

cinder block structure,
bright red letters by the road,
clings to the soil.

girl in sweatshirt
forces out laughs so hard
her shoulders shake.
she's learned well
people like people
who laugh at jokes.

i got some loose ends.
sandpaper shadow creeps up my chin
and dishes stack like stone walls
on the countertop.
i gain ground here
and lose it there.
eyelids slide like greased lead
then fire back to life
then slide
again.

dripping spitting
rainy day
press my thoughts down into charcoal
squishing squeaking
raincoats hang on chairs

apt. 200

i pulled a name tag off a mailbox

in the foyer of my apartment building.

robert oakes.

he lived above my ceiling

but i can't recall his face

and all i know

i learned with my ear flat against the door

cops talking in the hallway

or peering between curtains

as his parents limped past

or whispering with neighbors

like he might hear.

but ghastly details and family grief

rumors and gossip

do nothing to explain.

robert wailed in his mothers' arms

the day he was born

discovered with wonder

his own stubby limbs

and yesterday

he bled until he died

on a folding chair in the shower

crimson spreading

turning black

like the gaping maw of hell.

and i can't stop staring

maybe i overheard a conversation

or someone pointed you out,

but i knew your name before we met.

and i can't think back

to who clasped who's hand first

only that we left as a group

and came back a pair.

and this morning i was sleeping

and then i stopped

but i can't recall the moment

when my mind slipped from clouds of sleep

and joined the new day.

a mirror hangs on the closet door

and when i sit in bed we make eye contact.

startled, we search myselves

and feel exposed by my own searching.

then we look down

and write two poems.

rusty brown guardrails

flash past in a blur on a

gray thanksgiving day.

somehow

i scratched my eye

or dried it out

and it stings and aches

and i can't think straight.

my forehead hangs

like a bag of sand

my eye like a hot coal

glows dull red

shedding moisture,

robe of steam.

i can hear it hissing.

things were better

short relief

made nothing change.

blurred world

of aching glow

i can't see straight

or think.

ducks on the pond

twins, clones

interchangeable, they follow each other in circles.

i watch one among the others

indistinguishable, just a bird

and when it turns down,

spirals beneath the surface,

i can tell where it used to fit

for just a moment

before the ripples fade,

the gap is filled,

its lost among

the pattern of the waves.

fox and the hound

on weak ankles

stumbles and grins,

looks two ways at once

then bolts!

head back

elbows waving

tail swings orange

tipped with white

like a backwards marker.

footsteps wander

like a bent wheel.

sporadic and charming.

i stand perplexed,

watch her grow smaller,

then the spark lights me too--

i bolt!

cloth ears flap against my cheeks

the sidewalk pounds,

glows like street lamps,

and the fox hovers in the hounds' eye

like the center of the universe.

enough electricity

a general view of the courtroom

an altitude of approximately 160 miles

your mother comes like jesus,
saves in just one way
and fills up with injured disbelief
when no one wants the deal.

Oakes (#2)

a few days later,

after everything calmed down,

but before the ebb and flow

of daily currents

softened all the edges,

i pulled a name tag off a mailbox

in the foyer of my apartment building.

"robert oakes."

he spent his days above my ceiling

but i couldn't picture his face

and everything i knew

i learned with my ear flat against the door,

cops talking in the hallway,

or peering through curtains

as his parents limped past.

but ghastly details and family sorrow,

rumors and gossip,

do nothing to explain

how the same hand

that wrote on a mailbox name tag

could turn against itself,

pierce its own flesh,

wring out its own body

like a wet rag.

and how the same child

that wailed in its mother's arms

and greeted the world with wonder

and graduated from high school

and came home to visit

on christmas and thanksgiving and easter

could end up lifeless

on a folding chair in the shower

with a carpet knife

and crimson spreading across the floor,

turning black,

like the gaping jaws of the darkest cave.

the contrast is too great.

and that name tag-

it feels dirty.

i pull a book off the shelf

and throw it inside.

i don't know which one

and i don't want to

but someday i'll flip it open

"robert oakes"

will fall out

and the horror

will make me feel alive.

angled legs of a metal table

reach the ground uneven

like a frozen frame of winter bambi

scrambling across the ice.

and up on top is clean white paper

taped to cover paint,

shining with the morning sun

now trickling through the windows.

the table stands

and shifts its weight,

too stiff to sit or pace,

and counts the minutes ticking by

and watches the door for students.

"when?" he asks, gesticulating,

"when will we get something new?"

his voice echoes through the museum,

"contemporary art is so old!"

cooked rice falls like snowflakes

and dots the kitchen floor

tables smeared with chili

and beans splashed up the wall

dishes stacked in layers,

uneven, brushed with food,

tip and crash into the basins

filled with silky liquid.

then slowly through the haze of action

order starts to whisper

lines and angles

straight and right

planes recall their form

until at once the day is done,

all noise and motion cease,

and everything has found its place

the cage has found the beast.

my brow weighs more than

train cars

her words like

clouds of lead

hunger gone

and lights dimmed down

i cannot keep from sleeping.

wild fox (#2)

the wild fox i try to tame

runs snarling, thinks she's prey.

so i brush her furnace orange hair

and stroke her slender shoulders where

she shakes and shudders,

ears flat back

and waits for punishment.

but none will come-

it never does-

she snarls and turns away.

and in her raging lightning eye

and rolling thunder throat its plain

my wild fox needs me to fight

and i need her to tame.

wild fox

the wild fox

i try to tame

runs snarling,

thinks she's prey

but fears the land

beyond the door

much more than anything.

so i brush her furnace orange hair

and stroke her slender shoulders

she coos and purrs

and barks and cries

and bears her pointed teeth,

but despite the lightning in her eyes

and rumbling in her throat i know

that in her heart i lie alone

and her, alone in mine.

this morning i woke
to the awful contortions
of a cat pumping its gut on the floor.
so i leaped from bed
and scooped her up
and carried her to the linoleum
then i stood there blinking,
waking up,
as the gray brown puddle expanded.

i walked past the gym.
inside, on a blue mat,
stacks of people--
triangle of piled flesh--
rigid and chanting,
counting, calling,
practice encouragement.

days like this call for
movies and card games under
a warm knit blanket.

through walls of page
she speaks subdued,
of excited happiness
then sees me there
and bends in half
in startled embarrassment.

hours before the sun would rise
the man came from his home
and cracked his gun
off to the night
at boys out on his lawn
and just like china
slipped through fingers,
shattered on the floor,
one boys kneecap split and cracked
as steel pushed through his leg.

lady like a feather

pads into the circle

and taps the arm of a musician

she has spoken to before.

she requests a song

and then returns to the park bench

where her voice warbles and cracks

and she closes her eyes.

banjo man

stops playing to introduce himself

to the new fiddle girl

and tell her not to stress out

and enjoy herself

and i can't imagine

this attention makes her relax.

crowd under the oak tree

cringe collectively

when the wind blows

and acorns fall all around.

red purple blue green

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

be happy

you will be succesful

you need a blow job

you will be a striper

doc

tor

you're a bitch

i'm gonna scew you.

sucide.

frame like matchsticks

wrapped in baggy cotton

topped with a cap on backwards

studies the ripples

where the line swings underwater,

where the tiny claw drifts lazily

and waits.

seagulls swoop and dive

and dive and swoop again

like charcoal tracing contours

of a tangled ball of yarn

and below them in the pond

rented boats

of worried families

watch the storm roll in

and wish they had picked a better day

and try not to think about lightning.

acorns in clusters

seem to glow just below

the surface of the pond.

in the mens' room

by the cafeteria

"gullible" is written on the ceiling.

except it really is.

foreign gentleman

slips off his sandals and puts his feet up

in his city bench living room

and studies the morsel

on the end of his finger

that he has removed from his nostril.

it bounces on piston legs

and tosses scraps of trash

with its pointed mouth

and follows my movements

in its shiny black eye

like a drop of dark oil

rolling across a dry autumn leaf.

delicate elephant skin

and hair like jet stream.

she runs hesitantly,

with short static steps,

towards the departing bus.

robot screen stutters and stammers

and can't do anything right

and she curses with frustration,

even her,

with church tattoos up her sleeve

and soft deliberate speech.

i expect less humanity

from someone with her connections.

red wax spread

across a black ink rose

on cheap white paper

on the sidewalk

by the orphanage.

empty black chair

faces me across the room

and studies my features

with solemn indifference.

warrior kneels

in shallow waves

receives his swinging blessing.

communion cup

of blood like wine

trickles down his temple.

her sketch lies open

between me and the speaker

and i struggle

not to stare.

he stands at the front of the auditorium

and turns and smiles

and examines a list.

i make eye contact

with a light brown dog

which stares from the back seat

of an suv

stopped at a red light.

ghost

around back, by the fire escape,

ten-speed tombstones

bright white, chained to the fence,

wait patiently

to mark corners

for lost lives.

i'm thrown into a chanting circle

of jabbering booze zealots

who mock lightweights

and get so blazed

and lust after northeastern

and look down on subways

if they lived in the city they'd get a sick car

they'd have to

'cause fuck subways.

college girls

with fancy flip flops

and sunglasses back

on straightened scalps

and they joke about the library

and she's coming over?

she texted

i hate allen

i feel like he doesn't even like her

she's like puking

and their buddy chimes in,

i was ready to beat the shit out of him

i was so mad

you're too much of a pussy.

the man in the blue fedora

continues his awkward pursuit

of younger women

who politely ignore his advances

until his intentions become too blatant

and they shut him down

like a broken appliance.

so he sits in the corner for awhile

until his confidence

and his delusion

rise up again.

columbus

paper shapes of land

and lines of inky coast.

deformed sliver of unknown.

but we know what lies within,

what will catch us when we sleep--

cannibal!

a raised cleaver,

a beast goring our flesh with pale white tusks!

sharp black form

hill of glass and steel

looms out the window

like a burnt skull

resting its gaze

on my shoulder.

the whole block marches

to the pile driver beat and

steel crawls underground.

he extends one arm,

ended in a fist,

and then

he extends one finger,

posing a question.

but no one notices

and he retracts the finger.

his fist remains.

the guilt of sitting

weighed against

the awkward connection

of giving up your seat

and the risk

of upsetting a feminist

leave me paralyzed.

i am puzzled by a man

older than the other students

wears a colorful collared shirt

jowels hang uneven

and why is he here?

art and sculpture,

human interaction

all seem to come with great effort

and little result.

her voice falters

when someone yells from the back

to talk louder

and she acknowledges,

but continues at the same volume

only faster.

the speaker got too personal

his vulnerability exposed

and we sat stone still

and applauded when he was finished

with relief and pity.

a friend i did not expect

sat down beside me

and we spoke

until the slide show began

and he slipped away.

the national guard stood by with rations

flashlights and bottled water

and this morning, after nothing happened,

the sky seems to shrug.

it never promised excitement.

norman

its early

the city is hushed

and streets are so empty

speeding paramedics

don't bother with sirens

but out by the stoop,

hands on his hips,

stands norman.

collared shirt loose

with open sleeves

and a gut hanging out

in clumps from past surgery

and hair like mountain brush,

both wispy and dense,

barely contained

beneath a ball cap.

he has already checked the hallways

for homeless sleepers,

in all the dark corners

where he found them once

ten years ago.

he looks up the street at a stray

lazily pawing across the pavement

then back the other way

towards the first rays

of morning traffic.

in a few hours

he will stand guard

like a preschool teacher at dismissal

as the bins he has arranged

so carefully on the sidewalk

are poured,

one by one,

into the trash truck.

then he'll usher his empty vessels

back to the alley,

where he'll arrange them again,

tuck them in,

and kiss them goodnight.

walking home last night

color caught my eye

under a lamp in a parking lot.

the front half of a horse,

colorful and empty,

lay lonesome in the yellow light.

systemically poisoned

fallen branches crackle and hiss

and disintegrate and drift

up into the air

in a million tiny particles

that swim down my windpipe

and leave me itching for a month.

she pressed her face with her hands

and repeated phrases

of excitement and happiness

and i thought she might cry

but all i could do was keep smiling,

wider and wider,

as i searched my memory,

trying to determine who she was.

two stone fingers

skyward like a blessing

and gardens and playgrounds

lie about its base

like a loose bracelet.

and where do they reach?

this granite gesture,

it beckons,

but who answers?

she's at the hospital now

her name called in the waiting room

scalpels parting her flesh

and tests upon tests upon tests.

her shell has gone bad.

warmth and light feed it

and make her ill.

and the surgeon,

piercing and prodding

and peeling back layers

will make her well again.

a weight like thunder

descended upon my brow

when i arrived home

and i don't understand it.

like trying to imagine

an infinite expanse

i grasp ahead

thinking for a moment

that i can comprehend

but it eludes me

always a step further

than i can organize.

his temples quivered
like a tuning fork or
a puddle of water
by the train tracks.
i listened from the back seat
as mozart bellowed and slammed his fists
but try as i might,
i couldn't hear the tones
that made his hair stand up
and his eyes narrow
and his head shake so slowly.
a few years later
i saw his hair stand up again
but his eyes were wide
and he laughed with
frightened guilt
then told me to get a towel
but i stood, staring,
leaning on one foot,
then the other,
shocked and frozen
by the blood now
streaming down my brother's shin
and filling his shoe.

sometimes recording the

beauty of life

is too distracting

and the best i can do

is sit and watch.

the surface of the pond

looks like static on an old tv

as thousands of rain drops

reunite with their brethren.

the old man with an accent

changes his socks

and blesses strangers' children

while a woman

takes pictures of an ambulance

and calls it "the police."

apt. 200

a few days later,

after everything calmed down

but before the ebb and flow

of daily currents

softened all the edges,

i pulled a name tag off a mailbox

in the foyer of my apartment building.

"robert oakes."

i may not have even met him,

i don't remember

i certainly did not understand.

but who did?

his neighbors eavesdropped

on ghastly details

and his parents limped with grief

when they collected his things

and everyone who heard

told family and friends

and started serious conversations

but no one has a clue.

i cannot understand

how the same hand

that wrote on a mailbox name tag

could turn against itself

could pierce its own flesh

could wring out its own body

like a wet towel.

and how the same child

that wailed in its mother's arms

and greeted the world with wonder

and graduated from high school

and came home to visit

on christmas and thanksgiving

and easter

could end up lifeless

on a folding chair in the shower

with a carpet knife

and blood seeping

through the crack under the door

soaking the carpet in the hallway.

the contrast is too great.

and that name tag--

it feels dirty.

i pulled a book off the shelf

and threw it inside.

i don't know which one

and i don't want to.

but some day i'll flip it open

"robert oakes" will fall out

and i will not know what to say

all over again.

the pile driver shakes

and shutters and rings

and fills the air

with smoke and clanging echoes

like a locomotive turned on end

jerking slowly into

a vertical station

where men in suits

lie on their side and wait

to roll onboard.

men in dark clothing

lie sprawled across the sidewalk

around and under

an old chevy with new disk brakes.

down the street another man

makes monster noises

at his daughter.

sirens wail and moan

like grieving mothers,

wandering the city,

searching for bodies.

a snow white mophead

wriggling at the end of a leash

and a foreign couple

displaying affection

at the other end.

the news broke haltingly

first at dinner, at a restaurant

nice enough to impress two kids,

then again,

in my grandparents' basement

on the carpet by the bunk beds,

then again,

at the cape in the dark

where i could roll over

and hide my face.

and each new discussion

came with added assurance

that this was real,

that life was not

how any of us thought it was,

that everything we knew and trusted

had betrayed us.

we rummage through each others' hearts

like raccoons through the garbage,

sifting through the refuse

with clumsy dirty claws

searching single-mindedly

for a rotten apple, a pizza crust,

an orange peel

and then, after snatching the morsel,

and stuffing it between our teeth,

we flee into the night

leaving bags torn open

and contents strewn about

like two by fours

after a hurricane.

the moon

last night i listened

as a story, told

and retold, passed

from person to person,

arrived at last by

way of my coworker--

pink floyd shook the walls

around a boy at a party

who sat, transfixed,

his brow furrowed

and punctuated

by beads of sweat.

hands curled up like

spheres of muscle

and eyes glazed,

he was immersed

and overwhelmed

by the music and medication

pulsing through his veins.

then finally--

when the ending notes drifted

past, and the moon began

to turn, he could not bear

to see it and could

not bear to turn away and

could not bear to look back

at the world unfiltered and felt

only relief in glass breaking

around his body, like

plunging into a crisp blue pool

after baking in the sun,

as he threw himself

through the living room window--

and the concrete below,

swooning slowly towards him,

looked as gentle and soft

as clean white sheets

after a long day.

acres and acres

of white vinyl siding climb

up the walls of the

spanish church of god.

twin spires point to

heaven like fort lauderdale

shuttles while the clang

of a distant pile driver

echoes like a migraine.

my desire for

efficiency surrenders

in the face of an

elegantly wandering

path through the park.

fire fighter boy

sits at the county fair and

considers his hat

and his official

fire fighting t-shirt and

cellular phone and

how he could use his

fists and attitude and his

fire fighter training to

beat up anyone he sees.

the wrinkled woman

paces through the woods by the

roller coaster while

talking on the phone.

fried dough and tractors.

competitive pulling

of different objects

by men and machines and horses.

unhealthy overpriced food

and the flour and

the blood and the diesel fuel

is all churned up with

pure and sweet, liquid nostalgia

for something i have never known.

"a bloomin' onion,"

she says. "a corn dog," she adds.

"i'm not getting one,"

her sister answers.

summer fairgrounds await us

and i am tired.

page by page flip by

smiling faces, ballet kids,

grandma stops in.

i search for patterns

scanning eyes for something, but

i come up empty.

i see these frames like

movies stills, illustrations

from some kids story.

but listen:

no one wrote this plot

there was no exposition,

no character arc,

nothing will be concluded.

without a second thought

i have joined the endless

pursuit of meaning

in meaningless artifacts.

tune in

she pours out her heart

and sniffles when the cameras

zoom for a close up.

but NOT THE FATHER

echoes in big red letters

and the show moves on

to another tale

of waterfall eyes and slabs

of flapping arm flesh

and the crowd hollers

and claps and stands while maury

looks on knowingly.

bills

a dark, low kitchen

carved into ragged slopes of

lumber and dry wall.

he's at the table,

surrounded by deathly beige.

glasses down his nose,

and placemat pushed back,

replaced by stacks of bills and

a calculator.

the darkness outside

seems brighter than the empty

florescent glow of

the family kitchen.

he sits there often, pen in

hand and brow furrowed.

it is in this room

that he will take his world

in his chubby hands

and tear it apart.

an expensive bill, a chunk

of wood and an axe,

and the cave will collapse around him.

the cat's paws dangle

off the chair like sleeves of a

discarded sweatshirt.

i woke up last night.
the moon glowed yellow above
still air and water.


pinwheel spins slowly
stuck down in the flower bed
on a cloudy day.


my grandfather talks
about acetylene in
the bed of a truck.


wicker furniture
has lost its definition
under paint layers.


hazy blue mountains
and stacked firewood beside
an empty trailer.


mountain valley sewn
like a quilt from uneven
squares of bright sunlight.


the car swerves across
the highway as my mother
studies the road map.


miami mustang
jacked up on firewood logs in
backwoods new hampshire.


brush blows sideways as
a whistling battalion
of cloud charges past.


she slammed on the brakes
two times: once for a bear and
once for a large rock.


the chubby young boys
dip sleeveless shirts in the brook
and then wring it out.


he videotapes
a large fake moose while we look
at an old carriage.


bring distant points of
interest within close range with
use of this machine.


we sit on the floor
at the top of the tower,
and we catch our breath.


he wears a suit and
a yamaka, and pilots
a blue bumper boat.


mom records a short
video of her attempt
to take a photo.


robert uses the
sucking power of his mouth
to drink iced water.


the plastic cups are
adorned with multicolored
dinosaurs playing.


robert is too scared
of haiku's to write them at
the dinner table.


robert is just a
little baby. "waa waa waa
waa." he cries from fear.

the world is light gray
and blurry when i wake up
and get on a train.


my neighbor asked me
to accompany him home
after the doctor.


train tunnel darkness,
lit by another passing train,
no full of people.


car door swings open
and i'm hit by the sweet smell
of fresh manure.


my mother and the
mother of my mother. they
discuss skin layers.


the young lady yells
loudly and without purpose
about her hormones.


teenage punks play games
and chuckle in the town square
with some cigarettes.


in the kitchen he
stands and talks about flooding,
while his nose dribbles.


the boats knock against
the dock down in the lake as
frustration rises.


my eyes can barely
stay open as the western
movie progresses.


a large brown bear is
watching me, but don't worry,
it is just a plush toy.

i am beginning

to wonder how many songs

this band even knows.

i'm surprised to hear

the final verse of this song.

its is not well known.

a young boy walks up

and his chest is badly scarred.

everyone looks down.

skin drawn tight over

bold cheek bones, a crisp white shirt,

and an old bible.

when the young man's voice

wanders far from the tune, the

old man backs him up.

the boy is upset

and calls out to his father,

"where did my hat go?"

this guy is trying

to put on his life jacket.

his wife and kids laugh.

a poem from last night,

scribbled in a drunken haze,

makes no sense at all.

last night i drank beer

socially without smoking.

i'm proud of myself.

the boy does bike tricks,

which are not impressive, and

he makes his dad watch.

the doctor called back

soon after the appointment.

to discuss results.

they sky is bright blue,

but the row boats in the pond

are even blue-er.

i reorganized

our home, putting everything

right where i want it.

the man took his son

across the water one day

in a blue row boat.

the little girl waves

from the boat when she sees her

grandfather on shore.

the little dogs try

to convince each other that

they are not little.

the woman struggles

to row the boat, while her two

children ask questions.

flags snap out sideways

when the summer breeze picks up.

the trees dance and sway.

a small river town

nineteen fathers, brothers, sons.

just names in granite.

he crosses his paw

like an intellectual.

don't tell him the truth.

i'm facing backwards

on a speeding train, watching

the world fall away.

the ground is swallowed.

green and buzzing, rising tide,

coats the hills like paint.

it sits on the ground

under the seat and watches

nothing absently.

blazing white birch trunks

lie shattered and crumbling

beside the train tracks.

quiet meadow grass,

and soil, so sweet and cool--

gentle sunset blue.

ancient farm land bones

lying in old foundations

bleached and caked with dirt.

two open doorways

stare out vacant, black as night,

calm as death itself.

engagement roses--

dry and fragile, the color

of soft river banks.

our time together

slips in between our woven

fingers and is gone.

plants in the window

silhouetted afternoon

on the white curtains.

church goers trickle

down the front steps and into

the rest of the world.

beneath the rippling

surface of the shallow pool

words say "no swimming."

imagine a bird

so proud of its feathered coat

and desperately protective

of its freedom to fly,

that it will not land

but stays aloft, exhausted,

proudly flailing its wings until

fatigue sets in its veins

like concrete.

freedom will not sound

from a desperate, forceful breathe,

but only from the knowledge

that you don't have to sing at all.

a bird is then not

free because it flies above

the trees, but because it makes the

conscious choice

whether to fly or land.

i now realize

5, 7, 5 is not law.

but i still like it.

an air compressor

stutters and vibrates while the

automobiles glide.

a butterfly hangs

in the front window of that

speeding toyota.

the man on the bike

repeats his warning to me--

"that man is insane."

i often stop by

school to practice relaxing

without cigarettes.

i miss wearing jeans

so despite the warmth today,

i just put them on!

gnashing their teeth and

wailing mercilessly, two

fire trucks charge past.

dismal pasty clouds

and a pleasant summer breeze

nothing is inside.

rain pelts the boaters

in the middle of the pond.

three dark umbrellas.

ball games by the pond--

"rejected! rejected!" the

kid keeps repeating.

decorative wood.

redecorated with names

and dates and curses.

my father's mother

can't wait to see the brand new

industrial park.

warm cozy jacket

hanging safe in the closet

while i freeze solid.

there is such grandeur

and bold simplicity in

uninformed hindsight.

down in the basement

pipes shudder and breathe deeply

and then fall silent.

thousands of rain drops

glisten white and green and red

on the bus windows.

i know him from school.

we acknowledge each other

in an awkward way.

cupcakes adorn the

table. actually, they

are muffins instead.

the man thinks he is

intimidating when he

walks slowly and squints.

she has the face bones

that will make her look real good

when she is more old.

the seagull twitches

as it descends from the sky.

we talk about maine.

she checks the mirror,

then changes again, as i

watch the time slip by.

we have already

left the house and caught a train

when i remember.

the disheveled man

plants his feet far apart when

the train starts to move.

i doubt that she is

very happy with the way

that her man dresses.

i sit, exhausted,

alone at the bus stop, when

a stranger joins me.

the man on the bus

rubbed the other man's shoulder

in a friendly way.

the music falters

and people start to grin, but

it soon recovers

the young couple stands,

quietly sharing time, when

an old man joins them.

everyone smiles when

the music comes to an end.

and the wind picks up.

the demographic

of my commute is not the

same as usual

the old pickup truck

sits ready for use like my

granddad's mason jars.

well goddamn, gretchen,

i think we look pretty good.

lets go have dinner.

rub sleep from my eyes

and blink back to consciousness

i need to wake up.

3-7-8-2

shaky lines

resonate with the joy of

sweet beginnings when everything

else ends

fallen leaves

are scattered across concrete

and catch droplets of water when

it rains.

"open on the right,"

the automatic voice says

the doors will, that is.

we both chomp on gum

as we descend into the

dark of a tunnel.

embarking on a

journey which requires bags,

two men catch a train

acne and flip-flops

make the man appear younger

than he truly is.

her tired eyes rest

lightly as the subway rocks

her like a cradle.

sleepy hands open

the front door of our home as

the city sighs low.

law + order

sweetheart, i love you.

this is what i promised you.

feeding tube removed!

looks like a pipe bomb

the killer was watching this.

give that radio!

it has been six years.

guess. isn't about money.

she is in danger.

i was getting gas.

its just before eleven.

never met karen.

our bomb was planted.

a copy of a letter.

what a heartbreaker!

stop the innocence!

he was handing out flyers.

i can not help you.

hello, what's your name?

step out slowly and let me--

get it! get it off!

104

is equal to 94

plus 10. there you go.

remains of baby

dna from the marrow

proves that it is yours.

he killed my baby

oh come on april, i told

them how you called me.

how much did you get?

twenty years. lets talk about

it. the beginning.

dan holds flacidly

the paper gretchen needs cut.

she gets frustrated.

i will soon be home.

i hope she has done her best

to make this pleasant.

his face is hopeful

cheek bones carved out like dustbowl

dried up farmland dirt.

a whole bunch a boats.

floating on a sunny day.

out there in the pond.

police officer

stares right at the musicians

as he passes them.

as the cop explains

the animal to people,

they become tired.

a sweaty strong man

runs past and the little girl

wanders far away.

it is plain as day.

i ought to send a message--

an explanation.

three birds chirp and fight

each other on the sidewalk.

clouds are gathering.

down by the water,

in the middle of boston,

its bluegrass music.

the woman glances

sideways into the window

of a sushi store.

i am sitting down

in the shade of an alley.

i am not homeless.

water is dripping

from a wall spigot on a

brick building nearby.

i can't tell for sure,

but i believe that object

is a dog's chew bone.

hey! what time is it?

right at this very moment!

i would like to know!

these two girls walk by

laughing and talking at once.

they turn my stomach.

upon this table

at which i sit there is a

painting of a fish.

the man seems to bounce

when he walks, perhaps because

of his music taste.

pieces slide across

nathan's checkered board, while frank

watches and comments.

the dog is sleeping

legs stick out like cracked up glass

but much more comforting

vultures don't eat food

you can buy at the food store--

they are not like us.