the untimely death of molly macbeth

Oh, the untimely death of Molly Macbeth.
Her passing at quarter to two.
If she’d stayed alive ‘til twenty of five.
Who knows how much more good she’d do.

She killed six of her husbands, all rakes, cheats and sops.
Not worth a plug nickel or two.
Made no bones, no excuse for her own one gal gang
Ridding earth of four devils plus two.

Killed a Henry, a Hudson, a Bill and Hank.
Killed a Steve and a Wenceslaus, too.
When she put them to wake for the public to mourn
Didn’t wail, didn’t weep, didn’t rue.

She got caught when she tried to wed two boys at once.
Seemed quite odd to the min’ster in town.
He asked her the plan, twas confu-sed, you see,
and she told him straight up and then down:

It’s been my life’s work to rid life of the jerks
Breeding mis’ry and gloom ‘fore they’re done.
I’m getting quite old, if truth would be told,
So I thought I’d get two more with one.

They put her in jail and set up the time
Rigged the chair, strapped her in, and she said:
Just promise me this, when you cover me up
That my headstone will always be read:

Oh, the untimely death of Molly Macbeth.
Her passing at quarter to two.
If she’d stayed alive ‘til twenty of five.
Who knows how much more good she’d do.

a soldier's song

A flag flutters soft in the cool, southern breeze.
A soft cloud tatters the sky.
The sun bakes the tarmac, the heat rises slow.
He’s back home, at last, Billy Guy.

He’s everyone’s son, was everyone’s hope,
As a boy, and sure as a man.
Did all his school, took a wife, had a child,
He’s back home at last, Billy Guy.

He wrote home “I love you,” he wrote home “I will.”
In his own hand, he wouldn’t lie.
But war has a way of making truth false.
He’s back home at last, Billy Guy.

Her hand’s on the casket, the girl by her side.
A bugler plays to her right.
They fold up the flag; it flutters no more.
He’s back home for good, Billy Guy.

ballad of jane doe

She always leaves herself behind,
She even leaves her name.
The street would take that, too, she knows.
She tucks it safe away.

She pulls the smile out from her purse;
And hides her heart inside.
Her soul she lost two years ago
And, yes, that night she cried.

She sold too much, she knows
that now, but no one asks or cares.
She’s faceless on the corner,
In a backseat or back stairs.

A week or month or day from now
They’ll find her lifeless frame.
Batt’red, bruised, long gone, long dead,
Last name "Doe," first name "Jane."

joe

Husband, father, roles that passed,
Outlived to all, outlast by none,
He feeds the birds in Central Park,
His name is Joe, he tells no one.

He doesn’t speak, his voice has gone.
He hears but clicks and snips and drone.
He sits and waits for time to pass.
His name is Joe, he tells no one.

“Why is he there?” a young child asks.
(What warmth he knew is surely gone.)
“Don't get too close,” a mother says.
His name is Joe, he tells no one.

He died, right there, a week ago.
Was left for ‘live by those who knew
His sentry spot, his life’s last hasp.
His name was Joe, he told no one.

realities

We lie as one and then as two as
‘tween our arms the silence grows,
Until in time the quiet’s voice
Tells her, again, that she must go.

She leaves the bed, the room, this world,
To live her life apart
From time and space and she and me,
And troubles of the heart.

And then she says, at moment’s last,
When do and not collide,
The dusk, the dark, the black of night
But ode to what we hide:

A moment of midsummer
That slides inside the breath of fall,
A warmth that fades at midnight
Like thoughts, or dreams -- a siren’s call.

her him

He’ll love you for a moment.
He’ll love you like the blues.
He’ll love you for a time, is all,
Still, you gamble, sure to lose.

He’ll watch you as he follows.
He’ll watch as you disrobe
You’ll watch him as he leaves you.
You know the empty road.

You’ll wait for him to return
You’ll lie awake, alone,
Still a’wait for love to kiss you.
But this is sorrow’s home.

You know all this, you do,
You know all this, but will
To search, to look, to wish, to seek,
Once more, once more, once more still.

cleanup on aisle too

I will walk, someday, into
the store and turn a corner
and
she will be
there, and she will look up
from down,
and look at me,
catch my eyes as though
pulled there, finally,
and I at her, the same, and we will know
in
that
very moment
at that very
time
that one long journey has ended
and
another of no particular
length or existence or terminus
is about to
begin.
Just like that.
Exactly
like
that.
Salvation.
Finally.
And perhaps,
perhaps,
perhaps,
for ever.
In the Rice
Krispie
aisle.

closer

Being lost.
Looking for the way.
But where
is the question.
You know this isn’t it,
here,
but what is?
No signs, anyplace,
to tell you which way.
And, perhaps, there’s
more than one
way to get
you to where you want to
go,
or, more directly,
to where you need to be.
And each step, no matter how
inconspicuous or insignificant
or inauspicious or
inconsequential
moves you a bit closer,
at the very least.
And while Bob Dylan sings
in
the
background about
following you down, so
you
move.
Not a lot, maybe.
But you do move.

norman

His name is Norman and he spends his afternoons shaking a plastic cup on Lexington Avenue, hoping to attract quarters and dimes and nickels and, maybe, money that doesn’t clink and jangle. Fifteen blocks north, the park, a grand place today in the spring sunlight, teems with all ages, races, nationalities; softballs, Whiffle balls, Frisbees, footballs. People talk, mingle, run, bike, rollerblade, hug, kiss, fondle, far from the jingle of Norman’s cup. He won’t go there, today, never does, in fact, stays here, in front of the City Camera shop. He still has his manners, thinks it would be rude to place himself in that setting, intrude on their afternoon. So, he waits, here, hopes that some of them will walk past, later, happier, feeling luckier, more loved, maybe mistaking him for the Jesus to whom some of them pray, and, if so moved, add to his lot. Most don’t, of course, add, though many pass by Norman, or, more accurately, bypass him. If he had a moment, if they had a moment, he would tell everyone who passes that he wasn’t always like this, not that it would matter. After all, it was a long, long time ago, Vietnam was.

at risk

A distant call.
The whisperer’s words.
A lonesome heart
The poet’s world.
He hears the voice.
The answer, too.
And, yet, he waits.
And, yes, he waits.

harlem

“I like those pants you’re wearin’, baby,” he said, leaning back in his chair, propping himself against the red brick wall, adjusting his Bluetooth. The woman didn’t turn her head. Kept walking. Maybe even quickened her step, a bit. But she did grin. “Brother, you got to get yourself down here, man,” he says, next. “It is some fine Saturday afternoon.” It’s the corner of West 140th and Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard. About halfway between Central Park and the Yankee Stadiums. Harlem. The sun is shining. The cherry trees are blossomed. A cool breeze wafts. Friends visit in front of the We Got What You Want dollar store. Kids giggle and chase one another past DeeDee’s Hair You Do salon. A different voice says, “Honey, I know you didn’t pick up because you knew it was me. C’mon, now. Don’t do that thing.” Life shimmers, glides along, throbs gently, pleasantly. Out in the open. With a smile, even. After all, it is a fine, Saturday afternoon, here. And: She did look good in those pants.

not funny

I want to laugh, again.
Really laugh.
Just like that – boom:
Laugh.
Uncontrollably would be ok.
I laughed like that, once.
Or twice.
Maybe more, I don’t remember.
It was the kind of laugh,
they were,
that
grabbed your insides, took you
over.
A happy laugh,
really happy.
Because there
are other kinds of
laughs.
Polite ones,
social ones,
correct ones,
among the numerous.
I know. I laugh those
kinds, now.
They’re not
the
same.
Sadly.
Laughing,
as it were.
Is.

the harpies in the stands

they sit in the stands
or stand
in the stands
and harp
and
cackle
and scheme about things
they cannot
control because
control is so important
to them and why wouldn’t
it be
since
they’ve
been able, for most of
their adulthood,
to
buy whatever they want
or bully
whomever
they desire. or push or
shove,
because they
can -- or at least think they can.
(and no one tells them
they can't.)
I am not
a
(pick one – or circle all)
“backstage parent,”
“hockey parent,”
“little league
parent.” no,
not
me. but comes
the rub: if you have to
deny it,
well, you get the rest,
don’t you?
he said that
most
recently
when he called the
man in charge
of
teaching his son
how not
to become
one
of
them
a “shithead.’
I’m not, he
said and with a straight
face.
then he looked in
the
mirror. what looked back
wasn’t troubling
to
him.
but it should have
been.

acquitted

A small victory, but
one,
nonetheless. and a savings of
$35.
The letter said: “ticket
dismissed.”
power to the people.
thanks to
the faded lettering:
nothing, where
the
“no”
was
supposed to be.
a double negative that proved
positive: “parking.”
so, I had.
a smile.
a giggle.
a muffled whoop.
or two.
then -- now -- on with
the Rest
Of
Life.

ok2

Sunday
afternoon
conversation
over a cheeseburger and the kabob single:
chicken.
a nice, mostly nameless place.
soccer on the tv.
then baseball.
a youngish waitress who calls them both
“hon.”
she has a ring in her lip.
(bad choice, sad to say.)
outside it’s blustery,
but not too too cold.
he says, “how are you?”
and he lies and says,
“ok.”
he wants to say: “I’m so damned lost and scared
and confused
and anxious that I want
to scream. sometimes it’s
so bad I wake in the
middle of the night
and stay awake ‘til morning.
sometimes I think of ways to
ease the pain – any way.” but he doesn’t,
because it’s not what
a
father
does.
a father doesn’t let on
about fear.
or:
his
father
never
did, anyway.
never did.
not once.
not in all the years.
and died happy, or at
least at peace.
so, he does what he knows.
it’s all he
can do.
it's all anyone does.
so, he says, “ok,”
too.

u-stor-it

The storage room was a five-by-five-by-eight space. A closet, is all. The woman at the counter, the one who gave the “tour,” was Marita. She espoused, as much as anyone can espouse about such mundane things, the oversized cabinet’s attractions, it's location, mostly – inside; away from the outer walls; accessible by the door at the end of the hallway. After the short look-see, she gave him a gift for taking the tour – a flashlight-tool combo-deal. He wanted to tell her that he was trying to lighten his load, not add to it, but she seemed so pleased to be giving it that he accepted with a smile. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings. “Call me if you have any questions,” Marita said. He did have a question, but he wasn’t sure she could answer it. Two actually. One: Had it all come down to this? Trying to fit 58 years of a life’s accoutrements into five by five by eight? And: As he would drive off, into the distance, into his nearest future, how should he deal with the sadness of what he was leaving behind, no matter that he planned someday reclaim everything, God willing – the pictures, the trinkets, the mementos. Excess baggage, now, on the proposed journey. He climbed back into his car, sat for a moment, then decided that he wouldn’t try to answer those questions, either. At least not today.

the breakup

“I need a new life,” she said to her friend. “I need to get rid of my furniture, my old books, most of my clothes. Just about everything. I’d only keep these shoes.” “Why the shoes?” “They get my feet,” she said. “They always feel right.” “Your jeans don’t?” “Nope,” she said. “Not always. There are days when I want to feel thin and my jeans make me feel fat.” “But not the shoes?” “Never the shoes,” she says. “That sweatshirt? It can’t make you feel fat.” “No, but on days I don’t feel pretty, it makes me feel even frumpier.” “But not the shoes.” “Never the shoes.” “So, when you get this new life, the shoes get to come along?” “Absolutely.” “Anything else?” “I don’t think so. Just the shoes.” “What about Frank?” “No way. Nope. Uh-uh. Never. Goes. Gone. Finis.” "Aha. So, you and Frank are quits?" "Yes." “But the shoes stay?" "I like the shoes.”

Easter Sunday 2009

Easter Sunday.
2009.
A long drive in the sun.
A short walk in the gusting breeze.
Thinking.
A lot.
Basking in the company of
strangers at a coffee shop.
Not talking to them, but just watching,
seeing, wondering if they have
secrets like his.
And wondering what theirs are.
And wondering would they ever tell,
really
tell.
And if they would, to whom?
A friend?
A partner?
A sibling?
A priest?
Or would they keep them to themselves,
afraid of
being known, really known.
Afraid of being absolved?
And, perhaps, even accepted?
That certainly would end the intrigue,
wouldn’t it?
Easter Sunday.
2009.
A long drive in the sun.
A short walk in the chilling breeze.
Thinking.
A lot.
Again.
And maybe too much.
Or not.
As always.

timed traveler

Three people:
Mom, dad, son.
Visiting. At a coffee shop
near MIT where he is researching
time travel, which they still do there,
and,
if they don’t, they should.
They laugh and smile and
he tells them that he hasn’t yet decided
what to do about next fall, that he “needs
more time,”
which he really does have, if time
exists, as he thinks it does, in
unquantifiable, infinite segments.
What time is it, now, the father asks,
seriously?
“Yesterday,” the son says.
They laugh, again, some more.
They think he’s fooling, but
he isn’t.
To him, time isn’t a continuum,
it just is.
Did you start looking for another place,”
the mom asks?
“Yes,” he says. “I did. Tomorrow.”
More laughing.
The folks think he’s kidding, that he’s cute.
Tomorrow – or was it yesterday? – he will walk
into the same corner coffee shop and shoot six people dead.
Bang. Bang.
Bangbangbangbang.
“We had no idea,” the dad will tell the local
newspaper.
“No one did,” the mom will say. “He was a good boy.”

a second time

He wants to be with them, again.
He wants to hold them and hug them and
watch them play “Underwear People”
in the living room
on Courville, while they mime
out “Billie Jean.”
He wants to feel their clammy
hands and their slobbery
kisses and
wipe their noses with his sleeve.
He wants to hear them talk
to him
to him,
and tell him things that
are so very important
to no one but them –
the squirrel in the back yard,
the bug on the porch step, the
dandelions that sprouted
like rafts
of flowers
on
the tree lawn almost overnight.
(“Dad, look!”)
He wants to do those things,
again, but not just that.
He wants
to do them better, this
time – listen better; hug better; kiss them better; love them better.
Better.
But the second time is a never time,
now, and
he
knows
that well, too too well.

check mate

They unroll the square chess mat on the round table. And they play. The younger one in a wool watch cap; the elder wears a black, sweater vest. A lone friend watches. He is older, too. Billie Holliday sings over the top of them, not so as they’d know it was her, exactly. The younger taps his foot, but not to the music. Nervously. The older rests his chin in a thick-fingered hand. He sits, flat-footed. It’s plain to see that they aren’t father and son, not even mentor and student. And the game moves too fast for either to be masterful. But it doesn’t matter, now, does it? It’s dark and windy outside, but inside, it is calm, entertaining, maybe even a bit studious. Friendly. Friends. Nice. Who wins? Who won? Instrumental jazz, plays, now. It doesn’t matter. Check. Mate. Game. Set.

lotto

He nods his head yes. But does he get it? No, not really. But he knows what to do – nod; and he’s got the eye contact thing down, too. He doesn’t do it – either one -- to fool, or as a lie. He does it because it’s how he survives and because he knows his parents will, if need be, hire someone to sit next to him after school or before or on weekends, and explain it all to him, simply, cogently, correctly. He’s been diagnosed with a “processing issue,” as the hired psychologist has reported. And it’s true. It’s a valid, informed conclusion. But he will be all right. The school he attends, which costs his parents $45,000 a year – plus private tutoring, et cetera – will advance him. Slowly, perhaps, but it will advance him, carefully, thoughtfully. Further – and more – it will make sure he matriculates to a place that will support his academic and emotional needs. In the end, it all will work out fine, for him. He will enjoy opportunity. A mile and a half away, at the public school down the road, a young man just like him sits in the back row of a class of 40 students. He has been branded “slow,” not officially, but by all those who matter – his teachers and even his friends -- so he not only accepts the role, he cherishes it and sometimes embellishes it. He gets no extra help. He receives no benefit of his condition. He is sinking and he knows it, but has already given up hope. At lunch today, the other boy, the one at the better school, jokes with a friend about some day winning the lottery, unaware that he already has.

validation

A smile.
A nod.
A word.
A look.
A notice.
To me.
For me.
Of me.
They say:
I do, at the very least,
Exist.
Affirmation.
I am.
I am.
She says.
He concurs.
They agree.
I breathe.
Again.
Easier.
Now.

trapped

Her mind is a jumble.
Her days are blurs and her parents
don’t understand why. But the answer
is quite simple:
she doesn’t like herself.
So, she has no time for schooling.
She has no time for growing.
She has no time for anything, really.
All of her time is spent running after the girl
she thinks she’s supposed to be,
(whom she thinks she’s supposed to be)
(without considering why)
to get to her, to grab her and pull her on
like a dress she’d wear to a popular party for
the popular girls.
It’s a race she cannot win.
It’s a race she shouldn’t be running.
It’s a party where she’s not wanted.
Still, she runs.
Still, she goes.
But she does not cry.
At least not so anyone can see.
Her courage is daunting.
It’s not easy to live inside someone
who doesn’t love you.
Or who can’t.

DRIVING

He pictures himself en route,
always. Never quite there, never
quite anywhere, really. It’s the movement
that he seeks – yes? The escape?
He is captivated by the liberation.
And
he
knows
this.
Still, he tells himself he is headed
somewhere. He tells himself that
he is pointed in a direction. He tells
himself, sometimes, so himself
believes that there is an end
somewhere in sight. And there is.
Just
maybe
not
at the next stop. But
somewhere.
After all, everything, everyone
stops
sooner
or
later.
Somewhere.
Don’t
they?

fences

there is a fence between
him and his dream
and he is the one
who keeps the pickets in good repair.
he sees between the palings
the ocean’s rush, the sky’s blue
life’s mysteries, love’s pain.
it is why he has constructed
it instead of a wall.
because: he is not afraid to see
the dream, he’s just afraid to touch it.
it is a curious thing, this demarcation,
for it both limits and entrances
without risking heart or soul
with tragedy.
he knows it is all replaced by a numbness
a suffocating safety,
a slower death.
but that seems easier to withstand.
and, so, he protects himself from himself,
and failure.
it is sad.
he knows that, too.

peanut bitter

She squeezes the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich until it bleeds, because that’s the way she does it, that’s the way she likes to do it, licking the drippings off her tiny, slender fingers. Her mother sits across from her, nursing her new baby brother with a bottle, grabbing a bite from a sandwich, here and there, while her father eats his, uninterrupted. She sips from an “organic apple” juice box not considering --- and why would she? – any juxtaposition. Mom and dad don’t get it, either, and probably never will. Grandma reaches across from another table and offers her a napkin and she’ll have none of it – or certainly not it, specifically. She is part of the New World, the one her parents don’t get and, even if they did, certainly wouldn’t acknowledge. Indeed, they’ll do their damnedest to keep her in their world for as long as they can, but she will break out, eventually, someday, and it will be painful, of course. If they are smart, they will understand her world or at least try to. If they aren’t, well, it will be their loss. Her name is Haley, and she is not alone. Neither are her parents, of course. Everyone’s on the merry-go-round. Everything is moving. And faster than any of them can imagine. Faster, indeed, than ever.

Her name is Jenny

Her name is Jenny. She’s married, the mother of three, a teacher at the neighborhood elementary school and she’s just fallen in love for the first time. She’s shopping, now, at Target, and trying to manage her mind and heart – and the guilt – and she’s not doing so well. His name is Billy. He owns a diner downtown and he kissed her last night and she still feels him, tastes him, smells him. It wasn’t a long, lingering kiss, but it was cheating, she knows that, because she wanted it so, and still does, and wants even more. She doesn’t hate Bob, her husband. In fact, it’s more that she feels sorry for him. She wants to apologize to him. Not for kissing Billy, but for the previous 17 years. Most of them have been a lie. Not a mean lie, not a vicious lie, but a lie, nonetheless. She’s not sure when she will tell him about Billy, or even if. But she knows Bob will want to make love, tonight, and she will comply, mostly because of Billy’s kiss, and she knows exactly what she will do: she’ll go through the motions and when he finally enters her she will hope that it will somehow jolt her back to her senses, back to reality, back to the way things are supposed to be, all the while knowing it won’t, never will, never can. For now, she shops, and savors the kiss to herself, by herself, within herself, and wonders if it will feel the same the second time or if it ever does. She is afraid it won’t. She knows, down deep, it won’t. And, suddenly, curiously, she feels ... free.

melting plot

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the show that never ends. Step in. There’s room at the front. We’ll start when everyone is in and can hear me. Hear me in the back? Good. Louder? OK.

“This, as you can see, is the Starbucks at the corner of Bedford and Main in downtown Stamford, Connecticut, in the heart of prosperous and, we're proud to say,
not-yet-so-egalitarian Fairfield County, USA. Let’s see what’s happening, here, on this dank, overcast Saturday morning.

“OK, sitting over there, to the left, is Rosie, one of our local, but mostly harmless whack jobs. A few minutes ago, Rosie walked up and down the aisle talking aloud, to herself, then farted unabashedly.

“Over there, yes, over there, see him, in the knit winter cap and dressed in layers, even though it is 63 degrees outside, is Hank the Homeless Man. Hank also talks to himself. And sometimes you can even hear what he says, if you care to listen. Most don’t. It just makes them nervous. Hank’s overdressed because he travels light. Carries what he's got with him. Got the wanderlust going, if you know what I mean.

“Them? Sure. Those two are Stu and Wally – though he likes to be called Walter. Young, bright investment bankers. Yes, times are tough for them, but you don’t see them complaining. Still dressed for business, sort of. Suits but not ties. It is, after all, Saturday. Brave boys, both. Kudos to them.

“Her? Patricia. She won’t go by “Pat.” Don't even try it. Fake boobs, fake ass, pumped out lips. Divorced, but not willing to settle. Fancy that kind of courage. She's no concubine, but she still wants to be taken care of like she was before the split – or at least as well as her best friend, Phoebe. God bless her.

“If you don’t mind me saying so – can you still hear me in back? -- this is a pretty good human sampler of our beloved metropolis. Sure, we got whacked-out, public flatulators. And we got more come from where Hank does. But we got Stu and Walter and Patricia, too. And we got ‘em all mixed in, together. We co-exist, here. We like to think of Fairfield County as a melting pot, circa twenty-ten. And Starbucks? It’s where America meets, eh? Sitting in a cozy, communal living room atmosphere, with Starbucks muzak and comfy chairs, sipping overpriced coffee drinks, where no one bothers anyone else -- give or take a few farts -- much less actually talks to one another.

“And if that ain’t America, folks, what is?

"OK. Take your time. Look around yourselves. We're back on the bus in 10. Oh, and if you buy an "iced mocha java too tall" tell 'em I sent you."

RICO

He stands outside the library, on the front steps, which seems an odd place to sentry because the library is such a community, social place and not only can’t he read, he doesn’t feel part of any community. He’s dressed in a gray, hooded sweatshirt, hood pulled up, but not covering his face, head and eyes up, not down so that his visage is blanked by a shadow like some are. He smokes a cigarette and in a moment will offer a drag to a friend who, as if dropping by an office, stops by to visit for a moment. His name is Enrique, his baptized name. His friends, of course, call him Rico. For Rico, the world is as gray as his hoodie. He saw colors as a boy, when he was at home with his mother and brothers and sisters, but that was a long time ago. The color did not go easily. He did not let go of them easily. But he came to a point, at a point, that it was all useless, futile. And he quit trying to see the reds and yellows and greens and oranges. His world would never, again, be bright. He doesn’t think much about it, now, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t always with him. It is. Wouldn’t it be with you? In fifteen minutes – more like 13, if we’re being exact – Rico will drop what’s left of the smoke, crush the still glowing ember with his right toe, then leave his post. He will head home, such as it is, now, where two friends, Tony and Helli, wait, sleeping. They too, live in monochrome. And they know it. What they don’t know is that the revolution is coming. It won’t be their salvation. But it will return some color. If only they can survive until then.

PIDGIN CATHARSIS

you watch them, if you
might, if you
would (though most
just ignore),
and perhaps would
wonder this:
which god
(or goddess) did they
so annoy, so distress that they
would be
doomed, damned to
their
palty,
ignominious,
existence?
wandering, homeless; uttermost scavenging;
dull, muted in plume; not
soaring like hawks, but hunted,
instead, by them
(and, BTW, by most Departments
of Health);
“flying
rats,” and hunted as such;
haunted as infestations and infectations. and then there’s this:
some beliefs believe that bodies once deceased return
as members of another
kingdom, a different one.
and, say,
for example,
if it’s the animal one, what if,
what if,
just what if you return not
as
a
lion
or tiger
or an elegantly cowled owl,
but
as
a
pigeon?
do you ask
for
a
mulligan?
or do you
hunt
and
peck, as is your fate,
and
roam and
just
try to survive, or to
somehow, maybe,
one day,
teach a lesson to someone
watching. that perhaps more
of
us
are – will be – pigeons
than
eagles, chased from perch
by
beds of
nails.