Happiness Is

Today I touched bottom,
or what I perceived as bottom.
Perhaps it’s not bottom at all.
Perhaps it’s only my imagination
telling me it’s bottom.
I tell myself I am unhappy.
But am I?
Perhaps I’m just telling myself that.
Maybe I’m incredibly happy
but don’t realize I’m happy.
Maybe I don’t know what happy is.
No,
that can’t be true.
Can it?
I know when I’m happy.
Don’t I?
Let’s see,
I’m happy when I’m writing.
I’m happy when I’m watching leaves fall in the backyard.
I’m happy when the hot water hits my back in the shower.
I’m happy walking through the park with my dog
and watching him chase squirrels.
I’m happy eating a giant brownie
(although I feel sick afterwards).
I’m happy going for drives in the country.
I’m happy singing my songs and eating pasta in Italy.
Yes,
I know when I’m happy.
And I’m unhappy.
Definitely.

Plank By Plank

They come
when you’re invisible,
pennies by the thousands,
the backseat rat,
the blinking eye,
listening.
The man is you,
my boy.
It’s all the same.
The cold darkness
that says
you are not from my country.
I want to go back
plank by plank
and discover the truth.
I want to go back to Lublin
and taste the strudel my father ate.
Another Jew
passing through.

Lost Life

I wonder what happened in their bedroom
that led to it.
Did he not touch her enough?
Did he touch her too much?
Did he fall asleep with the t.v. on
and snore until she thought she would have to get a shovel
and beat him silent?
Did she listen to one too many insults from him
about her mother?
Did he come into the kitchen
and criticize her for not heating up the pan
before she poured the oil in?
Did he leave the toilet seat up in the dark
for her to fall into?
Or was it his pile of clothes
ever growing in the corner,
that finally caused her to snap?
Was it that she wanted children
and he didn’t?
Or was it the way he belched without regard for her presence?
Maybe it was something much simpler than that.
Maybe she just stopped loving him,
just stopped wanting to see him come up the driveway,
just stopped thinking about him during the day
while she stood in the kitchen drinking her coffee.
The spark had dimmed.
Vanished.
Smoldered to nothing.
And years go by
bleeding.
One day
it’s not even a fish anymore.

The Fallen

Wait.
Did you see it?
It has fallen.
It is on the ground
waiting
for you to pick it up.
Don’t pretend you don’t see it
when you know you do.
It is there,
under the boots and shoes,
under the dirt and rain.
Waiting.
Holding on to its form
like a vase
holding flowers.
If you pick it up now,
you can still keep it,
still use it,
still pretend it never fell at all.

Thought of The Day

There are so many people
I don’t want
to have sex with
in this world.

Just Like That

This time I got him out.
Not because I was kind or pleading
or wanted to help him.
This time I went out there like I was going to kill
the little Mother Fucker
and he knew it.
He had been there all day and all night,
hopping on the window ledge
and on my books and on the rug in the garage.
Hopping and pooping.
Chirping and pooping.
Pooping and pooping.
When I went out there to catch him and set him free,
he fluttered and hopped out of my reach.
I worried about him.
What would he do for food?
For water?
I thought he might die in there
if he didn’t get out soon.
He was such a moron.
It’s no wonder they came up with the term “bird brain”.
This morning he was facing the right direction to get out,
but still wouldn’t go.
Now I was mad.
What more did he need?
All that chirping and pooping.
I screamed at him “Go”
but he wouldn’t.
It was as if he didn’t want to go.
Well, I had had enough.
I was not going to spend another day worrying
about him.
So I stormed out the back door and into the garage
like I was going to catch him and cook him for lunch.
And he left.
Just like that.

Dentyne Smile

There is something wrong with me.
I admit it.
I am not meant for this world.
Nothing about this world and me
seem to work together.
For example,
right now I am sitting on the couch
bleaching my teeth with Crest Whitestrips.
I have never used them before
and I doubt I will ever use them again.
The first two strips I ruined when I threw them into the trash and kept the plastic backing instead.
I tried to fit the plastic into my mouth
before I realized it wasn’t working.
Then I opened two more packets and put the two thin strips into my mouth.
They don’t press on easily
like they say they do on t.v.
They slide around in your mouth
creating a messy barrier of saliva and hydrogen peroxide foam.
They feel like they are going to fall off at any minute.
I can’t imagine putting them on like they say in the instructions and then
“Hopping into the shower”,
or “commuting to work”.
I can’t even open my mouth without drool running down my chin
much less use a turn signal.
Another thing I don’t like is that they don’t go all the way around.
Now the back half of my teeth will be yellower than the front half.
And I swear they are giving me a headache.
Probably all the saccharin I am swallowing.
Oh well, what' s a little cancer in order to have white teeth?
It’s weird,
I remember when people chewed Dentyne
and thought they were doing something to whiten their teeth.
Now everything is so much more intense.
I never even used to worry about how white my teeth were.
Then I started noticing everyone on t.v. and in magazines
had super white teeth.
Not just naturally white,
but glowingly bright white.
According to my dental hygienist,
your teeth are supposed to match the whites of your eyes.
Something no one had ever told me before
until teeth bleaching came into the dentist’s office
and became part of our lingo,
just like internet,
video dating,
fast food,
cell phones,
and Utube.
I don’t know about any one else,
but I liked it better before
when we chewed Dentyne and ate tic-tacs
and thought that was enough.

Annie's Song

I want to stop and say
tomorrow,
tomorrow,
as if tomorrow will be different.
But I have lost too many todays
waiting for tomorrow
and now I have run out.
Now I must say
today.
Today.
Today.

A House Is Not A Museum

It is too clean and quiet in the house now,
as if we had lost a child.
There is an emptiness.
A sadness.
A loneliness
stretching down the hall and into the bedrooms.
Everything is so in its place
it feels as if no one actually lives here.
I walk through the house like I am walking through a museum.
On the wall in the den hangs the “Otterson”,
a picture of a dark haired woman
looking too much like me to be a coincidence.
In the dining room the Cezanne pen and ink
looks back at me accusingly as I straighten the frame.
The drum set,
silent as ever,
waits in the living room,
sticks perfectly placed.
The bathroom tile sparkles
and the toilets look more like 1950’s art deco pieces
than functioning fixtures.
The white towels, newly washed and folded,
smell of lavender,
and look so perfect that I am scared
to ever use them again.
Outside,
in the garden,
freshly planted pansies stand a little too erect to be natural,
making one wonder if they might melt in the sun.
It is all so perfect I keep waiting for some middle-aged curator
to come and throw me out,
and tell me that the house is closed
and to come back tomorrow
after nine.

Let Them Come

Now is not the time to lie down and die,
to cling to the pillow of doubt
and rest my head upon its cover.
No,
now is the time to stand strong,
to stand up to those
who would
leave me to wander through the forest of fear
on my own.
Well, I say
let them come with their accusations.
Let them come with their demands.
Let them breathe their fiery lies upon my neck.
I will not back down.
I will not cower
and cover myself in the dark.
They who think they have me,
have me not!
I am stronger than I pretend.
My meekness is but a shield to protect the warrior’s heart
that beats beneath my skin.
I will never give up the fight.
So let them come.
Let them come.
And when morning’s first light arrives and the dust has settled,
the battlefield will be littered with the bodies of their men
while I will remain unscathed.
I will stand victoriously on the hill,
verdict in my hand,
shouting,
“Be gone
liars and thieves,
for you have met your match.
You have met the truth
and the truth can never be stopped
no matter how soft the voice who utters it. “

The Lost Acorn

I see them
with their heads down
and their tails up
gathering nuts for the winter.
They are always working,
always moving,
hopping with purpose
from one branch to another.
There is no time to stop
and sit,
and worry.
No time to reflect
the lost acorn,
or stolen twig.
Each day is another day
of preparation for
what
is to come.
Each day
is another chance
to survive.

Human Bondage

I want to be free of my own Human Bondage,
the bondage of self and of mind and of body.
The pain in my leg and back and neck.
The dark worry that clouds my brain and fills my dreams with demons
and watercolor mansions that melt on the page.
I feel the hunger for meaning in a meaningless world.
Hours filled with errands and bills and thoughts of tomorrow.
The endless treadmill that has become life,
the one that runs and runs and runs while I struggle to keep ahead.
It used to be enough just to be,
or so I thought,
to sit beneath the trees and watch the leaves fall,
to hear the birds chirp their warning,
to feel the sun bake my toes brown.
Now I am in the middle of life,
my childhood vanished before me.
The fear of wrinkles and old age are ever closer.
I see the aged differently now.
I see them sitting and waiting for death,
in hallways and in wheelchairs,
the light from their eyes growing dimmer.
I see them breathing.
But for what?
Even they do not know.
I see it all slipping away
like the monkey bars I reached for
when I was five.
I want to believe that there is a reason,
that all of this matters,
but each day I grow less sure.

Confessions

I don’t know if anyone is honest in this world.
I think of
the gunman
on the run
robbing liquor stores
to feed his habit.
Or the young New York businessman
promoting the merits of his company
when he knows it is destined to fail.
Then there’s the insurance company vowing to make an offer
when they have no intention to do so
and are only waiting for the statute of limitations to run out.
Or the lawyer,
offering to “negotiate” for free as a favor.
Or the doctor,
stealing from her parents’ bank accounts,
and calling it a loan.
What about the songwriter,
writing songs about coffee and cigarettes
when she’s never smoked
or ever tasted coffee.
All are dishonest.
To differentiate and say one is worse than the other
would only be justification.
Dishonesty is dishonesty right?
But who has the right to point a finger at another?
Who can say they’re honest?
Who can say they’ve never eaten out of the bin
at the health food store?
Or said yes
to a lover when they wanted to say no?
Who can say they are always true to themselves,
in every circumstance,
no matter what they might lose?
For me,
it isn’t the twenty five cent coupon I “illegally” used today,
or the fact that I bought organic onions and said they were conventional,
it’s the dirty feeling I get in my soul
after I’ve done it.
It’s knowing I can’t trust myself.

Ambulance Chasers

I am starting to learn the difference
between the good lawyers and the bad lawyers.
The bad lawyers tell you what you want to hear.
They promise you huge sums of money.
They coddle you and tell you that the insurance company doesn’t give a damn about you
and that they won’t offer you a dime.
(unless of course, you hire them).
They scare you, but they never tell you anything about themselves
or what they’ve accomplished in the courtroom.
They offer to hop a plane,
drive you to their office,
take you to lunch,
anything short of putting you in an ambulance
and carrying you to them
so you can sign the dotted line
and they can get to work
(collecting your money for themselves).
Listening to them is like listening to George W. Bush.
Everything is good vs. evil.
Danger!
Fear!
Look out!
Code Orange!
No one knows what it’s supposed to mean
or what you’re supposed to be afraid of.
Just don’t carry water,
or wear lip gloss,
or have more than three ounces of anything liquid
in your suitcase
and you’ll be fine.
The good lawyers, on the other hand,
tell you the merits of your case.
They tell you the pros and the cons.
They let you know how the other guy is going to look at it
when you step into the courtroom.
They don’t promise you the moon.
They talk in realistic figures,
albeit less than you want to hear,
but believable.
They tell you things like,
“I’m not going to sugar coat this.”
And they ask pointed questions of you,
the kind of questions you’d be asked on the stand by your opponent.
“When did you first notice the pain?”
“How is it possible that it went away but now it’s back?”
“Couldn’t this just be degenerative disc disease?
Questions that make sense.
Questions that require a certain degree of thought.
Questions that George W. Bush would never ask.
I am so glad that in listening to our president for the last six years
I haven’t lost my ability to be able to detect the difference
between “good” vs. “evil”.
I haven’t gotten lost in a code orange colored haze
so deep that I can’t see the truth from the lies.
And for that I say,
"Thank you George W.
Thank you."

Barbie Doll

I am in pain,
day after day,
my leg screwed in to the hip joint
all wrong,
like a Barbie doll
some little girl decided to torture.
There is pain
in my low back,
like someone struck a match
and left me to burn
till there was nothing left but ash.
I think of the invalids,
the ones in hospital beds,
the ones using walkers to make their way,
the ones in wheelchairs
the ones holding canes.
I see their faces
contorted with each step
as mine has become
and I pray that I won’t end up that way.
I pray mine is only temporary,
but I don’t know.
I really don’t.
Last night
I sat on the futon
and thought about killing myself
I thought,
“If I have to be in pain like this for the rest of my life,
I would rather die”.
And yet,
it is this pain that has brought me back to myself.
It is this pain that keeps me in my body,
in a way that no therapist ever could.
It is this pain that keeps me thinking about no one else
but me.

Walking in Birmingham

I think about the blacks
walking for months in Birmingham.
Their tireless efforts,
mile after mile,
the eyes of whites on them,
the jeers,
the stares.
I think about their steadfastness,
their resilience,
their desire
to know equality,
to sit at the front of the bus
and see
what was coming.
It would have been so easy
to give up,
to lie down,
to let another year go by
and accept
the unacceptable.
But they held together,
and they believed
their day would come
and it did.
I think about them now
when I want to give up,
when I believe the road ahead
is too long
and that I won’t get there.
I think about the good shoes on my feet,
and my warm bed,
and how lucky I am
to not have to fight
the color of my skin.