POEM - A SINGLE REGRET

one regret I have
dates a few years back
to college
or to previous terrible jobs
in which I’d have to attend terrible
classes or meetings
my regret is that at the end
of a discussion
when the speaker says,
“are there any questions?
And remember, there’s no such thing
as a stupid question,”
that I have never responded
by pounding on the table in front of me
standing up on my chair
and roaring with spit flying from my mouth,
“they are ALL STUPID QUESTIONS!”

POEM - JANUARY

in my attic room
I watched the snow come down
knowing every flake was against me
“2 to 4 inches,”
they’d say at first
then “4 to 8”
each time
their predictions doubled
like they were betting all or nothing
and every time they lost
the weathermen
were now calling for “8 to 16 inches”
the town hadn’t had time
to clear the sidewalks
from the previous blizzard
men from the dept. or public works
you could see them
in their trucks
humming around Port City
tired faces
empty eyes
fueled on coffee and smoke
and stale hope
wondering when it would all end
when they could go back to the bar
for a cold pint
and a hot meal
“January,” I snorted,
watching those flakes
fall down
each one a kamikaze pilot
in the army of nature’s doom
“and it’s only fucking January.”

POEM - UP IN ANOTHER ATTIC ROOM

up the front steps
up the first staircase
round the corner
up the second staircase
this one’s steeper
narrower
with a lower ceiling
here I am
another attic dwelling
duck your head
when you walk through that doorway
keep it ducked
if your want to pluck out a book
from that bookshelf
against the four foot wall
watch out for that chimney
there’s one in the center of each room
“it gets cold up here,
but you’ve got electric heaters.
Heats up quick.”
that was no lie
I’m cozy behind this desk
my old desk into which
after a nasty break up
I carved LOVE IS A ROSE
THAT DIES
AFTER STRANGLING YOU
IN YOUR SLEEP
I don’t know
what I think about that line,
now. Love might have died
but I’m still around
still kickin’ it in the coffee shops
hunched over on bar stools
walking down the side streets
laughing at the world
which hasn’t gotten the best of me
yet

POEM - AGAIN THIS IS MY HOME

the cold
it bites at you like a pack
of hungry wolves
but hell
you get used to that
just like you get used to anything
waking up in the morning
feeling like a turd
that’s been trampled
and smeared
all the way down the sidewalk
around the corner.
or you get used to being so alone
you can’t even think original thoughts
only sit in front of the television
watch other people
live their made up lives
say their made up lines
think their made up thoughts
out in Vegas
I wore long johns
four shirts and a jacket
when it dipped down
to fifty degrees outside
now, a few weeks in New Hampshire
I wear three shirts and no long johns
when it creeps up to twenty – five
and every time I come back here
I wonder why the hell I did
the snow storms
icy roads
falling on the sidewalks
running from bar to bar
but then I realize there’s some truth to it here
nature revealing her mean side
people just doing what they can to survive
on a daily basis
when you’re sitting on a park bench
in the warm sun you think,
“well, this is nice, but what next?”
it’s too easy
where’s the challenge?
but when you haven’t seen the sun
in five months
and your skin is white and dry as paper
you have that constant thought,
“if I can handle this, I can handle anything.”
and that thought
it bites back at the cold
at that pack of mangy wolves
you become tougher and stronger
next thing you know
you’re out in some blizzard shouting,
“hell, this is all ya got? This is it?
this ain’t even half bad!”