Hey remember New Years Eve? What a great time that was, huh? It was a time of hope: the end of one year and the chance for almost everyone to start the next with pretty much a clean slate. All across the land, people basked in the promise of a better tomorrow. "You wait and see," they told you over their fifth rum and coke on New Years Eve. "This year is going to be different. I am going to stop drinking. I am going to quit smoking. The wife bought me a fitness center membership for Christmas; I’m going there first thing in January. You should come too." And they take another drag of their cigarette while the girl who you will see later making out with the bar’s resident drug dealer tells her friends that THIS is the year that she is going to quit messing around and settle down with a decent guy. You’ve heard it all before; who even knows what year it is anymore? Who cares? It is the same routine every year. The only thing that really changes is the year number on the party favors and the suit that Dick Clark wears for his "Rockin’ Eve". And time marches on.

So now that another year is halfway over, it is time for us to track the progress of those starry-eyed resolutions made by a glossy and blurry-eyed mankind that fateful first night of January. Surprise surprise! Your friend from the bar is still drinking and smoking. Everybody is! No fitness center on earth has been open past March since 1972. And that’s fine too, because the kind of exercise people are getting these days is far more practical and far more intense than anything John Basedow could dream up. Make no mistake, your friend and millions of others are getting all the exercise they need. The world of today is chock FULL of alternative exercise opportunities, and I’m proud to report that people are taking full advantage of them all.

For example, having explosive arguments with your spouse has never been hotter since back in the days when Ralph was sending Alice to the moon. And why not? Spouses by nature make excellent sparring partners. They know practically everything about you, and being bound (in theory) by law to be with nobody else but you they have a personal stake in you not being the disgusting slob that you are. Remember that fitness center membership your friend got you for Christmas but didn’t use? He sure does. His wife wields it like Thor’s hammer every time he reminds her of HER resolution not to sleep with the "self employed neighborhood handyman" anymore, the one who lives in someone’s garage the next block over. Hey you know what they say about the suffering being the third ring of marriage after the wedding and engagement rings. Ho ho ho funnyman on the loose!

And lets not forget the growing trend of freaking out in traffic. Have you actually driven anywhere lately? Not since the cow burned down Chicago have so many people been in a hurry to get anywhere else. Either that or they take the other approach where they basically park their car on the road and rely on the earth’s natural gravity and rotation to get them to point B. The speedy people are destined to meet the slow people eventually, and when they do all hell breaks loose on Main Street USA. The speedy people get nervous and angry and pull up close enough to the slow people to brush bugs off their car if that is what they wanted to do. The slow people get nervous and angry, and drive even slower. On both sides horns are honked, steering wheels are squeezed, fists are shook, fingers are flipped, tails are gated, teeth are gnashed. All this translates into one hell of a workout, but wait, there’s more! In this day and age many of us underestimate religion in our daily lives, but there is something about a first class traffic snafu that brings even the most wayward of sheep back to the flock. Studies show that by the time it is all over, the average motorist has made an average of seven solemn oaths to God and two to the Virgin mother. How is that for a revival? Praise Him!

Or maybe you can just go say hello to Him yourself. Dropping dead from a lifestyle related heart attack is riding on an all-time popularity high, and the bandwagon just keeps on growing! It really is the ultimate exercise, and you can do it simply by falling and not getting up. Heck, the act of falling itself has to burn at least 200 calories. The only preparation you really have to do is to take seconds and thirds at dinner or smoke a couple extra cigs a day. And how is this for a hook? When you do this it can honestly be said that you worked out until the end. Can any of those self-important fitness gurus make that claim? Take THAT Jane Fonda! In your face, Jack LaLanne. And meet the new boss. The new kings of fitness weigh 300 pounds and smoke 2 1/2 packs of cigarettes a day. Unfiltered.

When the folks of the future look back on this humble time period we call "The Present", they will revere it as the Golden Age of Personal Fitness, where men and women challenged their own selves by eating, drinking, and smoking too much, and sleeping too little. They will marvel at our mysterious and forgotten ability to turn a simple trip to the grocery store into a grim morality play in overdrive where both God and the Devil play an integral part, all to the tune of The Who’s "Won’t Get Fooled Again" as it radiated from our primitive car speakers. A old lady will tell her wide-eyed grandchildren stories about the time when her grandfather ate half a box of Krispy Kreme donuts and fell asleep. An eternal flame will burn next to the tomb of the Unknown Chain Smoker.

What an exciting time to be alive! It is 2005 and we can all say that we were here when the Golden Age of Fitness happened. The state of fitness has never been better, or it’s future more optimistic than it is right now. Just the other day, I encountered a man eating at a small coffee shop. He held a cup of coffee in his left hand, an unfiltered Pall Mal in his right. In front of him was a sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich and no less than three different kinds of donuts. Never had I seen such overwhelming effort, and it stirred feelings inside of me that I forgot that I had. I walked up to him and I said, tear welling up in my eye, "Carry on sir! They are going to build a statue of you someday."

He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. He was working out.

I am perched alone at the top of a typical college-ruled sheet of paper with pen ready in hand. The sea of white below is a mere illusion, a temporary basin of emptiness that will soon be overrun with words, sentences, and perhaps a chosen phrase or two. This fresh, white page is currently devoid of ideas or thoughts, and is only enhanced by the blue lines that traverse through its pure, unadulterated space. A vertical red line that denotes the margin adds a touch of character, but nonetheless it contains no life or personality. Just as thick, black clouds of smoke spew forth from some menacing industrial plant, I now pollute this page with words that contaminate this otherwise pristine plain. Already, black ink spreads across the surface and yields to nothing except an occasional block in the thinking process or the unexpected antics of one particularly mischievous kitty. The words gradually work their way down to the bottom line just as sand steadily trickles downward in an hourglass.

This singular sheet gradually transforms into a caricature of its former self. Marks of ink form letters that are written as if scratched out by a nervous chicken and blanket this once unspoiled domain. Will there be no end to this devastation? Will no one make an effort to save this hapless page from being violated in such a scandalous fashion? Without regret, the invasion proceeds.

The pen continues to race across the lines mimicking a horde of locust hell bent on consuming everything in its path. The only pieces left behind will be the margins that will serve as permanent glimpses of the sheet’s original design. The pallid space melts away like snow under a searing sun. The essence of it purity dissolves into a world which to some is only now a tainted and soiled landscape. The infection of these words has crept into the lifeblood of the page, and course through its veins via the open lines that once graced and marked its existence. The end grows near. The sentences have succeeded in leaving their permanent and undeniable mark. Without a shed of tear or sigh of grief, the page is turned, and the next victim is at hand.

At this dinner

here before me: high society

examining crystal glass

hurried handshakes

lists of titles

this super jaded social class

dueling through accomplishments

speaking behind gem stoned jewels

spitting numbers

cooing of credentials

boasting on like fools

spinning circles around themselves

in elevated diction

feigning joy

oozing elegance

living life in fiction

sitting straight with tea in hand

amongst expensive silverware

seven forks

nine course meal

exchanges flighty, debonair

sorbet spoon reflects

a designer face

hours getting ready

pressure to be pretty

not one hair out of place

I feel pity for the dancers

who waltz like it’s for real

choreographed life

a puppet for a wife

forgetting what it’s like to feel

In the calm of

Wednesday morning

you sleep peaceful

as a baby,

quiet as a fish

sun parting your lips

and the Venetian blinds,

so you get up to

close them, the blinds

fish out of water

need damp,

dark conditions

Dear God, it’s not fair

that you should make us

guess whether you exist or not.

I went for a walk and started to wonder

whether it was me

or whether you were just purposely ambiguous

scattering little clues here and there for me

to find along the way,

your fingerprints among the tiny flowers,

your breath moving the leaves on the trees.

And was that your face I saw for an instant in the clouds?

Breaking up, breaking up, breaking up

and now reforming.

Dear God, I don’t know for sure

whether you exist or not.

I really hope you do because I

think you must be pretty cool but

I still think it’s pretty mean

for you to make me guess.

Sunset

And the Friday evening twilight

Feels like an ending and a beginning. Gray is the color and rain is the thing falling and pulsating like the beat of the blood through your veins. And there’s an army of cars headed home or who knows? Where. Night isn’t falling, exactly. Night settles upon your shoulders like a dark, mysterious cape sent to excuse and shield you from the consequences of ill-considered actions. Morning will see it discarded by the side of the bed.

Feels like a Friday and the beginning or ending of something. Gray’s the only color that can make you believe it’s the only color necessary.

It has a depth of meaning that makes all the other colors possible. It stretches my mind and consciousness to a place I’ve never been, the Scottish moors or somewhere more impossible and unlikely. One by one the headlights of opposing cars, like a never ending stream of fireflies, begin to glow.

I wonder what it would be like to hold you for the first time and not let go. All around me the assembly line world goes on and the lie is that it must be this way. I long for a time of you and I and happiness. When I reach home your eyes open in wonder, the door swings shut; your arms enfold me in the night.

Once upon a time

In the fields of my mind,

The Dandelion ruled before rose.

In winter, simply froze

Calmly holding pose -

All petals softly defined.

Seasons would wind,

The colors combined

Come summer, there were rows.

Pictures they’d compose,

Captured highs and lows -

A perfect sight to find.

And someone said the sky is falling,

but it was just the acorns from the tree.

You remember planting them in the ground,

playing in the dirt, looking for buried treasure

thinking that someday a gigantic tree

will grow and you could look back and

remember in pride. It was a time when you

and your sneakers went on adventures and

dug in the ground imagining

what it would be like to reach China. But now you sit

on the bench beneath a tree, no one’s planting

anything. Your eyes follow people

with their hurried steps, cell phones in palms, and books

that will lead to occupations in offices

with glowing screens and bright white paper.

Acorns drop to the ground covering

the grass and the brick. Feet without eyes

no longer see the magic. They step forgetfully.

With a crushing crunch the acorns break.

There’s no hope for trees anymore.

If the sky is the limit it truly has fallen.

I

have

nothing

to say

nothing

so true

as the

cold

icy

stare

I’m now

getting

from you

If

I

were

to speak

I would

have only

lies

to melt

the

cold

truth

in the

ice of

your eyes

On the twilight of dreaming

near the edge of dawnings

full souled

I arrive

I survived the

different daylights

empty evening crashes

into midnight

Survived each bleak

shadow's story teller

Survived the souls

of the cellar

and the seller

of the souls

and all the holes

in the argument

that dreams

are for dreamers

Survived the schemers

and the weak tea

their weeping makes

then takes with it

when it goes

Survived the choices chose

and those not chosen

now finally frozen

in pointless pasts

where no thing lasts

but forever

In this

fake life

of papier-mache

scenery

puppet people

with watercolor eyes

purchase refundable wisdom

from televisions

paying with

warm soft counterfeit

coins

then thanking

each others

recorded

messages

I can hear each chime tonight

as fresh snow crunches underfoot

and flakes cake to my eyelashes.

I try walking in sets of footsteps left behind

and find it difficult to match the strides of others.

We must all have our own rhythm,

and if we were chimes,

each a different ring.

Walking past the church,

I feel like I’m in a snow globe

as I gaze into the streetlights,

and I sit to watch the snow

from the protection of a church stoop.

I feel far away from here.

Soon, I will be far away from here.

The breeze snatches my breath

before I can catch it.

I have never felt so lonely,

and I think the snowflakes must be lonely, too -

falling together,

but separated by time and air and their own uniqueness.

Soon, my footsteps will be erased,

and there will be no proof I was here -

no proof I exist.

I walk away feeling I have left my soul there

and look back thinking I will surely see myself

still sitting on the steps.

But someone follows.

And I continue on,

walking in another set of footprints.

The waitress with the swollen belly

pushes her way through the crowd;

the cocktail tray high above her head

holds ice cubes that clink like aluminum eyeballs

and sweaty crumples of money,

none of it hers;

she moves like a guided missile

through this smoky pit

of doctorsandlawyersandsalesmen,

eyes averted

pale breasts jiggling

stomach bulging like a water balloon;

she works harder than they could ever imagine,

trading patches of flesh for deep fried dreams;

her eyes, cold as marbles, look towards the sky

while the drunken men ogle her form

in disgust as she passes

Coins tumble down

like dense snowflakes

cast into a world of damp dark

where they twirl helplessly head over tail

on a long journey to purchase a wish

from the bestower

who dwells below in a watery obscure catacomb

and who will decide

which wishes shall be granted

to those lucky ones

who believed and have dared

to share their valuable dreams

while others see the well is as reliable

as wishing upon a first star

in a childhood sky

Through grey skies, flannel-thick, air cold and dry, they come to a ground, now, perhaps, covered with snow crunching under boot like carrots between teeth -

Snowflakes, crisp, intricate, tiny replicas of doilies a grandmother leaves behind for us to divide up in her wake, in her memory: each exquisite, perfect.

So perfect, I think breath itself should stop in homage as they descend, catching on gloves, on sleeves. I preserve their delicate lives that way - atop a crooked arm

of a woolen jacket, guarding them with keenest eye, while friends, arms held out, as if for balance, their faces tipped upward, devour them with eradicating tongues.

Often contented times, I sit silent, watching close the wonderment, knowing words will likely fail, except to dissolve the perfect moment on a tongue.

Unsuspecting -

Paths we never know we have

People we never know we’ll meet

Decisions we never know we’ll make.

And it all comes to be

Like a movie that won’t pause

Like a season that yearns to change

Like a star that never ceases

To emit energy

Like nature that forever evolves.

And there we stand -

Exposed

Alone

Transformed

Renewed

And the cycle begins again.

They rake the clustered leaves away

That have fallen with manly grace

Dried and crisp they clutter the yard

Fragmented memories of a greener space.

The antique maple shakes its twisting arms

An upraised fist in the tearing winds

In mute defiance of unrelenting time

An arrogant appeal for unforgiven sins.

The old man watches as the saws roll in

He sits in his chair a glint in his eye

Sure of his prowess as he wages his war

The mighty tree falls against a darkening sky.

First its limbs taken one by one

As if the threat comes from the outside in

The old man shuffles to get a better view

Rubbing his hands to make them warm again.

In measured sections the trunk comes down

The men take care not to let them fall

Stump and roots the last remains

Torn from their ground while ravens call.

"We’re done here now," the tree cutters claim

As they lay their carrion in respectable rows

But the old man is still as a bitter wind blows

But the old man is still as a bitter wind blows.

Three generations each one apart

marching along to a beat.

Sharp cadence they have learned by heart.

Their appearance presented a fete.

Row one heralded the oldest of all,

the second of middle age.

Last came the youngest in the call,

the Book of Life’s first page.

Three generations marching through life,

all looking straight ahead.

As they smartly stepped to drum and fife,

parading toward their dead.

I’m a proud member of row number one,

the brightness of life now fading.

Soon my final marching will be done,

my parents and theirs are waiting.

Behind a cast iron fence

among a cast of flowered scents

stands a crimson rose

with leaves outstretched in a solitary pose.

The blossom craves light from a sun

that is warmer and brighter than just one.

Other flowers receive more affection

while the lonely rose is paid less attention.

There is space in my garden

and the rose is not closely guarded.

My reaching fingers are pricked by thorns -

sharp reminders that I’ve been warned.

I wrap my hands around the slender stem

to steal the precious ruby gem.

The rose’s jubilation is mute

as it is haphazardly ripped away from the root.

No portion of this daring act has been discreet

so I look both ways then cross the street.

Petals fall as I rush back to my garden.

Pain and bloody palms are disregarded.

The mortal beauty of the blossom must be preserved

to plant in the garden space that I’ve reserved.

Gently place the rose in rich soil

and protect it from sadness and turmoil.

But leaves once vibrant have begun to wilt

turning my passion into guilt.

The rose was better off on the vine

before I tried to make it mine.