My landlord has disappeared. I haven’t seen him in days… The truth is, it’s going on weeks.

I wondered at first if he’d merely holed up to escape the deluge of rains we’ve been assaulted by lately. Then other scenarios presented themselves. Was he sick with H1N1? Engaged in an illicit affair with a former Hollywood starlet now down on her luck and just out of rehab looking for a ‘real man’, whom he met on eHarmony.com? Perhaps he was hard at work on some top secret government, high-tech assignment. Of course, he could just be on a vacation, the spontaneous, drop-everything kind.

Then finally the truth emerged, coming to me as I slept. I woke up knowing with certainty that my beloved landlord was dead. Poor Frank, I thought. He was such a likeable guy! And when it came to being a landlord, you really couldn’t ask for better. And yet…

Now that he’s dead, I couldn’t help but surmise, that rent check I put in his mailbox last week will never get cashed. For that matter, my rent won’t come due next month or the month after that. Furthermore, his now empty house, so much bigger and newer than my itty-bitty little cottage, is just begging to be occupied. I could simply take over his lease, I figured, and pay for it with the rent I’ll collect from the tenant behind me, and the new tenant who’ll take over the lease on my place.

It all seemed so simple, so obvious… I mean, times are lean. You’ve got to grab hold of opportunities when they present themselves, right? It was what Frank would have wanted, I was sure. I smiled through my tears of grief.

I wasted no time moving into Frank’s house. “You take that room,” I told my son. “And Mugsy can sleep there.” I pointed to a large empty corner near a window. “And if you want to play video games or listen to music, you can go into that room there and shut the door, so I won’t have to hear you.” In our itty-bitty cottage, there was no real privacy or solitude to be had. “Let’s have a party!” he suggested, and for once I agreed with him. Why not? I thought.

We each invited a few friends, but somehow the word got out that a party was going on and became exaggerated in the process; rumors spread fast that wild sex and an unlimited supply of booze and drugs were to be had. Before long the place was packed, and I was scrambling to keep snack bowls and drink glasses filled – thank goodness Frank had a liberally stocked liquor cabinet – when I looked up to see Charlie Sheen walk through the door. I watched in amazement as he made himself at home, chatting casually with people I’d never met before. Within the hour he had two beautiful women on each arm and the mirror in the guest bathroom had mysteriously disappeared. Music blasted from the stereo and my son was standing on top of the dining room table in his underwear singing Karaoke to a ‘Disturbed’ song. The alcohol had almost run out and I was just thinking that was probably a good thing when the sound of blaring sirens invaded the street and parked in front of our door.

An officer charged in. “Whose house is this?” he demanded. None of the strangers seemed to know, and thankfully no one who actually knew me spoke up either. The officer herded us all out though the front door with warnings to go home immediately or be charged with disrupting the peace, and locked the door behind us. My son and I skulked back to our itty-bitty little cottage and collapsed into our itty-bitty little beds, where I tossed and turned till dawn, then finally got up and made myself a cup of coffee and turned on my computer. Checking my email, I was aghast to see a message from my landlord. “Something came up and I had to leave town suddenly,” it said. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning, hope all is well there!”

Groaning, I quickly tossed a few cleaning supplies into a bucket, threw a bathrobe over my skimpy nightgown and headed into Frank’s back yard, where I propped a ladder against his bathroom window. Carefully, I pried off the screen, pushing open the window he’d left slightly ajar. As I descended head first toward the tile floor, I heard a rustling sound, followed by soft, rhythmical snores. I froze in my handstand, my feet still jutting out the window. Who could it be? I gently dropped onto my hands and knees and crawled slowly out of the bathroom in the direction of the sounds. As I rounded the corner to the back bedroom, I caught sight of a blanketed figure curled up on the floor in a fetal position. I moved closer until I could see a face. It was Charlie Sheen!

As I got to my feet he stirred, then stretched his arms over his head and yawned. His eyes opened and he met my gaze. He yawned again, accustomed it would seem to waking up in strange places in the presence of strange women. “Where am I?” he whispered.

I swallowed hard. “There was a party last night,” I began. “I guess you must have passed out.”

He nodded and closed his eyes again. When he opened them, he seemed to take in my scantily clad appearance for the first time. He sat up. “Did we, you know, do it?” he asked.

I didn’t hesitate for a second. “Twice,” I replied. “You said I was the best you ever had.”

He frowned slightly and scratched his head. Before he could say anything else, I plowed forward. “You also read my screenplay. You said it’s fantastic. Actually, I believe ‘stupendous’ was the word you used. You said you can’t wait to produce it.”

“I did?” he asked. I nodded in reply.

He studied me for a moment, then threw the blanket aside and got to his feet. Stark naked, he walked over to me. His bewildered expression softened as he pushed the thin fabric of my robe over my shoulders.

As it fell to the floor, I considered my options. Time was running out.

Charlie pulled me close, his mouth hovering over mine. I closed my eyes, quivering in anticipation of the moment. What the hell? I thought, throwing caution to the wind.

My voice sultry with desire, I whispered in his ear. “What a shame you’ve got that important meeting to go to this morning.”

His eyebrows knit together as he struggled to make sense of my words. “I do?” he said. “What kind of meeting?”

“You didn’t say,” I replied. “But I seem to recall the name Steven Spielberg.”

He nodded his head and sighed, as if it were all coming back to him. Was it possible he actually did have a meeting with Spielberg today? I scampered over to the pile of clothes on the floor, scooped them up and pressed them into his arms. “While you’re getting dressed,” I said, “I’ll just run and get that screenplay.”

I started for the door then turned back around. “Can I get you a cup of coffee for the road?” I asked.

“Nah,” he said, waving a hand in the air. “I never touch the stuff.”

He’s undeniably, eye-catchingly
Handsome

But that’s not why
She digs him

He has a tattoo
Speaks several languages
And was educated
(Among other places)

At the prestigious
School of Hard Knocks

He writes plays, poetry and
Uncategorizable prose

But that’s not why
She digs him

He has traveled the world
Cooks like a gourmet chef
Excels at saving money
And the art of bodyspeak

But even that’s not why
She digs him

She digs him
Because he
Thinks about things others dare not
Talks about things they won’t
He reads Nietzsche
Tolstoy and
Kerouac

He reads her

He
Refuses to conform
Kowtow or
Acquiesce

To dictates
Dogma and
Convention

He cares not for
Status symbols
Nor the
Material world

He drives the divine
Mamita

He understands her inner battles
Between chutzpah
Patience and passion

He tells important stories
He shares without
Imposition

He respects her independence
And keeps her secrets

And when he holds her
She feels more at peace
In this world
Than she ever has

He’s the gift
She wasn’t expecting
What she sees when
She closes her eyes

The face without the mask

That’s why she digs him

My love and I
With nothing better to do
One rainy winter day
Took a look at my shaggy canine
And decided he needed a trim

We started slow
With a pair of shears
Behind the ears
Under the chin

And as we trimmed
We talked as always
About whatever came to mind

And the conversation turned
To the subject of what we’d imagined,
In the glory of dewy youth,
Our lives would look like today

I thought I’d be married, I said
As I swiped at Mugsy’s tail
Be grateful you didn’t go there
He grimaced
Believe me, it’s misery ad infinitum
Compounded by devastation

I should be teaching poetry,
He mused
At some prestigious, west coast college
Off came the left side of Mugsy’s beard

With co-eds hanging on my every word
Gone was his moustache too

I expected to be a famous writer
I exclaimed with an air of whimsy
As the clippers zoomed over Mugsy’s back
And flew up under his stomach
With at least one bestseller, I added
He nodded, I know, huh? he said
Then shaking his head in a daze of wonder
Started in with the scissors in earnest

I’d have a mansion by the sea
He explained with a faraway look
With servants to do my bidding
And an agent, an editor,
Stupendous advances

Fur was flying in all directions
Frenetic buzzing filled the air

And so it went for quite some time
With every word, another cut
For every lost dream
Another lock shorn
Until at last we were out of shouldve’s
And before us quaking in forlorn regret
Stood the product of our mutual despair

There was nothing left of him to speak of
He was half the size he’d started
And the only hair remaining
Was a strip from head to toe
A Mohawk of black and white
From his forehead straight up and spiking
Down his back to the tip of his tail

We put down the scissors, dropped the shears
And swept up the pile of fur
Thinking perhaps we’d made a mistake
Gotten too carried away
Until Mugsy stood up and shook himself
Then pranced up and down the room

Showing off his brand new do

Unencumbered, with nothing to block his view
Of cats and cars, food and chew-toys
And laps to settle into

I think he likes it, I gasped in amazement
He seems to feel freer, he agreed
Go figure, we said in unison
Then sighed and settled back down
To the one thing we both can’t not do for long

The process of writing our hearts out
To the tune of the pouring rain

I dig my new Do!

One distraction follows
Another
In pursuit of
Purpose to daily

Life

When there’s rarely a place
You have to be
Nor legal tender
To be had

Yet who knows
What stumble might lead
To what
What you might find
In the face of
Life
Re-defined
By the unexpected

The way you can
Move through
Wrongs grown wider
While Reason escapes and
Reasons escape

As a heart
Wakes up one day
To something new
And old at once
And wants it anyway
To realize that
What you dreamed
Is dreaming now
Beside you

And the how or why
No longer matters

Hope is resurrected

I only want to write
And get paid for my words

My words all strung together
In unique, inimitable style

With their own quirky bent
And their peculiar rush to mind

Of memories old
Possibilities new
And another distinct life

Apart from what you know
Separate from your beliefs
Foreign to your system
Alien to your code

Yet resonant
Charming
Intriguing
Entrancing
Enthralling
Engaging
Piercing
Provocative
Profound

And just
Downright

Well-written

Yass, I want to get paid
For this life inside of me
For this life that is what I have to give
For what I do best
For what I know
For what I understand

For the chance to make you
Smile
Cringe
Cry
Laugh
Scream
Plead
Celebrate
Grieve

Then when all is said and done

Pass it on

Don’t give me presents
On Christmas day
Give me your presence instead
Wherein my heart flies
To meet my soul
Beyond words into
Truth
Felt only

Uncontained
By wrappings and ribbons
Undefined by greeting cards

My piece of peace
My joue my jew
My joy
My magi
Magically real

This day and
Any day

One of these nights
When words are
Too heavy
When the darkness is
Too cold

Lay me down
Beside you
Flesh against flesh
Warm and tender
Under llamas wool

Let our dreams
Come and go
Like fingertips

Grazing temples
And souls

In the midst of breath
Between us

Loose
Unbound
And
Gentle

For the duration of
One winter’s night

One blue moon
One light in the shadows

From spellbound dusk
Till breaking dawn

Find reprieve
With me
In the silence

Of night

In the act
Of silent

Communion

We heard scrabbling in the attic
Dozens of tiny feet
Running to and fro
A cacophony of movement

Louder and louder it grew
We both looked up in dread
Knowing what was coming
As the ceiling started to sag

And then the cracks split open
And little bodies fell
Raining down upon our heads
Rodent showers at midnight

We jumped up and ran
But there was no where to go
We knew we had no choice
But to take matters into
Our hands

He grabbed the first one
He saw
And flew to the kitchen sink
Where he snatched up a butcher knife
And chopped off its little head

I handed him another
Which he dispatched with equal speed
Then another and another and another
Till the sink was brimming with death

I think we’ve got enough
He said
To send our message home
Then he opened a drawer and
Pulled out a pile
Of little wooden skewers

He boiled some water
And left the flame burning
Then began as I watched in amazement
Peruvian voo-doo witchcraft?
Shrinking the rodents heads
And mounting them on sticks

I stared at our macabre creation
And suddenly started to laugh
He followed suit and shortly
The only sound to be heard
Was the roar of demonic laughter
Our terrorist hearts’ delight

We got out the ladder
Climbed up to the ceiling
Where all the trouble had started
We peered inside with a flashlight
There wasn’t a sound to be heard

I handed them to him
One by one
He placed them in half a circle
Surrounding the gaping hole
Where they stood like silent sentries
Warning their brothers of doom

We came back down
Put the ladder away
And parked ourselves on the couch

Turned on the tv
Smoked another bowl
Fixed a midnight snack
Then fell into peaceful sleep

The next morning we looked
In the attic
To see if our plan had worked
But the space was completely empty
As if nothing had ever been there

We looked at each other in wonder
Did the soldiers bury their dead?
What really happened last night?
Was that just some really good weed?

We’ll never know for sure
I guess
The only thing I can tell you?

It’s been a good two weeks now
And all’s quiet in the attic…

It’s an illusion
Sink to the bottom with me
We’ll play in the mud

On this test

My answers to
The questions
Pass back and forth
Telepathically

No pencils, templates
Or cramming involved

It’s a Life Test
That has to do
With things

Like knowing when
To reach out
Your hand
And when to
Hold it back

And wait to be
Reached for

Accepting with
The gut
What the mind
Already knows

That genuine caring
For someone
Isn’t about

Restrictions
Belonging
Persuading

But rather about
Freedom

Of expression
Of movement
Of self

Trusting they know
You are there
For
Them

Whether or not
You are there
With
Them

Throwing aside all
Preconceived notions
And worn out
Ill-fitting
Attitudes

Offering up
Instead

The most
Valuable
Gift
You can
Give

The acknowledgement
That their truth is

Just as real

Every bit
As justified

Equally
As driving

As
Your own