honesty.

I hesitate briefly with fingers on keys,
Before I decide to proceed as I please
(Despite old misgivings and newer mistakes
That strongly encourage applying the brakes).

The truth is the truth isn't totally there,
But making the most of it stands to be fair
Since most of the most of it surely sounds true.
(And doesn't that seem more authentic to you?)

It doesn't much matter if facts fall in line,
As long as I note that this version is mine.
Those people who read what I'm dying to say
Are sure to be sure of the facts, anyway.

No, I won't deceive, I will merely suggest
That there may be facts that they've failed to divest?
Oh, don't think me unctuous, unkind, uncouth --
It isn't a lie to cast doubt about truth.

farewells.

I looked behind me one last time.

It's not like the cello, the thought came in a moment, not like the way your fingers learn to mold themselves to invisible curves and crevices that your mind maps into notes you're searching for, joined together, released like a linen banner by the steady back-and-forth of your trembling bow. How the melody in your head flows in synapses that lift and let fall the tendons in your arm and wrist and hand. Free to flutter and fade with the fog of your November breath, lingering in an empty chamber full of promises for the future. No, it's not like that at all.

It's like digging a pit and watching as time turns its walls to stone.

I found him, finally. He stood still, while the steam and scream of the billowing locomotive stack swallowed first the world behind him, his silhouette stark against the twisting eddies of cloud whites and the churning grays of formless shuffling shapes. I imagined I could see his eyes - blue and narrowed, mirroring mine in their uneasy mix of resignation and intensity - but by then they were dark specks, shrinking by the moment, until he vanished completely, joining the current of unintelligible movements replacing a world I was leaving behind.

tide.

It patters soft-pawed,
a pointed ambling
across my mind,
dodging wheels,
leaping curbs:

this stray notion
(a reminder)
that every morning
the sun rises

illuminating
in seven billion
beating hearts
oceans of joy
and swirling sorrow

and who knows which
will wash ashore today

in scissored mementos
of scissored moments?

emotion.

Sometimes
the overflow of feelings
escapes the clutch of words
that grasp with unwieldy fingers.

I live and let fly
those fleeting phantoms
that weave through the bars
of every cage I foolishly employ.

city.

The dawn commute begins its tuneless song--
a plodding cadence played by weary feet,
a rush in veins transcribed onto the street
where caffeine drones alone outpace the throng.

In time with treadmill lives in squares of white,
the world revolves in cycles of extremes.
The dim demands of old, abandoned dreams
become a breath dissolved by subway light.

A bird's lone shadow interrupts the sky,
a colorless flat curtain for the scene.
From street to street, and every block between,
the grim-faced actors pass each other by.

I swipe a card, and turn the stile, and go
To play my faceless part in this tableau.

where.

Whitebeard's tavern was a musty, dark basement, always crowded, thick with humidity and the remnants of thwarted ambitions. The broken jukebox in the corner had long ago surrendered its gaudy prominence for the simpler job of creating atmosphere. Period photographs drooped crookedly in vintage frames and danced an erratic ballet across the walls.

The bar was modern, all chromes and glass and bright lights in edgy combinations, glittering with compassion for the wood panels and cramped booths that had known finer decades. Whitebeard's knew its priorities.

I spotted him right away, with no difficulty at all. A first. And only, I knew, because he wanted me to.

He was glowering at the counter over some bright green concoction. It threw a garish neon reflection across his chest. Artificial lime mingled vividly with the unmistakeable solid reds and whites, alternating horizontal strips that ran circles around his torso as if binding him with 50/50 polyester-cotton blend chains.

I slid into the adjoining barstool. He knew who I was, why I was here. He didn't bother to move or look up.

"Figured you'd buzz," he said, dryly. The words dropped straight into the drink he wasn't drinking.

"You made it easy," I replied. It was the truth. I wasn't too proud to admit he was good. Maybe even the best.

He glanced elsewhere. "How's the wife? Still chuffing the Xanax?"

"Vanessa's just fine," I replied. "I'll let her know you asked. She'll be thrilled."

I ordered a tonic and waited for him to really start talking. Around us, locals chattered about the ordinary problems of ordinary lives.

"It's all over," he said, at last, turning to face me. He looked haggard, like he hadn't seen the sun from the tail end of a dream in some time. The violet crescents cradling his eyes looked twice as deep through the round lenses. I realized this wasn't his first cocktail. "I'm out, bumped. Finished."

I said nothing.

"Sounds stupid, sure," he went on. "But there's just nothing in it for me anymore. Not now that -" He stopped. From anyone else, you might have expected a tear or two. Maybe a dramatic pause for a dramatic catch of an emotional breath. Not him. He looked me square in the eye and knew I could fill in the blanks, that he simply didn't want to.

"She didn't give," I said. "You know that, right?"

"Does it matter?" he asked matter-of-factly, and decided to punctuate the moment with a long sip from his glowing elixir. He grimaced. The stuff was probably as strong as it was green.

I didn't need to explain myself, I thought, but why the hell not? "We had our marching orders to up the ante. You know, stir the pot a little more than we'd been. Ms. Wilkins, see, she's always been a hot topic - nowhere near our Numero Uno. But high enough on the chain. We've had a whole lot of credibility on the line and too many checks bouncing lately." I shrugged. "So we switched sights. Stroke of luck we picked her just when she got soft. She flew first-class into our waiting paws and we did what we do. But she didn't spill a drop, kid. Nothing on you or the Pup."

He traced the rim of his glass with a lazy finger. "Classy chick, that one," he said. "If they dished out ribbons for not screwing up she'd have more yellows than a Chinatown noodle bar. Her twin, though-- Willow? Winnie."

"Wenda," I said.

"Freakin' alliteration," he spat, then frowned, twirling a finger. "They got a ribbon color for participation?"

It was my turn to take a meaningful sip. I set the glass down and folded my hands over it. "So, I'm curious. Why quit? Why now?"

He shrugged. "I'm getting too old for this, Hardy."

"That's my line."

"Get out. How on earth could I tell."

"I'm not getting any younger," I said with meaning.

"Now there's a shocker." He sighed, removing his glasses to scrub the lenses.

The babble and clank blended into one unintelligible hum as he spoke, absently. "I used to get a rush from this, you know. Crazy, right? This whole -- hiding in plain sight. Getting away with murder. I mean, the saying. Never dropped a bird in my life, I swear. I could have. Wanted to, sometimes. Got real close once. Lost my hat. But there's a lullaby for another lonely night at the bar."

He finished scrubbing, replaced the glasses, and stared through them at the ceiling. "It's amazing, man. All it takes is you find a couple tools here and there. The right ones. And suddenly you have the keys to anything you ever wanted. Everything you've ever dreamed of. And then some. Power's overrated, they say, but only because they say a lot about a lot they don't know a lot about."

With a single fluid motion, he tossed off the remaining green liquid and sent the glass sliding a yard down the counter. It stopped at the edge.

"God, man, I'm telling you. Ever had the high of a con gone good? Cracking a safe? Picking a lock with a freaking safety pin? Used to be there was nothing like the feeling of Sultans' rubies jangling in one pocket and some Golden Age auction-fodder rubbing down a couple of seventeenth century Iranian nuggets in the other as you hitched a train for an L.A. premiere to wrangle some fresh, wide-eyed starlet's red-carpet custom Cartier. All in the broadest of broad daylights. Right under every one of your stupid clueless noses. Every single one. Every single time."

"You make it all sound so boring," I said.

"That's the problem. It is." He paused. "I'm being ironic here."

"That makes two of us."

"I can't swing it anymore," he blurted, flinging his hands in the air. The drink was working its magic, clearly. "Plain and simple. It's not a solo game. I'd love to spin it that way. I've tried, I can't. It's gone. All the excitement, all the energy. I'm telling you - she's not the best, sure, not as long as I'm around." Somehow, he'd managed to deliver those words with a straight face. "But she's the best at what she does. It doesn't work without her. Hasn't, and won't." He lowered his hands in fists on the counter. "And don't even think to chalk this up to feelings. Let me assure you, you lose a couple of things to get to where I'm at. Like, say, caring. I have feelings for her like I have feelings for an Allen key on a good day."

"You're wrong," I said.

"You think I stay up nights waiting for her postcards?" He laughed bitterly.

I leaned forward. "I'm thinking you miss more than her postcards."

"I'm a thief and a cad, Joe. Not a killer, not a lover." He smiled without any hint of joy and flexed his thin shoulders. "There's just a whole lot of nothing anymore. The only rush left, I figure, is giving you and your boys a reason to pat yourselves on the back. One last good deed, man. A little morale boost. A little lovin'." He threw in a crude gesture and a grin. "You're welcome, by the way."

I looked at him sadly.

"Oh Joe, Joe, Joe." His sigh was patronizing. His words swam together. "It's killing me, seeing you so glum. I know, I'm sorry. It's not the blaze of glory that's rocked you to sleep for years, is it? No cinematic chase through the mall, no duck-hunting at the airport. But, hey, I mean, it's the next best thing, right? I'm sitting. Right. Here. Practically begging you to slap those handcuffs on me like charm bracelets. Would it kill you to show a little gratitude?"

I said nothing.

We both saw us as we were now, I could tell. Me, the proverbial cat. Old and tired. No longer enamored by the kill. Content to take pity on the worn-out, cornered mouse in skinny jeans and those red and white stripes who'd eluded him for a decade. Content to lend an ear to his brash, boozy squeaks before they triggered the trap.

The mouse knew it was coming. He slapped the countertop with gusto. "Gee, guess that's the closing bell."

We both knew, without turning, that Frank and his partner were coming down the steps behind us. The half-hour of alone time I'd put in a special request for was spent... and here they were, just in time to finish the gig.

The last image I can recall was his final wink at me as Frank's voice and a metallic click of cuffs punctuated the soundtrack at Whitebeard's. A moment and a hand brushing my shoulder later, they were gone.

I swivelled on the stool, alone in a crowd, staring into the neon light of the bar and filtering the grumbles of men who'd never jostled rubies in their pocket.

To this day, I still don't think of that night as the night I finally found Waldo. It's the night I first wondered if Waldo would ever find himself.

future.

anticipation, hope
tremors. hanging
tingling, synapses,
signals, racing,
delicate, wild,
coursing, free
frozen, mouth
dry, drum-
pulsed.

this is it,
or else
this is it.

the sky's edge
beckons
with fleeting glimpses,
the glimmers
of Atlantean riddles,
smiling with
clear-sky promise
and suddenly

everything falls out from under our feet and we are falling like weights with inexpressible freedom within an inescapable pull but the moment is all that we can cling to for everything else falls with us