Monday, March 18, 2024

cake on a paper plate

will i ever
conquer my fear 
of public speaking?
no.
and i have
no plans to overcome
this psychosis.
which is fine.
i have no ambition
for public office,
no plans to be the best
man at some wedding,
or deliver a eulogy at
someone's funeral.
i'll be in the back row,
eating cake
on a paper plate,
near the door
with the sign over head
in red,
saying exit.

no milk for you

when
you call and i pick up
and say
hello
and you don't answer,
with your
number restricted,
and i just
hear 
you breathing into
the phone,
making strange
cat like noises,
meows
and scratches,
don't you think that
i know who it is?
but it's too late dear,
no milk
for you.

perpetual strangers

we're all strangers
to each other,
even after twenty years of marriage,
or a lifetime 
of friendship,
we still
can't figure out
who someone really is.
sure, we know their habits,
how they like
their tea,
and toast, 
their eggs over easy.
how they like to read
at night.
we know the sounds they
make
when they sleep,
the position they lie in
when the lights go out.
we know
where they like to walk
during the day,
which path
to take and
which bench to sit on
when circling
the lake,
but the truth of the matter is
is that we
have no clue
what they're all about, 
we think we know them,
but it's often
a mistake.

a long way until 7 a.m.

the three
a.m. wake up is annoying.
there is nothing
going on in
my life that warrants
a three a.m.
wake up.
i stare
at the clock
and sigh,
really?
now?
i punch the pillow,
and roll
over.
i roll over some more.
i lift my head
and look
at the clock again,
five minutes have gone by.
it's along
way until 7 a.m. .
and suddenly everything
is on my mind.

dr. feel good

as i sit on the examination
table
waiting for the doctor
to arrive
i notice
behind the locked glass
cabinet
bottles of pills, all marked
with labels
and ready
to go.
one says happy pills,
the other
says, crazy pills, another
says,
fat pills, fear pills,
and on and on.
skinny pills, depressed pills,
lonely pills,
blurred vision pills,
upset stomach pills,
confused pills.
and then there's a large
bottle that reads,
everything pills.
give me one of those
i tell the doctor when he
comes in with his
stethoscope.

the newcomers

the condo board
has agreed to an open door policy
for all
the residents living
in the community.
no more locks on your doors,
no more bars on your windows.
anyone from anywhere,
criminal or not can come
into your home,
front door or back,
night or day,
eat, sleep, drink and live
in your house for free,
for as long as they want to,
without paying a
single penny.
come one come all.
it's the right thing to do.
slide over for a family
of five,  let's all make room

Sunday, March 17, 2024

St. Patty's Day

i forgot it was St. Patty's day,
until i saw
a group of trashed
men
and women
wearing shiny emerald
colored
derbies and throwing
up green
beer
and bangers and mash
in the alley
behind Murphy's Pub
on King Street.
then it occurred to me,
oh yeah.
it's St. Patrick's Day again.

signing the divorce document

she said,
as she signed the divorce
papers,
looking up
at me,
and snarling.
i wish,
i wish, she said,
grumbling,
that i had married a lawyer
or a doctor,
or someone like Elon
Musk, or
Bill Gates,
instead of you.
why, i ask her.
because of the love and
affection they would
give you?
no, no.
because then the alimony
would be a lot
more
than what you can give
me with your lame
occupation.
i was a fool to hitch my
wagon
to the likes of you.

on the attack

i set the block of wood
from the fallen
tree
onto the ground
and swing
the axe.
snapping it in two,
then threes.
bang bang bang, i go
at it all day.
my shoulders and back,
my arms,
lifting and striking
again and again.
every muscle in my body
working
for hours,
going on the attack,
and then the sun sets
and i'm done.
i've cleared my head
and heart once more.

worms into three


as kids, did we feel
bad
about the worms we sliced
into three
with our pocket knife,
having dug
them up in the yard
in the early morning,
before walking
to the river.
not really.
each piece seemed
to be no
worse off than the others,
still squirming
and curling
themselves up
into fleshy balls.
we were budget fishing,
so we had little
choice in the matter.

about damn time

the interest
wanes
in many things, as you age.
what
seemed
important
is no longer on your mind.
you've discovered
the power
of walking away,
of ignoring, 
of paying
no attention
to what the world
falsely offers,
you're ambivalent
and free
at last,
it's about damn time.

getting my first facial

my friend
Jelly Bean, gives me a free
gift coupon
for a facial.
which makes me look
deeply
into the mirror to see
what's wrong.
do i really look like a gargoyle
now?
oh, no, no, she says.
it's nothing like that, 
you look great, you
look young
for your age,
but this will make
you look even better.
oh, i say. okay.
so they lay me down
and start scrubbing my
face with
a lava rock,
heated from a charcoal
grill.
i know now how the islanders
on Pompeii felt
when Vesuvius exploded.
next comes
more heat,
a steamy wet towel 
that they pick up with tongs
to strap across
my face from
ear to ear.
then some sort of wax,
then a painful peel.
my hands
grip the side of the gurney,
as tears
roll down my face.
there's four women talking
in Taiwanese
standing at the table,
i catch the words 'baby man' 
as their little hands get busy
on my face.
then a cold cream is applied.
green like 
the split pea soup my mother
used to make.
an hour later
they scrape that off, hardened
like a cake,
then they wash what's left of
my skin away.
hosing me down
with an antiseptic spray.
wobbly, i stand up and take
a look in the mirror.
i look exactly the same
except with no eyebrows
and maybe a little older
from the stress.

the ides of March

do i fear
the ides of march,
like Caesar.
no.
it's always been a good
time of the year
for me.
big changes,
sea
changes.
relationships
and jobs.
i turn the ship around
and head
for calmer
waters,
the 15th
of March, please,
please, please,
bring it on.

flying monkeys airline

things
are falling off of planes,
wheels,
doors.
engines are on fire.
delays and lines.
the fares
are up, you have
to pay
more for heavy luggage
but not
if you have an
enormous two seat
behind.
the nuts
are stale,
the water warm,
the plane
waitresses are mean
and nasty
yelling at you for not
having your
seat belt on.
people are drunk and
fighting.
give me the flying 
monkeys
please.
have two of them
grab me by the arms
and drop me off where
i need to go.

an 'adult' cruise trip

needing a vacation,
we sign up
for an all inclusive trip
to the islands.
but we're a little naive,
so when we
board the 'adult' cruise ship,
we have no
idea what the word
'adult'
entails.
does that mean no children
are on board
the ship?
sounds good, but
everyone keeps putting
words into
air quotes, asking
us if we 'swing'
do we 'swap'
'soft swap or hard swap'.
how deeply do we
want to get 'involved'.
we look
at each other and 
shrug.
they all seem like hipsters
in their
flamboyant get ups,
overtly sexy
and transparent.
we're wearing
loafers
and windbreakers.
golf shorts from J.C. Pennys.
we're hungry though, so we
ask, does anyone know where
the lobster
line is,
putting the word 'lobster'
into air quotes.
we're starting to catch on.

Saturday, March 16, 2024

don't give a flying fig

we all want
what we don't have.
to be a few inches taller,
a few
pounds lighter,
maybe smarter,
or richer.
prettier.
maybe more articulate
and funny.
we're the only species
perpetually
dissatisfied with who
we really are.
the rest of the worlds
life forms
don't give a flying
fig about
such nonsense.

coming soon

eventually
there will be no books,
no newspapers,
no magazines.
no libraries.
no schools,
no teachers,
no places of higher learning.
when you're born,
your mother
will just hand the latest
phone,
and off you go.

the opium den

it's the new
opium den,
the flop house
where
everyone is stoned
and
staring
into space. drooling
at the next
flickering post on
tik tok,
5 G, yo.
it's the new place
to go
to lose
your mind, waste
your time,
come out the other
side,
into the blinding
light
then stagger sideways,
trying to
figure out
the rest of your life.

you can't wear red everyday

you can't wear red
everyday.
it's too much,
too bright, too flashy,
too much
drama
for around the clock
fashion.
maybe Friday night,
okay.
when we get home.
and the lights
are low
with the music on.
maybe something soft
and sultry
by Marvin Gaye. 
then put the red on.
give me a wink
if it's a go.

we're working in the yard today

from the bed, stretching,
i watched
as she put on her plastic
white
boots, and overalls,
and said.
what are you doing?
is it snowing
outside.
i looked out the window.
it was sunny
and seventy.
these are my snake boots,
she said,
then grabbed
a pitch fork from under
her bed.
come on, she said.
let's go,
we're working in the yard
today.

is there access to the fire escape?

the first
thing i look for when
i go to a party
is the exit.
the fire escape,
is there a window
i can crawl out of,
a back door.
how can i get out
of here
after twelve seconds
of small talk
and shaking hands
with strangers.
if not for the scallops
and water
chestnuts
wrapped in bacon,
i'd be gone by now

oh, just get it over with

maybe the world
should just
have 
the big war and get it over
with.
i'm tired
of the news,
walking on eggshells
with
China this, Russia that,
North Korea,
Iran
Iraq.
what the hell, somebody
just push the button
and
get the show on the road.
it might be the only
way to save
the world.
start fresh, back to
the jungle
we all  go, but
without the bombs this time.

all her friends are rappers

all of her friends
have
nicknames,
JP,
LB, Billy Z,
Donna G.
Toni T.
it's a swirling 
conversation of alphabet
soup,
when she's spilling
the beans about them.
i think they
might all be rappers,
but i'm not sure.

the Frankenstein era

everything
is replaceable now.
when a part fails
a new
one is screwed in.
knees
and hips, any joint
that ails you.
hearts,
kidneys.
they can suck the fat
right out of you
if you want to
flatten that belly full
of Debbie Cakes.
new eyes,
new skin, new noses.
just line up, limp
in and pay 
the man.
get your baby
out of a test tube,
freeze your embryos,
put your sperm in
the ice box
next to the butter and eggs.
they'll even chop off
your head
and freeze it for you,
when it's time for
the end.

Friday, March 15, 2024

the unsigned note under the door

i find the slip
of paper
under the door.
it's your loss.
she says, 

you'll be sorry
you
let me go
and didn't treat
me like a queen.
you'll lie awake at night
and wonder
what i'm 
doing, who i'm with,

it'll be the worst
mistake you ever
made in letting me go
and calling
me crazy.

you'll see,
just wait, you'll see.
farewell, good luck, so long.

i look up and down
the street,
but for the life of me,
i can't figure
out who wrote this note.

the fourth tire is free

it's a whitener, 
a deodorizer,
it'll freshen
your room,
change your life, it'll
take stains
out of your carpet, take
wrinkles out of your wife.
it's chock full
of vitamins, A thru Z,
it'll put a spring
in your step, it comes
in all sizes, it'll fit
like a dream.
you'll be the envy
of the town.
buy two for the price
of one,
the fourth tire
is free. no salesman
will visit your home,
get your free brochure,
we're going out 
of business.
it's a fire sale, a once
in a lifetime deal.
you can drive it home
today.
no hidden fees, 
you'll get a lifetime
warranty.
sign here and here
and here.
don't hesitate, don't stall.
easy to follow assembly
instructions,
batteries not included.
come one come all.



the birch desk

i measure the old desk.
the width
and depth,
the height in preparation
for the new desk.
the old one is marred
with scratches and cup
stains.
chips, and gouges.
the drawers pull
open,
but it's a struggle to
get them open
and closed again.
i never thought i'd
get rid of this desk,
faux wood, laminated,
but heavy
sturdy, the color of birch.
someone held
a flashlight
as we put it together
one night.
but after
twenty-five years,
of sitting here, typing.
doing bills,
making calls i realize
that it's time to go.
there's
always a moment
about many things
in life,
when you say, it's time.
it's overdue.

you can't be too thin, or too rich

you can't be
too thin
or too rich, someone said.
maybe Babe Paley,
or the Duchess of Windsor,
the name
escapes me
at the moment, but i think
she was
a good friend
of Truman Capote.
the little
gnome, famous for 
In Cold Blood
and Breakfast
at Tiffanys, but little else.
how he danced
his talent
away at night clubs,
and talk shows,
becoming a professional
celebrity.
fame is a fire you don't
want to walk
into.
the ashes will fill the air.

what Candy says

we're worried
that my father's new
87 year
old girlfriend might be
trying
to steal his money.
she brings him
cakes and pies
twice a week and rubs
his shoulders
and back
with baby oil.
he's 96.
i try to erase the visual
out of my
head, but it's difficult.
sometimes she whispers
into his ear,
and asks for his
pin number to his
savings account.
at least that's what his
maid, Candy, says.

the beach book

it was more
of a beach book. the type
of book
where you can skim
it a little,
while
looking out over the sand
at the water,
at people walking by.
sometimes
you'd have to go back
a few pages,
to remember where you
were,
to piece together
the plot, 
figure out where the story
might be going.
but you didn't care that
you were lost.
before the day was over,
and the sun setting,
before you packed
up your towel
and things, folded up
your chair,
you'd be
turning to the last page
to see how it all
turned out.
it was a beach book after all.

love and money

she'd take
my money, 
my checks for
deposit.
my slips
and ID's.
how quickly
she was with
withdrawals,
counting out the bills
before passing
them through.
she was pleasant
and courteous
behind the slant of glass
at the drive-thru
window.
her smile
made my day,
the flip of her hair,
her rosy cheeks,
and then she was gone,
never to
be seen again,
replaced by someone
named Pete.

the sour dough

there's
always room for improvement.
a way
to think more
clearly,
become more
educated, more open
to new
ideas.
the door is always
jar,
the windows open
to a different point of
view,
but few
take the opportunity
to do so,
already baked
and done,
through and through.

Thursday, March 14, 2024

god bless you

it's a strange
set
of allergies,
sulfites,
aspirin, red wine, of course,
ibuprofen.
frozen shrimp
and lobster.
there is nothing
i can take
to relieve the pain,
emotional
or otherwise without
grabbing
a box of Kleenex
to catch
the sneezes
and blow
like it's starting to rain.

stop me before i buy again

it was an
impulse buy.
i just couldn't help myself.
i pushed
the button
and bought three more
pull over
black sweaters,
just like
the other seven that i have
hanging in
the closet.
and two more pairs
of jeans,
just like the pair i'm wearing
now.
light blue.
not to mention another
pair
of boots. black
too.
i know i need help,
but
i'm afraid to look that deeply
into myself.

looking for someone normal

feeling lonely,
i go down
to the local match maker office,
Amy's Soul Mates,
to check out their inventory.
Amy isn't in though.
but her assistant is,
Bob.
formerly, Linda.
the transition is not quite
complete, which
i notice by the cleavage
in his sweater.
so what kind of a sweetie
are you looking
for? he says,
pushing the no fault
form in front of me.
please sign this, he says,
and if it all works
out we take 
Venmo or PayPal.
no checks.
i sign the waiver and look
at him.
well, i start out.
i'm looking for a good woman.
smart, sexy.
loyal, honest.
someone like donna reed,
but with a whip.
he laughs,
with a whip?  snap, he says.
and who's donna reed?
he writes down her name.
friend of yours?
someone you knew in school?
the one that got away?
no, she used to be
a movie star.
she was in the movie with
Jimmy Stewart called
It's a  Wonderful Life.
hmmm.
he says, missed that one.
doesn't ring a bell.
is it on Netflix?
no, no .never mind.
okay, dear, so let's get specific.
what's melts your butter?
tall, skinny, voluptuous,
voluptuous are very in right now,
so we have a limited
selection of them.
big booty is trending. so what's
it going to be?
blonde, brunette? maybe
a little ginger?
just normal, i tell him.
someone down to earth, you know?
he nods, and keeps writing
things down.
normal? he says, looking up
and batting his lashes,
do tell.
what exactly do you mean by that?
before we go on,
define normal for me.

what's for dinner, pops?

i suggest
lightly to the boy, that maybe
it's high time
to get a real
job. any job.
i see they're hiring down
at Amazon.
i framed his college
degree
in a nice wooden frame
and hung it on the wall behind him.
there's flecks of grey
in his hair
as he approaches
forty.
he says, what?
as he sits on the couch
with his
hands on
the buttons of his newest
video game. he's
still in his pajamas at
four p.m. .
what? he says, again.
i'm almost
to level ten, pops,
hold that thought,
and what's
for dinner?
not chicken again?

who's steering this sinking ship?

you wonder
how
the country continues to function
with all
of its aging
senators
and congressmen,
and presidents
in litigation all year.
accusing
and defending
themselves.
is there one good apple
in the barrel?
who's running
the asylum?
what shadowy figures
have their
hands upon the wheel?

it's good to get away

it's good
to get away. to take a trip
somewhere.
whether by
boat
or train.
to visit some
distant place.
it's good to pack a bag,
to cancel
the post,
lock the doors
and wave farewell
as you walk away.
it's almost
as good as coming
home again.

while riding the escalator

when i see
people
frozen up on the mountain,
their brightly
colored windbreakers
dotting
the landscape
as they lie,
dead
and covered in ice,
in the crevices of the airless
cold terrain,
i think to myself, why,
as i hold onto
the rail
of the escalator,
what's the attraction
of climbing way
up there?
beats me, i think as i
carefully step off
the sliding
metal grates pulling me
up to the second
floor. men's department.
i lift
my feet so as not to
get my laces
caught.

ear wax removal

i lean
my head sideways
and squirt a few
ear drops
into my
ear canal.
it's warm as it
slides on down.
there's a bubbling sound.
a gurgling
noise.
now what?
i'm i permanently
deaf now.
have i completely dammed
it up?
will i have to learn
sign language,
how do i get
this goo out of my
ear now?
Cue tip,
toothpick, some sort
of suction
cup?
i miss my mother.

lost dog, please call

there's a flurry
of back
and forth on the next door
chat forum.
is the Chicken Out
closing for good?
will
Dunkin donuts take
its place?
does anyone know
what the deal is
on the speakers at the drive-thru
for KFC.
i can hardly hear
what they're saying
when i'm
driving through. it
sounds like
i'm talking to someone
on the moon.
did anyone hear that loud
bang last night?
it sounded
like a bomb, or something.
oh, and
if you see a small
white poodle running
around with
a rhinestone
collar, please let me know.
it's mine.

keeping the landlord at bay

in my youth i took
almost every job to make money.
there was no artistic muse
pushing me along.
the starving artist concept
was a stupid idea
invented by lazy people.
i got up and went out
to earn
a check, to acquire
some Bemjamins
to pay the bills
and go out at night.
i wanted
a few shekels to take
Betty to the drive-in,
and 
to buy her
flowers
when we were on
the outs.
i'd put a little away
for that
inevitable rainy
day, tucked beneath
the mattress
of Citizens Bank
of Maryland,
but for the most part
it was surviving, keeping
the landlord
at bay. putting gas
in the old car,
milk and bread
were important too,
as was
Old  Spice aftershave.
getting the paper
in the morning was  
a rare luxury
i splurged on.

Wednesday, March 13, 2024

slim Jen

i'd see her
in the morning in her work
dress,
picking up
rocks
and sticking them
into her pockets
and handbag.
i figured it was windy
out.
she learned the hard
way
when sometimes
i'd see her
flying in the sky with
her umbrella
like Mary Poppins.

shoveling coal

the eager
worker
won't last, he's too into it.
look at
him with the shovel
going fast.
slinging the coal
into the fire.
he's showing that
he has what it
takes,
but like i said,
his enthusiasm will
wane after a few
years of this.
he won't last.
give me the steady hand
instead.

maybe baby

i live
on the word maybe.
we'll see.
let's wait before we decide.
let's see how
the weather is.
the money
situation.
let's see if we have the time.
see if we're in the mood
when that day
arrives.
i know it drives
you crazy when
i say
maybe.
but it's a short drive
just the same.

death by numbers

how old
are you, how much do you weigh,
what's your
address,
are you the first born,
what's your
zip code
your social security number,
your bank
account
numbers.
what's your password,
your height.
how many years of
schooling
did you make it through,
your grades?
how many times
were you married,
how many children do
you have?
how much money
are leaving behind?
we need to know all of these
things
for the back page
of the paper, the obit,
and for the tombstone
above
your grave.
no one ever asks if
you
were happy.

it wasn't always this way

for no reason,
i take the long way home.
i turn left.
i roll down the windows,
let the cold air in.
i turn
off the music,
and get into the slow
lane.
i circle the park.
there's no reason to
be home early,
but it wasn't always
this way.

the transformation

a new coat
of paint would do wonders
she tells me,
as she puts
on her makeup.
sitting at
the vanity, staring into
her three
mirrors. her fingers clicking
at jars,
and mysterious small
tubs of things.
the place will look great
if we spruce it up
a little.
i watch her as
she smooths on
her red lipstick and powders
her nose.
she brushes her hair
back,
then straightens her dress,
stepping into shoes.
so what do you think,
should we paint the house
or not?
can't hurt, i tell her.

the pajama party

girls will do sleepovers,
women,
grown women
of all ages.
a veritable pajama party
of food
and drinks,
sappy movies.
men,
not so much.
they might shake
hands,
bump fists, give an
awkward hug
in the parking lot,
but they aren't spending
the night together
all cuddled up
and drinking herbal tea,
babbling on about the one
that got away,
or what's on sale
at Norstrom Rack
this coming Friday.

he tried to get away

he tried
to run away, but the nights
wouldn't let him.
there it all was
in each dream.
each time he closed his eyes,
it all came back.
all that he tried
to put behind him.
the mistakes he made.
the brothers and sisters,
the friends.
the house
he lived in,
his dog and cat.
he tried to run,
tried to get away,
to disappear into
the sand and water,
into the Florida sunshine,
but the nights
wouldn't let him.

Tuesday, March 12, 2024

don't judge me by my early work

please don't judge
me by
my early work, my primitive
scribblings,
my adolescent
and juvenile pieces that
i wrote
early this morning.
i've matured since then.
grown
and become wiser.
by midnight,
you'll have my good
stuff.
honest.

just one similarity

she doesn't remind me
of you.
in fact
she's the exact opposite.
she doesn't lie,
or cheat,
or gaslight,
or manipulate.
she's not a gold digger.
god bless the child who has
her own.
she's not on medication,
she doesn't go
to therapy
and has never been
in lock down
at Belleview.
no, she doesn't remind me
of you.
not one bit.
although i think you both
use the same
perfume.
i have to fix that.

emotional eating

i could use
a giant slice of cake, or an
enormous
wedge of
pie today,
apple, or peach,
makes no difference.
a tall glass of very cold
milk too.
something to fill the void.
i need an emotional
filling of baked goods.
it's been that
kind of a day.
forget the scotch
on the rocks, or
the vodka
and gin.
bring me the Boston
cream pie
in that big round tin.

the drama family

there are drama
queens
and kings, princesses
and princes,
dukes
and duchesses too.
there's even
a court jester full
of drama.
even the executioner
has his bad
days
dealing with the wife's
demands
and the unruly
kids at home.
one never knows
what's going on with
anyone these
days.
we never get to walk
in their shoes.

the mountain doesn't care

it's not a fine
line
between stupidity
and bravery,
there's no line at all.
the mountain
is littered with bright
colored
windbreakers,
of those
left behind
in the airless cold.
intelligent
and good,
some brave, some dumb,
some both.
the mountain is
ambivalent about
them all.

her recipe for paella

about nine minutes
after my
mother died a couple
of overzealous sisters
wiped out 
most of the valuables
that she
left behind.
photographs, rings
and rosary beads,
teacups
and China.
i went back to see what
was left, but
i couldn't find
what i was looking for.
her two page
recipe for rabbit and seafood
paella,
that she penned in Barcelona,
and one
for zucchini bread.
historical documents,
both gone.

farewell brandy

he was
drinking to remember.
drinking to
forget,
drinking to numb
himself
to the future,
to get over
past regrets.
it was easy and fun
to sit
in a bar with friends,
strangers,
new loved
ones.
to sing and dance.
the life of the party,
he was,
and then the liver gave
out.
but we still leave
a bottle of brandy
on his tombstone,
when
we go to visit, 
i'm sure he'd
laugh about that.

a room with a view one week a year

we were young
and dumb
on a budget, a small child
in our arms,
married for a year
or two.
what did we know
about anything?
it was so easy
to sign on the dotted line,
and buy into a timeshare,
a room
with an ocean view.
five years later,
we were underwater,
the place
was in shambles
and the maintenance fee
was out the roof.
we had to get a lawyer
and sue.
who knew?

Monday, March 11, 2024

the world has its hold

it's a quenching
of thirst
that brings joy to one's life.
a filling
of food
when terribly hungry,
a kiss
and intimacy when
the heart
and body longs for it.
the satisfaction of it all
proves that
you're still alive.
and that the world still
has its hold.

waiting on the maestro

there are maestros
in every
group of old folk,
every gang of like minded
people.
a crowd
that gathers together
for dinners,
for events,
for trips, to camp or
fish
anywhere they want
to go.
and there she is, or he
is, on the podium,
like Oprah,
with baton in hand
in full control,
informing us  
of everything 
that's good for us
and where we need to go.

a final snapshot

I look back,
I glance
over my shoulder
at what
i'm leaving behind.
what i'm walking away
from for good.
a gentle
stare,
a saving of memory.
a short
glimpse, a photograph,
a snap shot,
of her,
now gone.

forgo the whine

the more
work you have,
the less time you sit
around
staring
at your navel, pondering
the future,
what's left
behind.
you're too busy
to be bothered
by matters of the heart,
matters
of the mind.
there's work to do.
this world of yours 
won't keep
spinning if you don't stop
the crying,
don't forgo the whine.

a camel with no name

she's in Egypt now.
i know that by the picture
she just
sent
of her kissing a
camel
near the pyramids.
the sphinx.
i see the sand,
the blue sky,
the sun
beating down.
the dark glasses over
her eyes.
i write back, one hump
or two.
is that your ride?

strap yourself in

there 
is the rollercoaster ride
of love.
the peaks
and valleys, the thrills,
the screams,
the neck
wrenching fear
going around
the steely curves,
then up again.
there is no safe ground.
it's fun for a while,
but in the end.
you have to get off,
it's no way
to live a life,
tears will replace
the smile.

give them something to suck onto

if you
want obedience, if you want
to calm
the masses,
give them candy.
give them something
sweet to suck onto
for a while.
a pacifier.
a few bucks from the treasury.
a speech with
a rosy outlook.
drop the interest
rate,
send a check for a few
bucks.
tell them
there's more where that
came from,
and watch them smile.

we know what you're thinking

it feels like it
sometimes, 
that we're living in
an Orwellian
world.
the double speak,
all is well,
the need for
war to achieve peace,
the polls
and numbers are rigged
by the thought
and word
police.
we're being watched,
monitored.
every breath we take,
everything
we do
is known.
the eye of big brother
is on you.

Carnegie hall bathroom

we all
sound good in the shower.
we do
our best singing there,
behind
the curtain with
the water pouring down,
in the echo
chamber
of the tiled walls.
we hit the high
notes there, the low
notes too,
bellowing into
a bar of soap.
we're lucky
that no one can
hear a word,
not the even the dog,
still asleep
beneath the covers.

Sunday, March 10, 2024

and the award tonight goes to....

i went to the Jim Bobs
last night.
not the Oscars. 
the awards were for
contractors, general
contractors and subs.
i watched as the pick up
trucks pulled up
and the men and women
in their
ripped and torn,
splattered overalls,
strolled 
down the green
indoor-outdoor runway
carpet
to the grand hall
at Bobby's Lumber Emporium.
statues went out for
the best plumbers
in a catastrophic
toilet
event,
best comedic fall
by a roofer,
most creative spill 
of paint
by a painter.
best carpenter with a claw
hammer.
best wallpaper installer,
butting
every seam
on the wall with no bubbles,
none at all.
more awards were given
to the best
food truck at a construction
site,
and a lifetime achievement award
to scaffold builders
in new york city.

the grey shuffle

you
notice more and more
the shuffle
of the grey,
the slow plodding
to somewhere,
a cart
in front of them,
perhaps.
a few things from
the store.
there's a weariness
in their faces.
their eyes
don't look up anymore.
is that you 
in a few years?
or just
the gnawing of age,
some
ancient fear
that you may go
through that door.

the good fire

it's a good fire
in the yard,
a circle of rocks,
a chair,
hands near the flame,
feet bare.
we could sit out
here all
night and talk,
and drink.
somehow the fire
brings us
closer,
not apart as one
might believe.

just jump right in

when you have
no confidence, 
you have to fake it.
jump
into the pool,
dive right in
to the deep end
and see where it goes.
put your chest
our, flex
your muscles, 
give it a go.
and if you drown,
oh well.
so it goes.

mary jane

she's a country girl
with
her piece of straw
dangling from
her pouty lips,
her daisy dukes
tight around
her hips,
and cowgirl hat
tilted on her long blonde
hair with a
ponytail. she's giving
me a piece of her
mind with
her farm lingo.
there's 
her maw and paw
making vittles down
on the spinach
patch,
branding cows,
and telling
yarns.
she can dance, two
step and line,
she knows all the words
to Dwight
and Merle,
and the rest of them.
look at her on the front
porch playing her
washboard,
her banjo,
slapping her leg
in double time.
i have no idea what
i'm getting into.

another load of laundry

will it last?
how many washes will i get out
of this shirt,
this sweater,
these pants?
will the threads fray,
the material
fade,
the fabric
go thin after so many
times
through
the washer
and dryer.
will i have to shop all
over again?
and us.
which button on us
should i push
this time around,
the heavy load?
the gentle cycle, 
which rinse and spin?

Saturday, March 9, 2024

don't give them names

do they
have feelings, even
if you
give them names?
the cow,
the pig, the chicken.
do you
cringe when you take
a bite of a barbequed
leg,
or wing,
do you have regret
or remorse
as you, as you slice
into a ribeye
steak?
and what about the eggs.
do you feel
bad about
eating their children
with toast
and a side order of bacon
with hashbrowns?

no one leaves

nearly everyday
you
hear the words, if he wins,
i'm leaving
the country,
that's it, I'm done with living
in the old
USA.
whether left of right,
your hear them proclaim,
i'm packing my bags
and catching a plane
or boat
or train,
i'll walk if i have to
to get away from here,
but in truth
no one leaves.
they have it too good,
there's work,
there's a home, there's
a cat and dog,
and the lawn.
they stay put and just
complain.

skipping stones

i think today
i'll go down to the black
pond
around
the bend in the woods,
where the path
veers off
into a deep hollow
of trees
and skip
stones across
the mirrored water
with no one around,
just me.

Emily Wilson is on the phone

despite being
on the do not call list.
i get a lot of calls.
Medicare,
they have a new card for me,
again.
they call about
car insurance,
end of life insurance.
medic alert bracelets.
back braces.
i've won the publishers
cleaning house
prize dozens
of times.
someone has used
my amazon account to buy
another I phone.
they've found
my old corolla full of cocaine
and blood
along the Texas
and Mexico border.
my computer has been hacked.
i can get Spectrum
at a cheaper price.
they ask for my social security
number,
my bank account,
my credit cards.
real estate agents call
asking
if i'm going to sell.
land line,
cell phone, it makes no
difference.
you can't stop them.
so i try to make it fun for
both of us,
when i have
the free time.

do not buy peel and stick wallpaper

please,
i beg the client. please,
please
don't buy the peel and stick
wallpaper.
it's not wallpaper,
it's contact
paper, fly paper, shelf
paper.
it's what your mother used
to cover up the shelves
in her kitchen pantry.
you can't smooth it out.
it sticks to everything
it touches,
including you, or any
cats and dogs moseying
around.
yes, it's colorful
and has wonderful patterns,
but
it's made in hell.
it will make you say words 
you haven't said
since your last divorce.
it's the devil's workshop.
resist the temptation
and don't buy
this crapola.
the busiest phone number
on the planet
is their 800 help line.
you'll regret this purchase.
take my hand,
look me in the eyes.
i can help you off this ledge.

his pet snake

it's hard
not to think people are off
their trolley
when they have a pet
snake,
or a pet lizard,
or a lobster, even.
a box turtle.
what the hell good are they?
is there cuddling,
is there a leash
to take them out for a walk.
do they listen
when you tell them
to sit?
no.
and the vet bills are crazy.

let's talk about compound interest, son

at an early age
they, they being parents
and old
people,
grandparents
and the like,
hammer into your head
that you
need a purpose in life.
you need goals,
you need
ambition.
you need to walk
the straight and narrow line.
you need
a good job, a good home
to live in,
a good wife.
they tell you about compound
interest
and what saving
a hundred dollars a month
will do for you
when you turn sixty-five.
it's overwhelming,
as you sit
there eating cereal
and cinnamon pop tarts,
when all 
you can think about
is going outside
and talking
to Jennie, 
the cute girl next door,
before the rain starts.

Friday, March 8, 2024

death row arts and crafts

i drove
to Winchester once
with some girl
i used to know.
and the girl
bought a lamp
for some
reason
in a second hand store.
it reminded me
of a lava
lamp, but with
a paper shade
that spun
around slowly
putting
pink and green
colors onto the wall.
there was a prison
nearby
where the incarcerated
men and women
did arts and crafts
and made
jellies and jams.
i figured it came
from one of them, maybe
someone on 
death row.
it's my gift to you,
she said
proudly, plugging it in
when we got
home.

what's going on over there?

i hear the neighbor
in her
yard,
messing around
in the dirt.
she's wearing a sundress,
bright yellow
and flip flops.
it looks like lettuce
in her hand
from my second
story window.
she's wearing a bicycle
helmet.
but i don't see
any bicycle.
now she's digging
something up
with a trowel.
what is that?
parsley?
spinach?
i want to yell out,
what are you doing?
but i don't.
i go back to my book,
and where
i left off.

with or without you

it happens.
the husband dies first,
or the wife.
but the other,
the one left behind,
is soon
to follow, even if 
the love is gone,
even if they get on
each other's last
nerve.
sleeping in separate rooms,
eating alone.
death has a way
of romanticizing
even the worst
of relationships.
what troubled you about
them, is gone.
they're forgiven.
one moment you can't 
live with them,
and the next moment
you can't live
without them.

sometimes covered in gravy

i've never
gone to a gym,
or kept track of my steps,
or my
calories.
i've never
once ate a power bar,
or a salad
made of kale.
do i take my blood
pressure
daily,
do i have a glucose
monitor
stuck in my arm.
do i take a single pill?
no. hell no.
it's work
and sports,
and then meat and potatoes,
sometimes
covered in
gravy.

the brown raincoat

did i love
the brown raincoat, with its
wide
collar
and deep pockets
ala Humphrey Bogart?
the answer is yes.
i miss it now,
having left it on the train.
how many
storms
did it keep me dry,
how much wind
did it protect
me from?
years of weather
that i walked in.
the belt, the buttons,
the length of it all,
falling
below my knees.
pockets
full of ticket stubs,
and playbills,
receipts and numbers
on the back
of matchbook covers,
waiting for
love to begin.
the brown
raincoat,
it was everything it
was meant to be.

sleep is important

sleep is important,
my doctor tells me.
i yawn and scratch my neck.
yup.
i say to him.
i rub the circles under
my eyes
and shake my head,
trying to get the cobwebs out.
are you getting enough sleep?
he asks,
you seem exhausted.
he hits my kneecap
with a rubber
mallet,
making my leg swing upwards
nearly kicking
him in the groin.
no. i'm not,
i tell him. i'm not getting
any sleep at all
lately.
and why's that? he says,
looking into my ear
with a flashlight.
Sindee
i tell him.
I met this girl named Sindee.
she's a dancer
at this club downtown.
we're sort of in a
relationship.

the hour glass is low

sure,
mistakes were made.
things
were said that can't be taken
back.
money
and time were wasted.
years of our
lives gone down
the drain.
neither of us
were who the other person
thought we
were.
oh well,
next.
but i'm running out
of time.

this is how you get in

the key
is under the mat
for the front door.
the deadbolt
is the one
i use,
and for the back door
once you
get past the gate,
and the neighbor's 
barking dog,
the key
is under the flower
pot
next to the shed.
the alarm
is set, so hit the buttons
quickly.
one two three and four.
and then
enter,
then the star button.
and if all
else fails,
the window is unlocked
on the ground floor,
you can just
crawl in through there.

an honest mistake

the non-binary
barista
throws a hot cup of coffee
at me,
and a heated
scone at my head
when i mistakenly call her
sir.
the blue hair on her
head,
and the usmc tattoo on her arm,
not to mention
the beard threw
me off.
the whole place goes wild,
pummeling me
as i try to crawl
out the door.
patrons are kicking me
as i try to get out.
the manager, formerly known as
Tex, is in a black shiny
cocktail dress
and stiletto heels.
i can see he has a new set
of beginners breasts
as he uses a broom
to try and sweep me out
into the street.

taking the day off

i really don't want to go
to work
today, i tell the woman lying beside,
Jill, i think,
is her name.
but you're a doctor,
a renowned brain surgeon,
she says,
people are depending on you.
you told me
you had seven lobotomies
on schedule.
ahhh, they can
wait.
what's one more day to a crazy
person.
and what about you?
i ask her.
what time do you start your
shift at I-hop?
seven a.m., she says,
putting on her pink uniform
and black apron.
and i'm late.
it's strawberry with whipped
cream
pancakes today,
the place will be mobbed.

another lobster please

it was an all inclusive
cruise.
which meant there was all
the bacon
you could eat,
and more.
the bacon line was long,
but not as
long as the ice-cream
line,
and the open
bar.
on day seven the ship
began to sink.
a hundred people had to
get off,
wearing their stretch pants,
and sheets, but
pleading as they departed,
another lobster,
please,
and one more
bagel with cream cheese.

Thursday, March 7, 2024

when is it time to put the old dog down?

when is too old?
when the memory goes?
when
the words
are lost,
when there's a dollop
of oatmeal
on
your chin.
ketchup on
your shirt.
when you mistake your
wife
for a friend.
when the zipper is down
again?
when you can't
remember
where you live or
who are,
when you stare off
into the distant
for minutes on end.
when is it time 
to put the old dog down?

trash talking at St. Bernadette's

i stop
by the old church to get in a few
prayers
before the basketball tournament
begins.
i'm hoping
that God is on my side
this time
around and not on
the opposing team.
i just laid down a hundred
dollar bet,
but then, with my head
bowed, while on my
knees, with hands
folded in front of me,
i hear Father Smith,
and Monsignor Francis
trash talking
to each other.
they're in each other's grill,
giving each other the business.
didn't you wear
that robe
yesterday, Francis said
to Father Smith, blue ain't
your color, poser.
how many times
are you going to repeat
the same homily, dude,
like you got to step it up, my man,
and get some
fresh material.
your Blue Devils suck.
your momma, Francis
said,
then Father Smith
grabbed him around the collar
and smacked him on the head
with his rosary beads.
i had to step in
to break them apart.
things tend to heat up around
tournament time.

feigning near death

when you
were a child, was there a more
happier
time than
when you had a sick day
and stayed home
from school.
your mother taking
your temperature as you feigned
near death
in your bed.
pointing at your throat
and mumbling,
mom, it hurts.
your acting was worthy
of an Oscar,
or a people's choice
award at the least.
you watched as she waved
the yellow bus
on its way putting
a smile across your face.
you had the whole
day to look forward to,
being waited on, watching tv,
playing with your toys,
getting soup
and ice cream.
those days were the best.

the yearly day of celebration

despite the roll
of five years,
it seems
like yesterday, sometimes,
when i was
emptying out
her drawers and putting
all her
belongings into trash
bags
and setting them out on
the porch.
changing the locks
on the door,
and throwing out all
her avocados and salmon
packs,
her pills, her self help
books,
her shoes
and the straight jacket
the mental hospital
made her wear.
it's that time of year again.
one of celebration,
once more.

let's keep it that way

yesterday,
whenever that was, is a blur
of nothing,
bland and forgetful,
and the day before
that too.
nothing good or bad
has happened.
just a blah,
undramatic,
week of days.
nothing out of the ordinary.
it's a wonderful
thing.
i hope to keep it that way.

sensitivity training

you can't
roll your eyes at people
anymore,
or look at them sideways,
you can't guffaw,
if that's still a word,
or let out an exasperated
sigh at their
behavior.
you might get smacked
upside your head
on the subway if you do
that.
everyone is so sensitive
these days.

roasting garlic, oh my

i  rarely eat bread
anymore,
but here i am in the kitchen
with my
hands in a bowl
of flour
and yeast, salt
and water, mixing up
another
loaf.
rosemary and garlic this
time.
the Dutch oven is hot
and ready.
i'm just waiting for the garlic
to roast.

twenty dollars here, twenty there

a subscription
is about
to expire
in four months, but
they
notify you everyday
to renew
by check, or card,
or direct deposit
into their account.
whether it's a cable
channel,
a magazine,
a newspaper, or a
music venue,
you've lost track of all
your subscriptions,
and they like that.

Wednesday, March 6, 2024

the new mail order bride has arrived

i just opened the box up
of my new mail order bride
from the musk foundation,
a subsidiary
of Tesla
and the X rocket company.
the last
bride
accidentally blew her
circuits
when jumping into
the shower with me,
causing a power outage
in the building.
it blew the top right off
her pretty head.
micro chips were everywhere.
the new model is waterproof,
and has updated software
that i can remotely
control if she starts talking
too much
about things i have
no interest in.
she sings, she dances,
she bakes bread and
she sort of makes love,
but in very unconventional
ways. thankfully she comes
with a brochure and step by step
diagrams in nineteen
languages. 
i can't say it's love at first
sight, she's a little on the cold
side, and oddly speaks with
a Chinese accent, but
she's growing on me.
it's definitely nice
 to have her around
to get those unreachable
spots on my back
when i'm taking a shower now.

over decorating, perhaps

there's too much
going on in this room.
all the dishes,
and nicknacks,
the pictures and flowers,
the curtains,
the rugs, the posters,
the collection
of little hippo mugs
on the sill.
ten vases of various
sizes from the Ming
Dynasty, or maybe
Target
full of dried stalks
of pussy willows.
the faux wood on the wall.
the electric fireplace.
the chandelier in
the bathroom.
the armoire in the hall.
the burning candles,
the music on five speakers
of the stereo
all playing a different song.
and now this,
a wallpaper full of
Canadian geese coming
down the steps
flying towards
the red door.

let's hope it's an EZ pas

who will
be there, up there? 
will
the dearly departed welcome
us
at the pearly gates?
mom
and dad,
assorted friends
and lovers.
relatives from the distant
past?  or
will it just be St. Peter
at the gate
with a clipboard,
asking you
for an ID, for a list
of good things
that you've done.
will all those sins have
to be accounted for,
the thoughts
you've had?
will he embarrass you
with a reel
of your life?
or will it be an EZ pass,
like on
the jersey turnpike?

the best years of my life

after my mid-life crises
i used to ride the rails
across country.
i'd hop
on a freight train
heading south,
or west
to get away from it all.
the wife
and kids,
the job,
i'd leave all my troubles
behind
with a sack
of clothes,
a few dollars in my
pocket
a harmonica in my
mouth
and a bandana
wrapped around
my head.
nothing else.
they were the best years
of my life.
nothing has ever been as
good as those
days as a hobo.
sometimes i wake up
in the middle of the night
and i can hear
and feel those
wheels beneath me as i
lie in a bed of straw
and mice.

her art on restaurant walls

i would
see her art on restaurant walls,
for sale,
the tag
clearly marked.
i'd look around the room
as i ate
and drank,
staring at all 
the art she made over 
the years.
the slashes of red,
the hollows
of greys
and blacks. the jealous
greens.
storm clouds.
each one a story. 
a small piece of me 
and her
before it ended.
i felt as if should get 
a royalty of some sort
for the inspiration
i provided.

extra credit

we learn
about the process of extra credit
in school.
in order
to make up for a semester
of laziness,
the teacher
gives you a back door
to a better
grade.
flowers are no different
in a relationship.
when you
give them for no
reason,
there is a reason.

the errand trip

i would drive
four
hours to see my father.
he had
a list for me
when i go there.
he needed a haircut,
his car
inspected,
a lightbulb replaced
in the hall
ceiling, that he
couldn't reach.
there was the trip
to the commissary,
then to
KFC
for his usual, that
they had waiting
for him
on the counter when
he arrived.
three pieces of spicy
chicken,
dark meat.

most questions answered

from home
to the next home,
in boxes,
in bins
you carried your musical
idols along
with you
to each
new landing, to each
new dwelling.
every song 
was in you. each
scratch and skip
found along the slick
surface of the
the lp vinyl, was
imbedded
in your skin.
each album was
played endlessly,
from end to end,
while you
pondered
the endless questions
of youth.
and now they sit,
in the dark,
side by side in the cellar,
collecting dust, with
most questions 
answered,
but not all.

Tuesday, March 5, 2024

one last look before we go

i can
see that he respects himself.
that
he looks in
the mirror before
he leaves
the house, and takes care
to comb
his hair,
to trim his beard.
the buttons
are aligned,
the shirt neat and clean,
unwrinkled,
the shoes
shined.
there's a vanity in him,
even at ninety.
let's hope
it never ends.

the gas light is blinking

there are moments,
like now,
when you feel like you have
nothing more
to say
about anything.
you're running on empty.
it's all been said,
before.
and yet,
in a few hours, or tomorrow
or the next
day.
as you scribble what's
in your mind
at a rapid pace, you'll
wonder
what you were worried for.
someone or something
has filled your tank,
once more.

a slow change

it's a slow
change, one that we hardly
see.
how the river
bends,
how trees fall,
buildings disappear,
in how we
leave.
there's no notice
posted,
no ringing of bells,
or announcements.
it's just one
day,
you're gone, and things
are different
than what they
used to be.

it must be love

they must be in love.
early love.
that mushy time
of gooeyness.
look at them, arm
in arm,
holding hands
at the table,
oblivious to the world
around them.
staring into
each other's eyes,
not at their phones.
where are their phones?
it must be
love.

someone's at the door

we used
to live in a world where
the salesman
would
come to the door in a suit
and bow tie,
with a satchel
of goods.
whether 
encyclopedias,
Bibles,
or vacuums,
or cleaning products
to get the stains
out of your contour sheets
or wall to wall rugs.
we had Mormons
knocking
politely
with their brochures,
clean as a whistle, hair
combed
and white as flour,
we had the Latter-Day Saints,
the March of Dimes
ringing the bell
with their basket to fill.
Boys clubs, girl scouts
with their thin mints
and snickerdoodles,
but now when you hear
that knock on your door,
you grab a gun or a knife
or a hot pot
of stew,
and peek nervously through
the peep hole
and scream what do you
want,
who are you?

hell in a handbasket?

it's how you spin
it,
the stock market is good,
but a thin
piece of meat
is 25 dollars.
gas is up,
but the i'm making money
on my 
5 percent
CDs.
violent crime
is down,
but robberies and carjackings
are up
a hundred percent.
the border
is wide
open letting in the worlds
migrants,
but there's a lot
of minimum wage
jobs to be filled.
all is well,
or all is going to hell,
it's hard to
choose.

Monday, March 4, 2024

the lowercase conversation

i prefer
the lowercase
conversation.
the one without
exclamation points,
or parentheses.
no underlines
or highlights.
no bold
print for me, please,
a simple
font will suffice.
black ink
on white.
let's quietly get our
points across
to each other
in gentle terms,
no need
to yell and scream,
with capitals,
no need
to say the same thing
twice.

is it really greener?

it's not
that the grass is greener
on the other side
of the hill.
it's just from here
that it looks that way.
it's no
better or no worse
than
the grass you're
sitting on now.
so stay.

leaving clues behind

she would
leave
things behind. clothes.
a hat,
gloves,
an earring would 
be found on
the floor.
a dish,
a cup
her perfume, a book
with lines
underlined,
little
traces of her
would stay behind,
clues
as to who she was,
remained,
as she went out
the door.

quitting the world

these
palm trees, this ocean.
these
white clouds
and warm
wind.
where are we?
how did we get here,
with our
toes
in the sand?
why did it take so long
to quit 
the world
and arrive?
let's dance.

a stack of one dollar bills

it's a strange
celebration, the bachelor
party.
one last
night of debauchery
before
the chains go on,
before
the cell door closes.
we go to a dark
bar where
almost naked women
gyrate
on a stage a few
feet away.
there's drinking
and yelling, loud music.
and stacks
of one dollar
bills,
ready to be given away.
everyone
is happy, slapping you
on the back
telling you
that tomorrow's the big day.
and yet inside of you,
there's a person
screaming madly,
telling you
not to say those words,
i do.

we're not afraid

the broken
sky,
the bleeding of clouds,
it's
a downfall,
a cold
ice
blanket.
it's loud.
it's telling us
to stay
inside, but
we're not afraid.
we go out.

shake it off

ignore
the bad dream.
push it away,
slough it off, like
you do most
things when you awaken
and rub the sand out
of your eyes.
but you can't.
it sticks with you
the whole day.
it's there
as you ride the bus,
as you walk,
as you work
and then go home
to lay your head down
once more.
the bad dream
is more than what it 
appears to be.
much more.

Sunday, March 3, 2024

what was that, that just went by?

we went
from walking to horses,
to boats,
then bikes
and cars,
motorcycles,
trains
and buses.
planes,
ships that take us
to the moon
or mars, but now
when i'm
out and about
there are people
on electric
scooters,
or unicycles going
fifty miles
an hour.
how quickly the world
is passing
me by.

oh my God, that's my love language too

you know
it's trouble, that it'll never work out
when
someone asks you
what your sign is,
or what your love
language is.
it's doomed from the jump.
but you play along,
because she's nice and she just
cooked you
homemade lasagna.
I don't know,
you say, does it really matter?
yes, it does,
she says.
what month, what year,
what day
were you born.
you tell her,
and then she jumps from her
chair and exclaims,
oh my God,
you're an Aquarius too.
okay.
and what's your love language?
what's that?
are you a giver, a person
that touches,
do you need
verbal affirmation?
are you a pleaser kind of person.
ummm.
i don't know.
depends on if i've been drinking
a lot, or if or in a good
or bad mood.
if i'm stuck in traffic you
don't want to be around me.

table talk with Einstein's family

it was a mistake
marrying
Einstein's sister,
Marie.
the table talk was horrible.
me with my talk of sports
and movies.
my trivial babble
about nothing.
they ignored me. i sat
there in silence as
i listened
to her family
explaining the theory
of relativity, using
peas and carrots,
cutlery and plates
to describe how the big
bang took place. then
clearing the table
to give
the white tablecloth
a clean slate.
imagine this is the universe
Albert would say,
spilling gravy into
a baked
potato explaining
the density
of a black hole
and its gravity.  then
he'd throw
a biscuit across
the room,
pontificating on
the bending of light,
how our perception of time 
is a dumb but
common mistake.
when he'd say the word dumb,
for some reason
he'd look me in
the eyes
and a smile would cross
his face.

quietly offstage

is
everyone a star?
a light,
a delight to be around?
dancing 
and singing in their
own
spotlight.
each one a
soul
special, deserving
of interest
and adoration,
or are there others
like us,
that just want to be left
alone?

wet grass at her feet

to see
a clothesline full
of clothes
in the cold breeze
is to see everything.
there it is.
all that you
remember
comes back to you
in the white
sheets,
those shirts, those
dungarees.
your mother
reaching up to the line
with another
clothespin
in her mouth.
the wet grass around
her feet.

birds on the wire

it's a black and white
day,
no color.
the sky
and hills have
become one.
the wet
streets,
the black lanes,
the drizzle
in grey.
grim birds
on the wire.
a negative from
the camera at hand.
the world is a charcoal
sketch
without the sun.

before we had a home

it was
our bar, our place
in gathering.
our table,
our stools, our home
away
from home,
and then it wasn't
anymore.
we'd grown.
how many years
did we indulge ourselves
in drink and food,
flirtations?
rarely did
love came to us
when we
danced across the floor,
but we'd sing the night
away until
closing time.
it's a distant
memory now, the old
saloon. but
we remember it well
as we walk
the dog,
take the child to school.
cut the lawn,
paint
the walls and ceiling
in the basement
room.

Saturday, March 2, 2024

broken mirrors

some memories
are like
broken
glass,
sharp and jagged pieces
of a mirror
shattered on the floor.
you can't
put them
back together, it's an
impossible task.
you can only
hold up
a shard or two
and take a peek at
the past,
a piece of her,
a piece of you.

putting his hat back into the ring

while
kneeling on one knee,
he presents
a ring to her,
his ex-wife,
a ring that he bought
at Kay Jewelers
after his son
drove him
to the store.
he tells her
that he's throwing
his hat back
into the ring.
even at 83
he wants to marry her
once more.
she smiles, and wipes
an alligator tear 
from her eye.
is he really that old?
has he
forgotten everything?
she helps him up
from the floor,
as he bends his arthritic
knees
and tells him
she'll think about it.
she'll let him know
in a few months or so,
keeping her options open,
but for now,
it's another ring
inside her drawer.

how old and what killed him?

the obituaries
are very stingy
with telling us the cause
of death. 
they keep it on the downlow
these days, but
we want to know how,
or why
a person died.
we scour the small print
to find
what we're looking for,
but with no
success. it's exasperating.
we want to know their
ages too.
just to get a feel
on how to dodge our
ending when
it's our time to be next.

i'm not surprised

i'm not
surprised.
i say that a lot these days.
what's new
under the sun?
what calamity, what
crime,
what scandal
hasn't been done.
who hasn't been
cheated and lied to,
betrayed
by someone,
go ahead and try,
name one.
you can't, can you?
well,
i'm not surprised.

two ruffs and we go

maybe Idaho,
or Iowa
i say to the dog sitting
in my lap.
a nice big farm
house out on the prairie.
how would you like that?
a big field
to run in.
no fences,
and me not walking
you on a leash
with a plastic bag
in my hand.
you want to bark, go
ahead and bark
your shaggy little
head off.
there's no one around
to hear you.
no neighbors to complain.
should we pack our
bags and go?
give me a ruff,
two being yes.
one being no.

spam a lot

junk mail,
spam
it fills the box
with ads
for insurance, for
pills,
for new windows,
for radial
tires, illicit
sexual propositions,
for ways to improve
your health.
the trash heap
of the internet
piles up and up
on your phone.
the thumb
gets calloused
from hitting the delete
button
all day long.

like a rolling stone

i understand
completely why they keep going
on and on,
touring
from city to city,
town
to town.
playing the same songs
over and over
again
to adoring crowds.
it's a never ending tour.
it's hard to quit something you
love doing.
it's not about the money
anymore,
houses,
or cars, bling.
it's beyond that.
it's staying alive,
avoiding that inevitable
trap door.

the box on the front porch

who doesn't
love
a box on the front porch
just
delivered by the guy
in the brown
truck,
waving.
he's become your friend
over the years.
i hope
he gets a box on his
porch too
at the end of the day.

taking an axe to it

between coffee
stains
and loose drawers,
chips and dings,
a wobbly
leg,
the old desk is still getting
the job done.
pressed wood
resembling some sort
of oak
or birch,
i forget what the bill once
said.
it was so long
ago.
even if i wanted to get
rid of it,
i couldn't get it down
the stairs
by myself.
i'd have to take an axe
to it.
which when i think about it.
might be fun.

Friday, March 1, 2024

the new building going up

men,
mostly older men, retired,
like
to get up early, have
their eggs
and bacon,
their coffee, read the paper
and then
wander
over to the construction
site down
the street.
they like to point and watch
as the girders
go up,
commenting on
the brick and mortar,
the cranes
swinging
back and forth.
you see them lined up
at the fence
in their
yellow sweaters
and hats, some with canes,
their dogs
on leashes.
no wives of course.

the divorce party

it was a grand party.
a wonderful
gathering
of friends,
neighbors
and strangers.
all there to celebrate
the end.
the end of a short but
crazy marriage
to a psychopath,
an emotional vampire
who almost drowned
me in the deep
end.
there was a three tiered
caked,
all chocolate,
balloons and confetti,
music
and drink. tons of food.
dancing too.
the cops broke
it up at three in the morning
after they
had a drink or two.
it almost felt worth it,
this party,
a reward
for what i went through.

birds do it bees do it

at an early
age,
you look around
in a grocery
store
and it suddenly occurs to you,
that these people,
all of these
people
at one time or another
are having sex
and making babies.
you're just a kid,
a mere child,
but you know enough
about the birds
and the bees
to get the gist of it.
you've seen the crude
etchings on the back
of school walls
depicting in
primitive ways what's
going on.
fat
and skinny, tall
and small,
meek
and wild.
all of them are getting it
on. even the old,
for God's sake
are taking off their
clothes
and rolling in the hay.
how long will it be 
before you too
are part of the in crowd.

the devil's work

she wins
me over with cake.
with cookies.
with a pie.
her kitchen is a mess.
she's busy
with flour
and sugar, butter.
the oven
on all day.
it's a well laid out
plan.
she knows my weakness.
it's the devil's work,
one might say.

Galapagos island

as your
body ages, it changes.
things
appear out of nowhere.
bumps
and lumps, small
things,
growths
on your ears,
your face.
there's a strange thing
growing
on your leg.
what's with
the nails,
the crusty elbows,
your
thinning hair.
you're crusting over
like some sunbaked turtle
on an island,
going nowhere.

missing the basket

the apple
core
missing the basket
in the corner
is a sign of things to come.
a portent of sorts.
i let
it get to me
the whole
day.
it was such an easy
shot to make,
and yet it
rimmed out to the floor.
not a good
start before
i head to work,
out the door.

the assembly of a woman

as i lie
in bed, watching her get dressed
and ready
to start the new
day.
i realize
what a process it is for
women.
an assembly
of sorts
from head to toe.
the make-up,
the brushing of hair,
the under garment
things,
the blouse and skirt,
then shoes,
which seem to be 
the most difficult
of all
to choose.
then onto the wrist and
neck,
a tiny sprinkling
of perfume.

the medical seminar with coffee

it used
to be a lively conversation
about sports
or women,
books and movies,
fun things,
but now,
it's about a doctors
appointment.
you see the old men
at the coffee
shop
pulling up their pant
legs,
or rolling
down their sleeves,
pointing at various
ailments and
mysterious lesions.
they ramble on
about
prescriptions 
and the differences
between number one 
and number two
diabetes.

is death like that too?

it's a sweet warm
breeze
beneath the shade of
the oak
tree.
i take a book,
a blanket,
and fall asleep to the sound
of nothing,
nothing but falling
leaves.
is death
like that too, or more
than that
if one believes.

ice cream and barbed wire

it's election time,
well.
almost, but all the candidates
are kissing
babies,
being interviewed
daily,
speaking
their minds.
look at them down
at the border,
putting up fresh
barbed wire,
licking ice cream
cones,
making promises
they can't keep,
most of which are
flat out lies.

somewhere between nine and five on Thursday

the plumber
gives you a window,
the painter,
the electrician,
the cable guy tells you,
between
nine and five
on Thursday.
there's a window for
nearly
everyone
who comes to your house
in a truck
and overalls,
with a helper at his side.
i leave
the door open,
staring out
the window. i look
at the ticking
clock, i pace impatiently
inside.

blow out the candles

we lie
early as parents.
we tell them about Santa Claus,
the Easter
bunny,
how the slide or swing set,
the monkey bars
won't hurt you.
we tell
them all is well, when it
isn't.
the tooth fairy
is coming tonight.
if you try hard enough,
we tell them,
you can be anything you 
want to be.
even president.
we tell them to
wish upon a star, drop a coin
into the wishing
well.
blow out the candles
and
your ship will come in.
but it's often,
pretty much down hill
from there.

Thursday, February 29, 2024

where are you people from?

our waiter
is tired,
dark circles are under his eyes.
his shirt is wrinkled
and stained.
he forgets who gets the fish,
who gets
the steak,
he comes back a third
time with 
the pepper mill,
then tells us his name,
and where he's from.
Minnesota, he says.
but it's obvious
there is more he wants
to tell us.
he goes away
for awhile then returns
to pour more water.
finally he asks
me to slide
over so that he can
take a seat.
i'm tired, he says, really tired.
i have a wife, he says.
two kids.
my mother in law wants to
move in with us.
he sips on my drink,
and slices
the meat on my plate,
before having
a piece.
do you mind?  he says,
i'm starving.
he takes his shoes off
under the table,
and loosens his bowtie.
so tell me, where are you
people from?

can you help me find that man?

i'm looking
for a wealthy man,
Sheila
tells me on the phone.
a handsome man,
strong
and tall,
with no baggage.
i want someone to woo
me,
someone to sweep
me off my feet,
and make me
his queen.
i need that kind of man,
not a prince
but a king.
someone with houses
here
and overseas,
a few cars,
maybe a Lamborghini.
it would help
if he had
a pool too,
and a chef, and a masseuse.
i want someone to adore
me and to
overlook my faults,
someone who
sees me as who i pretend
to be,
not who i really am.
can you help
me find that man?

this money will last you the rest of your life

i go into the back
corner
of the cape cod office,
to the cubicle where my tax lady,
Betty, does my taxes.
she shoos a cat off of her
desk,
and puts her tuna fish
sandwich into
a drawer.
there's a dollop of mayo
on her chin,
which i inform her off
by pointing at my
on chin.
she wipes it off
with a W-2 form.
so, i ask her, what's the deal
here, why
do i have to pay fifteen grand
to the IRS
again?
what's your name?
she says,
scratching the scalp
beneath her lopsided wig,
then lets out a loud laugh.
just teasing, she says.
a little tax humor.
well, about that money you owe
to the feds.
your broker sold some of your
stocks last year, and so
you took a big hit on that end.
you made a big profit.
but truthfully,
you're making too
much money.
you either need to stop
working altogether,
or get married again, and lose
some money through alimony
or by another
gold digging wife.
but i have to tell you, you're
in pretty good shape
overall.
you have enough money to last
you the rest of your life,
as long as you
don't buy anything, that is.



will there be a waterfront view in heaven?

it's hard
to wrap your head around
the idea
of heaven, not that it's
a sure thing
i'll even make it there.
but what's the deal 
with heaven?
is it a real
place, with
condos, apartments, single
family homes.
an enormous high rise
going up into the clouds.
will it be a waterfront
location
with a view
of the park,
or ocean?
will there be an ocean?
and what about all the people
that get on your
last nerve,
will they be there too?
living next to you,
playing their music loud,
and cooking cabbage
smelling up
the entire floor?
will we have to share an elevator
and talk to people 
about the weather
or the news?
or listen to their stories about
some lump
the doctor found
on their neck?
and kids, i don't want a lot
of kids
around,
or barking dogs.
i may be confusing heaven
with hell, perhaps.