writing letters

it's a book

of letters that i open and dive

into,

sometimes i turn to

the middle,

sometimes near the end

but rarely

in order

starting with page one.

it's an intimate conversation

with someone

i used to read.

his short stories and novels.

the trilogy

of Rabbit.

i'm so glad these letters

were saved.

some to his wife, others to

a mistress,

his editors

and friends, his children,

his doctor

at the end.

it was a different

time back then,

pen onto paper, elbows

to the desk.

a light clicked on

in winter's shade.

it was a golden age.

Nick Shirley and the Legacy media

i like

how the young youtuber

Nick Shirley

has spawned a legion of others

to go

from door to door

across the country,

not just in Minnesota,

with their camera

phones

exposing fraud

and the stealing of billions

of taxpayers dollars.

it's a wonderful thing

how they've

turned all the lights on,

asking

questions.

something the government

doesn't seem

to know how to do, or want to.

nor does

Dateline,

or 60 minutes, CBS,

ABC, NBC,

or Cnn

or any of the other

legacy media outlets.

NPR? please, you must be kidding.

instead they turn their

heads

and close their eyes,

avoiding the obvious

criminal intentions.

it's all about votes and staying

in power,

once again.

two minutes of time

out of the blue

an image

pops into my mind,

a visual memory

from childhood.

i think

about my grandmother who

couldn't speak

a word

of English,

with her nylon stockings

pulled

up below her knees,

in a flowered

apron

spotted with blood,

breaking the neck of a

chicken

before plucking it clean

of feathers.

i see

a pot of boiling water

on the stove,

the rising steam, and the

cuckoo clock on

wall

sounding off,

telling her what time it

is again.

deep in thought about coffee beans

as i sit

here sipping

on a hot cup of coffee.

i stare

into the smooth raw

umber mix

of Stevia

and heavy cream,

stirred gently.

i blow onto

the steam and wonder

where these beans came from.

who leaned

over

or up

in their wide straw

hat

and snatched them from

the branches

for the burlap

bag

before being trucked

and processed,

then shipped

to my store here in Springfield.

i become lost

in thought

thinking about Columbia,

and Brazil,

jungles

deep into the heart of strange

far away

countries like Paraguay,

when the phone rings.

i'll have to get back to these thoughts

later, it seems.

what's the deal with Venezuela?

i've never

given much thought about the country

Venezuela,

and now,

i wake up

thinking about it.

it's all over

the news.

it's unavoidable.

but i wonder,

what's the weather like?

does it ever snow there?

is it a good

vacation spot for tourists?

the housing?

what do they eat there?

are people happy that their cruel

dictator

is gone?

is that why seven million people

left?

is it near the beach?

what's their main export

other than

cocaine?

bananas, nuts, coffee?

i think it used

to be oil,

but something went wrong.

ChatGPT is going

to be busy today.

a one dog night

it's a strange

day.

and even stranger

night.

warm

in the middle of January.

the temps

hitting sixty,

with not a snowflake

in sight.

it's no

longer a three-dog night,

but more

of a one dog

situation.

maybe the dachshund,

and that's it.

the others have to sleep

on the floor.

look both ways before crossing

i remember

my mother and father telling

me,

don't play

in the street, look both

ways

before crossing, and when

you hear a siren,

pull over

and let the police or

ambulance

pass.

have respect for them

and the job

they're doing.

be a good citizen

and obey.

cars are bigger than you

and can

run you over

like a pancake.

i remember thinking about

what a pancake

looks like

on my plate, a pad of butter

and maple

syrup

pouring off.

and now i'm hungry.

the local bakery in Fairlington

the local

bakery is in trouble

for posting a pro right notice

in their

window.

a request for patrons

to join

Turning Point USA.

a God-fearing group

of young

patriotic Americans.

the neighborhood is divided.

they love

their bread,

their pastries and cakes,

but not so

much their politics.

what's a person to do when

they want

so badly a loaf

of apple scrapple bread,

a cinnamon bun,

and a loaf

of rye

to go?

they stand at the steamed glass

window,

rubbing

their gurgling bellies,

sad,

and so torn,

so confused.

it's so hard being a socialist

these days.

a Russian conversation in a battlefield trench

i can't do this anymore,

the Russian

soldier, says to his comrade

as they lie

in a trench, wet with mud,

and debris.

i'm tired of this stupid war.

shhh,

the other soldier says.

the captain will hear you,

but i am the captain, he says,

see. he brushes the mud and blood

from his insignia.

oh, yes. i see that.

yes, sir, sorry sir.

my wife misses me, he says,

my mistresses

miss me,

my children have grown up

without me.

i miss all of them.

plus my feet hurt with these

Chinese made boots,

none of the buckles stay snapped,

and i haven't

changed my underwear in a month.

what are we doing here fighting

like it's World War one?

trench to trench,

bombs, bullets flying over our

heads, rats

all over the place and for what?

i like these people we're killing,

and who are killing us.

they speak our language,

they have the same

culture and history, they dance

to the same music, eat the same food.

we are them, they are us.

this is crazy.

the world keeps sending the other

side weapons and ammunition

to fight us with.

they'll never run out of bullets.

yup, the soldier says. well,

what are you gonna do?

C'est la vie.

oh well.

i think it's time for lunch, 

the solider says,

looking at his watch.

i opened up a can of beans earlier,

they're from Ohio.

have some if you want,

i have an extra spoon.

thanks, any Vodka left in your canteen?

three flight attendants from Sweden

the new

neighbors finally move in.

three

blonde flight attendants from

Sweden.

they all look like Heidi Klum

in her heyday.

each of them about six feet tall

in their

high heels.

i wave

and say hello,

nodding politely at the waist,

as if they might

be Japanese.

i definitely have a case of the vapors.

i begin to strategize what

i can knock

on their door for.

maybe i could borrow a recipe

on strudel,

or Swedish meatballs,

or maybe i could help

them

unload their little mini-Coopers,

carry in

some luggage.

give them a run down

on American appliances.

seeing that we don't use the metric

system here,

the stove

can be tricky at times,

not to mention

the thermostat.

suddenly,

my wife grabs me by my

ear,

and says,

down boy.

i know what you're thinking.

his sexual picadillo's

my father's last

and final

girlfriend calls me up on

the anniversary

of his passing, we share

a few

funny stories about him,

how he liked

to cook,

and read,

how he enjoyed music

and fast cars,

Texas Pete hot sauce

on nearly everything,

and then the conversation

veers

off into his sexual

picadillo's.

i cringe. 

why me?

she's 89.

i don't want to hear it,

so quickly

i turn on

the washer and dryer,

the blender,

i set off the smoke alarm,

and turn

the volume up on the tv.

finally,

she stops talking and i tell

her,

well,

glad you called, talk again soon,

happy new year.

then quickly i run upstairs

and take

a steaming hot shower

with lava soap.

finding out all of her secrets

her secret

ingredient is nutmeg,

she puts it

in nearly everything.

soups,

and pancakes,

sweets

and pastries.

stews.

i find deep in her

pantry

a box

of tins, all of them

nutmeg

waiting to be used.

i wonder what else she's

hiding from me.

tomorrow,

i'll look through her purse.

reading the room, left or right?

these days

you

can almost tell someone's

political

leanings

by the look on their face.

sour puss,

lemon,

a disturbed and angry

frown,

well,

of course you know,

they lean

left.

bright and sunny,

grinning from

ear to ear,

walking around like

a bright

light,

well,

there you have it.

where else could they lean,

but on

the right.

the best teachers

you

remember the hard teachers.

the mean

ones,

the strict ones.

the ones who didn't let

you get

away with anything.

grading papers

with their

thick red pens,

forcing you to study

and read

and read

and read again.

in the moment,

you hated

them,

called them names,

but as the years have gone by,

you're thankful for

their

discipline,

and hope

they are well as time

flies by

in

this unrelenting wind.

the Minnesota prat fall

the fat

man,

pink as pork,

with happy hands,

and bulging eyes,

is dancing

around the questions.

deflecting,

and accusing

others for the mess he's in.

not me,

he says. i'm innocent.

the music

begins to play,

it's the end of the cartoon

where

bugs bunny

appears

eating a carrot,

and says,

that's all folks.

there needs to be a

trap door

on this stage.

the age of disappearing

as i go about

my day

with a dollop of shaving

cream

still in my ear,

a banner

of toilet paper

stuck

to one shoe,

my zipper down,

and spinach in my teeth.

no one

says a word.

no one points,

or says,

softly,

hey.

finally i've reached the age,

where

i've completely

disappeared.

the giant cup of crazy

rational

thinking and common sense

seems

to be in short supply lately

as i watch

the mostly

white

liberal women

protesting

the captured of an evil dictator

who ruined

one of the richest

countries in

the world.

keeping the people

under his

heavy thumb.

why?

it's a giant cup of crazy

trying

to figure it out.

the dictator and his wife in captivity

they put the captured drug

dealing

dictator into a cell with his wife.

she's not

happy.

i don't like these blue pajamas

they gave me,

they are too loose

around the waist,

people will think i'm fat,

and that orange

jumpsuit you're wearing

is hurting my eyes.

what's with 

this yelling from the cell next

to us.

they sound like animals in

there.

farm animals making

wild love.

can you call down to the front

desk and see

what they can do about this,

plus, it's cold.

i think they should turn the heat

up and bring

in an easy chair so that i can knit.

you know

how i like to knit when we're

in trouble.

and do you mind, could you

stop pacing

for one minute,

i'm losing my marbles,

and quit leaving

the seat up on that toilet

over there.

can't you pay someone to get us

out,

what happened to all

of our drug money from the cartels?

it's been two days now.

i'm really hungry,

what time is dinner around here?

when Mamdani comes calling

the new

mayor knocks at the door

with

his cronies

and tells me that i have too much

money.

it's time to share,

show us your bank

statements,

your overflowing penny jar.

he waves his arms around

my house

and yells,

this

is too big and that i need

to open it up to others.

your king size bed can fit

three people,

at least.

you must take in

the unfortunate

others

who haven't worked as hard

as you have.

he opens my refrigerator

door.

and says.

i have too much food, you must

give half

of it away.

why do you, a single man,

have a whole

gallon of milk

and a full loaf of bread.

look at your freezer with all

those frozen

bags of sugar cookies.

do you know there are hungry

people out there

on the street?

how can you sleep knowing this,

and having

so much to share?

the same goes for the closet

with all of

your clothes

and shoes.

what's going on here?

it looks like a store in here.

we must take

most of this away.

you must begin to share your

things

with the poor

and beaten down masses.

your selfish lifestyle doesn't

work

here anymore.

the Georgetown hangover

it's just

a cramp, i reason with myself,

holding

my stomach.

it must

have been the potato soup

i made

last night.

maybe i shouldn't

have added

the clams

and oysters.

i crawl to the bathroom

and curl up

on the tiled floor.

it feels good

against my cold skin.

i wipe the sweat

from my

brow with the tiny rug

i'm using as

a pillow.

it's 1985

all over again when

i used stay out into

the wee hours,

dancing

and drinking

with 

Dave and assorted

friends.

sorry, wrong number

i accidentally

hit the wrong button

and call

one of my ex-wives.

apparently she still has me

in her phone.

i knew you'd

come crawling back she says,

without even

saying hello.

oops, i tell her, i misdialed.

didn't mean

to call you.

sure, sure. likely story.

you miss me,

don't you?

you still love me and want

me back.

ummm, no,

i really misdialed, i don't know

why i even have

your number still

in my phone.

when did they let you out

of St. Elizabeth's?

sure, she says. you are such

a liar.

so you want to meet for

lunch, right?

or take me out to dinner

and then

back to your place?

i know you.

sex sex sex.

you haven't changed one bit,

have you?

men. you are all alike.

listen, sorry to have called you.

i was trying to call

Hunan West

to order some crispy beef and rice.

okay, she

says, i give in. i'll give you one

more chance

to make things

right.

i just bought this sexy little

black dress at

Nordstrom's Rack.

see you at 8.

click.

fair weather friends

my friend,

Jennie, the eternal optimist,

tells

me, it's not how you

fell down

it's how

you get up.

i want to tell her to shut up

and put

a sock in it,

but i don't.

she's very sensitive.

she's put

bumper stickers all over

her car.

Love, Peace, Coexist,

Ukraine,

Kamala

and Walz.

save the whales,

save

the trees,

no kings,

it takes a village, and my

son

is a drama major.

no oil,

and no meat.

but somehow we're still friends,

as long

as we just talk

about the weather.

Sunday morning toast and Alpo

it sounds

like a bomb going off

and then

gunfire,

a rapid rat a tat tat.

so what.

just another Sunday

morning.

my dog doesn't even get up

to look

out the window.

there's a few

helicopters

circling above

the neighborhood,

and sirens

are going off.

i keep buttering my toast,

then open

up a can

of Alpo for Rex.

a sentimental tear drops

from my

eyes

as i recall the sound

of church bells

before they were banned

for making

too much noise.

the emergency protestors meeting

it's a late night

emergency meeting with the protestors.

we meet at

Joe's house, 

a four-story brownstone

on the West side of Central Park,

funded by a mysterious

billionaire,

named Soros,

who also chips in to make

all the signs, gasmasks,

megaphones,

and paraphernalia to carry

out a new

march down Broadway.

i sneak in

the back door,

and crouch down in a back

seat with

a checkerboard tablecloth

wrapped around my head

not unlike Aunt Jemima.

i borrowed it from TGIF

Fridays,

but will return it, promise.

okay, people, Joe shouts out,

pulling on his Stalinist mustache.

we've got

a new issue going on. we're

sort of done

with Gaza, with Epstein,

with Hunter's laptop

and the Russian collusion

fraud, none of that panned out.

BLM and DEI flopped,

plus climate change is done too.

the no Kings day was kind of lame

and cringe,

not to mention the 

Starbuck strike,

but not to worry, we have a new

protest to get

fired up about,

we've got to free this cruel

drug dealing

dictator and his wife,

who the government

kidnapped in the dead

of night.

no longer will we be chanting free

free Palestine,

from now on it's,

free free Maduro and what's her name.

okay?

are we all on board with that?

someone call Rachel Maddow and find

out what her name is.

we have to save Venezuela from

no longer

being ruled by a dictator

and God forbid

becoming a democracy.

and let us not forget all those shipwrecked

sailors

who were fishing to feed

their families

while transporting unidentified

barrels of chemicals

and bags of cocaine.

they will not be forgotten.

and also, we need to defend

Timmy Walz, our beloved

leader in Minnesota and his Somalian

minions

who are clever enough to steal

8 billion dollars

for babysitting imaginary children.

any ideas?  anyone?

a hand goes up.

do you mind if we get something

to eat tonight, before

we get started, maybe

pizza?

yes, yes. our beloved leader

Soros has given us plenty of money

to eat.

so what's it going to be,

anyone?

Chinese, someone shouts out.

Kung Pao!

Jimmy Chang's is great. four stars

on yelp.

Ray's pizza,

another voice shouts.

or Katz's deli.

how about hummus, or a veggie

plate, Julie exclaims, 

who looks like

Olive Oyl's twin sister

but with a septum ring.

we need to save the animals.

by the way, a trans them speaks up,

brushing his blue

hair out of her eyes.

i thought we were

against kings and dictators?

are we changing

the platform now? i'm confused,

he says.

(causing the entire room to giggle)

i just got my no kings tattoo

on my forehead?

the ink is still wet and i think

it might be infected.

do i have to have it removed?

try not to think on your own, Pat,

Joe says,

just follow the script, obey

and march,

chant and make a raucous. we need

to stick together.

just be a zombie, okay?

a socialist soldier.

be dumb and don't question anything.

rational thinking and common sense

is their thing, not ours.

okay, have we agreed on

food yet?

hands? anyone?

how about Starks i accidentally

blurt out,

the best steaks in town.

maybe we can see if they deliver.

suddenly everyone looks at me,

and scream,

get him.

upside down in a liberal world

funny the world

we live in,

drug trafficators

are victims,

illegal

means legal,

drug lords

and dictators are

good,

fraudsters stealing

tax dollars

are misunderstood.

murderers

are heroes,

and communism

is in fashion

despite

a century

of shedding blood.

people carrying

the flag

of terrorists, wanting

to defund

the police, tax

those who have more

than you,

let boys pretend to be

girls,

and use their

bathrooms

in schools.

the new years purge

go less.

be minimalistic.

simplify your life,

pare down

what you have and don't use.

purge

and clean,

start from the attic

and work

your way down,

get down to bare bones

then look

around

and see what owns

you,

not what you

own.

flip a coin if you can't

decide,

then toss

or find a place where

it belongs.

the forty dollar sandwich

we

wait in line

in front of Katz's deli.

we're hungry.

we're

cold.

we're the tired

and weary,

we're the people

that the statue

of Liberty

tells us who we are,

carved in stone.

we want our hot pastrami

on rye,

three pounds

stacked high,

a pickle on the side.

we have our

ticket in hand, 

as we brush the New York

snow

from our eyes.

the dot dot dot...

give

me the ampersand,

the colon,

the semi-colon,

give

me the ellipse, the comma,

the dashes,

sometimes i can't find

the right word

to say,

my thesaurus is worn

the binder

gone.

the dictionary

frayed,

i've got nothing,

give me

the dot dot dot, i can't

go on....

the Learing Center in Minnesota

we all

have crazy excuses for trying

to get out

of something,

for assuaging our guilt.

the dog

ate my homework,

your email

must have

spammed out,

or i have a new phone

and lost

all my contacts.

i missed your call,

i must have been in

the shower.

someone broke into our

office and stole

all of our

important

documents that the government

requested

to prove

we're a legitimate

day care center

and not fraudulent.

the complete list of our

clients

and children have disappeared,

whoopsie.

and our checkbook

register too.

we don't have a clue now

as to where

the one point nine

million dollars

that you kindly give us

every year

went.

what makes you happy and full of joy?

my friend

asks me what makes me happy,

what puts

a smile

on my face,

makes me laugh

and clap my

hands together

with joy.

what makes

me do a jig

and dance across

the floor.

hold on, i tell her

and run upstairs to take

the framed

document off the wall.

be careful with that

i tell her,

putting it into her hands.

oh my,

she says. 

it's your last divorce

degree

behind tempered glass

in a gold frame.

yes, i tell her, and if you'd

like to see them,

i have two more.

the bus driver from Venezuela

after years of running

his once

wealthy

country into

the ground

they

capture the notorious

dictator

and his

wife

in the dead of night

and whisk

him back

to the jail house,

in NYC,

where the new mayor

will

probably

let him out and put

him in

charge

of law enforcement,

or housing

and development,

or maybe

driving the free buses,

since

he was a bus driver

before

becoming king

of Venezuela.

putting our heads together

the coconut

presents

a problem, how to open

it,

what tool

should we use,

i ask

as i hold the hairy

brown ball

in the air, up

towards the light.

she suggests the hammer,

i point

to the power saw.

maybe

a mallet

with a long screwdriver,

or the hatchet

hanging

on the shed door.

do we really a coconut,

i ask her.

can't we take it back,

did you

keep the receipt?

it seems so violent

and destructive

to open

it up.

small pleasure

small

pleasures. this cup

of tea

for instance,

this blanket around

me

mid afternoon

as the snow falls,

the fire

full

and rich with flames.

the mail

on the floor through

the slot,

waiting to be opened.

no rush. i'm

in no hurry to be with

the outside

world.

i'm settled

with life on this

cold afternoon,

the dog in a circle

so happy

to warm my feet.

gardens of our own

i see

my mother climbing up

those stairs

with her

garden

tools, my father not

far behind,

his arms full

of apples.

they are

still young, we are still

unborn.

and yet,

we're not too far

behind,

soon to have children

of our own,

gathering

fruit from our own

gardens.

we were all shiny people

we were

all shiny people for a while.

filled with promise.

young

and confident in our

clothes,

slender

and muscled.

hardly a scar

upon us, nary a wrinkle

on our faces,

our thick hair combed.

how hard

we rode those nights

into morning,

thinking

it would never end.

the wind parade

as the wind

pushes

along the paper and cans

on the street,

the garbage

and debris,

the bags and empty

cartons,

the discards

of the day.

apple

cores and orange peels,

dead

flowers.

what is there to do 

but wait

until it's all out of sight.

pretend

that the world is okay.

you can't handle the truth

it's amazing

what

the legacy news stations choose

to cover.

CBS, NBC, ABC, CNN, etc.

it's almost as if they

want to deceive you,

twisting words

and views,

rearranging what fits their agenda.

creating their own

narrative.

they've taken

sides, choosing what news

to show you,

or not to show you.

hiding the truth

with no shame,

because,

well, you can't handle 

the truth

and if you knew the truth,

you might vote differently

come election day.

they've figured out

that if you repeat a lie

long enough,

eventually

the viewers will believe

it's all true.

thank God for independent

journalists,

for X,

for TikTok,

for YouTube.

you look marvelous

the salesman

tells me

that i look fit and healthy

for my

age.

he shakes my hand

vigorously

as we stand outside

the car dealership

in the cold

and wind.

how do you do it?

he says,

tapping his

belly.

brushing donut crumbs

off his red sweater.

what do you mean by that?

i ask him.

for my age?

yes, yes,

it's a compliment, 

for an elderly fellow,

it seems like you've

taken care of yourself.

you look great.

you don't look a day over 50.

so now, how

about

we take that new

car for a spin.

how's your credit rating,

by the way?

give me your

I.D. and

let me go get that magnetic

license plate.

impossible to keep these resolutions

i read through

my list

of resolutions for the new

year.

most of which i've already

abandoned

by day two.

one cup of coffee a day,

i shake

my head,

already deep into the pot

with a third

cup by noon.

stop buying so much

on Amazon,

whoops,

that idea has gone away too.

a new book,

a new

toaster oven,

a new pair of shoes.

and the third resolution, 

no cookies

for breakfast,

oh well.

the land pirates of Minnesota

the word

billion gets tossed around a lot

these days.

especially with all the Medicaid

and Medicare

fraud going around,

the Snap

benefits,

and welfare programs

being

robbed blind.

day care centers

racking in the dough

with nobody watching.

not a kid

or audit around.

it used to be

millions,

but that's an old

and tired

phrase.

so when someone says

that money

has been stolen or wasted,

or sent 

off to foreign lands,

we shrug when we hear

the word millions.

so what.

wake me up when it's a billion

dollars

being frittered away.

when no one is looking

as i pause

at the red light,

obedient

to the laws of the land.

despite

not a soul in sight,

i ponder

going through it.

no eyes

to see me, no cameras.

not a single

cop

around.

just me

idling in my

car,

waiting for green to appear

so that i can

move on.

i wait, not because

i want to,

but because

it's who i am.

as if i have no options

as i scroll

the endless list of movies

and shows,

searching

for something i haven't

seen before,

i realize how much

time i've wasted

sitting on

this couch

the days and nights

i've wiled

away staring

at the television,

clicking and binging on

what's next.

i could have become

a surgeon in this same

amount of time,

a pilot, a geologist.

i could have grown

a field of grapes

and made wine.

the entire work 

of Shakespeare could

have been read

and enlightened

my lazy mind.

what's it smell like to you?

what

is the shelf life

of this deli meat,

this milk,

how

long can we go on before

the expiration

kicks in

and all goes to hell,

sours

and dissolves.

how many

hours do we have before

this can

of beans

needs to be thrown away,

this piece of meat,

this loaf

of bread,

these frozen prawns.

can we take one more bite

before it hits

the can?

or have we waited too

long?

twelve grapes and black-eyed peas

i try

to eat the twelve grapes,

as the superstition

says to

do, to make it successful

and lucky new

year.

but the grapes have gone

bad,

sour,

and rancid.

i'm only able to eat three,

then throw

the rest across

the room,

where the dog eats them

and gets

sick too.

i end up in the emergency room.

it's not a good start.

and now she

wants me to 

eat some

beans or something, or carry

an empty

suitcase

around the block like

you're supposed

to do.

i'm not feeling too lucky

right now.

Uncle Scam

fraud

seems to be woven into

the fabric

of our society.

it's always been this way.

it has nothing

to do with religion,

or ethnicity

or the color

of your skin.

i can't answer my phone

without

someone trying

to scam

me out of money.

every street corner has

someone with

a sign

and pot,

begging.

they're playing violins

and singing.

holding up their chubby

children.

the pickpockets are

everywhere,

from London,

to Times Square.

welfare and childcare.

while the government seems

to be blind

to it all.

why work anymore when

Uncle Scam

will feed you from

the moment

you were born.

the ten o clock ball dropping

i set the alarm

to wake

me up a 11 59, one

minute before

the ball

drops.

but i hit the snooze button

and miss

the moment.

oh well.

maybe there should be a pre

ball

dropping

event at ten pm

for those that like to get to

bed early.

or maybe not.

ten nine eight, etc.

i try on my New Years Eve hat,

a silvery

sequined thing,

pulling the rubber

band string

under my chin, then take

out the cheap

paper horn

from the top shelf of the closet.

yup.

it still honks out

that annoying

sound.

i dig in deeper

into the closet,

i find the cowbell

and the wrench i hit

it with.

i just need to run up to Safeway

before it closes

for a bottle

of champagne,

chunks of cheese

and dip,

then i call someone

i met last week,

so that

i'm not alone again

on

New Years Eve.

only

nine hours left to go.

babysitting is a gold mine

i see the kid

next door,

a high school girl driving

a brand new

Lamborghini,

cherry red.

she's the neighborhood

babysitter

who was born and raised

in Minnesota.

dang,

i say to her, nice ride.

business must

be good.

yep, she says, swinging

her Prada purse around her

shoulder.

strutting proudly

in her Jimmy Choo shoes.

i have over two hundred

clients now.

wow,

how do you find the time.

oh, it's easy.

i rented an empty

warehouse

and the government

sends me money

for each one i have registered.

she gives me a wink.

Governor Walz is my godfather,

by the way,

so i learned a lot from him.

hey, she says, we're opening

up more locations

soon. we're trying to have

a franchise all over

the United States.

join in if you want to,

quit your job, babysitting is

a gold mine.

Fred, the lead clown

what was it like,

i ask

Alice, 

when you rode

the enormous grey

elephant

into the big

top

at the circus.

tiny as you are, 

lacquered in sequins,

were

you scared,

frightened that

the great beast would throw

you

and stomp you into

the saw dust

covered ground.

no, she said, i loved it.

it was

the bearded woman

who was in love with me,

that i was scared of.

not to mention,

Fred,

the lead clown.

finding the right measure

too much

salt

can ruin the dish,

too much

sugar
in the coffee and it's

undrinkable,

too

much spice,

will make

your eyes water, you

have to learn

early

in life

how to measure love

with just

a pinch.

we got to get out of this place

i meet my friend Jimmy at the local

pub for a holiday drink

and some burgers.

he's already there when i get there,

with three empty bottles

in front of him.

hey, he says. hey, i say back.

the waitress brings me a menu.

i tell her a burger,

medium rare and a Pabst Blue Ribbon.

so, what's up? i ask him.

nothing, he says.

which means everything.

my kids won't talk to me anymore,

my ex is filing for more

childcare,

and the girl i was dating found

someone else.

some dude with a Mercedes

and a condo at the beach.

she took all of the jewelry that i gave her too.

i can't blame her, i tell him.

just look at yourself. when was

the last time you

took a shower or put on some

clean clothes.

your Honda has about two hundred

thousand miles on it.

yeah, he says. i'm little lost

right now, but listen, i have a plan.

hold on, i tell him,

as the waitress puts the plate in

front of me.

i string some criss cross lines

of ketchup over

the fries, take the pickle off the bun,

then take a bite of my burger.

okay. i tell him, go, 

so you have a plan?

yes, he says.

now hear me out. i think we need to

look for women in other countries.

non-American women.

i think that's the problem. that's

why we can't stay in a relationship.

if they don't understand

what you're saying,

and you don't understand what they're

saying, that solves

ninety-nine percent of the issues.

these women here are too messed up.

yakkity yak yak,

always on their phones with each other.

they're never happy.

they want money, and cars, houses,

vacations and they want tall, dark

and handsome. that ain't us. am i right?

they all think they're the Kardashians,

or movie stars.

hmm, yeah. i guess so.

well, from my observation

in watching movies and Netflix,

and the Playboy channel,

women from other countries

are easier to get along with.

it's almost like they don't care

what you look like.

have you ever seen the dudes Sophia Loren

went out with,

or Jackie O.

gargoyles.

Jackie O was one of us.

whatever, he says, taking a bite of his burger.

so what country should we go to first?

he takes a folded map, blotted

with oil stains, from his back pocket

and smooths it out

over the bar.

he's circled Italy, France, Greece

and Sweden.

if we have no luck with those

countries we can

head to the Philippines, or Thailand.

it's like shooting fish in a barrel in those

countries.

it's my start list. he says, so?

what do you think?

sounds like a plan. let's do it.

i'm all in, but let's wait for bowling

season to end, okay?

we might win it all this year.

deal, he says. deal.

we clink bottles together. it's on.

i'm waiting on you

i keep

waiting for the book to kick in,

the movie,

the video,

the conversation,

the long

joke

being told badly. what's wrong

with me?

i'm losing it.

i've lost all patience with this

world.

this traffic,

waiting for things to move,

for the light

to change,

i'm tired of waiting

for this water

to boil.

i'm waiting and waiting

to hear one

good

new song.

i'm here, i'm at the corner

of tenth and nine.

i'm waiting on you.

he knew what i knew too

the family therapist

told

us, one by one, to stand

behind

each other

and let the person

behind

catch

them as they fell backwards

in a free fall.

a simple test of trust.

my son did it.

i caught him.

the ex-wife caught him.

then she fell backwards

and i caught her

before she hit

the floor.

then it was my turn

to fall

with my ex behind me,

and my son screamed,

don't do it dad,

please dad, 

don't,

and started crying.

he knew what i knew

too.

she's so easy to get along with

she's almost

too easy

to get along with, she never

corrects me,

or picks

lint off my sweater,

or points to the spinach

in my teeth,

never

says shhh, i'm talking now,

hardly ever

mentions my snoring,

or how i leave

the seat up

on the toilet.

she let's me hold the remote

and says

a third football game

is fine.

it's rare for her to complain

about the cups

i leave

around the house,

or that my muddy shoes

are on

the coffee table.

she understands that i don't

want to go

out,

that i want to sleep in

and not

go fishing, or sky diving,

or riding

in a hot air balloon,

or visiting

another museum.

she never rolls her eyes when

i say

no to driving to Winchester

to pick blueberries

in a field.

but sometimes i feel like she's

going to break,

not unlike a dormant

volcano,

about to blow any minute now.

if only they were pearls

we used

to dive for coins at the public

pool.

letting

them sink into the ten-foot deep

end,

beyond

the striped

rope

and under the diving board.

the bright whistle

of the guard muted by

water.

we used pennies

mostly,

easier to see.

we saved

the quarters, and dimes,

nickels

for the hot dog stand.

how hungry we were

after

diving and diving in the hot

July afternoons.

crusted in chlorine

and sun burned, our

hair turned

blonde.

if only

they were pearls.

the petting zoo

we go

to the petting zoo.

it's the basic

calm

and domesticated type of animals

you see

in cartoons,

or being held

on a talk show.
a pig,

a cow,

a goat, a sheep,

a llama.

a duck,

a chicken.

they all have names, 

so they

won't be eaten anytime

soon,

we have to stop at Kroger's

on the way

home,

for some meat,

milk

and eggs.

my mind is stuck on bacon,

maybe

some beef stew.

just need one letter

i'm stuck on wordle,

but i don't care

if i get it right

today.

let my nine hundred and ninety

two day

streak

go to hell.

i just don't care anymore.

sorry.

but things have changed,

perhaps

i've changed,

what used

to be important is nothing

to me

anymore.

it's a stupid game.

and yet,

and yet,

win or lose,

tomorrow i'll play again.

mister big shot know it all

so there

is no

end to the universe, is that right?

there's no

edge,

no rim,

or brim, no period at the end

of the enormous

stretch of

outer space.

it's infinite

and yet, maybe,

just maybe there is an end?

is that right?

Is there a sign that says

dead end when

you get

there

and just a black wall

that you can't penetrate?

no door to go through,

no window

into what's next?

is that what we're doing here.

playing that game?

messing with our

heads,

mister big shot, God,

keeping us confused about

it all?

do we really have to die,

to finally know?

clever to a fault,

aren't you?

her second cousin in Newark is coming for the holidays

i get confused

when she tells me

something about

her

second cousin in

New Jersey, Gretchen,

you know, she says,

David's

sister's kid, the one

with the hearing aid

and lisp,

i let out a sigh and roll

my eyes.

i don't want

to figure it out again,

the lineage,

the ancestorial tree.

i don't want to know

what a second cousin is anymore,

just say their name and be

done with it,

i tell her.

my head is overflowing

with your family.

i need a clear and concise

outline on

a clean sheet of paper,

one that 

i can laminate and have

access to 

when everyone arrives.

a picture

next to their name would

be helpful too.

how she gets the truth out of me

i don't believe

you,

she tells me,

standing at the door

as i come home

at midnight,

asking where i've been.

i can't put you on the rack,

or into

solitary confinement,

she says

with hands on her hips,

or water

board you to tell truth,

that would

be cruel and unusual punishment

and who

wants that.

instead i'll cook you lima

beans

for dinner,

and make you sleep in the other room

for a week

or two

until you crack.

how would you like that?

the wobbling vegan

it's not

easy dating a vegan,

someone who won't touch meat of any

kind.

forgoing the steak,

the bacon,

the ribs

and pork chops, they won't

even eat a single

piece of fried chicken

from Popeyes.

they wag their skinny finger

at General Tao's

crispy fried beef,

or a burger from Five Guys.

how slowly they are to get

up from a chair,

or get out of a car,

teetering from

near starvation,

pale and grumpy all the time,

dazed and confused,

anemic with

thinning hair.

you try

to trick them with an egg,

or two,

but they try to stab you with

the spork

they stole from

the Kale cafe where the entire

menu is written

in Sanskrit or Hindu.

the reading of the will

my father's last

girlfriend, the last one still alive

that i know

of,  calls me up

to shoot the breeze.

she was in a long

string of floosies

he cheated on with

while married to my mother

who gave

him seven kids.

she wants to talk about my

father

and how much she loved him.

how she held

his hand and sang him

lullaby's

as he died.

she tells me

that he had promised to take

care of her

when he passed away.

what does that mean? i ask her.

he said that he would

leave some money for me,

and that gold

necklace that he used to wear.

really?

and his watches.

how much money?

a lot, she says, a lot.

i know he had at least a million

dollars saved.

i saw the statements in the top drawer

of his desk.

so i think i should get

at least half, after all i was the love

of his life.

sorry, i tell her.

i have the will in front of me,

and gee whiz,

you aren't mentioned in the will.

nope,

i don't see your name anywhere.

do you have a recording

of him saying that he promised

giving you money,

something written down

that he signed?

a witness? 

my daughter

can testify once she gets out of jail.

hmmm.

i don't think so.

and as far as the jewelry

goes,

i think his maid already snatched

all of that.

how about i buy you lunch next

time i'm in town?

okay, she says.

and dinner too, okay?

and fill up my gas tank?

they shoot horses don't they?

my doctor

tells me that i'm as healthy

as a horse.

i ask him

what that means.

horses don't get sick?

horses

never get a bug,

or break a leg,

or get the mumps?

he takes

the cold stethoscope

off my chest and smiles.

i just mean that you

are very healthy.

you're in good shape.

but what's with the horse

reference?

you mean that

if i am not healthy, you

are going to take

me out into

the field and shoot me?

do i look like

a horse to you?

do i eat hay,

am i wearing a saddle

or pulling a wagon?

ever see me at the Kentucky Derby?

settle down, settle down,

he says.

calm down,

your blood pressure is

going up.

no local scammers?

nearly

every phone call is from India

or Pakistan,

from

Mexico, or Jamaica,

Nigeria

and Russia,

doesn't anyone ever

call me

from the United States

anymore?

if i'm going to be scammed

i'd prefer

a local call, please.

maybe Florida,

or Utah,

or New England,

someplace close perhaps,

to where i am.

her unsuitable BMW

if not

for the gear shift in the middle

console,

the tight leather seats

pushed up

close to the window

and the absence

of a reasonable

back seat,

stacked with self help

books

and wine bottles,

we would have made love

that night

in her car, parked

outside

of Crate and Barrel,

but no

such luck.

i left the doggie bags

with her

from P. F. Changs,

lettuce wraps and firecracker

shrimp,

and waved farewell

as she drove off.

testing mattresses

you make

a day of it, going from store to store

in your bedroom

slippers

and pajamas,

testing mattresses across

town.

one by one,

you push upon the king

and queen

with your hand,

never a twin,

then lie down.

you close your eyes and imagine

it's midnight

and the day is done.

is there room for two,

or three perhaps,

be still my heart,

perhaps a dog, or cat

nestled in between the sheets,

but this one is

too soft, the next one

too hard, 

another too je ne sais quoi.

it's harder than it looks.

lying

down all day,

seeing if this what you want

to lie on

for the next foreseeable

years and days.

Minnesota Day Care Centers

there's no

children at the day care center.

the doors

are locked.

no one is

working

at the industrial building,

with

the faces of children

painted on the outside walls.

the windows

are blacked out.

not a child

around,

not a playground,

no swings or slides,

no merry go round,

just checks arriving

in the mail,

tax dollars

from the government supporting

the fraudsters

hiding in plain sight,

standing

in the shadows,

wearing Hijabs.

sugar cubes

let's pretend

all is well, let's go out

and about

and smile,

and wave, and talk with others,

telling them

our false

tale.

let's continue on as if

the world

is our oyster, no need

to reveal

what the truth is.

let's wear our happy face,

but let's take

an umbrella in case

it begins rain,

and we melt.

the love of his life, at the end

it didn't

sadden

me that i found a blow

up

sex doll in my uncle Charlie's

closet

after he died.

a chamois cloth

and a tire pump was in there too.

it amused me,

he was a handsome man.

a ladies man

for so many years,

but somewhere

love

and sex 

took a wrong turn on the freeway

of life

and he

fell in

love with a plastic doll

that he named

Susie.

he used to tell me on the phone,

Susie and i are

going here

and there, doing this and that.

you'll have to meet her someday.

she's watching tv

in the other room.

i'm cooking dinner.

we're going to take a cruise

come spring.

they were well traveled.

i got so many postcards

from them.

i guess, he'd take the air out of her,

and fold her up

before placing her 

in his travel bag.

she doesn't say a word as i toss

her into the dumpster.

all is grey

it's impossible,

so much of this

that we awaken into, 

it's hard

to draw a line

between

a dream and being awake.

there's no

difference

at times.

all is grey.

all is undecided, a mystery

until the grave.

how long can this war go on?

aren't they

running out of bodies by now?

out of bullets

and bombs,

drones

and stretchers to haul

the wounded

away.

aren't they low on food

and drink,

morale?

aren't they tired of death,

of mayhem,

of the mud

and blood they lie in?

how long can this war

go on?

soon, children will be taking

up arms.

there's no surrender

in sight, no victory either.

just day into night.

forever more.

click like and subscribe

in a bad place,

alone

and divorced again

in a cold

rainy city,

she

began to slide deeper

into

the dark

side of mysticism,

channeling

voices,

getting messages from

the great beyond.

she was hearing

things

with her ear to the floor

of her

studio

apartment.

a candle set before

her.

i've been told to give

everyone

a message,

she'd say,

while in a yoga pose.

arms bent

sideways with

legs

akimbo.

the message

is peace,

love

and light she relayed

in a whisper,

now

please click on subscribe

and like

before you go.

the brim of his hat

i see

the brim of his hat,

as he

kneels

in the dirt, hands moving,

a maestro

with

plants

and seeds,

cutting, chopping,

using string

as need be.

burying.

it's another spring, another

year

of hope

that all things will

come

up

the way they're supposed

to.

he's lost in it,

he doesn't see me.

the water-skiing Santa has drowned

sadly,

the water-skiing Santa,

who gets

pulled around by a motorboat

on Christmas

Eve

every year, has drowned.

apparently,

he was drinking heavily,

and had

gained

weight from the holiday

festivities

and couldn't swim back to shore

when he fell

after hitting a pylon.

the poor kids

were screaming

as Santa sank slowly down

into the muck

of the Potomac River,

his red suit

heavy with water.

only his red hat,

and half empty bottle

of Jack Daniels was found.

the crowded therapist's office

as usual,

there's a long line at the therapist's office.

it wraps around

the block.

TDS

is a pandemic

at this point in time.

there are 

so many boys

that want to become girls,

and vice

versa.

everyone seems to be

biting their nails,

and twitching, mumbling

to themselves.

the weary blue hair,

and septum ring bunch are in

full force,

crowding the entire

waiting room.

many with orange mace

stains around

their eyes.

some with casts on their legs

after getting run

over by ICE cars.

but i've made sugar cookies

for the holidays

and want to share them.

so i bring a plate

of them to my therapist,

Amy Jung. no relation.

i take a number,

and wait my turn.

no one trusted Joe

in the 60's,

before

Hondas and Toyotas,

there

was always a rattle

in the Ford,

or Chevy,

some weird sort

of noise

from the engine, or below,

maybe it was

coming from

some where's around

a tire,

or from

a loose bolt holding up

the muffler.

so you turned the radio

up

and closed the windows,

you lit

a cigarette

and sang along to Franki

Vali,

or the Kingston Trio.

maybe tomorrow

you'd take it to the corner

garage,

to have it looked over

by Joe. the local grease

monkey,

who you didn't trust

as far as you

could throw him.

the worst night of the year to go out in

it's the worst

night of the year 

to go out in.

new years eve.

the drinking and driving,

the fixed prix

prices

on all the menus.

the overcharge.

the parking, the weather.

you eat at eight

and still have

four more hours to go before

the ball drops.

and here you

are in your fancy clothes,

twiddling your thumbs

as the waiter

tells you it's time to leave,

more customers have

arrived and they

need your table.

so you walk for awhile

before you put more

money in the meter.

you get a cup of decaf coffee.

by eleven you give up

and go home

with your boxes of left over

Chinese food.

you

change your clothes and walk

the dog.

you turn the tv on,

you nibble at some

rice

and beef, a rib bone,

then fall asleep

twenty minutes before midnight.

the land of ten thousand scams

we wake

up to the news, the paper,

our phones.

honey,

she says,

we should move to Minnesota.

do you

see what's going on there?

they are giving away

money.

millions,

billions.

let's pack the car and go.

we can open

up a daycare

center,

a food bank.

we can apply for a grant,

for 

government

subsidies.

it's a gold mine there,

without the digging or doing

any work.

let's hit the road before

the money

runs out,

and half the world gets here

on a visa.

scrubbing the last pot

it's a relief

to put the last dish away,

to scrub

the final

pot, to take down the decorations,

to set

the tree at the curb.

it's a relief

to toss the cards

into the bin,

to unstring the lights from

the porch

and awning.

it's almost over before

it even

began back in Halloween.

and now

to vacuum

for the needles and tinsel

that have

fallen,

to put the candles and snow

globes away,

to pour one last drink

from

the nearly empty

bottle of gin.

you never know who's out there

as i lie

in bed, i realize that i forgot to lock

the front door.

and yet

i'm in bed,

the lights are out,

and i'm

near asleep, warm and cozy.

i recite

the old prayer from

childhood,

if i die before i wake, i pray

the Lord my

soul to take.

i pray for the world,

for those i love,

for those that annoy me,

for anyone

that comes to mind.

i express my gratitude for

a litany of things,

and then finally i give in

and go

down the stairs,

and turn the dead bolt.

you never know who's out

there.

if we leave now we'll beat traffic

not one

to clap too long

and hard with approval,

seal like

in adoration,

to stand and cheer, to light

a candle

and hold it up

towards

the stage.

to yell out bravo,

encore,

etc.

i'd rather nod, and say,

that was good, nice.

okay.

let's find the exit

and be on our way.

almost drowning

as

i leaned forward

over

the pier, above

the lake,

i fell in.

with hardly a splash.

i disappeared

quickly,

wiping away

the reflection

that i gazed upon,

someone

who

often resembled me,

but not

always.

i sunk into darkness,

without air,

without sunlight,

without the sound of others.

before long

i realized

who i wasn't,

who i would never be.

i had to settle

on just

me.

the leg in REM mode

my left leg

is asleep.

deep in REM mode.

it's thick and heavy with

pins and needles.

i've sat in one

position too long.

i stumble as i try

to get

up and leave.

i wonder

if it dreams

of running, of walking,

going up

stairs.

doing jumping jacks,

or lining up

a ball to kick

into the blue sky

of air.

i sense it needs coffee,

needs time,

needs a little bit of 

TLC

to get it back and going.

slowly i shake it out

and limp

to the coffee shop like

an old soldier,

coming home from a war.

he's in eggnog heaven

the dog

is in heaven as he rolls about

in the

wrapping

paper, the ribbons

and bows,

all shredded with

glitter on his nose.

the light

cord is

cut in half by his sharp

teeth,

the cookie dish

turned

over

and licked clean.

his belly is swollen

with

sugar,

and little meatballs

with toothpicks

that were

left on the coffee table

by Aunt

Mimi.

he's lapped

up

the eggnog from the spilled

carton,

he's in heaven

now,

may he rest in peace,

our little canine

if he makes

it through the night.

damn this nut bowl

damn

this bottomless nut

bowl.

these salted cashews

and walnuts,

peanuts,

Brazil nuts,

honey roasted

nuts,

and pistachios.

damn them,

damn them to hell,

i think as i put another

handful

into my

mouth,

savoring the sweetness

and the salt,

enjoying

the satisfying crunch.

i have the will power

of a baby.

i can't stop myself

and dinner is in an hour.

responsible drinking

it would

be nice, one day, one week,

a month
of peace.

no wars, no killing,

no

crazy messages

or tweets.

no anger for an hour.

no news
that's twisted left

or right.

just a placid simple

day

of opening gifts,

and eating,

drinking responsibly,

and

holding each other tight.

the ugly text message

it's a strange

and ugly

text from an unknown source,

or name,

or person.

a dark

anonymous soul

writing to me from

somewhere afar,

across lakes and streams,

someone 

with an Indiana

area code.

it's full of hate and anger,

a deep

sadness,

things must not be going

well for

him or her,

whoever the text is from.

maybe heartbreak

or mental illness is involved.

what a crazy

world it has become, so many

lost souls,

throwing

stones

at people they don't even know.

they tell me

to leave

them alone,

or else i'll be blocked.

i can only laugh,

and go back to the book

i was reading,

shaking my head, i move on.

blueberry jam

as she

brushes her hair,

i stand at the stove and crack

two

eggs into the pan.

i look at her in the hallway,

in front of the mirror.

she looks

at me

and says, what?

nothing,

i reply.

nothing.

i pull the toast from

the toaster,

set it on a plate,

then the eggs.

i sit at the table.

watching her leave

as the door

closes

behind her.

the blueberry jam is cold as

i spread it

across the square land

of bread.

wireless

it's a Christmas

miracle,

connecting all of my new

devices

to the world.

i'm almost a wireless person

now.,

hooked

and connected

to the strange invisible

planet

that we've

become.

the lights are lit.

the passwords set,

i just need to set my fingers

on the keyboard

now

and type.

let them go at it

long into the winter night.

the sailor

he had

the North Sea in his

eyes.

the wind

in his blown hair,

the silver

of stars,

the brine, the salt

of sailing,

gruffness

of songs in his voice,

of drink

and oft told lies.

he had more

stories to tell,

but

he couldn't go on,

couldn't

tell another without

thinking

about the one he loved,

the one

still in his heart,

locked in the pages

of his mind.

settling into the big chair

really,

really, this year too is nearly

done.

how can that be,

i just

turned the page,

yesterday,

i used to be 21,

i used to be young.

i used

to be on the run,

on the go with friends,

and now i'm 

settled in this big chair

watching

the snow 

fall, sipping another

cup

of coffee,

a book in my lap,

eating a cinnamon raison

rum bun.

waiting in line

the line is long,

but i have all of my receipts

and tags

and bags

and boxes.

one would think that Santa would

know my size by now,

after all these years.

i've settled

into extra-large on almost

all things,

expect shoes,

which seem

to be getting smaller for

some strange reason,

the podiatrist

is the next stop on the list.

status of the trash pickup

the neighborhood

is in a panic,

will there be trash pick up

on Christmas

day,

or will it be on Friday, or

will we have

to wait for the scheduled

Monday

morning for pick up?

is it okay

to set the bags and boxes,

turkey bones,

ribbons and bows,

and ham

bones out

tomorrow night, or should

we wait?

i can't get a hold of the condo

board

for an answer, 

(they are so inept, pffft)

if anyone

knows the status

of the trash pickup,

please contact me, or post

a notification

as soon as possible

on the Facebook page,

i can hardly sleep.

also, before

i forget,

can we put our trees out

by the hydrant

on Monday?

it's the most wonderful time of the year

it was

an interesting Christmas,

my

mother's arm in a cast,

her black

prescription glasses held

together

with white

medical tape, while

the bruise from my father's

fist

turned yellow

and green

on her cheek.

but the church basket

on the porch

lightened things up a little.

Andy Williams

was on the radio

while one sister

peeled

the potatoes, and

the other

one

changed the diaper on

the baby.

us boys watched football

on the tv

before going

out into the snow

to throw

a ball around.

we learned to ignore and

absorb

almost everything.

number 28 in line for a ham

as i stand

in line,

in the cold, with my number

in hand,

shivering like a character

out of a Dicken's

novel,

i stare

into the window

of the ham

and turkey

store,

and wonder what else

might there

be to eat

at home in cupboard

if the store

runs out

of meat.

have i ever had peanut

butter and jelly

sandwiches

for Christmas dinner,

cheese and crackers,

with a Mountain

Dew drink,

for the 

holiday feast?

the answer would be

yes.

i shuffle forward

in prayer.

a love and hate relationship

Moe,

my long departed

dachshund,

would eat anything,

chew

on anything, bite, eat,

swallow,

gnarl on

anything

within reach of his long

snout.

furniture,

gloves,

shoes, books, the legs

of tables,

beer cans,

computer wires,

sunglasses,

dead animals that

he'd drag

into the house.

an open purse was his

delight.

it had nothing to do

with food,

or nourishment,

or the lack

of treats, or affection,

it was more out of

anger,

out of spite,

for going out of the house

for an hour

or two

each night, and having

the nerve

to actually have my own

life.

the baby boomers

the trees

in this wind are falling,

one by

one,

the old ones,

the grey ones,

the woods are thick

with them.

sturdy

for so long.

i hear them snap

in the early

morning hours,

giving in

to nature, accepting

what eventually

had to come.

catfish on ice

i shouldn't, but i can't help

myself.

i yell out to the fisherman

on the pier,

hey,

hey. 

maybe you all haven't heard

this but, 

Safeway sells fish now.

all kinds,

from catfish to flounder,

no need 

to cast out anymore.

they begin

to run towards me

with their scaling knives

their rods

and reels,

tossing beer cans

at me,

but i'm too fast for them.

get a load of this, she whispers in my ear

who

doesn't like a good rumor,

a conspiracy

theory

a bit of juicy gossip,

some dirt

shared

over the back yard fence

between

Midge and Marge.

yes,

it's a decadent

and

sinful, and yet, we all

need a bite

of something sweet

and delicious

every blue moon.

of course all in good fun,

no harm.

the morning ice cold shower

as i step

into the cold shower,

the freezing

cold

hard spray

of only cold water,

colder now

because it's winter

and the pipes

are near

frozen,

i wake up to the day

with a loud scream,

energized

by the shock of it all.

i shiver

as i stand there with

a bar of soap,

the water cascading

down my head,

down my goose bumped skin.

i feel the north pole in my bones

as i begin

to get an ice cream

headache,

like i used to get when

eating

rocky road.

it's then that

i know it's time

to get out

and start the day, wrapping

myself up

in a big towel

as the dog licks my leg.

lost in the fun house of mirrors

when you

begin your journey of psychological

research,

trying to understand

what

went wrong

in the last five or six

relationships.

blaming it all on the other person,

because you

are pretty much perfect.

you begin to wonder though,

is it me,

am i the narcissist,

the dark

empath,

the covert or grandiose

narcissist?

am i the passive aggressive,

sociopath?

am i the borderline personality,

on the spectrum

with a social

anxiety disorder?

so i have a touch of bi-polar,

or schizophrenia?

am i paranoid

and obsessed with rumination?

where do i fit in with the Munchausen

Syndrome

or the Stockholm Syndrome?

do i have

cognitive dissonance,

a favorite person,

am i the one ready for the loony

bin,

and not her?

a dozen books

later,

three hundred and twelve

YouTube videos,

and the jury is still out.

let's see how long this lasts

the steps

were full of pots pans, books,

magazines

and 

canned fruits and vegetables.

shoes

were everywhere,

scraps

of paper,

boxes of ink pens,

string

and paper clips, hair

bands.

clothes from another

century

hung on racks in the basement.

photo albums

that belonged to the previous

owner

were on the shelf.

her mattress

was on the floor

next to

a futon from college,

an ancient television

and turn table

that no longer worked.

morning sunlight poured

through

the curtainless windows.

a crack

like a lightning bolt ran

up the middle of the glass.

it was clutter chaos,

that smelled like fear and despair,

but she was

pretty

and had amazing blue

eyes,

and a great kisser to boot.

let's give

this a shot, i thought,

at least

for a little while.

the broom closet

we had

a broom closet when growing up.

shovels

and bags of road

salt were

in there.

mops and Lysol.

straw brooms,

bottles of Mr. Clean,

a grey metal

bucket.

a scrub brush

with yellow rubber

gloves

hanging on

the rim.

sometimes we threw

our shoes

in their too

when they were muddy

or we had

stepped into

something on the road.

at some point

it became a pantry too,

for canned goods

and dog food.

just your imagination

she was

liquid, mercurial, light

and sprite,

an angel

on the head of a pin,

tiny,

a confection,

a sweet delight,

a breath of fresh air,

and then

she wasn't.

updating my face book photo

i see so many people

updating

their photos.

maybe

i need

a new photo for all my

social

media accounts too.

not a close up,

and not one too far

away,

but one to soften the blow

of aging

and holiday

weight gain.

i can wear black, of course

and a hat,

and dark

sunglasses.

a picture

with sepia

lighting perhaps,

maybe with a river

in the background,

or some

cows or chickens

on the ground,

something distracting,

so that i'm

not the focus of the picture,

just a good shot

from a safe distance,

though

unsuitable for

framing.

we all have a story to tell

we all 

have a story to tell.

but for most

it can be pared down into a short

story,

or maybe

a long poem.

few have

a novel though

and worst yet,

a sequel,

and few have the time

to patiently listen

to that long

of a story.

just give me the highlights

or low lights.

wrap it up

nice and neatly

in a bow

before my ears begin

to bleed.

tell me the moral of 

your story,

before you go.

12:01 p.m.

when i finish

reading 

the morning paper,

drink my

last cup of coffee,

then finally put some

pants on,

i'm going to do

something

constructive

today.

there's still time.

sign here and here and here, initial there

it might

as well be written in Greek

or Latin

the government

form

that sits on my desk.

despite the words

being in

English,

the sentences are run on,

like

in a James Joyce novel,

in endless

paragraphs,

long winded and convoluted.

it's a well educated

mishmash of

chicken scratch.

i check the boxes,

fill

in the blanks,

sign my name and send it off

any day

now it should be coming

back.

the Epstein girls

to end

the madness, 

the suspicions,

the hypocrisy, the mystery

of so many

redactions,

just have the girls,

now women,

the victims,

or survivors, or young

entrepreneurs

just name

names

and let the chips fall where

they may.

why hold back

at this point?

tell us who and when, and where.

tell us how

much money you made

and who paid

you?

tell us what you had to do

and to whom.

take your time.

here's a pen

a blank sheet of paper.

spill.

here's a tape recorder,

put your hand on a Bible

and tell all.

then

get the psychological

and spiritual help

you need, 

and the monetary

reparations

if that's the aim.

but please. just be done

with it,

name names.

why continue with this insane

secrecy?

waiting for the mail to arrive

tell people

that you write poetry

and they

will send you poetry

of their own.

i understand

how it works now,

so i tell them that i bake

cookies

as well.

any day now i expect

cookies to arrive

in the mail.

a place where they can see the stars at night

the baby,

the dog, the accumulation

of things

makes them put a sign in the yard.

house for sale.

they move

to a bigger house,

somewhere

in the country,

near farms

and trees. where cows

graze.

a place

to raise the child,

a place where the dog

can run free,

where they can see the stars

at night

and not

worry.

you can't keep it all out

the north wind

blows

up the wrist of my sleeve.

i

can't keep

all the weather

out

despite layered in clothing.

coats

and sweaters,

gloves

and hats.

it reddens my cheeks.

tells

me a story,

one i already know,

about small defeats.

after so much misfortune

your

cake in the fridge

is getting

old.

please come soon.

i'll cut

you a slice,

set it on a plate,

it's the least i can do

for you

after so much misfortune.

we'll sit

by the fire,

and not talk.

we'll just eat cake,

drink

tea,

and wait

for time to move.

that's all i remember

all

i remember is the cold

moon,

full and white,

my feet

soaked to the bone

with

the slush

of yesterdays storm.

and

her wet eyes

as she kissed me goodbye,

letting go of

my hand,

i recall the shadow

of her

disappearing into the night.

and me

on the stone

steps

waiting for the sun to rise.

that's all

i remember.

honest.

don't make me pull this car over

i'm

having a fight with my

printer.

i call it names.

i curse.

i shake it,

i shake my head

and roll

my eyes at its rattling

on and on

and not

working.

nothing is coming out

of its

noisy mouth.

it's the drawer,

the paper, the connection.

the lack of ink.

i beg

it to work.

please print i plead.

just one

unblurred sheet.

come on,

you can do it.

but it's a screaming child

in the back

seat of the car

wanting a happy meal.

don't make me pull this car

over

and give you something

to cry about

i yell out.

heading to the mall, Town Center

i wake

up sweating. i suddenly

realize

that

there's only five days left

until

Christmas.

do i really

have to go to the mall

and start

shopping.

do they still have malls?

is it too late

for Amazon

to deliver before the 25th?

quickly i get

dressed

and rush down to the mall,

which is now

called the Town Center.

is there a

Spencer's in there,

a Radio Shack,

an Annie's Pretzel,

and a Cinnabon?

what about the food court,

where tiny

aggressive women

reach out to you with

fried pork

on toothpicks.

is there a Sears, a J.C. Penny's,

a Britches

of Georgetown?

Woodies?

Kinney's or Victoria Secrets?

what about

the massaging chairs

near the fountain?

a lot can go wrong

a lot

can go wrong with the human

body,

beyond

the inevitable aging

process,

the results of sun,

and gravity.

but

most of it is the result

of 

drinking and smoking,

eating

badly

and stress.

i can't stress the word

stress

enough.

it starts early with the first

crush on

the girl in front

of you

in the first grade

and continues on until

the last

divorce.

Wally greets me at the door

my friend Walter,

who hates

being called Wally,

got a job the other day as a greeter

at Walmart.

i pray for him.

he used to be scientist

down

at Bell Labs,

researching nuclear

energy,

but now this.

i just need something to

do with my

time, he says.

living alone with his cats

on the third floor

of a four-floor walkup.

i see him

at the door as i go to Walmart

to pick up

another bag

of marshmallow

peanuts.

his name tag says Wally.

it's the end of the world.

welcome,

he says,

as i come through

the electric doors.

downsizing

we spend a lifetime

of accumulating things

depending on our needs

and desires.

we fill

the house with so much.

we spend

years of adding

on to what we already have,

from top to bottom.

it never seems to end,

and then it does.

then we downsize

to a smaller,

more comfortable life,

and realize that so much

of what we have can easily

be let go of.

which includes people

too.

the enormous dull book

i begin

once more where i left off

yesterday,

the book

earmarked

with a twist of the corner.

i may

never finish this book.

one page,

two pages at a time.

by summer

i should be halfway through it,

unless i find

another book

to read,

to wile away my time.

reservations downtown

this

rat, large and cumbersome,

overfed,

not

an athlete by

any measure,

crosses

the street in front of

us

before

we go into the four

star

restaurant in town.

but

the rat,

grey

as the slush

that melts underfoot,

panicked

by our bootsteps,

hits his head on the curb,

and falls

over.

we step around.

pick me

we want

to be chosen, to be

the one

picked

to play in the game,

we want

the girl to ask us

to dance,

we want

the teacher to praise

us,

our mothers

and fathers to be proud.

we want

to be noticed

for the fancy car

we drive,

the house we live in,

the clothes we

wear.

so much

of our lives

is spent

on building up our self

esteem.

making us feel

better

than what we really are.

the Christmas family photo

it's a family

photo

that now includes grandchildren,

along with

husbands and wives,

siblings,

twenty

or more

people stand together,

arm in arm,

side by side.

smiling

for the camera

beside the Christmas tree,

the quiet fire.

the photo gets larger

and larger

with each passing year.

there's grey now

in some hair,

faces are showing their age,

there's thickness

around the waists

that were never there,

but

thankfully,

as of yet, with God's good 

grace,

subtraction

has not taken place.

the leaky heart

i can't

fill you up. it's impossible.

there's

a hole

in the bottom of you,

and no

matter how

much love and affection

i pour in,

there's never enough

to make

you whole.

you're only

happy when you're unhappy.

i can't do this anymore.

i'm

going home.

so, what's next?

eventually,

they do catch the bad guy.

they

track him

down

and end his flight.

six or seven authority figures

get up at the podium

and tell

us the story of how

they did it,

patting each other on the back,

each happy

to share the limelight.

it all goes away

eventually,

except for the lingering

conspiracy theories

that will

go on until the end of time.

the crime

is solved. case closed.

but no worries, more

mayhem is coming down

the pike.

stay tuned.

what we need and don't need more of

we need more

doctors, surgeons,

teachers,

and engineers.

we need smart

people

in our lives to figure

things out.

we need

scientists and astronomers

pilots

and inventors,

farmers

and carpenters.

we need a good plumber

a good electrician.

someone to keep the trains

on time.

we need

entrepreneurs,

morally sound

people

with no axe to grind.

we need the opposite

of politicians.