too busy for this

i'm busy

i tell the tree, the shrubs,

the weeds.

too busy

to rake

today, to mend the fence,

to tighten

the screws

on the clapboards

that rattle.

i'm too busy,

i say to the wind,

the clouds.

i have things to do,

many things to think about.

imagining tomorrows

admittedly i knew

nothing, still a shy child,

and yet

inside, i knew

more than what i spoke.

and as i drew my finger

along the cold

glass pane

of the window drawing

out a face,

a name.

standing tall on the yellow

kitchen chair.

i could see the future,

i knew

in that moment

that there's more to all of this

than what has passed.

the man who fell to earth

i've been in space

for three

months now. they can't get me down.

i hate these

people.

i've stopped making

eye contact with them.

i feel like

i'm at thanksgiving

dinner

with all my relatives.

i want out of this tin can.

i stare out the window

sucking on

a space protein bar

and long for earth, that sweet

little blue

spot in the blackness

of the universe.

it stinks in here.

someone keeps pushing

their elbow into

my back

when i'm trying to sleep.

the toilets are backed up

with plant meat

and kale.

i keep looking at the hatch

door, and tell myself,

why not.

why not get out of here?

the shadows in the night

three a.m.

is when they seem to come out

of the woods,

not raccoons, or foxes,

or deer,

or rabbits.

no it's the thieves,

the hooded

crew

breaking into cars

and homes,

sheds,

stealing everything from

tires

and money,

boats

and tools.

anything not nailed down,

and sometimes

those things too.

they're very deft though,

quiet as mice,

slithering

through

the cold night.

there they go on the ring

cameras,

shadows,

unrecognizable,

only to return tomorrow

to be on

another video.

down the hall there's ice

it's a roadside

motel

on the way to the beach.

the fields

are cut,

the rows of green gone.

the corn

harvested,

the soy and

sea of beans

are in cans now. 

the world is flat again,

as i check in.

free wi-fi

the sign says.

color tv.

i open the door to what

hell must

be like.

how can anyone stay

here more

than one night

without killing themselves.

the hard

bed,

the hard pillow,

the smell of cigarettes

and sin.

someone has even lifted

Gideon's Bible from the skinny

drawer.

but down the hall,

there's ice.

the cool wet mud

we get

used to things.

or not

having things,

having too much.

we fool

ourselves

with joyful talk.

we are pigs in the mud,

wallowing

in the cool

wet dirt.

we roll around and tell

others we're

happy.

but we're not.

the mask beneath the mask

i ask

her what she's going to be

for Halloween,

what

mask will she wear

after taking

off the one she wears

all day,

the one she fooled

me with,

the one with a smile

and pretty face.

maybe just go with the one

under that 

i tell her.

it's beyond scary

and will chase everyone

away.

sugar is the new cigarette

i read

somewhere where a glass

of orange

juice is worse

than drinking

a glass of coca cola.

as much sugar

if not more.

what's next?

are you going to tell me

pop tarts

are bad for me too?

ice cream and cake?

are you trying to say

that they've been

lying to us for decades

about food?

more funny than scary

there are few if any

scary

movies anymore.

it's been done too much, 

over

and over.

again.

the monster

lurking in the shadows,

the rising

of the dead

from their graves,

the masked

man

in the woods with a chainsaw.

Linda Blair

with green

vomit and a rotating head.

we've seen it all,

all the special effects with

witches and ghouls,

Rosemary's baby,

part one,

part two.

in color,

in black and white,

what's scary anymore?

what puts a chill down our

spine,

and raises

the hair on our heads,

not much,

just the six o'clock news.

phil or the wrench

do i take

a wrench to the dripping faucet,

or do i call

Phil,

the plumber?

wrench or Phil, i ponder.

he could be here

by tomorrow,

between

the hours of noon and five

pm.

the wrench

is tempting.

but no.

i can't deal with another

flood.

she gets to the point

the birds

give you little chance to study

them.

she tells me,

staring out the window.

they fly

away so quickly

at the slightest

of noises.

at the smallest threat

of capture,

or harm.

i notice that you

are like that,

exactly like that,

she says, turning to me,

still in bed,

at last getting to the point.

baby it's cold in here

i wake

up shivering.

i should have turned the heat

on last

night.

but you weren't

here to remind me.

or to hold

me as the pipes froze.

you should have called,

or texted me.

or sent me

an email to remind

me that the temperature

was going to drop,

but you didn't.

where are you, anyway?

the holiday party

as soon

as i get there, i look at my

watch,

and look

for the exit.

i loosen my tie,

grab a drink

and a piece of shrimp,

then find a shadowy

corner

to retreat to, before

someone introduces

themselves

and asks me who i am,

and what do i do.

i smile

and nod my head.

say hello,

Merry Christmas,

Merry Christmas,

but keep inching towards

the door.

i shuffle through

the crowd,

saying excuse me, 

excuse me

then slowly slip out,

hustling

down the back stairs

and out

into the lovely falling snow

where i toss

the shrimp to a stray

cat

in the alley.

i need something

i need something.

just

a little something

to soothe

my soul,

my mouth,

my desire,

my craving.

maybe something

sweet,

maybe salty, maybe

crunchy.

i can't quite put my finger

on what

it is i want.

what do you have?

what's new?

putting her life in storage

when

i helped her move out of her rental

apartment,

she had

twenty-seven plastic

bins

filled up

with a thousand pictures

and receipts.

plastic baby spoons,

and cracker jack

rings.

mementos

and unusual strands

of strings.

she had her son's

first diaper

in one.

used Band-Aids,

and bandages

that ex-husbands

and her

married boyfriend had used.

hairbrushes still

holding

their hair,

and the face towels

they used.

there was one bin

filled with only

their left behind shoes.

there were coasters

from bars.

napkins pressed

with lipstick

kisses.

frayed underwear,

his and hers,

and half eaten candy bars.

it was a yard

sale, a flea market.

a strange collection of her

even stranger

life.

bizarre.

i can't find my blue bin

because

i don't recycle,

i'm the talk of the neighborhood.

i'm shunned.

never invited

to any block parties,

or picnics.

they point at me as i drive

by in

my 8 cylinder

truck.

they shake their heads

at my

lack of concern

for the environment.

they believe that i don't care

about turtles

and whales,

and the next generation

growing

up to inhale

the pollution.

but i do care.

just not all the time.

one tip for sanity

there

are seven tips

to living longer,

six

for better sex,

five

tips for buying a car,

eight

for keeping your

skin moist.

there are two

tips

for losing weight,

nine

tips

for avoiding

dementia,

four tips for keeping

your dog

from barking.

twelve

tips

on how to make

small talk to strangers.

and one tip

for 

sanity.

put your phone down.

memories into ash

it's the first fire

of fall.

i throw the wood into

the pit

and light

a match.

the flames rise high

above

the fence.

i move the chair closer

as it dies

down

and rub my hands together

against the heat.

i stare

into fire, listen to the crackle

of what's

burning.

memories into ash.

at times it's so easy

to start over

again.

tossing people overboard

like

the captain of a ship

that's taking

on water,

i start to throw things overboard

to stay afloat.

some people

might call it simplifying

things.

which it is.

reducing

the weight of what holds

me down.

a few passengers

might have to go too,

the whining ones,

but not worry, they'll

find another

boat, another shore.

the last of the Lions

the great ones

seem to be leaving us

with each new day.

the great

actors,

the amazing writers

and poets.

the best

of a generation.

the song writers

and singers.

the bands.

the last lions are long

in the tooth.

where are the new giants?

why does

everything and everyone

seem to be of

a lighter

note now? 

borne of 

a lesser brand.

seven days on the Aegean Sea

we were quarantined

in our cabin

for three days and three nights

of our seven

day cruise

down the Aegean Sea.

i should never have gone

down to the ships

doctor

and asked for a bottle of

Pepto Bismol

after eating

three whole lobsters

and drinking

four margaritas when

boarding the ship.

a big mistake.

they put a guard at our door

where they left our

food on a tray.

we discovered quickly our vast

differences

about everything

under the sun, but

we were stuck together

until our blood samples

said all clear.

it was a learning experience,

though it was the last

trip we ever took together.

that was good, very good

i tell

her that was good, very

good.

yes,

she says, but what number

on the Richter

Scale

would you give it.

maybe a four, 

or a four point five, I tell her.

yes.

she says.

i agree.

we have a lot work

to do.

the earth needs to shake

a little more.

different roads taken

it's a strange

trip

we're all on. for some

a long

road,

a hard road, for others,

not so much.

an easy

glide

where little goes wrong,

hardly a bump

is hit,

or squeak is heard.

the silver

spoon

has fed them.

i know you are but what am i

the political campaign

is getting ugly.

the mud

is being slung.

forget policy discussions.

the name calling has

begun.

i know you are but what

am i,

i heard her say

to him,

and he replied what

you say 

to me

bounces of me

and sticks to you,

just like gum.

your momma, she shot

back,

talk to the hand,

he said in return,

and laughed.

you're stupid, she said.

no, you're stupid,

he replied.

look up dumb in the dictionary

and there's a picture

of you.

well, you're fat.

but at least i'm not ugly.

three more weeks

to decide.

road maps in the glove compartment

there used

to be maps, great wide

sheets

of paper

covered in lines, red

and blue, filled

with tiny ant

like writing,

lines drawn

across and down,

longitude

and latitude. 

some had time zones,

and zip codes.

circles of blue

for water,

green for parks.

we were all bombardiers

back then

floating

high above the clouds

trying

to find our way,

with the dome light on,

to go anywhere.

cheese whiz

apparently

the world loves cheese.

there's a whole

section

of it at the grocery store,

a special section

walled off

where

people in chef's hats

are slicing it up

into trapezoid and

triangular

pieces,

after weighing

it and holding it up to the light.

there are big

building blocks

of cheese.

neanderthal wheels

of cheese.

it's expensive, all this cheese.

so many different

kinds.

what's up with cheese?

and then there's

the crackers

that go with it, the plum

sauce,

the berries,

the orange goo,

the raspberry spread.

walk further

and there are the packages

of cheese,

all kinds,

hanging on racks.

cheaper cheese,

ones not from France.

i can't even begin to list

them all.

i'd have to learn three new

languages.

the large white onion

as i chop

this large white onion.

tears

roll down my cheeks.

i begin

to cry.

first it's because of the onion,

and then

it's about other

things,

so many other things

that are

trapped inside.

after a bottle of wine she says this

yes.

there are no good reasons

to vote

for me,

she says,

sipping on a

deep pour of pinot noir.

my record has been dismal.

the country

is less

safe, everything

costs more.

the borders

are overflowing

with 

thieves

and rapists, gang

members

and murderers.

the world

is at war.

yes, i haven't

been that great

and half the time

i don't know

what i'm talking about

or which

accent to use

when i'm making a speech,

but hey.

you can't vote for him

again, can you?

one more before i sleep

it's the dopamine

rush

that fuels us.

the Pavlov

dog,

drooling

expecting

a treat of some sort

as the bell

dings.

we're

the mouse in the maze

going faster

and faster

for that

piece of cheese.

it's the insanity

that

we've

all become.

we're

addicted

to the click bait

crave.

one more, one more,

one more

before

they toss me into

the six

foot grave.

rejection letters from the New Yorker

i save all

the rejection slips,

that

keep coming in

year after year.

each

new short story

rejected by someone

in New York,

or San Francisco,

Iowa or Maine.

i paste them to the wall

over

my desk.

next to all the break

up notes

from lovers long gone,

that i used to get.

my father's piece of art

i remember

my father sitting on the front

porch,

smoking,

and drinking

a beer

as he carved out the face

of a pumpkin.

digging

out the soft

mushy guts,

removing the top,

and then setting a candle

inside.

he then lit it with his

lighter

and stood back, 

as the sky grew dark.

he asked us

what we thought.

great dad, we said as one.

i don't ever remember

him

being so happy, so proud

of his one

and only piece

of art.

money over hair

flat broke,

i was offered

my first real job, but the catch

was,

was that they insisted that i

cut my

hair,

which was down to my shoulders

at that point

in my

post hippy pretend

life.

i was the virgin age of eighteen,

still living

in my mother's house.

to hell with politics

or culture.

of course i gave in

despite the David

Crosby

song ringing in my ears.

money superseded any

crazy

notions of changing the world

with long

hair, and i assumed,

over time,

it would grow long

again.

fast forward

is there a more

important button on your remote

control

than the fast

forward button?

the hours that button has

saved

me when stuck on some

dumb show.

it's like turning to the last

chapter in a bad book,

or the last page.

just tell me how it ends

and let's be done

with it.

google these drugs before taking

i get so used

to limping after the antibiotic

fiasco

nearly

rupturing my Achille's

tendons,

that 

i don't realize that the pain

is nearly

gone.

but i'm still limping just

the same.

i almost have to talk my

way out

of my gimpy stroll,

convincing myself that

i'm healed

and there's nothing wrong.

taking a five minute break

we were making

love

one morning, a Sunday morning,

before

coffee

and bagels,

and the morning paper,

and walking

the dog.

in the midst of it all,

when

she tapped me on the shoulder

and said,

can we take a short

break.

did you hear that ding?

i think my mother

just called.

such is the game of love

we started out

with infatuation,

which turned

into like,

which gradually became

a form of love.

but we're back

to like again,

but unworried,

because we both know

that sometimes things

wear off,

then given time,

return again,

such is the game of love.

down route 4 to Solomons

the sign on the side

of the road

read

hubcaps, sharks' teeth

and rabbits

for sale.

the letters

written in bright red

paint,

crudely

stroked

across the plywood

board.

how could you not pull

over and take

a look

at the inventory?

we asked the fat

woman

sitting in the shade

sipping

hard lemonade how much

for a handful

of sharks teeth

and one small rabbit.

ten dollars,

she said,

and don't you need a 

hubcap

too?

sure, i told her, why not.

then picked

out a shiny

one

for the garage wall.

the opera suit

a man

needs only three suits in

life,

to get by.

the wedding suit,

the funeral

suit,

which are interchangeable,

and the opera

suit.

which is wrapped

in plastic,

still hanging in the closet,

brand new.

new words for the day

i use the word

shucks,

when stepping into

a deep

puddle on the street.

pulling the word out of some

far region

of the

verbal storage bin

in my

brain.

she says, huh?

did you just say shucks?

to which i say,

dang right,

sugar britches.

sticking with the theme.

well golly gee, she says,

watching me

as i shake my soggy loafer

and the hem

of my gabardines.

forever lost

my inability

to know which way i'm going

severely

hampers

my attempts to arrive

anywhere on time.

which way

is left,

which is right.

my internal GPS is flawed.

whether

on water or land.

if i was

in outer space, i'd be

doomed.

out of air, and still pointing

towards

the moon,

thinking

i'm getting somewhere.

i have no

sense of direction, even

when asking

someone

to point me towards

a bathroom.

it doesn't end well,

and the air blower and paper

towels

offer little help.

the fabulous new bakery

the neighborhood

next

door app is going wild

this week

with the opening of a new

bakery

down the street.

i go down

there to see what all

the fuss is about.

they rave about the donuts,

the pies

and bread,

the cinnamon rolls

and cake.

everything fresh

and baked daily.

old school.

i don't get out of my car

though,

i just roll the window

down

and breathe it all in then

sigh, as i pinch

my once

muffin top waist,

but oh, there was a day.

leaving it all behind

i loved

the old car, bought it new,

right off

the showroom

floor.

i loved the smell of it,

the speed

it could go,

the radio,

the top down.

four on the floor.

i loved

how it gleamed in

the summer

light after i spent

a Saturday

afternoon, washing

and waxing it

for date night.

oh, how i loved that

car,

it held the memories

of those years,

of my life,

which made it so

hard to

leave it on the side

of the road

when it finally died.

removing toxic people from your life

everyone,

it seems, is in therapy

these days.

men, women

children.

everyone is traumatized

by something,

by someone.

everyone

is a victim of some sort

of abuse,

or neglect.

even the therapists

are on the couch

explaining 

their sadness to another

one another,

trying to get their damaged

psyches

off their chests.

but nothing changes,

unless

you want it to.

be done with toxic people,

delete, block

and go contact.

it's the only way 

to at last find rest.

living on borrowed time

i was

bickering this morning

with the hall

rug,

the long runner

that leads

to the door,

how one

edge sticks up and i nearly

trip and fall

every morning

over it

as i carry my cup of coffee

into the other room.

i give it a piece

of my mind.

but i love the look of it,

the color,

the way

the sun hits it in the afternoon.

an expensive

Persian number.

but like most

beautiful things,

it's

living on borrowed

time.

the roulette wheel of online dating

when i used

to binge date on several

online

dating apps,

it was always a crap shoot,

for me

and them.

we're they willing

to date

a middle aged man

who was losing

his hair,

and who could stand to

lose a few pounds

of weight?

divorced and still paying

alimony?

i didn't hunt camp or fish,

or jump

out of planes.

nor did i like to hike.

was i tall enough,

and did this shirt

i pulled out

of the laundry basket

have any stains

left over from the calamari

the other night?

and was i willing to throw

my hat into the ring

with someone

on Prozac,

and Botox, seeing

two therapists,

and yet who said they

loved to laugh,

but left out the part

about how they loved to eat?

so many were

living on alimony, child support,

and packing

heat?

was i ready to turn the page

and start

a new chapter

with a woman who had

a criminal

record

and enormous feet?

installing solar panels

my neighbor

installed so many solar panels on his

house

that the roof caught fire.

quickly though,

i gathered

the kids

and others

and with a bag of marshmallows,

a box

of graham crackers

and long sticks

and we made

some smores.

saving the planet one can at a time

you can't just get the straight

news

anymore.

it's all twisted and slanted

to whatever

side

the paper

or station leans towards.

i was reading

about a cat

stuck up in a tree the other

day,

and the editorial

claimed

that this wouldn't have

happened

if not for climate change.

we need

to separate more cans,

and glass,

and paper

to save us, and the poor

cats too.

the waitress at Denny's

as young Turks,

we'd roll

the dice when going out,

hunting.

searching

for love,

or something resembling love

at least for the night.

cologne

was important, as

was

hair.

a clean shirt, blue

jeans

and decent shoes

to dance in.

a pocket full of cash

was part of it too.

we'd close most places

down

in Georgetown.

then

drive up

to 19th street

to the Sign of the Whale,

or Flaps,

or Numbers.

trying our luck

out there. and if there was

no luck,

there was Denny's

on the way home.

eggs and bacon, coffee

and hashbrowns,

maybe a waitress with long

blonde hair.

she just got back from Spain

weeks after

she returns

from Spain, she's still wearing

the orange

and yellow

and red 

dress

that she bought

in Madrid,

and the big earrings.

her lips

seem swollen

with bold dark lipstick.

she's hanging

onto

the accent too.

though mangling the words.

you must come

over

for Sangria

and paella soon,

she tells me,

on the phone. i can hear

the clicking

of castanets and the tapping

of her high heel

shoes

in her freshly painted

stucco sunroom.

medical alert bracelet in limited colors

the fast-talking man

on the phone tells me all about

the medical

alert

necklace,

or bracelet that he's

hawking

with a nervously

rehearsed pitch

that's he probably said

a thousand

times today.

it comes in white

or black,

he says.

and it has a state

of the art GPS.

people in outer space

will be able

to locate me, he says.

satellites

circling the earth

will save my life.

but i tell him blue is my

color. not black or white.

blue goes with my eyes

so that

if i fall

down and crack my head

on the toilet

i want to look nice

when the paramedics

come in

to haul me away.

all of my pajamas are blue

too, i tell him.

but we don't have blue,

he says.

so, sadly,

there's no sale

again today.

driving around until the moon went down

Kenny

had a dodge dart duster

with glass

packs,

purple, with

three on the floor,

not nearly

enough horsepower

for the looks

of it,

and yet it got us around,

with a superb

stereo.

and a cooler

in the back

full of ice

and miller lights

enough bottes

to last until the moon

went down.

and out you go

it doesn't matter

president,

or queen,

prince

or pauper, rich or

smart,

or dumb as

the rocks

you stand upon.

each to his own way

of living

in this world.

earning

his crust

of bread.

pants on, shoes on.

and out

you go

into the wilderness.

despite intentions

it's

a pink snake,

with black

rings,

that crawls and wraps

itself

around

the slender tree,

rising

upwards towards

a nest.

it's a beautiful

thing,

the gleam of sunlight

on it's skin,

a piece of art,

despite

intentions.

when the thrill is gone

you go to hear

the rock

band

because you've been

buying

their music

for fifty plus years

and you

know every word by heart.

you've

purchased

their records, their cd's

their 8 tracks,

their cassettes

with all the same old

songs,

most in boxes now

inside

a closet. you loved

them.

but then

the lead singer starts

the show

with a twenty minute

sermon

about politics and who

we should

vote for.

preaching his own version

of the gospel

of democracy.

it's so disappointing.

making you leave before

the first

guitar lick takes place,

or drum gets hit.

born to run, hardly,

the thrill is gone.

under new management

the banner

hanging over the door of the restaurant

says

under new management.

grand opening.

so i go in.

but

nothing has changed.

Joe is still working

the bar

and Candy is waiting on

tables

in her leather

pants and low-cut merino

wool sweater.

i see Frank

through the little square

window

scraping the grill.

i ask Candy, 

as i sit down

to peruse the menu,

what's new,

what's changed?

she points at the menu

and says,

we now have breakfast all day,

and we're getting

brand new

cutlery tomorrow.

what would you have done differently?

they ask

the candidate if she would

have done

anything differently

if she had been president

during

the last four years

instead of the vp.

oh my she says, rolling her

eyes,

laughing.

oh not really.

i would have done it all

the same way.

so you wouldn't have tried

to lower

prices,

and inflation,

or fund and support

the police,

or close the border

after letting in so many

criminals

onto our streets?

no, no.

we're good.

you'll see, why fix what's

already

broken.

vote for me.

the Maine lighthouse

it is a good memory,

i think

to myself, as i hold the photograph

of the lighthouse

in Maine.

you beside

it, near the rocks

and water,

the wind your hair,

your face

young.

it's a good memory,

one

that you shared.

i wish at times that i had

been there.

in over your head

when

you're in over your head,

and the water

is filling

your nose

and ears,

your lungs,

you flail, you holler

and scream

as best you can

as you begin

to sink,

but nothing

or no one

can save you.

some do it on land

too.

sadly, you're done.

getting the old gang back together

the guys,

the old gang tries to get together,

to reminisce

about our days

playing ball,

when we were young.

and then into middle age.

we had

an unbreakable bond.

we shared

so many hours together

on the field

and court.

but now,

it's hard to meet up.

Howard

wants to know what were

wearing,

Jim, is concerned about

parking,

and if it's going to rain.

before dark

would be nice, says Bill,

awaiting

cataract surgery.

Donnie,

asks if there's wheelchair

access.

and Frank wants to bring all

of his grandchildren.

i suggest maybe a zoom call,

to which Eddie says,

what's that?

doctor evil

i'm afraid of my doctor.

every time

i go for a visit

i'm more injured and sick

than when

i arrived.

he has

a maniacal beside manner,

never

quite looking

you in the eye.

shuffling his feet,

as he dispenses pills

like chicklets

at Halloween.

i try to keep my distance

when he

comes into the room,

as my blood pressure

skyrockets

and my eyes bulge

with fear

and gloom.

as a porpoise floats by

we wake

up

at sunrise,

apparently 

the storm is over. 

the winds have finally

died down.

we tip toe

to the window

and see

a porpoise floating by,

a small

fishing

boat,

and three kids

on surf boards.

we keep

our life preservers on,

which makes

it hard

to move around,

but we're fine.

the power is out, but

we're alive.

the little girl is getting married

my daughter

cautiously approaches me

as i sit

on the porch reading

the paper,

and says,

dad, we need to talk.

she sits down

beside me,

and puts her hand on my

my hand.

i see the ring on her

finger.

she starts to cry.

it's okay, dear, i tell her.

congratulations.

it's about time.

your mother has been wanting

to use your

room for a sewing

room,

for a long long time.

so who's the lucky guy?

Jimmy?

the stockbroker

that you met in your seventh

year in college?

oh, no that ended five

years ago.

it's some dude i met online.

he has a podcast

about

the eco system

and how it's affecting

red wine.

our new best friend

the waiter,

our new

best friend, appears again.

wanting

to know

how everything is, we chew

our first bite of food

and swallow.

we wipe our

lips and tell him everything

is fine.

more water?

he says,

pouring more into

our glasses.

i'll be close

by

if you need anything.

more parmesan cheese

or pepper perhaps?

magically

making

the enormous wood shaker

appear.

maybe just

a sprinkle i tell him.

and you miss?

no, she says.

but i would like some more

bread.

which

he suddenly takes out of

his jacket.

with pads of butter.

i'll be right over there, he says.

and oh,

here's the dessert

menu

for when you're ready.

the chocolate waffle cake

is to die

for. it's my favorite.

you don't have issues

with gluten,

do you?

i reach for my pepper spray,

but she stops

me.

and says. no. not now.

wait until

we leave.

the Mickey Mouse club

it's the media

blitz

as election day

approaches.

i see the candidate on Stern

and the View,

on Colbert.

Kimmel

and Jerry Springer.

next week she's on

Sesame Street,

and then

off to Captain Kangaroo,

before stopping

at the Mickey Mouse

club for

an interview.

she has her note cards

prepared.

there's joy and laughter

in the air.

more degrees than a thermometer

it's not

fine art exactly. but they're framed.

all the degrees

representing

education

at various institutions

and money

spent.

i only owe two hundred

thousand

on tuition,

he tells me. but hopefully

the next president

will erase all of that.

i turn 35 next year and

i've sent my resume out

everywhere.

so it's just a matter of time

before i land

that big job.

i'm sure there's some

company out there that

needs a poet slash

philosopher.

into the second bottle

it's just

wine, she says. the French love

wine.

the Italians,

the Greek.

can you help me with this cork?

i'm having trouble

here.

just one more

glass before

we go.

but we're home, i tell her.

oh really.

i forgot.

okay, yes, i think you're right.

there's the dog,

the cat.

the clock.

good, i think

you've got that cork.

now be a big

boy

and give me another

large pour.

i surrender, good luck with being me

tired from the endless

calls, at last

i allow

the man on the phone to steal my

identity.

i give him

my social security number,

my bank

account numbers,

my address,

my phone numbers.

i give him the names of my

children,

my wife.

my doctor.

i give him my height and weight.

i tell him where

i work,

and how much money

i make.

i give him

my mother's maiden name.

i tell him

where i was born,

where i grew up.

what school i attended.

i tell him

my nickname.

my dog's name.

i give him all the passwords

to everything

on my computer

and phone.

i give him the combination

to my safe,

the name of my first love.

i tell him

where i'll park my car tomorrow

and that i'll

leave the keys

under the seat.

go ahead, i tell him, it's all

yours,

everything.

it's your turn.

i'm so tired of being me.

the contagious word salad

it seems

to be contagious now

as the candidate

goes on and on with each

new friendly

interview.

it's leaked into my own

household.

i ask

my wife why she went

to Williams and Sonoma

and spent

a thousand dollars on

new pots and pans,

and silverware.

and a new coffee maker.

i was raised a middle

class girl,

she tells me.

but, i say.

no, please i'm talking here.

she puts her hand

into my face

and continues.

my mother had to work

to make

money, we didn't have

the government

to rely on like we do now.

we lived in a neighborhood

where

people loved

their lawns.

we didn't have everything

we wanted,

but we had joy.

excuse me, i tell her,

my question was why

did you

spend a thousand dollars

on things

we already have?

i just told you why, she responds.

we weren't poor,

but we weren't rich

either.

we were a middle class

family.

and by the way, have you

noticed

how long the grass is outside?

Luigi's wood fired pizza

when i burn

the top

of my mouth on a bite

of bubbling

pizza,

hot out of Luigi's 

wood burning oven,

the mozzarella sticking

to the skin,

it reminds

me days later, still sore,

of how impatient i've

been.

not just with you,

but with pizza

too.

a row of pink houses

when

you see a pea green house,

after

you make

the turn

then cross the tracks,

then a pink

one

and a blue clapboard,

followed

by yellow,

you know you you've

stumbled

upon

independent thinkers

of a poorer

class,

not by choice, perhaps,

just

hard working

souls

who like to express

themselves.

teaching her how to nap

it was hard

at first,

because she was so energetic,

a go getter

of sorts,

so i had

to introduce

her to the afternoon nap,

teach her

how to do it.

i showed

her how to dim the lights,

turn

off the phone,

pull the shades to make

the room

dark. i convinced her

that it was best to take off all

your clothes too.

you don't want a belt

or tight shirt, loose

undergarments

disturbing you.

of course the nap turned

into other

things too,

which she didn't seem to mind.

and it made

the afternoon

nap that much sweeter

once we were through.

they're all in on it

it's the food

of course.

they don't want to tell you that,

because

it might seem

like they

are in on it, making you

fat

and confused,

dazed.

and addicted

to sugar and salt,

candy and chips.

sodas

and cake.

the doctors too. why

get to the bottom

of your

fat bottom,

when they can just sell

you a pill,

or an injection,

to lose a pound or two.

whistle while you work

you don't

hear people whistling anymore.

tines are too hard.

it's rare with

men or women.

people look at you

like you're crazy

if you go

around whistling

like a bird.

but my uncle

used to whistle. he had

a fabulous

whistle.

he used to whistle

any song

you've heard.

the dogs in the neighborhood

loved him.

but his wife,

i think she had enough

of it.

morning noon

and night.

no one was offended

we had

terms of endearments

for our

friends when we were young.

Johnny

was jumbo

because of his massive

size,

Ernesto was

coffee bean, because

he was as dark as one,

Pat

was pasty, again

because of his skin

color.

Sally was blondie

for her wild

curly locks,

and Georgia

was Mae West for two

obvious reasons.

of course there was

Slim Jim,

and Stumbles,

Pointdexter and Brainiac

who had

an answer for everything.

if you didn't have

a nickname,

you didn't feel loved.

another successful interview

when

someone doesn't' know what

they're

talking

about, they use more

words

than they

need to.

they clutter up their

talk

with nonsense,

going around in a circle,

deflecting

to hide their ignorance,

repeating lines they've

memorized,

until everyone

forgets what

the question was

and then weary,

they move on 

amidst her laughter.

another successful interview

is over.

waiting on Betsy in her yellow bikini

i spent

many days, many summer

hours

lingering

at the pool,

hoping Betsy would show

up

in her yellow

bikini.

i wore

my sunglasses

and Coppertone.

i flexed

and sat

up

staring out across the wide

blue pool.

i'm still waiting now,

but i'm

growing old.

we're all addicts

we don't

think we do, but we all

have addictions

of some sort.

maybe

not drugs,

or alcohol, smoking,

but

there are other things

that melt

our butter

and help us through

the hard nights,

the lost days,

whether

food or sex, or some sort

of bling.

even love

can be an illusion,

a temporary fix

for what's gone wrong

as children.

two blocks left then right

i like

how when you turn a corner

in the city

it's a different

place.

with

different people,

with different

food

to offer.

the music too coming

out of the windows,

the scents

of life.

the language.

from

here, even with the park

not far away,

you have

a different

view.

waiting for love

i see her

standing by the lake.

hands

folded.

pensive. quiet

as she stares out across

the calm

blue water.

what are you doing?

i ask her.

i'm waiting, she says.

for what?

for my ship

to come in, let's

call it love.

i nod and move the grey

hair

from her face.

i get her

a chair.

the racket of dawn

i wake

up before the sun does.

i can

hear every

mode of transportation

that runs

in the world

outside

the window.

cars

and locomotives,

buses

and planes.

anything with a wheel

and an

engine

seems to be engaged.

leaf blowers too.

hedge trimmers.

is that

a trash truck i hear

lifting

the barrels?

the birds

have no chance

on this

autumn day.

and what is that,

a hair dryer in the bathroom?

you too?

the barking dog

i've never

seen

the neighbor's dog,

next door.

but i've listened to it bark.

all day,

all night.

i've never seen it on 

a leash,

or in the yard,

or chasing

a ball.

though i've heard

it scratch

at the doors trying

to escape.

i wonder about this dog.

its life

in a cage.

closed for business

the cemetery

on the hill is closed.

there's

no more room for

the dead.

they are lined

up in narrow

alleys

like the poor are

in skid row.

they've run out of space.

they can

no longer hold

another soul.

let's pray it's different

when we

arrive

at the pearly gates.

why are you biting me?

i stare at the red

welt on

my leg and wonder

why

do the bugs want to bite

us?

mosquitos, bed bugs,

spiders.

an assortment of tiny

crawling

things.

what pleasure

or nourishment

are they getting out

of sinking

their teeth, if they

have teeth,

into our soft skin,

leaving behind

a red

hill that itches.

what's the point?

is it is the salt, the sugar,

the sweat,

that makes them bite us,

over

and over again, only

to be swatted

with the Sunday times,

having their lives

abruptly end.

i need a Sunday car

we use

to peruse the enormous car

lot

and find

a car

to test drive.

the salesman

in a checkered

coat, smoking,

not far behind us.

we had nothing to go on,

but the badge

on the side,

and the color, two or

four door.

six cylinder or eight.

automatic

or a stick on the floor.

but now.

God help us with the variations.

hybrid,

and plug in,

gas or electric.

four wheel, or two.

every country

is represented.

we have nowhere to turn,

to pick one,

other than

going on YouTube.

sweet dreams

i had

the opposite of insomnia

after healing

my wounds, 

learning all the lessons

of a broken

heart.

a master class of wisdom.

i couldn't

stay awake.

i embraced

sleep, the nap, the long

hours between

darkness

and light.

nothing bothered me,

or kept

me up anymore.

it was a wonderful time.

and i thank

you for that. meeting

you was

such luck.

her love of poetry, Neva

i imagine

she's 90 by now and more,

but

i still see her

in front of the class

teaching,

chalk scratching

at the blackboard.

her pocketbook 

around her shoulder,

not yet

set down,

her glasses

steamed

with enthusiasm

as she

tells us what we don't

know,

about sylvia Plath

and sexton,

mark strand

and the immortals of

modern

poets. Larkin

and Ignatow.

confessionals.

though she avoids

Charles Bukowski, who

she can't stand.

the whitsun weddings again

when

i turn the pages of this old

book,

frazzled

and worn,

the binding broken,

i expect

to find another gem

hidden

between

the pages, an unexpected

poem

unread,

waiting just for my

eyes.

i wet my fingers

and turn,

and turn and turn

the yellowed pages,

and at last

there it is,

another one to my

surprise.

the prescription of No

i used to be

a people pleaser, a giver,

a person

who got along

with everyone despite

how i truly felt.

i kept the peace,

compromised,

keeping my thoughts

to myself.

i pretended that

all was well

when it wasn't.

i did so many things

i didn't want to do.

and then,

i discovered the words 

no thank you,

no.

and now i ring it like

a bell.

ding, ding, ding.

no, no, no.

and suddenly,

i'm not so blue.

the martini blur

i've had

the same bottle of vodka now

for two

years.

untouched.

the olives too,

and

the tonic water,

still

screwed tight inside

the bottles.

the apple Schnapp's

as well.

i haven't cracked

ice in ages,

or used

the metal shaker

to construct

a martini. it's probably

the reason

we don't go out

anymore,

i see you in a different

light.

finally

i see you

and me for who we really

are.

my laziness refined

as i yawn

and stretch,

my laziness

does not surprise me.

i knew

i had it in me

for a long

time.

i just needed to refine

it,

polish it,

find the right bed,

or couch

to lie in

and not budge an inch

for almost

the entire day.

in rain or shine.

i embrace this laziness.

it's mine.

the wide river

the water

of time has swept you away.

taken

you to a deeper

place.

for good, it seems.

such is

the nature

of the world. how 

secure

our foundations

did seem,

now ripped and torn

away.

friendships and loves,

you once

believed

would always stay.

ten bottles of salad dressings

it's time,

i tell myself, staring into

the white

glow

of the ice box.

the trash can

tilted nearby.

who's ranch dressing is that,

thousand island?

Paul Newman's

pear vinaigrette?

who put

this Marie's Blue Cheese

dressing

in here,

that fat bottle

stuck 

in the corner,

the vinegar and oil

in a square

jar.

i read the small print

of expirations.

all of it ancient.

bought in another life.

in salad

happy times.

where did all of this come

from.

the caps

stuck tight.

the floating of strange gel

at the top

of each old liquid, unpoured.

it's time.

good Lord, it's time.

the lost key

i find

what i'm looking under

the table,

in the darkness,

the shadows.

i'm on my hands and knees

as i often

am

when wanting something

or someone

to give

me what i want,

what i desperately need.

i flounder in

the dark until my hand

touches

what it is

that was lost for so long,

that all important

key.

letting them know who's boss

as i wait

for the sun to rise high

enough

so that it

warms the yard,

the chairs

so that i can go out

and read

the paper,

i fix coffee and 

commiserate with the dog

and cat,

bewildered

by the divorce.

one on the counter

pawing

a can of tuna,

the other

with a ball in its

mouth,

holding a longing stare.

all in good time,

i tell them,

and as you both know

by now,

i'm currently

the new boss here.

the racetrack years

i lived

near the racetrack for a few years.

from

my bedroom

window

i could hear the call of each

race.

i could hear

the thunder

of hooves. smell

the atmosphere,

of good luck and despair.

Sheila would

ask me to close the window

when she

came over to make

love

but i told her know.

it's part of it.

an omen of sorts

it was

our first date, our last date,

when she

screamed

and pointed

out the window of the car,

and said,

oh my God,

look,

it's the severed

head of a rabbit.

she began to cry

hysterically.

i slowed

the car down

stopped and got out.

i took a look.

it was a cinnamon

donut

bitten in half.

fatherly advice

i told my father once,

about a horrible

break up

with someone i was in

love with.

terrible love.

his response was, well,

whatever you

do,

don't start drinking or

taking drugs.

there's more

fish in the sea.

that night we went out

to eat

at Captain George's all

you can eat,

seafood buffet.

he was so right and so

wrong in

so many ways.

fine art disposed of

it's a beautiful thing.

this

hornets nest.

i knock it to the ground with

a long

stick.

dried

and empty

at winters start,

but a work of art.

an amazing

thing.

the intricate

web

of cones.

paper thin.

i think about taking it

home,

maybe spray

painting it, turning it

into a lamp

shade

of some sort, but don't

of course.

i drop it into the bag,

and place it in

a can,

for the man on Monday.

we commiserate

he tells

me about his knee replacement,

pulls up his

pant leg

to show

me the eight inch scar,

puffy

and pink.

i in turn tell him about my

sinus surgery.

and my

reaction to Levofloxacin,

how it nearly

ruptured my

Achilles tendons,

after just three pills

swallowed.

then out

of the blue he tells me

about

how Hitler escaped from

Germany

and lived out his life

in Argentina.

I've got nothing for that.

leaving the door wide open

i left

the door wide open

all night.

not because i wanted people

to come

in,

but because i just forgot

to close

it after i turned

out all

the lights.

a Freudian slip,

perhaps,

but no one

arrived. not a stranger

or ex-wife.

i guess i was

just lucky this time.

the enormous building

he owned

the enormous building on the corner.

he was a business

man.

known

about town. he could have

been the mayor

if the wanted to.

beloved

by all who knew him.

but then came

the slow decline.

he forgot appointments,

names,

and places to be.

he'd leave the house

with stained

shirts,

baggy pants, that

sagged

on his thinning waist.

his eyes

had lost that shine.

and then i saw that the building

had been sold.

it was

painted a different

color, his name taken off.

it didn't take

long to find him though.

lying

beneath that beautiful

and

enormous stone.

the handwritten note

i appreciated the effort,

the time

it took

to carefully construct

a handwritten

note, telling me that she's

leaving.

i liked how it was folded

neatly

and placed upon

my pillow, so that i would

see it when i got home.

she even drew

a heart with an arrow through

it, with a red

ink pen.

it was the effort

that i'd been looking for

from her,

since the day we met.

and here it was, at last,

thoughtful,

at the end.

we all make mistakes

she tells

me about the one that got away.

a country

boy

who sang

and played the guitar.

he had blue

eyes,

she said,

tall and lanky, but a momma's

boy.

he wore

a hat, a cowboy hat,

and knew

his way

around a farm.

he wanted to marry me,

but i said

no.

it was probably

my biggest mistake,

if you don't count

this tattoo

on my face

that runs down

my neck 

and breasts, and onto

both arms.

deserving gratuity

i leave

a generous tip for the waitress,

and despite

my wife's objections,

i insist that it's

not because the girl

is so beautiful

with long

legs and doe

like eyes, or her bright smile.

it's not because her skin

glistens,

or that she smells

like a bouquet of flowers

when she bends

to fill my

cup, one more time.

it's the service, i tell her,

she's so attentive

and efficient,

that's why.

the inside weather

the outside

weather is meaningless

if the inside

weather

is bad.

sunshine is nothing,

nor is

a pleasant breeze,

or a soft rain.

if the inside

is full of dark wind

and heat,

thunder

and lighting.

the outside air has

nothing on what goes

on inside

of here.

it wasn't long before they knew

i wore

a new shirt and tie to the interview,

i polished

my shoes.

i was hoping

to distract

the interviewer from

my lack

of skills

and education.

i smiled, was congenial.

my hair

was combed.

i was the boy my mother

sent off

to school.

so i got the job,

but was clueless.

it wasn't long before they

figured me out,

and knew.

wanting more cold water

i first

discovered the joy

of cold

water

in a clear glass when

my mother poured

the drink

from a pitcher

full of ice.

we were kids, out

of breath,

panting

in the summer heat

of Barcelona,

having been

chased

down a long dusty

street.

running away from

something,

or someone.

i can't remember that

part.

just the water

and wanting more.

when everything is fine

i try

so hard to block out

the foolish

things i've said and done

over a lifetime,

i try to push

those thoughts away,

block them out of my

mind.

but they're determined

to stay,

rising their little ugly

heads, just

when everything seems

fine.

is it just for tonight?

what

reason do i feel you beside

me

in the night. pulled

so close.

your skin,

your arms

wrapped tightly around

me.

is it the cold,

the wind

outside,

are you lonely, are you afraid?

what

brings you next

to me?

holding me so tight.

is it love this time,

or is it

just for tonight?

giving God a helping hand

the grapes

at the grocery store

are so huge.

so green and plump.

these apples too,

and the oranges.

the bananas have a radiant

glow about them.

i've never seen such

enormous melons,

or pineapples.

everything

is sugary sweet now,

so much so it hurts

your teeth,

not a sour

bite in the whole lot.

mad scientists, it seems, 

not God,

are now full time

on the job.

so much is over

exhausted

with it all, we 

settle into

the age

we are, who we are

and what

we've become.

the weight of us no longer

means

anything, the lines

on our face,

the greying of hair.

even the aches and pains

are acceptable.

at last

we relax into the big

chair

and sigh,

relieved that so much

is over.

what can't new love do?

what seems

bleak one day, suddenly in

the sunlight

is not

so bad

or dreary.

sleep helps, of course.

and new

love.

what can't new love do

to a life

gone astray?

i don't need a cloud

i don't believe in

the cloud.

i believe in the attic,

or the cellar.

a place

where i can go on

a rainy day

with a flashlight and look

at all the things

i deemed important

at some point

in my life.

the boxes of photos.

the year books,

love letters

unsent, or received.

the mementos, the journals,

the old ball glove,

the deflated

football,

the tennis racket.

i used to wear that jacket

over there.

those boots.

i once tried to learn how

to play

that guitar,

that harmonica,

and all those records.

those albums

i played until scratched

or warped.

there they are. there they'll

stay.

i don't need a cloud,

i write things down.

even a house with good bones

you know when it's time

to move,

when

there's a leak

you can't find,

when

the floor creaks, and

the furnace

no longer

churns

providing heat.

when the windows

let the air

in 

and the roof sags,

when

the handle on the door

won't turn

and the oven breaks.

it was a good house 

with good bones

for a long time,

but all things

must pass, and it's time

to move on.

two birds singing an old tune

the debate

changes nothing. no one's

mind is

swayed

or switched

to the other side.

it's two birds in a cage

singing

an old tune,

one red,

one blue.

we've been listening

way too long.

i plug my ears

with my fingers

and escape to another

room.

i'll figure it out later

halfway

into the book, i come across

several

pages

stuck to each other

by some

spill

of a drink,

or rain

storm leaking in.

i can't separate them

without

tearing

them apart. it's where

the meat of

the story

unfolds, the denouement,

but

i move on.

i skip ahead.

i forgive

and forget. the movie

comes out

tomorrow.

i mispoke

politics

are brutal. it exposes

lies,

and lies

that one thought would

never

see the light of day.

but

the media will bend you

over,

make you

cough,

and drop your drawers,

poke

around in your ears,

your nose,

it will show the world

your

old deceptive

ways.

store music

when

you hear the Doors,

or Hendrix,

or Joplin,

or Stairway to Heaven

in

the grocery store,

playing

softly

from the overhead

speakers

somewhere in the ceiling.

you know 

that it's

nearly over.

holding onto the light

it's no

different now than it was

when we

were children

chasing

fireflies with mason

jars,

trying to capture

and hold

onto to joy forever.

keeping

that golden

light on.

eating the last slice

i see the last

slice

of cake in the ice box.

it's past

midnight

and i can't sleep.

the open door

shines

a yellow light on my

legs,

my arms

and face.

i eat the cake.

please forgive me

in the morning.

it's just

cake.

i miss my stalker

at times

i miss my stalker.

the strange woman in Maryland

who

texts me

from a variety of phone numbers

giving me

a hard time

about 

whatever bothers her woke

sensibilities.

i wonder how she is.

if she's taking

her meds

and still going to therapy.

i wonder

if her husband is still

in the basement

chained

to a bed.

the shoe sale at Nordstrom Rack

the wife

looks over at me as we sip

our

morning coffee,

reading the paper

and says,

we should protest more.

we live

so close to the White House,

and we haven't

gone down there

in months to protest something.

we used to be

activists,

remember.

we marched and carried

signs,

we got tear gassed

and arrested.

we don't seem to care

anymore

about the climate or the wars,

or the injustices

going on

in the world.

i look up from the paper,

and say,

i'm sorry, did you say something.

i was just

reading this story

about a cat who walked 800

miles back home

after it was lost in Montana.

and by

the way,

there's a shoe sale on 

at Nordstrom Rack today.

we should go.

Saturday Clothes

for the first

day of school, we wore

our

school

clothes, bought three days

ago

at Sears or Penny's.

but it wasn't long before

the school

clothes looked

no different than our

Saturday clothes.

holes

in the shoes,

the shirts and jeans.

buttons missing,

zippers

broken,

but at least for one day

we looked

shiny

and clean.

a very short stay at the hourly room

we were tired.

from the long drive.

it was raining and cold,

the roads

were dangerous so we

pulled over

at a motel on the side

of the road.

the room was cheap,

but it had a vibrating

bed, which my son

wanted to slip coins

into the meter.

i could see outside

the thin sheers

the pulsating red light

of the sign

saying Liver and Onions

all week.

a roadhouse bar.

the place reeked of beer

and smoke.

my foot stepped into

a pair

of underwear on the floor.

i told my son and my

wife,

don't move an inch.

don't touch anything.

we're leaving.

try not to breathe.

something from the Ming Dynasty

it was a tall

vase,

set proudly

in the foyer.

a pot of sorts that i told

her

looked

like it came

from the Ming Dynasty.

it's beautiful

i told her.

the blue swirls of

dragons

and vines

against the gleaming

porcelain

white.

Target she told me.

twenty-nine,

ninety-five.

i've got another one

in bathroom.

lion eats zookeeper

it makes

the news, all channels,

the world

wide web,

and even the newspapers,

have a column

with a full

pictorial spread.

lion eats

zookeeper

the headline says.

and what are we to think

about this?

when did the lion

give up

on the raw meat thrown

into his cage

and want something

a little fresher.

something to chase

as it runs

away. something

fitting to his own

particular nature.

a pair of white socks with holes

i've noticed

over the years, that women

spend a lot

of time on

their nails.

fingernails, toenails.

buffing and sanding them

with

little tools,

painting them with the tiniest

of brushes.

a lot of time.

i've seen all colors

of the rainbow on those nails.

from cherry red

to black

to shades of green

or blue

and of course pink.

which goes without saying.

if it's not their hair

appointment

they're going to,

it's one for a pedicure

or a manicure.

it's an interesting thing

i ponder

as i stare

at my virginal toes, 

and slip into a pair

of white socks, 

with holes.

ready for kids

it's the largest pumpkin

i've ever seen.

it's gorgeous.

so round

and bright, 

as orange as any

harvest moon could be.

the stem still on which

helps them

spin it

to the good side.

the newlyweds carry it

together

to the yard,

where the skeleton

swings,

to where the cobwebs

float against

the hedges.

to where plastic bats

sway

on strings.

the young woman,

tells me

that they want children

one day.

i say, indeed,

staring at the yard. why wait?

i think you're ready.

long overdue for confession

i should

go visit the church.

St. Raymond's.

i can see it through the window

now that the leaves

have fallen.

i can hear

the church bells, 

the organ, the choir.

i can

smell the incense.

i'm way overdue for confession.

maybe tomorrow

i'll sneak

into the Little Chapel

and hit my knees.

ask for forgiveness.

give thanks.

two of your biggest fears

when you're eighteen

in 1971

the scariest

words

other than your number

is up,

your drafted,

and about to be shipped off

to Vietnam,

is your girlfriend telling you

she's late.

i can still

feel the chill running up

my spine.

my mouth going

dry.

my hands beginning

to shake.

and then the elation when

she whispered 

into my ear.

don't worry.

it arrived, it's okay.

some stayed, some died, some moved on

we used to sit

around

in Joe's mother's basement

and play

records.

drink beer.

he had a black light

on the dresser

and posters

on the wall, there were

five or six

of us.

children half grown

who used

to play sandlot ball together.

then things

turned.

Henry brought in the weed

and the dark room

filled with

smoke.

in time,

he tied his arm up, and

shot

into a vein

a syringe of dope.

childhood

ended then

and we went our separate

ways

for good. but some stayed

on the dangerous

and slippery

road.

they say it's your birthday

men for the most

part

ignore their birthdays. they

want no

fuss,

no cake,

no gifts, no cards.

maybe dinner out.

that's enough.

but no candles please

or anyone

singing.

but

with women it's different.

it's not

just one day,

it's all week and beyond.

every friend within

a hundred

miles is in on the celebration.

a parade takes place.

music

and gifts, confetti falls

from the sky.

it's a birthday greeting

all month

long.

with apologies to david ignatow

as i sit

at the table outside

the coffee

shop,

i begin to butter my toasted

bagel,

but it slips from my hand

and rolls away,

down the sidewalk

it goes,

down the street, down

the hill.

i run after it,

but it's futile and before

long,

i'm rolling too.

around and around.

my life

out of control.

this wasn't what i planned.

the rising tide

is it nature,

or God or a combination

of both

telling

us

something.

see how the flood water rise

and takes

lives.

washes

the town away.

are we being punished

or were

we fools

to move here and always

ignore

the rising tide.

a change is gonna come

i can

hear music from the upper

window

of the apartment

building.

there's a potted

plant

on the sill.

i hear Sam Cooke

singing,

in his mellow way.

a change is gonna come.

i take a seat

on the stoop and listen.

i savor

the moment.

drifting

back into yesterdays.

nothing is

truly gone.

embracing winter

good to take

out the heavy coats,

the scarves

and hats.

gloves.

setting on the steps

the boots.

soon snow

will fall.

soon you'll build a fire

and take

the shovel out.

you'll embrace

the wind

and ice.

you'll savor

a new season of low

sunlight.

summer was too long,

too hot.

this will feel right.

the court jester

i tried

to win her over, make

her happy

with gold

and silver.

with rings

and bracelets.

bouquets of flowers.

expensive things.

i told her jokes

to make her laugh.

i bought her a car,

a mink,

a house.

i dropped to my knee

and gave

her me.

i danced the jig.

still it wasn't

enough.

i was the court jester,

she was

the queen.

it's too nice out to stay in

i neither

care

or don't care what

the score is

anymore,

which team wins.

i no longer wear

the colors

or sit and watch or

listen

to the game.

what matter when young,

seems

odd now.

feels silly, 

feels strange.

a single flower

strange

to see a single flower

coming out

of the crack in the pavement.

a bloom

of yellow gold.

it gives

you hope,

gives you a reason

to go on,

and begin

again

despite everything

you know.

camping will bring us closer together

we wanted

to reconnect, to reinvigorate

our marriage,

because our love for

one another had waned

over the years

in sharing the same

bathroom.

so we bought camping gear

and a map

of the Appalachian Trail.

we bought

a tent,

a canteen,

a lantern, sleeping

bags,

bear repellant,

several cans of baked beans

and rain resistant

ponchos.

then we went

camping.

when we got home we

called our

lawyers.

the moving truck

would arrive the next day.

opening the third eye

i do some

yoga

with my left arm, stretching

it out,

up

and down,

as far behind my back

as i can

go.

i'm a bird,

a bee,

a plane.

then i do my right arm.

around

and around, spinning it like

a propellor.

spinning

both in conjunction

with each other.

before i know it

i'm off the ground and

flying upwards

into the clouds.

it's bliss for i can see

and understand

everything now.

adrift in Portland Oregon

her new

about to be ex calls me on

the phone

from Portland.

he's weeping.

she's taken half of everything,

he says.

the same as she did

to you.

she emptied out

my bank

account and now i have

to pay alimony

for the rest of my life.

she has the car,

the furniture,

the art.

she took

the dog too.

any advice?

you should have called

me twelve

years ago,

i tell him before you said

i do,

and made her your wife.

be careful though,

she likes to tap the phone

and download

what you write.

your true self

i get bored

easily these days,

i turn

off the television or toss

a book

across the room

with no

problem.

i push away a tasteless

plate.

i get off the phone

quickly

when

my eyes glaze over

with small talk,

or leave

the party early.

i get out of line

if it doesn't move

fast enough.

i've found out

who i truly am

at last

and make no apologies,

so please,

don't ask.

the exit wound

she rubs

her finger along the circle

of hard

skin,

a scar, healed.

an exit wound, i tell her

with

a grin.

there's more where

that came

from.

but i'm still here, willing

to love

again.

in the white room

strange

to be in a room with strangers.

white walled

and absent of frills.

in a bed

next to who.

eating

meals at a long table

with

people you never

knew.

and yet here you are

at home.

not yours,

or theirs, but a place

somewhere

on a hill, a strange

place,

unknown.

your eyes long for a color,

not white,

but red,

or green, maybe blue.

but we love it here

it's hurricane

season

again.

the winds roar, the streets flood,

houses

and cars

are washed away.

every year it's the same

sad story,

but no one

moves.

no one relocates.

they fix

things up, dry it all out,

batten down the hatches

once more

and wait

for the next hurricane

to arrive,

next week.

i wanted Dr. House, but got Dr. Suess instead

i try

to get my doctor on the phone,

but he's on

his boat

off the coast of

Italy.

if this is an emergency,

dial 911

the recording says.

otherwise,

i'll contact you after

the holidays.

Merry Christmas

to you and your family.

for refills on your prescriptions,

call my head nurse,

Maybeline.

otherwise see

you on the flip side.

next year.

i look at the calendar.

it's still

October.

don't worry, they'll make more

the food is all farm

raised now. or

factory processed full 

of sugar and oil

stuffed into bags

and boxes.

fried hard.

the salmon and chicken,

trout

and pork,

are crammed together

in tubs of water,

or stuck in

tiny little cages,

fattened and colored,

plucked

and chock full

of vitamins and antibiotics.

no wonder

everyone is fat

and sick.

heading to an early grave.

eat up, though,

don't worry,

they'll make more.

question mark and the mysterians

i hear the ding

of the text,

and quickly open up the phone

to see

what important

message

is awaiting me.

what valuable information

has been

sent my way.

but it's a single punctuation mark,

a question

mark.

nothing else.

i write back the same.

i don't recognize the number,

out of state.

i scratch my head,

it's no one familiar.

but i'll think about it all day.

we love you, but you're fired

i think

i was either fired or laid

off

from nearly

every job

i ever had.

and for good reasons too,

how many

more days

could i go

mopping a stairway,

or washing

dishes,

or mowing lawns.

how many

more years could i sit

in a cubicle

with my fingers on a keyboard?

somedays, i even sit down

and have

a talk

with myself now,

and threaten to fire me

from

my own business.

i can be lazy,

and disinterested,

bored

and annoyed

by the work, by the hours,

but i press on. bread

and shelter

being of the utmost

importance.

the eulogy

so much

was made of her iced tea

after she died.

the lemons,

the black tea bags

from

China

soaking

in the boiled water,

how she set

the jar

on the porch in the sunlight.

old school,

the way

her mother did when

she was a child.

a sprig

of mint on

each glass,

how she poured it over

ice,

then rocked on her front

porch,

back

and back and back.

when things bite you

it's one

black spider on the wall.

a fat

long armed spider

swinging

on his web,

faster than i can swat

him

with yesterdays rolled

up paper.

are there more?

is there

a family

of spiders,

living under the floorboards?

residing in closets

and dark

corners.

there's so much going

on in the world

that we don't know about,

until it

bites you.

image is everything

it doesn't matter,

if you're

Indian

or black, white or

Chinese,

Russian or Mexican.

are you a good person?

are you changing your

stance

on everything

you once believed with

all your heart,

flip flopping for votes?

can you articulate

your thoughts,

are you intelligent enough

to string two

sentences together

and tell the world who

you truly are.

or does that even matter

anymore?

i can help you if you ask

i admire

the old man's garden next door.

the tall

black eyed Susans

peering over my fence.

the trellis

full of grapes,

the tomatoes,

the peppers, even a pear

tree

in the corner

with 

green ornaments catching

sunlight.

i see him out there, 

weeding, and watering,

his wide hat

tilted on his tanned face.

sometimes

he looks over

at my yard

and laughs.

he tells me, i can help you

next spring,

all you have to do

is ask.

bottled water

the idea

of bottled water seemed

crazy

as a kid.

we had the hose

attached to the house,

lying

in the grass.

there were spigots to be

turned

on with pliers.

kitchen sinks

had faucets,

bathrooms too.

to have a bottle of spring

water was

was what kings and queens

had.

the rich across

the tracks.

not you.

beauty from a distance

from a distance,

from

a far safe place

those mountains look

beautiful,

the snowcapped peaks,

like

lace,

the green and blue

of the slopes,

full of trees

bending in the wind.

it's a postcard

worthy of Hallmark.

it reminds

me of you, 

knowing that

up close and climbing

that mountain,

you may fall and freeze,

your life may end.

the air is filled with violin strings

when

did it begin, this victimhood

society.

of color,

race,

skin,

age and faith,

gender.

fat or thin.

trans or normal?

when did each and difference

become

a flag

to raise

to get what's coming to you,

what you

perceive

to be a deserving 

thing.

all day long the air

is filled

with violin strings.

the firewood men

the bearded men

in a red pickup truck

are

in the cul de sac.

their loud

engine idles in the road.

the back

is filled

with firewood.

cords and cords,

stacked

high.

they've driven all the way

from Winchester

Virginia.

they're a long way from

home.

they look tired.

they knock at the door,

but i tell

them that i don't have

a fireplace.

which disappoints them,

so i say

okay.

and buy a cord,

and give them a tip.

i watch them turn around,

and head

home.

the blue from their exhaust

clouding the new

moon.

the house on fire up the street

a house

is on fire

down the road.

the red trucks scream

up the highway

with men

in long coats and helmets.

ladders

swinging as

they speed

through the signs

and lights.

the dogs

are loose

chasing,

there is smoke in the air.

you can see for

miles

the flames rising above

the rooftops.

people rush to take

photos

and stare.

the news is already there.

we go

home

and check the oven,

the iron,

she unplugs the dryer

for her

hair.

how dare you express and opinion that doesn't agree with me

an anonymous

person

leaves me a note, saying

that she

won't read

what i write anymore.

i prefer

your silly poems,

your stories

about love and loss,

your benign observations

about the world,

but now,

you've gone too far.

how dare you write about

politics,

how dare you

have an opinion,

or make fun of our political

leaders.

who do you think you are

expressing yourself

so freely,

without censoring.

you're a threat to poetry,

to democracy.

i respond back, Mom,

is that you?

making butter overnight

i sympathized with her,

never being able to lie still,

having

restless leg syndrome,

something we

used to call the Jimmy Leg.

but i couldn't get to sleep

with her lying

there and her leg shaking all night

with a mind of its own.

round and around it went.

the thought suddenly came to me

that if i put her foot

into a bucket of cream,

that i'd have butter by morning.

but she wouldn't go for it,

and screamed.

playing solitaire while waiting for Shirley

i break out

a new

deck of cards as i sit

in the coffee

shop

waiting for Shirley

to show up

with so called big news.

she's always late.

i move the cup away

and my

scone

and lay out the cards for

a game

of solitaire.

someone walks by and tells

me,

that i don't need to do

that anymore.

you can play that game on

your laptop

or phone.

i look at the girl with

blue hair and say, 

yes, i know.

i sigh and put the cards

away,

i take a bite of my scone.