my kingdom for a blow torch

so many

of us

are limping from the storm.

legs

are sore,

arms weary.

fingers

and noses frost

bitten.

our backs

are strained from bending

over.

it's not

snow.

it's nothing like

snow.

it's blocks of ice

that we're shoveling in

bits and pieces.

piling it

all up into the yard.

we're using

garden tools.

pick axes, spades

and sledgehammers.

my kingdom

for a blow torch

to hold.

April can't come soon enough.

conquered land, not stolen

my immediate

knee

jerk reaction to when some dope

says

we're living on

stolen

land is to say

shut up you stupid

uneducated

moron.

and when they continue

to tell you

that there should

be no borders,

no countries, i start

to laugh.

i can't believe how

badly

our education system

has failed us.

entering the padded cell years

does one

slip

into retirement like

a pair of

bedroom slippers,

into a silky robe

to lounge around with?

yes,

it's a good start, but

what to do

with all these hours?

which room

should i go to 

to look out a window.

what's left

in this world to buy

that i don't already

have?

what country is urging me

to visit,

and why?

if these are the golden years,

why do i see

a ring of rust

around me?

i need to start

making new friends

soon

before they come

to take me

away.

taking a cruise

we take a cruise.

it's actually a barge floating

down an icy river

close to Siberia.

we found it on

the back of a magazine

at the dentist's office.

AAA

says it's great.

but it's a working

cruise.

they give us leather gloves

and heavy

clothes

for the bad weather.

rubber boots too and

a life preserver

in case

we fall in when

the winds pick up.

we have to pull nets up

loaded with fish

every morning, then scrub

the decks.

but the scenery

is fabulous

and the food isn't too bad

if you like

cod, rock fish and herring

every morning

with a cream cheese

spread.

bribing a cop with donuts

there's a cop

behind me with his party lights on.

i pull over.

he pulls

in behind me and gets out.

i put my

coffee and donut

down and

quickly

get my license out,

my registration

and acquire a nervous smile.

maybe i didn't make

the yellow light

after all.

yes, officer,

have i done something wrong.

oh, no.

he says, you're fine.

i just wanted to know

where you

got that donut.

i saw you biting on it

when

you turned the corner

and ran that yellow light.

i haven't seen a donut like

that since

the summer of love

riots.

anymore in the bag?

two cinnamon cake

donuts

and a curler,

here, help yourself.

i tell him.

i hand him the bag

and he moves on.

eleventh grade French

it's a little French restaurant

on the edge

of town.

4 stars on Yelp.

there's a view of water,

lamp posts,

the passing

crowd.

linen table clothes

and candles

are set about.

a waiter

dressed neatly

with a mustache

pulls out our chairs

and bows.

i peruse the menu

looking for a word i remember

from 11th grade

French class.

this could take a while.

cheeseburgers

and fries

are nowhere to be found.

abstract

is the abstract painting

too abstract,

too

random and disconnected

to the real

world.

is just a lot of drips

and spills

ala

Pollock?

or is it an emotional

landscape

of good and evil.

a storm

of color.

i need a face, or a tree,

or a building.

something

i don't have to imagine.

something i can actually

see.

a lighter shade of pale

he tells me

that he needs to ask his wife

before we

go forward,

before any serious 

changes

are made

in the color.

perhaps we should use

a different white,

something

less, or more

white than the one you're

putting on

the wall.

a higher power

needs to be

in on this discussion.

stop

painting where your

are.

let me

text her

and put her on zoom.

hold the paintbrush up

against that wall.

you worry too much

i promise

myself not to worry so much

about

everything.

then i begin to worry

about worrying.

is it harming me.

causing damage

to my

brain and heart.

am i driving myself to

an early

grave with all

this worrying?

i need to stop it right

now.

but i can't.

i'll try again tomorrow.

carrying in a bundt cake at 12 am

as i take the trash

to the curb,

i see

the neighbor, the new

neighbor.

again

a new neighbor. they come

and go

so quickly.

a turnstile would be

appropriate

on that house.

but i say hello

as he carries in an armful

of Tupperware

and an enormous

bag of plastic

forks and spoons.

it's nearly midnight.

freezing cold.

i'm Eugene,

he says.

his wife gets out of the car

carrying

what looks to be a bundt

cake,

uniced. it's under

a fancy

glass case.

she nods hello and winks.

she seems

nice.

don't leave yet

it's too early

for this.

rising

before dawn,

slipping into clothes

and boots.

the bed whispers, come

back.

return.

we have more sleeping

to do,

more dreams

to be hatched.

don't go. please.

come back,

come back

while the bed is

still warm.

the new years eve party

it was

New Years Eve

as we sat in the drive thru

at Jack in the Box.

the three

of us,

Mike,

Dave, me.

we were hungry.

it was snowing.

the frayed wipers

pushed

off the heavy flakes.

when we got our food

we parked

in the lot and ate, listening

to the radio,

talking about

how great

everything tasted,

washed down

with cokes.

we talked about the girl

in the red

dress. how she danced.

they were

the best of nights,

then we went home,

going forever,

our separate ways.

new essentials

what were

essentials, no longer are.

the weekend

forays

into town,

the chasing of skirts,

the long

nights

of drink and dance.

barely home

before dawn.

how fun

those years were,

sweet memories

of the past.

but other essential things

have taken

their place,

the cane by the door,

good shoes

and glasses,

the earmarked book,

an afternoon nap.

so few will

we should feel better,

shouldn't we?

at this far

point in years, so much

more

behind us

than in front of us.

the kids

beyond our leash,

the bills paid,

sheltered in

our homes with

plenty

of food and drink.

we should, at last, one

would feel

that we could sit by the fire

with a loved

one,

and full glass, and relax,

and say

what's done

is done, and yet,

so few will.

no one is all good

i'm skeptical

about

the priest, the minister,

the shaman,

the mystic

and wizard.

the gurus and yogis.

as hard

as they try to be a shining

light.

i can still

see and hear

that all is not well. that

there's something

not quite right.

fixing each other

imperfect,

as we all are, never quite

polished

and done,

finished as to the way

we wish

we were

born.

alive

with so many

faults,

but we try. dear Lord

how we try

to make

each other right,

fixing

all that is wrong with us,

when seen

in the morning

light.

a new song to sing to

it's rare

to find new music, new

artists

that you fall in love with

and have

to listen to it all.

music that you

add to your

stalled list of favorites.

but it happens.

and so you

tuck a new song

into the play list

between Marvin Gaye

singing What's going on,

and 

Dylan's

Highway 61,

Laura Nyro,

Eli's Coming,

Sinatra's

Summer Wind and songs like

Maggie May

by dear old

Rod.

receiving personal news

there's news,

the daily, world and local

news,

the same old

day in day out,

the constant barrage

of editorialized

news,

skewed to a certain

point of view,

and then there's personal

news.

whispered in quiet tones

across

the back fence.

all of it true.

news that actually counts.

news with

consequence.

he loved to make lists

he loved his lists.

things

to do, 

grocery items,

tasks

that needed to be done,

but if not

written down, he'd

forget.

the filter for the furnace,

the oil

in the car.

the dentist visit.

flowers for

his love when her birthday

came around.

there were

so many lists,

some on his desk,

sticky notes

on the screen,

and others folded

neatly in his

pockets,

after he was found.

the unshoveled walk

before the divorce

i'd see her husband carrying out

the trash,

mowing the lawn,

washing

the cars.

he'd be up on the roof

with a shingle

to fix

a leak,

he'd be in the garage

with a hammer

and saw

building another bookshelf.

there was

a ladder to the window

in the spring

for cleaning.

he was under the car

changing the oil,

putting air

into the tires,

and now.

i see the wife going to

work

slipping on the unshoveled

walk.

i believe she's having

second thoughts.

the short month of agony

thankfully

it's a short month.

the dark

cloud of another birthday

approaching,

the impending

doom

of Valentine's Day.

the purchasing

of flowers,

and gifts on Amazon.

the President's Day

sale

for a new mattress

thrown

onto the roof of my car.

it's not just the cold,

the wind

and frozen tundra

outside

the window.
it's never a good month.

even on a leap

year.

we've got to get out of this place

it's a familiar

sound,

i remember it from

years past,

that screech of one tire

on the ground,

on the square

of black pavement while

the other

three tires

are on frozen snow.

unmoving.

but the one

tire,

the only tire

with ambition, insists

that i press 

on the gas

shift and go.

a woman we both used to know

there's a man standing across the street

in the snow.

he's holding a shovel

and staring

into my window.

who is he?

what does he want?

have i parked in his space,

does he need help.

is he a friend, or soon to be foe?

i wave to him.

he waves back.

he may

be crying.

there are frozen tracks

of tears

on his cheeks.

should i bring him coffee,

talk to him,

invite him into the house

to get warm.

perhaps, but

i suspect it's about a woman

we both used to

know,

i can't be certain.

i may never know.

these are not the worst of times

these are not the worst

of times,

this is not

the end of the world, not

even close.

this is nothing.

a mere blip on the map

of history.

live through

the great depression,

or the holocaust, or

the great fires of Chicago,

or San Francisco.

the black plague.

world war one where

a thousand 

people died per day.

go fight at Antietam

or Gettysburg.

wake up with polio

and no cure.

live through that,

then come back with 

your latte

and cat on your lap

and start over.

to each his own

to each

his own crust of bread,

his own

drink

or food,

his own house or car,

his own

choice

of work

or bed to lie in.

to each his own style

in clothing,

or taste

in music, in art, in

poetry

or books to be

read.

we are not the same.

thankfully.

that would be terribly

boring.

after all she's been through

you

don't know her story,

but you

feel it as you look into the eyes

of the woman

beside

you pushing her cart

up the aisle.

widow?

perhaps, the long coat,

the weight

of her,

the set chin,

the note in her hand

listing what

to buy.

she doesn't smile.

and why would she

after all

she's been through?

enthusiasm

enthusiasm

is the key to life.

the blood source of living.

without it

we go through the motions.

we let

it all fade

and fray. we need something

or someone

to hold onto.

to look forward to being with.

we need

to want a good meal,

a good book

or show.

or welcoming kiss.

we need

lust.

we need laughter.

we need interests.

something left behind

of course

we forget something.

we always do.

we stand at the door and look

around

the room

before we close it and hit

the open

road.

before

we catch the long train

away

from home.

but what is it?

what aren't we taking with us

that we'll need?

something. something.

we'll remember later

though

when

we arrive at the station

and the rain begins.

a white bowl of soup

as i blow

on the hot steam

of soup,

not unlike

the one my

mother would make

in the early

morning hours on a winter

day

of no school.

i smell

the meat of those mornings,

the potatoes

and celery,

the carrots. i seen her

hands

in the flour,

the salt and pepper.

i see her deep in thought

as come

into the kitchen to say

good morning.

twenty odd years

it doesn't seem

that long ago, despite the fact

that it's been

twenty odd years

since

she died.

and yet here we are.

still here.

still at this same desk

looking

out the same window,

season after

season.

pondering her absence,

still alive.

the angle of the morning sun

despite winter,

the frozen land

outside,

the angle

of

the morning sun is set

just so

that i

lie cat like in its glow.

how

can anyone

not bathe

in its warmth and believe

that the world

is not fine?

finding the middle ground

there's a variety of human beings,

the neat nicks,

who have the perfectly

clean house, the made bed,

the floor swept,

not a spec of dust

anywhere,

a place for everything

and everything in its place.

these people are difficult people.

you need to avoid these people

at all cost.

and then there's the other side

of the spectrum,

the hoarder.

where nothing ever gets thrown

away,

whether clothes, or magazines,

cards and letters,

empty jars of milk,

or jam.

it's no surprise to open a closet

and see everything

they wore in 1985.

you must avoid these people too.

just go to work, be thankful and quit whining

the pendulum

may have swung too far

with all of this mumbo jumbo

new age

enlightenment.

yoga and Reiki,

therapy to soothe the broken

soul,

the mismanaged

hearts,

childhood trauma.

everyone seems to be staring

at their navels

contemplating life.

trying to figure out

what went wrong.

why the stars won't align,

despite being

an ENJF,

or Aquarius for their sign.

everyone is seeing a guru, 

a self help

coach

or becoming one.

God love the tree huggers,

the whale

savers, 

the deranged blue haired

protesters,

but we've had enough of you.

the only sane people are

the ones

that go to work, get tired,

come home to their families,

drink and eat, make love

and go to bed satisfied.

starting the next day

doing the same, but with

a strong cup of coffee,

not a soy milk,

gingerbread, extra shot,

whipped cream

latte,

inscribed with some silly name.

nuclear winter

the ice

refuses to give ground.

not an inch

does it melt.

the world is an ice rink.

the shovel is of no use.

the broom handle

breaks when

it hits the ground.

it's time

to go nuclear on this

winter

storm.

time to get the blow torch

out.

the short cut

the ducks

don't seem to mind

the frozen

pond.

they land and skid to a stop

until they find

where the water begins

again.

and the fox,

hungry

as always,

skips

on quiet paws

across the ice,

happy

for the short cut.

The Attic Diary

the worried mother

finds little Molly Erin O'Malley up

in the attic

under a table scribbling into

a notebook.

what are you doing up here, dear?

it's freezing.

and why do you have a crust

of French bread

on the floor?

i'm hiding from the bad men, 

she says,

and writing in my diary

before we're taken away to camps

in railroad cars.

Mr. Tim, our governor,

the man with jazz hands, said

on tv yesterday that

one day the story would be written

about us children

who have to hide in fear,

just like Anne Frank

during world war two,

and so i'm documenting

my story.

maybe my diary will be the one

they find and make a Netflix

show about.

Oh, honey. the soldiers 

are only taking bad men away,

dangerous people,

the criminals, the illegals

who crossed the border without

documentation.

this will make our streets and town

safer.

let me see what you've written

so far sweetie.

she hands her mother the little notebook

with My Diary

inscribed on the front.

It's a cold day here in Minnesota

as i hide in the attic,

shivering.

i've brought up a crust of bread

to fight off

my hunger.

my mother and father and my brothers

and sisters are downstairs playing

video games.

i cringe in fear with every ring

of the doorbell.

also, dear diary,

I think Joey across the street likes me. 

when we have

snowball fights in the schoolyard

he only throws his snowballs at me.

i wonder what it would be like

to be married to him.

although i would never kiss a boy.

he has red hair and freckles too.

tomorrow we're going shopping

at the mall

and then to a movie before we

go to Applebee's for dinner.

my dad's favorite restaurant.

we might go skating down at the frozen

lake after the movie

and drink hot chocolate.

i asked my mother why are we allowed

to go outside, won't the soldiers

find us and take us away

to Alligator Alcatraz?

aren't you scared?

she just laughs and calls me silly

and Mr. Tim a big buffoon.

the mother hands the diary back to

her daughter.

Okay, Molly, that's enough writing

for today.

good job.

now come on downstairs, i'm making

Irish stew,

go wash up sweetie pie

and put that bread in the trash before

we get mice.

and no more watching CNN

tonight. Okay?

a box of polaroid photos

when

he died, i found the polaroid

camera

under the bed

and a box

of photos

from the sixties

and seventies.

women

he had known modeling

underwear

and less

not unlike Bettie Page

would do.

but they

were mild, tasteful

photographs,

not crude. almost loving

in how he

staged the light,

set the mood.

he missed his calling.

thankfully my mother

was

not in the box.

whew.

Hanoi Jane's advice

although bookless,

we're all experts now.

we've

seen the clips,

listened

to the news, to the podcasts,

we're in

tune

with tik tok and all the rest

that pummels

our ears

and brains with

nonsense

and occasional

truthful

blips.

we've absorbed

what the celebrities want

us to believe

and follow

them like a religion.

please

Jane Fonda,

and Jimmy Kimmel,

Rosie and Ellen,

tell us how to live.

we're experts now

on the constitution,

the laws of land,

we know what

the bill of rights are,

we know which amendment

to ignore,

and which to defend.

the middle ground

we meet

in the middle. we shake

hands.

we hug,

we tell each other, good

to see you.

we disagree

on nearly everything,

but 

real friendship

is beyond

politics, beyond 

disagreements.

we both want the same thing.

peace.

common sense,

sanity

and prosperity.

safety.

march of the penguins

it's very cold.

ice,

snow. sleet and hail.

temperatures

well below

freezing.

so it's no surprise

when i see

a gaggle

of penguins coming

up the street

followed

by a polar bear.

maybe i should wait

before i go

up to the store.

i need to find my skis

first,

they're somewhere.

noises in the night

something

falls in the middle of the night.

or maybe

it's the turning

of a doorknob,

or someone climbing

through a window.

it's noise

that wakes me up.

i sigh.

okay.

here we go, but do i

get up.

no.

i need my sleep.

there's nothing here i can't

live without.

everything,

almost everything

can be replaced, even

a second,

or third time.

there's a monkey nearby with a banana

she went

to Costa Rica to have her teeth

worked on.

it was half

the price when compared

to the local

dentists.

and now she lives there.

she says

she'll never come back until

it's safe again.

when the politics change.

when they give up on the idea

of borders

and police,

and ownership

of property and things.

she sends me a picture

of her on

the beach with a coconut

she cracked

open with a rock.

i can see her beautiful

new smile

in the photo.

there's a monkey nearby

eating a banana,

while rummaging through

her purse,

also with good teeth.

a good clean window

i like

a good window.

a clean clear

piece of glass

that i can see through

to the other side.

whether

it's to the outside

where the yard is,

with black birds

on the fence,

or to the inside

of a hot oven,

as dough rises, 

and the room is filled

with a cinnamon scent.

his demons are legion

the devil

is alive and well.

the instigator,

the agitator,

the angry

and destructive

force that roams

the earth

in bitter souls.

in mob

chaos.

his demons

are legion.

just listen to the screams

out on the street.

to the banging of pots

and pans,

the shrieks of whistles,

throwing their bodies

onto the road.

the devil is alive

and well.

just look into their eyes,

into

the darkness of their souls.

it's a glimpse

of hell.

if i get pregnant

if i get pregnant,

she asks,

as we both lie back in bed

smoking

cigarettes,

sweating profusely

as our hearts beat like rabbits,

what should we name

our baby?

i cough a cloud of smoke

towards

the ceiling fan,

rapidly blinking

my eyes,

then pull the sheets up

to my neck

i suddenly feel neuropathy

tingling

in one foot.

hmm.

i don't know. a baby?

don't you have to leave soon?

are all of your

cats okay alone?

yes, they're fine.
by the way i ask, 

exactly how old are you?

power lines and hot air balloons

i use

the word maybe

a lot

lately.

or no.

each becoming a daily

part of my

vocabulary

when asked to do something

i don't want to do.

hot air

balloon ride?

umm,

no. i don't think so.

Chinese food

for dinner?

maybe.

cracker jacks not drugs

at around ten p.m.

i need

something.

something crunchy, sweet

perhaps,

or salty.

something to eat,

but not a meal.

but a snack

of some sort,

a bag or a box

of something bad for

me, but in the moment

satisfies

my existential hunger.

something i can

dig into,

like a box of Cracker Jacks,

and eat until

i get sick,

tipping the almost empty

box up

to my open mouth.

just a treat.

this is why i never did

drugs in my teen

years.

i'd be in a shelter,

or on

a curb now,

a hopeless addict

yearning for a fix.

our new heroic women

as i watch

another crazy violent video

on YouTube

of another tubby white

woman

with her belly

exposed

being sprayed in the face with

orange mace

for blocking

traffic,

i wince

and wonder if it hurts,

does it sting her eyes,

get in her mouth

and nose.

does it stain, can she wash

it off

when she gets home.

and when it goes viral,

will she be back tomorrow

for another chemical dose,

a new internet

hero

back on the road.

before my shift at starbucks begins

maybe it was

a mistake taking the easy classes,

philosophy

and art,

drama,

and literature,

modern poetry and gender

studies.

maybe studying

the effect of race relations

on climate change

and 

journaling wasn't the way

to go

i think as i sleep in late

before my

shift at Starbucks begins.

marshmallows on a long stick i found on the ground

i don't

understand camping.

whether it's for

one day,

or a week.

singing around

the campfire,

telling horror stories

about our ex-wives.

the can of beans, the bug

spray,

the bear repellant

and snake

away.

the flimsily tent

with a stuck zipper.

i haven't been in a sleeping

bag

since the 4th grade.

what about the wind,

the rain,

flash floods?

who knows what, or who

lurks in these

woods.

yes,

i like the stars

at night and

marshmallows burned brown

on a long

stick

i just found on the  ground.

i like the cool fresh air,

but

why sleep

on the hard ground when

there's a 4 star Hilton,

with a queen size bed,

right

over there.

displaying the new butter dish online

i buy

things, like a new toaster,

or a new

butter dish

and post them online.

it takes

awhile to get the lighting

just right,

the angle,

what's in the background,

but finally

i find the right shot

and share

it on Facebook

with my dwindling friends.

i get few comments

and likes,

but the ones i do get

mean an awful lot.

when times were good, really good

there was

the time, when things were good,

really good,

when we

fell off the bed

while making love,

taking

the lamp, the clock

and the stack

of books with us

as we rolled onto the rug.

even the dog

coming over to investigate

the chaos,

hopping on

us with all four paws

didn't make us stop.

marking off time

as i stand here

paying my respects,

i remember how he

used to tell me his age

each year.

how he'd throw a party

for himself

on his birthday.

he'd make light of the fact

that i was a few

years behind him.

you're just a pup

he'd say.

get in line.

not that he was worried

about dying,

or that he was running out

of time,

but it was something else.

how to live

a happy life

seemed to have escaped

his mind.

did i wake you when i got up?

did i wake you

last night

when i got up to go downstairs

to the kitchen.

did the sound

of the cupboard

doors

opening and closing,

and the frying

pan stir you out of a dream.

did the clinking

of forks

and knives against

the plate

make you wonder where

i was,

why i couldn't sleep?

or did you ignore

me,

as usual,

like most times of the day.

a hundred shovels full

a hundred,

at least, shovels full of snow

and ice,

bending and lifting

in the cold,

and at last

the car is cleared to hit

the open

road.

and now, if only i had

a place

to go.

chasing your tail

for so

long it felt like you were chasing

something.

some ideal

place

in your mind,

some notion of happiness,

some island

of pleasure

and satisfaction.

contentment.

and then suddenly

you found it

when you stopped

looking

and settled down.

look both ways before crossing

at last

you reach an age where people

stop giving you

unwanted advice.

no longer

do they say, save your money,

don't drink too 

much,

work hard,

stay away from drugs

and wild women.

get plenty of rest

and exercise.

look both ways before crossing

and try not

to worry too much

about things.

don't sweat the small stuff etc. .

it took a while but people

finally keep

those thing to themselves

now when

you come upon them.

the stamp collector

i get a good vibe

from

people that collect things,

whether

stamps,

or porcelain pigs,

stuffed animals,

scarves

or hats, trinkets from

their journeys

abroad.

these people 

are good people, 

i feel.

they seem to harm

no one,

while

focused on simpler

and smaller

dreams.

triage in apartment 3 G

she kept her doctors

busy.

first it was

her shoulder, then her knees,

then one

hip,

then her breasts

after
the facelift.

next came

the cataract surgery,

then

a disc in her neck.

an ankle

when she tripped

up the steps.

an arm was wrapped

in a cast

from falling

on the ice.

a wig

disguised her thinning

hair.

from what i heard,

the broken

heart came last.

the diminished circle

saying goodbye

is not so hard anymore.

you just

stop calling, stop

texting, stop

stopping by.

you erase your loves,

your pale

relationships

from the past. you step aside.

it's time.

it's long overdue,

your circle grows

smaller.

it's just life, no need

to cry.

measuring life by coffee

we could easily

measure our lives by cups

of coffee,

or tea,

toast perhaps.

only so many sips

appointed to each life,

so many bites,

so many pads of butter

and spreads

of jam.

we could see the beginning

and the end

of time,

with all of that laid

out before us.

dizzy from the back row with popcorn

i prefer the old

movies.

the ones that didn't

try so hard.

the movies before they decided

to jiggle

the camera

from every possible angle,

up and down,

sideway,

close ups

and far away shots.

before

so much blood and guts

and animation

owned

the screen.

they give me vertigo now.

with all of the camera

gymnastics,

the gyrations

and constant movement

hoping that will keep

our attention

not the weak plot and
dull

dialogue, all heading toward

a predictable

destination.

familiar faces

we meet

the neighbors when it snows.

all the people

who

never waved,

never looked your way

and said

hello.

but we need each other now.

we need a push,

a shovel,

we need jumper cables

and

an update on the roads

beyond

the cul de sac.

God finds a way to make us

say, hey,

before the ice and drifts

keeps us

at home.

Queen of the Apple Butter Parade

i met

a girl once who was the queen

of the Apple Butter Parade

in Winchester.

she gave me

a small jar of it when we met.

an amber

squat jar with a stuck lid.

i bought her

a sandwich

and a coke.

i asked her about what being

a queen

involved?

speaking engagements,

interviews

with the press

and television?

will there be a memoir

coming out soon?

she took a bite of her

sandwich,

sipped her soda,

then stood up, adjusting her

tiara,

and said, what's wrong 

with you?

the weather channel all day long

my mother's prime

obsession,

other than building a miniature

doll house

with tiny furniture

and tiny people,

a whole town with

cats and dogs,

and a railroad yard,

was the weather.

there was nothing like a good

storm

to melt her butter

and get her

on the phone,

speed dialing

from her laminated

sheet hanging on the kitchen

wall.

she'd call after a foot would fall,

and despite

living only two miles

away from her, she'd ask,

so how's the weather

where you are?

did you get any snow?

the bright light tells all

this bright light

coming in from the window

is telling

me all the things i wish

i didn't know.

how dusty the room is,

how dirty

the floor,

the unmade bed,

the cobwebs in the corner,

the dirty cups and saucers

set about.

the light tells all.

the fur of the dog,

and when i look into

the mirror

how quickly i've grown old.

where is the milkman?

where

are the milk men

in their trucks at 5 am?

the paper

boys on the corner,

shouting the news.

the clean wash hanging

on the line

with wooden clothespins?

where

is Sputnik

and Kennedy, 

the race home when the sirens

go off. where

are the 

Beatles,

Swanson tv dinners,

lunch boxes

and homework

at the dining room table.

your mother at the kitchen

window keeping an eye on you.

where is Mass

on Sunday

morning,

Billy Graham on tv.

where are the rabbit ears,

the black

and white

screen with

three channels to choose

from.

where is Ed Sullivan

and Marilyn

Monroe.

the Twilight Zone.

Elvis, the king?

where are the good teachers,

the good neighbors,

the friendly

mailman that knows your

name

and waves.

not a member of the Donner Party

the power is out.

the power

is on.

it's a flickering tease

of light

and dark.

and then it's off for five

hours.

it's cold, i'm shivering,

with hat

and gloves,

a winter coat on.

i'm sitting in the dark

as the sun goes

down.

i could build a fire

i suppose,

but i have no wood,

no fireplace.

i can't even find matches

to light a candle

to warm my hands on.

i wish i had a dog to curl

upon me.

i feel as if i'm in a story

by Jack London as

i sit in the half

dark and contemplate

the night ahead.

the roads are blocked

with ice

and snow. 

power lines are down.

the wind howls.

wolves

with red eyes

are coming out

of the woods, baring

their teeth.

i'm alone,

but thankfully 

i'm not with the Donner Party,

if this goes on.

invasion of the left-wing lunatics

i don't know

these people. these crazy

people

in the street.

i'm not related to any of them,

i've never

met them,

nor do i work with, or

for them.

they're not

acquaintances or friends,

neighbors

that i'm aware of.

who are these lunatics?

what's happened to their brains

that they

scream and yell

in the cold,

using their cars as weapons,

bringing firearms

to a so called peaceful

protest.

they seem to be infected with

some strange virus,

of hate

and vitriol,

bug eyed and red faced.

zombies,

all with one brain,

characters from night of the living

dead.

all of different colors,

of different shapes.

why are they so lost,

so insane?

who are they?

where are they from.

what space ship did they

arrive on?

the perfectly dug out car

you learn

a lot about people when it snows.

who gets up

early to shovel

the walk, to dig out their car,

making a neat clean

path to it,

a perfectly 

sculpted path

from door to door,

with the wipers raised

as the car warms up

and then

there's me.

waiting until it all stops,

brushing

the snow off the windows

and driving away.

when to take the little blue pill

we have

to pace ourselves, she tells me,

as we both look

out the window

staring at the snow covered

roads, impassable

at the moment.

we're going to be here for

a long time.

she removes my hand from around

her waist

and puts on her thick fuzzy

pajamas

with little dogs on them.

we have food, we have power.

we have television

and internet.

we have Netflix, and wine.

but maybe hold off on

taking the little blue pill

for a while,

we have to pace ourselves.

honey, where did you put the knitting needles?

after six or seven hours

of watching

the riots

and mayhem on the news,

in Minnesota,

and scrolling your phone

for even more

information and content

about it all.

you start looking for some

knitting needles

to poke your own eyes out.

you've had enough.

your mind is drunk with

crazies.

is He pulling our leg

when you

see a skunk, or a porcupine,

or a

rattle snake, you

can't help

but wonder

if God is pulling our leg

with these

creations.

the clown fish,

the cuckoo bird,

the monkeys

with red butts.

what's the deal on all of this?

the giraffe,

really?

kings and queens

we have

too many choices these days.

too many

options

on what to wear, what to buy.

we spend hours,

days

looking at the right

handle

for the drawer, the right

shower head,

the right

color to stain the floor.

we click right

or left

on love,

judging the face

before us with a

thumbs up, thumbs down.

we ponder nearly

everything

before our eyes, trying to avoid

buyers remorse,

hoping to be

satisfied.

we're kings and queens

on our thrones

behind closed doors, sitting

before the screen

in our underwear, wanting

the divine.

when will the snow start?

she's never

seen snow, she's from Florida.

Key West.

she's so

excited, still tanned

and wearing

her red bikini

and baby seashells

around her neck.

she can't stop watching

the weather channel

and listening to all of the

dire predictions.

anywhere between

two and three feet

of snow

is in our future,

they say.

she keeps looking up into

the sky,

like a child

waiting for Santa Claus

to arrive.

when, she says, when will

it begin to fall?

when when when,

she says, stamping her

flip flops against

the floor.

i look up

at the cloudless sky.

the sun is out.

there's a blue jay

on the fence.

relax, i tell her, have another

pina colada,

the weatherman

isn't always right.

is this what we voted for?

is this what we

voted for?

yes,

a thousand times yes.

a closed border,

lower taxes,

no tax on tips,

gas prices falling,

lower prescription prices,

criminals being swept

off the streets,

tariffs and trade deals

galore.

poisons out of our food.

the stock market booming,

interest rates

lowered.

evil nuclear countries

dismantled.

dictators rounded up.

the end of so many wars.

billions of dollars

in fraud being

uncovered.

the murder rate dropping

to the lowest point

since 1904.

yes,

a thousand times yes,

this is exactly

what we voted for.

tired of crazy people in the road

as i

drive home from work,

tired.

exhausted, a few bucks in

in my pocket

from a long

nine hours

of hard labor,

i begin to wonder

why other people aren't

working.

why are they always

in the street

protesting.

don't they have jobs, families,

a real life.

they look fat and well

clothed.

they don't look poor

all bundled up

in colorful clothes.

how do they do it?

day after day, standing

out in the cold,

screaming

for the world to change.

i take

the long way around them

to at last get home.

i'm tired

so tired of crazy people

in the road.

potatoes 24 7

suddenly,

before the first flake falls,

before the storm

of the century,

you begin

to think

with a Russian mentality.

wrapping yourself

in heavy clothes,

placing a furry hat

upon your head.

you suddenly have an urge

to invade

other lands.

ice is coming,

the roads will be blocked.

the rivers

frozen.

there's no sturgeon to be had.

you begin to think about

potatoes.

potato soup,

fried potatoes,

boiled potatoes.

baked potatoes.

oven roasted potatoes.

you begin to think about 

Natasha

in her woolen lingerie,

and vodka, too.

my new Somalian financial adviser

as i watch

the slow gains on my investment

portfolio,

the pitiful

three percent on CDs

and a measly

one percent on a savings

account

and checking, i wonder how

they do it.

the congressmen

and women

in power.

how does a woman from

Somalia

go from zero to 30 million dollars

in her accounts

in a matter

of one year?

i want to call her and ask

for financial advice.

she should be a broker

on wall street, or

at the very least, Edward Jones.

she seems

to be really really smart

or corrupt

beyond imagination.

it has to be one or the other.

let's see if i can

get her on the phone.

hmmm.  

nope,

beep beep beep,

it's disconnected.

you have to kill it first

i knew

little about poetry when i took

her first class.

i knew

emotion, i knew feelings,

youthful rhymes

with flowery

words.

and then she

came along

and put a knife into

the whole stack of poems

i'd bet my life on.

she drew out the blood

of living, of dying.

of love

and hate.

she twisted the knife in

to kill

all of my mistakes.

read slowly, she'd say.

listen to every word you say,

savor it,

read everything

out loud

as if to an audience,

then start over

after you throw it all away.

grief is a funny thing

grief

is a funny thing.

how it comes and goes,

ebbs

and flows.

how it arrives in unexpected

ways.

in line

at the market

with 

your cart when suddenly

you begin

to cry.

no matter rain or shine,

in darkness

or light,

it hasn't

left you.

the loss is there,

heavy

on your heart.

it's momentarily hidden,

but biding 

it's bittersweet

time,

as you wait

for another cold wave

to arrive.

i'm over you, i've moved on

i don't even think about you

anymore.

the thought of you rarely ever

crosses my

mind.

i'm over it, i'm over you.

i've moved

on.

ignore,

the picture in my wallet,

the cards

you sent and signed,

displayed

on the table by the door.

i rarely

think of you when your birthday

comes around,

or when the seasons change

and i remember

you stepping into

that yellow dress

in springtime.

take no mind

to the watch you gave me

around my wrist,

inscribed with love,

ticking off the time

since i last saw you,

or the lingerie you left

behind

in the top drawer.

the silk still holding the perfume

you always wore.

i'm over you.

i've moved on.

a clarification on clarified butter

there's so

much we don't know about.

clarified

butter

for example.

what is it?

how do i make it?

is it better than common

seed oils when

frying up

a few slices of brioche

bread

with milk

and eggs for French

Toast?

a sprinkle of cinnamon

and a spill

of vanilla extract

blended into the mix.

Bon Appetit

says yes, but

what do they no.

pffft.

chefs.

some days you just aren't feeling it

we make

adjustments, we compromise,

we're polite

and accommodating,

giving up our

seat on the train,

holding doors open,

saying things

like, no, after you,

thank you,

you're welcome have

a good day,

a good night.

we tip our hats and smile,

but there are days too

when

all of that goes

out the window,

and you keep your head

down, saying

nothing to no one,

lost in thought,

a monolith,

avoiding everyone's eyes.

a new Hallmark Movie

finally Hallmark

makes a movie i can watch.

It's called Blood in the Snow.

yes,

the plot is basically the same

but with a slight twist.

there's the pretty girl 

leaving big city life

to come back to her hometown,

traveling by train

through the quaint villages

along the way

to take over

the Christmas tree farm

that her

father had run for years,

but he's sick now with Lupus,

and can no longer do the work.

So, Mary Jo takes

over the flailing farm, when one

snowy day

at the church parking lot,

she sees a tall handsome

stranger in a cowboy hat,

with wide shoulders

and a grim

smile. it's

her boyfriend from high school

who used to play

left guard on the football team,

although he should have been

the quarterback.

he's sizing up a tree,

holding it by the trunk

in his strong

cowboy hands. squeezing

the sap out of it

as he trims the bottom with

steady swings

of a glistening machete.

shyly she asks if she can help him.

don't i know you,

she says?

brushing the falling snow

from her wet blue eyes.

you've made a very good selection

there.

where's your car?

i'll get you some rope to tie it on.

she doesn't know that it's

Michael Myers

without his trademark hockey mask.

he's home for the Holidays,

sticking around

after Halloween,

anxious to attend

the upcoming high school reunion

to settle old scores.

he lets out a familiar

grunt, which gives her lonely

heart a flutter.

the night Ellen and her wife decided to come home

to be a fly

on the wall, when Ellen, yes that Ellen,

is lying in bed

with her husband/wife,

and they

are having the talk,

trying to decide if they

should give

up on this idyllic farm

in England

idea,

and go back home.

out the farmhouse window,

in the cold unrelenting rain,

cows are mooing,

sheep

going bah,

donkeys making their

peculiar neigh,

and roosters crowing.

their hands

are dirty with shoveling

manure

and feeding

the pigs.

all of their nails are broken,

and

they haven't been to a hair

salon in months.

together, lying side by side

in their feather bed,

they pick

the ticks off of each other,

and smooth calamine lotion

onto their patches

of poison ivy.

so, Ellen says,

in her perky manner of speaking,

what do you think? should

we slink back to the states,

should we

quietly buy a mansion somewhere

in California,

maybe Malibu,

somewhere with

running water and a bathtub?

i'm just tossing out the idea,

that's all, i mean

we've only been here a year, we

haven't even

had our first crop of kale

and spinach come up.

but i know you love it here, so....

the wife

jumps up and pulls her

packed suitcases

out from under the bed.

let's go, she yells.

i've been waiting ten months

for you to say that.

get your stuff, i'll start the car.

the town of Greenland

the town

of Greenland, i mean

country,

holds

a meeting trying to decide

if the U.S.

should buy

them.

giving each of them

a few million

dollars,

should they

become under the protection

of 

the most powerful

military in

the world.

getting them all the perks

others have

when allowing 

the flag

to be raised

over their massive

iceberg.

it's a nearly unanimous

vote,

all saying yes,

except one

woman who didn't show,

she slept in late,

and is now somewhere

stuck in the snow.

it's Disney land now

i miss

the old Time's Square,

the derelicts

and pick pockets, the floozies

on the corner,

the peep shows,

the x rated movie theaters

and ho's

with wigs

wearing fishnet stockings

and high heels.

i miss the smell of it

with cheap diners

frying greasy eggs,

the brawls

in half lit bars,

the stench of Sodom

and Gomorrah.

drunks and addicts clumped

together

on the curbs.

i miss the rats scurrying

through

the garbage,

the screaming

in dark alleys,

gunshots,

the sirens blaring all night long.

the party lights

of cop cars

swirling red in the night air.

i miss

the sound of it all,

the fear

and loathing.

the desperation.

it made you glad to get on

a plane

with your Pan Am bag

and go home.

it's just different now.

dreaming about the dream job

we used

to dream about getting a government

job,

back in the old

neighborhood

where everyone's father

either drove

a bread truck

or was a plumber, or

did road work.

dang, we'd say, sitting

on the front stoop

bouncing a ball.

how sweet would that be,

a desk, a water cooler.

free coffee,

and chicks all around.

and the best thing is

you hardly have to work,

no need to know

anything, you just wing it.

you can let phone ring

all day

and they can't fire you.

in twenty-five years

you get your full salary,

health benefits.

four weeks vacation,

and off on holidays, paid.

we're qualified now,

if only we weren't fourteen.

so i guess

we'll have to wait.

running into the old boss from the mainframe days

i see my

old boss, Hung Van, at the grocery

store.

i cringe,

waiting for him

to yell at me

for not knowing how

to properly

program

a file for the main frame

in the basement

of the office building

we worked in.

you know nothing,

he'd say

to me, slamming his fist

into his desk,

his tenth cigarette dangling

from his lips.

you are lazy,

stupid.

all you think about

is girls

and coffee, lunch break

and happy hour.

you are only

awake when we play

office volleyball

on Wednesdays.

he's about 5 feet two inches

tall, but

a ball of fury.

he has a scarred arm

with three fingers missing on one hand.

war wounds

from fighting against the VC

in Saigon.

i try to duck away but he sees

me out of the corner

of his eye

and yells out my name while

stamping his

black boots.

i pretend i don't hear him,

and slink away.

nothing has changed.

very early love

it feels a lot like

Wednesday

i tell

my fiancé, as we sit at the table

drinking

Earl Grey tea,

bumping

knees

against each other.

hmm,

she says,

squeezing the tea bag

with her thumb

and spoon.

yes, it does, sort of.

today does have a middle of the week

vibe to it

even though

it's Sunday.

we're so much alike,

aren't we?

expiration dates are for the weak

i find

a box in the basement,

dusty

and wet with mold,

the top says

kitchen

on it, written in bold

black

magic marker.

someone else's handwriting,

not mine.

i open it

up.

it's been there for years,

twenty years

to be exact.

there's a box of

quaker oats

in there, pepper and salt.

sugar,

brown and white.

there's cinnamon

and nutmeg,

a bowl and a spoon.

i carry it all up to the kitchen.

it's breakfast time.

Operation Blanche DuBois

at last

the President makes a vow

to open

up all of the old insane asylums

that there were

emptied

in a gesture of suicidal

empathy

during the last administrations.

The Willard, The Beacon,

Forest Haven

and St. Elizabeth's.

Danvers.

new ones

are being built too.

nine stories tall, not unlike

the Obama Library

in Chicago.

a new fleet

of white vans

are being deployed

to Portland

and New York,

Minneapolis

and Seattle.

and stops in between.

it's being called

Operation Blanche DuBois.

two million strait jackets

have been

ordered from

Indonesia.

syringes

and lace less shoes of all sizes

are on the way

from Viet Nam.

enormous fishing nets

and drones

will be used in the initial

stages.

lonely days and lonely nights

as i listen

to the Bee Gees singing,

lonely days,

lonely nights,

where would i be without my

woman,

the dog

jumps up into my lap.

he senses my

sadness.

he curls into a tight ball,

circling three times,

and licks my hand,

then the other

hand.

is it love?

is this what true love really

looks like,

or is the chocolate ice-cream

on my fingers

and thumb?

a sticky spill of rocky road 

stuck to the palm

of my hands.

abolish ice?

i hear

a crowd out on the street

with torches

and 

clubs,

they're screaming, chanting,

abolish ice,

abolish ice.

it's a wild and vocal mob

with painted

faces,

blue hair and nose rings.

they shout,

down with ice,

no more

ice,

melt the ice.

i run to the freezer

to see how much ice i have

in the fridge.

four trays full.

but maybe i need more.

i should run down to 7-11 for

one of those 20 pound bags

but it's too dangerous

out there.

i lock the door,

close the curtains and

pull the shades down.

i put more

ice trays in the ice box.

i fill up all the bowls

i can find,

with water.

the world has gone

butt crazy,

i think as i clink around

my two

cubes of ice

in a splash of vodka and tonic.

with a slice of lime.

i can't live in a world without

ice.

rosemary olive bread

one loaf

of rosemary olive bread

i tell

the man

behind the counter

in a tall white

baker's hat.

the store

is filled with the sweet

and savory

scents

of freshly baked bread.

the loaf

is still warm

in the bag as i carry it home,

eating it

in small snatches,

breaking through the crust.

life is suddenly

good again.

stocking up before the big storm arrives

i see two

women wrestling at the grocery

store

for the last loaf

of bread

and roll of toilet paper.

hair is being pulled

and eyes gouged.

i've seen both of them in church

before,

the big one on top, 

is in

the choir

and the wiry one

using a flurry of rabbit punches

to the ribs

of the big one, plays

the organ.

but a storm is coming this way

and we're expecting

ten inches of snow.

off in the distance,

i see the last carton

of large brown cage

free organic eggs

behind the glass door

and run for it, shoving

someone's grandpa

out of the way.

a trail of puppy chow

he was a smart

dog. Moe.

knowing where the dog food

was,

he'd open

the bottom cupboard door

and drag

the bag to his dish

across the kitchen

floor.

but he was small, and the

bag was heavy,

so it was hard

for him to pour.

he'd do the best he could

though,

and then

hide behind the couch

as i arrived home

coming in the front door.

oh, that's funny

did it bother

me

when after saying something funny

and clever,

right on

point with the perfect

amount of

humor and absurdity,

mixed with

observational

sarcasm

and all she did was say,

oh,

that's funny,

instead of laughing

and holding

her belly, wiping tears

from her eyes.

yes, it did bother me.

not once did i ever

hear her laugh.

instead, she'd just say,

oh, that's funny.

it was the beginning of the end.

how can you live

without laughing?

although crying a lot,

she had that down.

you need to sign and initial every page

i fill out the form

and send

it back to the county office

for the third time.

in three days i receive it again.

i need to initial

the last page,

and the one

before that.

out it goes with another

stamp

attached.

three days later

it comes back.

the date is wrong, i need

to put a new

date on

the first page, then sign

it again,

and initial where i've made

the change

in address.

plus there's a comma missing

after the word

penalty,

and you've

left out your middle initial

on the fourth page

after you wrote the word closing.

i look for a phone number.

i want to talk

to a human.

three hours later,

after being on hold, i'm

walking

to the post office

with the letter in hand.

a new envelope, new stamp.

tip of the iceberg

it's truly

mind boggling when you hear

about the amount

of money

being stolen

from taxpayers.

billions, year after year.

the fraud,

the schemes, the outright

piracy

of funds

earmarked

for good causes.

they don't even try to hide

it.

the cars,

the houses, the bank

accounts full,

the suitcases stuffed with cash

carried to foreign shores.

how stupid are we,

how dumb

is our government

down to the local level.

from the sheriff, the mayor,

the governor,

the woman working

at the DMV.

everyone is getting a slice,

a large

piece.

Tab and low fat potato chips

despite all earthly efforts,

it's difficult

to lose

weight, to become

your ideal

younger self again.

to be the person you once

were when 

the body was taut with

muscle,

without lines,

or cellulite,

or the strange sagging

of loose skin

under the arms,

or chin.

i remember my mother

drinking 

Tab by the gallons,

trying to fight gravity off,

while an enormous rubber

band vibrated

across her belly.

nothing seemed to help,

especially

after the arrival 

of the seventh child.

formerly known as the coffee table

I no longer

call

it the coffee table,

I now

call it the dining room table.

two place

mats

are in position, in case

a guest arrives.

the actual

dining room

table

has laundry on it.

two stacks

of folded clothing,

separated by darks,

and lights.

there are 

bills there too,

sunglasses,

a wallet,

two hats, keys and three half

empty bottles

of spring water.

at Christmas,

sometimes,

i'll put a candle out

on the table formerly

known as

the coffee table,

and light it.

so why aren't people happy?

the prices

are so much lower, i notice

as i go

through

the grocery store. hmmm.

interesting.

i read where

seven wars have ended.

dictators

are being toppled.

boys can no

longer play in girls' sports.

taxes are

lower,

no tax on tips is in effect.

there is job growth,

more manufacturing being done.

billions coming

in because of new tariffs

and trade agreements.

the border

is closed and criminals

are being put in jail,

or sent

back home.

fraud is being found

and prosecuted.

drug boats are being sunk.

Iran no longer has nuclear

capabilities.

the stock market is booming,

and interest

rates are lower than

they've been in years.

and yet,

people are so angry.

what's going on with all this?

Sigmund Freud

call your office, there's a line

around the block.

the classified job ads

there were

cold

days, days like this,

deep into winter,

into a long January, with

no work,

no prospect of work,

when i would unfold the newspaper

to the classified

section and with an ink

pen, and begin

to circle my next career move.

the jobs were endless.

construction,

truck drivers,

delivery man, dishwasher,

janitor,

yard work, laborers,

apprentice

brick layers, garbage

truck helpers,

but the key words

were,

no experience necessary.

that fit my resume

to a tee.

welfare birds

it seemed

like a good idea at the time.

the bird

house in the middle of the yard

standing tall

on a metal pole.

it was green,

with a slanted roof and large

hole

with a front porch.

i filled it with seed nearly

everyday,

sometimes almost

twice a day.

i'd look out the window

and see a hundred birds

lined up

on the fence

waiting their turn.

birds of all colors, all feathers.

small, large,

fat, tiny,

yellow and black, red and blue.

not to mention

the squirrels who did acrobatic

maneuvers to get

their share too.

once the house was up,

the word got out, the birds

got fat

and lazy.

they lost all ambition.

why work at pulling worms

from the ground

or searching for berries,

when the government

or me

will feed you for free?

stand six feet away

we were

told,

get the vaccine and you won't

get this particular

strain

of flu,

this lab created

flu

that may involve

bats

in China.

we were commanded to

stand six feet away,

wear

gloves, wear masks,

use

antiseptic wipes

on everything.

don't go to school,

don't go

to work, don't go

to the beach

or movies,

don't leave your house,

or else there

will be hell to pay.

but nearly everyone got it

anyway.

it's hard to listen

anymore to the powers that

be,

when they're so wrong

about so much,

almost daily.

all these polyester blends must go

it took

you nearly a lifetime

of itching

and scratching to finally

understand,

that cotton

is the way to go, with perhaps

a smidgen

of spandex

in the mix.

many women have

told you

such, but you waved them

off with

a dismissive

slight of hand and thought

to yourself,

pffft,

what do they know?

but now you know.

whether it's sheets

or shirts,

pants

or underwear.

cotton is king, or queen

depending on

your sex at

birth, i suppose.

a little cloud of talcum

powder

helps too.

have i become a hoarder?

as i carry in another

package

off the porch from Amazon,

i ask myself,

am i a hoarder now,

have i gone

over the edge,

gone too far with my endless

buying of things

i don't need.

do i have too much?

why is it so

hard to traverse

the house, go up the steps.

i have to step over unwrapped

packages

and boxes

at ever turn.

every closet 

is full.

i've run out of room, out

of clothes hangers

and space

in my drawers.

is it time to seal the deal

and get a few

cats?

get a ring for my nose?

Subpoenas falling from the sky like confetti

like confetti,

subpoenas are dropping from

the sky

all over

Minnesota

and California

and Ohio,

etc.

we just have a few questions

to ask

about Day Care Centers,

and Adult

Centers

and Transportation Companies

for the sick

and elderly.

we see that you fed over

a million

hungry mouths

last month, but

none of you seem to be in

business.

where are the people,

the kids,

where is the line

out the door,

why are the doors locked.

we gave you

billions of dollars

to help people.

we don't mean to upset you

with our inquires, but

we have just a few

simple questions

about decades of fraud

before we lock you up.

we're gonna need more handcuffs,

chief.

A Picture of Bill in the whirlpool

it's an old picture

of Bill Clinton in a whirlpool

on 

Epstein Island.

he looks

happy, content with Hillary

no where

to be found.

he's had a good life,

two terms

as President,

some bumps along the way,

but like a cat

he has nine lives.

and now

this, a long hot soak

in a tub

with a grin on his face,

on an island far far away.

what else is

there to say?

a simple solution to the problem in Minnesota

do we

really need soldiers

and tanks,

to mobilize to quell

the uprising

of middle-aged women

in blue

cities.

angry soy boys

and 

whipped men

with pink hats on,

determined

to block the streets?

do we really need to send

in

the marines,

like we did on the shores

of Iwo Jima,

as we did

on D Day

to save France?

can't we just use firetrucks

with hoses,

and sweep them all

away,

back to Walmart

and target,

back home

to their cats

and moon pies,

back home

to the shopping channel

and QVC.

who are these people?

the Sunday

morning show scrolls

down

a list of notable people

that have

recently departed the earth.

musicians

and artists,

actors

and scientists.

athletes

of some sort.

most of them you never

even knew

they existed.

but it's interesting just

the same.

the ages

of them, the photos of

them

with a clarinet,

or with a book or smiling

at the camera

as they come out

of the water

after swimming the English

Channel.

back to square one

after

a while, you lose track

of

which day of the week

it is.

why is the bank

closed?

oh, right, it's Sunday,

or a holiday

of some sort that you

haven't noticed.

you've throw

the calendars away,

put the watch

in a drawer,

let the battery of your

phone die out.

you're on your own now.

back to square one,

like when

you were born

and allowed out.

the shrinking world

the small

print has gotten smaller.

i bend

the bottle to the light

and squint

to read

the instructions.

everything seems to be

smaller,

including me.

my weight, my height.

the world

i live in.

from bed to shower,

to a couch

that waits for me.

my circle of friends

have grown smaller.

their lives ending before

mine,

taken,

mysteriously in the night.

i wander

in familiar circles, 

from yard

to stores,

no longer

wanting to see what's on

the other side

of each mountain.

i'm satisfied

with this shrunken world.

i know what i like.

frozen food

i know

i'll never eat this food,

i'll never

defrost it

and let it thaw on

the counter.

and yet,

i wrap it tightly,

put it in a freezer

bag

and stuff it into the ice

box

next to bags

of peas

and carrots, cubes

of ice.

farewell i tell the squares

of lasagna,

the meatballs,

goodbye old friends.

one day,

maybe years from now,

i'll forget who you are,

under these wrappings

and toss you out.

the sea glass letter

maybe a hundred years

ago,

a sailor

tossed this bottle into the sea,

having had

his fill

of whiskey, or wine.

and now,

the shards of it are in my

hand,

the sea glass

grown smooth and beautiful,

the amber

of it shines

in this summer sun.

did he have tears in his eyes

as he tossed

it into the waves

folding

the yellow letter,

stuffing it back

into his sea coat.

was his heart broken?

was there love waiting on shore,

as he sets the sails

for home?

the stuck lid

somehow

the jar lid that won't budge

means

more

than what it should. it seems

connected

somehow to how

the week is going.

no matter

how hard i try to spin

the lid

off the jar,

it won't budge, am i that

old now,

that weak,

that feeble, that even

this jar

of pickles is reminding me

of the darkness

that lies above?

mother's homemade remedies

the closest we came to a doctor

after being

born, was being vaccinated

for measles

and polio

in grade school. 

standing in line with our

sleeves rolled up.

after that we

were on our own.

but our mother did her best

to keep us alive.

she was stocked with cotton

and Band-Aids,

rubbing alcohol,

spools of

white adhesive tape, splints

for fingers

and bags of frozen

vegetables for black eyes, or

to place on

our foreheads

to break a fever.

there was iodine

for our cuts,

chicken soup for colds,

cod liver oil

for belly aches,

and aspirin

for nearly anything.

tweezers and little scissors

were always in her hand.

thermometers

for either end.

gently she'd apply

lemon juice on a cue tip

for earaches.

we gargled with salt water

when our throats

got sore,

she put white vinegar

on our bug bites,

and set a box of baking

soda in 

the bathroom for when

the toothpaste ran out.

there was honey,

and coke syrup,

ginger, tea bags,

and butter milk in her

box of homemade cures.

mysterious salves

and lotions,

smokey liquids for warts.

she would have been a nurse

if not for having

seven kids

and never finishing high

school.

if i close my eyes and think

hard enough,

i can still smell the infirmary

down the hall.

the funeral expense whole life insurance

i answer another robo call,

why not?

i have nothing else to do.

it's the end

of life insurance man

from Pakistan.

Mutual of Omaha, the branch

office, i guess.

i can hear roosters crowing,

sheep bleating,

and gunshots

in the background.

after

twenty-seven minutes, deep

into

the conversation,

he tells me

that i'm

healthy as a horse.

i ask him why is he comparing me

to a farm animal.

he says,

i'm sorry,

it was meant to be a compliment.

i tell him not

to say stupid things like that

again or he might

lose a client.

he says, okay, then

tells me his name is Sam Castro.

i ask if he's related to 

Fidel Castro,

the dictator in Cuba, to which

he says no.

who's that?

do people kid you about your

name, i ask.

make fun of you?

no, he says, taking a bite

of something.

a kabob, maybe,

chewing loudly on the phone.

but at least it's not Joey Hitler,

or Bobby Mussolini,

i tell him.

what? he says, 

okay, okay,

clearing his throat,

let's move on.

he's asks me about

every possible

illness on earth,

excluding Ebola,

the bird flu,

and leprosy.

to all of which i've said,

nope,

haven't had those either.

he asks

me about the weather,

i get up and go to the window

and tell him

it's cloudy out.

he asks what my hobbies are,

what i had for breakfast,

do i have any pets,

how much do i weigh, how

tall am i,

do i live alone.

i tell him that i prefer cremation.

the cheapest

of the burial insurance

policies.

a little gasoline, a match

and let the ashes

float into the air.

only seventy dollars a month

until death.

i tell him my beneficiaries

are my daughter,

Jenna Thalia,

and my son, Jack Hoffman.

he types that into his computer

after i correct his spelling.

he needs only

my social security numbers

and banking

account numbers

to seal the deal.

i can almost hear his heartbeat

flutter, the 

gurgling

of dopamine

in his veins,

as he waits for my

last piece of information.

i look at the time, he's been

on the phone now

for 87 minutes

and counting.

my record is ninety-one minutes.

i'm not sure

if i can get past that

with this guy. oh well, another

call will be

coming in soon.

anyone can paint that

as you lie

in bed at the Motel Six

across from

the airport, pondering your life

and where

it went

of the rails,

you stare at the bad art

on the walls.

abstracts

and cowboys, hills

and desert landscapes,

an ocean

that looks like it was painted

by a child five

years old.

it's then that you realize

that maybe

art is your true 

skill.

you too can paint pictures

like this.

maybe tomorrow you'll

begin,

you'll go down to the local

art supply

store,

buy paints and canvas,

brushes,

and easel and a beret

and start life over again.

you call your soon to be ex-wife

collect, 

to tell her the good news,

disregarding

the sound the phone makes

when she laughs

and hangs up.

Bill and Hillary, Stand by Your Man

Bill and

Hillary take a stand and refuse

to answer

questions, saying no

to testifying

before Congress about their

affiliation

with the pedophile, but now

deceased,

rich entrepreneur,

Epstein.

despite 27 trips to the island

of ill repute,

documented

with hundreds of photos,

they both say,

nope, not gonna do it.

she's stuck with him with every

trailer court floozie

from here to Arkansas

so why quit now?

if there's ever been a man

and a woman

who reflect the song

by Tammy Wynette,

Stand by Your Man,

than these two,

i don't know who it would be.

the never ending clown show in Minneapolis

it's exhausting

to turn on the tv, nearly every channel

and see

the dopes in Portland

or Minneapolis

standing out in the cold

and snow,

screaming and yelling,

wearing clown

costumes,

chanting

and throwing themselves

in front of cop cars.

don't these people have jobs?

families?

dogs to walk?

something else to do, but act

like idiots,

inhaling tear gas

and getting wood shampoos.

it's interesting and funny

for awhile,

but every stinking day and hour

there they are,

on tv

getting thrown to the ground

and handcuffed.

but back tomorrow

or the next day.

geez Marie,

what else is on?

where's the remote?

at least it's not about Epstein

anymore.

never lend out your favorite books

i remember giving Betty

a few

of my favorite books,

and regretting it.

i had a gut

feeling that our torrid

lover affair wasn't going

to last,

and that i would never

see those books again.

i stare at my bookcase,

at the empty slots where

they used to be,

and wonder if i should

kiss and make up,

just to get them back.

maybe buy her flowers,

or bake her some brownies,

or a bottle of scotch,

i think she'd like that, then

while she's in the bathroom

i could find the books

and sneak out the back.

flipping a coin to decide lifes most important decisions

i flip a coin.

it's how i decide almost every

important decision i make

these days.

heads i drive

up to the store to buy a bagel,

tails i stay

home and toast

that end piece of the

old loaf of bread

with just a little green

mold on it.

i flip the coin high

into the air

and catch it in my hand.

the nickel lands on tails.

hmmm.

i go to the store anyways.

i'm not a slave

to the coin, despite 

obeying other

coin flips.

town folk

it may

be too late for the world.

when there used to be

just one

crazy dude,

or two,

or a few nutcake women

walking

around talking to themselves

in town,

half dressed,

drooling

with goo goo eyes,

now it's the whole

freaking

town.

what happened?

what fun Norman Rockwell

would have

when painting

this wackadoodle world

we live in now.

when politicians give a press conference

i've noticed

when politicians give a speech

or want

to complain about something,

or deny

the impending charges

against them, or

when they need to make

a stand

on some issue, the first

thing they do

is haul out 

their diverse allies, 

paid employees,

putting

them behind

them in a row,

at the podium

as they talk.

there's a black guy, a white guy,

a lesbian,

an Asian,

a Latino and someone that could

be 

a man or woman

with rainbow hair.

to the left is the interpreter

for the deaf,

with arms and eyes

akimbo,

and a small child in a wheelchair.

a few

comforting support dogs

stand nearby.

what about the little new years eve dress?

she asks me

if the dress she has on is the right one.

she's standing at the end

of the bed

staring into a mirror,

twirling

around.

umm, not sure, i tell her.

try the red one,

yes, the one

with lace.

after she tries that one on,

i say,

what about that little black one

you wore

on New Years Eve, no, no,

the short one, or

how about

the green one, yes, the tight

one showing

off your Pilates body.

she sighs and goes to 

the closet to find

one more.

with each change of clothes,

she let's the dress

drop to the floor

and stands there in her heels

and stocking,

and little else.

and to think i used to have

to go to a smokey go go

bar, to see a performance

such as this.

oh look, there's balloons over there

somehow

somewhere, someone decided

that balloons

were the tool, the right

trick,

to get people to come into a store,

tethering them

to a door,

to buy a mattress,

or to buy a car.

blowing up

a colorful plastic

balloon will do the trick

they reasoned, putting

their educated

heads together.

this should do it, they

all agreed,

balloons are the answer,

as if we are children,

which i suppose

in so many ways

we still are.

entering the end of the world junkyard

it's an apocalyptic

landscape

as you wait in line to drop

off your

junk.

to the left is a field of refrigerators,

tall

and fat,

silver and white,

black.

to the right

stoves

and microwaves are piled

high,

ovens

and other broken dreams

filled

then emptied with

decades of

memories.

straight ahead are

computers,

long strands of wires

and cables,

phones, monitor screens.

televisions

of every era.

from Milton Berle

to Gutfeld,

then into the pit are cans

of paint,

half full, half empty,

pesticides and oil.

the grease of the world

goes there.

wood and tin, plastic

and

metals of all kinds are scattered

everywhere.

there's not a seagull

in the air,

there's nothing to eat here,

it feels like it might start

raining

any second now,

as i wait my turn

at the end

of the world.

the future is not what it used to be

the future

is not what it used to be.

there's no

flying cars,

yet.

no time travel,

no Rosie the robot

doing the dishes

and making our beds.

no hotels

on the moon,

or people

on Mars.

no peace

in the Middle East,

or cure

for cancer,

nothing

they told us when we

were kids

has actually happened yet.

but they're close,

very close,

and it's scary.