click off

each

bite of the internet

is either

honey

or poison, depending on

what you

listen to.

there is no middle anymore.

what is the truth?

there's some love,

of course,

but for the most part

it's mostly hate,

mostly

ranting and raving,

it's a deafening roar.

burnt toast

most of lifes

aggravating moments

fall

under the category

of burnt toast,

spilled milk,

the stubbed toe.

coffee dripped upon

a white shirt,

and yet,

for a moment,

things feel as if they've

spiraled out

of control.

for a minute or two,

your life

is under a dark

cloud,

you feel beaten and low

after choosing the wrong

line to get into

at the bank

or grocery store.

you can somehow connect

all the dots

of these minor

inconveniences

and think,

for me,

this is the way things go.

after falling off a roof

as i lie

here, having fallen from the roof,

i see

how blue

the sky is.

the wispy white

of clouds.

i see birds in flight.

so many.

it's neither warm nor

cold, and

there's no wind to speak of.

at some point i'll stand

back up,

and 

see what's broken,

if anything, i'll examine

what blood

has left me, but for now,

i can breathe,

i'm fine. and

i'm enjoying the view

from

the ground, lying here

with the grass and dirt,

these soft

embracing vines.

gunfight at high noon

we studied

the cowboys on tv.

my brother and I.

taking note

of how 

the gunslingers

stood in the sunlit

street

outside the saloon

and shot at one another.

usually a woman

with lots of make up

was the cause.

we practiced

with our toy guns,

getting faster and faster

at the draw,

the plastic holsters

wrapped around our

dungarees.

mine had a pearl

white handle,

and a barrel that i slid

caps into.

it was a battle to the death

in the brightly lit

room,

as we shot at one another,

until the knock at the door,

and lunch was

on.

Saturday morning bowling alley

the bowling

alley

wasn't heaven, but close

to it

at the age

of twelve. the juke box,

full of Elvis

and Dusty Springfield,

the pinball

machines,

the duck pin alleys.

the cheeseburgers

on the grill

with fries.

a tall cold soda with

a long

striped straw.

there was a barber shop

too.

with leather

chairs

and a bottle of cologne,

that was slapped

on your young

fat cheeks,

a nice heavenly

shade of blue.

last trek to Clarksburg

i study

the map, google the address,

measure the distance

and time

it will take to travel

to Clarksburg

to hang

four rolls of wallpaper.

i've lost

my mind, i really have.

it's not

about money anymore,

there's more

than enough,

God has blessed me

and i'm thankful,

but apparently

i've come up short

when it comes

to common sense,

to leave

well enough alone.

squirrel versus man

i see

the squirrel on the bird

feeder

fattened

by the seed,

the nuts i poured in

this morning.

the war is on.

i have taken sides.

i move the table,

the chairs

which he sprung from

then grease the pole

with oil.

and yet still he tries,

over and over

again to climb

the slick black pole

in the middle

of the yard.

his little claws unable

to grip

and climb,

he slides back down.

so far, i'm winning.

again,

i've taken the birds' side.

there has to be something else on, Seinfeld?

as I watch

the news, specifically

the riots in Europe.

France,

Spain, Germany,

i let out a yelp when i see

the cops

hitting protestors

over the head

with Billy clubs,

giving them a whooping of wood

shampoos,  yikes,

that's gotta hurt i say

out loud to no one,

and then

the water cannons

begin to blow up

the crowd, flinging

the radicals like confetti

into the air.

frantically the firemen

try to put the fires out,

trying to save the churches

and buildings

built centuries ago.

all of the art and culture,

the statues

and fountains in ruin,

and for what?

it's a nightmare.

i grab the remote, there has

to be something

else on.

where are you Jerry, i

need you.

i'm listening, i really am

when you

talk to me, my mind wanders,

i drift off.

it's not that what

you're saying

is uninteresting, it's just that

a single

word or thought

can send me off and reeling

to a different place.

i want to save

the word

and take it home with

me

and write.

yes, my eyes are looking

up and down,

from side to side, but it

has nothing to do you,

with your story,

there's just something wrong

with me,

i'm not right.

her collection of dresses

cautious

with my words and yet

i dare

say that it's a female thing,

this

collection

of dresses

and shoes

marking each milestone

of life

from an early age.

saved in some far closet

that's rarely

opened,

nothing thrown away.

a child's first holy

communion dress

on a small hanger, then

homecoming

queen,

a cheerleader outfit,

emboldened with a C.

the prom dress in pink,

a carnation

in bloom,

to a graduation gown, to the first

wedding dress.

and of course,

the work ensembles

from a career now over,

with practical shoes.

and just one dress

in classic black

for mourning, which

waits with solemn patience.

for now, at least.

it rests.

before they took him

before

they took him,

there were mice in the house,

a bird

nest over the cupboard.

the door was

left open.

the heat was on.

old food was on the counter.

and yet

there he sat with

a golf club

in hand,

his golf shoes on.

his hat,

his gloves.

it was Saturday morning

after all,

and he wanted

one more round.

somewhere in the tool box

finding

the right wrench is everything.

the perfect

fit

around the rusted

bolt.

all will

be well with the right

tool in hand,

making that hard

twist

and turn.

the water

will go on,

and life will be good

again.

after Christmas, i promise

as i sit outside

the cafe, alone, studying

the menu,

i hear

the couple beside me arguing

quietly.

the woman

says,

i can't keep doing this

much longer.

she's near

to tears as she turns

the ring on her finger.

the man

stares into his drink

and says

nothing.

his face is dark,

brooding.

if you don't leave your

wife soon, she

says, 

i can't go on. you keep

promising

and promising.

finally, he looks up, and

whispers to her,

taking her hand.

after Christmas.

after Christmas.

i promise this time.

the burlap bag to the sea

we lived

in Barcelona for several years.

we were

young,

grade school,

and yet it didn't take us long

to speak

the language

to learn how

to kick a ball without

using our hands.

we sipped on wine,

we ate

paella,

we watched the gypsies

in black

pulling

their wagons

and naked children along.

i remember

hearing

the roar

of the crowd at the stadium

as the bulls

died in the dirt.

i can still

see the caretaker of the house

carrying

a burlap bag

full of newborn kittens

to the sea.

wondering,

what this cruelty was,

and yet

not, going on.

ambitious mornings

i remember

that feeling, watching,

the birds,

the beaver

in the pond, busy at

what they

need to do,

with nests and wood.

i recall that

instinctive ambition,

necessary

to keep

the world turning.

to keep

the trains

on time, the lights on.

i remember it well,

almost as if

it was

yesterday.

resisting the urge to sit

as you

kneel in church before

the mass begins,

resisting the urge to sit,

because your

knees ache,

you go through your list

of prayers,

your selfish petitions,

but then

strange thoughts

come into your head that

have no business

being there.

is that woman in the pew

in front

of you married?

are those extensions

in her long

blonde hair.

does she live nearby?

did she walk here, or drive?

will she turn

to shake your hand

at the end of the service

and with a smile say

peace be with you?

sunday morning tv

the actor,

wealthy and aging,

being interviewed

in a soft light, a lovely chair,

with drink

in hand,

the morning sun coming

through

the curtains, hung

yellow, with

fresh flowers nearby,

seems close to

tears when talking about

her life.

the hardships

she's endured.

i almost feel sorry for her,

as i push away

the dog, trying to lick

the blueberry jam

off of my butter knife.

this will make me feel good

i'll experience a moment

of satisfaction

with the purchase

of this coat,

these shoes, the jacket

and hat,

a matching belt to go

with all of it.

i'll get a nice hit of

dopamine,

and that will be that.

but please, when i'm

done scrolling and clicking,

please take this phone 

away from me,

i think i may have 

gone mad.

homesick again

to be

homesick, to pine

for

the old couch, the chair

by the window,

with everything

in place,

each book

you love

positioned

on a shelf,

all things finding

the right

spot to lie down on,

is a warm

feeling,

one you've worked

to find

your whole life.

and now

it's here, 

this retreat is kind.

not a fan of nuclear winter

i  hope

the day never comes where

i have to catch

a fish to eat,

or kill an animal

for a meal,

to skin it and make

a stew

in a pot with potatoes

and carrots.

vegetable gardens

are not

in my wheelhouse either.

i have no skills to capture

birds,

or chickens, then pluck

their feathers.

i can barely

keep the one plant

on my sill alive.

i'm not a fan of nuclear

winter.

not one bit.

the can opener will be

my

best and trusted

friend if the apocalypse

ever does arrive.

leave a message

i could

get out of the tub,

out of this warm bath,

grab a towel,

wrap it around me

then go into the other room

and answer

the phone

as it relentlessly rings,

i could do that,

or i could just lie

here in watery bliss,

soaking my bones,

away from the world,

with the light off.

the long distance rider

i see

her high on the saddle,

helmet on,

her tight

spandex keeping her

warm

as she peddles up

and down

the hills,

past neighborhoods

then fields

and farms.

the sun in her face,

bent forward,

the wind

pushing her on.

soon she'll be far from

home, but

then will turn around

before

the sun goes down,

happy

for the day, though tired,

though worn.

a finite bag of words

you've been

carrying around the same

bag

of words with you

for most of your adult life.

it's a finite

bag of words learned

from your parents

then into grade school

and on.

rarely does a new one

appear in conversation,

and if you

do pull one out, people

give you strange looks,

they roll their eyes

wondering who you are,

they don't know what 

you're talking about.

abstract art with Gina

as we walk

through the gallery of

abstract art,

i ask my friend

Gina, so

what do you think about

that one?

what do you think it says?

we both stare

deeply into the canvas

of bluish black paint,

swirling,

with a single

red dot, the size of a dime,

in the corner.

it's titled, Sunrise.

so what's your impression,

i ask her,

hand on my chin,

tapping a finger.

i think it says that mankind

has no hope,

she says in a hoarse whisper,

that we're doomed

to a life

of strife and misery

despite the sun coming

up every morning.

yeah, yeah, me too, 

i'm thinking the same thing,

or maybe

the artist

was just having a bad

day, or going through

a difficult marriage

and had to get it out

of his system.

should we get some lunch,

i'm starving?

i think i've seen enough.

a tad late getting into the office

on the subway

platform i look around,

it's 8 a.m. and i have

to be in

Manhattan by nine.

but i'm

no longer on

the phone, or unfolding

a newspaper

to read, no longer

thinking about

the girl i love,

instead i'm observing

the crowd

with cat's eyes.

shoes planted on the wet

slab of concrete

underground, prepared

to dash

towards an exit.

does that man

have a knife?

how about her, or him,

the one

with the mask,

hands in his pockets.

that man playing

a harmonica,

does he look like the kind

of person

to rob me,

or worse, push me in front

of the next moving

train?

early morning guilt

i wake

up feeling guilty before

the day even

starts.

it's nice out, beautiful

in fact,

cool but not cold, the leaves

are falling

in a reds and yellows,

vibrant golds.

there's no wind,

and the sun is bright

against the promising blue

sky.

all of this means that i have

to get outside

and do something.

anything.

just to tell people,

that i left the house

and enjoyed

the beautiful day outside.

already i feel guilty about

what i'm going

to tell them,

my lie, telling them,

how could anyone on a day

like this, stay inside.

going out for milk and bread

i met

a girl in a bar once,

a country

bar

down by the river.

there was sawdust on the floor

and barrels

of free peanuts

for the taking.

a small loud band of Willie

Nelson clones

were shouting one out.

she was pretty,

this girl,

leaning against the post,

wearing a cowboy

hat

and sipping on a pink

Cosmopolitan.

she had a small pen knife

tucked in a

belt around her little

black dress.

what's up with the knife,

i asked

her politely.

it's for trouble, she said,

smiling.

had any lately?

yes, she said last week,

some dude

got fresh with me so i had

to poke

him in the kidney with it.

he's over there,

by the bar,

the one with the white

bandage bleeding under

his shirt.

so, how about you, cowboy?

would you like to dance?

nah, i actually just had

two knees

and a hip

replaced and my wife is

waiting for me at home.

i'm just out to pick up some

milk and bread.

a trip to the pawn shop

as the stock

market

crumbles under the fear

that the blue

wave

will crush

the economy with free

everything

and policies

that will suck

the life out of capitalism,

i begin to look around

the house

for things to pawn.

mostly watches and rings,

old jewelry that

Betty

and Mary Lou left behind.

i sort through my

old record

collection.

the vinyl,

and box the ones i no

longer listen

to, like Jelly Roll

and born to run.

why i take the stairs

i fear

the crowded

elevator breaking down.

being stuck

for an hour,

or God forbid more.

i'm not good with introducing

myself to strangers,

being

so close

to them, elbow to elbow,

hearing

their story,

such as it is, and me

on the spot,

having to make one up.

spare me the rooster

i long

for the old days when i could

sleep

for twelve hours straight

without once

getting up

to pee, or wake up in the middle

of the night

at four a.m. or

three.

i miss the lingering in bed

as the sun

rises,

sharp through the blinds,

making me put a pillow

over my head

to block the light.

i've never

been an early riser, and yet

now.

at 6 a.m. thus

begins my life.

dear farmer

across the way,

spare me the rooster 

that crows every morning.

it isn't right.

dying with their secrets

there used

to be a world where men

sat

at a work bench

and tinkered with clocks,

getting them

to run

on time, once more.

and there

were men

that shined shoes for

a living,

or fixed the soles,

with a hammer

and tacks.

stretching the leather

in one direction

or the other,

there were milk men

in their wagons,

men with blocks of ice

carrying

them with sharp pinchers

to the cellar for summer.

there were fathers

and grandfathers

that knew things you didn't,

or would ever

know.

they took things apart

and put

them back together without

a book

or clue.

i can see them still

in their overalls

behind

the tv,

taking tubes out, while

smoking

cigars.

most died holding all their

secrets closely.

yesterdays paper

by the time

the ten o'clock broadcast

rolls around,

you've already

heard

the news ten

times over.

it's old fish gone bad

wrapped

in yesterdays

paper.

a black and white photo circa 1958

i have a

picture of myself

and my

brother

in our pajamas.

bottoms

and tops,

both with pockets

and buttons

adorned with

shirt like collars.

there are images

of cowboys and Indians

sewn into

the cotton cloth.

we're both holding

air rifles

standing guard

at our

sister's crib, with

wooden

bars.

she's lying on

her back, an innocent

baby sucking on a

bottle of milk.

i think my father took it

with his

Kodak camera.

she owes me big time

we finally

get up from our seats.

we're sore

from sitting

for so long.

it's been a long opera.

in Italian, no less.

the fat

lady has at last

sung

and the curtain has fallen.

the lights are up.

she owes

me big time for

this.

i didn't understand

a word

spoken or sung,

although she's daintily

dabbing her

eyes

with a fluffy handkerchief

while everyone

is clapping

yelling bravo at the top

of their lungs.

finding our car

is next.

boiling milk for hot chocolate

there's a point

where

you have to keep your eye

on the pot

of milk

about to boil.

it's that time again

for chocolate milk, because

it's ten below.

the whipped cream

is on the counter,

nice and sweet,

cold.

but

you don't want the milk

to boil over

and

overflow.

it will muddy up

the burner,

leaving you with half

a cup.

causing you to start

all over again.

in an instant it could

all bubble up and blow.

so stand close.

don't move.

here we go.

nothing is burning

not a single

store

is looted, nothing

is burning,

despite the overwhelming

election

outcome.

there are not ten

thousand

crazies marching in

the street

with torches and pitchforks,

turning over cars,

wringing their hands,

and pulling

their hair out.

spraying graffiti

on every

reachable wall.

no one is talking about

leaving the country

until the politics

once more turn around,

abandoning their sacred

ground.

we have

jobs to go to in the morning,

a life beyond

all this noise.

we have things to do.

we still have smiles on our

faces.

how about you?

a face in the crowd

strange

to see the lone,

slender

tree, straight up into

the winter sky,

grey boned and divorced

from the youth

of green around it.

how have you

not seen her

before?

she was young once,

as you were,

but now

with beauty worn.

will this be the year

she falls,

or will

there be more?

the soup line is coming

if something

is for

free, there is always a long

line

behind it.

out the door and around

the block.

months will turn into

years

as you wait for your

cup of soup.

but

be patient

with socialists,

our comrades in arms.

wait out

the communist revolt

that's all the rage,

you'll see.

they'll eventually come

back around.

the butterflies of love

we are given

signs that

often steer us

in the right

direction.

the dead-end sign,

the slow

down, curve ahead,

one way,

two lanes merging,

the posted speed limit,

radar

is watching you

from above.

it's our choice to obey

them

or not to.

sort of like what your

gut says

when it rumbles.

those are not the fluttering

of the butterfly

wings of love, no,

those are red flags

waving, warning you,

danger up ahead.

bless the child who has his own

i try

to think back and remember

if my

father ever

gave

us an allowance, or money

just to spend

on whatever we wanted

to spend it on.

never was there a dollar

slipped

into our pockets

for the hell of it,

and yet

he did provide shelter

and food,

clothing, perhaps

a meager

word of advice

when needed,

but that was about it.

never a penny went towards

tuition,

or a car,

or a down payment

on a house.

there was love there, but it didn't

involve

money.

that, we had to earn ourselves.

and so we

did. we went to work

and never complained

about it, and here

we are

now.

all is well.

what in God's name is she doing in there?

we have

separate bathrooms,

thankfully.

hers seems to be constantly

occupied.

there's always a cloud

of steam

behind the locked door,

rising from

the crack at the floor.

i don't know half

of what she's

doing in there.

sometimes i'll stand on the steps

before going down

and listen.

once in a while the toilet

will flush

and she'll jiggle the handle.

i'll hear the medicine

cabinet open

and close, again

then again.

water will be turned

on and off

with no rhyme or reason.

what's going on in that sink?

bags are opened,

things are shuffled around,

the hair dryer

goes on and off,

there's the clicking of

jars being opened,

there's 

the squeezing of tubes.

the snapping of rubber bands

around her ponytail.

the brushing of teeth

and hair.

i hear the shaking of pill

bottles

and the gulping of water,

then the shower curtain being

pulled forward

and straightened out.

quickly i go down the stairs.

growing a beard

what makes a man

grow a beard?

whether scraggily

or well-trimmed.

what's happened in his life

to make

him stop shaving

and let it grow

around his face?

has someone told him

that he'd look

good with a beard,

more sophisticated or woodsman

like,

was it

a loved one,

a girlfriend or wife?

was it to save time in

the morning, or

to look serious when

pondering a question,

stroking it slowly

while thinking of an

answer that might

be wise.

this will make you feel better

i remember going

to a therapist once

after a tough break up,

and sitting there in the chair

licking my wounds,

asking for advice

as to what's next for me.

i felt doomed, as if

i was always going to be

stuck in this dark

hole i had dug.

a never-ending loop

of failed relationships.

the therapist adjusted the glasses

on her nose and set down

her yellow legal pad,

and said,

what about volunteering,

have you ever thought

about doing something 

like that?

what do you mean, i asked

her.

like doing what?

helping people. it will get

your mind off your

own troubles when

you see how messed up

other people are.

how better off you are

compared to a lot of people

in the world.

nah, i told her. that's not

for me. that would depress

me even more. okay.

how much for this session?

but you still have twenty

more minutes to go.

nah, i think we're done.

how you ended up with your new dog, Moe

with most

of your lifelong best

friends

gone.

deceased or moved

to another

country,

incarcerated or

in mental institutions,

you decide to find a new one.

a best friend you

can call

or see at a moments

notice, someone you

can get along

with even though you

don't always agree.

but how exactly

do you go about such

a thing.

where does one

find new

friends these days?

you're getting sleepy, very sleepy

i dated

a hypnotist for a short while.

she was

always

telling me to relax,

to breathe in,

breathe out.

think calming thoughts,

she said,

keep an eye

on the swinging ball.

we eventually broke up

for reasons

unknown to me, but

i'm still

sending her a check

on the first of

the month

and i don't know why

or how

to stop.

the goblin at the Vatican

i love

Bob, his music, his

strangeness

and the

ever changing 

melodies of his

songs, 

i like

his indescribable

voice

and mysterious lyrics,

baffling

and heartbreaking

at times.

i've been listening

to what he's written

from the beginning

of time,

his and mine.

but i believe he just

needs

help in the morning

when getting

dressed.

he needs someone to

put a mirror

in front of him, and ask,

okay,

is this how you want

to leave the house?

oh no, the end is near

after every election

one side,

or the other screams and cries,

oh God, help

us,

the end is near.

they put on their black clothes

and mourn

the end of the world

as we know it.

then another four years

go by,

and oddly,

almost all of us

are still here.

inspire me and i'll swim

i'm not a good swimmer,

my legs

too short,

my body too wide

and heavy,

but i can get from one side

of the pool

to the other

without too much trouble

as long

as i'm wearing

fins

and holding onto the rope.

i'm much better when

diving for pennies

that have sunk to the bottom.

or when i see

you on the other side

in your French bikini.

i need inspiration

sometimes

to get anything done in life.

saving days in a bottle

i take

the day, sixty

and sunny without a cloud

in the sky and place it in a bottle.

saving

it

for winter, when

the snow

and ice

glazes over the road

and lawns,

the rooftops that i see

from my

window.

i place the bottle in the cellar,

my good day

cellar

where all the other bottles

are,

no longer holding wine.

i date

the label, sketching

a sunny smile beside it

and carefully

place it on the shelf, ready

to be opened

on the day the first flake

falls.

just a minute ago

you couldn't wait

to be

18,

then 21, good enough

to vote,

or die

for your country, or both.

legally

drinking in a bar

was no problem.

and then

30 came along,

still playing sports

and chasing

skirts,

and suddenly you were

one of them,

dad

and mom.

how quickly 30 became

40,

then 50, with grey

in your hair,

with kids and house,

grass to mow.

then

you woke up one morning

to creaking

bones

and knees,

when 60 arrived.

work almost done.

at last

the golden years came

at 70.

and along with-it strangely

a smile

and peace of mind.

i think i can make it before the train comes

my mother didn't drive

a car

until she reached the age of 50,

and the car

proved

her inexperience.

a new dent appeared every other

day.

but she didn't drive

because there was a long stretch

where we didn't

have a car.

after the divorce dad got the
Chevy Impala and took

it with him.

but she tried to drive

although none of us kids would

ever dare

to get into the front seat 

of the car with her.

we cowered in the back

in fetal positions.

it was before seat belts and

air bags,

cameras and automatic

braking

it was a tin can rolling on

tires basically,

with Dean Martin singing

That's Amore

on the radio.

she used to grip the steering

wheel with one hand,

and sit as forward

as she could

on a pillow she crocheted,

the other hand

resting on the horn,

ready to blow.

the magic carpet ride down Broadway

as the yellow

cab

flies down Broadway,

i hang

onto the strap.

the windshield is

covered in some sort

of greasy film,

inside and out.

i don't know how the man

in his turban can

even see

to drive this thing.

he's eating a kabob,

and talking

on his phone to someone

in Afghanistan.

there's a cigarette

burning in an ashtray

in his lap.

he's inches away from

hitting the curb,

the delivery boys on their

bikes,

other cars

and pedestrians.

i begin to pray silently

to myself

and close my eyes.

he looks in his rearview

mirror

and begins to laugh

spitting out

some lamb onto the dashboard.

don't worry, he says.

almost there.

i know what i'm doing,

this is my job.

the broken lamp replacement

when

the table tipped on it's

wobbly

one leg,

held level by a match

book cover,

the pot shaped lamp

came tumbling down,

shattering

into a dozen pieces.

oh no,

i yelled, i'm so sorry,

i didn't know the leg was broken,

but immediately i promised

to buy her

a new one.

she began to cry.

it was the lamp my mother

gave me

before she died,

she told me,

wiping her eyes.

oh, i'm so sorry, where

did she buy it?

i'll replace it with one

just like this

one. i promise, i'll make

things right.

she bought it online.

the woman says.

i believe it was target,

or Wal-Mart and it cost

twenty-nine,

ninety-five.

i write that down. got it, 

i tell her.

i'll go down today and get

you another one.

maybe we can keep the same shade.

but,

can't you glue it back together?

a new one won't

be the same.

it won't be the one she gave

me.

glue it back together? you mean

with Emer's glue?

it would be like putting together

a jig saw puzzle.

and it's a cheap old lamp anyway.

she leans over

sobbing, then drops to the floor,

shaking.

okay, okay, i tell her,

taking out my checkbook,

okay, give me a number,

tell me how much it's going

to cost me to make

this thing right?

is three hundred okay?

fine.

the people have spoken

red eyed

and weary from staying up to watch

the mid

term elections,

the blue wave slaughter

across all 50 states,

i pour me a bowl

of cooked

quaker oats

and stare into the face of

the man

on the box.

i add in my nuts and cranberries

and sprinkle

brown sugar on top.

well, i guess that's it, we're

a communist

country now.

get the gulags ready

for us

and get your check book out

for higher taxes,

let's chant

together

free Palestine and all that

other nonsense.

the flags will be all half

mast today

as the border walls come

tumbling down,

but at least we'll all get free

healthcare

and transgender surgeries

if we decide to go

the other way.

mark twain elementary

the elementary

school

where i go to vote smells

like an elementary

school. i envision

the old janitor

pushing a wide

broom across

the linoleum floor,

sprinkled with a reddish cleaning

dust.

i can almost see the lunches

on the radiators,

the milk

being warmed

in thermoses.

brown paper bags

with names on them.

i can see the crumbs of graham

crackers

and the torn crusts

thrown

under desks from peanut butter

sandwiches.

there's the smell of chalk

in the air.

there's cigarette smoke

coming from

the bathroom stalls, and there's

a fight

in the stairway

over a girl with pig tails

and overalls.

and then the bell rings

and everyone is

gone.

my letter of resignation

when

things go wrong on the job.

impossible paper

to hang,

an angry customer, or

through 

some clumsy fault of my own

i swear

to God that

i'm going to retire

tomorrow morning.

i'm going to make it

official.

at 9 am.

i write up my resignation

and set it

on my desk.

i'm sorry, i say, but it's time.

i appreciate

all the business you've provided

me throughout

the years, but

it's no longer

about money.

i just need to rest.

i need to lie in the sun

with a cup of coffee and a book.

it's been three days now.

i'm still waiting

on a response.

one missing ingredient

after a nice

stir,

i taste

the boiling soup.

i squint my eyes and take

another taste,

blowing on the hot spoon.

with the steam

of carrots and potatoes

rising in my face.

onions and celery too.

it needs something.

something.

more salt, no.

pepper, no.

what is it?

something. i just can't

put my finger on.

it reminds me of you.

an address and a phone number in her purse

i find

in her purse an address

with a phone

number attached.

i call the number.

suspicious

as always.

it's an apartment complex

not far

from her married

boyfriend,

the water-skiing Santa.

i ask if there are any

one bedrooms

available, no the woman

says, but

we had one, but it was

just taken today

by someone who's marriage

wasn't working

out.

we can call you if you'd

like when

things open up.

mark yes or no, for whatever it is you think we're asking

i go down

to vote at the local elementary school.

it's empty.

maybe everyone voted already.

or i'm early.

i mark my ballot,

then read

the few amendments

to the state constitution

that are to be

decided.

it's written in garbled

legalese.

i have no clue what any

of it means.

it's something about abortion

again,

about suing

nurses and doctors if

something goes

wrong

in a trans surgery operation

not authorized

by parents.

i think that's what it's about.

are they trying to confuse us

about already

confused people again.

if so,

it worked.

holy moly matrimony

one marriage,

the shortest,

just six months in the making,

was in

a church, not the church i belonged

to but,

a local

church down the road

with a cute chapel

and an old

cemetery beside it.

the reception was at the Knights

of Columbus

Hall with

cafeteria styled food,

we slid our

the tray along

for meatloaf and spinach

in little dixie cups.

i was surprised at how angry

i was when

i pushed the slice of wedding

cake into her mouth.

the second one was in

a foreign

country, where the minister

wore plaid shorts.

in fact everyone on that island

was wearing shorts.

all arrangements were handled

by the mother-in-law to be

over the phone.

a party followed

when we got home,

chicken wings and burgers

on the backyard

barbeque.

and the third and final

wedding was in a basement 

by a Jewish man named

Herman

who she found

online that morning.

she told him to take the word

obey out

of the vows we were to echo.

she wasn't fond of food, so

i ordered

a pizza

for one, from Dominos.

she was already in bed with

sliced cucumbers

on her eyes, by nine,

with the bedroom door closed.

onstage at your local town fair

when you

see them onstage, the old

boys,

now old men,

the old bands

from the 60's and 70's you wonder

how long

can they keep going on.

still with the long hair,

though grey now,

the beards

and mustaches,

adorned still with

the leather pants and feathers

sticking out

of top hats,

boots and vests

from an era long-ago.

some are helped out in

wheelchairs,

or on the arms of care

takers,

managers and 

ad men

from dead radio.

they play in smaller

venues,

no longer filling a stadium.

you hardly recognize

the songs

when they sing them now,

but at least

you have got the right to say

i saw them,

before they were gone.

is your mother home?

after my

mother and father divorced.

my mother, despite

having

seven kids,

two still in diapers,

she seemed

to have no

problem getting attention

from men.

married men

and non-married men.

old and young.

it didn't matter.

it could have been her

long dark hair,

her Rubenesque figure,

or her sense of humor, but

it was strange to have

men at the

door with a bouquet

of flowers,

the milkman, the grocer,

teachers

and pastors,

all asking,

hey kid,

is your mother home?

just tell me what i did

she was most

happy

when she was unhappy.

withholding

a reason why,

brooding

with arms

crossed, and a dark

cloud

upon her face,

sitting

silently at the window.

good times.

your needs are simple

your needs

are quite simple.

food

and drink of course.

sleep,

a good days work.

new and old books.

money

to keep you flush

with the bills.

and then

there's that long stick

you keep

on the dresser.

sometimes

there's an itch that

you just can't reach

when there's no one

around.

it's still coming down

the snow.

boot deep is still fresh,

it's still coming

down.

i lift my head

and open

my mouth, having

communion

of some sort,

i guess.

it's a linen

sheet over

the walkway.

the cars,

white altars along

the road.

i look back and see

where

i've stepped.

where i've sunk into cold

angelic

snow.

it makes me wish you

were here.

glove

in glove, going forward

before it all melts.

                                                                                                   

plenty of fish

it was

more like catch and release

for me

and for them,

reeled

in from some dating site

found online

with the click of an eager

finger.

dinner

and drinks,

it got expensive.

rarely did the woman split

the bill.

after all you

had known each other for

at least 30 minutes.

a date

being a date, chivalry and

all.

the feminist movement

died when

she strolled

through the door.

sometimes we were baited

with old photos,

the skinny ones,

on a cruise ship, a dozen

years ago.

and yet,

there was so much in common,

when talking on the phone.

how you laughed and laughed

and laughed.

and then,

it ended.

the check came and she

hurried off

to the bathroom,

her pursed upon her shoulder.

then the awkward walk

to the car.

i'm over here,

i'm over there, you'd say.

handshakes

and off you'd both go.

ships passing in the night,

the next day though,

you'd cast out for more.

there seemed to always be

more.

is Paris still burning?

are we still going to Paris

in the spring?

my wife, asks me.

if we are, i think we need

to rethink

what clothes we bring.

everything we have is

flammable,

mostly cotton, which

will catch fire easily if

a Molotov

cocktail is thrown our way.

and what about

helmets and goggles.

i've been looking on Amazon

for some fashionable

gas masks in livelier

colors. everyone over

there is wearing black.

fashionable, yes. but so

mundane.

maybe we should bring some

bigger umbrellas

too, non-flammable ones,

to fend off the rocks

being thrown as we

sit outside at those quaint

little Parisian cafes.

i hope the Louvre is still

there, i do want to see

the Mona Lisa

before it's gone,

have you

heard any news on that

today?

why are these 

young students so angry?

vote for dan Sullivan, no the other one

i run into my old friend

Dan Sullivan,

from Alaska.

he's driving a new car,

a black BMW.

dang, i say to him, as he

gets out

in his silk suit and snakeskin

cowboy boots.

what's up Dan, i ask him.

love the new outfit.

no more flannel shirts and 

fur lined jackets, eh?

how much does a retired teacher

make these days?

did you

hit the lottery?

go to Vegas and roll the dice?

nope, he says

with a big toothy grin.

i'm running for the Senate

in my home state.

they put me on the ballot,

my friends on

the dem committee.

i got a knock on the door

not too long ago and

the next you know

i'm running to be the Senator

from my great state.

no way. get out of town,

i say to him.

yup, he says.

wow, that's interesting.

i've never heard you say one

word about politics

in your entire life,

other than that you despise

the current president.

so are you campaigning

across the country.

what are you doing here in

Florida?

it's one of my stops, i'm

going to visit

all 50 states by Tuesday

putting my message out there.

which is what?

i ask him.

well...i'm still working on that

being new to this game.

i'm supposed to get an email

soon

where they'll tell me exactly

what to say.

But hey,

here, take a campaign

button to wear on your coat.

Don't forget to vote for me,

Dan,

this Dan, not the other Dan.

Okay?

when they write their victim story

when i wake

up

in a haze from the anesthesia,

i see my

children,

my estranged and angry

children

gathered around me

waving my will in their hands,

their names

not on it.

they seem to be

still holding grudges

about some

Christmas

gift they didn't receive

when they were ten.

or when i told them

to move out

and get a job at 36,

or advised them not to

drink and drive

anymore.

all of them look

saddened and disappointed

that their prayers

weren't answered.

vote early, and often

i make

a list of all the people i have

known and loved

throughout the years

that have passed on,

then go

down to the voting booth

to vote,

taking the list with me.

thankfully

no ID's are necessary anymore.

i black out the circle

of the candidates

that i think they

would vote for

then circle out the door

and get back in line, voting

again and again

until the list

is done.

strangely they all agree

with me

right down the line.

30 ounces, not 15

because

the fat can of pumpkin puree

says

30 ounces,

not 15, i have to make

two large

pumpkin pies, not one,

as was the plan.

i really should read the labels.

so there they sit

on the coffee table,

warm, right out of the oven,

beside the can

of whipped cream,

and me

with a fork and knife,

an empty glass,

and a gallon

of cold milk,

ready to get into it.

the shedding of leaves

i've turned over more

new leaves

than that oak

tree outside my window

shedding it's

summer foliage in multiple

shades of orange

and red.

but this time i mean it,

i really mean it,

i put my hand

on the Gideon's Bible

and swear that

this time, no lie,

i'm on the straight and narrow

path.

free wi-fi and a continental breakfast

you check into the roadside

motel,

after telling

your wife

that you have to leave

for the night.

you can't take it anymore.

you set your one

bag down.

then sit on the bed.

it's hard.

the pillows are hard

as well.

you can hear

the tv

on in the room beside you.

the laughter

of a game

show.

everything smells

like a cigarette.

there's a picture on the wall

above the dresser

of a blue stream

with a deer

looking out, staring in

your direction,

as if about to be shot.

tomorrow, you'll go home

again.

and at last,

one way or the other,

try to figure things out.

the second act

the actor,

or musician spends

so much

of his life

becoming famous

and rich,

his face is everywhere

you turn,

he's on tv,

in the movies,

there he is at a ballgame

throwing

the first pitch out.

and then he spends the rest

of his life

in hiding,

under guard and

pulling the shades down

behind the iron gates.

he tries

to disappear,

that is

until the money runs out.

duck with plum sauce

my grandmother,

on my father's side,

New England bred, was

poor, but

you wouldn't know it

by her long

manicured nails

and fur coat.

the necklace

and rhinestones she wore.

she loved Liberace

and his candelabras,

and once in the smallest

of New York diners,

as we sat wide eyed

beside her,

eating eggs

and cereal,

she ordered duck

with plum sauce,

and a Cabernet 

from the cellar.

there is no island to escape to

it's hard

to keep the world out

and

away

from you.

it bleeds in eventually.

the paper,

the tv,

your phone,

a nosy neighbor asking

if you've seen

the latest

tragedy on Fox or CNN.

politics

and gore.

sometimes

you look out the window

from the second floor

and see the smoke

rising,

the fire in the distance

and hear

the sirens.

sometimes it's just

the dog howling.

he seems

to know.

preparing for winter

there

are different preparations

for winter now

than

there were years ago.

when we salted

meat,

and canned

vegetables and fruit.

there was a root cellar

where

we stored

carrots and beets, 

turnips

and potatoes.

there was a need to patch

the roof

where the wind

came in,

the windows sealed

to keep

out the drafts.

the chimney needed

tending to.

parging the gaps,

and always there was

the chopping of wood,

hoping

that it would

last.

now,

it's turning off the outside

water

spigot and

we're through.

from a distance

you

see the lion in the tall

grass

waiting.

owning the patience

of centuries.

the sun is golden

on the field,

as the antelope

drinks

from the pond.

death

comes in many forms,

beauty

being one

of them.

let's not talk anymore, okay?

we agree

on almost nothing,

everything

we talk about

we disagree upon

and argue,

and yet

the sex is really good,

so there

you go,

let's continue on.

a squirrel in the road

it's the first

shiver of the new season.

perhaps

it's time

for the heat to go on.

my feet

are cold on the hard floor,

my skin

dimpled, i'm near frozen

down to my

toes.

i look back at the warm bed

and stand

there,

a squirrel in

the road,

trying to decide whether

to stay

and climb back in,

or go.

the small print book

they

send me the small print book.

but i have

no magnifying glass to read

it with.

the words are

smaller than ants,

or the print on an insurance

plan,

page ten.

i give it a sighful

glance then

onto to the shelf

it goes

to gather dust,

unread

with barely a glance.

needing each other

what good

is a hammer without a nail

to hit,

a saw

without wood

to cut,

a brush without paint.

a glass

with nothing to drink?

we need each

other more than we

realize,

for better or worse.

on permanent window-shopping mode

she feels

the necessity to spend money

when out

and about,

by car or foot.

each store she passes presents

a possible purchase

of more things she doesn't

really want or need, but

nonetheless,

the money burns a hole

in her purse,

so she must stop, pull over

and park, she needs

to browse,

to window shop,

she needs to walk the aisles

and say, oh my,

what's that?

there's so much in this

world,

that for no reason,

she wants to possess.

waiting for the rain to stop

we

slow down at the curve,

the turn.

signal on.

the wipers broken

but

still slapping at the rain

against

the glass.

we pull into

the driveway and wait

for the storm

to slow down.

it's cold and the windows

are fogged

with our breathing.

we say nothing.

the radio is on.

in a different era, at

a different

age I might have call them

diamonds.

or tears, but not today.

it's just

rain.

love helps

do not

look down on

the betrodden,

the poor,

for if they

have love,

there will be enough

light

to go forward,

to press on,

and perhaps, if prayerful,

if God allows

with

nose to the grindstone,

one day

life will change,

they'll have more.

without rising to look

you know

that sound as you lie

there,

the light dim,

the shades drawn.

the click of shoes across

the floor,

the stretch

of the cat or dog

beside

you.

an impatient yawn,

by those

you love who want to go.

you've heard the birds

on the sill

a thousand

times before, the clang

of the radiator

trying

once more to give

you heat

way up here on

the fourth floor.

the sound of milk being

poured,

the newspaper

cascading at 5 a.m.

against the front door.

the whistle of a tea pot,

the lighting

of a cigarette across

a darkened room.

you won't need your eyes

for any of this.

you know what it is

without rising

to even look.

it's all in the game, on November third

my friend Jimmy is

all excited about

election day.

he tells me with glee that

he has prepared

his documents to vote

on Tuesday.

he taps the black briefcase

he has with him.

got it all right here, he says.

i have seven ID's

bought on the dark web,

five social security numbers

from dead people.

six passports,

three driver's licenses'

nine photo

ID's

from Costco, the library

and 

the DMV.

it's going to be a busy

day

going from voting

booth

to booth

across the county, but

we have

to win.

all is fair in love and war,

right?

what are you now, i ask him,

a democrat?

the doctor's waiting room

out of a few

words

overheard at the doctor's office,

i construct

an entire novel

of suspense and mystery

from the whispering

small talk.

it all starts

with a red rash,

a rough patch of skin, 

a wound

that won't stop

bleeding

on the man's leg

beside me.

his pant leg is rolled up

as he jibber jabbers

with his bored wife,

who sits

there knitting.

i suspect poison ivy,

or oak,

or a bee sting,

but why stop there.

maybe he's a spy and he's

been

touched by poison, a Russian

toxic powder

of some sort.

the fate of the world

may depend

upon how this turns out.

this man

may be the key to

saving democracy as we know

it to be,

and then

the nurse calls my name,

it's my

turn

for the dermatologist

to examine my

scalp.

i remove my hat,

the tale will have to wait.

the cold lake fish

i see the old

man,

sitting on a can,

pulling a fish out of the cold

lake,

more blue

than the sky.

there's a feather

in his cap.

he's neither happy

or sad

with his catch.

i think he's done this

before.

i watch him as he unhooks

the silver fish

from his line

and throws

it back.

it's a satisfying splash

as he sits

back down,

and once more casts.

turning over a new leaf

i'm

tongue tied with

an apology.

rare

for me to be so honest.

i've

been bad

in the past,

excusing my behavior

with what

is owed

to me. but

you don't deserve

a lie,

no matter how white

or black.

i can't keep living like

that.

the broom closet

the broom

is not thought of until

it's needed.

until there's dirt on

the floor

that needs to be swept up.

you feel that way

at times

when it

comes to children.

the phone gone silent,

the mail

not coming.

and then

at last, they need you.

there's urgency

in their voice.

they need something.

but it's too late,

you're no longer home.

easier said than done, letting go

you hear

it all the time.

in fact i have a thick book

called

Letting Go

by David Hawkins.

wise words are inside.

let go

of bad relationships,

grown up

children

who don't respect or love

you anymore.

let go

of the old house

falling around you,

the beat up old

car spilling oil.

let go of guilt and shame,

remorse, regret.

let go of the person

you once pined

for, let go of the dying

pet.

it's their time.

let go of your

favorite old clothes

frayed and worn.

be free, someday it will

be your turn

to take that last breath,

and at last

be made willing

to let go of everything.

Baked Alaska

it's going to be a tough

Senatorial race

in Alaska this coming election,

the candidates

are neck in neck,

though

on opposite sides of policies.

so one side

decides

to go out and find as many

people as they

can with the same

name as the opposing candidate

and put one

of them

on the ballot.

putting their thumb on the scale

just to have a little fun,

cause a little confusion

when it comes to marking one's

vote.

and these are the people

we put in congress,

liars, cheaters, losers.

God help us all.

the scariest house of all this Halloween

my neighbor

is one of those. one of those

who over decorates

with Halloween

approaching.

skeletons hang from the trees,

giant

ballons

in the shapes of goblins

and witches

are tethered to the branches.

carved pumpkins

are lit up

with candles.

a rocking chair

creaks

on the porch, mechanically

rocking back and forth

emitting

moans of despair and grief.

enormous

monofilament

spider webs are strung

across the house.

they even dress up in scary

costumes

when kids come to the door.

this year

it's Kamala and Mamdani

handing candy out.

she was very snobby about lettuce

my ambivalence

about

lettuce bothers her.

i can tell

when i bring home 

from the grocery store

a head

of iceberg lettuce

for the salad.

why this lettuce, she asks,

standing at

the cutting board

about to make

a salad for our soon to

arrive guests.

it's so pedestrian.

there are so many other

lettuces to choose

from. 

Loose Leaf, Butterhead,

Romaine, why

this?

i like how it's round,

i tell her.

a nice tight bundle

wrapped neatly in plastic.

it's ideal

to carry home and rolls

nicely across the floor

if i drop it.

which i did.

what's the difference?

not a book was stolen

i was walking to

my favorite

coffee shop, bookstore

early

in the blue Parisian light,

but it wasn't

there anymore.

seems it was burned

to the ground,

rummaged

through,

damaged

beyond repair,

but not a book was taken,

which tells

you everything there

is to know

about who's involved

in these riots.

they want shoes, and jewelry,

Nike clothing,

all the bling

that will surely change

their life.

conversation with a young protestor

everything

you're saying to me, i feel

like

i've heard it before.

each word

that leaves

your mouth is old,

dusty,

taken out from the moth

balls

of history.

i get it.

but go on, you're young,

these thoughts

are all new

to you.

get it out of your system.

become

older, wiser.

in time.

you'll move on.

just one more dance

there is a longing for one

more.

one more kiss

before you go,

one more drink before

the bar

closes.

one last dance

before we leave.

one more cup of coffee

before the morning

starts,

one more press of the snooze

button

before the day

begins.

one more, just one more

bite

of cake

before you put it away.

it's the good

and simple things we

always want

one more of.

one more day like this,

please.

Slim Jim and Cross eyed Charlie

you hear rumors,

word

of mouth gossip about

the old

crew,

the basketball boys,

who shot

hoops together for thirty-five

years,

until Covid shut the door.

did you hear,

Mark says, I think Randy

may have passed.

kidneys,

or something like that.

remember his moon ball,

it went as high

as it traveled

long.

what about Jay, i ask.

which Jay, he says,

tall Jay,

or Asian Jay?

tall Jay, i heard about his

hip replacement.

and what about Slim Jim,

is he still married

to Cookie,

the woman from the Ukraine,

i heard they

were going through some stuff.

not sure about that,

but i did see

cross eyed Charlie last week

at the grocery store.

he looks good.

a little limp in the giddy up,

but good.

remember that hook shot?

unstoppable.

the last pew in the back of St. Bernadette's

i run into Father Smith

at the liquor store,

he's buying

a large bottle of Angelica, 

while i'm

picking up

some Tito's vodka for game

time.

he tugs on his white collar

when he sees me.

Father, i say to him.

Son, he says back.

any Halloween plans? i ask him.

no, he says.

it's kind of like the devil's holiday.

oh, right. right.

he pulls out a roll of bills

to pay

for his purchase,

which makes me suspicious

having seen

so much folding money in 

the morning mass

basket.

see you Sunday, he says.

of course, of course.

i'll be in my usual spot,

the last pew in the back,

by the double doors.

outnumbered

i pull

the car over to give the children

a what for.

a light tap

upon each of their heads

with a rolled up

road map.

we'll get there when we

get there.

so please be quiet,

i need to concentrate

on the highway.

but i have to pee,

the boy says.

me too, his brother echoes.

the sister rolls

her eyes, and says i have

to go too,

but i'm hungry

as well.

mom, make dad stop, please.

she looks at me

and smiles.

okay, okay. i'll stop for 

a pit stop and lunch soon,

but

for the next

twenty miles we're going to

play a game.

it's called the quiet game.

whoever breaks

their silence has to get out

and walk.

okay.

are we all in?

take this exit the wife says.

we're stopping now.

the magician's black hat

i often think of her

as a magician.

clever to a fault

and deft of hand.

how distracted i was

by her pair of legs

and sweet smile,

while she carved

my life in half,

then pulled my heart,

barely beating,

out of her

dark black hat.

even when there is none

at times,

it's almost as if you've

never seen

a full moon

before,

or a red

bird on your sill.

a tree

in bloom.

you are still

young at heart, you

tell yourself,

a romantic

soul.

seeing beauty even

when there

is none.

Yelp was wrong about this movie

i fall asleep 

while the movie is playing.

it's not as

good as the reviews said

it was going to be.

i'm in a deep ninety minute

cat nap

until i'm

startled by the clamor

around me.

i wake up with

a box of popcorn

in my lap,

a coke in the holder

with melted ice,

a pack of red licorice

in my hand.

the credits are rolling

on the screen,

people are

clapping, cheering

as they head for the exits.

i'm upset as i look around.

someone has

stolen my extra-large box

of Junior Mints.

a sailor at sea

tired,

i was of taking the temperature

in the room,

my feet

always

walking gently

upon

the eggshells, tired

of choosing

words

carefully so as not to

be misunderstood,

constantly keeping

the waters

calm and still.

tired of it all, i packed

my duffle bag

and set sail.

behind the barn in North Reading

this round

old scar on my knee.

my right knee,

from when i was

five,

always in a hurry,

and fell onto

a broken jar

behind my grandmother's

barn in North Reading

is still pink.

i stare at it again,

rubbing

the raised quarter moon

of skin

healed.

it reminds me once more,

and quite

often,

to never pick up

a slithering

brown moving stick.

all is well

if they

don't call. if they don't show

up, or text.

there's no card

or letter

in the mail.

if you don't hear back from

them,

don't worry.

another door

will open.

all is well.

a late night cup of coffee

i purposely drink

a cup

of coffee around 7 o'clock at night,

knowing that i won't

be able to get to sleep

no matter how tired i am.

but, i need to stay awake.

i have things to thing about,

decisions to make.

i need to ponder and ruminate

on an assortment of issues.

i need to have a good long

talk with myself and figure

out what to do with the rest of my life.

at three a.m.

still wide awake, i realize that

this may take more than

one cup of coffee,

and it may take a month of nights.

saving string and rubber bands, paper clips

not a day

goes by without junk mail

coming through

the door,

or on the phone,

spam

by the dozens.

i delete and throw them

all away.

my father cut out coupons,

my mother too.

i can still see them sitting

at the dining room

table with a pair

of shears

going at it.

both of them with the green

stamp books.

ten cents saved

on a jar of mayonnaise.

fifty cents

on a can of beans.

the grocery store hands

them out

like raffle tickets to your

next purchase

of a pint of strawberries,

or ham hocks.

i've never used a coupon

in my entire life.

it always seemed

like an admission

of poverty. a cry

out to the world, to the clerk,

that you didn't have two

cents to rub

together, which was often

true.

The No Kings Rally

my friend

Jimmy stops by to shoot the breeze.

he's carrying a megaphone

with him.

dude, i say to him,

what's up with the megaphone?

well, he says,

you know how they're always

having these no king protests

on the overpass,

waving their flags

and blowing their horns?

even though we've never had a king.

yes. but they do have the right

to protest,

you know that right?

sure, sure, first amendment and

all of that.

but i find it annoying

and distracting when i'm

driving about. it's a road hazard

with these

nuts banging their pots and pans

over the highway.

okay, go on i say, waiting

for him to get to the part

about the megaphone.

well, do you also see how most

of these people are boomers,

with white hair and are way overweight?

the last protest they were

in was for the Vietnam war, 

and to demonstrate

how much they hated Nixon.

the senior center drops them off

in the morning

and picks them up later for nap time.

yes, yes go on.

well, when i ride by, i started

thinking,

what do most overweight boomers

like.

coffee, right?

yes. of course. coffee.

coffee and what else?

donuts, scones, that sort of thing,

to eat with their coffee?

exactly.

so what i do is when i ride by

i roll my window down and while

using my megaphone

i yell out.

Safeway is having a sale on Entenman

Crumb Cake.

two for the price of one.

hurry, sale last for one more hour only.

within five minutes they've folded

up their chairs and signs,

and are gone.

genius, right?

the work day

there is tired,

mental exhaustion,

being emotionally drained,

battle

fatigue, but then there's

work

tired.

bone weary.

arms and legs, back.

knees.

the heavy lifting of a long

day

is upon you.

it's time for

a hot bath,

Tylenol,

ice packs for the knees.

Friday can't come

soon enough,

nor sleep.

give till it hurt

give

and give some more,

give

to the bum on the corner,

to the march of dimes,

to the jerry Lewis

telethon,

give

to st. Judes,

to ms,

diabetes,

to cancer research.

give till it hurts.

to the church, to the schools

to the firemen

on the corner

with their boots

in hand.

give to the politicians.

send a check to the United Way,

to the homeless,

to the Peace Corp,

to the weepy eyed dogs

on tv.

to the old Russian women

with their dirty pots and pans.

everyone has a go fund

me page,

a go fund me tuition,

a go fund

me wedding.

kill, maim,

get tossed in the slammer,

and the money

will pour in.

give and give some more,

things will change

soon, right?

three turns in the bed

the dog,

with his ancient instinct,

and still

intact wisdom,

turns three times in

the soft bed

before closing his eyes

to the day,

and falls asleep.

with your love

and devotion

you've made him worry

free.

he knows that

tomorrow also

will be a good day.

there's a lifelong longing

that i hold

as well,

that someone,

at some point,

will also do that for me.

perhaps then,

i'll sleep.

i wonder why that is

it's interesting,

that the only countries that aren't

in chaos,

with rioting

in the streets are the ones

with strong

borders.

those with strict policies

on immigration.

China, Russia,

Japan.
Poland. Liechtenstein,

you have to be a resident there

for 30 years

before they let you in.

South Korea, not a snippet

in the news

about them burning down

the house.

come to think of it,

not once have i seen a

Molotov cocktail

thrown

onto the streets of

Vatican City.

no need for water cannons

there.

time for my five mile bike ride

i treat myself

to a brand-new set of clothing

for riding

my bike.

i need the traditional

costume,

like the ones i see

on the Tour de France.

a jersey

with an advertisement on the back

of my skintight

multi-colored

top.

i need biker shorts with

padding

to protect my family

jewels,

and wrist bands, perhaps

a little mirror and a go-pro

for my new

orange helmet.

biker shoes too, that click

and slide

when i'm walking.

i need to strap in when i hop

onto

my twenty-year-old

Schwinn.

maybe i should take the basket

off first, then

the streamers on the spokes,

and the kickstand.

emotional eating or not eating

with food

there has to be a middle ground

when you're

upset

with something going on

in your life,

whether love or death,

work

or children.

you can't

eat too much,

or too little.

you have to find your own

personal

wheelhouse

when it comes to cake,

or pasta,

steak,

or lettuce.

you can't keep buying

three

separate suits of clothing

depending

upon what emotional

state you're in.

making holiday plans

i don't know about

visiting Europe for the holidays,

the wife

says,

as she brushes her hair,

counting each stroke.

eighty-five,

eighty-six, eighty-seven.

i'm still in bed

with our dog, Ralph.

his head

is on my chest.

i think he needs to go out.

why not, honey bun,

i ask her.

well, i saw on tv 

the rioters.

they've gone mad over there

with the

looting, fires, chaos.

ninety-two, ninety-three,

ninety-four.

i think we should go, i tell

her, before

it's gone for good.

is the Louve,

still there? the Eiffel Tower?

we can buy some helmets

and those

military vests.

some Doc Martin boots.

ninety-seven, ninety-eight,

ninety-nine,

one hundred.

she sets the brush down.

what about Miami, she says.

South Beach for

Christmas?

sure, why not, i think i still

have my red

speedo from the last time

we went.

how to win a poetry prize

be imprecise,

abstract, elusive with your

words.

leave them

wondering on what

the message is.

strive to be obtuse,

obscure, puzzling

with your words.

don't connect the dots.

let the reader

decide.

then lean hard left

with your emotions,

your seeping

feelings, show

the world

your dormant feminine side.

keep it a mystery

what you've

written on the once

blank page.

add a dash

of Salvadore Dali,

some Andy Warhol,

jump on the horse of e.e.

cummings

and ride.

don't tell them anything.

splash

things around,

punctuation is optional.

bring up mythology,

ancient Rome,

Atlantis.

the New Yorker will

love it.

you'll win the Nobel

Prize.

failure to launch

i'm

a first grader when

it comes

to technology.

i will never graduate

and get

my masters degree

in the fine art

of computers and phones.

(is there a difference

anymore?)

i am stuck

in first gear.

there's enough tech

in my

phone to fly to the moon,

so they say.

but i can only answer

and call

and take an occasional

picture

or two.

but that's about it.

don't ask me to copy and paste,

or to download

an app,

or to print

anything.

face time is a mystery.

where is the Play store,

by the way,

next to Sears

at the Mall?

i'm shocked when i see people

typing

using their fingers

and thumbs

like Buddy Rich playing

the drums.

(don't ask).

i think someone is trying

to call me. got to go.

i'm done.

Saturday bath time in Paris

i like

how the French police are now

using water
cannons

to blast the protestors down

the street.

nothing like getting hit

in the face

by a blast of river water

from

the Seine.

but why not

throw in some

soap too.

catapult some ivory bars

into the mob,

or dove bars

for those with sensitive skin, 

perhaps

some Tide detergent,

a large box

or two,

sprinkled down

from above.

maybe some scrub brushes

as well

to clean up

the mess they've made.

two sides to everything

i run into

my ex-wife's best friends

in the grocery

store.

a couple from the old

neighborhood.

our children

grew up together.

it's been 25 years since i've seen

them,

but we ignore

the awkwardness.

we stop our carts

and

get right into small talk,

children,

weather, 

associated other friends.

so how have you been?

everyone is good.

of course.

there's some wear and tear

on both of them,

as i'm sure they see on me.

strange,

as it is,

i never disliked them, despite

everything,

despite the act

of taking sides.

if only they knew the truth

of how and why,

but why bother now.

i'm free.

we give each other

a handshake and a hug

goodbye.

S:3 G:2494-B

at last

the headstone arrives

and is set

upon

my father's

final resting place

in Arlington.

his name,

his birth date and place,

and the day

he died are

all engraved.

they play taps for him.

which he would

have liked,

unsentimental

as he was.

but i imagine a tear might

fall from

one or two

of his ocean blue eyes,

along with

an embarrassed laugh,

and a hand

that would brush

aside

such ceremony.

waiting for what's next

the sky

is more blue, more

cold

and beautiful than it's ever

been.

i'm still running,

it's late

in the fall,

the ball is in the air,

i can see it

between

the clouds, 

a shadow in the sun,

spinning

towards me,

my legs and arms

are young, my heart

is racing.

the grass is a bright green

field of joy.

i'm still running

with

a bloom of breath before me.

i'm waiting 

with open arms for what

comes next,

for the ball to at last

come down.

we knew everyone's name

hard to believe

but

there used to be a milkman,

a paper boy,

the mailman

used to come twice a day.

grown men

would knock on our door

selling encyclopedias

or Hoover

Vacuums

and we'd invite them in

for coffee

and crumb cake.

people would actually,

tip their hats

and wave.

on Sunday we walked

to church

with a pocketful of change.

we sat on the front

porch and talked,

how hard we laughed,

we played

board games.

the kids ran free in the yard

until dark,

catching fireflies

in mason jars.

we played spin the bottle

in the basement,

we danced

to records, we played charades.

we knew

everyone's name.

nostalgia

it feels

good to be longing

for

a time that never really was,

a love

that never existed.

we look back through

the sepia

glass of time

and embrace a mirage.

we're wishful

thinkers.

craving

the past.

it's a

romantic nostalgic trip.

reality

is too hard to live with.

guests for the weekend

we are open

arms

for the guests that arrive,

their yearly

visit.

we're a bed and breakfast

for them

once a year.

my wife

puts flowers on the table.

clean sheets in the spare

bedroom,

their favorite

foods and drinks are on the shelf.

we break open

the good wine,

the good China.

we make home cooked meals.

they are old friends,

good friends,

but by the end of the three

day weekend,

we hate them

and want our house back.

one cherry cough drop will do

there has to be

at least one sweet treat

in the house,

one cookie,

one tiny bit of chocolate,

or candy

from last years Halloween.

there has to be

a crumb

of a donut, a thin

slice

of cake

between the sofa seats.

a morsel of something

frozen

in the freezer,

ice cream

maybe. please

don't make me eat

an apple,

please.

pulling the lever on November 3rd

i try to stay informed

on the basic policies of those

running for office

in the upcoming election.

i write down the platform

of the blue side.

the red side seems to want

the exact opposite.

but here's the blue side.

this is what they want,

not all of them, but many.

open borders.

higher taxes.

punish the rich.

get out jail free cards

for multiple offenders.

free Medicare for all.

defund the police,

defund the military,

transgender surgeries

for children

and inmates in prisons.

abolish the senate,

the congress.

the presidency.

abortion up into the ninth

month.

abolish the second amendment.

empty the prisons.

allow non-citizens to vote.

abandon Israel,

let Iran have the bomb.

free buses.

free syringes for drug addicts,

leave the homeless

on the streets to live out

their best life, open

government run grocery stores.

and finally, but not least,

flying the American flag

upside down

and outlawing red hats.

George Washington must be

rolling in his grave.

turn around, there's more to see

i go

to the beach

on the eastern shore,

i travel

to Europe, to South

America,

to Philly

then Miami, but the only

thing on my

mind is

going home.

i yawn at the Great Wall

of China,

i take at nap on the edge

of the Grand Canyon,

i feel lonely

in Times Square.

i only think about getting

home again,

to peace and quiet.

there is nothing

of interest left

for me to see.

which she tells me isn't true.

prove it,

i tell her. prove it to me.

my brother, my husband

when you see the news,

and it's full

of government

officials,

congressmen and women

getting arrested,

you can't help but

wonder what the hell 

is going on here.

mayors and senators,

governors and

attorney generals

all taking bribes and looking

the other way

when thievery runs rampant.

from dog catcher up.

you see their

mug shots plastered

on the screen.

calling the crimes a racist

attack,

or a minor clerical error

on their tax

returns.

caught with gold bars

in their closets,

money stacked in

the Cayman Islands.

immigration fraud

by marrying one's sibling.

lying about where they live,

where they were born.

forgery and fraud

run amok.

the wanton abuse of

Snap and EBT cards,

day care centers and

senior care facilities all

ATM machines for

the 

do gooders.

like rats they scurry

off with our tax dollars

for the homeless,

for the hungry.

they're

selling drugs, 

sleeping with Chinese

spies, tattooing Nazi

symbols on their chest.

start building the next boat,

Noah,

we're living in crazy

times.