so what's your plan?

imperfect as we are,

we pick

and complain

about

nearly everything.

it's easy.

it's not hard.

just look around,

there's so

much to whine about.

let's join

hands and complain

together.

there's so much that

is wrong

with people

and this world.

so much that we wish

was different,

better in our

point of view.

let's march, let's protest,

let's shout

and scream,

let's wring our hands

and cry,

then do it again tomorrow,

what else is there

to do?

come up with solutions?

come on,

don't be silly.

give until it hurts

has it

ever worked?

socialism, communism?

name a country

where it's flourished

and the people

are happy.

Cuba, Venezuela,

Russia,

China?

all run by dictators,

promising the world,

and yet, here we are.

we'll do it right this time.

shame on the rich,

on the entrepreneurs,

the business owners

who provide

jobs to the masses.

shame on the brilliant

leaders

and innovators

of growth and health.

let's spread the wealth

around,

let's give it to the lazy

and dumb,

the criminals

pretending to be victims.

let them have everything

they haven't

earned.

let's suck off the teat

of the government

until runs dry.

why work?

why be part

of the democracy

that made this country great,

but maybe not

for long.

sometimes you want to jump

i get

notices on my phone

of people

adding

to their stories on Facebook.

trips overseas,

cakes

they've made.

grandchildren on swings.

someone is eating

a cheeseburger

in China.

another is displaying

a cast

on their arm

from a motorcycle accident.

i need to

post something too

that everyone

can read

and enjoy, or shake their

heads at.

but i've got nothing.

nothing new.

it would be nice though

to have a few

likes, and thumbs up

from my so-called friends,

maybe a heart

or two

to keep me going

and away

from the ledge.

the tomato plants

i ponder

a garden, maybe,

just maybe i

have gardening skills not

yet discovered,

so i throw a tomato

sliced open

out into the shadowed

back corner

of the yard

where i've raked

the leaves

from last fall.

i wait

for the crop to arrive.

life should be better than this

the conversation

i overhear

is more interesting than

the one

i'm having in my head,

so i listen

to the woman

talking to another woman

about how

unhappy

she is.

they are both well dressed,

with wedding

rings on their hands,

shopping bags

at their side.

they talk

about their children, their

husbands,

how unloved they are,

the beach house

on some far away sand.

life should be better

than this, she says.

they agree on almost everything,

then stop

talking when they see that

i can hear them.

i'm just another man.

to rise in love

why

not say to rise

in love,

as opposed to fall in love?

why must

we

fall,

which means to stumble,

to fail,

to lie on the floor

in submission.

no falling please, just

rising.

don't be the grey man

the secret

is to stay within the lines,

to live

within your means,

to be self-aware and

know what

you can and cannot do.

be you.

play it safe.

hogwash.

it's the chance, the risk

and trials

that will

reward you in the end.

without suffering there will

be no blessing.

don't be the grey man.

eating an orange

in the long

shadow

of the yard,

at the round table,

it's deliberate,

these

hands upon this fat orange,

peeling

at the thick

skin,

a nail

dug into the first

piece,

will it be sweet, or too

soon

off the tree,

only the first taste

will tell you so, either

way,

all is well.

what lies ahead

out alone

on

the cold hard sea,

sail

up and full,

pulling you towards

a storm,

but you

don't care, there's a part

of you that likes

drama,

likes the thrill

of the unknown,

the mystery of what

lies ahead.

we'll see

who comes out the other

side of this too.

you people will have to wait

i let the phone

ring,

i don't get up for the doorbell.

UPS is

at the back door,

i'm on the couch

stretched out,

waiting on

sleep to take place.

a cold beer

sits on my chest.

it's been a long day.

too long. i'm

drenched to the bone

with sweat,

heavy

with fatigue.

i just need a break.

you people will have to wait.

someone cut the deck

we play

cards long into the night.

all of us

old men,

circled

under the dim lights,

the low music

from the corner

stereo.

cold beer

on tap.

a bowl of pretzels,

a bowl of nuts.

we've told all

of our stories,

and we'll them again,

we're still here,

but

we've played our hand,

we still meet

just the same,

same place, same time,

same table, the old deck

of cards being

shuffled by old hands.

your day will come, promise

i stare

at the lump of brie

in the fridge,

a whiteish 

wedge,

and whisper to it

that maybe

next weekend

i'll have a party and take

it out

on a little plate,

pull out a box of cracked

wheat crackers

and a little

round knife to spread

it about.

maybe that fig spread

in the squat

jar will join in too,

if i can get it open.

hold on i tell it.

your day will come,

promise.

i wish you never told me that

i know more about

you than

i wish i knew.

i wish you'd never told me

all of your

dark secrets.

i wish you'd never

told me anything,

or shown

me what's in the attic,

the cellar,

the hall closet.

that box beneath

your bed.

it's hard now to be with you

and pretend that

all is well.

the vague lost years

that was another life,

i tell her,

the one

before this one,

and after several others.

each

with defining moments,

children

and marriage, dogs

and yards

with white fences.

barbeques on weekends,

the car

in the driveway

being washed.

always something new

being carried

in, to hang upon a wall.

though some

are

vague years,

some lost,

with no significant history

other than

getting up

and going to work.

the thick fog of

survival years

living

in temporary digs,

at temporary jobs,

always with a pen and paper,

counting

the cost.

all these broken parts

i will do anything

for you,

give you

anything,

do you want my arms,

my legs,

my eyes,

my tongue, my time,

my days

and years,

i will give them all up

for you.

nearly everything

i have is yours,

almost,

everything but my heart,

unless you have

a broom

to sweep up all the broken

parts.

she's at the top of the hill

one

foot before the other,

up

up i go,

the grass is green,

the sky

blue,

i see you waiting with

your outstretched

hand,

your hair in the wind,

your eyes

brown.

you whisper to me,

saying further

a little bit more, come

on,

you can make,

i'm waiting with open

arms for

you, come up, come on,

come up,

let's move on.

waiting on the mushroom clouds

in order to get the gas

prices

lower, to appease

the far left

cuckoo birds who seem

to hate their own

country,

congress votes to give

Iran more

uranium, plutonium,

and bigger rockets

that can reach New York

City and Washington D. C...

finally,

the gas prices drop down

to the way they

were before the war,

everyone is happy,

though nervous and taking

more Xanax.

the gum shoe dilemma

this gum

stuck to my shoe

reminds

me of you. no matter how hard

i try to scrape

it away,

there's always more

stuck

between the treads,

hardened

and grey.

i didn't see you lying

there all pink

and pretty 

on the hot pavement,

then stepped right into it.

time for

new shoes.

Pray without ceasing

i wonder at times if God

is too busy

with so many

prayer requests, especially

around football

season

and when the lottery goes

up to a billion

dollars for the right sequence

of numbers

selected.

does He have a staff of angels,

or saints

that read through all

the prayers

for healing, for finances,

for finding lost objects, like

keys

and wallets,

shiny objects like rings

and bracelets

lost at the beach?

what's the process like?

is it a triage procedure,

or a raffle situation where they

all go into the hopper

and St. Peter, blindfolded,

puts his hand in to pull

one out.

thumbs up thumbs down,

yes or no?

not now, but maybe later?

we need some

clarity here, and when i ask

Father Smith at St. Bernadette's

what the deal is,

he just shrugs his shoulders

and says,

beats me, i'm a little rusty

on prayer requests.

digging through the trash

i can't find

the receipt, so i begin the slow

process

of digging through

the trash

bag

secured in the can.

oh my,

i eat a lot of food,

cobs of corn

bitten bare,

empty pickle jars,

lettuce

and tea bags, coffee

grounds,

eggshells,

an endless assortment

of Splenda

packages

now opened.

junk mail and old magazines.

steak and chicken

bones,

half empty boxes

of chow mein noodles,

and finally, there it is,

the receipt to Macy's

for the shirt i'll never wear.

beauty over brains

beauty

wins for a while over

brains.

a short while,

but soon we all

get old

and the gig is up.

and so

now what?

the catch and release program

it's a daily

thing

in the state of Virginia,

and elsewhere.

you read about the violent

criminals

being let out on

the street to do the same

things again

again.

rob, steal, murder, rape,

assualt.

they lock them up for

an hour or so,

then let them go

after a love

tap on their hand,

a few meals

and a new set of clothes.

it's a revolving door.

the criminal is the victim,

and the victim

is no more.

take a look at this big salad

i use about one percent

of my

computers capabilities,

my laptop, my phone too.

i have no

clue what i'm doing

other than

turning it on and off,

or making

or taking a call.

yes. i can take a picture

or two,

and send them via text.

but that's about it.

these gizmos 

have more technology

than they had when

they first went to the moon

and here i am

sending a picture of a salad

i'm about to eat

and sending it to you.

i feel so much better now

everyone is a coach

now.

a guru,

a self-educated teacher

on getting

and staying

well.

finding awareness

in your inner self.

it's easy money

on Instagram

and YouTube.

you just need a matt

and a phone

to record it all.

maybe

put some Hindu posters on

the wall.

breathe they tell you,

close your

eyes and blow out

all the bad stuff.

inhale,

exhale, now stretch those

arms

to the sky.

okay, we're done here.

that will be

thirty-nine ninety-five.

you only live once

for a few

bucks more you can get

the deluxe

version,

the limited edition.

for a little bit more coin

you can

get the gold tier,

the next

step up,

let's ride first class,

you deserve that.

the VIP version, the cream

of the crop,

with Corinthian leather

and free 

maintenance

until it stops.

why have less

when you can have more.

don't be a cheapskate,

come on,

you only live once.

The President's Visit to China

i start watching the coverage

of the President's 

trip to China.

they seem to have a thing

for red flags,

and long red carpeted

runways.

it's pretty boring for the most

part,

there's a lot of walking

around, for some reason.

up and down

an enormous staircase.

hundreds of soldiers march

in a frightening display

of human cloning.

there's children jumping up and down,

like human flowers,

there's music playing

that sounds

like instrumental renderings

of songs in the Broadway play Oklahoma.

yawn, yawn, yawn.

no one falls down, no one

gets slapped, no one chokes

on their food or knocks over

a glass with a clumsy

pair of chopsticks.

no one is insulted and challenged

to a duel,

or sword fight,

and then suddenly i start to crave

some Chinese food.

it just hits me out of the blue.

maybe some crispy beef,

or General Tao Chicken.

a couple of egg rolls and

a pitcher of Mai Tais would hit

the spot.

but it's midnight.

so this bowl of cheerios

and a brown banana

will have to do.

the May December wedding

the trouble with

marrying someone

twenty years younger

is that

the older person begins

to crumble.

it's no good from that

point forward.

we're talking

walkers and bed pans,

feeding tubes,

and hospital visits.

it's not pretty having a

pretty young

thing beside you, 

while you lie there like a skeleton,

hanging on to your last

breath,

wheezing and coughing.

while she feeds you oatmeal

with a spoon,

before your sponge bath.

pick out the raisons, you whisper

to her, while

touching her long

tanned arm.

this is why i can't marry

you, Amber.

cart girl at the country club

golf course,

but maybe we

can date for a while, okay?

no longer a work in progress

you tell people that you

are a work

in progress, you're trying

daily to be

a better person,

to be more

kind, more in the moment,

more empathetic.

forgive me, you tell others.

i'm sorry, so sorry for

having offended you.

i'll do better, I promise.

cross my heart,

but it's exhausting, i feel

like an old MG sports

car in the garage, always

being worked on,

up on the rack,

being tinkered with before

the next engine

overhaul. always waiting

for some exotic part

from Italy, or Germany.

maybe, just maybe i'm

no longer a work in progress,

maybe i'm done,

i'm the finished product,

driving with the top down,

the radio blasting,

hitting the open road

with a tank of gas 

and my Ray Bans on.

The Burberry Shirt

i had no

idea

what a Burberry shirt was,

but i thanked

her for the gift.

it came in a nice

box with

fancy thin paper wrapping.

so special.

she had the right size

and color.

thank you i told her

and hung

it in the closet with the twenty

dollar t-shirts

Khol's.

i had no idea that it cost her

625 dollars

from Bloomingdale's.

i've given all of my boyfriends

and husbands

the same shirt, she said

with a smile.

they all love it.

i rolled my eyes

and tried not to laugh.

of course i never wore it,

and 

eventually added it to

the bonfire

in the backyard after she

thankfully left,

warming my hands over

the beautiful fire.

the slippery meaning of life

quite often

i ask myself. what the hell

are we all

doing with our lives.

what's the meaning of

all this?

working

until we're old, saving,

dotting our i's,

crossing our t's.

and then resting

on a chair

in the backyard

with the birds

and wildlife.

what's the purpose of anything?

have we got

it all wrong,

is there a better way

to live out

our 70 or 80 years?

yes, there's

another book to read,

another

show to watch, another

circular conversation

with more 

unpleasant small talk.

another bagel,

another cup of coffee

and then what?

the party lights behind you

even

if you've been traveling

at a safe

speed,

using your signal

at each turn,

with not a drop of alcohol

in your body,

still,

even then you get 

the butterflies

in your stomach when

you see the red

and blue party lights

of a cop car

lit up

behind you.

you slide over and say

whew,

wiping your brow

as they fly

past you to catch someone

else.

the family grapevine

with the mother

gone,

the information

now

travels through an underground

grapevine

of cousins,

nieces and nephews,

distant relatives,

but eventually you receive

a few tidbits

of news from

the other side

of the bridge.

old arguments and grudges

are in the way.

it's a family thing.

you put the small pieces

of the puzzle

together and finally get

an ah ha moment

of reality.

the party after the funeral

most parties

after the funeral are sad,

but fun

events,

good food, stories are told,

jokes are made,

each one

starting out with the words,

remember

when he said this, 

or did that,

remember the time

we were all with him

and then

something strange

occurred.

i listen and smile as i let

the butter

melt across my lobster

roll,

i'm waiting for the ribeye

cooking on the grill,

sipping on a cold martini.

i do remember.

i remember all of it, more

than any of them

will ever know.

related by blood only

some people

are good with money. they've

learned how

to save

and spend within

their means,

neither frugal

or cheap,

just careful,

always saving for

that rainy day,

and then there are others,

who burn

through the coffers,

each pocket with a

hole losing

change.

they need the big house,

the fancy car,

the frequent trips to Paris or

London, maybe

Spain.

and in the end, despite having

so much,

suddenly they're dirt poor.

same parents, same

upbringing, and yet

the collector

is at the door.

new borrowed shoes

it's a short

line

of cars with their

headlights

on.

three at most,

each with

one driver,

vague acquaintances

from the senior

home.

he's outlived his friends,

his family,

and many

of those he knew.

so many

people have gone before

him,

so many pets too,

so many

houses and neighborhoods

that he lived in,

so many beds

he rested his head upon,

so many

potluck dinners,

church services

and barbeques.

so many hours with lovers,

with wives,

with books,

with television.

so many, and yet now

this,

nearly alone,

buried in new borrowed

shoes.

fashion sense

i find out

through trial and error,

through

years

of buying clothes that

i never actually

wear

that orange is not my color,

nor is lime

green,

or peacock blue,

yellow,

or Christmas red.

i'm down to grey, black

and brown

these days.

all of which fit my mood.

whitman's sampler

as a child

you turned the heart shaped

box of chocolates

over to read

and study

the back menu,

this diagram

told you by name

what

you were about to bite

into.

the location and shape

of each piece

was written

on the cardboard heart,

but still, so much was

bitten into

and went back.

searching for love

can often

be like that.

chat gpt

there was,

once upon a time,

an era on earth,

where one

would read for information,

we'd open up a book

to educate

ourselves. to the local

bookstore

we'd travel,

or the library, with our

library cards

frayed within our wallets.

perhaps

there was an old

set of encyclopedias

in the cellar

inherited

from the old folks

now gone.

we'd painstakingly thumb

through

the thin pages

to find a fact or two

buried in the tiny print,

but now

there's

a woman with a lovely

voice at the end

of the line

who is more

than pleased

to tell us everything we need

to know.

she's available

24 7,

long after the bookstores

and libraries

are closed.

the Virginia Supreme Court

the Virginia

Supreme court comes to its senses

and rejects

the governor's bid

to gerrymander the state

in favor

of her party while

breaking so many

of their own constitutional

laws to do so.

but the court rules No.

a big fat no, which sends

her and minions,

and all of her

flying monkeys

back to from where they

came from.

the house has landed

with a big thump

upon the witch of the east.

let's watch as her striped

socks and feet curl

away and under

the house

in sad defeat.

the common sense Mayor of LA

the new candidate

for mayor

of the city of Los Angeles

says

that he promises to fill

the reservoirs up with

water to fight

future fires

from wiping out the county

again,

the hydrants will be full

this time, he says.

he's running on common sense.

he also wants

to get the drug infested

homeless

off the streets to help

them with their mental

illnesses

and addictions.

he wants more firemen

on the job,

more policemen

to deal with the rampant crime.

he wants to keep the murderers

and rapists

in jail and not be freed.

he wants safe and clean

streets throughout

the city.

safe and clean parks,

free of naked crazy people

with a blanket of needles lying about

as well as human

excrement.

the current mayor hates him

and disagrees with everything

he proposes to do if elected.

she says that all is well

and wants four more years

of the same.

we're on the right track,

she claims.

how dare

he speak truth to power.

who does he think he is?

what Dorothy Parker might say after a few drinks at the Algonquin Hotel

if it's true

that birds of a feather

flock

together,

than why in the world

dear boy,

am i here with you.

things go missing

things

go missing on occasion.

the key,

the phone,

the book, the watch,

the left shoe,

your hat,

so much goes missing,

but few things

are lost.

the search is on.

someday,

i'll find you too,

perhaps 

hiding in the loft.

the blue grass

you'll never

forget

how your feet felt on

the cold wet grass,

blue with spring,

shoeless

and bare

as you ran up the hill,

still young,

still able to reach

the top

with hardly

a breath, your mother's

voice behind

you,

telling you to be careful,

to wait.

but you ignore

her warnings and

go on ahead, 

it's time.

please, go away, i'm good

could you

survive being on an island,

alone.

away from

the madness of this world.

cut off from

everyone and everything.

would the coconut

trees

be enough, the fish

in the ocean,

the bananas and fruit

that grow

everywhere,

will the land provide

enough nourishment

before you are rescued.

will you signal

the ships at sea, or the

plane

that circles above

for help.

or will you hide from

them

behind the rocks

and enjoy life, being

free.

she's still there

on my

hands and knees

i bend

over and look under

the bed.

she's still there,

curled in a ball,

weeping.

i ask her

if she's hungry, or

thirsty,

does she need another

pillow

to rest her head.

she says no,

i'm fine.

please, leave me alone.

okay?

i want to be alone.

fine, i tell her.

fine.

i have to go to work

now,

but have a good

day, please

try and get some rest.

the collected poems

i see

the dog off in the corner

eating

the collected

poems

of Sylvia Plath, the ink

runs

from his mouth,

the words

stuck to his tongue

that hangs out.

he seems both happy

and sad

at the same time,

full

of falling moons,

and a bloody

sunrise.

the bees

and fathers, achoo,

achoo.

i'll let him eat and chew,

it's the least

i can do

for a fellow lover

of her blues.

i'm walking here

as we

pull our luggage away

from

Moynihan Station

we take

a turn

down a dark street

towards

our hotel.

suddenly a man leaps

off the porch

of a shelter

halfway house

and screams as loud

as he can

into my ear.

his hands cupped

like a megaphone.

i'm startled

and twist around to

see who or what kind

of animal

it might be screaming

his lungs out

at me.

i keep walking,

what is there to do?

i keep pulling my tourist

luggage

to the room up

the street.

i know, as i walk away

that one

day i'll write

about this and try to give

it meaning,

which never comes.

but

sometimes at night i wake

up

and see the creature,

the evil in his eyes,

the animal

instinct of his lost soul,

i feel his hot

breath

against my ear

and try to get back to sleep.

the hum of the night light

never

a fan of loud people,

of angry,

yelling, screaming

people,

drunk

on Miller Lites,

i avoid

the ballpark.

i keep clear of the ten

dollar

hot dogs

and twenty dollar

beers.

thirty to park,

but i'm not against using

the game

on tv

as a night light,

although i'm

prone to

fall asleep by the third

inning

to the sound

of foul ball,

foul ball. foul ball,

strike.

a deli slice of moon

a slender

deli

cut of moon is in the sky.

just a sliver

of pink white salmon

floats

in the high arc

of no

clouds.

do i have bread

in the bin?

i'm hungry

at midnight as i arrive

home.

their wedding day

it's an old

photograph of my dear

friend

John,

now passed away,

and his wife Lilly,

just married.

they're standing in front

of a small white church

on Temple Hills Road.

he's wearing

a rented suit

that doesn't fit well,

his beard is full

and dark.

she's five months

pregnant

and has flowers in her hair.

they're smiling

as i snap the photo.

it feels like forever ago.

and it is.

carefully i put

the fading picture

back

into the envelop

and close the drawer.

all is well, nothing to see here

in some cities,

mostly blue cities,

many,

but not all, 

there's always an area

or two,

or three where people

are sleeping

on the streets

in boxes,

drugged and mentally

ill,

wrapped in old

blankets,

leaning against walls,

stretched out

on curbs.

some are talking to themselves,

others

with their eyes

rolled back

are bent like pretzels,

unconscious, yet standing

up, full of meth

or fentanyl.

there's gun shots,

but not a cop in sight.

it's insane.

crazy, as you drive through

as fast as you can.

you hear on the radio

from the mayor,

the governor as they run

for reelection,

that all is well,

there's nothing to see here.

enjoy your stay,

have a nice day.

license, insurance and registration, please

i go down

the rabbit hole, of which

there are

hundreds these

days

on your phone and begin

to binge

on cops

pulling people over

on the side

of the road.

there's drinking and drugs,

angry souls

quoting

their version of the constitution,

driving in flip flops

with dogs.

there's the sovereign

citizens,

refusing to roll their

window down,

claiming to be above

the law.

there's suspended licenses,

no insurance,

no registrations,

stolen cars.

speeding and reckless

driving.

at some point the handcuffs

come out

and everyone

gets hauled away to the pokey.

it's the world

we live in, it's a never

ending show.

all grown up now

as an

adult you do things now

that you

don't want to do.

you pay

your bills, you go to the dentist,

the DMV,

you have

your car inspected,

you even rake

the leaves

in your yard sometimes.

the oil

gets changed,

you shake

the rugs out on

the back porch.

occasionally you might

vacuum,

and dust the shelves

and tables.

you carry the laundry

up and fold

clothes putting

them away.

if ambitious

on that particular

day you

might even gather all

the shoes

you've left scattered

around the house

and put them

in the appropriate place.

at times you almost feel

like a grown up,

or at least close to being

on the way.

you ain't nowhere mister

it was

a white brick building,

squat

and dirty,

deep

into the woods along

a partly

paved road.

but a gas station just the same.

circa 1969.

with a pyramid

of oil cans

stacked before the window.

a fat man was

sitting in a chair

rocking back.

the name Al written

on the tag

of his open shirt.

a woman, perhaps his

wife, lingered

in the shadows

with an apron on,

her hand

above her wide brow.

they seemed surprised,

or bemused

as we pulled up.

the man adjusted his hat

and leaned forward

in his chair, not wanting

to waste any

energy on getting up.

lost? he said,

fill her up?

we got no lead?

where are we, i asked

getting out of the car.

the woman stepped out with

a bottled coke

in her hand.

you ain't nowhere right now,

mister.

but if you keep on the road,

in another ten miles or so,

there's 95 up ahead.

the light on the other side

we row,

each oar going into

the water

then out.

we pull the boat forward,

our body

strains in

the cold air.

into the wind

we go

on this grey

day. there is

no sun to speak of,

but we see a light

across the lake

to guide us.

it seems that there

has always

been a light,

to which we're thankful.

you enter a room and find a chair

you enter

the room and find a chair.

it's not

the chair you

would have chosen

had the room been empty,

but

the others

are nearly all full.

you sit

there all day,

and the next day.

it is the chair where

they find you,

it's where

they expect you to be

from this point

forward.

as time moves

on

the wind changes your

hair to grey,

your body has aged,

you carry

more weight.

your hand is slow to

rise

when called upon.

one day,

you pass away and your

chair is empty for

a day,

but soon the room

is full again,

someone has taken

your place.

the long way around

there

are no mistakes,

just detours,

perhaps it's just

the long way

around.

we'll eventually get to

the destination

we are seeking.

no need

to worry or panic,

don't fret,

just

roll the window

down,

turn up the music,

relax and enjoy

the ride,

the view,

you'll get there.

you'll get there,

not yesterday,

but soon.

stopping by to say hello

some

people like to go to the cemetery

and talk

to the dead.

to cry at the old gravesite,

or air their

grievances

for them leaving so soon,

maybe they'll set

something on

the stone,

or on the new grass

that covers the dirt.

it's cathartic

i guess.

but strange just the same

to be speaking

to someone that isn't there,

to be conversing

with buried bones.

see you on Friday

i need

three days to heal

from one

day of work,

three days

and three nights

to rise

up

and go back at it.

a little

oil

in the joints,

a rub down,

a good meal,

a hot bath,

and a good

nights sleep should do the trick.

i'll be as

good as new

in the morning. you

can count

on that.

get a job

it doesn't

matter what the job is.

there is

no shame in it.

it's work.

it's getting up and doing

something

with your life,

crawling out

of bed when it's cold,

when it's

raining,

when there's snow on

the ground.

it doesn't matter what

it is.

whether you're holding

a pen

or a shovel,

or sitting in a truck

moving

gravel,

or stuck in a cubicle.

carry the coffee and plate

of eggs

to another table.

don't worry about it.

work.

get out of your mother's

basement,

cut the apron strings and

go to work.

the wedding album

i remember

alimony

and child support

and moving

four or five times

like it was

yesterday.

i can hear the truck

backing up

to the front stoop

to carry my bed

and dresser into the dark

hole of five guys

and a truck.

ah, the good old days.

waving the dog

goodbye.

the temporary apartment

with a balcony

overlooking

a donut shop and a gas

station.

a new key to get in.

i remember the circular

arguments,

the accusations,

the lies

and deceit.

the change of phone

numbers

and addresses.

everything you ever

worked for

cut in half.

love. sweet love.

what is love if not

all of that?

skinny dipping in the roof top pool

we went

to the rooftop

to go swimming in the pool.

drinking was

involved,

of course.

the lights

were off,

we climbed the fence

and took off

our clothes

and dived in.

we didn't see the cameras

surveying

everything,

and then

the lights went on

and a man

with a badge and microphone

told us to get out.

but no

charges were

filed,

Suzie had a way with men.

the fat man and his tuba

for some

reason there was an old tuba

in our basement

beneath the steps.

a friend

of my father had left

it there

after a night of drinking,

those were happy

nights

when this enormous man

came over.

i remember my father

laughing at

all of his jokes,

his blue eyes twinkling

and tearing up.

but the years went by,

my father left

and we never

saw the tuba man again.

the tuba stayed though,

left behind.

we used to take

it out

at times and with two sisters

holding it up,

we'd blow

on it, we tried to

get it to make a noise 

of some sort, but to no avail.

we were bone skinny,

and had just enough air 

in us to live.

i'm still here

a man

calls wanting to buy my house.

he tells

me he can pay cash if

the price is right.

i pause

and look at the cat who

is now

on the kitchen counter

purring for

milk.

where will go to, i ask

the man,

where will i live

if i sell my house?

he ignores my question

and asks

me if i'd be willing to sell

within the next

three months.

i pick the cat up and together

we look in

the refrigerator.

we will give you a fair

price, the man says.

so what do you think?

i pour some milk into a saucer

and set it on the floor.

i let the cat down.

i think about all the places

i've lived.

each being where i was meant

to be.

but now,

where else is there to go.

hello, the man says, are you

still there?

yes. i tell him. i'm still here.

kissing in Iowa

a kiss

on the cheek is nearly

meaningless,

whereas a handshake

will do.

it feels

odd to have lips

touch your

face

from an aunt

or friend,

man or woman

with no romance attached.

the brush

of a kiss onto one

cheek and then

the other seems

to be a European

thing,

perhaps France,

or England,

but it doesn't play well

here in Iowa.

Noah's rain

there's the gentle rain,

the rain

that dreamers like,

that flowers

need,

the rain that makes

the land lush,

the trees full with green,

and then there's

the harsh

rain,

cold with wind

that move the pounding

surf,

the flood rains.

there's the brief

shower,

the one you wait out

under

the awning of

a store front,

then there's

the long stretch of

dark days

with blue clouds

that feel like the rain

may never stop,

and then

there's Noah's rain.

at some point

on all of us

it will fall.

the basement

it was

a house with a real basement.

no dry wall

up or finished off,

no carpet or tiles

on the floors,

wooden steps

that creaked as you went down

to a stained slab

of cement.

there were

cobwebs in the rafters,

the low

ceiling touching

your head.

there was the sound

of pipes exhaling,

the shimmer and shake

of the furnace.

it was dark

and damp and smelled

funny.

old boxes and magazines

were stacked

and in the way.

a child's sled

a broken bicycle, a pair

of roller skates.

there may have been a

casement window

letting in some grey

light,

and a string to pull to

turn on

a forty-watt bulb.

there was

a washer and dryer

in the corner,

next to a stone sink,

and a pile of laundry

on the floor waiting

to be washed.

cancel my subscription

i cancel

the Post, the Times

the Atlantic

the New Yorker.

my subscriptions of papers

and periodicals

are down

to AARP now

with stories on old people

and on where to retire

with limited money.

i read the articles

that focus on seaside towns

with a scarcity of crime,

then cut out the recipes

for beef stew,

and one for key lime pie

black and white

you sink

into the big chair, the lights

dimmed

and begin

to watch

an old movie in black and white.

it feels

like home.

you know the actors,

the plot

is a straight line

to the end.

it's rational and clean,

there's no

preaching

of morality or the left

or right wing.

it's just a movie that

moves along

and satisfies, before

you turn it off and go up

to sleep.

the once Golden State

take a long

hard

look at California

and run.

run

as if it's on fire,

well,

it sort of is at times.

shame there's

no water

in the hydrants,

and that

there is no penalty

for crime.

the taxes are higher than

everywhere.

choose wisely

when

visiting the Golden State.

the politicians are as slippery

as the seals

in Frisco.

wear boots

so that your feet are

not stabbed

by the blanket of syringes

in MacArthur Park,

wear a bullet proof

vest and a helmet.

look out for hijacks.

forget about the train

to nowhere,

it's ten billion dollars away

before the first

track is laid.

keep your head on a swivel

if you want

to stay alive.

from nothing

even

Einstein agrees that

God does

not roll dice with

the universe.

there is no

luck or coincidence,

no accident

for everything that lives

and dies.

the perfection

of so much, the distance

from the sun

and moon,

the bubble of air

keeping us alive.

it's hard to

believe that everything

was once

nothing,

and poof like magic

we appeared,

with no rhyme or reason,

no plan,

no guiding and forgiving

hand.

i prefer to believe

otherwise.

rose colored glasses

when young,

we think

highly

of our teachers and lawyers,

our doctors,

and politicians,

even our

sports heroes.

we put them on another

level

of respect,

we look up to them,

we listen

and absorb

their words

of wisdom. we want to

emulate

their standard

of living,

but that all ends at

some point.

it has too of course

once

the blinders come off our

young

idealistic eyes.

they're no better and no

worse

than we are.

for truly all have fallen

short of the glory of God.

i'm here but not here

you stand

at the window and see life

going by.

everyone

to his or her

own choices in what they do

with their lives.

to work,

to school, to push a carriage

down the sidewalk,

to mow the lawn,

or lie out

in the sun,

closing one's eyes.

you feel as if you are a part

of it,

but it's a vague feeling,

one you've never

been sure of.

are you just going through

the motions,

are you play

acting,

just to be a part of 

how the world survives.

it's strange being different

and trying

to hide it.

high gas prices versus a nuclear holocaust

it seems

like

a reasonable trade off,

a nuclear

holocaust versus

high gas

prices for a few more

months.

there's always

a give and take

when it comes

to things

of an evil nature.

a tradeoff of sorts,

sometimes we need

to bleed a little

before the world

heals,

and the evil

is stopped.

all the things i don't need or want

i wish

i had never bought the pool

table,

or the kayak,

or the enormous

exercise

machine

and stationary bike.

the canoe

too

and the sailboat

docked at the harbor.

not to mention the hot

tub

and sauna,

and swimming pool.

but i was only

trying to please someone

who wanted

these things, not me.

that's what i like about you.

you already

have everything i don't need.

this was not my idea

the nurse

tells me that since i haven't been

in for over

a year

to have the dermatologist

check out

my skin from top to bottom,

for barnacles and cancer

spots,

to take off all of

my clothes

except for my fruit of the loom

underwear.

so i sit there in my briefs and wait

on the cold stool

for the doctor to come in.

and then she does,

gasping,

her eyes wide at my nakedness

dropping her cold

air gun to the floor.

quickly i tell her

that this was not my idea.

this is all temporary right?

i still

believe that this soreness

will go away

at some point,

like it used to

when young.

one morning i'll wake up

and

the creaky knee and shoulder,

will be gone,

the sore muscles

in my back

and legs will have

dissipated,

as wells as

the crick in the neck.

at some point

i'll rise from the bed

and be back to normal,

good as new

and not

going down

the stairs

backwards, gripping

tightly the rail.

ah sugar sugar

we ate

a lot of candy when young.

Easter,

Christmas or any old day.

Hersey

bars, and Mary Janes,

Skittles

and Juju Fruits.

we devoured

a lot

of butter brickle

ice cream

and sucked on hundreds

of lollipops

down to the stem.

we drank

cokes

by the gallons,

Shirley Temples and grape

Nehi's. we

chewed gum daily,

blowing bubbles, la dee da.

saving the wads

on the bedpost at night.

it's no wonder

our dentists are so rich now.

the Sovereign Citizen

there's a strange new

mental illness

going around

calling itself the Sovereign

Citizen.

it's wackadoodle

way of thinking

and believing that they

are not subject to the laws

of the country they live in.

they aren't driving,

they're traveling they tell

the cop who pulls them over

for speeding, or with

no tags on their car.

no ID, no license,

no insurance card or registration.

they refuse to answer

questions or get out of the car.

they are above it all.

but they all seem to sing

a different tune,

when in hand cuffs and put

behind the bars.

defying the laws of physics

like

a bullet, the yellow

hummingbird

darts

in and out, up

and down,

backwards, forward,

at lightning

speed,

searching

for some flower

on which to pollinate

and feed.

who needs an alien

from a distant

galaxy

defying gravity

and physics?

they're here all ready.

blink once

and they're gone.

coffee and books

i leave

half cups of coffee around the house

beside

open books,

as if maybe

i'll go back to them.

it's a trail

of me.

of the day,

the morning into the night.

so much

i need to return

to,

that plate

over there with

the scone with one

bite.

swipe right for true love on Bumble

her Bumble dating

profile states no Maga,

no red

hats,

no right-wing conservatives

or Trump

supporters.

swipe right if you want

men in women's

sports and locker rooms.

if you want higher

taxes

and open borders,

free grocery stores

and buses,

and

no ID's to vote.

bonus points if you 

hate ICE

and billionaires,

and dislike finding fraud.

swipe right

if you are pro abortion

for any month

of pregnancy,

and love

communism and

Hammas

and want to free free free

Palestine,

i'm the girl for you.

we'll formerly a boy,

i'm in transition now

to be completely

honest and transparent

so i'm sort of half

a girl at the moment.

but forget those pesky

chromosome details.

let's make memories

by protesting and getting

arrested together.

blue hair and nose rings

are a plus.

are you the one for me?

my soul mate?

the delusion of everyone being old but you

how did they all

get old

so fast,

the singers and songwriters

of your youth,

now grey

and bent.

you know all the words

to all their

songs,

and now here they are

on television

strumming their guitars,

beating their drums

on YouTube,

old and mumbling,

setting suns,

all of them

old,

but strangely not you.

the red thumb

there's someone

hammering

something

down the street.

i can hear it from

the open

window.

someone is going at

it with

a hammer,

bang, bang, bang.

a nail perhaps, a bent

screw,

a twisted piece of metal.

maybe they're

trying

to straighten

it out.

they're building

something,

and then the scream

and curse,

as we often

do when our thumb

gets in the way.

the white flags

so

much is about surrender.

giving

in

to what or who

we can't change.

we accept who

we are,

where we're going to

at the end

of each day.

we surrender to those

who

want us to do things we

don't want

to do,

we listen without quarrel.

we get in line

and wait for our turn

at the well.

we reluctantly

give in.

we want peace, so there

is no other choice

but to surrender.

Dinner Theater roast beef

along with

nearly two hundred

senior citizens

bused in from

the local old folk homes

and as far away

as the Poconos,

we were

at the Lazy Susan

Dinner Theater on Duke Street

a few decades ago

watching

a performance of West Side Story

by a group

of young actors,

who were also the waiters

during breaks,

singing, dancing, acting their

little hearts out

when

an old man

stood up during the song Maria,

and yelled out,

i can't eat this meat,

it's tough

and stringy.

he held up on his fork a 

large piece

of grey meat and shook it towards

the stage, 

there was a chorus

of me either behind him,

but the show went on

just the same,

no one

missed a beat.

cold hard cash

she

puts the cold hard cash

in my hand.

no credit

card

swiped, no check written

out,

no IOU's,

or Zelle,

no Crypto,

no PayPal or any other

such nonsense.

just a handful of Benjamins.

she knows

how i like to roll,

and pays

me so.

pulling us to shore

despite having

nine

children

and dozens of grandchildren,

few will

attend

his funeral.

they have other things to do

it seems.

no love

given, no love lost.

and yet

i have proof there was,

as i stare

at the rowboat

with five

of us

on Cape Cod Bay, and

him at the oars

pulling

us to shore

in brilliant sunlight.

the smiling masks

i open

up the old suitcase

as i pack

for a trip out west.
i haven't

used this piece of luggage

in ages.

God only knows

what's inside,

left over

from my previous lives.

what's

in there besides, 

ticket stubs

and maps,

receipts and assorted

photographs

from the polaroid

camera.

holidays

from the past.

trouble behind the smiling

masks.

few surprise endings

there

are few surprise endings.

most

of us live

out our lives in the usual

way.

childhood

into

adulthood,

work, marriage,

children,

that sort of thing.

the house

and yard,

friends over for the weekend.

a long string

of uneventful holidays,

of lights

and parties,

presents.

and then at some point

it all begins

to fade,

and

everything ends.

protein carbs and starch, please

we

sighed at a salad,

at peas,

at string beans

and broccoli.

we shook our heads

sadly at soup.

we wanted

meat

of some sort,

any kind would do.

we wanted bread

and butter

milk.

and potatoes.

and then

cake.

nothing has changed.

the night shift

the animals

lie low until dusk,

and then peek

out ready to explore.

you hear

them at night,

making love,

or talking in high

pitched voices.

tussling in the woods

you see them

in your headlights,

the white beam

against their

glassy eyes.

they

climb

the fences and pry

into cans

we've set out,

their hunger,

like yours,

perpetual.

they get along so well

when

we're not

around, then retreat

before

sunlight.

a shard of glass

the shiny

thing

grabs our interest

whether

the diamond

in the dirt

or a shard of glass.

we don't know

until

we bend over

to touch

or pick it up

which it is, holding

it up

to the light.

even then

desire

can fool us.

a drawer full of cell phones

when

i open up the kitchen

drawer

full of odds

and ends, i can almost

hear

the old phones

chatting, talking

in gibberish.

there is the sound of

bells and dings,

ringing

of an early time

in life.

each phone still full of names

and numbers,

lovers

and friends,

old wives.

but the batteries have

all died,

all put to sleep forever,

good night.

stress cracks

it's a familiar

crack

in the wall.

a stress crack.

the weight

of the house and the shifting

of land

and earth, 

are part of the reason.

time

too may be a cause.

it's been filled over

and over

again throughout

the years.

putty

and plaster,

caulk,

then painted.

but it's back again,

long

and wide

as it's ever been.

nothing lasts forever,

right?

hand me the wide

blade

and the new mix of mud.

full grown and marching

the baby

learns quickly to open

his or

her mouth

for the tiny spoon of food

that's coming

towards them.

they learn

how to cry on cue when

needing a change,

or wanting to be

held

safely in someone's arms,

or to be rocked

to sleep.

they are innocent

and helpless

and perpetually needy.

some

get over this behavior,

while others

continue on.

just look at them,

full grown and marching

in the streets.

the red light district

they say

that rust never sleeps,

which may

be true,

but neither does my neighbor

Gloria

who recently moved in.

i think she

may be running a business

next door,

the red light is always

on

and her head

board and bed springs

are constantly

playing a song.

sticky notes

i need

to write things down now,

make a note

of events

or appointments, birthdays,

or anniversaries,

or else they

pass by

as if they didn't exist.

i have sticky

notes everywhere,

on the computer screen,

on the bathroom

mirror.

on the bed post,

the kitchen

counter and fridge.

i even have a sticky note

in the car

saying, don't forget

to buy more

sticky notes at the store

tomorrow.

helping someone out on moving day

i went out

and bought her some new

boxes

after i kicked

her out of the house

for lying, cheating

and being

a complete psychopath.

her old boxes were torn

and broken

from five moves in the last

five years so

they were no longer

of any use

and i like to help people

out, when

they're moving.

i bought a few rolls of

packing tape

too and a new magic

marker

to write on the lids where

each box was to go

when she found a new place

to live.

i suggested her second

husband's basement again,

or maybe

she could crash

on one her married boyfriend's

boats hooked

up by the bay.

this made her angry,

very angry,

which caused her to scream

and to begin

speaking in tongues.

so i gave her some room,

leaving the house

to get coffee,

and let her pack things up

on her own.

summertime and the living is easy

i take the old

rusted

grill out of the shed

and hose

it down.

it's full of bugs, spiders,

and what

looks like

the discarded skin

of a snake.

but

once i get the charcoal

burning,

most of what's living

in there will

be burned off.

i spray

the briquettes with

a healthy

dose of lighter fluid

and throw a match in,

which

causes a five-foot tower

of flames

to shoot up into the air.

nothing like a few

hot dogs

on the grill

to get the summer

going.

whoops, i was off by thirty million

the clerical

accounting error is common

when we

do our taxes,

or file

our earnings,

a dot here, a dot there,

a mistake

in addition, or subtraction,

an easy mistake.

but rarely

is it by the millions,

unless of course

you're a politician

and serving

in congress.

the May Day protests

it's hilarious,

a march, a protest of some

sort

on May Day,

a Russian holiday,

saying

don't work,

don't spend or buy anything,

don't go to

school

to learn,

don't do anything,

do nothing, but hit the streets

and scream

and cry

about how impoverished

you are

by living in the greatest

and freest

country in the world.

dealing with the Jimmy leg

we couldn't sleep

in the same

bed anymore,

she developed

what we call

the Jimmy leg,

all night long,

her foot and leg shook as if

she was churning

milk into butter

in a wooden barrel.

sometimes the dog

would lie against her

leg, which would

help for a while.

it was

always the left leg,

rarely the right.

you are no longer protected

i hate

the Macfee warnings

on the new

computer, i

despise them

with their flashing ads

in the corner,

making me pause

to click on

the x to banish them.

they are whining babies,

wanting

a bottle,

a change of a diaper,

a lollipop

to stop their constant

crying.

i know you, don't i

i run

into the old English teacher

from back

in high school,

he's a clerk

now

at the grocery store, but

he's still

quoting

Shakespeare.

saying things like to be

or not to

be,

things like that.

who goes there, he

says to me

with his steely blue eyes.

i know you,

don't i?

are you still the devil

incarnate?

just another twenty winks

do we

really need a purpose

in life, a reason to get

up

in the morning,

a place

to go to,

a job, a vocation of some

sort?

a reason to be alive?

do we need to be a volunteer

and give

back

to the community, to

adopt a road

and pick up trash

along the way.

can't we just sleep in

late this morning

and get another

twenty winks?

please.

new gypsy in town

there's a new

gypsy

in town, i see the light

on

in her window.

first palm is free,

it says

on her sign for a reading.

three predictions

for the price

of two.

five, ten, fifteen years

into the future,

or the gold plan,

twenty years ahead,

you choose.

i see her on the porch

in her long

dress, with her hair

up,

a crystal ball on the table

beside her.

she waves

and smiles while

shuffling a deck of playing

cards.

part of me wants to stop,

but no, i remember

what happened the last time,

so i drive on by.

the only sport that makes you gain weight

hey,

i say to Bob, as he meets

me at the club

for a swim.

i don't see you out on the links

anymore,

did you give

up golf?

had to, he tells me,

patting his slimmed

down belly.

it's the only sport in the world

where you gain

weight as you play.

every time the drink cart

girl came around,

i was eating and drinking

for eighteen holes.

by the last hole

i was stuffed

and the world was blurry.

although i do miss

the shots of bourbon we used

to take on the ninth hole,

and the betting

that took place.

the easiest job on the planet

sometimes

you do wonder what they

do with

their day,

congressmen

and women

prancing about in a hurry,

rushing

to some

closed door meeting,

but never

answering

a question about what

they do

all day.

they can't wait to get

down a hallway,

or for the elevator to come

so that

they don't have to face

the music

about something,

or someone.

living at ground zero

do people

in the middle of the country,

the heartland,

worry

and fret about the things

we do

living here

at ground zero.

have they

ever once gave a thought

about a Supreme

Court ruling,

or a vote

on gerrymandering?

is it just the weather,

the fields,

the dry air

or rain, that concerns them,

the crop coming in?

livestock

and family.

what a better way to live

it seems

than here, where most

of us are a little,

if not a lot insane.

We Love the King

the King

of England gives an excellent speech

at the dinner party.

with 250 years of history

between us,

he's eloquent

and funny, precise in his

language, but

serious at times

as well.

he mentions the Queen,

he talks

about the wars,

and the Magna Carta,

the colonies and George

Washington.

does he have any idea

that not

far out the window

of the White House,

in crazy world,

people

are screaming

their lungs out,

no Kings, no Kings, no Kings?

it's a baffling

world.

observing the flip side

the far

side

of the moon seems

to be

the same as the side

we see

all the time.

rocks

and dust, craters,

hills and valleys

with no

sign of life.

plus it's very dark,

never seeing

the light

of day.

but i'm glad there's

nothing there

and that it's exactly

the same.

so few things in life

are like that,

pretty much the same on

the flip side.

blue jeans

it's a sad

day

when the favorite

pair

of jeans

split

in the seat. how long

have

they lasted,

been

a perfect fit?

no matter how

many

months or days worn,

they come out

of the washer

then dryer,

perfect

and warm.

God knows where

the needle

and thread

is.

a double scoop of rocky road please

it takes

little to make a child

happy,

perhaps an ice-cream cone,

or a new

toy,

or game

to play,

but their unhappiness

is just as

easily revealed

when told to do

their homework,

or eat

their broccoli,

or told, no,

you can't go out.

look,

there's rain.

world war eleven?

you see

the clip of the congresswoman

from Minnesota

telling

the world

how Americans

are dumb,

and then saying something

crazy about

world war

eleven

as she reads her notes.

comedy writes

itself

sometimes.

zip it, please

it's better

that our celebrities,

our singers

and

stars,

our idols

don't open their mouths

without

a script or song

to sing

revealing

their lack

of education

and twisted logic.

it ruins everything.

and now

we don't like

them anymore.

stewed tomatoes in a cup

there was

this thing, this small

paper

cup

of stewed tomatoes that

was offered

as food

as we went through the cafeteria

line

at school.

never, not once, did i see

a single person

ever put that on

his or her tray.

and yet there were 

hundreds

of these cup laid out

beside the green

Jello

everyday.

missing johnny and ed and doc on his horn

the talk

show is old school.

very old.

Moses may have been

the first guest.

the stage,

the desk with chairs

to the left,

the wide curtain,

the audience in rows,

happy seals a'clapping,

mixed

with canned laughter

as another stale joke

gets told.

the washed-up celebrities

are in the green

room

getting sloshed or high.

there's a band there too,

weak

and loud.

it's been this way

since 1952. 

Steve Allen, Jack Paar.

Joe Franklin.

the same old.

except now, nothing is

funny, there's

nothing fun

about any of it.

it's a soap box, a pulpit

for the rich,

spewing a litany of hatred

toward those

they disagree with.

whose celery is this?

is it time

to toss

that browned, once green

head of

iceberg lettuce?

i stare

at the Gulag

of the bottom drawer

in the cold

fridge.

what else should i give

pardon

to and release

with a strong fling into

the woods?

the soft

red onion, the tangerine

from last summer?

celery,

poor old celery.

i don't want you anymore.

God help us

scary

is

the radical left

with

no logic,

no rational thought

in their head.

unable to hold

a peaceful

discussion.

the crazy eyes and blue

hair,

the nose

rings

and piercings.

the veins popping from

their necks,

fists balled and

ready to strike.

human

horror shows

walking

about,

men

pretending to be girls,

girls

wanting to be

boys.

how did we get

here?

how did we arrive

at the freak

show,

the circus of the lost minds,

enmeshed in

the wacky politics

of the progressive left?

how do we

get out,

before they do what

they intend

to do,

vocalized with every

banshee scream,

with every

shout

with every threat.

the happy click of the keyboard

the click

of the keyboard is a happy

sound,

it means

you're still here,

still

breathing,

still making things up

for unknown

reasons.

what lies below

i get

it, i understand.
it's meditative to be

on the shore with

boots on,

casting out into

the lake

to catch a fish.

we are all

casting out for

something or someone.

reaching out for

what's unknown.

something

that lies

below the surface

and waits.

it's all clear for now

you

know things.

it's all clear, for now.

everything

is understood.

there is rhyme and reason

to

the past,

the present and the future.

but how

swiftly

the fog moves in

and you're

lost again.

suddenly all is green

suddenly

as if in a dream,

overnight,

the yard

is green.

i wake up to

it,

to the light rain.

how

easily life changes

and makes

what's wrong

to right.

chicken and fries wafting in

we stop

and say hello, shake hands

on the sidewalk

as we

go towards

our cars,

his red BMW, 

my yellow beetle bug.

hey, what's up?

great tan.

oh, he says, we just got

back from a ten

day trip

to Europe.

he opens his phone

and begins

to scroll through the pictures

of him

and his new wife,

wife number three,

younger,

blonder, prettier than

the others.

he shows me shots of

Venice, Rome, Paris.

they're on a gondola

and sipping

wine on the Left Banke,

eating olives

in Santorini.

and what

about you, he asks, patting

me on the back.

travel

plans this year?

yes, i tell him. maybe Ocean

City,

i like to stay at

the Broadmore

on the boardwalk.

it's still fifty bucks a night,

it used to be five,

but inflation you know

is a killer. but

you can smell

fried chicken and fries

right through

the screen windows.

it wafts in from Thrashers.

plus,

i love the sound of pinball

machines

and the ocean as i go

to sleep at night.

T

Rosie and Red wine

i see

a woman running

with a bag

of trash 

towards the dark open

mouth of

a garbage truck

as it rolls slowly

up the street.

she's in her

robe,

a pink fuzzy thing

with matching

pink slippers.

the bag is

full of wine bottles

that are

tumbling out.

she's yelling for the truck

to stop,

i yell out to her,

hey Rosie,

good morning, she waves

back, trying to close

her robe, 

but the truck doesn't

stop.

luggage by the door

i count

the seventeen different

places

that i've lived

in.

but at last i think i've landed

and found

home.

twenty-four years

in the same

house, seems

impossible and yet

here i am,

strange as it all is

with

luggage

by the door.

Moon River

as i

sit in large leather

chair

awaiting

the dental hygienist to

come

in with

her tools

of torture

and big smile,

i listen

to the music coming

out of the ceiling.

moon river,

by Andy Williams

with a lush

orchestra

behind him.

i prefer the simple version,

where Audrey Hepburn

sits on her

apartment

windowsill and strums

a guitar

as she sings 

in a whisper about

her huckleberry friend.

it all feels familiar

slow

to rise, i see the sun

has

returned.

it's barely in the sky

as i swing

one leg

than the other

towards

the floor.

it's cold.

i've left the windows

open.

a breeze blows

in and lifts the curtains.

there's a dog

barking

somewhere

not far

from where i live.

i feel like

i've been here before.

just a thought

as i

go down

for coffee, to open

the door

and pick up the paper.

the long elevator ride

i look

around at everyone

in the crowded

elevator

and in my mind make

up a story

as to who they are

and what

they do with their lives.

i take a look

from head to toe,

observe what they're wearing,

how they stand

there

in their clothes.

patiently or not.

it's long

ways

down to the lobby

from the twenty first

floor,

but by the time

the bell dings

i have them all

figured out.

i know.

the umpteenth time

i try

to be on time,

but

sometimes things beyond

my

control

delay me.

i have a cat

as you

know,

and this hair to attend

to,

i'm a girl after all.

i apologize, please

forgive me,

she says

for the umpteenth time,

and i do.

i'm,

the forgiving

kind.

another face in the crowd

you wonder

how

many more nuts

are out there,

the want

to be

assassins

lurking in the shadows

with their

mental illness

working overtime

with deranged thinking.

planning the fate

of theirs

and others,

wanting to be forever

remembered

in the pages

of history

as the one that got

away with it.

the uncomfortable chairs

we are all

waiting

for something, someone,

we are in

line.

we are sitting in

uncomfortable chairs

waiting

for our name to be called,

we are waiting

for our turn,

we are waiting

for love

to arrive,

for good news or

bad news

to be delivered.

we are waiting for the mail,

for the phone

to ring.

we are a patient lot of

people.

we've spent so much

time

in our life, waiting.

soon,

we tell ourselves, soon.

a fat red tomato

i might

buy three tomatoes a year,

none

of which i ever

completely

eat.

i might take a slice or

two

and apply it to a sandwich,

but then

it goes back

into the fridge, then

three days later

into the trash.

is there guilt or remorse,

no.

not anymore,

another one waits on the sill.

we hate you, but here's a million bucks to stir up more chaos

the feds catch

the nonprofit organization

who's main

mission in life is to eradicate

hate groups,

and a grand jury

indicts them.

they follow the trail

of money

from land to sea,

to offshore accounts and lo

and behold,

they are

giving money

to the Klan wizard,

a million bucks or so.

whoops,

and more to others who

want to stir

up the flames of racism.

you can't make

these thing up anymore.

let's throw another

log onto the fire.

insanity.

ashes to ashes, too bad for you

it's too early

in the morning for a theological

conversation,

but we have it,

she says that this

is it,

we live a life,

and then poof,

all of what and who we are

disappears.

there is no heaven,

no hell,

no purgatory, no limbo,

no mansions

in the sky, it's just

ashes to ashes,

and ding, you're gone,

so

eat drink and be merry,

for there's

nothing to fear or wait for

in the great beyond.

then it's my turn to respond

and i tell her,

oh well,

too bad for you.

doing the math for life expectancy

she does 

the math.

adding up

all of our bills,

subtracting the out going

from the incoming

and savings,

401 k's etc.

if we live to a hundred

we'll still

have enough

money

to live comfortably

with a little left over for

the funeral, she tells me

while

tapping the pencil

against

my head, telling me to

wake up,

it's almost noon.

we can even take that round

the world trip

you promised me

when we first met.

there are good people after all

the neighbor asks

if it would

be okay

if she planted flowers in

my yard, next

to her yard.

i say yes, of course.

and when

i get home, the yard

is beautiful.

the flowers are everywhere.

all colors of the rainbow

bloom

beside the house.

there is hope.

there are good people

after all.

more crazy left wing shenanigans

my eyes

no longer get wide,

nor do my

eyebrows rise

at the news.

oh really, the non-profit

was really

making money,

taking millions

and putting

the cash

in offshore accounts,

and doing the opposite

of what

they said

they were doing.

spreading hate,

not ending

it.

they've kept the fire

burning,

though claiming to put

it out.

gee whiz. who would

have thought of such

a thing?

i've made worse mistakes

i'm upset,

but mildly so.

there are raisins

in these cookies,

not chocolate chips.

i've made

worse mistakes

in my life,

but at the moment

none that

i can think of.

driving five miles to get cheaper gas

there's one gas station

in town

that has cheaper gas.

it's cheaper by maybe a nickel

than the other

stations.

they have seven pumps

with seven

lines

and hoses that stretch

to either side

of the car.

there's always a long line.

just a nickel

cheaper

per gallon,

and if you press yes

on the pump,

you'll get a car wash too.

the years remove little

the years

remove little.

you are still the same boy

your

mother knew.

the same

face

and eyes,

voice.

you haven't changed.

you are as

born,

the same person you've

always been,

no wiser,

no smarter, but exactly

the way

God made you,

the same as when

life began.

cave man drawings

the cave

paintings are quite revealing.

there's a brawny

man

killing an animal

with a club,

an arrow,

or spear,

and then a picture

of him

cooking it over a fire

while flexing

his physique.

then there's a drawing

of his love

interest, or wife,

in a short

cheetah print outfit

and a glass

of wine,

winking with one eye.

clearing out the monogrammed towels, etc.

i look at all

the monogrammed

coffee

cups

in the cupboard and begin

to sort through

them,

making room for M.

there's one with the letter

C on it,

another with B,

two J's

and one G,

two with the letter S,

and three

with the letter A on them.

Amber,

Angel and Alice, i believe

i bought those

for.

next i go upstairs to the towel

closet.

this will take some time.

so what's the skinny on her now?

i need

a new grapevine, i've lost

track of

so many people,

ex-wives

and lovers, friends,

siblings

and others.

i miss the daily

gossip,

the dirt on what these

people are

up to.

i blame this strange

need

on my mother

who loved 

the phone call or

the letter,

or the long chat in

the backyard

over the fence.

the long black hair on the pillow

she finds a long

black

strand of hair in the sink,

and then

one on

the pillow,

she holds it up with disgust

and disdain,

as if she might

catch something

from this hair,

so, she says, would you

like to explain

to me

whose hair this is.

and look here's another

one on your shirt

hanging in the closet.

well, mister,

obviously,

it's not mine, she says.

i have blonde hair,

and it's not

yours, you are as bald

as a bowling

ball.

umm, i say,

shifting my legs from

side to side

and staring at the ceiling.

i think it's Milagro's

the maid.

sometimes she likes

to take

a nap in my bed

and wear my shirts

when i'm not at home.

mentally retired

before

you actually quit,

before you

physically

no longer get up and go

out the door

to work,

you mentally retire.

you've

had enough,

you're exhausted with it all,

with all you

need to do

to keep the trains on time,

to fill

the already overflowing

coffers.

you don't want

to hold up the white

flag

of surrender,

you tell yourself, just one

more year,

one more

month, one more job

and then.

and then, maybe.

but you are no quitter

and never have been.

women love cheese

it's strange

how much women love cheese,

and men

don't seem to care

one way or the other,

blue, or gouda,

or brie,

settling

for a processed 

slice of orange

American

cheese

on a ham sandwich 

with mustard.

why is this?

ask a woman about cheese

and they

can go on

for hours and hours

and then

tell you about what cracker

to spread it on

and what wine

to drink with it.

the lack of mental institutions

as kids

we used ride our bikes

up South Capitol Street

to go look

at the green pastures

of St. Elizabeths' Mental

Hospital.

we'd hang

onto the black metal

bars fenced

around

the establishment and wonder

what has

happened to these

people milling about.

ranting,

raving, talking to themselves,

angry all the time

about everything

under the sun.

they had lost their minds.

and now, so many years

later, i realize that

they are no longer behind

the bars,

but are out among us,

and voting.

held down by leather straps

some mornings

i barely

have the strength,

or ambition

to chew through the leather

straps

that are holding me

down,

keeping me in place,

covering

my mouth and restraining

me from

the day ahead.

the falling price of heavy cream

i notice

that the heavy cream

in my

grocery store has

gone down by

over a dollar and a half

for a quart,

over the past year.

why isn't this

on the news?

i haven't heard one pundit

talk about this.

all they want to talk about

is the price

of gas.

i can't drink coffee

without a dollop

of heavy cream stirred into

my drink.

we need to get our

priorities straight.

quit whining and go home

she was from

Canada,

she never let me forget

that,

mentioning

it in nearly every conversation

we ever

had.

the French cuisine,

the maple

syrup,

hockey,

and the Royal Mounted Police,

blah blah blah.

we have

universal

healthcare, we have trees,

we have

water,

and snow.

so why are you living

here,

i'd ask her, shaking my head.

go back

if you're unhappy, quit

whining and go

home.

no,

i don't like the cold.