the annual neighborhood yard sale

it's the annual neighborhood

yard sale.

nearly every other

yard is full of

all their old junk

and clothes.

some people have made

a pitcher of lemonade

and a plate of cookie

to lure in potential buyers.

i bring out a box of my

stuff

and set up camp

by the sidewalk with a sign

that says

make me an offer.

i put some stale donuts out

and an open box of thin

mint cookies that the girl scouts

dropped off

a few years ago.

almost none of this junk i put

out is mine.

it's from former girlfriends

and wives,

and others, 

let's call them brief

acquaintances.

i set up a rack of their old

clothes, coats

and hats, gloves,

mittens, who wears mittens

anymore?

there's

lingerie that women have

left behind,

strange looking spider like

outfits

from Frederick's of Hollywood

and two

slightly used

nurse costumes. there's

a leather whip or two,

and something that looks like

the tail of a fox,

it's purple and referred to as

a boa.

there's one pair of handcuffs

with the key,

and only two hospital approved

straight jackets.

surprisingly.

there's

an assortment of shoes,

mostly stilettoes,

and flip flops.

there's a decent amount

of jewelry too.

bracelets, a few watches,

a diamond

ring or two, not real.

brooches

in the shape of insects.

not to mention

self-help books and lipstick

by the dozens.

there are

hairbrushes

and pillows that they

left behind.

i put a dozen or so mixed 

double A and single A

batteries in a bowl for the taking.

on the same table i set up

an assortment of small brown jars.

mostly expired medications.

Xanax, and Prozac,

anti-depressants,

laxatives,

and Lamotrigine.

Ozempic.

and a few handfuls of mystery

pills that are a very pretty blue.

i have several pairs of

reading glasses,

and some for

the sun, as well as umbrellas

in mostly pastel

colors.

it's going to be a long day,

so i order in

some Chinese food before noon.

bad therapeutical advice

my therapist

suggests that maybe it would

do me good

if i volunteered

at something.

get my mind

off of myself, help me to

stop staring

and contemplating

my navel.

like what? i asked her.

oh, i don't know, maybe

ladle soup

down at the shelter.

adopt a road

and pick up trash

along the highway.

join the Peace Corps and go

over seas

to dig latrines.

i sit up on the couch,

and look at her.

what, are you nuts?

i can't believe i'm paying

you for this lame

advice.

there's not a bone in my

body

that wants to volunteer.

now let's get back to my

mother and father

and how they

failed me. okay?

will you be missed?

i wondered

how long i could hold my

breath

underwater.

so i tried

lying on the bottom

of the pool

as everyone

swam above me.

i could see the liquid

light

of the sun.

i could see the

feet and arms kicking,

hear the splashes.

and voices above me,

but not from anyone

i knew.

how long would it take

for them

to know that i was missing,

that i was gone?

wordless response

to say

nothing says more than

a mouthful

of words,

more than a sigh,

or laugh,

more than a smile.

the silence

is deafening and the perfect

response

to those

who have become

a chore.

stop buying more clothes

as i open

each dresser drawer,

open the door

of all five closets i realize

that there

is no need

to buy another

shirt or pair of pants,

no need

for more socks

or shoes,

no need for one more

winter coat,

no need for new

spring attire.

there is no more room.

at eighty

there is no harm

in mourning

the passage

of time,

the movement of clocks

and calendars,

the quick tearing

of the next

page.

it's fine

to reminisce about

the past,

it means

you have lived a life,

you have

been part of the world,

for better

or worse. you have

survived.

you are allowed to look

back.

the big yawn in the sky

do we

really want the UFO's

to be real.

do we really need little green

men

running around?

flying saucers

and whatnot.

isn't the world

crazy enough

as it is?

can't we just ignore

all the bug

like lights

zipping about

and relax? let's

forget all that,

read a book, watch

a movie,

chill with

Netflix.

why is this a hard decision?

it's crazy

time

in LA, some people want change,

they want

the drug addicts

and mentally ill,

the homeless

people off

the street,

they want to stop giving them

needles

and drugs,

they want water in the reservoirs

to put out the fires,

they want

lower taxes

and an end to fraud

in social services,

they want the laws

enforced,

the police funded,

they want

ID's to vote,

they want billion dollar

train tracks

to nowhere

stopped,

and yet, many want

the city to stay

as it is. hell on earth.

i don't care

as i

stall inside an i don't care

cloud

of darkness,

i know

there's light

on the other side, but

for now.

i shrug

my shoulders

and roll my eyes.

i dismiss

the world with the back

of my hand.

i don't care.

tell me

anything, tell me your

troubles.

turn on the breaking

news,

the whatever. i've had enough.

i don't care.

but unfortunately

this too shall pass.

coffee first.

the child on a swing

i see

the new

father and his son

out

in the sand of the playground.

he gives

the child a gentle

push

on the swing.

sending him

up towards the bluest

of skies,

into the happiest

of light.

i remember

the scene as if it was yesterday.

a pleasant memory

that never seems

to fade,

never seems

to die.

working at the beehive

there's

ten women in the hair salon

as i

paper the far wall

with a black

leather like

fabric.

i listen

to them chatter, some with

their hair

wet

and being colored, others

being cut,

some being combed

and brushed,

the dryers on full blast.

there's music too.

i listen

to them talk about

their lives,

their husbands,

their children, their vacations

as the chairs

spin around.

it's veritable

beehive.

buyers remorse

immediately

i had

buyers remorse,

the second the big

orange chair

arrived on the truck

and was placed

at the far corner of the rug.

the rest

of the room

disappeared,

like a distant sun

it was all we could look

at,

from morning noon

into dusk.

the sun never set

on this bright orange

mid-century

modern chair.

i set

the price at half of what

i paid,

and by the end of the week

it was gone,

a nice couple from Middleburg

put it in the back

of their Range Rover.

voila, and now

a nice tan chair has

taken

its place.

an orange in hand

the problem

with

fruit, though bright

and shiny,

colorful

in the store, holding

the promise

of sweetness,

you never know until

you get

it home

and take a bite

what you gotten

yourself into.

infatuation can be

like that.

her birthday party

she told me,

that she still felt

young,

after asking

her what it felt

like to be 81.

no different than when

i was thirty,

or forty, she said.

the years

mean nothing

to me.

many friends have come

and gone,

two husbands 

are buried not far from

here.

yes, indeed,

i'm different according

to the mirror,

but i'm the still the same

girl that my mother

raised,

the same girl

on the swing,

the same girl that sat

patiently as she brushed

my hair before school.

now will you

light the candles so that

i can blow them

out again.

the slower mouse

being

the quickest mouse

in the wall,

is not always

a good thing

when the sniff

of cheese

is involved.

being second is fine

when it

comes to mouse

traps.

sometimes

being last to arrive

gets it all.

before coming home

we travel

to get away from where we

are.

our eyes are wide open,

our ears

to the ground.

will it change

things,

hardly.

will we grow from

this experience,

doubtful.

but we need to go, we

need

to see what's out there,

before

coming home.

nothing is lost

nothing

is truly lost, it's just waiting

to be found.

usually it's

where you left it.

you might

not be the one

to find

what you're looking for,

but someone will,

all in good time,

suddenly it appears

between

the cushions

of the downstairs couch,

or lying

beside the car

on the snowy ground.

our empty cups

the holiday

is over,

outside the window

you can

hear the hammers,

the saws

working,

the leaf blowers and

mowers,

the roar of trucks

backing

up.

mail is delivered,

the phone

rings.

the world continues

as always.

we need to fill

our empty

cups.

friends with a bad case of TDS

so many,

so many friends,

many now former friends,

have the scourge

of TDS.

it's relentless,

everything right or wrong

with the world

is blamed

on the Orange man,

the second time

President.

they can't hold a conversation

without bringing

him up,

and cursing with their

faces going red,

their teeth being bared

as steam comes out

of their ears.

he could bring peace to the Middle

East,

end many wars,

secure the border, clean

up the cities,

reduce crime,

lower taxes,

keep men and boys out of girls

sports.

he could even cure cancer,

and they'd still rant and rave

about

how they hate him.

it's an awful syndrome.

you see it in the old washed

up actors

and rock stars, now fading

into oblivion,

the Hanoi Janes of the world.

it's sad

and boring as they go on

and on and on.

without logic

or reason. they are sick,

very sick with

the TDS.

Let us Pray.

how to write a poem

the trick

is to write an unpoetic

poem,

leave

out the rhyme,

nature,

love and that sort of mushy

thing.

leave out

death too

and the struggle of life.

avoid

mythology

and Biblical references,

steer clear

of Robert Frost

and Longfellow,

especially, Emily Dickinson.

don't even

look at the poetry in the New

Yorker Magazine,

you'll learn nothing

there.

stare at a rock for an hour

or so,

or prick your finger with

a thorn,

and see what

comes out.

leave it at that.

avoid grammar

and punctation as well,

although

spelling, as always,

should count.

putting on the tool belt

as it is good

to have

the right tool, the right

wrench

or hammer,

the proper

screwdriver, or pair

pliers.

so it is with words.

they can

either fix things

or make

things worse.

some days i almost forget about it

forgiveness is a funny

thing,

some days

you have it in you

and other

days, you say no way.

i'll never forget or forgive

what someone said.

the mean

and cruel,

the vile words

that they said.

i wake up not knowing

if i will

be a good Christian soul

that day,

or not, will

i be heartless and cold,

or wake up

with a forgiving

new heart and soul.

when the headstone is in place

once

the headstone is in place,

carved

in the white

stone,

his name and birth,

the date

of his death.

all neatly

engraved with

military precision,

i'll go back there and say

hello.

i might sit

for a while, like we used

to do

and talk about

books, the weather,

the other brothers

and sisters.

i'll listen to his laugh,

and see

the wet twinkle in his

ocean blue

eyes.

and then i'll go home

again,

but now it's a shorter drive.

returning to the shore

when

i return to the ocean,

to stand

with my feet in the cold water,

letting

the wash

of waves roll

up to my knees, i see

that nothing

has changed.

the sea is still the sea.

i'm just older,

but still

childlike in my gaze.

escaping your own life

while

sewing a button

onto

a shirt,

you realize that this is what

true

awareness is.

the simple

act

of sticking the needle

through

the eyelets,

then pulling the thread

up

and then again

through cloth,

until all holes

have been visited

before making

the smallest of knots

to tie

it tight.

you are here.

there is nothing but this.

you have

escaped

your own life.

just a regular holiday thing that we do

tired

of people asking me what

i'm going to do

for the holiday,

i make up

a story.

i tell them i'm having

a barbeque

for fifty people.

i'm making batches

of Pina Coladas,

roasting a pig

on a skewer.

then we're all going to

Glen Echo

to ride the roller coaster,

before swimming

in the pool,

then we're going

dancing,

and club hopping,

and then we're going to sit

up on the hill

and watch

the fireworks.

staying up to see the sun

rise,

at dawn.

how about you?

texting while in the tub and drinking wine

she sends

me a picture of her leg,

a long leg

with fishnet stockings,

then

her arm,

the cherry red 

nails on her hand

holding a glass of wine.

she unbuttons her blouse

so that i can

see a snippet

of her bra,

then a picture of her

high heels arrive,

then bare

feet.

she's in the tub now,

taking

pictures with bubbles

up to her neck,

carefully hiding the rest of her.

now it's your turn,

she writes.

i send her a picture

of a cake

i just took out of the oven.

we never

text again.

the studio apartment

the rent is reasonable,

but only

because

there's mice

scurrying about,

and the heat doesn't work,

and the walls

are thin.

but hey.

you can't beat two

thousand

dollars

for a studio apartment

these days

over a Chinese Restaurant

and massage parlor.

thank you for reading

it's a strange

text.

it's from a number not

in my

contacts list.

whoever it is,

they're very angry.

i can feel

the heat right through

the phone.

they tell

me they hate me.

despise me.

they're disappointed

in what i write.

they don't agree with

anything

i say.

they call me names,

they say

i'm a loser

who will never amount

to anything.

i scratch my head and write

back,

Betty is that you?

Joan, Sandy,

Donna, Christine?

Mom?

a story without an ending

why are you

telling me

this story? she asks me

as i go

on and on

about something of no

interest

to her.

and yet, i don't stop.

i sit

back in the big chair

and sip on my vodka

and tonic,

which has the ability

to encourage me

to proceed

forward,

gives me the ambition

to embellish.

i'm naming names,

giving dates,

and places with great

detail.

i tell her what i was wearing,

i tell her

about the weather,

the rain,

the wind.

she rolls her eyes,

then looks at her watch.

okay, okay, she says.

go on.

you have ten minutes

to finish.

then i have to go.

you won't believe this part,

i tell her,

as i continue on.

his unlived life

yesterday,

the boy behind the counter,

the blue eyed

boy

with a thatch of blonde

hair,

mixed up

a gallon of paint for me.

periwinkle blue,

i think it was.

today, when i go

back for another gallon

to finish the job,

they tell me that

the boy

is dead,

he went over the bridge

last night

into Oxon Hill

and took too much

of the wrong thing.

a lethal dose

of fentanyl.

i can still his

lineless face,

his unlived

life in his gentle

smile.

this will hurt for longer

than a while.

our two week anniversary

we clink

glasses in celebration

of our

anniversary.

we've been an exclusive

couple for

two weeks now,

a record

for me.

we celebrate

with French Champagne

and a dinner

for two

at Mon Ami Gabi.

we hardly

know each other

and have yet to discuss

anything of meaning,

but it feels wonderful.

i'm optimistic

and looking forward

to the future

as we proceed on eggshells

into week three.

it's not our turn yet

with the scream

of the ambulance paused

as it pulls

in front of the house

across the street, we

can't help but

open the door to see

what's going

on.

who's sick, who's died?

who will it be

wheeled out, flattened

by life

and then gone?

it's not our turn though,

so we go back inside,

dinner soon,

the dog needs a walk,

the tv is on.

my first Cookbook is finally published

i finally

put my first cookbook together.

Culinary Delights for the Single Man.

with my phone i

have taken pictures of all

of my creations.

each with a listing of ingredients

and the recipes

which i have used.

Chapter One

is Sandwiches.

the Peanut Butter and Jelly

Sandwich

is focused upon

on page one

with a full-two-page color photo,

not unlike

the Playboy centerfold

back in the day.

this is

followed by the ham sandwich,

the egg salad sandwich,

tuna sandwich, 

the club sandwich, etc.

Chapter Two

is all about breakfast.

with crisp clean prose

i go through the descriptions

of the perfect bowl

of cereal, sometimes with

fruit added.

of course there's scrambled

eggs,

and waffles.

i do a deep dive on sausage

and bacon.

Pop Tarts 

and Bagels are addressed as well.

Chapter Three is all about

dinner.

how easy it is to use the micro

wave

and stand at the kitchen

sink,

eating Kung Pao chicken

with chopsticks

from the little white boxes.

this chapter is mostly dedicated

to Door Dash,

and Pizza Deliveries.

Chapter Four is the midnight

snack,

which involves

cold chicken, picking pieces

off a three-day old

rotisserie chicken

with your fingers at midnight

while standing in

the cold light

of the refrigerator

in your underwear. 

this is followed

by eating

a handful of Oreo cookies

with a glass of milk,

or sometimes crushing them

over a bowl of vanilla ice-cream

before going back to bed.

Chapter Five 

is a listing of favorite condiments

and accessories,

hot sauce,

mayonnaise,

mustards, pickles,

potato chips,

ketchup, lettuce, onions,

hot peppers, etc.

Chapter Six

is all about indigestion

and what over the counter products

are best to get over it.

before the cuffs go on

when

caught we are all

apologetic, 

sorry,

so sorry we say.

i didn't mean

to speed

down this highway,

doing ninety in a

forty-five.

i didn't mean

to cheat and lie

on you, it was the booze

that made

me do it.

i didn't mean

to steal

that loaf of bread

from the store,

but i was hungry

and couldn't wait

in the long line.

we're all angels until

caught,

good people 

before the cuffs

go on.

so my dear, how are you?

the sheer

curtains letting in a cold

white

swath

of light across the room

does little

to brighten things,

the old sofa

worn

grey and torn by cat's

claws,

and spills.

the oriental rug from

India,

faded,

the reds and greens

gone pale, 

mottled flat,

and her legs resting in

brown shoes,

leaning towards

her cup

of tea,

hardly a sound made,

just the clock

on the wall ticking.

she whispers when she talks,

saying,

with her blue

eyes,

and thin lips,

with concern, 

so my dear, how are you?

cold soup and other things we don't want

nobody wants

cold soup, nor stale

bread,

no one wants a hard

mattress,

or weak coffee.

no one wants to watch

a rerun,

or listen to the scratched

record,

to sit

through a boring

sermon.

no one wants the leftovers,

the discarded,

or used things at the flea

market

sold on the corner

for a dollar.

no one wants to read

the boring book,

the newspaper,

or to watch a bad movie.

no one wants the light

kiss on the cheek

and pat on

the back farewell.

nobody wants

lukewarm love.

we want more, not less.

we want the real thing.

the honest

thing.

sincerity

the best.

don't quit your day job

you can be whatever

you want to be, your parents

tell to you with a smile.

it's not the first lie they've told

you,

there was the Santa Claus

thing,

the Easter Bunny,

and the tooth fairy before that,

but this is a bigger

lie than those.

you learn quickly that you're

not the smartest kid in

the room,

the fastest or the strongest,

you're not the best looking.

in fact you're average like most

of the world and at some point

when you try to succeed

beyond your means someone

will say to you,

don't quit your day job.

the irony is priceless

when my

father won the lottery for

a few hundred

thousand dollars,

they took a picture of him

on a stage

holding an oversized

check.

he looked scared

and baffled by all the attention.

he had no clue

that the photo would be plastered

all over the internet.

and when

i google searched his name,

there he was.

holding the check,

worried that his nine children

might find out

about this windfall.

and under his name was my

brother's name, who has the same name

as my father,

promoting legislation

to try and keep gambling out

of the state of Tennessee.

the irony is priceless.

the funeral attire

i put on the old suit for the funeral.

it's tight though.

it's been

eight years since i

last wore it

to a different funeral

and a sham

wedding a few months

before that.

it's a grey suit.

white shirt, a conservative

dark tie.

a shiny belt with matching

shoes.

but it's tight around the waist now.

i can hardly button

the tiny top bottom

to get the tie around my suddenly

fat neck.

there's been too many slices

of white bread

since the last time i wore it.

too many donuts,

pasta dinners late at night,

too much Kung Pao Chicken

and egg rolls

before bedtime.

as soon as this funeral is over

i'm back to the carnivore diet.

no sugar, no starch, no seed oils.

i might have to wear this suit

a few more times.

the new pool rules

the new

rules for the neighborhood pool

come out

in the community

newsletter.

no running, no food, no alcohol,

or beverages

in glass containers,

no jumping

off the side of the pool,

no diving,

no smoking,

no radios, or loud music

of any sort.

no children with diapers,

or under

the age of five

without supervision.

no protesting

or chanting out political

slogans,

no loud conversations,

no card playing,

no gambling,

no nude sunbathing.

no pets of any kind.

no swimming laps

or hanging on the rope

even if drowning.

no unnecessary splashing,

or playing of Marco Polo.

no inflatable objects or diving

for coins.

everyone must use

the ladder to get in and

the ladder to get out

of the pool.

no eating prior

to entering the pool.

a shower before entering

the pool area

with soap is a must

and will be observed.

one guest with each ID

is allowed.

they must have three forms

of ID's to validate

their true identity

and be US citizens or on a work

Visa status.

pool passes are only issued to those

up to date

on their condo fees.

everything will be recorded

in case of infractions

resulting in swift and severe

punishment.

enjoy your summer.

stay safe.

signed Judy, your condo

board president.

when the mask slips

i am a big

believer in the mask.

the public

image

versus the private image.

not everyone has one,

but many do.

some have

several masks,

putting on or taking

off the necessary one

for

whatever task, or

manipulation

they're involved in.

a joy,

a sorrow, a death,

or the pretense

of love.

it just takes a few words

with action

to reveal

the true self.

it's all Shakespearean

in the round.

everything changes all at once

at times

it seems that nothing changes.

there are

long stretches of months

into years

where all is the same.

you lie

in bed and listen

to the rain,

the wind outside.

it's the same bed,

the same

house.

what seems like forever,

your life goes on

as always.

the seasons change and you

are still

who you were

yesterday

and the day before.

there is little change in you.

and then

one morning you wake up

and everything

is different.

everything.

a new ship in port at Arlington

the twenty

one

gun salute stuns you with

its noise,

the cannons

on the hill beside innumerable

gravestones.

it's

finality with gun shots

and taps

being played by a lone

soldier

in the shade.

the somber faces of young

men folding

precisely

the flag.

old soldiers

and sailors are buried here,

a president.

each war

has the dead under long

stretches

of grass

and headstones

shining brightly

against the sun, and now

here he is,

your father.

his ship at last in port

forever more.

the best weather of all

it's such

a nice day,

i tell her, looking

up at the dark

sky,

standing near

the cold

window,

the rain pounding the street,

making the trees

heavy.

listen to that thunder

roar.

i love this weather.

it's beautiful,

let's not leave the house

and go

anywhere today,

okay?

around and around

there

are things you wished you

had said

when you were there,

sharp witty

things

to stir it up,

but you aren't as quick

as you used to be,

so it all comes to you

while lying in

bed and staring at the ceiling

fan going around and

around.

maybe next tim

you'll prepare better

and write things

down.

it needs a new rug and a paint job now

i make

the decision to nuke

his

old apartment,

the one he lived in for

thirty-three years

to not stop

and linger over every

plate and fork

he saved,

each wobbly table

and chair,

the pillows and bed

that he lay upon,

his glasses

left upon

the desk.

the will and wallet,

all the books

upon the shelves.

i decide to plow through

it all

without thinking

and ready

the empty place for the next

tenant.

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.