at last a hard rain

i like

this rain, this hard

deluge

that's coming down

out of the

blackened sky.

it's lovely.

the rumble of thunder.

the cool

wind.

the strike of lightning

beyond

the hills.

it's music on the roof,

against

the window

pane.

let it rain.

it's the end of the world as we know it

the dive

restaurant that i frequent

is no longer

serving

breakfast all day.

it's a greasy

diner on the side

of the road.

i go in

and sit down

at my usual booth and ask

Marge

what the deal is.

why no breakfast after

11 a.m.?

new management, she tells me,

shrugging her

pink shoulders. but,

you can still get everything

that's on the old

menu.

just not pancakes

or eggs. after 11.

however,

you can still get a BLT,

or a sausage

sandwich, if you want.

just no eggs.

after a nine day vacation together

the first

thing i'm going to do when

we get home,

she told me,

was, i'm going to take a long hot

bath,

with candles

and a glass

of wine,

with the door

firmly shut.

i need a vacation from

this vacation,

i'm exhausted.

what about you?

oh me,

i'm going to take a long

bike ride

through the woods,

don't wait up.

the kayak date

it was rough

water,

the water between

the bay

and the inlet,

where

the river

merged in a turbulent

swirl

of waves that

tossed us

up and down,

without direction,

but we paddled hard

in our rented kayak,

tandem,

no less,

trying to get to

calmer water,

one paddling harder

than the other.

our first fight,

which became one of many.

sifting through the daily news

maybe it isn't true,

maybe

it's all exaggerated,

the news,

the constant news,

whether from

the left or right.

maybe the world

isn't going to hell

in a handbasket,(whatever

that is).

it's so hard to tell anymore,

to separate

the darkness

from the light.

from what's true,

to what's a lie.

her lemon cookies

she knows

i like her lemon cookies,

so she makes

a dozen

and sets them on a plate

by the window

beside

a note telling me,

that once

again,

she'll be home late.

the ivy league indoctrination

the new democrats

apparently hate Christmas

and Thanksgiving.

holidays

are for the rich

and entitled.

the 4th of July

is now racist.

we're living on stolen land,

they tell us.

no one

is illegal, there should

be no borders.

we need to feel guilty

about the color

of our skin.

we need to steal from

the rich

and give to the poor.

no police,

no prisons, no president

or senate.

the constitution must

be banned.

it's funny and sad at the same

time

knowing how

our education system

has failed us.

wait until it cools

in the summer,

we drank

from the hose

after

playing ball.

we knew enough

to wait and let it cool

down

as the water shot through

the hot

green rubber snake.

the burst of water

pushed 

out the ants

and spiders, then

we rinsed our heads

with it, we

turned the nozzle to our

mouths,

filling up

until

it was someone else's turn.

strangely

no one died.

an early morning run

when you

were a runner, before

the knees

gave out,

before

the hair thinned

and silvered,

you'd tie your shoes

in the early

morning,

whether rain or shine,

snow

or ice

and run.

sometimes three miles,

sometimes

five.

after one mile,

you'd at last find your stride.

it was easy.

how your mind would wander,

how you'd solve so much

by the turn

around

in that morning light.

like a dog on a leash i follow

like a dog

on a leash,

my algorithm

leads me

to a video of an elderly

man

on his farm,

telling

his viewers what he

knows

about life.

behind

him,

on the porch, in a

rocking

chair,

is his so called

better half,

his third wife, she smiles

at times,

she nods

for the camera,

but continues knitting,

rocking

gently.

a great field stretches

out before the steps,

before

the house.

the man goes on and on

with his

words, philisophical

rants

about politics and the price

of eggs,

but it's her i'd like to

know

more about.

late into the night

as

the wick

of your candle stays

lit

late into

this good night,

melting

the wax upon

your plate,

you

don't want it to end,

any

of it.

this is all gravy

this is all

gravy

the man beside me

on the park

bench

said.

this blue sky,

this book in my hands

awaiting my eyes,

this cold air,

this coat i have on.

these pretty

girls walking

by,

this is all gravy.

the hard work

is done.

he patted me on the arm,

and said

remember that,

remember that,

before

he picked up his cane

and walked off.

it was always the next drink

if i

bend to a bottle

of Canadian Club

Whiskey,

opened,

close my eyes and inhale,

i think of him,

his

cheery breath upon

my pale

cheeks,

i feel the bristle of

his unshaven

face,

tucking us into bed,

the stale after shave

still

clinging to his skin.

i hear the joy in his

voice

as he says goodnight,

but it was always the next

drink

that he poured when

he went

back downstairs,

the one too many,

that could make things

worse.

making room for me

i wave

my hand and arm through

the filament

of webs

in mild protest.

they're strung

across the chairs

and table

out back.

the spiders have been busy

over night

into the early

morning. i sit, at last

with coffee

and a new book,

the sun upon my face.

but i'm somewhat saddened

by their

ambitious endeavors

spoiled

by my habits.

the ashtray in the kitchen

as Chekov

once observed

while

picking up an ashtray

full

of butts and ashes,

matches,

that here in lies a story.

look,

he said,

there's a tale here,

that

cigarette half smoked,

with the stain

of lipstick

around the end,

and the other

bent and crushed down,

as if in anger.

see what i'm saying?

now go write.

a reason to go to Mars

do we need more prisons,

or more

mental

institutions? or both,

someplace

to protect the public

from danger,

or maybe an island somewhere

will suffice,

where

the criminals

can run free

without chains,

or doctors. no cells,

or barbed wire

to deal with.

a place

where they can be who

they want to be,

tax free,

unburdened by the norms

of a civil society.

what about Mars?

Bond, James Bond

as a kid

i wanted to be a detective,

or a spy

of some sort.

living on a houseboat,

like in 77 Sunset Strip,

or James Bond,

drinking

a martini with his hair

perfectly combed,

his suit,

impeccable

as he went

about his business of saving

the world

from evil characters,

bent on lies and deception.

but i never knew how good

i'd be at it,

until i got married.

sleeping in

it's the birds

at first

that awaken you,

tweeting madly

about something,

maybe love,

or some disagreement,

but soon it's

the garbage truck

backing up

with the beep beep beep

loudly

resonating throughout

the neighborhood.

this is followed

by the landscapers

with handheld

machinery

blowing things around,

or cutting grass,

trimming brush

and trees.

maybe it's time to get

up,

after all it's almost

11 a.m.

and i need coffee.

amazon minus

i'm losing

faith

in Amazon.

the big blue truck,

arriving

daily

with another package.

the wrong size, the wrong

color,

the wrong

product.

it's just a toothbrush,

but once

more

they've sent the wrong one.

thankfully though,

they've made it easy

to throw

it back into the pond,

but still

it's annoying

to suffer

such 1st world problems.

and yes,

we're all spoiled

rotten.

one big shrug of the shoulders

so they

release all the classified

documents

about UFOs,

yawn.

no one cares.

nothing changes.

it's still the same old

stuff we've

heard for

years and years.

the pictures are blurry,

the radar

garbled.

it's a giant shrug

of the shoulders.

there's nothing new.

no alien bodies,

no space crafts,

nothing.

there's

zero real proof.

strange, but

people seem to be more

worried about

the price of gas

and food.

the animal kingdom

after

my mother and father divorced.

men

like dogs in heat

would show

up to visit

despite her having seven

children,

two still in diapers

and the rest

in grade school.

but the men

knew somehow that there

was an

available

attractive Italian woman

living without

a mate.

they showed up in long

shiny cars,

on motorcycles,

some were delivering milk,

or mail,

suddenly tipping

their hats,

being quite friendly, lingering

on the porch to

have a chat.

avoiding the grand slam

we used

to play stick ball behind

the drugstore.

we spray painted a strike

zone on

the wall,

and decided where

the pitching

mound would be.

a ground ball was a single.

a fly ball,

not caught, was a double,

a triple

was if the ball hit the fence

not far behind

the pitcher,

and if the rubber ball sailed

over the fence

and into the apartment

building,

it was a home run.

a grand slam

was if the ball smashed

into a window,

breaking it.

but of course, the game

was suspended at

that point for a few weeks.

what's a woman

if someone

had asked you what

a woman was,

ten years

ago,

you'd laugh in their face,

and tell them

to get a life,

what are you nuts,

stupid?

how about you look

down your own pants,

and you decide.

why would you even

ask such

a dumb question?

but currently it's up

for serious

debate.

the politicians and doctors,

the lawyers

and teachers,

the mothers and fathers

can't even figure

it out.

we may be at the end

of times.

strong locks on the doors

you try to be more

tolerant

of the intolerant, more

kind

to the unkind.

you try

to forgive the unforgivable

and move on.

press forward,

but it gets harder,

not easier as

you get older.

the crazies seem to be

multiplying.

thank you Lord, 

for strong locks on the 

doors

and windows.

and for not having to go out

there

all the time.

a stiff upper lip

i feel

bad for fish in general,

whether

cod or perch,

flounder or Chilean Sea Bass.

tricked

onto hooks,

swept up

into nets.

out for a casual swim

beneath

a sea, or lake,

minding their

own business

and suddenly on someone's

dinner plate.

i could hardly

look them in the eye,

as a child,

when i pulled

the hooks from their

stiffened lips

along the Potomac shore.

she missed his boat

as we sat at a table

overlooking the bay,

picking crabs apart,

she told me,

whatever you do,

don't buy a boat

when

you retire.

okay,

i told her. i won't.

my last boyfriend had a boat,

and he

spent all his free time

on it.

cleaning it,

maintaining it,

always fixing something

that was

broken,

or covered in mold

and barnacles.

it cost a ton of money

to fill it with gas,

so he had to beg his friends

to come along,

and chip in.

and you had to constantly

check the weather

for storms

before you took it out

or take a chance of being sunk.

someone always had to tie

it up too,

or do whatever it took to

get it going, like

taking it off

a trailer, or putting it on

a trailer.

plus there where harbor

fees

and all of that.

license, insurance, etc.

so whatever you do, don't,

don't

buy a boat, she told me.

okay, i told her. i won't.

i promise,

then i picked up another crab

and smacked it with a mallet.

she turned away, taking a long

sip of her wine,

and stared out at

the water as the sun set.

she looked very very sad.

insomnia

you can't sleep.

you

get up and go downstairs,

you open

the refrigerator door,

rub your

chin, then close it.

nothing

interests you.

you walk over to the window.

it's pitch black out.

you lift a book

up from the coffee table,

then set it back down.

you go back

to the refrigerator

to see if anything has changed,

it hasn't, so

you go back up the stairs

and get

into bed again.

the dog stares at you,

and shakes

his head and sighs.

everything but the cold beer

i go to the basement

to begin

collecting and assorting gear

for the upcoming 

beach trip.

the orange folding chair,

an umbrella,

towels

of all sizes,

a large thermos,

coloring books. and magazines,

still not read,

sunscreen

and sandals.

flippers and goggles,

an old

can of shark repellant,

water wings,

a small plastic

bucket

and shovel.

a dozen Marvel comic

book toys.

a cooler for popsicles

and sodas

and candy bars,

tuna sandwiches,

and then i realize that my

son is thirty-seven

years old now.

and we can leave almost

everything at home,

except the cold beer.

how do the women in the WNBA keep their wigs on?

while watching

the WNB basketball game,

made up of mostly women, 

(sort of),

assaulting one another

with flagrant

fouls,

trips and eye gouges,

punches

and elbows to the ribs,

along

with racial and sexual

slurs,

prison ball

to the naked eye,

i can't help but

wonder how in God's name

do those long haired

wigs stay on their heads

while they rumble.

i see a wig glue commercial

in the making.

follow the bread crumbs

i leave

a trail of me throughout

the day.

anyone

could easily see where

i've been,

which room

i've moved onto,

where it is that

i eat,

where i watch tv,

or rest

my feet.

my breadcrumbs

are

coffee cups

and plates,

forks and spoons,

actual crumbs too

of toast

and cake.

i miss my dog with his

perpetual

vacuum, tidying up

behind me.

stay away from men with mustaches

it's just my

imagination, i know that.

but a bearded

man

seems

smarter

than most hairless men.

Moses

had a beard,

although i don't know how

anyone would

know that.

there's no record of his wife

complaining

about scratchy

skin issues.

Leonardo Da Vinci,

Hemmingway

and Sophocles all had some

facial locks

going on.

Sigmund Freud

sported a nice

academic style beard.

Lincoln had some cheek

and chin fuzz

going on as well.

what you have to worry about

is the mustache,

any man with a mustache

you have to steer clear of.

for example, John Dillinger,

Pablo Escabar and Saddam Hussein,

all three sported staches, not

to mention

Hitler and Stalin.

then there was

Genchis Khan with his

fu Manchu.

and don't forget Satan and Snidely

Whiplash.

you get my point, don't you?

give unto Caesar what is his?

i hear

on the news that pennies

will

soon be extinct.

everyone is rounding up now,

those cheats.

i look at my

hundred

pound

jar of pennies on the floor

and nearly

faint.

should i save them,

cash them

in?

will they become gold

artifacts

in the distant future?

valuable

ancient coins, like

the ones

they discover in the dirt

in Rome,

will Abe Lincoln

go the way

of Caesar's face?

music to her ears

she needed music

to eat

with,

to make love with.

to walk,

or drive with.

the ear buds

were always in,

the radio

up.

the speakers turned

on in

every room.

she rarely had a single

quiet moment

in her life.

her own thoughts were

a mystery.

even in sleep,

the sound of waves

rolled

beside her ear.

the marble stoop

i remember

her as 

a grey bird on the stoop.

skinny

arms and legs,

a shock

of white hair bundled

up

on top of her head.

she's on her hands

and knees

on the marble 

porch

scrubbing with

weak might.

the sun is hardly up,

she's taken

the paper in, the milk

and butter,

the cream.

the coal will come soon

for the basement

window.

she scrubs the porch raw

until it's

shiny, then rinses it with

a new bucket 

of water.

at last, 

not unlike her soul,

it's clean.

running low on ammo

i hear

on the news that we're

running

out of ammunition to blow

things up,

and people

in the country we're at war with.

i doubt it.

we're the US of A,

goldangit.

although, General

Custer,

said the same thing,

right before

an arrow

went through his hat.

two minutes each year, we talk

i see my neighbor

maybe

once a year, and then,

for whatever

reason,

our paths don't cross again

for months on end.

the sun rises, 

and sets.

the moon comes out.

it rains,

it snows, it's hot.

the seasons change.

we're separated by a single

wall and a fence

outdoors.

we're both men,

happily divorced,

so it's easy to catch up in

the two minutes

we speak, when

we nod

and say hello.

get a job

as i sit at the light

in my car,

waiting for it to turn green,

i look to my left

and see the same man,

with the same

old battered sign

standing there. he's been

there for at least four

years no what the weather

is. sometimes

he sits in a chair with a bucket

beside him.

then suddenly it occurs to me,

in a flash of light,

i have a stunning epiphany.

if he had a job, he wouldn't

have to be out there

begging day after day

for money.

in fact there would be very

little poverty if everyone

put down the crack pipe

and fentanyl and

went out and got a job.

or two jobs, doing whatever

it takes to put food on

the table and find shelter.

if everyone worked

this homeless crisis

would be over in a heartbeat.

how come no one has thought

of this before?

i'm so enthralled by this idea

that i'm calling my congressman

and senator tomorrow.

although they do tend to take

the whole month of August off.

the snake crossing near the lake

as the snake,

the poisonous copperhead,

a pinkish brown,

stamped with diamonds,

slowly

drags

her fat body across

the bike path,

i wait.

i'm in no rush, and apparently

neither is she.

she seems to be full

of baby snakes,

fat in the belly.

is she going home, or

leaving?

so much of life goes on,

on both sides

of the path,

in the darkness of woods,

unknown.

Dearborn Michigan today

some religions

require

that women dress themselves

up in sheets,

covering

their heads

and bodies, where you can

only see

their eyes.

they are mysteries

in black robes

to anyone

passing by.

feminism be damned.

the men

have beaten them down.

not a leg

or arm,

or ankle can be seen.

not an inch of skin

can be found.

it's medieval.

while on the beach, not far,

girls in French bikinis

are frolicking about.

we're living in very strange

times.

little criminals

some kids

in the old neighborhood

were thieves, they stole

anything

not nailed or glued

down.

bikes,

food from the grocery store,

comic books,

candy.

model airplanes and cars,

and for the most

part

they got away with it,

they were

often chased

out

the front door by a gangly

manager

with a name tag,

never to be caught.

eventually most of the bad

boys

grew up

and stopped,

but one or two began

to steal

cars,

or rob.

they didn't get as far.

burgers on his grill

i can

still smell the after

shave

of my

father, see his hands

on

the perpetual cup

of coffee,

standing

at the grill on his patio

in his madras

shorts,

his chef's apron,

and sandals.

i can hear him call out,

that dinner

was ready.

come on, let's go.

pull up

a chair.

i sliced some tomatoes.

the Atlantic movie theater

there

was something special about

going to the movies

when you

were a kid.

the curtain would pull back

after you

found your seat

and purchased your

popcorn and drink,

your box

of candy.

it was the middle of the week

in the afternoon

when seats

were cheap.

the theater half

empty.

a double feature perhaps.

the usher in his uniform,

with his flashlight

telling to you

to put your feet down,

and then the music

would begin,

the cartoon

and previews and finally

the main feature

in technicolor glory.

it was heaven, all of your

childhood troubles

for a few long hours,

forgotten.

a boy and his bike

i pick up

the old bike from the bike

store.

only 500 bucks

to get it back

up and running.

they've adjusted

the brakes

and gears and put on

new tires, a new chain,

a new seat,

a new something or other

that i can't

explain.

there are

new balloons

for the spokes

and a cute little basket

on front

for a sandwich or a puppy,

but not both.

not to mention a shiny

silver horn

that sounds like a bullfrog.

they threw in colorful

streamers

for the handles as well.

i'm hoping it lasts 

another ten years or so

before the men

in white coats arrive

to take me away.

Rosie

for kicks i decide to try and stay

up all night

and watch tv.

check out all the old commercials

for car waxes

and scratch removals.

gorilla glue,

and wrinkle creams.

i want to see what new gizmos

are on the market

for the bathroom,

or kitchen,

but i only make it to ten thirty

at night,

only halfway through 

the Greg Gutfeld show.

i fall asleep during another

funny joke about the women

on the View,

and Rosie coming back from

her self deportation

to Ireland.

the blue town at the light

i'm behind a car,

a green Subaru,

with many bumper stickers,

some on the window, 

and the back

panel of the car.

one says, it takes a village,

another says,

coexist.

one more says Columbia,

a few others read,

save the whales,

free Palestine,

and reparations for all.

there's stickers of lacrosse

sticks,

and volleyballs.

beaches on the Eastern

Shore, OB.

Hillary is another one,

though faded

and torn, partly covered

by Kamala

and her famous quote about

being unburdened by

what has been.

the blue haired lady

at wheel can hardly see out

the back window

as she drinks her

Venti soy latte and snacks

on her kale potato chips.

finally the light changes

and the guy/girl

behind me in a VW beetle

with a flower

on the antennae, 

beeps his/her horn.

the new and improved Commie Party

as the communist party,

formerly

known as Democrat Party,

win

more and more

elections.

i decide to buy a red beret

with a big

star on the front.

i start calling

my friends and neighbors

comrades

and giving them

a warm commie

embrace when we see each

other,

kissing them on both cheeks.

i'm wearing the same clothes

that Stalin wore.

neat and orderly,

with big square pockets,

either grey or brown,

or a moldy green color,

with high lace

Doc Martin boots.

i find a fake black mustache

at the costume

store, and glue it to my face.

also, i have a sewing box

now for when

the clothes get old and frayed.

i begin to practice spying on

people,

listening in on conversations,

following them

for no reason,

taking notes in case

they need to be reported.

i look up recipes for potatoes,

and more potatoes,

onions and stale bread,

and a variety of soups

made primarily with beets.

i practice standing up for

hours at a time,

leaning on a crumbling brick wall,

for when the bread

lines begin.

sometimes i march around

the town square for no reason

whatsoever

quoting Lenin and Mao Tse Tung.

i buy a cow and a goat,

a few chickens

and put them in the yard,

i keep my eye out for a pony

once the car

runs out of petrol and dies.

i take down my portrait of JFK

and Golda Meir,

and hide them in the attic,

where they will have to stay

until after the eventual war.

the wall safe in the livingroom

i should have

written

down the combination to the wall

safe

behind the picture

of George Washington

over the mantle.

i can't remember it.

was it a birth date

of someone i knew, or my

own.

how could i have been 

so foolish

to not have written it down.

there's so much

money in there, cold hard

cash, insurance

papers,

titles to cars,

a passport,

my last will and testament

and

a few sexy photographs

of Betty in her bikini

when

we visited the Eastern Shore.

not to mention

an old recipe for pot roast

and one

for chocolate chip cookies

with nuts.

i pull over a dining room chair

and put my ear to the dial

like i've seen burglars do

in the movies.

click click click.

left right, right left,

around and around we go.

what am i listening for?

thankfully it comes to me

that there's a key too,

which can open the door.

i think it's in the kitchen,

in a plastic bag

where the batteries are stored.

maybe.

if not.

i have to go down to Home Depot

and buy a blow torch.

the shed just outside the door

you

have a large storage shed.

there are bins

and boxes

stacked high.

containers of all sizes.

there's an overhead light

with a string

to pull

when you open

the creaky

door and enter.

you brush the cobwebs

aside,

the mice run away

through small

burrowed holes in the wood

as your shoes

touch the floor.

but there's

no cans of peaches here,

no jars

of jam.

there's no sealing wax

applied.

no pickled brine or salted

meat.

it's only memories

that you store

on the thin shelves that

you visit time to time.

even when the mood isn't right.

people you have loved,

are here,

the friends

that are gone. parents,

and pets

of all kinds.

all the faces

and hearts that you have known.

you go in and smile,

sometimes you cry, then you

leave.

you close the door, lock it

for safe keeping,

then go back inside.

the peach fuzz intellects

it's the peach

fuzz

generation of naive

and 

narrow

intellect that is demanding

crazy

policies to change

the country.

no borders,

no police, no president,

no senate.

no electoral college,

stack the supreme court

until they

all agree with me,

not thee.

free healthcare for all,

free grocery

stores

and buses.

higher taxes

higher taxes

higher taxes.

boys in girls' sports,

transgenders

in the locker-room

naked

as a jay bird.

drag queen reading hours

in all schools

for children of three.

free genital surgery

for the mentally

disturbed.

free education whether

a citizen or not.

no prisons,

no jail time, let the murderers

and rapists

run free.

hug them

and give them a ride

home

to their camps under

the bridge.

our education system has failed us.

our parents, our churches,

our wise men

and women.

these whipper snappers

in diapers,

without ever reading a book

except by Karl Marx,

or Chairman Mao,

have no

knowledge of history

beyond

the last tik tok video

they've seen.

severe TDS, and it's only Monday

in his spare

time,

when not playing golf

or hosting

banquets

at his home in 

Florida,

he discovers

a cure

for cancer, for autism.

he discovers

a way to make the blind

see

and the deaf hear.

the paralyzed can walk

now because

of his research.

he ends a few wars,

lowers the crime rate,

secures the border,

makes the stock

market boom,

lowers the prices of eggs

and milk,

and gasoline,

and this is all

before he turns in and

goes to sleep.

it's only Monday.

but they still hate

him.

they don't know what to do.

they're foaming

at the mouth

with anger. and how dare he

beautify and make

safe

Washington D.C.

not finding what you were looking for

depending on your

parents,

or who you were dating

at the time,

you attended

a variety of churches

in your life,

or faith

based gatherings.

you sat in a circle

with wild eyed

Pentecostals

as they spoke in tongues

and rolled

around on the floor.

you've knelt 

at St. Raymonds with

the smoke

and mirrors

trying to understand

the somber

words in Latin.

always feeling guilty and

full of remorse.

the Baptist church

had you singing and shaking

hands with pretty

girls in sundresses,

eating a lot of potluck

dinners and

going to prayer breakfasts

in the early mornings

to make pancakes.

the Lutheran church presented

you and your

young wife

with a key to the front

door in front of the entire

congregation.

they wanted you to carry a

saddlebag

from door to door

collecting donations, then

play softball.

in Appalachia you sat in on

a clapboard

house, now a church and watched

and ducked as

they threw snakes around,

spitting out

the venom with their mouths.

and then there was the Jesus

Movement

in the 70's,

where you let your hair grow,

and you sat

around with like minded

people in a garden apartment

and gave

them as much money as you

could afford.

nickels and dimes for a phone booth

there

was a number to call

for the weather,

for the time,

for information,

there was an operator,

a real

person

that you talked to.

there were phone booths

where you

stood, cold,

but

safe from the pelting rain.

you called across country

to a loved one

after squinting at the limp

pages of a phone book

that hung

on a chain.

you had pockets

full change,

stacking the coins in

neat piles,

ammo

for the next ten minutes.

conversations were

measured

in nickels

and dimes.

cupped with

your shoulder you held

the heavy black

phone against

your warming ear.

you talked 

on the long black vines

that connected

everyone

until the money ran out,

but it was fine.

who would come to save me?

i get

a call from the Medical Alert

company.

they want me to buy

a necklace,

or a watch,

a device that will alert

my friends or

neighbors

if i fall in the shower

or down

the stairs

after too many apple

martinis

or shots of tequila.

we need a name of someone

who we can

put on your contact list

in case you fall.

but i can't think of

anyone at the moment.

at least no one

that would come and help me.

most of them

would be pleased and happy

to see me lying

on the floor

with arms and legs akimbo,

blood dripping

from my skull.

a squirrel in the middle of the road

i'm in an indecisive

period

of my life. i can't decide what

to eat,

what to read,

or watch on tv.

when i wake up i don't know

what clothes to wear.

i'm in a strange sort of limbo.

a purgatory

of indecision.

when the waiter asks me

if i want spring water,

sparkling or tap,

i pause, my heart begins

to palpitate,

i can hardly breathe.

i feel weak

while perusing the enormous

menu

at the Cheesecake Factory

i can't take it

anymore.

i go home.

it's three o'clock in the afternoon,

should i stay up.

or take a nap.

should i ignore the ringing,

or should

i answer the phone?

how to build a WNBA championship team in 2026

i tell my

son and all his friends that didn't

make the college

basketball

team

to try out for the WNBA.

but that's for women

they all say, laughing at me.

the W stands for women, right?

don't you have to be a girl.

not anymore, the W actually stands

for Woke.

trust me, i tell them.

their coaches are encouraging this.

they want

inclusivity.

here, put some lipstick on,

some blush.

i bought you guys some

perfume too

and

these sundresses.

pass around these packages

of pantyhose

i bought for all of you.

Jimmy you are now Janet,

Frank, you're Francis.

Billy, from now on we'll call

you Betsy. Okay?

also

you might need more tattoos

and some blue,

or green hair.

you guys are great playground

players.

you can all shoot the three,

you can dribble

and jump, you're fast,

my God,

half of you dunk the ball on

a regular basis.

you'll dominate in this league.

now all of you

get these dresses on

and try to get

on the same team.

you'll go undefeated.

you guys will be making Tampon

commercials

before you know it and making

the big bucks

in this league.

let's invade another country

when I see on tv

60 thousand Moroccan men

invade Spain,

i realize how incapable

i am in invading

another country.

i can't leave my house, 

without

my cell phone

and a charger,

credit cards and cash,

good walking shoes,

an umbrella and a bottle

of spring water.

if i was invading for a long

weekend, of course i would

need a small bag

with a change of underwear,

my shaving kit, deodorant

a toothbrush

and my ED meds,

but apparently you need none

of that, or

an ID or a passport

when invading Spain.

most of the invaders seem to be

swimming for miles

to reach shore,

or running wildly through

the open rusty gate.

they have nothing in their hands,

or on their backs.

there's not a single power bar

or bottle of Gatorade in sight.

No one is using sunscreen!

i can barely swim across my

community pool without flippers

and water wings.

i realize after watching all of these

exhausting videos,

that i have zero invasion skills,

none whatsoever.

i guess i'm stuck here.

try not to be too successful

it used to be

if you were successful

and made

tons of money

through

invention or hard

work,

genius or otherwise,

making millions,

then

billions,

you were looked up to.

people asked

you how.

you built factories,

donated to charities,

how you employed thousands

of people.

but now,

if you have more than two

cents to scratch

together,

you're evil.

how dare you?

you are what you eat

we ate

a lot of candy when we were

young.

we discovered

which one suited

our fancy.

Kelly,

preferred licorice,

or lollipops,

or gum drops.

Mike

liked fire balls,

that turned

his tongue red, which

he'd stick

out and laugh

like the devil himself.

i had a thing for a bar

of dark

semi-sweet chocolate,

with 

almonds.

they were gold on Halloween.

our small

gang

eventually went our separate

ways.

it was funny, though,

seeing Mike on

the news the other day,

all grown up,

handcuffed in the back

of a squad car.

i couldn't help but wonder

if his tongue

was still red.

that new car smell

she had

that new car smell for a long

time.

i kept the mileage

low,

back and forth

to church of course,

the grocery

store,

maybe to the doctor

for a flu,

or pneumonia shot.

never did i drink or

spill

coffee in it the first few

years,

or eat a scone, raining

crumbs down upon the leather

seats.

i miss everything

that once was new

and promising, even you.

complicating your life

i think

about having another dog,

a new

dog, replacing

the one

that died twelve years ago.

but

then i stare at the leash

still hanging

on the hook,

i look out the window

at the slashing

rain,

the slush on the road.

i can feel the wind and cold

on the door.

maybe a cat,

or better yet,

maybe a goldfish

or two

could play the pet role.

what surprises you

it's one of those

fine

weather days, the sky being

as blue

as blue can be.

there's a cathedral of

brilliant

white clouds

as far

as you can see.

it shouldn't, but it does,

it surprises

you,

like kindness,

or love.

the third hand store

i stopped into

a third hand store along

the boulevard.

i asked the lady

behind the counter what
makes this store

different from

the secondhand store.

oh, she said,

we don't wash our clothes,

or empty the pockets

before we sell them.

if you took your pants

off right now,

we'd put them on that stack

over there

and tag them,

i mean as long as there are

no weapons

in them, or explosives.

hmmm.

how much would you give

me for the pants i'm wearing then?

just out of curiosity.

hmm. let's see, turn around,

okay, once more.

move the zipper up and down,

okay, good.

two bucks, maybe three.

there's some stains on the front,

were you eating fried

chicken lately?

i have nowhere else to go

i hear

and smell someone under

the bed.

i recognize

the whimpering and the

lavender

perfume.

i see familiar

luggage

in the hallway.

quietly, i say to her,

please, go home.

why are

you under my bed?

she says,

sobbing, i miss you.

i promise i'll behave.

i'll be good

from now on.

i have nowhere else to go.

they've all figured out

who i truly am.

just let me lie here

under the bed for a few

days,

okay?

i'll eat crackers and drink

water,

i'll pay half the rent.

just give me one more,

just one more

chance.

large blue haired women rolling on the ground crying

as you watch

the videos of old white liberal

women

blocking

police cars,

getting pepper sprayed

and receiving

wood shampoos

from the law,

you wonder what's gone

wrong

with this world.

what happened

to rocking chairs,

and knitting circles?

baking cookies

and pies?

making booties for a grand

child?

when did all this craziness

begin?

why is grandma out there

on the front-line wearing

orthopedic shoes

and Depends?

what? did you just bite me?

was it passion

that made

her kiss me hard,

 biting my lip,

drawing

blood,

as our teeth banged

together,

or some passive aggressive

move,

meant to confuse

me.

or maybe both.

i go the bathroom to apply

tissue

onto the new

cut and bruise,

holding back the blood,

then stare into the mirror

and wonder

what am i about

to lose.

more leaving than arriving

i'm not sure why

it makes me blue,

the sound of the train

chugging along

through distant woods,

rolling noisily

on steel tracks, and

the whistle sounding

off as it crosses over

the trestle.

but it does.

it sinks in.

perhaps it's the passing of time

that it seems

to represent.

the reality of

so much leaving and less

arriving.

so much of life

now spent.

browsing morning remedies

we spend

the morning browsing sites

for possible

bunion corrections,

excluding surgery,

for her left

foot, and i research

the best remedies to relieve

my swollen

prostate

in order to once more

get a nice

steady stream going

in the bathroom.

we're looking for four star

treatments

with more than a thousand

views and a high

percentage of

positive comments.

time passes so quickly when

you're having

fun.

dear diary, thank you dr. fauci

i remember

writing in my diary during the covid

shut down

a thankful note to the head

of NIH.

thank you dr. Fauci

for 

helping to create this pandemic,

releasing

a manipulated

bat virus into the world by

funding the sloppy research

at the Wuhan Lab

in China.

thank you

thank you 

thank you.

it's gotten me out of so many

things

that i didn't want to do.

like visiting my in-laws

for the holidays and birthdays,

or going to the DMV,

no more visits to the dentist

for cleaning

and x-rays,

no colonoscopy this year.

no more attending my son's soccer

games at school.

no trips to the barbershop,

or grocery store,

with free delivery.

how easy it was to skip work,

or come in late,

or not at all.

thank you for getting me out

of my friend's

yearly back yard vegan

pool party

where all his children peed in the water,

and the grill

grilled no meat.

no more obligatory attendance

to church,

or the book club,

or doing Tai Chi in the park.

it was a wonderful

stretch of two years or so.

thank you doctor,

thank you.

what's next up your rolled up

sleeve,

a new and improved,

tenth booster shot vaccine?

still tattoo free

dissatisfied with the art

on the walls,

where the pictures hang,

i'm always moving

things around,

buying something new,

a landscape,

a portrait, perhaps an

abstract painting,

splashed 

with orange and blue.

it's an easy afternoon,

of taking art down,

removing the old for

something new.

i'm continually

changing things up.

it makes me realize that

i was never born to have

a tattoo.

whoops, again

it's the tug

of the ear, 

a strand of hair, the scratch

on the nose,

the shifting in her seat,

the tapping

shoe.

all signs that she's not

telling

the truth.

her eyes can't meet

yours.

you're in trouble,

aren't you?

for some crazy reason

you've signed

a government

document stating forever

and ever,

you've even put a ring 

on her hand.

the late night movie

it's a black and white

movie

at three a.m., it's almost 

morning, but

you stick with it,

because you want to see

what life was like

in the 50's and 60's in

New York City.

the cars, the city streets,

the hats

men wore,

how the women were

natural

and pretty.

it's the music too,

the politeness and

courtesy,

the corner grocer, the boys

playing stick ball

in the street.

the open hydrant

in July.

the fire escapes hanging

down.

neighbors with their

windows open, laundry

strung out

from side to side.

the front porch was where

you learned

nearly everything about life.

the paper boys, the milk man.

the girl

next door. the cop on his

beat, walking by.

maybe none of it was real,

perhaps, but you'd like

to believe that

i wasn't just a movie,

the watermelon seed

as the summer

slips

through your hands like

a black wet

seed

from the ripe red

melon,

you realize that you

can't stop

what's coming,

and that applies to almost

everything.

was he a good man

he's gone fishing,

i believe.

there's a sign on the door.

closed until

further notice.

but he won't return.

his ship has sailed,

motored out

into the bay, beyond

the bridge,

the islands that reek

of crabs and salt,

fish of all sorts

on filament lines,

stacked in crowded nets.

i see his silhouette against

the peach sun,

settling upon the water.

his tilted hat,

the swirl of cigar smoke rising.

was he good man?

sometimes.

online dating during covid

during

the pandemic i met a girl

on a dating site

called

i believe Fauci.

we met

at the old caboose in Herndon.

she was wearing

a triple ply mask

that nuclear scientists use,

and a plastic

shield over her head.

orange hazmat overalls

covered the rest of her body.

she reminded me of an astronaut

in a 2001 Space Odyssey.

i could barely

understand a word

she was saying as we sat

at a picnic table,

six feet apart,

so we stopped trying to talk

and texted each other.

i couldn't see her face,

or if she was skinny or tubby,

i could only see her

eyes, which were blue,

but very blood shot from worry.

she showed me her

vaccination card, stamped

three times and asked

me for mine.

to which i said, whoops.

sorry forgot to bring it.

i can still see her running,

tripping and falling,

to get away from me in

her oversized astronaut boots.

rules to live by

we had parents,

of course we did, but in reality

we were orphans

once we were out of diapers

and walking around,

able to wash and dress

ourselves.

just be home before

dark, was one of the few

rules we had, and

don't steal anything, 

or go down to the storm

drains after a hard rain.

there's so much going on here

you try hard

to turn it off, this observational

mode

you're stuck in

and seem to have been

born with.

you cannot help but notice

the woman

eating

a sandwich on the bench,

sipping her

drink, then daintily

wiping her pink lips.

the man

walking by,

with his drawers half

down,

revealing his green

underpants.

you notice the boredom

of the store clerk

checking your

groceries, 

blank eyed and tired,

the tension at the courthouse

as people file in,

before

life decisions are made.

whether jail

or divorce.

you even

see the squirrels fighting

over an acorn

at the park,

the pigeons

flying upwards with a wad

of chewing gum

in their mouth.

robots teaching high school

we had

several teachers in high school

that seemed

very robotic.

they seemed to be punching

the clock after

a long

journey down the road

of teaching

to non-responsive

students.

they gave the lessons,

the same

ones, year after year,

via xerox.

they gave a dull talk

about some

equation,

or sentence diagram,

or other things

you'd never remember or

use.

but now new teachers

are being

introduced.

real robots.

so nothing has really changed

that much.

we don't need no stinking badges

it's a good time

to be alive and be in the ammunition

business.

sales are up

all over the country,

from Chicago to LA,

to DC,

and Philly,

not to mention

Mexico,

the Ukraine and Russia,

Gaza

and Iran.

bullets and bombs

are selling

like hot cakes, as well as

handguns,

assault rifles,

and drones.

bandoleros for the cartels

are out of stock.

nuclear weapons though

are a special

order and may take some

time

to be delivered,

if anyone is left to buy them.

Hello Dolly

we called her dolly

in high school,

for two obvious reasons.

all the usual

jokes were made about her,

how she'd never

drown if she fell off a boat,

and that her babies would

never go hungry.

she was very popular

with all the boys,

and was even queen 

of the prom three years

in a row.

i can still see her long blonde

hair and her little hand

waving, as if washing a window

while riding atop

a mum covered float.

she made the most

of her physical attributes,

but then i saw her the other

day in the grocery store.

she was bent over,

leaning on a cane,

and wearing a large

back brace.

i said, hello Dolly, forgetting

her real name,

and she said hello, Joe?

Joe, right?

what we need to do is dissect an infected bat

the egghead scientists,

bored

with their

day to day experiments

on mice and men,

decide to fool around

with a dead

bat

infected with an odd

virus.

it was a new

unexplored virus to study

and infect the world with,

not just other bats,

but people too.

it's complicated like

a Rubik's cube

needing a handful of brand

new vaccines, to curb

its symptoms,

can i get

a cha ching

and an amen?

we're tired of working on

measles

and cancer,

the common flu.

scabies, pffft.

we need a new exotic

disease 

to play around with.

someone get out the Bunsen

burner and the test tubes.

hand me that dead

bat and a scalpel

and let's hop to it.

it's against the law to do it

here, in the states,

so Anthony, get Amy Tan

on the phone

at the secret lab

in Wuhan.

where have you been all night?

my wife

asked me where was i all night.

coming home

at the crack of dawn

with my shirt half

buttoned,

my zipper down.

lipstick

and scratch marks

on my face,

smelling like lavender

and gin.

i look at her and tell her

that i'm

pleading the 5th amendment,

refusing

to answer any questions

that might

incriminate me.

it isn't long before she's

invoking

the 2nd amendment,

opening up

the gun safe,

and asking

me the question once more.

the rebellious one

she bought

a new mattress, two

actually,

one for the guest room,

as well as her

own.

tomorrow i'm visiting her

in prison.

sentenced to six months

in the jump

for cutting

off the labels,

that read don't do this

under punishment

of law.

but she did it anyway,

with a pair of scissors.

she's always

been a rebel of some sort.

putting tabasco

sauce on her eggs,

preferring kale

over spinach.

wearing red at her third

wedding.

they know something we don't

you feel

that the trees know something.

the deer

leaning

out from the darkness,

that rabbit over

there

chewing manically

at clover.

the sly

fox

on delicate paws,

dashing

into the brush.

if they could tell us 

what they

know,

what secrets they hold.

what would

they be?

would we even listen?

dear diary today i did this

i've

never heard of any men

that keep

a diary,

maybe Oscar Wilde did,

or Rock Hudson,

but no one

that i can recollect,

not Buck

down at the gym,

or Harry

the steel worker,

or Frank, the bartender.

most men

after a hard days work

go home

to their wives

and children, eat dinner,

maybe

toss the ball around,

then go to bed.

rarely do they burn 

the mid night oil

and write down which

celebrity

they'd like to befriend.

(of course a blog is different,

right?)

the Fauci Diary

the smallish

man, a virologist,

a so called health care expert

who could be a double

in Woody Allen

movies,

has apparently kept

a diary of himself,

describing his

celebrity status after

becoming famous when

the illness left

Wuhan.

oh, the names he drops,

from

Bono
to Barbara, to Julie.

Wolf and Jake,

and all

the actors large

and in-between.

he's known worldwide,

his smiling face on

the cover of Rolling Stone

and

People Magazine.

get vaccinated, stay six

feet apart,

no more schools or

Thanksgivings, he proclaims.

Christmas is canceled.

no gathering at the beach

or parks,

no more sports or concerts.

let's put the world on hold

until we figure this

pesky virus out.

i guess we never should have

funded and created

this virus after all, killing

over a million people.

whoops, my bad.

now get in line for your shots

that don't work

and may have serious side

effects,

he scribbles into

his diary

before the lights go out at night.

everyone must wear a mask,

preferably ones 

made in China,

special delivery,

but me,

and my select group of friends

i'm meeting

for dinner and dancing

tonight.

would you look at me now.

who would have thunk it.

i'm a celebrity.

free health care abroad

if I need

a gall bladder removed,

do i ponder

going to Canada, or Cuba,

or Costa Rica,

maybe Malta

to have

the surgery performed,

where medical care

is cheap

or free,

or do i go to

the Kaiser facility in

Springfield

where they have good

lighting

and the scalpels and 

hands are clean

and there's not three hundred

people

lined out the door?

splattered at Aldo's

does

the red sauce stain

upon

my shirt define who i am?

am i a careless

person,

someone who doesn't

mind

what he looks

like.

ignores the details of life?

am i judged

and whispered about

when i leave

the room.

or am i just useless

when it comes

to eating

spaghetti with a fork

and spoon?

meeting love at closing time

i have a confession,

she tells me.

i'm an ex-con, a felon,

i've done

time in the big house.

i've been

married twice and have

kids out of wedlock.

i'm in rehab.

i've robbed banks,

i've torn

tags off of mattresses.

i've cashed

checks that weren't mine.

i don't know

how to cook or clean.

i've never read a book

in my life.

that's okay,

i tell her, taking her hand,

i'm not looking for

anything serious, or

long term,

something just for tonight.

i'll call you later

this shred

of paper will do,

this napkin at the diner,

a page

from a book,

a matchbook

cover,

even my hand will

suffice

as i write the name

and number

of you.

maybe later i'll call

if the time

is right,

if i'm in the mood.

quietly moving forward

there

are days, when i say not a single

word

to anyone.

i'm Ghandi.
i'm a monk on a mountain.

i'm a yogi.

i'm a teller in a toll

booth

making change.

i'm on a roof

laying tile,

in a cave digging for coal.

i'm a mime.

i'm silent

as i drive home

in my car.

as i eat at the kitchen table.

as i slide

up the stairs

to sleep.

i'm happily alone.

ages and heights

she has

tears in her eyes as i stand

there with

a paint

brush about to paint

the door

frame where

every child was measured.

the names are

there.

Cindy, Joe, Lois

and Jane.

their ages and heights.

from

the age of four to eighteen.

it was a quick

good life.

but the house

is empty now.

the furniture is in the truck

outside.

the closets are empty.

the dog is no

longer in the yard.

i wait until i hear the door

close,

then paint the door frame

white.

measure twice cut once

the thumb

swells

red after being struck

by the hammers

head.

i've been here before,

and yet

it still hurts.

i still yell out the same

curse words as i did

a year before,

ten years,

twenty years.

my aim has not improved.

and yet

there will be more

nails

that i'll hold and drive

through

a piece of wood.

i'm a builder, although

not a good one,

that's what i do.

bumping into Father Smith again

i run

into Father Smith at the liquor

store

and ask him

if he has

time for a quick talk

and confession.

sure he says.

let me buy this bottle

of wine

first and i'll

meet you in the black

van

that i parked

in the handicap spot.

look for the rosary

beads hanging from the rearview

mirror.

what? you parked in a 

handicap spot.

but you're not handicapped.

he gives

me a wink.

yeah, true, but sometimes

my sciatica acts up.

he pretends to drag

one black boot along the floor.

and why are you buying

wine?

don't you already have it

back at the church?

yeah,

but it's not that good.

you'll never find a bottle of

Vatican red wine

in a Michelin restaurant. 

you know what?

let's forget it, i tell him.

is Father Flanagan back from

Cancun yet?

i'll talk to him.

peaches or apples?

i have

winter legs,

winter arms, feet.

pale as milk.

but my face

and neck

and hands are well

tanned.

rugged and brown.

i stare at the full 

length mirror after

getting out of the shower

and see

the humor in this.

people often

mistake me for a field

worker,

or a landscaper,

and ask

me what my rates are.

i ask them

the size of their lawn.

peaches

or apples?

undecided appetite

i stare

long and hard

at the cold

whole chicken on the kitchen

counter.

i sigh.

this will take hours

to bake

after seasoning

and stuffing

and side dishes.

i'm not up to it today.

i say no

to eggs too.

to oatmeal, to cereal.

to tuna

fish.

i'm hungry, but i have no

appetite

for a thing

in the cupboard or fridge.

maybe

it will come to me later

after

a bowl of ice cream

with nuts,

and a sliced banana

with whipped cream

the diary under the corner of the mattress

it's

rare for evil people

to keep

a diary,

like my second ex-wife

for example.

rarely do biographers find

under the corner

of a mattress

Hitler's secret journals,

or Jeffrey Dahmer's

little notebook

of poems,

their heartfelt

thoughts

about love and life,

with little hearts

and stars

drawn upon each

worn page.

the initials of secret

loves

all over the place.

they find nothing under

Lizzie Borden's bed,

or hidden in

her dresser drawer

next to a sharpened

axe,

no diary can be found.

apparently actions speak

louder than words.

the wide open windows

as

we lie in bed

after making loud love,

catching our breath,

the dog

on the floor, the ceiling fan,

cool

against our skin.

we 

listen to the neighbors

passing by.

almost whispering

to one another,

saying

what's with these people

on Sunday mornings?

again

and again.

benign neglect

it's benign

neglect, the plant

dying

across the room, stretching

its once

green stems

and leaves

towards the sun,

thirsty

and dry. i've let it go

too long,

being

too busy with me,

and it can't be saved.

relationships are like that

sometimes.

in the arms of his big chair

i dream

that i'm in a room with my

father.

he's no longer

old

and grey,

withered to the bone,

near blind

and deaf,

sunken in the arms

of his big

chair,

but he's in his fifties,

muscled,

and funny, his blue

eyes shining

in the light

from the window.

we don't talk about

important things,

but we know

there is love there.

same as when he was

here.

i may forget this day soon

it's an average

day,

with average temperatures,

normal for

this time of year.

i see a young couple

walking by,

pushing a stroller

holding their newborn

child.

there's

an average

amount of clouds

and sun

in the sky.

birds are in the trees

whistling

to one another,

as i sit on the porch

swing.

i'm eating an average

egg salad

sandwich on white bread

with a pickle

and chips

on the side.

nothing to write home

about.

i'm drinking a glass

of home made

iced tea.

unsweetened.

my shoes are off as i 

gently sway

back and forth.

i feel as if i may never

remember this day,

so i better

write these things down.

the cat nap

your body

will tell you when to lie down,

when your

brain and flesh

need to rest.

it will tell you

when to close

your eyes

and stretch your limbs

upon a bed.

it will tell you

when enough is enough.

listen and lie

down for a while,

don't get up, not yet.

buying Uranium from Jimmy

just about

every

country has an atomic bomb

now,

despite

most of their people

being

poor and starving.

lotty dottie and

everybody

seems to have one.

of course they'd have

to lob

it over 

to their neighboring

countries

with a sling shot.

apparently,

to build such

a thing,

you just

have to download

the schematics

online

and buy some uranium

on the dark

web,

or from Jimmy on the corner

in his trenchcoat.

some

precise

ChatGPT

instructions will assist

you

in your homemade basement

bomb

construction.

but be careful, invest in a lead

vest

like the dentists use

and safety glasses.

what's for dinner

the vultures

know

which road to wait at

in their judicial

pose,

dressed regally

for dinner

in their long

black feathered

robes.

this intersection

on the long tree lined

highway

is perfect

for roadkill, where

the lights

are ignored,

where no one slows.

at least i'll be gone by then

it's often

that i hear elderly people say

with disgust

and a disappointed

sigh, that

at least

i'll be gone

when what's coming arrives.

they don't seem

to realize that

the future is now.

we're already cooked,

like a frog

in a slow boiling pot

of water,

we're living

in a world of madness,

with more to come.

preparations for life and love

we named

the goldfish Fred, at the insistence

of my daughter

Julia.

it lasted

three days before

we found

it floating on top of

the water,

no longer swimming

vigorously

about.

i found out later that

there was

a boy in her class named Fred.

there were no services

for Fred,

no shedding of tears.

just a kind

flushing

back into the sea,

or so i told her.

she responded

not with grief, but

with a shrug of the shoulders

and a request

for another goldfish,

name yet

to be determined.

maybe this one will last

longer, she said.

that unwelcome feeling abroad

the natives

know when you're a tourist,

and don't

live there, but 

for a week or two.

they know you just got

off a boat,

or plane

and have dragged your

luggage

to some nice hotel

where you'll find the water

pressure too

weak,

the lights too dim,

and have other complaints.

they smirk at you

as you try to make sense

of the money,

the food,

always asking in broken

English for

directions to some museum,

or monument

they no longer deem

important,

or go to.

they see it in the hat you

wear,

your shirts

and shoes, the camera

around your

neck.

the belly pouch

around your American stomach

that protrudes.

they know who you are

as you unfold a map

and inquire about where to get

the best local

food.

do they take coupons?

is there a Starbucks nearby?

have you ever been a member of the communist party?

back

in the day, on a work

application,

whether it was

for a clerk

at a store,

or to become a policeman,

or government

worker

there was often a question

on the form

asking

if you've ever been a member

of the communist party,

or associated

with anyone that is a member

of the communist

party.

if you checked the yes box

to either question,

you were not hired

and the FBI were probably

going to be

knocking at your door soon.

times have changed.

you're in now,

if you do check

yes and can be the mayor

of New York City or Seattle,

or Portland,  or a Senator

from Maine

or Michigan.

making a large money withdrawal from the bank

the bank manager

comes over

to me, as i stand at the teller

with my ID

and withdrawal slip

of paper

and asks

why do i need

to withdraw, in cash,

thirty-six hundred dollars

from my checking account.

i tell him

it's to bail someone out of jail.

a sibling

who decided to no longer

pay his child support.

i explain to the manager

that they

only accept cash

in the machine

where the bail office is.

so i need cash, in large bills.

he takes me

to his office and wants

a more thorough

explanation for my sudden 

withdrawal

of my own money.

we're used to you putting money

into our bank,

and rarely taking

any out, he says, tapping

his pen against

his desk.

this is all very suspicious.

he calls security and two men

in uniform arrive.

they stand by

at the door, hands on their guns,

waiting to hear

my explanation.

don't worry, they say to me.

stay calm

and remain seated.

you're just being

detained, not arrested, at

least not yet.

put your hands where we can

see them.

nothing to fear but fear itself

we are

afraid for no reason

of the dark,

of the light, of speaking

in public.

we're afraid

of embarrassment,

of not being

smart enough,

or strong enough to get

the job

done.

we cringe in crowds,

worry

about change.

the psychology books

are full

of things were afraid

of, giving them long

fancy names that are hard

to pronounce.

we're afraid

of spiders, of bugs,

of heights,

tight spaces.

snakes and mice.

intimacy.

we're afraid of flying,

of change

and failure.

we're a crazy lot walking

this earth.

head over heels

as i trip

and fall over a stack of books,

hitting my

head

on The Red Comet,

a twenty-pound biography

of Sylvia Plath,

i lie on

the floor

and think that maybe

i need more

bookshelves.

without getting up,

i go online

using my phone and browse

Ikea.

am i up

to putting together

more wobbly

junk from them?

do i have the willpower

and patience

for such an ordeal,

with dials

and diagrams,

or should i stick with my

stacking procedure

that i'm currently

using?

i ask ChatGPT if there are

any stores

in the world that have

a wooden

bookcase, already made?

deliverable.

she says,

nope. try Ikea.

the devil in disguise...New York

it's like

watching a horror movie

unfold.

you know

from the first two minutes

on the screen,

who's good,

who's evil, where the story

is about to go.

you see it in the smile,

the eyes,

the easy way

the devil talks in his

thin disguise,

making promises

he can't keep.

ungodly to the core.

we're going to need

more popcorn

to see where this one goes.

young lovers

the young

lovers

know where to go,

how to hide

their affections from

prying eyes.

they know the hollow

of the woods,

the dark

alley,

which street

to park on,

which basement door

to quietly use.

you can't stop young

lovers

from finding a way.

they do,

what they're born

to do.

monogrammed towels

i regret

many things, but

one

thing

that comes to mind

are all

the monogrammed

towels
i've purchased

when

Betty was mine.

they were

so large

and efficient when

getting out

of the shower.

fallen gloves

someone is

missing a glove, a black

glove.

it lies

on the street

like a bird

flown too far and too

long, now

without wings.

limp

without a hand

inside.

there is a sadness about

it that's

too hard to

realize.

the mobile over the crib

i try

to quit, i try to retire,

but the phone

keeps ringing with work.

i get up

from my porch swing,

taking the cat

out of my lap, then

set the plate

of graham crackers

and glass of milk on the floor.

i answer the landline

on the kitchen wall inside.

someone needs

a room

a painted,

wallpapered, the baby

is due in April.

once they know if it's

a boy,

or a girl, they'll decide

on which pink,

or which blue paint to buy.

they ask if i can hang a mobile

over the crib.

of course, i tell them.

i remember how,

no problem.

i smile.

i like how they're all just

getting started,

keeping me alive.

it's not dark yet

i snuck

a pack of cigarettes,

and a pint

of scotch into Jakes 

hospital room

when he was dying

of lung cancer.

he was hooked up

to a few tubes

of liquid something or other,

and the monitors

blinked with

his vital stats.

he was trying to itch

a spot

beneath the bandage

around his head

when i came into the room.

i handed

him

a plastic fork so that he

could dig

in and kill the itch.

he asked for his pocket comb

too,

located in his paint

splattered pants that he

wore almost every day

i saw him.

he wanted it

so that he could

smooth

out his mustache.

there was a new nurse

on the floor

that caught his eye.

we have all been here before

is it a dream,

have we

done all of this before?

the mind

and body,

both say yes. they both

yawn

as one, they

seem bored,

less inquisitive about

what lies

beyond

the locked front door.

it's not that you've done

it all,

seen it all,

but at times it feels that

way.

what words haven't you

spoken,

what game

haven't you played,

what love have you not

experienced,

in what year has

your heart not been

broken?

i'll save half of this sandwich for later

as a starving,

bone

thin teenager, the promise of an

all you can

eat buffet

was a dream

come true.

there it was on a long

table,

everything from fried chicken,

to pork chops,

to crab cakes,

to shrimp,

to fruit and vegetables

and Chinese food.

for dessert,

there were cakes and puddings

of all kinds.

as usual,

your eyes were bigger than

your stomach.

it took a weeklong

camp out

in the bathroom

to recover.

a peanut butter and jelly

sandwich

these days,

sliced in half and a glass

of milk

will do the trick

in filling you up.

home of the brave

we're lucky

to live here,

to be an American.

yes,

there are problems.

the never-ending fight about

racism.

the antisemites,

the rioters

and law breakers,

the price

of eggs

and gas,

the endless disagreements

on politics,

on immigration

and wars, but

where else would you

want to live?

where else can you speak

your mind,

choose your

own path and through

hard work

and ingenuity

become rich?

where else are women

and men

of all religions

and races

treated equally?

nowhere, i believe.

the Red Scare

i sort of understand

why the young

educated

white liberals

and yet dirt poor want to become

communists.

it's all sounds

good,

unless of course you open

up a history book.

they love

to hear the word free

attached

to anything they want or need.

only when they get

their way,

and vote in the next socialist

commie

will they understand

the error of their ways,

and get to see.

stuck in the middle with neat freaks

beside the neighbor's yard

on the left,

clean swept,

a grill

in the corner,

four chairs around

a fire pit,

a blue umbrella,

and then the yard

on the right, 

full of flowers, and fruit

grapes on a vine,

a wading pool,

sits my yard.

a veritable jungle

of green,

weeds,

bushes, grass, some sort

of strange

bush, and tree.

it's a tangle of vines

and barbed

leaves.

i wonder what they must

think of me.

the real difference between men and women beyond x and y chromosomes

men

like to spit,

they feel no

shame

in rolling down

the window

and letting it fly.

they also like to rearrange

their

pork and beans

at times

when playing sports,

or just

walking around.

it's a constant

adjustment

of what lies below

the belt.

you'd have to be a man,

to understand

what's going

on down there.

but thankfully

it's rare

to see women do either

of these things.

which is a good

thing.

they are so much more

polite

than we are.

very rare quiet

it's so quiet

in here

today. maybe my ears are

failing me.

i snap

my fingers

close to each opening.

no,

they're fine.

although one is a little

weaker

than the other.

i'm not used to this much

quiet

having been raised

in a house full

of six siblings

with the tv

always on,

a radio blaring upstairs,

dogs barking,

children

arguing,

a mother and father fighting,

cats meowing,

a gerbil

with his squeaky wheel

and 

a rooster crowing

in the back

yard.

don't tell anybody i told you

my once

reliable grapevine has

withered and

is almost dead.

no longer am i getting

regular

updates on the phone,

the hot news

right off the press,

the juicy gossip.

i miss those Sunday

talks with

my mother,

her cupping her hand

around the phone,

and whispering, 

don't tell anybody

i told you, 

but listen to this.

aren't you the picture of health

he was

an excellent salesman.

he knew

what to say,

he knew the right words

to praise

and persuade

for each

pending sale

about to be made.

have you lost weight,

he'd ask.

look at you,

the picture of health,

boy do you know how

to fill out

a dress.

you look younger

than

your years, please, tell me, 

how do you do it.

oh, and use my pen,

sign

here.

you can keep it.

they're talking about you

three small birds

are

on the sill, tweeting

madly,

fluttering their wings,

and then

they see you 

through the window

coming into

the room,

they look at each other

and suddenly

stop

talking.

it's obvious

they've been talking

about you.

one skinny leg and arm

she started

losing

a lot of weight when the pills

and the syringes

arrived

filled with the fat

loss

prescription. but sadly,

she picked

a generic off brand

from a dubious website.

it only

worked

on one leg and one

arm.

which made

it a problem when she

went swimming

at the pool.

she swam

always in a circle,

never able

to stay in her lane,

or steer right.

whey not Sally or James?

you can

ruin a child's life by giving

him or

her some

crazy name at birth.

such as

Debee

with no i in the spelling,

or 

Saccharin, like the sweetener,

or Tylenol,

or Xanax.

Igor,

and Adolf are also mistakes.

not to mention,

Diablo,

or Judas.

Candy and Muffin, too,

are both

troublesome by the time

they're in grade school.

behave, we'll be home soon

we talk

to our pets, our dogs

and cats,

our parakeets

in a cage,

we whisper sweet

nothings to

our horses in the barn,

the pigs in the trough,

as if they

understand everything

we say.

we apply emotions to them

as if they're

one of us,

telling

the snake

in the sawdust,

be good sweetie, we'll

be home soon,

now eat your mouse,

and take a nap.

night, night.

we tell them to be

good,

to behave while

we're away.

Mayor Mandani is at the door, oh my

there's a knock

at the door,

i look through the peep hole.

it's Mayor Mandani

of New York

with his henchmen.

he has that creepy smile on

his bearded face.

ah oh, i whisper.

there's 

one women standing there

with

pink hair holding a cat and

a clipboard, there's also

two transgenders

in flowered

dresses,

and three men

in turbans.

they've come to collect

my money,

take my house.

how dare you have four

bathrooms

and three bedrooms

the mayor says.

we can put ten people

in here.

and look at your bank

accounts,

you're never going to spend

all that money you've

earned and saved

in one life.

the stock market has been

too good for you.

it's time to share the wealth

you've earned

with your white

privilege.

now open up.

lazy people need money too.

we know you're in there.

how dare you

start a business,

work hard your whole life,

then smartly invest all of it

like that.

now open up, the party is over

you stingy capitalist,

we want it back.

Little Debbie's Cakes

to make

an establishment seem more

friendly

and more

approachable,

you see names like Mister Donut,

or Uncle Al's pizzeria.

Momma Luigi's

Pasta up on the fluorescent

signs.

there's 

Uncle Ben's rice

on the shelf with

Aunt Jemima's pancake

batter.

it's so easy to choose

Amy's frozen

dinners over a no name

brand, or

Famous Amos cookies,

or Little Debbie's Cakes

when out shopping.

you've known these people

for most of your life.

there's Colonel Sanders in

his white suit

holding a bucket of fried chicken,

Charlie the tuna

inside a cute little can.

they're friends of yours.

all familiar faces.

look how they smile

back at you

on the shiny package or sign.

they make you

happy.

and being happy is what it's

all about.