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.

where no one knows your name

some people

leave

without a forwarding address.

they

post no notice

that they are moving.

they change

their phone numbers,

pack their

bags and just leave.

poof.

gone.

they reinvent themselves

on some southern

shore, with

all bridges burned behind

them.

they want to start over

after everything

in their life has gone wrong.

they want a place

where no one

knows their name.

where 

each new day is absent

of regret, remorse,

of shame.

bar hopping

when

crossing the street from

one bar

to another

late at night, searching

for another

drink,

or conversation

leading

to short

and empty love,

you'd often see a rat

or two

going

from curb to sewer,

the dark body

and long

tail slinking along,

chasing

the same, i think.

a long list of maybes

maybe

we over did it.

maybe we gave too much.

made

each birthday

the fourth of July

and Christmas,

New Years

all wrapped into one.

maybe we adored him

too hard,

granted him

every wish.

wiped every tear,

never letting him fail

to learn

a lesson.

maybe we were making

up for what

our parents didn't give,

or even thought about.

maybe

that's what the problem

is. maybe.

a long distant call

as we

walk the beach lined

with shells

and debris,

the cold ocean

washing up

against our feet,

i get a call from one

of the many

shells

that have

surfaced.

a corrugated white

one.

i hear it ringing,

so i pick up

the empty clam

and put it to my ear,

yes, i say.

hello.

but it's not for me 

wrong number, again.

it's for you, my dear.

the dangling thread before you

best

not pull that thread,

or else

all of it will fall apart,

the sweater

or coat

that kept you warm

at night

will be gone.

best to ignore

what she

just said,

and move on.

nostalgic about the hair cut

i walk

by the barber shop

and peer in.

it's the same line

of chairs

against the wall.

my old barber Joe,

waves

to me with his scissors,

i wave back.

we haven't talked

in ages.

but we're still friends.

he doesn't

hold it against

me that

i'm doing my own

hair now.

i can still smell the onions

on his hands,

the garlic and oils,

the cigar smoke

on his breath.

i can hear his stories

of the old

days in his gravelly

voice.

telling me which deli

to try

the next time i'm in New York.

friends and yet still a stranger

in casual conversation

my life long

friend,

a democrat and

failed dinner theater

actor

mentioned that he wouldn't

mind

being

the next John Wilkes Booth.

to live in infamy,

or heroic fame,

for what

he might do.

it's strange how you really

don't know

someone, the darkness

that lurks within,

despite the years

behind you.

small pleasures gone by

there was

a small pleasure in opening

the front door

as the sun

came up

and retrieving the paper

off the porch.

to place

it on the table as the coffee

boiled,

as the toaster

worked its magic on

two slices

of bread.

all the news of the world

there in print.

ah, the good old days.

now i lie in bed when i

awaken

and start scrolling my phone.

dining in alone

we eat

differently when alone,

when there's

no one there to judge us while

eating dinner

at the coffee

table in front of the tv.

there we are gnawing on a fried

chicken or steak

bone

ravenously, like

a wild animal, clearing

it of meat,

drinking milk from

the carton.

how easily

we lick our fingers,

and eat

with the wrong fork,

sometimes

even using a spoon for

the mashed potatoes,

then Jello.

toothpicks at the ready.

napkins are for the weak,

why bother when

you have two perfectly

good long sleeves.

women playing sports in scantily clothes

the latest

hub bub is over the camera

angles

that are used when

female

athletes are pole vaulting

in little red,

or black thongs,

the runners too,

and the swimmers, not

to mention the floss like

costumes

the volleyball players wear

when prancing

about in the sand, sending

the ball over

the net.

why the zoom

when they fall over

and stick their legs high

into the air,

or bend over to tie a shoe?

in slow motion too?

the uproar

is loud and furious,

the feminists and woke

are in a tizzy.

what's next?

will the grocery stores

be covering up

the bananas and melons

in the produce department

with blankets,

or better yet,

fishnets?

the ankle bracelet chef

the benefit

of her having an ankle bracelet

on her leg,

restricting her

movement, keeping her

at home

for a variety of legal

reasons,

due to excessive drinking

and driving,

and retail theft,

was that she became a

much better cook.

hot dogs and baked

beans were no longer on her

menu rotation.

with so much free

time on her hands

from home confinement

she studied the culinary

arts of famous chefs

from around the world.

she immersed herself in

the cookbooks and the watching

of their videos

on YouTube.

tonight it's Beef Wellington

with a mushroom

filing, paired with a delightful

side of potato gratin

with Gruyere cheese and creamed

asparagus.

for dessert it's

a small sliver of Satcher torte.

red wine of course.

Pinot Noir.

i'm setting up the cappuccino

machine as we speak.

church bells ringing nearby

go to church long

enough as

a child, rarely missing a mass,

confession

and communion,

will

make you feel guilty for

most of your

remaining life,

especially when

you hear the church bells

ringing from the comfort

of your warm bed.

the lunch break at the munitions factory

work was busy,

he was working overtime

most

nights.

the war was on with no

real end

in sight.

is there ever?

but he said little about

what he

did when he arrived

home,

how he carefully put

together

the parts for bombs

and munitions needed

to end the lives

others.

he brought his lunch in each

day

in a brown paper bag,

with a thermos

of coffee,

and with his

friends, they

ate and drank, discussing

other things.

at night,

his quiet wife would

set the table,

and heat

up what was left

of his cold dinner.

transcendental meditation

i've tried,

but i'm not good at transcendental

meditation.

i've stared a candle

as i sat

with legs and arms

folded,

saying ohm

repeatedly,

but it only made me sleepy.

for the life of me i was unable

to empty my

mind

of the world.

i never once levitated,

or saw the heavens

open up.

my brain wandered,

thinking about

that chicken leg

in the fridge. how i could

cut it up and make

a nice sandwich later

on a toasted bun.

did i still have pickles?

i had no

epiphanies,

i received no

calming

message steering me

towards a better life.

my leg would fall

asleep sometimes and i'd

have to shake it.

occasionally, if i sat there

long enough

i'd start to feel relaxed, but

frisky too,

and would

dial up

Betty while i still had

my yoga pants on.

code black

i've never

seen or heard of code purple.

i'm familiar

with orange, and red,

but purple is a new

one on me.

with Canada on fire,

and the hot

and humid weather

soaring

into the hundred's

we're basically meat

in the oven.

pretty soon, i guess if we

go outside

we're going to be dead.

and a 'new code will be

posted.

code black.

your guardian angel hard at work

it's your turn

to go, the light has been green

for three seconds

and then, out of nowhere a bullet

of a vehicle

is heading

towards you,

a beat-up car

going seventy coming right at

your door.

straight through the intersection,

ignoring the red light.

you slam on the brakes

and wince.

there's no time to

pray, to give your last

confession as you pause

at death's door.

but somehow he swerves

and misses you.

in sweat, with heart racing,

once more

you thank your guardian

angel as you hug the right

lane going home.

the corner artwork

two

mattresses, that lean

up against

the pole for pick up, tells

a story.

as does

the broken chair,

the plates and silver ware,

a child's doll

without clothes.

an ironing board.

all thrown to the curb

as if in a hurry

to change

directions, to get a new

life, to start over someplace

far from here.

it's artwork,

it's a poem, perhaps a novella

yet to be written.

it makes you pause,

it makes

you brake and wonder

about all

that you don't know.

Heidi from Sweden

we lived

in a diverse neighborhood.

a virtual Ellis Island

on the edge of South Capitol

street in DC.

Italians,

Irish,

Jews, Blacks and Whites,

Browns.

Peruvians

and Mexicans.

kids from West Virginia.

there was a huge family from Nepal

that lived across the street.

but somehow, we got along.

despite our

varying religions

and skin colors.

we never talked politics.

we were young and ignored

the problems

of the world, putting our fingers

into our ears

when our parents discussed

such matters.

we played

ball in the street, with

Mohammed

and Jose,

Bork from Norway.

Dirk from

Germany and Natasha

from the Ukraine.

they taught us how to play

soccer and we taught

them how to play

all of the other games

like baseball, football,

basketball, bowling

and bocci ball. meanwhile,

at the playground

when it got dark,

Heidi from Sweden taught

us a whole lot

of other things.

stuck in Paraguay

I'm in Paraguay

at the moment. in a thatched

hut,

beyond the village,

beyond the sea.

i'm stuck here in this jungle

of green, of snakes

and birds

of wild colors.

bright frogs with enormous

eyes

staring in from

the window.

my shirt is off, as i sit

here

in the heat,

wondering what's my next

move.

the act of bleeding onto the page

the blank

page used to frighten me,

what to write,

anxious about

the absence

of words,

the blizzard of nothing

in front of me,

all white. but

it just takes a sharp

knife

now,

to bring the blood

and pen to it,

and then write.

a tourniquet at times

is helpful.

still life with peaches and plums

i told her

i loved her artwork,

her still life sketches

and paintings

with peaches

and plums, her

portraits

of siblings and strangers,

though

in reality, i didn't think

much of it.

which she knew,

but accepted my praise

just the same.

i do the same with you,

when you tell

me, hey, you just cranked

out another great

one.

don't stop, please.

hands together

i remember

thinking how old my father's

hands looked.

bruised,

and bent, the crepe skin

growing

up the arm,

the knuckles

red from work,

browned

circles

spotted

on the backs of them.

the callouses

of years

in the garden,

the nails bitten down.

i just turn

now to my hands to remember

him.

it was time to get even

it was

stressful going to confession

in the early

days.

sweating behind

the iron

meshed window

in the dark

closet at St. Paul's.

your crimes

and sins were limited

to saying a bad

word,

or thinking bad

thoughts about someone,

or perhaps

taking a saw

and cutting off the head

of your sister's

Barbie doll

because she threw in the trash

your Harmon Killebrew

baseball glove

that she tripped on

in the hall.

girl crazy in the ninth grade

when we

were in school, my friend and I

would often

drop

a pencil or an eraser

or book

on the floor

and bend over in our

desks

to pick up the fallen objects,

but looking

back

at the same time to get

a peek up

the girl's dresses

behind us.

we'd talk later in the hall

and commiserate

our findings

about what Mary Beth,

Jill and Sally were

wearing

that morning.

yellow, white, blue or rose.

why not do nothing for a while

when

you no longer work nine

to five

six days

a week,

suddenly, you look at the clock

and it's noon.

you're drinking

coffee,

and still haven't bothered

to get dressed,

or find

your shoes.

you feel guilty in a way.

guilty that you

should be doing

more with your free time.

but then you

slap yourself

and remember that's exactly

what you've

been doing

since the age of nine.

paper routes, snow shoveling,

mowing lawns

and then

real jobs,

work, and more work.

why not

do nothing for a while?

hit the pedal and drive straight ahead

given

the right amount of time,

your heart

will heal,

your mind will calm

down.

you'll adjust to the new

world

you now live in.

pain and sorrow

will be

far away in the rear

view mirror,

drama will

disappear, you'll be free

from what was,

unless, of course,

you keep circling back

for more.

wasting your life away in misery

when you were young,

in your teens,

into your twenties, you

pretty much

spent your waking hours

wanting to have fun.

you wanted to go out

drinking and dancing

with your buds, you wanted

to meet girls,

to go to the beach

or lake to swim.

a day at the pool was golden.

you wanted to wash and wax

your car,

get it ready for Saturday

night.

you went to the movies,

you went to the local dive

bars, the drive-thru

for fast food.

you were free and in love

with life.

politics

and the world was a vague

notion, something

your parents

sometimes seemed more

aware of,

but now, when you look 

around, so many young

people are sad and depressed,

confused

about who they are,

angry at the world, 

spending their precious

hours on the street in costumes,

rioting, protesting,

throwing themselves in front

of police cars,

blocking roads,

getting gassed and pepper

sprayed.

they so badly want their issues

to be something

like the Vietnam War, but 

they aren't,
they aren't even close.

the no ac heatstroke

as i lie

in bed, 

under a squeaky fan,

i google the symptoms

of heat stroke

on my phone.

high temperature, sweating,

check,

altered state of mind,

big check, 

nausea, check,

flushed skin, check rapid

breathing,

check,

heart palpitations, check,

headache,

yes,

check that too.

quickly i grab the book

off the end

table

and begin reading, i have

to finish it

before i go.

i fell in to a burning ring of fire

wouldn't it be more

appropriate

to say, i rose in love,

instead of

i fell in love.

falling in love, gives

the impression

that maybe you might

have tripped and stumbled

into it,

clumsily,

not necessarily what you

intended to do.

rising though, seems like

the better word.

rising like a cloud or

a rainbow,

or the moon, or a sun

above the ocean.

maybe a bird of some sort

soaring above

the trees.

something mushy and hallmark

like that,

but i get the term i've

fallen

out of love

with you.

it still rings in my ear

from time to time.

it's a stubborn knot

it's a stubborn

knot

on this lace,

it's preventing me

from

going on with my day.

i try everything

from a fork

to a knife.

i take the shoe off

and bite into

the thick

knot, gnawing at

it.

i see the mailman at the door

and limp

over

to greet him

and get the mail,

knot?

he says.

hate that. here, he says.

try this pen.

i use it to get the knots

out of my boots all the time.

he comes in

and sits at the kitchen

table.

let me try, he says,

setting his mail bag down.

turn on the big light.

i fix him a cold drink,

and a sandwich, while

he works on the knot.

this is a tough one he says.

when my wife was around she

could dig the knots

out with her dagger like nails.

hey, he says.

this might take a while, do

you mind finishing

my route for me, just ten

more houses.

sure, i tell him.

i take his bag and wrap

the strap around my

back and neck.

he hands me his hat which

i press down

on my head, then off i go

to deliver the mail.

when i come back.

he's asleep on the couch with

the dog,

my shoe is on his chest.

the knot still in place.

it's a stubborn one

the yellow feather

i like your hat,

the one with the feather in it.

the long

yellow

feather from some

exotic bird.

it says more about you

than words

can ever say.

please set it on the table.

stay.

life beyond your own

at the edge

of the clear stream that rolls

between

the long trees,

laced

in blue

in green,

the stones,

the sand along the way.

you

stare into the water

and see that there

is life

beyond your own

reflection,

and this somehow

makes you

go on.

captured by the game

my son

at the age of five or so,

told me

once

as we sat on the porch

drinking Cokes after

a game of catch,

that he believed

that women

were trying to trick us

by wearing so much

make up

and perfume, getting

dressed up

in fancy clothes, with

lots of jewelry.

Dad, he said, i think

they do stuff like painting

their nails,

and dying their hair to

fool us into thinking

they're prettier than they

really are.

what do you think, he asked,

looking at me wide eyed

full of his sudden

epiphany.

yup i said, clinking my bottle

against his. yup.

good talk son, good talk

in a hurry

it's just a theory,

a working

theory, but i believe that you can

tell where a person

stands

with his spiritual well being

by how they drive

their car.

there's not a red light

they won't run,

not a speed limit

to hold them back.

always in a hurry, 

red faced

and angry with

white knuckles gripping

the wheel,

there's not a bumper they'll

refuse to tailgate.

they need to get in front

of you,

or die trying

as they step on the gas.

eggs sunny side up on the hood of Chevy

it's hot,

very hot, pancakes

are sizzling

on the hoods of cars.

bacon and eggs too.

so don't we deserve ice-cream.

don't we deserve

a cold beer in

a frosted mug.

when i step outside

it almost feels like

the sun

has inched closer to

the earth,

so cheers.

the only people without Photo ID's

as a full-grown adult

anywhere between 21 and a 100,

if you don't possess

some sort of ID by then,

it means you've never driven

a car, owned a credit card,

been on a bus or train,

been to a doctor or dentist,

you've never gone to school,

you've never left the country,

or had any kind of job.

you've never been married,

or divorced, you've never

even been inside a Costco.

you're pretty much a loser

contributing nothing to society,

and truly, if that's the case 

you shouldn't be voting anyway,

the sweat shop in Springfield

i hear

the clunk of the ac unit

out back

go on,

i hear the spin of the fan,

but inside

there's no cold air

coming

out of the vents.

i'm sweating as i click

the prompts

on the phone.

closed until Monday

the recorded voice

says.

i'm down

to my fruit of the looms

with the ceilings fans

turning wildly from the third

pull of the chain.

the table

fan is swinging back

and forth.

desperate for moving

air, i take out

a small paper fan i bought

on a trip the Philippines,

when selecting my next

bride to be.

it's purple

with little daffodils, similar to

the ones you see

floating in a Mai Tai, but

it's not doing the job.

all that's missing from

this sweat shop is a hundred

Chinese slave kids

making tennis shoes

for Nike.

one last leaf to turn over before you go

what's in

your closet that you don't need

anymore,

besides the shoes

and shirts,

the pants,

the overcoats, what about

all those skeletons

that hang there

on a wire hanger,

reminding you of

your other self,

the old self you ran

from when you turned

over that final leaf,

promising

to do better,

to be better,

to no longer make the same

mistakes

you've repeated so often.

aquariums in living color

as i stare

at the television in living

color,

another show,

another binge, my mind

wanders to

an aquarium

with colorful fish

swimming about,

the white sand

at the bottom,

the plastic castle

that they swim

through

and around,

the swing and sway

of green plastic

plants below.

is there a difference

between what

i'm watching and

an aquarium.

not much.

yelp says three stars

the yelp review gives

the restaurant

three and a half stars.

a few give it four,

most ratings are 

a solid three, but

the four stars

claim it's the best

clam chowder

and flounder they've

ever had.

shrimp to die for,

but then there's three

reviews

of people 

who all came in together

who are now in

the hospital.

don't eat the oysters

they all say.

one star for the food,

but the drinks were great.

especially the iced tea.

just enough for me

it's a simple

meal.

a ribeye steak,

a potato,

a spoon full of peas

and carrots,

a slice of bread

with butter,

a cold glass of milk,

and a slice

of chocolate

cake

for dessert,

and coffee. I'd

invite you over, but

there's only

enough for me.

tomorrow

though come over.

meatballs and

spaghetti.

all in a big bowl.

plenty.

a long day on the field, whoops, i mean pitch

i  fall asleep on the couch

while

watching the soccer game on tv.

it's two teams from

countries i've never heard of.

i think the game is

in its 57th minute, with another

three hour to go.

when i wake up,

it's still nil nil, which means,

according to soccer

aficionados, that no

one has scored.

it's hot out.

and many players are writhing

on the ground holding

their legs or head

with some mysterious, and yet

not too serious injury.

i've never seen a stretcher

come out, or a doctor,

just some dude

with a water bottle

and a towel.

i reach over to the coffee table

to grab a nacho chip covered

in cheese, but it's hard

and cold.

my margarita glass is empty,

licked dry by my dog,

who is asleep on the hardwood floor.

i adjust the pillow behind my

head and close

my eyes again

after

setting the alarm for one hour

on my phone.

the hydrant Holy Water

it's so hot

that the church next door opens

up a fire hydrant

for the kids

to run under.

Father Smith says that it's

Holy Water

fresh from the Vatican,

but he tends to fib

a little

at times. i often see him

crossing his finger

and winking when

he tells a lie.

but it does seem to be making

some of the little

demon kids,

screech and cry.

three days later

the police are on the way.

we can

here the sirens,

the dogs are barking.

neighbors are out on their

porches

with their phones.

it's the couple next door.

the newlyweds.

apparently the honeymoon

is over.

we can hear glass breaking,

and words

that make us close the ears

of children

with our hands.

there's cake and a wedding

dress on the lawn.

their car is soaped up,

and with a banner still strung

across the roof,

saying grand opening

tonight.

the young couple still have rice

in their hair,

and half the gifts have yet

to be opened.

now she's chasing him with 

a serving knife

down the street, the po po

better hurry

love is a mysterious thing.

just a shot or two to take the edge off

to steady

my nerves i used to have

a drink

or two

on the way over to visit

Betty.

i kept a flask in 

the glove compartment

with a small

shot glass.

i needed

just a little tequila

to take

the edge off.

i kept a lime

on the dashboard

and a shaker of salt

in the little

cubby hole

beside the gear shift.

by the time i arrived

at her house,

taking the back roads,

i was in a pretty good

mood,

and didn't mind how she

went on and on

about her

cats,

and the bump on her leg.

The Democratic Platform for 2028

so let me get this straight,

you want

men

in women's sports

and bathrooms,

locker rooms,

you want higher taxes.

less police, less

military,

more government

in the form of

socialism,

communism.

you want to abolish the Senate

and the Supreme Court.

you want open borders.

abortions for all

no matter the month

of the healthy

human

fetus growing

within.

you desire

transgender surgeries

for minors.

transgender surgeries

for convicts in prison paid with

taxpayer money.

free health care

for illegals,

free tuition for them as well.

a whole month of parades

for

how you

prefer to have sex.

no ID's to vote.

no waving of the American

flag,

no wanting fraud exposed.

really,

this is what

you want for your

country?

please, go on, tell me

more.

how do you even get one vote?

that's hot

we learn quickly

as children

when we put the butter

knife

into the toaster,

or a finger

into the wall socket.

we learn

when the hot stove

burns our

hand,

when we run with

scissors, or don't

watch where

our bike is going.

so many lessons along

the way.

some survive,

some don't

the parking lot at noon

thin

vapors, ghosts,

perhaps,

long

here on this place

called

earth, bent with grey,

and moving gently

to the far

end

of whatever it is,

whatever

it was that kept us

here with

hands on the wheel.

foot on

the gas.

long in nails,

long

in tooth. sand

running

fast through the hour

glass.

Jesus with a crew cut

would we think

less

of Jesus if he had short hair,

a crew cut,

or was bald, or

if he was a weightlifter,

or skin and bones

dieting

on Keto.

or overweight from too

many Eskimo

pies and cake.

what if he wore a large

pair of spectacles

and a pork pie

hat?

would we judge him

differently, without 

the long robes

and hair down to his

shoulders.

what if had on plaid

shorts and flip flops,

striped shirts

like the Beach Boys, or

a wife beater t-shirt torn

like Marlon Brando,

would we still believe

the words He said,

would we run away and not

listen to the Sermon

on the Mount

if he had a skin condition,

would we judge him

harshly, or just close

our eyes with an open heart

and listen?