the work day

there is tired,

mental exhaustion,

being emotionally drained,

battle

fatigue, but then there's

work

tired.

bone weary.

arms and legs, back.

knees.

the heavy lifting of a long

day

is upon you.

it's time for

a hot bath,

Tylenol,

ice packs for the knees.

Friday can't come

soon enough,

nor sleep.

give till it hurt

give

and give some more,

give

to the bum on the corner,

to the march of dimes,

to the jerry Lewis

telethon,

give

to st. Judes,

to ms,

diabetes,

to cancer research.

give till it hurts.

to the church, to the schools

to the firemen

on the corner

with their boots

in hand.

give to the politicians.

send a check to the United Way,

to the homeless,

to the Peace Corp,

to the weepy eyed dogs

on tv.

to the old Russian women

with their dirty pots and pans.

everyone has a go fund

me page,

a go fund me tuition,

a go fund

me wedding.

kill, maim,

get tossed in the slammer,

and the money

will pour in.

give and give some more,

things will change

soon, right?

three turns in the bed

the dog,

with his ancient instinct,

and still

intact wisdom,

turns three times in

the soft bed

before closing his eyes

to the day,

and falls asleep.

with your love

and devotion

you've made him worry

free.

he knows that

tomorrow also

will be a good day.

there's a lifelong longing

that i hold

as well,

that someone,

at some point,

will also do that for me.

perhaps then,

i'll sleep.

i wonder why that is

it's interesting,

that the only countries that aren't

in chaos,

with rioting

in the streets are the ones

with strong

borders.

those with strict policies

on immigration.

China, Russia,

Japan.
Poland. Liechtenstein,

you have to be a resident there

for 30 years

before they let you in.

South Korea, not a snippet

in the news

about them burning down

the house.

come to think of it,

not once have i seen a

Molotov cocktail

thrown

onto the streets of

Vatican City.

no need for water cannons

there.

time for my five mile bike ride

i treat myself

to a brand-new set of clothing

for riding

my bike.

i need the traditional

costume,

like the ones i see

on the Tour de France.

a jersey

with an advertisement on the back

of my skintight

multi-colored

top.

i need biker shorts with

padding

to protect my family

jewels,

and wrist bands, perhaps

a little mirror and a go-pro

for my new

orange helmet.

biker shoes too, that click

and slide

when i'm walking.

i need to strap in when i hop

onto

my twenty-year-old

Schwinn.

maybe i should take the basket

off first, then

the streamers on the spokes,

and the kickstand.

emotional eating or not eating

with food

there has to be a middle ground

when you're

upset

with something going on

in your life,

whether love or death,

work

or children.

you can't

eat too much,

or too little.

you have to find your own

personal

wheelhouse

when it comes to cake,

or pasta,

steak,

or lettuce.

you can't keep buying

three

separate suits of clothing

depending

upon what emotional

state you're in.

making holiday plans

i don't know about

visiting Europe for the holidays,

the wife

says,

as she brushes her hair,

counting each stroke.

eighty-five,

eighty-six, eighty-seven.

i'm still in bed

with our dog, Ralph.

his head

is on my chest.

i think he needs to go out.

why not, honey bun,

i ask her.

well, i saw on tv 

the rioters.

they've gone mad over there

with the

looting, fires, chaos.

ninety-two, ninety-three,

ninety-four.

i think we should go, i tell

her, before

it's gone for good.

is the Louve,

still there? the Eiffel Tower?

we can buy some helmets

and those

military vests.

some Doc Martin boots.

ninety-seven, ninety-eight,

ninety-nine,

one hundred.

she sets the brush down.

what about Miami, she says.

South Beach for

Christmas?

sure, why not, i think i still

have my red

speedo from the last time

we went.

how to win a poetry prize

be imprecise,

abstract, elusive with your

words.

leave them

wondering on what

the message is.

strive to be obtuse,

obscure, puzzling

with your words.

don't connect the dots.

let the reader

decide.

then lean hard left

with your emotions,

your seeping

feelings, show

the world

your dormant feminine side.

keep it a mystery

what you've

written on the once

blank page.

add a dash

of Salvadore Dali,

some Andy Warhol,

jump on the horse of e.e.

cummings

and ride.

don't tell them anything.

splash

things around,

punctuation is optional.

bring up mythology,

ancient Rome,

Atlantis.

the New Yorker will

love it.

you'll win the Nobel

Prize.

failure to launch

i'm

a first grader when

it comes

to technology.

i will never graduate

and get

my masters degree

in the fine art

of computers and phones.

(is there a difference

anymore?)

i am stuck

in first gear.

there's enough tech

in my

phone to fly to the moon,

so they say.

but i can only answer

and call

and take an occasional

picture

or two.

but that's about it.

don't ask me to copy and paste,

or to download

an app,

or to print

anything.

face time is a mystery.

where is the Play store,

by the way,

next to Sears

at the Mall?

i'm shocked when i see people

typing

using their fingers

and thumbs

like Buddy Rich playing

the drums.

(don't ask).

i think someone is trying

to call me. got to go.

i'm done.

Saturday bath time in Paris

i like

how the French police are now

using water
cannons

to blast the protestors down

the street.

nothing like getting hit

in the face

by a blast of river water

from

the Seine.

but why not

throw in some

soap too.

catapult some ivory bars

into the mob,

or dove bars

for those with sensitive skin, 

perhaps

some Tide detergent,

a large box

or two,

sprinkled down

from above.

maybe some scrub brushes

as well

to clean up

the mess they've made.

two sides to everything

i run into

my ex-wife's best friends

in the grocery

store.

a couple from the old

neighborhood.

our children

grew up together.

it's been 25 years since i've seen

them,

but we ignore

the awkwardness.

we stop our carts

and

get right into small talk,

children,

weather, 

associated other friends.

so how have you been?

everyone is good.

of course.

there's some wear and tear

on both of them,

as i'm sure they see on me.

strange,

as it is,

i never disliked them, despite

everything,

despite the act

of taking sides.

if only they knew the truth

of how and why,

but why bother now.

i'm free.

we give each other

a handshake and a hug

goodbye.

S:3 G:2494-B

at last

the headstone arrives

and is set

upon

my father's

final resting place

in Arlington.

his name,

his birth date and place,

and the day

he died are

all engraved.

they play taps for him.

which he would

have liked,

unsentimental

as he was.

but i imagine a tear might

fall from

one or two

of his ocean blue eyes,

along with

an embarrassed laugh,

and a hand

that would brush

aside

such ceremony.

waiting for what's next

the sky

is more blue, more

cold

and beautiful than it's ever

been.

i'm still running,

it's late

in the fall,

the ball is in the air,

i can see it

between

the clouds, 

a shadow in the sun,

spinning

towards me,

my legs and arms

are young, my heart

is racing.

the grass is a bright green

field of joy.

i'm still running

with

a bloom of breath before me.

i'm waiting 

with open arms for what

comes next,

for the ball to at last

come down.

we knew everyone's name

hard to believe

but

there used to be a milkman,

a paper boy,

the mailman

used to come twice a day.

grown men

would knock on our door

selling encyclopedias

or Hoover

Vacuums

and we'd invite them in

for coffee

and crumb cake.

people would actually,

tip their hats

and wave.

on Sunday we walked

to church

with a pocketful of change.

we sat on the front

porch and talked,

how hard we laughed,

we played

board games.

the kids ran free in the yard

until dark,

catching fireflies

in mason jars.

we played spin the bottle

in the basement,

we danced

to records, we played charades.

we knew

everyone's name.

nostalgia

it feels

good to be longing

for

a time that never really was,

a love

that never existed.

we look back through

the sepia

glass of time

and embrace a mirage.

we're wishful

thinkers.

craving

the past.

it's a

romantic nostalgic trip.

reality

is too hard to live with.

guests for the weekend

we are open

arms

for the guests that arrive,

their yearly

visit.

we're a bed and breakfast

for them

once a year.

my wife

puts flowers on the table.

clean sheets in the spare

bedroom,

their favorite

foods and drinks are on the shelf.

we break open

the good wine,

the good China.

we make home cooked meals.

they are old friends,

good friends,

but by the end of the three

day weekend,

we hate them

and want our house back.

one cherry cough drop will do

there has to be

at least one sweet treat

in the house,

one cookie,

one tiny bit of chocolate,

or candy

from last years Halloween.

there has to be

a crumb

of a donut, a thin

slice

of cake

between the sofa seats.

a morsel of something

frozen

in the freezer,

ice cream

maybe. please

don't make me eat

an apple,

please.

pulling the lever on November 3rd

i try to stay informed

on the basic policies of those

running for office

in the upcoming election.

i write down the platform

of the blue side.

this is what they want,

not all of them, but many.

open borders.

higher taxes.

punish the rich.

free Medicare for all.

defund the police,

defund the military,

transgender surgeries

for children

and inmates in prisons.

abolish the senate,

the congress.

the presidency.

abortion up into the ninth

month.

abolish the second amendment.

empty the prisons.

allow non-citizens to vote.

abandon Israel,

let Iran have the bomb.

free buses.

free syringes for drug addicts,

leave the homeless

on the streets, open

government run grocery stores.

and finally, but not least,

flying the American flag

upside down.

George Washington must be

rolling in his grave.

turn around, there's more to see

i go

to the beach

on the eastern shore,

i travel

to Europe, to South

America,

to Philly

then Miami, but the only

thing on my

mind is

going home.

i yawn at the Great Wall

of China,

i take at nap on the edge

of the Grand Canyon,

i feel lonely

in Times Square.

i only think about getting

home again,

to peace and quiet.

there is nothing

of interest left

for me to see.

which she tells me isn't true.

prove it,

i tell her. prove it to me.

my brother, my husband

when you see the news,

and it's full

of government

officials,

congressmen and women

getting arrested,

you can't help but

wonder what the hell 

is going on here.

mayors and senators,

governors and

attorney generals

all taking bribes and looking

the other way

when thievery runs rampant.

from dog catcher up.

you see their

mug shots plastered

on the screen.

calling the crimes a racist

attack,

or a minor clerical error

on their tax

returns.

caught with gold bars

in their closets,

money stacked in

the Cayman Islands.

immigration fraud

by marrying one's sibling.

lying about where they live,

where they were born.

forgery and fraud

run amok.

the wanton abuse of

Snap and EBT cards,

day care centers and

senior care facilities all

ATM machines for

the 

do gooders.

like rats they scurry

off with our tax dollars

for the homeless,

for the hungry.

they're

selling drugs, 

sleeping with Chinese

spies, tattooing Nazi

symbols on their chest.

start building the next boat,

Noah,

we're living in crazy

times.

putting it in medical terms

i agonize

about the call back for

wallpaper

installation.

it's always a loose seam,

a bubble

that hasn't subsided yet.

a slight miscut,

a mismatch in the corner

that needs

a little attention.

why is the paper still wet?

can you come and take

a look at it please?

tonight would be fine.

we'll be home

after 8 or even nine.

sure i tell them.

i'm on my way. i have no

life of my own.

{wallpaper is like brain

surgery,

i tell them,

while painting is no more

difficult than lancing

a boil.}

we're surprisingly different

women

go to the nail salon

for hands

and feet, 

nearly every two

weeks it's

the hair

for color and a cut,

then it's off to

the massage parlor,

they do Pilates,

and aerobic

exercises, yoga.

the gym is on their schedule

too.

they jump

up and down on a little

trampoline,

barbells

and kettle bells.

they have hot stones

laid upon

their backs,

they get mud on their faces.

they have

someone for electrolysis,

and of course

a gynecologist.

they get waxed

on a regular

basis.

they're always stretching

like cats.

whereas most men

get up,

and go.

a shower a shave,

then to work.

later we'll take a nap.

after all this time

somehow,

a nail protrudes from

the inner

wall of my

tire

on my truck.

it looks like a small metal

arrow

shot from a bow,

maybe

curb high.

but it's a slow leak,

and i can

make it to the gas

station without

a tow.

but how, but why?

can she still mad at me

after all this time?

more garlic please, the moon is full

as the nurse

sticks and slides a needle

into my

purplish

thickened vein,

i look the other way,

i blink,

as i often

do when

it involves pain,

or 

the taking

of any liquids from my

body

in an invasive way.

although i do have

a few

friends

of a vampire nature

that i have to watch out

for when

the moon is full.

my pizza garlic breath

helps to keep them

away.

the dearly departed reader

i don't like

what you write, or how

you think

about the world, 

i'm incensed by

how your politics lean.

so i have to leave,

i can no longer

be a follower

of your so-called work,

your lame

poetry. sometimes it

seems as if

you have no empathy.

so i'm moving on.

take care, good luck.

you're not someone i want

to know or even read

anymore.

signed,

mom.

Amsterdam Calling

i get a text

from Amsterdam.

a picture of a Belgian waffle

covered

in whipped

cream.

there's pastry, and sausages,

meat

hanging in the butcher

window,

the long

stretch of the canal

and brick

pathway,

draped by old trees. grey

stone statues

and bookstores,

three hundred

year old hotels still

welcoming

guests.

and them comes my request,

a picture from

the red-light district,

where in the window

sit alluring rentals,

all of them partially dressed.

the most favored child

was there

a favored child in the brood

of children?

the one

handed the icing

spoon

or spatula.

the one taken out for

ice-cream

as we stood on the street

with hands

on our hips

wondering what was

going on here.

was there a child more

kissed,

more looked after,

one who

had her hair brushed longer

than the others.

yes.

even at the age of ten,

it wasn't

hard to miss.

no forwarding address

i don't

know how to reach you.

which is

okay.

you know where i am

if you care

to talk things

over,

drop me a line,

dial me up,

let's catch up,

although,

nothing's changed.

i'm still happy

without you.

circumstances are

wonderfully the same.

another ugly debate

the gloves

come off in the congressional

debate.

you're a liar,

you stink,

you cheat on your wife.

there's rumors that you

kick your dog

on a regular basis

when you get home at night.

when was the last time

you took a shower

or brushed your teeth.

these are the people that

want to serve

the country and eat

off the taxpayers table.

not a single word

is heard about

what they're actually

going to do for their

state.

just a lot of babble, a

lot of hate.

the solution to end the riots

i've come

up with an easy solution

to end

the riots that seem to be

on every continent

of the world.

no need for rubber bullets

or batons,

or fire hoses.

no need for negotiations,

or reparations,

or whatever the hell they want.

no, the solution 

is called sleeping gas,

which would

be sprayed over the unruly

crowds

by small planes

that are usually

used for crop dusting.

once everyone is asleep

and the fires put out,

farm plows could come

through and scoop 

the rioters up, then

in dump trucks they could

all be taken to a stadium

somewhere until 

they cooled off.

an old itch that needs scratching

some thoughts

come

to you on crutches,

bandaged

and bruised,

the wound healing,

yet still red.

how you like to pick

at the scab

of old hurts,

wrongs

done to you.

every now and again,

you have

to pull back the Band-Aid

and scratch it,

you dig into the old wound,

until enough

is enough,

and you're through.

she was not like the others

the crooked little

finger

on my left hand

has been with me for

over 50 years,

broken

in a boys game

of tackle football.

i stare at it on occasion,

painless now,

as most

things are over time,

but i remember

it as if it was yesterday,

the second

it curled and snapped,

leaving it

deformed,

forever not like the others.

wiping the smile off of Mona Lisa's face

because

France is on fire,

and the streets

are full of angry

masked men rioting

and looting,

we cancel our long awaited

trip to that once

beautiful country.

it seems they have

no government in charge.

sadly,

i toss my new black beret

into the coat

closet,

put my red scarf on a hook.

i shelve

the Michelin rated

restaurant

guide and

set aside the English

to French

Dictionary.

why even keep

a conversion chart

turning dollars

into Euros?

maybe next year, if 

the country still exists

we'll try again,

but

will the Mona Lisa

survive?

will the Eiffel Tower

and the Arc De Triomphe

come tumbling down

at the hands

of crazies

before we arrive?

the Sears Catalogue

for hours,

we'd sit in the living room,

on the cold floor,

as snow fell,

and turn

page after page of

the Sears Catalogue,

making a mental note

of things

we'd like to have

for Christmas.

everything under the sun

was in it.

the book was at least

five hundred pages thick,

heavy as a cinder block.

we licked our fingers

and turned the thin pages,

which were

no different than my mother's

Catholic bible.

methodically we

worked our way 

through it,

sometimes using a magic marker

to circle whatever, it was that

caught our interest.

sometimes we'd pray.

the street hustle

the boys

from Front Royal

are out on the street,

while their Ford F 150,

idles loudly

at the end

of the cul de sac.

they're

selling cords of firewood,

self-chopped,

cut and bundled from

deep in the Virginia woods.

they hustle, red faced,

from door to door,

taking no notice of your

lack of chimney,

oblivious to whether

or not you even

have a fireplace, but

you admire their

capitalistic nature.

it's something you would

have done at that age,

hungry and willing to work.

you still have faith.

what else has gone wrong

when you

see the frayed and soiled

mattress tied down

by bungee cords

to the back of a pickup

truck, streaming down

the highway,

along side

a small desk and chairs,

a plaid sofa

in shades faded by

sunlight,

a child's swing set

in pieces, you can't help

but wonder,

what else has gone wrong.

the wobbly rear view mirror

it took

months before i had

enough money

saved up to fix the rear view

mirror

of my 67 maroon Camaro

that my girlfriend broke

with her foot

as we made out

in the bucket seats

while at the drive-in.

a gear shift was positioned

dangerously between us.

we were both quite flexible

back then.

almost gymnasts.

i have no memory of what

movie was playing,

a triple feature i'm sure, 

perhaps dusk to dawn

and

i imagine that

the windows were steamed.

at some point i'm sure

we pushed the static filled metal

speaker off the window,

onto the ground

and accidentally sat on

a greasy shrimp roll

from the concession stand.

perpetually late

those

that arrive late, are late

for a reason.

you're part of it,

but not

in a good way.

they're telling you something

without

saying it.

it's all in the game

they play.

the existential waffle iron

do i really

need

a waffle iron, i ask myself,

as i stare

at the closet

full of air fryers,

mixers

and blenders,

food processors,

coffee machines

and 

microwave

ovens,

toaster ovens.

all once

used but set aside finally

because i had

no room on

the counter to butter toast

from the one

appliance left standing.

i only want waffles

maybe

once a year.

usually when the first

frost

arrives

and i feel like i need to

fatten up

like a bear

about to hibernate.

maybe a small one,

i tell myself.

a two-waffle iron, 

not one or four

or eight.

the moonlit bay

the bay

was moonlit when we

set out

in the small white

boat.

one set of oars, with

me

pulling them, pulling

us towards

the other shore.

we weren't officially

in love yet.

but

this would do it.

it was the salt air, the breeze,

the moon

on the water

as it lapped

against the old boards.

it was

the kiss you gave me

as i stopped

in the middle

to say something

i'd never said before.

but i told you this an hour ago

she knew

what she was doing with those

legs.

how she crossed

them

in her black dress,

sometimes touching

her ankle

with a hand.

how she sat in the chair

with a glass

of wine

and used them to distract

me.

it worked so

many times.

i never remembered

half of what she

said.

i remember talking

i remember

talking.

those days, those long

nights

when drinking

tonic and gin,

conversing

with one or two, a crowd.

late

into the morning

at times.

discussing things, 

love and death,

the world

at large,

whatever was on our minds.

i remember

moving my lips,

opening my mouth and

letting the words

pour out. my

voice projecting my life.

i remember talking.

it was way before

i began

to write.

a minor clerical error

there's a knock at the door,

it's late,

i look out the window and see

someone dressed in black holding

a pole of some sort.

i go down.

maybe it's Amazon, or Ups,

i can't remember half of what

i order these days.

i open the door.

yes, can i help you?

it's time, he says. let's go.

time for what.

who are you.

can i come in, he says, it's

a little cold out here

and it's beginning to rain.

sure, sure, wipe your feet, okay?

what's with the pole, i ask him.

little early for Halloween

isn't it?

it's a scythe, not a pole.

but why? it looks spooky.

it represents the harvesting

of souls.

really?

oh, never knew that. anyway.

how can i help you.

car break down, need to use

the phone, bathroom?

i've come for you, he say.

it's time. 

i'm death.

i laugh, that's the name i gave

my third wife.

he opens up a little book

and shows me my name,

the date and time

of my demise.

me, what? no look, i have to get

up early in the morning.

i've got leftovers in the fridge. 

are you sure you have the right

guy. i don't see my middle initial

on that pad.

there are tons of people with my

same name.

he scratches gently his hooded

head with the scythe.

hmmm. what's your middle initial.

B i tell him, B for Benjamin.

i don't see a B, he says.

damn that Susie, he says.

i'm going to give her hell tomorrow

at the office.

give her hell?

just for a clerical mistake?

it's just an expression. okay. he says.

look you're off the hook for now.

go back to bed,

i'll show myself out.

do you have a bottle of water for

the road,

hot as hell in this shroud.

sure, sure.

in the fridge.

the red scarf

i fall asleep

on the train going across town.

i miss my stop.

at the end

the conductor wakes me up,

shaking my

shoulder.

you have to get off here, he says.

sorry, it's the last stop.

i wipe the sleep out

of my eyes

as he waits for me to get up.

he's tired too.

he has his lunch pail

in his hand,

a thermos.

his coat and hat are on.

there's a red scarf around

his neck.

maybe his wife

gave it to him one Christmas.

it's cold,

which makes me shiver.

let's go, he says. let's go.

he helps me up

by my arm.

it's been a long day underground

for the both of us.

if the world were to end tomorrow

in discussing

world

politics with soul

mate number two,

(a maddingly three minutes)

jokingly i said
to her,

that if the world were to end

tomorrow,

the Washington Post

and CNN

would put as

their headline,

asteroid to strike our planet.

World Ends Tomorrow.

women,

children and minorities

will suffer the most.

she shook her head sadly,

and said, that is so so true.

kind compliments that you don't forget

while getting out

the car

in downtown dc, 

not far from a local pub,

my brother and i,

both of us dressed neatly

with good

shoes and ironed clothes,

smelling fancy

with cologne, were sneered

at by

a couple of hard

nosed gangsters

packing heat,

they look at us,

up and down showing 

the gold

in their teeth.

it was a new

and improved

gentrified

part of the city where

row houses,

and crack dens

had been turned into

town houses

with pastel painted

brick and shutters with

small fenced in lots,

greens lawns,

and poodles

with rhinestone collars

prancing around.

these boys from hood

shook their heads at us

and said to one another,

what's up with all these

gay dudes moving into

our part of town.

discovering loneliness

we think

we know what loneliness is,

but we

don't.

we think it's being alone,

by oneself

for days,

or hours at a time, to go

years

without anyone to talk to.

we think of loneliness

as isolation,

but it's not.

you'll truly know

what loneliness is 

when you're

lying next to someone

in bed

when the love is gone

and the room

is dark.

when you live together,

untouched.

she knew your name

at the end

of the day, as a young boy,

you stood

at your bureau

and emptied your pockets.

out came

the pen knife, your

lucky rabbit's foot

with a key

attached,

spare change, a folded

one dollar bill

that you've had

since last summer.

there's a quartz rock

you picked

up along the way.

a pack of gum,

and a phone number

on a slip

of paper

from the girl you met at

the playground

who strangely knew

your name.

the ten act play off broadway

as if in an unpublished

Tennessee

Williams play,

she stands in the doorway,

and says dramatically,

i'm never coming

back,

so don't wait up.

this last straw has broken

the camel's back.

i lower the newspaper

to see what all

the racket is about.

she's holding her little poodle

in her arms.

two Louie Vuitton suitcases

are at her feet.

what?

i ask, what is it this time?

if you don't know,

i'm not going to tell you.

and remember,

tomorrow is trash day.

then she leaves

giving the door a declaration

of war

slam.

but she'll be back,

her car keys are on the table.

let them eat cake

as i ride by

the overpass, i slow down to watch

the protesters

wave their

upside down flags,

yelling and screaming

about kings.

it's a cold wet day.

they wave,

they're happy to be out there

in the wind

and rain.

some have brought muffins,

coffee

and chairs.

it's going to be a long day

in Golashes

and rain gear.

it takes

a village

to change the world.

almost all of them are beyond

sixty,

almost all

have white hair.

the blue senior home buses

idle on the side

of the road.

near dark they will all be

going home

and the roads once more

will be clear.

she didn't need no stinking gym

i don't remember

my mother ever saying something

like

i need to go on a diet,

i need to lose

weight, i need to join a gym

and get in

shape.

she had arms like meat hooks

from all

the diapers she changed,

all the meals

she made

all the clothes she washed

and hung on the line.

she could carry three children

up a flight of stairs

and a vacuum cleaner

with no problem.

but when Tab soft drink was

invented

in the sixties,

she bought that by the gallons,

pretending that

would help.

is Paris burning, yes

so what?

you think, as

you turn to the news.

Paris is burning.

not even two world wars

could destroy

this city,

and yet now,

it may happen.

the streets are in chaos,

stores

and businesses looted.

has the country

folded,

surrendered

once more to an

aggressive outside 

force?

will the Eiffel Tower

tumble,

will The Louvre

go down

in flames?

is this how it all ends?

the cereal box before you

how interested

you were

at a young age in reading

cereal boxes,

as you

slurped another spoonful

of milk

and honey oats

into your mouth.

a luxury with this meal

would

be toast,

which you didn't have.

but the box held your eyes,

the red

and orange colors,

all bright,

the bold print,

the tiny ingredient label,

as you read

each side.

it told you nothing about

life,

and yet like now,

as you stare into your phone

you press on,

hoping.

it's the little things

small

as they are we

want them gone.

this line of ants crawling

towards

a mountain, in their eyes,

spilled

sugar,

unswept crumbs.

it's the little things at times

that get

under our skin,

that we

want to put under

our thumbs.

genetics, fate, luck, destiny

two kinds

of us exist, the ones

who care

and the ones who don't.

the caring kind

watch what they eat,

they sleep well

and exercise. they avoid

hard drinks

and smoke.

rarely do they scale a mountain

or swim

with the sharks.

taking chances

is not their nature.

and then there are those

who don't care.

those who don't give a flip.

the ones who eat and drink

whatever they want,

they smoke,

and curse,

they avoid church, they speed

down the highway.

you see them

on the snowy slopes of

Kilimanjaro,

or on a rollercoaster

at the park, yelling look Ma,

no hands.

and yet, it's a flip of the coin

as to which

lives longer.

looking for Marge

the strange

man

who's been circling the block

all afternoon

in long black car

is suspect,

although no crime

has been

committed.

some feel that he's either

done something,

or is about to.

Laura,

the self-appointed

mayor

of the street

has already called the cops.

i see her at the corner

with a long handled

hoe in her hands,

a guardian

at the door.

at last

he slows down

in front of my house

and rolls his window down.

he asks me

if i've seen Marge, his ex-wife.

a lanky blonde woman,

black dress,

red lipstick.

i shake my head

no.

i don't tell him that she's

in my house,

sound asleep on the living room

couch.

her car parked four blocks

away, out of sight.

finding a tree to lie under

i fall

in love with the tree in the yard.

it made me

buy the house.

it's been

here before

my birth and will

still be here long

after i depart.

it doesn't judge me.

it seems ambivalent

about

everything

as my life passes

before it.

it's my kind of tree.

it lets me rest

under its shade.

lying down beneath

it on lazy

afternoons.

it let's me

watch the leaves turn

colors with

each new season.

from green to gold then

bare again

before my eyes.

it lets me listen to

the birds

astride on its welcoming

branches.

between us there is so

much unsaid love,

between us, there is

no animosity.

what will they think of me

i find

that lately i don't

put the broom

away

until company comes over.

there it

is in the corner

with the dustpan

awaiting dirt.

the same

goes for the dishes

in the sink,

the clothes on the floor,

shoes on the steps.

the vacuum cleaner

i step over

nearly every day.

why put the butter away now?

apparently

i worry less

about appearances

when alone.

not seen and not heard

it's easier

to like our own child

than it is

to appreciate

another's

little boy or girl,

same goes for a cat

or dog.

if it's not ours, 

our affection is not quite

the same.

so that's why i put

in the invitation,

just you

and maybe plus one,

in case you decide

to attend.

landing on our feet

to save

a marriage, to save

a job,

a relationship,

a house,

a place where we live,

we dig

our nails into

the cliff wall,

hanging on for dear

life

for as long as we can

until we at

last, exhausted, let go.

how surprised

we are to find that the drop

was only

two feet down, again.

I'll wait until you're gone

i can't paint you, she told me.

i can paint

still life,

apples

and oranges, peaches

in a white bowl.

i can easily go to my

canvas

and paint

a wheat field.

i can paint

those departed

from this world,

parents and lovers, 

dear friends

now gone.

i can paint the sky, the mountains,

the ocean as

it rolls in.

i can paint anything you ask

me to.

but not you,

not yet.

you're still here.

i'll wait until you're gone.

the warm sink water

we

wish it was

that easy,

to be free of sin,

as the New Testament says,

to rub our

hands together

with God's redeeming

grace under

the warm sink water,

dry them

and begin again,

unsoiled.

dirt free.

we want to believe

that truth,

that we can

all start over, be

clean once more, 

but

the problem

is our memory.

how dare you look at me in my low cut tight red dress

you know,

she said, 

as we talked

in the doorway,

you know that you

can't keep 

your eyes looking into

my eyes

when we talk.

what?

i asked, what are you talking

about?

i see that you keep

glancing

at my breasts. sometimes

lingering for more

than a few seconds.

it's very demeaning,

there's more

to me than that by the way.

what?

that's not true. 

that's not true

at all.

i'm having issues with

the optic nerves

in my eyes lately, so

it's not true, not true

at all.

yes, it is, she said, 

it's called gawking

and i

can only imagine

what you look at

when i walk away.

somewhere before dark

with our

heads on a swivel,

thumb

on a cannister of pepper spray

and

our money

tucked away in our socks

or zippered

jackets.

we stand on the subway

platform,

carefully

looking around,

without eye contact,

not wanting to be pushed

in front of a moving train,

or jabbed,

we position ourselves

against a pillar

that indicates Rockefeller

Center,

the current stop.

if we make it,

we'll walk to Central Park

and grab

a bite to eat

somewhere before dark.

ham biscuits

his wife,

Ruby, of Carolina descent,

would hand

us ham

biscuits through the window

as we painted

her house.

she was as plump as one might

expect with

southern cooking.

i can see her pink hand now,

extended

past the screen

and glass,

cheerful to a fault.

and when she died, he had 

a flat stone

put in the ground

in front of the house.

capturing her smile with

her name

inscribed, to which

we were always careful

to walk around.

avoiding adult conversations

we steer

clear of politics

at the dinner table,

as we do with

religion

and current, or past

wars

going on.

we avoid the news,

domestic

or foreign.

not a word is spoken

of the climate

or the price

of eggs or petrol,

the latest revolution

on other shores,

we talk about how fine

the meal is,

the bird

and stuffing,

the wine,

and with surprise,

we praise

the dessert as it come in.

the inheritance

as i spread

this fig

jam

across the Saltine cracker,

over the kitchen

sink,

i think of you.

how in love

you were

with assorted crostini,

cheese too.

how you held the silver

spoon,

and dipped

and then delicately

spread the brie

across

with a special knife,

rounded

with an ivory handle,

your grandmother's

i presume.

at each rattled stop

leaving who

you are,

even for a minute will

divulge

the nature of the person

your eyes

are looking into.

not by words, but

by their faces.

you can tell if they

are angry,

afraid,

or in love,

as they hold the strap

in the subway

car,

perhaps hurt.

is it darkness you see,

or light?

but you have to put

yourself away

first.

which is hard to do,

each rattled stop

brings

more. all new.

none of this will last

those wild

oat

years, kept us busy.

mostly chasing skirts

we'd never

have.

the boys

together in sports

and school,

in extracurricular behaviors.

our beat

up cars

would take us places

in the dead

of night.

a bar across the track,

to Georgetown,

to Virginia,

anywhere still open

at some

ungodly hour.

where to, one might yell

out and in

three hours we were at the beach

asleep on

the sand, our mouths

dry with

beer, but with no regrets.

we knew, to a man,

that none of

this would last.

the cat is out of the bag

bad

news travels.

it can't stay in one place.

it has feet that scurry from

one hot

ear to the next.

the grapevine,

though cut in many places,

survives, it

still functions

for most

family news.

illness,

cancer or a heart

gone wrong,

some tragic

event will eventually

leave

the mouth of a nephew

or niece,

an aunt on the phone

with a ball of yarn

at her feet.

in time it will

come my way, distilled,

but still,

at the same time

digestible.

leave me to my ways

it should

be easy, the story books tell you.

the gold

watch, the big

chair in front of the tv,

a white plate

of hours on the wall,

all yours.

and yet,

i see the men,

bent

by smoke and drink,

work,

the women in knee high

stockings,

shuffling

down each aisle for

what they

already have, and then

what?

it feels grey and despondent

this destination.

there is no rainbow,

no golden

pot at the end of it all.

so spare me,

your best wishes, your

retirement party.

pop those balloons,

dispose of the cake.

leave me be

to my natural ways,

which is work,

until there is that day, when

i'll welcome

and embrace that open grave.

everything has been said

as i leave

her house,

the color of parsley

paint

on my hands

and face

she hands me a cupcake.

apple

and cinnamon,

a few

crumbled pieces

of walnut.

she writes

the check, but i can

tell she wants

to talk,

she doesn't want me to leave.

her husband died 10 years

ago.

i see his car

in the garage, his mower,

his rake

his gloves on a hook.

his boots are on the steps.

she tells me,

as i carry out my ladder,

that he

loved to bake bread.

me too, i tell her,

and then everything that

there was

to say,

has been said.

one third cup of brown sugar

it's rare

to have a neighbor knock on your

door anymore.

no one

seems to want or need

anything.

and it's scary if they do,

as you edge

to the door, eye upon

the peephole.

i remember

Jennifer, the piano teacher

next door.

single like me, always

knocking

when the sun when down,

low on olive oil

or sugar.

brown or white,

just a third cup

full she'd say.

when i think about her,

i wonder

if there was something else

she really wanted,

or needed.

maybe i missed a chance

at dating her,

or something better,

something more.

the cold wet line

i still see her

beating sheets

against

the wind. wet clothes

in the cold,

along the frozen

line.

her raw

hands with the broom.

maybe the sun

will come out,

maybe it won't.

how many

pairs of jeans did i wear,

still wet?

too many to count.

crossing the line

there is a line

for all of us, that when crossed

we turn into

a beast.

betrayal or lies,

disrespcet might

transform us

into

the Hulk, perhaps,

the Thing,

Dracula,

or Mr. Hyde.

they lurk within us

waiting their

turn if need be,

to settle a quarrel

or fight.

by day though, we

shrould

ourselves as best we can

in goodness

and civility.

we gently

and wear a cloak of white.

keeping beat

when i played

my new

Rolling Stone Album

very loud,

slipping it out of the plastic

and cover

dropping the needle

down,

i'd shake my head around

and turn

a coffee can upside down,

keeping

up with the drums.

but unfortunately

the walls were thin and

it wouldn't be

too long before 

my neighbor, Sylvia,

would be banging on the wall.

the la dee da years

i try to make a list.

a list

of things i need to worry

about.

problems i need

to ruminate on

issues and relationships

that make me lose sleep.

i've been slacking

off lately,

saying la dee da

all the time.

lately i've been

strolling down the boulevard

with a spring

in my step.

it doesn't seem natural

to go

unbothered for an entire

or week, or even

just one day

now that you are gone.

my last American car

my last

American car was 

a dodge

dart swinger, circa 1971.

three salesmen

pushed it out of the showroom

for me. it was

army green, or imagine

the color expelled

from the demon possessed child

in the Exorcist.

the battery

died on

the way home and i had

to have

it towed to a gas station.

the next week

the oil pump blew.

the wipers soon shorted

out,

as did the taillights.

the antennae

was missing.

if a hard

rain fell, the trunk would

fill up

with water.

gallons would be sloshing

around,

cascading against the thin

walls of the car.

i had the ocean

in my trunk.

i brought it back to the salesman,

Slick Jones,

at the dealership,

who told me

that in winter

i was lucky.

the freezing temperatures

would give me

a block of ice

that i can chop down to keep

a case of beer in,

or if i went ice fishing, i was

all set to keep the sturgeon cold.

my next car

was a Honda.

a hundred and fifty thousand miles

later, i bought

another one.

the upside down pyramid

i toss away

the old food pyramid,

the one

advising what to eat

for nutrition,

and a long life.

the one with

grains on the top,

breads and cereals,

oats and wheat,

followed

by vegetables

and fruits,

each scientifically

sweetened by

men in goggles

wearing white.

seed oils and margarine

are safe too,

the food gurus

told us.  pffft.

i make a thin rectangle

instead, this time.

i write down

coffee, meat, eggs, butter,

water,

and an occasional

slice of pizza

from Momma Luigi's.

one meal per

day, is all i need.

and on cheat day i eat

an apple,

just like the one Adam

received from Eve.

a moment of bliss

there

is a feeling of Zen

in

nearly every

mundane task.

how we lose ourselves

in chopping

carrots,

or painting walls,

filleting

fish

on the wide kitchen

board.

it's a moment of bliss,

this silence,

away

from everything,

but

what our hands are doing.

solving problems with Mildred

as i sit with Mildred,

drinking Irish coffee

and talking about

how it feels like

were nearing the end of the world,

we begin to brainstorm

solutions on how

to make things better.

i suggest 

getting volunteers from

the penitentiary

and putting them into the space

program.

first man or woman

to Mars could be someone

like Lizzie Borden,

or Al Capone,

or maybe a couple like

Bonnie and Clyde.

anyone walking the green mile

would be perfect

for space travel.

their reports back could

be invaluable.

why not? why waste a single

life,

they're doomed anyway.

it's a win win

for everyone involved.

they could pave the way

for a new

world to live on, and start

over with a clean

slate.

chasing ambulances

my friend

Jimmy who became a lawyer

late in life,

after decades of working

for the city

sanitation department,

often

tells me that i should sue

somebody

for something.

a company,

or neighbor who crossed

the line

with that kite that fell into

my yard or

the ten hours i had to go

without

power,

unable to watch tv

or turn on a light.

trauma, he said, trauma.

man, it's a real thing.

you need to be compensated.

cha ching.

i told him about the fender

bender i had

and immediately he

had his doctor on the phone

fitting me

for a neck brace.

every time he hears an ambulance

screaming by,

he drops everything

and says, hey, sorry,

but i have to go.

it's Jimmy's time

to make some dough.

news flash, we are men

i've always

been in favor of awarding

the inventor

of yoga pants,

the Nobel Prize.

and yet,

women seem

to be surprised when men,

young or

old, gawk at them at the gym

while they stretch

and turn themselves upside

down, rolling around like rotisserie

chickens.

we can't help but

look, for God's sake, we're

men.

why is this suddenly

news?

wear sweatpants and a sweat

shirt the next time

you want to stand

on your head,

if you don't want us checking

out those nooks

and crannies,

the curves on either end.

news flash.

we are men

and we like women.

mistakes were made

your gut

is your best guide

in this life.

not politicians, not scholars,

or teachers,

not poets

or actors, not musicians.

or artists.

no your best

guide

to a better life are those

neurons

tucked behind

your belt and shirt,

more than your brain possesses,

your gut.

so ignore

everything they tell you

to do.

put your hands on your

ears

when around your doctor,

or your wife.

front porch ice tea

between tall tales

about the war

and other things,

she talked a lot about

her iced tea

how she left the glass jar

on her wide

porch in the summer

for hours,

the cut lemons

floating about like exotic fish.

it was sweet and cold after

pouring it over

crushed ice.

we'd sit with her on the swings,

back and forth

until the shade came

and the sky turned into

a violet sea,

and she said, we'll boys,

your mothers are wondering

where you are,

and it's time for me

to go inside, time for me

to go to sleep.

life was not that hard

we longed

for pay day. the second Friday 

of the month.

we waited in line

for our checks,

the workday done.

tools in the truck,

our hands

washed with Lava soap.

then off to the bank we went,

then to the bar

in our work clothes,

our muddy boots,

where we laughed

and flirted with the waitresses.

we had an apartment,

we had cars,

we had had everything

we needed

and sometimes love.

looking back at it,

back then life

was never really that hard

enough

was plenty.

pumpkin time

i rarely

give a thought about pumpkins

until this time

of year.

you can't help but see them

everywhere,

the flavor

stirred into

our coffee, our cakes

and pies

you see them on the front porches

of houses,

even if there are no kids inside,

there's a candle

in the middle throwing light

out from the cut

teeth and triangle eyes.

my friend Betty is really into it.

she wears her

pumpkin sweaters

and pants

shoes. her work out tights.

She even dyes her

hair this time

of year a bright shade

of orange

and paints her lips 

with a pumpkin color

lipstick, same goes for

the blush and glitter around

her eyes.

sweet play dough

the play dough kept

us busy

for hours

at the big table,

some of us were even brave

enough to give

it a lick, taste it.

but it was

very salty

and not appetizing at all

despite the wonderful

colors.

you could almost tell

the direction

each us were going in our

lives

by what we made with

our own ball of dough.

for me,

i grabbed the yellow,

rolled it out,

and tried to create the perfect

statue of 

Marilyn Monroe.

this is all fiction

it's all fiction,

every word is made up.

every jab or laugh is

thrown in the mix and stirred

without thought.

none of these people are real,

not in memory,

or lying next to me as

we consume

our drinks,

our meals.

these lines are all fabricated

by me in my

spare time which has increased

lately.

so don't fret dear one.

sorry, if anything i write

bothers you

and keeps you

from sleep,

it's not my problem, but

yours, perhaps

don't read me anymore,

move on.

the long road as two, or one

some find

it easier with one. 

one bed,

one chair

to sit in,

one set of clothes.

one plate upon the table

with enough

drink and food

for one.

whereas

others, those in love,

or close to it,

fearing death,

or what others might 

think of you,

prefer

to travel the long road

as two.

childhood friends

i counted nine

spins

on the red leather stool

at the drugstore

counter,

lifting my Keds

while sipping on a cherry

coke,

and eating a slice

of apple pie,

but i was thin,

bone thin,

whereas as my friend

Willy,

who was heavier than me

managed

fifteen spins.

(although i was faster than him

in a foot race.)

i don't know why i remember

these things.

i wonder

if he does.

in a strange way, after

sixty years,

i kind of miss him.

how hard their lives must be

how hard

it must be to be famous.

to be a celebrity,

whether a singer or artist,

perhaps on stage or

on Broadway, or on

a big movie screen.

struggling

with all those lines to memorize,

not knowing where

to stand or exit, 

will it be stage left,

or stage right?

what difficult lives

they must lead

always being recognized

when out on the street.

the paparazzi

taking pictures, the fans

wanting autographs.

never being left alone,

never enjoying any privacy,

locked behind

the gates of their prosperity,

but i suspect it's not 

quite as hard as being a roofer

thirty feet up in the air

on a slate roof, 

in the blistering July heat,

or a plumber, as well,

on his knees

with a wrench in hand,

adjusting a porcelain seat.

your good side

i turn

the apple of you around

so that i don't

see the worm

almost in, almost out,

the soft bruise

of brown.

i turn it so that the sun

hits the red

the side,

the sheen of skin

still there

wanting me

to take a bite.

my algorithm

my algorithm

is all

over the place.

due to a variety of searches.

i keep

getting reels

about nutrition

and food,

Noah's Ark,

political scandals,

baking tips,

and oddly, women's

legs in

fishnet stockings and

stiletto shoes.

the old love letter

i find an old love

letter

tucked away in the desk drawer.

she wrote

it and left it on my

pillow some years

ago.

it's not working out,

she wrote.

i'm not who you thought

i was,

and you're not who

i believed you to be.

so it's best that we go

our separate ways.

we gave it a shot, but

it just didn't work out.

the paper seems dappled

with dried tears

which makes me

read between the lines

again.

i know what

she was really trying to say.

i love you more than

anything.

i can't wait to get home

and hold you in

my arms.

everyday i thank my lucky

stars to have

found you.

i fold the letter

and put it back

in the drawer.

i wonder sometimes

where

she is now.

filling the hours

it's a busy

day.

i need stamps.

i put it on the list

of things

to do.

the post office.

what else?

i shake the carton

of cream

in the fridge.

half full.

i put cream on the list

too.

i see that the birds

have

been ravenous over

the past

few days,

lined up

wing to wing on

the feeder.

okay,

another bag seed.

the afternoon

is full.

while visiting the left coast

how easy

it is to step over the person

lying

on the sidewalk,

one leg

draped over

the wet gutter.

we sidestep

the man,

his eyes closed,

but his

hands trembling

holding a syringe.

we sip on our hot coffee,

careful

not to spill it 

the new jacket we just

bought

and move on

to where

we need to go.

it feels like Seattle

but it's

Portland.

that's how i ended up here

it was winter.

Carter was in the Whitehouse.

there was

ice on the windows of my

small

apartment

behind the racetrack.

funds were running low,

so i spread the paper

across the kitchen

table

and turned to the classified

section.

i needed a job,

fast.

my girlfriend was worried,

my mother

was bringing me food.

i needed gas

for my car.

there was one can of beer

left to drink.

after making

a cup of Sanka 

i slowly read each job offering.

having no

job skills made it difficult.

i keyed on the words,

no experience

necessary. that was me in a nutshell.

i circled one possibility.

and that's how

i ended up here.

milkman and paper boy hours

as a child,

or teen it's easy to sleep

in

until eleven or noon.

but as we age

we train

ourselves to get up

when the alarm

goes off.

we have jobs, so many

things to do.

there's a bus

to catch,

kids to put off to school,

and yet strangely when

that part

of life has ended,

we get up even earlier.

we're up

at the crack dawn,

at five in the morning,

putting coffee on.

it's

milkman

and paperboy hours.

we're proud

of our early risings,

telling everyone that news.

devils and angels

there is

the devil on one shoulder

and an angel

on the other,

each at war.

it's a battle for my soul.

i surprise myself

with either

direction i choose to go.

i know me, and don't

know

me at the same time.

each day,

each night is a slippery

slope.

Harold is a good man

Harold is a good man.

he's never

hurt anyone. never committed

any crime,

never has he said a bad

word

about anyone.

he lives a clean life.

to work and back he goes.

no cigarettes,

or booze have touched

his lips.

he's neither lucky nor unlucky

in love,

because he's let go 

of that ambition too.

he lives next door to me.

we have

nothing in common

as far as i know.

he's been a good man

all is life,

whereas i haven't, as is

well known.

dying affection

i have

never not loved the ocean.

the blue glass and

the green of it,

the waves,

relentless,

the endless curve of it

against

the rising sun.

its beauty intoxicates me.

it's never taken me under,

i've never

drowned, or been pulled

to the bottom,

but the day

is young.

i had to open my big mouth

if you

bring up some small tragedy

or complication

going on

in your life,

you are stuck forever more

into explaining it to

those you told it to,

how everything is?

they ask.

you sigh and offer a weak

smile, wanting

to say nothing that would

add to it, but

the toothpaste is out of tube,

the genie is

out of the bottle,

the butter is out of the....

whatever.

but you wish

you had kept your big mouth

shut.

they take your hand,

with sad eyes

and pat you on the back

when you see them.

some even enter your personal

space and awkwardly

hug you

for a whole minute.

mostly women.

they whisper,

so how are you?

things any better?

i can't believe what you

must be going through, they

say.

whatever you do, don't give

up hope.

and try not to drink too much.

okay?

creating a more manly image

as i lie

on the bed, telling myself

that soon,

any minute now,

i'll get up

and start the day,

i pause and wonder,

staring at the walls,

while

pushing another pillow 

under my head,

how this room would look

painted green.

a soft

celery green, 

or the color of a tangerine,

a pale

orange and pink,

but then i think

that might

be too gay.

it's bad enough that i like

to bake cookies

and clean,

and iron my designer

blue jeans.

what's next writing poetry?

got out just in time

she went

a little woo woo at the end

of our relationship.

she got a minister's license

from the back

of a Cosmopolitan

Magazine.

she became a yoga guru.

she delved

in Reiki,

she bought crystals,

and played

around with a Ouija board

when

questioning

the universe.

she began to channel

the dead for

tips on how to live,

and started wearing black

all day, although 

i saw no broom

or boiling kettle of broth.

but who has a bat

for a pet?

before i escaped,

i heard her in the back yard

one night

when the moon was out,

chanting madly

with some new friends

she met on the dark web.

old spice and gin

i rub

the hard stubble on my

cheeks

and chin.

no different from my father's

when he came home

late at night,

smelling of old spice

and gin.

even at this late hour

he had to come

into the bedroom

and tuck us

in.

midnight made no difference

to us.

but it did to my mother,

who put

him on the couch,

the dinner gone cold

in the oven.

swords are drawn

at the dinner

party

after a drink or two

the conversation heats up,

and true

colors at last

are shown.

i breezily mention that i

don't care

for this new Nobel Prize

winner

for Literature.

i think what she writes is

incomprehensible

gibberish.

to which the woman across

the room,

wearing clunky jewelry, 

like they wear

in Cleveland Park,

says, well,

that's because you're a man.

swords are drawn.

it's going to be fun night

after all.

i care, i really do, honest to Betsy

it's not that i don't care

about the environment,

or climate

change, the seas rising,

or the icebergs melting.

i clutch my pearls

for the turtles

and whales.

i'm on their side, i really am.

it's just that i'm lazy and

don't want to separate

the glass from the tin,

the paper from the plastic.

i'm just too tired

to carry out

the Wednesday blue bin.

back yard bird watching

my bird

watching skills are minimal

at best.

i see a red bird

clenching

the long limb of a tree

and say,

oh look

there's a red one, or one

with a ruby throated

neck.

the blue one has

a pink worm

dangling from

it's beak.

is that a robin or an oriole,

a crow

or blackbird?

perhaps a raven, my

favorite because of Edgar

Allan Poe,

beats me,

what's your best

educated guess?

how did we get here?

how did we get here?

why is it suddenly

controversial

by saying that there are only

two genders,

girls and boys,

magically made

by God.

them,

they, girl boy, which

bathroom

is the right one

to use?

which pronoun

won't harm the tender

ears of those

perpetually confused?

what other senseless

and silly

problems can we add

to the world?

aren't there enough already

to go around?

today is election day

no one

is coming to save you.

you're on your own.

so get up.

stop

with the tears, stop

wearing

the victim cloak.

it's all on you, your

yesterdays and tomorrows.

success and failure

are in your hands.

every day

is a vote for you, deciding

which direction

you will go.

pull the lever

and go forward.

no one is coming to save you.

when the wind shifts

i offer

you my coat

when we're cold and shivering

as we cross

the street,

when the wind

blows

my hat off

and i pull up my collar.

the long talk has tired us.

i try to take your

hand,

but your love

has waned,

and you refuse my kindness.

everything it seems,

including the weather,

has changed.

dying with your music still in you

it's said,

somewhat famously by

a long

departed

self-help guru, to not

die with

your music still in you.

but what

if your music is ugly?

what if it's

violent and racist, full

of misogynist

ranting.

hateful.

what if your song

is one of despair

and prejudice?

what then?

perhaps

stay quiet, put

the microphone down.

London, Paris and New York

with her ever

expanding liberal empathy

she let

all the stray animals

on the street

into the house,

no questions asked.

the birds flew in,

bats too,

the bees

settled in corners, making

nests.

the mice found

their way into the walls,

raccoons gave

birth to more racoons

in the attic.

the house

was a chaotic mess

and soon, 

there was no room

for us.

the lives of others

if i wasn't so

distracted and more interested in

what the teacher

was saying, i would have learned

more.

but i sat there,

and stared at the face

before me,

whether pretty or plain,

i pondered

the clothes they wore,

their mannerisms.

i wondered about their lives.

what they bought

at the store.

did they drink and smoke

when away

from the eyes

of us children.

did they have love,

was there someone waiting

for them

when they arrived home

from school.

was there a cat or dog?

who were they, what were they

really like

beyond these desks

and chalkboards.

naked on Sunday morning

she had

no issues with walking around

the house

naked

once we made love

on a regular basis.

whereas

i needed the fig leaf,

the bath towel,

the pair of pants,

or the Sunday Times

to shield my body.

she had no shame, or

self-doubt.

we were different 

in that way, 

whereas i was

raised Catholic

and she wasn't.

let's go this way for a while

there is no plan

for most

of us.

we're adrift in the wide

sea

from birth

while some seem to know

the path

they're set upon.

how blessed they are.

our path

appears to find us,

with each

misstep and

failure pushing us further

upon it.

the white stone

i can't help

but pick up the smooth

white

stone

that catches my eye

as i'm walking

lost in thought, but

not so lost

that i don't see it

catching sunlight

on its kind and gentle face.

i'll carry it for the rest

of the day

for reasons

unknown to me.

school me my dear, be gentle

i need

more education, more brain

cells,

a higher IQ

to understand you, your

far reaching

lines of poetry,

full mythology, the Greeks,

Homer

and Aristotle.

Dante's Inferno.

i'm full to the brim

with Larkin

and Ignatow,

Bukowski and Strand.

i barely finished

college,

barely got an A

in plumbers' school,

or graduated from

The Computer Learning

Center

with honors.

i'm a fool.

and yet, i still want to understand

you.

i want to read

one line, and say, oh, i get it now.

it took a while,

but at last

i see what you're up to.

can we take another one?

before

cameras, we had to sit still

in a chair,

or on a horse, perhaps

stand

by a dog or child

and let the artist paint us.

we couldn't move

an inch,

as the painter carefully

captured

our smirk or smile,

our solemn

countenance.

sometimes the pollen

would make

us sneeze.

sadly, there was no delete

button and no button

to try again,

there was no, take one more,

please.

easy riders

it might have

taken us six hours to hitch hike

a ride

to Ocean City,

normally a three-hour drive.

our sleeping bags

rolled

up, tied

to our backs with

rope. we had

a few dollars in our

pockets.

our long hair down

to our shoulders,

held back

with red, white and blue bandanas.

we had a sign, which said

O.C, will pay for gas.

three days

later,

sunburned and tired,

hungry.

having no luck with the rich

college girls

on the beach from Salisbury State,

we packed up

and headed home.

we were

exhausted from asking

for spare change

on the boardwalk, our sandals

broken and worn.

our cutoff jeans still wet

from the ocean.

at last, after three or four rides,

with thumbs out,

exhausting our money,

we were thankful to be home.

back to our beds,

to our mothers who

put sandwiches and cold

milk before us.

a plate of cookies, still warm.

saying everything with silence

nothing said,

no response, just silence

contains

more words

than a hundred books.

no explanation is needed.

the empty space

holds everything

you need say,

all of it is known,

despite a single word

never spoken.

she's on a diet again

we order dinner,

well, at least i do.

she gets a salad, she's

on a diet.

her salad arrives and she

begins to pick

out the croutons,

setting them aside.

cranberries too.

the devil's work in fruit.

then my steak and potato

is set down

before me,

my bread,

my side order of broccolini.

the savory steam

rises into my face.

slowly her hand

creeps across the table

with a cold fork

and she

begins to eat what i have,

asking me

for one more slice of meat,

and wanting

more butter

for the bread.

finally finished, the plates

empty,

she asks me,

you're getting dessert too,

aren't you?

the very long way around

i see

where the newly awarded

Nobel Prize

recipient

has excepted her award

and is being

overwhelmed

with accolades.

apparently, she was cleaning

her kitchen,

scrubbing

the sink and

mopping the floor

when she got the news.

i've never heard of her.

so i look

her up

and begin to read some

of her work.

ten minutes later

i'm scratching my head

and saying what the hell,

thoroughly bored.

she does take the long way

around

to say things

that are true.

then i come here to write

about it.

i'll clean my kitchen later,

maybe tomorrow,

with or without an award.

not my first rodeo with brainwashing

i'm not worried about AI.

robots

taking over the world.

not a second

do i fear

my toaster or oven

telling

me what to do.

my computer or phone

brainwashing

me to think

they way they want me

to.

i've been married a few

times,

and i survived that.

this wouldn't be the first

time that someone

has messed

with my head twenty-four

seven and

bossed me around.

so i imagine i'll survive

and conquer

AI too.

a trip to the vet

i see that

there is a group of people,

mental patients,

mostly,

who want

to dress up and behave

like animals.

it doesn't faze me.

there's a lot of stress in the world.

we're living in

strange times. but

what better way

to escape it all

than to pretend to be a dog

or cat,

or rabbit

nibbling on a carrot or bone

in your

bunny suit.

it's fine. be crazy, but when

i take you to the vet

for shots, don't be angry

or bite my leg

or hand.

now hop in the car,

it's vet time.

is this the real me?

i surprise

myself with the tone of my voice,

how harsh

and loud

i speak into the phone

when

transferred

from one person to the next,

my questions

going unanswered

after

thirty long minutes.

i'm angry.

put the smartest person

in the bank

on the phone, i yell out

with frustration.

they put me on hold

while a symphony of

music plays.

i carry the phone into

the bathroom

and look in the mirror.

who is this person

i wonder?

is this the real me

coming out?

Saturday ride to the zoo

i move

a smidge over on

the D.C. transit,

sliding

on the green vinyl

seat of

the crowded bus,

packed

like sardines in a can.

i don't like

touching people when i'm

sitting side

by side

as we go across town

to the zoo.

not even a shoe

or sleeve.

maybe there's something

wrong with me,

i don't know.

perhaps 

i'm becoming aloof and distant

in my old age.

it just gives me

the willies,

making contact with

other human beings

i don't know,

especially when travelling

across town

to the zoo.

i do much better with animals,

it seems.

all those yellow canaries

my mother

cried with each new canary

that died.

some she hardly

had the time

to name them.

a day, a week,

a month or two,

then gone.

and yet soon another

one

arrived

and she was happy again,

it was how

she lived

her life.

street war

it's disturbing,

the news,

France on fire, London

streets

full of unruly mobs of

disgruntled

youth.

a barrage of gunshots

in Chicago
and LA,

Minnesota fallen.

the whole country seems

to be on edge.

what energy

they have,

these young folks

in their black costumes,

masked

and ready for street war.

you try to recall what

you were

doing at that age,

but

none of this comes to mind.

the food will arrive soon

we argue, it's

Friday

after all. we're both tired.

weary

from a week of

work.

it's about nothing really.

small stuff.

things we both

need to do

before the weekend

ends.

the berry picking days

seem to be over.

food will be arriving

soon,

the dog

will bark when the bell

rings

and we'll lay down our

swords

for awhile

in front of the tv.

she'll go up first, excusing

herself,

and you'll follow

once

the clock strikes twelve.

forward in the old grey truck

as i smooth

and pull, paste and cut

each 

sheet of wallpaper,

applying it to someone's

dining room

walls

with aged tools,

i wonder how much longer

can i do this,

up and down

the ladder,

the old truck pulling

me along

to the next job.

it's no longer about

money,

no longer about expanding

the business, 

or making plans for another

season.

filling the coffers with

a few dollars more.

it's something else.

an existential crisis

perhaps

that i can't put my finger on.

writing love poems

when younger, much

younger,

you wrote a lot of gooey,

mushy

poems, call them love

poems, if you

wish,

handwritten persuasively

in your Catholic

school script,

but they were not that

exactly,

trying hard

to compare her to nature

in all its lovely

forms.

but in reality

you were trying to make

your way

around the bases,

greasing the wheels

sort to speak,

an anxious thumb on the scale,

when stuck on first.

one large pepperoni pizza from Luigi's

she saved

me a slice of pizza

from over the weekend.

Luigi's.

i tell her thanks, but no thanks.

is it stale now?

no, she says. i put

it in the fridge,

but there's one slice

i don't want anyone eat.

i just want to show

it to you, show you how

the cheese

and pepperoni

is situated on the slice.

the way the crust is rising

up from the box.

i'll send you a picture.

now you tell me

if that doesn't look

like Mary Magdelene

holding Jesus in her arms.

don't the little bubbles of cheese

look like sheep?

the picture comes through.

i stare at it,

then hold the phone up

to the light.

umm, i don't know.

it looks like melted cheese to me,

i tell her, mozzarella,

and a round slice of pepperoni.

well, i think it might be a sign

of some sort.

a miracle in the making.

i think it's that new wood oven

they have now.

Jesus was a carpenter by the way.

i'm going to post it online

to see what people say.

okay, i tell her.

but what about the rest of

the pizza, any of it left?

i can stop by tonight.

the dream house

we build

a house along the shore,

and the ocean

takes it.

it seemed like a good

idea

at the time.

as did the house in the woods

made of lumber,

quickly gone

during fire

season.

we moved into the city,

but then

the riots

came.

the looting and murders,

the high

cost of everything

overwhelmed us.

and now

we're thinking concrete,

steel and stone,

space age

metals.

a bunker with gun turrets

where

nothing can

go wrong. maybe

on an island somewhere,

but something with a view

and service

for the phone.