one more chance

how many chances do we get

at the carnival.

the ball into the slot,

or ring

onto the hoop.

how many chances do we

get to swing the hammer

to make the bell

ring.

how many chances do we

get at spinning the wheel,

guessing black or red,

the table, with cards

and dice.

how many times can we ask,

for one more chance.

one more roll

one more time at throwing

our money down

on the winning horse,

just one more would

be suffice.

dear frank lloyd wright

it's the long

lean

lines, the effortless

efficiency 

of style

and grace.

anchored gently

into the land,

just right.

everything

for a reason, all things

in their place.

it's how we want

our lives

to be.

dear frank lloyd wright.

everything under the sun

we try nearly everything under the sun

to get well,

to find the meaning of life,

to get centered and free

from the human stain of grief

and sorrow.

we meditate.

we do yoga. we exercise.

we become vegans.

we eat only cabbage.

we pray.

we dance.

we get our chakras balanced.

we read our horoscope.

get a spiritual reading.

we try crystals.

we go to a chiropractor,

a therapist,

a psychic.

we chant.

we have a mantra.

we become Buddhists,

or Quakers,

we talk in tongues.

we fast,

we go on a retreat.

we recycle.

we take cold showers.

we buy more things.

we get hypnotized.

we take drugs, we join

hands in a circle

and sing kumbaya.

we put on yellow robes,

renounce everything

and join a cult.

we try the atkins diet.

we try psychotherapy.

we journal.

we keep a diary.

we run.

we walk.

we go to Tibet, we try

tantric sex.

we get married.

we get divorced.

we find new lovers.

we hike the mountain trail.

we lose ourselves

in music.

we eat only grapefruits.

are we there yet? no.

there's still something missing.

we haven't let go.

there is always hope

the low houses

near the factory,

along the road, a bruised set

of clouds

upon them.

cheaply made

of wood and stone,

small yellow lights

puddle out

from short windows.

a working

family

no doubt.

an old car in driveway,

the squared yard

to hang

the clothes, a dog

of course.

a chimney full of smoke.

and a wreathe

upon the door.

where there's love,

there is always hope.

the internet

sadly, the world knows

everything.

your age, your height,

your weight.

where you live.

how much you money

you make.

the schools you've attended.

the crimes you've committed.

where you've worked.

your marriages,

your kids.

the world knows everything

these days.

what car you drive,

what books, what food, what

clothes you buy.

each keystroke a footprint

in the universal

sand of time.

despite how hard we try,

no one can hide. even after life

has ended,

they can find

out when and why you died.

for better or worse,

in sickness and in health,

there is no escaping anyone's

prodding eyes.

the writing lesson

i have to write a letter

to your grandmother, she'd say,

go outside

and play.

leave me alone for awhile.

we'd look at her sitting at the dining

room table,

the wooden chair pulled

out

coffee, her blue lined paper,

her fountain pen.

a pack of cigarettes nearby.

my father's silver lighter

with an anchor on the side.

go, she'd say. scoot, scram.

don't tease your sister,

and shut the door,

the screen door

too, this house is full of flies.

find out why that dog is barking.

so we'd go.

but i  wanted to watch her write.

i wanted to see

the words come out of her

mind, from her heart,

run down her arm and

onto the page.

show me how to do this, i wanted

to say.

but she knew 

i already knew how.

a much better view

i visit the church up the street.

walk

with hands in pockets

up to brick

building.

the wind is at my back.

the sky

a startling blue.

the lot is full. the mass has

already begun.

but i have no intention

of going in.

i'll take my confession out

here,

say my prayers directly.

from here i see more

clearly.

it's a much better view.

regret

we do things we wish

we hadn't done.

we say we're sorry, but it's hardly

enough

to wipe the slate

clean again.

you beat yourself up, you

feel badly

about things. but there

is little you can do

or say, or write, to

change what went down.

there is nothing to be

done about it now,

but put it in the hands of

a higher power

and let it go.

making amends

here, have some of mine.

no

please.

take it,

take more if you want.

i'm done.

i'm full, i can't eat

another bite.

it's all for you.

please.

let me make amends

in the only

way i know how, let

me give what 

i have to you.

it's all gravy

if you make it through,

if you survive,

if you

continue on,

it's all gravy at this point.

if you've worked hard

enough

and saved. if you

didn't take the knife and take

your own life.

or was done in by

others,

if you've endured

betrayal

and love lost, hunger

and poverty,

if you made

it to the other side.

it's all gravy at this point.

sop it up with a crusty piece

of bread

and enjoy what's left

of this long strange ride.

the blue jay

an angry

blue jay alights on the fence

to fend

of

starlings and sparrows,

from

the seed

that swings in the bright

green box.

it's hardly a fight,

just

wide flapping wings

and bumps.

no harm

is done.

but the bully seems

to win.

sugar cone

i admit my addiction.

to coffee,

to cinnamon rolls

and cookies warm from the oven.

i admit

my sin

of sugar.

of sweets, ice cream

set upon a sugar cone.

life is too

short to not indulge on

occasion.

too short to go without

a kiss.

without love.

without sweetness,

lips upon lips.

the inner light

there is no straight line,

no linear

path

or set map

to get us from where we

need to go.

to find and stay on

that higher road.

so easy

to follow

the old way, the beaten

trail,

the familiar stones,

the trees

and bramble we've come

to fight through

and have known.

there is no straight line,

but there is a better

way.

it's time to get there

this time.

to follow the stars,

the moon,

the inner light,

to get there and stay.

the simple plan

i broil

a piece of salmon.

swipe mustard

against it's pink soft side,

then lay four sprigs of asparagus

beside it.

small potatoes too,

baked

and seasoned softly

with olive oil.

i feel the warm breath

of the oven

as i turn it off, and go with

two plates

in hand. one for me and one

for you.

a glass of wine before us.

simple was the plan.

midday walk

the trail

is carpeted with orange

and yellow,

red leaves

the pigment of their lives

seeping out

onto the black pavement.

puddles

catch the sky

which is undecided

which way to go.

from grey to blue, to

white.

it's a long walk and no one

is out,

but me.

the wind, the coming

cold,

and other things

have kept them inside,

which is fine, i'll walk, i'll

walk.

and breathe.

two pear trees

we set our ladders

against the old house

surrounded

by a brick wall, an iron

gate.

we were between two

pear trees

in full bloom, 

the pears were as green

and fat

as they could possibly

ever be.

ripe with white luscious meat.

help yourself, the owner said.

take as many as you

want.

they're free.

so we ate and ate, stuffed

them in our pockets,

for a whole week.

i haven't touched a pear

since then.

one super power

if i had one super power

what would it be?

to fly,

to be invisible,

to read minds, or

would it be

strength or x ray vision,

or merely

the ability to fold

a fitted sheet?

perhaps to go back into

time

would be nice,

and right the things done

wrong,

give everything a do over,

and change

what was unkind.

when the plague ends

when the plague ends

i'd like to  go to france or florence,

or bonn

or switzerland to see an old

friend.

if she'll have me.

i'd like to eat something sweet.

drink

something hard.

revel in dance and making love

again.

i'd like to see the world.

taste

all the things, we've gone

without,

all the things we've taken

for granted,

relish in all the things that are.

a herd of turtles

a herd of turtles

are

the crossing the road.

i cop shows up with flares

and

his car

with the party lights on.

a crowd gathers.

children

come to watch and sit on

the curb.

i like that one, a mother says.

she's the queen

i think

look at her plaid shiny shell.

someone brings out

coffee

and buns.

lawn chairs arrive.

everyone is quiet though,

respectful

as they move slowly

one after the other, in a steady

march,

their heads

pointed forward to the woods

and water

beyond.

my mother ironing

i remember sitting

on the last step

and peeking around

the corner

to watch

my mother ironing.

the bare

bulb

of the laundry room

shining white

upon her. 

the basket at her feet

full of rumpled clothes.

how quiet she was holding

that hot weight 

in her hand,

the steam,

the starch.

one shirt after another.

pants

and dresses.

onto hangars they would go,

others folded neatly

upon the washer.

it was a meditation of sorts.

no sound

no kids,

no radio.

just the quiet hiss of the iron

as her hand

pulled it along.

where he needed to be

the day before

he died

i went to his sterile room

where

the machine

breathed air

into his lungs.

his hair pulled back

by a white

bandage.

he was there,

but not there.

the wink, the smile,

the grin.

the cursing

was out of him.

i said a few words.

said a prayer,

then let him go

to where

he needed be.

betcha by golly wow

is it true

that some dance to remember

while

others dance to forget?

or is it just dancing,

finding the beat,

feeling

the music

throughout your body.

into your

tapping feet.

can't it just be that when

you hear

the right song

and smile

at what was.

it's not perfect but it's home

when we go away

we rarely wonder if we're

gone

to stay.

we assume we will return

and that everything

will still be in its place

at our humble abode.

the creak in the floor,

a dripping  faucet,

the cupboard drawer that won't

quite close,

the pipes

that groan,

the cold draft that blows

beneath the door.

it's not perfect, but it's

home.

the greeting at the door

when you

come home from work,

from the long day,

the dog

barks happily

and finds you at the door.

howling with delight

at your arrival.

his paws into your lap.

he's missed you.

there's not enough kisses

he wants to give.

who wouldn't love

a love

like that.

the girl in the photo

there was a girl

once, a squared snapshot

in black and white,

her hair cut short.

blonde

as if 

shaped by a bowl,

she stared into the camera

with all the wisdom

of a grown woman.

it's not a smile, or a frown,

but

awareness perhaps,

of what was to come,

even then there was little

that she didn't

already know.

the unmade bed

i toss aside

the old sheets, the worn

sheets,

blue cotton

as soft as her inner thigh.

i take them

off

the bed, slipping the corners

off the edge.

the pillow cases

too

are pulled away,

and then i lie there,

on the unmade

mattress

my head on the striped

bare

pillow and i sigh.

the aura

we slip into colors.

auras

dark or light.

a rainbow

of green, red, or blue.

a blanket of white.

we are in motion.

each

cell

as it divides.

each

thought new, or

old,

with anger or joy,

we paint ourselves

inside.

falling under a blue sky

i know you don't believe

in miracles

but i do.

having witnessed several

in my lifetime.

though

to the unbeliever they might

be construed as

coincidental

or accidental, or strange

and odd

occurrences, flukes. i have

seen things,

known things,

found things, without so much

as a single clue.

i have fallen off of

roofs and got up

and went back to work.

i've seen the blue sky looking

down on me

as i fell

and fell and fell. the list

is neither long

or short, but there is so

much more to tell.

addition by subtraction

we believe

that the more we

add

the happier we'll be.

more this

more that.

more love.

more things.

we want what we don't

or can't have.

and fail to realize

that subtraction

is often the key.

as the road gets shorter

i wish i knew more

about everything.

it's funny, but they often say,

that the older

you get the more you

realize how

little you know.

i can fit into a thimble

my knowledge

of life

and death.

science and love.

stars and the rest,

and yet it seems to be enough

sometimes.

though the road gets shorter

up ahead.

at our own pace

do not feel sorry for

the snail

the lowly

thing crawling

dragging itself from here

to there

tucked partly

into it's shell.

it's contentment

is unseen.

nor should you feel

sorry

for yourself.

we all move at our own

speed,

heal

on our own time table

and accomplish

things

when the time is right.

sometimes

we need to be low,

and moving

at our own pace, 

lost in the shadows,

but going ever forward,

whether

fast,

whether slow.

we are collectors

we are collectors,

no different

than those over a book of

stamps

from some country

in a different age.

or coins,

or books,

or things that others

deem worthless

and throw away.

we are collectors.

keepers of the flame.

of lovers past.

friends that have passed

away.

we turn to them in time

of trouble

in time of pain,

or when all is well and

we wish, upon stars

that one

day we could see them,

hold them,

love them

again.

a new path to the waterfall

you awaken.

it's taken time to get up

from this

deep sleep.

this dream like state.

you shake

your head,

and gather yourself.

nothing was what you

perceived it to be.

you dress

and leave your house.

you find a new way 

to the waterfall.

the endless surge 

of faith

like water has shown

you

the way out.

fire and ice

what isn't 

in abundance is

humility

and compassion.

what is,

is hate and animosity.

whether it's time for the next

great flood,

or the world going cold

and turning

to ice,

or fire, i'm unsure, but

each may do the trick

and would suffice.

the future

the future is not what

it used to be.

it never is, never was.

but so it goes.

hopefully we land softly

after the storm.

we find a beach,

sunny and warm,

and a hand

to hold.

a strange lot

how different we

are after

a year or two of life

under our

proverbial

belt..enduring

the windy passage 

of time.

what seemed so bad

back then,

suddenly

is not, while

what was wonderful

and new

has lost its luster.

we are such a strange

and wonderous lot.

bring mercy

bring mercy.

bring it in heaps, in droves,

armfuls

of mercy.

drop it down from the sky.

turn the hoses

on and spray

the world

with it.

mercy.

bring people to their

knees.

forgive them.

give comfort.

feed them.

bring mercy to 

the multitudes,

bring mercy

into this life.

bring mercy, for the world

is lacking.

a shadow in the light

i see her

shadow in the light.

i hear

the patter of her feet.

smell

the essence

of her perfume.

i see the hand

turning off the light,

before i sleep.

those are arms

around me.

those are whispers

in my ear.

those

are two hearts beside

each other,

love will last more

than one

year. no need though,

to think further,

or to shed a tear.

a light in the darkness

we are gifted.

all.

not some, not few.

but many,

including you.

whether art, or words,

or song.

music

or a poem. everyone

has at least one,

or more.

a skill that saves the world.

brings a light

to the darkness.

a dry martini

smart

is relevant.

college seems useless

at times.

books

and learning.

all of

that study,

all of that remembering.

equations

and diagramming

a sentence.

but can

you

change a tire,

scramble an egg,

balance

a checkbook.

be nice and kind.

can you

make me a dry martini,

two olives,

please.

yadda yadda yadda

i've been writing too much.

babbling on and on,

yadda, yadda, yadda.

my fingers are on fire,

they bleed at the tips.

my seat is warm from sitting

so long.

there is so much to do,

and yet here i am, at it.

pounding away at the backlit

keyboard at three a.m.

i'll go back to bed in a few

minutes. i just need to get

this one more thing down,

and then i'm done, done until

morning. but done for now.

maybe something constructive,

structured, and poetic

will arrive soon. we'll see.

a bump in the road

you hit a bump in the road

emotionally.

you ruminate and rehash the recent

past.

you realize that all

the anger is gone, at last.

no resentment, no lingering

words

to say.

no reason to be mad.

instead you finally see the light.

you let go.

you forgive.

you move forward

with a wiser look back.

the long war read

the churchill

book goes on and on and on.

it's taking

me longer to read it

than

the actual war lasted.

two pages

and i'm down for the count.

i dream of bombers

flying over my

house,

rations, sirens.

people burrowed

into the tube

below the ground.

two more pages tonight.

one hundred

and fifty nine more to go.

coffee and a flu shot

i get in line for a cup

of coffee

but it's not

the coffee shop,

it's the drive thru

for a flu shot.

i can see the arms going

out the window

one by one.

the needle going in.

the swipe

of alcohol.

i feel dizzy and almost

faint.

i just wanted a grande

americano

with half and half

and two splendas.

i roll up my sleeve and

wait.

the good china

i put out the good china.

who would think, that i had

good china.

but i do.

a gift from mary who died

last

year in Miami

at the age of 98.

each year she added another

piece

from Macy's.

i think of her as i set it out.

the plates,

the bowls,

the serving dishes.

teacups too.

i know that she'd be proud.

marie orsini

i hear her sigh.

her

moan, her breathing..

the death

of sleep

upon her.

still hanging on by

threads.

a year

in this strange house,

the box room,

handled

by strangers who

are never

known.

she can't see or talk,

just barely breathe

as she's fed as if a bird,

a crumb of food,

then water,

drop by drop.

i whisper in her ear,

it's okay.

we're fine, it's time

to leave.

leave it alone

they say there's water

on the moon.

good.

coffee can't be far behind

and a

cinnamon scone.

why are they so bothered

with that bright orb so far

away and yet so close.

there's no air.

there's nothing but sand

and stones.

can't they leave it alone,

leave it for the poets,

the philosophers

and the lovers

who walk

hand and hand below.

the autumn hunt

i see the hunters

in the woods, geared up

for

the kill

the autumn slaying of deer

in accotink

park.

the path is littered with

red signs

telling you

beware, naming

the months of hunting

that lie ahead.

at dusk they arrive

in camouflage

and march towards the woods,

up into the trees

they go,

with night vision eyes,

with arrows poised,

and the deer

fall

and fall until the herd

is thinned

and the roads are safe

again.

the rip tide

unlike

other months this one

seems

to have its way

with me.

so much

change,

so much push and pull

below

the waves.

the undertow is fierce

this time

of year.

the rip tide

of the past.

i struggle to swim

forward,

to get out of the cold

water,

to be on

dry land, at last.

perhaps tomorrow

i take the long walk

up to the mailbox,

i wave at the grey clad

man

with his leather satchel.

he tips his hat

and moves onward to

the next box.

i open the metal door

and put my hand inside

the cold chamber.

nothing.

i close it and go back

down the path.

perhaps tomorrow.

the weathervane is still

unsure of the weather

i dip

a toe

out the door

and test

the air, how hard is the

rain

falling today.

is there wind.

the weather vane is still,

up high.

how low

is the temperature.

what's in that overcast

sky.

once more

i'll venture out

and try to survive.

one critic

your poems are nonsensical

at times

she writes.

some are positive

some not.

some are dark and full of

worry

and fear

a world gone  wrong.

love gone

astray.

childhood and old age.

you wanted me to say

what i thought, but i'm

sorry i can't find the words

to say anything nice.

but you asked.

i was hoping for something

more along

the hallmark card

type of poetry.

but nice try. keep at it.

you never know.

the world around me

i hear footsteps in the hall

coming

up the stairs

i see a shadow

i see

the flash of light.

i hear

the shutters bang,

animals in the woods,

their muted shrieks.

i hear voices

outside

the window discussing me.

cars backing in with

brights.

the world is moving

around me and there

is little i can

do about it, but close

my eyes

and pray and say

good night.

the old canvas

the day is white canvas

untouched

awaiting paint. awaiting a

new image

a new

set of colors, but we push

it aside

and try to redo what we

did yesterday, or years

before.

we place

the old canvasses upon

the easel and dab

and touch up, smooth out

the sky,  the faces.

we paint them over and

over until our past resembles

a different life.

unsalted butter

i wonder sometimes

how

things

appear,

how they arrived in my cupboard

or ice

box.

where did that

come from. the unsalted butter,

the almond

flour.

yogurt?

and packets of foiled

salmon.

who came

and left me these things.

the cookie

cutters,

the blender, and large fork,

a twisted

spoon.

a folded bag of brown

sugar beside

the  baking powder?

and in the corner,

whose broom?

the ship in port

i tilt

towards 

God

at times when things

get hard.

when

trouble arises.

not drink or drug,

or sex,

i go to my knees

to right the ship

on those roiling waves,

but

when the storm departs

how easily

i fall

back into my old ways

with the ship in

port, anchored

and safe, 

perhaps

it's time to change 

my circled course.

i've sailed enough

for one

lifetime.

the lights are all green

some days

the lights are all green.

the road

is clear.

the traffic light.

the weather is fine.

all is well

with the world,

both yours

and mine.

you want to bottle

these days.

keep them on a shelf

where you can reach

them

any old time.

trains at the station

i like the train.

the old trains.

the sound of a train.

the mythology

of trains.

the rails.

the stations.

the people waiting to

board,

to get on

with their lives.

i like how they look

arriving in the fog,

the lights,

white,

red flashes,

how they appear

as they depart,

the smoke, the chug

of wheels,

the conductor

yelling all aboard,

the whistle and 

the face in the window

of the last car, 

crying as she waves

to those left standing

in the cold.

what goes inside

it is true

that the body keeps score.

what we

eat or drink or think

takes

its toll upon us

whether good or bad.

the numbers

don't lie.

the way you feel is 

directly related to what

goes inside.

more water

more green

more sleep

more peace

more calm,

more love

will keep you healthy,

keep

you alive.

the end of a day

the day can be exhausting.

i sit

on the edge of the  bed

and untie my

shoes, letting them fall 

to the floor.

the clothes come off.

i'm stiff and tired

from the work day,

my hands filled with the debris

of labor.

there is dust in my eyes.

i lean back onto the pillow

and think of dinner.

i think of lovers past.

i think of younger days

when i wanted 

everything in life, each

day, each night to last.

but there is still sweetness

in it all.

i've never lost that.

the last word in

you grow up thinking

that you have

to get the last word in,

the last punch,

the last of everything

to make your point.

you swell with false

pride at having won

the argument.

having won the fight.

but things have changed.

you're older now

and you see each

person in their own 

unique light. you

let them be who they

want to be.

who are you to always

be right.

two lumps of sugar

she puts two lumps

of sugar

into my tea, she brings

a warm

biscuit

on a plate.

she is the perfect picture

of civility.

the doily on the table,

that white

lamp

against the blue

wall where a picture

of the sea

shines bright.

her books are aligned

by color.

no dust is found upon

a finger.

she is not the wild girl

i once knew

so many years ago.

she has at last found peace

without a lover.

until there is no more

if you live long enough

God

will bless you with

suffering beyond

anything you thought you

could endure.

it's hard to understand,

until

you too have been

under fire, the melting

of impurities

goes and on until

there is no more.

she said all is well

she was old.

older than me by years.

a decade two, or

more.

and when she spoke to me,

she found

my eyes.

my true self, beyond

ego

beyond fear,

she said in her even

voice, earned wise,

that all is well.

it always has been.

you'll see, you'll understand

once you take

your hands

off the wheel.

no power of my own

forgive

forgive

forgive.

who is without

sin

throw the first

the stone.

i pick up my rocks

and go home

i drop them into the cold

stream

of time.

it took awhile.

but with anger,

finally, through

no power of my own,

i'm done.

the other world

you get the feeling,

in fact

it's a knowing

that what

we see of this world is

the tip

of the iceberg of what really

lies

above and below.

treat kindly

others.

be compassionate,

and leave

your sorrow behind.

this is just a temporary

state of being,

and then

there's more.

baking cookies

i go through the cupboard.

find flour

and vanilla, brown sugar

and white,

salt and pepper.

there's butter and eggs

in the ice box.

there's a bag of dark

chocolate chips.

a bag of walnuts.

there's the mixer from

under the counter.

there's the spoon and spatula.

there's the recipe

spread out.

there's all the time in the world.

to

make a dozen or more.

the oven goes on.

the clock set.

each bite a warm memory

of what was

and still is.

bread crumbs

there are rumors,

words said,

the grapevine, the little

bird

who comes and chirps

news into your ear.

there's gossip

and there's truth.

tid bits of information

of others

that comes to you.

bread crumbs.

does it matter, does

it make

the needle move?

overnight

the coat is light

this morning.  winter is not quite

here.

but i hear

him knocking, his voice

in the wind.

i see clearly

in the distance

his wintry beard.

his thick boot of ice,

his steel

blue eyes arriving

seemingly overnight.

but not yet.

there is still time to deal

with remorse

with regret.

the cautious man

careful

we are in so much of life.

side stepping

the puddles,

the broken glass.

how gentle

we are with the knife

as we cut

against the board.

cautious around

flames,

the splintered floor.

how careful

we are with

our bodies, keeping

them from harms way.

and yet our

heart 

runs wild when love

arrives,

our mind and body,

both, are led astray.

the dark night of the soul

sometimes you have to walk

the thoughts

out of you.

in the cold rain,

the wind.

it makes no difference,

you feel nothing

of the weather.

you've done this before.

one step

after another into the long

dark night

of your soul.

the heat of you blooms

out of your mouth,

your eyes are wet.

your legs are forever strong

as is your heart,

as you move forward.

putting the sword away

i used to say

i was done with forgiveness.

done with bending,

done

with reaching out the olive

branch.

finished

with being nice, being good,

being understanding.

i tried so hard to go the other way,

thinking darkness,

but it didn't work.

filling my day with anger

and resentment.

self righteousness

poisoned me to the bone.

it's a losing game.

one I won't go to back to,

God willing,

ever again.

forgiveness

it took time

to feel this way. to apologize.

it's not

in you to hate,

to be mean

and spiteful.

the ego

holding rein.

it took time, to fall on

your sword

and say

i'm sorry,

no more.

forgive me, or forgive

me not.

it's not what i'm asking

for.

skipping stones

i skip a rock 

across the blue

pond.

it slips

and slides away

before sinking,

striking five times.

i'll try again,

before the sun sets.

there's still time to find

the right stone.

the right angle,

the right

frame of mind.

as with love, there is

always another

try.

don't think twice

i see her smile,

her smirk,

her eyes

twinkling in the cold

night air.

i see the stars, no different

than what

i think of her.

the points

of light, the silver

in her hair.

the whisper of her voice,

telling me,

don't think twice,

come over here.

one step forward, two back

you regress.

step backwards. you fall flat

with

why.

how.

after so much work

done.

books read.

you thought you've

wrung out

everything

that you could from

this cloth you wove,

beating it against stone,

but no.

there's more.

more work to be done.

more

to understand.

love does not disappear

it grips hard,

it holds on.

aquarium life

are we not fish

in an aquarium, swimming

from glass wall

to glass wall,

thinking that this is all

there is.

the sprinkle of food

from a hand above.

do they wonder, is that God?

the electric light giving

sunshine on

the filtered water,

the greenery

at the bottom,

in pristine white

stones, pretending sand.

are we no different

then the striped

fish,

the bright blue ones,

thick as thumbs,

or a yellowed tiger

that swims oblivious

as to how

trapped he is,

without a clue.

a letter in the mail

in the old days,

(it's painful when you hear old

people say that)

but in the old days,

we used to get mail.

in fact it came twice a day.

letters, freaking

hand written letters.

with postage stamps, and

addresses written 

in lovely penmanship.

inside were three pages

from someone you knew

telling you everything

you didn't know about

their life.

a long distance phone call 

cost too much, and with a letter

you could read it over

and over again.

no one threw away

a letter. it was a keepsake.

you'd put it on your desk

for a while

before the drawer.

and milk. don't get me

started on when we used to

have milk delivered

and eggs and juice. bacon.

second gear

i'm stuck in second gear,

the clutch

won't let me go

into third, then fourth,

then fifth

then sixth.

i've been in second gear

all day.

on hills,

and turns,

the back roads,

the free way.

grinding slowly forward,

i want to go faster

but i can't.

i need a good mechanic,

a new car,

a few martinis,

someone behind me,

with kind and friendly

hands.

scorpio?

i don't believe

in astrology, and yet

at times

there does seem to be some

strange

truth to it all.

what's your sign?

what moon are you under?

are you on

the cusp?

i have no clue.

no idea what it all means,

or where it goes.

all i know

is that please, please don't

be a scorpio.

the video makes it look easy

there is nothing simple

despite

what the book says, 

the instruction

manual.

the video,

it always looks a lot easier

when someone else

is doing it.

take romance for example.

boy meets girl.

they fall in love.

there's flowers, a ring,

a marriage, 

a honeymoon. a life

beyond that.

and there you go.

right?

not so.

the law of distraction

on a whim

i buy new luggage.

i have no travel plans, but

i'm setting

the notion

into play.

if you envision it.

it will happen.

and yes, i've been reading

a lot of those mumbo jumbo

law

of attraction books.

one of them balances

up a wobbly

bookcase in the hallway.

right now

i'm thinking of an ice

cream

cone. two scoops.

i feel it could happen

by days end.

i can see it in my hand.

there's something i need to tell you

there's a point

in nearly every

new relationship where

one or

the other leans across the table

and in a conspiratorial whisper says,

there's something i need to tell you.

whatever follows that sentence

is never good. it's more than likely

a game changer.

it's best at that point to raise

your hand to flag the waiter

down

and give him or her the international signal

for check please,

rubbing your thumb and fingers

together.

no need to hear anymore.

time to go.

a little afternoon chit chat

i like my new

telemarketers. they've been so nice

lately

all stuffed into their cavernous

barn

selling everything

from windows,

to viagra,

to medical insurance.

it sounds like

a birdcage at the zoo, full

of exotic

birds, chirping like crazy.

one asked me the other day,

i think his name was

James Clark,

asked me how my back was doing.

he had a copper wrap

around band to help me, if i had

49.99 and a good credit card.

who ever stops to call you and

ask you such

a question. how's your back?

is that sweet, or what?

no one that i know ever seems

concerned with my health

and well being.

note to mom and dad, my back is sore.

of course after about ten minutes

of shooting the breeze with, James

Clark,

and telling him a big fat lie,

that my wife

has all my credit cards and she's

in the basement doing laundry

and i'm in a wheelchair, blind

as a bat, and need to go

to the bathroom, before i

take the elevator down,

they get angry and say mean words

before hanging up.

homemade pizza

i bake a pizza.

but the dough doesn't cook all the way 

through.

it's still rather, well, ummm,

doughy.

does that matter to me.

no.

i'm starving

and the cheese and sausage

are both bubbling

with heat.

i pay the price.

i cancel the day and roll around

in bed

like a little girl

who

can't go out and play on account

of the rain.

the first christmas tree

i remember the first christmas

tree

finding it

on a cold wind chilled

lot

at the church.

holding each tree up and asking,

what about this one.

it's tall and plump.

we'll have to cut the bark and

trim the stump

in order for your

star to fit,

but it will look fine in the corner

and beneath it the snow cloth,

the angels,

all the gifts,

and she smiled

and said,

with glistening eyes.

it's perfect, my dear, just perfect.

let's take it home.

and then we kissed.

feeding the furnace

like the furnace fed

with coal

there is only so much anger

and hatred

one heart

can hold, until it burns

out 

and destroys you.

the shoveling is endless.

it breaks your back

holding that grudge.

it's time to let the fire die.

to walk away

from this old house.

it's time to let old dogs alone,

to let them sleep,

or run away, 

to let them move on to their 

own life

and not be in their way.

let's go home, my dear

home,

is there a better word

in the english language?

home.

the place

where we live and love.

the place

where we're safe

and warm.

everything in its place.

it's where our books are.

where

our bed is.

our dishes put away.

a vase of flowers on the mantle.

the flames within the

fireplace.

is there a better thing to say,

than

let's go come

my dear.

let's go home and stay.

there is still time

there is still time

the wise

man says

as he sits with his arms

out,

legs folded.

his long beard gone grey.

his eyes a soft

religious

blue

like pale water of a sunlit

bay.

he's neither happy or sad.

he's

nowhere

and fine with that.

possessions

mean nothing.

love may leave

or love may stay.

it makes no difference

to hime.

he's

in a place we dream of.

we read about,

we

write about.

and hope to arrive one day.

the venus spin

does it matter

that venus is the only planet that spins

clockwise?

what's up with that?

is there a reason, or is it 

God

playing games with the universe,

or just bored with the whole

thing and having

a laugh?

looking back

there is no shame

in looking back at where we've come

from

in reminiscing, 

remembering

what occurred in the distant

past.

whether good or bad,

we need to know why

and how,

to find closure in the best

way you

know how.

it helps you to move forward,

to take the next

step

towards where you need to be,

at last.

every way you look at it you lose

i can't watch

these two old men bickering

on the tube.

i can't listen to another word

about

china,

about russia.

about emails

and

children on the take.

the virus.

it's blue news. gloom and doom

for all.

we have no choice

again.

but we wish upon a star

and throw

our vote down into the dry

well,

hoping, like a wounded

child

that tomorrow our parents

will stop

fighting.

in search of icing

we all want

cake

we want it warm

and rich

sweet.  we want it on

a fine

china

plate.

we want to look at it

coming out

of the oven

cooling

on the sill, or counter.

we all

want cake.

but it's not enough, we want

the icing too.

in the cold cellar

with the children

up, and gone, having moved on

towards

the side

of their own lives,

what is there to do,

but remember

what was

and sift through

the boxes

stored in the cold cellar

beside

other things

once new.

there is less

there is less

to think about without you here.

without

your words, your body

leaning

elsewhere.

there is less worry,

less

anxiety,

less fear.

the less list has grown long

and wide

as time rolls on,

and 

your image

in some thickened fog,

disappears.

a raindrop

the sheen

of 

rain

upon your nose makes

me smile

and want

to hold you

until the end of time,

or at least

until

the night unfolds.

bring the fire blanket

i throw the dough into the air

and let it spin

before landing

back in my hands.

flour is everywhere.

i have no idea what i'm doing.

but the oven is hot.

the cheese and sauce is ready.

the sausage too.

this could be a disaster,

so if you're coming over

bring a fire blanket

and an food option with you.

her new shangri-la

she sets anchor

in the small 

apartment by the lake.

her new shangri-la.

not unlike the last one

so many years ago.

and now it's anchors away.

the ship has settled in port.

a new life

begins.

a new set of keys, 

a new parking pass.

a new

lover, perhaps, or an old

one

with new promises

for sure.

finding happiness

boxes

fill the room.

a new this,

a new that.

more things i really don't need,

but want

just the same.

does it bring happiness.

of course not.

not even love does that.

nor money.

nor a house, or car, or

washboard

abs.

happiness is found 

when you conquer suffering,

not acquiring

things or people, or even

a fluffy cat.

less is more

there used

to be a can opener in the house

an

old tool

in the broken drawer

that

cut into the lid

and slowly

with great effort chopped

the metal

open.

and then beans fell out

into

the pot.

she stirred

as it began to boil.

it wasn't much,

but to us, it was enough.

i can't believe how dumb i was back then

it's easy to look backwards

and

laugh.

and shake our head

at the foolishness

in our life.

how the hell did i do that,

and why.

the lovers we choose.

the jobs

we take,

how unwise we were back then.

the mistakes we make.

what's wrong with us

to behave like that?

i can imagine at 92 thinking

boy

i was dumb back then,

when i was 91.

don't even ask me about 21.

i don't mean to pry

the computer is slow.

but it's okay.

i understand i whisper to it

and gently

press the keys to get

to where i want to go.

each page

slowly unfolds. take your time

i tell it.

i understand.

we all wake up this way sometimes.

let me get you some coffee.

a donut, perhaps?

relax.

stretch your arms, your legs.

we'll talk

about this.

tell me, if you want, i don't

mean to pry.

what's wrong?

mind games

i can create anything

with this mind.

i can make someone horrible

into a wonderful

human being.

i can imagine love.

i can imagine betrayal.

in the worst of times i can talk

myself into

fun.

there is nothing i can't

do with

these thoughts of mine.

there is no scenario unspun.

disasters turn into parties,

parties

turn into 

disasters.

i can make believe you're

always going to be in my life,

and i can imagine,

rightly or wrongly so,

that

we're done.

the royal typewriter

i miss the old typewriter.

the clang

of it,

the inky ribbon, the stuck keys.

the click

clack

of the rattling metal

parts.

i miss the way

it 

moved,

the way it looked.

the weight of it,

the conceit of it.

the sound the bell made

when it came

to the end of a sentence.

i miss

the way it made you feel

when you sat down in front

of it

and rolled a clean

sheet of paper into its

thirsty mouth.

anything was possible with

this typewriter.

anything.

chopping wood for winter

anxious for a fire.

i chop

wood all afternoon

in the back yard.

the axe swings with ease.

i feel the strike

of the blade against each

fallen limb.

the clean cut

and fall of the lumber

as i stack it near the door.

there will be fire

this winter.

there will be snow and cold,

there will

be love too.

i can assure you of that.

i make a vow,

then raise the axe and swing,

i chop some more.

the olive branch

you reach out with an olive branch.

enough

being enough.

you take the higher road

after

a thousand miles

on the dirt beaten path.

it doesn't matter

if the branch is taken, the peace

accord

signed.

it's for you, that you do this.

not her,

or him, them.

life is too long too long

to

not let go.

not enough cake

we don't treat ourselves enough,

we don't reward

the inner child,

the outer shell of being an

adult.

we don't eat enough cake.

or enjoy

enough sunrises.

we dwell on what ifs,

and if only,

we wallow in our mistakes.

we don't embrace the pain,

the suffering, we hide

from it, numb it.

we try to escape.

you can't wake up and risk

a day without

some sort of unwanted rain.

it's all part of it.

the end, the beginning,

the long middle of life.

stop looking for happiness,

and start

living in the joy of each day.

what warms your heart

what warms your

heart

is tea

is you sitting on the long

deep couch

with paper

and glasses on beside

me.

a slice of cake,

the moon splashed

upon the window.

just us together.

what makes

it work

is love and laughter,

beyond

anything

we can define or see.

old friends

some books

are new, some old of course.

like friends

they line the shelf

well read,

the pages crimped with

dog ears

some writing inside the cover

by hand.

to so and so with love.

perhaps

one day

you'll pick up the phone

like

an old book, waiting

to be read again,

and call upon 

the old friend.

calm water

calm waters prevail

no

storm

left.

it's emptied itself upon us.

washed

the sea

onto the shore,

blew it's heart out

as we waited behind our

doors.

no more

of it will come.

it's, like us,

exhausted by it all,

done.

taking the polygraph

i buy a used lie detector

on ebay.

the owner said it was used

on several

well known

criminals who made the news.

mostly white collar

crime, but

the occasional assault 

and battery too.

i ask my new girlfriend Betty

to sit down

as i strap it to her arm,

then question her

about her whereabouts last

friday night

when she said she was home

ironing.

nothing but lies.

the machine is zig zagging all

over the place,

not one word of truth comes

out of her mouth.

what's your favorite color,

i ask her.

pink she says.

again the machine goes nuts.

i ask her if her name is Betty

and she says yes.

ding ding ding. the machine

starts smoking like crazy.

even that is a lie.

finally i turn it off.

she smiles at me and asks,

so how'd i do.

i wipe my brow 

shake my head.

she's cute and fun,

adorable with a pair of sexy legs.

so, i guess i'll

let the test slide for now.

the third planet

the blue sky persuades

me to

go out

and lie in the sun.

i love the sun.

the warm hand of it

upon my face.

i can't imagine a world

without a sun.

it's nice

to be the third planet

just far enough away.

just close enough,

to lie out

and sun bathe.

chasing a cow

if i had to actually chase

a cow down

the street and kill it

or milk it,

i probably wouldn't eat meat,

or drink milk,

same goes for a chicken,

a pig,

or a veal cutlet,

or a turkey leg..

i don't have it in me to kill

an animal

skin it

then make steaks or pork chops

out of it.

so i'm glad that someone has

done that for

me and put it in

nice plastic packages

at the grocery store.

i try not to think about how

cute they

may have been, if they

had names like lulubelle,

or jimmy,

or porky.

someone fire up the grill.

where's the montreal seasoning?

i'm starving

up all night

if i stay up too late

at night

i need my credit card handy.

i see knives  sharp enough

to cut steel wire,

three inch

thick bundles of twine.

car wax that keeps its shine

despite

being set afire.

i see weight loss pills,

weight gain pills.

i see pants that fit any size.

i see magnifying glasses

that work

at night.

ovens that make crispy

anything you put into it,

from potatoes

to sheperd's pie.

i see facial cream that will

make you look

ten years younger.

books that will make you

smarter.

i can't sleep a wink, but it's

well worth it

by the time the sun rises.

what's wrong with you?

what are you doing

she asks

me as i clip my nails

on the front porch.

i look up at her and say.

i'm clipping my nails.

look at them.

uneven and jagged.

no, she says. i mean

what are you doing 

with your life?

what's wrong with you?

i've never seen you like

this before. it's almost

like you don't care about

anything anymore.

what are you talking about.

i'm taking care of my

nails

and tomorrow i have work.

you don't have a dog,

or even a plant in your

house. you don't watch

the news, you don't read

the paper. you don't give

a damn about what's going

on in the world these days.

ouch. see what you made

me do, i suck the blood

off the tip of my finger.

i hold up my finger to show

her the dot of blood bubbling out.

this is your fault, i tell her.

you're better than this, she says,

you have potential to do

some great things.

but you just have to get up

off your butt and get to work

on them.  you're not a spring

chicken anymore.

i say the word chicken, hmmm,

then let out a long sigh. yeah,

you're right. you're right.

you're always right.

what about pizza tonight?

half pepperoni, half mushrooms?

coins in the rain

some days you just

don't want to make eye 

contact with anyone.

you aren't feeling

too sociable, or particularly friendly.

you need a break from the world,

from people,

from saying things like, hello.

you've got the blues

maybe,

or just tired, sick of love,

tired of rumination and what ifs,

so you look down

as you walk, lost in thought,

hands in your pocket,

kind of slumped over

in a bleak depressive way.

it's what poets and artistic people do

when they got nothing.

on these days though, you find

a lot of change

on the sidewalk.

or gloves, or umbrellas.

the money you find are

dimes and  pennies for the most part,

but occasionally

you'll strike it rich and find

a quarter, or a folded

crumpled dollar bill that escaped

someone's pocket.

you take the side streets, the alleys,

and cross over

when you see someone

coming at you with a smile

on their face.

you're just not in the mood

for chit chat. so you move on,

bending over

to pick up that penny.

when you get to the corner you

toss all the money

into the guy's hat

who lives on the stream grate.

that helps

a little.

it's beginning to look a lot like...

i'm actually thinking

of celebrating

Christmas this year,

the last two or three

were horrible.

dark memories i try to avoid.

but this year i might put out

a candle or two. find

that glass snow globe

and set it on the window sill.

maybe toss down a string

of lights on the buffet.

maybe i'll make a batch 

of sugar cookies and stack

them on a red plate,

like my mother used to do.

i'll get out my list of three

people i need to send cards to

and start the search

at the drug store when i have

the time.

a wreathe for the door might

be nice as well. but i don't

want to overdo it.

i'll have to think about the wreathe.

living large

we'd have the occasional

brush with the law

when out

driving the streets late

at night

back in the day.

the day being the 1970s.

beer in hand, the radio

blasting the Door's

Light My Fire

that we knew all the words to.

four guys, not a single girl

around.

and the cops would spot

us and turn on their

party lights,

make the driver get out

and explain what we were

doing out and about

at this hour.

one a.m.

we'd hide the weed, stuff

the beer cans

under the seat, and brush

our long hair out of our eyes.

going for food, we'd all say

with grins on our

stoned faces.

go home, the cop would say

in a fatherly way.

get your jack in the box

food, then head home.

we'd give him a beer or

two for him and his partner

then off we'd go

to the drive thru for some

greasy fries and tacos,

a jack burger,

onion rings and large cokes.

the cops waving as they

drove away.

calendar girl

it's a seasonal calendar

from last year,

i find in a drawer,

stuck on january when i got it in

the for christmas

wrapped under the tree,

a gift

from someone i used to know,

and almost loved,

and still

do

but in a vague facebook kind

of way.

i never tacked it to a wall

and turned the page to february,

seeing the snow

laden hills or streets,

nor

the march winds pulling

kites in

a blue struck breeze.

i never made it 

to july, with the fireworks

and flags,

or august with the wide

soft beaches

sunlit and warm. a picture

next of autumn 

and the falling of leaves.

the calendar never made it to

the holidays either,

and neither did we.

that page too

was never turned.

out with the old

one by one

i start replacing things in the house.

they've grown tired

and old,

windows,

the refrigerator.

the stove,

the furnace

the ac

the water heater.

the kitchen floor.

i install

new carpet.

new curtains,

a new vase for the mantle.

out with old and in with the new.

and least i forget,

her too.

two lovers and i love them both the same

i fall in love

with Siri

and Alexa, both of them

have lovely

voices.

they sound so wonderful

and kind.

helpful

and compassionate.

they make my

imagination run wild with

desire.

i think about them all day

and night.

i hug my

pillow as i fall to sleep,

actually

both pillows,

one for each,

and whisper to them

telling them that i adore

them both,

but just can't decide.

the laundry room

is there a place

worse

than the apartment laundry

room.

the wet clothes

lugged

across the frozen grass

to the metal

door and in

where the cages are,

holding

boxes

and bicycles,

plastic christmas trees.

lean and bent,

still full of tinsel

and ornaments.

a  fist full of quarters

are fed

into the rusting white

machines.

detergent.

and then the long wait

as it rumbles

and spins.

shakes on it's unbalanced

feet, then thunders home

with still wet clothes.

next the dryer and another

hour of waiting,

of reading a book you'll

never finish,

sitting in the folding chair

left behind

by a tenant who died

last week.

i pray for cold

the rain

has brought back the green

in the yard.

i stare out the window

and try

to imagine flowers.

perhaps a tree.

a bird bath,

maybe a dog digging about.

soon

it will be covered in a fine

layer

of white

snow.

the shroud that winter

dresses

it.

i pray for cold.

the new health insurance plan

i set aside four hours

of phone

time to talk with my health insurance

agent.

leaving twenty minutes

for the period

of being on hold and listening

to muzak.

she's a fast talker.

reminds me

of my first ex wife.

slick and sharp.

the knife is in before you know it.

i sign up after asking

what are my choices.

she rattles off

war and peace, then whittles

it down to cost.

no premium, a reasonable

premium and 

then the high ball premium

where 

you get a new heart

and brain at a discount.

first in line.

she asks me about my kidneys.

i look down

and lift up my shirt and tell

her so far so good.

but the night is young.

we make a deal.

she cracks another joke.

she's rodney dangerfield

with the jokes.

then she reads off a twenty digit

confirmation

number. i say i do.

several times, two words i made

a vow to never say

again.

and we're done.

we welcome nights

we welcome

nights.

the bed, the comfort

of

the sheets, the pillow

where we lay

our head.

we rejoice in the end

of a hard

day.

no tears shed, no

worry

nothing gone wrong,

no arguments

per say. 

the window wide,

the curtains parted

to a starlit

sky.

night is where we dream.

where we fall

into

the place

we learned as a child,

it's warm

it's safe.

it's home. our saving

grace.

never going back

i pretty much know

where i'll

never go again,

either for the first time or

the next time.

i don't expect to ever arrive

in cleveland, 

or detroit

or syracuse.

i won't be going back

to south beach

either,

or manchester,

or turkey,

or venice, or across the bridge

to where i grew

up in a place

called glassmanor.

of course i don't know for sure

these things,

but it's a feeling.

the same one you get

when loved ones vanish.

Losing

we go to the casino

with

the idea

of only losing what we bring,

no more,

no less.

we're more prepared

to lose than

we are to win.

what if we looked at

everything

in life that way.

today

i'm going to lose

only so much self respect.

so much joy,

so much happiness.

i'm going to lose

only the love i can afford,

my ambition.

my hope. and when it

all runs dry,

i'll go home having 

achieved what i came for.

the sweet blue sky

we care

and then suddenly as if overnight

we don't care.

we say things like

i really don't give a damn,

so what.

pffft. really?

who cares?

but it took a long time

to arrive,

to take the train,

the bus,

and walk up a mountain

to get there.

but once there, 

you spread your arms

and kiss

the sweet blue sky

and breathe in the absence

of fear.

girl parts

i want to meet a really

really

really

smart person.

someone

less dumb than me, if

i need to set

the bar that low.

someone to guide me,

mentor me,

kiss me.

someone with long legs

and kissing skills,

but with girl parts, don't

make me draw a picture.

someone wise,

someone

clever and witty,

funny

and dangerously sly.

it doesn't matter

if they have

short hair, blonde or

brunette, or green

or blue eyes.

i'm setting the new bar

like way way high.

smart as a whip, is

all i ask.

with no mask, and nothing

to hide.

a broom to sweep

a broom to sweep

a fire

to burn

a cloth and bucket, and

mop

to wash.

a spray

a brush, a tool

to scrape

a new lock on

the door,

the gate. block,

no contact,

delete delete delete,

that's how you do it.

to get out,

to escape.

full of pumpkin

my skin has turned an orange

color for some strange reason, 

so i go

in to see my doctor

and ask her what the deal is.

she asks me how many

carrots i eat a day.

i tell her zero. in fact the last

time i ate a carrot

was in a soup. cut up into little

slices.

what about pumpkin, she asks.

are you eating a lot

of pumpkin

related foods and drinks.

ummm. yeah. maybe.

i did have a slice of pumpkin pie

the other day,

with pumpkin whipped cream

on top.

and a pumpkin latte,

and a pumpkin scone.

she nods. okay. okay.

maybe cut back a little.

it will go away. but may i suggest

wearing a brown tie

for a while. goes nice

with that skin tone.

the job estimate

we need a copy of your insurance,

and

a copy of your license.

also

a photo of you.

a pint of blood.

and a lock of hair from your

first born.

we need your mother's

maiden name.

we need

to know the name of your first

pet.

we need a new password.

we want

you to sign here.

and promise you're not a 

communist

or addicted to crystal meth.

we need references.

a list of your next of kin.

we need reviews.

we need yelp and facebook

and instagram

something to prove who you

really are.

we need you to remove you 

shirt and lift up your arm

for this vaccination.

bend over, say ahhh.

sharp words

sharp nails,

sharp words, sharp teeth.

they bite

and scratch

dig deep

into our psyche.

it's hard to be the duck

letting

water run

off us.

instead we grimace

and weep

at what we hear

and see. our egos

won't let

us sleep.

musically inept

i have no musical

talents.

just the dashboard,

the penny whistle,

the tapping of a foot.

i can't even snap

my fingers on my right hand.

i believe it's

a 

neurological condition,

but i digress and drift.

i know the words

to the songs i love and

can sing them

loudly whether in the shower

or out.

and my dog approves, listen

to us howl.

i've got the vinyl,

the 8 tracks, the cd's,

the cassettes.

i've got spotify and pandora,

youtube

and nine other

venues that i have no clue

how to access.  but somehow

they play. i sing, but no

banjo

or castanets. 

the river styx

anger takes up a lot of energy

when done

wrong and you feel

the need for some sort

of revenge.

but no more. karma has its own

way of taking

care of things.

so you let go.

breathe. exhale the negativity.

find

peace and calm.

anger is poison in the long run,

but it did help you 

to get to the other side

of the river styx.

vegan for three hours

i stop eating meat

for a few hours.

i tell people that i'm a vegan.

they laugh.

they don't think i have the willpower

to abstain

from a ribeye steak,

or a stop

by five guys for a double burger

with bacon

cheese

etc.

 little do they know how strong

my mind is now.

once i had the willpower of an infant,

but now,

i'm a buddhist monk, i can 

abstain from all things if i put

my mind to it.

nothing tempts me anymore,

nothing

except for exaggeration, embellishment

and making

things up.

i fear

i fear many things.

old age, for one.

losing my mind, or ability

to run

away.

i fear the cupboards being bare.

the money gone.

shoes with holes

in bottoms, stuck with

one pair.

i fear pain.

the loss of love.

i fear

gaining weight,

losing

hair,

too late.

i fear not remembering.

i fear

remembering.

i fear not reading

or writing,

but sitting by a window

with a distant

stare.

i fear tomorrow.

i fear today. of being ill.

i fear that so much time

has slipped away.

my mother, God rest her soul,

has taught me well.

sandwich people

you can tell who a person is

by how

they make a sandwich.

whole wheat or white.

a french roll perhaps.

wonder bread or brioche?

straight up

from the bag,

or toast?

or we mayo or mustard?

and what goes in it.

layered

blankets of cheese,

jams and jellies, perhaps.

meat,

or fish,

peanut butter lathered on

in wide swipes, 

crunchy and rich.

ham on rye, or we going there?

tuna?

or God forbid egg salad,

with the corner cuts

and crust

removed.  peppers please.

chance meeting

it's a chance meeting,

an accident of sorts.  going

here

when i should have gone there.

is that the way world works?

fate, luck, destiny?

i'd like to think there's a plan.

there's reason,

there's infinite wisdom

in what we becomes of us.

call it faith, if you must.

at times i believe that, and

while other times i

have my doubts, and think

back

and wonder if it truly is

God,

whom i trust.

curry and mystery meat

what kind of a day would

it be

if i didn't throw

out

a little ditty about the ex.

but no.

it bores me now.

apathy has set in.

it's like a  bad dream

after eating

Indian food.

and spending the night

curled around

the porcelain wheel,

moaning, 

with curry and mystery

meat tumbling out,

never again.

now wasn't that fun?

the monkey bars,

the playground was more of a place

where children

ran home

with broken arms

and legs.

the bars constructed out

of old plumbing pipes

welded weakly

together.

the chain swings with a rubber

seat.

no doubt death awaited as

you went higher and higher.

and that metal wheel,

littered with

frightened children,

that spun around in wobbly

fashion,

faster and faster

it would go

as some maniacal father

pushed it to the limit.

how we screamed and hung

on for dear life.

and that slide,

twenty feet high,

made of shiny metal,

so hot our skin singed

as we slid down

into the gravel pit.

and our mother smiling

ear to ear at the bottom,

saying,

now wasn't that fun?

the love lock

some locks expire,

the key

no longer turns,

the latch

won't release.

no matter how hard you

pound

or beg

or kick,

the door won't open.

is this some metaphor

for love

that you once thought

was for keeps?

by george i think

it is. but i'll spare you

the cliche

that rust, like soured

love, never sleeps.

hey junior!

i take a ride by the old folks

home

to see what's going on. to see what

the future might look

like

there's a line of women

sitting on the porch

like potted flowers,

knitting,

waving to me, hey sweetie,

hey handsome.

why don't you pull that car

over and have a glass of wine

with us,

it's happy hour.

i smile and wave back.

you look lonely junior, maybe

you'd like

some company.

one in a red dress stands up

and shimmies, then blows me a kiss.

i almost pull over, but then

hit the gas pedal.

i'm not quite ready for this.

it could be a tumor

everything

could be the end.

a sore throat.

this bump, this bruise,

this headache,

the weakness

of a limb,

the blurred eye, the dulled

ear,

the dim

outlook on life.

where did that come from.

there has to be a tumor

somewhere.

i give myself six months

before i die.

but usually by the next

day

i feel fine.

sign here

sign here

and here and here

and there.

initial here,

turn the page,

there and there

and there.

one more page,

were almost done,

okay.  there, there,

up there,

down below

and here.

now sign and date

on the dotted

line.

and we thank you.

play happy

is it too late,

is there enough time.

how much

sand is left in the hour glass.

how many breaths

are in us

before we

go.

how many more sunrises,

sunsets

are we allowed.

it's best not to think about

such things.

and pretend

that there is plenty

of time left, let's play

happy,

starting now.

can i offer you tea?

she's lonely.

i can see that in the way she offers

me a drink

after looking at the wallpaper

she wants hung.

tea?

perhaps some cookies. can you

stay

for a few minutes.

i'd like to tell you  a story about

how i came

to live here.

it was forty years ago.

i look at my watch. i fold up my

book.

sure. i look around the room.

the old sofa. 

china in the hutch.

the pictures of family on the walls.

the white vase

on the mantle.

it's a long story, one she's told

before. but i listen.

i shift my feet.

i nod politely, but offer no words.

she needs to tell me this tale.

she wants me to

know her story.

she wants this life to mean more.

change prevails

is there such a thing as permanence?

i ask

myself

as i peruse the shelves

of the big store.

permanent ink.

permanent press.

is there a permanent record

that keeps

score of all our doings,

our mistakes,

our regrets.

having been around for awhile

i see no such

thing as permanence.

not in work, or love, status,

or health.

we live, we die.

all things do.

permanence is a myth,

in my mind,.

change prevails.

star crawler

you find some new music

that sounds

like old music.

starcrawler.

it takes you back into a time

when

you danced the night away

with no inhibition.

the dark club,

the dj.

the drinks, the energy

of youth.

a mosh pit of fun and

excitement. the music loud

and crashing into your mind.

it's good to go back and yet

stay where you are now,

at the very same time.

the old ball and chain

sometimes you miss people.

or miss

what you imagined

them to be.

it's a strange thing

this

relationship amnesia.

how it wipes the slate clean

despite the horror

of everything,

but then you come

to your senses and rub

your ankle where the ball

and chain once rubbed

against your skin, and you

smile, free at last and 

happy again.

no stripes

i stay away

from stripes, pants or shirts.

no prison garb

for me.

sheets even.

there's not a stripe

in the house, or plaid

for that matter.

no tartan cloth,

no checkered fabric,

no paisley,

no polka dots.

it's either black or

white,

or a darker shade

of pale. no sign

of a single stripe, but

whatever you wear, i'm

down with it,

truly, even orange,

or lime green, it's swell.

her true love

i love him, she tells me on the phone.

i truly truly love him.

she's been drinking.

she's sitting under a tree outside

his house, smoking a cigarette

in her car.

i think he's on a date, she says.

do you think that too?

probably, i tell her, after all you did

break up

when you caught him

lying and cheating again.

but i love him. he has these really

long legs.

i know, i know. you told me about

nine hundred times.

you also told me about his addictions,

his alcoholism, how he wants

your money

and how his kids hate you.

should i call him to see where he

is?

maybe i should apologize for being

so angry at him

when i caught him

with another woman.

he didn't deserve to be yelled at

like i did. what's wrong with me?

maybe if i was

skinnier like his deceased ex wife?

well, she's getting skinnier by the day,

i suspect.

what should i do.

it's almost midnight and  i have to work

tomorrow.

have another drink.  stalking takes

patience. time. you're just getting started.

she had her day

i see the glamorous

old dame

making her way to the mailbox.

she's in her silver dress

for midday.

draped

in bracelets

and necklaces.

her hair done. her nails.

a stripe

of red lipstick across

her face.

she moves

across the parking lot

as if on

a dance floor.

her hips sway as she

wobbles

on high heels.

you shake

your head and smile,

you imagine she had her day.