other things on my mind

i'll get to it.

that spill, that broken glass.

that old

newspaper

stacked up on the table.

water for the plants.

the trash that needs

to go out.

the late bills.

i'll get to the junk mail,

the real mail.

the letter that you sent.

not to worry,

i'll get to all of that.

but let me think about it

first.

i've got other things

on my mind

and you're not one of them.

trust me on that

if it rains or if it doesn't 

i'll be there.

leave the porch light on.

leave

the key under the mat.

go to bed if you're tired.

but don't worry,

i'll find my way to you.

i always do.

don't let the other times

i've let you down

confuse you.

i'm coming back.

you've always known that,

you know where

my heart is.

no need to worry, or

wait up,

go bed and when i get

there i'll lie down beside

you. i won't

make the same mistake

again.

trust me on that.

old things

i like what's broken in.

the shoes

that fit just right, the shirt.

the old pair

of blue jeans, ripped

and torn,

frayed at the cuff, but still

a perfect fit.

the car

i've  had for ten years.

the seats

that know me,.

the pedals, the stick shift.

we find comfort in old things.

old friends.

where would life

be without them.

waiting for the amazon truck

i check the cupboard

for a snack

but i'm completely out of junk

food.

i thought i had a pack

of twizzlers in there

from the last time i went

to the movies

two years ago, but they're

gone.

no chips, no cookies.

not even a stick of gum.

i go onto amazon and order

a box of skittles.

arrival time is tomorrow

despite being a prime member.

i have not choice but to

be patient and wait.

you look like someone i know

you remind me of someone,

she says,

pointing her finger at me

and wagging it.

you look like someone,

someone i know.

someone in the movies,

maybe.

brad pitt, i say out loud.

and she says, no, no.

paul newman?

who's he?

no you look like someone

that i've seen on tv.

on a commercial, maybe,

for indigestion, or for

ED. darn, i can't remember,

oh well. 

it'll come to me.

the trip to Nepal

i pack a few sandwiches

for my trip

to Nepal.

i figure i might get hungry

on the long

trek through

the snow.

i make a thermos of hot

coffee too

and put on two pairs

of socks and

two pairs of underwear

to ward off

the cold.

but i'm ready to go.

i even have a hat made

out of goat hide

to fit in.

all i need now is my

sherpa.

who's late already with

the sled

to pull me up the mountain.

big shrimp

i get into a conversation

with the fish

man at the grocery store.

he used to be stocking frozen

peas the week

before, but now he's behind

the fish counter,

weighing flounder and scallops

in his bloody white smock.

may i suggest the wild shrimp,

he says. on sale.

from the gulf. they are extraordinarily

large this year.

i think there was a uranium

spill up river.

okay, i tell him. give me a

pound. does the glow go away

once you cook them.

of course he says, i'd say

steam them, but pan fry is

fine too.

do you have an air fryer?

the wrong side of the bed

it's good to be alone

when you wake up 

on the wrong side

of the bed

slightly cranky

because you have to go to work

today, and it's only monday.

you haven't had

your coffee yet.

if someone was here,

you'd have to put on a smile,

slip on the happy mask

as if everything is fine.

make small talk about

how windy it is outside.

but now, you just

get up and shake it off.

maybe look out the window

for a while

staring at the trees

dancing side to side.

the jamestown journals

i remember when we finally

landed at jamestown

after six months of being

out to sea, eating fish

and not taking a bath, using

a limited supply

of baby powder to stay fresh.

finally someone yelled out

and said land ho,

to which we all said, right,

that joke is getting old.

but there was land and so

somebody woke up captain smith

who was in his suite

with the pastor's wife,

who was a widow now

because the pastor 'fell'

overboard one night in a storm.

alright, he said, looking

through his spy glass,

we're here. i think.

he crumpled up the map he

was looking at and said,

whatever.

we looked out at the endless

thick woods teaming with bugs

and snakes,

and shook our heads

scratching at our enormous

mutton chops.

we then rowed ashore and started

shooting animals with our muskets

for new clothes and food

and cutting down trees for lodging

it was a nightmare.

someone forgot to bring

the axe sharpener and so we

had to use our giant belt buckles

to carve wood. it was

cold as hell too and the snow was

already half way up our 

capri sailing pants.

i came down with the whooping

cough the first week

and my wife betty got a

case of the mumps despite 

the squirrel shawl i made her,

but then she caught an 

indian arrow

in the back of the neck

that was impossible to pull out,

and died three weeks later.

so i had to marry her cousin

charlotte who was only twelve

at the time, but already a fine

seamstress.

the stew she made with wild

rabbit and chopped shallots

was uncanny.

former teacher of the year

i run into my neighbor

at the local dive

bar on the other side

of the railroad tracks.

she teaches 3rd grade

at the elementary school,

which is part online and

part in class.

she was  former teacher

of the year in the tri state area.

she's cradling a whiskey sour

in both hands,

hunched over the bar.

hey, i say to her, sitting

down.

she looks at me.

dark circles are under her

eyes, and she's been

crying. her hands are

black with ink

and there's a stack of

papers next to her on

the bar. her laptop is

open with the picture

of an empty classroom

being wiped down by

by a janitor in a hazmat suit.

how are the classes

this year, i ask her.

any fun students?

shut up, she says. leave

me alone.

i'm drinking here.

i just had a procedure

when you don't hear from

women

for a while

they'll finally text or call

you and tell

you that they had to go in

for a procedure,

but everything is okay now.

and i'm just resting.

they don't tell you what

the procedure is,

but say, 

please don't worry about me,

i'll be fine.

you're afraid to ask

which hemisphere of the body

the procedure took place,

or what it might be.

you scroll through your 

mind for the possibilities,

starting with the head

and working down

to the feet.

it could be anything, this

procedure.

you want to ask her,

trying to narrow it down,

is there

bleeding involved. are you

limping,

can you bend over,

or go up a flight of stairs.

can you lift your arms over

your head,

stand on a chair and shake em?

should i cancel 

our date at motel six

on saturday?

be careful what you say

we have to whisper now

when talking about sensitive

subjects.

we huddle

in an alley and look over our

shoulders,

and carefully construct

our words

so as not to offend anyone.

i cup my hand around my

mouth and whisper.

i don't really care

about snapping turtles.

do you? i mean,

if they went extinct

would we miss them?

they always scare me when

i go skinny dipping down

at the lake.

fast forward

we'd like to fast

forward when in a jam.

when things

aren't going the way we'd like

them to.

we'd like to hit the button

as we do

on television

and see what's up ahead.

the plot has slowed,

the characters thinned

the whole thing has taken

a wrong turn.

we'd like

to get out of this

relationship, this job,

this time in history where

the world 

seems upside down.

drinking the kool aid

he tells me he's been reading

the constitution

and gives me his take on the first

and second amendments

in excruciating detail.

he's drinking the kool aid

of CNN 24/7, NPR and his

socialist wife, Tanya, formerly

known as Betty.

i yawn and ask him if he

saw the food channel the other

day when they were making

a pot roast.

he shakes his head and looks

at me.

you don't care do you?

aren't you a patriot? don't you

care about the movement,

the revolution. the times are

changing, he says.

we need to disband the police

and tear down the statues,

burn those offensive books.

i tell him about the flourless

chocolate waffle cake.

how delicate it is, and the best

method of baking it.

are you coming to the march

this saturday, he asks me.

it's for women's rights, gay

rights. people of color rights,

native americans,

animal rights, environmental

rights, and saving the whales.

i can make you a sign, if you'd

like. Oprah is going to be

there, and Dr. Phil's wife.

Beyonce is going to sing 

the new national anthem.

i don't know, i tell him.

i'm kind of busy with my new

air fryer and show him 

a picture of the onion rings

i made the other day.

it's not our fault

we like to blame the world's

problems

on other countries.

damn them chinese.

those russians.

those mexicans,

those crazy people from

india with

their telemarketers,

but it's rare that you ever

hear anyone

complain about australia.

how can a country

with kangaroos

and surfing be bad?

they're more like us than

anyone, close

to perfect.

far away and quietly

doing their thing, whatever

that thing is.

witness protection community

we have  room.

come on down

and visit.

we're two hours from the ocean

by car,

and close

to the new shopping mall.

it's a modular

home.

no wheels.

it's really nice inside.

plenty of room to move

around.

the fold out bed

is firm

but nice,

we have cable now

and free

wi-fi.

stay a week if you'd like.

we can go fishing,

or take a ride

on our bikes.

sometimes we grill out

and meet

the neighbors.

many of them have new

names and

a past life

that's best not talked about.

oh look, there's donny osmond

please don't point

out to me

the celebrity in our midst.

the well

known face sitting amongst

us.

who cares. grow up and

move on.

they are no better

no worse

than any of us.

just because you see

them on the screen,

doesn't mean

they're worthy

of our bowing down

to them

when seen.

please for a split second

with your wandering

eyes and swivel head,

pay attention

to us, to me.

blue highways

we take the blue highway

home.

the back road,

the scenic route, and why

not?

we have all day.

the weather

is fine.

the beer cold. the company

of our liking.

let's roll the windows

down,

turn up the music.

let our hair blow.

here we go down

the blue highway.

everyday should be like

this.

a small hole

it takes

a small hole to sink a ship.

a few words

to end

this.

a text

an email, an angry

call.

just one or two things

are enough

anymore

to send it all to the bottom.

one lie

is a bomb 

gone off.

the squeaky door

i find the can of oil

and drip

the clear drops

against the hinge,

pulling the door

back and forth,

against its metal

tightness.

i press and hear

the little pop

of the can,

squeezing until

the squeak is gone,

all lubricated and new.

we all could use

some rejuvenating

oil dripped upon

us at times.

downtown dining

it's the parking,

the one way streets,

the detours,

the broken meters.

the unreadable signs.

the over priced 

bland food,

the inattentive waiters.

it's the drinks

full of ice

and topped off

with a splash

of liquor.

it's the police, the running

of red lights.

the sirens.

the madness of it all.

it's dining

downtown on a tuesday

night.

hugging the right lane

as i hug the right lane

doing 70

the stream of traffic

beside me

flies by at 80

or 90 and beyond.

trucks

cars,

motorcycles.

they zig zag, they tail

gate,

the road rage

is frightening.

inches away from death.

they are bees let loose

from some hive.

it's an indication

of crazed minds, of a

world gone wrong

with no return.

my new love, Isabella

i'm overwhelmed 

by my new Italian air fryer.

i call her Isabella.

voila.

one basket of onion

rings fried up

in a mere twenty minutes.

no oil, no grease,

no splatter.

no clean up or further

drips on my

black shirt.

this could be the beginning

of a long and wonderful

friendship.

i have a picture of her

in my wallet,

in case you want to see her

beautiful curves

and blue icons.

her tremendous basket.

the dusk to dawn drive in

she was the kind of girl

who liked

going to the drive in.

it didn't matter what the movies

were as long

as it was dusk to dawn

and we had plenty of beer

and shrimp rolls

from the concession stand.

i remember the welts

on my neck she gave me.

my strained knee,

the cramps i got in my legs.

our mouths and faces 

red from kissing so hard 

and long.

but the little yellow mg

wasn't the best choice

of cars for the drive in.

one man canoe

i told her no, that i didn't

want to get into

a canoe with her, her and the boat

both being

unstable

in this brown water.

i don't want to go under,

i told her.

but it's too late for that she

said,

showing me her hand

with the ring on it.

i'm sorry, no returns and taken

as is.

to which i said,

we'll see about, and rowed

off without her.

her new bed of flowers

as she kneels

in her garden, planting seed,

planting flowers

in the black soil,

the sun

pushes up against

her winter skin.

she blushes with

heat

on this hot spring day

and wipes her brow.

but she is

bent to the task

or raising

new love, new endeavors

before her mother

comes to stay.

no, this is not a date

three sips into the conversation,

she says

you're a serial dater aren't you?

you're one of those

who does the whole

serial relationship thing.

right?

you finish one

and go on to the other.

like a chain smoker.

i sort of hear what she's saying,

but i'm distracted by the

confusing menu that i had

to open up on my phone.

what?

were you talking to me?

yes. i'm right here and we're

on a date, right now.

who else would i be talking to?

a date?

yes. 

ummm. no, this is not a date

sugar pie.

this is what we call

a meet up.

a getting to know you part

of the online dating program.

it's not a date.

it's part of the elimination process.

a date is when i pick you up

and we go out after

we know each other a little better.

oh no.

you're not  getting out of this.

she slams her bejeweled hand

down on the table.

this is a date buddy boy

and you're buying me dinner

and three glasses of wine.

the nine ounce glasses.

and i want dessert too.

that chocolate waffle thing.

i wonder if they have the paper

menus, i ask her. looking at

my watch and

taking another extra large

gulp of my gin and tonic.

i try to imagine a trap door

in the floor that i can pull

the lever and send her screaming

down.

you just have to get outside

when it's nice out,

people insist that you get outside.

they demand it.

you have

to get out, it's so nice

out, they say.

why are you still inside?

have you been out today,

oh my.

it's so nice.

really, you should get out

and go for a walk

or bike ride.

please, i beg of you to get

out and enjoy this nice

weather we're having.

don't let this day pass you by.

i was out earlier,

and you won't believe how

nice it is today.

the sun is shining.

blue skies.

it's really really nice out.

promise me you'll get out

there today.

say it. say i promise

i'll go outside and enjoy

this nice day we're having.

say it and cross your heart.

okay, good now get out

there and don't forget who told

you so.

enjoy.

too much information

some people

give you too much information.

such as when

your mother

on the phone wants to talk

to you about her sex

life, or worse

yours.

or when a friend tells you

about his vasectomy,

or that he has to stop

off at the drug

store to buy a large

tube of preparation H.

sharing videos

of birth, is not good.

nor is describing in detail

your colonotscomy.

i don't want to see any scars

please don't roll

up your sleeve or

pull up your skirt to see

your cesarean scar,

or open

your mouth wide

to show me

something growning

on the back of

your throat.

if something is infected

please,

keep it to yourself, and

obey the six foot rule

now in effect.

fantasies

we want to believe

in aliens

in big foot

in the loch ness monster.

conspiracies

and far fetched things.

we want

there to be ghosts

and goblins

vampires

and zombies.

we need a fantasy

beyond

this crazy world 

were in.

that's why love appeals

to us so much.

we know nothing

so, once we get vaccinated

we no longer

have to wear masks.

the miracle we've all been

waiting for has arrived.

Praise the Lord

and pass the syringe. 

we can't get the virus

and we can't

give the virus, so now

after two shots, we're good

to go, and life and get

back to normal, right?

we can throw away all

of these itchy, annoying masks

and breathe freely like

the good old days.

uh no. ummm. well.

we're not sure. so until

we really know something,

it's best that you

keep wearing your masks

for another ten years or

so. let's try that and see

how that goes.

oh, and stand back six feet.

and follow the arrows

up and down the aisles

of stores. and wash your hands,

using soap.

we'll send you an e mail,

or text you, or call you

when we have more information,

stand by.

it's dark now, let's go in

things aren't what they

used to be.

every generation pines for

the old

days.

back when

things were simpler.

we didn't have to lock our

doors back then

you hear people say.

we knew everyone

and everyone was a friend.

we said good day

to one another,

we drank lemonade on 

the porch

and sat on the swings,

talking until the stars

came out.

ah the good old days,

we reminisce

about those pleasant

times, but

it's dark now,

and we'd better go in.

the final frontier

every space travel

movie

has the same plot.

they can't get to where

they're going

or they can't get back

because they run

out of fuel,

air, water or food,

and sometimes they

bring back some alien being

from outer space

that will make every living

thing on earth

extinct.

those are the plots.

that's the deal.

my vacation home

when i need a break

from the maddening crowd,

i split my time

between my vacation home

and my

regular home.

i go down to the basement

bringing with me

a small tray of food 

and drinks.

sometimes i put on a pair

of bermuda shorts

and a flowery

shirt,

sandals and a pith helmet.

it's nice to get away

from the bustling

crowds,

the traffic,

the hubub of upstairs.

the fancy dan lights

the neighbors all have 

the new

fancy dan

edison lights hanging in 

their yards.

they have fire pits and

chairs

with white tables.

there's a fountain

in one, a hot tub in the

other.

green plants

and gardens with flowers.

flowers!

they're having people

over

with drinks in their hands.

the barbeques going.

everyone is making

small talk.

i hate small talk.

how can i keep up

with this?

the dangling carrot

there is no carrot

left

for me to follow, to go

faster,

to work harder,

to do anything concerning

love

or friendship.

i've eaten the carrot.

a whole

bunch of carrots

and my vision

is better now.  i see

can clearly now

whats' ahead of me

and which way to go.

damn good conrnbread

the waitress brings out a warm

basket of corn bread.

the steam ribbons into the air.

it's gooey and delicious

with real yellow corn kernels

baked into the sweet batter.

it crumbles in my hand as i

scoop it towards my open mouth.

i move the basket towards

me so that others can't have any.

when it's all gone, the waitress

helps me brush off my sweater

with a flat little stick,

and says, more?

left at the light?

i'm better at giving directions

than taking them.

when  someone says

go to hell

after a bitter disagreement.

i ask them, okay, but where.

left at the light.

straight.

how far is hell?

will there be ice water in hell?

can i just peer

into the window and decide

then?

or is it already a done deal?

the tiny red clown car

i don't 

want to know

how 

all those clowns

got into 

the tiny red car

and keep 

coming out,

but my question 

is more,

why.

sunshine towing company

retrieving my towed

car from

the bunker,

the chain linked high

barbed wire

pen

at six in the morning is

no fun.

putting it mildly.

stickerless

and new to this parking

garage,

how was i to know

that billy bob would be

lurking in the shadows

with his mighty rig,

numbed with

night time liquor,

waiting, like a shark,

to bite and tow.

but here i am, standing

at the bulletproof slotted

window,

staring at an aged bette davis,

in a tank full of smoke,

slipping in a credit card

to release my car

again.

the ego within

it is the ego,

that puffed chest orb

within us

though fragile and weak,

as sensitive

as a child

who's lost his balloon

or run out of candy.

it's this protective self

that heals

slowly, that wants

revenge, reparations

for disrespect

and abuse.

it's a slow go getting

back to normal

and letting go.

no easy rider

we want things simple.

uncomplicated.

easy

and drama free.

but life is anything but that.

it's nuclear

fission,

quadratic equations.

it's mind boggling.

the number of stars,

the infinite

number of cells in a human

body.

the electricity 

of our minds.

how can anything

be simple

in this world of ours.

the long distance call

the telephone

used to be an art form.

the dime

going in, the spin of the heavy

dial

in black,

the numbers and letters

clearly visible

as you stood

under the lights

in the glass encased booth.

the trucks roaring by in the rain.

and you, with your heart

on your sleeve

calling your sweetheart

once again.

the sound

of her voice, her

breathing, warming you

across the miles

of wire.

a stack of coins

ready to slide in,

another dime for another

precious minute

or two.

it's hard to figure out

okay.

it's hot. it's cold.

should i open the windows

or turn up

the heat.

two blankets, or one.

or just 

a sheet.

a sweater, a coat?

shorts?

there's no figuring

out

this weather.

reminds me of a woman

i used to

date

back in january.

bitter cold

but occasionally a 

warm front would appear.

everyone's a hero

everyone is a hero now.

the fireman

the policeman,

the nurse,

the doctor, 

the preschool teacher.

the cross walk patrol

person.

first responders,

second responders,

third and that overlooked

fourth responder.

the guy

sweeping up the mess

after a car crash.

it used to be a job,

with a paycheck.

but now everyone is

a superhero.

worthy of a statue.

i remember when a

hero used to a soldier

dying for his country,

dodging bullets

in a war,

saving his comrades.

i remember when a hero

used to be a sandwich

you could buy on

Coney Island,

or at roadside stand

going to the eastern shore.

(hold the peppers)

there's not enough medals

and trophies to go

around these days,

but i'm sure they'll make

more.

the unknown saint

after eating

three, maybe four rubbery

pieces of calamari

gaskets

on a plate of orange sauce

i hold

my stomach

and begin to pray to

the saint

of gastronomical  issues.

Jimmy of Nazareth, 

a sous chef during

biblical times, and

a lesser known

member of early

Christians. he's

rarely mentioned in 

the Bible, but was always

on hand

when the apostles

were eating

raw fish and oysters

from the sea of Galilee.

i love going home

i hit a bloop

single out to center field

and make it easily to first base,

and after

a pitch or two,

i precede to steal

second base.

sliding in under

the late tag.

the next pitch is a wild

pitch,

the ball rolling back

to the back stop,

so it's easy peasy going

to third

in a slow trot.

all i need to do now

is go home.

and oh how i love going home.

kayaking and quilting

i drive by the new meet up

group rendezvous point

to see if i want

to get out of the car

and join in.

i circle the group of people

with my car

a few times.

it's a combination kayaking

expedition

and quilt making while

rowing.

i have my wet suit on

and a box of yarn. two

brand new silvery needles.

i'm ready, but i'm unsure.

do i really want to meet

these people.

do they want to meet me.

i'm an outsider looking in.

illusions

when the bird

flies into the clean window

believing

there are blue skies before it.

other birds,

trees

and clouds,

and collides with the unforgiving

glass

and falls to the ground.

you understand.

who doesn't believe

in illusions

once in a while.

the game

i ask her plainly

so, did you have sex with your

old boyfriend

who you reconnected

with on face book

after so many years.

you know, the guy who

texts you all the time

when you're at my house?

and she says.

i'm not going to tell you that.

i laugh and say,

okay, thanks.

i have the answer now,

no further

discussion is needed.

everyone is in the game.

woke up on the wrong side of the bed

the new religion

is here.

wake up.

be one of us.

recycle.

protest and march.

be awakened.

be aware.

tear down the old.

rinse and repeat.

i've heard it all before.

nothing

ever changes,

people don't change.

and when you

actually grow up

you'll finally realize

that it all starts at home.

moe, larry, curly and shemp

as the technicians

work

on the car out in front of the house

a third

one appears.

moe, larry and now curly

are here.

doing their best

to realign

the computer, calibrate

the cameras

and other mysterious connections

that are no longer working

because of their installation

of a cracked windshield.

it's like waiting for a baby

to be born.

the doctor studying an old manual

while holding a pair 

of rusted tongs.

i pace the floor,

smoking,

putting my hands through

my thick head

of suddenly greying hair.

it's a long day.

i tap my foot as i stare out

the window.

the wind is blowing.

seasons are changing.

finally the knock on the door

comes.

we're sorry, but we can't

fix it, they say together,

you have to make an appointment

with the shop

where shemp will try to get

it done.

your local meet ups

i painfully scroll through the hundreds

and hundreds

of local meet up groups

trying to broaden my

horizon, replace a bunch of friends

that have died.

or girlfriends and wives that

have left the scene.

lord have mercy.

just shoot me if it's come to this.

i'm not good with new people.

making small talk.

reading books i don't want to read,

or listening to other people's

problems.

divorce groups.

poetry groups.

singles over 80 groups.

the walking dead clubs.

book clubs. hiking clubs.

happy hour clubs.

breakfast clubs.

how to cook a turkey meet ups.

star gazing clubs.

it makes me want to club a baby seal.

kidding.

i like baby seals. so cute.

thread bare

all day

she sits on her narrow

concrete

balcony, staring out

at the man made

lake,

her cat behind the sliding

glass door

wanting out,

she knits, she stitches,

she pulls together

her balls of yarn

her spools of thread

and goes at it.

making things to hang

upon the wall,

calling it art, her

hands clinking together

the needles

of her life.

the goody bag

it's the different

that attracts

you.

that look in one's eye.

the slightly off,

the bent, the open minded,

the surprise

of someone's off beat

words.

it's the mischievous grin

that lights you up,

that you take

interest in,

peeling off the layers

to see what else lies

below this calm cat

surface of civility.

let's open up the goody

bag and see 

who you really are

inside.

start fresh

as i spray away

the inch thick yellow

dust

of trees and flowers in bloom.

i think

how easy it is

to make things shine,

to make things

new.

to blow off the dirt

and debris,

to rid yourself of

the collective souls you

don't really want 

in your life, or need.

what's borrowed

when you lend

things, they seldom return.

a favorite book,

a pot,

a pan, a wrench

to tighten

a pipe

beneath the sink.

few ever return, these

things

you gladly put into a

neighbor's hand.

the essence of you

this soft

skin of a peach

reminds me of you.

the silky

smoothness.

the juice within

against my lips

as i bite

and taste the essence

of this fruit,

letting it drip upon

my chin.

what now?

i sigh as the last minute of

the last episode ends.

four seasons in two weeks.

what now?

what show to watch.

i went through it too quickly.

i should have savored

it, gone slower,

but no, i had to binge.

the emerald light

the green has arrived.

a new

canvas

fills the window with

this emerald

light.

how sweet the fresh air

is.

the hope

of spring. the renewal

of joy

of new life.

once more this essential

season

begins.

cards on the table

she says

you're being dishonest.

about your age

on your profile is two

years less

than what it really is.

and i say

what about you. 

who dyes your hair,

who injects your brow

with botox.

and your weight.

you look twenty pounds

heavier than your

air brushed photos.

and i see you're still

married,

and in therapy.

so please, let's put

all the cards on the table.

what else about you,

don't i know?

from Italy with love

i plug in my new

machine.

the glimmering white

air fryer

that has just arrived

from Italy.

how neatly

it fits into the space

i've cleaned.

i love the round

blue light,

one happy eye staring

back at me.

what should i cook

first.

french fries

perhaps,

or onion rings.

the window

they give you a window

from eight

a.m.

until twelve.

so you wait. you take off

from work.

you get up

and shower, have coffee.

you open the door

and look up and down

the street.

you look at your watch.

another hour goes by.

what's with these windows?

a courtesy call

would be nice

once in awhile.

desserts

i tend to add more 

than the recipe

calls for.

a little more sugar,

a little more butter.

the measuring glass spills

past the one cup line.

more chocolate, more nuts,

more this

more that.

we need a bigger bowl,

a bigger pan,

my love,

my appetite for you 

and desserts

has gotten way out of hand.

turn around

we turn around

and go back

to check the stove, the iron

to see

if they're still on,

still hot.

we check the latches

on the door.

are the windows closed?

is the extra key

under the back door mat?

and as we drive away

we wonder what else

have we forgotten,

it feels like something

and yet we can't think

of what it is,

when we get

to where we're going,

perhaps then

we'll know.

though much too late

to return, 

and drive back.

bring a friend

i can barely walk, 

the woman tells me, as she holds

her cat back

with her foot,

preventing his escape.

cancer, she says.

but it's my hip now,

my leg,

my knee, my ankle.

two metal sticks keep her

upright.

but i can swim, she says.

i'm free in the water,

pointing out the back window

towards the pool,

the blue tarp

covered in leaves.

i'll have it open by june.

you must stop by.

bring a friend if you'd like.

there'll be music,

we'll have drinks.

we'll have food.

it'll go on all night.

walk on by

i wince

at the flowers, the card aisle.

the shelves

of heart shaped

boxes of chocolate.

the small boxed gifts

with ribbons

attached.

i avoid

the candles, the wine.

the jewelry

under glass.

i pass all things like this

and walk on by.

one summer

her eyes were no different

than the soft

pale glow

of sea glass washed up

on white sand.

soft and kind,

full of promise, catching

the light

of summer sun.

her hand in mine,

as we walked.

and said nothing.

letting the cool waves

roll up

against our feet.

we were never strangers,

but we both knew

we only had one summer

before it would end.

the braille of night

in the dark,

at night, i find my way

through the house.

the braille

of chairs

and bed post, the table.

no need

for light.

i got this trip

to the bathroom

with no stumble,

no tripping.

feeling the door frame,

the flatness of walls

as i negotiate

my way,

then back again to finish

up the night.

the sting of light

a light goes on in your

head,

though

a dim light

but still bright enough

to shoot

a ray

of enlightenment onto

your increasingly

dismayed brain.

you realize

that there are few true

people, good,

and honest, loyal

and real

out there.

everyone seems to be

in the game.

playing, deceiving.

you look into their eyes

and see

nothing worth keeping.

no reason

to be with them again.

sunken ships

as we dive

into the deep water,

near bottom

we see

the remains of old ships.

the wooden

spines, the skeletons

of rusted metal.

the cups and saucers,

the remnants of

lives lived.

we are reminded

in this soft

warm current of how

swiftly it all

can sink.

close the barn door

at a certain age

if you have to be told

to save money,

to exercise, to eat right

and close

the barn door before

you go,

it's too late.

the years have run

away with you.

a child coming home

i stir the stew

gently, as if it could be a last

meal.

i'm kind to the carrots,

the potatoes,

all sliced

with good intention.

the onions go in,

the meat,

i lower the flame

and let it cook.

tasting it with a large

spoon,

adding salt,

adding  pepper,

inhaling the memory

of such a meal,

my mother at the stove

and me

a hungry child coming

home.

check please

as i sit

and listen to the ding of her

phone.

the quick glance

at who it is

i laugh, having been down

this road

so many times.

a madness

has overcome us.

no one true.

no one honest.

everyone in the game.

check please,

i'm done.

the man less word

we're almost in a manless

world.

a world

of them and they.

this and that.

confusion as to who or

what you are.

men are soft

and afraid.

walking on eggshells

in relationships,

unable to do or say

what they want

to say.

surrendered to the times.

ashamed

at being what born to.

Aldo's

it's an old restaurant.

you know the waiters, the man

at the door.

the owner.

who comes by to pat

you on your shoulder.

the menu never changes.

or the tables.

the lighting in half dark.

it's home away from home.

everything else

in your life has changed

but this.

this dish

of food warm and filling,

the drink from the bar,

the welcome feeling

of being missed.

of being loved

which isn't true at all.

today i don't care

you can't give and give

everyday.

sometimes

you have to stop.

you have to sleep.

take care of yourself.

stop caring and worrying

so much

about others.

their problems,

their pains and woes.

you need to

take a break from empathy.

you have to recharge,

regroup.

get back to a normal

state of mind.

or otherwise

lose it.

two sweet and lows and heavy cream

my new intern,

stella,

from Paris,

is quite good at her job.

so much to do.

and i do like to crack the whip.

not easy

to work for.

she keeps my things in order.

the bills.

the incessant

telemarketers calling.

my appointments

my meet ups

and various other tasks

that i can't

remember.

she handles all my fan mail

from my

recent poetry book

publications.

i even let her sign my books

for me.

she finishes my sentences,

dots my I's,

crosses my t's.

makes a perfect cup

of  coffee,

two sweet and lows

and heavy cream.

i'm not sure how i've lived

without her.

as we sit and talk

we're at the age

where

the conversation slips into

talk of

doctor appointments.

money.

grandchildren.

aches and pains.

there's talk of ex wives,

ex husbands.

past things that have

added up

and never set down

again.

we are sharing an end

of sorts.

our collective memories

as we sit

by the fire, or in a cafe.

sipping drinks.

wondering

where it all went, those

younger days.

so much is unknown

the new friend is suddenly

and old

friend.

i can't remember not knowing

her.

although we just

met.

yesterday, every yesterday

seems like

a long time ago.

i look forward to

her voice

on the phone.

her shadow upon me,

the sunlight

of her smile, everything

about her,

which is still unknown.

give me another card

which day isn't a gamble,

a toss of dice,

a spin of the wheel.

which day isn't a card

waiting to be turned over.

and yet we kiss another

set of lips

take another job,

move on.

move on.

hit me. i'm still in the

game.

the money is on

the table,  the time

is not yet gone.

and then this happened

it's easier

to think of slights, of things

gone wrong.

despite the fact that most

of life has gone

quite well.

you remember the dropped

pass. the lost

love, a missed shot,

the bad investment.

the turn you made left

when you should

have gone right.

we can recall so much

bad,

so easily.

while the best of life

is taken for granted and

set aside.

let the worries be

another moon

appears. 

a slice of white,

half

shined upon.

but still

a sight to see.

there are not answers

in the moon.

just questions.

a lot of questions.

but let's not talk about

them now,

this evening. let's

be quiet for awhile

and let

the worries be.

the father and daughter

she hints

at what happened

as a child.

and when i see her father put

his arms

around her,

hands slipping down

her back

to the curve of her,

i cringe.

i see the mother,

eyes wide open.

eyes wide shut,

pretending as always.

that nothing ever

happened, that

her daughter  was never

touched.

but it's clear now, why

she is the way

she is. who wouldn't be.

wake me up when it's over

careful what you say

or think

or express outside the mob

mentality.

don't you dare disagree.

get off the train

or get on.

the times they are a

changing

but not for the better,

for the worse.

don't be different,

don't have

an opinion unlike

theirs.

be still, be quiet.

it's their world now,

not yours.

man in a yellow shirt

she shows me a picture

of her

love interest, his not

hers.

a small man

in a yellow shirt

buttoned up to his

neck.

pants too high,

the shirt neatly tucked

in. the white

belt showing.

his hair is silver

and thin, but combed

neatly to one

side

as it has been

since a child.

his glasses on.

a look of bemused

confusion on his pink face.

but with a pleasant,

no harm smile

he's in love with her

and wants to see where it

may go

tonight.

the dog days

the dog days

are done.

the leash, the vet,

the plastic baggies picking

up after him.

the barking,

the shedding.

the need for attention.

the guilt upon

leaving and staying out

late.

the happy greeting

at the door.

the dying.

the dog days

are gone.

but they're missed

just the same.

upside down world

she gets the sixteen ounce

porter house

steak.

i get the garden salad

with lite

dressing.

she wants dessert, i tell

her i'll have

just a taste.

when we leave she grabs

my shirt and pulls

me in for a kiss,

presses me

against the car and says.

i like you.

maybe you should come

back to my place.

i tell her, but i hardly know

you.

can i trust you?

it's only the first date?

insanity

it's not black

or white

it's right

or wrong.

why is it still an issue

skin

color,

religion,

ethnicity.

how many more spins

of the world

do we need to

get past this,

to get beyond?

hello onion rings

if i'm not at work

i'm spending money.

buying things that i really don't

need,

although a nice

compact air fryer seems

to be a genuine

necessity these days.

who needs all

that greasy oil

saturating your veins.

i take the tape measure

and see that i have

counter clearance

from top to bottom

and side to side.

it will be a nice companion

to the bread box

sitting next to it,

lonely for a long time.

hello onion rings.

hello french fires.

hello one more gizzmo

on the counter,

a sparkling

italian white.

the oxford comma

she throws her strunk and white's

elements of style

across the room and hits me in

the head.

i don't care what this book says,

you have to stop using the 

oxford comma.

it's ridiculous and confusing.

there is no need

to put a comma after the last

item and before the preceding

coordinating conjunction.

it's useless and unnecessary.

it's absolutely superfluous.

i beg to differ, i tell her

rubbing the bruise on my 

forehead. maybe if we lived

in England it would be okay.

but we're here in Lorton,

Virginia. i can't talk about 

this anymore, i'm going for a walk,

she says, slamming the door

behind her.

the errant stone

the crack in the windshield

grows slowly

across

the glass.

an errant stone

has found

its mark leaving

an abstract curving

cut.

it's interesting how it

catches the sunlight

and throws it back.

there's beauty in everything

i believe.

even you, my dear,

when there is no fight.

how the system works

what did you get in the  divorce

i ask my friend mary jane

when she comes over for tea

one morning

at my trailer

on the edge of town.

i made out like a bandit, she

says. look out the window.

there's a black shiny 911 porsche

parked  behind my twelve year old

rusting truck.

sweet, i tell her.

and the house?

yup, got the house too.

cha ching.

kept the maid and the butler

not to mention

alimony, child support, and half

of every penny he ever saved

or made.

cheat on me, will he. ha.

i love spyware.

but weren't you cheating on him

too. yeah, but he never caught me.

dang. alimony?

your kids are all grown up.

how did you get child support?

yeah, she says.  but the dog

is only a year old. he's still in

school and needs grooming

every other week.

dang you did pretty good.

i sold the diamond he gave me

too. i'll be taking a world cruise

at the end of summer.

maybe you can come with me.

no. i wish i could, but i have three

jobs now paying off my ex.

what's that noise, she says, 

putting her hands over her ears.

oh, that's the freight trains

going by. i'm very close to the tracks.

lost in the wildernes of dupont circle

geographically

i get lost easily. it's a definite

glitch in my 

make up.

when i should go left,

i go right.

a fork in the road is

always a dilemma. 

the roundabout gives

me a rash.

mapquest and

the phone are just tools

that get me even

more confused.

i can't follow the stars,

or the moss on

the back, or front of a tree.

north and south

are perplexing.

i carry bread crumbs

every where i go.

i'm telling you this because

i might be late 

tonight

if i'm not there by 8

send out a search

party for me, please.

have you met my dutch oven?

it's rare that i fall in love

with inanimate objects,

but i love my dutch oven.

she's so sturdy and reliable.

how easily she cooks

up whatever i put in it.

i just turn the oven on,

slide her in, and she does

the rest. no drama.

low maintenance. 

i can't stop talking about her.

she's butter yellow with

a nice round lid.

so easy to clean and put

away once she's done her job.

i hear wedding bells.

picking berries with dorothy

let's go pick strawberries

my lovely

bride says to me

one bright morning.

she's pulling the curtains

back and

has a little straw basket

in her hand.

come on, up and at em.

there's a farm about

seventy five miles

from here, where we can

pick our own berries.

blue berries too.

i look at the basket and

the dress she has on.

she looks like dorothy

in the wizard of oz.

her hair is in pig tails.

where did you get that 

costume, i ask her, rubbing

my eyes from the sunlight.

it's not a costume, i got

this at the Nordstrom Rack.

oh.

so, get up, let's go

pick some strawberries.

it'll be fun.

doesn't safeway have strawberries?

i ask her.

i saw some in

little boxes the other day

in the produce section.

blueberries too.

can you get me a pillow?

i made the drinks too strong

one night,

while we were making out

on the couch

listening to al green

and marvin gaye.

me, struggling and frustrated

with complicated

small hooks

and buttons.

tiny zippers. completely

flabbergasted

without a flashlight.

it didn't take long before

she got up,

straightened out her clothes

and staggered to the bathroom.

be right back, she said.

hold that thought.

but she spent the next

few hours hugging

the porcelain

wheel with her legs splayed 

out on the cold tile  floor so

that i couldn't open

the door.

i knocked politely,

hello, excuse me,

are you alright

in there,

is everything okay?

to which she replied

with a grunt, then groan

and a splash, then

flush.

i'm okay, she said. i'm fine.

can you get me

a pillow?

Broome Island

the widow, new to this after

a long marriage

ending by her husband's heart failure.

she speaks of the boat.

the small one,

then the large one.

now sold.

grand children come up in

the conversation

quite easily.

the ages, the names, where they

live, the instruments

they play.

there's a crayon portrait

on the fridge from one.

she tells me how beautiful

her marriage was.

how they met, how they lived,

and loved

one another. she tells me

where they traveled.

i want to go back to Italy

she says, perhaps a cruise

with someone new.

maybe it's you.

do you know where Broome

Island is?

what sign are you?

the uncared for

you can tell the uncared

for

the clothes

untucked,

unshaven,

the eyebrows bushed

and unkempt.

the stray cat in the alley,

the dog

off a leash.

the man

huddled over his drink.

the woman

neither awake

or asleep

as she sits in the sun

waiting for a bus,

or someone.

you can tell the unloved

by their gait,

their

eyes. the way they talk,

or don't listen

to you, when you

speak. but they press on.

don't we.

the weather vane

i pull over

to the side of the road

and turn the car off, the windows

down.

there's a field

i've never noticed before.

a red barn

old, and falling in the distance.

fading in the blue woods.

no one around.

the rusted weather vane

still in this wind.

stuck

in one direction.

a feeling i know quite well.

a banquet of words

i savor this book.

i read it slowly in bed,

perched upon a pillow

upon my knees.

page by page,

i'm in no hurry for the end,

i measure how

much is left,

holding it to the light,

and sigh.

just five pages tonight.

i don't want

it to end, not yet.

you bother me kid

the little kid next

door sees me bouncing a

basketball as i head up to the court

to shoot a few hoops.

get my shot down

for the summer,

work on my left hand,

and he says.

you're too old for that.

i tell him to shut up

and go play with his toys.

you bother me kid.

everything must go

everything 

has a shelf life.

everything is a lightbulb

about to blow.

you, me.

our hearts and that

loving glow.

everything we own.

from top

to bottom

\will wear, 

will tear, will rip

and bend,

rust out.

take a good look at the sun,

the moon.

they too will

one day have to go.

slow to anger

slow to anger,

but i get there. feeling cheated.

feeling

disrespected. underpaid.

i drive home

simmering with

resentment.

but within an hour, i write

and say.

i'm sorry things didn't

work out.

good luck with

your house.

your life.

so it ends like that.

in a good way.

something of yours

as i clean the house

before the maid comes.

picking up towels and pants,

socks

and shoes, i find something

of yours.

i pick it up and stare at

it, remembering

how happy you were

when unwrapping 

the small soft box.

the tears in your eyes.

i smile. i place it into a

drawer. perhaps i'll see

it again sometime.

and remember that moment

once more.

maybe a third coat will make me happy

you can't make everyone happy

with a can of paint,

a broad knife

full of spackle

and a tube of caulk.

some people will be unhappy

no matter what you do.

no matter how neat

the lines are,

how covered the walls are.

how wonderful it all looks

when done.

they want something

beyond what you can give,

this is when

the doctors, the philosophers,

the priests

need to come.

bug world

i wake up to the screaming bugs.

cicadas.

millions of them

awakened after a nice 

seventeen year nap.

are they happy?

i think so, they sound giddy

in fact.

they have so much to say

to each other

after being burrowed beneath

the ground for so long.

they missed a lot and there is

so much to talk about.

the lightning bolt

lighting strikes a tree

outside my house and

sets my computer on fire.

i try not to think it's 
God putting an end to what i'm

browsing online,

and put the flames out.

i call up my insurance

company.

too bad, they say. we can't

help you.

if the lighting struck outside

and not in your house

well, we don't cover that.

have a nice day.

by the way,

we may have to raise your

premium now because you

called us and took up 

so much of our valuable time.

time travel

if you could go back into time

she asks

me, drinking her third apple

martini, what year, what era,

what time would you go back

to? say you had a one shot

at going and coming back.

i clink her glass with mine

and say. hmmm. good question

my dear. very good question.

i tell her four years ago

and give her the exact date,

the exact time.

that's it, she says, you wouldn't

go back to the cave man days,

or medieval times,

or biblical times.

nah. four years, six days, and

nine hours ago.

i'd go back to that and make

things right by swiping left.

the document

i blow on the piece of paper

to dry

the wet ink.

fanning it across the hot room.

i smudge everything with

my eager fingers.

this though

is too important to mess up.

i want it legible,

clear and distinct.

the letters punched down

in black.

a notarized stamp,

dated and legal.

two names signed at the bottom.

that's that.

the next true love

i make my list of deal breakers

for the next and hopefully

final true love of my life.

i narrow down the attributes for

my next cell mate, whoops,

i mean soul mate.

i throw away the old list,

tossing it across the room

into the wastebasket. swish.

okay. where should we begin.

non smoker. easy one.

no drugs, no excessive use

of alcohol unless it's a holiday

or the weekend. swearing is okay.

maybe one tattoo if it's not

a swastika or a caricature

of the devil, or something 

like that.

teeth. it's good to have teeth.

smart. smarter than me would

be nice, and not a reach,

especially around

tax time.  someone with

good manners. knows how

to fold a fitted sheet. a reader.

physically fit, is a plus,

but not bone skinny living

on lettuce.

no one with blue or green

hair. just the regular colors,

please.

loyal and true. no liars, hate that.

a good kisser.

not too sloppy though.

not a fan of the drool.

legs are nice to have too,

and arms. cooking skills

would be great, but not

mandatory.  one or two dogs

or cats, at the most.

no pet snakes, or reptiles.

i don't like someone that whistles

a lot, or plays the banjo.

kind of weird.

financially independent is

important, as is having a car,

or some sort of transportation

other than feet.

kind compassionate and

silly are all good traits to have.

a dormant libido. not good.

no ex's lingering in the shadows

is a must.

someone not currently in big

trouble with the po po.

or in rehab, or in a straight

jacket. or on their cell phone

24/7. i know that eliminates

a lot of people, but i have to

draw the line somewhere.

oh, and least i forget, someone

with girl parts,

don't make me draw a picture.

potatoes and chicken

when my great grandmother

would chase

a chicken around her bricked yard

in south philly

we'd look out the window

and watch.

we'd cheer the chicken on,

not wanting it be caught.

but it was.

a twist and yank

of it's neck

with her boney hands

and that was that. 

she'd roast potatoes 

to go with it.

intuition

my intuitive powers

are tingling again. i feel

a change

coming on.

the stomach curls

with anticipation.

like a storm rising in

the distance over

the mountains.

i feel the fresh wind

pushing it towards me.

towards us.

time to close the windows,

the doors and

get ready.

get under the blankets.

this could be rough.

sweet coffee

it's not that i need coffee,

it's more that

i want coffee.

not black, not bitter.

but sweetened with cream,

with a spoon of sugar.

put your finger

in it and stir.

that should do the trick.

these needed shelves

i need another bookshelf.

and another

wall to place

the bookshelf against.

i could take out

the bed, but then where

would i sleep.

where would you sleep

when you visit me?

it's a dilemma, these books.

these walls,

these needed shelves.

the silver spoon

i spend the morning

polishing silver.

one spoon.

who left it behind,

i have no clue.

but i take care of it

as i do most things.

by noon it will shine.

i'll place it

back into drawer.

and if you ever return.

whoever you are.

it will be easy

to find.

passing through

i take the same trail

on the bike.

i roll down the same paved

path,

the dirt stretch

through the woods, over

the boarded bridge.

in all seasons,

in all weather, the same

way, i go.

and as i pass familiar

faces,

we acknowledge one

another with a nod,

a wave,

with friendly, but fleeting,

hellos.

no words spoken

few have i chosen

to never speak to again.

maybe one,

maybe none when i sit down

and think about it.

it's more their choice

than mine.

i have no quarrel with the past.

what was is settled.

what wasn't meant to be,

is fine.

how strange it is though.

to be in love,

to be once entwined,

then have it end abruptly,

so much of life

can be unkind.

the iced cake

as i lather the cake

with a rich frosting,

i lick the broad faced knife

and close my eyes.

i remember doing this as

a child, and now again,

as a grown man

i can't resist the sweetness,

so lick away i do,

but this time without

my mother's reprimand.

making it home

she can make a home

anywhere she pleases. there she

is in the woods,

hammering stakes

into the ground to keep

the tent secure.

she sets a door mat

out front. hangs a picture

of her children inside.

she brings her favorite

pillow, her pajamas.

her book, her wine.

she is as comfy now as she

is back home.

and this will do quite fine.

the darker side

under this stone

there is

life, a teeming village

of things

some that will do no

harm

some that bite.

it's underneath it

all where we need to

look

and pry.

we sometimes need to

understand

what lies

below the darker side.

careful at the light

like a cat

we have nine lives.

some less

some more, but there

are multiple chances

at getting it right.

at surviving whatever

storm you're going through.

around each

corner you're suddenly

in a different

life. keep walking,

but carefully at the light.

a june wedding

she says let's get married

in june.

we get along so well.

we're perfect for each other.

she takes my hand and kisses

it gently.

why june, i ask her.

why not, she says.

are you scared?

who me?

pffft. me scared of marriage,

you must be kidding.

my goal is ten marriages.

so it's on then, she says.

sure, here's my credit

card, have at it.

just make the cake 

chocolate this time,

i'm getting tired of vanilla.

the mobile chef

she had her schedule.

spaghetti and meatballs on wednesday

pork chops

on thursday.

sloppy joes on friday

and chicken on

saturday.

sunday was ham.

monday and tuesday she lay

down

in her bed and tried

to not to thing about

food, today there was no plan.

it was a good day

sinking deep

with a sigh

into the hot bath full of suds,

i ponder the day,

my legs weary,

my arms heavy.

the first drink of the night

on the ledge.

it was a good day.

no one died.

money was made.

people were happy

and pleased.

that's enough to go on

for now.

the rest can come later.

the blue wind

in this blue wind

before sunset, the mother

and daughter

in the street give rise to the kite.

the girl

holding the string,

the mother giving

advice.

but it's all about the wind.

as it always has been.

now i see

i see it now,

clearly, as if my eyes have been

washed clean

of salt,

of tears.

i was blind

for so long,

seeing what wasn't

there,

but now i see.

lines for winter

these are lines

for winter.

white lines of snow.

drifts.

bare boned trees.

the sky

low and grey.

a melt of sun long

gone leaving

a strand or two

of violet.

the slush on the street

is ugly.

we are not quite old.

but far from young.

with more behind

us than in front.

but that's fine.

it's perfectly okay.

these are lines for

winter.

there's beauty in

this ending.

a part of us wanting

to leave

a part that wants 

to stay.

let's start there

the screen play

is going slowly. i'm stuck in act one.

what to do

i need more time

in order to sort this out,

to find out

where it's all going.

two people, no three,

make it four.

back to two. just two.

out west, no back east.

new york.

let's start there.

central park.

a bench.

it's winter. no, no, that'll never

do.

it's fall let's call it fall.

the leaves

the chill in the air.

the old people wrapped

in long coats.

the traffic, the pigeons.

cops on horses.

two lovers, no. two former

lovers,

meeting for the first time

in years.

okay. let's start there.

calamine lotion

i send twenty dollars in

to the television preacher to see

if he can heal

this rash i have on my leg.

it's itching like crazy.

i put my hands on

the television

and say what he's telling

me to say. people are

shouting and falling

all over the stage.

i close my eyes, get on my

knees.

then my wife comes in and

says,

what are you doing?

i'm getting my leg healed.

i sent in twenty bucks

for a healing.

what are you nuts, here.

rub this calamine lotion

on it, you have 

poison ivy, you dope.

you're in, you're out

every few months

she unfriends me on 

stupid face book.

we disagree

on something, or i'm not living

up to the task

of being her friend

and she clicks the button

to be done

with me.

and then another week goes

by and i'm back

in her friends list.

it's interesting and amusing,

both at the same time.

clean up in aisle six

there's a spill

in aisle six at the grocery store.

i can hear

the announcement for

someone to come

and swab the deck

before a customer slips.

shoppers head

in that direction

pushing their carts quickly

to where the accident

occurred. 

they want to see what broke,

what bottle crashed,

what box fell

from a high shelf

and opened, what can

split wide and with a splat

dripped out what once

was inside. maybe pickles,

or ketchup or vinegar, or

god forbid, red wine.

one more cigarette

his smoking

was an art, the rings

coming out

in great circular puffs

that he was proud of.

there was the pipe,

the cigars,

the winstons.

the silver lighter

that he'd snap open

and closed

when nervous.

the ashtrays would be

full of butts

and ashes.

in the car, on the tables

next to where he

slept.

and even near death,

he wanted one

more cigarette,

which they placed in

a small hole cut into

the front of his neck.

now we're all friends

what did you do in the war

daddy

we killed people.

how come.

they were trying to kill us.

why did they

want to kill you?

because

we were different

from than them

and they were different

than us.

and how did it end

we got tired and went home.

but now we're all friends.

no exit

she has every reason 

to argue.

to ask questions,

to explore

what's gone wrong. 

to interrogate,

but i resist

going there. having lived

half my life

in that Sartre play.

i'm out of dialogue.

out of energy,

exhausted with it all.

i just want 

it all to go away.

crossing the lake

how easy it is 

to row across

the lake

both with an oar

in hand.

we glide to the other side

and enjoy

each other's company,

with balanced strokes,

falling in love,

you might say as we press

forward

through each gentle wave.

all is well.

all is fine.

until one stops rowing.

and the boat drifts out

of line.

one memory at a time

she forgot what she was

talking

about.

or that she left the stove

on,

or the door open.

she'd ask you the same

question

over and over again

in a ten minute phone call.

she couldn't remember

what she had

for lunch.

or where she was born.

her life was slipping

through her fingers,

like sand through an

hourglass, one memory

at a time, until

almost all of them

were gone.

the moth

it's the bright light 

i fly into.

the shiny thing,

the pretty glow.

that charm of heat,

and twinkle of eye.

i can't bat my wings

fast enough

to get into that light

and die.

what can be done

as we sat

and watched 

the carousel go around,

the music

playing,

children on the horses,

my young lover

and i

stretched out 

hand in hand 

on the long green

lawn.

she said, in a whisper,

with tears.

i'm late.

i'm afraid.

what can be done?

forever friends

when your arm was strong,

your legs sturdy

you could throw a ball

fifty yards across a field

arcing in a tight spiral

into the hands

of a boy running fast.

it was easy, thoughtless,

how green was the grass

back then, the blue skies

of morning, as we gathered

in boyhood joy,

this group of forever friends.

we need more of you

how do you measure 

a productive

day, did you get the job done,

make money,

run errands.

what does a cow say?

was that enough milk,

or the chickens

laying eggs, enough?

do you need more of me,

can't we sleep and rest,

wait until the next day?

you have your answer

it is the pause,

the slight hesitation

after asking,

that you know

that the next few words

you hear

will not be a whole

truth.

it's in the eyes,

the half open mouth,

the sigh,

the stammer

before speaking.

no need to hear more,

no reason to go on.

you have your answer.

three day camping trip

sally wants to go camping,

and because i like her so much, 

i say okay.

she shows me the list of things

we need to buy

and bring for this weekend 

adventure.

wine is at the top

and beer.

then bug spray,

bear repellant.

an antidote for snake venom.

and pretzels.

what about food, i ask

her as she neatly folds

the pup tent for the trunk.

oh, right, she says.

a pound of kale.

some spinach.

two apples and some dried

apricots.

can i add hot dogs, i ask her.

sure.

but low nitrate hot dogs,

and organic mustard.

we need to sharpen up

the knives too, she says.

and i think we're out of shotgun

shells.

so what will we do for three

days, i ask her.

mostly singing around

the campfire and drinking.

sometimes we play

charades, or talk

about our problems with

men and children.

while we sing 

becky likes to play the spoons,

and jimmy

strums his banjo.

what about aspirin and earplugs

i ask her.

oh, right. i have those

in my purse.

but not to worry, there's a

7-11 at the campsite if we

run out of things.

ship mates

it is the mundane

that fills our hours.

the necessary tasks of

cleaning.

of cooking food.

of making beds

and paying bills. so

much goes into 

keeping this ship afloat.

the yard,

the wiping of windows.

the attempts

at folding the fitted

sheets.

a mate would be nice

at times.

although the mutinies

would slay me.

open windows

some close their windows

to block out

the noise.

i prefer to open them

and hear

the world go by.

the cars,

the train whistle

through the woods,

the voices of children

in the playground,

the parents nearby.

the dogs barking, 

the trees half green

laughing in

the spring wind,

please, bring your noise

inside.

home from work

i felt that she loved me most

when i came home from work

covered in paint, and debris,

the dust of the day. the curl

of my hands still holding

a phantom brush, or tool.

my shirt heavy with sweat,

my shoulders sore, my legs

moving slowly through

the door. how she'd greet me,

and put her arms around me,

put her hands through my hair.

and wiped my brow

go take a bath she'd say.

i'll make us dinner. relax.

you're home now. i love you

more than any other.

down with vaguery

we don't want vaguery,

pale colors,

the wash of a sky.

the blah of things.

we don't want insincerity,

or half baked kisses,

or pats on the back.

we don't want

tasteless meals,

unseasoned and fast.

we want the banquet,

we want to taste and taste

and over eat,

to spill the wine,

to knock the table over,

to give in to all our

desires, to all our needs.

what it used to be

i see the trust in this dog's face.

her bright eyes.

the joy she has

in seeing me, hardly under control,

tail wagging, mouth wide

with dog laughter.

her body bends and rubs itself

against me.

the thrill she has in my 

presence reminds me for 

a moment of what love

was like with you.

perhaps i'll see you there

where once

my impatience showed,

anxious to hear your voice

to be near you,

close enough to hold,

i'd leave whatever

i was doing and drive

to where you were,

but it's different now,

how easily i'm deterred, 

how easy it is to say

i'm very busy with

so many things,

i'll be late, perhaps,

i'll see you there.

mission statements

as i drive around

i see  that it's quite popular

now a days

to put a sign in your yard stating

your mission statement.

telling everyone that drives

by what your religion is,

or what kind of people you

like or don't like.

who and what matters to you.

what melts your moralistic

buttah, so to speak.

people like their signs,

not to mention the bumper

stickers and the window

stickers telling everyone

there's a baby on board,

or what school you went

to, what sport your kids play,

what their grades are.

we want people to know

that we just ran a 5 k.

or climbed a mountain,

or that we visited the beach.

honk if you love Jesus,

one says. beep if you're

going to hell in a handbasket

says another.

we want to encourage

people to save the whales,

the bay. the air.

support your local sheriff.

give to the march of dimes.

i don't have one in my

yard but it doesn't mean 

that i don't care.

garnish it

i don't garnish enough.

it's been an issue for a long time.

when i make scrambled eggs

it would be really easy

and nice

to throw down some parsley

on the plate.

just a little sprig or two

for color.

same goes for a bowl

of soup, or a plate 

of codfish, how easy would

it be to put some

parsley or some freshly

chopped mint leaves

next to a slab

of salmon or grouper.

a little parsley can go

a long ways and make a

delightful visual impression

for the guests.

picking strawberries

lost in God's country,

i make a right at the light,

then left

at the filling station.

there's a billboard

the size of a drive in

movie screen 

asking me to vote for

Stanley Kowalski for sheriff.

i see the water

tower up ahead and veer

to the round about,

which i go around

a few times and get dizzy.

i look at my phone,

my garmin, my road map.

i'm in the middle of 

nowhere. i pull over and

stare a cow on the other

side of the fence.

he looks at me chewing

his cud, whatever cud

may be and shrugs.

and now i have to pee.

i call becky jean and tell

her i'm going to be late

for out date picking

strawberries.

jimminy crickets

was it the pepperoni

or the jalapeno peppers

all washed down with a 

white russian

that sent me into a wild night

of dreams.

vivid and in technicolor.

i woke up and was 

in a storm of sheets.

sweating, and exhausted.

you were there, she was there.

he was there.

the whole gang was in on it.

i knew it was a dream

as i was dreaming it, but

still, jimminy crickets,

what a night.

grey black and white

the colors of cars

are down to three or four now.

black, grey, white,

and the rare red or blue.

hardly a green one

in the bunch.

why so few?

the palette of colors

are endless and yet,

the choices are those.

no mint, no robin's egg,

no florida orange,

no pink, no bright shades

for you to choose.

three rooms in a cul de sac

as i paint another room

in another house

on another street, hang another

sheet of wallpaper

in a dining room,

stain another deck.

climb another ladder

stand in line at the paint

store for one more

gallon of latex, i ponder

what's next.

a boat, pick up golf.

travel, eat and get fat.

a dog perhaps?

then the phone rings, 

someone wants an estimate

for three rooms

in a nearby cul de sac.

i'm saved again.

five bucks starbucks

a christmas card 

from my mother

arrives about ten years late.

somehow it got lost in the mail.

slid between a counter

somewhere down the line.

i open it up and a five dollar

bill falls out.

have a few cups of coffee on

me, she writes. merry xmas,

love mom.

i laugh out loud,

with five dollars

it's now down to one.

reading for nourishment

i send him my list

of favorite poets, but state

early on

that hallmark is not one

of them.

nor dr. seuss.

i mention mark strand,

and elizabeth bishop,

some sexton, 

phillip levine,

of course

and the coarse

bukowski.

larkin near the top, as

is plath. so many to read

and choose from

if he goes down

this path. but keep

reading, keep writing,

until you find your 

own voice.

don't stop.

clean money

i find twenty dollars

in the dryer.

clean and crisp.

it feels like found money

although it came

out of one pocket or another.

i stretch it out

then put in on the ironing

board for

some steamed heat

to get the wrinkles out, 

i then fold it and place it

back into my pocket.

i'll get that pesky change

rattling around later.

okay, i'm ready, let's leave now

i could stay at my mother's house

for about an hour

before i began to sweat

and had to leave.

it was a half an hour at my

ex in laws house.

twitching like a cat

in a room full of rocking chairs.

about twenty minutes at

a pool party in maryland,

with a paper plate of potato

salad and a hot dog in my lap.

ten minutes at a funeral home

no matter who died.

nine minutes at a birthday party,

one minute if it was mine.

five minutes at the dmv

before i'd break out in hives.

a pup tent. thirty seconds

and then i'd jump over a cliff

or into a raging waterfall.

it's all good

it's all good for a short while.

things are fine until one wants

more than the other

can give.

throw in sex

and you've got a street fight.

one calls it a relationship

while you

call it a fun night,

a pleasant time.

it never ends well 

in situations like this.

it never does.

and it all starts with that

one simple kiss.

the red radio

it was a red transistor

radio

that drove my older brother

crazy

as i kept it on

throughout the night.

as low as i could

turn the dial and

held to my

ear, but he had hearing

like a bat.

he'd yell and scream

for me to turn

it off.

turn it down.

whether he had a love

for music, i never knew.

we went our

separate way in life,

and still do.

mother's little helpers

take one of these

my friend says, take one,

as she jiggles a little

white pill into the palm

of my hand.

you'll feel calm

and relaxed you'll be able

to do all the things

you hate doing without 

too much angst.

spending time with

strangers, no problem.

you'll be able to visit

those you don't like and make

small talk. you'll be

pleasant and kind.

you'll be one of us then, 

happy as lark, smiling

blissfully with your new

numb mind.

a square of yard

as his eyes went wet

and webbed in

strange darkness he continued

to dig in his garden.

a small square

known to his hands, his

knees.

the feel of soil

the smell of it.

up came carrots again,

tomatoes,

and lettuce, out went weeds.

the rabbit fence

was strung from post

to post.

and with his nose he knew

what was ripe and what needed

more time

to soak up sun and rain

on the fragile vines.

and if he still was unsure,

he took a bite.

Irma La Douce

my friend jimmy calls me at one

in the morning. he sounds depressed,

almost to the point of tears.

dude, dude, what's up? are you

okay. where's the new bride, lulabelle?

she's in the other room, sleeping

with the door locked.

i'm banished to the couch

in the living room.

she's mad at me again.

but you've only been married for

three months now. yeah, i know. i know.

i think i made a big mistake.

dang, i tell him. walk me through it.

why is she so mad?

she won't tell me, but i think it's

because i had my feet up 

on the coffee table,

or maybe i was watching netflix

which she has banned from the house.

he's whispering now, almost sobbing.

but the worst thing is that

she doesn't want to have sex anymore

and her mother is coming

to spend the summer with us.

both of them are vegetarians.

i'm up to here in kale and avocados. 

she was insatiable up until she moved

into my house and the ink on

the marriage certificate dried.

she used to be an animal in bed,

i couldn't keep up. i was taking zinc

like a madman.

and now she has a headache nearly

every night. 

maybe she has a brain tumor, or something, 

i tell him.

i wish it was that simple, he says.

she goes to bed now in her volleyball

t-shirt that's never been washed.

she doesn't even brush her teeth anymore

and has been eating a lot of onions

and garlic lately.

i feel for you brother. i went through 

the same exact thing a few times.

it makes me understand why prostitution

has been around for so long.

if i could get back all the money

i spent on stupid internet dates, feeding

half of the single women in the metro

area, i'd be a rich man right now.

getting to first base with them is harder

than breaking into fort knox with

a water pistol. i've seen it all my friend,

not to mention, being wiped out financially,

by half in the divorces.

at least with an escort service, you select

the one you want, have your date

and then you're done. easy peasy.

no listening to a boat load of 

psychiatric problems.

no one yelling at you for leaving

the seat up, no one nagging you

about the laundry or cutting the grass.

no visiting their parents, or meeting

their troubled twitching kids. 

when it's over, it's over

and you leave, or she leaves.

it sounds like a dream to me now,

jimmy says. why didn't we have this

talk three months ago?

because you wouldn't have listened.

just like how i wouldn't have 

listened, we're basically idiots

with a sex drive and that's how

they sucker us in. they're no better

than drug dealers. it's all cheap

and easy for the first few hits

and then, they got you.

as the song says, goddamn

the pusher man, or the woman 

as is in this case.