we stayed up too late

we stayed up too late

talking.

we drank too much.

we made love.

we argued.

we laughed.

we turned on the tv.

we turned it off.

we cried.

we held each other.

we revealed our secrets.

not all.

but some.

we forgave each other.

we fell asleep

in each other's arms.

tomorrow seemed like

it would never come.

but it did

and then you were gone.

waiting to be plucked

the sour

fruit, the rotten bite

of an apple.

the worm

filled pear,

the brown grapes.

how bitter

a lie is,

mistrust and betrayal.

when it 

seemed so

bright and sweet in

the sunlight.

still on

the vine, or tree,

waiting to be plucked.

at the end of the day

it's rare, when you ask

an elder

what they would have done more

in their life

as they near the end

and they respond with the word

work.

i wished i would have worked

harder and longer.

i wished i would

have been at my desk more,

on my computer 

at night before going to sleep.

i wish i would have

given more of me to my job,

to my company,

to my boss. i wish i'd not

taken so many days off,

when i could have come in

and made more money for them.

i regret not selling my soul

earlier in life, until the end.

her train wreck

she tells me about her train wreck

relationship.

the blood and glass,

the roar of metal,

the bent rails, the screams.

i listen with an empathetic

ear. i listen to all of it, nodding

when  a nod is needed.

finally she gets to the end

and says, but i'm over it now.

i'm healed, i'm fine.

what about you, did anything like

that ever happen to you.

i shake my head no,

crossing my fingers, not that

i can remember. 

but all my past

relationships are still

in my life,

we're all great friends.

unlocked door

i see that the door

is open

when i come down the stairs.

unlocked

ajar.

the keys still in the slot.

anyone could have come

in and taken

everything,

put a pillow on my head

and snatched

the life right out of me.

but they didn't.

the world is so nice

sometimes.

the wrong train

i get on the wrong train.

but i don't mind.

the blue, the yellow, the silver

line, who can

figure these things out.

i take a seat near a window.

all day i ride

until i hear the voice

say last stop,

then i get off.

these are the things i

do now,

with so much time.

some do

we attach ourselves

to things,

things bought or passed down.

we cling

to the past, taking hold

of it to ensure

that it really did happen,

it really did exist.

mementos. photos.

a ribbon

or a bow.

some do.

i don't.

your password is weak, yo

with an hour

to kill

i go through my scraps of paper

holding all

my various passwords

and put them all down

in one book

a place where i can find

them and stop

searching like a madman

to try and get

on worthless sites

like face book

or linked in.

who are these people

and why do they want to be

my friend.

are we going out

for coffee and a sandwich?

it used to be

i needed to find my clump of keys

to get by in the world

but now

i've got this list of passwords

to make it 

through the day.

was it caps, numeric,

ten characters?

come down off the cross

the brilliant

line

come down off the cross

we could use

the wood

makes you cringe and laugh

at the same time.

tom waits.

if you don't know who

tom waits

is, we probably won't get

along.

time though

to pull the nails,

stop with the victim status,

climb down

off the cross

and let's use the wood

for something else.

skeleton

some skeletons

are in the closet, while others

are sitting beside

you reading

the newspaper,

or knitting a sweater.

you haven't

quite put them away

yet.

all in good time.

wanting home

we all want home.

we want

comfort. the fire.

the loved one embracing

us at the end

of the day.

we want peace and quiet.

we want

conversation.

we want to share what we

think.

to he loved, and give love.

we want a lot of things

to make us whole.

to keep us sane.

the possessive apostrophe

my editor and former

lover

in ohio,

or is it st. louis

has a command of the english

language.

i get away with nothing.

no grammatical

errors, or wrong

punctuation gets past

her, especially my

achille's heel

the damned possessive

apostrophe.

the parade of friends

as you rise

in age, and those around you

start disappearing,

you lose count.

the parade

of friends has thinned.

and why you,

why are you still here

marching down

broadway.

what is there left to do,

or begin.

it would be nice if someone

told you.

memorial day club

the men

in their leather vests and pants.

patches sewn on

with nick names

like chainsaw or hank.

all new and shiny.

their grey hair

still long.

mustaches, beards,

goatees.

veterans of some war,

or no war.

it doesn't matter

anymore.

on their rumbling bikes

with their

babes on board,

some blonde,

some red. some

thick, some skinny.

in a cloud of blue smoke,

away they roar.

have at it

rainy days 

are good for many things.

one comes to mind

quite quickly 

as i see you lying

in bed,

shading your eyes

from the soft light

seeping through the blinds.

sheep's clothing

the bully is not always

the muscle

bound frat boy 

in the playground.

sometimes

it's the sheep

in wolves clothing.

the pretty, the mild,

the meek

who will try to slay you

with long

and hungry teeth.

falling prey

do not confuse

the world as being all good

or all bad.

demons and angels

are everywhere.

the struggle

is a spiritual one.

this being not your home,

just passing through.

don't hold too tight.

don't fall

prey to earthly delights,

but don't go gently either

into that good night.

back to black

i change my mind

and take off the red shirt.

i try on the green one,

the one with tropical leaves

and mangoes.

too early for that, perhaps.

then the blue shirt.

pale blue.

with an ocean rolling

across my back.

no, these will not do.

i stuff them into the burn

barrel in the yard, light

a match, then go in.

i'm back to black.

the leaf blowers

as the leaf

blower works its way down

the street

moving

leaves and debris side

to side

one leaf

at a time

into a pile to be removed

by an even

bigger and noisier machine,

i look at my

rake

rusted and sad

leaning against the shed

in the back yard.

counting her chickens

i remember the best sleep

i ever had.

it was when i passed out

after

the medical insurance examiner

stuck a needle in my vein

to draw blood.

seeing if i was worthy of

a million dollar life insurance

policy that the wife insisted upon.

after not eating all day

and being out in the hot sun,

down i went.

out for a few moments.

but it was a sweet deep sleep.

i even dreamed.

and when i woke up my son

was kneeling beside me

while my wife stood over me

laughing.

saying, look at the big strong man,

already counting her chickens.

rain checks

we do another rain check.

the list is long.

it rains a lot.

snow check.

wind check.

ice check.

darkness check.

take care of the dog and cat check.

possible tornado check.

covid check.

next time

on a sunny day, around

75 degrees.

with little traffic,

with no virus, or catastrophes

looming

on the horizon.

maybe then we'll get together.

the clara barton parkway

it's raining

on the clara barton

parkway.

as i drive in the dim

light of late

afternoon.

the roads are full of

slow

moving cars.

the alley of green,

the slope of hills

and guard rails.

detour signs

in orange,

a flare, a cop car

with its lights.

go that way, they point.

would nurse clara,

founder of the red cross

be pleased,

i doubt it.

etc....

i hate to admit it,

having been raised a good catholic

boy,

but i don't like

people anymore.

not all people. but strangers

mostly.

i have a few select friends

and relatives.

but in general, people are

getting on my nerves.

so much anger

and boorish behavior.

rudeness, discourtesy, (which i guess

is the same thing)

but in general bad manners

all around.

everyone in a rush,

everyone on their phones

or flossing their teeth in public.

narcissism run amok.

me me me.

etc.

i say etc. when i run out

of things to write.

etc.

bone dry on angst

i feel like i've been writing too

many fun

and happy, sarcastic, sardonic

and silly poems lately.

this worries me, being so content

almost happy.

i should really see my doctor

about this.

i need to write a sad poem.

a dark, bleak piece.

something that dredges up

the past, death and dying.

sickness.

something involving the pandemic

of love.

but i've got nothing, at the moment.

i need  a break up

or something.

divorce, betrayal.

something along those lines.

i need an angry client, or neighbor,

road rage.

i need an ex wife to show up

again and put me through a living

hell.

i'm empty on sad poems at the moment.

the well is bone dry

right now on angst.

maybe tomorrow.

if you could be a tree

if you could be a tree

what kind of tree would you be

my therapist asks me,

tapping her pen on her chin.

i look at my watch.

i don't want to be a tree.

but if you were, if you had to

be a tree, choose one,

she says,

choose the one that you'd

most likely pick to be you.

i don't know.

a big tree, i guess.

can you be more specific.

describe the tree for me.

i think for a moment

looking out the window at

some lame trees dying

in the median strip along

the highway.

a shady tree. i tell her,

a tree where people 

could come and lie under

in the shade and take a nap

without any interference.

maybe people could eat

their picnic lunch under my tree.

a tree with big leaves and no sap.

but they couldn't bring their dogs

with them.

you know how dogs are when they're

around a tree.

she says, hmm. i see.

so, an oak, an elm, a maple?

whatever, i tell her. just a big

giant tree with leaves.

okay, okay, no need to raise

your voice and get angry.

i'm not angry. i just think it's

a stupid question.

oh, and by the way, you have

ink on your chin.

the peppermint twist

i like to dance,

she tells me. it's my creative

outlet.

it gets my juices going.

i just love to dance.

i can do all the dances.

name a dance

and i'll tell you if i know

it or not.

the limbo,

i tell her.

that's not a dance.

yes it is, i tell her.

they even made a song about

it.

no, she says a real

dance.

okay, what about the twist.

can you do the twist.

the peppermint twist?

it goes like this, i stand

up and demonstrate 

knocking over a lamp

and a potted plant.

pink flamingo

i take inventory

of my dough re me.

(money)

trying to figure out when

it's time to cash

in and go to florida.

i check between

the cushions of the couch,

empty the green bowl

on the fridge

of loose change.

i call up my broker from

morgan stanley.

she's busy.

soon, i say to myself,

soon i'll be in the sunshine

state,

ready for my double wide

trailer

with a pink flamingo

in the front yard.

you're such a good listener

i put the phone on speaker,

then go down

to the laundry room to bring up

a basket full of clothes.

i begin to fold,

as she continues to talk.

it's the history of her life,

going back to when her grandparents

arrived on Ellis Island

with one suitcase and a bundt cake.

when i'm done with the clothes.

i do some push ups.

some sit ups.

then put a pot roast in

the oven.  i slice carrots

and potatoes.

she's on her father now, having

finished with her mother.

yup. i say. holding the phone

closer.

interesting.

then i go back to the kitchen.

i haven't cleaned the fridge

in ages. so i start that.

are you still there, she says.

i go to the phone and say, yes.

your story is so interesting

that i didn't want to interrupt.

please go on. you haven't told

me about your cats yet.

i'll get to them, she says,

but let me tell you about my

last boyfriend first.

he's coming over for dinner

soon, so i only have one more

hour to talk to you.

okay.  sorry, about the noise

over here, i tell her.

i'm vacuuming the rug.

blastoff

instead of working further

on the soured relationship

we want

to leave.

to end it and be done with it.

it can't be saved.

we want

to go to mars.

to venus. to explore life

beyond this airless

planet.

so you put on your helmet,

your space suit,

you grab your energy bar

and tang,

and go. no need for a countdown,

just blastoff.

the holy ground

it's easy

to assuage someone

who's in pain

by telling them how much

they have.

the blessing of their life,

but it's the wrong

way to go about it.

you have to sit with them.

to listen.

to not judge, to open

your heart

and be there.

nothing else matters

in the moment.

all the blessings of one's

life

are small, when one is

standing on the holy

ground of sorrow.

the orbit

we are

in orbit of our own world.

circling

circling.

but gravity will have

its way with us

at some point.

we can't stay up forever.

in motion.

going round and round.

in time

we descend, we fall, we

drift

down.

but we were up there once,

weren't we?

post card from o. c.

i like the beach.

except for the time i stepped

on a crab

and cut my foot open

the other day.

other than that,

it's fun.

the water, the boardwalk.

people watching.

the fried food,

the ice cream.

i like how my skin has turned

beet red,

and pulsates as

i try to sleep at night.

i can still feel the

motion of the ocean

in my body

as i lie in bed,

the swing and sway of

waves.

i don't mind the water

in my ears,

or the sand between my toes

at all.

i'll bring you back some

salt water taffy

and a few shells

when i come home.

miss you.

it's your turn

is it my turn to call you?

didn't i text

you the other day, and send

you a picture of

a cicada lying on his back?

i think it's your

turn now.

if you don't want to make

plans,

i completely understand.

but it is your turn.

just saying.

nothing here is true

it's not a diary.

it's not a journal. these

are poems

people.

fiction. not a single

word of truth in any of them.

all the characters

are made up.

they never existed.

this is a work of pure

imagination.

nothing here

is true.

i'm not even here.

i'm not even typing

these words.

my dog is on my chair

with his paws

on the keyboard.

bother him with your

whining complaints.

thank you.

and the beat goes on

i plan

a day off, but plans change.

and now

the day

is full of work. 

the beat goes on

as that wise

philosopher sonny bono

once wrote

and sang.

the beat goes on.

la de da dee de,

la de da dee day.

you have a baby now?

i see the neighbors

carrying in seven

bags of groceries.

the wife holding

a baby in her arm.

it looks right out

of the oven.

oh my,

i say to them,

you have a baby now?

to which they say

in unison, yes.

it's a girl, we call her

Lilly.

oh. i say, carrying in

my groceries for one.

that's great.

i have a kid too, a son.

he lives in LA.

he's thirty two.

it's me, not you

yes.

i'm yawning.

no it's not you.

it's me.

it's the day. the long

day.

the heat.

the warm breeze,

the lack of air,

the lack

of food,

the lack in general

of everything.

nothing seems

new.

yes. i'm yawning,

but don't worry,

it's me,

not you.

removing sutures

as i stare at the bright blue

stitches in my hand,

i think that i can take them out.

do i need to wait another

seven days.

the wound is sealed shut,

there's hardly any pain now,

and i'm able to flex my fingers

quite well.

will i still be able to play

the piano, of course, although

i should take lessons first,

i don't want the neighbors

banging on the walls again,

like they did when i took up

the trumpet.

what?

the sign

says, no parking tuesday

through

thursday,

unless it's a holiday.

but one hour

on sunday

between seven and eight a.m.

no trucks

allowed.

school zone.

handicap only on monday.

pregnant

vets,

on friday.

senior citizens between

the hours of

four p.m. and five

a.m.

monday through friday.

no standing or loading,

or idling

unless

it's after five

p.m.

snow emergency route

all year.

street cleaning on odd days.

the yard sale

the yard sale,

the neighborhood flea market

is on.

early on saturday

morning.

the clothes are stretched out

on racks.

the pictures taken off

the walls

and now lean

against a box, or table

also for sale.

and the owners sit

in their folding chairs

and wait for buyers to show.

there's an old rug, rolled

out on the lawn,

a pair of ice skates,

a book about New Zealand,

a felt hat,

a toaster oven full of

crumbs.

a princess phone.

a fur coat, and a man's

suit, one wedding, one

funeral,

hardly worn.

neither good or bad

we'd like to think of the world

in black and white.

of right and wrong.

of being fair

or unfair.

but it never is.

so much is in the grey.

so much

is neither good or bad,

just luck,

or destiny, or possibly

a simple twist of fate.

the apple juice depository

the new pool passes come

through the mail

slot, along with a page of 37

new and old

regulations.

i like the one that says

anyone with an open wound

will not be allowed

in the water.

no hanging on the rope

is another favorite,

as is no drugs, or alcoholic beverages.

i've lived here almost twenty

years and have

been to the pool twice.

going into the water once,

but quickly getting out as i

watched bug eyed children 

standing absolutely still, 

staring off into the distance,

as they relieved themselves

of what looked like 

apple juice.

stalker flowers

my friend tells me

that she's been getting stalker flowers.

i say, what?

what are those?

oh you know, she says.

the bouquet at the office,

the bundle

on my porch.

the single rose on my windshield.

the cards and letters.

the texts.

and emails. all gushing with

love.

promising that soon, very soon,

this year,

he'll leave his wife

and be mine.

ten years of flowers, and he

still won't give up on me,

or leave her.

tomorrow is ground hog day,

i should be getting

a dozen red roses

at my house.

resurrection

it was more

of an emotional cancer.

a deadly

disease

eating me from the top

down.

i needed life support,

cpr,

an i v.

there was little anyone

could do

to save me.

i just had to rise

from the shallow

grave

of false love

and get to the other

side.

one step forward,

dragging

the other foot behind.

the year book

as we sit

together in this late afternoon

light

sipping

tea, her choice not mine,

i'd pick a stronger

brew to browse

these books

and pictures of someone

i once knew.

and her, she says, pointing,

her finger 

resting on a pretty face

squared in black

and white. a name

beside it, a heart drawn

with an arrow too.

what became of that one?

she asks.

who knows, i say.

from what little i remember,

i suppose,

it just wasn't right.

milk spilled

as i witness the turning

of the page,

calendar, book, or 

day.

no wiser, although at

times

i believe it so, but still

the same

mistakes are made along

the way,

though less dwelled

upon than before.

moving on seems much

easier than it

did at a youthful age.

like milk spilled

and swabbed up, or

crumbs on the table,

how quickly now i'm able

with the brush

of an elder's hand

sweep them away.

down in mexico

worried about my

son.

with covid, and work,

his artistic

ambitions on hold as the world

spins to a stop.

out on the left coast

making a go of it.

i worry

that he's sad, that he's

exhausted and

about to give up.

down on his luck,

nearly out of money.

i call, and call, but no 

answer.

i worry.

why won't he pick up.

and then i get a text.

hey dad. what up.

i'm in mexico for a week

or so.

having a blast.

call you when i get home.

her favorite room

she wasn't much

for cooking.

she was more of a restaurant

girl.

or order in, or out.

pick

or delivery. but on occasion

she'd give it a shot

and stand

sweating in the kitchen

with every pot

and pan full of something.

three recipe books,

and her phone open to

some pasta dish.

the bread would catch fire,

the smoke alarm would go

off.

pots overflowed

and she'd burn herself

on the stove.

but it didn't matter.

the kitchen was not her

room.

chinese? she'd say in the end,

before taking me

up the stairs

to the bedroom.

come up and see my etchings

the night she invited

me up

to see her etchings, i was

beside myself.

at last.

our friendship had taken

the next step

towards romance.

and then

i went up the three

flights

of stairs

to her flat,

she walked me around

and pointed

at the ink and pencil drawings

that were hung

on every wall.

sit she said, let me do

one of you.

leave your coat on,

your hat too.

this won't take long.

when you find what you're looking for

when you

find what you're looking for.

call me.

come over

and help

me find mine.

then together we

can sit in the sun

and laugh,

and say. ahhh.

finally.

at last.

the ice box

my mother

would stand on the metal

chair

and take a butter knife

to the sides of the icebox,

keeping the door

open, to allow it to melt

and drip onto the towel

she laid on the floor.

it looked like

the north pole in there.

her hands

would be raw and red,

as she pummeled 

the ice, inches thick.

tossing out

boxes of frozen peas

and spinach which we

hated.

i think she liked doing

it. it took her mind off

my father who was out

drinking and carousing

with some floozy at the club.

what's your number

do need so many numbers.

age

and weight, birth date,

death.

all of it inscribed

somewhere

on our permanent record.

our grades.

how far we jumped,

how fast we are,

how far we ran.

do we need these number

confining us.

second of seven kids.

how long were you married,

how many times.

how many kids.

how old are you.

how many places have you

lived?

numbers.

they keep adding up, 

keeping score for some

reason.

making us who others

want to believe we are.

serenity now

i like the shade,

the cool

side of the pillow.

the spring

the fall

i don't like extremes

in the weather

or in

moods.

if you're a pendulum

in motion

we might not get

along.

i need even.

calm. i need

serenity.

after too much of the other,

i know where

i belong.

knowing where you stand

i like when people block

me.

take me

out of their life, unfriend me

from

all the social sites.

i like

disappearing as if i was

never there.

a clean sweep,

a breath of fresh spring

air.

you know where you

stand with

those people.

it's the others, the ones

sending you

pictures of the cake they

just baked that

you have to worry about.

graduation and then what

i remember the day my

dog graduated

from the old towne dog school.

his little black

gown and hat.

his diploma held 

in his paw,

wagging his tail.

he learned how to beg,

to roll over,

to heel,

to stop barking with

a wave of the instructor's

hand.

he was a perfect little

student.

and then he came home

forgetting everything

he learned.

reform school is next.

just one year

i gave you the best

years

of my life, she says, packing

her bags

and calling

a taxi.

the best years.

she repeats, as i stand

in the hallway

watching

her throw in the red

dress

that i met her in

so many months ago.

hardly one year.

the bedtime prayer

i remember clearly

my father grabbing the back

of my mother's hair

and pulling it

violently down

with his muscled arm.

she had just come into the room

to read to us

before saying our prayers.

i can still smell

the liquor on his soured breath.

the strange look

in his blue eyes

as he cursed her.

and when i see him now at

93, there is nothing

i can say or do to

change what he did to us.

at this point in my life

i don't want more children,

or a dog,

or cat, or god forbid

another soul mate slash wife.

i don't even want a plant

that needs attention.

all that watering and turning

it towards the sun

is exhausting.

i can hardly buy a head

of lettuce without

worrying when it

will go brown.

i want to toss it in the can

as soon as i leave

the store.

even a goldfish

right now

would make me rub my

hands together nervously

wondering

which day would

i find him or her floating

on the top.

the responsibility for others

is too great

for me

at this point in my life.

all else follows

there is no loneliness

quite like

the lonely feeling

of mistrust.

once trust is gone,

all else follows

in a downward spiral,

and you are truly,

lost and alone.

your lot in life

if i was taller,

or smarter, or thinner, or

a different color of skin,

if i had different

parents or was born

on a different

day in a different country,

perhaps,

if i was born

a woman instead

of man,

maybe

things would be different,

or would they?

the optimist online date

i ask my new girlfriend

to come over

for dinner.

she doesn't know that yet,

so mums the word.

i bought her a ring

and flowers.

i text her twenty times

a day

and write three page emails

telling her the story of my life

which truthfully isn't all that

exciting since i got out of prison.

sometimes i ride by her

house a few times,

slowing down to see if

i can catch a glimpse of her

in her ninth floor apartment

window.

i'll drop off a poem or two

with the doorman

to give to her, which

i hope he doesn't throw away,

or give to his own sweetie.

we've only met once,

which lasted about six minutes

because she suddenly

got an emergency call on

her phone. i mean who hasn't

accidentally left the iron on.

but it was a wonderful

time together. shame she

had to leave before

the waiter came to the table.

i could see by the way

she scurried out of

the restaurant that she's

athletic, i am too. 

and a great driver, i saw

the way her car swerved out

of the parking lot at a high

speed. impressive. we are

so alike in so many ways.

i'm just waiting now

for confirmation on our

dinner date.

i've already set the table.

lit the candles

and poured the wine.

i even changed the sheets

on the bed.

call me an optimist.

december 26 2018

i remember dragging

the dead

christmas tree from the house

and chucking

it far into the woods.

the ornaments still on it.

the lights.

the angel hair and tinsel.

i said some unchristmasy

things as i flung

the tree over the fence,

down towards the creek.

squirrels ducking out of

the way, saying what the

hell is going on here?

after that, i went in to rip

the mistletoe from the archway,

the candles, the fruit cake

and tossed them

down the hill.

i looked in the fridge

with hands on my hips,

pondering what next, but

then said,

i think i'll keep the spiral

ham, there's so much of

it left and i like it.

nine lives, or more

i believe in divine intervention.

i can name

so many times

when

i've been saved from

death or disaster.

falling off a roof for one.

finding a tree in the woods

for another.

i discover what i need to find

and seem to land

in soft dirt

when i tumble.

but i know they're are only

so many lives,

like a cat or a Hindu.

evil freckles

she used her freckles

for evil.

her name was Penny.

so cute. orange hair,

the pigtails.

the space between her

big teeth.

her alabaster skin,

almost

translucent.

pale blue rabbit eyes.

she slay me on a daily

basis

as i sat behind her

in the third grade

kicking her

chair. i've never been

that deeply in love

with anyone

and will never be

that way again.

he or she, not they

are we overthinking

nearly everything going on?

probably.

too much news,

too much

staring at our navels,

at introspection

and therapy.

we you tube our disease,

our disorder,

the symptoms,

the cures,

the break down

in detail

of what the hell is wrong

with us.

when did this start, when

did men start

wearing dresses,

when did people start

being unsure of who they

are.

stand naked in front of

the mirror.

there you go.

that's what we call a visual

clue.

not they, not them,

it's he or she.

please. it may be time

for the next

great flood.

just one will do

how many forks

do you need,

or cars to drive, houses

to live in.

how many

pairs of shoes do you need,

hats

and gloves.

pots and pans.

how many

lovers do you need

to say,

okay, enough.

that's plenty? i'm fine.

a box of things

as i sift

through the box of things

remembering.

i pull out

a photo.

a set of keys, an old

ring.

expired cards,

a license,

a warranty,

an archeology dig

of sediment and silt.

sentiment

and guilt. layers

of past years,

nightmares

and dreams.

burying the sword

let's call it even,

we're squared.

we have no quarrel

anymore.

the rift is over.

no grumbles, no

regrets, or remorse.

let's bury

the sword

shake hands

and go forward.

the arrival

the arrival

of happiness, or let's

call it

contentment,

comes not with any

fanfare,

a parade or blowing

of trumpets.

there is no banner

strung,

no seas that part or

clouds that

split to show a brilliant

sun.

no, it comes

like a breath of cool

fresh air

as you lie on the couch

on a blue

sky day

unworried, or rushed

to go anywhere.

i do have this leaky pipe

my friend Esmeralda tells me,

confidentially mind you,

in a lean to whisper.

when i meet someone, a date,

a new person

who is of interest, i look

at them across the table,

size them up, and say to myself,

is this someone i want to make

love to, and if the answer

is no, i never see them again,

unless of course they're a 

plumber or a painter and i

need some work done.

the kitchen drawer

i try to organize

my kitchen drawer, you know

the one.

the one where you put all

the long knives in,

the corkscrews,

the skewers, the scissors,

the meat thermometers,

the pizza cutters,

the plastic measuring spoons.

it's a mess.

i give up at some point

and toss everything back in.

sorry i tell them all.

you're on your own.

get along as best you can.

did you have a fun weekend?

did you have

a fun weekend, someone asks.

did you

get out.

did you enjoy this weather?

yes. i tell them.

i actually

went to france

for the weekend,

paris, as a matter of fact.

three days.

and what did you do?

starbucks?

chipotle?

in hospice

as the the hospice

nurse

spoon fed

my mother with oatmeal

and used

a bird feeder

to drop pellets of water

into her mouth,

i leaned over

and whispered

into her ear.

mom, it's okay, you can

go now.

enough. we'll be fine,

it's time.

cheaper to keep her

my friend jimmy calls me up

for a pow wow.

he's finally over his divorce

and is back online

dating again.

he's joined all the sites.

match and zoosk,  plenty of fish,

senior match,

our time, 

christian mingle,

jewish singles.

catholic singles.

atheist singles.

face book,

elite singles,

udate, 

eharmony, bumble and tinder.

how's it going,

i ask him.

i'm exhausted, he tells me.

whew.

i have callouses on my fingers

from texting.

women love to text not 

to mention eat,

and they drink like fish.

when the check comes

they all suddenly have to go

to the bathroom.

what up with that?

they have cobwebs on their purses.

two drinks each, a plate

of spinach dip

and calamari and i'm out

a hundred bucks,

not to mention the 50 dollar parking

ticket i get from expired

meters. i think i might have

to get a part time job.

and i think i gained twenty pounds,

and my blood pressure

is up twenty points.

i got slapped the other

day when i tried to kiss one date

after i dropped

two hundred dollars on her

at Capital Grille.

maybe i should have stayed

with the ex.

she was nuts, a liar, cheater,

and i was getting the same amount

of sex, which is zero,

but it would have been 

cheaper to keep her.

the nice day guilt

i'm tempted to do nothing

today.

to stay put.

to not attend mass.

to not visit

my mother.

to ignore the nice weather

and not

go out.

not do a second of work,

not take a walk,

or a bike ride,

or stroll up to the coffee

shop.

i'm tempted

to stay inside, to read,

to turn off

the phone

and not call up friends,

to do nothing but relax

and eat,

and drink,

and write.

i'm tempted to do nothing,

but unfortunately,

i'm still catholic

deep inside.

everything is clearer

from here, from this perch,

from

this roof

i can see far across the town.

my feet

on this ladder,

one hand holding tightly

to the frame,

the other

wiping sweat from my eyes.

birds are near.

the sun is closer.

everything is clearer

from here.

even you.

hazmat pajamas

tired from driving,

from the rain,

from the long trip on

the highway,

we look at each other

and sigh.

should we find a place

for the night,

i can't drive another mile.

she yawns, yup, sounds

good to me.

we see a sign up ahead.

open,

vacancies. cable

tv and wifi.

and below that in red,

vibrating beds.

hourly rates.

game? i ask her, sure.

why not?

did you bring our hazmat

pajamas?

yup. i think i have some

change in my purse.

another ten minutes

i'd like to say that relationships

are like parking

meters,

putting another coin

into the slot to keep it going.

one more nickel

to keep this spot

before there's a ticket

on the window

and the tow arrives

to haul me away.

i'd like to say that 

relationships are just like that.

but they're not.

be a good boy

we all have an image

we try

to maintain.

it started early

the first time your mother

combed your

hair, with a part on the side.

then the clothes.

the shirt tucked in.

the cow lick

pressed down.

the lunch box, the back

pack.

the warning to behave,

and learn,

be a good boy.

make friends.

and even now, it goes

on

as it did back then.

from the outside looking in

how quickly the wound

pretends

to heal.

but it's just the surface

that is mending.

the pain

is still there, 

the numbness, the ache

is real.

from the outside looking

in, it looks well.

we wave and say

hello, good day.

we mimic good cheer.

no more wishes please

one candle will do.

one small

flame at the end 

of a wax stick 

centered in a cake.

shall we blow it out

and make another

yearly wish,

or watch it burn

gently into the icing

before we slice,

before we eat.

life moving forward

we talk about

the glass half full, half

empty.

the glass with a leak

or no bottom.

each to his own way

of drinking

the days of his life

forward.

the fine art

there is an art

in dying.

a fine art.

some do it slowly.

some

quickly.

some pretend

that it will never

come about.

but in the end,

despite our efforts

to stay alive,

it finds

us in a whisper,

rarely with

a shout.

the pool party invite

the invite

to the pool party comes.

just bring what you're drinking

it says.

bring a friend too

if you want.

Priscilla is making her famous

potato salad,

and Ernie

is doing his deviled eggs

that everyone just loves.

he never reveals his

secret ingredients.

we have nineteen packs

of all beef hot dogs,

and two boxes of bubba's

hamburger patties.

Jimmy is skimming the pool

for dead

frogs

and raccoons 

while Betty's mother is in

the kitchen

whipping up her jello

with fruit cocktail in it.

bring your trunks for a swim,

but we have extra pairs

in case you forget.

starts at 9 a.m. and who knows

when it will end.

it will be nice to catch up

and talk politics

again.

the love drug

when you've done

the work

the rehab

the cold turkey, getting

the shiver

and shakes,

when you've done

the exorcism

and the holy water

the deep prayer

and gobbling of psych

books

for repair.

it's then that you wake

up and stretch 

your arms and say

wow.

home again at last,

alive and well.

what now?

her scissors

she had several pairs

of scissors around

the house.

scissors seemed to be important

in her world.

one for knitting,

for snipping threads,

for cutting tags off

new clothes, a frayed

sleeve or pant leg

on something old.

one for the kitchen,

a multi-purpose pair

in the drawer,

one for the kids to cut

construction paper,

a pair for

cutting hair.

a small set in her purse.

an old pair

she couldn't bear

to let go of,

a story behind it that

you would never hear.

the first taste

as we sit

on the bench on the busy

night

and the ice cream

melts

we listen to the children

out late

with harried parents,

the teenagers

flying by in chase,

full of new life,

wanting

their first taste.

going to work and coming home

what isn't true

is more interesting 

than what is.

the loch ness,

the grassy knoll,

the flying saucer that

may be light

or venus

on the horizon, who's to

know things,

look at these enormous

footprints in the snow.

we need distractions,

we need myth

and conspiracies, because

for the most part

it's going to work

and coming home.

meditation

as my mother

stood at the sink with

it filled

with warm water

and suds

the dishes stacked

below,

how meditative she

was.

how quiet and rested

she seemed,

as each dish was scrubbed

clean,

was rinsed and set

upon the rack

for me to dry.

she would be happy then

she would be happy

with a horse.

with a life of doing nothing

but riding.

no work

to worry her.

no child to feed and clothe,

no phone ringing.

just a horse

to gallop along the grass

with the mountains

before her.

cat and mouse

as the cat crouches

in the shadow

ready to pounce,

and the mouse

leans out with

twitching whiskers,

nervously looking

from side to side,

you see

what true life

is all about.

je ne sais pas

i ask my french teacher

out

for dinner, one night.

she arches her eyebrows and says

moi?

oui, i tell her, flipping through

my new french

phrase book.

c'est une bonne idee,

she says.

ummm. merci beaucoup.

un bistro?

oui, she says.

a ce soir, i tell her.

she smiles and walks away.

whew.

i'm exhausted already.

it's the same old song again

i take on a new patient.

but it's the same

old story,

heartbreak, a rough childhood,

she wasn't hugged enough.

or praised, or

fawned over.

i yawn as i sit across

from her.

a box of kleenex at her side

and listen.

i nod and take notes as

she recounts her last six

relationships.

all failures for one reason

or another.

lying, cheating, blah blah blah.

i have no magic wand,

no book, no you tube video

for her to learn from.

she has to suck it up and

move on.

but i tell her she's beautiful

before she leaves,

which puts a smile on her

face, job done.

meet me at the bar

no.

i don't want to video chat.

or zoom

or face time

or skype,

or whatever the hell

else

you punks do now to

communicate.

meet me at the bar.

and that's that.

conformity

the young woman

says to me

you look just like my father.

you wear the same

things.

i look around the store

and she's right.

we're all wearing the same

shorts, the same

shirts,

the hat, the tennis shoes.

we are all of a certain age

exactly alike.

i cringe at conformity,

at being

one of many, time

to break this trance

and book a flight to

france.

alive and well

my father

sounds good on the phone.

for the first

few minutes.

alive

and well is in his voice,

but in time

he falters,

he hesitates with words,

he coughs and clears

his throat.

he tells me

that his balance isn't

what it used to be.

his eyes

are blurred, his hearing shot.

but he's not ready to let

go just yet.

Esther's coming over

on sunday.

the year of no roses

i saved nine hundred dollars

last year

by not buying flowers.

not for birthdays,

or holidays,

mother days,

apology days, etc.

no roses, no daffodils,

not a potted plant

was sent or handed 

to someone

i was trying to please

on a bended knee.

not a girlfriend, not a wife,

not a casual acquaintance 

i met on some lame

online dating site.

maybe next year.

the horrors

i used to want to know more

about things

going on in the world,

but now i want to know less.

by print, by media,

by word of mouth, by pigeon

even with a note

attached to his claw.

enough.

what good is there in knowing

of the horrors

when there's nothing

i can do about it.

in the other room

there is the tinkling

keys

of flirtatious laughter

in the other room, i want

to look

around the corner

and see

who it is.

who's speaking to whom.

it's a quiet

symphony

coming into my ears.

sweet and soft.

so gentle

and loving it almost

brings me to tears.

throwing stones

there was a boy

in the neighborhood who liked

to throw

stones

through windows.

he would crouch

behind a hedge and wait

until

the family was gathered

around the television.

on the floor

on couches

and then he'd heave a heavy

rock

into the glass

and run.

he called it fun.

he had no family to speak

of that i knew.

no love.

so why should

they, i assumed.

what keeps you there?

the therapist said

once.

what keeps you there.

what is it

that allows you to stay

in such

a bad place

with someone who doesn't

love you,

doesn't care,

who lies

and cheats,

and breaks your heart

each day?

what is it, my friend,

my patient

that you want from her.

is it sex,

is it kindness and compassion,

of which she has none.

why don't you leave?

and i said

i have no answers to these

questions,

only prayers,

but i'm almost there.

that would come in time

i remember it was raining.

standing

in a puddle

in a phone booth

my coins stacked in 

florescent light.

the hum

of trucks and cars

flying by.

i remember calling you

just to hear your

voice.

to know that you were

still alive.

that was enough to keep

me going.

no need to say i love

you. no need

for any of that. 

not yet, at least.

that would come in time.

the poem is not true

a poem

is not true. not what

really happened.

a document

to be used in court.

a testimony

accusing me or you

of guilt or innocence.

it is more

true than that.

it goes beyond

the obvious,

beyond the facts.

paranoia

it's nearly impossible

to scrub yourself completely off

the grid.

to hide yourself,

where you work, or live.

social media

is a vine that keeps growing,

pulling you in.

the white pages,

the yellow pages.

the internet.

there is no way to hide.

old friends, new friends.

phone numbers.

addresses.

we are tracked and traced even

unto death

with every stroke of the keyboard

observed

and kept.

there's a good reason why

paranoia has set in.

refrigerator magnets

i can tell who

you are by your refrigerator

magnets.

i see save the whales,

save the bay,

recycle. eat organic.

seattle,

the grand canyon.

vote.

rosy the riveter. 

a dog, a cat. a bottle

of wine.

a cow circled in red

with a line through it.

a black square saying

men, who needs them.

i can tell just by looking

at your magnets

that it's going

to be a long day.

change is hard

the steam of tar

rises

in the early hour.

the men

orange clad

and boots

are weary as they push

and pull

a new road

down.

we are impatient

wanting to get where

we need to go.

we sigh at the detours,

but go

around.

new roads are hard.

change is

even harder.

they say it's your birthday

she informs me 

that it's her birthday

on sunday.

but she's booked

solid for the whole month

so i have to get in line.

there's a parade planned

for the weekend.

flowers come by the hour.

cakes are made.

presents are wrapped with

ribbons and bows.

people are flying in

from afar for her special

day. the phone keeps ringing.

it's not just one day,

it's the week, an entire month.

when was yours, she asks,

smiling from ear to ear,

her lips covered in sweet 

vanilla icing. when is your

birthday?

yesterday, i tell her.

oh, she says. i wish i

would have known.

the deepest waters

i'm awake

while i sleep

and asleep while i'm

awake,

when i rise from my bed

i'm in a day dream,

a fog.

the night has become

my real world.

the days

are full of haze

and ruminations,

while at night

i find real love,

i swim through

the deepest waters,

i travel far.

true the world

the dog

will not lie, impossible.

it wags

it's self

in joy at your arrival

and barks

at the darkness

outside.

how true they are

to the world.

unlike us

who they are

they will not hide.

the last day of school

i think about all the high school

teachers i had

in my brief youth.

they must all be dead

now,

or close to it.

mrs. moak the french instructor

with her stacked red hair

and extravagant scarves.

mr. reber. the robotic

physics teacher who dabbled

in LSD

and attended woodstock.

Secrist the pyschology teacher

who married one of

his students.

Mrs. white the english teacher

who didn't know

my name when i asked

her to sign my year

book the last day of school.

so, tell me about yourself

so tell me about yourself,

she says,

sipping her chardonnay,

staring at her phone,

clicking away.

no, i tell her.

no thanks.

she looks up from texting

somebody,

and says, what?

did you say no?

you don't want to tell me

about yourself?

that's right.

in fact i have to go now.

in search of a muse

i've run out of things

to say.

to write about.

i've beaten the dead horse

until my fingers

bleed, i've grown weary

searching for new words

to say the same old

things again

and again.

i'll take a break now, but

be back at four

or five.

maybe then.

the surprise

it is hard to tell who

is more surprised

the man

or the fish that comes

out of the water

over the rail

into the burning sun.

he yells

as the fish goes

to the ground struggling

in the new air

which fills his lungs.

i watch

hoping that he'll toss

it back into

the blue pond,

but no, once the hook

is pulled from his 

stiff mouth

he opens his

box of ice and into

that the struggling fish goes.

two hands

the words

come into my head,

as if a note slipped under

a door.

i read it.

and smile.

the devil in one hand,

it reads,

and christ in the other.

i look down

at the book i'm reading

by henri nouwen,

gripped tightly in

the right,

and in the left

hand

is my phone.

turn right at the end of the path

if you go straight

i tell the two women in their hats

and matching

pink jerseys

you'll hit water,

i point through the tunnel

of green trees,

but if you turn at the end

of the path, to the right

you'll circle

around to the tower

where you can see

the wildlife

more clearly. a short climb

up to the platform.

thank you, they say, and

move on.

as you do.

this won't last

as i sit

and wait my turn for the physician

to arrive

i see the young boy

held down

by his father

as the doctor

saws off a blue cast

from his leg.

the boy is crying, twisting,

and the father

with tears

in his eyes, whispers to

the boy.

hold on, hold on.

this won't last.

the green window

the window

full of green now. 

this season is in full bloom

awaiting summer

and what comes

next.

we are all

in some state of waiting.

no mystery out there

as to what's to follow,

but with us

it's in the air.

go home

i don't trust

church people.

or environmentalists,

or feminists,

or democrats or republicans.

i have no

use for vegetarians,

or lutherans,

or catholics,

or muslims, or mormons.

if you belong

to something

then something's wrong.

don't give me

your peace sign,

your astrology sign,

or your cardboard sign.

please.

enough.

go home.

get a life.

quit trying to convince

me that your way

is right way

and the only way.

guilty until proven innocent

i used to think the best

of people.

that all are good until proven

wrong,

but i no longer

have that thought

in my head,

i look now in their eyes

and wonder

when will they prove

me wrong,

dead to me

in the long run

in the bigger scheme

of things

it's best to think of

others as being dead,

long gone,

no longer

in your life. they are

under the ground,

beneath

the green.

no longer prodding you,

upsetting you,

getting on

your last nerve,

put up a stone and etch

upon it their

name.

then move on.

let me help you

people look at my

yard

and sigh.

they say let me help

you with that.

there are so many possibilities,

ways we can go 

to fix it up.

to grown green,

to dig and plant to water

and weed.

let me help you with

that, they say

staring out the back

window.

but it's not that 

that i want, or need.

things change

things change.

get better,

get worse. get different.

you once loved

milk.

cold milk in a glass

with a sandwich or a slice

of cake.

now you don't  drink it.

you don't miss it.

you pass it by

in the store as if you never

knew one another.

a vague memory

of a love gone sour.

third wind

are you on your second

wind

or is it your third.

gathering

yourself,

picking yourself up from

the floor again.

dusting yourself off.

back at it.

straight ahead,

forward. here we go.

okay, i'll push

as the wheels

turn

in the muck

and mud

and the rain falls down

in biblical

torrents

we look at each

other and laugh,

both knowing

that one of us has

to get out and push,

that person

being me.

see you when i get home

i like the written note.

the time

it takes to find a pen

and paper

as the sun rises,

to sit down and jot the words,

i'll see you when

i get home.

love.

it's a simple thing.

one that keeps you

warm

throughout the day.

nothing to buy

i can't think of anything

to buy

today.

the fridge is stocked,

the closets overflow

with unworn shoes

and clothes.

unopened books are

everywhere.

there must be something

i'm lacking.

i'll go the basement

and then the attic,

i'll search

for an empty space

there.

this too will heal

i rip off the old band aid,

the white

tape,

the bandage

and drop it into the waste

basket.

i stare at the wound

and see

a mirror.

this too will heal,

as have all the others.

i understand it.

your secret life

your secret life is your

real life.

the hidden

thoughts,

the notes you take

that no one else will read.

what you

look at, what you

believe.

what lies below

the surface, below

the spoken words

and smile, so much

of you, the true you,

goes unseen.

funny girl

she was a funny girl.

long

and lean

dark skin, thick black

hair.

almond eyes.

she'd say things like

ten dollar, make you holler.

or

beat me abuse me

make me feel cheap.

we'd laugh.

she'd laugh as we drank

margaritas

and ate chips

and salsa at chi chi's after

computer class.

then she disappeared,

never to be seen again.

she found

another life, another

crowd

to amuse.

the open wound

there is something to be said

about physical

pain,

the ache and throb

of a bone,

or joint or open wound.

the fire of it awakens

you to what means most

in your life,

the trivial falls away.

the ruminations end.

strangely with pain

life begins again.

what will never appear

where are you now,

what room

are you in,

what bed? are your feet

on the floor.

who's heart

does your hand hold.

have you

traveled far enough away

from

the past, or are you still

there

trapped in the fallacy

of hope.

wanting and wasting

away

for what will never appear.

true friends

friendship is not carved

out of soft wood

to last it must be

strong

and hard

for the knife to etch

into its

side our names

and what lies inside.

the soft

wood will drift

and float away,

but true friends will see

you through

to the end.

the calm of pastels

i like the sterile

environment of the emergency

room

the modern

fixtures, the glimmer

of steel

and confidence of the young

doctors.

the smell of alcohol

the blend

of lights and colors

trying to alleviate fear.

the calm

of pastels.

an occasional visit is fine,

but not often, perhaps

once every twenty or

so years.

swift changes

the fragility of life

and the swiftness of how

easily things can change

comes to light

as the art

falls off the wall

and you reach madly

to catch it

before anything hits

the ground. in hindsight

you'd probably do

the same thing again.

find your drug

i can see why

drugs become a choice.

who wants pain,

raise your hand.

the needle, or pills

or a shot of whiskey.

here, bite on this leather

strap

as we sew you back 

together.

you're not on any blood

thinners are you,

they ask for the upteenth

time.

blood and glass

with one hand 

moving slowly across

the keyboard

and the other hand waiting 

its turn

i attempt

to overcome the pain

of a cut tendon

and write something new

and fresh

and enlightening, but no

such luck

even the bright firework

splash of blood

and glass

has provided me with no

new insights

or epiphanies.

it's time to go

it's time to go,

i know.

time to slip into shoes

and clothes,

i know.

i see the clock.

i realize the time.

it's time to go,

i know.

and i will, i promise.

just give me

one more kiss

and then

i'll go.

three turtles

as the children

come upon the small turtles

baking

in the sun

on a grey log, they squat

and kneel

to stare

and gaze at each one.

and then

one child rises with a stick

and strikes

against

their hard backs.

this is the child

that will wreak havoc

upon the world.

water therapy

overwhelmed

with being overwhelmed

i slip

into the hot

bath

with the lights off,

no books

no phone.

no music.

just the sound of nothing

and the slow

descent of my body

into hot water.

it is from here

when i rise that i will

face tomorrow.

i want a hot baked pie

it used to be if you were

new in the neighborhood,

just moving in,

someone would bake you a pie

or cook up a giant

pan of tuna casserole,

which was nearly impossible

to put down the garbage

disposal.

but now. people just peek

out their windows and stare

as the truck pulls up.

no one waves, or introduces

themselves.

they bring the kids inside

and pull the blinds. there's

no welcome wagon. nothing.

i want my pie, dammit.

where'd all this money come from

i take seven hundred and forty dollar

bills

to the bank

and ask them

to change it into big bills.

i'm tired of stacking

them all into a cardboard

box and hiding it

every time the maid comes to clean.

twenties or larger, the clerk says,

staring at the bills.

are you a drug dealer, she asks me.

no. i don't even take

aspirin, i tell her.

i just somehow over the years

have all these single one

dollar bills. it's crazy i know.

can you break it down into

fifties, and hundreds?

i need to talk to my manager

about this, she says,

leaning over to push a button

below the counter,

and then a squad car

pulls up out front with the party

lights on.

there was this time in band camp

she tells me she's only made

love to three men

in her life

that counted.

what about the ones

that didn't count,

i ask her

handing her my phone

calculator.

in high school too? she asks.

all time.

i tell her.

what's your number?

gee whiz, she says.

okay, but in the spirit

of being open and honest,

i'll tell you, but

then it's your turn.

and keep in mind this 

was in the late seventies,

disco fever and all that.

ummm. yeah, sure. sure.

you go first.

golf nut

he tells me he plays

golf

three times a week, which

explains why

he's so angry

all the time and gaining weight.

it's my back swing

he says, i can't

push off on my left

foot like used to

since i dropped a can

of beer on it once.

i did fine on the front

nine, yesterday,

but then the wind picked

up and i was shanking

drives all over the place.

hit a duck on twelve

which actually was a good

thing, because it kept

my ball on the fairway.

quietly i close my eyes

and fall into a deep sleep

until he nudges me with

his putter that he carries

with him everywhere.

the five mile run

i would run the path along

the mt. vernon parkway

for years.

decades.

the legs churning swiftly

up the hill

to colllingwood,

then back

to belle haven.

a five mile turn around.

in all weather.

three times a week.

the snow didn't stop me,

nor ice,

or wind.

rain.

july or january, it didn't matter.

how easily

i worked out the world

on these runs.

clearing my head,

examining my soul.

figuring out what next with

each spring

of my steps.

the italian artist

her art

was magnificent.

her hand holding the brush

in the bright light

of day,

the curtains pulled open.

the oils

going leisurely onto canvas.

i could watch her

all day.

the music on.

the smile on her face.

each finished

piece a surprise, each

a product

of her fierce imagination.

my love

and admiration

has never died.

a twinkle of eye

the boy

in the wheel chair

not a boy

exactly, but still a child

inside.

the body grown.

the parents

weary

but loving.

the feeding and changing.

the grooming.

trying as best

they can

to make life normal.

this is the life they've

chosen. never to let him go.

their life

is his life from birth

until

death.

it's the way it goes.

and despite everything they

are grateful,

finding joy in a simple,

laugh,

a twinkle of eye.

first and foremost

the future is not

what it used to be.

but that's okay. turn

the page.

move on.

no need to dwell

on the past.

get up, get going.

choose wisely

next time and

first and foremost,

love yourself.

listening to you

can you move closer to me

she says

and lie next to me.

i don't want sex,

i just want to feel the weight

of you.

the length of your body,

your arms and legs,

your heart on my heart.

i want to hear the air

as it leaves your lungs.

taste the salt of your skin.

feel the strength of your back.

i want to know who you

are. please. don't speak

a word, i need this,

she says. do it for me

before we go any further.

intermittent fasting

it's really easy

to lose

weight.

just don't eat for a few days.

don't worry

about walking,

or exercise.

just stop putting food into

your mouth.

it's easy.

i do it every few years,

when a love

goes south.

everything was in reach

as we sit on the back porch

sipping

martinis.

we talk about where we are,

where we

might be going.

the stars are so close

we almost

feel that we can grab a handful

and pull them down.

but we've always felt

that way.

even when young and lying

on a blanket

in the yard.

everything seemed possible

then.

everything was in reach,

nothing seemed hard.

somewhere beyond the sea

it wouldn't be a start

over

exactly.

just a step in a new direction.

cash in my chips

and hit the road.

italy, or france

perhaps.

i can learn the language.

wear the right

clothes.

i'll get out of this worn

out town,

and find a new heart

to love,

begin again before i'm

too old.

twenty four hours

i prefer the dull day.

the mundane,

the boring, the blah

of twenty four hours where

nothing happens.

nothing goes wrong.

there are no surprises.

everyone is who i think

they are.

the trains are on time.

the food is right.

the sun rises then sets

and the moon without

a hitch, continues

to shine.

will power

i resist

the lick of strawberry

ice cream.

the sugary sweetness

of the pink

scoop.

i hold myself back

knowing that

will power

comes

in small steps.

i put the pint away

for now.

we'll see how long

this lasts.

the race track

as the car passes me

at ninety miles per hour, 

i wonder

what's so important

that he has to drive

that fast to get there.

to his wife

and children?

to a job.

to save a life, perhaps.

or is it something

else.

someone is after him,

or he's

running from his past.

i can't go slow enough

these days.

hugging the right lane

peacefully.

her father

her father

has been dying for years

sitting in his chair.

compression socks up

to his hips.

a black beret.

sunglasses letting no one

in.

how he waddled

about,

using the walls as braille

to move from one

room to the next.

half there until

the golden child arrived

where he rose to

wrap his arms around her.

a study in the pain,

the two of them in

a strange embrace, coupled

as if no one else 

was there.

we'll see, maybe

i live in the land

of maybe.

i might come. i might not.

perhaps.

we'll see.

i deflect invitations

like i would 

a fly zig zagging through

the ripped screen.

can i get back to you on that?

don't put me in ink,

quite yet.

i'll have to check my

schedule.

but i'll get back to you,

i promise,

so put me down

as a maybe.

to early to decide about

that.

is eight o'clock okay?

i prefer round to square,

curved to flat,

smooth to rough,

gentle to harsh.

sweet to sour, 

silk to suede, i hope you

see where i'm going

with this.

is eight o'clock okay?

time lines

we tend to delineate 

stages of our life

by whom we were married to.

we say things like before Ginger,

or before

Midge, or Eunice

things were different then.

we looked at the world differently,

we lived

in a different way.

each one opening up the door

and turning

on the light to a new

path.

like coming out of the stone

age

and discovering fire as

you beat one rock

against another in anger,

because olga from the north

cheated on you

with the Neanderthal Man

an inch to the right

i can tell something is amiss

when i come home

from work.

the maids have been here.

the place is clean,

sparkling, dusted and vacuumed.

but still there's something

not right.

the bed is made, the books

are stacked

on the nightstand.

the tub clean, mirrors

wiped.

everything is in order.

and then i see the chair

in the living room.

it's an inch off center

so i slide it right.

there we go.

my new horse

i buy a horse

because the end of the world

as we know it seems

to have arrived early

with civilization slipping into

the great abyss,

not unlike the roman empire.

i know nothing about

horses, but that they like to

eat oats and carrots.

so i stock up on them.

i get a saddle too.

leather chaps, very sexy, 

a white hat and a black hat.

hats matter.

cowboy boots and a nice

cowboy blouse with little

roses on it.

i might try and ride it to

the market tomorrow,

if i can find a ladder to hop

on board.

i give her a name too.

Apocalypse Now

no gas yo!

my friend L B calls to inform

me that

there's no gas

anywhere, the stations are plum out

of petrol.

dang.

i tell her.

i had no clue,. Since i stopped

watching the news

i'm out of the worry loop.

what happened.

nukes?

squirrels chew through the wires

at the distribution center?

cyber attack, she says.

wackos.

yup. i had that happen once when

i was looking at a victoria

secret lingerie site one year,

my whole screen went blue.

had to go see the geeks down

at best buy

to get my pc working again.

hate the cyber attacks.

don't worry, i tell her.

i'm sure bill gates and elon musk

are on it.

although i saw Bill on match dot

com

the other day.

so he might be a tad busy.

father flannagan to the rescue

for the life of me

i can't get the smell of shrimp out

of my house.

the trash has been double

bagged, the counter

wiped,

the pots and pans scrubbed,

the dishwasher run

and yet, it still smells like

the wharf down on Maine Street.

i call up my go to priest,

Father Flannigan up at

St. Bernadette's to bring some

holy smoke and water

over to see what he can do.

he picks up the phone and 

recognizes my voice, what,

another exorcism. i thought

we did that a few years ago

with your ex? she's back?

no, no. thank God, no.

it's this shrimp smell.

i cooked up a pound of

wild shrimp from the gulf

the other day, and it's still

in the air.

no problem, he says. i'll

send a few altar boys over

with buckets and scrub brushes.

holy water and a few holy

smoke bombs.

great i tell him. key is under

the mat.

A. I.

since normal

intelligence seems to be at an

all time

low,

the scientists are coming up

with artificial

intelligence.

this should be fun

as civilization crumbles

beneath our

lazy minds and feet.

buckle up cowboy

my friend jimmy used to tell me.

if she's crazy in the head,

she's crazy in bed.

he'd go down the list of his

so called conquests and examine

their personalities.

he had it all down on paper

which he kept folded in his

wallet.

it wasn't about education,

or IQ, it was something else.

a screw being loose, if they

were on medication,

in therapy, off their rockers,

about to jump off a bridge,

then he'd say, if they're

wackadoodle, then you're in for

a bumpy ride my friend, but

fun too. buckle up cowboy.

when your luck runs out

is it luck,

like a card game, a roll

of the dice,

a spin of the roulette wheel

in some

crummy casino.

is it by pure chance

this life

who you meet and marry,

the job

you take,

the house you live in,

and the rest of it.

is the good and the bad

a random toss or

do you believe as

Einstein once said,

that God doesn't play dice

with the universe.

you get nothing

the will states clearly who

gets what

when the old man dies, which

may be never.

but there it is in black and white,

witnessed

notarized, stamped with a legal

smudge of ink

pressed down.

most get nothing, while a few

get the rest, which

is everything.

no crumbs will fall off this

thick big sandwich of dough

rey me.

it's been decided, so put

your forks and knives down.

it's too late to make amends.

that's enough

i know too much about you

already, i tell her.

you can stop now.

but there's more, she says,

so much more.

i haven't even told you

about my second husband yet

or my sciatica.

i think i've heard enough,

so no need to unburdened

yourself upon me.

she looks disappointed

and sighs, turning her

head to the door.

she's thinking that men

don't listen. men are all

the same, and she's right

to some degree, and wrong

in others.

two hour maximum visit

i like it when people visit.

friends,

or relatives,

lovers. giving them the sweet

parking spot right out front,

but after awhile, 

and there's nothing left to say,

i want them to leave.

it's hard to say go though

after they

drove all this way

and made themselves

comfortable.

sometimes they even take their shoes off.

you give them food and drink,

you get them

an extra pillow.

a few have even brought

you a dessert

in a little container of tupperware

that one day

you'll have to wash out,

put something in it, and return.

you tell them where the bathroom

is, top off their drinks, 

but after about two hours,

you're exhausted

and stare longingly 

for the front door

to open and have them march out.

i understand my father

completely now.

twenty three wrenching hours

finally after twenty three

agonizing

nervous hours

of staring out the kitchen

window, amazon finally delivers

my new brown

shoes.

i take them out of the box

and am quite

pleased. a perfect fit and

they look exactly like the ones

i bought

last year.

but that's okay.

now where's my new black

sweater?

foreign films

i try, i try hard to watch

the chinese

movie on netflix.

five stars,

glowing reviews.

blah blah and blah.

it's won every award

but the Heisman Trophy.

after an hour though i see that

there are two more

hours to go.

i fast forward

catching snippets of the subtitles

in bright yellow.

there seems to be no end,

no middle.

i have no idea what in

the ham sandwich is going on.

but it's made

me hungry

so i give hunan west a call.

and the beat goes on

sometimes it is about money.

you need it

to pay the bills.

buy groceries.

buy drinks and dinners for

all of those

one and out 

online dates you got

suckered into

by a ten year old 

air brushed photo.

it's a  a conveyor belt of dead

ends.

and as you drive

home, unkissed

and bored after enduring

a few hours

of talk about

cats, and kids, other assorted

nonsense.

not to mention eating another

horrific plate of

fried calamari (local?),

you pull out your pockets

letting lint fall to the floor.

a hundred and twenty

five dollars

spent.

you wonder, how long

can this go on

until you find your next

cell mate,

whoops, i mean soul mate.

the jump seat

she'd fly out of seattle

on the wings of an american

airline, uniform on,

starched and sharp,

standing at the curb

at National.

a bag at her heels.

a whimsical smile on

her face.

lipstick and perfume.

trouble like nobody's

business.

she was out

of my league

but i took a few swings.

and made it

around the bases until

i had nothing left to give.

a three day layover

was quite enough.

it was fun being on

her team.

southern maryland

the crabs

would be piled up on

newspapers

aligned on the picnic table

facing

the water

rainbowed with oil

patches.

a pyramid of steamed

crabs.

hammers set beside

each pile

of thin napkins.

chisels. pliers.

a bowl of butter.

a bowl of vinegar.

beer for everyone

in golden pitchers.

baskets of hush puppies

deep fried

to curb the hunger as

small slivers

of reluctant crab meat

were released

from legs

and torsos.

it was a long day of 

bloodied fingers,

an exhausting six hour

meal

leaving you hungry still.

Mimi in Miami

after irwin died

mimi

asked me if i wanted

a fur coat

for my girlfriend, or

my wife.

she had them 

hanging on racks

in the garage

ready to be given away.

her trip to miami

was pending.

red fox and mink.

black bear.

beaver.

long coats, short.

a stole or two.

expensive and old.

the dust of time in the air.

go on, she said.

take a look.

take one.

i can't wear them 

down there.

too good to be true

i suspect

those that preach, those that

wear

their religion on their sleeve.

i worry about

them,

their sincerity.

the public kneeling, 

the false modesty

and fake

empathy.

they give too much.

they cry too easily.

so often they

are not who they

pretend to be.

n o, spells no

it's a word

not used enough.

a boundary word. a word

drawing a line

in the dirt.

a magical wand of

a word.

it saves you.

it builds you up.

it keeps you who are.

it's not said

enough

in this world of yes.

say it loud.

just once is plenty,

but  mean it 

when it suits you best.

more than one bite

it's just an orange.

a round

bright orb of fruit

gently peeled.

will it be

sweet, or sour,

plucked too soon

from a foreign tree.

will one bite

tell the tale,

probably, though

it took more

than one bite

to taste all of you.

is that all there is?

rare to hear one speak

or discuss

in terms of philosophy.

as a society

we seem done with such

things.

spirituality

is now a yoga mat.

a candle stared at with

an empty mind.

the green washing, the navel

gazing.

a new age book

full of mumbo jumbo

leading us nowhere but

to the next book

at twelve ninety five.

what are we doing?

what's the end,

where to from here.

is that all there is, peggy lee?

instead it's about the now.

what shall we eat,

what shall i wear,

where shall i go to find

peace of mind.

what shall i buy.

is leather still in style?

how dare you block me

i see an old 'girlfriend'

caught up

in the mesh of barbed wire

around my house.

the alarm

and search lights have

been set off.

there's another in the moat,

wearing a wedding dress,

floating

face down.

there's one more in a collapsed

tunnel

heading toward the low

south wall,

her hooked ladder

in hand.

i give them credit.

they were persistent

in their crazy infatuation.

i'll have to send Jeeves out now

to tidy up.

the hallmark charade

i wish there was a day

of clearance,

when you could get all the happy

this and that

out of the way.

mother's day.

father's day.

valentine's day.

the whole list of them

done in one fell swoop.

happy

everything.

all the fake holidays

we've bought into like

mindless lemmings

running off the cliff.

happy happy, we could say,

then slap our hands together

and be done

with the hallmark

charade.

the burial

the dog would

go through the broken screen

door

and out into the street

uncollared

no leash

chasing something

or someone.

he'd run until he'd

run no

more

finding himself

beneath a car

in traffic.

hearing the screech

of brakes and thud

of life ending,

we'd go after

him. others following

along.

we'd lift his body

into our small arms

and take him

to the woods with a shovel

where

we'd say a prayer

to the God we believed in.

bury him,

and then move on.

starting tomorrow

as i toss some

shredded potatoes

into the pan

and butter a piece

of toast

i think, tomorrow

i'll start

keto again.

i'll stop with the flour,

the starches,

the carbs.

tomorrow.

but it's pasta tonight,

and garlic

bread. red wine.

but tomorrow,

i promise myself,

tomorrow i'll try once

more 

not to bend.

when did this happen?

when the knee

swells,

aching with pain

and you can't remember

how you hurt it.

in your sleep perhaps,

turning in

a dream, did you trip

at three a.m. on the way

to the bathroom.

or could it be

those fifty years of playing

basketball

on concrete courts

finally catching up 

with you?