making a wish

i throw a cup full of loose

change into the wishing

well at the national park.

i hear the splash and wait.

i wait an hour,

two hours. i go get lunch

and come back.

still nothing.

zippo. this well can't handle

one lousy wish.

did my wish come true,

hell no.

i look around

for a park ranger to make

my complaint.

he laughs at me.

i tell him you need to take

that sign off the well,

this is a rip off.

i'm going down there to get

my money back.

do you have any rope?

it's false advertising.

let me see some id, mister,

he tells me as he calls for back up

on his crackling

shoulder phone.

maybe your wish was stupid,

he yells at me,

as i start to run.

zigzagging through the trees.

buttercup in the stable

i'm scared of your horse,

i tell my friend,

veronica.

the teeth,

those enormous eyes checking me out,

trying to decide

which hoof

to clobber you with.

the tail snapping flies

away

like a bullwhip.

the sneezing, the loud neigh.

i avoid

walking behind it.

keeping my distance, 

holding out a carrot

with a long stick.

i put a sugar cube on a shovel

and inch it  towards

his mouth.

they're so big,

so muscular,

a frightening beast.

what's his name, i ask her,

as she nuzzles

against his face.

buttercup, she says.

just once a week

too much of a good thing

is bad for you,

so i've heard,

not experienced.

sounds strange how anything

that good

and pleasurable

could be detrimental

your health,

your state of being.

but i'll take their word for

it and avoid

as much fun as possible.

from here on out i can

only see you once week,

not seven. sorry.

chicken dinner

if i make you

a chicken, will you love me more,

she asks me,

standing

at the stove, buttering

a fat bird.

it's hard for me to love

you less.

i tell her,

putting my arms around

her, 

undoing her apron,

the latch

on her dress.

answered prayers

sometimes

the devil is in the room.

she's in bed

with you.

she's married to you.

you can smell

the stench of lies on her.

the rot of deceit.

the blackness of her heart.

and yet

there she is a foot away

asleep.

strange how we fall prey

to the demons

that walk this earth,

disguised as angels.

in tears, in sorrow, you

bend your heart

to God and pray

that this will end soon,

that it won't go on

another day.

the rice burner

my uncle would

buy only american cars.

chevys

for the most part.

they'd be in the shop for

repairs

every month, something

going wrong.

i'm not buying any japanese

cars, he'd say,

or german.

not after the war.

not after pearl harbor.

he'd look at my new honda,

the hood rarely

opened and he'd laugh and say,

how much did you pay

for that rice burner.

aren't you a patriot,

anymore?

why aren't you kissing me

in the throes of

infatuation and blooming love,

fake love,

like

and lust

combined, she'd say to me,

why aren't you kissing

me.

which eventually made

me propose.

but once i carried her

across the threshold,

it was a different

conversation altogether,

why are you

touching me, she'd say,

why are you so clingy,

standing so close.

get away, we're married now.

a small hole

it takes a small

hole

to sink a ship.

a word,  glance, a single

lie.

a slip

of lips,

and down she goes,

not fast,

but slow,

and eventually to the bottom

she'll go.

ancient history

you can't tell your children

how hard

it was for you as a child.

they look at you and laugh.

it's ancient history. they

shake their heads.

they say, right dad, sure.

you had no food, all your shoes

had holes in them

and you had no car, no gas

to get around, even if there

was one.

you tell him about bunk beds,

shared beds,

shared clothes.

your mother standing out in the cold

hanging sheets

on the iced line.

the charity baskets of food

from the church left

on the porch.

you tell him about the electricity

being cut off from

an unpaid bill.

there was no air conditioning,

the clang of the old black

fan falling from side to side.

broken windows,

the leaky roof.

you tell him about your paper

route. how you woke

up at five in the morning.

the lawns you mowed, the cars

you washed to buy your own

clothes.

you tell him how

they almost broke the family

up, putting some of the kids

into foster homes.

the welfare woman at the door

with her clipboard

and camera.

you tell them the whole story,

the whole story

and more.

and he looks at you and says.

let's go to morton's tonight, dad,

okay?

haven't had a rib eye

in weeks.

twisting the night away

in the early sixties

before kennedy was shot, well before

the first moon

landing.

the war 

just getting started 

in southeast asia.

my father built a fall out shelter

in the back yard

so that when the commies

sent their missiles. 

our way, we had a place

to go, to hide, to stay alive,

to pray.

the world was about to be

destroyed in a few hours,

what took God

seven days to make.

my father stocked it with

canned beans. powdered milk.

boxes of indestructible foods.

we'd go down there

sometimes, for a dry run.

he'd put a record on,

chubby checker,

and we'd dance,

doing the peppermint twist,

twisting the night away.

the dance floor

when i was in my twenties

you couldn't get me

off the dance floor.

i had happy feet.

and now you

couldn't get me on one.

funny how

we change, 

going into observation

mode.

taking it all in now,

making sense

of it all.

when the war ends

nothing arrives

nothing leaves. the phone is still

for once.

the mailbox is empty.

there is no one here

to tell me what

to watch, what to read.

what to say.

how to bleed.

sweet bliss

this silence is.

when the war is over.

a thousand miles from nowhere

the flight is cancelled.

i'm stuck

in  a strange city, sitting in a bar

eating

a hot dog.

drinking a beer, a stack

of magazines beside me.

strangers

are hunched over

like bears in their overcoats,

some snoring,

some with that long distance stare.

a four layover.

the snow is three feet deep

on the tarmac.

the wind is blowing.

all the flights blink red.

i am in between nowhere

and somewhere.

there's a baby crying.

wish you were here to join

me in this misery.

shake it out

i stop

to remove my shoe

on a step.

i shake out the pebble

that has been

there all day.

maybe all my life.

a sharp

edged pebble

biting into my soul.

remorse, regret.

why has it

taken so long 

to be done with it.

the park wedding

i see a wedding going

on at the park

under the muffled roar

of planes passing over.

the bride in a long white

gown, the nervous

groom in an ill fitted tux.

friends and relatives

have gathered on the lawn.

sitting in the folding chairs.

the sun beating down.

i want to yell out, please

stop. don't do it. but

i don't as i sit under the shaded

tree and observe from afar.

a million miles a way.

like some soft blinking star.

the neighborhood watch update

the neighborhood watch

makes me nervous

with their continuous updates

on the online forum.

there was a strange van driving by,

did anyone else see it.

someone knocked on my door

yesterday, they said they

were mormons, but i don't believe it.

i think there was

someone in my yard stealing

carrots.

did anyone hear that loud

bang last night?

fireworks, gunshots?

what's the best way to get

gum out of a child's hair.

i saw a fox coming out of

the woods with a cat in its

mouth. has anyone lost a cat?

black and white with a little

bell on it's collar.

what's the best way to make

guacamole?

please vote yes to make our

neighborhood a nuclear

free zone.

meeting at McDonalds

noon, tuesday.

i'm sorry, did you say something?

i like to talk

until i don't, and then i'm

pretty much

useless in this conversation,

i'm bored

by what you're talking about.

i can't help it.

my body sags,

my voice lowers, i roll

my eyes,

i'm easily distracted

by anyone walking by,

i nod and say, yup.

i swat the air,

trying to

hit a fly.

a new start

a new start, a new

house,

a new

heart to love.

a new

set of keys, a new

way of

going home,

a new way

to leave.

the seasons change,

and so do

we.

fire or ice

will it be fire or ice

that ends things, the world

and us.

will it be the rage of flames,

or the hardening

of hearts

the freeze of change,

that will make

one or the other

depart.

either way, we don't choose,

it just comes upon us.

split pea soup, god help us

when my mother

would make

a pot of split pea soup, we'd

all roll our eyes

and sigh.

why, mom, why.

because your father likes it,

she'd say.

we'd scramble

for the stack of wonder

bread on the table,

pushing hard butter

across the slice, trying

to fill up.

there'd be a hambone

in the soup pot,

which apparently was how

my father liked it.

and which could

be used for a weapon

when he

didn't come home that

night.

selfie problems

it's getting harder and harder

to take a good

selfie these days.

finding the right angle.

the right light

to minimize your increasing age.

the lines,

the wrinkles, 

the pull of gravity.

i turn left, then right.

i hold the camera up then to

the side.

maybe i'll stand by the water,

or a tree.

i look better than that,

i think. but after all 

it was a rough night.

maybe tomorrow,

i'll give it another try

and send you a picture.

i may even try to smile next time.

in the middle of the road

i feel bad for squirrels,

their indecisive

natures.

busy to the point of being 

stir crazy.

unable to decide

which side

of the road to go to.

which tree to climb.

which nut

to pick up and gnaw on.

i see myself

in them sometimes.

judgmental day at the park

i make fast

and erroneous judgements on people

just by looking them.

looking at the car

they drive,

the boat they sail.

the places they went to school.

i stare at the name

brand

on their shirt

or purse and think,

that's not good.

my opinions are based

solely on where

i'm coming from. i have no

idea who they really are.

what kind of a person they are,

but i'm swift with

the like or dislike, the swipe left

on them.

how is that beautiful woman

with that guy

with the mustache, a handlebar.

who needs a boat that big?

an electric bike?

a hundred thousand

dollar car?

feverish

fevers come

and go.

with time and ice,

and maybe

a round

white pill of cure

that promises

to take us

out

of the sweat and heat

of illness.

get some rest

they say.

not knowing what's

really behind

it all.

take it easy, they say,

you deserve

a day off.

a day without

love in your life.

needed sleep

it's a two hour

sleep, mid day. a summers

nap

in the oppressive heat.

the cool

breeze of the fan

swims

against me,

as i stretch out

sans clothes, 

in the darkened

room,

the comfort of home.

not worthy of the new yorker

i understand what this poem

is saying,

so it must not be any good.

it will never make

it into the new yorker magazine.

there is no

puzzle to it,

no mention of greek

mythology. 

or references to ancient

worlds. i  don't need

a dictionary to get the meaning

of any of the words.

it's clear and accessible.

after one or two readings,

i know exactly what the poet

means. i can relate.

what kind of poetry is this?

did a child write it?

or me?

no thanks

you reach a point,

a turning point where you no

longer

do the things you don't like doing.

it's a refreshing

and welcome turn of events.

the relief 

of not going where you don't

want to go, or participating

in things that you

have no interest in.

no longer following the crowd.

why has it taken so long

to be who you really are

and not concerned 

about the consequences,

or what others think?

a life time, that's how long.

how about bird watching?

you need a hobby, she tells me,

you need

a new interest,

a new past time, something

to wile away the hours

before death.

checkers, perhaps.

chess.

collecting stamps.

you could volunteer

down at the shelter, 

she suggests, or

how about bird watching,

or wood  carving,

there must be something

you can do, she says,

her fingers tapping on her desk.

the round table

as we talk

about the past around the round

table.

coffee poured,

some smoking, some holding

newspapers,

there is bragging,

there is talk

of glory days.

of the one the got away,

fish,

or a woman.

we are old, but not dead,

we are still

sure of that.

we are here, still here,

aren't we?

while others, god rest

their souls

have not come back.

healing

as the wound

mends,

as the skin repairs itself,

stitching

slowly

back together, there is

still

a twinge of pain,

of trauma.

even with time

with age,

you can stretch your

hand out

upon the table and remember,

realizing that

it may, or may not

ever completely

go away.

the day before this day

each day

mirrors the day before it.

so much

sameness, so much to yawn about

and not

remember.

sometimes when you look

out at the ocean

it's hard to tell

where the sea ends

and the sky begins.

it all blends into one grey

swath of light.

each day mirroring

the day before it.

as i lie in bed

i lie in bed

in the early morning. in no

hurry to get up.

it's sunday.

i will not be going to church.

i will

leave that for the unbelievers.

for the sinners who

need constant washing

and reassurance.

my faith is safe

within me.

i don't want it bothered

by others.

we are human. we fail

one another, ourselves.

we are forgiven.

i lie in bed

and await the next thought

to awaken me

further.

decisions decisions

i don't like to make plans.

plan ahead.

mark my calendar to remind

myself on such and such

date, i have to do this, be here,

be there.

go someplace on time.

i don't want people to ask

me, are you coming,

are you sure?

did you make reservations,

did you call ahead?

i'm not a planner.

but i'm not spontaneous either.

i'm sort of like

the squirrel in the road,

avoiding traffic

as best i can.

either side of the road

is fine, or the middle.

just don't make me decide.

a peaceful walk

needing some

meditative quiet,

i go off the path

and into the woods, 

i find a slender dirt trail

that leads through

the trees, along the blue lake.

it's quiet until

i reach a clearing where

a picnic is going on

and people

are dancing and blowing horns.

it's a chaotic

party of men and women

half out of their

minds with sangria. 

come join us, they say. 

come on mister.

come on.

what the hell, why not i think.

they hand me a bottle

of tequila

and say, chug, chug, chug.

the next day

wake up in a motel

i in laurel maryland

with a tattoo on my arm,

and the name

rosalita across my chest.

lying still in a dark room

there comes a point

when you just want to get away

from people.

go to your room, like you did when

your were a kid

and lie on the bed,

not answering the door when

your mother bangs on it,

asking what are you doing in there.

why is the door locked.

you're not reading one of your

father's magazines, are you?

sometimes you need a little down

time.

some personal time.

some peace and quiet away from

the maddening crowd.

you just lie there

with a pillow on your head,

and blink your eyes, letting the other

world float away.

some nature poetry

i try to read some

mary

oliver, a well established

poet

with more medals

and awards

than

you can shake a stick at.

not sure what

that means,

but i've heard it before

and so

i'm using it here.

she's a nature poet.

she's got trees and flowers

down.

hills and valleys.

that sort of thing.

i know about three different

flowers.

maybe four or five, now

that i'm thinking of

them in my head,

but that's neither here or there.

she's all over

the nature stuff, but i can't connect.

i don't feel

sad, or happy, or anything when

i read her poems. i just

think,

oh, okay. that's nice, then turn

the page.

it's like a bowl of white rice.

spoon after spoon of it goes

in, goes down.

so what.

the rock climbing date

she wanted to go rock

climbing

after sky diving and deep sea

diving,

swimming with the sharks,

and playing

with crocodiles.

don't be such a wuss, she said,

as i stood back

with my coffee and watched

her grapple

up the side of a steep

cliff.

i waved to her, yelling

out words of encouragement,

you go girl, and stuff like that,

but when she waved back,

she slipped, losing

her grip, falling into a deep

jagged crevice about thirty feet

below her

where a sign read, beware

of rattlesnakes.

yikes, i said.

continuing to drink my coffee.

hope she's okay.

i guess the date is over.

and it seemed so promising.

surprise rain

it's a surprise

rain

an unexpected deluge

from

an errant cloud

blown over.

we find

an overhang

to go under

and wait it out.

we embrace.

it's in this moment

we

find each other.

sometimes

it takes

a storm.

thirteen steps

thirteen steps

up

thirteen steps

down.

when i was young

they were

no trouble.

how easily i'd

go up

in leaps

and bounds

and now

i hold the rail,

i let each

foot fall until

it's firm

then take the next

step

towards higher

or lower

ground.

the protest movement

i'm a radical

she tells me. a left wing marcher.

i go to

demonstrations.

i'm all about the environment

and the man

keeping us down.

do you know what plastic

wrappers

do to sea turtles?

no, i tell her, do tell.

it's horrible, she says

and takes out her phone to show

me a turtle with

a plastic bag over it's head.

i have my own megaphone

and make my own signs.

my protest name

is tanya.

are you with us?

we're going downtown

tomorrow

to protest the treatment of chickens.

i lick my ice cream cone

as i stare at her 

wild eyes, her twitching

legs that look stubbly, sort

of like a chicken legs.

i'm thinking i should have

gotten

rocky road and not butter

brickle as i continue

licking my cone.

well, she says, are you in?

i can't date someone that isn't

part of the solution.

but it's going to be hot out

tomorrow i tell her,

nibbling on the edges of

my sugar cone.

are there any shady areas

we can throw a blanket

down and picnic,

shout from there?

not a drop to drink

my son,

home from college one day,

tells me

frantically,

dad, we're out of water.

i go to the sink

and turn

the spigot on.

water pours out.

no, it's fine, i tell him,

pointing at the water.

look, turn this knob and you

get cold,

the other knob is hot,

but you might have to wait

a minute or two.

no, he says.

we have no filtered

water.

no bottled spring water.

what can i

drink,

how can i brush my teeth.

mom says 

that this water is full

of chemicals

that will kills us.

oh, and we're out of soy milk too.

cat crazy

one cat is fine.

two

is still okay, but the third

cat

has pushed things

over the line.

three bowls

of wet food

on the floor beside

the shredded couch,

saucers of milk,

the squared box with 

sand in the bathroom.

the fuzzy ball

toys,

the stick,

the wand, the sign

that reads, wherever i go

there i am.

warning labels

careful of the small print,

i've learned

my lessons the hard way

through experience,

now i break out the magnifying

glass

and study the tiny letters

and numbers

typed upon

the jar, the box, the bag.

i tell you to come closer

and let me look

into your eyes

and read the warning labels

on you.

we won't be fooled again.

her pipe dream

when i retire

she says to me, closing her books

on another year

of teaching,

i'm going to buy an RV

and travel.

take the blue roads across

the country.

meet new people

in out of the way places.

she's been saying

this for three years now.

i don't see her leaving though.

or quitting.

her life's blood

is in teaching, in the kids,

the school.

her complaints fall on deaf

ears.

she loves it.

just one need

the printer has a mind

of its own.

she keeps running and running

even after i've

left the room.

scolding me,

more paper,

more ink,

what size, what font,

nagging me

with questions,

how many copies,

both sides?

tell me what you want.

she has so many needs.

while i have just one.

buy oranges

the doctor says

we need to lower your cholesterol

and get

you back on

a good diet.

fruits and vegetables.

leafy greens.

oranges, that sort of thing.

we see plaque

in your x-ray, calcium

deposits.

your arteries are like a plumbing

pipe full

of you know what.

no more fried chicken, yo!

who is this, i say on the phone,

surprised that my

doctor would actually call me.

you need to exercise more,

she says,

nine hours a day isn't enough.

and you need to find a way 

to lower your stress.

i exhale.

okay.

okay. quit nagging me.

i make a stress reduction list.

divorce, done.

stop dating.

take only the plumb jobs at work.

sleep more.

massages

and more frequent sex.

under that i put, buy

oranges

and call Escort Service.

don't sweat the small stuff

if you see the book

don't sweat the small stuff 

on someone's nightstand

run.

run fast. get out of there

as quickly as possible.

pretend your pants are

on fire and run.

this will not go well.

anyone that owns that

book is a mental train

wreck waiting to run

you over.

well, okay, maybe not

everyone. i do tend

to exaggerate at times.

size doesn't matter

people swear that size doesn't matter,

and yet

there they are buying

a bigger boat,

a bigger house,

adding to their bank account,

making it bigger.

they want a bigger party,

a bigger

trip for vacation.

a bigger steak with a bigger

knife.

is it about something else

they're making up for,

is something lacking?

or is a cigar just a cigar sometimes

as sigmund freud suggests.

the bridge was washed out

i'm trying to think

of excuses to get out of this party

i'm invited to.

the host is relentless

with the evites,

the phone calls, the text

reminders.

i used the sprained ankle

last spring

and then covid in the fall.

i miss covid.

i could use the upset stomach

from a bad piece of fish,

or i have relatives in town.

sort of equal pain with that one.

i dropped my phone in the toilet,

maybe.

and lost all  my contacts

and directions to the house.

maybe it will rain and the bridge

will be washed out.

but is there a bridge on the way?

never need ironing

i ask the young clerk

if she can absolutely guarantee that

these shirts i'm about

to purchase will never need ironing.

i hate ironing,

getting the creaky board out

in the laundry room,

filling up the iron with 

water for steam.

then there's the starch can.

too much, too little?

wondering if i turned it off,

heading back home to check.

she points at the label

on the plastic bag and says,

see that, 

says right there mister.

permanent press.

she moves her finger across

the words.

can't you read?

are you blind or something?

it says 

never need ironing.

she shakes her head

and rolls her eyes.

will that be cash or credit,

are you a member?

you can get reward points

if you buy two bags of shirts.

my writing professor, neva

i send my writing professor

a few

of my books,

well, two, because that's all

i have

at the moment. being lazy.

i should have five out by now,

but i've

been busy with other

things, things like, like...

anyway,

i don't hear back from her,

so i assume she hates my poetry.

she's a stickler for grammar

and punctuation

and the traditional styles.

she told me once, reprimanded

me in fact and said,

you can't just tell stories.

which pretty much eliminates

most of what i write.

i even dedicated one of the books

to her, but does she write back.

no. well, not yet, she's ninety-two

after all.

eighteen holes

i'm not a golf person

but i like the look of a golf course.

how green it is.

the manicured

lawns.

the little flags blowing

in the breeze 

off a pole on each hole.

i like the slopes of the fairway,

and the sand traps,

like gaping

mouths awaiting an errant swing.

the bikini waxed greens.

i like the costumes

they wear.

the civility of it all.

yelling fore and what not before

striking the ball.

it's  a beautiful cemetery

without the headstones.

i text her, Yo

i send her a text.

yo.

just the word yo,

but get

no response.

sometimes that's all i got

after work,

after writing on here

until my hands

bleed.

but i think yo

is an all consuming word.

it means, how are you.

i miss you.

what are you up to.

when can i see you again.

you'd better buy some chap stick

because the next time

i see you, we're kissing.

(on the lips, this time)

etc.

this one little word

is full of affection and adoration,

and yet she doesn't

get that, yet.

taking a trip to paris

i get a key ring

holder that i screw into the wall

so that i can

stop losing my keys.

two hooks, one for me and another

one for whoever.

it's grey and looks like stone

and has the word

Paris inked on it, in black.

fancy shmancy.

the clerk when i bought it said

ah,

taking a trip to paris, are we?

which almost made me throw

it across the store into a pile

of antique wicker chairs, but

i didn't. i needed a key holder,

so i bought it.

five bucks. what the hell.

off the grid

this is what happens

when you stop watching the news

or following people

on social media.

joy. bliss.

this is what happens when you

mute your phone,

turn off the tv,

stop reading the daily news.

peace and quiet.

this is what happens when

you stop

looking out the window

for answers

that are already here.

sleep and relaxation.

try it.

numbers on a page

dates mean nothing.

anniversaries, birthdays,

holidays.

the first time this, or that.

imaginary numbers

gripped with two hands

on the calendar wheel.

worried that others might

forget.

make the best of this day.

don't worry about the rest.

do you need a day

to celebrate, to tell someone

you love them.

to you need another card

to send, or bouquet of flowers.

just put your arms around them

whenever you see them.

that's enough.

don't buy into the phony world

of guilt and shame

and not enough.

spin class

i call up my friend betty to see if

she wants to go to happy hour with me

now that the bars are opened up again.

i tell her that a new shipment of calamari

just came in after they dredged the potomac

near the blue plains sewage treatment

plant. a dump truck full of calamari

is ready for dipping into secret sauce.

i know how much you like them, i tell

her, smacking my lips for effect.

ding dang, she says. i wish i could, but

i have a spin class coming up in ten minutes,

huh?

what's that?

it's a class, we have a certified spin

instructor, Bambi, i think she's from california,

so you know she's cool.

we spin the wheels and she

yells at us on a microphone,

while they play music.

we're all lined up in rows.

so you're on stationary bikes?

yes. but they're really nice ones,

very sturdy, a pretty orange.

sometimes the seats are a little

mushy and gooey if there was a class

before yours, but once you wipe them down 

with bleach

they're good to go. the bleach and wipes

are included in the membership

fee, by the way.

why don't you just go for a bike ride?

no one yells at you when you do that

and you don't have to worry about the bleach.

i guess i could, but i don't like all that

wind in my hair,

and putting air into my tires.

plus the bell on my bike broke off

and i can't find it.

okay, okay.

well what about after that, i can

meet you then. happy hour should still be on.

darn, sorry, but i have a walking class

after that.

what? a walking class? really?

yes, yes.

i'm learning how to navigate

the local trails.

which can be very tricky

when they switch over from pavement

to gravel, then dirt and then back again,

all within an eighth of a mile.

the instructor carefully

guides us on how to avoid geese doo doo,

tip toeing around it,

which is everywhere, and how to step

around puddles.  he showed us

how to put a board down over 

a puddle,

if there's one around.

Buddy, our instructor, said that it's good

to carry a stick with you

in case of snakes, or if you need

to stab at a rabid animal coming at you.

i use my umbrella, which has a nice

metal point at the end of it.

i'm learning so much about walking.

it's not just one foot in front of

the other. you should join up.

in fact join the spin class too. you'll love

it.

maybe, let me think about.

okay. i thought about it.  no.

i need a drink now, maybe two.

adios amigo

i put a note in the suggestion

box

beside the front door.

i state my desires and complaints

clearly.

being nice,

but firm too.

it's important that i get this

message across

to the owner

of this house, which is me.

if we're going to live

here in peace and quiet, there 

are rules

and boundaries that must be

adhered to.

there will be no second chances.

no line drawn

in the sand further

and further back.

once you step over,

it's adios amigo.

i should have thought of this years

ago.

the writing in the sky

i pick up my book about witches

in salem during the 1600's,

volume one,

and begin to read, but

immediately put it down.

it's too real, too scary.

this isn't fiction.

i look out the window and see

a woman dressed in black

flying on a broom,

with a chanel handbag.

she's circling my house,

writing something in the sky

in black smoke.

what the hell?

quickly i jump under the bed,

and repeat the words, there's

no place like home, there's

no place like home.

the sound of music

it's amazing

how many songs you know by heart.

each word,

each bang of the drum

strum

of the guitar.

you know from the first

note how it starts, the middle,

where it ends,

when to tap the dash board

and begin

again.

decades of listening

to the same songs

over and over,

ear to the little red radio,

the records,

the vinyl, the tapes, the discs,

now back

to the speakers

holding everything

you bought

three times over.

the sound track of your life,

a loyal friend.

the maple syrup break up

when she brought me back

a bottle of freshly tree tapped

maple syrup

from canada

i thought it was the beginning

of a long

and beautiful relationship.

i barely poured it on a

few pancakes though,

when she told me she was

leaving.

i'm going back home she said.

i met a guy from my old high school,

Maple Leaf High,

in Montreal, who's a mountie now,

and he wants to get married.

i was in the middle of

pouring out the syrup when

she gave me the news.

it poured so slowly, as i tilted

my hand, shaking the amber

liquid out. i looked at her.

really? i said.

oui, she said. oui.

enjoy your maple syrup. bye.

i kept pouring.

the false religion

it's getting harder and harder

to watch

professional sports of any kind

on tv.

i can't buy into it, no matter

how hard they sell it,

and want us to believe that

it's important to our lives.

sort of done with athletic heroes,

which they never were

to begin with.

it's a false religion begging us

to kneel at the altar

of the television, and buy.

the spies next door

i think the neighbors

are up to something, they're too quiet,

too nice,

too friendly.

i think they may be spies

for moscow.

yesterday i saw the man kissing

his wife goodbye,

who does that?

they drink vodka too.

i see them out

in the back yard under their

strings of edison

lights, whispering while

drinking their vodka

and playing a kazoo.

when it snows they're out

their playing in it all day long.

reminds them of home, i guess.

i'm telling you, they're up

to something.

tonight i'm going to put

a glass up to the wall

and listen in.

see exactly what's going on

over there.

sleeping dogs

you made

your bed, now go sleep on it,

she says

to me.

but i rarely make

my bed i tell her,

unless company is coming over.

well, well,

you know what i mean.

and you mean sleep in it,

not on it? right.

this is why it will never

work out

between us, she says,

trying to think of a another

cliche to tell me.

you're always correcting me,

you can't let sleeping cats

lie, can you.

you mean dogs, right?

don't miss the train

you can

smell it in the air.

the change.

the change is going to come.

the ripe

of summer.

the bliss of sun.

the touch of lips,

a caress of hand.

you feel lit

before it arrives.

you can smell it in the air.

be ready for it,

don't miss the train

this time.

a closer look

when you see the light.

when you

know

that your parents aren't what

you hoped they were,

when a friend

is no longer

true to his word, when the lover

you threw yourself

into is a fake,

a figment of your imagination,

you take a step

back and reassess your

way of thinking.

wishing them all the best as

you pack

and go.

dry clean only

the label

says dry clean only, but when

have i ever

cared about instructions,

labels.

directions.

never.

i ignore the small print,

the warnings,

the dire

consequences if the rules

aren't followed.

and now i have

a very small sweater

fit for a child.

half the size

of what it was before

the wash

and dryer

spun it around to dry.

the sharp edge of a table

catching the edge

of the table,

in a hurry to be somewhere,

you lift your shirt

and stare

at the new bruise

growing blue,

a tinge of red.

it will be a sunset of

colors

by noon.

you rub it out.

absorb whatever it is

you bump into,

and press on.

the broken vase

it's a blue shard

of porcelain, a broken vase

beneath

the dirt

in the old yard by the tracks

that once

led to the river port.

is there a story there,

perhaps,

who poured

water into the glass

to keep the flowers alive,

what kind of

flowers were they,

were they given in love,

or did someone

die, or just flowers,

cut in bloom

to bring the room alive.

i have arrived

i empty

what once was full and overflowing.

i remove the clutter

from my life.

there is no

more time or patience

with

such things

as love,

or books

that bore me, that i'll

never read.

i empty

the shelves, the drawers,

i go into attic with a broom,

down to the cellar with

a shovel.

i can hear my voice

echo

against the bare walls,

the open floors.

i've been heading

in this direction

for a long time now,

and at last i have arrived.

until sleep is done

mistakes are made.

fatigue

setting in.

you're just one person

doing the work

of two

or three.

you grow weary late

in the afternoon.

your hands

are heavy, your legs

go slow.

you get careless, then

finally you say

enough,

and go home, where you

lie down

on the long couch

and sleep

until sleep is done.

the ten year dog

i still dream about my

dog.

the ten year dog.

longer than any marriage.

more love

and affection too.

i dream he's asleep

beside me.

i dream he's running across

the great lawn.

i hear his bark, feel his warm

body next to mine.

he's always happy

to see me.

as i am seeing him.

this love has not dimmed

with time.

olga

i send away for a russian bride.

olga.

from the ukraine.

she's blonde

and blue eyed.

she's standing in a field

of wheat.

she could be an angel.

she's half my age.

she's a doctor.

she's eager to please.

she's a dream come true.

there's a fair down payment,

and when she arrives

and the deed is done, then

the balance is due.

the evite

it's an evite.

a party up the road.

we have a pool

we have hot dogs

and potato salad.

there will be music.

fun.

there will be drinks,

and laughter

it will be like the old

days,

you remember them

don't you,

when we were young?

bring nothing,

bring a bathing suit.

bring

a friend if you want.

we have all our shots,

we hope

you do too.

going down under

i go under water

for awhile.

to a place where i hear

no sound

but the beating of my heart.

i sink to the bottom.

my feet in the cold sand

of the ocean.

i look up

towards the light, 

the milky light,

but this icy depth

is where i feel at home.

at least for now.

don't bring me up.

let me stay

a little while longer.

it's safe here,

despite the lack of air.

i can hold my

breath for months 

if i have to.

i've done it before,

and will do it once more.

to lessen the weight

the sifting

of papers, paper work.

stacks

of white sheets.

the loose ends of years.

notes

and bills, some by me,

some by

others.

unboxed and kept

unsafe in a drawer,

uncertain what to keep,

what to throw

away, what to choose

to lessen the weight, 

by tossing

them overboard.

we lock eyes from across the room

at the dance club

a woman keeps staring at me

from across the room,

we lock eyes,

she's very pretty, young.

a beautiful girl.

finally she gets up and makes

her way over

to the table where

i'm sitting with my friends.

i tell them to slide

over, give me some room,

i'm about to hit the dance

floor and shake my booty.

dang, i still got it.

the girl comes to the table

as i slide out,

and says, i'm so sorry for

staring at you mister,

but you look just like

my father. he passed away

last year. he was 87, but

you look exactly like him.

can i give you a hug?

i miss him so much.

i just wanted to say hello

and tell you that. have a nice

evening.

passing time

bored out of my mind, i humor

myself

with telemarketers, scammers

from india.

they call five or six times

everyday warning me about

my amazon account,

social security fraud

and microsoft hacking.

i do the old man voice,

in a wheel chair,

unable to find my wallet,

which is in the laundry

room, down three flights

where i have to take the elevator.

or the kate hepurn voice.

shaky and slow.

i drag it on as long as i can,

making dinner, folding clothes,

doing yoga stretches.

they beg for my numbers,

my age, my name, my credit

cards. i make them all up.

it never ends well.

they curse and scream, so

i throw at them a  few hindi

curse words i've learned from other

you tube videos.

it's all fun and games and

then i get bored with that too

and just don't answer the calls

anymore.

please, like me, thanks

i go into my facebook

thing

to update my profile,

but i forget the password, it's

been a long

time.

i have a cake i baked

that i took a picture of and

i'd really

like to share that with some

of my five hundred

and sixty seven friends.

i should catch

up with them.

let them know what i've

been doing.

which isn't much, but maybe

i can make some stuff up.

post some pictures

of my new girlfriend

heidi klum, or show them a

picture of me sky diving,

not me of course, but with

the helmet on and the air

pushing my face into a grotesque

death mask, who's to know.

muddled

towards

the middle, she'd forget

if she had

lunch or not.

was it christmas, was it the fourth

of july,

she wasn't sure,

she'd peek out

the window

of the senior home and see

roses

and ask if she was home,

would i take her

home.

would i visit again soon,

who are you?

be gone, damn you!

and don't forget your frozen

peas

i yelled to her

in my best dramatic voice,

learned

from my mother's shakespearean

life

with my father.

tragically comic.

take your damn frozen vegetables

and be gone,

wench.

not sure if i used the word

wench, but

looking back on it, i wished

i had.

her dark eyes grew darker

as she

stuffed the bags of carrots

and kale into

her large purse strung around

her vein bulging

neck.

get thee to a nunnery, i yelled out,

pointing at the door,

not knowing

what it meant, but

having it roll off my lips

like butter.

slipping through the cracks

like coins,

shiny or dull, things

slip through the cracks, into

the cushions

get swept away by shoes,

by brooms,

by the cat.

people too get lost

in the unending shuffle

of days

going by.

forgotten before they were

hardly known.

mere blinks in the flutter

of a weary eye.

employee of the day

some stores can't keep their help.

yesterday

i was in home depot

and the young guy with his orange

smock

was mixing me a gallon of paint.

in training,

his sticker said, stuck to his shirt.

new here? i asked him.

yes, he said. first day on the job.

last too. i'm quitting.

i hate this job.

dunkin donuts has an opening next

door, i can move up to manager

by the end of the week.

the kitty cat poems

i start the collection

for my third book of poetry.

weeding out the junk.

a lot of junk.

i'm looking for the deeper poems.

the ones not

so bitter

and revengeful.

the softer side of me.

bring out my feminine side,

my blouse wearing

simon and garfunkel side.

people are tiring of the dark

stuff. the angst.

i should write a poem about kittens.

a nice gentle poem.

put a kitty on the cover.

these shackles are chaffing me

we need a safe word

she tells

me

as she gnaws at the ropes

around her

wrists.

why do people in the movies

smoke

cigarettes

after sex, i ask her,

lying upside

down on the bed.

i usually want something sweet,

like

cake, or ice cream

or both.

i don't know, she says.

but can

you untie me now. those

shackles

around my ankles are chaffing me.

oh, yeah,

sorry.

where's the key?

what's out there?

i buy a telescope

and set it up in a field, far

out in the country,

where there are no lights,

but a house here

and there on farmland.

i point it towards the stars

and focus on the bright

white sparkle

of forever, then i turn

it towards the farmhouse

where i see a woman

in the window.

she's staring out into

the darkness, wondering

too, what's out there.

the beginning of things

we celebrate

the end of things, the beginning

of things.

hard to tell

which is which

these days.

one leading into the other,

disregarding the fear

of change.

of the unknown.

and what isn't unknown,

despite how hard we try

to keep it all

the same.

good luck with that.

good news

it's news.

the man inside the whale.

the girl

in the lion's cage,

rescued,

the woman

stuck in the turnstile,

for a day.

what about the man who

fell from a plane

into a haystack,

or the largest sandwich

ever made.

the world record

for eating hot dogs!

and she lived, amazing.

i like this kind of news.

it's so much more interesting

than the real world.

fatherhood

if i leave now,

i can be there in three hours, maybe

four

on a sunday.

i can change a light bulb

for him.

take him for a haircut,

a shave.

find the day old meat

in the frozen

section of the commissary.

will we talk.

not much.

will we understand each other,

of course not.

this is set in stone.

from cradle to the grave.

how can one

be a father when he had none

as his own?

the golden child

the lightning bug,

slow

in flight, so easy to catch,

but why.

why

steal his life

away,

let him blow gold

into the dark,

be what he

is.

let him find whatever

comes his way.

it is not for you to

decide,

for you to say.

building ships

as children

in the woods, 

on the wide ponds

of castle de fels we would

build ships out of corks

and toothpicks,

a sliver of squared paper.

we'd push them

off with a fond fair well

watching

the wind catch their

sails.

this imaginary world,

still

has not left me.

hold on, i'm here

the road is slippery.

hold on

to the rail.

step lightly forward, don't

fall.

lean into the light,

the stars

will guide

you down the steps,

down the walkway,

you know

the way home, you've

always known which way

to go.

hold on.

i'm with you,

i'll catch you if you fall.

call it love

if you'd like.

this night in june

as i push

past another page of this thick book,

i rest my eyes

for a moment, closing

them

to the words.

i let the weight of it all

lie upon my chest.

a written hand

upon my heart.

not the one i want, but it

will have to do

on this night

in june.

they whistle

beware of the man

or woman

who whistles a happy tune,

they can't be

trusted.

they are distracting you

with a false

sense of security.

they pretend to be song birds,

but they aren't.

there's blood

on their claws,

past victims in their beaks.

plug your ears,

shield your eyes.

run.

what remains

into the long night

we discuss our lives, what's left

of them.

we ponder

on the long couch, with wine,

our dismissed dreams,

the places

we'll never get to.

and strangely none of it matters.

we have this moment.

this moon

outside the squared panes.

we have the trees,

the sleeve of a darkened

stream

to make this night what it is.

the stone hat

it's a wonderous thing.

this

box turtle on the path,

yellow

hatched, the helmet an iron

brown

hat.

he pretends to be stone,

unmoving

and oblivious about the future

about the past,

who hasn't,

at some point in their life

done that?

the sharp knife on the counter

when someone moves into your house

you quickly realize

that the house is too small,

makes no difference if it's a mansion

or a double wide trailer.

suddenly you develop claustrophobia. 

you can't breathe.

you can't find one private place to be.

the other person is everywhere.

knocking at the bathroom door,

asking you what you're doing,

telling you not to leave the seat up.

what you're cooking in the kitchen.

they ask you,

they show you how to load the dishwasher.

no, not like that, like this,

they ask you

if thursday is trash day, the regular

trash, and if wednesday is for

recycling.

this is how it's going to be from

here on out you realize, staring

a sharp knife on the counter.

is this your hummus?

i find a plastic tub of hummus

in the back

of my refrigerator, next

to a stick of unsalted butter.

what the hell is this,

i say to myself.

i pull it out and open it up.

it's a  brown paste, with

little specks of pimento

in it. the label

says chick peas, soy

and shredded kale,

but there's no expiration date.

in fact it says,

this will never go bad.

forever, the tag says

in bright yellow.

i give it a quick smell test,

it smells like

fishy spackle.

who put this here, i wonder.

what person left behind

her chick pea paste?

the occasional pajama party

i find myself almost falling

in love again,

but quickly throw a cold glass

of water over

my head and slap myself as

hard as i possibly can

without knocking out several

teeth and breaking my nose.

i shake my head and come

to my senses. whew, that was

a close one, i say to

the mirror, wagging my finger

at myself.

no more of that, i lecture

my swollen face. it's just

friends and the occasional

pajama party from here on out.

got that?

no more mush, no more

vows. no more soul mates,

or cell mates. done.

the low budget burial plan

an insurance agent

calls

to sell me a low cost burial

plan.

i ask him, what he knows.

and how

he came across the information

of my early demise.

he says nothing to this.

he's in Delhi.

i can hear

the hundreds of young men

selling

beside him.

chattering in Hindi.

what does the plan include,

i ask him.

i'd like a gold coffin,

maybe a pyramid too, sort

of like

king tut.

he tells me the price for that

plan, but

it isn't in my budget.

what about a parade, i query.

again, too expensive.

how about a cardboard box, 

then

and some small roman candles

lit off when they

throw the dirt over me.

he says.

that can be arranged.

i give him my credit card info

and he signs me up.

turn off your phone

where are the days

of walking into a bar, sitting down

and seeing an attractive

woman across the way and

sending her a drink and waving.

whether it goes further,

doesn't matter.

the world has lost it's way.

paranoid and scared of human

contact.

it's skype now, vid chat, facetime

and all the other

crappy ways of saying hello

to someone new.

god forbid you actually meet

and rub elbows.

stare into one another's eyes

and see if there's

a spark. a chance, a flash

of heat.

what nut are you?

it's a big red

holiday bowl

of mixed nuts, i think as i look

back

on a long

line of

miscalculated relationships.

shelled and unshelled.

cashews,

brazil, pistachios, 

macadamia nuts.

almonds.

some salted,

some

raw, some still stuck

between my teeth

that i can't completely

spit out.

a weak spot

we all have a weak spot.

an achille's heel

of some sort, whether

it be drink

or drug,

chocolate or sex.

gambling, perhaps.

there is something

that melts our butter,

floats our boat,

gives us reason to live.

what's yours my dear?

i'll put you on the list.

the carnival ride

as i handed over

my little son to the carnival worker

so that he could

secure him

in the tilt a whirl machine,

i cringed.

his hands were black

with oil

and grease,

he had no teeth and only

one eyebrow.

i was assuring the safety

of my son

to this man with a tattoo

of satan on his arm.

what possibly could go wrong?

trust is a funny thing.

the color platinum

people would often stop

her on the street

and ask her what color her hair was.

sometimes it was red,

while other times it was more

of a crimson hue.

occasionally it would be a dark

deep brown, like how a

bear rug looks.

i'd stand there and listen to these

conversations

between complete  strangers,

and think about my own hair,

or lack of it.

i told the girl at the dmv to put

down platinum, which made

her laugh and call over

other employees to laugh

with her.

that ain't no drivers license color

she said.

try again.

this just won't work

i met her family

and i didn't like them.

loud, boisterous,

opinionated right wing

flag wavers

with loaded guns.

they didn't like me either,

so it was a mutual

awkward meeting.

trying to say the right

things, or saying nothing

at all,

which always works

better in situations

like this.

that went well, she said,

as we drove away.

and i looked at her and

realized i really didn't

like her either, or her me.

the artistic lad

the artistic lad

tells me that he  doesn't want to work

just for money.

the time card into the clock,

the apron,

the name tag, a bloodied

smock.

he wants

a higher calling, one

of art

and performance,

with pen in hand,

he sees himself as

a renaissance soul,

a new age song and dance man.

why should he push the plow,

dig the earth.

plant seeds,

bent over on hands and knees

in the boiled sun.

why should

he drop nets

for his crust of bread

into the sea?

work is for the dumb, the lazy,

the uneducated.

work is for fools, not for the talented

and anointed men

like me.

the good fire

there is beauty in fire.

see how

the flames

lick

in colors.

the rise and fall of it.

the heat.

see how

things burn, how

steel is tempered,

how ashes rise

and float away

as if what they were

never existed.

the spill of sand

i'll bring some of the beach

back with me.

sand in my shoes.

in my ears,

my eyes.

my skin will be red.

my hands soft from the ocean.

books

will be half read.

my eyes will wander down

the shore.

ships will appear and disappear.

the sun

will swing over to the bay side.

i'll go home

and turn my shoes over,

spilling another summer into

my hand.

the common denominator

i try to think back and remember

if there was

any pain

in my life that didn't involve

a relationship

with a significant other.

nothing comes to mind.

it seems to be the common

denominator when it comes

to stress and anxiety.

fear and loneliness.

heartache.

and yet here i am again swiping

right, swiping left.

the art of no art

i leave the wall blank.

once

holding

pictures. small and large.

a mirror too.

the holes remain where

things hung.

the scrapes,

the dents, the markings

of measurements.

it's an empty canvas now,

which is fine.

life has a way of telling

you what works

and what doesn't.

which is when you 

come to mind.

out of the gate

up too early.

i left some sleep on the table.

i'll get back

to it later.

the bell has rung.

the race is on, i'm out

of the gate,

but at a slow trot

towards coffee,

then a cautious merge

into the race.

you can't quit now

i tell my boss

that i'm thinking about quitting next year.

he looks me

and says, why.

why would you leave me

in the lurch like this.

i straighten my

tie, and look myself in the eyes.

i'm sorry i tell myself.

but it might be time.

after all these years.

after everything i've given you,

the best years of my life,

and now this?

maybe two years, i give in.

okay, he says.

chin up, and get back to work.

they want ice water

i want to believe that everyone

is innocent.

kind

and compassionate.

trustworthy and loyal.

i don't want to believe in a cruel

world.

i want you to be

good.

to say the right things, do the right

things.

follow the golden rule.

i want things differently

than they are. i want the impossible,

as people who are

in hell want ice water.

the sundial

does any ask

what time it is anymore.

to ask

would mean

there's more wrong with you

than meets the eye.

where isn't there

a clock,

where aren't there numbers

telling

you the time. on your wrist,

the wall, in your hand,

the stove.

who needs a sundial

anymore.

it would slow the world down,

god forbid,

to a crawl.

faster than any wheel can turn

i see a carousel

in the distance. on the edge of woods.

it's playing

music.

the lights

are on the horses, the children

with shiny faces.  they spin

forward,

around and around, while

parents

stand beside them,

waving,

savoring this moment that

will pass

faster than any wheel can

turn.

the parking garage

as we circle the underground parking

garage

searching for our cars,

taking the stairwells

and ramps,

tip toeing through yellow puddles

of something odd,

the subject of love and death

comes up

as if the two are closely related.

we begin to sweat

and the air thins as we descend

further in the seventh circle

of hell. we take a break and eat

a power bar from her purse,

then press on.

finally she sees her car and uses

her key to make it beep.

thank you Jesus, she says,

not that she believes.

can i drive you to yours?

sure, i tell her, bending over to

catch my breath and loosen

the collar on my shirt.

all i remember is red B 12, i tell her.

do you have enough gas?

where can i buy your book?

my old writing professor

calls me to ask where she can purchase

my poetry books.

i tell her amazon.

she says what's that?

i don't travel much anymore,

and going to africa is

out of the question.

she's 92, so i forgive her.

give me your address,

i tell her.

i have company right now,

she says.

can i call you back.

just say your address, i tell

her.

hold on, she says.

and grabs an electric bill

off her desk.

here it is.

and who is this i'm speaking to?

the world of beers

i stop into

a joint on the boulevard

called a world

of beers, it's next to mister donut,

and mrs. pretzel.

i don't like beer

but i want to see what a beer

from

fiji tastes like.

they don't have it, but it's

on its way.

come back next week,

the girl says.

what about a beer from

siberia,i ask her.

she says, no problem.

i watch her go to the bar

and pour

a budweiser into a fancy

mug and bring it

back.

i tell her that i saw her pour,

that i saw the bottle,

and that i know it's a budweiser.

she says. so.

they sell it there too.

they sell miller lite too,

care to try one of those?

will this make me fat?

they've put benches

and love

seats in the grocery store,

the gourmet

stores where everything

says organic,

people are reading

voraciously,

their glasses on the tips

of their noses.

studying the labels.

counting calories,

carbs, sugars.

is their mercury in this fish?

they raise their questions

and ask the clerks,

will this make

me sleepy, or fat, or lazy.

they hold up bananas

and say what about this.

what will this do to my

figure, i'm going to the

beach on labor day?

can i eat this and still

fit into my suit?

should i just eat half?

splashing paint

i wish i liked kerouac

more,

the unreadable on the road,

or ginsberg

and his howl, his

supermarket

prose,

or the rest of the beat poets.

but they leave

me cold.

some call it typing,

not writing.

it's like throwing paint

at a canvas,

dripping a gallon

on the floor.

art?

to each his own, i guess.

aspirations

i've changed my mind.

i no longer

want to be a cowboy.

i've finally given up on that dream,

a dream i've kept ever since

i had the rubber

horse

in the bedroom, 

bouncing on springs,

and the white hat,

the chaps

and cap pistol.

being chased by bad

guys, 

wild indians.

enough of that.

now i want to be an

astronaut.

how about that?

thin slice of moon

it's a sliver

of moon eeking through

the clouds.

an eighth perhaps

if you need to get mathematical

about it.

a thin slice

of illumination,

throwing back

the sunlight.

not much of a moon, but

i'll take it.

as i will

a kiss on the cheek

from you.

fix me

machines break down.

nothing lasts

forever.

listen to the squeak in the washer,

the unruly

hum of

the furnace. the loose

belt

of the dryer.

a lost screw.

the house is full of

mechanical

mice

speaking out of turn.

chattering over

one another,

fix me, grease me.

replace me with something

new.

it's like they've been

listening to me

for so many years,

learning how it's done.

taking the phone off the hook

when people

mess up their lives with

so many mistakes,

wrong turns,

lies and deceptions,

idiotic behavior

and finally, at last,

their life is a

complete train wreck

they then

turn on God.

how could God do this to me?

what kind of a God

would allow

me to be in such living hell?

i thought God was good.

apparently not,

they whine.

who can blame

Him for taking the phone

off the hook.

baby back ribs

i take a few pounds

of 

ribs

and boil them on the stove

until

they're almost cooked

and slim

ready to be dried and rubbed,

does this

remind you of me?

i hope it does,

anyway, i digress.

back to the ribs.

the spices, the salt and pepper,

the brown sugar,

and secret sauce.

who doesn't like

secret sauce, raise your hand?

i see no hands

so i'll move on.

i preheat the oven

to 325.

we're going to cook them slow

tonight.

i know how you like

slow.

right?

my mouth is watering,

is yours?

dinner at 8, be hungry.

i call my florist

i call my florist.

it's an emergency.

betty is mad at me, again.

i need

a bundle of red roses asap!

pronto.

throw in a big box 

of chocolates

and a card.

mushy, make it mushy.

draw some hearts on it.

maybe a basket of fruit

too, what the hell.

toss in an edible arrangement.

she'll like that.

i've never seen her quite

this upset at me.

others, sure,

but not my main go to squeeze.

make it same day delivery

please. spare no expense,

well. try to keep it within

reason.

i'm not rockefeller, for 

God's sake.

trying to face the strange changes

things are ending

quickly,

wrapping up, moving forward.

the turnstile turns,

the escalator clicks on,

the elevator.

is swift as each floor

passes by.

i can hardly keep up

to these fast

changes.

but i'll manage somehow.

i always do.

it's exhilarating

and depressing all at once,

let's see where it goes,

where

it really ends.

what have we learned so far?

so what have we learned so far?

a lot of lessons

have been given,

some absorbed, some ignored.

where to start.

rinse and repeat.

fall down, get up.

the memes and cliches

are everywhere.

i've graduated and failed.

i've been held back,

i've been put at the front 

of the class.

i'm in the corner, i'm banging

erasers on the walls

out back.

what have we learned so far,

a thimble full,

a sack.

a mountain of knowledge.

everything and nothing.

depends

on the day, the month,

the year.

i can't remember what's fiction,

what's fact.

no need to worry

i won't fall in love

with you.

so don't worry.

don't think twice about 

where my eyes go,

where my

hands reach

to find yours.

it won't be love, of that

i can assure you.

i'm incapable of such an

emotion anymore.

that ship has sailed, the door

has closed.

so rest easy.

no need to worry about

where any of this might go.

one last game

you know when it's time

to move on.

when the legs are heavy,

the arms

too slow,

the hands and eyes, once

sharp,

are in a daze.

the knees ache.

recovery is beyond a week,

it's time to give it up.

let the young men

have their way.

it was a good run.

a good half century of game

on black top,

gravel,

dirt and concrete.

the chain link nets,

the string,

the single rim, rusted

on a broken backboard.

lacing

the shoes,

the adrenaline rush.

the sun,

the glory, the friends, all

will be missed.

all will be remembered,

but this is it.

live on

my favorite poets

are dead.

my writers too.

six friends i've known

forever

are gone.

and what does it mean?

nothing but a maudlin

thought

as the rain begins, again.

i can still 

read them,

i can still remember

their faces,

their voices.

the way they loved

their life,

and you. live on, live on.

there's little

else to do.

porcelain still life

being naked

is nothing anymore.

i've seen enough.

i've seen it all.

too much, perhaps.

my imagination

has run dry.

i need another

take, another side

of you, enough

of this still life,

this porcelain hide,

i need to see compassion.

time for

a different point

of view.

almost everything

there's a lot of windows

in this house,

a lot of rooms,

a lot of doors, a lot

furniture and  art,

it's full of so many

things i think i need.

look around, take a long

look, everything is here.

almost. almost.

don't you agree?

before it even starts

i hide a lot of things

from you.

i slip my

feelings between the lines.

i write notes

you'll never see, i keep

the real me 

off the table.

there's so much you don't

know, or will

ever know about

who i really am.

i'm in the shadows,.

i'm in the dark.

i'm always looking for a

way out,

before it even starts.

you just know

people don't have to tell

you they

don't love you.

no need to have that conversation.

you know it.

you feel it.

the way they move.

the way

they sit and hold their arms

together.

the way they

enter the room,

the way they go.

no one needs to tell you.

you just

know.

tell me a story

speak to me.

tell me a story i can sleep on.

a true story

of love

and friendship, of being young.

unravel

it slowly.

let me drink it down like

a fine

smooth wine.

be gentle,

be generous with your words,

be kind.

tell me a story i can sleep on.

i could use one

tonight.

in between so many things

this music is soothing

as i lie

on the big couch

in the cold

basement.

i hear the clock tick.

the sound

of a muffled

mower far away.

i hear the neighbor

telling

his kid

to no, throw it like this.

but the music

is good.

it makes me sleepy

and happy

all at once.

i can't stay awake,

i can't fall asleep.

i'm somewhere in between,

like i am with

so many things.

the ivy league

she prefers smart men.

so that

leaves me out.

she prefers men with more

degrees

than a thermometer. 

brainiacs

from the ivy league.

men with books written

while on summer leave,

men with tenure.

men with clean soft

hands,

and white shirts.

white beards. men

who study physics for fun.

again.

not me.

three turtles on a log

as the turtles rise,

their slender necks take

chances, twisting slowly,

side to side,

as turtles do

from the murky brown

stew of the man made lake,

lake accotink,

they crawl with caution

upon the rotted log,

stuck in the muck

and debris of cups and cans,

wrappers,

assorted balls, plastic

no longer

holding cheese.

do they care. i suppose not.

and why should they 

as the children

and parents stop to get a clear

clean shot,

well pleased.

see you next tuesday?

i have to go now, i tell her.

i'm sorry

it didn't work out, but you'll

find someone else.

we all do

eventually. it just wasn't meant

to be.

we're in different places,

we want different things.

we don't see eye to eye.

i could go on, but i can see

this is getting nowhere.

so let me get dressed, grab

my hat, my gloves, my keys.

it was fun while it lasted.

but if you're still around,

and no longer mad,

next tuesday

is still good for me.

down to the bone

i need a deep tissue

massage.

one that goes back years

into my muscles,

my tendons..

i need strong hands digging

in,

to bring me to tears,

to release the toxins.

to free me from all my 

doubts and fears,

use your elbows,

your arms,

your legs, your knees.

go in for the kill.

go deep, please.

put your weight into

those legs,

the shoulders,

my neck.

don't leave anything out.

bring it home.

leave me limp on the table.

massage me

down to the bone.

put me to sleep,

but when it's over,

don't leave me alone.

the reluctant finish

at the end of most

writer's lives

out comes the collected works,

available in print,

or online. selected pieces,

old ones,

new, some from youth,

which you aren't supposed

to take seriously.

it's a full

body of work.

from day one, when the pen

hit the pad,

to the end,

when the last key is stroked

and a reluctant

finish begins.

the afternoon off

i tell my secretary to clear

all my meetings.

to postpone all my calls.

i'm taking the day off,

i tell her.

she smiles

and says it's about time,

you work so hard.

she blows me a kiss

as i walk out the door.

have fun, she says.

where can i reach you,

same place as before?

a stripe of sky

it's a violet

stripe of sky between

low

white clouds.

there is the thought of you.

the sun

about to rise.

there is waking up from

a turbulent sleep,

you have

survived.

missed calls

missed calls

add up on the phone.

47 just 

yesterday. no messages.

you wonder though,

what they had to say,

or sell,

or want.

it's the world now.

why work,

when you can beg.

why have

a job, when there's a street

corner to stand

on with a bucket.

why leave the house,

when you

can use your phone

to find money.

give me your hand

beware

of the hand that reaches out

for you.

are they pulling you up,

or dragging you down

to where they are.

ignore the smile,

the words,

the promise.

beware of hands reaching

for yours.

it's not always

good, they can

keep you on the ground.

once the barn is full

it feels like monday.

because it is.

gone is the weekend.

the sleeping in.

the lounging around

and reading.

writing.

eating.

i look at the calendar.

i see friday up ahead,

way down the road

of five long days.

but there will come a time

when every day

will be saturday.

soon, once the barn is full.

small things

i used to worry over

spilled milk.

small things that seemed to add

up

to some sort

of failure.

a crack in the wall,

a nail pop,

a leaky faucet.

an argument,

a misunderstanding,

but they're nothing.

they get taken care of

before long.

small things no longer

have

the power they once did.

they come and go.

just wait.

blue eggs

the birds are loud

this morning.

true

early birds

in the trees, getting busy

with

the life

they lead.

building nests

swiftly

for what's to come next.

soon

the blue eggs will

appear.

and the black snake

too

will wander near.

if you could read my mind

i gather the stack of bills

waiting

on the other desk, not this one,

the one in the other room.

you know the one.

stamps are found,

an ink pen not dry.

the envelopes, the check books,

business

and personal.

it's check writing time.

the sun is blue

between the trees, holding

on as you touch the phone

for music.

an old but beautiful song.

if you could read my mind.

dinner is served

it's medium rare, onions.

a soft

roll, buttered.

cheddar cheese.

the grill marks striped

on the ground

beef.

angus cut.

90 per cent lean.

the first bite is heaven,

the second.

oh my.

dinner is served on the promenade

on a beautiful sunday

night.

having the pre sex talk

before we make love

she says,

we should have a talk.

okay.

sure, i tell her, trying to unzip

her dress.

stop, she says.

hold on.

pump your brakes.

oh, sorry, habit.

so, okay, talk.

do you have anything?

like what?

you know, like heebie jeebies.

bed bugs?

no, you know what i mean.

std's.

stuff like that.

no, been lucky.

russian roulette at times,

but lucky.

i cross my self

and knock on wood.

me either, she says, but i

was married for thirty years

and he just died

three weeks ago.

whereas you've been out there

catting around

for god knows how long.

i'm good,

i say. had blood work done

six months ago.

clean bill of health although

they did find a few

martini olives in my aorta.

well. i still don't trust you.

she pulls out a shoe box full

of shiny plastic square envelopes.

i bought a wide

selection of sizes and colors,

shapes and designs.

what are these, i ask her.

you don't know what these are?

they look familiar.

they still make these? i remember

them in the 80's.

wow, it's like taking a walk

down memory lane.

cool, thanks for showing them to me.

it's good to have a hobby. my mother

was a collector too.

she collected postage stamps

from all over the world.

i'll show them to you sometime.

now turn around,

let me see if i can get this zipper

unstuck.

dang i can barely

get my fingers on it.

forgiveness

it is in forgiveness

that we truly

let go

and move on with our lives.

we are human.

we are

helpless and hopeless

at times

in doing the right thing.

nature,

nurture, it doesn't matter why.

but only

in forgiveness

and compassion are we able

to escape

and not die.

to each season

it is the arrival

of seasons

coming naturally into your arms,

your mouth,

your ears

that brings joy.

no longer is there sadness

as they end.

each to its own

way of being.

whether cold

or warm

the waves of each are welcomed

without

fanfare,

just an inner voice

of remembrance, stirred

again,

beginning in childhood

and taking

you forward

to an end.

the real estate agent

as i put my house on the market

i wait for

the real estate agent to show up.

i see an old

woman

getting out of a car,

carrying a bag of brochures

and a metal sign.

she limps over and says my name.

who are you i say,

staring at the card

with her picture on it.

the picture that makes her look

like a glamorous model

about to walk down

the red carpet at the oscars.

i'm her.

she says, well sort of,

her brow sweating.

her eyes dark and bagged

with fatigue. oh.

it doesn't look like you.

she shrugs.

yeah, i know, took nine

hours of make up and air

brushing. they put veneer

on my teeth and

did my hair.

they photo shopped it for a few

days.

i knocked twenty years off

of me with that

picture. but hey, it reels them in.

i had five rentals

last month because of that picture.

where do you want the sign,

bub?

the box of 54

as a child

i was amazed at the new box

of crayons.

the box of 54 colors.

it was a what

the hell moment at seven

years old.

who knew

there were so many colors

to choose from.

dang.

i immediately asked for

more coloring books

and to be left

alone, then went at it,

signing each

page with my initials.

s. van gogh.

waiting on the x rays

the doctor

is examining my x rays.

she's at the beach though.

and

is getting grease

on the photos.

she's eating chicken.

a box of fried dark meat

between her stretched

out legs.

she holds up the x rays

to the sun.

hmmm.

she says.

i should call him at some

point

and tell him to stay

off those knees for awhile.

she slurps

her drink, the long straw

in her mouth,

then closes her eyes.

we learn early

we are taught early to believe

in lies.

in fairy tales,

in santa claus

and 

tooth fairies.

we toss coins into the wishing

well.

we wish upon stars.

we watch

the romantic movie,

and think

it's in our reach, it's never

too far.

it's an unkind awakening

to realize

that someone you

once loved,

was never real,

like everything else you 

learned as a child,

she too was a lie.

party girl

do you party, she asks me.

sure.

i love a good birthday party,

or halloween

or new years.

no, she says. parteeeeh

you know.

get high.

smoke?

what are you talking about?

cigarettes cause

cancer.

no no not cigarettes,

weed.

mary jane.

ganja. 

she pulls out a bag of green

finely chopped dope

from her big purse,

pushing aside a ball of yarn

and knitting needles.

i see a pair of pink booties

she's working on for one of her

grandkids.

she shakes the weed in front of my face.

smoke a joint?

do a doobie?

oh my, i tell her.

i haven't touched that since

1972 at the grand funk railroad

concert in dc stadium.

we rushed the stage

during the last encore song.

i'm getting closer to my home.

come on,

she says.

this is good stuff, i got it at

the pharmacy

for my arthritis,

and kidney stones.

ummm. no thanks. but you go

ahead.

i can be tired, hungry, and paranoid

on my own these days.

can you swim?

is the water cold?

let's see,

let's dip a toe into the swirl

of blue.

is it deep?

who knows until we

dive in.

you go first.

i'll wait on the side,

watching you,

can you swim?

get out

it's less

about color, or creed,

or country.

it's more

about brain cells.

the amount

or lack

of that keeps people

on their knees,

in squalor

and debt

in anger.

it's not about 

the phd

or masters degree,

it's common sense.

without

it,

you're doomed

to be

stuck in a place

you weren't meant to be.