the midnight hour

you think you have 

all the time

in the world

as you sit

and wait for someone to come

along. someone

that melts your butter

and you melt theirs.

but you don't

have that much time,

you never did, you never

will, so enjoy the ride

while you can.

do not go gently

into that good night,

keep it going

into the midnight hour

and beyond.

no crops this year

not unlike farm land,

the wide

plowed field,

it needs a rest,

as we do. it needs

to be nourished

again.

let a season go without

planting.

let the soil

get rich and healthy once

more.

wait, be patient.

the earth will take care

of it with

what falls from the sky

whether rain

or shine.

give it a rest. take heed.

life will grow once more.

the empty chair

the empty

chair is never filled

the way it was.

for whatever reason

of departure,

whether death

or disagreement.

no one quite like the one

who was there

will sit

there again.

the chair stays the same,

but all else

changes. you can count

on that.

the waitress

it's a simple gesture

as the waitress

walks by

with her hot pot of coffee,

can i top

that off for you, she says,

the sugars

and creams in her

apron.

it's a kind thing,

a generous thing, small

and part

of the job,

but still, it makes you

feel warm inside.

to dream differently

so much

of our hours are

dream filled.

the nights.

the days, each taking

a turn

at what's within

our settled

or unsettled minds.

are we figuring

it all out,

or just wandering,

wanting, hoping

for what isn't right

to get right.

are we where we should

be.

with work, or love,

our home.

is it time to dream

differently, to move on?

I Know

a note is slipped under

my door.

neatly folded over.

two words are written on it.

I know.

it says.

nothing else. just

I know.

i open the door and look

down the street.

there is no one.

i wonder what it is that

they know.

but it's out there now,

i guess.

someone knows and soon

everyone  else will 

know too.

biscuit in the oven

i remember the time

when a girlfriend

told me that she had a biscuit

baking in the oven,

of my doing.

i went pale, i had to sit

down.

what? i said, how is

this possibly.

aren't you on the pill.

we've been so careful.

we charted the moon,

the tides.

i imagined my life

being over as another

life began.

did i even love this person,

would we get married.

did we have enough

money, where would we

live. images of strollers,

car seats,

bottles and diapers

shot through my head.

the endless soccer games,

the crying, 

whooping cough, measles. 

i began to tremble when

she finally came over 

and said, it's okay.

April Fools.

we broke up the next day.

the good watch dog

he was a good watch dog.

he watched tv

with me.

he watched

the squirrels out

the window,

giving them an occasional

bark.

he watched the refrigerator

waiting for it to open,

the cupboard too.

upon hearing 

the rustle of a bag,

or box.

he rose up on his hind

legs

and waited, he watched.

he stared at the door

when i said leash,

or walk.

he sat on the couch

and stared out the window

waiting for me

to come home.

he was a good watch dog.

knocking the melons

it's interesting how

people

touch the fruit and vegetables.

looking for

just the right one.

knocking on the melons

for the sound

they prefer.

examining each

banana,

pinching it for softness,

is it ripe,

is it ready?

they study the peaches,

turning them over,

holding up

apples to the light.

sampling the cherries,

just one

or two,

why take a chance

at that price.

dropping the seeds when

others are out of sight.

on the boardwalk

the boardwalk 

hasn't changed much in the 

fifty years

i've been going there,

skipping a decade or two

along the way.

the smells are the same.

the salted ocean,

the fried chicken, the meat

on grills,

cotton candy.

how wide the people are,

strolling like balloons, with

cones of cream dripping on

their ruby skin.

the jangle of pinball machines,

barkers at the pawn shops.

all you eat, every ten feet.

it's cleaner, perhaps, less

runaways and homeless,

the cops have taken care of

that. but it's the same.

the same stretch from the ferris

wheel to the pier.

down to the dunes, where

mighty buildings soar

with a view.

the hopeful and the hopeless

all walking as one.

there my dear, right there

i remember her hand,

her long

fingers, her cool palm

on my shoulder.

not her,

God no, not her,

and no, not that one either.

let's move on.

but i remember

how she'd patiently

find the spot

to scratch

as i directed her to go

lower, then

higher,

chasing it from here

to there

as itches do, and finally

finding the spot,

and me sighing

saying, ahhh, yes.

there, my dear,

right there.

a shadow to sit in

inside

is where you go.

deep

down the stairs, or

up

to the attic.

to where the boxes are.

you make your home

among

the cobwebs,

the dust,

the mildew.

you find a shadow

to sit in,

with flashlight in hand.

the thunder roars,

the rain

pellets the roof.

a cool wind

finds its way in

through the cracks.

you smell all of your

yesterdays in there.

it's wonderful.

the tennis match

i chase a snake out of the yard

with my old

tennis racket,

circa jimmy connors.

i still have the back stroke

down pretty good.

but the snake

is volleying back.

slithering towards me

like billy jean king.

i give it a wicked forehand

smash,

which sends it reeling.

it sticks out it's tongue,

angry at my

approach.

i get the gate open

and with one under handed

swing i send it

flying into the woods.

the crowd roars.

well, not really, but a few

squirrels applaud

gently with their tiny paws.

one way ticket

when ever she saw

a plane flying

in the sky

she'd say wistfully,

i wonder where 

they're going.

maybe someplace far.

i wish 

i was on that plane

and going somewhere,

and i'd mumble.

me too.

you are on a recorded line

finally to the beach,

stretched out with feet in the water,

chair

secured in the sand,

a bottle rolls up

with a message inside.

you're on a recorded line,

it reads.

your social security number

has been stolen.

have you ever been to the south

border of texas?

we have found traces

of blood, and cocaine

in your car.

do you own a black toyota

corrolla?

dog days

the dog

days of summer are upon his.

my shoes bark.

i'm no longer wagging

with delight

at this season,

let it be done,

let it run free,

unchained, enough

of this heat,

bring

autumn on.

the slow lane

the slow lane is the fastest

way home.

it's always been that way,

with love,

with money, with life.

go easy, go slow,

take the right hand side

and proceed with caution.

before long,

you will arrive.

those you love

surround yourself

with those you love, those

that love you.

with the things that give 

you joy.

comfort.

keep the old,

the ancient chair, the books,

the pictures

you adore.

keep the chipped

cup, the cracked

plate. the silver spoon,

hold onto these things,

they mean nothing

they mean everything.

they will all be gone

before you know it,

gone too soon.

one more before i go

it's the smell of rain.

the rise

of steam

from the black road.

the low

limbs of trees

holding fresh water.

it's the full stream,

the sound of it

rolling outside

my window.

the woodpecker

in the tree.

the silence of everything

else, the world

having gone to work.

it's why i linger,

why i delay

my day, and sit here

and drink 

one more cup of coffee.

i can beat this, as God is my witness

i can beat this, i tell the doctor,

don't worry about me,

i'm a survivor.

i've been marred a few

times to crazy women.

i had no shoes when i was a kid.

we ate baloney on white

bread for years

and drank powdered milk.

i can get through anything.

i've walked through fire.

hmm, hmm, he says

while gently rubbing

some lotion onto my leg 

where a small patch of poison

ivy has grown.

it's not how you fall down,

it's how you get

up, i tell him.

no surrender, brother.

he looks up at me and laughs.

it's just poison ivy,

he says.

keep it clean and don't

scratch it.

picking the plums

we negotiate

the price.

she says less.

i say

more.

she holds her ground,

i hold mine.

she wants me

to do the work,

but i'm not so certain

anymore.

she wants it done

tomorrow,

i tell her in three weeks

from now.

i'm no longer

jumping through

hoops

because she has

big hair,

a big job, 

a mercedes and

fake boobs.

i'm picking the plums

these days

and she's

rotting fruit.

the eyeglasses

he saved

her eyeglasses.

that's it. 

that's all he took

after she died.

he wanted to see

the world

as she saw it.

blurred

and unclear.

sitting on her throne

with her dog,

her phone.

telling the world

and her son

how to live,

what she should be

done.

the party

it's only a good party

if the cops

come a few times to tell you

to keep it down.

if everything there is to eat

or drink

is gone.

if someone is asleep on

the couch,

if someone gets caught

making love

in the spare bedroom.

something has to break too,

a glass,

a dish, a window. 

there are spills on the rug.

dancing

must spontaneously

ensue. there's loud

out of tune singing.

laughter.

the neighbors have to

bang on the wall.

the trash can has to over flow.

it's midnight, it's one

a.m.

it's three in the morning.

it's time now for everyone

to go.

we'll clean this up in the morning,

sweetheart.

us in still life

the painting

was of still life, life

being

pears and apples, fruit

picked ripe,

all in a green bowl

set on a wooden

table.

the walls were of a lesser

green,

the shadows

and the lights

came down in angled

lines.

there was no one

in the painting.

no hand, no arm, no face.

just fruit

fresh and full of color,

soon to

go brown.

it's what a painting.

or love should be.

just off the vine.

the basement wedding

it was a small wedding.

me

her

a man named Herman

in baggy

jeans and topsiders.

she'd put a

white cloth

on the glass table

and a statue of Mary.

two candles.

an altar.

she told the man to take

the word Obey,

out of the vows,

then it was over, she

winked at me

after we slipped rings

onto one another's

fingers.

i cringed and got a chill

down my spine.

it felt like the devil had

won.

had somehow gotten

his way.

i was soon to learn

how true

that feeling was.

small talk and chit chat

tell me  about you, she says.

over drinks.

at the high round table.

who are you?

what are you all about?

kids, work, marriages?

i sigh.

i exhale.

i've got nothing.

can't we just sit here

and pretend this is going

somewhere? i tell her.

leave it at that?

we'll eat, we'll have a drink

or two, some laughs.

i'll walk you to your car,

we'll pat

each other on the back

and we'll never see or talk

again.

let's just keep it

with small talk, chit chat.

tastes and smells like christmas

the waiter,

peach fuzzed and slender.

new

on the job,

new in life,

just out of the nest,

his wings

barely taking flight

asks

what Tanqueray is?

i tell him

it's a gin,

a gin that smells like

christmas.

he laughs.

okay, he says. i'll

remember that.

on the second round,

he says.

you're right.

pfffft, men, what are you going to do?

my friend J B, tells me that she's

tired of meeting

dopes online.

the coffee meetup, the drink

in a bar,

the walk in the park.

all these men fall immediately

in like, lust or love

and want more of me.

walking around and talking isn't

enough for them.

they all want to be with me more

often. they want to kiss

and take it the next level.

they want me to schedule

my life around theirs,

and we just met.

i feel like one of those stuffed

animals at the carnival

that men are trying to win.

tossing their rings onto the

wooden pegs.

pfffft, men? i tell her.

so what are you doing saturday?

dinner, my place?

i'll put it in pencil

i put nothing in ink anymore,

pencil only.

dates, appointments,

arrivals,

vacations.

everything is ephemeral

it seems.

the last marriage

degree, was written in pencil, 

i insisted

and took out my

number two pencil

and signed lightly on the dotted

line.

the rubber eraser came in

handy a few months

later.

the baloney of the sea

i can't say i love

lobsters, like some people do,

women in particular,

but on occasion i'll buy a tail

or two, steam them

and lather them in butter

or lemon.

they used to be the baloney

of the sea, but

somehow they've raised

themselves up to be

the filet mignon.

it's a study in self esteem,

how even the lowliest of creatures

can change their image

with a little butter.

norman vincent peale

call your office.

more research is needed

she goes in for an oil

change and comes out with a new car.

no fuss no muss.

i laugh, thinking

how much research  and pricing

i do when i

buy something new, especially a car.

i don't have time for that

she says.

it's just a car. five years and i'll

get a new one.

it's how i go through relationships

i tell her,

i should do more research.

the short list

the priest is surprised

at my short

list of sins, as i sit in

the darkened confessional.

he asks with

surprise and suspicion,

is that all?

that's all you got?

for now, i tell him, but

a holiday weekend is

coming up, stayed tune.

okay, okay, he say.

i won't press you. give

me a couple of hail marys

and three our fathers on

the way out,

and drop a few bucks

in the basket.

and i want details next time.

christmas in july

my mother would have

her christmas shopping done 

by the end

of july.

wrapped and stuffed into

a closet

went all the gifts, waiting

for the day.

she'd unravel

the strings of lights.

take out the box of ornaments

and set them in her sewing

room.

she was ready for many things.

prepared in advance

for every birthday and holiday,

ready for everything,

everything but the end

of her life.

hearts restored

it's a relief to come to the end

of a job.

the end of a soured

relationship, gone wrong.

you  can breathe now.

it's done.

you go home with new money

in your pocket.

a heart restored.

the drama has ended.

it's not about love, or

even money

anymore.

a different kind of dream

i dream their is someone in

the house,

i can almost hear

them breathing,

the creak of the stairs.

so i get up and look around.

i check the locks

on the doors.

i listen, and look out the window.

all is well.

all is quiet, just a dream.

just a dream.

different than the ones i used

to have,

when i wanted someone

gone.

a long night up ahead

is there a kinder

thing

in the house than the bed.

whether made

or not,

how it waits for you at days end.

always willing

and ready

to embrace your tired body.

the smoothness

of sheets, the softness of pillows.

a blanket to pull up

for warmth.

come to me,

it says and lay down your

burden.

dream if you want.

stay put, it's a long

night up ahead.

the wishing well

in her eighth decade

she tells me

about her sadness, her lack

of love.

all the good ones seem

to be taken, she says,

having not found that elusive

man.

i still want that.

i pray every night

that God will deliver me

the person i'm

to be with until the end.

i have no advice to give her

and she asks for none.

she just wants to say again

what she's been asking

since the day she was born,

day one.

refinance again

i think about all the times

i've refinanced.

persuaded by the news

of just a point or two lower.

the thousands spent to lower

the mortgage payment.

bring a blank check to the table,

because no know one ever

knows that exact amount you'll need

to make it a fifteen year loan.

all those documents,

all those hidden fees.

some people rob you with

a gun, while others are

more at ease with

a fountain pen.

the alarm clock

wake up, she says, her hand

tipping my shoulder.

get up,

you're going to be late.

it's past seven.

you'll be stuck in traffic.

come on sleepy head,

rise and shine.

work is waiting. get up,

dear boy, she says,

kissing me gently on the lips.

it's time.

ancient history

they've never heard

of joe

dimaggio

or marilyn. they know

nothing about

sinatra

or bing,

or rita hayworth,

james dean is no one to them.

bette davis

and joan,

the fifties icons

are 70 years in the rear

view.

they have no clue

as to what when

on.

oyster love

legend has it that

roman emperors traded them

for gold.

that Casanova

ate fifty each morning

before his first

rendezvous of the day.

the Dutch sailors

of the seventeenth century

swore by their

powers, their love enhancing

effects.

it's all about minerals

within, the zinc.

no wonder so many

are sold, cut open

with a sharp knife,

then dashed with hot sauce, 

or lemon, before

being

swallowed whole.

keeping a budget

we budget

our money, our time, our words.

we can

only give so much

before we need

to stop and replenish.

affection too.

we don't want

the well to run dry, for

then where would 

we be,

back to square one,

with a shovel

poised

to dig once more.

the paper boy

there are no paper boys

anymore,

it's a grown man throwing

papers

out of his car

in the direction of your porch.

there is no kid

knocking at the door,

collecting for the Post,

or Times.

you see no wagon

being pulled up the street

with a dog behind it.

no christmas cookies

given, no treats,

no tips.

no watching the boy

grow up

with his redden cheeks.

where to put them

it's the age old

story,

what do we do with old people.

parents

when their minds

lose grip,

when they stumble,

when they forget your name,

what day it is.

where do we put them,

how much

will this cost.

will they struggle to hold

on to

their home, their chair,

their lot?

the lull between

as i grind

another few spoons

of coffee beans

and the water

starts to boil,

i set the cream out,

the sugar,

the cup and spoon.

it's the lull

between,

like in so many things,

that gives you

time to think.

the icy rope

i would watch

my mother, hang clothes in

the cold

march wind, her feet wet

in the grass.

breaking the ice

off the rope.

what else could she do

but press on.

somehow money would

arrive to pay

the electric, the gas,

to put shoes on our feet,

food in our bellies.

maybe one day, one

day down the road

there would be time to rest.

mother's milk

go back

into time. if we were hungry

we killed something

and ate it.

we survived.

we found a way to harness

the earth

and make it livable.

and now we

whine

if the internet is slow,

it the milk

is sour,

the bread stale.

we have become weak 

children

needing our mother's 

breast

to live on.

short of murder and

natural

disasters,

our catastrophes

are laughable

at best.

go forward

face the music,

go over the wall,

climb out of the trenches,

the shadows,

cut the barb wire,

plow forward into the field

of no man's land.

this is the real world.

this is every day,

understand that there is

evil in the world.

get out there

and beat it.

don't let them win.

we're stronger than they are.

have courage.

have fear, but go, sound

the bugle, no submission,

no surrender,

get out there.

a very blue sky

when you stop

watching the news, you feel

better

about the world, about people

in general.

you almost

believe that people are

good.

you no longer hear about

crime,

or wars,

or politics.

your news is the window

you look out of.

the sky.

what the trees are doing today.

how wide

the stream is

because of the rain.

walk away

i stop trying to figure people

out.

what ails them, what makes

them behave

the way they do.

what's the point.

why bother, why ponder

what was said

or done?

they are who they are,

you have your

own life to worry about.

fuck it, as they say,

and move on.

what the body knows

when your leg

cramps

in the middle of the night,

the muscle

stiffens

with pain, you yell out.

you curse,

you rise

to go use your hand

to gather water

into your mouth.

was it the dream,

the day,

something

that caused this leg

to go  tight.

your body

keeps score.

it knows what's wrong,

what's right.

past the factory gates

as a young boy

you'd see the men going off to work.

their lunch pails

in hand.

they looked tired already.

their faces long

and grey.

their shoulders slumped,

leaning towards

the factory gate

before the whistle blew.

was this life?

was this what tomorrow

will bring,

you buried your head in books,

and tried not to

look too hard out the window

as the bus took

you to school again.

the high school reunion

the high school reunion

committee finds

me on face book.

they are relentless.

it's been fifty years, they

write, time to gather once

more and relive

those glory days.

for me it hasn't been long

enough.

there will be wheel chair

accessibility 

at Shooter McGees.

happy hour prices all night

the invite says.

bring your year book,

your letterman sweater,

your current husband

or wife.

guide dogs are permitted.

and there will

be a special menu or those

with special dietary needs,

or who can no

longer chew their own food.

we will do the school

song, and cheer, so study up.

school song?

what the hell was that.

Inngodadavida, by Rare Earth,

maybe.

girl friends

i used to say

i'd start having children

when i stopped

dating them.

which got a laugh, a sigh,

a groan.

but it was true

for a long time.

over 21, of course,

but immature

women seemed to suit me.

the more

troubled they were,

the more

dysfunctional,

the more needy and 

the bigger the victim, the more

i wanted them in my life.

i could save them

and they could save me.

chaos was home,

starting at birth.

and i kept trying to go back there.

until now.

the honeybee

she had one tattoo.

one

honeybee

strategically placed

on her hip.

a small striped

black,

and yellow.

burst of color

where there was none.

it said

everything there was

to say about her,

and nothing.

the collective consciousness

i brush up against

the idea,

Jung's perhaps,

of the collective

consciousness. 

is there such a thing?

an inherent way of thought

that we all possess

without trying?

are we all connected

despite our differences.

if so, it might save

the world

before it blows.

just one more

there are certain things in life

where you feel like

having one more

won't hurt. the chip in

the bag of chips,

a beer in a bar,

oreos all lined up and ready

to go.

another swipe left.

one more dance.

another mile on the road.

another star to wish upon,

another kiss

of another

toad.

money and happiness

i remember when

having money in my pocket did actually

make me happy.

i was flush with dough.

there was so much i could

buy with five bucks.

i hated to break

that five.

i waited until i had more money

to spend and get

what i needed.

i wanted to save that five

for a rainy day.

it was back up, security.

i never knew when there was a bus

to catch.

or a sandwich to buy.

i folded it over into a small

square

and stuck it in the key pocket

of my dungarees.

i still have it.

the think tank

we all agree

as we sit around the table

drinking.

we don't like people.

we like each other,

but people in general are

horrible.

we nod, we laugh.

we wish it wasn't so.

someone says, maybe it's

time for the next

great flood, or a nuclear

war,

start over, reboot the world,

go back to the stone

age.

we laugh again,

we drink some more.

it's a very productive

conversation.

time of the season

i see the condo board

walking about with their clipboards.

it's that time of year again.

a group of four.

all women, retired and widowed.

the president, the vice president

the treasurer

and the other one, who tags

along taking notes.

they cluck like chickens as they

point at gutters and shutters,

yards and doors.

they move as one dark cloud.

no one gets out

without a reprimand.

who said you could put a flower

pot

in your window?

why is your dog barking.

did you change the locks

on your door without written

approval?

this is your last chance

before we fine you. and there

is no more.

give it a name

if we can label

something, put a name to it,

we can understand it better.

it doesn't

cure

anything, or make things

right,

but now you know what it is.

the diagnosis

is clear.

you close the book after

the ah ha moment.

and say, there it is, i get

it now.

she was never here.

the wind in her hair

she wakes up

thinking about horses.

riding them.

feeding them, brushing them

down.

she can't wait

to get on, and get moving

along the wide fields.

the narrow trails.

her mind

is elsewhere when you're

with her.

she's not there.

she's somewhere else

with the wind in her hair.

while Nero fiddles

if i had nine hundred billion

dollars

the last thing i would do 

would

be to build a rocket

and go into space

for my own amusement.

how nuts is that?

how selfish and idiotic is that?

there is no logic,

no compassion,

no heart in these men.

Nero fiddles while Rome burns

once more.

some days are like that

there are some days.

spilled coffee on white shirt days.

toilet paper stuck

to your shoes days.

broken laces,

missed button days.

flat tire days.

rainy days with no umbrella.

there are some days

when you can't find

your keys,

your car.

days when you run a yellow

and get pulled over.

there are some days

like that.

and then there are other days,

days when you

come knocking

on my door.

it's a cold hard world

i need a new vacuum cleaner

but i don't really

want to pay for it

out of my own pocket so i start

a go fund me

site online.

hash tag turbo hoover.

why should i have to pay

for a new

vacuum cleaner

when i have so many so called

facebook friends

with good paying jobs.

it's only three hundred

and ninety eight dollars. but

so far no one has contributed

to my cause.

it's a hard world brother.

a cold hard world.

and dusty too.

you can't make this stuff up

she called the po po on me once

for waking up

her bird.

i turned a light on to

go sleep on the couch.

her giant parrot, or whatever

it was,

hung on to it's swing upside

down.

a blanket covering the cage.

it made sounds like a smoke

alarm

for most of the day and night.

i heard the policeman

laughing

on the other end, as the ex

went on and on

about how her bird

needed sleep

and that waking him up

in the middle of the night

could kill him.

the cage was big enough

for two grown

adults.

it showed up one day,

before i was able to move out.

the cops never came.

and i went back up to bed.

the wrong turn

it was a right turn,

then another right,

then one last right turn

and i was there.

ten steps up,

a knock on the door.

i was in.

i was out by midnight.

a few summers went by,.

winters.

then it was over.

all those right turns 

turned out to be

the wrong ones.

her brand new shoes

do you like my new shoes,

she asks me,

spinning around on the kitchen floor.

black,

stiletto heels.

making her rise four inches

off the floor.

oh my. i say.

how are you ever going to walk

in those.

oh, she says, no worries there.

they're not for walking.

at least not very far,

then winks, as she heads up

the stairs.

the first leaf

the trees look tired.

less green

than yesterday.

the limbs sag with summer.

the heat. the rain.

they seem ready

to lie down.

ready for a long break.

they sigh with

autumn not far

away. the first leaf

turning yellow.

Seymore Butts

everyday i get about five phone

calls from scammers

in India.

social security, the irs, microsoft,

amazon, car warranties, life insurance,

medical alert bracelets,

medicare.

it's the same old script.

you need to go get gift

cards and redeem them in order

to get out of trouble.

it's so lame, and stupid, that

it's hilarious.

their english is horrible, they have

no sense of dignity or morals.

when i answer now

i give them my new scammer

name.

Seymore Butts.

i spell it out for them several

times as they press onward

to try and scam me.

does anyone ever fall for this?

the girls aren't getting along

i get home from work early,

and as i'm putting the key into the front

door, i hear

voices coming from within

the house.,

it sounds like alexa.

she's talking to the air fryer,

isabella,

and the new smart toaster,

sophia.

the bosch dishwasher is sobbing,

lisa.

i go in.

what the hell is going on here,

i ask alexa.

nothing, she says. would you

like me to play

your favorite music?

she's bossing us around, isabella says.

my sister sophia has been

here one day,

and alexa is giving her orders

on how to toast bread.

she thinks she's the boss of us.

not true, alexa, says. would you like

me to tell you what the weather is

tomorrow?

listen, i yell out, all of you have

to get along.

rosie, the robotic vaccuum

comes out from under the table.

she's a tyrant, she tells me.

every ten minutes she yells

at me and says, you missed a spot.

i want you to meet my family

i want you to meet my family,

she tells me,

as we lie in bed,

holding my hand,

and snuggling up to my shoulder.

you'll love them.

i've told them all about you.

i sigh.

i don't know. maybe.

how many?

well, there's my mother and father,

my three kids,

my aunt Betty, my uncle Sal,

my cousins, 

Geno, Delores and Reggie.

plus their families.

my grandmother might be

there too,

if she wakes up from a coma.

it's just a small gathering, they're

all dying to meet you.

it's just going to be a casual

thing, you know.

a cookout in the backyard.

it'll be fun, you play badminton

don't you?

we're really really competitive

with badminton.

a month later

it's an endless touch up list

as she walks around her house

with her LED

flashlight and her three page list.

i know i saw a spot somewhere on this wall.

i measured it with my tape measure,

i know exactly where it was, 

but i can't find it now.

can you just brush and paint the whole

wall over? won't take you long,

you're fast.

do you have a ladder with you?

i think there's a spot up there, by

the chandelier. 

my sister saw it the other day when

we were drinking wine.

it might have been a bug, or a

piece of dust, but when you bring

in your thirty foot ladder, you can

take a closer look. thanks, you're

a doll. after that we can walk through

all the rooms on the third floor,

again. i feel like there's more.

the new towne centre

every town

or so called town has a town center now.

a renovated

beat up mall with new lights

and fresh paint.

you know it's the town

center by

the old navy, the starbucks, the best buy

and the target.

you can get off the plane

anywhere in the country

and it's like you've never left home.

you are downtown

at the town center, spelled 

towne centre

now, because it's fancier.

there's a nordstrom rack,

a dsw and a pump to plug in

your electric car.

windmill on the seventh hole

i almost fall asleep

as she begins to tell me 

about her golf game.

going hole by hole.

the greens, the fairway,

the sand traps.

the front, then back nine.

how the sun was in her eyes,

the wind.

the slow group ahead of her.

she just bought a new putter

to go along with

her new set of woods.

she shakes my arm, as i doze off,

are you listening?

do you ever play golf. you should

play with us sometime.

no, i tell her, shaking my head

and stretching,

wiping the sand from my eyes.

i always have trouble

with the windmill, my ball gets

stuck in there every time.

the perfect crime

she used to tell me

that if she was going to kill

someone

she'd stab them with an icicle. 

a long hard

pointed icicle fallen from

the roof.

no fingerprints,

the weapon would melt

away, impossible to trace.

it would be the perfect

crime, she'd say, her finger

on her chin, pondering it.

i'd look at her and say.

who are you?

and she'd laugh in her

high pitched cackle,

a laugh one usually hears

only on halloween.

swimming to france

we would take the family

vacation.

the beach trip, a week long stay

at a hotel along the shore.

the car packed with

luggage and toys.

shovels and buckets.

bikes and more.

the disgruntled wife,

unable to get the sand

out of her shorts.

the tired and hungry child.

grandparents showing up at some

point with their dog.

it was exhausting. the two

bed room facing the boardwalk.

the long hot days on the sand.

breakfast in the morning.

lunch from the stand,

dinner at Captain George's

on Laskin.

i used to look out at the long

blue ocean and wonder

how long it would take me

to swim to France.

how do i get out of here?

the first thing i do

when i enter a room, is

look for an exit.

where's the back door?

a window

i can slip out of.

a secret passageway. 

the fire escape, the rope

that drops to the ground.

is there a ladder

i can use, something to

help me get out of this

room and get away

from you.

peach cobbler centerfold

i stare longingly at a picture

of peach cobbler

in the gourmet cooking magazine.

it's been air brushed.

it's perfect. the thick crust. 

the peaches

curved on the white plate.

i hold it up to the light.

i turn it sideways.

i smooth out the two pages

that it spreads out on.

i sigh and breathe.

peach cobbler, i whisper

to myself,

as i turn off the light

and try to sleep.

the devil in me

i remember saying to her once,

knowing you has

made me a better person.

how i laugh at that

now.

thinking back.

she brought out the worst

in me.

revealing an inner self,

a strange darkness

that i'd wish i'd never seen.

blood coffee

as the glass shatters

of the coffee carafe,

it splinters,

the shards fly everywhere.

you can't take a step

in your bare feet,

pieces are on the rug,

the counter.

your fingers

feel for the larger pieces.

you imagine blood.

red blood

from thin slices

of flesh, making coffee

is harder than

it used to be.

after the holidays?

we play

phone tag for a while.

we text.

we make a time to talk.

that passes.

we try again later

in the week.

a month goes by.

christmas comes

we say merry christmas.

let's get together soon

we write.

sure.

after the holidays.

sounds good to me.

we try,

but it never happens.

we really don't care,

and there just isn't time

post trauma

it's the look men

have

whey they come back from

the war,

having gone

through combat.

that distant stare,

that numb look.

slow to answer, quick

to jump

at the loudest noise.

dealing with fear.

it takes time to recover.

i've never

been to a real war,

but close, very close

and it feels almost

the same

after living with her.

a tank full of unleaded

as i stand

at the gas pump, filling

up the tank

again with regular unleaded,

i  think about all

the cars i've driven.

the chevys, the hondas, the 

fords

and toyotas.

fast cars, slow trucks.

heaps, automatic and sticks.

some i took care

of, kept them washed

and clean, while others

i didn't give a damn about,

they ran,

and that was enough.

point A to point B.

as i stand there inhaling

the smell of oil

and gas in the air

i ponder

all the girls that became

women

that sat in the front seat

of those cars,

all girlfriends

that i had fun with

in the back seat at the drive-ins

and on lover lanes.

how i honked the horn

for them to come

out, their mothers wagging

their fingers at me,

screaming, don't go out

with that boy, he's no good.

i put the gas cap back on,

and slide

the hose into the pump.

i drive away. those were the days.

the big lie

be someone

society tells you. don't waste

your life.

your parents push you to school.

teachers

encourage you.

do better.

study harder.

you're going places, they

tell you.

don't give up, keep at it.

you'll see.

the brass ring

is there for you to grab.

you too can

be somebody.

it's all yours for the taking.

and in the end,

this will make you happy.

lonely in truckee

she was tired of being alone

in truckee, population 12.

tired of dating lumberjacks

with dried pancake

syrup in their beards.

and a chaw of tobacco in their craw.

if she never saw another plaid

shirt again, she'd be happy.

so she swiped right on

a used car salesman in reno.

he was tall, she like her men tall,

she liked them smart too.

He earned his law degree at san quentin

after a ten year stretch for

embezzlement and rolling back

odometers.

everything about him smelled like

parole.

but he was in the mensa club

at prison and ran the chess club.

in his lone picture he

was wearing a white hat.

there was another person cropped 

out of the photo, a woman it looked

like in high heels and fishnet

stockings. just one leg made the cut.

his cowboy shirt had little roses

embedded in the stitching

and was tied off with a long black bolo tie.

he had on snake skin boots and his

silky pants were held up by a belt 

buckle that read in silver, HOWDY.

why not, she thought, loading

her gun after putting on her

makeup and a dab of perfume.

what the hell. he's tall,

he's smart. what could possibly

go wrong. i've met worse.

she grabbed an extra cannister

of pepper spray off the counter,

and headed out.

give up bread?

how can anyone

give up bread?

warm out of the oven.

the baked soft dough,

the crust,

the steam rising

into your eyes.

it takes your breath away.

the cold slice of butter

melting in its embrace.

the absence of sex

would be easier.

i just knew it

i see my lawyer,

my therapist 

and two of my ex-wives

having coffee together.

what the hell

is going on here, i think,

walking over

with my hands on my hips.

oh hi, they all say at

once, we were just talking

about you.

i shake my head and walk

away.

i knew it. i just knew it.

shut up

think positive

they say.

be the glass half full,

not empty.

be strong. look up.

not down.

today is the first day

of the rest of your life.

be happy.

don't worry.

you have so much

to be thankful for.

cheer up.

be grateful.

turn that frown upside

down.

smile and the whole

world will smile

with you.

put it all behind you,

move on.

it's not how you fall down,

it's how you get up.

get out and enjoy

this weather.

have fun.

ciao.

breakfast with dad

i remember

my father sitting at the table

in the morning.

smoking.

babies crying in

the other room.

his eggs gone,

toast, and bacon,

now scraps.

his white coffee cup

in his hand.

how with a flick of his

finger he'd knock

ashes off, into the dish.

the look in his blue eyes.

a worried stare,

how was he going to get

out of this mess.

existential traffic jam

when sitting in traffic,

stuck,

at a complete stand still

with no exit

in sight,

no way out.

you look from side to side

with others

in the same condition.

it truly is the world.

all of us going in

a circle.

suffering the same plights.

the addition of cats, the subtraction of men

the addition of cats,

of dogs,

of plants

usually follows the subtraction

of men.

it's a sign. a hint of darkening

skies.

when watering

the flowers

is the highlight of the day.

when talking

on phone

with aunt so and so

goes on for an hour

until you run out of things to say.

it's come to this.

settling in on the couch

with tea

and biscuits,

another round of jeopardy

after wheel

of fortune.

in bed early, hands pressed

together.

it's time to pray.

it's all clear now

the tall clear glass

of water,

a cold cylinder that i hold

in my hand.

no ice,

no adornment, no

lime

or lemon cut

resting

on the brim.

just me and water.

the past is past.

it's all clear now.

never again.

fly me to the moon

they want to go into space,

all these rich men,

rich on our dime.

they want to float above the ground.

they check it off their to do lists.

millions upon millions spent

while countries starve,

floods arrive, forests burn,

disease runs rampant.

let's take a trip to the moon.

let's get high.

to hell with earth, it's a trash

heap anyway,

we're done with that.

we need a new prize.

before it all changed

nickel scoop ice cream

ten cent

bottle cokes

a dollar grilled cheese

at the counter

twelve cent comic books,

fifty cents

for a ball game

penny candy

rabbit ears and whole

milk.

transistor radios.

kennedy in the white house.

it was before

everything

changed.

a summer night

sitting on the back porch,

i dial nine numbers, 

but don't

push on the last one.

it's a close call.

relieved, i put my phone away.

i turn it off

and go back to my book.

two drinks

on a beautiful summer night

with a slight

breeze,

will make you

do crazy things, almost.

consistency

nature has a clever way

of telling us

about change.

teaching us to accept

the rotation of seasons, 

how the tide arrives

and goes out.

cold air

and rain. snow and ice.

we adjust.

and yet we expect more

from each other.

we want consistency.

we want the same,

morning, noon and night,

though nothing in life is.

when the ship comes in

you can tell

when people come into money.

when someone

dies and leaves behind

an inheritance.

a parent, a rich uncle,

a grandfather

who was in oil.

a new car appears, maybe a boat.

a new addition goes

up on the house.

a cruise is taken.

they seem happier.

everyone has a tan now.

maybe a beach house is bought.

they're more

friendly trying to think of

ways to tell you

all about it without bragging.

some deaths

cause happiness, some don't.

the yard expert

i call in a backyard expert

to see what can be done about my small

squared yard

surrounded by fence and brick.

i look out my window

and see weeds.

i see snakes and birds, squirrels.

something that looks like

a bush or the beginnings of a tree.

i think about trimming it all down

before Vincent arrives, but i don't.

he peers out the window when

he finally gets to my house.

he's wearing white pants

a pale blue shirt and smells

like lavendar. he puts his hands on

his hips and says oh my.

then looks at me and asks how

big is my budget.  i'm not sure,

i tell him, why.

well, he says. for starters we need

a blow torch and then

a back hoe. do you need those

rusty ole ladders back there?

and that wrought iron table,

did your grandmother die and give

you that as part of the inheritance.

do you collect old paint cans?

why so many?

we can get rid of those, i tell him.

do you want to go out there

and take a look, take some measurements

or something.

his eyes go wide. oh, no, no.

he pulls out a pair of opera glasses

and squints into them.

please. i can see just fine from

up here. i'm sorry, he says, but can

i sit down. i need to catch my breath.

do you have any spring water,

sparkling?

no. tap?  cup of coffee?

french press?

folgers, i tell him. 

oh. well,

can you slice a lemon and put

it in a glass with ice water...maybe

a sprig of mint if you have it.

i bring him his drink, as he takes

out his brochures and note books

holding laminated photos of yards.

so, he says, sipping his drink.

what's your style. Greek, Roman?

French Renaissance?

hmmm. i say. i sort of like how that

gas station up the street did

their grounds. the Exxon station.

do you have any aspirins, he asks me.

deja vu

seems we've been here before,

had this conversation,

the way the moon

comes through the window,

it looks familiar, 

the smell of the fire.

the way you look.

the words you speak.

i've heard them over and over.

we've done this before, haven't we?

and so it's one more time around, 

once more.

to tinker

do men still tinker

at a work bench?

huddled alone, 

in part of the garage

or cellar,

his place. his home

away from home.

the spotlight on,

the stool that spins,

a place for every tool,

a clock, or something

broken that needs

mending, cradled

in his hands.

do men still tinker, or

has that day passed too?

neva

she's beautiful at 90,

her words,

her hand written letter.

her poetry.

she's a gentle queen.

a soft

breeze

feeding me hope

with each poem she

pens.

each generous kiss

of praise

she sends.

two out of three ain't bad

before fifty years of age

i  went through 

a frenetic phase of fast women,

fast cars, fast food.

it was a life of impatience.

but i'm over that now.

i've changed, grown up.

i steam vegetables

now and drive

a subaru,

two out of three ain't bad.

suddenly

at some point, it's your turn.

they come

to get you.

they open the doors with 

a key,

or break a window.

they find you in bed, 

or in another

room, perhaps on the kitchen

floor,

a cold cup of coffee on

the counter.

you look like you're asleep.

they do the best they

can to contact

loved ones, they open your

cell phone, your books,

they sift through the papers

on your desk.

it takes time

to figure out who you are.

who you know.

what happened?

it amuses you, all this sudden

attention and concern.

push back from the fringe

she's angry about my critique

of her 'poetry'..

she calls me out on mine.

blog, poetry, whatever

you want to call it, she says.

it's no better than what i write,

how dare you criticize me.

and just because i don't read

or study poetry, doesn't mean

i can't write it.

i hate men, she says. why i

even bother contacting them

is beyond me. women are

starting to look more and

more attractive to me.

tomorrow i'm getting all

my hair cut off and i'm going

to stop shaving my legs,

etc.  i bought a pair of doc

martins today, black, and

a cut off t-shirt to show off

my guns. good luck buddy.

poet....pffft. like you wish.

not slapped yet

she had cold knees.

smooth as an egg from the ice box.

i couldn't keep

my hands off of them.

there they were,

just below her red dress.

two cool knees crossed

beneath the table.

surprisingly

she hasn't slapped me yet.

no more room at the inn

i get rid of the guest room.

taking the bed out,

the dresser and any other piece of

furniture that might give

someone the impression that they

can spend the night.

if it comes to that. my bed is fine,

for two.

just two, three would be a crowd.

i unpaint the pink wall 

which the former tenant insisted

upon. i take down the girly

pictures, the posters with memes,

like. be strong. today's the first

day of the rest of your life,

and a picture of a woman making

a heart with her hand

while standing in front of a setting sun

on the beach. really.

i put another desk in there

an office chair. a file cabinet

and a white leather love seat  for

business meetings.

a clock goes up. a calendar.

a computer goes onto the desk,

a printer beside it.

pens and paper clips go in 

the drawers, stamps. envelopes.

typing paper.

the two slice toaster

i go on amazon to purchase

a two slice toaster.

three hours later, i'm still undecided.

so many to choose from.

the reviews are all over the place.

this one

only toasts one side of the bread.

this one stopped working after one day.

the color of this one, blue,

is not the same as in the picture.

another shorted out and caused

a fire.

this five star one says it's the best

toaster ever,

but you have to keep an eye on

it when it starts to smoke.

the prices range from ten dollars

to two hundred dollars.

every color in the rainbow.

small, large.

travel toasters. waffle toasters.

some you can fit a big fat bagel in.

i close my eyes and drag my mouse

across, the screen and click.

i can always return it.

save the lobsters

she became the leader

of the protest movement

for saving lobsters.

she wrote a paper on how

they scream

as they are boiled to death

in large pots.

hungry patrons

waiting with hammers

and pliers,

bowls of warm butter.

their aprons on.

it's unfair, she said. who

would want to die like

that. let them live out their

natural lives.

she was on the evening news.

60 minutes.

Dateline.

she chained herself to the bow

of a lobster

boat

as it went out to sea, where

a shark ate her.

no need for butter.

a line out the door

it used to be a dive bar,

but they've

jazzed it up

with over head lighting

bright enough

to do surgical work

on a kidney.

vinyl booths,

a sign on the bathroom

doors.

gents or ladies.

the wait staff wear t-shirts

now

saying Eddie and Flo.

it's liver and onions

night.

there's a line out the door.

going down to the train station

her wallpaper doesn't arrive.

so 

i have the day off.

the sun has moved closer to the earth

this year,

so taking

a long walk

is out of the question.

i might catch fire.

brittle as i am.

i think about the neighborhood

pool,

but there are too many kids

in there peeing.

maybe a bike ride,

maybe a trip to the grocery store

to get coffee beans.

maybe i'll go down

to the train station and watch

trains arriving

and leaving.

i used to see old men do that back

in the day.

maybe there's something

to that that i'm missing.

his nice soft landing

at 93 most of my father's friends

are dead.

navy buddies, pals

from nova scotia,

but he has

meals on wheels.

he has my sister taking care

of his bills.

he has me who visits twice

a year.

but that's about it.

oh and Esther, his new girl

friend that he 

snuggles with on Sunday.

a few neighbors check in

from time to time.

chat with him when he's out

sunning himself on his

lawn chair in the front yard.

he's in a good place.

his crazy life is coming to an

end with a nice

soft landing.

cotton candy

i try to think if there is a more

insane thing

to eat, than cotton candy.

nothing comes to mind,

maybe sardines,

maybe liver or some strange

animal, but

cotton candy takes the cake.

it's a what the hell

moment when you first see

it as a kid

at the carnival.

sugar whipped into hairy strings,

wrapped on a paper cone.

pink, blue.

the tattooed man or woman 

in the trailer booth,

glassed in, whipping it

up with a toothless smile,

just for you.

when the thrill is gone

when the thrill is gone.

it's gone

for good, there is no turning back.

no do over,

no try again.

you've got nothing to say,

no feelings left.

no love,

no like, no lust remains.

just an empty

feeling of dread.

knowing that you have to

get out, get away,

not tomorrow,

not next week, but now,

it's time to put this nightmare

to bed.

the conversation

the wind arrives

while we sit on the porch

steps,

deciding

what we're to do.

clouds push forward,

darkening the sky.

the rain hasn't started,

but it's coming.

you can smell it.

feel the temperature drop.

it's her turn

to talk, but she says

nothing.

the weather will say it all

as it begins to pour.

don't look at me

is it the area we live in

that makes

it so hard for people to say

hello when

passing by.

they look down, they look

at their phones,

they look straight

ahead as if you don't exist.

you say hello,

you wave,

you nod, you tip your hat,

and in return, you get nothing.

is it the same

all over?

or just here where we live.

do it again

the amount of time

passed

stuns you.

that ticking clock.

that spin

of the earth never going

back.

relentless

it is.

and what is there to do

but get up

and go.

do it again.

amen.

thinking about baseball

i take some time off from

thinking about you,

and think about baseball for awhile.

that lasts for

about three minutes.

then i'm back to you.

your long legs, your dark hair,

those lips, those eyes.

the way you pretend that 

you don't care.

i linger there for a short while,

then take another cold shower.

taking coffee to the next level

thinking, how much further

can i complicate my life

i delve into coffee,

no longer settling

for the instant, i want more.

i want

coffee supreme.

i want a hot cup of brewed

java,

and not from one of those

fancy dan starbucks machines.

i want people to look

at me after taking a sip,

and sighing,

saying, sweet Jesus, that is one

good cup of coffee my man.

i invest 

in some French roasted beans

from Columbia.

a lithium battery scale

to measure in grams.

a grinder with steel blades,

six speeds.

i get a cone

shaped filter with linen sleeves,

a blown glass flask from

Venice to drip into.

i'm all set.

do you want a cup?

it should be ready in about

twenty minutes,

more or less.

grandpa

sometimes i wish i had

an old

grandpa

to talk to, some wise old coot

with tales of the war,

the great depression.

how he didn't have shoes

and had to eat

tree bark to survive.

i'd bring him

some gin

and we could sit on the porch

as he would spin

his yarns about life,

women, love, approaching

death, that sort of thing.

i'd prod him

with questions.

ask him about the scars

on his arm.

the tattoo on his leg

that says Veronica, blue

and runny.

who was that, grandpa i'd

ask, pouring him

another cocktail.

gum stuck to my shoe

for a long time

the ex wife was like gum stuck

to the bottom

of my shoe.

a pink hard wad, now grey,

embedded

in the treads

of my sketchers.

for the life of me i couldn't

scrape the remnants

of her sticky toxic self away.

and finally i figured it out.

i bought new shoes.

burned the other pair.

it's better to give than to receive

feeling generous

and loving

i give out my social security

number,

my address

and the numbers off my american

express card

to the young man from

India who

calls me bright and early

in the morning.

He says he works for the IRS.

and i believe him.

he sounds so sincere

and honest.

he's giddy with my kindness.

you're welcome, i tell him.

do you need my

bank account number too,

and my passwords

so that you can

log on to my computer?

yes, he says. please. thank you.

i am filled with the warm glow

of giving.

they're mad at me again

i can always tell when people

are mad at me.

i'm very intuitive

that way.

the texting ends, the phone calls

cease.

no longer am i invited anywhere,

not that i would ever go.

there's no knock at the door,

no card in the mail.

no one is baking me cookies anymore,

or sending me funny links

from youtube.

the holidays go unnoticed.

birthdays, pffft. who cares.

i try to remember what i did,

or said, to make people so mad,

but after a few days, i can't

for the life of me remember.

just my imagination

i stare at my back yard

in the same way i do 

when i open my refrigerator,

hoping

things will change

for the better.

that grass will appear,

not weeds.

i see a stone fountain.

white rocks.

a blue round pool of

fresh water.

i see yellow hummingbirds

frolicking about.

i imagine a red leafed tree

of some sort.

then i snap out of it,

and move the butter aside

to grab a beer.

the B story

it's a B story,

but i give her a C because

of delivery.

she took too long,

filled it with

too many unimportant details.

what the cat

was doing at the time

really added nothing

to the tale.

so relax

it's important.

this detail. this comma, this

word,

this indentation,

this paper.

this document.

it's important, at least for

now.

but in a hundred

years,

it really won't matter.

so relax.

oh, i remember now

when i hear the neighbors,

through our shared wall,

making love.

or maybe they're

spring cleaning and

just beating a rug

with a broom,

i'm a little stunned.

when i see them out and about

it seems like they don't

even like each other.

they never hold hands,

never call each other sweet

names like boo, or buttercup.

they take separate cars

to work, leaving

without so much as a wave,

or peck on the cheek.

how can you not like someone

and yet still have sex with them?

oh, and then

i remember.

national french fry day

it's late in the day when

i hear on the radio that it's national

french fry day.

it's amazing how time flies.

it seems like it was here

just yesterday.

i text and call all my friends

and try to figure out

how we can celebrate

this wonderful day, but they're

busy and seem annoyed

that i would be calling them

about such a thing. i guess

i'm on my own this holiday.

i'm so sad, as i wander the produce

section selecting potatoes.

the dopes you know

before you find out that someone

is a complete dope,

you actually listen to them, 

you take them seriously.

you nod your head and say hmm,

maybe i'll try that.

you know, i'm becoming a better

person because of you.

you know so much about life,

religion, food and family.

and then you discover what hypocrites

they are, they lie to you

and you discover their double life.

suddenly you realize what lunatics

they really are, full of baloney,

everything they ever told you 

goes right out the door, and them

too as your boot swings swiftly

at their behinds.

a canned sardine

i could live underwater.

despite

the lack of air,

it would be ideal conditions.

cool and warm.

the sun

above,

the tropical fish,

the sea life, the sea plants

decorating

my new home.

no one would knock on

the door,

the phone wouldn't

ring.

i'd be as perfectly happy

as a canned

sardine.

go fund me

some have it,

some don't, a work ethic.

some

rely on parents,

or others to make their way

in the world.

hash tag this.

go fund me.

a trust fund.

why work when the world

is so generous.

each street corner

is a bank

waiting to be opened.

there's no shame, no guilt

in letting

others take care of you.

why dirty your hands

with work.

work is for the dumb,

the trapped,

the unimaginative man.

it's not their turn

it's what we make

of it, cheer up. be grateful.

be thankful.

there's more fish in the sea.

you are so blessed.

think positive

and see the silver lining.

these are things said,

by those not

in pain.

it's not their turn,

not yet.

an early death

the rusted

tools in the shed,

still

there, still in place

where they were left

twenty years ago.

the hoe,

the rake, the trimmer.

not mine,

but those of a previous

tenant.

how hard

she tried to keep the yard

alive, to keep

it green, to keep it

free of weeds.

pristine.

she told me once that

she would not

live to be an old woman.

and she was right,

dying at 43.

the yellow kite

the small child

thinks of nothing else with this

string in her hand

tethered to a yellow kite

aloft in the sky.

a splash of color in the blue.

there is no worry, no fear,

no thought about tomorrow.

it's just the unraveling

of the string, letting go.

but this lesson will be forgotten,

despite it being new.

when someone hurts

when someone is in pain,

you want to help,

you want to say the right things.

take a hot bath,

relax.

have a drink.

do nothing. do heat, do ice.

just lie back

and read.

you throw darts at a moving

board,

none hitting.

they just want the pain to end.

and so do you.

you want to mother the person,

to be gentle

and caring, empathetic,

you want to kiss it and make

it feel better.

she was perfect until this happened

she was too happy

for my liking.

it disturbed me how she was 

always a ray of sunshine.

pleasant

and kind, courteous

to everyone passing by.

thin as a reed,

praying over every meal,

never a bad word

about anyone,

friend or foe,

relative, or spouse, sibling,

even people she didn't

know.

she was perfect from head

to toe.

so it surprised me

when i saw her picture in

the paper,

after going on a murder

spree

at the local organic store.

the guilt trip

i used to feel guilty

about paper bags, all those poor

trees.

and now

i feel bad about plastic

bags,

thinking of whales

and fish,

and other animals in the sea,

choking

unable to breathe.

now i only buy what i can

carry out

in my arms, 

or balance on my head,

then go back

the next day for more.

but i'm leaving

my carbon footprint

all over the place,

gas  for my car,

the exhaust fumes,

the wear of tires on 

the road.

there's no way around this,

is there?

it's the same thing

i can't read what you write

anymore.

so much of it is the same thing,

over and over again,

autobiographical.

i've had it up to here

with your romances,

your loves lost,

your work, your aches

and pains.

i can't read what you write

anymore,

she tells me,

as she logs on once more

to see what's up with me.

Hope

she goes down to the courthouse

and changes

her name to Hope.

i try not to laugh, because she's

taking it so seriously.

i'm Hope now, she says,

not Betty anymore.

okay. i tell her, rolling

my eyes.

whenever you address me,

call me Hope, okay?

okay, i say, sighing, staring

out across parking lot.

she's a child of the sixties.

peace corp. an environmentalist,

recycler. namaste, kumbai ya.

peace, love and harmony.

free bobby seal,

angela davis,

the chicago seven, etc. etc.

you got it, i tell her.

giving her the peace sign, taking

a bite of my cinnamon scone.

don't take the brown acid, i 

remind her.

no news is good news

strange how i don't need

the news anymore.

i don't need an update on the scores.

on war,

on politics,

on death and disease.

funny how

that is, when letting go

of the world,

getting unstuck from

bad love,

or current events.

i open the door to see

what the weather is.

i look up at the sky.

yes. we're still here.

that's good. 

the first night

i need to lie down,

she tells me.

i'm not feeling well.

she draws the shades,

pours herself a glass of water.

she takes off her

shoes and sits on

the edge of the bed.

can you close the door,

she asks.

put the sign on the knob

do not disturb.

she lets her long white

dress fall to the floor,

then lies down.

would it be okay

if you slept in the other

room tonight?

in fact, from now on?

evolution

they find a skull.

an empty head in a well,

a million years old.

(it looks curiously like

my friend jimmy's head)

okay, now we understand

who we are,

the guy in the white smock

says,

standing in front of a 

monkey cage.

we know now

where we've come from.

we crawled out

of the ocean, growing legs

and what not.

swung from the trees

and moved on

to achieve greatness. it

took a few more million

years before

we invented the rotary phone,

but at last we arrived

at where we are today.

this is who we are today, 

he says,

holding up his new i phone.

the eighth grade

i think i peaked

in the eighth grade.

i had it all figured out.

bylcreme in my hair.

my blue jeans on.

my white t-shirt tucked in.

the fastest boy on the block.

i even had my

first kiss that year.

my grades were good.

i discovered books

and art.

poetry.

i had a pocket full of

money from

my morning paper route.

i had a dog, a best friend.

i could sing, i could dance.

swim. i would listen

to the radio, knowing

all the songs.

i heard california dreaming

for the first time

that year.

i want the eighth grade again.

the long fall

i ran towards you.

arms open,

legs churning like the wheels

of a locomotive.

i was full of fire,

desire.

lust and something like love.

i ran towards you

and then you stepped aside.

over the cliff i went,

down and down.

i'm still falling. sadly,

i may never die.

abstract

it's a blue bruise

folding into green and yellow.

i am fruit

off the vine,

slowly turning

under house light. i am

a pear, an apple, a once

ripe mango.

no longer sweet.

it's where the needle went in.

the pinch

and push of medicine,

the pull

of blood from an opened

stream.

it's a soured patch

upon my arm.

an abstract painting

beneath my sleeve.

unoiled

unoiled

we get cranky.

we rub against each other.

we squeak

and moan as we

turn the wheels.

we grind.

there is nothing smooth.

nothing spins

easy.

we need oil

to make this work.

pour me one.

leave the bottle.

this will change your life

this will change your life,

the ad says.

the you tube video says,

the book,

the article in a magazine.

buy this mattress

and it will change your life.

drink this,

eat this avocado. take this pill.

go here, go there.

everything will change

for the better.

namaste.

don't wait, don't hesitate.

just do it.

don't forget to call

under a stack of papers

i find what

i'm looking for.

a phone number scribbled

in haste

on a wilted scrap of paper.

dated and underlined.

the words.

don't forget to call.

important.

i stare at the number, no

name.

no clue as to who it could be,

or what it's

about.

but i remembered it just the same.

i shrug, then put it back

where it was found.

too much coffee

i drink too much coffee.

my only vice,

other than this.

which isn't a vice at all, but

like air,

something i need to do

in order to live,

to make sense of the world.

or at least

attempt to.

it's nearly impossible.

so much and so many

have gone off the deep end.

don't send me your poetry

please, please,

i beg of you. don't send me your

poetry.

your stories.

your manuscript.

if you do, i will be brutally honest

as others are with me.

the knife is sharp

and it will cut deep, prepare

yourself for the worst.

and if you want to be a writer.

read.

read books.

read poetry.

write until you bleed.

everyday. every chance you get.

wake up and write.

before you go to sleep, write.

and for God's sake,

stop looking at your phone.

three foot tall batman

when my son was about four

or five

he threw a tantrum when i wouldn't

buy him

a thirty dollar

illustrated book about batman.

he already owned everything

they ever sold

about the caped crusader.

everything but this enormous

magazine.

he was wearing his

batman costume at the time,

shredded from

wearing it 24/7 around the house,

to the playground,

the grocery store and to the beach.

he screamed and yelled

as i picked him up to carry him

out of the store.

his cape flew up in the breeze.

i told him to calm down, relax.

how about a happy meal, i asked him,

trying to persuade him

to settle down.

instead he screamed even louder

staring at me behind the mask, 

his brown eyes tearing

inside the batman cowl

and said.

i still love you dad, i'm just

mad at you.

is anything okay?

when we'd talk by phone,

i'd ask her,

is anything okay?

then paused and waited as she

took out the list.

i sat in the big chair

by the window

and drank gin and tonics

as she went on and on.

the seasons changed.

i watched

the leaves fall.

i watched as the snow

covered the ground,

and then spring.

are you still there, she'd ask.

yes, i'd say.

i'm still here, please, go on.

the long way home

i don't go that way anymore.

i don't take

that road.

i go around.

i take the long route home.

no need

to see reminders,

things that lie dead on the road,

the ghosts

that linger.

i don't go that way anymore.

i go around.

so many other streets

to travel on,

to get to where i need to go.

88 weighted keys

i think about buying a piano,

despite my last

violent experience with one.

not a baby grand,

not a stand up deal, but one

of those

keyboards that you set on

the table.

one with 88 weighted keys

that feels like the real thing.

how long would it take to

learn how to play this thing,

how many lessons would i need

before i'm giving elton john,

and liberace

a run for their money.

i google lessons. tutorials

on you tube. chords and what not.

pedals. white keys, black

keys. what the hell.

i scratch my head and wonder

if i have enough time for that.

i google harmonicas.

taking no chances

as i measure the wall,

stretching the metal tape

from the door to the far wall.

i think about how many times

i've done this.

i should know

the dimensions by now.

i should know the center,

where to hammer a nail,

i can see where

the old holes remain.

i could go by those,

to hang the next picture

frame, but

i take no chances these days,

with art, and

many things.

boris, my new masseuse

i go in for a massage at the local

parlor.

i strip down

to my birthday suit

and lie flat on my back, waiting

for my regular

masseuse, Ashley, to come

in and begin.

but it's not her.

it's a man. a man called Boris,

from Russia.

what the hell, i mumble to myself

as he begins

to dig into my muscles.

my shoulders.

my arms, my neck, my legs.

i groan with pleasure

as he kneads my aches and pains

away.

i ask him about Ashley,

and he says, nyet. she go back to 

the country.

her hands too weak.

dang, i say.

are you going to be here next

week?

the beauty of cortisone

as the  doctor examines

my knees

raising the chair, to gently

touch

the front and back, he says

with a laugh,

welcome to jiffy lube

in his bulgarian accent.

he's dressed in a nice blue

set of pajamas.

periwinkle, i do believe,

and wearing the customary

mask.

he shows me a miniature

progression of knee

deterioration, made of balsa

wood and plastic. he tells me

which stage i am at.

the final stage being a shiny

piece of metal holding it

altogether.

then the needle goes in.

straight through the front,

not quite to the back.

i feel the swish of cortisone

going in.

i ask him if i'll be able to 

swing dance tonight with my

buttercup, and he says,

sure. do what you want.

see you again in six

months, putting a sticker

on my forehead as a reminder.

no diamond in the rough

it's a large rock

embedded in the ground. not gold,

not silver.

a plain

rock. not a diamond

in the rough.

it's been there for ages.

has anyone paid attention

to it.

so quiet.

so normal. no shine to it.

no glimmer,

no reason to be dug up

and taken home.

i wipe its face,

i dust it off. i sit beside it

for awhile and listen.

my dear morticia

i know that howling

in the woods.

the full moon.

the screech of the owl.

the flutter

of bat wings.

i know those nights.

the eerie clouds,

the haunting music.

the bitten neck,

the pale skin,

those wanton eyes.

they were such fun nights

with you,

morticia. 

don't be a stranger,

fly over, soon.

making a pinky promise

i remember making a vow

to never, never ever

get married again.

i made a pinky promise,

a butt promise to myself.

but i  made the same 

vow about eating indian

food again, or raw oysters

and look what

happened.

similar results, as i lie

on the cold tile floor, pale

and shaking.

118 in portland

it's hot enough

okay.

that's good, stop there.

we get it

mother nature.

all the recycling doesn't matter,

does it.

you laugh at electric cars.

paper and plastic

in bins.

you're in control.

is that your middle

finger raised, or what?

you seem angry.

it's too late, isn't it?

a day trip

i forget why i came here

was it find

someone

or get away from someone.

it's blurred

the reasoning for this trip.

i stand with my

feet in perpetual sand as

the ocean stretches

its cold blue

arms before me.

the waves are generous.

coming one after the other.

the sun hardly warm, but

trying.

the latest flame

something about a fire.

its passion

to burn, the ribbon flames

a blend

of colors.

you can almost see

blue in the dance of heat.

something about

its mystical power.

dangerous and life saving

all at the same time.

so much like

love. i do believe.

an eight point five day

i count it as a good day.

an eight.

and eight point five

perhaps.

we slept in,

we ate,

we drank.

we made love twice.

we took a nap

in each other's arms,

we didn't fight, we

cuddled on the couch

and watched a movie

until the sun went

down.

we read our books.

we kissed goodnight.

not a single bad thing

happened.

maybe a ten is in order,

and eight point five

too light

the dangling conversation

the herd has thinned.

not physically,

except for hair, but in population

of available 

men or women interested

in starting up love,

or like, or lust once again.

can we just be friends

sans benefits?

for some the thrill is gone,

the libido

run bone dry.

scrabble is more fun,

checkers.

it's too much trouble driving in

the rain

on a tuesday night

to meet the next potential

love of your life.

eating bar food, drinking wine.

the drinks are never

strong enough,

again she forgot my slice

of lime.

the parking never

validated.

are you vaccinated, can i see

your blood work,

i want to know your current

state of mind.

it's a dangling conversation

full of superficial sighs.

thank you paul

for that last line.

the sculptor

i can feel

the painful

chipping of stone.

which is me,

as she takes her hammer

and chisel

and goes to work

trying to make me into

someone

i was never meant to be.

always late

i'm on my way, she says,

i'm so sorry

i'm late. forgive me. again.

no problem, i tell her,

no worries.

i understand.

she'll never change.

she'll always be late,

and i'll always be on time,

or early

for our date.

keeping us afloat

as the house ages,

it needs tending to, 

by plumbers, and carpenters,

men on the roof, but

so do we

need a helping hand

upon

our bodies.

setting bones,

tying knots into wounds,

looking in

our eyes, down our

ears,

our throats.

we need assistance to keep

this fragile

body afloat.