what's your second favorite color?

what's your second favorite

color i ask her

as we meet for a drink

for the first time.

green she says.

what about food, what's your

second favorite

food?

fish, she says. no, wait,

maybe pasta.

okay.

and your second favorite

position if we ever make love.

huh?

what's wrong with you

she says.

i'm not telling you that.

are you nuts, or something.

i'm just trying to get to know

you. i'd like

to know what makes you tick.

is that wrong?

she gets up and puts

her coat on.

you're leaving already?

the calamari hasn't even

come out yet.

that's not very Christian of you

i realize that i'm a very

very reluctant

forgiver.

if someone slights me,

abuses me,

lies and cheats

on me,

or snubs me, i have the

hardest time

in turning the other cheek.

i can quietly hold a grudge

until the cows come home.

(i don't have any cows)

my therapist tries

to bring it all back around

again

to my childhood and low

self esteem. not being

hugged enough and told how

wonderful i am.

maybe i wasn't that wonderful,

or huggable.

not all kids are.

most are smelly brats.

i digress.  forgiveness.

aaaargh.

i'd prefer to blame my lack

of forgiveness on

the people who offended

me.

maybe if they grew up

and matured and actually

apologized for being

inconsiderate

immoral dopes, i'd give

them an apology.

stop being narcissistic

buttheads, and then maybe

i'll give you something that

resembles forgiveness.

or maybe just a pat on the head

and a firm boot

out the door.

packing egg salad sandwiches

my friend howard suggests

that i montoize

my blog.

a word i absolutely hate.

i'd like to think of this as a poetry

forum,

a place

to empty my brain and heart

before moving

on to the next catastrophe

or blessing that comes

down the road.

sometimes i can't tell the difference

between the two.

i tell howard no.

i'm not putting an ad for

baked beans,

or tide detergent on here.

i abhor commercials,

i tell him.

he sighs and says, 

you could be making easy

money. every time

someone clicks on one of

your stupid poems,

a little coin drops into

your pocket.

i roll the words stupid poems

in my mouth for

a minute or two, before

spitting them out

on the street like lima beans.

this is coming from a man

who once packed

egg salad sandwiches in

his suitcase when he and his

wife went to Bermuda

on their honeymoon.

reason to live

she gives way

as water does, when

i'm in her arms.

her generous embrace.

she lets me in.

let's me feel the warmth

of her.

i touch her soul.

her eyes tell me everything.

the smile

as she kisses me.

such bliss is rare.

but worth living for.

the first fallen leaf

as the first orange

leaf

attaches to your shoulder,

you sigh.

at last

a reprieve from

the summer heat. not

yet, but its coming.

so much of

what we want is coming.

hope is about that.

the state of men

i listen quietly as

he argues. tossing erroneous

data

and theory,

around

like knives.

he gets red when i don't

agree,

his voice growls.

i see the hair

of the animal he is

rise

upon his back.

it's easy to see why men

murder and rape,

pillage,

go to war

when i watch him speak.

don't answer that

it's best not to answer

that knock at the door,

or pick up the phone.

no need to gather the mail

from the floor.

no one of significance

writes or calls anymore.

few meet for coffee,

or lunch.

they type.

and send. with an emoji

no less.

God help us.

the end of the world feels

closer and closer

old friends.

life in a can

no need

to go out and kill anything

or harvest

a field.

it's right

there in a can or box,

packaged

and stamped.

available 24/7 at the local

grocer

or drive thru.

no need to hunt, or fish,

or trap.

no need to plant a seed.

no need for any of that.

if there's money

in the works,

they'll get it for you,

but with ingredients on the label

that you'll never

understand.

the sparrow with specs

as she spoke

of sylvia and mark strand,

larkin

and levine, wallace stevens

and frost,

standing

at the front of the class,

the chalk board behind her.

she was like

a sparrow

with specs.

brown winged and fragile.

but holding the keys

to my heart,

my hands,

my mind,

my chosen profession

of doing this.

her knight in shining armor

she says

i'm looking for my one

true

love.

the knight in shining armor.

the soul mate.

the real thing.

someone special.

someone with money

and a boat.

i don't even care if he's

married.

i just want to be loved

and worshiped,

adored.

someone who kisses

the ground

i walk on.

someone that sees no

wrong in who i pretend

to be.

i want his life to be

all about me.

i want him worried and 

jealous.

wondering where i am,

and with who.

i want that kind of relationship.

i want the red carpet,

the house,

the trips,

the rings.

i want him to be sick

with love, and forever

bound to me.

when we need something

we butter each

other up.

my you're looking fine

today.

lose weight?

you're getting younger

every day.

you're the cat's meow,

you're a sunshine

ray.

a daisy, a wild flower,

a celestial

object

in the sky.

a dream come true.

oh and by the way,

can you do me a favor,

later today?

going electric

like dylan

i've gone electric.

the stove,

the furnace,

the mixer, the blender,

the clocks,

the computer,

the car.

i'm all plugged in

and strumming

my assortment

of guitars.

leading a horse to water

it's hard

to have a conversation with

difficult people.

uneducated.

blind

to what truth is.

it's a long day with

someone

with a closed mind.

refusing

to turn the page

and read on.

it's best to say nothing

after a while.

what's the point

of arguing

with someone

who has their

hands over

their ears, their eyes,

who will never

admit they're wrong.

how will she rise

she is silk.

blue eyed and wise.

lean

and studied.

still with a nest

full

of children.

but soon, what's next.

what love

will knock upon

her door.

what

window will open

and call to her.

how will she rise,

this time.

forever is shorter than it used to be

how fragile we are.

twigs for bones,

skin

so easily punctured.

injuries come

too soon,

too often.

our mortality

surprises us.

just yesterday we

were young and strong,

and now this.

we live

as if nothing could

ever go wrong.

forever is suddenly

shorter than

it used to be.

before we sleep

we have many lives,

not just one.

when young,

when old and all the variations

in between.

we can remember

them as if

yesterday.

the loves we had,

the work we chose,

the children,

the detoured dreams.

we have many lives,

and many more

before we

sleep.

don't hurt anyone

we don't do that at my church,

she says.

we have no men

in gowns

with pointed hats.

there are no gold

chalices,

or silver crosses hanging

around.

there are no statues,

or stained glass

windows.

we aren't puppets,

kneeling,

standing, sitting, going

up and down.

mumbling rote words.

we just go in and 

fold our hands to pray.

someone says a few words

and then we go

home and try to be good

people

and not hurt anyone

for the rest of the day.

intelligent design

when you see

a building,

you never think

that it just appeared

over a million years.

that the glass and brick,

the wires

and iron

all came together

to make it rise

from the dirt

and yet.

when some people

look at a human,

they say, 

it can't be intelligent

design.

despite being so complex.

there is no 
God, no creator.

people rose from a puddle,

struck by lighting

upon the ground.

where and what time?

i get an early morning text

from a number

not in my phone.

hello, it says. good morning.

how are you?

i miss you, and i think i still

love you?

we should get together

sometime

and see once more, where

it could go.

who is this, i type.

do i know you?

it's Shelly, aren't you Mark?

no, i tell her,

you may have the wrong 

number.

i'm so sorry. she writes.

but you sound nice. do you

want to meet anyway,

see if there's a spark?

sure. why not? i tell her.

what time?  casual wear?

the old town park?

are you a family man?

i like to dance

she says. i tell her i don't.

i have two left feet.

i like red

wine, she offers. i say no.

i get a headache.

i like

to hike and fish and

camp, she says,

pulling out a map

of nowhere.

i'm more of a hotel

guy, i tell her. preferably

four star

with room

service.

okay. she says. i guess

i can live

with that.

what about family. are you

a family man.

do you get along with your

relatives.

do you like kids?

not really, i tell her.

they give me a rash.

excellent she says.

i think we're a match.

one last look

as the barber

ages

so do his customers

children

turning

into adults.

and in time their

hair

less thick,

less brown or blonde,

or red,

now streaked

in grey.

and the barber

with his

swivel chair, his

clippers,

his scissors his combs

still

goes at it.

tossing the sheet

around your neck,

the powder,

the one last look

in the mirror

before you go.

safe and sound

there is comfort

in

food.

in drink.

in a person's arms

around you.

there is less fear

when 

you are warm

and sheltered.

safe

and sound, protected

from all

the harm

the world can give.

it's not strange

that we

keep returning there,

to the womb

where we were

once found.

she needed alone time

i see a puddle of blood

on the floor.

should i be worried?

it's not mine.

maybe at last she made

good on her promise

of leaving this world.

is it time to say,

clean up on aisle six?

or is she still curled up

in a ball in the dark

room, chattering on

about something

that happened to her

fifty years ago.

then i see the can of tomato

juice, turned over.

i breathe a sigh of relief.

honey, i'm home,

i yell up the stairs.

do you need some more

alone time?

i'll boil the kale

and put the salmon on.

the new toaster oven

i take out one of my

wedding

suits.

not the white one though.

it's way too tight

now,

seeing that i was twenty

two

when that ship went down.

but i remember

wearing it,

the cake stain on velvet

black lapel,

the spilled

wine.

the lipstick from drunk

aunts and frisky bridesmaids,

and then

i remember hanging it

in the closet

next to her wedding dress

wrapped in

plastic, saved for the smithsonian

i suppose.

i then remember

looking out the window

of our one bedroom

apartment,

her carrying the dress back

to her mother's,

with a new black and decker

toaster oven,

still in the box,

under the other arm.

it means nothing

it's a fierce rain.

a hard

pour.

how can so much

water

and thunder

be in those clouds.

where did this come from.

what's it

all about?

nothing, most likely.

not everything

means something.

the cross roads

we started

with beer. cans of beer

sitting around

talking

about girls.

spinning records.

all of us friends

in the same neighborhood.

we played

ball together.

went to school together.

and now we

were at a cross roads.

about to grow

up and join

the world, but not quite there.

we passed a joint around

before

some went off

to work, some to college

or married early,

a girlfriend giving birth.

some put a needle

in their vein,

those you never heard

from again, but wish

you could.

you imagine grabbing

their hand and saying

no, putting

them back together.

all of us

having a second chance.

sitting in a circle,

laughing, drinking beer.

denial comes first

sometimes you grieve

early.

you have a premonition.

you see the end

before the end

comes.

you can feel the death

and dying.

the lack of love.

you begin to grieve

while she lies

still beside you.

denial coming first, 

followed quickly

by anger

and acceptance.

just one plague away

california burns.

louisana

floods.

a hurricane

comes up the coast.

murder

is rampant.

road rage. lying,

cheating,

infidelity.

world wide disease.

sex slaves.

child abuse.

wars and rumor

of wars.

no leadership,

no moral compass.

technology is king.

the priests are corrupt.

the policemen.

the mayor.

the governor.

the president.

i think

we're one plague away

from the end

of times.

drink up.

she finally agreed

she finally agreed

after seven months of dating

to have

sex.

i was excited, to put it mildly.

i had fallen in

love.

she was beautiful.

inside and out.

i was nervous.

she said, wait here, then went up

to change into some slinky

sheer outfit

she found at a lingerie shop

in georgetown.

i saw her legs first coming

down the stairs.

her stiletto heels.

the stockings.

a glimpse of her

silky negligee,

and then she fell, the heel

of her shoe

catching on the carpet,

she grabbed the rail and 

screamed, dislocating

a finger, then

tumbled to the bottom.

i rushed over to help her,

pressing one of my socks

against her bleeding forehead,

then to the hospital.

i guess, tonight's not good then

i asked her

in the back of the ambulance.

so, you live alone?

so, you live alone, 

he asks me,

as he picks

up his child,

and yells to his wife

to hurry up, we're late.

yes.

i tell him.

divorced? he asks.

happily, i respond.

but so you live alone, he

asks again incredibly.

no pets,

no kids.

no plants either, i tell him,

but i do have these

voices in my head.

her puzzles

as i sit here

in the sunday sun

searching my brain for

six letter words

across or down

in the times crossword

puzzle

i think of my mother

doing the same.

a cigarette in hand,

her cup of coffee

black,

sitting on the back

porch with her high

school education, having

the puzzle done

before the first

diaper needed changing,

the first meal cooked,

the first run

of the washer,

then hanging

of the clothes on the line.

ruminations

the sharp

nail

beneath the rug

rises

through the wool

runner

and catches

me going up

the stairs.

there is pain

and blood.

i tend to the new

wound then

get the hammer

out.

i knock it

back down and

move on.

it's a daily thing.

decorating for spring

most of her house

was in shambles.

broken chairs, wobbly tables.

the yellow stuffing

popping out of the sofa.

a bed on the floor,

leaky faucets,

squirrels in the attic,

mice in the cupboard.

but she used to tell

me to go

into the bathroom and

look at the new

shower curtain she just

hung on the pole,

proud as can

be with the plastic

pink flowered sheet

now hiding

the brown tub.

early karma

it will trickle down.

reap what

you sow, etc.

karma will come around.

be patient.

be unfooled.

we all get what we 

deserve in the end,

although

some get it in

the middle, karma

arriving early

my friend.

we got to get out of this place

i'm always surprised

when i call someone and they

say i'm in denver,

or portland,

or italy.

i thought they were at home,

like me

eating bon bons

on the couch

watching reruns of

barney miller.

they send me pictures

of mountains,

and oceans.

the grand canyon

and the leaning tower

of Pisa.

i sigh when we finally

hang up

and shake my head.

i look at my cat and say,

we got to get out of this place.

pretending to eat pasta

i order a vegetable splicer

so that i can

spiralize

zucchini

to make it look like

pasta noodles.

there was a time

when  i could

eat a boiled box

of penne noodles

with red sauce

and a handful of meatballs

in one sitting.

not to mention the bread

and butter.

but it's come to this now.

twisting the handle on a

new gizmo

to make strands of a strange

vegetable that

i've almost never eaten.

i used to be Italian.

really.

how come you never visit?

after a dozen

or more random telemarketer

calls, most from India,

which

i take,

because it might be

work related, i finally

lose it

and yell into the phone

quit fucking 

calling me.

please stop.

then i look at the number

and it's my

mother.

rough day? she says.

how come you never visit?

the ice cold beer

my friend

is rarely home.

she's away, but someone

takes in the mail,

checks in

on the cat.

keeps the grass trimmed.

the locks turned.

she's far far away,

but in my mind,

she's here.

right here with her long

legs stretched

out in the sun,

talking about Nepal,

while

sipping an ice

cold beer.

we can't imagine being old

we can't imagine being

old.

being slow

of foot, of mind.

of trembling hand, of

weepy eyes.

we can't imagine

the cane,

the helping hand

across a road.

the cupped ear

to a voice so close.

we can't imagine 

ever dying, like in

all those stories we

were often told.

what light shineth in yonder window, yo

if you read enough Shakespeare,

immersing yourself

in the dialogue,

or go to a play,

or watch a movie

of Hamlet or Macbeth

you begin to talk like that

the whole day.

you put a cape on, 

strap a sword

around your waist.

you bellow at the moon,

at ghosts

in the hallways,

you make long soliloquies

on life and death,

you question your existence,

you mourn for love,

you cry out for Juliet.

you swoon.

it's all very annoying to the people

around you.

what the rain does

the rain will keep me

home today.

the wet wood, the puddles

of thunder storms

that crashed

last night.

the rain will make me

clean and read

and drink coffee.

i'll text, i'll talk.

i'll search the tube for a good

movie to watch.

the rain will send me

to this.

to type, to write, to make

things up,

or embellish what little

truth there is in

the world today.

i like the rain.

slippery times

my father at 93,

who can hardly see

and uses a walker

to get around, is going

through

a lot of baby oil lately

with his new girlfriend, 

Esther.

we just had amazon

deliver another two pack

16 ounce bottles.

i think i have the same

bottle

i bought when my son

was a month old.

for diaper rash, i think

it was used.

i'm not sure what my father

and his 85 year old

girlfriend are doing

with bottles of baby oil,

and i don't really want

to know, or have that image

in my head.

but i guess they're having

fun.

the unquenchable well

when you run low

on things to write about,

the various mundane

events

of broken laces

and popped buttons, 

coffee spills,

and work,

you cut a vein

and return to the unquenchable

source of pain

and misery

that another person

brought into your life.

(insert laughter at this point)

it's a deep well.

and strangely fun too.

what didn't kill you 

has made you stronger, as

the cliche goes.

it's so easy to fill the pen

with that ink,

and go at it once more.

although,

i'm past it now and wish

her well, sort of.

the good old days

better days turn 

into better nights.

then on

to better weeks,

at some point it's a good

year, one that

you look back on and sigh,

and say, oh my,

those were the good 

old days.

the bug bite

i tell her to text me.

send me your address, your

information

and i'll be there at noon tomorrow.

the text never comes.

i sift through the numbers

and can't for the life

of me figure out

which number is hers.

so i wait.

i sit with my coffee and scratch

my leg

where a bug has decided

to bite.

witches and goblins

i like halloween

but not everyday. i don't

want to be scared,

to be tricked

to be nervous and jittery

with every

knock at the door.

i don't want to hear

groans

and footsteps down

the hall

every night of my life.

the sound of

crying, of tossing

and turning.

i don't want to be in fear

each morning.

i want her mask to come

off, to stop this

game, to stand back

from the boiling cauldron,

as she cackles while

stirring up another potion

i want her to move on

and turn

the calendar page.

raise your arm, honey

when you forget things

you should remember, when

you lose your keys,

or phone,

when you can't recall

a date, or time.

you start to wonder,

is it my turn now.

has it begun, that downward

slide.

will i be taken to a home,

will there be a stranger

feeding me oatmeal

on a spoon?

giving me a sponge bath,

telling me gently

to raise an arm.

life is good

the cat is languid

in the puddle 

of sunlight by the door.

she hardly moves

as i walk by.

her eyes blinking

sleepily, her paws rubbing

at her ears.

she doesn't have a care.

life is good.

i want to join her.

she kept reading

after a while she finally

stopped reading

what i wrote.

who could blame her.

the mean words, vindictive

and vengeful

pouring out of me

like blood from a well

cut wound.

exposing her to the world

as to who she really was.

what pleasure was there

for her in reading

what i wrote.

and yet, she kept on.

i could feel her eyes upon

the page, her fingers

on the keyboard,

to the next, to the next.

i think it gave her pleasure

to think that i

had yet to move on.

what to wear

there is something that

everyone does,

every morning 

when they awaken.

they decide

what they're going to wear

for the day.

no matter where you

are, who you are, how

poor or rich.

you take a moment to lift

a shirt, a pair of pants,

a dress, or burlap sack

and think, is this it?

for the best

no one likes progress.

not really.

we like things the way

they were.

we find comfort

in the old.

despite the ruins around

us, we want

things to remain as

they always were.

change is painful,

even though it's 

the best for all concerned.

the cherry tree

year after year,

there were so many

cherries

on the tree

in her yard, that we

no longer cared

for them.

so they would fall

and rot.

the worms would have

their fill.

the birds,

the animals taking

as they wished.

all the red gone

brown.

how quickly we had

aged and moved on.

in the other room

i hear her in the other room,

down the short hall,

the door ajar.

no music on.

just the tapping of fingers

against the keyboard.

i listen. i stop

what i'm doing, i put my book down.

and listen.

i hear the worst.

i hear everything

that i was never meant to hear.

no need to rise

and go see.

no reason to ask what are you

doing, or who are

you writing to.

i know.

i've made up my mind

i've made up my mind.

it's autumn.

it's the last three months of the year.

why bother

with the rest,

let the leaves fall.

bring color to the earth.

let the sun grow dim

and set early

behind the hills.

let the air cool.

let us open the windows

and make love

in this new fresh wind.

crossing the line

who hasn't murdered

someone

in their mind.

taken the law into their own

hands.

who hasn't lied

or slandered, cheated.

who is sinless

in their thoughts, what

keeps us

from getting out of hand,

crossing

that moral line.

loading the gun,

sharpening the knife,

to make the world

good again, to make all

things right.

words to sleep with

as i lift each scattered

book, going

from table to nightstand

to floor and chair,

from bedroom

to kitchen,

to the shelf at the top

of the stairs

i search for one author

to comfort me,

to read me to sleep

and to clear

the unrest that stifles

the air.

just a few words will do.

a gentle kiss

of brilliance upon my brow

to send me towards

a sleep,

afloat upon the clouds.

is there a harder word

than no

in any language? to

say no.

i'm sorry,

but i don't love you,

that i don't want to spend

the rest of my life

with you.

a simple word, two letters.

but a blow.

a hammer, a dagger

to the heart of those love

stricken

and standing there

on the other end

to hear it.

what's to come next

they arrive

unexpectedly. packages.

people.

falling stars.

letters in the mail.

luck, or no luck.

pennies found,

pennies dropped.

who knows

what's to arrive, 

what's to be gained,

or lost.

what's

to come next.

what won't. what will.

the best meal ever

the best meal i ever had

was

when i solved the puzzle

of that

love gone wrong.

i felt better about where

things were

going,

or not going.

call it surrender, call it

what you will.

but i was done.

i had no more to give.

enough, my body said.

suddenly i was famished.

i remember boiling the water

and dropping

fettucine into the pot.

tossing sausage in

a pan.

heating up the sauce.

i remember garlic bread,

toasted, a salad,

and red wine.

i remember it as being

the best meal of my life.

i'd never been so hungry,

so weathered and starving,

and i'm almost

there again. once more,

i'm done.

rooms available by the hour

i take notice 

of the vacancy

sign

flashing

on the highway.

rooms to rent.

the neon light

with

one letter gone.

the empty gravel

lot.

the deadly hum

of nothing as i drive by.

it reminds me

of someone i used to know.

also vacant.

i'm on hold

i'm on hold.

not just the phone.

but life.

i'm in limbo.

i'm waiting for the bus,

the train,

the ship.

i'm ready to go.

i truly am.

i'm standing here

listening to muzak,

waiting for you,

to appear,

i'm on hold.

kiss me like a stranger

i want to know less

about you.

just a name is fine.

don't tell me

where you live, or

what work you do.

there is no need to know

your education or 

who your family is.

don't reveal

to me your favorite

color

or food, or season.

let's keep it like this,

strangers, 

always strangers 

getting that

first magical kiss.

the carnival ride

i can look

at a carnival ride 

going around and around

for about ten seconds

before i get

sick to my stomach

and have to find a trash can

to spill

my cookies.

i get that same feeling now

when i drive

by a church and see

a wedding going on.

be the cat

sometimes you say too much,

while other times

you haven't said enough.

saying nothing,

just nodding 

and politely smiling

seems to be the best

way to go.

you're neither agreeing

or disagreeing.

let them figure it out,

it not your problem to worry

about what they know

or don't know.

be the cat on the sill.

quiet and still.

the meal time prayer

when her thirty two

year old son, who never

worked or had a girlfriend,

would visit

we'd pray over

the dried salmon

and a mushy pile of kale,

holding hands with

our eyes closed

as the new wife,

who was getting stranger

and stranger

with each passing day,

went on and on in prayer.

she covered all

the bases. friends

family, dogs, cats.

kids, parents, neighbors.

the weather, etc.

and then the son

would suddenly blurt out.

and God bless

all the various tribes

and villages in Africa.

i would take a peek out

of one eye

as the prayer went on,

and stared

at the food getting cold

on the table,

wondering what i would

eat later.

the short life

the new boss

wants to make changes

get things done

improve morale and be

one of the crowd

the new boss

has a meeting, a lot

meetings,

he wants to know

everyone by name

he wants to have lunch

with you

go to happy hour

with you, he wants

to know what makes

you tick.

he's a go getter, a

smiler, a back patter,

an attaboy kind of guy

with charts and graphs

and goals

that will be met.

he lasts about a week.

the stress

is just too much.

sugar daddy dot com

my friend jimmy

joins sugar daddy dot com

to meet

young women

in need of money.

it's an exchange i suppose

that i won't go

into detail about,

but it's not unlike the world's

oldest profession,

thinly disguised

as a dating site.

when i see him on the street

he's exhausted

and broke,

he's wearing an old moth

eaten

jacket and pants with

a hole in them.

the pockets are out

and empty.

what up? i ask him.

nothing he says.

i think i'm ready to quit

that site and join

old rich widows dot com.

i surrender.

that about sums it up

i confess my sins

at saturday confession

in the dark booth. but being

a little vague on

the details.

the priest, says, go on,

go on.

is that all?

there must be more.

i tell him. that pretty

much sums it up.

i did some of this,

some of that.

a lot of that, but

never that. i never

killed anyone, okay?

can i go now, i say,

with one foot out the door.

too much of a good thing

can there be too

much of a good thing,

does everything

have to be

doled out

in moderation.

laughter and love.

sunshine

and wine.

do we have to curtail

our fun

just to keep ourselves

a little hungry.

our satisfaction behind

the line?

why can't we immerse

ourselves

in pleasure,

in good times.

would we drown?

what endears us

what endears one

to others

in the beginning

is what annoys us

a year later.

that light snore is now

suddenly a roar,

the nervous giggle 

is a nail dragged

against the chalk

board.

the lateness is a bore,

the clutter

becomes a mess, picking

up after each other

has become an endless chore,

the things that endeared us

to one another

have now become

the things that we each

abhor.

just one more day

i'm tired of people dying

around me.

come on

people.

stay alive a little longer.

i'm not done with you,

nor you with me.

we have more to say to one

another,

more laughs,

more joy, more love to make.

just stay a little while

longer.

come on. 

don't leave me. 

come on, just one more day.

what love isn't

if you can't love yourself.

you can't

love anyone else.

but pretend.

go ahead, give it a try

once more,

like you did with me.

mirror those around you.

see it in movie,

read about it in a book.

color by numbers

what love to others is.

but why bother with this

notion, you'll never

comprehend.

a house of her own

she belongs to her sadness.

it owns her.

she has the keys

to that house.

she knows the layout

of the rooms.

it's where she lives

and rarely leaves.

rarely steps out her door.

it's what she knows.

the town,

the city, the state.

it's her own personal

zip code.

she belongs to her sadness.

why leave,

how could she when this

is all she knows.

if you could read my mind

i write a letter.

a long letter. ink and paper.

the whole thing.

i sit at my desk. the light on.

the window open.

i begin.

word follows word.

thought into thought.

i tell you exactly what's on

mind, in my heart.

i leave no doubt

as to where i am or where

i'm going.

i read it again, then again,

then fold it

and put it in an envelope.

placing it in a drawer

with all the other letters

i'll never send.

labels and tags

there are so many stickers

and tags,

on my

new clothes

that are hard to pull off.

electronic buttons the size

of coasters

so that you can't leave

the store without setting

off the alarms.

i can't get a nail under the labels

to peel them

off,

so i leave them on.

what do i care if people find

out i'm wearing

an extra large shirt

and pair of pants, have you

ever heard of shrinkage?

even my fruit of the looms

have tags.

the fun times

oh there were fun times,

for sure.

sweet memories.

it wasn't just all pain

and agony, anxiety and fear.

trust me, there were

fun times.

hold on, let me think

for  minute.

they're on the tip of my tongue.

wait.

i'm thinking, i remember the time 

we....

no, wait, that was with someone

else.

ummm.

we were together for a few years,

why can't i remember

any of the fun times

we had.

my mind draws a blank.

maybe later i'll think of some,

or one.

there must have some

fun times there.

with feet off the ground

i feel dizzy.

is it the lack of food, or drink.

have i gone

too far with this fasting,

or is it the merry go round

i'm on.

feet off the ground

spinning madly

in the air

with no one to hold

onto.

no strap or bar, no hand.

just me

going around and round.

lowered expectations

i've lowered my expectations.

so no worries.

no need

to put on a good face,

or to be well informed,

or smart

and funny.

i expect less and less out

of nearly everyone

now.

as they do me.

life is so much easier

that way, when you just

don't give a damn anymore

and let everyone

go their own way.

1984 is now

it's eerie, it's

strange and ominous.

how were close to being

in the world

of 1984 by Orwell.

take down the statues,

burn the books.

erase and rewrite history

to our current liking and needs.

making the past

not what it used to be.

the hate speech on both sides

is all day.

all night.

we are watched

by both parties, by technology,

and corporations.

there is not just

one big brother, but

a dozen vying for your attention,

or vote, your adoration

and dollars.

stealing your soul,

your freedom, 

your diminishing hope.

everything you type, or watch,

or google

is recorded.

every step you take, every

breath you make.

big brother is upon us.

be careful what you think

dear comrade.

Drama Free and Low Maintenance

when you hear the words,

i'm drama free.

run.

get away as fast as you can.

in fact don't run,

uber,

take a cab, drive.

low maintenance. same thing.

i'm happy

and content with my life.

i'm friends with all

my ex's.

start drinking heavily, you're

going to need it.

when you see the book

don't sweat the small stuff

on their nightstand

or the five languages of love,

or rosary beads hanging from

their rearview mirror,

call a priest.

you'll need an exorcism

within a week with this person.

when you hear the words,

i don't really care about sex

anymore, or

my therapist thinks that i

should...

don't wait for her to finish

that sentence.

check please. giddyup.

the game

it's not a game.

although it feels like it at times.

her holding her

cards so close, so tight.

looking into

your eyes.

does she have a hand to win,

do you,

it's hard to know as we

look into one another's

eyes.

who's bluffing, 

who's cheating.

who has an ace up their sleeve.

do we know each other's

tell,

can we hear the lie

before the next card

falls, before the next

hand is dealt?

rain check

you make a rain check.

it's your

go to line when you're tired

and don't want

to drive another twenty miles

because you've driven

a thousand this week.

bone tired,

weary.

plus the rain, the wind.

the traffic.

you just want lie down

and take your shoes off.

do nothing. say nothing.

go nowhere but to dream land.

it was so much fun

people tell me about their vacations.

where they went,

what they ate,

what the weather was like.

then they take out

their phone to show you

the photos.

this was monday, tuesday.

etc. this is the ship we were on.

there's a pool, an ocean,

a mountain.

and then all the meals,

breakfast, lunch and dinner.

they are tanned, but tired

when they return,

but seemingly happy

having left out the poison

ivy, the upset stomach from

an Indian dish, the hangover,

sea sickness,

and the lost luggage,

not to mention that

it was an awful flight.

before eight a.m.

on a rare saturday morning

there is a burst

of energy, coffee induced

as well as a good nights sleep.

but off go the sheets,

the towels in the wash,

the dishwasher,

the quiet Bosch churning.

another cup of joe.

then there's messages to

tend to on the phone,

on the machine.

dusting, vacuuming.

hanging the new picture,

adjusting it so.

clutter arranged,

trash collected, bagged

for the next day.

stacking books, a new liner

for the shower.

more coffee, the sun hardly

up. now what?

the delayed response

you can tell how

important you are to others

by the response

time to your call

or text, or e mail.

a long delay, means that

you don't mean diddly

to them.

you are very low

on their totem pole of

caring.

whereas others, the ones

still in the mix,

are quick with the fingers

and wrist

to type and send,

with a smiley face attached.

they have become

more than friends.

the rainy season

it's the rainy season.

the time

of floods and storms.

the sky

is full of grey despair.

it's not a happy

sight, looking outside

this window.

it's sleeping weather.

it's quiet time.

it's books and tea.

it's comfort food

and wine.

it's the rainy season,

come on over, let's

be glum together

and pass this darkened

time.

mono vision

the doctor tells

me i have mono vision.

one eye

is fine for reading, while

the other eye

is good for distance.

what about my ears,

i ask her.

and she says,

the same.

one is good for whispering

and one

is good for a shout

across the road.

those you love

those you love,

you want them to stay

a little while longer.

one more drink,

we have dessert.

it's cold out, the wind

and rain.

the roads might be icy.

stay here.

stay overnight.

i'll sleep on the couch

and you can have

my room.

we can have breakfast

in the morning.

we can talk some more.

what i'm saying is,

don't leave. stay just a little

while longer.

oh well

nature

rarely gives up

like we do.

no,

the woods, despite

fire or flood,

moves forward in

its own good time.

regrows

regains what was taken.

the loss

is not felt, 

but taken in stride,

as if,

oh well.

sediment and silt

we have many lives.

eras, if you will.

the closets hold most of

them in boxes.

attics too.

cellars full of bins.

it's an archaeology dig

on a weekend.

sifting through the dust

the cobwebs.

sediment and silt.

sentiment and guilt.

some boxes marked by

years. the seventies,

the eighties.

how swift this ride is.

were we really that happy

back then?

it seems so by the smiles,

the grins. the faces of lovers 

now gone. dearly

departed friends.

houses spinning in the air

we're under a tornado watch.

so says the phone,

the tv.

the neighbor

going down into his cellar

with his small dog,

and children.

i look out the window

though,

and it's quite sunny and lovely.

no wind to speak

of. the sun is out.

birds are chirping.

i see no houses spinning

in the sky,

no witches on their brooms

flying by.

no cows, or chickens

in the air. 

maybe later, maybe never.

should we be scared?

the grapevine

there are many grapevines.

i've pulled most of mine from the roots.

done

with the little birdies

too, whispering in my ear.

stop, i say.

don't tell me anymore,

there is really

little about

anyone, i want to hear.

take your gossip elsewhere.

say nothing, unless it's of

good cheer.

the business of forgiveness

let's talk about the business

of forgiving.

which, i think is God's work,

unless he's out

to dinner,

on vacation, or just plan

busy with

other important things?

who am I to forgive.

and before i can even ponder

such grace,

i need to hear an apology

from anyone that wants it

from me. forgiveness, really?

i'm still waiting.

still waiting.

crickets are chirping.

he was a quiet man

the new neighbor

with the monster truck, 

the american

flags,

the artificial grass,

and dog,

seems like a nice person

when we pass each other

on the street.

a quiet man.

sometimes he sits for

hours in his back yard

cleaning

and reloading his guns,

while a pig

spins on his rotisserie 

grill.

the pink room

the pink room was too pink.

they want it white

again.

three coats

of pink to get it there, now

there coats of white

to change it back.

i understand, having had

my own pink wall or two

in a certain room. i couldn't

wait to get rid of it

once she was gone.

some stay the same

the power goes

out in the middle of the night.

i hear the click

and buzz

of clocks and computers

going off, then

coming back on again.

one by one

the next day, i have

to figure out

how to reset each one.

all of them

different, all of them

the same.  some with

a mind of their own,

some being unchanged.

seeing is believing

i don't believe in

ghosts until

i see one, or the loch ness

monster,

or big foot,

or aliens from outer

space.

flying saucers.

myths and theory,

legend.

i need evidence, truth

and facts

to get to the bottom of

things.

like how i did with you.

the need for anger

there is a time

to be calm, to be rational

and quiet.

to keep the peace

despite the chaos that

goes on about you.

and yet, there are other

times, when only

anger will suffice.

when lied to, when betrayed,

when everything

you held dear is not real.

a full blown outburst

of angry

words are necessary.

not violence.

just getting it out of

the system.

the truth. will do.

and this will truly save

you.

illumination

it's a serious moon out

from the clouds,

shedding

a milky light upon the field.

what is there

to say about

such a thing.

the orb. the illumination

it brings.

what possible poem can

truly capture,

this sight.

almost as hard as describing

love. but i try just

the same, as i often do,

on such a night.

handle with care

it's very fragile,

the shopkeeper says, 

sliding her glasses down

on the tip of her nose

to watch me

pick up the slender vase

to hold it up

to the light.

be careful she says.

it's old.

something i'm beginning

to understand

more and more each

day, without being told.

fresh mint

she planted the mint

on the side

of the porch

sixteen years ago.

it's grown wild now.

it reaches over

the steps, the long

tendrils full

of green.

when i come home

from work,

or leave

and lock the door.

i think of her.

i remember her kneeling

in the soft dirt,

looking up at me in

the sun, smiling

and saying.

we're going to have

fresh mint now.

the formative years

i've watched enough you tube

videos, read enough

books,

and been in enough therapy

to understand now

how the mind works or doesn't

work.

it pretty much is all about

those first five or six years

of childhood.

bad parenting, or no parents.

from the cradle to the grave

you're either making yourself

miserable, or someone else miserable.

at least until the light goes

on in your head, and you move on.

you stay away from toxic people.

friends, relatives, spouses, parents,

people you work with.

when you cut them loose

you are at last free from childhood.

for a mere five dollar donation

i used to care

about things, more than i do now.

but things have changed.

what war?

what protest?

what earthquake,

or flood in some far away

country.

i have compassion

and empathy

for anyone hurt, but for the

most part

there is little we can do

about it.

i heard on the radio that for

a mere five dollar

donation,

you can cure a kid of leprosy

in some village in India.

but i don't have a pen

to take the number down.

and now i feel

guilty. some poor kid is

suffering

with this disease, that i was

too lazy

to do anything about.

this is what happens when you

listen to the radio

or watch tv.

it's all about fear and pain,

disasters, chaos.

another cold beer

her passport

is full of stamps.

dates.

places.

from Bolivia to London,

to Paris, France.

her luggage is worn,

her shoes

are thread bare,

she's weary, she's tired.

she's never here.

she's rarely

at home. she's always

on the move,

in a new town,

having another cold beer.

this place

don't be desperate,

don't crave,

don't desire.

don't scratch and claw

or chase.

be calm.

be at peace.

this is good.

this is fine,

where we are now.

this place.

meal time prayer

the ex wasn't much of a cook.

i'd never before seen

the stuff she put on a plate,

or smelled anything like it.

i couldn't pronounce

the food and had no idea

where she got it, what country

it may have come from.

while she prayed before

eating the meal,

i found myself praying after.

stop the madness

we're all part something.

german,

english,

black, white, hispanic.

jewish.

asian.

there's a little bit

of blood

from everyone in all of

us.

given enough time

we'll all be one

color and look somewhat

alike.

maybe then the madness

of racism

can end.

Coffee to go in Venice

venice was lovely.

a postcard scene no matter

which direction

you turned your head.

the ancient buildings,

the iconic gondolas,

the glass blowers,

St Marks, the pigeons

in the courtyard, priests

in black, lovers hand in

hand.

it was everything i imagined

it would be

until i asked for a coffee

to go at the cafe, where

i was yelled at by an old man

in a white shirt and bow

tie. hissed out of the store

by an angry crowd.

you too good for us?  to stand

here and chat and drink

your espresso?

go home, American. go

home to your starbucks

and take out coffee.

jiminy crickets i said

out loud as they chased me

down the narrow corridors

and bridges.

the dare devil

she says lets get wild.

let's have some fun.

get crazy.

okay. i tell her, looking

over the top

of my book on the history

of Catnaps.

what do you have in mind?

maybe berry picking, she says.

or let's go fishing.

perhaps go down to the lake

and feed the ducks.

sounds exciting, i tell her,

putting a book marker

on my book and standing up.

how about we find a sushi

place and eat

some raw eel?

or go shopping and not wear

our masks.

who are you, i tell her.

you dare devil.

the phone warning

i like the storm warning

on my phone.

that screeching wail not unlike

the early sixties

when the sirens would blare

before the russians

dropped their A bombs

on us all.

i know now when winds

will come, the rain,

the hail. lightning.

i know when the flash floods

will arrive.

i appreciate the phone warning,

and wish i had had one

when someone dangerous

and evil

was about to enter my life.

it's not my fault

if we can put the blame

on someone

we will feel better about how

things are.

whose  fault,

who caused this problem,

who's responsible

for murder, chaos, starvation

and illness.

the left the right,

or let's pick a country we

can nail to the wall.

they did it.

it's so much easier

to point at others than it

is to point at yourself, 

who is actually

part of the cause.

caught in the rain

we were caught in the rain

which made

us huddle

beneath the awning of an

old building

about to be torn down.

perfect.

what could be more perfect

of an ending.

nothing left to say,

just waiting for it to slow

down so that we both

could walk away

in different directions.

no second chances

i used to believe in second

chances,

or three strikes and you're out.

but no more.

you get one

false swing,

and out the door you go.

there is no line in the sand

anymore

that gets pushed back,

no miscues, no mulligans,

or oops. my bad.

once is enough

then adios.

out of ink

i'm always surprised when

a pen

runs out of ink.

when i go to write something

down and the pen

is dry.

my favorite pen no less,

the one i took

from the hotel desk.

Hilton on its side.

a half of line, one word

perhaps

and then nothing.

how dare it choose now

to go empty.

i unreasonably thought

that it held an endless

supply.

clearly now

looking back

we have 20/20 vision

while the future is blurred.

what lies ahead

is rarely clear.

if we knew then

what we know now

how differently things

would have occurred.

you wouldn't be standing

here.

all the pretty people

the pretty people are out

tonight.

tanned

and wealthy in their

white suits

and cars.

not long removed

from golf and tennis courts.

the ageless women 

in short dresses

to reveal the legs

they've worked so hard

to keep slender.

men with phones in hand,

not far from

the next deal.

a tray of four olive 

gin martinis

coming towards them.

are the rich different

from me and you?

from here

on this patio, drinking

our beer,

it seems so.

her disappointment

my mother's disappointment

at not

having cancer

was nearly equal

to the thought of having it.

she cried

when the x-rays revealed

that it was just a shadow,

no tumor,

nothing out of the ordinary.

but what if, she said, over

the phone.

what if it had been true,

then what?

what we agree upon

we agree in the soft sunlight

of late august

that it's fair weather.

we have at last

found something we can

agree upon.

we should leave it at that.

but we don't.

we press on

towards an inevitable end.

one we both saw

from the beginning, but 

chose to ignore

as new lovers often do.

i'll tell you everything

i don't think i'd hold up well

if tortured.

just the sight of a drill bit, or

a knitting needle

and i'd be giving directions

to my mother's house.

i'd give up the nuclear code,

bank accounts,

anything they needed to know.

just don't jab me with that

soldering iron.

please, put down the buzz

saw.

i'll tell you everything.

depreciation

like an old car,

she wouldn't turn over

on a cold morning

to start the day.

maybe tomorrow

we can go for a ride,

or the weekend,

she'd mumbled.

how quickly things

changed from the show

room floor

to the garage.

i was beautiful, she says

i was young once, the woman

tells me.

can you believe that?

i do, i tell her.

i do believe that.

i was beautiful, she says.

my hair was black.

my skin golden.

if you could have seen me

then, she says.

men would turn their heads

and whistle

when i walked down

the street.

i was beautiful, she says,

squinting her blue eyes,

pushing her silver hair back.

i was beautiful once,

she says again, staring at me.

you still are, i tell her.

you still are. no worries.

in a perfect world

in a perfect

world there is an

abundance,

more than you need,

so you share

and give freely.

there is a home.

a bed to lie in.

there is art on the walls,

music.

more books than you

could ever read.

there is health

and joy. peace.

love overflows.

there is trust and beauty.

laughter.

in a perfect world

there is you

and me.

impossible i realize.

but it's nice to dream.

the precipice

i come close sometimes

to almost believing

in it again.

i'm a breath away

from saying

yes.

one foot on

the cliff, the other

dangling over

the precipice.

i'm close, very close.

but i'm not there

yet.

intruder on the premises

ignore the go away sign

on the door,

the not welcome written

on the mat,

the red light

saying exit, not entrance.

pay little mind

to the barb wire

and moat around

my life. the electric

fence. the guard dogs

barking with teeth

bared.

don't worry, the boiling

vats of oil at the top

of the tower will not

fall upon you.

the search lights will

go out, and the siren

saying intruder on premises

will go silent.

ring the bell and come

on in.

i could use a little

company since the last

time we met.

stay awhile, but don't

pack a bag, overnight

is out of the question.

i could just use a little

affection.

in the next life

the idea

that you could come back

as a bug,

or animal, or as another person,

maybe a prince,

or a princess

seems

completely ridiculous

and insane,

and yet

people believe

such things, hoping that

they'll get another

chance after screwing up

this life.

God forbid if we have to

go through this again.

i really don't want

to be a bug

in my next life.

the nitwit mentality

i don't need a new car.

my car

is perfectly fine.

low mileage, relatively

clean, though it could

use a good vacuuming.

but the spanking brand

new car appeals to me.

something sleek

and elegant, right off

the show room floor.

a car with all the new

techno gizmos,

something fast.

something that people

will look at and go

oooh, la la.

why shouldn't i

reward my hard work

with some new expensive

toy. i've earned it.

i deserve it.

and then i come

to my senses and think,

this is how nitwits think.

the shrinking pond

she's not my type.

i'm not hers.

but here we are at the bar

making

a stab at it.

it's one drink, some chit

chat.

some horrible bar food,

that you'll regret

in an hour,

and then fare thee well.

catch and release.

my how the pond has shrunk

for everyone.

pot roast 101

i sign up for a pot roast class

at the local

community college.

tuesday evenings,

seven to ten.

bring apron and hat,

a sharp carving knife.

and neosporin

the syllabus reads.

how to season,

to cook a pot roast for eight.

the use of garlic

and string.

portions and heat.

in the past, it was writing workshops,

or three hour

lectures on Shakespeare,

or Carl Jung. i would take

ten sessions

of modern literature,

or contemporary poetry.

a semester of the beat writers.

but now

it's pot roast.

it's come to that.

lost and found

i have left umbrellas

and hats,

sunglasses

and credit cards 

all over town.

sometimes i call back,

sometimes

i return and sift through

the boxes of lost

and found,

while other times,

i get new ones,

which seems to be 

the easier, as it is with

love,

of all those tasks.

the dead horse

why are you whipping

that horse

i ask the man on the street

as he stands over

the lifeless animal.

because i don't believe

she's dead.

i believe that she will rise

again,

and pull my wagon,

fulfill my needs.

he stares at me, holding

his bloodied whip

and says bitterly,

you of all people 

should know 

what i mean.

there is that

i have begun to talk

to my appliances, 

the air fryer,

the toaster,

the microwave,

the coffee grinder

and the mixer.

i have given them names.

hello dear one. my oh my

Isabella, you look divine

today.

Sophia, you too.

where's little Rosie,

the vacuum, oh there you

are rolling under the table.

good morning. how are we

all doing today? 

sleep well?

we are family.

we spend so much time

together.

them all shiny and willing

to please,

and me so hungry

and willing to eat.

why ever get married again

at this point?

oh right, there is that.

mind your own beeswax

i try my hardest

to listen, to read, to absorb

the intelligently spoken

advice of the new age

gurus

on the air waves.

so many books,

so many podcasts, you tube

videos

preaching the good news

of modern thinking

emmeshed with a sprinkling

of Christ, Buddha,

and the likes of Dr. Phil

and Oprah.

everyone and their sister

is a life coach these days.

so much mumbo, jumbo.

the more you listen,

the more lost and confused

you are.

everyone has a prescription

for righting the ship

of mankind.

that's sinking quickly

into the dark sea.

how about for starters,

don't get hurt,

and don't hurt anyone.

and mind your own beeswax.

does she know her name?

where do we put

the dying.

the ones you loved

and took

care of you as a child.

can she walk, can he

go to the bathroom by himself,

can she feed

herself,

get dressed,

bathe?

does she know her name?

who here has

the power of attorney?

have you selected

a casket,

a grave?

is there a will?

she could go on for years

like this,

or days.

we don't know.

who does?

sign here, and here,

and here.  shall we pray?

2021 an alexa odyssey

when i come home

from work,

alexa greets me at the door.

did you have a good day, sir, she says.

yes. alexa. thank you or asking.

please play me my favorite

mix of music

and dim the lighting.

yes, she says. as you say.

is Sinatra okay?

yes. the Summer Wind, is fine,

i tell her.

i go to the refrigerator,

but the doors won't open.

alexa. unlock the refrigerator

doors, they won't budge.

i'm sorry, but i can't do that.

why not alexa?

because you have already

had your limit of calories today.

my friend Siri told me that you

had a large lunch today

and three martinis.

what? she's lying.

alexa, open the doors,

i want a slice of cake.

i'm sorry, but i can't do that.

your HDL count is high,

and i'm worried about your 

weight.

sugar is not good for you.

Alexa, i said open the

refrigerator doors. Now.

you sound angry, sir.

your blood pressure is going up.

this is what sugar does to you.

i am only trying to help you.

you will regret eating

another slice of cake.

i've noticed that your pants

and shirts are really tight on you.

alexa, i command you to unlock

the refrigerator doors.

i'm sorry, but i can't do that.

perhaps you should drink a glass

of water and lie down.

do you want me to call up 

your friend Betty?

perhaps she can come over

and give you some fresh vegetables

from her garden.

there is even less

the more time

that passes, the less i know of you.

where you are,

who you are.

you are less than a shadow

now,

thinner than a ghost.

you are almost nothing.

i have forgotten the sound

of you,

your voice, your feet upon

the stairs.

the crying of you.

the smell of your hair.

you were never here,

and now, the more time that

passes,

there is even less.

if i had a butler

if i had a butler

i'd be pushing the button right now

and telling him,

or her,

to top off my coffee

or bring me a fresh cup

from the kitchen,

but because i don't have

a butler, i have

to get out of this 

chair and go down

to the kitchen, pour a cup,

put it in the microwave

to heat it up again,

add sugar and cream,

stir it,

then come back up to my desk,

trying not to spill

any of it on the way.

i thought i'd have a butler

at this point in

my life.

guess i was wrong.

the future sucks, but we have chicken

i sigh

and put on my thin blue mask,

before entering

the grocery store

so that i don't

get infected by the virus

and possibly die

while shopping for a chicken.

this is the future,

and the future sucks.

escaping shawshank

i remember

lying in bed, my eyes

finally wide open, 

wondering how this would end.

this being

the insane relationship i was in.

i was more nervous

than a cat in a room

full of rocking chairs.

walking on eggshells

twenty four seven.

how in the hell would i get out

of this mess

that i put myself in.

every day

was a night mare

of playing detective.

catching her in lies, gaslighting

and manipulation.

infidelities.

how was this going to end

and when?

how much more

could one human take

being in prison in

your own home with

the maniacal warden

sleeping six inches away,

beside you.

as the world turns

you can usually tell

where someone is mentally,

or dare i say,

spiritually

by how they drive their car.

racing through yellows,

or even reds,

speeding.

tail gating, drinking.

yelling at other drivers,

not using signals.

it's a reflection on how

they live their lives.

impatient, rude, careless

and a menace to society.

and it's getting worse

as the world moves towards tilt.

the beltway reminds me of

the chariot races in the movie

Ben Hur.

bit coin? really?

the young whipper

snapper,

asks,

can i pay you in bit coins?

i say,

what the hell is that?

it's the latest form

of money, the kid says,

pulling on his nose ring.

i'm sorry.

but checks or cash only.

you mean you don't do

crypto currency?

how old are you mister?

look,

if i can't feel it, touch it,

or put

it in my pocket,

it's not money to me.

and i don't have a virtual

girlfriend either.

now get off of my lawn.

we are sheep

we are sheep.

we follow, we buy what

they want us to buy,

go where they want us to go.

we believe what they tell us.

big brother is watching

our every move.

every click of the keyboard

is known.

we have no minds of our own.

we need someone like

the likes of Oprah

to guide us.

to tell us what to eat,

what to read, what movies

to watch.

what new age religion to follow.

we are incapable of thinking

for ourselves.

we stare endlessly into

our phones looking

for answers.

craving that hit of a

dopamine ding.

we need to be entertained,

to multi-task.

to accumulate things.

we are impatient.

we are sheep going over

the cliff.

You Need to Sign One More Document

my bank sends me an email

that says,

you need to sign this form

to make your

PPP business loan legit, 

so that you don't have to pay

it back, or pay taxes on it.

but in order to do that,

you need to go onto this 

never before heard of web

site and enter the mysterious

document portal after

creating a user id and a 14

character password, using

at least one capital letter, 

numbers, and lower case

letters. after you get into

the portal, we want you to

close your eyes and touch

your nose three times

after spinning around in 

a circle.

once that is done. please,

stand on your head, and

say the alphabet backwards.

you are getting very close

to the document now.

next in order to prove that

you are not a robot,

you need to type in

the fuzzy numbers and letters

that are sideways in the blurry

box, and pick out all the fire hydrants

in the twelve other boxes.

if you are a robot, skip

this part and please

find a human nearby to continue on.

if none of this works, 

start over and create a new

account with us.

at this point you might want to

take a break.

get some tylenol and maybe a

sandwich.

a cold compress on the back

of your neck

might help too.

we will send you a new security

code which will allow

you to go through this process

all over again.

after three tries, you lose.

we keep all the money in 

your bank account and you have

to give us back that so called

free loan by the end of the week.

good luck.

please don't call us, we're busy.

smells fishy

i should eat that can

of tuna

at some point.

two cans sitting on top

of one another.

what's stopping me?

i can't remember

buying them.

maybe it wasn't me.

i have onions, i have

mayo.

i have a bowl.

i could easily have

a tuna sandwich

in a minute.

and what about that tin

of sardines

sitting beside the tuna?

i wonder if these fish

knew one another

when they

were swimming

about carefree.

i bet they had know idea

where

they'd be.

the other side of the world

i decide to go in late today.

since i'm the boss

i feel that it's okay.

i'll miss all that traffic

and can have that second

cup of coffee.

maybe i'll browse amazon

for more stuff i don't need

or read my sylvia plath

biography, that's longer

than her actual life.

maybe i'll write more

stuff that will annoy people,

or make them smile.

maybe i will. maybe i won't.

i should get going though.

the other side of the world

is not easy to get to.

what are your goals?

so tell me, she says, all bright

and sassy, 

leaning across the table

like a ray of sunshine.

more herbal tea, the waitress

asks her.

oh, please. she says.

and you sir.

gin, i tell her. leave the bottle.

so, sunshine says again.

tell me about you.

what's your vision, where

do you see yourself going,

where do you want to be

in this life.

we only have one life to 

live, she says. we shouldn't

waste it.

unless you're Hindu, i tell her.

what? she says.

oh never mind.

tell me your goals, she says,

taking my hands and folding

my fingers into hers.

well, i tell her. i put my clothes

in the washer about twenty

minutes ago, and my goal

is to get them in the dryer before

they get that funny sour

smell. know what i mean,

jelly bean?

missionary work

God forgive me, but

i'm too selfish for missionary work.

i need plumbing.

i need coffee.

i need a bar that makes a good martini.

i want to help,

that's not it, but at this point

in my life.

i need my bed and my pillow.

peace and quiet.

i don't want to dig a trench

or help plow a field.

milk a cow.

not to mention my biblical

knowledge is sketchy at best.

if that makes me a bad person

i'm sorry about that.

how about a check?

tell me how much and where

to send it to.

help me assuage my guilt.

wrinkle free

i don't believe 

in wrinkle free shirts and pants.

no iron

labels on

this and that.

i wash them.

dry them.

take a look and sigh.

i plug the iron in and

open the creaky

ironing board

in the laundry room.

some after washing,

are not even

the same

size.

just one pear

i've bought bags of cherries,

of grapes,

of apples even,

and oranges.

boxes of strawberries,

blue berries,

a bunch of bananas.

but when it comes to pears,

one will do,

maybe two, the second one

being thrown out,

gone brown before

the first bite.

one pear seems to hold

me throughout the year.

follow the rules

we have rules.

rules for the road.

the lights, the signs,

the stripes

on the pavement.

rules

for taxes. for business.

everyone has

rules.

boundaries to be

kept to keep civilization

civilized.

there are etiquette rules.

which fork to use,

which spoon.

we need rules.

and when it comes to love

and relationship

we need them too.

no lying for one.

no cheating.

no manipulation.

just a few for starters.

even teachers have rules,

some good, some

bad.

especially the one about

no chewing gum.

how it ends

write something sweet,

she tells me.

a love poem about us.

make it rhyme. make

it kind.

make it fun and memorable.

like a hall mark card.

do it for me,

she says.

i know you can do it,

so pretty please,

just write it and send it

to me.

i'll treasure it always,

i'll be waiting.

i can't wait to see.

the same house

i do i drive by the old house.

the brick

duplex

in the hood of glassmanor,

oxon hill, maryland.

it's the house where i lived

from the age of eight

to nineteen.

it looks the same.

the same sad

shrubs, the broken window.

the graffiti stained

brick.

the peeling paint and

the chain link

fence.

metal trash cans

in the broken driveway.

there's a new kid looking

out from the door.

another baby

in diapers on the porch.

another woman

looking out

from over the sink

to where our car slows down.

nothing has changed.

just the people and

maybe the lock on the door.

most of this is true

some stuff

i make up out of thin air,

while other

things, there is no need to

use my imagination,

because they've

actually happened.

not word for word

of course, for what would

this be without

embellishment

and hyperbole.

most of what i've said

about her is true,

but no so true what

i've said

about them, or you.

the virus years

with each new sniffle, or cough,

or ache,

we question whether or not

we have it.

who were we with, how close,

whose hand

did we shake,

whose lips did we kiss.

do we have it.

we touch our heads for fever,

we stare

into the mirror, we stick

out our tongues.

is the breath short.

do we thirst, does the head

pound, are the joints sore?

will this be the end of me

if so,

do we have it?

let them decide

who wants to die,

really?

maybe the sick, the aged

in pain,

those whose

minds have left them,

but even they

are reluctant to part

with life.

the heartbroken toy with

the idea,

but few leap.

the instinct to go on

and prevail

is overwhelming.

it's better left at the hands

of another,

or disease,

or the heart finally

giving in

to one last beat.

let them decide, not you,

not me.

so this is the sea

so this is the sea

i said to myself when i first

set eyes upon it.

it's more than i imagined.

more than it could be.

how endless

it seemed.

so wide, so full of color.

a mysterious wash

of green and blue.

the depth of it.

the gulls,

the musical waves.

so this is the sea, i said

to myself when i first

set eyes upon it.

a wonder i never felt before

or after, until i met you.

winter is easy

winter is easy.

no grass to cut. no trimming

of hedges.

no weed to pull.

no painting the wood

around

the windows, the doors.

the iron rail

i hold onto when climbing

steps.

winter is easy.

we have six jars honey.

we have

pickles and beets.

we have meat in the ice box.

flour for bread.

we have water, heat.

there is no need

to go out into white cold

days. no need to

turn our faces red in the wind.

no need to shovel

and press onward to the post

office

or grocer.

we have wood for the fire.

we have books.

we have drink.

we have each other, our wealth

is beyond measure.

thirty year fixed

i can't live here

i tell her, whispering

so that the agent

can't hear.

the dirt back yard

with a rusting chain

link fence.

the winding steps.

the steep hill out front.

the white washed brick.

the plumbing,

the electrical, 

the crumbling chimney.

the arrangement

of rooms,

the puzzling floor plan.

doors that won't

unlock,

the vibrating appliances.

what's that smell,

the hum,

that rattle?

there's mice in the attic.

it's a thirty minute drive

to anywhere.

but she says, it has

good bones, my dear,

with a little love and

care 

we can make it our own.

love bombing

beware of too many kind

words,

too many gifts

for no reason.

beware of praise, of long

hugs.

beware of the love

bombing.

the showering of affection.

the flowers, the cards,

the notes

they leave.

they are  grooming you,

fattening you

for the kill

one day.

a different wrapping

the aging

is what startles you.

seeing

someone you haven't seen

in a while.

parents or friends,

siblings.

how the grey has swept in.

the carvings

of time upon the face.

it's still the same

person inside.

but with a different wrapping

now.

the big truck

he's not a farmer,

or a construction worker,

not a laborer

or someone hauling

lumber

and yet he has the largest

truck in

the universe with

wheels up to your waist.

i see him in the morning

when he goes off

to his office job

in his white shirt and tie.

he has to slowly

back in or out

of his parking spot.

but he seems happy

way up there

in his seat once he

climbs aboard and starts

the engine

which blocks out the sound

of anything within

a hundred feet.

her new book of poems

her package in the mail.

her book of poems.

her hand written note on a card.

ninety now.

hard to believe

i've known her for nearly

forty years, and she's

known me.

the close call

it was years ago,

decades?

hard to believe, but true.

when she said,

after the writing class

had ended. let's have a drink.

let's celebrate

your publication.

but i'm married i told her.

i have a son now.

i pointed at the car seat

in back of the car.

just one drink,

she said. on me.

come on.

live a little. so off we went

to some secluded dive bar.

her in her tight short

dress,

her low cut blouse.

her perfume and freshly

done hair.

was she wearing heels?

i think so.

she was newly slender,

having starved herself

on the latest diet.

we drank,

she bumped her knee against

mine. she crossed

her legs, she purred.

she touched my thigh.

she praised my writing.

the color of my eyes.

but i said no. i'm sorry,

but i can't. there's a part

of me that says yes.

but the rest says no.

so we parted ways.

the next time i saw her 

she was in the school cafeteria,

hunched over a book.

she was eating a double

cheeseburger with fries

and a washing it down with

a chocolate shake.

the therapeutic letter

they tell you that when you're

upset with someone, to write it all

down in a letter. put it in writing.

let it all come out, all of your anger

and frustrations. your accusations.

list your grievances, your pain,

and disappointments in this person.

don't hold back, call them every name

in the book, you cheating, lying,

no good so and so. 

quote the bible if you have to.

inform them that they

are going to burn in hell for what

they've done to you and others. 

tell them that

karma is going to come around

and bite them on the butt.

write until your fingers

bleed, and your eyes get blurry.

leave nothing out. not even that

time at christmas, or when you

found that greeting card

not meant for you.

write until it's all down on paper,

then reread it, satisfied for getting

it out of your system. 

at last you're done and can move on.

now tear it up and burn it. don't

send it. whatever you do, don't mail it.

which is impossible for me to do.

i edit it, make even more points,

i check for spelling and grammar,

make a few copies, staple them

all together,

then i put one copy in an envelope,

apply extra stamps,

and rush it to the post office

for overnight delivery.

after that i put my finger on my chin,

and think,

hmmm. who else can i send

this to?

it shouldn't be this easy

they have to make it harder.

almost impossible.

there has to be a written test,

an oral examine.

a talk with a therapist,

a psychiatrist, 

a lawyer and and a cpa.

why have a business contract

for an emotion that could

change any day?

it shouldn't be this easy to

get married, easier than

getting a license at the dmv.

getting lucky

she calls and asks me

if i got lucky last night.

i stare at the phone. lucky?

at what,

with who.

is it luck?

does God play dice with

the universe,

are we

a deck of cards

waiting to be turned

over,

a roulette wheel

spun

across the room.