the lone indian kid

one kid,

shows up at the door

dressed

as an indian.

i cringe,

but don't lecture him

on the cancel

culture thing and 

all that. there's

a single feather sticking

our from his head

band.

he's wearing war paint

and carrying

a rubber tomahawk,

there's a quill

of arrows

strapped to his

leathery vest.

i figure he's a conservative

kid so

i give him a dollar bill.

here you go Tonto,

don't spend it all in one place.

huh, he says

no candy?

nope. sugar's bad for you.

he shakes his head,

you people, he says

and walks away.

the horror

i curl up

with a cup of hot tea,

on this halloween,

a box of kleenex

between my knees.

i turn on a hallmark

movie to another

christmas saga

and wipe my tears away.

i open up

a quart of rocky

road, 

curled beneath

the blankets,

settled in between

the feather pillows.

i light a candle

for ambiance.

wait a minute,

that's you, not me.

i'm watching

a horror movie,

where some masked

crazy person

is  terrorizing a town

and some

slinky knucklehead

babes.

only the third time i've

seen it,

but it's so nuanced you

tend to miss

the details.

tap dancing

there is no

sound track to your life.

no sheet music

to speak of.

no drum rolls

for the dramatic parts,

no violin for sadness.

there is no

orchestra,

no band, no trio

or crooner singing your

song.

it's just you alone

in the spot light,

tap dancing through

your days,

insisting that the show

go on.

living larger

after working your fingers

to the bone

for most of your life, 

you reach

the point

of upgrading.

no longer content

with the econo-

lodge,

or holiday inn,

the continental breakfast

at motel six.

you want a better room

with a better view.

valet parking.

the king size bed,

the stocked mini bar

you want extra towels

and cotton sheets.

you want room service

with a full menu.

you want the wake up call

and the do not disturb

sign on the door.

you want the sauna

and the pool.

you want a massage.

you want them to know

your name

when you arrive or leave,

you want to hear the words,

come back soon.

a cold front moving through

it's the season

of what

do we wear today.

coat,

sweater.

t-shirt.

long pants or shorts.

sandals

or boots.

it could change any

moment with

a cold front

moving through.

maybe i'll

pack a back and be

ready for

any season.

just as i do with you.

the first date desire

don't even say that you

love me

when you dodge

my kisses,

turning your cheek to the side.

and when i put

my arm around

you, you cringe now.

you jump away

as if i'm on fire

when my hand

reaches for yours.

what's the meaning of

this?

are we done now,

just say it?

after two dates, is it

possible that you've

lost your first date desire?

strangely content

i don't mind waiting

anymore.

i used to fidget

and stare at

my watch,

tapping my fingers

or foot,

grumbling about the late

arrival of a train

or bus,

or dinner mate.

no more with that.

i sit patiently now.

perfectly content with

where i am.

i sit and peruse

the menu. observe what

others are doing.

i'm strangely content

these days

when i have to wait.

the moral dilemma

it's a moral dilemma

whether to hand

out candy to children this year

as they go about

in their costumes

for Halloween.

giving them

sugar.

the true poison of our time.

creating and contributing

to so much obesity

and disease.

do i get them going 

on the nutritional

road to hell 

with a milky way or

an almond joy.

do i clog their little hearts

with gum

and lollypops,

rot their teeth with

mary janes, and butter

fingers?

do i expand their bellies

with a candy apple,

perhaps.

what about a nice little

baggie of fresh broccoli?

steamed with a pad of butter,

lightly salted,

let's see how that goes

this year.

we are men, we fix things

as men we fix things.

not ourselves, of course, don't

be silly,

but other things.

we have our tools in the garage,

turn the light on

and see how clean. 

look there on the work bench,

a handy vise.

see the assortment of saws,

the hack saw, box saw,

and above it

there hangs

the phillips head screw drivers,

the flat heads too, 

the pliers, the socket wrench.

see how they're all aligned

by size.  neatly in rows

how they shine.

below on a shelf

there rests the hammer.

not one, but three, the mallet,

the claw,

the sledge.

and least i forget, the drawers

of nails,

the brads, the commons, 

the wood screws,

the screws for dry wall

screws for all sorts of projects

that might lie ahead.

and in a separate drawer

there's wire and string,

an assortment of tapes

and glue.

we are men,

we fix things. now let's take

a look at your broken shoe.

green jello in the air

as the family gathered around

her, as she lay dying,

the room darkened, the beeps

and blinks of machines

keeping her alive. 

they texted

and read magazines,

they talked

about her life,.

telling tales out of school,

remember the time she did

this, or that. oh my.

she did get around, didn't she.

the drinking the smoking.

money trouble. three husbands.

remember when she dyed her

hair blue, pffft, what a nut,

pretty much a life of lies,

and then suddenly she sat up

and threw her cup of green jello 

across the room,

hey, hey she said, i can

still hear you people, i'm

not dead yet. i'm still alive.

really, split pea soup?

as one unanimous

protest,

the seven of us let

out a loud groan

when my

mother announced

she was making split pea

soup for dinner,

with the ham bone in.

who cares about a dumb ham bone? yo.

my father's favorite.

something was up.

maybe he'd be home early

tonight.

curtailing his drinking and

flirtations.

we shook our heads

and sighed.

thinking of later

when we'd make

our sandwiches with 

wonder bread, 

crunchy peanut

butter and jelly inside.

wretched weather

you rarely hear

the word wretched anymore.

it sounds

English, British,

maybe my

friend Ingrid, from Ireland

might toss that

word around.

Wretched weather were

having, eh?

bloody hell, this rain,

she might say.

she refuses to give up

on her native language,

or pint of beer, not glass,

or potatoes

and boiled beef.

it's hard to dispose of 

the red hair and freckles

too i imagine.

the scarecrow

the scarecrow

in the field, nailed to the post

a martyr of sorts.

scaring

nothing away.

a bird sits on her arms,

her straw hair.

her eyes are painted

in.

the nose long.

the ears.

how strange she is,

hanging there

with no heart to speak of.

living each

day

with her own fear,

unable to move

away from who she really is.

any minute now

any minute now

i'm going to get up out of this

chair,

drink the last gulp of coffee

and go

stain a gazebo in lorton.

any minute.

soon.

any second now.

why is it so windy out?

and rainy.

it's friday, can't i stay home?

i give a zero on that delivery

the notice says that the package

has arrived.

i look out the door.

nope.

nothing.

nada.

i step out onto the porch

in my boxer shorts

to see if it's in

the bushes, or on a neighbor's

porch.

still nothing.

i go  back online.

how was your delivery,

the message says.

please give us a rating

if you have the time.

i type in zero.

and the robot types back,

thank you.

she had that going for her

betty

was a hell of a baker.

she couldn't cook worth

a can of beans,

but put her

in the kitchen with

sugar, eggs, flour and butter

and a rolling pin,

stand back

brother.

there wasn't a cookie

you could name that she

couldn't whip

up in a 325 oven.

parchment paper, no

problem.

a cookie sheet greased.

nuts and sprinkles.

any shape, any size, 

look out,

she had a dozen cooling

on the sill in

no time.

marriage counseling

i remember those days

on the boat,

signaling mayday

to the coast guard,

come save me, tow me in.

i'd send up a flare into

the dark windy sky,

the ocean filling the deck,

as i pumped it out again.

my life jacket on,

as i took the wheel of

the doomed ship,

not yet willing to let

it go down.

i saw no land, no other

ships around.

just me, locked in

this storm

unwilling to drown.

nothing has changed

his hearing

hard,

his vision blurred, 

his mind though is sharp

as puts his

hand to pen

and paper to send you

a note.

all is well, he writes.

nothing

has changed or

ever will

with you and him.

a very strange way to

go through life.

the little mouse maze

you can always tell when

someone is lying, holding

out on you,

not giving you the whole

story,

the complete picture.

it's in their eyes, their

hesitancy, they mumble

and avert their gaze.

it's not lying exactly,

but lying by omission.

you want to shake it out

of them, but what's the

point. you'll find out

eventually, you'll find

the cheese, but it's hell being

in their little mouse maze.

the perils of pauline

i imagine

there's another girl lost.

there seems

to be a new one

each week.

fallen off a cruise

ship,

lost on an island,

the boyfriend or husband

a suspect in

their disappearance.

it's headline

news.

the pretty blonde,

the shiny brunette,

the perfect

person, now gone

with everybody searching.

the reporters

going on breathlessly

about

each clue in the case.

it sells soap,

the beer, 

like the perils of pauline

you can hardly

wait.

one cold cat

funny how

she despised cats.

seeing that they were one

and the same.

selfish

and aloof,

mysteriously unhappy

about nearly

everything.

purring only to be fed

or pleased.

you never knew

what she

wanted, or thought,

or felt.

and she did all 

that she could

to keep it that way,

wondering

on my knees.

down to the bone

there is something 

about fatigue

that attracts you.

the slow

climb up the stairs,

the steam of bath water

the shedding of

clothes

down to the bone.

tossing the phone into

the air, not caring

where it lands.

there is sweet joy in being

tired, leaving the mail

on the floor,

message unanswered.

not giving a fig

about anything, but a cold

drink. a short nap.

then dinner,

then nothing with your feet

up in the air.

who are you, exactly?

it's an awkward

time,

the party.

no where to sit,

or escape

questioning.

who are you,

where do you work,

who did you come with.

you smile

and answer as best

you can.

searching for the door,

sipping your drink,

wishing it was

stronger.

this isn't your cup of

tea,

these situations.

small talk

is like poison to you.

ten minutes in

and you're ready to bolt,

to flee.

opening the curtains

i worried about her.

her removing all her

clothes as soon as we

got into the hotel room,

opening the curtains.

her need to flaunt herself

in front of people passing by.

what are you doing, i'd

ask her, as she flung

her dress towards me.

enjoying the view.

she'd say. just waving

and saying hi.

don't worry, she'd say.

i'm all yours, it's going to

be a long long night.

no school bus

has there ever been

a more true

happiness than

the school bus not arriving

on the corner

to pick you up.

what joy you felt.

no school today.

the parents already gone,

impossible to walk

the ten miles to class.

the relief of it all

as you walked back home

with books in hand

then grabbed a ball and glove,

eating your

lunch already.

the fear is here to stay

the news

about the virus is more

sickening

than the virus itself.

the hysteria

of it all.

the death count.

to get the shot or not.

the physicians

the politicians, 

the actors, the musicians.

everyone has

a say on what to do.

who's right,

who's wrong, who knows.

but the fear is

here to stay.

the end of us

we pay for

our room,

our food.

the paltry view of the road.

we check in

and leave

in two days

before noon.

we're back on

the highway.

me and you.

but with different

maps.

the end of us

has come

too soon.

perfectly imperfect

by design,

not flawed, we are perfectly

imperfect.

the stutter

or uncertain walk,

the eyes

not set,

the nose too long.

too thin,

too round.

it doesn't matter.

there is plenty of love

in the world,

more than enough

to go around.

when God pokes you in the eye

i like a direct

answer from God

after lengthy aching

prayer.

when he takes a stick 

and pokes you in the eye 

with it

leaving you no doubt

of what you have to do.

that sharp jab of pain

is worth it.

He tried the other ways,

with a gentle hand, but

you wouldn't listen.

a house with roses

i'm more interested

in the boarded up houses,

who lived there,

who left it like this?

the rusted

swing set in the yard,

the blackened brick

from fire.

the bike with one wheel

on its seat.

i want to know about the tire

chained to the tree.

the refrigerator

without a door, pink, and

leaning against

the wall.

an old car on blocks,

the hood up.

i want to know about the broken

windows,

the clinging shutters,

who planted those roses

in the garden, still insisting

to grow?

asleep below the stars

as we lie

under these stars

the fire nearly out.

the trees dancing

in the moonlight

we talk of our lives.

where we've been

and with who.

we ponder what's next.

where will we go.

how long do we have.

we decide not to worry.

but to breathe in

this mountain air.

to listen to the stream

rush against the rocks.

we fall asleep

with that,

touching each other

before our eyes close.

making room for something new

we find room

for things we like.

a picture,

a vase.

a chair.

people too.

we make

an effort to clean out

a corner,

a wall.

we set aside old things

and time

for someone new,

we make a small sacrifice

to give

way to change, although

we find it quite hard

to do.

when karma shows up

i'm not sure if i believe

in karma.

the whole energy thing.

the reverse

of the law of attraction.

but i do

think that in the long run

there is payback.

that we all get what's coming

to us.

be good and good comes

to you.

be evil

and well, there's a dark

storm coming.

and you can't stop what's coming.

the gourmet photos

i'm so proud of my

shrimp

and broccoli dish,

that i just have to take

a picture

and send it off to all

my peeps.

oil, butter,

a dash of salt and pepper.

i print it off and

add it to my collection

of other

gourmet creations.

scrambled eggs

with bacon.

cheese as well. sharp cheddar.

then the masterpiece of

chicken legs

with rice,

and least i forget

the fettucine with alfredo

sauce,

home made.

next week, pbj

on rye.

stay tuned.

Get out of the way, i can't see the tv

in the olden days,

the sixties,

we were always

messing with the tv

trying to get a picture

on the black and white

RCA box.

we twisted levers,

adjusted

the volume,

the horizontal had

it's own knob.

the vertical too.

there was no reception

without a wad

of tin foil

cupped onto the rabbit

ears

and pointed at some

distant moon.

we opened up the back

to a webbed assortment

of tubes,

and gently pulled one out

to replace it

with another.

if all else failed

we slapped the side

with our hands to heal

the mysterious trouble within,

and resurrect a picture.

before leaving

the crackle

of wood

under the blanket of

fire.

you close your

eyes

and remember

the burning leaves

in a barrel.

your father

with  rake in hand

his blue eyes

two startling 

but distant lights,

looking into yours

on this cold

fall day.

his exit 

already planned.

a good month to be in love

i like november.

it's the best month, now.

it used to be july.

but i've changed my mind.

got older.

not exactly wiser,

but older.

the rain,

the cold,

the fresh winds.

the first taste of snow.

the windows open.

football.

the leaves falling.

thanksgiving.

comfort food.

big coats and scarves.

gloves.

a fireplace roaring.

sleeping in.

it's a good month

to be in love.

loosening her Chico khakis

as i sat at the bar

watching an online

date eat a plate of

calamari,

licking her fingers between

each greasy bite,

i thought about

my life.

what went wrong.

questioning

what terrible mistakes did

i make, or what am i being

punished for?

i tapped the bar for another

gin and tonic.

she stopped talking about

her cat

for a minute and

ordered another

extra large

glass of pinot noir

from France.

do you mind if we order dinner

now, she said,

licking the empty

plate, loosening the belt

buckle on her Chico khakis.

i know we're never going

to see each other again,

and that you're going to pay,

but let's have dinner,

okay?

do you have a cat?

the alimony check

i remember

writing the alimony check.

the child support payment.

dividing

my house in two.

my income.

my savings. my

retirement portfolio.

i remember sitting there

in the lawyer's office.

signing my name

to a sheet of paper, making

the ex wealthy.

despite never having a job

in fifteen years.

i cringed as i watched 

my hard earned money

float away.

it's the law the lawyer said,

nobody cares who's

at fault, or that she was

the one

who was sleeping

around, lying, cheating,

and never working.

she gets half of everything.

better luck with the next

love of your life,

you have my number.

now go on your way.

you seem tense

as she drove the car

beyond the speed limit,

i pumped

my invisible brakes

on the passenger side,

i gripped

the dashboard

as if it was a steering

wheel.

i tightened my seat belt

and braced myself

for impact

as we bolted through

a yellow light.

is everything okay,

she asked, looking

up from her cell phone?

you seem tense.

the crazy new norm

the new norm

is to be

crazy.

film yourself doing

dangerous

behaviors.

record the stupidity

of your life.

post

your dumbness,

your lack

of principles or

virtues online.

show the world

your true colors.

be as ridiculous as

possible

to be liked.

the halloween stock market

i used to like halloween

when i was a kid.

my dentist did too.

all those hours of dangerous

knocking on

doors

while dressed up as

Oscar Wilde

or Holden Caufield

with everyone 

asking, and who are you?

all that candy.

the big bag spilled

onto the floor

as we traded back

and forth.

two almonds joys

for a candy apple,

verified with no sharp

objects stuck inside.

three squares of double bubble gum

with a comic wrapped

around them,

for a tootsie roll lollypop.

it was like the stock 

market before the closing bell

was rung.

(which was my mother

banging two pots together)

how much for this butter finger

and a heath bar?

come on now,

speak up.

cheese strings, get out of here

with that.

are you kidding me?

the confession app

after a shot or two

of tequila

i feel a sin coming on.

the music

the dancing, the flirtatious

fluttering of eyelashes

and come hither looks.

the daily lust in my heart

sin that i fight

with weakened willpower.

i should pre-empt it

with the  confession app

on my phone

from St. Bernadettes.

but it might go viral,

and then what?

grandma's perfume

sadly, she was wearing

the same

perfume my grandmother used

to wear. 

white linen. it was

exactly the same scent

gmaw wore.

it affected me

in a bad way.

i couldn't go there.

i started kissing

her on the cheek

and giving her short hugs,

patting her on the shoulder.

i wanted to help

her read the small print on

things, or adjust the antennae

on the tv.

here, i'd say to her,

taking her elbow, let me

assist you across the street.

there's a curb there,

step up.

sex? forget about it.

holiday shopping

at christmas

i end up buying a lot of nice

things for myself.

televisions,

a new computer,

maybe a car.

while others get gloves

and scarfs.

pots and pans.

maybe some sheets

or towels.

i'm not a good shopper

for others.

but for me, i think

i have it down.

there's a knock at the door

there's a knock at the door.

a light musical tap of knuckles.

it's the new neighbor.

Giselle.

the flight attendant

from Germany.

she's in uniform

with a cute little hat on.

she's very tall in those

stiletto heels, which seem

hardly stable for flying.

she wants to borrow some

extra virgin olive oil

for a meal she's whipping

up for the flight crew.

come on over, she says,

we're all alone.

it's just me and the girls,

and we could use some

help getting the champagne

bottles open.

you know how hard

those pesky corks can be?

i wake up in a cold sweat.

i can't eat hot peppers anymore

before bedtime.

the first cut is the deepest

the first cut

is the deepest. the first

lie.

the first betrayal.

the first

deception.

you never quite get over

that wound. it

never heals.

it swells. it gets infected.

it oozes.

it's a reminder

of what went

down and what's to come,

if you don't get out

and run.

is that gun loaded?

i don't trust a woman

with a knife

or a gun in her purse

on the first date.

i get

the pepper spray,

but a gun seems to be

taking

it too far.

the switchblade too.

and what's with the cuffs?

Macy's one clerk

there's no

clerks in the store. just

one solitary woman working

the register.

she's frazzled.

the line backs up

to men's underwear

around the corner

past the cologne counter.

i look at

the shirts and pants

i'm holding in my arms.

do i really need

these things?

don't i already have these

exact same clothes.

yup. so i set them down

on the bin

thirty feet away from

the check out.

let them deal with it.

the tragedy of spilled milk

i've never completely

gotten over

spilled milk.

it terrifies me to this day.

every time i pass

a cow in a pasture

on the side of the road

i'm triggered.

i have to pull over.

i can't go down the dairy

aisle at the grocery store.

i start to sweat.

in my dreams i see

the white puddle of milk.

the broken glass.

the helplessness

of it all, as my mother wipes

the floor,

and tells me wrongly,

don't worry about it. 

this too shall pass.

use it sparingly

we throw the word 

around

quite loosely.

i love 

this color,

this book,

this room,

these pair of shoes.

this dress,

this risen moon.

we say this word with

such

carelessness.

we use it so much

that its meaning

is robbed,

made less

than what it should be.

it should be the rare

gem

taken out

for when it's really meant.

love, a magical word

that means more

when used sparingly.

we know our roles

each to his own

place

in the world. his or her

own stage

to play upon.

the right words,

the right

costume.

it's who we are.

who we are known to

be.

labeled by profession,

or blood,

whether

king or queen.

we know our roles.

seldom do we

break character,

and be set free.

no funny bone

there is no funny

in some.

no bone

to tickle, 

dour all the time,

no skin

that makes

them giggle.

no spot

beneath the arm,

or on the bottom

of a sole.

they have no

laughs within them,

nothing will

make them chuckle,

and that's

why they have

to go.

fixing the marriage sex camp

the neighbors.

always fighting, decide

to go to a sex camp to straighten

out their sex lives.

they think

that by fixing that, all

will be well.

the husband tells me this

over the backyard

fence as i hang my wet

clothes onto

the clothes line.

we're going to be learning

new techniques, 

he says.

new ways of communicating.

some sort of reiki baloney,

new age stuff.

she's mad at me all the time

because i want her to

dye her hair blonde

and get implants.

women, pfffft. but

if we can get the love making

down.

i think we'll be okay.

what about your mistress,

i ask him.

will you have to give her up?

damn, i hope not.

we'll see.

struck by lightning

there was something

electric

about her. perhaps,

struck by lightning

in early

childhood.

she seemed to be plugged

in

all day.

vibrating.

even her hair was out

of control.

she talked

without stopping, 

without an

organized thought. 

her eyes rolled, she was

the life of the party.

at work.

on a bus, a plane,

she made new friends

everywhere.

it was insane.

even while sleeping, her

legs kept

churning.

her mouth a whisper

as she talked

in her sleep.

the learning curve

it's an endless

learning curve this life.

each

day a new lesson.

a new

book,

a new test, or quiz,

some sort

of trial.

there's another new

teacher at

the head of the class.

i think i'm ready

to graduate though.

enough

with the late night

studies.

the school bell ringing

as i run

towards

the forever yellow

bus.

Wiggly was like that too

most dogs have a personality.

fun

and athletic,

jovial and bright.

obedient.

even stubborn,

or mean,

but Wiggly had none.

Wiggly

was the middle aged man

sitting at the bar

alone,

with an unlit cigar

in hand.

his coat and hat still on

during

the cheese sandwich

and beer,

not watching the tv,

or others,

but staring

thoughtlessly into

the future, without

a plan.

Wiggly was like that too.

he was neither here,

nor there.

the stepford restaurant

it was strange

how everyone looked the same

in this four

star restaurant.

the women in shoulder

length blonde

hair.

wearing similar clothes.

it seemed they all

went to the same

cosmetic surgeon,

the same

make up counter.

they talked the same,

gestured the same,

all of them throwing

their hands into hair

to show off

their rings when they laughed

with vague reason.

and the men.

in t-shirts and jeans,

no socks and boat shoes,

waiting it out,

waiting for the check

to come.

regretting the lamb

i should have

had the ribs, but no i had

to venture

out of my comfort

zone

and got lamb.

i don't know much about

lamb.

mint jelly?

i always think

of white sheep

on some grassy hillside

when i see

lamb shanks on the menu,

but with beef

i have no problem.

up on the high wire

i care and yet

i don't care.

i walk a fine line of

ambivalence

and desire.

i tip toe every day,

trying not to fall off

the stretched out 

high wire.

what has to be done

some nights are colder than others.

you need

the extra blanket down

the hall,

on the upper shelf

in the linen closet.

it's two a.m., there's still a long

way to go

until morning.

you think of the cold floor,

an open window.

your new love, sleeping soundly

wrapped in the blanket

she pulled off you.

your teeth chatter.

your legs shiver.

finally, you give in. you

get up and do what has to be

done.

more leaves will come

i see the man in

his yard, steadily

raking.

but it's not raking that

he's doing.

he's somewhere else,

the leaves

are just part of it,

having fallen

from the trees.

the rake in his hands is

more than wood.

it's something

beyond his understanding.

he's trying to get

somewhere,

or forget

something. someone?

more leaves will come,

he tells himself.

this is not the end

of things.

late night to the P.O.

it's cold.

frigid, in fact.

the wind is up.

the stars are clustered

in the way

they do on nights like this.

you almost feel

as if you could

grab a handful

if your arms were long

enough.

you put on your coat,

your scarf,

your hat.

where are you going?

the post office

of course.

the envelope licked

and stamped.

there is no one here

to ask where you might

be headed at this hour,

in this weather,

which makes it all the more

reason,

to go without worry

of when you might

come back.

you do go on, don't you?

so you stop for gas.

the tank low,

the yellow light on.

you sigh and unbuckle.

you do go on

with these things, don't you?

the credit card

into the pump,

the numbers punched.

you clean the windshield

as you wait,

you watch the sun

melt above the Exxon sign.

then off to the store

where you buy

the necessary things.

the bread

of life. your meat.

your drink. your shaving

needs,

and other assorted

items.

you pass the flowers

and the hallmark cards

without a glance.

you do go on with things,

don't you?

the queen bee

there's always a ring leader

in every group,

an unannounced

boss.

the queen or king of the gang

of friends.

you see it in  gaggle 

of girls,

or pack of boy wolves.

it just works out

that way,

the loudest, the biggest,

the boldest.

the athlete, the cheerleader.

the prettiest.

they have a way of taking

over and running the show.

usually they peak in high school

and it's down hill from

there

once everyone catches on.

a bad cup of coffee

there is such a thing

as a bad 

cup of coffee.

cold

and bitter,

stale.

too long in the pot.

no matter how

much sugar

or cream

you pour into it,

it's never right.

same goes

for making love

with the wrong person.

cold and bitter,

too long in the tooth.

no matter how many

times you

try it,

again and again.

you just can't get it

right.

can i get a price check on this pineapple

we're very worried about numbers.

our age,

are you old enough

yet, or too old,

our weight, our blood pressure,

our height,

the diameter of our waist.

we worry about

cholesterol,

good or bad.

triglycerides. 

we worry about the tax rate,

the interest

on a loan.

the air pressure in our tires.

the odometer,

the battery bar,

the minutes on our phone.

we are ruled 

surreptitiously by

numbers.

from grade one, until

the grave.

how long do you have left?

how much have you

saved?

can i get a price check on

this pineapple?

then they make you grow up

i like how kids

don't give a damn about

drips,

or drools, spills

on their shirt

their pants,

ice cream, sodas,

cake, soup,

whatever they put

into their mouth,

some falls out onto

their clothes.

or gets wiped onto

their sleeves.

it's a good way

to go on about

life, eating, drinking,

having fun with it all,

but then they

make you grow up.

and they pound it in

you.

sit up straight, don't

chew with your

mouth open.

don't get sassy with me.

now go to your room.

you'll never find another love like mine

sarcastically,

she wishes me luck.

you're going to need it

she says.

i smile and wish her

luck too.

she raises her middle finger

at me

and slams the door.

she lifts

the kitchen window

and curses at me

as i go down the sidewalk.

you'll never find

another woman like me,

she screams.

never.

i hope so, i whisper

pulling up my collar

in the cold wind.

i hope the hell that's true.

no loneliness quite like that

when i hear people

talk

about loneliness, i think

that they'll never

be happy.

they'll bring this loneliness

to the next

person they meet,

and the next.

there is no greater pleasure

than being

alone.

being with yourself, happy

and content.

the only times i've ever

been lonely in my life,

was when i was with

the wrong person.

lying in bed

with a mistake.

the bad choices are all on

me though.

i let them shatter the peace

within me.

the late afternoon party

there's a late afternoon

party

in progress

two doors down.

i look out the window

and see

the young couples.

colorful

balloons are strung up

across the yard.

there are paper plates

and cups.

the men are quiet,

and bored,

stirring the charcoal

with cans of beer in hand,

while the women are

laughing,

having fun without

them,

the children, restless,

are crawling

on the ground.

this is what men do, he said

i remember my

father

changing a tire on the side

of the road.

cursing

a random nail

as the snow fell.

i stood close

by

as he turned the wrench

removing

the hubcaps,

the lug nuts,

and raising the car

off the ground

with the jack,

while my mother

and sister

stayed warm inside.

this is what men do,

he said to me.

cigarette in his mouth.

his greased knuckles

bleeding

somehow,

his knees wet from

the snow.

we fix things, he said.

they stay

warm in the car 

doing nothing, while

we fix things

and get back on the road.

organic chips

as i pull a green

potato

chip out of the nine

dollar bag,

that reads 

organic.

natural, no saturated

fats

or sugar.

no animals were killed

to make these chips.

there's

a bright sun on the package

and a picture

of a cow smiling.

i smile.

even chips are good

for you now.

made from

farm raised asparagus

and a blend of kale.

i try not

to gag as i chew

then spit

the first one out.

the blues bar

i go into a blues

bar

along the way.

it's a sad place

in a dark alley

in a bad section of town.

it's heartbreak city,

you can feel it as

the music plays.

the sax,

the snare drum,

that big bass.

old men and women,

alone with each other,

huddled over their

drinks,

the diva at the mike

is whispering

her lament.

some billie holiday song

from long ago.

i ask the bar tender

for a drink,

and ask him, hey

what's the deal here,

why is everyone so glum?

she used to stand right there

as i turn 

with spatula 

in hand

to the stove, watching

meat

fry

on the old black pan,

onions

and peppers too,

i think

of a woman i used to

know.

right there,

she used to stand.

too bad for him

we compare

our lives, we take notes.

this one

is better off, than I.

but she's ill,

and look

at the car he drives,

how it chugs down

the road

with smoke trailing

behind.

how do they

afford such a home.

the trips

to France,

to places unknown.

that one went to a better

school.

she's prettier

than i'll ever be, he's

smarter,

but shorter, 

too bad for him.

the ripple of us

the ripple

of a leaf falling,

a stone

tossed into the lake,

the birth

or death of anything,

all of it

is give and take.

everything connected

in some strange

way.

when the moon fell apart

when the moon

fell apart,

falling into

the sea

we stood and watched

at the shoreline.

all things must end,

we said to each

other, kissing one

last time,

and remembering

how life used to be.

the summer vacation

i make plans for my big

summer trip

this year.

but then i look at the calendar

on my desk

and it's already October,

almost

into November.

i was wondering why

it got so cold out.

my new bright blue

bathing suit

is on the bed, the tag still

on, my big beach towel.

my shovel

and bucket.

the new James Patterson

novel

hasn't even been opened yet.

there are my sandals.

my sunscreen.

my granola bars for the journey.

all waiting patiently

for a vacation

they'll never get.

maybe next year.

down goes muffy

it was a mild surprise

when

the police came and arrested

the woman next door.

knowing what she was up to,

and the men

she hung out with,

it was just a matter of time

before the po po came

a knocking.

i stood out

on the porch with my

cup of coffee

and waved to her as they

took her out

of the house in handcuffs.

she didn't even have time

to put on her make up,

but still had her fishnet

stockings on

and stiletto heels.

she looked at me and

yelled out.

take care of muffy for me. okay?

i said, who's muffy?

but it was too late, as the

cat jumped into

the squad car with her.

be like the blue cup

some things

appear to be unbreakable.

like that blue

cup in the cupboard.

it's been dropped,

thrown,

tossed

and kicked and yet

there it is on the shelf.

uncracked,

without a chip.

be like the cup,

you say to yourself

as you get back on

the horse

and say giddy up.

stay away

i remember

the first day

when the third wife moved in

she hung

a crochet pillow

reading

Stay Away

onto the bedroom door

knob.

i asked her

what's that?

and she said, sometimes

i like to be alone,

and i need

some time to myself.

i don't want you coming

in here,

when you see that sign.

i laughed.

but we've only been married

for an hour.

so what, she said.

i have my moods.

are you telling me that i can't

have some alone time?

no. please,

have at it, i said

and pointed out the window

and told her.

do you see those

woods out there.

the trees, the rocks,

the stream.

squirrels?

that's where you go

to be alone.

go there.

suddenly i had seen

the tip of the iceberg

i was about to hit and

sink

the already listing ship.

the wrong thing to do

as the sliver

of wood

breaks the skin

and slides

into my thumb.

i know

it will trouble on

down the road.

i should stop right

this moment

and get the splinter

out.

but i don't.

i have work to do.

strange

how we know what

pain

lies ahead, and yet

we press on,

hoping for the best.

kissing Fido

she loved dogs.

she let them lick her face

raw.

dogs have

no germs, she used to tell me.

did you

know that dog is God

spelled 

backwards?

she was full of gems

like that.

i cringed,

as she tried to kiss

me

after watching

Fido lick her

face when she came home.

destiny calls

i know when i'm

going to spill paint,

or set

off the smoke alarm.

i know

not to take that exit,

or to get

in that line

at the bank.

i feel it in my bones,

when i meet someone

i shouldn't be with,

and yet stay.

it's all very clear,

but 

destiny calls.

another lesson, another

year.

oh really, i write too

it's not the same

but it's the only analogy i can

think of at the moment.

more will come

as i type this, i'm sure.

but when i hear

people say,

i write poetry too, it's like

me saying to a five

star michelin chef

that i like to cook too.

i'm not saying that i'm

five star, or one star,

hell, i might just be a

yellow sun fading

in some far away galaxy.

it's just that i cringe when

someone hands me

a sheathe of their own

freshly cooked 

plate of poems, and asks

me to read and taste

a few.

the orange poem

so few words

rhyme with orange.

orphanage?

maybe.

storage?

porridge?

better. but let's start

with yellow instead.

why make

it harder than it has

to be when

writing a poem.

let's leave orange out

of the picture

and go with yellow.

right away, i got,

jello,

hello

and fellow.

the blue light peel

as the scales

fall off me. the skin

crumbling

like wax,

i stare into the mirror

and think,

okay,

not bad.

it could be worse,

i guess.

maybe the glamor

shots will

have to be delayed,

but  as far as halloween

goes,

i can hardly wait.

a fresh pot of coffee

i was a bitter cup of coffee

for quite a while.

not being able 

to get over

some dopey girl,

which wasn't real.

i was old coffee grounds,

a very dark roast,

three days

lying at the bottom

of a cold pot.

i needed to be scraped

out and washed.

sterilized and scrubbed.

but now i'm boiling

again.

brewed clean, 

with fresh beans.

brewed hot.

careful when you sip me.

the spills are hard

to get out.

Hail Caesar

the dating sites,

such as they are,

made you Caesar for

a day,

or queen.

swiping left or right

on each

smiling or unsmiling

face.

too fat.

too skinny. too far.

too old,

too young.

what's with the fish

you're holding,

the baby in your arms.

the piercings, the mustache?

too smart,

too dumb.

too much like the ex,

too much like your

dad or mum.

thumbs up,

thumbs down. so many

lost and lonely

souls to choose from.

like searching for a needle

in a haystack of needles.

throw them to the lions,

keep scrolling

further down.

come on, let's go out

come on.

let's go out. let's

go dance.

hear the music.

let's drink and eat,

and make love

when we come home.

let's change our clothes,

put our good shoes on.

let's drop

what we're doing,

put the world

on hold,

and go out.

put the book down,

leave a light on,

we're still young,

there's still time.

we're not old.

tired of the battle

i look at my armor

on the floor,

my sword, my metal boots.

my helmet

hanging on

the door.

but i'm tired of the battle.

tired of

war.

maybe today i can stay home.

give the horse

a break.

make peace.

make love.

maybe sleep a little more.

the church restaurant

there was a restaurant

in Norfolk, Virginia, 

made from

of an old church.

the steeple still there,

the stained glass

windows.

the food was good.

the seafood,

the steaks,

the pasta.

but it was all about the bread.

the sweet breads.

that's what brought them

in, and us too,

hungry from the beach.

i can still taste it in

my mouth,

the warm slices, soft

in the middle,

the crunch of crust,

a pad of butter

melting within.

it was easy to praise

the Lord when we went

there.

more bread, bring more.

it's not a sin.

the early to rise morning

it's an early to bed night.

an early

to rise morning.

i'll hear the rooster crow

and lift

myself up out of dreams

and yawn

towards the cool

october sun.

life is for the living,

for the long rest

will one

day come.

what about Amy

when you're a dopey kid,

basically raised by wolves,

with no parental guidance,

you have no clue, no idea

what you want to be when

you grow up.

while so many other kids,

have their whole lives lined

up. carpenters, firemen,

teachers, lawyers, doctors.

how do they know this at

twelve years old.

i just wanted to go play

ball, lick an ice cream cone

and figure out a way to

kiss Amy who lived next door.

have you seen the blonde nurse yet?

a day before

he died

Jake told me that he'd

be out of there

by the weekend.

so pick me up at

the usual place on

monday morning.

seven thirty a.m.

sure i told him,

staring at the bandage

wrapped around

his head

after they went

in to remove

a cancerous tumor.

tubes were coming

out of everywhere.

the monitors beeping.

he spit some blood

into the little tray

left lying on his chest.

this is nothing he

said.

i've been through worse.

just wish i had a

cigarette.

hey, he said.

have you seen that blonde

nurse yet?

take a walk down

the hall when you leave,

she's smoking hot.

moth into the light

at a certain point

in your life,

you realize that

for every beautiful

man or woman out there

there is someone

thanking

Jesus that they are no

longer in their lives.

the lesson learned,

don't be the moth

going into the light.

our dearly departed

bored with the sports

page you turn your attention

to the obituaries

in the metro section

holding the black and white

photos

that look like they were

taken by Mathew Brady.

very boring summaries

of people's lives.

born, raised, kids, jobs,

school,

who's left behind.

he liked to whittle, or she

liked to bake pies.

they were the best people

to ever walk the earth.

yadda yadda yadda.

every one is a saint when

they die.

but the truth is different.

some people were very cranky.

hard to to get along with.

they smelled bad sometimes.

they were cheap

and ungrateful. mean souls

who never smiled.

no one gets up at the end

and says

the truth about them.

the times they kicked the dog,

or lied.

cheated on their taxes

or wives.

no one says

that he or she was a very

strange person,

hard to get along with and

truthfully, i won't give her

a second thought now,

now that she's died.

part A and part B

when they call.

the medicare pretend people.

they want

the same information

over and over and over again.

you hang in there

to see what the deal is.

what do they really want.

everything you give them

is fake, and yet they keep

asking the same questions.

it's not even you.

wrong address, wrong name,

wrong age.

you hang up, they call back

and ask why did you hang

up on me?

i don't know, i tell them.

where were we?

yes, again. i do have part

A and part B.

failed bread

i make my first loaf

of keto

bread.

it's abysmal.

it's a stone square of

inedible

junk.

six eggs, really.

almond flour.

maybe i should have

separated the egg

whites

from the yolk

and whipped them

until the edges crest,

but i didn't.

i think about

throwing it out the window

but i don't

want to injure

anyone that might be

passing by.

turn the other way

don't look,

don't follow, don't ask,

don't

go near

the past.

stay far away.

don't tap your fingers

on the gossip

board,

resist the temptation

to see

what more

there is to the train

wreck you

once adored.

the vampire

when she bit

my lip

and laughed, the blue

mouse

already

rising, as a trickle

of blood

slipped out,

i asked her if she was

crazy,

some sort of hipster

vampire,

and she said no,

i just always wanted

to do that.

deep into a drawer

clothes fade,

no longer the color they once

were.

the reds are weak,

the greens

bleed, the blues

have turned grey.

the rips and tears

are there.

the cuffs frayed,

buttons gone.

friendships fall aside too.

onto some 

shelf

like the clothes,

deep into a drawer,

never to be seen again,

but still there.

the last issue

the publisher

sends out a notice that

she's retiring.

the next issue of her

magazine

will be the last.

thank you for your loyalty.

she says.

we go back.

way back.

the first ad run was in

1991.

you were there at the

start

and still there at the end.

we appreciate

your business.

thank you, my friend.

bending over backwards

you can't make everyone

happy.

you can bend over backwards

trying,

but they haven't been

happy since the day

they opened their eyes.

but we do try

to give them what they want,

keeping the thermostat

the way they like it,

tending to their dietary

needs. treating them

as if they were king, or queen.

we just want peace,

careful with what we say,

not rolling our eyes at

their strange ways.

the dressing mirror

uncomfortable

in these

pants, i change them.

the shirt too.

the hat.

the socks.

i start from the bottom

up and

go with something

different.

clothes that make a

statement

about who i am.

the more torn

and worn,

paint splattered,

the better.

ahh. there we go,

i say,

looking into the mirror.

ho bo

deluxe

now ready for the day.

the turning point

i leave the iron

on

the stove

the front door is wide

open.

i leave

the butter out,

the milk

the bread

water has dripped

all night

from the faucet

i'm losing it on

many levels

and who exactly

are you?

they shoot horses don't they

get back on the horse

people tell you.

don't let this fall destroy

you.

get out there,

go ride again.

find the next new love

of your life.

be positive,

be thankful, be grateful,

be a man.

but i laugh and take out

my gun,

and say,

right.

sure, never again.

my new best friend

i've made a new friend.

she's

very nice

and at times fluffy.

she's good for me.

i like to bring her to a

slow boil.

i like to butter her

up and spice

her with salty

inspiration.

she's organic.

i can see right through

her cellophane

paper.

she's different from all

rest.

plain, but hardly simple.

my dear, my sweetheart,

cauliflower,

you are the best.

the loneliness of the world

i haven't heard from

her in sixteen years,

but now

she calls.

let's get together she says

and talk

old times.

i want to tell her that

i'm done with old

times.

i wonder if she's dying,

or if something's

up,

there must be reason behind

this sudden

contact.

but no.

she wants dinner and drinks,

to shoot the breeze.

to reminisce.

the loneliness of the world

sometimes

astounds me.

thinking of home

how can you not

love a train.

it's the same as it

was a hundred

years ago.

the romance of who's

on board,

who was left behind.

little has changed.

the whistle.

the tracks.

the cinder between

the rails.

the engineer pressing

forward, thinking

of home,

see how it glides along

so easily

on ribbons

of cold steel.

no news still

i dream

that my father is a mail man.

he's coming

to deliver

a message to his

children,

but it's not a good piece

of news.

it's nothing.

an empty envelope

full

of promises he'll never

keep,

or could.

there's a blue bird inside

i tell  her blue bird

is my 

favorite bukowski poem.

i never hear

from her again.

not her taste in

poets, i assume.

but it's okay.

it could have been worse

if she caught

a glimpse of mine.

more wood is needed

go out

into the cold,

into the wind,

we need more wood

for the fire

the flames are low

we won't last

the night

like this.

take your axe

your compass,

your tired map

and chop

away.

we need more wood.

without the heat

of flames,

we won't see the light

of day.

it's not over yet

as she holds her cat.

the black cat

with the bottle green eyes

she mourns her

death already.

poor Lily, she says.

poor girl.

look, she says, there's

a lump beneath

her fur.

yes, below. right there.

she isn't long for this

world, she says.

and then

the cat leaps out of

her arms

into the street,

off she goes chasing

a squirrel.

it's not over yet.

she had other charms too

she had other

charms

besides the obvious.

she actually read books

and wrote

poetry.

of course the kissing

skills

were helpful,

as was her ability

to converse.

but she was kind too.

compassionate.

quick to lift

any bird

fallen from the sky,

there to soothe

any bruise

with a loving kiss..

the know it all

i prefer

the quietly unsure

to the know it alls.

i'd rather hear, i don't

know.

or hmmm,

let me think on this,

than some half baked

explanation

of the world

we live in.

pulling out the soapbox

and pontificating

endlessly with

boisterous 

blather.

it's okay to not

know everything,

brother.

the balance sheet

when you add them up,

as you near the end,

you'd like the count to be

more happy days

than sad ones.

you go through the years

as you lie in the hospital

bed with people

crying around you, or

reading the newspaper

waiting for you to die.

but you count the good

years, versus the bad years.

there was a good stretch in

the 70's and 80's.

then a few bad years in

the nineties. 

2018 was horrifically bad,

but last year was great.

i ask the nurse for a pen

and a piece of paper.

this will take some time,

i tell her,

so i shake the kink out

of an IV to keep me going.

remembering you of late

when i go to the bakery

now

it's just to look.

to gaze at the iced

three layer cakes

and donuts.

the eclairs,

the pastry and muffins

all hot

and lined up on the shelf.

i inhale the warm

aroma of sugar and flour

baked.

i salivate and smile, remembering

when.

it's just like how i remember

you of late.

cutting a vein and dipping the pen in

do you write,

she asks.

not really, i tell her.

i mean i sit down

and put my fingers onto

the keyboard

and stuff appears,

but is it writing. who knows.

it's like cutting

a vein

and making the blood run

out.

the whole process

is not very clear.

i write about yesterday,

today,

tomorrow.

and what lies in between.

sometimes i bite,

sometimes i weep.

and other times it's just

a joke

i know that i need to tell.

but it's all fiction

and has nothing to do

with me.

the three day layover

i wake up thinking

about my old friend

the flight attendant

from Seattle.

how wild she was.

how smart and funny,

a step ahead.

i see her standing with her

luggage

at the airport.

thumb out as i pull up.

a smile as wide as

wednesday

on her pretty face,

pushing her skirt

up just above her knee

to tease me.

three days

of fun, until duty calls

again.

filling up the big green bag

i'm good at throwing things away.

detaching myself

from whatever sentiment

that might lie behind the gift

or purchase.

pictures, shirts, rings,

emails, cards, texts,

just about anything

left behind

can be tossed with me.

i like to start over with a clean

slate. a nice empty shelf

for a new beginning.

fasten your seat belts it's going to be a bumpy night

i don't mean to steal all

the blankets

and the sheet,

the pillows too, but i'm

not used to 

sharing a bed with anyone

lately.

it's how i roll, it's what i

do.

most nights are turbulent

and full of dreams.

it's a very active sleep.

so, i'm sorry, you're shivering

when morning comes.

come closer, i'll make it

up to you, no need to hold

a grudge, and weep.

throw me a rope

quick sand

is a fascinating thing.

stepping

into the soft circle

of mush

with no way out

but by grabbing a

vine,

or catching a rope

thrown by a nearby

friend.

what's up with quick

sand. i can almost see

mother nature smirking.

what an ingenious devious

invention it is.

like a bad marriage,

once in, it's increasingly

hard to get out.

a tendency to tilt

we measure ourselves

around

like trees,

the doctor cuts through

to see how

many lines

there are.

he shakes our branches,

he tests the bark,

the damage done

by so many external

things.

he examines the color 

of our leaves.

you'll live, he says, your

roots are still

strong.

but be careful in the storms,

you have a tendency

to tilt

when winds come.

dog tired

i like dogs, i really do.

i've had several

dogs. some that i've liked more

than others.

some that barked

too much, or

were too needy.

some that wouldn't go

out in the rain,

others that ran through

the woods

chasing something, as

i ran after them,

calling their name.

some that shed

or were always in need

of a visit to the vet.

fun dogs and annoying

dogs.

companions, all,

but at the moment i'm done

with dogs.

i've bent over with a plastic

bag for the last time,

and if i need to pet one,

the neighbor has

a sweet little dog.

the end games

when my second big mistake,

after tapping the phones,

would  search

my office while i was at work,

looking or money,

or God knows what

to prove or disapprove

whatever it was,

i used to leave little notes for her

in the drawers, and 

between books

that read.

nope, sorry, nothing in here.

not here either, but

that made her even angrier

than usual making her download

every keystroke

i ever pressed on my computer

and printing it off.

from then on she would greet

me in the morning with dark eyes

and say, today

the sheriff was coming to arrest me,

to which i'd say why, and she'd

reply, oh you'll see. just you

wait buddy boy, you'll see.

women and children first, oh my

when you watch the movie

the Titanic you say out loud,

what were they

thinking.

why weren't they down

in the carpenters shop

sawing and hammering tables

together to make some

sort of raft, or something

once they ran out of boats.

go to the kitchen and get

some giant pot to float

around in.

throw some mattresses out

there, something. what in the ham

sandwich were they doing

playing music, and whistling

dixie. down with ship, hell no.

you can't stop us

we have

to write, to scribble.

to find a stick 

and make a mark

in the dirt.

we find cave

walls to put our art,

galleries.

we pencil or chalk

our thoughts,

we're at

all the time,

we finger paint,

or color

even a small page,

a crate,

a box.

you can't stop us,

what's in

must come out, or

else we die,

we're lost.

for each holiday

each holiday

to a memory pasted upon

our

lives.

the best ones saved,

the horrible

ones too,

even they still survive.

whether

christmas

or halloween, there

is a photo

in your mind

of who you were with,

where you lived,

who was

loved.

who wasn't kind.

finding salinger

i like how he

left town.

abandoned new york city.

how he found a place

in the woods

in New Hampshire,

rarely to be seen again.

i liked how

he never published another

word,

but kept writing in his

cabin,

surrounded by peace

and quiet,

the occasional chirping

bird.

he did what few

others could do,

he didn't need the limelight

the applause.

he was a writer,

and he was Holden,

through and through.

oh look at that, the earth

for ten million dollars,

elon

or jeff or some other

bizillionaire

will shoot you straight

up into the sky

so that you can look back

at the earth and say

oh my.

look at the that.

the earth.

it's the new age

carnival ride.

what ever happened 

to the tilt

a whirl,

the ferris wheel,

the roller coaster,

the scrambler?

two tickets each from

what i remember

and you can take your

cotton candy 

on board with you.

the happy whistler

people that whistle

scare me.

i know they're up to

something

nefarious.

that happy sing song

whistle can't

fool me.

no one is that cheery

this early

in the morning.

you have to keep a

close eye on

whistlers. trust me,

i used to be with one.

and the beat goes on

after the blue light

treatment

my face is on fire.

i'm in the center of the earth

covered in hot

magma.

i suddenly have sympathy

for lobsters

and people in hell,

who are begging

for ice water.

i'm humbled by the red

glow of my

pulsating face,

but still going to work,

and having a 

cup of coffee.

the beat does go on

as that famous philosopher

Sonny Bono once said.

it's really spacious inside

she shows me a picture

of her new

RV.

the kitchen,

the living room,

the dining room,

the bedroom,

the bathroom

all in one shot.

my dream she says is to

visit every national

park in the country

when i retire.

i just need a man now

to come with me.

what do you think?

are you the one?

ummm.

well. it's sounds like

fun, but

i might be busy that

month.

i got this

down to one meal

a day,

i'm no longer hungry.

no longer

reaching

for the bag of chips,

the cookies,

the sodas,

candy.

it's not as hard as i

thought it would be.

the discipline

has changed

my life, my way of 

thinking about food

and temptation.

i'll work on the other

things later.

but for now.

i got this.

the blue light treatment

i go in for the blue light

treatment

that my dermatologist

doctor K suggests.

she sees some sun damage,

some precancerous cells

lurking about.

sure, i tell her, why not.

maybe i can smooth out

some of these wrinkles too.

just four treatments she says.

easy peasy.

so the nurse sits me down

and rubs some ointment on

my face before positioning

the giant machine over my

head. so how are you with pain,

she asks me?

i laugh, that's exactly what

the justice of the peace asked

me before he read the wedding

vows to me and cruella de'ville.

she laughs. i laugh.

pain, pffft.  please.

down goes the radiating helmet

and suddenly

a million ravenous wasps

begin to sting my face in

heat not unlike the surface

of the sun.

on a scale of one to ten,

she says loudly over the hum,

what level of pain are you at.

third wife, i scream. i'm at

the third wife level of pain.

okay. hang in there, only

fifteen more minutes to go.

close your eyes, i'm going

to squirt some water on you.

what the hell is a bitcoin

i ask a dozen people

what the hell bit coins are,

crypto currency.,

the invisible money

that you just

have to trust some invisible

person that

it really exists.

they look at me and shrug.

i don't know,

they all say, but i'm with it.

it's the hipster thing to do.

where it is?

what it is?

how much it's really worth?

i have no clue.

but get in line, don't miss

the boat, don't be a fool.

i'm here, where are you

i understand the need

for people to tell you

where they are.

i'm in north carolina, right

now.

i'm in china,

or france,

i'm somewhere far

away, 

somewhere strange

and different, but not

with you.

here, i'll send you another

picture, before

i go, i  have so many

things to do.

send me a picture of

where you are right now,

so i snap a shot

of me, climbing out

of another cold shower.

instant oats

we are in a world

of instant

gratification.

from the micro wave

to the phone.

what we want,

we want now.

we are restless in any line.

hand on the horn.

we desire love

in a package, add water

and stir.

we don't want to wait

nine months

for anything to be

born.

the paint can't dry

fast enough. please,

read the book to me.

i don't have the time

anymore.

said once, or twice

said once, or twice,

the can of worms is open.

too late to close it.

the thought never far from

her mind.

the pills, or knife.

a swan dive

from some perch high.

she's already there, 

in some strange way.

but living out the string,

of her dark cloud days.

the mind and body

the body

keeps score. the worry is shown

on your face,

the pain

in your chest is just

you being

a mother, or father.

a friend.

the mind will

turn

inside you.

keeping you tired, or

out of breath.

we bend to our emotions,

absorbing 

the fears

the distress.

when you blow things up

when the dynamite blows

up the old

building.

turning it into a cloud

of dust and metal.

a hundred years of debris

now clumped

together, i stare at

the billboard of what's to

come.

it's a shiny new building

with blue skies in

the windows,

trees, a fountain.

you have to go there

well before 

you blow things up.

please don't come around

i wish i could think

better of her.

i wish i could clear my mind

of truth

and think

love,

and think forever,

think

good.

but it just won't happen.

i've decided

on who she really is.

i'm fixed

and certain on what went

down.

there is no changing

my mind.

so please.

don't whisper in my ear,

don't try to persuaded me

with affection.

please don't 

come around.

chosen

she takes her clothes off

in front of me.

the blouse, the dress,

what lies beneath. 

she takes her hair down.

in her bare feet

she stands there in the slender

light of night.

the street lamp

through the shades.

she's unashamed,

she's quiet.

she's been here before,

you wonder,

am i one of many.

or chosen.

will this night lead to others.

or in the morning

will

we part as just another

lover found

around some bend.

this too is part of it

it's a near empty

bar,

the waitress, the tender,

the bus

boy

the old man in the corner,

remembering

with a glass of scotch

better times.

but then there's us.

two strangers,

across a round table.

you can hardly

hear the music, or the sound

of the water

outside the window.

the past is brought up,

the unseen future.

little is mentioned of now.

this warm drink

with the ice gone, this bad

food.

this place in the middle

of nowhere.

it's a moment in time,

soon forgotten.

this too is a part of it,

somehow.

by the time we got to woodstock

i was a roadie

for the band,

ten years after, at woodstock.

i helped them

with the jack daniels

and drum sticks,

guitar pics

when alvin lee would go wild

on a song.

it's where i met my wife,

the first of many.

moon glow was her name.

someone in the crowd,

named Jimmy Jesus married us.

we made up our vows

on the spot. using beer tabs

for rings.

she had eyes

like christmas ornaments.

a bright blue,

long straight hair

the color of wheat

and legs that went from

here to there.

i felt like i was always

talking to her belly button.

we had fun, but

it didn't last long.

three days, exactly,

then she road off with 

jimi hendrix as soon as he

finished his version of

the star spangled banner.

who could blame her?

i think i saw her working

a wal-mart the other day,

as a cashier, still as happy

as ever. and strangely still

wearing my ring.

no sugar tonight

i pack up all the sugar

in my house.

i'm done with sugar.

brown, white,

granulated, powdered.

confectionary..

i'm done with it.

so i take them all to

the church, where

Father Smith takes

the bags from me, and

blesses me.

he rubs his belly beneath

his robe and sings

no sugar tonight

in your coffee, no sugar

tonight in your tea, etc. 

ala the guess who,

then winks. 

does whatever a spider can

she told me

she was divorced, then

after a few

drinks,

she was separated,

little did i know

that they were separated

by drywall,

not residence.

it was a long drop off

the balcony

when he came home

early one night,

but i was spiderman

in those days, leaving

as sticky web

behind me, why stay

and fight?

when the fish don't bite

some days

the fish don't bite.

no matter

how tasty the worm is,

the fake fly

on the hook that you pull

and snap,

left to right.

they want none of it.

it's understandable.

we all want the real

thing, at some point

in our life.

it's grown on me

it grows on me

this lawn, this unkempt

pile of weeds.

it's green and green is

good.

thick in places, there's

something that may

be a tree,

or very strong bush

wanting to be one.

i'm sure there's poison

ivy out, there

as well as snakes,

and mice, and whatever

else hops or crawls

over or beneath

the painted fence.

i welcome them, as i sit

and read.

i've let it go so long that

it's grown on me.

don't let them lead

don't let them lead.

don't let

them pull you around,

don't let them

censor you,

or tell you what to believe,

don't let them

make you say yes,

when you want to say no,

putting words and thoughts

into your mouth

that aren't yours,

don't let them change

the music,

the channel.

the shirt you're wearing.

don't let their lies

change the truth that you know.

if they don't like you exactly

the way you are,

you don't need them

in your life.

run fast, run far.

room 101

everyone

has there own room

101.

a place where the worst

fear

is realized.

a fear so deep

and large

that it can't be fought

off.

it's the line once

crossed

that kills you,

or weakens

you

to the point of being

forever lost.

i know mine, i've been

there

a few times,

somehow i walked

out, bruised

and battered, but

leaving it behind me,

forever locked.

muffy dubois

my real estate agent,

blanche dubois,

who they call muffy,

wants me to sell quickly.

come on, she says.

prices have never been this high.

you'll make a killing.

let me handle it.

let me put a sign in the yard.

you don't need to do a thing,

but get out of here.

pack your bags and go.

we can dim the lights on this

mess here.

but go where,

to where, i ask her.

where would i go.

beats me, she says, i don't know.

don't you have friends

in florida?

his side lost

i still can see him

in his

pressure knit socks

above his knees,

sitting in the big chair,

by the window,

sipping

tea.

setting his book on

world war two

down to greet me,

his side having lost.

a new bruise

is bandaged on his face

from the latest fall,

his cap is on

as if he might go fishing,

or sailing today,

a shawl

around his boney

shoulders.

sunglasses to shade

those shifting eyes.

he smiles and nods

with a row

of broken teeth, it's

been a hard life.

but he's still able to get

up and pour you a gin

and tonic,

cut you a slice of cheese

to eat.

let's have some fun

so what do you like to do

for fun,

she asks me

on the call.

i sigh. i yawn.

it's not what you're

doing, it's who

you're doing it with

i respond.

i shake my head.

oh, it's a long list,

i tell her.

i like to jump out of planes

when the weather

is good.

wrestling sharks is fun,

or alligators.

i like to hike up 

Mt. Everest

without a shirka.

deep sea diving is one

of my favorite things.

sometimes i go up

into hot air balloons

around the power lines,

always exciting,

before the boom.

and you?

same, she says, same

as you.

the slow boil

it's a gradual thing.

the heat on low,

the flames barely licking

the pot

as you bathe

and swim

in what feels like

safe water.

but before long, it comes

to a boil,

and it's too late to

save yourself.

you're cooked,

you're done,

a dish,

she made to order.

the throw away poem

you can throw this one away.

it's about nothing.

no wise thoughts,

no epiphany,

no moral to the story.

for in this one there is no

story.

sometimes you need a break,

from yourself,

to go out to the back

yard and rake,

and rake and rake,

to ponder

the many leaves,

that have fallen,

not unlike

so many friends and lovers

that have

fallen as well.

(sorry, i can't help myself)

but then there's light

when i need

a miracle, some divine

intervention.

a true answer,

i usually get it.

it's a long way

down that dark

road of night

to reach a point of

complete surrender.

but then,

there's light.

you can't carry everything

you can't carry everything

with you.

you have to set

things down

and leave them there.

the world is too heavy

to bear.

quit lifting, quit trying

to understand

each glance, each word.

stop looking into

the eyes of others for

what isn't there.

set things down, 

lesson the load

and move on,

to yourself be fair.

the first yellow leaf

the first yellow leaf

of wet

fall,

is a gem on the glass

of the window.

the veins a lost green,

but still

golden

as the light pours

through.

how can you not

believe that there is more

to this world

than me,

than you.

the future is not what it used to be

there was a plan once.

you wrote it

down on a sheet of paper

when young.

along the way,

changes were made,

lines erased.

good things

happened, bad things too,

as can be expected.

but you imagined how

it would be.

what your life would

look like, you believed

that to live without dreams,

was to live a life of

mediocrity.

and then the future

happened.

reaching the shore

the sand

is no different this year.

this late

into the fall.

cool at night,

warm at day.

how nice it is to reach

the shore.

with chair and book.

a few days

away.

it was like this fifty years,

ago, and i imagine

it won't change.

but i will

as the shadows get

longer

at the end of my day.

at sunrise

the thought

that nothing really matters,

crosses your

mind,

as you make your bed

at sunrise.

you pour water into

the vase of flowers.

you open

the windows.

you sit with your coffee

and write.

you go on, we go on,

don't we?

best put thoughts like

nothing matters,

out of our minds,

or little

will get done in this

life.

carrying water

how could she know,

where the light is,

her hands

on a post,

the wall, the rail leading

down the hall.

i hear the creak

of steps

as she goes slowly down

the flight.

i never heard her

rise, or felt

the touch of her lips

in fond goodbye.

it worries me,

until she returns,

carrying water

in the light.

is ernie dead too?

is ernie dead too,

i ask

the little bird who

flew onto my sill.

no.

he's still alive.

somehow.

funny, how the good

go early

and the bad ones

survive.

some are never pleased

it's shame about

so and so,

we all agree. she had

it all.

a man

that loved her

unconditionally.

or so it seemed.

a house, a home, money.

a stove.

a bed to lie in.

all those comfort things.

but she couldn't

keep her dress on.

and so it goes, some

people are never pleased.

where is she?

her husband went cheap

on my mother's burial.

pinching the penny hard,

and now we can't find

where she lies.

resting at last.

no marker, no stone,

no bench to sit beside.

i can almost

hear her laughing

as we wander

the green hills.

still no visitors on sunday,

she grins and sighs.

the neighbors

she liked her

booze.

it gave her courage

and energy

to throw shoes at

her husband.

we could hear them

fighting

through the shared

wall.

oh, the words we

learned

with our glasses pressed

to our ears

and plaster.

it hardly crosses your mind

how is it possible

that what

meant so much, means so little

now.

the game,

the job, a love gone sour.

you spent so

much energy and time

thinking about

those things.

revisiting them

over and over again,

but now they hardly

cross your mind.

the welcome home

i cling

to her, she clings to me.

this new

dog.

this new life,

with a warm

heart

and bark.

a tongue that wants

to kiss.

how generous

she is with love

and comfort

when i come

home

from a long day,

why can't we all

be

like this?

sunday morning coffee

she's a good listener.

i can hardly stop telling her

a story

each sunday morning 

when we have coffee.

she's there. all there.

her green blue eyes shining.

it's a gift

that she has.

interested, it seems, even

in my embellished

tales of life.

i'm not certain that she wants

to hear me talk,

but i push that notion aside

and have it.