noise makers

we like noise

when we're young.

the carnival.

the dance hall.

loud music,

loud cars, we yell

to one another.

we drum

on everything.

we make a racket

with guitars,

we sing.

we turn up the radio,

we bang

sticks on

the dashboard.

we stamp our feet.

we toss rocks onto

the ice.

shoot bottles with a

gun.

we light fireworks.

we clap our hands,

we burst balloons.

we are all about noise

when we are young,

and then it

turns, we suddenly

love the quiet.

the silence.

the sleep of night.

at last we're done.

summer sand

i shake

the sand from my shoe.

brought back

from our summer visit 

to the shore.

it's a small

pile, a pyramid

of sorts

that i spill

onto the floor.

i doubt

the ocean misses it,

unlike me,

when i think about

you.

no better place to be

there's a spot

in the back, along fence

above the steep grade

of woods

going

down to the stream

where i rest

my arms

and lean into

what breeze the season

brings.

it's a safe place.

a place of worship,

one might say.

i've been there many times.

in sadness

in sorrow

in grief.

and now at last

in contentment,

i can linger here for

hours.

there's no better place

to be.

the back door key

at last

i find the missing key

to the back

door.

it's brown, sticky.

unused for years.

but there it is

in the kitchen drawer.

i try it

and say please,

it answers with a soft

turn

to the right

and the bolt moves.

now,

to see that gorgeous

moon

between the trees,

i'm in out that door

each night.

i'm glad you're home

it feels strange to have

someone

that cares for you.

who worries about you.

who shares the cooking,

or helps you around the house.

someone who

throws clothes

into washer

then helps to fold 

when things

have dried out.

someone that calls or texts

in the middle of the day 

for no reason, other

than to just say

hey.

it's odd, it feels funny

to have anyone

around that misses you,

or calls you

honey.

who welcomes you at

the door

with arms spread wide

and says, 

welcome back,

i'm glad you're home.

now is a good time too

turn off the light dear,

the music's over.

come,

let's go to bed.

take off your shoes,

slip out

of that dress.

come closer.

let's sleep. let's dream.

let's make

love in the morning.

we're both

tired. but the way

i hear you purring,

perhaps now

is a good time

too.

he feared nothing

he feared nothing,

not men,

or women, or weather.

just one thing,

losing his

job.

not being able to work

and stand

at the drill press

for nine hours.

throwing metal to the side,

making

things.

this, this drudgery,

this slavedom for a paltry

sum,

was what he lived for.

this work

he feared in losing.

it kept him alive.

blue jasmine

it was not unlike a streetcar

named desire,

how it all went

down.

holding her up to the light

as she

lost her mind,

and the men

in white

coming to take her away.

a few bags packed for

the trip in the hallway.

the remains

of her meager life.

i was her Mitch for a while,

and then

Stanley at the end.

she did not go gently

into that good night.

melba toast

there comes

a point, when you reach an age

where

you look at the world

and think,

what the hell's

going on here.

everything has changed.

i'm sure every generation

has thought

the same,

with each new invention,

each new

way of cloths,

of styles. of slang,

of music.

i'm still mourning the loss

of the milkman,

black and white

tv,

and melba toast.

feeling crabby

i can't eat crabs all

day like

some do.

sitting at the picnic

table

draped in newspaper.

the crabs piled high

just out

of the boiling pot.

a bowl of

vinegar, pliers, wrenches,

dental tools.

a hammer for me,

and one 

for you.

a tub of butter to slosh

the paltry

meat mined from

a claw

or back behind.

it's work.

it's bloody work.

it's the only food you can

eat

and lose weight while

doing it.

the wild blue sky

it's a gradual thing.

the loss

of hearing,

the dimming light

in each

eye,

the slow gait

to the mailbox.

who would have thought

that this day

would arrive,

wasn't it just yesterday

when you were running

and jumping

towards the wild

blue sky.

south of the border

during pillow talk

she says,

do you mind if i ask

you a few questions

about

how that thing works

down there?

what's up

with that?

it's so small and then

it's not.

how do you walk around

all day.

does it go right,

or left.

does it

ever just suddenly

pop up.

how come it hurts

so much when it gets hit.

men and even boys

are always grabbing

at it.

does it itch?

does it really have a brain

of it's own,

or is that just

an excuse when you want

to cuddle

and kiss?

meet the Beatles

i remember

charlene

like it was yesterday.

she had a scar on her face

from where a horse

kicked her,

but was very pretty just

the same.

i remember that she had

tickets to go

see the 
Beatles playing at

the D.C. armory on their

first tour of

the USA.

she told everyone.

waved them around

in our faces.

she said things like i'm

going and you're

not. ha ha. loser.

Paul's my favorite, she'd

say.

i'm going to marry him.

we thought she was crazy,

but she was still very

pretty just the same.

the year end box

state tax

city, county,

federal.

you got your fica,

your Medicare,

your Medicaid.

health insurance,

life insurance.

home insurance.

condo fees.

your itemized gizmos

that keep

you breathing.

receipts for pills,

for the dentist,

the dermatologist,

the massage

therapist.

alimony, child support.

you have your pay stubs,

your

year end investment

report.

your interest statements.

bank statements.

mortgage interest.

your w-2s.

your 1040s.

it's going to be a hell

of a bon fire

in the end.

the sunday matinee

i've had my

fill of church. been going

most of

my life.

i've attended out

of faith,

out of fear,

the choking pressure

of the world,

or an insistent wife.

kneel, sit, stand, rote prayer.

the basket

coming around not 

once, but twice.

and in it all

there's 

hardly a mention,

barely a word about

the love and saving grace

of Christ.

in the wind

we fall out favor

with

friends, with relatives.

we haven't

played the game

well enough to keep

them.

we haven't changed,

we're still the same,

but now

we're happily

in the wind.

the fifth floor of Bellevue, apt. 506

the corridor

smelled of cabbage

getting

off the elevator, or fish.

there was always a baby

crying.

a new born baby.

dogs were barking.

you could hear through

the thin partitions,

people arguing.

a man hitting

his wife.

a dish shattering against

the shared

wall.

the ac was weak in

the summer,

the heat a stale warm

breath

in the winter.

there was always an old

man in the lobby

with one leg.

from the balcony

you could see another building

and beyond that

the highway.

televisions were on all day,

all night.

upstairs you could hear

the crescendo of bed springs

as others made

love.

there was music playing

on cheap radios,

loud music.

Beethoven

and Tupac jousting

for ears.

i was out of there in

six months,

although i had signed

a lease

for three years.

let it bleed

the secret of writing,

is to cut a vein

and let

it bleed.

bleed until the ink

runs dry.

it's not drinking, or drugs,

or love.

it's none of that,

you'll get little help there.

it's mostly garbage

if you're head isn't on

straight.

you're just kidding yourself

if you 

write that way.

just bleed, let it flow,

and make

mistakes.

there's always tomorrow

to edit

and move on to 

another page.

save your breath

save your breath,

don't waste

another second on me 

with

sage advice,

i'm up to here

with wisdom, with

platitudes,

with verses from ancient

scribes.

i know the meaning

of life.

i've known it

since i was a child.

since the moment i

realized

that i was alive

and somebody else

wasn't.

waiting, not listening

i have 

no patience, with people,

i do not

suffer fools gladly

anymore,

i want them to get

to the end

of the story, so that

i can tell mine.

my eyes say, really,

you had to add

those details?

take that crazy detour.

come one.

you can do it, 

let's get there.

that has to go too

i replace

the chair again.

that vase

on the mantle

has to go.

why not, the picture too.

i'm

always changing things

around the house.

drapes

and rugs, lamps. 

as does 

almost anything to

do with

you.

reel me in

gingerly

i step on the ice, holding

the rail,

it's like

walking

on eggshells,

but with a hard wind

blowing,

filling

my coat, like a 

wintry sail.

i'm almost there,

throw me a

rope,

reel me in.

lift me onto your

warm

fire lit boat.

come on over

it's too cold out

to go

out.

i've made my decision.

i've taken

a vote

with me myself and i

and have

settled onto the couch

with

a burger

the size of the plate,

and fries.

you're welcome

to stop by if you're

in the hood.

the door is open.

bring lips, bring hips,

bring

your cut carrots if

you'd like, but

we won't

be reading

books.

the next generation of cats

it's the next generation

of cats

crawling about,

on the counters, the desks,

the laptops

at the tax return office

in Manassas.

a clapboard

cape cod off centerville

road.

the place

smells like

home. like cats, like

there's something

on the stove.

betty, the owner,

greets me with her

usual,

i hope we don't to jail

this year,

then adjusts her wig

and laughs.

she's gold.

please don't tell me you

got married

again, she says.

and i i report loudly,

hell no.

just flush and play taps

i think about buying

a horse,

but then i come to my senses.

i know nothing

about a horse,

except from what i learned

on tv watching

cowboy shows as a kid.

the only four legged

animal

i've ever been on was a donkey

going up

the splattered cobblestone

path to Santorini.

so maybe a dog again.

or a cat.

but then you have the shedding.

the vet bills.

the scratching.

heart worm fever and all

of that. not to mention.

the poop

in plastic bags.

what about a goldfish.

a nice shiny goldfish,

i'll call her shelly,

or max.

a bowl, some water.

sprinkle some crumbs

at feeding time

and that's that.

no burial when they die.

no ashes,

no grave,

no crying. 

just flush and play taps.

it's too cheerful

i go down to the framing

store to

frame a new print

i ordered online.

andrew wythe,

an old house, bordered

by hills and a rugged

fence.

it's gloomy, greens and greys.

it's winter.

the trees are white bones

against the sky.

it feels hopeless,

the feeling one

gets once betrayed.

where are you going to

hang this, the kind

woman behind the counter

asks.

in the kitchen i tell

her.

right now i have a bright

colorful picture

of fruits and vegetables,

flowers. it's too cheerful.

i can't take anymore.

my empty vase

why do men

bring women flowers?

guilt

an apology

for something done,

or about to be done.

are we

trying to win them

over with

a bouquet of daises,

get on their good side. 

why

don't we ever get roses.

a single

orchid, or a bunch

of petunias.

we're not the only ones

who make mistakes.

i'm waiting.

i'm waiting here

with my empty

vase.

stop the madness

read this,

she tells me.

read this and find out

which language of love

you speak.

shut up,

i tell her. i'm sick

of your self help books,

your divine wisdom,

your therapist

and yoga.

kiss my namaste.

i'm done

with your witchcraft

and tarot cards,

your astrology charts

and new age ways.

just be a good 

person.

that's all i ask. stop

lying.

stop cheating

and being a pain in

the ass.

stop with all the nonsense,

for one single day,

can you do that?

cold as a penguin's butt

the new weather man

is a hoot,

as the old folk like to say.

he's down to earth

and homey.

he says things like

it's cold as a penguin's butt

out there.

be careful and bundle up.

if you left your grandmother

out on the porch

last night,

she's dead.

frozen solid.  

she's what we call

at the weather station

a granny popsicle.

best get yourself a bottle

of hootch,

stay off the roads,

and love the one you're with.

the five day

forecast is coming up

right after this brief

message about

frost bite,

so hold your

horses and don't touch

that dial.

i am not set in my ways

in an effort to disprove

Betty's claim

that i'm not flexible

and that i'm set in my ways.

i rearrange

the furniture, not much

though.

an inch here,

a skosh there.

sliding

things one way

or the other

to achieve a new look.

to freshen up

the joint a little.

i move the orange pillow

from the big

chair that no one ever sits in

to the couch.

it's not working.

desperate times

annoyed

at the snow and ice.

i put on my boots

and heavy

coat.

strap a hat down,

slip into my

gloves

and head out.

i can't live without

coffee

and a cinnamon roll.

i understand now

what it must

have been

like for

the pioneers

crossing the country.

in search of a cover girl

i start interviewing

women

to put on the cover of my next

poetry collection.

the other books

aren't selling

worth beans.

the gloomy dark covers

aren't doing the trick.

i need some hot

babe on the front.

some sexy vixen with

glasses

on the tip of her nose,

and stretched out

on a chair reading 

robert frost or shakespeare.

preferably

in her underwear,

or silky gown.

long legs

and pouty lips.

bonde brunette or redhead,

makes no difference.

i get it now. sex sells.

not poetry.

no one reads poetry

anymore but the people

that write it

or people on their death

bed.

yelp for dating

the new yelp

app

for dating is finally out.

you can rate your internet dates now

as soon as it's done.

you give them

the appropriate amount of stars

as you see fit

and then make a comment 

at the bottom.

informing the next patron

how things went.

clean and polished

three stars.

dental hygiene

three stars.

too talkative

one star

bad conversationalist

one star

texting on their phone

one star

overate and over drank

one star

on time

barely, two stars.

ran to the bathroom when

the check came

one star.

too short

one star

lied about their weight

one star

lied about their age

one star

good kisser

four stars.

still married or involved

with someone else

reported.

yellow brick road

i pull the old vinyl

record out of its sleeve

and set it

on the turn table.

i watch it spin

slowly around as the music

comes out.

Elton John,

Goodbye YellowBrick Road.

how many times

have i listened to this album

in my life?

hundreds.

i wait for the skip

and there it is.

i lift the needle forward

and go back

to the couch

and reminisce.

Led Zepplin next.

we got to get out of this place

i hear people say

all the time,

if so and so is elected,

i'm out of here.

i remember

when Nixon was in

office.

same thing.

it doesn't matter who

it is.

people are ready to pack

up and leave.

but do they go,

rarely.

the question is where.

Canada, France,

Iceland.

doubtful.

how?

money.

the kids the dog,

the wife or husband.

all the American

bullshit

we're tied to and feel

like we can't live without.

few leave,

and more and more

no longer care.

it's what i do

i'm not sure why

i keep working.

why i wake up early

in the morning,

shower

and shave, make a cup

of coffee

and go out into the wild

once more

to make a buck.

i lack for nothing, so

it's not about the money

anymore.

it's something else.

something i can't quite

put my finger on.

talk to the hand

you finally reach a certain

age

where people leave you

alone.

they stop trying

to make you see things

their way.

whether it's politics,

or religion,

sports or food.

they take one long look

into your eyes

and see the weather on

your face,

and they don't even

go there, 

they don't even try.

done with trouble

is it just one more

thing

to make your day,

or is this

just the way of the world,

with everything falling

apart. i push the cart

down the aisle of the

grocery store.

the bent wheel pulling

hard right,

the clanging

of metal,

the noise of it all, 

rattling.

and before i put the first

apple into

the basket.

i leave. 

i'm done with trouble.

small or large.

don't take that call

tell me how wonderful

your life is.

lie to me.

leave out

the bad parts.

death and divorce

those untidy things.

spare me the details

of circumstances

beyond your control.

be nice and smile.

pretend to be normal,

at least for a short while.

tell me your children

are stars,

bright shining lights

out in the world.

tell me how much

you love your job,

your dog.

no need to look at your phone.

make it all up, if you have

to. i'll bite,

i'll swallow the hook

whole.

let's not ruin this moment

with truth.

don't take that call.

the frayed hem

it's the type of conversation

where you

fix a strong drink.

you prepare yourself.

you turn on the table lamp.

you settle into

a chair across from her.

her legs are closed.

her arms folded. she's 

looking down at her dress,

the frayed hem?

it doesn't matter.

so tell me, you begin,

tell me how it ends.

up before noon

she put her hand out

to shake

mine. the deal done.

it was a limp soft hand,

not unlike

that of a cat's paw,

almost boneless, but

warm and soft

just the same.

i shook it gently so

as not hurt her, though

she was a grown woman

with lots of lipstick

and jeans she seemed

to have painted on.

we'll work together

again soon, she said.

my husband will be out

of town next month.

so many other rooms

to paint or paper.

you can start early

if you want, i'm usually

up before noon.

basket in the corner

i crumple the paper

full

of bad poems

and send

it flying

through the air towards

the basket

in the corner.

it rims out.

a portent of the day

ahead,

or just

that i'm getting old

and my aim

is bad?

the mystery of an apple

i prefer

these days to keep the mystery

going.

the unopened letter,

or card.

the unanswered phone.

the email

from someone

unknown.

i don't care what the balance

is,

or check

the market to see if it's up

or down.

i'm picking up apples

at the store

and only

staring at one side.

the risk is all mine.

as always.

how life ends

i forget my password

to linked in.

i try my list. none of

them work.

combinations of my dog's

name

and birthday,

addresses

and favorite poets.

how will i communicate

with all

these people.

they're leaving me

messages, they're

looking at my profile.

i'll lose work. i'll lose

friends.

my life is over if i

can't get on there.

i feel dizzy faint, this

could be the end.

winter team work

we both agree

that it's cold as hell outside,

ignoring

the theory of hell

as being extremely hot

with fire and brimstones.

we can't get inside

fast enough

to throw a log on the fire

and rub our hands together.

i put a pie on the table

with two forks 

while she gets a pot

of coffee going.

closing the window

it occurs to me

that of all the women

i've made love with,

only three

am i no longer

friends with or talk to.

and those three

i married.

coincidence, perhaps,

but it seems unusual

and gives me

pause as i close window

to stop the draft.

standing outside the bakery

as i stand outside the bakery,

peering in,

a cake stares

me down.

a two tiered chocolate

cake

with icing.

i begin to shake,

my mouth waters,

i see the baker in there,

his tall white hat,

white apron,

an old friend.

the pusher man,

he's winking, he's waving

his hand,

he's whispering

we've been waiting,

come on in.

come on in.

without gin, even

i surprise myself

with a pleasant mood,

without

gin, even.

what gives, what's

brought this calmness,

this cat like

grin upon my tired face.

yes,

it might be you.

take the credit. you

earned it.

let's make it more,

not few.

her rowing across the lake

it's a place

that's safe, the safest

place in the house,

it's a place

where

i put anything of great

value,

or anything i have no

use for,

and yet can't throw away.

i need a stool

to reach it, or a ladder,

or chair.

it's the cabinet above

the fridge

unreachable.

awkwardly there.

a crock pot is 

on the shelf,

fondue skewers.

an enormous wooden

salad fork

and spoon.

gifts from a distant

past.

and finally,

a picture of you rowing

across the lake.

it's a smile i'll treasure,

a golden

ray that will never fade,

but last.

don't sweat the small stuff

if you see a well worn

copy of the book don't

sweat the small

stuff

on someone's bedside

dresser.

get out of there.

get your pants on, your shoes

grab your keys

and bolt.

she's a Karen.

this is not someone you

want a long term

relationship with,

or a short term.

it's best if it's one and done.

your life

is about to become a living

hell if you stick

around.

the small stuff is her

holy grail.

Blink

we intellectualize

our decisions, when

as the book says,

it just takes a Blink,

to know

the right decision.

but we rarely do.

rarely do we follow

our gut instinct.

she can't be that crazy,

she's pretty, right?

we hem back and forth,

make a balance sheet,

the pros and cons.

we shuffle our feet

before making a

calculated move,

all of it wrong. you

knew from the jump

what to do. run,

but you stayed put.

lesson learned, again.

what was i thinking?

what was i thinking?

i say this

a lot lately,

this book i'm reading.

it's mud.

this drink i ordered,

this food

before me.

that shirt i bought.

really,

plaid, do i think i'll

ever wear that in public?

taking the freeway

at rush hour?

and you.

what the hell was

that about?

at twenty one

i knew i was whipped,

standing there

at the dressing room door

holding her purse

and an arm full of dresses

she wanted

to try on next.

how did this happen.

on a perfectly fine saturday

afternoon

that i was walking around

the mall,

eating a pretzel, and

browsing make up

and body lotion stores.

she had me, she knew that

once we had sex,

it was game over, the deal

was done.

point, set, match.

the first time

the first time

you see the ocean

you stand there. 

you can hardly

believe

it's true.

so much water

so far

out and wide.

the crash of waves.

it seems impossible.

this sand

this blue.

all of it just as you believed

it would be.

like love,

you're glad it's true.

the body knows

your body

knows what to do.

it knows

when to run,

when to stay put,

when

to make love.

your body understands.

what's going

on.

your gut leads you.

your nose

tells you

what's up.

your tongue decides,

your eyes tell you

when

you've had enough.

the edge of the bed

i've made

major decisions while

sitting on

the edge of the bed

in the early

morning hours,

the sky full of rain.

i've drawn lines in the sand.

i've made

vows, promises,

some kept, some discarded

when the sun came out.

something about

the edge of the bed

with sand in my eyes,

sorting through a vague dream

that makes me realize

the limits

of life, unavoidable

death.

be still my heart

i fell in love with 

Ms. Copeland, my ninth grade

social studies

teacher.

we were only about ten

years apart,

so i thought i still had

a shot.

i loved that bright

green polka

dotted dress she used

to wear with white

heels. i can still see

her leg swinging freely

from the desk

she'd sit on.

it was the only class

where i sat in the front row

and volunteered to bang

the erasers against

the school wall.

i don't remember a word

she ever said,

but her voice was 

lovely, as was her perfume,

and red hair.

i learned absolutely nothing

that year.

but still got an

A.

where is miss manners?

are there rules

anymore?

where is miss manners

when we need

her. she needs

to step forward

and slap a few of these

uncouth

people around

with her dainty white

gloves.

rudeness

seems to be at

pandemic levels.

there is zero etiquette. 

few say thank you, or

i'm sorry,

or excuse me.

it's everyone for

themselves,

burping and

running about in their

pajamas

and croc shoes.

jeez marie, the world

has gone to hell

in a hand basket miss

manners.

please help.

make it last

i like to work fast,

cook

quickly,

clean up in record

time,

the dishes,

the table, wiping.

i like to

finish what i started,

so that i can have

more time

with you.

but we'll go slow

after that,

okay?

we'll make it last.

trying to get home

i get lost going home.

suddenly

none of these roads look

familiar.

when did that building

go up.

where's the bridge,

the statue?

i don't recognize

the names.

there's no tunnel anymore,

everything, including

us, has changed.

not a good fit

the shoe

that doesn't fit,

the glove,

the hand too big.

the hat

too small for our head,

and us,

it'll never work,

but maybe, just

maybe

we can still be 

friends.

sticky notes

i see not just

the elderly

at store,

their carts full of sticky

notes.

blue and yellow pads

to write on.

pink

and green.

notes to remind them

on what

to do next.

stuck on the fridge,

door,

the bathroom mirror,

the computer

or desk.

doctor appointments,

birthdays,

funerals to attend.

vitamins and pills

to take.

passwords, anything

we might

forget.

don't rescue me

i'd call it fear.

that black

cold tingle down my spine,

to find

her

curled and rocking

in a dark

room.

hair mashed,

eyes

blackened like

ash.

lips quivering.

the beg of no life,

whispered

over and over.

what is there to say?

how many times

can you rescue

someone,

who doesn't want

to be rescued

anymore.

hose water

the old hose

unraveled in the yard

amongst

the weeds, the high grass.

hot to the touch,

in this summer

heat.

how we turned the spigot

on

with our small hands,

using our shirts,

our thirst

nearly unbearable

after our games.

letting the water run

and run

until at last it was cold.

drinking that awful taste,

running

it over our heads.

our backs.

until it was time to

go home.

more light, less dark

how quiet

the woods are in winter.

the solace

of white.

the sleeve of stream

gone

to ice.

no bird seen,

no

animal peering out

from

the park.

everything is waiting

for more

light,

less dark.

the cure for love

if you want

to cure

the notion of love,

to slay

the dragon

before

it engulfs you,

get to know the person,

or better yet

just

marry them.

that should

do it.

childhood things

other than

a few childhood things,

i keep

little that reminds of the past.

no cards,

or letters, no romantic

mementos or

silver rings.

my broom is heavy

when it's over

and done with, how easily

i sweep

to make the room

clean.

where things were left

old friends

are the best.

new friends are fine,

but they

don't know

the story behind

those years

gone by, but old

friends know

the rest.

they're there for you,

and you for 

them.

so easy to pick up

where

things were

left.

rsvp

i won't be attending your

farewell party,

your black

garbed event,

where toasts are made,

eulogies

said, tears spent.

i won't 

stand there at your grave

and pretend

or vent.

i won't be in line,

in a car with lights,

the slow parade

celebrating,

or mourning, which is it,

your life.

i'll say my farewells from

here.

on the shore,

feet in the ocean,

basking and free

in warm light.

in Ireland

in Ireland

a writer is considered

a failed

conversationalist.

both story

tellers though,

both

wordsmiths

of a different kind.

both

enjoyed even more

with a stiff drink

or a cold

pint.

they gather you in.

and what's

true or untrue

means little, it's the tale,

the story,

the way it's told,

that keeps you reading,

keeps you

engaged and listening,

enriches

your thirsty soul.

go through it

the phrase

go through, sounds easy

enough.

go through

the grief, the pain, the sorrow.

mourn hard

and thorough, let

no tear

go unfallen

that needs to be shed.

and then,

and then, just maybe.

you will rise

again, and be

back from

the living dead.

really good reading light

when people have an after

life

experience

being pronounced

dead on the operating

table

for a few minutes

there's always a bright light

they're heading

towards.

when they wake up

they tell you that

it's never a dull light,

or a 

flickering candle,

some ambient light,

no,

it's always

an amazing glow.

a shining bright light

unlike anything they've

ever seen before.

i'm thinking great,

should be perfect for

reading at night.

advancing in years

where is the baby

smoothness

of skin,

the soft petal

like

bottom,

the silky underside,

the velvet

nature of youth.

how did this heel

become

so rough.

the face so cruelly

stitched.

it's troubling

the damage that life

does,

the sun,

the weather.

cold and ice.

a favorite day

do i have a favorite day?

maybe.

i go through the list.

monday

through sunday.

some seem

better than others,

some

too long, others too short.

the day you visit

though,

which could be any day,

weather permitting,

is the one i like

the best.

mud slinging

you need to take

the high road

with your poetry,

i'm told time and time again.

and i do

on occasion, when i

get tired of the low roads.

grown weary

of slinging mud.

but sometimes

the mud, the grit

and grind of that kind

of travel

has more words to rhyme,

and is much

more fun.

the lemon tree

she told me she was a cup

half full

kind of person.

an optimist.

a positive thinker.

she saw the best

in people and

made lemonade out

of lemons.

me too, i told her.

which didn't quite work

out for me.

i'm an empty

cup kind of guy now

and i've chopped down

the lemon tree.

as soon as you end that war

the weatherman

takes

all the blame for the rain,

the ice,

or the heat

of summer.

the other newsmen

give him a hard

time,

all the time.

when are you going

to give us

some sunshine

they laugh

and he answers back,

as soon as you

end that war,

you keep talking

about.

why don't you answer me

i find myself

ignoring

some questions and

answering

only the ones that i

want to.

it's frustrating for

the interrogator,

as i never

quite engage in a

conversation.

there is no true back

and forth.

i have the wheel.

the pedal.

the map, i'll take

it where it needs

to go, or don't go.

road apathy

i understand road

rage

to a point.

your life isn't going well.

the job is killing

you,

the kids,

money,

the wife.

the soccer game you're

late for.

being stuck in

traffic, or having

someone run

a light,

or cut you off. i get

it.

i understand how

people can

blow a fuse on the road

and yell and scream

and curse one another.

i get it,

but i've gone

in a different direction.

i have road

apathy.

i don't care. go ahead,

get in front

of me.

go fast, go slow.

swerve around as you text

on you iphone.

pffft. means nothing to me.

don't use your signal.

who cares.

tail gate me, good, honk

your horn and give

me the one finger salute.

i'll wave back

and smile then

move over and let you

pass.

i'll hug the right lane

with some music

on the whole way home.

we love all people

the neighbor

has put a flag out, 

can't we all just get along,

there's a sign

in the yard.

your life matters.

we love

animals,

we love all people.

every race creed and color

and alternate

lifestyles

and changed genders.

we are kind

and compassionate

we love the world,

we recycle

we have a compost.

we eat organic.

we have solar panels.

we bring our own bags

to the grocery store.

our cars are almost all

electric,

one is a hybrid though

and my son

has a mustang,

v 8, dual exhausts.

he hasn't quite

joined us into drinking

the full dose

of kool aid quite yet.

salt and sand

in this tease

of winter, this

kiss of warmth

i can almost

smell

the sunlight.

the lemon

of it

the bright blonde

of it

the essence

of spring.

i can taste

what's coming,

what's

almost green,

just need to hang

on for a short

while longer

with shovel

in hand.

salt

and sand.

stretching at the cave door

it's the best sleep

i've had in ages.

a rock.

deep and full of 

dreams.

but good dreams.

not once did i

get up

and check the time,

or toss and turn.

not once did

i stumble to the 

bathroom

or blow my nose.

it felt like a coma

that i woke up from,

it was more

like a winters

hibernation,

i felt like some sort of

bear

standing and stretching

on the first day

of spring

at the cave

door.

the easy hack

guessing her password

was easy.

four numbers.

piece of pie.

i had everything i needed

to know

at that point.

the back and forth

between her married

boyfriend.

the past,

the present.

the future.

all by pushing in a few

numbers.

her whole life

exposed.

did i feel guilty. not

for a second.

all's fair in love,

and war.

and when she got back

from church.

her bags were waiting

by the door.

hang em high

i put a ring

on her finger and she

put a noose

around my neck.

hung

me from the highest

tree.

occasionally she'd

stop by

and hit with me

a stick just too

see

if i was still living,

and if she was

still my loving

bride.

champagne love

stay clear of the sudden

love,

the champagne

bubble

love.

the love at first sight.

it won't last.

it's a thrill

in the beginning, but

in  few days, or

months,

the whole bottle

will go

flat.

my kingdom for an eclair

i see the leftover

shrimp

in a bowl

in the fridge, 

cold and lifeless

in their

pink jackets, covered

loosely

with plastic.

but they're not speaking

to me.

it would feel like

a disappointing snack.

where's

the cake

for God's the sake,

the ice cream,

the bag of cookies?

where have all

the sweet treats gone,

my kingdom for an eclair, 

i kindly ask.

your God

your God,

she says to me, is a failure.

look around.

the ground is

full.

look at the hospital,

the morgue.

the warriors

on the battlefield,

without

arms or legs.

isn't that enough

for you

to not believe.

what

is the reason behind

a dead 

child, the failed

marriage.

disease.

what is this faith you

have,

where is it coming

from.

your God, if he does

exist is careless

with what

He's made. come on,

be like me, put down

your mythical crutch

and be brave,  

have the courage

to disbelieve.

too much light

there is almost

too much light in this room,

if there is such

a thing.

with these white walls,

in this

mood.

too much radiance,

too much bright.

 i want the shades

drawn,

the blinds

pulled shut.  i want

to find the dimmer

switch,

and ponder the past

by candle

light.

i've read enough.

the necessary denial

we deal with

a  cruel world, we endure

its travail.

its

unending chaos.

from

start to finish, we're

looking

to make it easier

more comfortable,

but always

fighting off

the unexpected.

we paint it with

a smile, but

in each beauty, comes

with it

the pain, 

and a necessary

denial.

we're almost home

it's not far from here.

it's

just around

the bend, the next turn,

the next corner.

keep going.

press on

down these strange

streets,

these back roads.

we're almost there.

i can feel it,

taste it. take my hand,

let's go,

we're almost home,

my friend.

the generous glow

we undress

in the night cold.

bare feet to the floor.

the shiver

of the house throwing

us together

beneath

the cotton folds.

is that the moon

shining

in the window?

i think so.

i hope so.

let's make love

and get warm beneath

it's generous

glow.

playing the blues

it's a near empty bar,

covid,

the cold,

the economy,

something keeping

everyone at home.

but the band plays

on as if there's 

standing room only.

the blues seem appropriate

tonight.

the low scream

of the guitar

as they sing, the thrill

is gone,

the rattle of drums,

the guy on the keyboard

lost in his

youth, never looking

out

to see who's come.

the empty jar

on stage, saying everything

that needs to be said.

bullied into nine boxes of thin mints

a girl scout appears at the door

with a brochure

of cookies.

she's about three feet tall

dressed in green

and wearing a red sash

and a red beret

like she just joined

the communist party.

her mother is standing behind

her with a loaded

gun for protection.

i wave to her,

she waves the gun 

over her head

and smiles.

okay, okay. i pull

some cash out of the safe

and order nine boxes of

thin mints and one box of

the pecan sandies.

the birds seem to like those.

three weeks, the kid says.

i nod, receipt?

we don't do receipts,

she says,

don't you trust me?

i'm a freaking girl scout

for God's sake.

my bad, i say. my bad.

then i go back inside.

the bull s....market

i tell my broker to lock down

my accounts

after they

hit an all time high.

it's enough

money to live on until the end

of time.

i tell her

to put it under the proverbial

morgan stanley

mattress.

and she says. oh no. it's too

early. you don't want to do that.

you're going to miss out

on the market

going up and up and up.

this is a bull market, she exclaims.

i tell her,

don't talk about animals

when discussing my life long savings,

okay?

okay, she says, sorry.

but please don't worry.

all is well.

so i go online to take

a look at my account

today and i'm

forty grand less than i was a week

ago.

it's a wtf moment.

so i call her to give her hell,

but she's not taking

any calls right now.

she's taking holiday.

make your own sandwich

no one wants to work

anymore.

kids are lazy.

shiftless with soft hands.

college degrees

mean nothing anymore.

they are sitting at home,

with tik tok

and you tube,

instagram

and whatever the hell

else they are up

to these days.

i can't keep up.

yesterday i went into a sandwich

shop

and the owner

said,

make your own sandwich,

he was in the back

chopping lettuce.

there's was no one behind

the counter.

so i hopped over the counter

and made

myself a hoagie.

put the money in the register,

the guy yelled.

push that button,

no the other one.

come on man, do i have

to come out there

and show you?

the coldest winter in fourteen years

it was winter.

the coldest i've ever been

in my life.

the hudson

seemed frozen.

the statue of liberty

appeared to be shivering.

the wind at battery park

cut us to the bones.

times square,

the village. walking

arm in arm. through

so ho, and no ho,

Chinatown. somehow

we managed. ducking

into stores

and shops

to try and get warm.

it wasn't until

we found an Irish

bar on the west side

where we could unravel

our scarves

and coats,

remove our hats and gloves.

and eat.

and oh, how we ate.

Shepard's pie

and beer, great chunks

of bread. i can still smell

the food on my plate

and feel the wonderous

steam

rising into my face.

it felt like love, or what

love should be.

new york in winter

will do that to you.

oh, you should go there, you'll love it

often, when people

return from

a vacation to Italy,

Venice or

Florence, somewhere

in a villa

in the country side, 

maybe Rome,

they want to duplicate

the look,

create the same ambiance

they experienced

inside their own cookie

cutter vinyl sided town

house home

clustered with hundreds

of others,

near the man

made lake.

a jiffy lube down

the street,

the dunkin donut sign

pulsating into

their narrow window.

they paint the walls

an amber color,

a rustic

gold, browns and deep

magentas.

they marbleize the bathroom,

prop a statue of David

in the back yard.

they greet each other with

a kiss on both cheeks

when they run into each other

at Krogers,

and say Ciao,

when they go.

just once would be enough

once, just once, i'd love

to hear

a woman's voice yell up

the stairs

from the kitchen, bang

a spoon against a pan,

and say, breakfast is ready.

are you coming down?

french toast and eggs.

bacon.

the coffee is on.

come on sweetheart,

rise and shine.

just once would be enough

to make my life

complete.

eight days a week

once she went to confession,

she felt better

about her life. less guilty.

clean for a short while.

washed of her sins.

but then she went

back to her usual ways

of lying,

cheating, manipulating.

adultery and taking

the Lord's name in vain.

it was okay though,

confession was seven days

a week,

the priest would find her

standing at the door

with a smile on her face,

holding her check list.

she was good for a few

hours, but sadly she 

couldn't sustain it. 

and truthfully, who can?

and now we have this

how did it go

from 

the simplicity of 

the sermon on the mount

to gowns

and gold.

to mega churches,

millionaire preachers,

the Vatican

in Rome.

how did it go from

washing another's

feet

and giving to the poor,

healing

the sick, 

making the blind see

again to this.

how did it become

so unholy

in such a short

and twisted trip.

appears to be love

i get my dog fix today.

it comes up to me

and nuzzles.

who nuzzles anymore?

but the dog

knows, what you need,

the head

burrowing

between my knees.

looking

with soft brown eyes

into mine

with what appears

to be love.

i scratch her head,

run my hands along

her blonde side.

i'm not sure who needed

it more, me or

her.

but i'm glad i took the time.

looking the other way

i go through

the day trying not to make

eye contact

with anyone.

i don't want to see worry,

or fear,

or concern.

i want them to keep

those feelings

to themselves.

there could be joy too,

or hope,

who's to know.

but i'm not interested,

so i avert my gaze

or glance,

to the ground or sky.

i move quickly

from place to place,

never looking into

anyone's eyes.

they'll make more

i'm hard

on the house, on

rugs

and knobs, 

kitchen appliances.

i destroy

everything, but i don't

care.

it's all replaceable.

i get the

most

out of things, out

of my body too.

no regrets, leaving

it all on

the court or field

of play.

but not to worry, there's

still more of me

left for you,

if you want it,

so put up your feet

for awhile

and stay.

this late already

how can it be this late,

this hour

of evening.

where did the day go,

it seems

that only a short while

ago

that i left the house

in a rush.

what happens to time,

what wind

has taken

this day from me,

so little of it 

so i recall, or call

mine.

the discount burial

they went cheap

on the grave, so now we can't

find her.

she's somewhere

over there,

not far from that tree.

or maybe

it was up the hill a little.

no marker,

no stone, no bench.

maybe they have a map

in the office.

a grid

of bodies underground.

it was the discount

burial.

a box, a hole in the ground,

a canopy

for the sun.

between the hours of

two and three.

then done.

the morning paper

when i open

the door, with the moon

still in the sky,

at early morning.

absent

of sunrise.

i feel the cold blanket

of winter

upon me.

taking me back to an

earlier

time.

a time when i would

leave the house,

the dog

not far behind me.

my wagon full,

delivering the morning post.

door to door

singing

every song i knew

to quelch

the fear

and loneliness.

now i shut the door

after picking up

the paper and smile,

no longer

blue.

making decisions

the telemarketer

for Medicare

asks

me if i make my decisions

on my own.

i ponder that

for a second or two.

are you there, he says?

hello.

hello.

i'm thinking i tell the young

man from 

Delhi.

are you able to make

your own decisions, he asks

again?

sometimes, i tell him.

sometimes i pray,

other times

i call a friend, or a relative.

occasionally, if it's

a really large

decision, a life changing

decision

i might flip a coin,

or run to down to the gypsy

on the corner

to get a reading on

her crystal ball.

is that a yes, or no, the

young says. 

it's a sometimes.

that's my answer, put that

down.

don't be a stranger

we are creatures

of habit,

no doubt. rising at the same

time each morning.

the same cup

of coffee,

the same clothes,

the same

toast coming out

of the toaster.

we say the things we

often say

in passing.

finding a phrase

that pleases us.

and others expect us

to always

be the same.

be who you are,

they say.

don't be a stranger.

it's hard to change.

tell me about that house

i have no interest in

the mansion

behind the iron gate,

surrounded by beauty.

trees and water.

white swans

floating on the lake.

tell me instead

about that abandoned

house,

the one with the broken

windows,

the rusted swing set

in the yard.

the chain linked fence

unraveled.

tell me about that house.

who lived in those

small rooms,

what went wrong, or right,

seeing that they

are no longer there.

tell me about their hunger,

their thirst,

how they warmed each

other by the fire.

tell me about the children,

was this the end,

or did this make

them go further.

maybe over the next hill

a light rain

dampens the black street.

hardly a soul

out in this cold.

the lamplight

shines

a bloom of yellow

upon me

as i stroll.

i don't mind the weather.

i don't

mind one bit

in being alone.

hands in my pocket,

my coat buttoned.

i embrace it. i wish

the nights were

longer, in fact.

i could walk all night

in a town

like this.

get lost in the beauty

of silence.

maybe over the next hill,

the next block

i'll find it.

her yellow dress

as i stare

at her yellow dress on the floor,

as she sleeps

beside me.

i wonder what went into

it,

her buying such

a pretty dress.

did she try it on, of course

she did.

was there a blue

one just like it,

a pale green

perhaps, many of the same,

on hangars,

all along the rack.

or was this only

one.

did she stand in the mirror

and turn around.

pull at the hem,

toss her hair over her shoulders

as if posing for a picture.

did she think of me

when they

put it in the wrap, carrying

it home

to lay it upon the bed,

removing the tag?

feeding time

i have been eating

the pages

of books

for most of my life,

the ink

runs down my chin,

my hands

are stained

from the print.

my eyes are bloodshot

from reading and yet

i'm still hungry.

i'm never full.

the librarian

tries to keep me

away, calling for help,

but it's too

late,

i'm at it again,

my head deep into

the next book,

feeding

on the thoughts of others.

dark times

it's dark

when i get up.

when i get home.

it's dark all night long.

it's dark

at the job

where i spend my

days

digging for coal.

i'm reading dark novels,

watching dark shows.

writing darkly

about the past.

i feel like

sometimes

i'm on a mean

dark road,

if it wasn't for the light

you give off,

i'd have no clue

as to which direction

to go.

leaving the butter out

i have no pets,

presently,

no dog to walk,

no cat

to tend to,

no plants to water,

no room mate

no love

interest

residing with me

making noise and

leaving the butter out.

i have no living things

other than

a cricket or two

in the basement

and a little mold in

the attic

to bother me.

i'm in the selfish and

happy period

of life.

the hard work done.

the chaos

settled.

i've even taken 

the doorbell out.

men and garages

i've noticed,

casually observed one might

say

that men of a certain

age

need their own special

space,

a cellar nook,

an attic, perhaps, but

the garage being the one

most used.

they raise the door

before noon.

you can see their tools

aligned neatly

on the bench, the floor

painted,

the lights bright, an old

car with the hood up being

worked on.

there's always a project going

on, a chair being restored,

a lamp being wired.

there's

posters of a different era

on the walls.

leggy pin ups of

Marilyn, or Rita Hayworth

on tin plates.

music playing

from stereo speakers hung

high in the corner.

a small ice box for cans

of beer,

for when friends stop by

to chew one's ear.

got milk?

do i miss milk.

the tall

cold glass

full to the brim,

going well with just

about anything,

no.

i don't.

not really.

like an old friend,

we've lost

touch, and probably

will never

see each other again.

the obedient stage of marriage

when i was married

for a short

while to Cruella Da Ville,

she made me

get rid of HBO and Starz

and any

other channel

that might show a human

body in the flesh.

i was in the obedient stage

of the relationship.

agreeing with her to get

this awful filth out of

our house.

i was a three year old

getting my hand slapped

as i reached into the cookie

jar of entertainment.

and then i found out

she was having an affair

with a married man,

so from then on it was

game over,

and i was binging on

Game of Thrones

by the end of the week.

people getting busy

i notice that there's

a lot

of new babies in the neighborhood.

people have

been getting

busy during the lock down.

i see the parents,

one or two

walking down the street

with an exhausted look on

their faces,

pushing strollers

cramped

with babies and bottles,

diapers

and little toys.

yo, i say to them. what's

cooking?

and they say, sorry, have

to go and heat

up a pot of milk for the little

one,

and change his diaper.

are you watching the game later?

i yell out

as the stroller rolls by.

huh, what game?

the line in the sand

there is no such thing

as unconditional love.

the books

and hallmark cards

promote that, but it's

impossible.

we all have our line in the sand.

sometimes we

push the line aside

a few times,

but then you reach a point

of no return

where love has died

and there is no

going back.

fame

once you taste

the sound

of applause, the embrace

of an

audience that

adores you,

it's hard to go back

to where

you came from.

anonymous, and happy.

not needing

or wanting the pat

on the bag,

the atta boy. but

the drug is in you

now.

never quite reaching

the point

of the first high,

when you heard that first

resounding clap.

discussing cookies in the middle of a back rub

why do you keep writing

about

your ex baking you cookies,

betty asks me as she applies

an ointment to the rash

on my back.

heat rash, i tell her,

or maybe it's that new

polyester shirt i've been wearing

when i go out

disco dancing.

sweat and polyester just

don't get along.

ya know?

whatever, she says.

but back to the cookies.

we're they any good?

damn right they were good.

name a cookie, go ahead

name any cookie

and she could make it.

peanut butter sandies.

pfffft. are you kidding me.

she could whip up a dozen

of those before you could

whistle dixie.

chocolate chips, those almond

things with powdered

sugar. oatmeal. ginger snaps.

she was a magician in

the kitchen when it came

to baked goods.

real cooking was a problem,

though. i don't think

she'd ever touched

a chicken or a pork chop

in her life. but

i wish i had one of her cookies

now and again

to dip into a cup of coffee.

so what was the problem with her?

i shake my head and laugh.

what wasn't?

whew, long story, but

go back to year 2018 and 19

in the blog,

the whole crazy tale is there.,

hey, what up?

you're not rubbing anymore,

come on, snap to it.

and can you throw in some 

scratching too.

pretty please.

i'll bake you a chicken later,

if you're hungry.

enough about me

tell me your story,

she says,

as if i have one written

down, ready to recite.

chapter one.

i was born.

etc.

and now i live here.

the stuff in the middle

makes no

never mind.

let's talk about lunch,

i tell her.

i'm leaning towards

the steak salad,

you?

they just don't get Me

maybe 
God's on vacation.

we all need one at some point.

maybe

he's resting,

getting ready for the big

day. the four horsemen and

Armageddon.

maybe He has reasons

to not

punish the wicked,

tossing a few bolts

of lighting

our way.

maybe He's truly merciful,

and has just thrown up his hands,

saying i'm done with 

this planet.

what's the point anymore?

humans.

so few get me, or

understand. 

careful with new things

we're careful with

new things.

the car,

the boat, the cycle.

the new plates

in the cupboard,

new art

on the wall, we're

careful

in hanging

things, banging the nail

just right to prevent

a fall.

we're careful,

with a new shirt, 

careful with our sips

of coffee,

careful

not to drip.

and us, are we any 

different careful with each

other,

so new to this.

the long line

we don't

lose that childlike impatience.

we subdue

it, because, well,

were adults now.

and yet

behind the wheel,

or in the wrong line

it bubbles up,

that same

anxiety

and pouting appears,

same as 

it did

when we were nine.

the good fire

as good as the fire

feels

against our feet and hands,

our face,

we know

that we can't go much further

towards it

without 

losing ourselves

in the flame,

burned into ashes.

is that what love is?

old souls

some of us

have always been old

souls,

not necessarily wise, but

aged in thought

and behavior.

conservative

and careful with life

and money, 

with where

the next move

will be made

and with who.

while others, care

less, and throw caution

to the wind,

venturing into

areas where angels

fear to tread.

filling the empty space

she liked to rescue

things.

dogs and cats,

men. repair

an old table with a scratch.

a pair of shoes,

a hat.

she was handy with

the needle and thread,

the shoulder

to lie on,

she knew how to bring

them back

to life, but

she needed them more

than they

needed her, 

filling an empty space

it was her vice.

tell me about your golf game today

i like it when she talks

about golf.

especially if i can't get to sleep.

she tells me

about the greens, how fast

or slow they were today,

the front nine,

that awful sand trap

on thirteen.

the harsh wind

taking the ball off the fairway.

and the group

in front of us, like

a parade down Broadway.

so slow.

it isn't long before

i'm fast asleep,

snoring, as she describes

with joy

her eagle

on the final hole.

beats working

despising work

for most of his life

kept him poor, but

when his father

died

he came into money.

all gone

within a year.

and then the mother passed

away.

the house was sold.

more money, but still

nothing saved.

another year

gone by, his pockets were

empty once more,

but there was still hope

with a rich uncle standing

in the wings at 94,

though

trying with spite

to spend it all

before death knocked

upon his door.

intensive care

i like the idea of intensive

care.

people monitoring your vital

signs,

checking in from time to time,

to see if you're

still ticking.

bringing you jello.

tucking you in.

there's another bouquet

of flowers by your side.

of course,

if you're in a real hospital,

like Sibley or Walter Reed

it's not a good place to be,

it means

there's something seriously

wrong with you,

you may die,

but the idea of people caring

so much,

intensively caring.

who doesn't want that?

and that's the problem

how quick we are to learn,

to figure

out what we don't want

in our lives.

in our mouths, our

homes.

we don't like the color

of that shirt,

or the style, so we

say no.

and that car,

i'll never get behind the

wheel of a beetle bug.

shoot me first.

get that food away from

me.

raw fish, i don't think so.

but when it comes to

relationships,

i'm all over the place,

blonde brunette, or redhead,

short, tall, heavy

or skinny,

crazy or sane,

it makes no

difference to me,

and that's the problem.

i hope you're happy

you're hard candy.

too sweet for my liking.

and yet

there i go palming

another piece

or two

and sucking on it

until the sugar

melts in my mouth,

upsets my

stomach.

this is what you do to

me.

i hope you're happy.

DMV hell

as we sit in the DMV waiting

for seven hours to

get our

tags renewed, we discuss

heaven and hell.

she says, there's both.

i say.

i don't know. i want to believe

in heaven,

but hell bothers

me.

what if they mess up the paper

work,

misspell your name,

and suddenly there you are

like a rotisserie chicken

forever spinning

in eternity.

it's all computerized, she says,

staring at her ticket,

B12.

is there a court? what if you're

on the edge.

half good, half bad.

is it a coin toss? who makes the call?

i don't know she says.

it's all in that book.

what book?

you know, that dusty book on

your shelf. The Bible.

oh, right.

maybe i'll google it.

hey. you're next, B11 just went

up.

it's still wiggling

it's best to stick with

what you know.

i know chicken.

steak.

potatoes and greens.

Indian food, not so much.

what is this?

buffalo? goat?

you can even go off

the rails with asian

food sometimes.

shouldn't this eel be cooked?

it's still wiggling.

being scolded

it surprises me

when the woman at the store

scolds me

for not

pushing my shopping

cart into line

with the others.

i've walked it back

from my car

and leave it against a pole

so that it

doesn't roll back into

the street.

well aren't we the lazy one

she says.

shaking her head.

and this, i'm sad to say,

reminds me

of you.

go ahead, have fun

i kiss her goodbye

as she leaves

the house to go jump out of a plane.

see you when

you get back, i tell her,

if you don't kill

yourself.

i'll be out back,

reading by the pool,

stretched out in the sun.

i left the will on the table

for you to sign.

have fun.

taking it for granted

i take water

for granted, so much

at the ready

with the turn of a knob.

and heat,

and food. the pleasures

of home.

i expect it all

to be near, to be more

than i'll ever need.

and at times,

love too. just enough,

and not too much

to get me

through.

a strong back

to those without,

of any

color,

the tomorrows

are

brooding mountains

yet to be climbed.

religion

helps.

as does a strong

back

and a determined

mind.

the high hill

it's the crisp

air,

the broken sheet of snow

under

the weight of your

boot

in moonlight

that brings you around

again

to life.

the cold in your lungs,

the water in

your eyes,

you're a child again,

with sled

being pulled,

heading towards the

high hill,

the gentle slope

to ride

once more with

friends.

why

i'm not sure how the words

ever fell out

of my mouth, having sworn

a vow to

God and anyone in earshot

for the last twenty years

that i'd never get married again,

but there i was on one knee,

intoxicated with what i thought

was love, but instead

was a delusionary state of insanity.

i shake my head in dismay

at that day, that moment

with no one there to slap me,

no lightning bolt to shoot 

through the window and knock

some sense into me.

having been raised by wolves,

i was without a clue,

without one single iota

of sense in my demented skull.

and dammit to hell if

she didn't say yes.

falling on thin ice

when i fell

on the ice, and lay there,

staring up

at the fat bright moon,

glistening off

the snow

and ice, i didn't cry

for help, i didn't move.

it was rather nice

just lying there,

unhurt except for pride,

i opened up

the groceries i was

carrying,

some bread, some

cheese, a slice of ham.

but no mustard.

it didn't matter,

i realized i would survive.

i gave it twenty

minutes,

then crawled inside.

too many people

there's too many people.

it's crowded.

you can't go anywhere

without

a line,

traffic,

the stores, you need

to make

a reservation at nine

in the morning

for dinner at seven.

we're living too long

medicine and working out,

eating more healthy.

less and less

are checking out early

these days.

where did we go wrong

with all these

salads.

even the big ones, are

hanging in

there, with scooters

and uber,

making due with their

sugared up livers.

giving it a rest

my tongue

falls asleep, it no

longer

wants to wag, or taste,

or talk.

it's had enough

of babble, of food

and drink.

it's resting.

almost asleep.

there's nothing

left to say, so

i'll sit here quietly

and think.

changing the blood flow

she starts telling me 

about her boots,

her fifteen thousand

dollar riding boots

made of seven different kinds

of leather.

cow, alligator, deer and snake.

she tells me they go

up to her thighs.

buttery soft, with a long

zipper that tightens

them. makes them taut.

i tell her to stop.

please stop. i can't

work in this condition.

i can't climb a ladder,

or even walk.

tell me again about

the fight you're having

with your mother,

that should change

the blood flow, so i

can go back to work.

a few missteps

i count on the sun

to rise,

the moon to shine,

the seasons

to change.

i expect life to go on

as usual as

i go merrily along

and age.

so far it hasn't

disappointed me,

despite

a few horrendous

missteps

along the way.

no kids, we're not going there

they send out a twenty

billion dollar

telescope into space

to see what's out

there. what other

life might

exist in the vast expanse

of the universe, but

the years go by and

still nothing.

not a peep

from anyone out there.

no music,

no words,

no morse code with light,

or sound,

nothing, but the hum

of empty air.

and if they do signal

back it would be to

say, leave us alone.

do you really

think they want to come

here?

the case for God

did we really evolve

from monkeys,

and monkeys

from fish

crawling out of

the soup.

sometimes i look at my

uncle Joe

and i can

believe it, while other times,

when he says

something funny

and clever, i don't.

was it a puddle of goo

that started it all.

a lightning strike

into a primordial

cocktail

of cells and poof, there

we are.

there's the elephant

the butterfly,

the zebra,

and you.

who put the goo there?

the lemon girl

she was disappointed

in me,

and others,

(who isn't?).

always complaining

about her work,

her job, her parents,

her siblings,

her dog.

there wasn't anything

that put

a smile on

her face.

she was only truly happy

when she was

unhappy

with the world.

she was a lemon

girl.

sucking on the bitter

rind all day.

I"m Eleanor Roosevelt, How can i Help You?

it was a slow day,

yesterday there was

only

twelve Indian scammer

calls.

it's slowing down

at last.

i think they're catching

on to my

impersonation of 
Eleanor Roosevelt's

high pitched voice.

no more agents

from the social security,

or the IRS,

or car warranty service,

or life after death

insurance benefits.

the publisher clearing

house prize

patrol car is no longer on

their way with a check.

it's a sad time.

a sad sad time.

maybe i should call them.

the red flag

don't ever call me Kathy,

or Kat,

or Kitten,

she told me

on the first date.

my name is Kathleen.

and i come

from a long line

of Kathleens.

so please, if you're

going to say my name,

say it correctly.

i raise my hand

towards the waiter,

finishing my one

drink.

check please.

she took it all

the intruder

pries open the back door.

with a wrench,

a crow bar,

he's hardly quiet coming in.

i yawn

and stretch in bed.

i yell down the steps.

hey.

what's going on

down there?

there's nothing left

for you to

take.

she got it all in the divorce,

there's no money

anywhere.

the intruder

goes quiet

as he opens the fridge door,

then

yells, up i'm sorry,

my bad.

i'll leave now. hope

you don't if i take a slice

of cake,

where exactly do you keep

your tupperware?

as i will too

we need so little

to be happy. we

make the list.

food, shelter, water.

a bed

to sleep in,

work.

good health.

friends.

and what is the glue,

what is

the one thing

that makes sense of

it all.

gives reason.

some call it love,

as i will too.

a different thing by far

the welt will heal,

the bruise,

the broken bone

will mend,

the cut,

the wound.

all in time, and care

will

come around again.

almost forgotten,

just remembered

by a slender thread

of stitch

or scar, but the heart,

well, that's a different

thing by far.

i'll be right back

rare

these days, that the car won't

start.

the engine not turning

over on a cold winters

day.

half the time

i forget how to even unlatch

the hood,

let alone

hooking up cables

for a recharge.

in the old days, you'd

look out the window

at men

putting chains around

their tires,

running the engine

until

there was a path to roll out.

checking the oil, 

the anti-freeze.

they'd dig a path in

case they had to go somewhere

for cigarettes and beer.

a piece of red meat.

a newspaper.

this winter storm was nothing.

no fear.

the summer of you

i like the cold

except when it's your shoulder

i'm leaning against,

the freezing

temps,

the bitter wind.

i can endure,

except when it involves

a relationship

i'm in.

i want it to be spring

or summer

all year long, my

loving friend.

whenever you are

i back the car in,

raise the wipers, set the bag

of salt out

on the porch.

the shovel. the old broom.

i look up into the sky

and say.

okay, i'm ready

whenever you are.

i wait,

comfy on the couch,

i have everything i need,

but you.

now go to sleep

i like how the news

casters

give you the most

horrific news.

stories about death

and disease, scandals,

global warming, flooding

and fires, car jackings

and

murder in the first

degree,

and then after a commercial

break they tell you

a fun story

about a kitten caught

up in a tree.

rescued by a grandmother

with a ladder

and a cardboard box,

holding a

piece of baloney.

the panel is now all smiles,

joking and laughing,

talking about their own

cats and dogs,

fluffy and fido,

ending the broadcast

as if all is well.

now go to sleep. 

go to sleep.

it's been a while for Becky

still in my underwear at

nine in the morning

i open the front door and dip

my bare

leg out into the cold

trying to determine 

whether it's going to be

a walk today, or a bike

ride. getting a measure

of the wind.

and then i see my

neighbor becky 

the mayor of the court,

walking

by with her hundred

year old dog.

she stops and stares at me

getting a full look.

i shrug, and say, sorry,

just checking the weather.

she screams and gets her

phone out to call someone.

there's a man here flashing

me in his underwear. but

she keeps looking. staring.

it's been a while for

becky, i can tell, as she stumbles

home in tears.

dragging the dog behind her.

meeting royalty for a drink

pardon my lack of interest,

i tell her

after she tells me that,

she's prettier in person.

intense too, so don't

be surprised.

i like the finer things in life,

she says.

i like my doors opened

for me.

i think the man should pay

and treat me as if

i'm royalty. i'm very old

fashioned that way.

so don't be surprised 

when you meet me, i'm

what they call a Queen Bee.

oh, i won't be, i tell her.

no worries there,

because i don't want

to meet you. i already

don't like you.

you're one of those.

one of those, she says?

excuse me?

yes. one of those.

probably good in bed, but

crazy in the head.

too many demands, too

many needs.

i don't need that kind

of drama anymore.

been there, done that.

i've had my fill.

so go find another dope

that will bend his knee.

dial tone.

a room full of strangers

i can be in a room full

of people

for about twenty minutes

before i break down into

a cold sweat,

and then i have

to get out.

unless it's my house

and i've invited them all

over to eat and drink,

to dance and misbehave.

but a room full of

near strangers is death

to me.

the small talk. the nodding,

the politeness of it all.

nowhere to sit, 

no way to get to a far

corner to stand in.

i search out the kitchen,

the back door to find

an exit or a waitress, 

or a cook to talk to.

i get along so much better

with those that have

no skin in the game.

take care of my cat while i'm gone

bored with

things down here.

i sign up for the space

program.

i'm going to Mars

next week.

i wanted to let you know

before i go.

i'll miss you.

i'm not sure if we can

talk when i get there,

or text.

and if i don't come back,

do you mind

watering my plants

and checking in

on the cat?

i'll be wearing the sweater

you made for me

for christmas last

year. 

the one with the bold

stripes and snow flakes

falling.

it's going to be

a long trip,

sleeping in that little

tin sphere.

oh, and there's chicken

in the fridge

if you want it and

one can of red white 

and blue

beer.

non fiction

there is no

fiction. it's all true to some

degree.

most of it

i can't make up

when 

i think of you,

of me.

the story is too bizarre

to be 

believed.

but it's all true,

every word.

no need for embellishment,

or exaggeration.

no need.

turn the page, try

not laugh,

not to bleed.

keeping us on through winter

he was a good boss.

Red.

he'd jangle his keys

or change in

his pocket

when he was coming

around the corner.

he wanted to see

us working,

no talking and sitting

on the curb

discussing girls

or the war.

if our time was coming.

he was squared

and short.

a painter or a farmer

most of his life.

white pants, white shirt.

brown boots.

he never smiled

or cursed.

but he seemed to like

us, keeping us on

through winter

until the snow

was too deep

to work.

Avoid New York

the sign said, 

in bold

white blinking letters 

above the

Jersey turnpike,

Avoid New York.

it was during the transit

strike,

but we pressed on

in her beat

up blue Toyota,

smoke pouring out

of the rusted

exhaust.

forward i said,

hit it,

and we did,

straight to Katz's deli

for nourishment.

an enormous deli

pickle and

a fat hot bed 

of pastrami on rye.