we digress

we digress,

we deflect and change

the subject.

we cringe,

we stall, we excuse ourselves

from the table.

what more

is there to say.

we avoid eye contact.

we itch,

we burn to leave.

there is no

plan to do this again.

we're done,

let's agree to disagree

and part

as almost friends.

lighting the fire

when you think the world

has gone

to hell

in a handbasket,

people arise.

quiet

but strong. fierce.

there is more goodness

than evil,

it takes a war sometimes

to light

the fire.

was it a good life

was it a good life

this

bird

lying

on the side of the road.

did she fly

where

she wanted to fly,

were memories

made,

was there love,

was there joy

going from tree

to tree,

will we ever know

it's story.

does it matter?

what transpired,

is that also true of you ,

of me?

breaking news

all the news

you need comes in the first ten minutes

of the broadcast.

the next nine

hours

are hot air and blabber.

a loop of the same

video they gave you in minute

one

plays endlessly until

it's stuck inside your mind

like the gum on

your boot that you can't

quite scrape off.

they know enough,

the pundits, and pretties,

to fill that first

quarter of an hour,

but the rest is fluff, dragging

to the camera

anyone

with a suit and flag decal

on their lapel.

you turn it off.

you give up.

she falls asleep

she falls asleep

against my arm, it's a light

snore,

a small

train going down the track.

a little

whistle

as it approaches

the bend

of dreams.

she's gone and

there is no turning back.

let's tie a ribbon around it

we want

to tie a ribbon around things

and call it

closure. we desire

a rational conversation

ending things,

with polite and bitterless

words,

maybe a hug

farewell, saying,

with a wave, take care,

but it doesn't always happen

that way.

sometimes there

is no ribbon,

no string to tie around

the crushed box

of a relationship.

it's empty,

the sides caved in,

there is no bottom to speak of,

no top.

it's best to just carry it

out to the curb,

slap your hands together

and be done

with it.

back on the horse

in time

we all get back up

on the horse.

forgetting the pain of the fall.

the broken bones.

the black

skin, feeling forever

bruised.

but we heal.

we rise.

there's a new horse in

the stable.

it isn't long before the boots

are back on.

and we ride.

just one stone

from here,

you look so small

lying on the ground.

you are finally

the true

size of you.

what fear

there was of your presence,

the shadow

of your stature. you seemed

impossible to defeat.

how giant you were, looming

in the doorway,

blocking the sun.

but from

here,

with one stone, i've

slayed you.

i've put you permanently

to sleep.

the early lies are the worst

the early

lies are the worst.

you can be anything you

so desire

your mother tells you.

stand tall.

be strong, your father

says.

go forward,

be brave

in this world. there is

nothing you

can't accomplish

without

relentless resolve.

it's all about

positive thinking.

the early lies are the worst.

the meat of genius

i delve into Eliot

and Pound,

it's an unknown world

of words.

i don't feel smart enough,

or well read

enough

to have them sink in

and become

profound.

i'm lost in the Wasteland.

struggling

to chew and swallow

the meat

of genius.

what the world gives

some futures

are shorter than others.

the clock though should not

quicken

your pace.

instead slow down

to a crawl.

smell

the earth.

eat and drink.

make love.

do no harm to yourself

or others.

stand firm

in your beliefs and faith.

go out

with kindness.

what the world gives,

the world

takes.

too much of a good thing

too much

is just enough

as oscar wilde

so pithily said.

or was it someone else?

i get my

mentors mixed up

after a martini or two.

what say

we get together

for a rendezvous,

and have a night

of too much,

too much of me

and too much of you.

my piano teacher

my piano lessons

are not going well.

i can see the frustration 

in my

instructor's face.

but she's kind

and gentle as she moves

my hands

across the keys,

saying press like that.

she pushes my knee

towards the pedal

and says, relax,

breathe, you're too stiff.

i nod okay.

she smiles and frowns,

she laughs.

i pay her well though.

this insures that every

tuesday at  7 that she'll

come back.

does she know

i'm falling in love with her,

does she know that yet?

one never knows

is it cruel, or

just how it is? can you

rant

and rave

at

what's to come, what's

gone by.

can you curse

the ocean

the overflow of waves,

the earth

breaking,

the sky is not falling for

any other

reason

than, that's just the way

it goes.

step lightly,

go careful. it may be

your turn

next?

one never knows.

bond, james bond

as suave and as dangerously

debonair

as james bond was,

did he ever wonder

or worry about

std's, or

pregnancy.

was he using protection,

or just relying

on his instincts.

did 007 ever stop to think

about the voluptuous

woman's

feelings in her loin cloth

briefs,

or polka dotted

bikini?

was he a cad, like you,

or me, or just busy

saving the world

from evil.

did he call them back

the next day?

make promises he'd never

keep.

marshall hall amusement park

it wasn't

magical, the rollercoaster,

a calamity of

white

wood peeling of paint.

the scratch

and clang of metal cars

on ancient

chain linked

tracks.

it was frightening,

boarding

the cramped

boxed car,

the rail pulled down

by a tattooed gnome

for you to hold

on to

as you slowly climbed

the first hill,

leaving behind

the carnival

world

below.

how we screamed,

as the car

blistered along, 

suspended in the air,

floating,

seemingly half off

the path.

then the next hill, the next.

around the curves,

surprised that we were

still alive,

and finally to the last

stretch,

where it slowed to 

rest.

and a picture of you

when i get home

from work

i empty my pockets into the green

bowl

on the counter.

out come keys, and coins.

lint.

nails and screws.

scraps of papers.

a pen. one Band-Aid.

a paper clip,

a piece of gum, unchewed,

folded money.

a check.

a swiss army knife,

two aspirins and

a picture of you.

today is a good day for soup

when she wakes up,

she leans

over and tells me, whispering

in my ear.

today is a good day for soup,

don't you think?

it's so wet and cold out.

i try to ignore her,

half in half out of

a dream

about pastrami.

don't you think we should

make soup today?

she says,

shaking my shoulder.

sure, i tell her.

let's make some soup.

okay. she says.

chicken noodle, lentil,

tomato soup?

you pick, i tell her. maybe

a pastrami sandwich

on the side, too?

the nickel bag

i hear that the drug

dealers

are now

charging customers

for bags.

if you don't have a little

plastic

baggie for your fresh dope,

you're out of luck, or

they have

to charge you

for the purchase of one

of their own bags.

it's the way of the world

now.

everyone trying

to leave less

of a carbon foot print.

yeah, we had a baby

suddenly, i see the neighbors

with a new born.

i'm taken

aback.

i stare a little longer than i should

at the baby

in the woman's arms.

hey.

she says. yeah, we had a baby.

her husband smiles

carrying in

a load of blankets,

diapers, new baby gear

for the start.

he says nothing.

endurance

my tolerance for pain

and suffering

is

tremendous. having grown

up in a house

without

heat or air conditioning

or very little

food, to speak of.

washing wounds out

in the bathroom

as a child.

i know what it is to be

cold.

to be one of many, ignored

and told

all is well. effortlessly

lied to.

add on

three marriages too,

buy this

for most, not all, but

many,

there's a feeling that something

is missing.

someone, some thing,

some intangible

object

that you can't quite put

your finger on

is needed to make you whole.

there's a void in you, in me.

the priests will tell you 

it's God.

the world will tell you

differently,

buy this and all will be well.

the daily news

between

the bodies, the tanks, bombs

being dropped

there's a commercial

for soap,

another one

for a Caribbean cruise

and then back

to the refugees

with all their 

belongings on their backs.

babies crying,

mothers

bent over, knowing

that they'll go home again.

and then

there's a new car,

a new truck.

one per cent financing.

a cream to smooth out

your wrinkles.

maybe it's time for a nip

and tuck.

then back

to the charred body lying in

the street.

brushing lives aside

at a certain

age

there is little surprise

of new

war.

at men who need

what

they don't have.

is it an ego thing, or

something

darker,

born with it.

this devil inside,

coming

out with guns

blazing,

brushing lives

aside.

becoming a saint

i go into the blood bank

to give

them a few pints

of my blood.

it's who i am. what i do.

i'm so good, i can hardly

stand it sometimes.

of course i tell everyone

what i'm doing.

they need to know

the saint in me.

they need proof of my

goodliness.

but i'm rejected after

the needle

finds a vein.

the blood is no good.

they ask me how much

coffee do i drink

in a day.

i shrug and say, i don't know.

maybe a gallon

or so.

with heavy cream.

try green tea for a while

they tell me and come back

in a week.

those wonderful dreary days

i'm more

fond of the dreary days lately.

the cold

grey winter grasp

of land

and sky.

bundling up

before venturing down

the wooded path.

i like the chill

of the wind.

the sting of February

on my cheeks.

there's a bittersweet

loneliness 

in it all.

it's all good for

writing

depressing poetry

and remembering

past mistakes

and sins.

the Delmonico steak joint

the guy at the door wants

to see

our vax

cards. to see if we're

inoculated

with the covid shots

and booster.

it's a swanky place,

and we're all dressed up.

it's cold as a penguin's

butt outside

so we dig into our wallets

to find

the cards.

i take out my polio card.

my rubella,

my tetanus,

my shingles,

my flu shot card,

my pneumonia card.

measles,

chicken pox.

typhoid and finally my

covid card. holding it

upside down.

they shrug

and say okay.

you're good.

come on in.

do you want the nine

inch

Delmonico, or the six.

the photo op

there are some days

that you just can't take a good

picture of yourself.

no matter how close

or far away you hold the camera

you look old

and fat, tired.

your hair isn't right.

you're slouching.

the light is too dark,

too bright.

the ocean behind you

does nothing.

the birds in the sky, the tree.

the city landscapes.

are mere props

in your ill conceived

photo op.

you know you look better

than this.

maybe you'll try again

tomorrow.

the obituary writer

at the end of your life

you need to have one good friend

still around.

someone who loves you,

someone

who put up with all of your

shenanigans

it can be a neighbor,

a son,

a brother, a sister.

the mailman.

a nurse.

anyone who sees the good in you.

this is the person you assign

to writing your

obituary.

someone to rewrite your life,

put a shine on it.

buff it like an apple

in the sunlight.

hiding the bruised

and brown

worm side.

most of the commandments

i take my halo

out of the top drawer

and see if it still fits.

it's bent

and slightly rusted.

i turn it sideways, move

it up, then back

an inch.

it's been a long time

since i've been

good, really good.

without gossip, or

complaint.

it's been years since

i've haven't taken the Lord's

name in vain or

been jealous

or envious, or slandered

someone,

who got in the way.

but i haven't killed anybody,

or committed adultery, 

so that's a good thing.

sixth grade report card

after my

mother dies, and the sisters

eagerly

clean house,

gnawing at the bones

of what's left behind.

i'm left with an old

report card from the sixth grade.

some A's some B's,

a C or two.

mrs. shifflet

writes on the back.

stephen

is very quiet. he doesn't

say much,

rarely does he raise

his hand

to participate in class.

he seems to be day dreaming

a lot.

but he's liked

just the same.

he makes

us laugh.

my kind of people

she tells me

that i seem disappointed

in people.

some,

perhaps. not all. some

i'm actually very

happy to know them,

to be a part of their lives.

i admire

their courage, their humility.

their sense

dignity and humor.

honesty.

they are my kind

of people.

i want more of them.

the art closet

the art closet

is nearly full now.

pictures

from the past.

sketches in charcoal.

acrylics

and oils, mostly store

bought.

on a whim.

delivered by trucks,

or stuck

in the trunk for transport.

to the walls

they went. hammer and nail,

a measuring tape

giving it

a good attempt at center.

but now

they collect dust in the dark

basement.

trees and seas.

mountains and streams.

buildings.

people

i've never known or seen.

they all appealed to me

at one point.

but now,

like you, they have no use

no meaning,

no need.

gathering nuts

she wasn't a complicated

woman.

far from it.

can a squirrel be

complicated?

not really. it gathers

nuts

and lives out his life

jumping from

branch to branch

and running across the wires

overhead

unaware of electrical

shock.

but he's not complicated,

and neither was

she.

confused, yes. simple

minded, of course,

unable to make a decision,

like crossing a street,

often wandering into

traffic with

her head down looking

neither way.

who the hell is Bixby?

if i look at my phone

in the wrong way,

or pick it

up.
things happen that i don't

know how to stop.

who's Bixby and what does

he want?

how do i make the screen

go up

not sideways.

where is the mute button.

how do i get out

of this group

conversation?

i'm taking a video and

i don't know how i did that,

or how to make it stop.

how did i save a screen

shot, which button did i push

for that?

why does LinkedIn keep

telling me

who has a new job,

why does Instagram keep

updating?

i'm not even on there.
i need a new phone and

to get rid of

all that.

what's your problem?

she tells me she's low

on estrogen.

i look it up.

that might be the problem.

not the donuts.

or the sensitivity

to the world

at large.

her emotions all over

the place.

a roller coaster

of ups and downs.

as for me i blame it on

my mother

and Entenmann's

at then end of the row

near the eggs

and cream.

who are these people?

who are these people

that we need

to care about and follow.

i've never heard 

their names before, or

seen their faces.

are they actors, musicians,

singers?

i have no clue, but suddenly

they've taken the place

of cary grant, sinatra,

audrey hepburn,

and elvis too.

they seem to have no or

little talent on display,

but they like

to tell their stories,

send photos of all things

they're up to.

hot pastrami on rye with a pickle

at the 2nd avenue deli

there's

a fat man lying on the floor

getting

CPR.

a defibrillator

is brought out by a waiter.

they stand

back and hit

the switch.

the man shakes his arms

and legs.

there's mustard on his

face,

a bite of pickle comes out of

his mouth.

he rises with the help

of his family

and goes back to

the plate on his table.

we continue eating our

pastrami sandwich on rye. 

it's that good.

i'm listening, go on...

i'm a patient listener

until i'm not.

if the story goes on too long,

and a mother

or a cat is involved,

or the weather, i tend

to drift off.

at this point she taps

my knee, and says,

are you listening, to which

i reply, of course i am.

go on with your story.

i smell what you're cooking.

a days work

as i soak,

i stare at my hands.

large and hard, calloused

and covered

in debris.

a days work done.

i can't get the water

hot enough

to ease

the pain, of bones

and muscle.

through the back and

down the legs.

but these hands.

these hands that give

me work,

that provide a crust

of bread,

are at last at rest

as i close them together,

lacing the fingers

to pray.

a youthful wonder

i can't save you.

you can't save me.

so why bother,

why bring your troubles

to my door,

there's nothing i can

do.

i've seen and heard them

all before, as you

have from me.

let's leave them.

set them aside for now,

or longer.

be cheerful for once

and enjoy life 

with a youthful 

wonder.

we can find it together

i go back to new york.

there's something there that

i keep going back for.

something

on the streets, in the pubs,

in the alleys.

there's something

in the air.

the food, the chatter, the roar.

the cold wind,

the ice and snow.

the fire of it all,

the sadness of it all.

the crumbling towers,

the trash,

the poets, the drunks,

the lost

and lonely.

i keep going back to find

what i'm looking for.

come with me.

maybe we can find it

together.

the laminated card

i write out a card

that reads

I'm Sorry.

i laminate it and hang

it around my

neck with a string.

i point to it

whenever it's needed.

saves time.

saves a conversation.

saves me

from wringing my hands,

furrowing my brow,

as i look

around the block at

the long line.

catholic school

after a lusty

session of making love.

the sheets

tangled,

her hair a bird's nest.

our hearts

thumping like

rabbits

on the run, i ask her

where did you

learn all of that.

where did that come

from.

catholic school, she says.

twelve years.

i was almost

a nun.

face to the wind

the drunk poets

and writers.

the pill takers, the drugs,

the suicide

longings,

the deep dark depressions.

dragging

themselves to the pen

or typewriter,

wailing about their life,

wanting it

to end.

to hell with that i say.

there's too much good

in the world.

make love. make friends.

leave the blues

to the ink.

get up, get going,

face to the wind.

call it done

no sense in talking

about it anymore,

no point

in going on with

words.

back and forth,

circling,

discussing what

went wrong.

let's just part and go.

call it closure.

call it done,

call it fini, then

hit the road.

awaken in your day

awaken

in your day. take it by

the collar.

shake it.

stamp your boots,

toss

yourself forward

into the wind,

into the weather.

embrace the cold,

lean

into your life.

fear less

than the day before.

don't

sleep

while you're awake,

for sleep

will come soon enough,

and at

the end, no more.

i'll see you again

i'll see you again.

i believe

that i will. i have no proof

of this,

but it's in

me.

i'll see you again, as

sure as the sun

sets and 

the moon rises,

as the ocean swells

and the trees

bend.

i'll see you again,

i promise you,

before it all ends.

i'll see you again.

almost without us

almost without us

the clock

moves its hands.

the calendar

goes to another page.

seasons change.

almost without us,

time

goes forward

and we take each other's

hands, if

there is one to hold,

and go with it.

romeo, pfffft

i won't cut my ear off 

for you,

my love. ala van Gogh,

nor will

i throw myself off

a bridge,

or like juliet and romeo

fade

into eternity

by drinking 

a poison potion.

i wont

write a long letter

of love

for you,

expressing my sadness

and sorrow

at our ending,

or carve our initials into

a tree.

but what i will do is

set your bags out

on the curb,

wish you well, and take

the duplicate

car pass and key.

two to tango

with the frightening

full length

needle

held up

to the silvery

hospital light,

the elixir of cortisone

is shot

deep inside the soft

tissue

of the knees making

me want

to dance again.

but only for a short while,

the relief is welcome

but ephemeral, like

most good things.

maybe i'll give a go

to the twist,

the monkey,

the limbo

or the mashed potatoes

to name just

a few of the dances

i'm still capable of doing.

but can we save

the tango for later, dear.

that is if you're

still in the mood.

a shade of blue

a shade

of blue colors

you

it's in the day

and into

the night.

it's in the shadows.

in the sky.

in the last gasp of

light.

the color blue.

it's hard

to escape when it

arrives.

it blankets,

it holds,

it envelops you.

teasing

we are teased

by weather,

the early breeze

of spring,

by whispered words.

by the touch

of a hand,

or wink.

we warm up to

such things.

letting winter go

with a throw

of coat

against the chair.

come closer.

quit teasing me

with that

leg, now bare.

the overdue book

i have an overdue

book

from 1979.

i probably owe about

seven thousand dollars

in library fines.

i should probably

keep it at this point.

who has the patience

and time

to read Ulysses

anyway.

what was i thinking.

it's made a good door stop

though

for all these years,

keeping

the badly hinged

french doors

at bay.

i didn't hear you

miscommunication

is easy.

don't listen,

half listen,

be engaged with your

phone

or the window,

your good ear

against the glass.

words

are coming in but

quickly going

out again.

say what?

did you say something?

i'm sorry.

i wasn't listening.

covered in hot pastrami

did i leave

my hat on the train.

the cashmere

cap

that kept me warm

from the Hudson wind,

or was

it left in the hotel room.

or on the street

between Vanderbilt

and 41st.

maybe it's on the floor

at Katz's deli,

beneath a table,

now covered

in grease and

hot layers of pastrami.

i loved that hat.

whoever finds it,

i hope they enjoy it,

but i'd really like

it back.

back door man

we need a back door

an escape

plan.

a way out when the shooting

starts.

we need

a ladder,

a hole in the wall,

a drain pipe to slide down

to get away

when things go south,

to get away

from it all.

find a chair in back

of the room

with your

back against the wall.

be prepared.

it never stays

calm and peaceful for

long.

lighting a candle

we slide

two dollars into the metal

box

and light a candle

at St. Patrick's.

we kneel

and pray to a
God we believe in but

have

no clue

about the mystery of

it all.

it feels good to let go,

to pray

without asking,

to pray

for others, those who

need it most.

dial set in the middle

we want low

maintenance, no drama.

no histrionics.

we want

stability and normal.

the dial

set in the middle.

we want

peace and serenity.

harmony.

no thin ice, no walking

on eggshells,

no curbing of thoughts

or words.

someone

real and fun,

someone perpetually

nice.

Frost

the bitterness

and meanness

of Frost

contradicts his words.

the poem

saying one thing,

his life

another.

how hard it is to

separate

the two.

we want our heroes,

our artists

to be good

men,

good women, not

curmudgeons

and fools.

lost and lonely souls

like me,

like you.

nothing is lost

nothing is lost.

it's somewhere, not in hand

perhaps,

but it's out

there

being found by another

set of eyes.

someone bending over

and picking it up

and saying happily,

now this is mine.

the irishman

the irishman,

still stuck in Ireland,

is pleasantly unhappy, 

despite his jokes,

his ribbing,

his high pitched

cackle

as we sit, in from the cold

for beer

and a sandwich.

he's been here

forever.

maybe longer.

he pushes a menu in front

of us.

knowing we won't

be here long, or ever coming

back.

we're given

the tourist treatment.

and he's right

on all counts.

the highland

it's an ancient path.

one that

runs along

the highland.

yellowed by winter.

the green

gone.

the old railroad

tracks.

the wind is fierce

as we push into it.

not far,

not too far

that we can't go back.

bordered

by brick, by sealed

windows.

by tenements not

yet

converted

into this century.

the  barreled

water

towers.

the chain links.

the barbed wire.

graffiti. 

it's all part of it as

we press on

with our own lives.

let's lie here for a while

strange to wake

up to sirens.

to taxis leaning on their horns.

to screams

and laughter.

to pigeons on the sills.

the enormous window

holding

in it

the skyline, a buttermilk

sky over 

the new york city library

it's early.

the first cup of coffee is

yet to be poured,

the first bagel

yet to smeared with a swab

of cream cheese.

we should lie

here, don't you agree, for

a little while more.

are we on the right train?

while

traveling, we are in

constant

search

of phone and hat.

gloves and scarf.

tapping pockets

and bags.

money intact?

the credit cards secured.

the bags

up on the rack.

are we on the right train.

in the right seats?

are we going

in the right direction,

on the right track?

did we leave

the lights on 

at home, lock

the doors.

we haven't yet left

and already

we're thinking of 

things left behind

and going back.

either side of the tracks

the ragged edges

of the country lie along

the rail tracks.

the abandoned houses

and factories.

the rusted

cars and trucks, machinery.

the skeletons

of buildings stare back

at you

at a fast pace.

everything looks old

and dirty.

the world seems

without hope.

there is despair in every window.

who could live

there you think with guilt

as you head

to your home.

starkers

the biggest steak

we've ever seen arrives on two

porcelain dishes.

our waiter

aldo

brings us more tap water.

another drink.

another basket

of rolls.

a baked potato.

he nods. 

there's pepper onto the salads.

there's a polite

bow, and off he goes.

it's crowded. busy for a thursday

night.

lovers on dates.

old marriages.

new flings.

money is in the air.

martinis.

Frangelico

and anchovies.

there's cappuccino,

and cheesecake.

everyone looks like someone.

there's a table beside us

talking about

the stock market,

and in laws.

the mob boss that was shot

outside

the doors in 1958.

we could stay until it closes

if they'd let us.

there's so much left over,

all into a bag

that we'll shamelessly take.

down 5th avenue

the city feels deflated

in some

strange way.

the air out of it, like

a cold

exhale.

the store fronts closed.

no  chestnut

vendors

on the corners.

on music in Washington Square.

the holiday

lights are down, the tree

gone

from Rockefeller
Center.

less people.

less tourists.

less taxis.

less of everything as we

walk

through a snow squall

from 5th avenue,

heading down.

leaving and returning

he's in a long black coat.

silver hair.

sublime in dress

and looks.

well manicured.

a bag beside his

polished shoes.

he's riding the train home

from the city.

no need to look out the window

at the passing

land.

he's tired

and leans with the movement

of the car

against the rails.

he was here when we

boarded.

he'll be here when we

depart.

he's always been here

in some way.

leaving

and returning.

as we all do.

Herman the Celebrant

my friend Herman

is a part time Celebrant.

someone that

goes to people's houses

and marries them.

he's on call

and can be there in an hour, or less,

not unlike Dominoes.

fifty bucks, cash,

and he can do any kind

of wedding you want.

Catholic,

Jewish, Mormon.

non denominational.

agnostic.

he has a loose leaf notebook

with color coded laminated

pages, full of vows and

speeches, rules

and regulations.

he's fast and efficient.

friendly, but not too probing

about the nature of the relationship,

the age, or the fact that 

you met last night

in Vegas or on an online

dating site.

he pays no attention to that

and gets the job done.

he'll even hold your phone

up and take a picture

for the wedding album.

oh, and he's a part time 

lawyer too, in case things

don't pan out.

changes in latitudes

i get stuck

in a line of cars heading

towards

the cemetery.

it's a funeral procession

that i can't

get out of.

so i turn my lights on

like everyone else

and follow them in.

i'm a part of it now.

we park

and get out.

there's crying, and 

sadness.

it begins to rain as

the service goes on.

everyone is in black, but

me.

i'm wearing a bright

yellow tropical beach

shirt,

shorts, flip flops and

a Margaritaville hat.

people come up to me,

and tell me

what a fan she was of 

Jimmy Buffet.

they pat me on the back,

and hug me.

you really knew her,

didn't you, they tell me,

and then everyone

breaks out into

a spontaneous sing along

to changes in latitudes.

there's dancing

in the rain.

it's a happy after all.

low maintenance

no, i tell her as she

leans towards

the flower pot to smell

the fragrance.

none of my

plants are real, they

need no water, or sunlight.

they're made

of plastic, or some sort

of earth choking

vinyl.

but they're pretty

in the right light.

you can hardly tell

the difference

between them and 

the real plants

outside.

there is no need to

fuss with them,

no weeds, no bugs.

very low maintenance,

like i hope you are,

my dear.

when the thrill is gone

i fall in love with the picture

i hang on

the kitchen wall.

it's been a trouble spot for years.

so hard

to find just the right

piece of art.

the right colors, the right

subject matter,

something that i don't

get tired of

too soon.

so many i've tried, and

taken down.

stacking them side by side

in the attic,

or cellar, gathering

dust once

the thrill is gone.

i see a pattern here.

there was something

there was something

i was

going to do today, but i can't

quite remember

what it was.

i made no list,

tied no string around my

finger.

left no clue to the task

that awaited

me.

maybe it will come back

to me.

maybe it won't.

i suppose it wasn't that

important

after all.

they're dredging the pond

the police have

put yellow

tape

around the chalk

outline where a

body once lay.

it wasn't murder,

it wasn't foul play.

just someone

taking a nap,

then went on his way.

the dogs are out.

the woods are searched,

the pond dredged,

but there's no body to

be found.

i'm up here.

in the window,

having tea

in my bedroom,

watching the mystery,

there's confusion

all around.

the blur of days

i limp home from a day.

a day,

alright.

no harder than

the one before,

no different, but

one that will be erased

by the next

one, and then

the next.

a wash of white 

a streak of blue across

the canvas

of life.

i drop my hands into

the warm

water,

a bar of soap.

i stand at the kitchen sink,

looking out

the window.

some won't come off,

and i'll sleep

with it

this night.

the abstract marriage

my friend will have

been married

three years

to the date, tomorrow.

i wish him

well, although he's 

disappeared into

the life

of domestication, whereas

i'm still running free,

off the chain.

over the fence

and through

the wild woods.

i'm glad he's found what

he's looking for.

that elusive

norman rockwell painting.

although i suspect

it's more

abstract than that.

Dali or Pollock,

perhaps.

going forward

we all need a purpose

in life.

a reason

to get up each morning.

something.

some sort of structure,

work,

a goal,

a friend,

a dog a cat,

a bird.

maybe even a wife.

we need something to put

icing on the day.

we need to keep

moving.

keep going forward,

or waste away.

never too early for champagne

it's a little early

for champagne, but why not.

why not

celebrate

the new day

with a flute of cold

french

champagne?

why not toast life,

to joy

and happiness.

pop the cork of that

old bottle.

today is as good as day

as any

to drink up

and be thankful.

we need no reason.

life is to be enjoyed,

not endured.

salut.

it's nice to be loved

so many friends

are reaching out to me for

my birthday.

DSW,

the Virginia Auto and Tire

Center.

Macy's.

Kohl's.

Nordstrom Rack.

Maggiano's

and Saks Fifth Avenue.

they all seem to know

that my birthday

is coming up.

the cards

and coupons keep pouring

in. my mailbox

is stuffed.

it's so nice to loved.

asleep in Seattle

she was a flight

attendant, so her schedule was

hectic.

to Ireland she went.

to Rome,

to Paris, to Bonn.

and then back again

to Seattle,

or Chicago.

to sleep she took a pill.

Ambien

or something stronger.

i'd look at her

in the middle of the night,

dead to the world, lying

there.

her shallow breathing,

holding a mirror

up to her lips.

still alive. but just barely

it seemed

at times.

still, and dreamless, lying

there in a dead sleep. 

wondering

where tomorrow 

she would fly.

going soft

it's rare that i actually see

a sunrise.

but here it is.

a cotton candy mix of pale

blues

and pinks,

layered beyond the bare

branches of

mid-winter trees.

lovely.

but i won't write a poem

about it.

people will think i've

gone soft.

you should have seen me back then

she tells me she used to

be a model.

i yawn.

you should have seen me back then.

i was slender,

my hair was brown

and luxurious.

i used to run

and teach aerobics.

i was a cheerleader.

married men

and even women

would twist their neck

to look at me.

i loved the beach and had a suntan

year round. i owned

a dozen bikinis, in

every color

and wore short dresses all

the time.

that's nice, i tell her,

leaning over

to take a crueler from her bag

of donuts.

yeah, i tell her, we were all

beautiful

back then, but that was then

and this is now.

C'est la vie, i say,

pointing at her cheek.

you have some chocolate

icing there.

move the sun closer

as i scrape

my windshield. hands frozen.

eyes watering,

nose red

and teeth chattering, i wonder

about global

warming.

when will it start up

again.

i feel for the polar bears,

and little penguins,

and the melting

ice bergs.

but this ice

on my windshield is an

inch thick, summer

can't come soon enough.

do the math

one someone says they

are  hundred

and ten per cent sure of something.

you know

they failed math.

they don't understand

what they're saying,

so you almost

reject everything that comes

after that.

of course it's hyperbole.

but still,

do the math.

it's like saying there are

more than one universe.

you either have

a universe, or you don't.

what's beyond

everything? more

everything, that's what.

wedding rings on e-bay

i see the diamond

ring

i gave her on e-bay.

one big fat diamond

on a silver setting.

worn rarely, it says.

hardly used.

often removed and hidden

when possible.

the box and the papers

are available.

must see to believe.

size small, wedding ring

too, if you need one.

no cost for that.

no engraving.

it has no meaning to me.

pick ups on thursday

there is clutter and then

there's clutter.

junk.

things that no longer

are useful.

people that get under

your skin.

drama kings

and queens.

court jesters.

rusted, bent, worn,

frayed wires, and noisy

when you

plug them in.

let go of them.

set them out by the curb.

let someone

else

have a go at it, what's

left of them.

featherless chickens

i count up how

many

chickens i've eaten

this week.

eggs,

hard boiled, fried.

over easy.

egg salad sandwiches.

chicken wings,

chicken thighs.

chicken legs.

chicken breasts.

chicken soup.

chicken sandwiches.

chicken tenders.

fried chicken.

baked chicken.

air fryer chicken.

all those chickens

and never

once did i have to

worry about

feathers.

hit the road jack

i write some of my best stuff

after a break up.

usually

twelve months

to sixteen months later,

after

the wound has closed

and the bleeding

has stopped.

you sit back and reflect

on what a moron you were

being taken

in by someone 

from the bottom of the

barrel when it comes

to ethics and morality.

like a moth to the flame

you were suckered in.

but it takes time to realize

that.

at first it's a lot of moaning

and wringing of hands,,

then, with distance

and time. you get your

mojo back.

gooey and awful

when i read a poem

about nature,

about trees and flowers,

all of that,

when the poet starts naming

all of these exotic

plants,

i want to throw the book

across the room.

despite the fact that i've

written many

poems about such things.

most of them pretty

gooey and awful, but

as a writer you have to

throw a bird into the mix

once in a while.

a whale, or fish, or 

a sandy beach, a lagoon.

it's expected.

global warming

i met this amazon

woman

once from florida.

she was six foot two

without heels.

in heels,

she was in a different

ozone layer.

her hair added another

six inches,

straight up,

but somehow we hit it

off

and made love

on the banquet room floor,

that was set up

for the next days conference

on global warming.

the room was dark,

the lights off, but each

table was set up

with a white table cloth.

silverware,

glasses for wine and water,

coffee, and mixed

drinks.

there were placards

on each table, with names like

smith, and jones, Abercrombie.

which was where

we ended up.

the vibrating bed

most of the money

we work

our tails off for,

through

work and investments,

savings,

etc.

are usually left for the ones

not dead.

all that work

and they win the lottery.

so maybe instead

i'll spend it all down to

zero, to the last dime,

timing

it just right for the end,

sliding that last

coin into the machine

that vibrates the bed.

something german maybe

i decide to buy myself a car

for my

birthday.

my mom used to send me a five

dollar bill,

abe lincoln,

in a small card with a bird

on the front.

don't spend it all in one

place, she'd write.

love mom.

she'd call the same day

she sent it,

asking, did you get your

card yet?

but i decide to step it up

this year.

why not?

something german,

something powerful,

black, with tan interior.

all the gizmos.

smooth and fast.

something that says, ah yeah,

ah baby.

you've made it,

at last.

i'll try to keep the coffee

spills and crumbs

down to a minimum this

time.

who are these people?

sometimes

you go through a string of love

interests.

all of them in

your phone, talking, texting,

sending pictures

back and forth

of cakes

and snow.

legs and arms.

something funny,

or an animal on the side

of the road.

and then,

a month goes by, maybe two.

and you look

at your phone

and think, who are these

people

that i used to talk to?

should i buy a chainsaw?

i see a chain saw

in the big store that sells

lumber

and tools,

paints

hammers and nails.

but this chain saw catches my

eye.

it's gleaming

in the overhead

fluorescent lights.

ten per cent off for seniors.

do i need a chain saw.

absolutely not.

but why not?

who knows one day

i might need it.

what if there's a big tree

in the yard.

old and rotted out

that needs to come down

before it topples

onto my house?

just saying.

i could start it up now

and again,

oil it down, put gas in it.

i could give it a name, like,

betsy.

i could slap a bumper

sticker on my

car that says chain saw

on board.

keep the tailgaters further

away

then they usually are.

the heart shaped bed

i wake up in a heart

shaped bed, 

with a tattoo on my shoulder,

i rub

my arm, there's

a red heart

with the name

Sasha inscribed in

red ink.

i never should have gone

to Las Vegas

for valentine's day.

one arm

is still tied to the bed

post.

i'm sticky with melted

chocolate

and dried

whipped cream.

i have no clue what happened

here last

night.

who drank all of these

bottles

of cheap champagne?

who's

stockings are draped

across

the chandelier?

it sounds like someone

is in the shower.

i hope she has the key

to these cuffs

that are fastened

around my ankles.

three different kinds of lettuce

she leaves behind

her lettuce.

her cherry red tomatoes.

her sliced

almonds.

her cranberries in a little

packet.

her home made dressing

in a small

jar.

she leaves behind

a bowl big

enough to hold it all.

the sliced cucumbers.

radishes,

peppers, and crumbled

cheese,

black olives.

she leaves behind

tomorrows dinner.

i just need a steak now

and a dinner

roll.

the game has changed

the big game

isn't what it used to be.

you care less and less about

what grown

men are doing

playing a child's game.

overpaid, over muscled.

over hyped.

a game you played

too.

it's a carnival now.

one about money.

it's a show, a glitter bomb

of celebrities.

it's no longer the game

you played,

the game you loved

on an old

beaten school field,

in the rain

in the snow.

packing shoes

we pack our bags

for the city.

we put money in our pockets.

hats and gloves.

a scarf.

it's cold

off the Hudson.

the wind

off Battery Park

is lethal

this time of year.

we bring walking shoes,

shoes for a show.

shoes

for Met, for

Central Park

and SoHo.

shoes for dining in,

for dining out.

our bags are

full of shoes.

maybe we'll buy more

on Madison

Ave,

if our soles wear out.

tell the engineer to roll slowly

tell the engineer

to roll

slowly,

to take his time

along

the rails as we slip

through

towns,

past graveyards

of rusted

cars,

past farmland.,

churches,

over trestles,

and lakes.

tell the engineer

it's okay

if we're late.

we're in no hurry.

it's not about the

destination,

but the journey.

arrival

can wait.

done with that act

there is nothing up

my sleeve,

no loaded dice,

no marked

cards,

no magic

trick,

no levitation,

no rabbit out of a hat,

i won't guess your weight,

your age,

i won't make

you disappear,

i'm done with that 

act.

left overs

i can't do leftovers.

no matter

how good the meal was.

how well

it's wrapped and put away

into the freezer,

or down

below.

it's gone.

it's done.

it won't be reheated,

or stirred,

or eaten.

there is no joy left

in it.

it's just the way it is.

when something is over,

it's over.

so stop

calling, and leave

me alone.

the early morning whistle

we wake up

to a blue bird

outside

the window.

one bird, or maybe

two.

she's at it.

he's at it.

they're happy. 

you can hear it 

in their whistle.

me too.

a valentine message

there's a heart shaped

scratch

in the hood of

my car.

someone, has taken a key

and left me

a message.

it's the shape of a heart,

with an

arrow through

the center.

with drips of blood

bleeding

out.

you shouldn't have

my dear,

but thank

you for remembering.

the message

is clear.

the slumber

the slumber

is with you all day. 

the heaviness

of eyes,

and bones.

weary

before the first 

step

out the door.

up too late.

coffee won't work.

sleep

is needed,

more sleep.

more slumber.

the end of the day

seems

so far off.

i can hardly wait.

what namaste means

if someone ever says

the word

namaste to you.

run.

they are not to be trusted.

these people will

rip your lungs out

and eat

you for dinner.

they may have been

taking deep

breaths in a lotus

position for the last hour

on a plastic mat,

but trust me.

catch the first train out

of town.

get out of there. go.

and if they say

Ciao when they're leaving,

God help you.

get out of there fast.

today is the day

nearly every morning

when i woke

up

she'd greet with today is the day

that the sheriff

is coming to arrest you.

it was during

the end of the marriage,

the separation

pending,

waiting on vulture lawyers

for the money

to run out

and have the deal done.

it was never good morning

my love,

we spent a good twelve

years together,

we made a child.

we bought a dog,

a house.

it was never can i get you

coffee, my dear,

some toast or fruit before

you start your day

and go to work.

no.

it was today the sheriff is

coming to arrest you,

and i'd say why.

for what reason, and she'd

say,

just wait, just wait. you'll see.

making a fashion statement

are we making a fashion

statement

with our daily

garb?

or just getting up,

throwing something on

and leaving the house.

finding an

old shirt, a discarded

pair of jeans,

the first set of shoes

you can grab

beneath your bed.

that ragged old dress,

or robe.

what is the statement being

made

when you leave the house

in your pajamas,

no socks, 

no comb, unshaven,

stepping into 

a pair of orange rubber

crocs.

are we saying, we're lazy?

perhaps.

perhaps not.

the promised land

we'll go there

later.

soon.

be patient.

relax.

close your eyes

and imagine

what will be.

we still have time,

we will

eventually

get there,

trust me,

I will part the Red Sea

we will arrive

in the promised land,

i promise.

have i ever betrayed

you,

have i ever lied?

let them fail

let them fail.

don't discourage

the path they're

on,

but let them

fall.

let them know defeat.

the taste

of struggle.

let them go hungry

and shoeless.

let them find their own

way.

all your words

of praise

and guidance will

fall on deaf ears.

let them know the darkness.

the height of

mountains,

the depth of oceans.

let them know fear.

let them find the light

on their own,

and then, maybe then

they'll be truly ready

for life.

all will become clear.

a surprise snow

a surprise snow

falls

gently

on the ground, melting

fast.

the trees

don't hold it,

nor does the rooftops,

or grass.

it's a thin icing

of winter.

a last

but brief

entertaining gasp.

a day late

by the time

most people get to a marriage

counselor.

it's too late.

it's not unlike

going to the firehouse

after the 

house has burned down.

a day late,

a dollar short.

only ashes are left,

a few angry

boards,

charred mementos

now 

burnt along the ground.

to cut the strings

like a balloon full

of air

i cut the strings

and untether

myself

from the earth.

from hands

that held me, from

the stakes

that anchored me

to the ground.

i let myself rise and

float away,

away

from all the things

that held

me down.

i can't read this

i pick up

where i left off.

crime and punishment.

i read a few more pages,

shake my head,

then toss

the book across the room.

i'm done

with this book.

maybe it was readable

in 1884 but it ain't

no more.

where the oranges grow

in the aftermath

of grey slush,

setting your shovel down.

you ponder selling your

your house.

it's paid for.

you have the pink slip.

it's yours.

why not cash it in and go

to warmer shores.

south, perhaps, where

the oranges grow,

where fish are jumping

out of the sea.

a place where

you can leave your boots

behind,

your hat and scarf,

your gloves.

your bags of salt

and sand.

why stay another minute,

you're wasting time.

cold turkey

the best

way to miss something

or someone

is to go without it.

go away

for a while.

don't touch the cake,

the ice cream.

no kissing,

no hugging,

no sex.

nothing, but cold turkey.

with enough

time away,

you'll crave it again,

grab a fork

and go wild.

quenching the thirst

this thirst

unquenched by another glass

of ice

cold water.

i need more.

something different,

a little sweet

would be nice.

tea

or lemonade.

a beer perhaps.

i take off my shirt, my

shoes

and pants.

i stand in front of the ice

box,

and let the soft glow

of light

and cold

envelope me.

i'm thirsty.

i see an old bottle

of juice

in the back. i'm desperate,

i take a chance.

the girl next door

she's a volunteer at Sibley.

all smiles.

helpful.

full of hospitality.

the girl next door.

casually

sexy

and cheerful.

a former

pom pom girl,

and candy striper,

who could

ask for more.

if i was sick and lying

in bed,

she'd be the one i'd

ring the bell

for to bring me another

cup of jello.

the books of rescue

i peruse the books

in the bookcase

in the den. the one

reserved

for psychology tomes,

self help books,

the DSM,

spirituality,

philosophy, anything

needed

for a fix, or mend.

some are band aids, some

resuscitate

the heart.

some are transfusions

of thought,

others, are surgical,

diving deep

with a sharp knife

into the mind to find

out where and when

all of this

dysfunction began.

all are worn, well used.

studied.

ready and on alert

for the next time

i fall into the well of

a relationship

which isn't true.

enjoying the sun

i overhear

two women talking,

as i sit outside

the coffee shop.

one leans towards

the other and

whispers,

to tell you the truth, between

me and you,

she doesn't have a clue, or

a brain

in her head.

the light is on but nobody's

home.

she isn't the sharpest

knife in the drawer, put it 

that way.

the other one throws up

her arms and says, oh my god,

i'm glad you said it first.

i've never liked her either,

but she does

have nice parties, so i

guess i'll go too.

satisfied with how they both

feel, they settle back

into their chairs,

and look about

the breezeway

for more darts to throw,

enjoying

the warm sun on their faces.

the saragossa sea

there is that Saragossa

sea

of life

when

troubles are forgotten,

nothing

is on your mind

that bothers

you.

you are at peace

with the world.

just 

for a moment though

as you float along

the calm waters,

without paddle or

sail, just

biding time.

i want to know you

i want to know

the scent of you, the color

of your eyes,

the way you walk

into a room,

the sound

your feet make

coming across the floor.

i want to know

your lips,

your nose, the curve of

you. the softness

of your skin.

how you brush back

your hair,

how you sigh, i want

to know the whisper

of your voice

saying more, as we

lie in our quiet room,

side by side.

she's human too?

as a kid

it was strange seeing 

a teacher

outside

of school.

seeing her at the grocery store.

it startled you.

she'd smile

and say hello,

you'd nod, stunned

silent.

it didn't seem possible.

she's human too.

she's buying

bread and milk.

butter

and eggs,

just like you.

blood in your eye

you wake

up with blood in your eye.

it's

not good.

it's a sign of sorts.

fatigue.

drink.

stress.

you need a vacation.

somewhere,

warm sand.

it's doesn't matter.

east or west.

there's blood in your eye.

a day

in the wilderness

with no one

it's overdue,

a long awaited rest.

flowers she would never see

i remember one afternoon

coming home

from work.

exhausted.

beaten, tired beyond

belief.

i dreaded turning the key.

i knew what was

in front of me.

more drama,

more trouble, more craziness.

i steeled myself,

sighed

and went in.

it was quiet. too quiet.

she was either dead, or

drugged,

or asleep, or best of all

finally

she was gone, and had

the guts to leave.

but i looked out the back

window

and saw her in the yard

digging in the dirt,

planting seeds

to flowers she would 

never see.

studying for med school

she was working

her way

through med school by dancing

at

the Paper Moon.

she'd be at the bar

studying

grey's anatomy

then get up

for her turn, take her

glasses off,

and nearly everything else

and dance

to an obscure

rock song.

all the while memorizing

all the different

bones

and organs,

vessels

and chambers of the heart.

what are the odds?

what is life

if not

taking a chance, a roll

of the dice

hoping they aren't loaded.

off they

go from hand to wall,

tumbling

white ice, with black dots.

praying

against snake eyes,

what are

the odds?

the day planner

i plan out

my route for the day.

springfield,

then centerville,

then fairfax,

then arlington, alexandria,

old town,

then back

before a trip to

bethesda.

it's early, but i'm

on my way.

the world is crumbling

so much is left

unread.

who has the time anymore?

who

has an hour

to spare

to sit back

in the big chair

with the light on 

and turn a page.

yes,

the world is crumbling,

press your

ear

to the literary wall,

if you

can find one,

and

hear each precious stone

fall.

the deep freeze

is it over,

i ask. winter?

is that it? are we done with

snow and ice?

cold winds.

the deep freeze?

please tell me that

we're done

with it.

no, she says. i'm

still mad at you.

you'll have no spring this

year.

no summer either.

bundle up,

i may never get over

this.

the jimmy leg

i wake

up to a shaking bed.

i turn the light on.

what's going on i ask her.

looking at her leg

twirling,

shaking.

if her foot was in a tub

of milk,

we'd have butter

by morning.

it's the

restless leg syndrome

she says.

you mean the jimmy leg.

yeah.

the jimmy leg.

sorry, i can't help it.

it has a mind of its own.

something

to do with the nervous system.

sometimes it lasts

all night long.

should i go home?

i know you can't sleep.

ummm. sure if you want to.

lock the door

on the way out.

night.

we trust too much

trust.

what do we trust,

who?

in God.

in each other.

with secrets we're meant

to keep.

we trust

the plane we're on

to land safely.

we trust

the food we eat

will not poison us.

we trust the ice not

to break

as we step across the pond.

we trust the cop,

the leaders,

the priest.

we're so easy to trust.

taking

vows,

making promises,

that few

can keep.

let's monkey around

monkeys

get a lot of attention at the zoo.

who doesn't

love a monkey.

that noise they make,

those big brown

eyes,

swinging on the vines like

a bunch of,

well, monkeys.

we talk about monkeying around.

hot monkey love,

or say things like

well i'll be

a monkey's uncle.

there's the monkey

wrench.

chocolate monkey ice

cream.

we look at the time line

of the evolutionary 

THEORY,

and we see the monkey

somewhere in the mix,

slowly learning to stand up

and put a coat and tie

on to go to work.

hopping on the subway.

it's close to what

we are now. and yes,

there is the last train to

clarksville.

who doesn't like a monkey,

raise a paw,

i'm mean hand.

the sex therapist

i see my wife

coming out of the therapist's

office.

the sex therapist.

we bump into each other

in the hallway

as i'm leaving

my therapist, my weekly

visit to understand

why my mother didn't

hug me enough.

maybe having seven kids

limited her time

with each kid. my guess.

really, i say to my wife.  you're

seeing a sex therapist?

yes. she says. but it has 

nothing to do with you.

it's about me and some other guy.

you don't know him.

whew, good, i was worried

there for a moment.

no need for sherlock holmes

you can find

anyone

these days.

social media, the white pages.

public records.

everything is exposed

to the light of day.

we can

know anything there is to

know. nothing stays hidden.

income or

addresses,

phone numbers,

relatives alive or dead.

schools

or children,

what job you have

or had,

how many times divorced,

or married.

traffic tickets,

we can see that you

didn't make your bed.

no one

is without tracking, without

a footprint

in this digital age.

sherlock Holmes

would be out of a job today.

her part time job

a hundred years ago,

i like to say that now

because it does feel that long ago,

but it might have

been ten years

for all i know,

anyway i digress.

i met a woman who was quite

bossy.

quite strange in

an interesting sort of way.

at the end of our

first meeting, i reached

around her waist

to kiss her goodbye

and she slapped me hard

across the face, saying,

did i say you could do that.

do not kiss me until i say

it's okay. she suddenly sounded

very German.

okay, i said. okay. feeling my

hurt cheek.

then she opened the trunk

of her car, saying she

had something to show me.

she waited for my reaction

as i stared at the whips

and chains, the leather boots,

the mask and other assorted

mechanical devices

that i'd never seen before.

interested, she asked.

do you like to play?

are you into the game of pain?

it's my part time job.

ummmm, you know

what, i got to get going.

i may have left the stove on.

then slowly backed away,

before running down the street.

she yelled at me, Achtung!

come back here you coward.

i demand you come back

here.

ask Heloise

i used to have someone

in my life

that i could call

to figure out the recipe

for gravy,

or to instruct me on how

to get a wine stain

out of a white shirt, or how

to fold a fitted sheet.

but i don't have that person

anymore, i'm in search mode for

an ask Heloise kind of gal.

(can i use the word gal

without being hit over the head

with a frying pan?)

feels like the day before

as i lift

myself from the warm bed.

this cloud

of dreams

now gone.

i twist the clock towards

me.

neither late, or early,

my feet find the cold

floor.

sometimes it's a repeat

and rinse

world.

each day not unlike the

one that

came before.

the image

i don't believe

in photography. or poems.

snapshots

in the moment.

the lighting

is wrong, the choice

of words

too soft,

too strong.

it's an image though.

a memento

of sorts,

for that day, or hour,

or second,

already evaporated

into time.

the butterfly

it isn't the red pants,

the hair,

the lips or eyes.

it isn't the confidence

or intelligence,

it's that je ne sais quoi

factor.

that surprising

flutter of the elusive

butterfly.

it was going to be epic

i was going to write a poem.

a masterpiece.

an epic

journey of the soul

in words,

an uplifting saga

of doom and rebirth,

but the phone rang,

and i talked too long.

there was no way

to politely end 

the conversation.

an hour passed,

and sadly, the poem was gone.

so you get this instead.

my apology.

the beaten track

after a drink or two,

you realize

that truly

you're a good person.

despite it all,

the tainted 

history,

you are true, you are loyal,

you are good.

you're just missing

someone exactly

like you.

shuffling through the

madness

of less.

the beaten track of love

has beaten you.

to the green fields

i do want to fall into your arms.

i do

want to

follow you down

to the water, to the green fields.

i want the sun.

i want the warmth.

your heart.

i want to be done with this.

this cold

this winter

storm.

this.

i do want to fall into your arms.

i'm here.

let's go.

open wide that heart.

i'll be yours 

you'll be mine.

let's start.

put her in a wheelbarrow

find a corner,

a lane,

a room,

a place.

somewhere new.

somewhere with a different

point of view.

change colors,

change

your shirt,

your shoes

leave the house

at the back door.

sleep

on the floor.

in the basement.

wear yellow.

eat nothing

but fish

all day.

walk backwards.

speak in a language

you've never

learned.

get out of this rut.

take a different

road.

kiss the first you girl

you see,

fall in love with her.

put her in wheelbarrow

and wheel

her home.

set yourself free.

a word of advice learned the hard way

i'm harsh

with advice these days.

i'm cruel.

i listen for a while

then tell them

to stop.

i shake my head and say.

get out.

they'll never change.

this will be

your life until

your last day on earth.

get out.

this isn't love.

love isn't toxic.

love doesn't lie.

love doesn't cheat

and deceive.

it's not love. trust me.

get out.

do whatever you have

to do,

but stop trying to fix

the other person.

you can't.

the only solution 

is to leave.

life is too short.

it was just a job

it was just a job.

one of many.

the first being a paper route

as a kid.

cutting grass,

washing cars.

shining shoes at the bowling

alley.

hustling empty

bottles

for two cents.

washing dishes.

a janitor.

hanging sheet rock,

hanging pink batts of

insulation.

carpenter's helper.

brick layers helper.

ditch digger.

backhoe operator.

a salesman,

a color consultant.

a fortune teller.

a magician.

a sous chef.

a song and dance man.

a computer programmer.

a goffer.

a waiter, a bartender.

a back up singer.

a roadie.

a plasterer.

a wallpaper hanger.

a painter.

a writer.

done, at last.

always in mourning

in the old neighborhood

in south

philly

all the italian

women seemed to be in mourning

for something

or someone.

there was always a death,

a reason

to put the black

on.

the shroud,

to hold the rosary beads

and mumble

through

the prayers.

you'd see them on the street,

at the stores.

in front of their row

houses

scrubbing their

marble porches.

opening the windows to

let the stench

of death out.

we need to see papers

there's a line at the pearly

gates.

they're checking

vaccination status.

it's confusing.

we thought it was going

to be different

up there.

no lines, no sickness,

or sorrow.

just a life of la dee da

from here on out.

but they are passing out

hot coffee

as we wait,

and cinnamon buns,

so we take a seat and

wait, on a nearby cloud.

your drug of choice

i understand

your drug of choice,

we all

have one, some have two.

whether

drink,

or pills, sex, or

food.

there's a go to thing

in most lives

to get them

through.

i guess religion could

be one too.

the go fund me wedding

i get a text.

i'm asked to contribute to a go

fund me

wedding.

a honeymoon,

in Europe,

a new house and car.

they want to start off their

new life with

all the trimmings.

they don't want to work

that hard.

so i do.

i send them a few dollars,

and then a year later,

they write back,

we're having a go fund me

divorce.

the lawyers are killing us.

a party to follow,

and i'm invited too,

but bring your own

drink, your own food.

coming undone

we are under 

the threat of rain,

the threat of

floods,

in the news there's the

threat of war,

the threat of change.

the threat of ending love.

the threats

are everywhere,

disease, inflation,

crime.

the man across the street

with a gun,

the woman

in the window

with a knife.

the dog off its leash,

everything could

at some point

come undone.

the splinter

it's a small red

splinter,

a wooden speck

that's

lodged into the tip

of my small

finger.

a hard push of the back

gate

and there it was,

under skin.

unmovable and dark.

and the day

was going so well.

an apple for the teacher

you rarely hear teachers

talking

about how fulfilling their jobs

are. how rewarding

it is

to see children grow

and learn

and become

knowledgeable in whatever

subject

being taught.

no one gets an apple

anymore.

it's tests, it's scores, it's

quotas, it's unruly

students,

administrative

issues,

grades.

and angry parents knocking

at the door.

this is where you come in

you truly do not know

what sour

is

until you've tasted

something sweet.

the same goes for bland

or spicy.

which is where

you come into the picture.

let's not call it love, just yet

let's not call it love,

just yet.

why we haven't even had

our first quarrel,

our first slamming

of a door,

or one of us being exiled

to the couch.

let's call us very good

friends for now,

and save the love talk

for later, that is

if things progress like

they have been and

we're both still

around.

to each season

each season

has its own merit.

i used to care more

about one than

the other.

but no more.

now each holds

a special place

in my heart.

there is some joy

to be found

in cold or heat,

wind or storm.

or a cloudless night

with a full moon.

i embrace them all

in the same way.

no different than how

i embrace you.

as she stood ironing

ironing,

was a private thing

for my mother.

standing at the board,

the radio on,

a pile of clothes at her feet.

her children's

shirts and pants,

dresses

now off the line

and in a basket.

i'd peek in

to see her softly humming

to a song.

left alone

at last under the bare

bulb,

her feet on the cold

slab floor.

the steam would sizzle

from the hot

iron

as she pushed it along.

sometimes

she'd see me looking

in,

and stop

to ask me what,

what's wrong?

nothing?

i'd tell her. nothing.

four hail marys and some quaker state oil

i stop in at the church

across

the street for a tune up.

a tire

rotation,

an oil change

and to have my transmission

fluid topped

off.

i'm running on bald

tires,

the wiper blades

are sloshing back and forth.

my anti-freeze is leaking.

there's this clicking

noise

i hear at a certain speed.

father, i ask the priest,

can you help me,

please.

pull her up son, i know

what you need.

a little bit more

is newer better,

more

ever enough.

when

the bowl overflows,

when you're full,

then

can you stop?

or do you keep going,

keep pressing

on,

until

you drop?

cut carrots

some women

like to quarrel, like to prod

and poke

the bear within

you.

they like to point out

your deficiencies,

your occasional

laziness

or indifference.

they give you a list

of things to do.

pointing at a cob web

in the corner.

they pull lint off your 

sweater,

tell you about the lettuce

in your teeth.

they have become

your mother,

packing your lunch with

cut carrots.

not a single cookie, or

treat.

shaking the ant farm

i used to have dreams

of you.

but now i don't.

the slate is clean.

i've shaken the ant farm

of my

life,

and started all over

again.

with a new set of ants.

new sand.

let's see where this takes

me.

it's not over yet

she changes colors

in midstream.

we're not happy with the baby blue.

we're thinking

something different now.

something deeper,

something that reflects

more of who we are.

the room is done.

the furniture

pushed back,

the switch plates

attached.

the brushes are clean,

the roller,

the tray, drop cloths

are folded,

the tools gathered,

the truck idles patiently

as i put out my hand for pay.

it's not over. 

not yet.

anyway.

Dostoevsky 101

the book

is crime and punishment.

a generally

praised book,

a must read

if you are to have a complete

and knowledgeable 

literary life,

but

i'm the one feeling punished.

the names

are long.

the details

seem superfluous. 

the plot slow in developing.

when will

the twist or turn

arrive.

how many more pages

must i read

before

i'm into it,

before i gently 

set the book aside?

the divorce lawyer

my friend jimmy

the divorce lawyer

is over the moon

on the phone.

i've never heard him

happier.

what's up, i ask.

you sound giddy.

i'm moving to new york city,

he tells me.

it's a gold mine.

they just passed a law

allowing same

sex marriages.

i'm about to double my

income.

i can finally get that jet plane

and yacht i've been

dreaming about.

you have to come up

and visit,

i'll be buying

in Southampton.

how's june, i ask him.

perfect.

perfect.

this will never work

i knew it wasn't going anywhere

the first

time i met her.

when she told me to sit up

straight,

and unbutton the top

button

of my shirt.

she corrected me on her

name.

i'm katherine, she said,

not cat, not cathy,

not kitten.

call me

katherine.

okay, i said. okay.

by the way

you should eat fish

tonight, she said.

and go on a hike

with me tomorrow

after

we go to the save the whales

march

in town.

you're a feminist, right?

of course i told her.

i've never met a woman

with long legs

that i didn't like.

my lucky day

i dive

into the deep end.

i go down and touch the bottom.

i let some

air out

and sit there for a while.

i'm good for

about thirty seconds.

it's calm,

peaceful.

i can't see or hear

a single

person now.

i find an old penny

lying there.

unfound.

it's my lucky day.

the villages in florida

i check out

the villages in florida,

the place

where

north america goes to die.

the cookie

cutter houses.

like cemetery row.

the golf course,

the pool.

the granny with blue

hair giving me

the eye.

there's bowling on wednesday

night,

charades on

thursday,

friday is swing dancing,

and saturday is the adult

party.

bring your blue pill

and wine.

sunday morning, for those

still kicking,

it's a free penicillin

shot and pickleball.

at nine.

there's no end in sight

it's just a sidewalk.

and yet

three weeks later, they're

still working on

it. back hoes,

plows,

cement mixers.

a gaggle of

men with white helmets

arriving each

day to adjust

the wood frames, the yellow

tape. hammering in again

the signs saying

don't park here.

it's endless.

the transcontinental

railway was built

in a week,

the empire state building

took a hundred days.

but the sidewalk

in front of my

house,

there's no end in sight.

a sunny holiday parade

gas

was 29 cents per gallon

at Scott's

on Indian Head highway.

the oil cans

were stacked

perfectly

outside the office.

a gleaming work of art.

six pumps

and a man dressed in white

with green

trimming,

a hat,

black brimmed

pulled down,

who came out to pump

and wipe

the glass. he'd lift

the hood and 

check the oil.

the air in each tire.

sometimes you'd

get a cup

or a plate for filling up.

they'd

wave.

you'd wave.

then off you'd go to

some sunny

holiday parade.

rising to the surface

they will rise

to the surface, given

time,

with eyes wide

open. 

the lies,

like dead body.

will appear.

truth will

make things clear.

you can't keep a good

man down,

or woman,

from what i hear.

the orphanage

is it not too

an orphanage of sorts.

this center

for the aged,

but not

for the new,

but for those whose lives

are short.

left behind,

discarded, not picked

again

for a different life.

widowed too soon.

new love

never came or if it did,

it wasn't

love at all.

but a well played

game.

disinterest

i no longer

know

what's in the news.

my caring

is at an all time low.

who's famous now,

what scandal there is.

who died.

who lied.

who's rich, who's lost

it all.

who's on the moon.

none of it matters.

the longer the years

are 

of your life,

the more you don't care

about such things.

it's more

about the trees, the river.

the sky.

the change of seasons.

books.

friends.

you can go now

i grieved

the death of my mother

for several

years before she died.

and when

she finally passed on.

it was a relief.

for her,

for me.

for nearly everyone

who stood by her side.

it wasn't her

anymore.

without words, without

movement.

lying

in a state of newborn.

helpless

again, and yet

in her soft brown eyes.

you could see that

she was still

hanging on. i remember

whispering in

her ear. it's okay, you

can go now.