the corner pub

i want a bar

to be dark, to be without

a tv

screen.

a long wooden bar,

scarred

and storied,

mythical,

with tables scattered about.

a small dance floor.

good music

with songs you know.

a mirrored wall behind

the bartender.

i want it old school.

a place

where they learn

your name,

your troubles, your drink.

where the glass is ready,

cold and iced

when you come through

the front door.

you want it to be a second

home,

where the day is forgotten,

before you go home

again.

the great wall

i understand

the great wall of China.

i get it.

all those rocks

and bricks,

all those years of building

along the border.

i understand

the posted guards,

the concrete

steps,

the soldiers in position

in case of attack.

i under

protection.

the need to preserve one's

heart.

love will do

that do you

when love falls apart.

end of life insurance

my favorite caller

from

Deli, Sector 10.

Alex Wilson,

calls me again today.

we've spoken

many times before.

he's selling end of life

insurance.

he wants to know if i smoke.

how old am i.

am i in a wheel chair,

or in a senior facility

wiping oatmeal off my chin.

i can hear children in the background

speaking Hindi,

goats and chickens,

a rooster crows.

he asks me 

do i own a home.

a car.

do i have a bank account.

he wants my

Medicare number

my social security number,

my mother's maiden

name.

the name of my beneficiary

if i should pass

into the great beyond,

or hell below.

i've given him a different

name,

every time he calls.

Jack Hoffman

Seymore Butts

Elanore Roosevelt

Johnny Strepp,

but he doesn't get it.

he's the worst and yet the most

persistent salesman

i've ever talked to.

doing time

do you forgive

the felony

as easy as the misdemeanor?

does the mortal

sin

and the menial

sin

get equal treatment?

what's the level of maliciousness,

what's the reason

behind

the crime?
only those feeling guilt,

remorse

and regret, are the ones

that truly

do the time.

six boxes of rice

i remember

after a long argument,

a precursor

of days ahead,

when i would be punished

with no sex,

and silence.

i remember trying to get

out of the wedding.

she stared

at me, as i drove the car,

the blue chevy

choking blue fumes behind

us,

my hands white

knuckled on the wheel.

what?

she said.

cancel our wedding, are

you mad?

the invitations are in

the mail.

the cake is on order.

the band is scheduled.

i bought the dress,

the shoes.

we're registered at

Montgomery Wards

and Murphy's.

the make up artist,

the florist

have been paid.

we've rented the knights

of columbus hall.

the minister has

written our vows.

my friends have six boxes

of Uncle Ben's white rice

ready

to be thrown at us

as we leave the church.

i sighed, and said okay.

okay.

i guess if they bought the rice,

we have to

go along with it.

lying in the long grass

on him,

they find, as he lies

in the long grass,

bleeding,

a watch around his wrist,

still keeping

time.

there are coins in his

pocket.

a list of what's needed

at the grocery

store.

there's a pen,

his keys to all his locks,

and a picture

of her,

his one true love,

yellowed

and wrinkled in his

emptied wallet.

anything with a face

i give up on plant

food,

the dirt of it,

the greens,

the leafy pages of lettuce,

the beans.

done with corn,

done with asparagus,

done with beets

and potatoes.

chickpeas and

leeks.

it's meat from here on out.

going full

carnivore,

anything with a face,

except for maybe

a snake,

or a mouse.

you can smell trouble

you can smell trouble,

feel it

tingling up your spine,

the narrowing of eyes,

the beads

of sweat,

the nervous tick,

the kicking of the foot

against the chair.

trouble.

your primitive instincts

are intact.

trying to save you

from the likes of her,

the jezebel,

the trap.

on the move again

a life

in boxes, marked

kitchen,

or bedroom,

books,

or shoes.

from one bus stop

to the other.

a life of bubble wrap

and tape.

so many

moves.

some involving love,

some

money.

some just random

indecisions,

made by

staring out the window,

and wanting

a different view.

stir fried rice

the Chinese

family next door does a lot

of cooking.

and bowing.

and gardening.

they're very neat and clean,

orderly.

polite to a fault.

they smile

wryly

at you,

as you refuse to weed,

or cut

the grass.

burning burgers

on the grill.

it feels like you're being

judged,

but you don't really

care.

you wonder what's the best

place

to buy a new wok,

but don't ask.

so we have this now

religion

is no longer keeping

the hordes

in bounds.

you look out the window

as a masked

man

jimmies the door

of your car.

there's

a fellow with a gun,

at the five

and ten.

another with a knife,

hunting

for what he doesn't have.

no longer do the children

go to mass

and listen.

knees bruised

in prayer.

believing that there

is a God

up there.

there is no fear,

so we have this, now.

the blonde antique

she spoke 

receding sound,

her words

drifting off

as if gentle fingers

typing,

leaving a trail

of ellipses.

clarity into whispers.

fading,

fading, as she was,

becoming 

a blonde antique,

in the dim

light she preferred.

optimism

i don't know exactly why

my

mother put a layer of pond's

cold cream

on her face

every night.

brushing and brushing

her curly black

hair,

but she did.

even with seven kids

in the house,

an absent husband

of unknown whereabouts,

cats and dogs,

in every bed,

the bills stacked up,

she was optimistic

about her chances

in the outside world,

as to what might

lie ahead.

one flutter of an eye

one word,

one glance, one sigh,

one

stutter,

one flutter of an

eye

can change everything

in a blink.

the hesitation 

will inform others

of what you

truly think.

waiting for the baby

i'm glad

we, men, can't have babies.

i can barely

handle a paper cut.

or an upset stomach

from calamari.

the idea of having something

growing in you

for nine months,

more or less, is a giant

cup of crazy.

i don't mind being there

at the beginning,

but glad i'm not

there at the end, except

for maybe

relaxing in the waiting

room,

playing wordle on my

phone, or thumbing through

a readers digest.

she's new again

she goes in for a new hip,

a new knee,

a new tooth implanted

into the jawbone

of her mouth,

she buys a new car,

red of course.

divorces the old husband,

abandons

the adopted kid.

she goes for

hair implants. on her thinning

head.

blonde dye.

a landing strip below.

she's a beach comber now.

she gets a a face lift,

a french bikini.

a tummy tuck.

she quits therapy,

and takes lithium,

ambien

and trader joe wine.

she's back in action on

e harmony.

buyers beware.

keep your eyes open

wide.

maybe Brad Pitt can play me?

you should really write

a book,

she tells me, after i tell her

my story.

it's an amazing tale,

a lifetime movie.

a horror show of twists

and turns.

of psychological drama.

intrigue, betrayal

and international crime.

a slew of

therapists and a litany

of disorders.

gaslighting.

triangulation.

narcissism.

suicide.

that would be fun, i

tell her.

i can see it all up on

the big screen.

it makes the Amber Heard

and Johnny Depps

story look like a fairy tale.

maybe brad Pitt can

play me?

umm. maybe, she says.

maybe.

we'll see.

can we really change?

i see a vampire

at the blood bank.

he's making a withdrawal,

but the old fashion way.

he's filled out a form

and has a prescription

from his doctor back home

in Transylvania.

he's trying to change.

he's trying not to sneak up

on unsuspecting necks

and biting down,

draining them of precious

fluid.

he's in a twelve-step program.

i see him when i go

for my cake addiction.

we wave and nod, he smiles,

showing me his

sharp fangs, but then

shyly puts his hand

to his mouth to cover

them up. he's trying really

hard, as i am as i walk

by the vending machine,

seeing two Little Debbie

cupcakes behind the glass.

less round

we discuss food.

one says all meat,

no bread,

no sugar,

no sweets.

fasting.

keto.

paleo.

Mediterranean.

Neanderthal.

the other says green.

just plants,

and fish,

what grows in

the ground.

whatever works,

whatever makes

you more healthy,

less round.

time to let go

i remember the waiting.

the long

days and nights.

the visits

to her body curled in a fetal

position.

her eyes darting

from side to side

with worry,

or wonder.

who's to know.

we were ready though

to let her pass onto

the next life,

whispering in her ear

before parting.

it's okay, we'll be okay.

you did your best,

now it's time to let go.

why bring that up again?

with some people,

your mind

is full of good memories.

all good memories.

you can't think of one bad time,

or of cross words

that you shared with

one another.

it's a wonderful thing,

and then with others,

a rare few,

well.

why bring that up again?

salty and sweet

we are all tempted,

we

want what isn't ours or

what's 

bad for us.

we desire,

we have a need, a lust,

a longing.

whether

milk

or meat,

love,

or sex. we want the void

to be filled,

the emptiness satisfied

with something.

something.

preferably salty,

or sweet.

make a left at the moon

let's go where 

there is no air, no food,

no water.

no coffee, or plants,

or animals.

nothing to speak of.

too cold.

too hot.

let's go there.

it's only a few million miles

away,

we can be there by next year.

it won't cost much.

just

a billion or two.

taxes will pay for it.

me and you.

let's get out of this place,

and start a new life,

far from the maddening crowd.

up up and away,

make a left

at the smirking moon.

crazy Gene

there was a kid,

Gene Aubrey,

in the neighborhood

who put his own initials

into his arm with a straight needle,

and black ink.

we were twelve,

sitting around the dark

room,

his mother downstairs

making pot roast,

his father in the yard cursing

the weeds

and life in general.

he held the needle

to a lit match

to sterilize the tip,

then he dipped it into

the well of ink,

to tattoo G A

into his skinny forearm.

it took months before the infection

died down

and the scab wore off.

i still remember that.

the family cat, Roosevelt

the orange shag rug,

scalloped with age and sun,

a path made

through the years,

of children

once small,

then grown.

up the stairs it goes

then into other rooms

like a coral reef or algae

in a dying sea.

it's the first thing you

notice when

you come through the door,

the first thing

that has to go, the jar lamps

next.

the hotel art with

big eyed dogs,

and landscapes of snow,

and water.

geese that never land.

a portrait that resembles

George Washington

hangs over the fireplace,

charred wood

resting upon the brick hearth.

in the corner

is a television, the rabbit ears

in place,

a horizontal button

ready to be turned.

beside the magazine

rack on the floor are

bookshelves with

encyclopedias,

road maps. a worn copy of

I'm Okay, You're Okay.

besides a family portrait,

and a picture on the shelf

of the family

cat. Roosevelt.

water off a tin roof

at a certain age

you stop giving advice.

the deaf ears surround you.

some young

some old.

some have already

been advised

on love and money,

how to save their soul.

wisdom

is best learned the hard

way.

with hand in the fire,

a barefoot walk

through the snake

filled woods, 

.

the easy way is truly water

uncaught

off an angled tin roof.

bring it on

i would cringe

at summers end, the last dog

days

of august.

looking north

to where

it would begin.

the wind.

the snow and ice.

the shedding of leaves.

the heavy

coats hung deep into

the wells

of closets, 

now retrieved.

but now i welcome it.

i understand

the necessity

of death and rebirth,

the rising

from the earth of new

love,

new seed.

bring it on.

maybe, maybe not

is Hugh Hefner in hell?

maybe,

maybe not,

but if he is, maybe we're all

going to hell.

what grown man,

or ungrown

has not oogled a girl,

turned our head their way

when they run

by in yoga pants,

or short dress.

or burlap sack

loosely buttoned

up the back.

it doesn't matter

the difference in age.

why is it so shocking that

men like

the curve of a woman,

the pretty face,

the long

or short leg?

the gentle sway of hips.

the world would not

go on

if this desire did

not continue,

if sexual attraction

did not exist.

what's your password?

i was surprised

at the pearly gates when

St. Peter

asked me if i had identification,

and if i remembered

my password.

the line was long

and restless.

people had been waiting

on line for weeks.

all the paperwork,

the notebooks,

the laminated cards with

all the passwords

were at home

in the safe.

try this one, i said.

Betty123#.

He rolled his eyes and said,

okay, then shook

his head.

did you use an uppercase B?

you did?

okay, okay, what about,

Stephanieyum111.

he typed that in.

nope.

one more shot and then i have

to move on to the next

person.

i closed my eyes and concentrated.

okay.

try this one.

i think this is it.

5starFrancesca69.

Zippo dude.

nope. now off you go,

you had you're chance.

sorry, back of the line.

goldfish therapy

i stare

into the fish bowl

and say, yes, i know.

i get it.

i'm sorry little fellow,

but i can't let

you go.

this is your life

from here on out.

i see you in there swimming

around,

but going nowhere.

it breaks my heart,

but i completely understand

and empathize with

your plight.

tomorrow

tomorrow

i'll start the diet.

tomorrow i'll read more books.

tomorrow

i'll get more exercise.

tomorrow

i'll start saving money.

tomorrow i'll hold my

tongue

and not say what i really mean.

tomorrow i'll be

a better person.

i'll pray and not ask for anything

in return.

tomorrow

i'll call an old friend

and make amends.

tomorrow

i'll clean the house.

tomorrow

i'll go to the dentist,

the doctor,

the lawyer and see

what they

recommend

tomorrow

i'll stop thinking about

love

and how it all 

some point

comes to an end.

perfectly imperfect

the imperfections

are more interesting than

the perfections.

the glitch,

the mistake, the small bump

in the road.

they let us know

who or what

we're dealing with.

with no shine or shame,

no glow.

show me your worst side.

the one

without the smile,

the one

with old clothes.

show me your scars,

your secrets.

let's see then where this

might go.

false advertising

i see her number

scrawled

in the stall of

a bus depot bathroom.

call for a good time

it reads.

you won't be disappointed.

two numbers.

a cell and landline.

and a smiling face

beside it.

i check my phone.

sure enough, it's her.

so much false advertising

these days.

is there a difference?

i feel for the worm

scrunched tight along the curve

of the sharp hook.

now bait for fish.

still wiggling despite

being cut into thirds.

what and why

he must have felt

and thought

from either end,

head or tail,

(is there a difference?)

as he was pulled

from the soft

cold ground, burrowing,

and now this.

boxed and carried

to the lake,

what's a worm to do?

or any of us,

me or you?

daydream

i dip into another book

too soon,

not done with the four others

that wait

in various rooms.

each gathering

dust.

earmarked where

i left off.

i'm bored easily these

days, it seems.

it's why i haven't been

around to see you.

so much of life

feeling like

a daydream

you don't forget poor

you don't forget poor.

or hunger,

or thirst.

you don't forget 

the ragged

clothes.

the shoes with holes.

you don't forget

the hot rooms

without air conditioning,

the radiators

clanging all night

with wet

heat.

you don't forget

the bugs, the mice.

the one bathroom

down the hall, a line,

six deep.

the leaks,

the drips from the roof.

the barking dog,

the broken screens

and windows,

the flies.

you don't forget

any of it, it sticks to you,

from cradle

to the grave,

beyond.

training day

it's the waiter's first day

on the job.

he doesn't know the menu.

he doesn't know

what Tanqueray is.

he doesn't know if there

are any oysters

in the kitchen.

they haven't given him

his apron yet.

his hands are shaking.

his eyes are big and full

of fright.

he spills the drinks,

drops the food.

sneezes in our direction.

help is hard to find,

but still you leave him

a healthy tip.

day one of anything is hard.

where you gonna find another cat?

there's always another train,

another bus,

or cab

to get you out of town,

away from this.

there's always

another cat too,

roaming the streets or

at the pet store in a cage.

keep your chin up,

your head down,

your eyes focused forward

on the now,

you can count on this,

things change.

we need the wood

i ask her gently

to come down off the cross.

her lovers cross.

we need the wood.

enough

with this.

here, let me get you a ladder.

we can build

a fire.

martyrdom

doesn't suit you. Okay?

i see a pattern here

the sky grows dark

with ominous clouds.

it begins to rain.

it pours, there's high winds.

then stops,

the sun comes out.

birds are chirping

in the brilliant blue sky.

the air is sweet and cool.

i see a pattern here.

The Soul Mates

she's crying on the phone,

again.

the love of her life has gone south.

literally.

Florida to be exact.

St. Petersburg.

how could he do this to me,

she says.

i don't understand,

we were meant to be together.

soul mates.

our astrology charts match up.

we scored the same

on the Myers-Briggs test.

we have the same personalities

in the five languages of love book.

we're both needy

and delusional.

we both like rescue dogs

and Chinese food.

i hear her blow her nose.

wiping her eyes with

her wrist.

it was always going to be me

and him,

forever and ever.

he told me so. he promised.

he gave me a ring.

a bracelet,

a brooch,

a tiara.

he wrote my name inside

a heart

in the sand,

in the snow, he carved

our names into trees.

he was everything to me.

how could he just up and leave

like that.

take a deep breath, i tell her.

get a glass of water.

it's okay.

but why, she says again, why

did he leave?

we were meant to be together.

ummm,

well. i tell her. i think maybe

his wife had something to do with

this.

he's still married, you know that,

right?

so, she says. what does that matter?

God says adultery is

okay, if two people

love each other.

umm. i think i missed

that sermon.

faint praise

i curb my words,

adjust

my stance, hands on hips.

pulling tight

at the belt.

i take a deep breath,

and

decide which words

to say.

keeping

them vague, keeping

them

reluctantly kind.

i'm trying so hard to

go another way.

i finally blurt out,

despite who she was,

and how she behaved.

she was a good mother

some of the time.

the grey abyss

there are times,

when you are adrift.

no rudder, no oar, no

motor or sail

to take you to the other side

where the fog

shelters

anything that might exist.

so you drift,

and drift and drift.

sometimes you yell out

into the grey darkness, 

is anyone there?

anyone of like mind.

anyone kind?

is there anyone's hand

who can pull

me free from

this abyss.

the nuts are out of reach

the therapist asks me if i have

any long term

plans, goals.

where do i see myself in five years.

i'm stretched out

on her long therapist couch,

staring at a bowel of nuts

on her coffee table.

i wish i could reach them

with my hand, but i can't.

why would she put those nuts

so far out of reach?

is this a test?

Hello, she says, are you still with

me. i asked you a question.

oh, sorry. sorry, but

is it okay if i have some nuts,

i ask her and some water?

i use my foot to move the table

closer to me,

then bend forward to grab a

handful of nuts.

salted cashews.

she hands me a bottle of water

then settles back into

her big red chair.

so, she says. what are your goals,

your aspirations?

are there things you'd like to achieve

in this stage of life?

it's no longer the nuts, i think

to myself.

hmmm. well, i say.

i'm thinking about taking a long

nap when i get home today,

i tell her.

maybe read another five pages

from the Sylvia Plath

biography that i can't seem to plow through.

i hear the therapist writing

something down on her yellow

legal pad, as i crunch down

on the nuts,

then underlining what she wrote

with long hard strokes of her pen.

how do you feel about medications?

she asks me.

and maybe coming in twice a week?

keep it short and sweet

she liked the seven

or nine

day vacation.

i liked three days,

two nights.

how much ocean could

i look at.

how many shops to browse.

how many dinners

out.

how many times

up and down the elevator

could i endure,

the lugging chairs

to the sand.

the cooler, the towels.

two days was fine,

a week wore me out.

the love bombs

the love bomb,

rains down in the early days.

the books,

the baked goods.

the texts.

the emails.

what could go wrong.

insatiable

she is.

a match made in heaven.

so alike in many ways.

all smiles, rarely

a frown.

you're hooked,

as she reels you in.

clueless,

drugged in this

fantasy world,

blind to what horror

is about to begin

when the mask goes down.

let's do the right one now

the doctor

presses on your knee

making

a small dimple,

creating a target.

he wipes

a swab against it, then

stabs the joint

with a long

needle.

big pinch he says, 

before the tip

of the syringe strikes home.

i feel the drug

swirl in

as he jiggles the long

spike deeper.

i imagine it a golden

color,

a mad elixir,

swishing around

against the bone

and ligaments.

it hurts.

then it's over. lets

do the right one now,

he says.

the road to church

the sky sure does look

religious today,

the boy

said to his mother

as they drove

along the dirt road,

heading towards the white

clapboard church

down in the glen.

she squinted her

eyes,

and told him to put his

arm back

into the car before

a street sign took it off.

she looked beyond 

the tall swaying

pine trees

the boy was right, a cathedral

of white clouds

rose majestically beyond them,

with long bands of

sunlight

shooting between the blue,

finding their targets

the unforgiven

beware of those with

rosary

beads hanging from their rear

view mirror.

another set in their purse,

one more

on the dresser beside

the crucifix,

and portable altar.

beware of those that pray

at every meal,

and go to church three

times a week.

beware of those who put

extra into the basket

on Sunday.

beware if they know the

priests by name

and all the saints.

they have ashes on their forehead,

and play

religious music

all day.

beware, there's something

going on here,

a deep deep sin that won't

be washed away.

the last piece of cake

i don't have to worry

about the last piece of chocolate

cake under the glass

dome of the cake

plate.

she won't touch it.

sugar being a mortal sin.

the dog, can't get to it.

the maid,

is too honest.

the plumber, maybe will

swipe his finger into

the icing, but other than

that.

it's all mine.

all mine.

little else is, but this will

have to do for now.

the best meal ever?

some meals are better than

others,

some drinks,

some naps,

deeper and more restful,

some laughs are

longer

and harder,

some friends are closer,

some lovers

are better lovers

than others.

it's a sliding scale,

this life.

i put you near the top.

the one that got away

it's a yarn,

a long, well told story, 

polished to a shine,

repeated,

embellished over

the years.

he has it down.

his hands

move from side to side,

this big, he says,

this wide.

there's a twinkle

in his eye.

he loves telling this tale

about the one that got away,

the big fish,

getting bigger and bigger

over time.

the same window

as i soak

the wall, i think about the man

or woman

who carefully

applied this wallpaper.

i see his measurements,

his cuts

and miscuts,

the way he smoothed

out a wrinkle,

or rolled on the paste.

i see that he even

signed his named

beneath one sheet.

i go at it, peeling it

all away,

scraping,

then stand at the window

with my coffee.

the same window i'm

sure he stood at

years ago, as he took

a well earned break.

taking your lumps

i get a call from

the better business bureau

they have a complaint filed by

an ex wife

of mine.

she's gone onto yelp too.

she gives me one star

as a husband.

she says i never really loved

her, that i wasn't

a good cook,

and i never made the bed.

plus i snored

and watched too much

football on tv.

but what can i say.

she's right on all counts.

i just have to take my lumps.

although the other two

wives gave me two stars,

saying i was good with

the fitted sheets being

sort of folded.

a night at the drive-in

i think i'm still recovering

from

the drive-in food i ate as a teenager.

i haven't yet

digested

the loaf sized shrimp rolls

with sweet sauce,

or the floppy, soggy hamburgers,

or grease laden fries.

the gallons of coke are still inside

my arteries, clinging on

like sticky mud.

the dawn to dusk marathon

was the worst.

the worst five hours

of your life.

especially if you were on

a date, there was only so

much kissing and groping

one could do, before

exhaustion set in and a red

rash appeared on both

your faces.

whoever invented the four snap

bra should be shot.

you needed a degree in mechanical

engineering to figure it out.

the movies weren't much

to watch either.

B films with Peter 
Fonda, and Burt Reynolds.

Maybe Dean Martin

with Raquel Welch.

occasionally there'd be a

Swedish film with subtitles,

women in bikinis playing

badminton, by then though

you were half asleep,

with the lame garbled speaker 

thrown

out the window.

look down your pants, there's your answer

kids don't want to work

anymore.

when was the last time a kid

knocked on your

door and offered to mow your lawn,

or wash your car, for a few bucks.

walk your dog?

and when it snowed, kids used

to prowl

the neighborhood looking

for a driveway to shovel,

or to help free a stuck car.

we used to search for empty

pop bottles

to get the two cents in return.

now kids are staring into their phones.

dopey, half educated,

depending on parents

or the government to pay their way.

go fund me.

tattooed and pierced,

hopelessly confused,

unsure if they're girls or boys.

back in the day, 

we looked down our pants

and that's how we knew

what we were.

you either had one, or

you didn't have one.

there's your answer.

it's really not that difficult

to figure out.

size 8

she tells me

she wants to be a size four,

she's watching

her calorie intake,

and going to the gym

five days a week.

when i was in high school

i was a size two, she says.

ah, don't worry about it,

i tell her, and offer her

a donut, which, she takes,

and says, maybe a small

bite.

marilyn monroe was a

size 8, i tell her.

no one ever told her to lose

any weight.

i've known a size zero, i

tell her.

and it's like dating a surfboard.

we're talking two fried

eggs on top,

and no curves whatsoever.

i always feel better after

talking to you, she tells me.

pfffft.

no charge.

go on, have another bite.

it's a crueler.

light as air.

his last meal

they tell the man

the night before his execution

that he can

have one meal

of anything

he wants.

he tells them a peanut

butter

and jelly sandwich

on white bread and a glass

of milk,

cold.

he wants to remember

childhood,

not this.

not the world that took

him down

this road.

look what i made

the woodworker

sits

all day,

carving, splitting,

shaving,

creating something

out of nothing.

a bowl,

a dish

an ashtray,

a table, perhaps.

then he takes it to

the fair

and sits behind

his work. 

he puts a sign up

to tell the world,

this is what i made.

sticky situation

we call it a sticky

situation,

when caught between

a rock

and a hard place.

there's little room

to wiggle

without

some sort of pain,

or mistake being made.

so do nothing, is 

the right advice,

and let what happens

happen.

either wrong or right

doing time

i tell the guard,

it's cold in here, in this cell.

the mattress

is hard.

the food awful.

stale bread,

dried

meat, porridge, really?

he laughs.

and shakes his head,

then pats

his round belly.

prime last night, he

says.

my wife sure can cook.

now lights out,

go to bed.

the dented can

the dented can,

once more

gets pushed back on

the shelf.

i've seen it many times

before.

black beans

or tomatoes.

no one wants a dented

can.

turned

around to hide

it's imperfection.

but you feel it in

your hand,

and back it goes again.

until the price is

marked down

so low,

that you can't resist.

a light rain

it's familiar,

this rain. how it falls in quiet

little steps

on cat's paws.

in whispers,

almost with apology

and regret.

i'm sorry, it says, as it

forms

small puddles,

sorry, but the clouds

are in charge

of it all.

what we expect

we take

for granted that the car

will

start.

that the sun will rise.

that there

will be water when you

turn the knob.

ice will melt.

the lights

will go on with a flip

of the switch.

we expect

a door to open,

the clocks

to tick.

we expect love to be

everlasting.

and yet.

it isn't.

store flowers

the store flowers won't

last long.

cut early

and watered,

banded together

on the shelf.

the petals will fall,

they'll wilt,

the stems

no longer strong

enough to hold them up.

no sunlight,

no vase will help.

but they'll make

it home

and into the hands of

who they were bought for.

and that

counts.

options

finding the right word

is hard.

so many to choose from.

there are

so many choices

in this life.

colors,

what to wear, where to 

live.

to tell a truth,

or lie.

how to work.

who to love,

nearly everything has

an option,

even when

and how to die.

graduation blues

the arts and science,

the business degree,

the theater

diploma,

philosophy.

and there they are

sweeping

floors,

flipping burgers,

the day labor office

jobs,

shuffling online

papers,

living in tight quarters

with two others

or three.

weighed down by

student loans

that will never set them

free.

it's hard to disagree

hardly a day

goes by where you don't hear

someone say,

from clerk,

to bum,

to scientist,

i'm worried about the world.

things have changed.

it's not the way

it used to be.

look around you.

it's hard to disagree.

the job chooses you

how did you become

a lobster

man,

i ask

the guy pulling in the steel

cages

full of struggling

brown

lobsters.

i didn't choose this life,

he says,

sucking on a cigarette,

and taking a sip

of whiskey

from his silver flask.

the job chooses you.

does it hurt them when

you boil them.

nah.

they don't feel a thing.

three grapes and half bowl of chicken broth

i knew she'd be gone for

two hours

after she ate three grapes

and a half bowl

of chicken broth.

she had to work off the calories.

off she'd go,

with her headphones on,

cell phone

clutched in her hand.

a blood red head band

tight on her brow,

baggy workout clothes

to weigh her down.

special walking shoes.

a timer on her wrist

for distance.

i'd look out the window

and see her arms

swinging madly,

teeth clenched

in determination.

six miles at a furious pace

should do it.

the passing of Mrs. Abercrombie

it's hard for the new neighbors

to accept you.

the widow

Mrs. Abercrombie

lived in your house for thirty-seven

years.

everyone loved her.

she baked cookies.

she watched the neighborhood kids.

she gave out

the tomatoes

she grew in her garden.

she sang in the church choir.

she was the treasurer on the board

for many years.

she had a wreathe

on her door, a flag in her

yard saying all are welcome,

race creed or color.

she gave to the poor,

recycled.

she was adored.

it was hard on everyone

when they wheeled her out

on a stretcher.

and now it's you

living there.

putting the trash out 

a day early,

and before

the sun goes down.

already there's angry notes

on your door.

unprepared

some people are never

prepared

for what's up ahead.

they never have an umbrella

when it starts to rain,

they don't save

money,

they spend it, hoping

that there won't be that

rainy day.

there's no back up plan,

no plan B,

or C.

they plow forward,

nearly out of gas,

they smoke and drink,

they overeat,

and hope the good

times last.

virgin oil

we all want the good stuff.

not the day old,

or the rail

bottle.

not the used car,

or the goodwill coat.

we want new.

we want the best.

we want the virgin oil,

the virgin wool.

the girl with

the never been slept

in bed.

the errand boy

i was way down

on her totem pole.

kids, parents,

job, dog,

house.

etc. came first.

i wasn't even on the pole.

i was somewhere

on the ground.

a rug to wipe

her feet upon.

an errand boy waiting

for the bell to ring,

for me to come

and help her out.

why vote?

speeches are made,

vows,

promises.

a new deal, a new plan.

lower taxes,

raise wages,

cut waste,

less control by the man.

time for a change.

blah blah blah.

four years and out

or in again.

same old story

of nothing changing

since time began.

the front porch swing

i see her

on the front porch

aging,

waiting.

waiting

for a train, a bus,

an old friend.

waiting for love

to arrive

or to return again.

she rocks

on the swing

listening to the soft

parade of rain,

remembering

how it was.

how it was,

back then.

show me more

some

disguise themselves

as pure,

as good, as clean

and wonderful

as new

driven snow.

but they aren't.

show me the flaws,

the scars instead,

show me the wounds

that still bleed

and are yet to heal.

show me

the dark side of

your moon,

your lisp, your nervousness,

your hidden room.

be fragile, beneath

the snow.

be more than just what

i see on the surface,

show me what lies

below.

careful not to spill

when the well

runs

dry

you wait for rain.

you have

no choice

but to be patient.

to sit

in the shade

under the cloudless

sky

and sip

what water there

is,

careful not to spill.

popsicles in the sun

after sucking

on a popsicle while sitting

on the curb,

in the July sun,

our lips and mouth

would be orange,

or cherry.

stained with the sugary

colored ice.

it would drip down

our chins,

onto

our shirts and socks.

then we gnawed on the stick.

the rounded

popsicle stick

until it was all gone,

then we threw them

at each

other.

it was a long summer.

keeping him small

my son is a minimalist,

she tells me proudly.

he owns two pairs of shorts,

one pair of jeans

and three t-shirts.

and sandals.

she beams when she talks

about him.

remembering

how he sang in the choir

in the fifth grade.

but, i tell her,

he's nine years out of college,

he's thirty-three.

no job

no girlfriend,

no money,

still living in the same

house and bedroom

as the day

he was born.

what does he do all day?

i ask her.

which ends the discussion.

swimming lessons

it's scary when

your father

takes off the training wheels.

with wrench in hand

he bends over

your bike

and unscrews the rattling

pair of wheels

that have kept you upright.

you got this, he says,

giving you a push,

down the hill.

you hit a pole,

then a fence and go

sprawling into the street.

he laughs,

then picks you up.

let's try this again,

he says,

as your mother holds

her breath

and tries not to cry.

swimming lessons 

are next week.

spelling don't matter

the teacher

doesn't care about spelling,

my son would

tell me in the sixth grade

as i looked at his

test paper,

his handwriting no different

than a chicken running

across the paper after

stepping in ink.

she said there are no

wrong answers.

everyone else got an A too.

nobody fails

in her class, he said smiling.

she said there are no

mistakes. it's the effort

that counts.

which made me think

of Miles Davis,

who said there are no

mistakes

in his music. but he was

talking about jazz

and blowing the horn,

not communicating with

words.

great i told my son,

as his mother pinned the test next

to his participation trophies

on the shelf.

so far left he's almost gone

he used to be a regular guy.

he'd play

ball, drink, have fun,

have a scotch on the rocks

and a cigar

once in awhile.

a burger at the local

pub,  a sports fan

of various teams, he whistled

and flirted with women.

and then he met Sally.

a long legged former

beauty queen back in

the day. way way back

in the day.

now he's marching

to save the ta ta's,

wearing pink,

he's cooking 

and cleaning, watching

her grandkids all day.

which is all fine,

but he wants to disband

the police, bring in

the social workers.

he even quit his job

to spend more time with

his herb garden and dog.

on weekends he separates

his paper, plastic, cans

and has adopted a road

that he walks picking up trash.

another good thing, but

i've actually seen him

in the kitchen wearing an apron

over his save the whale t-shirt,

as he cut off the crust

of organic cucumber sandwiches.

Dick Butkus used to be

his hero,

but now it's Gret Thunberg.

he traded in his old GTO

for a Prius and

tells me that he's evolved,

but in my mind

he's so far left, he's almost

gone.

the car salesman

i'm here for a test drive,

i tell the salesman,

waking him up, as he sleeps

with his head

on his desk.

what?

who are you, he says.

i'm a potential customer,

i tell him.

go away, he says. i was just

in the middle of a dream

about Farrah Fawcet.

what?

who?

i want to test drive the new

S 4, in black if you have

it.

he lifts his head back up.

are you still here?

we don't have any cars to

test drive.

we're waiting for covid to end,

and for the war to end,

plus all our micro chips come

from China, and they're a little

mad at us right now,

because of Pelosi.

he takes out a pair of keys

from his desk drawer and throws

them at me,

there's a green dodge dart

around back, take it out for a spin.

it's on sale.

put some gas in it okay?

be careful of the floorboard,

it's rusted and you might put

your foot through it.

doing the research

i can't get my doctor

on the phone,

or my nurse,

or my ENT guy, or

my dentist,

or my dermatologist.

they don't answer

their phones, or e mails.

i think  i need 

a whole new team.

maybe they've given up 

on me.

none of them ever liked me

showing them my research

from WebMd.

where were you last night?

so, the detective

knocks on the door.

he has a few questions to ask me.

i invite him in and put on

a pot of coffee.

he takes out his notepad

and clicks open his pen.

cream and sugar, i ask

from the kitchen.

a little of both, he says.

is splenda okay?

sure, one. just one.

i carry out the coffee

and a small plate of cookies

left over from a tin my

father got me for Christmas.

they might be a little stale,

i tell the detective

as he sips his coffee.

so, he says.

where were you last saturday

night, and the saturday

night before that?
gee whiz, i tell him. i can't

remember.

but today is sunday, and yesterday

was saturday,

you're telling me you can't

remember what you did last

night?

tequila will do that sir, i tell him.

how's your coffee, should i heat

it up.

no, he says. it's fine, then dips

a cookie into it.

i see him write down, tequila.

can anyone verify where you 

were last night?

sure, i yell out to the other room,

Betty, hey Betty, can you come

out here for a minute.

she's still in her wonder woman

costume from last night

and nearly falls over, tripping

on the carpet in her stiletto heels.

her mascara has run down

her face and her lipstick is 

smeared.

i'm not Betty, she says. i'm

wonder woman.

she's still woozy from last

night's tequila.

are you in trouble with the fuzz,

honey? i promise i'll visit you

in jail.

the man wants to know where

we were last night, or where i was.

she starts laughing.

should i show him the little video

we made.

no, no....the detective says, no need

to do that.

i think we're done here. thanks

for the coffee,

sure, sure, take some of these

cookies with you okay. here

take the whole tin.

i hope you find whover did whatever

was done.

thus or therefore?

she carried 

a pink hand gun

in her purse

bejeweled with

multi-colored rhinestones.

it was a small,

derringer of sorts

that could barely

kill a squirrel

if the need arose.

she opened her purse

and flashed the gun

as we sat eating our

greasy order of calamari

at the riverside bar.

put that away, i told her.

what are you nuts?

why do you have a gun?

i work in my parent's liquor store

over in PG county,

she said. wiping red sauce

from her pouty lips,

and we get a lot of

robberies. so thus the gun.

thus?

I said, not expecting that word?

yes, she said, thus.

or would you prefer

therefore?

either is fine, i told her,

putting my hands into the air.

careful where you step

i keep looking

but so far i see nothing

hidden.

no lies.

no secrets.

no alternative life

beyond the one

being lived.

a clean slate.

twice burned makes

one

fearful of the next

fire, if there is one

to be found.

heads or tails

you run

out of options.

the clock is ticking.

you have

no time left.

you have to make a decision.

you flip the coin

high into the air,

it's taking forever to land.

will it be heads

or tails this time,

what now

will be your plan?

i don't understand, she'd say

i could never make her laugh.

i wasted some

of my best material on her.

she'd roll her eyes

and tell me i was too sarcastic,

too cynical,

too cryptic.

too dry.

i don't get it.

she'd say.

you make a joke of everything.

can't you be serious

once in a while?

but in the beginning

during the honeymoon phase,

she'd say, you're such

a funny guy,

then throw back her head

and fake a laugh

holding her stomach as

if in pain.

she never told a joke, or

got a joke,

it was an early exit and demise.

it's the government, man

i can see

by the silver ponytail, 

and the tie-dyed shirt

that he hasn't quite

left the 60's.

Hendrix on the stereo,

followed by

a stack of wax.

Joplin, then

a song about San Francisco.

he's

rolling joints

at his coffee table.

sandals

and jean shorts, it looks

like he's ready to go

back downtown

to protest the Vietnam

war again.

he brings out two glasses

of carrot juice,

freshly squeezed

and some seaweed crackers

and smiles.

so what's going on, man,

he says.

what's happening?

what do you think about

the government lately?

same old, right?

same old.

burning sage

my friend Labella

believes

in the other side.

evil and demons,

dark people.

she brings sage over to my house,

and lights it.

then walks through

each room,

getting the spell out.

waving

the burning branch

around,

filling the air with

the pungent smell of

burning leaves.

once done, she says a prayer,

then we have

sandwiches and tea

on the patio

and we put some music on.

between the spare the tire

i find an old short story

i wrote a few

years

ago in the trunk of my car.

i have no idea

how it ended up there,

snug between

the wrenches and spare

tire.

folded in half.

i take it out and give it a

read.

it's not too bad, not too

shabby at all.

maybe i'll clean it up,

add and subtract and send

it out into the world.

why not?

the american dream

when you get old

they expect

you to get a little red sports car,

play golf,

buy a boat,

join the country club.

they expect you to wear

white pants,

with loafers

a checkered shirt

maybe grow a mustache

or a goatee

get a mistress on the side

a house on the water

in Florida

go fishing as you fade

out of relevance.

it's the American dream.

as far as the eye can see

no matter how many times

you visit

the ocean,

you can't help standing back

to stare at it for a moment

or two when you arrive.

it's crazy.

how big and wide it is.

stretching out as far as

the eye can see,

from left to right

and forward.

it's truly amazing.

you think to yourself,

shaking your head,

the depth and power of it all,

and then you put your

luggage in your room

and go get something to eat,

like a crab cake, or lobster.

a fresh start

i pick up my new

love interest in my new car.

i'm wearing new pants

and new shoes.

i'm all new.

except for this shirt i'm

wearing which i notice

has a coffee stain on

the front.

i'm doomed.

you can't trust yelp

the man

has his family rate

his restaurant

on yelp.

it's a big family.

they all give it four stars.

they rave

about it.

you have to try

the ravioli, one says.

another,

praises the linguini

with alfredo sauce.

but the place

is empty

when you go there,

the service bad

and the food

tasteless.

you see the cook

in the back

arguing with his wife.

there's trouble here.

slowly you slip out,

before a glass of water

arrives.

you can't trust yelp.

darn, it's my sock ironing day

i make a quick excuse

to get out of

going to the garden party,

where someone

is going to read their poetry.

that's my sock ironing day, i say.

so sorry.

church, afterwards?

oh my, i'd love to, but

i think i have poison

ivy on my leg

and i'll be itching it the whole

sermon.

bring me back a bulleting though.

it's nice to see

who passed away.

a nice short visit

when a lady bug,

orange,

small and round like a happy

psychedelic pill,

lands on your arm

you can't just brush it off.

send it flying

to where it came from.

you like this short visit

from the kindest of bugs,

you wish more people

were this friendly and fun.

carefully, 

you keep your arm still

as you walk around.

something sweet

it's a craving.

a lust

for something sweet,

something

to satisfy

the urge.

something small.

decadent.

something in reach.

something you don't have

to drive down

to the market for,

where others too

are circling

an aisle of treats.

finding hope in the tragedy of others

i see that

the dog makes do

with one

leg,

van Gogh with one ear.

the cat with one eye,

the fox

without a tail.

even the wingless bird

finds a way

to get along

and have a life.

it was encouraging

to see,

as i listened to you

cry about

your broken nail.

wearing the new mask

once exposed,

off they go.

some slow, some quick afoot

fleeing

into the arms

of another,

or the deep woods,

a shelter.

becoming unknown,

once more.

full of new good

deeds,

burying the past,

disguising who

they really are,

tying tightly the new mask.

cry me a river

i took out my

violin

and began to drag the bow

across

the thin

strands of wire.

go on, i said, cry me

a river.

then lifted my feet

to keep

them dry, and

listened.

let's see how it ends

it's cavernous

the cave

of dark,

the eek of light just

barely showing

you where to put

the next foot.

with torch in hand

you go further

and further,

deeper and deeper in,

with no end

in sight.

at the halfway mark,

it's just you,

alone, but why stop now,

keep going,

let's see how it ends.

no ice in her water

when i picked her up

at the airport,

Rimute, all the way from Germany,

she was wearing

a micro-mini skirt and a mink

stole. she had splashed herself

with a pint

of perfume from Switzerland.

she didn't speak English.

only French, Italian, German

and Spanish.

i had English.

she teetered over to my car

in her stiletto heels

and i put her six bags of luggage

into the trunk.

she was well prepared for

the three day visit.

communication was a problem,

but we made do

with hand signals ala

Jane Goodall and Koko the ape.

using the international sign

language for hungry,

thirsty, tired, etc.

it was exhausting, but fun

nonetheless. 

i still have the chocolates

she gave me,

frozen solid in my freezer,

and the book about the Alps,

that she signed with big

swirly letters and a heart.

our initials inside.

i made a mental note of

no ice in her water, or drinks,

in case she ever came back.

a German thing, i guess.

fashion faux pas

i really really want

to wear

this new white sweater i bought

yesterday,

but is it too hot out?

will i get looks

and raising of eyebrows,

shaking their heads

at my fashion faux pas.

is it

too early for fall clothes?

i stick my head out

the window

and check the weather on

my phone.

fifty tonight.

maybe i can get away with

it, but i'll bring a dress

shirt just in case.

making room for cash

the market goes

up again.

i tell my broker to cash

me out.

my mattress is ready.

i have space between

that and the box spring.

i've cleared out

the books, and dvd's,

pictures of you

in lingerie.

the play gun, the wig,

the whip,

the recordings and magazines.

i've got plenty of room

now for cash.

no checks please.

she was more of a rental

at first it was more

of a rental than a forever

kind of thing.

nice on the outside.

big rooms,

a lake,

the woods.

quiet and easy

with plenty of parking.

a one year lease.

it felt good for a while.

the neighbors were

friendly, but not

too friendly.

i would have bought

the place

if not for the plumbing

and bad wiring.

the leaky basement

and bats in the belfry.

one year with her was

plenty.

skipping school in the 7th grade

we'd skip

school and take the dc transit

into town.

dropping us off at

the National Archives building.

we'd spend the day

wandering

the arcades

the museums.

taking the small subway

from the Supreme Court

to the Senate,

where we'd eat bean soup

in the cafeteria.

ragamuffins we were

getting a peek inside the

Blue Mirror

at the dancers

when the door swung open

there was five dollars between us,

but we ate well.

and had our fill of pin ball

machines.

cold cokes at the counter

of Woolworth's.

sometimes we'd take in a new

James Bond movie

at Lowe's Palace,

where the uniformed usher

would tell us

to keep the noise down

and to get our shoes off

the seats.

by three in the afternoon,

we were tired

and took the bus home,

where our parents would

ask us how school was that day.

and we'd say great.

between the lines

so much is said

between the lines

without being said.

but the astute listener

will know

the meaning of this

talk. the careful observer

of lips and tongue,

can easily surmise

what lies in

the ebb and flow.

the lift of hand,

the touching the nose,

the scratch, the shift

of weight from one

foot to the other,

the avoiding gaze.

what's not to know?

the shaved ice man

his hands

pink

like strawberries,

as he pushed

the old cart

up the road,

his face darkened

with sun,

stopping for the children.

shaving ice

into each

handheld paper cone.

all shades and flavors

of the rainbow.

I remember him.

the splash of colors on

his apron,

his white mustache,

his smile.

did he ever speak,

that i don't remember,

i don't know.

sweet sixteen at sixty

it was hard

to explain our rug burns

to our parents.

what was there to say.

the room was

dark,

the cushions on the couch

in disarray. 

we drank some beer

and spun a few

records.

yes, our lips are red,

our necks

have blue welts

on them.

it's what happens

when we're left alone

in the house.

it's hormones,

damn it.

come on.

we're teenagers.

weren't you one too.

the three page letter

i write a long letter.

hand written,

a rare

thing these days.

i've said everything there

is to say.

my story, my take on life.

bitter truths,

no lies.

it's three pages.

i read it out loud,

over and over,

before i'm happy with it.

crossing words out,

adding words.

post scripts.

finally i hold it up to the light

then fold it.

i slide it into the envelope

addressed,

a stamp pressed into

the right hand corner.

i seal it with a long lick

against the back

glue stripe.

done.

maybe i'll never send it,

maybe tonight,

we'll see. we'll see.

with the coffee gone cold

with dishes on the table,

the coffee

gone cold,

is this the end

of the night? are there more

words to say,

more stories told.

it's hard to let go

of nights

like this. 

with

friends gathering

in peace and laughter.

the closest one feels

to being whole.

have you seen Lilly

have you seen Lilly 

the woman

in the Cadillac

asks when she rolls

down her window.

she's referring to her

old black cat

that wanders

the neighborhood,

going under parked

cars and down into

the sewers.

lying in the sun on

a porch when tired.

i pour her a small

bowl of buttermilk

from time to time when

she visits me.

nope, i tell the woman.

haven't seen her

this week.

we'll if she shows up

tell her i'm looking for her,

and to come home. okay?

okay, i'll do that.

i object

the humor

goes first in a soured

relationship.

the sweet words of endearment

are kaput.

no more, sweet potato

or sugar dumpling

or

would you be a dear

and do this

my sweetness.

it takes a formal turn.

first and middle

names.

or mister this or miss

are said clearly.

each one holding a gavel

and a grudge

to object

at what's said next.

the daily fleece

we once worried about

pick pockets,

the thief

lifting our wallets

with a stealthy hand

as they bump

against us in a crowded

room, or bar,

or street.

those fun days over.

now it's the man on the phone,

in your e mail,

online,

who is more sophisticated

with his daily

fleece.

the rake is ready

it's a bright yellow

leaf

falling in handfuls.

a parakeet

gold,

one that resembles the skin

of a plum,

another

stretched

with red

veins, crimson,

once green

now old.

the rake is ready.

when dogs run free

you see the dog

off the chain

running free and happy,

swiftly down

the street.

at last released.

no plan, no strategy,

never going

back.

who hasn't felt that

joy at sometime

in their life?

the snow drifts of poetry

i take out the big bottle

of extra strength Tylenol.

a tall glass of cold water.

i have to sort through nine thousand

half baked poems

to find five or six to send to

The Sun Magazine.

they pay by the line and in

copies.

maybe with a few legitimate

publications

i can face the day better.

i'll show them.

i got your modern contemporary

confessional poetry

right here New Yorker.

i swallow two pills, gulp

down some water and dig in.

i hate everything i write

within an hour of writing it.

but somehow, by luck

or magic, divine intervention,

a few pop up worthy

of attempting

to publish.

those are usually the ones

that surprise me, and make

me say wow,

who wrote that? me?

no way.

getting the green light Houston

when she's tipsy

she's

frisky.

she's a little bit out of control.

regret will

follow in the morning,

but for now

she's giving me the green

light,

with all systems go.

i want to just plug it in

i remember the days

when you bought something new

like a tv

or a refrigerator,

or a stove,

or printer

or telephone

and you just plugged it in,

hit a button

and off you go.

you adjusted the antennae

on top

of the old black and white

and sat back and enjoyed

the show.

no more.

no more, God help us.

getting to the moon and back

is easier

these days.

my printer wakes me up

at night,

fresh out of the box,

asking me questions that

i don't have the answers to.

my account manager

my bank guy,

Kamil,

who works at the drive thru

rolls his

eyes at me

as he deposits

a check into my account.

he hits the button

to speak to me

through the garbled

intercom.

you are not gaining interest

he says, placing

my receipt into the box

with a red lollipop.

with inflation, you are

going backwards.

i blow air out of my

mouth in exasperation.

have you ever thought

of muni bonds?

he says. adjusting his turban

and long white

robe,

or a money market 

account.

i can barely hear him though

through the open

sliding drawer,

he's taken his hand off

the button

which allows outside

communication.

what?

i say. i can't hear you.

he pushes the button.

stroking his long white beard,

muni bonds, he says.

let me go get my manager.

hold on.

don't leave.

he has some forms for

you to fill out.

i unwrap the cherry lollipop

and suck on it.

the rattle beneath the car

it's a rattle

beneath the car.

fuck.

what's that.

i keep driving, turning

up the volume,

purposely

hitting bumps and

pot holes

in the road hoping

to make

the rattle go away,

magically tighten

whatever's loose.

i don't even

want to look

but i know i'll have

to take it in

at some point.

explain to some mechanic

what the noise sounds

like.

where it's coming from,

and tell him,

no, i don't know

how or why it happened.

i'm exhausted

before i even take it

to the garage.

after a few miles,

i roll the window

down and listen.

it's still there.

fuck.

when mindy myers drove the car into the library

in high school

when it was Mindy 

Myers turn

to drive

the big four door Buick,

the whale of a car that

we used for drivers education

she hopped

the curb

and hit the pole that

held up

the library.

tilting books,

and throwing magazine

racks to the floor.

i remember looking

out the window

at her crying,

feeling sorry for her.

she went from

safely existing under the wire,

being a nobody,

but not anymore.

the dawn of civilization

they refer to the phrase

the dawn of civilization,

as if suddenly

the apes

were walking around

and talking,

making coffee and mowing

the lawn.

writing blogs

and smoking cigarettes.

just like that.

but there's no mention

of the noon of civilization,

or the dusk.

or the late night end

of it all.

now let's go inside

the fire

at last out,

i sweep the ashes

up

into a small pile,

circling

the broom, 

from side to side

and around,

then

carefully brush

it all into the dustpan,

casting it all

into an open bin.

that easy.

that easy.

it's done, now let's

go inside.

candy in a bowl

she kept the same

bowl

of candy

in reach on the table

at the end

of the sunken couch.

the cushions

that never saw the sun

still orange,

the others a faded

brown.

the bowl was made

of crystal.

a gift from someone

long ago.

it added a sort

of genteel

flavor to the room,

lacking

light.

candy, she'd say,

pointing 

towards the bowl

as she asked you

to sit down,

to which you'd always

say no. maybe later,

but not now.

out the window

on occasion

you see them on the street

in slippers

and pajamas,

a band around their wrist,

maybe a long grey overcoat

worn like a cape.

they've climbed out

a window

of their own personal

asylum.

they look scared,

they're moving like

squirrels in the street

with dark eyes

frenetic feet.

they know their time is short

on the outside,

but they no

longer know which

direction to go,

what to do with their lives.

the net upon

them, came way too soon.

no longer knowing

a truth from a lie.

the audience

not everyone

can dance,

or sing, or play an instrument.

not everyone

can lead the band,

the orchestra.

not everyone can act

or play a role,

juggle

or stand up to recite

their poetry,

or tell a joke.

someone has to be

in the audience. 

someone has to fill

the room.

nude in the window

the woman

in the window is nude.

not a towel

around her.

people slow as they pass

by

some to admire

some to cast shame

she knows what she's doing

she doesn't care

youth is fleeting

and one day

she'll feel the need

to draw the shades.

someone like you

someone like

you is coming up the street

someone like me

is with her

but it isn't you

and it isn't me

but still

it's startling to see

so i cross over

wanting no part of it.

counting coins

it's just money.

paper

or coin.

it comes and goes.

but when

you're low on

money.

when the rainy day

fund

is spent.

the world

seems hard,

feels old.

the one hour printer

with the printer

on the fritz

i buy a new one.

it's heavy, large.

i cut it out of the box,

the Styrofoam,

the plastic wrapping,

find the directions

in six languages,

and some rattling

unbagged parts.

wireless, it says on

the box.

two hours later,

it still doesn't work.

the one eight hundred

line is dead.

the web site gone.

it won't print or copy,

or scan, or do any

of the things it promised

me in the four star

review i found.

i pack it all up

and take it back.

who needs a printer,

anyway.

SASE

the business

of anything creative

is grueling.

you just want to splash

paint down,

throw words onto the page.

edit.

and move on.

you don't want to put

the new

poem into an envelope

and wait five

months for a student

editor to accept

or reject your piece.

SASE, they insist,

return postage.

a cover letter, tell us

who are,

describe in detail what

this is.

we pay in copies, or two

cents per line.

be patient, we get two

thousand

poems a month, and we

don't read

between may and august.

good luck.

let others decide

a forgotten

box,  an old marked

box,

cornered

and wet with mildew,

taped tight.

the mold

of being forgotten

pushed deep

into an attic corner

where no sun

will bring light.

cards and letters,

photographs?

touch stones and tells.

what prize

is there inside,

what

clue

to the past that

reveals where we

are now.

some, a lot, or none.

we'll let it rest there.

let others decide.

unfilling the void

i see no difference

i can't tell one from the other.

between the spiritual,

or lost,

the wise,

or unwise.

those that pray

or meditate before a flickering

candle.

i see them in traffic,

at work,

at play.

i listen to what they say,

peer into their eyes.

they appear to be

no different than you

or I

still bothered, still uncertain,

still searching

for something that will

fill the void

inside.

it's no different

when you are in love,

it's no

different than

being insane,

you are too busy with it

to tend

to the real world,

the small

things

around us,

the mundane.

you don't hear what

others are saying,

you don't

feel or know

what truth is.

you are skipping down

some rose petaled 

path,

oblivious to any 

painful end.

house for sale

we need to move,

the wife

said,

looking out the window

at

the new neighbors

unloading

their car

of kids

and bags, boxes.

clothes from j.c. penny's.

their skin

a much darker shade

of tan

than theirs

earned from the beach

at the Hamptons.

the gossip

the priests

are prone to gossip

with the last confession

heard

they can hardly

contain themselves

rushing back

to the back vestibule

to spread the word.

you won't believe this one,

they say,

to a gathering gaggle

of nuns

and others,

stirring coffee

to calm their nerves.

the toils of the first world

we have

small tasks to do.

the unseen,

the undocumented

toils

of our first world

woes.

there's the lint trap

on the washer.

for one.

so quickly filled.

just like us

as children,

when the neighbors argued

we'd cup

our ears to glasses

pressed against the wall.

we wanted 

to hear

what their lives were like,

these other husbands

and wives.

how different

they were

than ours.

not very, we surmised,

our ears

flush with harsh words,

curses,

and lies.

is there another way

without

much thought,

i awaken.

and move into the day,

though

it feels as

if the wheel is just spinning,

that i'm not going anywhere.

i'm still

despite movement.

not falling

backwards, or forward,

just propped

up,

waiting for something

or someone

to show me another

way.

she was never here

truthfully,

i never knew who she was,

her favorite color,

or drink.

or book, or song.

what film, or piece of art

stirred her.

i never knew

what food she preferred,

what day of the week

she felt

more happy in.

i was clueless as to

what month, or season,

was her favorite.

i never knew much about

who she really was

despite lying next to me

for over a year.

it's almost as if

she was never here.

judgement

can we look

at another without judgement,

or hear someone

speak,

or listen to a song,

or watch

a film,

or stare at art

with little or no opinion?

can we just observe

in a neutral state

and not cast aspersions,

or be overly

generous

with kind words.

it seems impossible to

disengage

from this world,

as we look upon it,

and it looks upon

us.

placing value on what

we feel

is worth,

or absurd.

removing her funny bone

she had her funny

bone

removed early

in life. 

at maybe ten or eleven

her father

took out

a knife

and carved it away.

there was no blood

or pain

at the time.

that would come later

as she tried to figure

it all out,

looking

over her shoulder

at the little girl

left behind.

the not so grand canyon

the bar,

the eatery,

the shore,

the mountain line.

each

less

interesting

over time.

have you had your

fill

of this world?

or is there more

to see and do.

it seems for now

at least,

that these shoes

will remain

shiny and new.

the art of washing clothes

we were different.

she

separated her clothes.

used bleach

and sensitive detergents.

the darks and whites

were washed

separately.

when the beep said

the dryer was done,

she folded them while

warm,

placing them neatly

into a basket

then took them to their

designated bureau

drawer homes.

as for me.

a week might go by

before

i went back down to find

something to wear,

tossing them

all into a basket.

sorting until the right

shirt was found.

surprised by pockets

with money still there.

the sailor

like his marriages,

three being

the charm,

his first boat sank

while tied

to the pier, the second boat

caught fire

in the dead of winter.

the third boat,

was stolen,

someone sailed it away

one night

when the coast was clear.

and now he talks about

his next boat,

perhaps a rowboat

this time,

but this sailor

is running out of years.

plum out of sorry

i reach into my

bag

for another sorry,

but there is none.

i'm plum out of sorry's.

the bag

is empty.

i gave them all to you

on the first go around.

it's a shame, 

but for now

a shrug

will have to do.

not wanting sleep

not wanting

sleep

sleep finds me, takes

me by my

hand

and lays me down,

down.

the lights off.

the din

of the world

slowed

to a gentle spin.

nothing moves

out the window,

but flickering

pricks

of white stars

through a black cloth.

a half moon, but

not a sound.

in seeking the afterlife

there is a need to push

the spires

upward,

to build high and hard

the steeples,

making

room

for darkness in the rafters,

but light too

through

mottled panes of glass,

stained in

greens, and reds,

ambers.

redemptive blue.

ring the bells too,

let God know we're here,

that we believe in you.

we covet the smoke and mirrors

of the church,

the fear of it.

beating our fists 

to our chests, kneeling blindly

in faith.

the fire and brimstone

message.

the holy rags of gold,

the enormous crucifix.

we want salvation,

we want heaven 

and the sweet afterlife, but

without the pain,

the price of

submission, of fasting,

of denial

of all the sinful

pleasures that come with

this thorn filled life,

despite so many roses.

the stone wheel

it's a rabbit hole,

no doubt,

once diving into 

the psychology

of another's

mental issues.

father,

mother?

environment.

biology?

what makes a person tick?

makes them

jump

from the bridge.

what makes a person

stay put

and grind out a life

at the stone wheel

set before them?

the white curtain

they separate

the sick

with a pulled curtain

in the shared room,

side by side

two beds.

no need in piling on

someone

else's

illness or grief.

it's a mind your own

business

white sheet that the nurse

draws

around you.

the rollers hardly making

a sound,

just a quiet squeak.

each grain of sand

we bring

in the sand on our shoes,

our feet.

the soft

infinitely small pebbles

of ocean

and earth.

browned and whitened,

made small,

by time,

the pounding

of waves.

it's everywhere,

where we walk,

where we eat

where we sleep.

it's inescapable.

each grain somehow a

part

of a bigger picture.

strange

knowledge

that feels out of reach.

read me one more page

the words

come fast, then slow.

a perfect read.

you lie back and listen,

the speaker turned up

on your little

phone.

you listen and imagine

these people, hardly

disguised

in the Bell Jar.

it's a beautiful book,

a painful book.

you know the end

before the end,

but it doesn't matter

doesn't ruin things.

you want it to go on,

for her life

to go on.

you want to read what

she would have written

if she hadn't

taken her own life.

but you are glad

for what she did leave,

glad that she was born.

no requests taken

was my mother a good cook?

who knows.

but we ate everything she put on 

our plates.

from pork chops,

to spaghetti,

to scrambled eggs.

she was more of an army cook

in the middle of a war,

a raging battle

with troops to feed,

making due

with whatever she could find.

salt and pepper,

butter and oils.

a small tower of wonder

bread centered.

before shopping,

she was

always at the table with a pair

of sewing shears

cutting coupons

from the newspaper.

searching for

whatever meat was on sale,

apples and bananas,

spam,

there were no requests taken.