she scares me

she tells me,

bringing out her diary from

under the left

corner

of her mattress,

she tells me

that we made

love twenty-nine times last

month.

apparently

we skipped a day, but

we have time

this afternoon to set

the ledger straight.

she scares me.

walk away

shall we not

be kind to the unkind,

patient

with the impatient.

nice

to the rude?

shall we not turn

the other

cheek, and let fools

be fools.

can't we move on

and find

peace

away from anger,

without a word.

just a smile

and swift exit,

engaged no longer.

no one reads poetry anymore

no one

reads poetry anymore,

and why

should they?

why should

they unfold the pages

of books

thickened

with dust and mold,

Longfellow,

please,

Frost,

dear lord.

forgive me. Walt

Whitman., he puts

me to sleep,

i'm bored.

the pink snake

it's a pinkish coat, 

with a coppered brow, 

checkered

and hatched,

the dot

black specks for eyes,

a slither of tongue,

the sly waggle

out of shadow

into sunlight,

rising to strike.

how easily

we're both surprised.

as if they never left

it's a dream

full

of ghosts. the dead

visiting

as if they never left.

friends and lovers.

people

from your past.,

some present.

they speak,

they listen,

they walk and breathe.

they like

to visit you,

play roles within

your dreams,

they may be gone,

but here,

in here,

they're not dead yet.

worry some more

you need

to keep your curiosity,

your worry

in tact.

it keeps you alive,

stirs

the blood.

worry about food,

and shelter

your money.

love, or anything

that you lack.

wonder what's down the road,

what's wrong,

and how to make

it right.

when you stop,

it's over.

you're done.

you're close to being dead.

turn off the light.

the bullfighter

Hemingway's

mother

dressed him in girl

clothes

at an early age.

dresses

and tights.

so he spent

most of his

later life

disproving the notion

that he was weak,

or feminine.

he took up

boxing,

and wars, bullfights.

heavy drinking

and 

love affairs. but

he never quite got over

those childhood

fears.

eventually giving up,

never

making things right.

getting free

i give up on the knot

and take

a pair

of scissor and cut the lace

in two,

in threes.

there are lots of

knots

in this world.

but it's easier said than

done,

in getting untangled,

in getting

free.

it's just water

it's just water.

just rain.

just the ocean rising and

falling

again.

turn your face into it,

drink it.

let it soak you

to the bone, it's just

water.

water.

let it quench

your thirst.

put your wipers on,

stay in

the right lane,

get home.

the Woke march

it's not

exactly 1984,

or 1939, but you'd

better watch

your step,

your words, your

thoughts,

your actions.

the wokes are out there

keeping an

eye on everything

you say, or do,

or write.

they're coming for you.

no jokes anymore,

no sarcasm,

no humor.

the righteous

are upon us.

the extremists to the left,

to the right.

you'd better stay in your

lane,

eyes straight ahead.

no laughing.

now march, march,

with your hands

at your side.

it's too early to start drinking

i spend an hour

or two

with a screw driver

and screws,

molly bolts

and a new towel rack

for the bathroom.

the other one

fell down,

of course, they all do.

i'm a drunk

sailor on my knees,

cursing

as i measure

and remeasure.

bang a hammer

into the wall.

i'm not cut out for DYI.

i take a break,

a nap.

maybe tomorrow

there's someone out

there,

someone i can call.

will the buttons hold?

i detect a note

of sarcasm in your reply

to my

question as to whether

or not

you like my dress,

she says,

lips pursed, her brow

furrowed.

no longer

with the come hither

look on her

peach colored

face.  i'm

so deep into the relationship

that it will

take a gaggle

of lawyers

to get me out.

her furniture is actually

in the house now.

clothes in

the closet. slippers

are under the bed.

good lord, what have

i done.

again.

i should not have said,

you look good

in tight fitting clothes,

but

will the buttons hold?

you know you're crazy, don't you?

after another bold

face lie

and betrayal, i tell her,

you know,

you're really crazy, 

nuts,

you know that

don't you?

i make the swirly

finger around my ear

to give her the international sign

of being

wackadoodle.

you are totally off your

trolley.

her eyes get big

and wide as she retreats

into the darkened cave

of her soul.

she holds her breath

and begins

to turn blue, but then she

gets a text message

and says.

i have to take this.

hold that thought, this

will take a minute

or two.

who is this?

i didn't think

you'd pick up, she says,

after i say hello.

i thought you

blocked me.

made a vow to never

speak to me

again, or see me

after all i put you through.

but i'm glad you did.

thank you.

thank you. for saying

hello.

who is this? i answer,

ready

to hang up 

the phone.

abandoned

i'm curious

about the empty house on

the corner.

the rusted bicycle

left

behind, the swing set

broken.

the chain around the tree,

the broken

fence,

the tilted shutters

and chimney

with bricks askew.

i wonder, as i walk by,

what happened.

who left

in the middle of the night.

abandoned

this house. deserted

it in a hard rain.

it does so

remind me of you.

see you on the flip side

i cancel

my subscriptions. one after

another.

i reduce

my credit cards

down

to one or two.

there's always a loose

one floating

around somewhere.

i cancel the post,

the magazines i don't

have time

to read.

i cut clean the land line,

down grade the cell

phone.

cable tv.

Spotify,

amazon,

pandora,

Instagram and FB 

i'm getting off the grid,

not that i was ever

really on it.

taking a step away

to regroup

and restore some sense

of sanity.

see you on the flip side,

if we're all

still here.

press one

no use

in trying to talk to a real

person

anymore.

press one

press two

press three, even hollering

out agent

doesn't seem to work

anymore.

it's begun.

machines are taking

over

the world,

your personal life.

A I

has arrived and there's

no turning

back.

thank God for Betty

and her

magical

hands,

massaging gently my 

stiffened neck.

the shine was everything

i find

the old shoe shine kit

under the sink.

palettes of black

and brown.

the chamois cloth,

the brush.

i can't remember the last

time

i used it.

twenty years ago,

maybe

when i had a dress up job

in the city.

adorned smartly

in an office

manner.

the shine

was everything.

too much talk

less is always more,

in most

things, of course.

too much

food

or drink

takes its toll. the buttons

tight,

the belt too short.

whereas too much

talk

reveals

the soul.

no need to look

when young,

we're prone to preening.

checking out

our reflection

in the mirror, or a store

window.

we admire

the image of who we

are,

at least to how the world

sees us,

but time changes

all that.

we become fond

of friendly lighting.

dimmed rooms,

shadows,

taking less time to comb

the hair,

put on our mask, we understand

at last 

there is more to life

than grooming.

don't leave the house willy nilly

when you

get old, you carry things

around

like flashlights

and binoculars.

maps,

change for the meters,

maybe a Swiss army knife

if so inclined.

you have kleenex

with you.

you think ahead.

you don't just leave

the house

willy nilly.

you have a plan for

the day.

the post office,

the coffee shop

Safeway.

you get a prescription

filled at Kaiser.

maybe a walk to the lake

with an old

loaf of bread

to feed the ducks.

the maid's last day

the safe

is open and empty

when you get home.

there's broken glass

on the floor,

the sink is full of

dishes.

the front door is

open

and the dog is

out,

running free.

the bed is unmade

and full

of crumbs.

the last check in

the check book

has been written,

the change jar

on top of the fridge

is dry.

this could be the maid's

last day.

it was a very nice place

somehow.

we're just the right distance

from the sun

so that we don't burn up,

or freeze to death.

there's just enough water

and the right

amount of air.

there's vegetables

and animals, fish in the sea

to eat.

forests and streams.

it seems like it was

purposely set up this way.

with four seasons,

birds and bees.

a reason and logic

to everything.

it's all very well

organized. 

you almost feel at times

like someone

had a plan.

what are you?

i accidentally

used the wrong

bathroom at the mall

the other day.

the sign on the door

was confusing.

it had a question mark

on it.

but i really had to go

so i took a chance

and went in.

when i entered

four people were hugging

and crying in a circle.

they looked at me

and asked what

i was doing there.

i said smartly, what

do you think?

i've got three cups of

coffee in me that need

to get out.

are you a man or a woman?

one person asked,

are you non-binary?

i don't know what that means,

i said, trying to remember my

high school math

with Mr. Reber.

well, are you a man or a woman?

the person screamed.

she or he was wearing

a mustache

and a dress. yellow

with big black polka dots.

another person had a blue wig

on and combat

boots, and a pearl necklace.

ummm. the last time i looked,

man?

i said cautiously.

not good enough, they said,

and chased me out.

how dare you, they screamed,

how dare you?

yellow sticky notes

the sticky notes

were

everywhere. 

reminders stuck on

the mirror,

on the fridge,

on the door going out.

on her purse,

her books,

her desk,

her computer screen.

she had little time

to accomplish

all these things.

writing the notes

was enough to do,

keeping her so busy,

there was so

little time 

for anything else.

be walter

it's just

the news. read the news

off the paper

and don't give

us your opinion

whether

left or right.

be walter cronkite

for once.

turn the page, 

or read it off

the teleprompter,

adjust your glasses,

read it until

your done, then

say goodnight.

spill it out

every word

counts,

each thought uttered,

it's all

part of it.

better to be

unfiltered

and spill, than to

hold back and

be in

the dark, with

no one ever knowing

who you really

are.

there is karma

don't believe in karma?

that in the end,

or middle,

or sooner or later,

you get coming back to

you what

you've given.

trust me

there is karma.

how many examples do

you need.

have a seat

beside me,

and bring your lunch

this will take

a while.

first class trip back to Ireland

he finally tells his girlfriend

of ten

years, that he's

breaking up with her.

that it's over.

he offers her a car, some

money

to fly home,

some dough for new

clothes.

he expects tears, and 

sadness,

but instead,  she smiles

and pats him on the back,

says it's okay, she's been thinking

about it too, for a long

long time.

he gets to stay

in the house, keep the cat

and dog, his 401 K,

but she's the winner

here,

she's going back to Ireland

and is out of

this crumbling country

we call home.

where's the cheese?

there's a beep

in the house, 

a light, but persistent

squeak,

but i can't locate

it's origin.

the cell phone,

the microwave oven,

the stove,

one of four smoke alarms?

the lap top,

the battery

in the landline,

a mouse, maybe.

a mouse might be easier

to find,

where's the cheese?

the exploding blueberry scone

i drop a blueberry scone

onto the floor,

being in a hurry

to stick it into my mouth.

it shatters

into a thousand crumbs.

i sweep up as much

as i can with a stiff coupon

from bed bath and beyond,

but can't get them all.

then i realize, wait a minute.

the maid's coming tomorrow,

so i go back

to what's left of the scone

and a glass of A2 milk

from the farm nearby.

you were once flush

it was a thing

back

in the day,

when once out of the jump

and on the street

again,

you hung

on to

the largest pay stub

you ever

received

to show the guys

there was a

time when you were

flush.

it was a thing.

the old receipt,

tucked into

a wallet behind a photo

of same

girl you missed

but had lost touch,

but the stub

bent

and dirty

from being shown

so much.

usually while

standing in a soup

line,

or at the unemployment

office,

was proof, 

evidence, you used

to be flush.

old habits are hard to break

finally, God says,  

enough, he speaks out

in a loud

resounding

voice that can be heard

all over the world.

no silly burning bush,

no parting of the

red sea,

no smoke and mirrors.

it's a genuine

come to Jesus moment.

He just

yells out, 

you people are driving

me crazy

with your behavior.

this is your final

warning

to straighten up

and clean up your act.

then he tosses a few 

lighting bolts down,

for good measure

and throws in an earthquake.

old habits are hard to break.

the girl off route one south

she liked

her cigarettes and fast

cars.

her trans am

with the big bird on

the hood.

she liked

to swear and have

sex,

use a lot of hair

spray

and lipstick,

short dresses. she was

a hot mess, but

smart

and religious too.

rosary beads

hung from her rear

view mirror

and she went to church

every Sunday

no matter how hung

over she was.

i could never

figure her out, who

or what

was really in there.

is that you Zelda?

there's a giant mosquito in

the house.

i can hear it

licking it's chops,

buzzing,

floating, looking for a place

to land

on my body and suck

the blood and life

out of me.

sometimes i do believe

in reincarnation.

is that you Zelda?

return to sender

as i get out

my check book, my envelopes

and stamps,

my bank

ledger

and return address

ink

stamp,

she asks if maybe i should

join this century

and do online

banking.  go paperless.

i tell her no,

i don't trust it.

i ask her if she could

run

these letters down

to the post office

and pick me up some

more stamps.

a turtle laying eggs

there's a box turtle

in the yard

laying eggs.

i go out and speak to her.

is this a good idea?

i ask.

laying eggs

in my yard.

there's snakes, 

hawks

flying in from out

of state.

raccoons and foxes.

you really should

find a safer

place.

no reply, she just goes

back into her

shell

and gives me the cold

shoulder,

the silent treatment.

women.

conditional love

i'd do anything for you,

but that.

anything.

tell me what you want

me to do.

i'll do anything

for you,

but that.

tell me, make a list,

express what

you want from me.

what you want

me to do.

but

i'll do anything for

you, but that.

making the nest

i see a bird

with a twig flying to the tree,

then again,

with a strand of straw.

all day

he's getting the nest

ready.

it's that

time of year.

he's in love, apparently.

we've all

been there.

spelling doesn't matter

when teachers

could no

longer discipline students,

that was

the beginning of the end.

when they

took prayer

out of school, 

the pledge of allegiance,

when you no longer

had to dress

decently, and behave 

yourself

all hell broke loose.

when spelling no longer

mattered,

when you could sit

wherever you

wanted to in class, when

you demanded

to be called a girl

when you were

really a boy, it became

a giant

cup of crazy.

everyone

staring at their phones.

oblivious

to the words coming

out of the teacher's mouth.

do you know who i am

stuck in traffic

means

nothing to the black car

weaseling

its way

down the emergency

lane,

in an out of traffic.

his windows

darkened,

his four hundred

horse power

engine

with dual exhausts,

revving.

he's a menace

on the highway,

rushing, tailgating,

swerving.

trying desperately

to get an inch further

along

than everyone else.

but he's probably 

a good person deep inside,

right?

doubtful.

she's not in the office right now

i want a doctor

on call,

someone who makes house

visits,

someone

available by text

or phone.

someone in the office

not out

playing golf.

i want a doctor

who keeps reading,

keeps

learning,

who isn't tied down

to the hospital

script.

someone with

an open mind,

and a warm stethoscope

and bedside

manner.

i don't want to talk

to the receptionist,

the nurse,

the P.A..

i'd like to speak to an

actual doctor, hear

and  say actual words.

what could go wrong?

it's a bad

idea,

flying cars, or cars

that drive

on their own.

it's a crazy notion.

letting

machines

figure out the roads

as we sit

back with a ham

sandwich,

a bag of chips

and a bottle

of Stroh's.

what could go wrong?

the oil for food scandal

i should have

seen the red flags, 

married

to the felon

who betrayed his country

doing deals with

Saddam.

oil for food, as he skimmed

millions off

the top.

her man child son,

on the spectrum,

still in the basement at 33 

years old,

no job, no girlfriend,

one pair of clothes.

her married boyfriend next

door.

his mustache and boat,

his dope.

his geezer band.

i should have seen the clues.

the suicidal idealization,

anorexia,

the borderline

disorder.

a lifelong vegan.

all of it adding up

to a giant cup of crazy

and yet i asked her to marry me,

and she said.

i do.

is there room for me?

if I knew

someone in Paris.

i'd call them all the time.

it would

make me feel good

satisfying my curiosity.

i'd ask them

to say things in French.

tell me

what you're eating,

drinking.

tell me what do at night.

are you out dancing?

i'd get the low

down

on the Left Bank,

etc.

i'd ask them if i should

i come.

what do you think?

is there room for me?

if i show up,

will it be fun?

make your bed

i used to underline

passages

in the Bible,

during hard times.

so much so that the binding

broke

and the pages

fell out.

i was usually 

looking for work,

or going through a bad

relationship

or divorce.

illness.

worry. 

grieving over

the death of a loved one.

the usual human stuff

we all deal 

with.

did all that reading and

underling help.

a little, sometimes more

than a little.

but you still had to get

up, get dressed,

and go somewhere

the next morning.

making your bed

and time

seemed to help best.

dropping like fies

the young

man in the paint store,

as he's mixing

up my order, asks me how

my friends

and myself

handle old age.

diet, exercise?

i laugh

and resist the thought

of hitting him

on the head

with a broom handle.

so many have died,

i tell him.

cancers and heart attacks

mostly.

i count six easily, but

more if

pressed.

but there are a few still

around, i tell him.

now hurry up whipper

snapper,

i have to get back to work.

in a serious voice

in mid conversation,

talking

about the weather

and traffic.

the news.

sports

and music, she suddenly

stops

folding the towels

on her table

and says

in a serious voice,

the man next door,

she points with her

thumb,

he killed himself the other

day.

shot himself in the head.

as he sat in the sun

on his patio. 

we heard the bang.

his wife

was in the house

making dinner.

shed a tear or two

it's been

awhile since i shed tears.

being a man,

i don't really want to talk about it.

but the last

time

i had a really good

cry

was after reading a poem.

sadly

my own.

something to look forward to

the girl

blind in one eye

tells me

that she has a stripper

pole

in the basement.

the house came with it.

she adds in

that she's very flexible too,

but this is

after three glasses of wine.

i tell her i have

a bench

where i clean fish

in my basement.

mostly rock fish

from the bay.

we both

agree to visit one another

soon.

don't click on the link

i have it tattooed

on my hand.

don't click on the link

no matter who sends it.

no matter how funny

or strange or interesting

it might be.

it doesn't matter if

your holier than thou

mother

sends it,

don't click on it, or

else.

i guess we have to talk now

apathy

has set in.

i see it in the trees

the way

they sway

with indifference.

i see it in the clouds,

neither dark

or white,

just few strands of

a formless

grey.

the world is uninspired.

it's all done.

all written, all painted,

all sung.

there is nothing new

under the sun

so i guess we have to

talk to each other now,

you go first,

i'll follow.

coming and going, soon

i drive by

the old house, the two tall

trees

dying

beside the driveway.

the curtains

drawn tight.

there's no flowers

in the garden.

no face

in the window.

no wreathe.

no lights.

the door is closed.

a lifetime

over.

the sign will go up

soon.

just one more inside

to go.

why i never took drugs

i start with  monstrous

bowl

of buttered popcorn

and settle

into the couch

for a binge night of Netflix.

it's two in

the morning, but maybe

one more

episode.

the show goes on.

each ending with a cliff

hanger.

i can't stop myself from

clicking yes,

one more. one more.

this is why i never took

drugs.

a few dollars more

yes,

the price of meat is up.

eggs

and milk.

everything

is five dollars more.

gas is up,

cars cost

more.

a vodka tonic is

twenty dollars

now.

it's covid,

it's the war.

it's greed. it's the way

of the world.

fish in a bowl

do we see

eye to eye, ever?

or are we two goldfish

in a bowl

perpetually swimming

past each other,

hurrying

through our

days, never

stopping our fins, 

our tails,

as we circle

and circle, never lost,

but never finding

our way.

star gazing

the nearest star

is still

too far to away

to get to.

we don't have the light

years in us

to travel

that quickly, that far.

so we'll have

to stand here

and observe

with feet on the ground,

satisfied with what

we have

and where we'll

never go.

i want a sandwich to go

i don't want

to put things together.

i don't want to read the directions

and lay out

the nuts and bolts,

the various parts

and methodically twist

a screw

driver

and tap a hammer

until it's all done.

i want

to load the finished product

into the car

and take it

home.

i don't want to work for it.

same goes

for food.

i don't want to milk the cow,

kill and defeather

a chicken,

or break apart crabs with

a mallet

and pliers.

i want a sandwich on a plate,

ready to eat.

ready to go.

out of ink

i'm shocked

that this pen is out of ink.

how is that?

it seems impossible.

i have three hundred

and seventy-two black pens

that all look

exactly alike.

they roll around in the drawer

waiting

to be used.

how can one be out

of ink so soon.

they don't make anything

like they used

to.

down at the dojo

when i came home

from

work and she was dressed

in a white

karate outfit,

i asked her if it was Halloween

already.

she said no,

she had signed up

with Carlos,

the karate instructor,

down at the strip mall.

five days a week.

i asked her why she was

wearing lipstick

and perfume.

her hair was suddenly

blonder and she

was wearing

high heels.

it wasn't long before

i lawyered

up after catching

her at the dojo in a loving

embrace

with a triple black belt.

her one mistake

when she

asks you to go on a picnic

together,

you immediately

think of sex.

it's a given.

that

the relationship is

about to

to take the next step.

she's prepared

a meal

of sandwiches

and fruit, small

desserts and drinks.

she has linen napkins

and plates,

forks and spoons,

a red checkered table

cloth to set it all out on 

beside the lake.

she wants you to bring

your poetry

and read it to her.

that's her only

mistake.

the grill master

you can tell

he's in charge.

the big white hat on

his head

gives it away

as he overs over the grill

flipping meat.

he's the grill

master.

he adjusts the flames,

peppers

the steaks.

he knows when the dogs

are done,

the burgers just right.

we watch him

in awe,

the maestro with his 

spatula,

we wait.

la dee Dottie

la dee Dottie and

everybody

is lining up to be the next

president.

they're coming

out of the woodwork

all shined up

for the show.

what possesses

a person

to take on such an

unforgiving task.

half the world hates you,

while the other half

laughs.

you'd have to be crazy,

or an

egomaniac.

despite good bones

the restoration

is slow.

where to start?

the walls and floors

for one

the plumbing,

the wires,

the roof.

windows and paint,

appliances and more.

is it worth the effort

to save

this house, or best

to move on?

move on.

his hand trembled

when

his hand trembled

while

it rested on the table,

no one

thought he'd be dead

in a year.

he was tall.

handsome.

full of life.

and then like that,

no more.

just one night, please

it was a small room

in an old clapboard house

at the side of the road.

rooms for rent the sign said.

it was raining.

i was tired.

there was a small bed

with iron posts.

the bed was made.

two pillows

lay flat,

for resting your head.

there was a window

looking out to the gravel lot.

i could see my car.

the  thin curtains were a few

inches short of the sill.

once white, now

frayed and yellow.

i pulled the window up

to let air in.

the bathroom was down

the hall.

no books, no plants,

no television,

nothing of interest to

make it feel like home.

the Bible stolen from the drawer.

a picture on the wall

was gone, the square

of dust still there.

but it was for one night.

just one night alone, i told

the woman at the desk,

no luggage, one night,

and then i'd move on

from there.

public swimming

there was

always commotion.

chaos.

with whistles

blowing,

parents yelling to stay

out of the deep

end.

don't dive

off the side.

don't hang on the rope.

no running,

no fighting,

no smoking,

no floats.

you need

to wait an hour

after that egg salad

sandwich before going

in.

get out of the lap

lane.

don't hit your head

on the ladder.

put your goggles on.

don't pee

in the water.

fifteen minute break

starting now.

she brushes a leaf away

you can

see that they are in love.

he holds

her hand.

she brushes a leaf

from his shoulder.

no need to

talk

in the moment.

like food,

they eat when

they're hungry, speak

when

they have

something to say.

love is like that.

no sense in filling

the void,

the quietness

of love with

noise.

getting beach ready

i'm working

on my

pecs

i tell Susie, my trainer

down at the

gym.

nice, she says,

flexing

her tanned arms

in the mirror,

loading up

weights.

i raise the bar and accidentally

hit one of her hard

and pointed breasts,

shaped like

a giant mango.

it nearly takes my

eye out.

what about your calves,

she asked.

beach season is

right around

the corner,

your can't go to the beach

with your

calves looking

like that.

i'm not sure we have

enough time.

have you ever considered

implants?

her baby

the dog

traveled everywhere she went.

a small

dog

with a rhinestone

collar.

white and fluffy.

she had a carry on

cage

with a pink

cushion inside.

never married

or with child,

it was her baby.

her love,

her inspiration to get up

each day.

then it died.

she's never been

the same.

365 days

it was a year

of hard time, little sleep

or food,

no love

or affection, little

conversation.

the bed was

hard,

the walls and floor

cold.

there was no trust,

no

compassion,

no respect or honor.

just a year

of hard time,

punishment

without a crime.

i scratched

the days out

on the walls

of my cell

and then it was over.

free at last.

free last.

i'm not going back

to that living hell.

flattery will get you everywhere

i like that shirt

you're wearing she says.

touching the sleeve

as we prepare to go out

for the evening.

cotton?

hundred per cent,

i tell her,

and i ironed it myself.

nice, she

says,

you're so domesticated.

i tell her she looks lovely

in her pink dress,

with those legs you can

get away with a short

dress like that.

she smiles

demurely and says, oh you.

flattery will get

you everywhere.

we're in the early

stages of things, not one fight,

not yet.

temporary kings and queens

you can't be king

or queen

forever.

there is this thing called

death

and aging,

that gets in the way.

at some point

health

and beauty quickly 

fade

despite the long stretch

in the middle,

from the cradle

to the grave.

three inches of pollen

i take the vacuum

outside

to vacuum the pollen off

the new car.

it's about three inches

thick.

caterpillars are burrowing

down into 

the yellow layer

making new homes.

squirrels are lying in it,

making angel

impressions with their

arms and legs.

on the trunk

someone has etched in,

wash me.

on the sides too.

i need a longer hose

with a more powerful

nozzle.

the good and the bad

the traffic

can be bad around here,

but we don't

have lizards

and alligators.

which is a good thing

on the golf

course, or out walking

the dog.

sure, we have car

jacking,

and shootings,

muggings,

but the weather

is not bad, just a few

hot months in the summer,

but for the most part 

we have reasonably mild

temperatures all

year round.

no hurricanes at all,

and just the rare tornado

that seems

to land on trailer courts

or Wal-marts

in Charles county.

the therapist's office

i stop

by the therapist's office

to give

my old therapist,

Dr. Freud, a painting

and wallpapering

estimate,

she wants to jazz the place up

a little,

put some calming

colors on the wall,

and peel and stick wallpaper.

her waiting room is packed

solid

with twitching teenagers

and their zombie like parents.

legs are shaking,

eyes flickering, hands beating

invisible drums

as they stare into their phones.

i ring the bell

to let her know i'm here.

she's a mess.

she's gained weight, her hair is

grey,

no makeup, no smile,

she's gnawing on a twixt bar.

i think you need more than

paint here, i tell her.

just saying.

she whispers in my ear

as she lets me in.

people are crazy and getting

crazier she says.

i'm done in about five years.

what colors do you suggest?

black, i tell her, or

slate grey, perhaps midnight blue.

maybe padding

on the walls.

grape jelly

i live with this

spot

of purple

jelly on my white

shirt all day long.

a splatter from

the butter

knife

when making toast.

i hadn't noticed.

nothing

helps to remove it.

everyone points at

it and

asks what

happened.

i can't escape it.

i'm not

sure how i can go on.

tomorrow

they'll say,

what, no jelly today?

after i put 

a clean shirt on.

the crack of dawn

i regret

the rooster i bought

at the farm.

he remains

nameless

as he prances

around the yard.

although the neighbors

have chosen

a few

when the sun rises

at the crack of dawn.

lucky stars

i make a cold

wish

on a falling star,

drop

a coin into the well.

i rub

my rabbit's foot,

and avoid

ladders

at all costs.

i bend  knee

in prayer,

and yet still, i

don't feel

lucky, not yet.

the answer is out

there,

somewhere.

the perfect yard

i envy

the neighbor's yard.

his artificial

grass, so green, the bricks

aligned

in neat rows.

the fire

pit in the center,

four chairs

covered in 

flowered

tapestry,

a grill sparkling

clean

in the corner,

and edison lights

draped from

fence

to fence.

i've never seen anyone

out there,

just the dog

searching frantically

for a respectable place

to pee.

a chicken in every pot

it's almost

time again, the season

of promises.

the suits are pressed and clean.

the shoes

polished,

the dresses new.

the hair done.

the dentist has done

his work.

the skeletons

are in the closet.

they're lining up to tell

us how

they're going to

fix everything.

making vows of lower

taxes,

better schools,

no crime,

no war, just prosperity

and peace.

a chicken in every

pot.

it's almost showtime.

again.

don't wake me, i'll be

asleep.

the daily news

it's just tv,

i tell her, it's just a show.

it's not

real gore,

and violence,

robberies

and gun fire.

all that crime you see,

that's not real,

all that

blood on the street,

it's acting,

drama, Hollywood,

you have to suspend

your disbelief.

no she says, you're wrong,

i'm watching

the news.

channel three.

triple paned windows

do i miss

the bugs crawling in

to fly

or bite,

do i miss the breeze

searing in

of a window

not sealed,

not tight,

do i miss the conversations

going on

outside,

not too much,

but sometimes.

the best years

for some,

the early years were the best

years,

childhood

or high school.

they peaked.

they were king and queen

of the prom.

whatever they were

meant to achieve

had been done,

and it's downhill from there.

while others,

like you, or me,

we're still waiting,

still climbing 

the mountain,

still crawling upwards,

apparently,

we're not done.

what other secrets do you have?

i find you

in the bathroom nibbling

on a dark chocolate

easter bunny.

one ear is already gone,

there's chocolate

on your lips.

startled, you say what?

what are you staring at

me for?

don't you ever knock?

i'm staring at you

hiding in the bathroom

eating a giant

chocolate bunny.

so, so what.

it's mine. i deserve

chocolate once in a while.

do you want

an ear?

no, i don't. but i'm wondering

what else is there

that i don't know about you.

meh

more and more, 

it's ambivalence

that sets in

like a warm blanket

on a cold

night.

you just don't care

anymore

about so many things,

or people.

you just

don't give a bag of beans

about them,

seen or unseen.

it's not live and let live,

it's more of a shoulder

shrug and

saying meh

as you exhale and breathe.

don't shake the machine too hard

don't shake

the machine or me too hard,

i tilt

when

shaken.

keep the ball alive,

use your flippers

wisely,

be patient, but quick.

tap the side

when the ball 

needs to go in a different

direction.

don't be distracted

by the lights,

the pings

and bongs,

the music.

if the nickels 

held out,

i could play pin ball

all night long.

as Nero fiddles

i think it

started

with beatniks, although

i might be wrong.

perhaps the roaring twenties,

or before that

when Caligula

had it going on.

then the hippies

with long hair

and free love.

the hipsters,

generations x y

and z.

or maybe it started sooner,

like when

adam in his loin

cloth,

made a pass

at eve.

i'm lost without you

I panic.

where's the phone,

the car

keys.

where's the note i wrote

to remind me

what i'm

doing today?

where's my hat,

my shoes,

my sense of direction,

my intuition

is failing me.

i need a divining rod

to get through

life.

i'm lost without you,

dear.

a life of living out of boxes

having moved six times

in five years,

she needed a P.O. box

to get her

mail.

she was the perpetual gypsy.

dumped

or bumped from house

to house

with her next bewildered

benefactor.

it was never love,

but was more necessity.

someone had to pay the bills,

and work, work

just seemed too difficult,

too much a hardship,

for a princess of her ilk.

yes, we were sinners

my older brother,

who found

God in college

would wake us up with

his acoustic guitar

singing

hymns.

let's go, he'd say.

we're all going to church today.

i'd be hung

over from the night

before, and the girl i was

seeing at the time

would be curled

up under the sheets.

yes, we were sinners.

he'd go from room to room,

waking everyone up.

banging on his guitar,

dressed in his blue coat

and red bow tie.

it was a good but failed

effort to bring God

into our lives,

but we couldn't wait for

him to go back to school

when the next semester

started.

ambient lighting

it's not a candle

anymore,

it's more of a wax stub

with a slender

bit of a wick

sticking out.

the whole thing 

is a glob

of melted wax

on an old dessert

dish.

but i light it just the same.

we need ambience,

a small flickering

flame to get in the mood,

i put some Marvin Gaye on.

what's burning, she asks,

as she crawls into

bed in her sweat pants

and my torn t-shirt

still sweaty from her work

out at the gym.

the destination wedding

he's getting married again.

in Puerto Rico

this time,

not the local church

in Alexandria, no

that would be too easy.

too close.

the brochure and invitation

arrived

just the other day.

a packet of information

with a map

and description

of where to stay.

it's a wonderful resort

along the sea.

white sand and palm trees.

or are they coconut trees?

i'm not sure.

it's a five day wedding

with activities around

the clock.

there will be fishing and golf.

horse back riding.

dancing and swimming.

pickleball,

then the ceremony, of course.

he used to be a regular

guy.

a can of beer, the football

game on tv.

shooting hoops up at

the school.

a burger and hot dog kind

of fellow.

i get a feeling that his soon

to be wife is behind all this.

it's too late though.

the invitations have been

sent,

and Puerto Rico has been

notified.

no sugar tonight

i used to have

a lot

of sugar in my cupboard,

and life,

but that's another story.

before i went

cookie and cake free 

i consumed a ton

of sugar,

refined sugar,

powdered sugar,

brown sugar,

sweet and low.

splenda and all the substitute

variations

sugar in bags, in boxes,

in little jars

with dainty spoons.

it's funny that once you

get sugar out of your

life, you no longer think

about it,

which circles me back

to you.

having cold feet

it's your circulation,

she says,

you need to stretch and do this.

she proceeds

to put her legs

out and

performs

a bicycle movement.

that'll get

the blood flowingj,

she says,

come, give it a try.

your feet are ice

cold.

no,

i tell her, it's more than

that.

much more.

it's an emergency situation

i just need one

cookie.

just one. a large chocolate

chip

cookie with nuts.

one cookie

to dip into my warm

cup of coffee

while i'm reading this book,

but it's snowing out.

the roads

are treacherous.

they haven't plowed yet

and the wind

is blowing sideways.

the lights are flickering.

but i can do this.

i got this.

i cross myself and go.

it was all about her pot roast

she didn't really

have time

for a relationship, she was busy.

very busy.

the kids,

the dog, her job,

her parents,

her house,

the yard.

but she squeezed me

in on Sunday afternoons.

i was way down

on her totem pole of importance.

nearly

at the bottom of

her food chain.

the only thing that

kept me

coming around was

her pot roast.

which was to die for.

her saving grace.

stand by your man

it's a monthly

karaoke

contest down at the club

house

in the senior village.

Bill has been practicing

along

with his wife

Emily

the song. I Got You Babe.

they win

every year,

but Betty

is ready with her

rendition of Stand by

Your Man,

just waiting

her turn.

she even has the cowgirl

hat and wig

on.

mother has a room ready

finally

i see her luggage

in the foyer.

i ask her if she's going somewhere.

i am,

she says.

i'm going to live with

my mother

for awhile.

a taxi pulls up and beeps

its horn.

let me get the door

for you,

i tell her,

skipping giddily across

the floor.

the maniac in the car beside you

at the red light

i glance

over at the maniac driver

who's been

swerving in and out 

of lanes

at ninety-miles an

hour,

nearly killing a dozen

people

in the process.

i look over

and we make eye contact.

he smiles

as he revs his engine

anticipating

the green.

he doesn't look

all that insane.

which is the scary part.

i need a light bulb

there are too

many choices these days.

in everything.

each device

made in a dozen 

variations, all

sizes and colors

are there.

it took me an hour to

find a lightbulb

the other

day. the choices

were endless.

from soft glow

to halogen.

Edison must be pleased

with himself

in his unlit grave.

nothing serious

as i go

into the hospital to visit

a friend,

not dying, but

there for a minor

fall down

a flight of stairs,

a gaggle of

nurses walk by.

they're laughing.

happy in their blue

and green scrubs.

their hair flying

over their shoulders

with flashing blue eyes.

i suddenly think that i

could easily

be a patient in this hospital

with a bed

by the window.

nothing serious,

of course.

just some blood drawn,

maybe a check up

that takes a while.

the leaking tire

i pointed out

to her

that there was a nail in her

front tire.

the gleam of sun

on the road polished

head caught

my eye.

i was trying to help

her, but in her mind

there was only suspicion,

what was i doing

looking at her car.

the guilty always

roll that way.

eating ice cream in your underwear

we need our fortress

of solitude,

our own house, our own room.

we need

quiet and peace

with the doors locked

the shades pulled, we

need to wander around

or sit in silence

in our underwear and

eat ice cream

without being judged

or viewed.

here today gone tomorrow

we mourn

the extinction of animals.

slowly

as the world

turns and evolves,

devolves

things start to disappear.

that bug

was here just yesterday

biting my arm,

that turtle,

that bird,

but now forever gone,

not unlike t-rex.

imagine the traffic

in the morning if he was

still around

straddling route 66.

give me the answers

the fear of A I

is that the machines will take over

the world,

steal our jobs,

erase our past, think

for us.

there'll be no need

to wonder and explore

anymore.

with any question

all we have to do is sit

back

and ask.

the answers

will be forthcoming.

i'm looking forward to it.

different planets

we cook together,

sleep

together, watch tv

together.

we take walks together,

read the same books,

enjoy the same

friends,

the same jokes,

we wake up at the same

time

and read the paper,

drink coffee together.

we have matching rings

to celebrate

our marriage,

but in our minds we're

on different planets,

a million miles apart

and whirling.

the band plays on

the members

of the band don't like

each

other any more.

they've been playing too

long as one.

familiarity breeding

contempt.

the guitar player no

longer likes the drummer

who stole

the rights to his song,

and the drummer

is fighting

with the lead singer

who slept with his wife,

a groupie

who was once

married to the bass

player, but they play on.

the money is too good

to break up now.

now you know

once you

see a snake slither out of the tall

grass, up

from the woods

and stream,

you believe that 

there are more. a lot more

down there.

dangerous,

and hidden, most

of them

unseen.

there is no circle

is there

a circle to life, all things

connected

and coming together

at

the start point?

or is life more of

an obtuse triangle,

difficult

to figure,

each angle strange,

and hardly

right.

a good person

i watch her

at the kitchen counter

squeezing

oranges

for their juice.

she cuts them in half

first

then presses down

on the metal

cup

to squeeze the liquid

out of them.

she turns to look at

me and smiles.

soon, she says. soon.

she's a good

person.

strangely caring for

the likes of me.

it wasn't enough

in retirement

he took up golf, he bought

a boat,

he fished,

he traveled

to the east

then the west coast.

he bought a car,

fast and red,

he found a mistress

online.

but still

it wasn't enough

to fill his

soul,

it wasn't like it was

when

days were nine to five.

there you go

amusement comes

in small

parcels,

delivered gently

to the porch.

no big laughs, no

belly

laughs.

no tears running down

my cheeks.

just a smile

and a nod,

a cheerful pat 

to the heart.

always

proceed with caution.

the flares

are in the road,

the lights are blinking

yellow.

flashing red.

there's a siren in the distance.

there's something

wrong

up ahead.

always.

you should get a dog

my

favorite priest,

father Smith is out walking

along the path

across the street

from St. Bernadette's.

we stop

and chat.

we talk weather

and covid.

then someone walks

by with a small

dog.

you should get a dog,

i tell him.

do they allow dogs

over at the rectory?

he looks at me and smiles.

no he says.

pets are not allowed.

as he stares

into my eyes,

i feel like he sees my sins.

all of them,

which makes me

want to be a better person.

at least

for now.

Sundays at Lena's

my childhood

recollection of my grandmother

from

South Philly,

is one of a short

stout woman

with a flowered apron.

a high

operatic voice,

and black hair

curled on top of her

head.

i see steam

on her thick glasses,

pasta,

water boiling. i smell

sausage

and onions,

garlic. my eyes

are even with

a long table draped 

with a  white apron

full of sweets 

for later.

there's wine, always wine,

cheap red wine.

and then there's noise,

so much noise

in English and Italian

as the house

fills up and Sunday shoes

and heels

click on the marble stoop

scrubbed clean

for the occasion.

in between seasons

it's a season

of in-between seasons.

undecide on

air, or window open.

heat?

two blankets, or three,

or maybe just 

a soft

cotton sheet.

what coat to wear,

what shoes

do i slip into?

do i put the shovel

away,

the bag of salt.

do i rake the yard now

and plant

flowers?

perhaps something

you can do.

i should have called

i should have called.

should

have dropped  by

to explain things,

i should have sent you a note

to inform

of changes

of a serious kind.

there are so many ways

to communicate

these days,

but the words

are still hard to come by.

the Matador

her Australian

lover, can't make it to Spain

this year,

where she waits

poolside

in Barcelona.

he's having

trouble

with wildfires

and his wife,

but she has wine,

she has

a sumptuous dish

of paella,

and she has the matador

stopping by

after killing

the bull.

scissors

these

dull scissors, hardly

sharp

enough to cut a piece

of paper,

a ribbon,

or bow.

barely able to slice

open a box,

to trim

your locks, we're

both getting

old.

we need to sharpen

up, or

be returned

for a new and better

model.

a few inches to the left

before i leave

i go over

to the lamp and move

it an inch or so

to the left, away

from the wall,

forward with

a slight turn. 

i stand back and take

a look. it feels right.

okay.

that should do it.

i can leave now.

all is well.

stay tuned

will there be a smile

today,

or will you wear

your heavy

shoes

and prowl the past

for answers,

ignoring

flowers that i

give you,

spring bloom.

will there be a smile

today,

perhaps, but it's

too early to tell,

you say, 

stay tuned.

look at me

the peacock

is making a fashion statement.

look at me

he says,

feathers out

in colorful display,

sashaying

along the promenade.

i'm beautiful,

and you're not.

life does imitate

what

nature brings.

all of it a strange 

beguiling art.

with a bang or a whimper

so what is it exactly

that's

making

the world fall apart?

lack of fathers

and mothers,

guidance?

is it the phone in our

hands,

technology.

lack of morals, no

spiritual

being within?

what is it

that's making the world

implode

with violence, with

anger,

with sin.

does there have to be

a reason,

or can the so called

good times,

just end.

the blue pond

it's a soft rain,

a romantic rain, it eases

out of the clouds

in gentle

drops,

persuaded kindly

to fall.

don't be shy,

don't be so reluctant

to fill

the trees with green,

the blue

pond with more.

another cat will end things

i don't want to call

her a cat

lady,

just yet, but she's up

to three

felines now.

i trip over a litter

box

when i go into

her bedroom

and fall into another

one.

an orange cat 

jumps on me

and scratches my face.

bad cat,

she says, going for

the band aid and

hydrogen peroxide.

she's never done that

before.

this relationship

might not

work out after all.

they wonder why we drink

are you licensed,

bonded,

insured, do you have

references,

are there any jobs

locally that i can

go take a look

at?

do you speak English?

are you vaccinated?

a citizen,

do you pay your taxes,

do you believe in God?

have you  ever

been arrested

or on a no fly list?

have you ever traveled

to Iraq or Iran,

or the Soviet Union?

Cuba?

are you a vegetarian

or vegan,

or have you ever associated

with such people?

is your work

guaranteed?

do you have a senior discount

policy?

coupons?

can we pay you half

when the job is done and

the rest in monthly

payments over a three year

period?

financing?

saving a life

it's just a bug,

a small

bug of unknown origin.

but he's here,

or she,

or them.

slowly it walks

across my

desk with no fear.

i have so many things

to crush

him with,

the stapler for one.

my phone,

my hand,

the flashlight,

a pair of scissors,

and a book of poems

by Sylvia Plath,

but i let him

go, hoping that this

decision will

not come back to bite

me.

a magical experience

i get a survey

from the coffee shop

i go to in the morning.

they want to know how well they

did

when selling me

a cup of black coffee.

taking the ten seconds

to pour it into a cup

and hand it to me.

how was the service?

was the barista friendly?

if you used the restroom, was it

clean?

did we put the proper amount

of cream and sweetener

in your drink?

would you recommend

our establishment to friends?

what can we do to make

you come in more often?

were you satisfied with our

bakery selections?

how was the noise level?

too loud?

more music or less?

if you could use one word

to describe your experience

with us, what would it be?

i write the word magical

at the top of the survey

and hand it jimmy

behind the counter.

it's his first day and he

says, what's this?

unholy matrimony

in the second

attempt at holy matrimony,

i cut

up all her credit cards

after

paying her overdue payments,

which came to

about seven thousand

dollars.

i encouraged her

to go cold turkey,

at least until she went

to work,

got a job.

that's one of the stupidest

things

i've ever done in the name

of like, or love,

or lust,

whatever it may have been.

when it finally ended,

she told she wished she

would have married a lawyer,

or a doctor,

or stockbroker.

i would have gotten more

alimony with them,

than i did with you, she said,

waving

my paltry check in the air.

what did you say?

i pretend not

to hear,

it's easier that way than

saying no,

or getting

into a conversation

that goes

nowhere.

i cup my hand around

my ear, and say

what?

what did you say?

eventually they give

up,

and move on

to other prey.

the lost years

there are lost years,

not doubt,

periods of time unremembered,

unremarkable,

nothing etched

in stone,

or memorialized.

perhaps a few

photographs in drawers,

but most

just a blur

of the mundane, work

eat, sleep, drink,

television,

putting food on the grill,

going to the eastern

shore,

watching your children

grow as they

kick a ball around

on frozen fields, then

the eventual loss of love,

divorce.

but it's not quite over,

is it?

there's more.

in search of new friends

after not

hearing from a bunch of friends

for a while,

all of them

busy with their

families and work,

taking vacations

and being out on their

boats all the time,

i look for some new friends.

online. i start

browsing the meet up groups.

in search of interesting

people who want to drink

coffee

and sit around and talk,

but only

part time. preferably 

between the hours of

noon and one o'clock,

p.m. .

and they have to live close

by.

i don't like to drive.

i didn't know he was married

i didn't know

he was

married at the time, she tells me

after ending

her seven year affair.

he kept his wedding

ring in his pocket.

but he brought

his lunch to work

every day

in a brown paper bag,

i tell her.

with a thermos

and a cut up apple.

who did you think was

doing that for him,

his mother?

God bless the plumbers

i have more

respect for my plumber

who

can fix a toilet,

stop it

from running, than i do

of anyone

with a Phd or a masters

degree

in philosophy

or liberal arts.

put a screw driver

or a wrench

in their hand and they're

lost.

clueless.

all they have is a bunch

of mumbo jumbo

words

that will put you to sleep,

and the toilet

keeps leaking.

men in colorful robes

you can't trust grown men

in robes

and gowns,

colorful garb that

flows

when they walk.

they can't be trusted.

whether it's

the Dali llama,

or the pope,

a priest,

or some dude on

tv asking you for

money. you just get

the feeling that

they're up to something.

keep the kids away.

the Parisian bed

how did they

get this bed into the room, i ask

her,

as we lie

in bed

staring at the ceiling,

wiping sweat

off our brows.

they had to take

the window

and part of the wall out

and use

a crane set up in the street.

the whole

block was

cordoned off by

the police

as they lifted the bed

frame

and king-sized mattress

to my apartment.

well worth the effort,

i tell her.

good job.

it's a hotel bed, she says,

like

the one

i slept on in Paris.

war stories

you get nowhere

telling

children about your life

when young.

they listen

and laugh, roll their

eyes,

shake their heads

in unison.

really? they say.

you really had no shoes

to go to school

in, you drank 

powdered milk

and went to bed

hungry. there was

no heat, no air

conditioning.

who can

blame them

for their doubt.

you hardly believe it

yourself.

a strawberry sucker

they keep

sending me letters asking

if i want

to go digital,

to go paperless

with my

transactions.

i keep sending letters back,

saying no.

i don't trust

them.

them and their mysterious

electronic

ways

of doing business.

i prefer the stamp,

the envelope,

a written check from my

bank.

chatting with Kamil

in his turban

at the drive-thru,

who know me

and gives me a strawberry

sucker

when it's my turn

to put stuff in the metal

drawer.

water finds a way

anything

to do with water is trouble.

whether

a boat, a pipe,

a toilet,

the air conditioning

in your house

or car.

water wants to find

a way out

or to drown you.

those waves are no majestical

lines of poetry

from God,

no their crashing booms,

warning you

to steer clear.

don't let

the calm lake fool you.

the real estate agent

i see the real estate agent

with a mallet

pounding down her for sale

sign in front of the abandoned

house with broken windows.

she's wearing a tight red dress

and a lot of lipstick.

that may help a little,

but the paint is peeling,

there's mice in cupboards,

holes in the roof.

and someone is living in

the cellar.

she waves, she smiles,

she hands me a card.

coming soon, she says. we

just need to tidy it up a bit.

i admire her optimism,

and her shoes. she's got style.

the future is not what it used to be

the future is not

what it used to be.

the promise of tomorrow

and its

glory is gone.

it was a fantasy

that the world would

be made

right.

that utopia would arrive.

there would

be no more pain or suffering,

no hunger,

no strife.

there would be a cure

for everything.

equality for everyone, 

for all races

creeds and colors.

the future is not 

what it used to be,

but it was a good try.

there's a leak somewhere

each to his or

her own

shelf life, whether

love

or a washing machine.

they seem

to die

when the time is right.

the world needs

to keep going

and if nothing breaks

down,

what is there left to buy?

horse power

i'm thinking

a horse

as my next mode

of transportation.

i'm done with cars.

with gas and oil,

and slippery

salesmen,

greasy mechanics.

i'm done with transmissions,

and belts,

Freon

and fluids,

finished with

mechanical things

that break.

give me the steed,

the stallion,

hell,

the mule to take me

where i need to go,

i'm no hurry anymore.

i'll provide the oats.

the lemon laws

luckily

the lemon law 

was expanded

into including

marriages

gone sour.

you only needed

three reasons

to get your life back,

lies,

betrayal

and psychosis,

but time

and lack 

of sleep

was a different thing

altogether.

a medical mystery

it's a medical mystery

how he's

survived this long.

at 95 he's alert

and out and about,

with a vigorous

sex life, despite years

of drinking and smoking

and living off

pork rinds and strawberry

ice cream.

he attributes it to supplements,

which fill his medicine

cabinet, and lying out

in the sun for six hours

a day with coconut

oil lathered all over him.

he doesn't say he's lucky,

or it's genes, or that God

has blessed him

with a long life,

he just says it's pills

and sunlight, blondes,

brunettes and redheads,

strawberry ice cream.

can you move over a little?

crowded,

i ask the man on the train

if he wouldn't

mind

moving over a little to

give me some room.

his leg

actually was touching

my leg.

reluctantly,

he does,

but then everyone has

to get up and move

over one seat.

they're very annoyed

with me, and give me

a look, let's call it

the evil eye.

the man, now a foot away,

looks at me

and says, are you happy now?

i tell him yes.

thank you.

the necktie

i struggled

with the necktie, 

argyles

and stripes, solids

and prints, 

trying to get it right,

snug

and positioned perfectly

around my neck,

not too long or

too short,

not

too tight.

i never mastered the art

of the necktie.

it became clear to me

early on that

i wasn't made

for the office life.

sleepwalking

they are sleepwalkers.

but it's daylight.

you see them on the street,

on the buses,

the trains.

there they are at their

desks,

their cubicles.

adrift in jobs, lost

in the minutiae, the

mundane, asleep

at the wheel.

lost in a dream.

unaware and unawake.

disappearing into

the subway, 

melting away

in the rain.

junkman

there really was

a junk

man

back in the day. he used

to walk

up the street with his

old horse

ringed in bells,

pulling a wooden

wagon

full of scrap metal,

and rubber tires.

at the time it seemed

like a nice job,

a good way

to make a living.

being outdoors and all.

he wore a dirty hat

and had

a mustache.

he appeared to be made

of brown leather, but

he was friendly, saying

things to us

in another language

as we stopped our game

in the street to let

him go by.

we watched him as he

walked away,

leading the horse

with a stick,

as it's hooves knocked

against the summer concrete.

unless it rains

i like her stories.

they relax me, almost make

me sleepy,

but i'm prepared as i prop

my eyelids

open with toothpicks.

i make a strong

cup of coffee and sit back

as she tells me

about her day shopping

and what she's going to do

tomorrow with all

of her friends,

telling me their names,

familiar names that i

hear from time to time,

but get them all confused

with each other.

they all have plans to meet

at some point tomorrow,

unless it rains, and if it

does rains,

the entire schedule

will be changed.

she asks me if i'm listening,

i nod, and say,

of course dear. i hear you.

i'll be waiting in the car

as men,

regular men, not the new

trans

men,

but just your run of the mill

man,

it doesn't

take long

to get up and get out

of the house

when you wake up,

in the morning,

twenty

minutes tops

unless of course

you need to make

coffee first,

then five extra minutes

might be needed.

on the tip of my tongue

whatever it was

i was

going to do, or buy

or eat, seems to have slipped

from my mind.

will it come back,

i hope so,

preferably

sooner than later.

i can't sit in the car

while it's running

forever.

one or less than one

i don't understand

the cults,

the religious groups

that allow more than one wife.

some with as many ten.

one or less than one

to me would be sufficient.

i understand that variety

is the spice of life, but

i don't need ten women

telling me to put the seat down,

to get my feet off the coffee

table, to be home at a certain

time for dinner,

and then the talking.

all that talking telling me

how their day went.

recapping what the kids did,

how the neighbors

got a new min-van that seats

twelve,

and what's on sale at

Nordstrom's Rack.

there's another life, right?

as you

observe the rotting corpse

of a dead

rat in the alley,

and listen

to the screams of a woman

down the block,

accompanied by

the echo of gunfire,

you nod.

this is earth as we

know it.

all rust and decay,

but there's a heaven waiting

for us,

right?

let's take a moment

to bow our heads,

and pray.

a stint in the jump

you would think

that you would change

after spending one hour

in jail.

from that point on you'd

do whatever it took

to never go back.

you'd turn over a new leaf.

you'd be rehabilitated

just by fear,

by the bars, the hard

bed, the hard people 

inside.

but it doesn't work that way.

you are who you are,

just more careful now

to not get caught.

political hair

i went to the same barber

for the first

sixteen years

of my life,

Al, from the Philippines,

but then the world

changed.

hair became long.

i'd see my barber on

the street

and he'd say when are

you coming back,

i'd tell him when Nixon's

out of the white house.

he'd laugh.

then i'd see him at the

beginning of the summer.

when i needed

to get a job.

tearing down the school

i drive by the old school.

it was brand

new when i first attended

class there.

fresh paint, green tiled floors,

metal lockers,

there was a sparkle about

the building.

the cafeteria, the classrooms

with black boards.

even the teachers appeared new.

but it's gone now.

a gravel pit has arrived

surrounded by barbed fences,

black birds

doing what black birds do.

there is no memory

to this wasteland.

just what you've saved inside.

formed to the way you

like it, a fantasy of youth.

the absence of bricks and

mortar, glass, the throng of

life, means little.

everything it seems,

even buildings, schools,

all of it has a shelf life.

carbon dating

like

rings on a cut

tree

you add up the years,

the decades

of life

you've lived.

they need carbon

dating

now

to add it all up.

the day of birth,

the day

your mother

delivered you,

cast you

into the wilderness

to figure

it all out.

our government at work

the side

of package says

will cause cancer,

heart disease,

emphysema, etc.

it'll rot your lungs out

Jim.

it's in ink.

warning you, telling

you boldly,

smoke this and you

will die

a horrible death.

and yet

there they are for

sale.

cigarettes, smoke em

if you got em.

and yet,

if three jalapenos

make three people

sick,

they shut down

the industry until they

get to the bottom of it.

seven a.m.

i wake up

needing a shave. needing

a cold shower.

needing toothpaste,

needing

underwear and socks.

i must have left

a window open

last night, it's colder

than a penguin's

butt in here.

i stumble around,

and find the culprit,

slamming it down.

coffee next,

and the paper, lame

and thin

as it is, off the porch

and in

the thorns.

a three minute skim,

then into

the cage

where a gerbil lives.

the girl from Cleveland

she told

me she could put her ankles

behind

her ears,

which strangely interested

me.

baking

cakes was a strength

she promoted

as well.

she couldn't get

through

the airport gate

because

of all the imbedded metal

in her skin,

but she offered to drive

from Cleveland

to meet me,

straight through,

in her Winnebago,

inherited from

an uncle

in Akron, Ohio.

tent cities

in disarray

strange lives.

tented in blue pyramids

of plastic,

a fire

in a barrel,

what happened

to the chicken in every

pot,

every man

a home.

is it mental illness,

or a sign

of the times.

the corners

are full of the lost

and weary.

whatever dream there

used to be,

reachable

by everyone,

seems to be gone.

divine intervention

we do have choices,

free will,

despite the fantasy

of 

fate and destiny,

we can

choose the path we're on,

we can

stay or get off.

we are responsible

for most

of our lives, what's right,

what's wrong.

although a little

divine intervention

once in a while

does help.

it's about time

there is something

about cleaning,

purging

in the spring that

lifts your

spirits.

ridding the shed

of old

shovels and brooms

rusted

rakes.

sweeping and hosing

down

the patio,

the chairs. knocking

down the cob

webs,

disposing of junk

accumulated throughout

the years.

cutting away

the vines,

trimming

the old tree,

making way for the new,

it's about time.

parenthood

we took

our son on the subway

in the city,

to the zoo.

he was four or five

years

old at the time.

we saw every animal

there was.

the zebras, the lions,

the elephant.

pandas and gorillas.

but all the way home

he kept saying

out loud,

monkey butt.

over and over again.

fascinated with the monkeys

and their red

behinds.

monkey butt,

he yelled out

on the yellow line.

this parent hood thing

was not working

out the way

i planned.

return to sender

i get the neighbor's mail

by accident.

it's a letter

from someone, somewhere.

thinking it's

for me

i cut it open and take

a look.

it's a love letter, a letter

of remorse

and pain.

a letter of contrition.

a letter of apology.

a letter of someone taking

the blame.

i seal it back up, and

put it in the neighbor's box.

although it said

the right things,

it wasn't for me.

our Sunday clothes

we put

on our best clothes,

our 

Sunday clothes

and ventured out

beyond

our comfort zone.

we tried to fit in.

we wanted

more than what was

given

to us.

we wandered across

the other side

of the tracks.

we wanted what

they had,

but learned that it

wasn't all

that.

we came back.

Ernie's deviled eggs

in his black

beret

and aviator sunglasses

he'd show

up

for the Easter dinner

late.

which was okay.

he was old

and a determined

atheist.

in he'd come with

his tray

of deviled eggs.

two dozen

that he'd be

working on the night

before.

he didn't say much

at the table,

he didn't believe

in God,

or the resurrection,

but we loved his

eggs.

they were really good.

the charity dollar

where

does the charity dollar go.

into

ink and paper?

stamps?

a man

at the desk with a corner

office.

the machines,

the rent?

a new gold chalice

and 

Mahagony pews.

what is the 

the price

of doing business?

of empathy and compassion.

how much

of the dollar,

if any clothes

the poor, feeds

the hungry,

provides a place to

sleep?

there's something

fishy

going on

with the business

of charity.

shall we give until

we bleed?

a different song and dance

for weeks

on end i hear nothing

 but Marvin Gaye

and Teddy Pendergrass

on the stereo

next door.

then suddenly i see

that the woman

is with child,

the music doesn't play

anymore.

it's back to the television.

the news

and what not,

a racket with

the installation of child

gates,

and playpens, slides

in the yard.

where's Peg?

nearly all

the garage doors are open

on the weekend.

you see the men

in there, most of them

retired,

fiddling with their cars.

polishing a fender,

changing a wiper blade.

the hoods are up.

they stand

at their work benches

doing something

under the fluorescent lights,

being useful in some

strange way.

gluing something together,

maybe a chair

leg.

people walk by and

stop, and wave,

say hey.

they ask, what's up Stan,

whatchu working on today?

where's Peg?

out shopping?

good news

my waitress

at the diner, as she's pouring

coffee,

blurts out.

i think i'm

pregnant.

i look at her in mid

bite

of a slice of wheat

toast and gulp..

don't worry, she says,

it's not you.

you're pancakes

will be right out.

a long day at the office

i wouldn't

want

to be God, despite

all the obvious

perks, but there are

so many decisions

to make.

so many requests

to say

yes or no to.

the paperwork

must be incredible.

the research,

the investigations

to see who deems

worthy

of a yes,

and who gets the no.

bailing us out on

bad

decisions, or leading

us into making

good ones.

the tension

and stress it must

take

on an almighty power

is beyond

comprehension.

stand by

you can't

put shine on another's

darkness.

you can only

wait,

stand by with an unlit

candle.

and hope

that at some point,

they'll come around

and want

the light.

something's burning

it

smells like something's burning

but the alarm

is quiet.

i check 

the rooms, and knock

on the door

where

she slept last night.

excuse me,

i ask, careful

not to start it up again,

but do you

smell something burning

in here.

it's me,

she says.

i'm still mad at you from

what you

said about my dress

being too tight

last night.

when i asked you if

i looked fat in it.

you insinuated, yes.

i'm fuming.

the Barista, Pat

i asked my

friend,

Lulu Belle

if the person behind

the counter, making

coffee

was a girl or boy.

it was nearly

impossible to tell.

with the mustache,

and dress,

the tattoos

and earrings.

the boots. breasts.

the name tag

saying Pat.

she said.

shhhh. you can't ask

that anymore.

she or he, or they

or them.

is who they are.

it's not for you to

decide.

just curious, i said,

that's all.

relieving tension

after

the honeymoon,

things slowed down.

me in my

bachelor 

robe, her in her

old

torn gown.

we stopped calling

each

other sugar plum,

and

sweet potato.

we mumbled other

names under

our breath.

conversation

became less,

but we had children,

we had a dog,

a house with a mortgage.

we pressed on.

i suddenly remembered

one day

what woody allen

once said.

sex relieves tension,

while marriage

causes it.