keep it to yourself

they say

that we all have at least one

book in us.

a novel

about ourselves,

our life,

our own stories

told

from memory.

thankfully, not everyone

has the time

to write one.

most tales being boring,

and tame.

personal letters

i read

just an excerpt from

her personal

letters

and correspondence

collected

and anthologized

in volumes

one two and three.

how dare

they pull up her

dress like

that.

un clothe her mind

when it

was never meant

to be seen.

trust the gut

as does

the dog, i know too,

if there's

danger,

if someone is approaching,

if trouble

is afoot.

the gut informs me,

to double

lock the door,

cross the street\

when

strangers are approaching,

beware

of those who falsely

adore.

doing it all with a flashlight

i used to change

the oil

in my car,

the plugs, set the points,

change

the shocks

the oil pump, the water

pump.

i put new pads

and rotors on the brakes,

and all in the middle

of the night

with a flashlight.

but now i don't even

know where the latch

is to open

the hood.

the small thin box

she was tipsy,

not from

drink or drugs, but from

eating

spinach

and kale

her whole life.

never touching

meat.

God forbid.

she'd nearly fall over

when

getting up

from the couch,

light headed

and woozy.

her skin and bones barely

keeping her

upright.

it's going to be thin

box for

this one, when it's all

said and done

episode three of the bubble gum chewer

episode

three of the girl who liked

to chew

gum

while making love.

she said

it calmed

her nerves,

allowed her to concentrate

on what

was being said

and done.

her preference

was spearmint,

but occasionally she'd

go with juicy

fruit,

or double bubble,

the pink one.

she'd blow giant bubbles

once in a while,

and snap

it in my ear.

when it was all over,

she'd

stick the wad on my headboard

and save

it for later, in case 

i was up for another round

of fun.

waiting on the rooftop

i liked how

she was always prepared.

the flashlights,

and buckets,

the bottled water,

the sandwiches wrapped

in cellophane.

matches

and candles.

flares,

life preservers.

even a few books to read

when

waiting to be

rescued from the roof.

although i told

her time and time again,

evacuation would

be easier.

it's time to get out

of here.

the green apple

bless this

apple,

this

green orb off the tree,

plucked

ripe

and ready

for me to eat.

where it came from,

how it got

here,

who's to know these

things.

who gave us

the miracle

of that

tiny seed.

she will be missed

do we mourn

the fallen

tree?

perhaps. we give it a

farewell smile

and nod,

and remember

the shade

it provided,

the summer green,

the falls

with color.

we recall

how we climbed it

as children.

swung from the tire

on ropes.

we watched the birds

build nests.

the squirrels leap from

limb to limb.

she will be missed,

that's true.

to be missed

like that

would be wonderful.

your skin and your soul

there seems to be no

shame

anymore.

with the old or young.

no right or wrong,

no morals

to speak of.

there's

little kindness towards

fellow man.

so many

bewildered

and lost with

bullets flying and scams.

your skin

and your soul is on

sale daily online.

the hour glass is almost

out of sand.

covering your basis

there are times

when you think that

God just created

everything,

then stood back,

slapped His

hands together and said,

okay, i'm done here. 

have at it.

you people are on

your own

from here on out.

make the best of it

as you can,

but does it stop you from

praying.

no.

it's best to cover all

your bases.

your own blue zone

be your own blue

zone.

find longevity

in life,

not endured but

enjoyed.

love and be loved.

read

and stay curious.

eat fish

and meat,

fruits and vegetables

in season.

be kind,

not mean.

walk, but look both

ways before

crossing.

get a good nights

sleep.

big changes

while at the local

diner

down by the railroad

tracks

across from the airport

and the gumball

factory,

i asked the waitress, Lil,

for a slice

of apple pie

and a cup of coffee.

don't get mad, she said,

but we're plum out

of apple pie.

but we do have peach,

lemon meringue,

blueberry

and pumpkin.

dang, i tell her. i drove

all the ways down here

for that apple pie.

my stomach is all worked

up about it.

sorry, she said. but maybe

you'd like a change

this time.

mix it up a little.

okay. give me a slice

of pumpkin then.

i guess i am set in my ways.

you want a scoop of vanilla

ice-cream on that?

sure.

why not?

let's go crazy.

it says so in the Bible

she said to me once

that 

you don't understand adultery

because you've

never been

in love. real love

like me and Jimmy have.

God says

adultery is okay if two

people

love each other,

even if they're

both married

and carrying on secretly.

show me in the Bible

where it says that, i tell her.

to which she

replies,

we ain't no Bible scholars.

but i swear to you

it's in there, between the lines,

or at the very least

implied by Moses,

or Jeremiah, or someone

like that with

a name i can't pronounce.

can i interest you in some firewood?

a pickup truck

from Sperryville used

to come

by each winter selling firewood.

they'd knock

at your door

in their overalls

and beards.

the smell of whiskey

on their breath,

and crumbs from

the crumb cakes that

their wives made

for them

for the long trip.

i tell them that i don't have

a fireplace,

and probably won't

have one

anytime soon.

to which they reply,

thank

you, and go on to the 

next door.

very small fish

they're pulling

fish

out of the man made

lake

the size

of fish sticks

but with a head

and tail

and fins.

they lower them

into 

their buckets,

taking them home

for dinner.

four or five more

should

fill one

belly.

the stop the oil knuckleheads

they line the streets,

they sit

and stand,

they lie

down in their stop the oil

garb,

with their paper

banners

and plastic

signs.

meanwhile

people have to go to work,

they sit

stalled

in their cars

and trucks

while more gasoline

and oil

is burned.

our education system

has failed

us once again.

Saturday night at home depot

as we

stand in line

at the large hardware

store

with our basket

full

of goods.

plumbing tape

and washers,

a wrench

and a new toilet seat

for the third floor

bathroom.

a song comes on overhead.

Boogie Oogie Oogie,

by A Taste of Honey.

my feet start tapping

as i shimmy my shoulders,

she spins around

shaking her hair

wildly,

and uses the wrench

as a microphone.

we do a duet

until

the clerk yells at us.

telling us to move

forward, or

we'll have to leave.

it's Saturday night

again

at the disco,

1978 on M Street.

bread pudding

will we

have a Christmas this year?

with snow

and ice,

the lights strung on the house,

the tree in

corner

with ornaments

that your mother gave

you?

will there be

a mistletoe

above the door.

will there be

eggnog and cookies,

a turkey

in the oven.

will we wear our red

sweaters

with snowflakes?

will your sister bring

over her

bread pudding?

that's all i really care

for.

the darkened screen

do

our lives life need a punch

line.

a closing

of sorts,

a punctuation

mark

at the end of a long

string

of days

into years?

how do we wrap this up

and call

it an end?

maybe a higher

power just clicks

the button

and like on television

it all disappears.

the good ear

i can never figure out

which is my

good ear

and which is my bad ear.

the muffled one.

i turn each side to side

to the radio,

until i make

a judgement.

it seems to still hold

a thimble full of

the north Atlantic

in there.

sloshing around

permanently.

more lidocaine please

the lidocaine

is working, i can't feel

the scalpel

digging deep into my flesh,

but can hear

it.

the scrapping.

like a shovel

against the walls

of a coal mine.

i look into the doctor's

eyes

as she bends

over

with her tools.

she's lost in her work.

not happy

or sad, just busy,

getting on with it.

the nurse dabbing

at the blood,

seems scared though.

staging

the real estate agent,

brings

in a chair and a table.

a large

print to hang on the wall

of elephants

in Africa.

she's doing

minimalistic

staging.

she's done this before

she says.

she puts out a bowl

of candy

next to the brochures.

boils a pot

of water and cinnamon

on the stove.

then she goes around

and flushes 

all the toilets.

she's ready.

the reluctant patient

her man says okay.

he's reluctant, but he'll

give it a try.

go to therapy

to address his issues

and to save

the relationship,

but where to start?

she writes down a list

of all his

problems.

from weight to alcohol.

to his codependent kids.

then there's the mother

and father,

the grieving of a passed

wife.

there's the squalor

of the house.

he reads the list from

top to bottom,

as she picks out a clean

shirt for him

to wear to his first

session.

she brushes the crumbs

out of his beard,

then kisses him on the cheek,

now off you go,

she says.

good luck.

uncertain fashion statements

you are unsure

of yourself

leaving

the house with a black

and yellow

polka dotted dress.

how will this

play out on the street?

will friends

comment in a positive

manner?

will you be attacked

by bees?

ohhh what a world, what a world

i knew

i was in trouble when i saw

her on her

broom

writing my name in the sky

in black smoke,

surrender,

it said.

or else.

i think her lawyer

or her mother

put her up to that stunt.

it almost worked.

but didn't.

a carefully thrown

pail of water took

care of that.

his last hurricane

after thirty

odd years of preparing

for the next

hurricane.

he finally gives up and says

the hell with it.

he doesn't board

the windows,

or batten down the hatches.

he doesn't

wrap the trees,

he doesn't run out

for food

and water, candles

and

batteries.

he ignores the sirens

and

the evacuation warnings.

this time he plants

himself on the front porch

and says,

i here i am,

you want me,

go ahead, take your

best shot.

from your perspective

i don't expect

you to understand me.

it's hard

for me too,

guessing what

i'm

about to say

or do.

i'm not

surprised that

from your perspective

i am perpetually

confused.

but it's not true.

practicing screams

the ghosts are noisy

this time of year.

they're excited about Halloween

approaching.

at night i hear

them in the attic

sewing sheets together.

cutting holes

in black hoods.

i hear them

practicing boo noises.

rattling chains,

pots and pans.

emitting a variety of screams.

i can't get to sleep.

finally i tap on the ceiling

with a broom

that the witch ghost

left on the stairs,

and tell them to keep

it down.

it's too early for this

nonsense.

they all start to cackle.

stuck in the algorithm

the seven signs

of insanity appear on your

YouTube

stream.

six signs

of dementia.

eight warning signs

of Alzheimer's.

three

signs of a brain tumor,

ten signs

of cancer.

five immediate signs

of heart failure.

nine signs

of a stroke.

seven signs

demonic possession.

i have to get out of this

algorithm.

the road now taken

i see her

slowly sinking into

a pit

of quicksand,

she cries for help.

begs forgiveness

once again.

part of me wants to keep

on walking

by,

and another part of me

wants to save her.

give her one

more chance.

at last i take the road

not taken.

three in the wind

it's strange

how the only ex-girlfriends

that i'm

not still friends with

or talk to on

occasion,

are the ones i married.

it means

something, i suppose,

but what that is

i haven't quite figured out.

this hammer

this hammer

feels

good in my hand as i

bang

a nail down

deep into wood,

measured twice

then cut.

bang.

bang.

then another.

three strikes

dead

center and the long

nail is in.

if all of life was

this simple

and rewarding.

then a cloud appears

a spark

of sunlight arrives.

a new thought. 

a new way

of thinking.

this will change

everything

and put you back

on course,

but then

a cloud appears

and takes it all away.

get a job, any job

there will always be the low

rung of work.

the low pay,

the long hours,

the hard

day.

it's always been this way.

the bad boss.

the sweat and toil

in the sun,

in the ditches, tarring

the road,

tacking shingles on a roof

in mid-summer.

the grass

needs mowed,

the harvest has to come

in.

start there.

chopping wood,

driving a taxi.

show up on time and be

thankful

that the job

is there tomorrow,

and then tomorrow

and the next day.

you have to quit whining

that the world owes you

something.

east west south or north

of Richmond.

the world owes you nothing.

get out of bed

and start somewhere.

it beats standing

on a corner

begging for pay.

the tandem kayak

she sat

in the front of the kayak,

and i sat

in the back,

and so we began to paddle

out

into the Rappahannock

River

where it merged

with the Chesapeake Bay.

at Solomon's Island.

rough water.

we went in circles for 

awhile,

me steering left

and her steering right.

we had a different set of

skills and strengths,

our natural

rhythms were off.

on land

it was no different.

around

in circles we went until

it ended.

you're letting the flies in

we'd go

to the kitchen and ask

when,

when will dinner

be ready?

soon, she'd say,

with one 

hand in the oven.,

a spoon

in the other. 

go wash

up

and shut the screen

door,

you're letting

the flies in.

find a new friend

simplify

simplify. clarity.

no need to argue or

defend

oneself.

just breathe.

silence is a good answer

to almost

anything

or anyone toxic,

walk away.

find a new friend.

a new

lover,

some things are meant

to end.

the over 55 community

it's a gated community.

over 55

though i've never seen anyone

that young

living there.

it's a five mile

circle with cookie cutter

homes. one floor

with easy entry tubs.

nice, with trees and lawns.

sprinklers

going all summer long.

there's a pool

and a club house

in the middle.

a pickleball court

and a vegetable garden.

there's a board of

homeowners

that walk around with

clipboards

giving stars for the daffodils.

on holidays there's a parade.

a Santa Claus for Christmas.

but no children

live here, though

everyone waves 

when you're driving  by.

everyone seems happy

and content

at the end of their lives.

friendly even.

it's a very strange place,

where do i sign?

the ice age ice box

finally,

with a few free hours

on my

hands,

i begin to clean out the refrigerator.

i start with

the dozen or so bottles

of salad

dressing, ranch,

blue cheese,

parmesan,

avocado. balsamic

vinegar.

French,

thousand islands.

some i can't even get the tops

off anymore.

it's been that

long since they were

left on the door.

then the rotted fruit

and vegetables.

most with a sore brown

spot on

one side,

or growing some sort

of mildew on the sides.

whose quail eggs are these?

what's the shelf

life

on trout?

i drag out all the mystery

wraps in the freezer.

the ice age

has nothing on my ice

box.

when did i buy three

frozen bags of spiral

zucchini and a non-gluten

pizza

with anchovies on top?

what was i thinking?

the ocean view window

i like the new house.

the new

yard

with the green grass.

i like that willow tree too.

plenty of shade

in those summer months

when i'm out

back reading.

i like the bones of

the house,

all brick and stone,

wood floors,

the slate roof.

only one owner before me.

the vibe is good.

the water cold,

and the furnace warm.

i can see the ocean from

the bedroom

window.

what more can a house offer?

The Borderline Disorder

it's a mood swing, 

my psychiatrist tells me,

as i lie down

on his long comfy couch

staring at his

leafy plants on the sill.

it's a chemical

imbalance, he says.

could be genetic or

caused by

childhood trauma.

who knows,

sexual abuse,

verbal.

she wasn't coddled

enough

when a child.

maybe she fell on her head

when she was

a cheerleader.

but she's nice

one minute, and crazy

and mean

the next, i tell him.

one day she's happy and

funny

and the next day she's

in a fetal position on

the floor

threatening to kill herself.

yup, he says.

it's a rollercoaster

with these women.

they are emotional vampires

that suck the will 

to live

right out of you.

if they open their mouths,

a lie falls out.

you can't fix her.

you'll be walking on eggshells

forever.

there is no solution.

you can't turn a dog into a cat.

my advice to you is to

plan a future

without her in it, or live

the rest of your life in a living

hell.

here's my divorce

lawyer's card.

he did mine,

he's reasonable.

he's a trained therapist

too.

so you'll get the two for

one deal.

he'll help you with your

long recovery.

what kind of plants are those

on your window

sill? i ask as i write him

a check, do they take a lot

of care?

they look very green

and healthy

just a little water and sunlight,

go ahead, take one.

no charge.

the lingering cough

it's a lingering cough,

a dry

cough.

but persistent,

it welcomes me in

the morning.

bends

me over during the day.

it could

be serious,

it could nothing.

it could be the end

of me,

my lungs my heart,

my

body at last giving out,

surrendering

and saying,

okay, we're done here,

enough.

check, please.

the laminated phone list

she was organized.

my mother, in her

yellow kitchen.

beside the bird cage

and above the goldfish

bowl

she had

a laminated sheet of typing

paper tacked to

the wall. it was

lined with

a ruler and an ink

pen, listing

all the important phone

numbers

she would ever need.

siblings

and children,

hospitals,

the dentist

and veterinarian

it was easier back then,

before cell phones.

no one's number ever

seemed to change.

and you only had one

to remember.

finding the broom

is there a greater joy

than

sweeping the kitchen floor.

gathering

a weeks worth

of debris,

crumbs and whatever

else has

tumbled 

or spilled off the counter.

is there

a great joy

than that.

perhaps.

but for now this will

have to do.

let's get out of here

no one likes

the white sheets,

the sterile

walls and floors

the fluorescent

lights

on glimmering

scalpels

and

doctor's tools

behind

closed doors.

no one likes to see

the wet

tip

of a needle held

high

in the air, or hear the drone

of the MRI

or the x-ray machines whir. 

no wants to smell

the alcohol on cotton

swabs,

dabbing

at your arm.

hurry up, pay the man,

and let's get out

of here.

a closet full of memories

i can still fit

into my first wedding dress

she tells me

opening up

her closet and showing me

the white dress

she wore during her first

of five

marriages. it's

wrapped in a plastic bag

and tagged,

number one.

i see her cheerleader

outfit from school in there

too.

i ask her if that still fits.

of course she said,

just yesterday i tried it on

with my black and white

saddle shoes.

i did some cheers in the mirror.

do you want me to put it

on for you?

nah, maybe later.

what about that straight

jacket hanging 

in there.

is that yours too?

who's Lucille?

she likes to talk

and tell me a story about

Lucille who

lives in Portland

and has a dog

named Rex.

i know all about Lucille now.

what she did today,

what she said

and ate.

she likes cream in her coffee,

she likes

eggplant

and goes to church

every Sunday, 

she doesn't know who

to vote for either, she tells

me.

she's thinking about

going sky diving

with her husband,

Ted.

when she finally takes a

breath,

she says, can you believe

that?

i ask her, who's Lucille?

a prisoner for life

we're unhappy

with the windows the man says

pointing with his

white gloved hand.

they're ruined now.

i can see brush strokes.

i can see slight

ripples of paint.

i wanted them to look like

glass.

shiny and perfect, with

my reflection coming

back.

you only put three coats

of paint on them.

we're not paying you for

such shabby work.

i look at his wife,

her arms folded across

her chest.

a prisoner for life.

she was good with the basics

don't touch

that, your mother would say,

when you

poked a dead

bird

or rat

in the street

with the tip of your

sister's umbrella.

don't put that in your

mouth,

those

keys, a pen,

that knife with

peanut butter on 

the end.

give me those matches

and that

tube of glue.

now go wash your hands.

she was good with

the basics.

paper planes

we'd make

our planes out of paper, 

my older brother and i.

his were always

better.

cleaner lines,

neater folds,

he'd even put designs

on the side

his would fly farther.

than mine,

gliding softly across

the room,

while mine would quickly

take a nose dive.

i saw early what

the future would be

between us.

wishing and hoping

hope is holding you back.

you're

chained

to the bonds of hope.

wishful and optimistic

that your ship

will come in one day.

let go of that delusion.

cut the binds

that tether you to such

childish notions.

let go of your Disney

dreams of princes

and princesses.

there's something better

than hope,

it's called self-esteem.

before i stoop that low

she says

you have to forgive, take

the higher road,

it's the only the way

to heal your heart,

calm your soul.

forgive and let go.

but i say no.

leave the forgiveness

to a higher power,

apologies

and admission of guilt

precede forgiveness.

i want to hear regret

and remorse before

i stoop that low.

the ripples

it's a mere

ripple in the pond, this

toss

of stone.

the circles come and go.

we

are all throwing

stones

somewhere, each day

another

ripple

caused by 

what we've done,

or by words we say.

the Porto-Potty

there's one reason

why i'll never go to an outdoor

concert

or festival, or firework

display

ever again.

just one reason,

and that reason is

the Porto-Potty.

just shoot me

please

if i ever have to set

foot into that miniature

version of hell

on earth again.

trouble on the high seas

we had our

differences, but we didn't know

how deep

they were

until we were both stranded in

a row boat

in the middle of the ocean.

with no shade, no

water,

no food.

the real person comes

out quickly

when there's trouble

on the high seas.

she's tik tok ready now

my friend Betty goes in for

some

surgical enhancements.

i tell her she looks

fine the way

she is, but she pays

no never mind to me because

i'm a man,

and what could i possibly

know about being a woman.

fair enough.

she says, she needs a more rounder

butt to fill out

her jeans.

not as big as Beyonce or

a Kardashian, but something

just a tad rounder.

a firmer booty,

like the girls on tik tok have.

and i could use a size or

two increase

up top as well, she says,

not like Dolly, but

just a little filler

to even it all out and give

my girls some bounce.

i almost don't recognize her

when it's all said and done.

so what do think she says,

spinning around

and showing me the knot 

of skin behind her ears

where they pulled her face

as tight as a kettle drum.

do i look young now, or what?

so much to wring our hands over

there's so much

to worry about these days.

i don't know where to start.

i look up

into the sky and wonder if

an asteroid

is going to take us all out.

and what about the Russians

and Chinese

with their finger on the button,

and then there's

floods and fires,

plagues,

crime.

the price of gas and milk.

red wine.

so much to wring our

hands over

late at night.

not to mention the trouble

i'm having with

my wi-fi.

winning the blue ribbon

as if livestock

at the county fair,

groomed and fattened

bovine,

they line them up

on stage for the blue

ribbon.

the candidates smile

for the camera

and wave.

who won, who lost?

apparently no one

and everyone.

no matter,

it's over for now.

send them all back

to the trough,

but they'll be back soon

for another parade.

towards some end

in his illness

towards some end, 

he became

a nicer person

to be with.

no longer the lion

in the room,

he purred

and asked kindly,

could you pour me

a cup of tea,

or be a gentleman

and lower or turn

off the tv.

it was, can you get the light

for me,

please, and my

glasses.

so kind of you to drop

by. he'd say

with a gentile smile,

but then hesitate, 

with

blood in his eyes,

and ask

so where have you been

before

this disease?

Rimute from Germany

when Rimute

flew in from Germany

she couldn't speak a word

of English.

she could speak about six

other languages,

Italian, French, etc.,

but not English,

my only language because

our education system

has failed us.

this became a problem,

but we worked it

out using hand signals.

for food, drink, and sleep.

we were both not unlike

the gorilla Koko

for about a week.

it was fun, but exhausting.

i couldn't wait to drive

her to the airport and wave

to her as she boarded

a plane back home.

making tear like drag marks

on my face

with my fingers.

the cluttered moon

the moon

is becoming full of space junk.

every country

with a rocket is now

sending crap

up there.

it's going to look like

Newark

in a few more years.

it's no big whoop anymore.

anyone with

a few billion bucks can

make himself

a rocket

and hit the moon. 

whoopee.

let's have a parade.

i won't be long

will you

wait, she asks me.

i have

errands to run. i won't

be long.

maybe an hour or so.

please

make yourself at home.

be careful

with the cat, she likes

to run out

if the door's open.

there's tea

on the counter, and

a cake

in the ice book. help 

yourself, if you'd like.

make yourself

at home.

i won't be long.

the purple front door

there's at least

a dozen

coats of paint on the front door.

it's an archeology

dig

as i burn the layers

off, one by one

getting down

at last to bare wood.

there's red, and red again,

then green,

then blue.

thin layers of hardened

paints,

scraped off like

wet glue.

the eyes that have seen

these colors

are mostly gone now.

but how they must have

loved their

purple door at one time,

perhaps

with a wreathe

hanging on a nail,

centered over the peep hole.

i didn't do it

does anyone plead

guilty

anymore. 

every convict in his cell

says he's

innocent, it's not

his fault

that the gun went off,

or that

he was over served at the bar,

which made

him crash

his car into a gaggle of nuns

crossing the road

at St. Thomas More.

i didn't do it,

they all say.

my mother didn't hug me enough,

my father beat with

a cane.

we had

no food to eat.

i had to steal and rob,

smash and grab

the department store

just to make ends meet.

i'm a victim of society.

you made me this way.

i didn't do it, honest, i',m

innocent, you hear 

even the ex-president say.

the final divorce party

i hire a photographer

for the party,

my third and final divorce party.

i want to do it right

this time.

not just a keg of beer and

bratwurst on the grill

like the last time.

i get a caterer,

and a mixologist to handle

the open bar.

tuxedos and party dresses.

there's a small three piece

combo with Michael Buble.

i have the Watergate

Bakery whip me up a three

layer chocolate cake

with a little bobble head

of me on the top, just

me, smiling.

everyone gets a well

wrapped gift, which is a book

called Psychopath Free

by Jackson Mackenzie.

and another book, called,

The Body Keeps Score.

 a wonderful companion

to the first book. there's

filet mignon, prime rib,

and t-bone steaks,

small potatoes and string

beans on the menu.

no lettuce or fish. 

no kale or spinach,

no soybeans or tofu.

we're done with that now.

the blue light special

the dermatologist

puts

this giant helmet over my head,

not unlike the ones

you see in old

movies

where women are sitting

in chairs

in beauty salons.

it covers my face,

and emits a powerful

force

of pain in pulsating

blue lights.

this will kill off all

those pesky

pre-cancerous cells, the nurse

says with a smile.

so i go along with it.

i'm a sucker for nurses.

i assume she's a nurse,

she's wearing peach scrubs,

while the doctor

is wearing dark blue.

before she starts

the treatment she asks me

what music would i like 

to listen to while

i'm being tortured.

hmmm.

not sure.

anything but rap or country

i tell her.

she laughs, you old white

guys are all the same.

then she pushes the button.

i grip the chair

and try to breathe,

asking God for forgiveness.

Ocean Living

we spin

the old metal globe

and stop

it with a finger, vowing

that this is where

we'll go

to get away from it all.

to get away

from the chaos and crime

of life in the states.

it's the middle

of the Atlantic Ocean.

we shrug

and say, okay.

but i guess we'll need

a boat

and we might have

to get rid of a few

things

before we leave.

don't forget the sunscreen

and a fishing rod.

the art of sleeping with someone

there's an art

to sleeping with someone.

after

the bitness part

of the program has ended,

there's

the snuggling,

the afterglow.

one or the other might say

something like,

that was pretty good.

you too? the answer might

be yeah,

great, or meh, or yeah it was good,

i guess.

you have a little

pillow talk as you both

start to drift off,

you mention that the lawnmower

is broken,

she tells you

her sister might stop by

tomorrow

with her kids.

a leg might be on

his or her leg,

her arm might be around

your shoulder.

face to face.

you both get up to brush

your teeth, 

she puts in her Invisalign,

then you both go back to bed.

hip against sweaty hip.

but then,

it gets a little hot under

there.

in fact it's down right sticky.

adjustments are made.

one or the other moves an inch

to the left,

one to the right, 

there's the kiss good night,

at last

there's complete separation,

the boat is away from the dock.

there's room to breathe

and stretch out

without accidentally touching

one another.

you pat the bed and 

tell the dog it's okay

to hop up now,

so he does. okay.

sleep time.

the great debates

ah, at

last they begin.

the great debates.

God help us all, as each

buffoon

gets a turn

at telling us how he

or she

will save the world.

stop crime,

end corruption,

lower taxes,

end racism,

secure the border,

get help for the mentally ill,

end disease and poverty,

solve the homeless

crisis,

make friends

with Russia and China,

end the war in Ukraine

and 

change the climate.

they all have a plan.

and in their spare time send

someone to Mars

to get some more

rocks.

one out of two marriages fail

Jimmy is in love.

he's madly in love with this new

girl

he met on the infamous

BottomoftheBarrel

dating site.

she's everything

i've ever dreamed of, she's

a dyed blonde, former aerobics

instructor. she's

almost divorced

and only three of her five

kids still live with her.

she's been off drugs for nine

months, and is trying

to stop smoking.

next week she goes in for

liposuction

on her stomach and legs

and neck.

i feel tingly all over whenever

i'm with her.

she completes me.

i get these butterflies

in my stomach.

tomorrow i'm going down to

Kay Jewelers to buy

an engagement ring.

he's shaking as he tells me all

this, his eyes

are popping out of his head.

no, Jimmy, no.

but he seems to be in a hypnotic

trance,

so i slap him as hard as i can

across the face with my open

hand.

no.

i tell him firmly. 

no. no. no.

give me your phone.

i drop it into a glass of water,

then tell him that one out

of two marriages fail now.

don't be crazy.

don't be a statistic.

would you jump out of an

airplane if they told you

only one out two parachutes

were going to open?

hell no.

now relax. here, drink your beer.

let's watch the game.

i ordered you some more onion

rings.

the good China

i look at the stack

of good

China

in the cupboard and tell

them all,

the plates, the cups

and saucers,

the serving bowls,

soon.

get ready, soon you'll

be on the table.

i want all of you to be

on your best behavior.

no slips,

no falls, no tumbles.

got it?

now keep it down in

there.

be patient and wait,

soon there will be

a holiday.

the next wind out

a few

leaves decide

to leave

early,

gone yellow, gone red,

gone orange.

we're out of here, they say

to one another.

enough

with the heat and summer.

time to lay

down our weary

veins

and rest, ah, let's float

on the next

wind out.

the great divide

is there

anything worse than the trap

of false

love.

lying beside

someone you dislike, let

alone

love.

wanting them gone,

out of your life.

but there are lawyers,

and

friends,

family to deal with.

a pet

and children.

a mortgage.

who gets what, who

moves. who stays.

everything

is in the great divide.

whose copy of this book,

catcher in the rye?

six speed manual

it's the knob

in hand, the shifting from

one gear

to the other,

the push of pedals,

in sequence,

a dance

of sorts.

the rev of the engine,

the motors

purr,

as you go from one

gear

to another, gaining

speed on

the open road.

you are one with the car,

it's what

this generation can't

understand.

the wild west

the cameras

are full of thieves that won't

be caught.

little can

be done

to the hooded men

and women

who creep through

the night

stealing what's not

locked down.

it's a way of life.

welcome to crazy town,

where there

are no morals, no God,

no parental

guidance

of any kind.

no shame or remorse.

lawless we are, it's

the wild west now.

mother's chicken soup

my mother was

proud of her home made 

chicken soup.

she was never

happier

over the stove

with a boiling cauldron

of cut celery

and carrots and a whole

chicken

simmering in the mix.

are you hungry,

she'd ask us as we came

in to see what that smell

was.

then we'd lift our shirts

to show her our

rib cages and tell her, mom,

we need meat.

i'll add in some dumplings

she'd say.

now go out and play,

i'll call you in when

dinner is ready.

the tent life

is it bad luck,

mental illness, the economy,

or maybe

it's global

warming, technology?

what is

it that lines the city

streets

with people

with nowhere to go

or sleep?

what strange twist

of life

has led them to the corner,

to the needle,

to the tent life?

how does it end?

where does it go from here?

the zombie apocalypse

has arrived.

jake's best days

when jake

was in the jump, doing

ninety-days

for non-support

or another DUI,

he'd phone me and ask about

work.

he'd be out next month

and needed

money.

he knew

the guards, one

was his cousin Spanks,

who would bring

him pizza and fried

chicken

from the outside.

Jake would gain thirty

pounds

in the slammer and have

to buy new clothes

when he got out.

but he was well rested

and finally sober

on his return to

the outside world,

and hungry

for work. not repentant,

but strong from

lifting barbells

in the yard.

those were his best days.

can i borrow the car dad?

do we really need children

i ask my wife

as we

sit in the peaceful house,

reading

the paper and drinking coffee.

sure, why not.

a couple would be nice,

a boy and a girl.

but kids are so hard on the furniture

i tell her,

and at an early age

they're very sticky,

they put everything in their

mouth.

not to mention diapers

and the eventual endless

morning soccer games

in the boon docks.

then those gnarly teenage

years

when they don't talk to us.

should we just settle for one?

she says.

maybe.

but how about a starter dog,

or cat.

a goldfish in a bowl?

very little trouble there.

it will never ask for the car

keys.

our museums

are we not

museums of our own

history.

what we

save and store in the attics

and cellars.

the boxes

of letters, pictures from

an earlier

life.

it's all there for the asking.

love and death

categorized

accordingly.

a picture on the mantle,

a vase,

assorted gifts,

books read

when young,

a crucifix,

the baby tooth in a folded

napkin,

marked with date

and time.

the pretty girls in Paris

my French teacher,

Mrs. Moak,

stopped me in the hall

my senior year

and asked me why i wasn't

taking French IV

that year.

she shook her head and

said, you've made

a big mistake that you'll

regret the rest of your

life.

do you know how pretty

the French girls are in Paris?

i could have helped

with that.

but non. non.

la tragedie.

Therapy, now open for business

i put the layman's therapy

shingle

up outside my door,

beneath the LED light.

open for business,

all disorders taken.

i even have an express line

for mild

depression, and owners

of lost dogs

or cats.

i've never worked so hard

in my life.

amazing how troubled

so many people are.

i see a yacht in my near

future.it's mostly married

couples with buyers remorse,

or teenagers

who can't decide on

if they're a girl or boy.

it's a busy time of the year

with school starting,

and shopping for just

the right dress, or pair of shoes.

the human ball

i should have never

taken

this yoga class. i can barely

touch my

toes on a good

day.

but now

they want me in a praying

mantis pose.

i hear a bone

crack,

a ligament tear,

a muscle

free itself from a joint.

now i'm stuck.

just roll me out the door in

a human ball.

i want my money back.

the know it all

his

correction

or contradiction was

with nearly

everything i said,

or did,

so i stopped

talking.

stopped

visiting, stopped

cold

the friendship

in its tracks.

life being too short

for those

with big

heads.

oh look, a pig

it wasn't always

this way.

where we'd stop on the side

of the road

to look

at a cow, or some horses

in the field.

amazed.

oh look,

chickens, pigs.

look how big

he is.

it wasn't always so strange

to see

animals about.

contained

by fence or trough.

but it is now.

finding the muse

inspiration

comes in many forms.

the muse

can be anything,

any life

that appears.

night or morning.

the weather

helps.

disasters, or calm.

tragedy or joy,

each to its own way

of bringing

to life

a new poem.

one way conversations

i talk to the computer,

the printer,

the phone

with no one on the line.

i have a conversation

with the toaster,

the oven,

the microwave.

the clocks that no longer

keep time.

i have deep conversations,

one way of course

with some many 

inanimate objects.

each reminding me of

when you were

here, speechless,

and numb, deaf

and blind.

the same view

there is

comfort in the same.

the same

bed,

the same food

and drink

the same

books and view

from the window.

the same love

interest.

we all

want the safe nest.

the place

we can return to

unchanged.

Safeway has fish

i see the neighbor's

carrots

are coming up, next to her

green beans

and tomatoes.

i tell her Safeway has

vegetables now,

to which she laughs,

but not as hard as she used

to when i'd see her

with her fishing rod

and told her that Safeway

has fish as well.

i won't stay too long

i won't stay too

long,

that is, even if i make it

over.

it's not

that i'm bored or don't

adore you,

please don't

be offended by my

brief stay.

it's just, well,

it's just me,

wanting to be somewhere

else.

the red umbrella

i never

saw her without her umbrella.

it was red.

and when

she opened it was

like a flower

blooming over head.

i used to

think she was prettier

in the rain.

walking towards

me on the boulevard,

no different than when

our eyes first met,

and me, of course,

all wet.

a small garden salad?

did i believe

that she would take her own

life,

curled and crying

in the dark

room,

in a fetal position on

the floor.

a part of me

did,

and a part of me didn't.

the first

few threats

i took as real,

calling her parents

and therapist

to warn them, but the next

few,

i went downstairs

and made dinner, turned

on the tv.

then yelled up,

to see if she'd like a 

small garden salad 

with her meal.

it's all the same now

at some

point the days just

seem

to blend into one another,

like soft

waves

rolling towards the shore.

Tuesday is no different

than Sunday.

each one is

what you make of it.

what you 

used to do on Friday

nights,

you do on Monday,

or Wednesday.

it doesn't matter anymore.

her lemon pie

her lemon

pie

made your lips smack,

your cheeks

curl

with the twang of it,

your mouth watered

before

the first bite was

taken.

it was tart and sweet.

the meringue

floating

on the top, her home

made crust,

a secret, of course

held it all together.

everything stopped

when she set it

on the table.

with a smile on her

face, then she took

it upon herself

to make the first cut.

lean into it

it's best

to lean into the wind,

find

a strong hand

or rail

to hang onto

and inch forward.

this will pass, most

storms

do.

it won't last.

they're out there

a kind

word will carry you through

the day,

the courtesy

of the held door,

the passing 

hello

or wave.

despite what you see

and read,

there are good people

still out there,

they just quietly

go about

their way.

across the miles

we fall

asleep in separate

rooms,

miles apart, roads

and rivers

between us.

we're in different

states,

different zip codes,

time zones.

we fall

asleep without

the touch

of one another.

but with love,

we are not alone.

the train station

i see them

at the platform, waiting

for the train.

they're traveling.

i've come to watch.

i want to see

the joy

of arrivals,

the pain of departures.

i want

to peer into that window

of love,

of endings.

of farewells, 

and welcome home

embraces.

i want to observe

the lives of others,

before me,

in technicolor.

i need a turn on

some train.

evolution baloney

without

faith,

without an inkling of some

sort of

religious

fervor

in one's bones,

abandoning

the idea

of an intelligent

creator,

you take towards

the lineage

of monkeys.

a puddle

of cells

struck by lightning.

what will a few million

years

do,

to give us form.

all of it a giant cup

of atheistic

crazy.

throw some wires,

some bricks

and steel, some glass

some wood,

and plastic

into a pile. i doubt

that in a billion years

a building

will rise

and work as well as

we do.

cell by intricate cell.

it's Sunday again

i crack and egg

into the black pan, then

another.

the butter sizzles.

it feels like Sunday.

a few strips of bacon.

some toast,

some jam.

coffee.

i bring the paper in

off the stoop.

i see the ghost of my

mother,

the impending death of

my father.

i'll listen once more

to his voice

on the phone.

it's Sunday again.

kicking and screaming

am i ready

for pickleball, for a pottery class,

a cold yoga session,

tai chi,

and a meet up

involving

flowers

and stained glass,

four o'clock

biscuits and tea?

hell no.

not yet, dear Lord,

not yet.

painting Mimi's house

nearly every three years

or so

Mimi calls me from Florida

and asks if i can

paint the outside of her house again.

it doesn't need it,

but still she wants

a fresh coat of paint on the wood,

the doors,

the windows.

she's been in Miami for fifteen

years now

and hasn't seen the house since

then.

when i peer through the window

i can see that

nothing has changed on the inside

since the early seventies.

it's the same orange shag rug

throughout. the same

chandelier

in the dining room,

the same tables and chairs,

the console tv and stereo

in the family room.

the children on the walls are

still eleven, twelve, and fifteen.

they haven't aged

a bit in this musty mausoleum.

i paint the house

and send her a picture. nice

she says. very nice, the check

is in the mail.

a destroyer of worlds

i am responsible for many

deaths it seems,

and yet i sleep well at night.

do i regret

the coffee that i sip

on the back deck.

a bug of some unknown

origin

afloat in the warm rough

of cream and sugar,

caffeine?

what else have i killed?

what insects have met

their demise splattered

against my windshield?

what possum or squirrel

survived the roll of my tires

on the darkened road?

what have i stepped on

without noticing, the cry

of pain. deaf to my far away

ears. caterpillars,

moths and flies, i kill

them all without an ounce

of remorse.

no shame.

the mosquito's life is squashed

beneath

the slap of a hand

against my thigh.

my black boot brushes

against the ant hill,

causing chaos.

even the snake i beaned

with a rock, before

he bit me, is beyond my

empathy.

i kill everything.

i am Oppenheimer

to insects,

and other things,

i am a destroyer of worlds.

the well mannered husband or dog

i see the neighbor

with her new dog on the corner.

well brushed,

with an ascot around

his neck and collar.

he's been

trained by the Old Town School

for dogs.

he graduated last

week with honors.

he knows

a hundred commands,

not just sit, heel, beg,

or roll over.

but he fetches things too.

sings on cue,

and with just a hand

signal will howl at the moon.

but we make eye contact

me and the dog.

and i can see by his wink,

like me,

he has an escape plan

too.

the best friend

what makes

a best friend, what constitutes

a person

to be the most

loyal

the most fun,

the one you talk to nearly

everyday

sharing your day with,

getting and giving advice.

it could be a man

or a woman.

but there's rarely an

unkind word spoken,

or gentle fight.

they will always be there

for you, and you

for them. they will

always be a part

of your life.

nowhere man

she talks about her husband.

he's away

on business, she says,

looking out the window

at the shed.

the grass is long,

there's paint peeling on

the white fence.

i see no sign of a man

around,

no shoes, no sports

equipment, no suits

or jackets hanging about.

no shaving cream,

or razor.

there's only one toothbrush

in the stand.

i think she's lying about

her husband.

he's not away on business

in Italy, or

France.

he doesn't really work

for the World Bank,

he's nowhere,

man.

in the midst of chaos

in  the midst

of chaos

and crisis, in impending doom,

lack of love

and affection,

plumbing issues,

and smoke

alarms

beeping, i realize that

i need

a new shower curtain.

this settles me

down,

as i go on the hunt

for a curtain for the fourth

bathroom,

the one i rarely

use.

blue or mint green?

perhaps,

white this time.

permanently crib bound

the baby learns

quickly

to open it's mouth

for food, or

drink,

to cry on cue

when needy.

to scream and pout

in getting what they want.

we learn early in

the crib,

these behaviors

and sometimes

they never leave us.

another Betty

there's another

bus coming in an hour,

my father

would say, over lost love.

be patient,

take a seat on the bench,

you'll see, just be ready.

look here it comes.

get out your money.

i told you so, good luck

son. here comes

another Betty.

one more for the road

it was comical

to over drink, to be with drunken

friends,

drinking either

to forget

or to remember.

medication

in tall glasses of gin,

or beer. acquiring as

the night went on

strange bravery.

it was funny then,

the falling down,

the rants

and raves, the speeches

slurred with

words that would soon

be forgotten.

vows of love made.

oh the times we had,

the fun we

invented. one more for

the road.

closing time, and last

call for alcohol.

careless youth and foolish

old age.

a few good friends

row long

enough and the boat gets lighter.

so many

have gone

overboard, one way

or the other.

some you had to push

over the side,

while others just

took a dive

on their prerogative.

few true friends,

sit side by side, helping

you to row,

helping you to survive..

Saturday morning tee time

as the surgeon

washes his hands beneath

the water

and soap,

his mask on, his hat

and garb

for cutting

tied about his body,

is he there. is he in the moment,

with God,

or without Him.

will his hands

save a life, or take one.

is he worried,

or is he thinking

of his tee

time come Saturday

morning.

we want them to love us

we want

the animals to be like us.

the dogs,

the cats, even birds.

we want them

to have

feelings,

opinions,

we want their love,

their trust.

we want obedience

and empathy.

and yet

we can't even get that

out of us.

what they don't tell you

they don't tell you this,

they

don't pull you aside

as a child

and look

into your eyes and tell

you,

dear boy, dear girl.

there will be

sleepless nights.

they don't tell you a lot

of things.

but you will find out,

you will know 

what they know, given

time.

forty-seven sheets

my hands

are numb from brushing,

from

cutting

and pushing wallpaper

onto a wall.

forty-seven sheets in one

day.

a hundred

trips up the ladder.

each piece

measured and cut,

then pasted.

i stare at my hands,

as they shake,

red from cold water,

from paste,

the trickle of blood

from

blisters.

good job, i tell them

at the end of the day.

good job.

now get some rest,

tomorrow we have more

for you.

the intervention

jimmy calls

me to tell me that he's getting

married again,

he's met the love

of his life,

once more.

quicky i call

all of our mutual friends

an arrange

and intervention.

he tells me that the third

time

is the charm,

i slap him across the face

and remind

of mine.

nothing left behind

we leave

nothing behind. 

all of it is carried forward,

weighing us down.

sleep helps.

but in the morning there it

is again.

yesterdays

piled high.

we either quit, or

plunge

forward.

we're either stronger

in the long run,

or ready to lie down

and die.

late for mass again

her bumper sticker

read

Pray for Peace,

she had a rosary dangling from

the rearview mirror,

the station

turned to the Catholic

channel.

palm leaves from Palm

Sunday were in the back

seat.

a small jar

of Holy Water was within

reach.

so it always 

chilled me when she said

things like

what's up with this fucking

traffic?

where did these morons

learn how to drive?

we're going

to be late for mass again.

we'll lose

our favorite seats.

baiting the hook

years ago

she would send me

lingerie pictures of herself

in a bed,

on a chair,

in the hall, with a mirror.

she was baiting

the hook.

i sent her pictures

of a lopsided cake

i baked,

or a pair of new shoes

i was proud of.

neither bait worked,

neither of us

bit the hook.

in a single moment

she knew

when i knew that the gig was

up.

she could see it in my

eyes.

on my face.

the enlightenment.

suddenly

the confusion

was over.

the window was clear

glass.

the fog lifted.

i could see straight

through

to her dark

soul.

and that was that.

waiting on the next word

if i had

a choice, which i don't,

i wouldn't

be so observant,

i'd be more

involved, more in the moment

not trying

to connect every

dot on the page,

i'd participate more

in lifes drama,

and the way

the world wants to go.

but no.

i have no choice,

but to watch, and observe,

linger

in a cold shadow,

waiting on the next word.

missing in action

i haven't heard

from my girlfriend in Russia,

Dasha,

for some time

now.

i hope she didn't join

the army.

i'll miss our conversations

about snow

and food,

wind

and what not.

she avoids talking about

the war, other

than saying that,

all they men are gone

and she's hungry.

which explains why she talks

to me.

sometimes no

is there a lesson

to be learned

in each cut or

bruise, wrong turn,

or tumble.

is there something

to be gained,

to make us wiser

with each

broken heart, or bone.

yes and no.

but usually maybe.

the little things in life

a trickle

of water, just a few small

drops,

but it's enough

to get you up in the middle

of the night

to squeeze

the knobs

tight.

sometimes the little

things

in life

are the ones you can't

live with

while the larger

issues

go on and on and on.

get a job, press on

the worst

dream was not over love,

or a broken heart

but

about not

having work the next day.

without

work,

without pay,

it all crumbled.

there was no safety net,

no trust

fund,

no mother or father

with a nickel to their name.

there would be no

food,

no shelter, nothing to drink.

no gas

for the car if you had one.

you figured that out

early life,

at the age of twelve

or thirteen.

get a job.

keep a job, press on.

my mother's diary

after

my mother died i found

her diary

tucked

inside a basket full

of yarn

and knitting needles.

it took me about

two

seconds to decide to open

it and read

it from top to bottom.

almost on

every page she writes

that her

kids are driving her crazy.

they never visit me

enough,

or remember to call.

she talks about her second

husband of 45 years.

referring to him

as Hitler.

but there's some good stuff

in there as well.

how her garden is growing,

how she hid

the cheese cake

she made all for herself,

on the lower shelf behind

the tuna casserole.

she put a star

on the date of when she

completed a puzzle.

and another when her favorite

football team

beat the Eagles.

cutting the cheese

i'm not a big

fan

of cheese, although partial

to mozzarella

on a

hot pie coming out of the oven

with pepperoni.

but i am curious

as to how and why

there are so 

many varieties of cheese

around the world.

every city

and state, country

seems to have their own

version

of a cheese ball.

all shapes and sizes,

colors,

and tastes.

i hear people say quite

often

that cheese is the one thing

they could never

forsake.

your lucky day

once in a while

the dryer

coughs up money.
a clean

one dollar bill, perhaps

a five,

or a lucky twenty might

show up

freshly washed

and dried.

there might be

a few jingling

bits of change too.

it's a good feeling.

a good start

to the day

as you fold the sheets

and towels

with a smile on your

face.

back row at the drive-in

at last

at the drive-in, your favorite

girlfriend

in high school

agrees to go

to see a triple feature,

back row, of course.

we move

to the back seat because

of the stick

shift

and console.

we've finished with our

shrimp roll

and hot dog, our

cokes and caramel corn.

the windows get quickly

steamed,

as we turn down

the speaker.

but it's impossible.

all these

complex things. buttons

and snaps.

zippers. strings.

the unmovable seats.

it would be easier

breaking

into fort Knoxx then

it would be

getting into Lulu's jeans.

not even Houdini

would have a shot.

when the gravy train ends

was it love,

or

trying to get love that i

gave

so much.

that i opened up

the bank

and let the money buy

whatever

was needed,

not by me, but by them.

why was i so

generous with the lazy,

those lacking

ambition.

those sleeping until

late in the morning,

nine or ten.

all that tuition,

those cars,

and phones.

clothes and electronic

gizmos.

love is a funny thing,

but when

the gravy train ceases,

some love

seems to end.

eat cheese and drink wine

at this age

they quit, they retire

and sit

learning how to do nothing

with their time.

you get used

to it, they tell me.

sometimes the hours

just fly by

and i haven't done a thing

but watched

the young and the restless

on tv.

and then there's

the library

and safeway, and the ducks

at the pond.

i take them

stale bread, come on,

you should quit too.

we can hang out together,

eat cheese

and drink wine.

you have to be careful

since

the end of the last

failed

marriage, i put a moat around

my house.

barbed wire

and boiling vats

of oil

in the turrets.

the archers take aim

at anyone

that seems strange or

crazy.

and then the bell rings,

who goes

there i yell out.

it's me, your mother,

i baked you

some cupcakes. let me in.

i lower the gang plank

over the water

filled with snakes

and crocodiles,

and tell her to walk forward

slowly.

i have her searched,

then pour us both a cold

glass of milk.

to eat the cupcakes with.

the smoke house

we had

ashtrays all over the house.

they

were always filled

with dead

butts, thick drifts

of grey

plumes.

my mother smoked,

my father smoked,

my grandmother,

never took a breath

without a Virginia Slim

in her hand.

i remember the matches

and the silver lighters,

the snap of their lids.

the lighter fluid.

how my father kept

a pack in his

shirt sleeve the way he

saw Marlon Brando do it

in The Wild Ones.

he would tap

a pack down,

until

they were ready to be lit.

smashing flat each

cigarette tip.

the house was filled

with blue

smoke.

we were all red eyed

and coughing.,

even the new born,

and yet somehow we lived.

a night at the Kennedy Center

we get all dressed up

for the show

at the Kennedy Center. we're

both in

black.

coat and tie, white shirt

for me,

her in a formal gown,

with gloves up to her elbows.

it's a play

by Ibsen, or is it O'Neil,

maybe Tennessee Williams,

it doesn't matter,

we're on time, and have

taken a break from Netflix

and Amazon Prime.

how many reruns of Everyone

Loves Raymond

can one person watch?

we find our seats, then

settle in, her with her

Twizzlers and me with my

large box of buttered popcorn.

let the show begin.

to be continued

even when

we agree to disagree,

in mild

surrender to keep peace,

there is an air of

to be continued later.

it will not

rest,

this disagreement,

this difference

of opinion.

it will surface

again and again until

it ends us.

the next large wave

the water is cold.

my feet

are almost blue, below

the white

wash

of sea.

slowly

i move out.

my feet gripping

the rocky

sand.

now i'm up to my knees,

now hips,

it's time to go

under, here we go,

as i wait

for the next large wave.

my very woke friend

my very woke

friend

wants to save the whales,

the turtle eggs,

the unborn salamanders,

but

abort the babies,

she wants to

have

the confused kids

go under

surgery to alter

their sex.

snip, cut, fill and form

like silly putty

the children.

everyone gets a trophy

in her world.

an A for effort.

a medal

for last place.

everyone's a winner.

she wants to burn the books

of Mark Twain.

tear down the statues.

rewrite history,

give every street a new name.

she wants to hand out

needles to

the drug addicts,

decriminalize

crime.

release the prisoners,

let them

loot and rob. 

run wild in the streets,

burn the city

in an angry mob. 

they

just weren't hugged

enough

when they were children

she says.

and she's a therapist.

God help us all.

finding bottom

there's a lot of anger

going around.

people

are sad

and lonely, full of despair

and worry.

the music

doesn't do it for them

anymore,

nor does the wine,

or dope they smoke.

when they sober up,

their life is exactly where

it was before

they got stoned.

there's a hole in there

that needs to be filled,

but not that way.

there's no bottom

to that life.

coasting through another year

most of the jobs

i had

i fired myself, making it easy

on my boss.

i wasn't interested

in most

of the work i was hired to do.

whether,

mopping floors,

digging ditches, or

working in

department stores.

the worst job

was writing code for programs

back in the 80's.

i liked break time,

lunch,

and talking to the new

receptionist

at the front desk.

there was volleyball on

Wednesdays,

and happy hour on Friday,

not to mention

Christmas parties.

i still have the birthday

card

that the whole office signed.

it read,

you've coasted through another

year.

with a picture of a guy

holding a beer

riding a coaster.

the work was mind numbing,

but they

were fun.

school shopping

with school

about to start, my mother

would take

us all to Sears for new clothes.

one shirt each

for the boys, and dungarees,

and one dress each

for the girls.

if she had a some extra

money,

we'd get a pair of shoes too.

or sneakers.

she'd buy pencils and erasers

in bulk.

along with seven

lunch boxes

with a thermos inside.

it was a long

school year

of bologna sandwiches,

three cookies,

an apple

and milk.

the loaf of olive bread

i tried to give

a loaf of bakery baked olive bread

to the man

i see standing on the corner

every

morning

with a cardboard sign

that reads, homeless, no job,

five kids,

veteran,

dyslexic and psoriasis

he looks at me

and says,

what is this?

he's been on this same corner

for about seven years now.

i almost feel like

we're friends.

i tell him it's bread, fresh

out of the oven,

still warm

and doughy,

it cost me nine dollars

at the Great Harvest Bakery.

it's got a thick crust. amazing

loaf of bread.

i bought two loaves, but you

can have this one.

huh?

what do you want me to do

with it, he says.

i don't know,

eat it?

maybe slice it up and put

it in the oven.

put some butter on it.

goes great with a cup of coffee,

or tea.

you can use it for sandwiches too.

take a sharp knife

and cut it into

slices.

i like to use Virginia ham

and Swiss cheese on it.

a little bit of mustard.

excellent toasted or not toasted.

but you do what you want

with it, okay?

here take it.

but he doesn't take it. he waves

me to move on,

cursing under his breath,

while the line of cars

behind me start honking

their horns.

what the future used to be

the antiques

in the yard are tagged with

prices.

the old number crossed

out from

when the chair

or table,

or armoire was dragged

out last year.

a stack of life magazines

tied with a string

is on the table.

all of them for three dollars.

i buy them.

i want to remember what

the future used

to be.

but please vote

why is there no choice.

why

is the orange man not in jail,

how many

times can

old uncle Joe

fall down a flight of stairs,

why is

the v.p. a walking word

salad.

what a tragic

comedy it all is.

isn't there one smart and kind,

compassionate

soul

without a bag of dirt

in their hand.

not a single bone of honesty

in all of them.

left or right.

but please vote.

pffft.

the leather straps

some mornings,

 i wake up

and wonder

if it's worth

trying to chew through

these leather straps.

but, i'm an optimistic

person,

so i press on

and continue

gnawing.

don't worry, be happy

you sound so sad, she says,

unhappy,

you must be troubled

by your

past, and 

worried about your future.

we worry about you.

don't you have a happy

place to go to?

you know there's pills

for what you have.

therapy and shock treatments.

books and podcasts.

please, please,

stay away from sharp

objects and tall bridges.

we can help you get

over whatever it is that's

bothering you.

replace that frown

with a smile.

we can fix you 

and make you happy,

and oblivious,  like us.

you'll be singing and dancing

to new tune.

the end of life insurance

i get about twenty or thirty

phone calls

a day,

pertaining to the end of life

insurance.

they are chasing

me around

with shovels, ready to dig

a hole

to throw me in.

i listen to the script by

young Indian men and women,

asking for all my vital

details, before i stop

breathing.

sometimes i use my grandmother

voice,

saying that i'm Emily Wilson,

while other times

i'm Kate Hepburn, or Elanore 

Roosevelt.

still living in the White House

with Franklin.

they only need my social security

number to seal the deal.

which i can't find

because my purse

is in the car.

my beneficiary

is my dog, Louie.

or my parakeet, Lucy.

at this point they usually hang up.

the sky was blue, the ocean too

there's not a drop

of blood,

in his new book of poetry.

not a dark

cloud,

not a broken

bone

or heart, or tear fallen.

it's lovely

nature

without the storms,

the lightning,

tornados

and fires.

it's pleasant enough,

but scares me,

as he paints a

hallmark world, 

one absent of fear,

without desire.

they stopped talking

i dreamed

i could see a mushroom cloud

in the near

distance.

right over the dome of

the capitol.

it was white

with a plume of red

and yellow.

a magnificent

thing to see, even if it

was just a

dream.

all at once they stopped

talking,

finally,

and listened

to the screams.

the bloody lip

i should

have understood who

she was

when she

bit down on my lip,

instead of a gentle kiss,

drawing blood.

i should have

known

right then and there,

to beware.

to run for the hills, 

but no.

i needed more bites

before i finally

disposed

of her.

the garden party

as i look out

into the green yard

flush

with rain.

the ground filled,

not a stone seen.

there is so much

growing up and beyond

the fence,

i wonder what's a weed

and what

isn't.

does it matter, i won't

be part of'

the neighborhood

garden

party

anytime soon.

let's not talk about that

these eggshells

we gently

tread upon, have been there

for years,

mostly when

you're in the room.

how careful

we are with words, with

the faces

we make,

our gestures.

we avoid what needs

to be avoided,

so many elephants

you bring

to the table.

you rule this world,

don't you?

three a.m. purchase

unable to sleep

i see

an ad on tv for wrinkle cream

it's infused with coconuts,

and made by NASA's

space age

anti-aging formula.

it's three a.m.,

i take out

my credit card

and buy some on the phone.

a box of twenty-four

tubes.

soon i'll be

able to sleep.

ships in forty-eight to

seventy-two hours.

banking on the next life

we're not unhappy,

just miffed at the way things

have turned out.

i should have

been taller, faster, smarter.

i should have come from money,

had a real father.

had skin

of another color.

worshiped a different God.

had a brother or sister

to lean on.

a true friend.

maybe in the next life.

if there is one.

her latest soul mate

she tells me

that she's met her soul mate,

but there's a

catch.

he's happily married

with a beautiful

wife.

but he's the one, she says,

showing me

the ring

the watch

the bracelet, and car

that he gave her.

we're going out on his boat

tomorrow

while his wife

is in the hospital.

what should i wear.

is it time for the yellow

bikini?

that always seals

the deal.

the kitchen dance

romantically

we dance

across the kitchen floor.

around the table,

bumping

the oven,

the sink, the trashcan

in the corner.

we sashay beneath

the dim light of a candle.

the music

from the other room

in our ears.

her head is on my

shoulder.

we kiss,

my arms are wrapped

around her.

and then i ask her,

if she smells something

burning.

i spin her around,

it's her dress

on fire.

twenty-seven new passwords

i can't keep track

of my

passwords. so many to remember.

i write them

down,

but then forget to cross out

the old ones,

replacing them with the news.

names

and numbers, crazy

dashes and dots, dollar

signs

and numerical offerings.

too weak,

moderate, okay, i guess you're

good for another

day.

like mice, these scammers

chew their way in,

they find

a way.

the blue ribbon entry

she gave

me a small jar of apple butter,

one she

had entered into the Winchester

Apple Butter

Festival.

a blue ribbon entry,

first place.

it's on the shelf

next to a box of macaroni.

i should open it one day

and spread it across

a slice of bread,

toasted.

then tell her how lovely

it is.

but it was years ago,

and i doubt she'll remember me.

joint counseling

there's a plumber

for the pipes,

and electrician for the wires.

a roofer

for the leaks,

a carpenter

for the rotting porch,

a maid

for the dust and debris,

a mechanic

for the car.

a therapist for you

and me.

phone call from Venice

i'm in Safeway,

holding up an apple to the light,

looking for

brown spots

when

my friend Jimmy

calls me

from Venice, Italy.

yo, dude.

you've got to come here,

he says.

man, the babes

are wild over here.

he sends me a picture of him

on a gondola

drinking a glass

of wine,

with some woman he just met,

named Bridgette

under his arm.

she's got a friend that's just

your type.

a complete

psychopath with blonde hair.

what are you doing, he says.

i can hear

the chatter of Italian

and broken English, someone

is telling him to sit

down, he's rocking the boat.

i'm buying an apple,

i tell him,

i can't decide, honey crisp,

or granny green.

maybe a pear, i haven't had a pear

in ages.

dumb as rocks

there's no

need to learn spelling anymore,

or history,

or math.

there's no need

to learn how to write,

how to read

a book, or

a map.

it's all easy now.

laid out on a silver platter.

we're dumb

as rocks,

but we have apps.

tomorrows yet to come

it's early.

we have time. we have

all the time

in the world

we say to each other

when young.

we'll get it done.

in time

we'll grow up,

but for now,

let's have fun.

so much living before

us.

so many tomorrows

yet to come.

relax. 

sit back.

we're young.

the time machine

thank

God for the time machine

we found

in the garage

i tell my girlfriend,

Viola.

it was under an old dusty tarp

beside

rusted hulk of

the Kenmore

washing machine.

we can go back now

and alter

that mistake of eating

those last

uncooked

oysters on the plate

and getting

food poisoning,

let's hop aboard and go back

a few hours,

we need to change our

order and both

get those rib eye steaks.

save the whales

nearly

everyday i'd get a meme

of some

sort from her,

sent via text or email.

black lives

matter.

defund the police.

save the whales.

open the borders,

pride month.

eat plants

not animals.

abort the babies.

ban the books.

use the new pronouns.

free food.

free tuition.

no work anymore.

she was a long time friend.

mother earth

herself

in the flesh.

a Peace Corps Madonna,

but it just had to end.

dear Edgar Allan Poe

it's an Edgar Allan Poe

construct,

stuck in my brain.

the parking 

garage,

going down and down,

further

and further down the concrete

drain.

the fluorescent lights

give no hope,

nor do the painted

numbers and signs.

the arrows

pointing in all directions.

the thinning air.

what if the earth

shakes,

or a bomb lands, or there's

been some

engineering mistake

that finally fails.

what then

dear Edgar Allan Poe?

what hell.