maybe she'll call back

it's here

somewhere, i know i wrote

the number

down.

saved it

in ink on the back of an

envelope.

it's where i keep

all my important

notes.

i search the table,

the drawers,

i shake the pockets

out of the three

pairs of pants that are lying

on the floor.

it's not taped to the fridge,

it's not in

the trash bins,

it's nowhere

to be found.

maybe she'll call back.

maybe,

tonight, or in the morning.

if you no longer want sex, get married

i remember when

one of my

ex wives

cut me off from having sex.

i think it was

the third wife.

she was punishing me

for having caught

her in a lie,

which was about as easy

as shooting

fish in a barrel.

she slept on the far edge

of the bed

for three weeks,

no kiss goodnight,

no words, no nothing,

just the cold shoulder.

if the bed had been a water

bed,

her side would have been

frozen solid.

in time i learned

not to call her out on

her lies, but to pretend

i didn't know

the truth.

i made out like everything

was hunky dory.

before long, she was

back to once a week

on Saturday night,

reluctantly,

if she didn't have a headache

or if her phone

didn't ring.

just say no

we reach

the age when we can say

no

and not feel guilty about it.

we've earned

the no's

that are coming from

here on out.

you've done the birthday

parties,

you've met

all the parents,

you've gone on the roller

coaster ride

when you didn't want

to and you've

ate a lot of food

that

you didn't want

to eat.

so it's no now to the wedding

invite,

no to Sunday

morning church,

no to the three day

seminar on positive thinking,

or the retreat

where you

can't talk for a week.

it's no to karaoke,

no to ice skating,

no to soy beans or kale.

no to watching a movie

on the hallmark

channel,

or driving to the mountains

to pick berries,

or see the leaves change

color.

hard and caring

in the moment.

when

she set

the test upon my desk,

making eye contact,

i didn't like

her. i didn't like

her glasses

on her nose,

the curl

of her hair,

the plain jane dress

of a school

marm

not hiding her stout

figure.

i didn't appreciate

the way she shook

her head

in disgust or dismay

at a wrong

answer.

i didn't like the C

she gave me,

and the little note

that read,

try harder,

read and study,

you aren't that dumb.

you're smart.

come on.

you can do better.

i didn't like her then,

but in the rear

view mirror

i love her for being

hard

and caring.

a quick stop along the way

in the cold April rain,

in thick traffic, the lights

on,

you get stuck

in a funeral procession.

you can't get out,

so you

go along.

it circles into the cemetery

where you

get out of your car

and follow

the crowd

to the graveyard.

people smile

and pat you on the back,

giving you

comfort for your loss.

they ask

you to say a few words.

so you do.

quoting a poem by

T.S. Eliot.

April is the cruelest month,

you say,

breeding lilacs out

of the dead land,

mixing memory and desire,

stirring dull roots with

the spring rain.

let's us pray, then

you shake hands

with the mourners and 

off you go.

when it all hits the fan

as the world

darkens

with more and more

of the same.

you say things you heard

your parents say.

i'm glad

i'll be gone when it

all hits the fan.

good luck

to all you have no choice

but to stay.

the Saragosa Sea

tranquility

at times will still the pen.

so what is this

calm

you suddenly find 

yourself in.

is it a wide swath

of fertile

ground, or

the Saragosa Sea

you're floating

upon,

with another storm

to come?

falling away

at arms

length then further,

we

keep

away from the rude

and toxic,

the angered

and 

low.

keeping

conversation short.

what we

put up with in youthful

compromise,

we no longer

have use

for.

visiting her dead rescue dog

i took

her to the cemetery

once

on a cold wintry day.

she said that she wanted to visit

an old loved

one

that died several years ago.

i looked at her

and thought, maybe i was

wrong

about her.

there is a human being

inside

the monster

that she is.

a real empathetic

person.

it was raining ice water,

i took her hand

as i held the umbrella

over us.

finally we reached

the grave

stone.

it said, Rex.

who's Rex, i asked her, and

she said

it was my beloved pet,

a rescue dog

i had for two weeks.

i still have the scar on my

arm

where he bit me. then

she began

to cry, as i rolled my eyes,

and mumbled,

yikes, what's next.

the three of us in bed

quietly

the dog comes up the stairs

on this frigid

night, he

leans

his head

over the side of the bed,

to look at me,

then hops onboard.

quickly

he finds me, and curls

against

my body

beneath the blanket.

nudging the cat

out of the way with his

long nose.

is it love?

is it the call of the wild

in him,

a primitive instinct,

the safety of the pack?

or is it none of that.

perhaps it's just

a nice

soft place to rest.

the road trip up north

i can

still taste the wonder

of that soft

roll

filled with the white

meat

of lobsters

just pulled from

the North Atlantic Ocean,

when we stopped at

the roadside

shack

near Cape Cod.

fifty years ago.

the three of us in a van,

driving north

to Boston

to see the Red Sox play

at Fenway.

sleeping

on the side of the road,

eating

and drinking along

the way,

talking about life

and love,

school, what lay beyond

our youth.

having no answers, no

clues,

but unworried

by it all.

we were bound to press

on.

tapping out

i guess

i should get a pumpkin

for the porch,

join in.

be part of this, whatever

this is.

maybe

put a candle in the window,

buy a few

bags of candy

for the kids,

or maybe

i'll just pretend 

that i'm not home,

pretend that none of

this is

happening, and turn

the lights off,

take a book

the basement once

again.

big bad Ruth

my neighbor

Ruth,

who used to look like

Olive Oyl,

started lifting weights at the gym.

she's enormous with

muscles bugling

in places

you had no idea muscles

could be in.

i'm a little scared of her

now,

because of her temper

and strange steroid induced

growl,

but if i have a pickle

jar

i can't open, she's quick

to come

over and give

the lid a twist.

tomorrow she's going

to help

me carry bags of paving

stones

to the back yard.

hatred back in style

hatred

for no reason

other than

faith

or skin color,

ethnicity,

seems to be back in style,

just when

you thought it went away

after world

war two,

or the delusional sixties,

here it comes again

in full

moronic

holler.

so much and yet so little

i don't know

who you are she says to me,

leafing

through books,

rummaging

through my closet,

opening

the medicine cabinet

and holding labels

up to the light.

you're all over

the place

with clues and missteps.

sadness

and joy

blended together.

how can i ever love someone

i know so much

and yet 

so little about?

chasing leaves

i see the man

with his

loud leaf blower chasing

a handful

of red

and yellow leaves

down the street.

he has his earphones on,

oblivious

to the noise

to the neighbors

looking out their windows.

i go out

and hand him an old

rake

and a dustpan,

then tell him, shhhh.

please.

quiet.

this is a hospital zone.

going the extra mile

my old

boyfriend would shovel

my car out,

she told me angrily,

as i sat reading

the morning paper

in my pajamas.

he'd

scrape the ice

off the windshield and

start the engine

so that i could drive

away in a warm

car.

you mean

the married guy?

i ask her.

i believe that.

they always go the extra

mile for

their mistresses.

in your own world

you

can't watch the news all day.

you'll

become depressed

and sad,

almost beyond

repair.

you can't sit and question

the world,

asking why this,

what that, what's wrong

with these people.

you can only

live your own

life

peacefully,

and try not to hurt

or get hurt,

but staying aware.

the green stuffed frog

the man

who had the corner office,

the man who

hired me,

a large

man

with a beard and

every hair in place,

was fired

the other day.

i watched him

walk past

my cubicle

with tears in his

eyes.

carrying his box

of personal items.

a picture

of his wife

and children. his framed

degrees

in computer science,

and his green stuffed

frog

that he kept

on his desk.

maybe that was it.

coo coo for cocoa puffs

our addictive

nature

keeps us in our phones,

keeps

the sugar

on the table,

the eye candy at

arms

length, or closer.

we can't help ourselves

to the worlds

dope.

we need our fix.

our morning coffee,

our dopamine,

our trix.

be patient

as i sit

in the waiting room,

there are no

magazines anymore,

no People,

or Life,

or Popular Mechanics.

no Sports Illustrated

swim suit

issue,

not even a single 
Readers Digest

can be found.

we are all staring into

our phones

or out the window

at nothing,

waiting

to called in by a nurse

who will

mispronounce

our names.

at least for the moment

ice cream

will

fool you, make you think

that all

is well.

taking

the time on a shady

bench

to lick a double

scoop

of rocky

road and chip mint.

there is no

arguing, no fight in

you,

no cares,

at least for the moment.

the world

needs

a gallon

or two.

until we know who

we like

our mysteries. 

the tense drama of what

if,

of who done it.

we like

the shadowy

figures,

the ebb and flow

of plot,

the mixed messages,

the tease

and cryptic

clues of glances

and whispers,

red herrings,

but in the end, we're

not satisfied,

until we know

who.

pumpkin time

i buy a pumpkin pie

because

i feel as if i have no choice.

a pumpkin latte,

a pumpkin

loaf of bread.

pumpkin cookies

pumpkin ice cream,

and pumpkin flavored

milk.

i even buy a giant

pumpkin to carve

and set upon the steps.

i'm brainwashed

once again

by the pumpkin people

wearing

their pumpkin hats.

forcing pumpkins

down my throat.

Halloween all year

it was Halloween

all year

with her.

her in her masks,

her stirring

the boiling cauldron,

full of spells,

and me

doling out

enough sweets to keep

her near.

a horror show

at best.

a tangled ugly mess,

and me

caught

within the web.

the slow trickle

she trickles

her love

towards me, a slow

drip

from the faucet

of her

heart.

a warm flow of drops.

i bend

over the faucet

and drink

and drink, not wanting

it to stop.

land of the giants

these grapes,

green

and sweet are enormous.

i wonder

what

they did to create them.

what mutations

did they

undergrow to get so

so large.

who's messing with their

dna?

but i think that way

about the players now

when i watch

sports on tv.

what if?

what if

Mexico was lobbing bombs

and rockets

over

the border into crowded

cities

for twenty-two years

not to mention

fentanyl.

they want Texas back.

would we

respond, or let it go?

just shrug and say,

oh,

they're just letting off

a little steam.

and what if they invaded,

crossed over

the line, through the fence

uninvited

and killed

people in their sleep,

slaughtered

children

and the elderly, raped

and pillaged. took hostages.

would we be upset?

i hope so.

but right now we look

increasingly

weak.

turning down the invitation

i turn

down the invitation to a wedding.

i tell the bride

to be

that i'm bad luck

with such ceremonies.

using my fingers

to count off three.

but i'll be at the party though,

afterwords,

as long as the meal

and drinks,

and the three tiered cake

are free.

high winds are coming

high

winds are coming.

i know that because the little

blurb

in the left hand

corner of this screen

has told me so.

rarely though

do i ever get more useful

information

than that.

no list of numbers

for the next lottery

drawing,

i have to pull those

things

out of a hat.

the communication network

the Verizon

man at last shows up

having given me a window

of hours and days

between

nine a.m. and three p.m.,

Wednesday through Friday.

i see him get out of his truck

and pull

his pants up, weighted down

by a tool belt,

and a mess of wires

on his shoulder.

he walks past the front

door, 

where i stand waving,

and goes to the back

of the house, so i run down

the stairs to go out

and unlock

the gate for him.

he asks me my service

number and i show him the printed

work order.

he says nothing

then gets to work.

no pleasantries at all.

i ask him if he wants water

or coffee,

and point towards the house

if he needs to use

the bathroom.

he says, ok,

squinting and rubbing his beard.

i say something like, nice weather

we're having, which gets no

response, then I

go back inside and

look out the window.

i see his hands buried

in the wall box, he's mumbling

to himself,

then he leaves for an hour

and comes back.

i ask him from the window

if everything is

okay.

he shrugs and says, no.

i make myself a lunch,

then try the tv, the phone,

the internet.

black, nothing. dead.

i pace the room

for awhile then

i go to the window, but he's

gone again.

the gate is closed, his

tools are gone,

his bundle of wires gone too.

i try the tv once more.

it's on.

everything is working

once again.

then i get a text from Verizon,

asking

me to rate the visit.

leave it as it is

there is no

going back, no apology, no

words

of comfort

to those

left behind.

no awkward

reconciliations.

they have their lives

to live,

and i have mine.

let's leave it as it is.

keeping all the candy

should

i buy a pumpkin

and set it on my porch

for the holiday?

or should

i let the neighbors do

their thing,

with spider webs

and white

sheets

draped across the hedges,

the voice

box

emitting screams.

should i leave the light

on

or turn it off and lock

the door

keeping all

the candy that i bought

for myself.

it would make my

dentist happy,

i'm sure.

three nuns walk into a bar

why aren't you

laughing,

she says. don't you get it?

let me tell you

the punch

line again. maybe

you didn't hear

me correctly.

no, i tell her raising

my hand.

it's okay.

i'm just not in the mood

for levity

today. but your

delivery was great.

where does it go?

where

did the hours go, I wonder,

rising from

a long

nap on the long couch

on the long

summer day,

stretching like

an old

cat in the sun.

what have i done with

all that time?

all those years, 

so much of it

has just

slipped away.

pass me the popcorn, dear

it's theater,

it really is all theater.

the drama

unfolding on our screens.

the actors on stage.

each

taking his or her turn

at speaking.

each holding

a weapon

in their hand, a few

with the red

button,

threatening to push it.

how will it all end.

are all the clues

really

all there in Revelation?

pass me

the popcorn dear, it's

heating up

again.

the garage sale on Primrose Lane

it's Saturday

in the

well groomed neighborhood.

the doors

have been lifted

and inside

the hollow caves of garages

sit men

with their wives.

everything must go.

half

or less than the price

boughten. 

she's wearing a flowered

dress,

he's in a short sleeved

white shirt

with a simple tie.

is that a dab of perfume

on her wrists?

so civilized they are as

they dispose

of the no longer wanted

or useless

things

that filled their short

lives.

there goes the tennis

racket

and balls, 

from the lesson not taken

in July, the scuba gear

when he almost

learned how to dive.

the bicycle built for two.

don't ask

or the wooden canoe

with a pair

of hunting boots.

a bow and arrow set,

tucked inside.

burn baby burn

it's probably

a mistake, but i give

the man

on the phone my social

security number,

my name

and birth date, my

mother's maiden name,

my checking account

number,

and my address.

he sounds very nice,

and promises that he

won't share my

information with anyone.

he's selling me,

Emily Wilson,

an end of life

insurance policy.

i think i can trust him.

he asks me if i prefer

burial or cremation.

i tell him, burn baby burn

like we used

to chant in the streets

in sixties.

he doesn't seem to get it.

the Royal Cruise Ship

it's a large boat,

nine stories tall, longer

than the empire

state building

in new york.

we go up the gangplank

with our

luggage

for the seven-day cruise.

where's the food i hear

the man

behind me yell out.

i look back

at him and his wife, she

has her mouth

open, like a baby bird

in a nest waiting

for a worm.

a gaggle of waiters begin

to throw

lobsters at us

and pads of butter.

pork chops

and ham sandwiches.

from the poop deck,

a man in a chefs hat is tossing

pizzas at us

like Frisbees.

a small catapult shoots

scoops of ice

cream at us while

someone puts a cake

into our faces.

welcome aboard,

the captain says and puts

a giant bibb

around our necks.

peep peep peep

i suppose

we were as equally stupid

when

young.

how quickly we forget

how

dumb we were

with so little knowledge

in our heads.

you cringe

at them as they tie

themselves

together

on the street, yelling

for peace.

clueless

small birds of a feather,

still living

in the nest,

going peep peep peep.

the early morning tiff

i hear

the neighbors arguing

in the morning.

what is it this time?

did he leave

the seat up, or leave

the butter out

all night on the counter.

did she overspend

the money

on things they don't

need,

will they ever take

that vacation to Italy,

or is it

the beach again

this year?

she asks in a muted

scream,

ah, love and marriage.

such a wonderful

thing.

maybe stripes this time

i spend an hour

online

searching for a new shower

curtain.

who knew

there were so many to choose

from.

do i go polyester

or cotton,

maybe a blend.

stripes

or plain, abstract,

flowers?

the world is full of too

many choices.

i miss

the times when you

married

the girl next door,

and there was only one

milk.

and a friend was really

a friend,

not this Facebook

malarky.

maybe stripes this time.

Apollo Blue

i want

this blue, this can of paint,

he says.

Apollo Blue

by Martin Senour.

i've been using it for fifty years.

i want the same

thing,

it's the paint my children

grew up with,

my deceased wife

picked it out.

in 1965. 

the shiny kind,

but, i tell him

they don't make it any more.

that company is

out of business.

it's nowhere to be found.

please, he says. please

try,

it would mean

the world to me.

if i don't get the color

i want,

i may die.

frosting the cake

if lucky,

you were in the kitchen

when

your mother finished

frosting the cake.

the spatula

was all yours

for the licking.

and the bowl too.

the others,

in the other room

doing children things,

were too late.

hesitation

the animals know,

they know.

they just

know, as we do. but

we're too

smart for our own good.

we intellectualize

each moment

of danger, blinking

in the eye of fear,

not trusting

our instinct,

our most vital organ,

our gut.

all is lost in hesitation.

remember that guy?

what was his name?

do you remember him, i ask

Bill.

who? he says.

you know, short

guy

with the jump hook.

bald.

traveled all the time,

threw his elbows around,

hot temper.

he was a lawyer.

he used to play up at the court

with us for about fifteen

years.

oh yeah, that guy, Bill

says.  i can see his face,

but i can't remember his name.

hated playing with that guy.

yeah, me too.

what about that tall skinny

guy,

we called him slim,

or string bean,

something like that.

Left handed?

yeah, but couldn't go to his right.

oh yeah,

i remember him. he was

a doctor or

something.

what was his name?

beats me. he was only up

there for about

ten years.

the card game

we play

cards deep into the night

for mere

coins.

nothing we can't afford

to lose.

it's about

laughter and food.

stories.

old tales of love and youth.

a second or third

wife

might pay a visit.

we are working

stiffs,

collars of blue.

if we make it until midnight

i'll be surprised.

we don't even

drink anymore, 

it's been decades since

any of us have

seen the sun rise.

the insanity

apparently

anyone can buy a machine gun

now a days,

and enough

ammunition

to fight a war.

mental illness, no problem.

crazy as a loon, pfft.

welcome

come on in.

do you want a scope

for that

gun, maybe a few

more cartridges.

hey, we just got in some

hand grenades,

and plastic

handguns.

two for the price of one.

night vision goggles?

there's a special on bundles

of TNT.

how about a helmet

and a bullet proof

jacket too?

we just got in a shipment

of knives

too. good for throwing at

bears and what not.

come back soon, we're

open all night. tell all your

friends

at the asylum, tell them

to bring

a friend too.

tomorrows breakfast

i crack some ice

out of a metal

tray,

spilling the cubes into

a glass.

i pour myself some well

water.

i look out

the window at my cow,

and think

about the milk

i'll need in the morning.

there's a chicken

on the table

out back looking in.

eggs.

and the there's Alfred,

the pig,

trying to hide himself

in the mud,

bacon, minus

the nitrates.

who is she exactly?

I'd never heard

of

Taylor swift

until she started dating

a football

player, and her mug

was on the screen after

every play, but i'm sure

she's a wonderful

person.

i've never heard

her music,

her songs,

or been to one of her

concerts.

they all come and go so

quickly these

blonde divas.

Madonna and Miley,

Brittany,

and the rest.

i wouldn't know her

if i bumped into

her on the street.

do i care?

not really.

i've always leaned more

towards

someone like Flannery

O'Connor, or Madam

Curie.

hold on tight, it's going to be a bumpy night

everything can

be lost,

money, your fortune, 

love,

houses

and cars,

all of it can be gone

on the turn

of a dime.

cats and dogs. even

children can

be in the wind,

lost and gone.

but hold on tight

to that funny bone.

don't let the bastards

do you in.

the circle is getting smaller

my social

circle is decreasing with

each

passing day,

each

new death

that appears on

the back page

of the metro section.

she's gone,

he's gone too.

and good Lord,

down goes

Sally Mae Mcgillicuddy,

from my old high school.

so now it's down

to the mailman,

and my barista,

the garage mechanic,

and you.

her flowered gloves

i see my mother

in the yard,

hunched over her garden.

her knees deep

in the black dirt.

she's wearing her old pants,

her large brimmed hat.

her flowered gloves.

i yell out to her

from the porch.

she turns and waves,

then holds

up a bright red tomato

in the sunlight.

i go down to help her up,

to give her

my hand.

i turn, but no

the nose

leads the eyes, 

where have i smelled

such a rose

before,

or what's

on the stove

that's making my

mouth water,

my feet to slow..

who just walked by

with the scent

of an old love upon her?

i turn, but no.

Indian Summer

it comes

in a bright blue flow

of clouds

and sky,

a dress warm with

sunlight.

a spell of sorts, called

Indian summer.

it won't last for long.

we know that.

but

we show her in,

ask her to sit

for a while on

the wide

front porch.

we're in no hurry for

what comes

next.

Chesty Morgan

as young boys,

we'd skip school with

a pocket

full of change

then take the A-2 bus

to the National Archives

on 9th Street.

we'd spend the day

playing pinball machines

we could hardly

reach.

we'd wander in back to

the peep shows,

until chased out by a man

with one leg.

we'd eat at the diner

on the corner then run out

on the check,

then we'd stand outside

the club, The Blue Mirror

hoping against

hope, that when the door

swung open we could catch

a glimpse of Chesty Morgan's

bosoms.

be lazy, be late

when young,

we

push

aside the task at hand

until

tomorrow.

it can wait.

so much can wait.

we believe we're

immortal,

that we have all the time

in the world.

relax

and take it easy,

go ahead, be lazy,

be late.

can you peel me

a grape?

you work, i'll wait says the kid

why work,

he says.

why get up at the same

time every morning

and go

to a job i don't like?

what's the point of that?

punching

the clock,

answering to a boss, 

the endless hours

at the wheel

of someone else's business?

why should

i waste

my life on that?

college was hard enough,

with classes

and books,

how about you take

care of me

for another thirty

years,

and when you die, i'll

have everything that 

you have?

father and son time

when my son was

about five

years old

i taught him how to make

a sandwich

for the game.

he stood attentively

at the kitchen

counter, as i laid out

the groundwork.

i showed him how to

use the toaster,

instructing him on how to hold

the serrated knife.

we set out all the ingredients.

the mustard and mayo.

the tomatoes

and lettuce, the onions.

the peppers.

which he made a face at.

we took out

the ham

and roast beef already

sliced.

we debated on which cheese,

settling on

muenster.

i showed him how to shred

the lettuce into small pieces,

explaining to him

that big leafs of lettuce

would make

everything slide out,

then picked our bread,

long hoagie rolls, which

we buttered

then toasted.

we began the careful layering

process.

after a quick swath

of the butter knife

with mustard or mayo.

it was time for

the meat and vegetables.

the cheese.

delicately we laid out

the slices of tomato and onions,

the meat,

then closed it all up.

i showed him how to wrap

the entire sandwich in foil

so that it wouldn't topple

over when we carried it

downstairs to the coffee table.

a lesson learned

the hard way.

i put a handful of potato chips

on his plate next to a large

pickle. then a giant chocolate

chip cookie.

viola, i told him, let's go.

the game is about to start.

we can clean this mess up

at halftime,

before your

mother gets home from 

the shoe sale at Nordstroms..

grab us some sodas.

vote early and often

they run

on a platform made of sand.

the wind

blows

left, it blows right,

they hold

on tightly,

as meaningless words

tumble

to the ground.

no comment at this

time.

we're working on

the murders,

the thieves, the border,

the crime.

a handful of wars,

but pay them never mind.

it's complicated,

just be sure to vote for me

in the next election.

i have no other skills

than this,

this well crafted form of

BS,

i wouldn't survive like

you do in

the long bread line.

vote early, vote often.

everything will be fine.

the next great flood

it's time.

it's

way overdue for

the next

great flood. the world

needs a do over,

a mulligan

of sorts.

not everyone needs

to drown,

just a few,

for starters, and

the rest

we'll see in time,

if they decide

to come around.

clearing the calendar

i clear

the calendar for sleep.

for

reading.

for

evading the ringing

phone.

the knock

on the door.

i'm making room

for food

and drink.

for coffee in the morning.

the paper.

i'm no

longer at work, i'm

happy

at home.

the end of the world as we know

it's the big bomb

that worries me,

the one with the mushroom cloud

and complete

annihilation

of everything

as we know it.

the destruction of all living

things.

it's the start over button

that they'll

push

one day. but

hopefully not tomorrow

i'm meeting Betty

for a very

hot date.

i'll call you on that

the slowness

of things

doesn't bother me anymore.

i understand

the buffering,

the delay,

the long lines

out the door, i'm slow

too,

to respond

or climb the stairs,

to answer

the call.

i'll get back to you

on that,

i often say,

maybe tonight, but

no later

than tomorrow,

i promise, soon.

as the basket comes around

from childhood,

i know

the rituals, the script

by heart,

the kneeling

upon entry,

crossing my heart.

the confessional booth

shaded dark.

forgive me 
Father for I have sinned.

i know

what comes next,

the Hail Mary's,

the Our Fathers.

communion,

etc.

the blessing,

pray for the sick

and dying.

etc.

etc.

potluck on Tuesday.

and as the basket comes around

i take in the art,

the statues,

the embroidery of gold.

the chalice,

the gowns.

i'm just not there,

despite

believing. at times

this all seems

like a giant cup of crazy

and i can't help

but wonder

how did it get to this?

coffee and candy bars

the train

is more interesting than

by bus

or car.

the tracks snake

through

the small towns

through

the rubble and despair,

the empty factory

yards.

you see how people

really live.

day by day

getting into a line

somewhere

for sustenance.

so different than

the interstate

with its rest stops

for coffee

and candy bars.

forever young

you wish

they could remain young.

innocent and naive

unbothered

by the calamity

of life.

never knowing ugly

or pain.

forever wishing

upon stars,

throwing coins into fountains,

reading their books,

their small hands

clasped 

together in prayer

at night.

small steps towards cold

in small slight

benevolent steps, the sky

darkens.

winters

first bite is at your

nose,

your cheeks,

time indeed for warmer

clothes.

come here

and kiss me. let's start

there

before we chop

wood

for the fire.

you left your arugula

i've never

bought arugula, and yet,

in the crisper

drawer

of the fridge, therein

lies a batch

of it.

browned and limp

next to parsley

and basil,

lifeless.

someone has left their

arugula for me.

how nice.

another set of keys

i change the locks

on my

door, again.

new keys for the front

and back,

a new knob, and new latch.

the man at

the hardware

store nods his head

and laughs.

while he grinds out another

set of keys.

over already?

he asks.

yes, i tell him, and give

me two of those

camera things too,

one for the front, one

for the back.

lost in America

the man

on the corner, squatting,

legs

folded

over,

his knapsack beside

him,

no sign anymore,

no small bucket

for change.

no pleading

for money.

no rising to walk

down

the line of cars

when the light changes.

he just sits there.

he seems to have given

up on it all.

no one slows

down

anymore to hand him

a dollar.

in the rain, he's forever

there,

in the wind

and now on sunny days

he's there.

i imagine

he has a mother 

somewhere.

the stupid pills

they finally

invent

a stupid pill. maybe it

will save

the world from 

bad decisions. it's chock

full of vitamins

and chemicals

used on

rabbits and rats,

giving them an abundance

of common sense.

and intelligence.

eradicating stupidity.

the race is on to air

lift them

in bundles,

dropping them like

confetti

around the world.

leaders and politicians

get the first dose.

one more pina colada

the vacation

doesn't work, it doesn't do

what it's supposed to do.

in fact,

it makes things worse.

you dread

the upcoming Monday,

as you lie

in the sand

with your unread book.

you know what

awaits you when you return,

your desk full

of problems,

your computer

and phone stuffed

with e-mails, texts

and voice mails.

two weeks away

and you're doomed.

one more pina colada

then back

to your boardwalk room.

whose side are you on?

whose side

are you on, he asks me,

with eyes

wide open,

leaning

aggressively towards me

with books

and newspapers in hand.

a checkered

scarf around his neck.

which flag

do you fly?

i don't answer, what's

the point

of saying what's true

for me, only

to be corrected

and contradicted

once more

and getting on his

dark side.

how about this weather

we're having

i ask him.

i couldn't take it anymore

i never

realized

what a noisy eater

she was

until she was at the kitchen

table

eating corn flakes

and buttered toast.

i could hear

her all the ways

up the stairs.

the crunch crunch

crunch

of her teeth

against the cereal.

the spoon rattling

against

the bowl, her loud chopping

up of a banana.

the scrape of butter

against

the burnt bread.

this will never work out,

i thought

from the floor above,

she had to go.

fear or fury

it's a small

snake,

an infant just getting

started in

his life

of crawling

and biting legs,

but angry too, as i move

him

with a stick

to the dirt

and grass beside

the sidewalk.

he lashes

out at me.

his tiny fangs white

as ivory.

his blood

black eyes full of

fear,

i imagine, or fury.

who knows

the difference anymore.

to build a fire

as if i'm

in the Yukon,

stuck in a blizzard,

ala Jack London.

i bring the dog closer

to me

for warmth.

i wish for a fire to warm

us.

he shivers, i shiver.

we curl

tightly together,

but there is

worry in his eyes.

mine too,

as the wind blows

and the snow falls

outside.

reluctantly i close

the window,

and go down the stairs

to turn the heat

on.

the rolodex on the wall

if blessed with good

fortune,

lucky, as one might say,

we accumulate

a rolodex of sorts

for those who can

assist us on our way.

a plastic sheet of numbers

and names.

no need to list

them alphabetically,

or in order of 

importance, but in ink

they'll stay, laminated

by the kitchen phone

catching light from

the window, the flicker

of the microwave.

and therein lies the plumber,

the painter,

the electrician,

the dentist,

the doctor and lawyer,

the veterinarian

a trusty worthy mechanic

for the car,

and a landscaper

to keep tidy the weed

and vine

infested yard.

and no less a number is

Betty of course,

for her recipes for gravy

on holidays,

and her cakes come

birthdays.

it's all temporary

in the dumps,

blue

with the way things have

gone,

how life

has turned out,

my ship still not arriving

in port,

i rent a car

and drive away

from it all,

then rent a room,

i borrow

some money

from a stranger,

then rent

a girl

for the night.

everything is temporary

these days,

these

sleepless nights.

all or nothing

she took the whipped

cream

from the door shelf

of my fridge,

shook the cold can,

then turned it towards

her open mouth,

squirting it all out,

pushing on the trigger,

until the can burped

with air.

that's who she was.

an all or nothing kind of girl.

she scared me.

read and learn, then run

does knowing so much

about how

the mind works, help at all?

does reading

every book

you can find on psychology

and the disorders

of the each of us,

even help?

does therapy open

a window

in learning what makes

us tick?

slightly, but it changes

little, if nothing

at all,

best to run, to bail when

someone

brings you into their

own dysfunctional hell.

the melting of lives

he eats,

so she eats, she drinks,

so he drinks.

she sleeps in,

so does he,

lives

are melting into

one another,

the books they read,

the movies

they watch,

their take on politics.

his laugh sounding

like hers.

they are becoming

twins,

separated at birth.

slip sliding away

i've lost

track of days, of numbers

and names.

where

am i supposed to be on

Monday?

who have i promised

work

to be done,

what time

and where am i supposed

to be.

i need an assistant

these days.

with everything slipping

from my

mind like

autumn trees

disposing of leaves.

the clogged drain

i call

the plumber to unclog

the drain

in the spare

bathroom, formerly her

bathroom

where she did her miraculous

transformation.

he pulls out a giant

wad

of blonde hair

and tells me that the dye

alone

will rot my pipes, if

she keeps brushing her

brittle hair in here.

the scary couple next door

the neighbors

put out an array of pumpkins

for the holiday.

white, orange,

painted and carved,

some with a candle

in the middle.

they stretch out fake cobwebs

across the tree

and yard.

there's a speaker on the porch

that emits a scary

noise,

a skeleton hangs

in the doorway,

and when the bell rings

for trick or treaters,

She's dressed as AOC,

babbling incoherently,

and he's wearing a blue

suit with orange makeup,

and holding

a court order.

just having a little fun, she said

when she

first put her hand on my knee

as we laughed

and talked

about life, throwing

her hair back

around

her perfumed neck,

i became optimistic

about the night.

quickly i ordered another

round of martinis

and dinner,

but by eleven

she told me

she had to go back.

she said that her husband

would be worried

if she came home

late another night.

you're married? i asked her,

shaking my head.

yes, she answered slipping

her rings back

on her finger.

three kids and a dog too.

he's a wonderful man,

dumb as a rock,

but we have a wonderful life.

it's the MSG

i can't eat

like i used to.

Chinese food, or anything

delivered,

i can't take a bite

of a rotisserie

chicken

anymore.

it's the freaking MSG

they cover

it with.

i season nothing now.

salt and pepper,

is it.

but there are no regrets,

i've eaten

enough Peking ducks,

General Tao's chicken

and fried rice,

crispy beef and noodles

to last a lifetime.

those days are over

as i brush

the dust and debris

off my

shoulders

and face

at the end of the day,

i stare

at the paint

on my hands,

the dirt beneath

my nails.

my eyes are red from

being weary.

i can hardly

take my boots off

as i fall

into the big chair.

do i have the energy

or strength

anymore

to go out and find love?

no,

i think those days

are over

at last.

it's almost a relief

as i think about food

and drink,

perhaps a book to read,

then sleep.

too busy saving the world

where do

they get this angry energy?

this pent up

bile?

where do 

they find the time

to take

off work

and go down to shout

and march

and make

signs.

who's walking the dog

at home,

who's helping

the children with their

homework,

who's hanging clothes

on the clothes

line or mowing

the lawn?

what's for dinner tonight,

peanut butter

and jelly, again?

grad school thieves

we used

to worry about the city

pickpockets,

those

petty thieves

who would bump

into you

on the street and swipe

your watch,

or wallet,

but now,

they are in our phones,

in our

gizmos.

in the mail, in

every detail

of our lives,

their hands are buried

deep, no longer

petty,

they've moved on to

bigger and

more devious things.

a very deep sleep arrives

i fall asleep

in the middle of the third inning.

the last thing

i hear

from the announcer is

a swing, and a foul

ball

down the third base

line,

his ninth foul ball.

now he's stepping aside

to adjust

his gloves,

his pads, his hat,

his shirt

and shoes, and to scratch

himself

again after adjusting

his manly

appendages.

the bat boy is now bringing

him out

a new bat, apparently

the last one

was cracked.

the other team has decided

to make

a pitching change it seems.

the manager is coming

out with his left

hand raised

towards the centerfield

pitchers dugout.

we'll take a commercial

break

and be right back.

where did i put my good sword?

the hunt

is the thrill, the imbedded

genetic code

of men,

some women too.

let's not

pretend.

but most prefer to gather,

to form

and mend.

but we sharpen

our spears, our

swords

and go out into the wilderness.

no matter

the weather,

snow or wind.

we can't stop ourselves

from being

who we are,

genetically predetermined

to survive

and win.

chicken necks

when my

grandmother,

Lena, would wring

a chicken's

neck out in the back yard,

then pluck it clean

for dinner,

we'd watch

from the window,

our hands

feeling our

own necks.

we were well behaved when

we visited her, 

not knowing if

we'd be next.

showing me her new baby

the nurse,

after putting me under

the blue

light

for sixteen minutes

to shower

my head

with tiny beams

of cancer

fighting bites,

she shows me her

photo albums.

her child,

her husband, the time

they went

to Disneyland.

i give her all the appropriate

words,

like very nice,

beautiful,

that's some little girl

you've got there,

etc.,

then tell her, see you

four weeks.

is it okay if i wash

my scalp

tonight?

lessons learned early

strange

how people hate one

another

for things like the color

of their skin, their

ethinicity,

or their faith,

where they were born.

they teach

their children to hate

in the same way.

making sure that

it doesn't end.

strange word

that we're living in.

change the channel

when we tire of the wars

going on

around the world.

we flip the channel

to a baseball game,

a nail

biter in the bottom

of the ninth,

or turn

the tv off.

maybe we go for a walk.

take a nap

out back in the yard.

maybe we

go for a swim,

or play some tennis.

when we return we can

watch more of the word's

chaos again,

half paying

attention

as we stand at stove

making dinner,

searching the cupboard

for spices

to add in.

sip carefully

once you get your

cup

of coffee down, there's

no turning back.

French roast, hot

and black

with two sugars added,

a splash

of half and half.

it won't change from

here on out.

this dog, when it comes

to new tricks,

won't get off track.

why change

what isn't broken?

sip carefully, it's hot.

Biblical times

the world

feels like a tightened string

about to snap

and send

everything and everyone

up in smoke,

blasted into

smithereens.

the tension

is in the air, in the eyes,

in the words

of victims

and predators.

what comes

next

will be Biblical, 

i bet.

B-29

my mother loved

to play

bingo

at the firehouse

in Wayson's Corner in
Maryland.

three cards

at a time.

i remember how she'd get

all dolled

up to go, lipstick even.

i think there was more

going on than

just bingo though.

she'd tell us to behave

for the baby sitter,

as she fixed her hair

in the mirror.

did she ever win?

did her number ever

come up.

i'll never know.

the check is in the mail

after a week

of dragging out the publisher's

clearing house

scam

on the phone, using my Emily
Wilson voice,

i begin to tire.

i may be losing my marbles too.

he goes by the name of David

Cooper,

with a thick

Jamaican accent.

i've reported his

number, his mule address

to the authorities,

his bank account information.

what more

can i do, to end this charade?

but he wants

so badly

to give me the new Mercedes,

the five point four

million dollars, and deposit

the five

thousand dollars a month

into my checking account.

what am i to do?

He says he's a 
Baptist minister and believes

in God, and the salvation

of Jesus.

i hear dogs barking in his yard,

roosters crowing.

a child screaming

for something.

he gives me a recipe for soup.

he tells me to get

some rest and be thankful

for what's coming next.

he tells me that he loves me.

sweet dreams, he says

before reluctantly hanging up.

he'd be a wonderful man

if he wasn't a lying thief

preying on old people,

never uttering a single word

of truth.

and this here is so and so

bad

with names, i forget them

within

three

seconds after

an introduction.

in one ear,

out the other as they say.

but what's in

a name,

it's not like we'll

ever

see each other again.

name tags

would be nice.

Open all night

how did we eat

so much food in the middle of the night,

stopping

at I hop

after a night

of bar

crawling,

to feast on pancakes

and eggs,

bacon and sausage, toast

with butter

and jam.

we were starving

at that young age,

thrilled to see the blur

of neon

lights

blinking Open, come

on in, so we did,

parking the car

in the gravel lot,

then

hurrying in the rain.

dreaming of another life

he stares out the window.

despondently,

it's time

again,

the grass has grown

after

so much rain.

the hedges too need to be

trimmed.

he remembers

sidewalks

and concrete.

streets and bridges.

brick and mortar, how

did this happen

that he spends his days

cutting

the grass again.

the stupidest phrase ever

as we

stood respectfully at the casket

as it was

lowered into

the ground

i said to the man next to me,

she'll be missed.

he nodded

and said, well,

it is what it is.

i said,

what does that mean?

you know, he says.

it is,

what it is.

explain to me the meaning

of that,

i ask again.

you know, come on, it's

a phrase

we all use

when we have nothing else

to say. but

want to say

something poignant.

it's undefinable.

it's stupid, i tell him.

it's nonsense.

you and everyone else should

stop saying

that.

it's dumb

and everyone that says it

should be

slapped in back of the head.

he wouldn't even look

at me

when we went back to the house

for the buffet

brunch.

don't call me honey

it was a bad

fight.

she was so mad 

at me she only

made

her side of the bed,

and put

one piece of toast

in the toaster.

none for me.

she scrambled one egg,

and made

a single

cup of coffee for

herself.

how long are you going

to be mad

at me, honey,

i asked her.

you'll know when it's

over,

she said.

and don't call me honey.

the chicken wing diet

i'm on a diet,

he tells me, rubbing his Buddha

belly

as we sit

in the coffee shop.

there's

cream cheese on his chin,

which i point

out to him.

yesterday i walked one

mile,

he tells me,

without stopping,

and didn't snack between

breakfast

lunch and dinner,

except for some thin mints

i bought from

the girl scouts.

tonight i'm having French

fries and

chicken wings.

then he points at my bagel,

and says

are you going to finish

that?

no need to waste things.

my masterpiece

it's beautiful,

this sheet of white paper

without

a mark,

not a single word

is on it.

untouched

by ink,

or thought. i think i'll

frame it

and call it

my masterpiece,

then hang

it on the wall.

start spreading the news

maybe the wedding

singer

had ambition, had larger

plans

than this,

maybe he thought that he

might become

the next

Sinatra or Tony Benett.

maybe.

but for now, in his white

suit

and slicked hair,

he has the mike

in his hand

and tells the bride

and groom

to come forward for their

first dance,

then he tells his three

piece garage band combo,

to hit it.

a bagel with everything

it's the opposite

of writer's block. it's a spigot

that i

can't turn

off.

it keeps coming,

the nonsense,

the smug,

the opinionated words,

and an occasional

worthy poem

to write home about.

my fingers tap

out the mundane,

the trivial,

the small. it's an everything

bagel

with a smear of jalapeno

cream cheese.

no one and nothing

is spared.

beware.

the traffic cop

the policeman

at the church

directing traffic on a Saturday

afternoon

no less,

is flapping his arms

in all directions

and blowing his

whistle.

he's a rookie at this.

green behind the ears.

cars

are honking their horns,

there's anger

and dismay,

as the line

grows longer and

the snarl

of cars comes to a stop.

he wipes

the sweat off his young

brow

and begins to pray.

then Father Flannagan

arrives

to take over

with a cross in hand

and spraying

Holy Water, as the parishioners

wave.

making lunch in the morning

i have no

rich friends, no poor friends either.

we are birds

of a feather

with middling

amounts of currency

to our names.

we live in modest homes,

drive

modest cars.

we save, we spend.

we vacation

modestly.

sometimes we cut coupons

while other times

we throw

money into the wind,

but on Monday,

we're back to who we

are.

making our lunch

in the morning before

off to work

again.

the last piece of cake

go ahead, please,

take it,

it's yours, you have

the last piece.

enjoy,

and eat.

i give because i adore

you.

i'll be in the kitchen

baking another,

we can negotiate

payment

later upstairs,

beneath the covers.

you won't be fooled again

trusting

no one, you love no one.

you let

no one in.

the heart

is your sanctuary.

your guard is up,

you have dogs at the gate,

the fence

is electrified.

who goes there, you

yell out

into the night.

you won't be fooled again.

the unseen

does

it really come in threes?

this

news

of departing souls,

caught

in

the dark wind

of failing

life.

of disease.

what

lurks beneath the skin,

imbedded

in cells

unseen?

finding refuge in the safe

what

is deemed important enough

to find

refuge

in the safe?

which document

deserves

such a place, safely

stored

from fire or flood,

or dear lord,

theft

by an unwanted

guest.

the deeds to cars

and home,

of course,

insurance policies,

a divorce decree or two,

some cash

for dire times,

an extra set of keys to

everything

i own,

and of course a picture

of me

and you.

does he have friends?

it's a small

grey mouse, a mere puff

of life,

expired,

between the pipes,

beneath

the sink.

but is there more?

does he have

friends and family,

acquaintances

to worry about?

shall we put out the traps,

baited with a tease

of cheese

once more?

sharing an apple

he sits

and with calm

deliberation he cuts

his apple

in two,

then fours, then finally

into eight

slices.

setting them

on his plate.

he has all the time

in the world it seems,

which isn't true.

but he's at rest now,

no longer

thinking

about the world he's

seen, it's just him

and you.

it's always been here

that there

is evil in the world, still

surprises us

despite

all that we see

and witness.

there is no getting back

to the way it

was,

because it's always

been here,

just not as blatant,

and not as much.

a work morning

when

the door was pried

open,

she was lying there, next

to the ironing

board.

she was

backwards on the unmade

bed.

a dress was

there,

the iron on.

the wrinkles not out

quite yet.

she was pale, a blue

note

of color on her skin,

her glasses

on her nose.

the radio was still on.

a cold cup

of coffee was on the dresser,

the phone

was ringing.

black licorice

she refuses

to travel without black

licorice.

she opens her purse

and shows

me the hardened

bag

of black rubbery candy.

i need it,

she says.

like fish need water,

like birds

need wings,

like, like....oh never

mind,

i can't think of any

other things.

care for a piece?

no thanks i tell her

then hand her a napkin

to wipe

her teeth.

when she gets behind the wheel

she likes

her green tea

and candle.

her peaceful read.

her silk robe

and the morning light

to kneel

and pray.

she's all about

namaste.

but behind the wheel,

in traffic, she's

no different than

you, or me.

no one really wins

clearly

nothing is clear.

the fog

of war

is thick, the dead line

the streets with more to come.

revenge

being bittersweet,

the blood

will run

until it's cold

and then

a strange peace

will settle in.

all of it temporary

until the next

generation

grows

and picks up their

weapons.

nothing changes,

as

survivors, press on

in a land

of rubble,

with bread

and water with years

left to weep.

look at me

we're in

the look at me stage

of the world

now.

listen to me,

watch me,

adore me.

i know everything.

i am the light.

i am the truth and

the way.

i am the lord your

God

on Instagram

only fans,

on twitter,

stay out of my way.

worship

the ground i walk on.

i'll be twenty one

tomorrow,

my birthday, but

already

i have ten thousand

followers.

all those years

his apartment,

at last clear of furniture

and clothes,

just the cobwebs

and dust

of years

left behind.

it's empty

now.

almost.

he stands in

the foyer

without words,

the last box

in his arms,

wondering where did

all those years

go?

then pushes the door

closed, turning

the key

once more.

the meek shall inherit the earth

give

me the wallflower,

the unpretty,

the bland

and quiet souls,

who

say less, but you know

that they know

what the deal

is.

you can see it in

their eyes,

the way

they hold themselves

upright.

reluctant and wise,

smart

to not

step in to the limelight.

everyone's a king or queen

we are influenced

so easily

by pictures, by words,

by

the silver

technicolor screen,

music

and art too sways us

to become

people insisting that

everyone

can have

the dream.

be a king or queen.

time is the cold glass

of water

slapped into

our faces, saying 

not so.

which way do we go?

it's hard

as a man to ask for directions.

we're stubborn

like that.

even today

they find cavemen

frozen

in the crevices

of ice, lost

and trapped

with no map, too proud

to ask.

it shows

weakness.

even with the gps

in our phones,

we're still baffled about

which road

to take.

from here, how do we

get home?

new and improved

i empathize

with the salesman

or saleswoman,

and yet

hate them

just the same.

3 G, 5 G,

please, don't call me

anymore,

don't knock on my door

with your

magic eraser,

don't approach

me on the street

with your elixirs.

television is bad

enough,

the radio, the billboards

at every turn

of the road.

leave us alone,

let us keep

at least one dollar,

to ourselves,

give us some peace.

some sort of end

as

the statues of great

men fall,

few

are made again,

only

the athletes seem worthy

now

of being turned

into stone

or marble.

their dark secrets

buried in

adoring fandom.

we're nearing some

sort of end.

a handful of friends

you sift

through your ancient

rusted

pan,

called

face book, and look for

the nuggets

of true

gold.

real friends.

so few, the rest

just

sand

passing through

the mesh

of time.

is that thunder?

is that thunder,

or

artillery fire in the distance?

are

we at war

again,

or is it just a storm

arriving

over

the mountain.

how do we tell

the children

to hide, that

this isn't rain?

love gone wrong

maybe we gave

too much

to the boy. too many gifts,

too much

attention

too much

love and joy.

too many toys.

maybe we were wrong

in being

so attentive, attending

every game

or show,

or interest he was

involved in.

maybe we ruined him

from the start.

never allowing him

to struggle

or to

be without, maybe that's

why

the fruit has spoiled.

as nero fiddles

the pendulum

swings

clobbering the left wing,

then the right,

the extremists take a beating

on both sides.

there are no

wrongs,

no rights, just a country

dead

center

in the middle,

rudderless as the politicians

fight.

the next dream that comes

as the temperature

drops,

in the dark i get up to find

the big

blanket

in the hall closet.

the white one, heavy

and warm.

i crawl

back into the cocoon

of slumber,

not missing a beat

on the next

dream that comes.

the hollow rooms

i wondered

why

she had no books.

she had

no shelves, no dresser

with drawers

full of

her daily wear.

a few things hung

in the closet,

but the rooms

were hollow, almost

bare.

where were the pictures

in frames,

the mementos

from places she had been,

things passed

down from loved ones.

where was the art,

the soul

of her.

she left no tracks

behind her,

and made none

as she moved on to the next

unfortunate

lover.

less and less about love

give it time,

give it time. soon

you'll

be talking less and less

about love,

or money,

about trying

to understand the past.

your white flag will

have been

raised,

and now, it's wonderful

just to make

it through

another day.

tell me your secrets

my good ear,

whichever one that might be,

i'm never

quite sure

until someone

is whispering to that side.

words come in

like the soft paws

of a cat

on carpet.

oh, the things

i have missed,

the invites, the gossip,

the secrets, 

i'll never know

so much of what i was

told to never

repeat.

she had green eyes

undernourished

on this

small

meal of small talk, i drift

off

and stare

at the cat in the corner,

licking

it's paw,

then rubbing said paw

against

it's ear.

she's beautiful in her

grey fur

and her white

scarf around her lovely

neck.

her green eyes

would make Cleopatra

jealous.

what's her name,

i say out loud to no one.

who,

they say in unison.

her,

and then i point 

to the cat as she

runs off

bored too, i imagine.

terms of endearment

it's best

not to overdue it

when using

terms of endearment

with a new

love interest.

dear or honey

is good

at first, and

cupcake is fine

for a while,

but stay

off the sweetie pie,

and

sugarplum.

it's too much too soon.

buttercup and

kitty, or baby cakes

is

pushing it,

but

in the end it's

back

to first names only.

or an emphatic last name,

give it time.

the march on washington

i'm in a protest mood,

i tell my

friend Betty.

can you make us up some

signs.

after coffee and a bagel

and then

we can go

down to the white house

and march,

or something. the weather

is too nice

to stay in all day.

okay, she says.

she's so agreeable.

what are we protesting.

i don't know. can you think

of anything?

hmmm.

what haven't we protested

yet.

we've done the war thing,

crime and poverty.

we did racism

last week.

and immigration the week

before that.

how about inflation?

she says.

okay, okay. in fact

i just got a notice that my

condo fees are going up again.

inflation it is.

let's bring

some folding chairs, the grass

is going to be

wet after all this rain we've

been having.

just slap me

i can't stop

myself,

i can't lasso my tongue

and stop

telling the story of the last

wife.

dear lord

forgive me.

but out it comes.

the gory

details,

i retrace the steps,

in technicolor

i show the bloody

foot

prints, the knife,

the warm

gun, dispensed of

bullets,

called lies.

O Canada

she's Canadian

by birth, and how do you know

this.

well,

she tells you

nearly every time you

get together

for drinks

and dessert.

she brings her home

made

cakes

to the restaurant to share.

her maple

leaf sweater on,

humming

the words

to O Canada while

others stare.

it's not just about

snow

and Mounties,

or grizzly bears.

it's so much

more than that,

she says,

there's hockey and maple

syrup

across the border,

it's wonderful up there.

more important issues

what was

important an hour ago,

is less

so now.

no longer is it cold,

or the covers

rolled

onto the floor, no longer

am i disturbed

by

the light roar of

your delicate

and endearing

snore.

i'm up now and have moved

on to larger

and more

important issues,

such as coffee

and the paper thrown

into the hedges

outdoors.

what it was

she wasn't on her hands

and knees

for the purpose of cleaning

the stoop.

it was something

else entirely.

her hands raw

and red,

her nails broken on

the marble steps,

while the suds

rolled down the side

walk

to the curb

and into the street.

it wasn't about the sun

on the gleaming

stone

when the last pail

of water splashed

it clean.

it wasn't that

at all.

what it was, was never

said.

true north

easier said

than done, this taking possession

of one's own

life.

taking the wheel

and steering

towards your own

true north.

it takes years, years

of hammer

and chisel at work,

of gnawing

through the tyranny

of birth,

some don't make it,

of course.

but the few that do escape

are forever

in view, forever

young.

Bud Light

my neighbor Bill

is thinking about becoming a woman.

he's on

tik tok

all the time, and watches

all the you tube

vids on

transgenders.

Bruce Jenner is his hero.

are you sure you want

to do this Bill?

i ask him,

as we cook hot dogs on the grill,

drinking beer.

i flip over a hot

dog that's starting to burn,

but can't help

but think of Bill

removing his own

appendage.

i like fashion, he says. i like

pretty things.

i like to wear pink and yellow

in the spring.

sometimes i wear high heels

in the house

when the kids

are out.

i look at him, so what.

but you like women too.

you've been married three

times and have

four kids.

yeah, yeah he says, rubbing

the sweat and smoke

out of his eyes. 

touching the stubble on his chin.

i'm really on the fence with

all of this.

have you ever seen Cats? he

asks me.

nope.

well, i've seen it seven times.

the choreography, the costumes

and the make up

are absolutely amazing.

i pull a plump charred

hot dog off the grill

and set it in a bun.

mustard on your dog, Bill?

yes, but no relish, i'm watching

my weight.

i saw a one piece bathing

suit in the window

at Nordstroms

that i might get once

the estrogen kicks in.

i nod, whatever floats your boat

Bill, i always say.

how about another beer,

i have some old Bud Lite

in the fridge, if you want

to switch over from Heineken.

okay, he says.

and by the way,

is it okay if i still play golf

with you guys

on the weekends once i switch

over?

of course, of course,

and you can even tee off from

the white tees now.

the game is tied with one minute to go

she's on

her third book in the fifty

shades

of

sex trilogy, or is it four

or five

volumes now?

you have to read this, she

says.

it's very very

sexy.

i shake my head no.

i refuse

to involve vegetables

in our 

intimate

relations,

or strike you with a whip,

or chain

you to the bedposts.

what about a blind fold,

she asks,

or how about if i wear

a wig

and leather pants?

maybe, i tell her, but can

it wait.

the game is tied,

and it's the fourth quarter.

congeniality

she was a good

person

when someone had a gun to her

head

said the misfit

in Flannery O'Connor's

short story.

and how true

that is for most of us.

when

trapped,

when scared of death,

how angelic

we become.

pleading for our lives

with 

congeniality.

take one more step

when you hear

someone say that maybe

in the next life

things will be better, be

different,

you can almost

hear

the sputter of their

engine,

the squeal of their brakes,

the smell

of exhaust coughing.

they've nearly

given up on this one.

heavied with the weight

of past

mistakes.

heartaches,

but they have breath,

they still

have a chance to change

the regrets.

there's love still to be

made,

a painting, a poem,

a song.

something to leave behind,

something

great or less than,

it doesn't matter.

just take a breath, take

one more

step before you're gone.

avoiding the delivery charge

we were young.

and so we thought at the time

that it

was a good idea

to avoid the delivery charge

and tie

the queen sized mattress

onto the roof of

her Ford Pinto.

but then it started to rain

and the wind

began to blow.

we tried to hold it down

by putting our

arms out

the window

to steady it,

but it wasn't working.

the mattress became a sail

and flew off into the sky.

we kept driving.

i looked at her and said,

oh well.

hungry?

my treat. i have a coupon

for Dennys.

give till it hurts

after a rousing

service, i go up to our new

minister,

Reverand Jerome Jackson

to have

a discussion with him

about my prayers

not being answered.

call me J J, he says, putting

his hand on my shoulder.

so what's the problem son.

well, i tell him. none

of my prayers are being

answered. i come to church

every Sunday and put

money in the basket, i

sing in the choir and i'm

even making pancakes

in the morning for the men's

early bird bible study,

but i'm not getting any

results.

hmmm, he says. tell me

what you're praying for.

well, my marriage is on

the rocks, i think my wife

is cheating on me,

and my mother has arthritis

in her hands.

i pray that my son will get

a job and move out

of the basement.

plus, i'm having trouble

house training my dog.

he stops me there. okay, okay.

so tell me, how much to you

put into the basket every Sunday.

i usually put five bucks in.

maybe three or four dollars

if i'm short that week.

he shakes his head.

oh my, oh my.

what if i paid you five dollars

a week to work for me?

how hard would you work?

not very hard, right?

and you want God to answer

all those prayers for twenty

dollars a month?

he pulls out a laminated

sheet and starts counting

on his fingers, according to my

prayer request sheet here,

you should be giving about

four hundred dollars a month,

at least if you want God

to give you a listen.  okay?

so how about we step it up

on those contributions.  

i have to go now, my limo

is waiting for me, i'm on 

vacation next week in Palm Springs,

but i'll see you when

i get back.

when things were hunky dory

when

things were hunky dory,

when

we had

the house, the kid, the yard,

the weber

grill

and the flag hanging

from the front

porch

pole.

when we'd wave

howdy

to all the neighbors

as we walked

our little happy dog.

when things were wonderful,

when

we sort of loved

each other,

the sex was okay,

the arguments were short

and

small.

when life was a bowl 

of cherries,

we had no idea

what lay 

around the corner, when

the house of cards

would fall.

the neighborhood watch

the neighborhood

postings

online, are disturbing

and yet

interesting

at times.

cars being stolen,

accidents.

strange people

prowling the neighborhood

turning doorknobs

in the night.

did anyone hear
that boom or see that fox

in the courtyard,

does anyone

know

why the dunkin donuts

store closed?

are they relocating close by?

were those gun

shots

this morning,

or geese flying by?

an animal chewed up the pumpkin

on my porch

last night, is anyone

else having a problem

with this?

is it too early to put up

lights

for Christmas?

are we supposed to wear

masks this year

for covid?

i have a mattress i need

to sell.

don't use up the hot water

we used

to line up in the short

hallway

of the row house.

toothbrush in hand

waiting to get into the one

bathroom

that the seven

of us shared.

don't use all the hot

water

we'd say

to the locked door,

banging on it,

a sister

or two in there

mysteriously doing

all the things girls

do to prepare.

this will hurt a little

phrases

that you don't want to hear

on any

given day, at any age.

do you know what i pulled

you over,

the cop says.

dad,

can i borrow the car tonight,

where are

the keys.

we have to have a talk,

my wife says.

dear.

sit down, please.

the results were positive,

i'm sorry to say.

my doctor says

pointing at the x-rays.

i'm late,

my girlfriend tells me

in high school

as i help her with

her homework

on trigonometry

the dentist whistling as

he says,

this will hurt a little,

turn your head that way

please.

the judge in front of the jury,

asks you,

as you stand there in

handcuffs,

how do you plead?

it's ice water and lemon now

i sip

for an hour or two on

ice

water

with a slice of lemon.

talking

to the bartender.

we share

remember whens.

he tells me

how i used to drink martinis,

or vodka

tonics,

how i used close the place

down.

flir5ting with

every floozie new

in town.

those were the days,

we both agree.

i tap the bar,

holding up my

melting ice,

rattling the tumbler

in the air.

one more for the road

Pete,

hit me again.

the clock says ten.

no peace

will there

be peace in the middle east.

no.

sadly no.

there's not even peace

up the street

at the local

convivence store.

after ten

and the moon

is in the clouds.

it's every man, woman

and child

for himself.

shop early while it's

light out.

wear your best track

shoes, a helmet,

and a bullet proof vest.

he's wearing my clothes

i run into my

housekeeper at movies

on a Friday night.

she's with her boyfriend.

i see that he's

wearing

my new coat,

my new hat and my new

shoes, right

out of the box.

i shake his hand and

tell him

that he looks great, i

love what he's wearing.

please don't spill

anything on my shirt,

or wipe popcorn

butter on the pants. i expect

them all back

in the morning, okay?

he smiles

and says no problem,

and asks me if he can

keep the twenty

he found in my pocket.

sure, i tell him. have fun.

beauty is barely an inch deep

beauty is about an

eighth of an inch

deep

these days.

below that, who

knows what you're going

to get.

untie the knot

of skin

behind her head

holding her face

back

like a tambourine,

scrape off the make up,

the skin tight

plastic pants,

squeeze the Botox

out of her cheeks

and lips

and forehead,

strip the dye out of

the hair and

deflate the implants,

and there she is

in the flesh, down

to her factory parts

installed at birth.

too tired for empathy

do i feel sadness

for the chicken

that's been plucked and

divided into parts

as i place it into 

the pot of boiling water

with pepper and salt?

no.

i'm too hungry for empathy

tonight.

now for the celery

stalks.

the lemon trees

who hasn't

had a lemon of some

sort.

some bitter fruit that looked

bright and sunny

on the outside,

but bitter within.

who hasn't tasted that

at least once

in their life, such

a rancid thing, spitting

out the juice

and seed,

and a brand new black Mercedes Benz

apparently i've

won

the publishers clearing house

sweepstakes

again.

four point five million smackeroos.

i use my Emily Wilson voice,

a creaky old

woman

who's a widow

and lives alone with her

cats

and ancient rotary dial

phone.

all i need to do is to get

my friend Betty

to drive

me over to Target to get

four hundred

dollars in gift cards,

and then the prize

will arrive tomorrow

afternoon.

i ask the nice man on

the phone

from Jamaica,

if him and his

delivery package

friends would like me to

make sandwiches and punch

for all of them?

tuna fish.

he says, that would be

wonderful, God Bless you,

mam.