Ernie's Deviled Eggs

Ernie used

to bring his famous deviled

eggs

to the Easter Dinner.

three dozen

of them on a silver

tray.

cut in half, yellowed

and red

with sprinkles

of paprika and pepper.

God knows

what was in them,

but they

were quite delicious.

He never went to church

with us though,

being the atheist

that he was, instead

he'd sit back in easy

chair,

wearing his black beret

and sunglasses while

eating his eggs and say,

you'd better hurry up,

you're going to miss

the first act.

making new friends

my coat

is stolen, or given away to someone

else at the end

of the play.

it's freezing out,

and the only thing left

on a hanger

in the coat

room is a long pink 

coat, embroidered

with leopard fur.

it's been there for a few

years,

unclaimed.

it's cold and it's raining out,

so i tell

the clerk, okay,

i guess i'll have to take

that.

i put it on and leave the building.

immediately

i'm surrounded

by a group

of young people

telling me how hip

i am, how brave

to come out like this,

especially at my age.

they want me to be on a float

this weekend

at the LBGQT plus 3 parade.

grudgingly,

i accept.

it's good to be loved though,

and make new friends.

can you hear me now?

it was a mistake

pouring

that over the counter goo into

my ears

to loosen up

and remove six decades

of sweet potato ear wax.

now i can't hear

anything.

i'm underwater,

i'm in outer space,

i'm not quite Helen Keller,

but you get the picture.

it's kind of nice

though, not hearing 

what your saying.

what?

each day a gamble

i question

the words, "good luck

to you".

good luck?

what are you talking about?

am i going

to Las Vegas, or to

Atlantic City, or Monaco?

why do i need luck?

are you telling me 

that in every

moment of life

i need to be rubbing a

rabbit's foot

in order to get through

the day

to be safe and

successful?

forcing me into a barbeque

the neighbors

are complaining about my chickens

in the back yard,

the clucking, not to mention

the mooing

of my cow.

and the snorting of my pig

and her

little baby piglets.

you can't have a barnyard

in this neighborhood,

they tell me.

the board comes around

and threatens me

with fines

and eviction.

i have no choice but to 

have a barbeque next week,

but the complaining neighbors

will not be invited.

the eyebrow convention

i see her bags by the door.

going somewhere? i ask her.

yes, she says.

i'm going up to NYC for a few

days,

for the eyebrow convention

at Madison 
Square Garden.

huh?

i'm thinking about reshaping

my eyebrows.

expert eyebrow ologists from

all over the world

will be there.

do you know you can knock

off two years of

aging, with the right eyebrow

alignment,

and coloring?

no way, i tell her.

so what are you going for?

the Pelosi look of constant

surprise or the Brooke

Sheild look, the one stroke

unibrow?

i'm not sure, i'm thinking 

Marlene Dietrich maybe,

the movie star from the golden

age of Hollywood.

subtle but glamorous.

done with California

we used

to think of California as

a mecca

of sorts.

a place to go

when young,

a long stretch of state

with golden suns,

beaches

with blue water

and warm

sand.

live and let live

we sang

as we drank our carrot

juice

and joined hands.

everyone was healthy,

creative and fun.

we were all dreaming

about going

there,

getting out of the snow,

out of the dark

canyons in the city,

heading west

to have fun

fun fun.

oh my, how things have

changed,

as we pack

the car once more

and head for the east coast 

again.

pay it no mind

you

don't need the big house,

the fancy

car,

the Prada bag

or Gucci

coat.

no need for bling

on your

finger, or toes

or in

your nose.

be smart, be kind,

be good.

and pay the worlds

false

riches

no mind. 

Nehi orange or grape soda

i can still feel

the sting

of the ice-cold water 

on my arm,

from my hand to my

elbow as i dipped

it deep

into the metal bin

at the corner

store, searching

through the watery ice

for a Nehi orange

or grape soda.

ten cents for a 

twelve-ounce pop.

two cents

for returning the bottle.

my lips are still

blue

or orange, at least

in thought.

Dasha in the trenches

i haven't heard

from

Dasha

in Moscow for ages,

months

have gone by.

i wonder if she's in the army

now,

fighting in the war.

or maybe

she's become a spy.

i can see

her in the trenches,

neck deep in mud,

not wanting

any part of this madness,

just trying

to stay alive.

the Easter egg roll

as we slow dance

around

the kitchen in a loving

embrace,

i kiss her neck gently

which makes her

swoon and say,

oh you.

you're so sweet when

you're in the mood.

but then we forget that

the stove

is on as we boil

water for Easter eggs,

and her dress catches fire.

i quickly turn on 

the faucet and fill up

a cup of water, which

i throw onto the flames.

then i tell her to stop,

drop and roll, which 

she does.

then we make love

on the wet rug, full

of ashes, but the dress 

no longer burning.

street cleaning on Tuesday

i have enough

trouble

worrying about my inner

space

to be concerned with outer space.

go to the moon,

go to Mars,

yeah, yeah.

it's interesting

what's out there,

Pluto

and Saturn

and the rest of it.

the Milky Way.

all good and well. but

i need to put

some food on the table

today,

and pay

the rent to my landlord

who's making

my life 

a living hell, then move

my car

to the opposite side 

of the street before

the city tows it away.

a greeting at the door

it's a slender

little thing,

blue green,

this chameleon,

this strange prehistoric

lizard

that greets me at the door

and slips

away without

a word,

or squeak.

all tail it seems.

between the threshold

he disappears,

skinny

enough

to slide between

the metal crease.

to where he goes i don't

know.

one of many,

and more things,

that i have no

clue about.

the sooner the better

what is this nonsense,

this empty

tomb?

we killed him,

didn't we?

who stole the body,

was he really

dead

and escaped

this hollow room?

who rolled the stone

away,

and left a 

printed rag of him?

what soldiers fell asleep

and let him out,

now see what

you've done.

you've given hope to a world

that's still

undone.

when will the second

time,

yet come?

pointless and useless knowledge

as i scroll 

through a myriad

of video shorts,

giving my thumb

a morning workout.

i'm in a trance, a daze,

i'm underwater with

all of this

pointless and useless

knowledge. 

we all need help, 

we all need to be saved.

the other shoe

i'm waiting,

waiting on pins and needles

for the other

shoe to drop.

it's in the air, i can feel

it, i can

hear the stomp

of the boot before it

strikes the ground.

what's taking it so long?'

how much more

suspense can i take?

just it over with it,

and be gone.

so damn quickly

how the hell

did we all get so old,

so quickly?

it was just

yesterday when i was playing

stickball

behind the drugstore

with Henry Sadowski

and Ike Robey.

and where are they

now i might ask.

do they too remember

the strike zone

we spray painted

on the back wall?

the cardboard box

we flattened

to use as home plate?

unlike Dylan i hesitate to go Electric

it took me awhile

to buy

into technology, i even

hesitated

with the electric razor

and toothbrush,

the only reason

i ever got a cell phone

was because i saw a bum

in a dumpster talking

on one as he sifted through

the garbage.

i still have AOL, that's how

long ago it was when

i bought my first computer,

a thing the size of an

old fashioned tv.

so when i look at an 

Electric car, i'm thinking,

no way.

i already have too many

things to plug in and worry

about power. in fact,

i've only got ten percent on

my flip phone now.

white paint all the way down

the faster

and more efficient you were

with a brush

and roller,

the longer you kept your job.

it was a rat tag group

of old and young,

men and women,

teachers and cab drivers,

cooks and bums,

all suffering from

the economy of the early70's.

you did what you

could to earn your daily

crust of bread.

we started from the top

of the new

apartment building

and worked our way down

twenty-one floors

with gallons of white paint

in hand.

i kept my job

the whole way down.

when i drive by that building

today, 

i'm still amazed at how

hard i worked,

and still do, till this day.

Easter Eggs off to church

my mother had us

in dress shirts

and ties,

coats,

polished shoes for Easters.

the girls

were in dresses,

bright yellows

and blues.

we looked like colored

eggs as she

shooed us

off to church with our

envelopes full

of change she made as

a waitress

on the night shift.

behave, she'd say

front the porch and wave,

the wind

pushing her back inside

for forty more

winks on the couch

before we returned.

emotional eating

give me

my eggs

sunny side up, please,

three,

and four strips

of bacon.

toast and hash browns,

a mug

of coffee,

orange juice in a tall

cold glass

and a bear claw.

hungry? the waitress says.

you have

no idea

i tell her.

no idea.

fish eyes

as i walk around

the grocery store with an empty

cart, one

wheel

squealing and pulling

me into

the opposite direction,

i can't find a single thing

i want to eat.

nothing.

i circle and stare at the meat,

the vegetables,

the fruit, the canned

goods,

the breads and cereals.

then i come

to the fish, whole fish

with their eyes

still intact.

why are they staring at me?

there is no such thing as free speech

you have to be

careful

with your words these days.

cautiously

forming your opinions

so as not

to rile anyone up.

you can't

say what you really feel

anymore,

at least not publicly,

and even in

private,

you're walking on eggshells,

free speech

truly does not exists,

but in the quiet

of your mind.

will a good sleep help?

when your

friends

disappear, they move or die

or are no

longer talking

to you for reasons beyond

your comprehension,

it takes

the wind out of your sails

at times.

deflates you.

leaves you with your

head down.

you feel the weight of the world

on your shoulders,

though it isn't.

will a good sleep

help

to revive your spirit?

let's hope so.

it's your turn

they can't all be good days,

can they?

you have

to have

the sour with the sweet,

the bitter

with the joy,

the smile with the frown.

it's just your

turn

this day,

it all comes around.

when the stars go out

when the stars

go out,

the lights appear across

the frosted valley,

down the road

into the city.

light after light is lit.

the world is getting up.

making

coffee,

taking showers,

brushing

their teeth.

toast is popping up.

sleepy souls are

picking the paper off the porch

and yawning,

shaking the children

awake.

dogs are walked.

snow is brushed off the cars.

simple things

that must be hung onto

if we are

to stay sane.

what they forget

when i would read

him

to sleep,

page after page of the same

story,

green eggs and ham,

or curious George

and the man

with the yellow hat,

his eyes would get sleepy

and fold

upon themselves.

i'd try to sneak away,

but he'd grab

my hand and say

don't leave yet, dad, not yet,

just one more,

one more story, please

before you go

to bed.

what you already know

despite the steel

girders,

the pylons,

the span over miles,

the years

it's been traveled

across by a million

cars,

the bridge

goes down.

shocking, but

it's telling you something

you already know

as it sinks

so easily

with one swift blow.

the reluctant horse

they say

change is hard, 

and it is.

it's hard to pull

the reins

on your life and go into

a different direction.

the comfort of home

keeps you there,

the loved ones.

the familiar

keeps you safe,

keeps you warm.

why move, why leave

and start all over

again.

why pull on the reins

of the reluctant horse

once more.

the vegetarian birthday party

for her birthday,

being a vegan and weighing

about 99 pounds,

basically a skeleton in a dress,

she insisted

that everyone go to the vegetarian

restaurant

on Maple street.

thankfully 

it's no longer there, but

is currently occupied

by Five Guys burgers

and fries.

doing gangbuster business

i might add.

it was the worst meal i'd ever

eaten in my life.

fake meat.

beans and rice. lettuce

and kale.

a nightmare of a meal.

stalks of strange plants,

weird concoctions

that all tasted the same.

a green and yellow mush,

going brown.

cardboard and seasoned sawdust.

they'd put a candle in the middle

of a fat avocado

that'd she blow out

after making a wish, then

we'd cut it and

each have a slice.

sometimes i'd sneak in a

pound of teriyaki beef jerky

and stuff it 

in my pants.

stray cats with one life left

was i more

fun

when i was younger, probably so.

i did a lot

of stupid

things, but somehow

survived them

all.

just lucky

i guess. but

i'm more careful now

about who

i kiss,

who i dance with,

where i park

my car, or body on a 

Saturday night. 

i'm a cat with

just one life left,

anymore

i don't stray too far.

finding Jane

she likes

to take risks, 

go on the rollercoaster,

climb

the cliffs,

dive with the sharks,

jump out of planes

and 

wrestle crocodiles

in her underwear,

she's a very

adventurous girl. i call her

jane.

she calls me

scared.

isn't that interesting?

it's a very sharp

knife,

i know this because of the blood

dripping

across the floor.

i hardly felt

the cut, 

the blade being that surgical

and sharp.

it's an interesting

thing to be watching

what's inside

of you spill out

into bright puddles

before you.

there seems to be no end

to it.

hopefully i'll make more.

wearing orange again

i go down

to bail a friend out of jail.

he's behind

on child support payments

once again.

a few grand

this time.

the third or fourth time

around

with this game,

but the judge

wouldn't hear of it anymore.

they cuffed him

and took him

away.

they took his belt

and shoelaces too, and gave

him a bunk

with rubber sheets.

so now it's up to me,

his only

friend

to get him out before

he goes

into the big house for

six months.

some people never learn.

ignoring the red flags

i hear

things about you.

bits

of gossip, secrets whispered

from ear

to ear,

quiet clues

of darkness

as to who you really are,

but i choose

not to believe them,

and will

see how it goes

from here.

that kisses are that good.

passing on your left

you have

to go slow on the bike path

when riding.

they can't hear

you.

the ear buds are in their

ears,

the earphones are

strapped across

their heads.

there are strollers

and dogs,

small children running

back and forth.

there is no right or left

on the path,

just a stream

of people,

meandering like fish.

ringing your bell is

useless, shouting, 'on your

left', goes unheard.

no one seems to care.

it's anarchy

out there.

better wait until

the sun sets.

get under your desks

world war four,

Albert Einstein once said,

will be fought

with sticks

and stones.

that's all that will be

left to kill each other

with.

buckle up.

it's going to be

a bumpy ride.

children, 

when you hear

the sirens,

get under your desks.

why should they have all the fun

like children

seeing what the other children

have.

they want it.

they want that new fangled

thing

like the hydrogen

bomb.

the missile,

the rocket, the tanks and guns.

let's get out of the stone

age.

we want all of that

and more,

why should they have

all the fun?

the woods behind the shopping center

boyhood

things, young wishes,

of pretty

girls

and dreams. baseball.

frogs

and pocket knives,

sticks with nails

on the end.

knee deep

in muddy streams.

stars

to wish upon,

hiking through 

the woods behind

the shopping center,

avoiding

the hobo camps.

just wandering,

picking up

rocks and old cans,

pop bottles,

emerald green,

useless

but interesting things.

opening the doors

of discarded

refrigerators, ovens

turned

on their side, rusting

in the rain.

it's a long but short

day,

before you have to go

home again.

wanting that distant land

illness

changes everything.

the blue

sky

and bright sun are suddenly

meaningless.

the day

the hour, the time

is nothing

when in pain.

you can't remember feeling

well,

it's a distant land,

a fond memory

a place you'd like to

return

again.

group therapy with Dolly

i joined the local

group therapy session at the local

Moose Lodge

to get some insight

into myself.

there were seven men

there

and one woman,

Dolly, who used to be a stripper

over at

The Paper Moon

gentlemen's club.

after everyone got their say,

going around

the circle with their

problems,

talking about their wives

and kids,

their jobs,

Dolly got up in the middle

and danced.

i guess it was therapy of some

sort, we all kind of

forgot about our issues.

feeling lost and alone on a cold night

sometimes

i like to roll over and feel someone

warm

and welcoming

next to me.

it could be a large

dog, maybe a golden retriever,

lying on it's back,

legs up,

or a person.

but just to have that contact

on a cold

night,

is nice to have.

makes me feel not so lost

and alone.

making my move

you're cute and funny,

but

you've got

some miles on you, 

the woman says

to me

at the bar

as i make my move

from one stool

to another in getting

closer to her.

do you really think you

have a shot with me?

i'm thirty years old,

and i'm a tik tok star.

you're twice my age, and you're

short and bald.

what's your point?

i tell her,

that's why there's light

switches on the wall.

birds in sweaters

still,

i say, peering out the door.

still here.

the frost

on the car.

the icing on the cake

of grass.

birds in sweaters,

squirrels

in turtlenecks.

it's almost Easter and still

winter wants

a little time more.

buy now, jump later

we liked the view

from the twenty first floor of the high-rise

apartment building

on the edge

of the city.

a grand view.

you can see the fireworks

from here

the agent said,

throwing her arms out

to the horizon

as if a maestro

in an orchestra.

free parking too, she winked.

there's a doorman,

and a salon in the lower

floor with

a small market to buy

your everyday

things.

on sunny days you can

sit out on

the balcony if it's not too windy.

who could ask for more.

but i smelled something.

something like

cabbage

fermenting in the hall.

the rising fumes

of Lysol.

oh don't mind that she said,

it's a cleaning

fluid

from the murder suicide

next door.

so what do you think?

the interest rates will never

be lower.

going nowhere fast

was there ever a yellow

light

she couldn't beat?

not that i remember when

i was a passenger

in her 1980 Trans Am

with the painted

bird on the hood.

with one hand on wheel, 

nails painted red,

a cigarette in her mouth,

and her hair poofed up

like a starlet in an MTV

video, off we went.

always in a hurry to get

nowhere fast.

why lies below

of course

the bones are gone,

the faces,

the arms and legs,

the eyes.

the heart and soul.

what remains are shreds

of clothes

and shoes.

but it's not why

they dive.

seeking some

mystery of life,

no,

it's about the gold

doubloons.

finding joy

it's a mystery

of sorts

what makes one happy.

one loves

to collect stamps, while

another

might like

to fish from morning

until the sun sets.

one enjoys

to cook, another to paint

or write,

the bird watcher

is in heaven

lying on his back,

and the pilot

in the clouds

finds his own light.

each to his own joy

in the world,

finding it is key

in keeping out the

fright.

nothing has changed

live in the same house

long enough

and you'll see

families come and go.

kids grow,

cats and dogs

by the numbers, new

and old.

strollers appear,

people move south,

or pass on,

but the street is the same.

the old trees,

the fence

that borders houses

from the stream.

looking out the window

you think

that nothing has,

or will ever change.

old friends at the park

in passing, 

i hear

a man talking

to the bird's nest

with blue

eggs

in the tree

full of blossoms.

so you're back again,

i see,

he says, looking

upward

to the bird,

so good to see you.

is there anything

i can get you,

anything you need?

step across the border

it's only

a mile or two away,

but it's a different state,

a different

state bird,

a different state flower,

a different

saying on their license

plate.

but step across the line

and it feels

different,

like they don't know

how to drive

over there.

shutterbugs

we are all shutterbugs

these days.

Matthew Brady

would be proud.

we take

pictures of our salads,

our meat,

our drinks,

where we are.

the rooms in our houses.

new cars.

the dogs,

the kids.

the parents. 

a fresh wound,

an old scar. click, click

click

all day long.

smile we say,

say cheese.

let's take one more,

just to be sure.

apologizing at 90

i hear

the old man on the bench

talking to

his wife, or friend,

or maybe

she's both,

he's apologizing

for his behavior.

i can do better,

my dear,

he says,

last year i acted like

a fool,

i did so many things

that i regret.

you'll see. from now

on you'll

get the best of me.

i'm turning over

another new leaf.

temptation

there are things

i have no

power over, things that

i can't resist,

that tempt

me beyond stopping,

the smell

of cinnamon rolls baked,

hot out of the oven

for one,

and you

in a pair of high heels

and sheer

black stockings

is another.

a fresh start for a kitchen drawer

i deem thee

now

the tool drawer, i say

to the drawer

that once

held a collection of paper

clips, rubber bands

and packets

of Tylenol.

not to mention pencils,

heartworm

pills

for a long ago dog,

gorilla glue and a dead

watch,

along with

four different

sizes of loose batteries

and a pamphlet

on poisonous snakes.

i clean it out and 

begin anew,

blessing

the screwdriver,

the Allen wrench,

the pliers,

the small hammer

and the measuring

tape.

not a waste of time

it's not a waste

of time, but a necessary

stretch

of doing nothing but staring

up at the ceiling

or blue

or grey sky.

a respite

from the world.

no book in front of you,

no phone

no tv.

just you alone

with your thoughts

going nowhere

and everywhere

all at the same

time.

the love locks on the chain links

the iron

mesh and steel

of the pedestrian bridge,

over the railroad

tracks

was a long drop

down,

your knees buckled

and your heart

sank as you

attached with hope

once more,

the engraved lock,

as lovers do,

to the chain links.

over loved

i overslept.

i overate, i overworked

myself.

i over drank,

i overthought,

i over indulged

in so many things

in life,

but have i ever over loved?

did i give enough,

did that

suffice?

a stretch of yawn

some days

have no meaning, 

there is nothing

to celebrate,

no reason

for cake

or champagne,

no need for gifts or cards,

or songs

to sing.

it's just a mundane

day, a forty-degree day

without 

a second of importance,

just a long stretch of yawn.

there is nothing

worth noting,

or remembering on

this calendar page.

it's just another day,

soon gone.

bargain prices

we want the better deal,

the sale,

we want

to catch the savings of

this week only,

three hours to go,

the clock is ticking.

we have our coupons

about to expire,

our clippings,

our receipts.

we bargain and negotiate

nearly everything

in this life,

it's how i ended up

with you,

and you with me.

tomorrow i'll begin

it's easier

to buy a larger pair of pants,

and shirt,

than it

is to walk

and exercise and not put

that third

slice of cake

into your mouth,

washing it down with

a large drink.

it's hard

to fend off this

emotional hunger,

this perpetual

thirst.

maybe tomorrow i'll

begin.

not about you, is it?

it's okay to give.

to give

to the blind, the poor,

the needy,

the sick.

but no need to put

a sticker

on your car,

or window,

your door. give quietly,

no need

to broadcast

your generosity.

just give more.

it's not about you?

is it?

it's time to go

the children,

almost grown,

each holding a few balloons

clutched in 

their hands

begin to fly off,

lifted off the ground,

away from the yard,

the party,

off into the sky they go,

as parents stand

below and wave.

red and yellow,

green and pink

balloons carry them

off into clouds

built like pillows.

taste like chicken

everything

does not taste like chicken,

the squid,

the rabbit,

the snake, the strange

fish

you pulled

from the lake.

the turtle,

the snail, the goose

sitting

smug on your plate.

it's not chicken,

but call it

what you may.

spin the bottle

in the basement,

with the lights dimmed

low,

we'd put on a stack

of 45's on the box turntable,

and listen to her mother's

old records,

the Everly Brothers,

the Platters,

and Peggy Lee,

we'd spin

the bottle, boys and girls

in a small

circle and peck our

lips together,  barely

touching.

we'd play post office too,

but quietly.

slamming the door

there's something

satisfying

about slamming the door

after walking

out of the room,

saying nothing, just

letting the sound

of the slam

say everything you

need to say.

we're done here.

same goes for hanging

up the phone,

the old phones, 

the ones on the desk 

with a cord attached,

black and heavy.

as if they knew

early

learning, is less about what

your mother

and father

tells you to do,

or not to do.

it involves pain.

touching

the stove, the fire,

playing with matches,

picking up

sharp things,

pulling a bone from

a dog's mouth.

bee stings.

the head stuff comes later,

as the parents

explain

and explain

the way life works, as

if they knew.

the weary road home

having spent

too long

in an English pub in town,

i come out

five pints later

in the dead of night

talking

with a broken British

accent.

i start rambling on

about butter pies,

and royalty,

the king and queen,

cricket

and lady Di.

if only there were

a cobblestone

street to guide me,

as i stagger home

reciting Larkin,

and Shakespeare, Dylan

and others,

not Dylan Thomas

though.

her P.O. box

don't trust

anyone with a P.0. box

down at

the post office.

when you see

the little

key on their key ring

go the other

way, don't make

it a thing.

they're hiding something

or someone

from you

behind that little metal

door.

dastardly old age

when you don't remember

the exact word

you want to say,

the phrase

that will sum it all up,

you blink

your eyes, and shake

your head,

but

it decides to stay,

strangely

not wanting

to leave your brain,

you think for a brief

second oh no,

it's begun at last, 

dastardly old age.

keeping us down

we know it,

but we don't know it, 

the pull

and force

of gravity,

it's on us

everyday, keeping us

on the ground,

the weight of

the unseen

laws

of nature,

heavy in its airless

ways,

keeping us down.

being followed

you know

when you're being followed,

being watched.

stalked.

you can feel it.

the hair on back of your

neck rises,

your heart speeds up.

you are the prey,

not the hunter.

like a deer in the thick

of woods,

with the bowman

disguised in the trees,

you smell the scent

of danger,

and run away.

reduction therapy

with a hammer

and a foot,

a shoulder and an elbow,

thrown

into the side,

you reduce

the cabinet

into pieces.

so easy. so strangely

fun to take

out what troubles

you on

boards and screws,

nails, taking apart

what's old

and bothersome,

until its done.

infected early

does it start early,

this religion

inside you, this questioning

faith

that lingers

from childhood until

death?

did all the prayer

and kneeling,

the guilt

and sin, sink in.

do some

get it early, or do some

wait until

near the end,

to find

a savior, the holding hand

of a loving

friend.

falling off a Ferris wheel

after his

wife fell off the Ferris wheel,

after waving madly

from the top chair,

he got an enormous

settlement

from the carnival.

i'd see him

in his new car, waving

from the window.

beeping the horn.

his new suit

on, his new hair,

and new skin.

sure, he missed her.

but from the looks of it,

it was a win.

the wiggle of the line

the wiggle

of the line, the bounce

of the bobber

in the water,

says

we've got company,

someone is

about to bite the hook

and be

reeled in.

texting can be like that,

sometimes.

we've all been there

the man

on the street having an

intense conversation

with someone

in the air,

isn't crazy,

isn't off his trolley,

he's in the moment.

he's telling her what

he always

wanted to say,

but couldn't,

we've all been

there.

appliance paranoia

the printer,

the one in the corner, that rattles,

that has

a mind of its own,

is trembling

as i mention

throwing it out the window.

the paper

stuck,

out of ink.

the connection weak.

i hear it talking to the vacuum

in the morning,

to the toilets

that leak,

to the refrigerator

that hums,

and won't freeze.

yesterday

i swear i heard the toaster

speaking

to the air fryer,

whispering

conspiratorial things.

i think they're planning

something against

me.

i sleep with one eye open

now, and a hammer

under my pillow.

the traveling salesman

when the fuller brush man

would knock

at the door,

and my mother would let him in,

because she was

lonely

and poor,

we'd gather around and stare

at him

in his cheap suit,

and bow tie,

his polished, but worn

shoes.

we'd listen to him go

and on

about the products in his

satchel, 

smoothing down his

mustache while 

gazing at my

mother's

Sophia Loren

sized cleavage. 

but it was no sale

on either end of the deal.

she was just lonely, 

and the poor salesman

seemed nice.

truthful ponderings

it's shallow,

i know, so sue me,

cancel me,

but give me the skinny girl.

the in shape gal.

the pretty girl.

the smart

and funny

girl

with wit and charm.

i admit it's harsh

and cruel.

but it's what i prefer,

and if you're

truthful

with yourself,

so do you.

hang on and enjoy

for some reason

the ticking

clock offers no fear

or anxiety,

nor do

the mound of years,

the leaves

of calendar

pages

turning in a cold

wind, burned

brightly

in a memory barrel.

who cares?

just hang on and

enjoy the ride

for a few

more years

the nincompoop

my nosy

friend, Jimmy, asks me when

was the last time

i saw Cruella.

i look at him and shake

my head.

why, why on God's good

earth

would i want

to see that nincompoop?

nincompoop?

he says, laughing.

i haven't heard that word

since

1970.

you've softened up when

you use

words to describe her,

haven't you?

eating bread all day

i could eat

bread all day. toasted,

with butter,

with jam.

sandwiches, rolls,

croissants.

sourdough,

cinnamon, cheese

and jalapenos.

French bread,

Italian bread.

name a country and i like

their bread.

but i can't.

i don't want to go back

to my sans a belt

stretch pants.

and my oversized

sheet i call

a shirt with a hole

in it.

the thinning grapevine

through

a thinning grapevine

we catch

wind that my father's latest

love interest,

is chipping

away at his bank account,

her 65 year old

son is coming over to the house

too,

to assist my father

with his ear

wax removal,

and to adjust his hearing

aid.

are they bad

people?

we're not sure yet,

but we should be there

in a hour or two

with a new

set of keys and locks

for the doors.

Karen and her dead dogs

for the most part she

wasn't a nice person.

she could be mean at times

if she didn't get her way,

or had to wait in a line,

or was jealous of someone

prettier and smarter

and richer than her.

she was

hell on the roads

when in traffic. she was

a snarky kind of Karen,

but when

it came to her pets she was

all lovely dovey.

and soft as a jelly donut.

nearly every

week she went

to the pet cemetery to visit

her dead dogs

and cats that she rescued

on their death beds.

sometimes i'd go with her,

and steady

her as she broke out

into trembling sobs

and tears, but she always 

made a point to yell at

the grave diggers

before we left, telling them,

to turn off their

music and to not make

such a mess.

the field trip to Gettysburg

i was surprised

when the girl, the girl

everyone called

mouse.

came up to me on the school

bus

and asked me

to go steady.

she told the kid sitting

next to me

to get out, or else.

she sat down and proceeded

to tell me

that she liked me,

and wanted me to take

her to the ninth grade

prom

on Saturday night.

we were on our way to

the Gettysburg battlefields,

a school

field trip.

i was staring out at the cannons,

and wooden

fences,

imagining the dead

bodies

in blue and grey across

the fields.

the blood and gore of it all.

the mistakes each side

made, and then

the final surrender.

hey, the girl, said,

are you even

listening to me?

did you say something, mouse?

i'm trying to sleep

if you want

to make the nosy woman

on the airplane

sitting next

to you, to stop talking,

you roll up your

sleeve

and your pant leg and you

ask her,

does this look

infected to you?

if that doesn't work,

you ask her

for a kiss.

the least of things

the cat

or dog easily adjusts

to the new

environment after

leaving

its mark in the corner.

but the basics

are met.

a window

in the sun, food

and water

in bowls in

the kitchen.

a bed to sleep on

at night.

a ball to chase, or

mouse on a string

to paw at.

the owners

are helpful

with their good cheer,

but they

are the least

of things.

it's okay to steal, we were never hugged

crime is okay

now.

no one stays locked up

for very

long.

a day,

an hour then you're back on

the street.

it's a funny

game with

these poor souls

who 

weren't hugged

enough

as a child,

never had the love

from

anyone.

they're hungry, famished,

that's why

they take

a hammer to jewelry

cases

for more gold watches

and chains.

then steal a car.

last day on the job

sometimes

you have to quit a job

before you

have another job.

you just can't take it anymore.

the lack of respect,

the low pay,

the nature

of the mundane work.

you're

taking coal out of a mountain,

with your little spade.

you hate your boss.

your boss hates you.

you hate the cubicle

you sit in.

even the coffee is bad.

it's frownville.

you're a man on a sinking

ship, going down.

finally, you pick up

your things,

put on your coat,

steal a stapler and you're

gone.

knowing your limitations

i realize

when i open the three boxes

of parts

and pieces,

boards

and screws, tools

and casters

to be turned.

unfolding the thick

pamphlet of directions

in six languages,

i occurs to me

that i'm much

better at taking

things apart

than i am at building

them.

friends on the street

i hear

you coming from

across 

the street

the jingle jangle of you.

the way

you shuffle,

the way

you speak.

i've known you for 

a long time.

years in fact,

in cold

weather and warm.

i hear

the bell around

your neck,

the meow of you.

it's good to know

that you're not 

dead yet.

what's waiting down there?

will i ever

be tall enough to see out

the kitchen

window,

i wondered at the age 

of four,

from the seventh floor,

reaching 

up with small

hands, touching

the sill,

my toes stretching

me higher.

what was out there

that i couldn't see?

what world

was awaiting me 

down below

in the playground.

it's just a matter of time

no matter

how hard you try, no matter

how

secretive you are,

devious

and careful,

in time,

it all comes out.

it doesn't matter

what's under

the bed,

or in the closet, or attic,

or hidden

in bins

in the basement. sooner

or later

the light will shine

on all

and you'll be found out.

making babies

the young father 

pacing in the waiting room.

barely shaving

at this age,

tall and lean,

just leaving

the starting gate

of life, but now 

waiting for his wife

of a year or two

to give birth

to their first child.

he's nervous, anxious.

he rubs his

face and wrings his

hands,

bites his nails.

he's wondering

as the clock ticks

down,

what have i gotten myself

into?

future diabetics

we ate

a lot of cereal growing up.

we didn't

know about all the sugar

it contained.

fructose

and corn syrup and all

the other ingredients

that we

couldn't pronounce.

we never knew

how it lacked

any nutrients.

but

it kept us quiet for a few

minutes

before school,

or after school,

devouring

bowl after bowl 

of marshmallows

and soft

candy

made to look like

rice or oats.

the boxes were all

packaged

to look like cartoons,

bright red

and yellow colors,

happy greens

and blues.

general mills loved us,

the dentist did too.

suspicious minds

it happened one

morning,

when i realized that she hadn't

called me

cupcake,

or sweet pea,

for weeks now.

i was no longer her

buttercup,

or honeybun.

she didn't even call me

by my first name.

it was suddenly,

hey,

or nothing

when asking me a question,

or in telling

me what to do.

she seemed to be looking

at her phone

all the time.

are you working late

tonight?

she'd ask, while slipping

into a new dress

and putting

her lipstick on.

this will be trouble

what's your mission

statement

for your business

the woman

asks me, 

as i 

give her the estimate

to paint

her house.

take your shoes off, please,

she says,

and don't sit

there.

umm.

i don't know, i guess it's

to do a good job

and get paid

i tell her.

are you worried about

the environment?

do you use

proper pronouns

when addressing others?

are you an

all inclusive company,

do you

recycle your old cans

and brushes.

do you use only ecologically

friendly

materials?

yeah, sure.

all of that.

but we suggest you not be

here

when we start the job., okay?

the tv dinner

ten years old

with no parents home,

we turned

the oven up

to 425, but

the picture

did not resemble what lay

behind

the tin wrapping of the tv

dinner.

they called

it a banquet meal.

turkey and gravy,

dressing,

carrots

and potatoes lumped

upon sections of the tray.

and the applesauce,

dessert.

steaming. bubbling.

burned fingers weren't

the half of it.

not unlike us

the sun,

stingy with it's yellow

bleed

of light.

not warm, not cold,

just blah.

giving

off just enough light

to get

things done.

lifting its head

upon

sagging shoulders.

it's tired

it seems.

like us.

cake on a paper plate

will i ever

conquer my fear 

of public speaking?

no.

and i have

no plans to overcome

this psychosis.

which is fine.

i have no ambition

for public office,

no plans to be the best

man at some wedding,

or deliver a eulogy at

someone's funeral.

i'll be in the back row,

eating cake

on a paper plate,

near the door

with the sign over head

in red,

saying exit.

no milk for you

when

you call and i pick up

and say

hello

and you don't answer,

with your

number restricted,

and i just

hear 

you breathing into

the phone,

making strange

cat like noises,

meows

and scratches,

don't you think that

i know who it is?

but it's too late dear,

no milk

for you.

perpetual strangers

we're all strangers

to each other,

even after twenty years of marriage,

or a lifetime 

of friendship,

we still

can't figure out

who someone really is.

sure, we know their habits,

how they like

their tea,

and toast, 

their eggs over easy.

how they like to read

at night.

we know the sounds they

make

when they sleep,

the position they lie in

when the lights go out.

we know

where they like to walk

during the day,

which path

to take and

which bench to sit on

when circling

the lake,

but the truth of the matter is

is that we

have no clue

what they're all about, 

we think we know them,

but it's often

a mistake.

a long way until 7 a.m.

the three

a.m. wake up is annoying.

there is nothing

going on in

my life that warrants

a three a.m.

wake up.

i stare

at the clock

and sigh,

really?

now?

i punch the pillow,

and roll

over.

i roll over some more.

i lift my head

and look

at the clock again,

five minutes have gone by.

it's along

way until 7 a.m. .

and suddenly everything

is on my mind.

dr. feel good

as i sit on the examination

table

waiting for the doctor

to arrive

i notice

behind the locked glass

cabinet

bottles of pills, all marked

with labels

and ready

to go.

one says happy pills,

the other

says, crazy pills, another

says,

fat pills, fear pills,

and on and on.

skinny pills, depressed pills,

lonely pills,

blurred vision pills,

upset stomach pills,

confused pills.

and then there's a large

bottle that reads,

everything pills.

give me one of those

i tell the doctor when he

comes in with his

stethoscope.

the newcomers

the condo board

has agreed to an open door policy

for all

the residents living

in the community.

no more locks on your doors,

no more bars on your windows.

anyone from anywhere,

criminal or not can come

into your home,

front door or back,

night or day,

eat, sleep, drink and live

in your house for free,

for as long as they want to,

without paying a

single penny.

come one come all.

it's the right thing to do.

slide over for a family

of five,  let's all make room

St. Patty's Day

i forgot it was St. Patty's day,

until i saw

a group of trashed

men

and women

wearing shiny emerald

colored

derbies and throwing

up green

beer

and bangers and mash

in the alley

behind Murphy's Pub

on King Street.

then it occurred to me,

oh yeah.

it's St. Patrick's Day again.

signing the divorce document

she said,

as she signed the divorce

papers,

looking up

at me,

and snarling.

i wish,

i wish, she said,

grumbling,

that i had married a lawyer

or a doctor,

or someone like Elon

Musk, or

Bill Gates,

instead of you.

why, i ask her.

because of the love and

affection they would

give you?

no, no.

because then the alimony

would be a lot

more

than what you can give

me with your lame

occupation.

i was a fool to hitch my

wagon

to the likes of you.

on the attack

i set the block of wood

from the fallen

tree

onto the ground

and swing

the axe.

snapping it in two,

then threes.

bang bang bang, i go

at it all day.

my shoulders and back,

my arms,

lifting and striking

again and again.

every muscle in my body

working

for hours,

going on the attack,

and then the sun sets

and i'm done.

i've cleared my head

and heart once more.

worms into three

as kids, did we feel

bad

about the worms we sliced

into three

with our pocket knife,

having dug

them up in the yard

in the early morning,

before walking

to the river.

not really.

each piece seemed

to be no

worse off than the others,

still squirming

and curling

themselves up

into fleshy balls.

we were budget fishing,

so we had little

choice in the matter.

about damn time

the interest

wanes

in many things, as you age.

what

seemed

important

is no longer on your mind.

you've discovered

the power

of walking away,

of ignoring, 

of paying

no attention

to what the world

falsely offers,

you're ambivalent

and free

at last,

it's about damn time.

getting my first facial

my friend

Jelly Bean, gives me a free

gift coupon

for a facial.

which makes me look

deeply

into the mirror to see

what's wrong.

do i really look like a gargoyle

now?

oh, no, no, she says.

it's nothing like that, 

you look great, you

look young

for your age,

but this will make

you look even better.

oh, i say. okay.

so they lay me down

and start scrubbing my

face with

a lava rock,

heated from a charcoal

grill.

i know now how the islanders

on Pompeii felt

when Vesuvius exploded.

next comes

more heat,

a steamy wet towel 

that they pick up with tongs

to strap across

my face from

ear to ear.

then some sort of wax,

then a painful peel.

my hands

grip the side of the gurney,

as tears

roll down my face.

there's four women talking

in Taiwanese

standing at the table,

i catch the words 'baby man' 

as their little hands get busy

on my face.

then a cold cream is applied.

green like 

the split pea soup my mother

used to make.

an hour later

they scrape that off, hardened

like a cake,

then they wash what's left of

my skin away.

hosing me down

with an antiseptic spray.

wobbly, i stand up and take

a look in the mirror.

i look exactly the same

except with no eyebrows

and maybe a little older

from the stress.

the ides of March

do i fear

the ides of march,

like Caesar.

no.

it's always been a good

time of the year

for me.

big changes,

sea

changes.

relationships

and jobs.

i turn the ship around

and head

for calmer

waters,

the 15th

of March, please,

please, please,

bring it on.

flying monkeys airline

things

are falling off of planes,

wheels,

doors.

engines are on fire.

delays and lines.

the fares

are up, you have

to pay

more for heavy luggage

but not

if you have an

enormous two seat

behind.

the nuts

are stale,

the water warm,

the plane

waitresses are mean

and nasty

yelling at you for not

having your

seat belt on.

people are drunk and

fighting.

give me the flying 

monkeys

please.

have two of them

grab me by the arms

and drop me off where

i need to go.

an 'adult' cruise trip

needing a vacation,

we sign up

for an all inclusive trip

to the islands.

but we're a little naive,

so when we

board the 'adult' cruise ship,

we have no

idea what the word

'adult'

entails.

does that mean no children

are on board

the ship?

sounds good, but

everyone keeps putting

words into

air quotes, asking

us if we 'swing'

do we 'swap'

'soft swap or hard swap'.

how deeply do we

want to get 'involved'.

we look

at each other and 

shrug.

they all seem like hipsters

in their

flamboyant get ups,

overtly sexy

and transparent.

we're wearing

loafers

and windbreakers.

golf shorts from J.C. Pennys.

we're hungry though, so we

ask, does anyone know where

the lobster

line is,

putting the word 'lobster'

into air quotes.

we're starting to catch on.

don't give a flying fig

we all want

what we don't have.

to be a few inches taller,

a few

pounds lighter,

maybe smarter,

or richer.

prettier.

maybe more articulate

and funny.

we're the only species

perpetually

dissatisfied with who

we really are.

the rest of the worlds

life forms

don't give a flying

fig about

such nonsense.

coming soon

eventually

there will be no books,

no newspapers,

no magazines.

no libraries.

no schools,

no teachers,

no places of higher learning.

when you're born,

your mother

will just hand the latest

phone,

and off you go.

the opium den

it's the new

opium den,

the flop house

where

everyone is stoned

and

staring

into space. drooling

at the next

flickering post on

tik tok,

5 G, yo.

it's the new place

to go

to lose

your mind, waste

your time,

come out the other

side,

into the blinding

light

then stagger sideways,

trying to

figure out

the rest of your life.

you can't wear red everyday

you can't wear red

everyday.

it's too much,

too bright, too flashy,

too much

drama

for around the clock

fashion.

maybe Friday night,

okay.

when we get home.

and the lights

are low

with the music on.

maybe something soft

and sultry

by Marvin Gaye. 

then put the red on.

give me a wink

if it's a go.

we're working in the yard today

from the bed, stretching,

i watched

as she put on her plastic

white

boots, and overalls,

and said.

what are you doing?

is it snowing

outside.

i looked out the window.

it was sunny

and seventy.

these are my snake boots,

she said,

then grabbed

a pitch fork from under

her bed.

come on, she said.

let's go,

we're working in the yard

today.

is there access to the fire escape?

the first

thing i look for when

i go to a party

is the exit.

the fire escape,

is there a window

i can crawl out of,

a back door.

how can i get out

of here

after twelve seconds

of small talk

and shaking hands

with strangers.

if not for the scallops

and water

chestnuts

wrapped in bacon,

i'd be gone by now

oh, just get it over with

maybe the world

should just

have 

the big war and get it over

with.

i'm tired

of the news,

walking on eggshells

with

China this, Russia that,

North Korea,

Iran

Iraq.

what the hell, somebody

just push the button

and

get the show on the road.

it might be the only

way to save

the world.

start fresh, back to

the jungle

we all  go, but

without the bombs this time.

all her friends are rappers

all of her friends

have

nicknames,

JP,

LB, Billy Z,

Donna G.

Toni T.

it's a swirling 

conversation of alphabet

soup,

when she's spilling

the beans about them.

i think they

might all be rappers,

but i'm not sure.

the Frankenstein era

everything

is replaceable now.

when a part fails

a new

one is screwed in.

knees

and hips, any joint

that ails you.

hearts,

kidneys.

they can suck the fat

right out of you

if you want to

flatten that belly full

of Debbie Cakes.

new eyes,

new skin, new noses.

just line up, limp

in and pay 

the man.

get your baby

out of a test tube,

freeze your embryos,

put your sperm in

the ice box

next to the butter and eggs.

they'll even chop off

your head

and freeze it for you,

when it's time for

the end.

the unsigned note under the door

i find the slip

of paper

under the door.

it's your loss.

she says, 

you'll be sorry

you

let me go

and didn't treat

me like a queen.

you'll lie awake at night

and wonder

what i'm 

doing, who i'm with,

it'll be the worst

mistake you ever

made in letting me go

and calling

me crazy.

you'll see,

just wait, you'll see.

farewell, good luck, so long.

i look up and down

the street,

but for the life of me,

i can't figure

out who wrote this note.

the fourth tire is free

it's a whitener, 

a deodorizer,

it'll freshen

your room,

change your life, it'll

take stains

out of your carpet, take

wrinkles out of your wife.

it's chock full

of vitamins, A thru Z,

it'll put a spring

in your step, it comes

in all sizes, it'll fit

like a dream.

you'll be the envy

of the town.

buy two for the price

of one,

the fourth tire

is free. no salesman

will visit your home,

get your free brochure,

we're going out 

of business.

it's a fire sale, a once

in a lifetime deal.

you can drive it home

today.

no hidden fees, 

you'll get a lifetime

warranty.

sign here and here

and here.

don't hesitate, don't stall.

easy to follow assembly

instructions,

batteries not included.

come one come all.

the birch desk

i measure the old desk.

the width

and depth,

the height in preparation

for the new desk.

the old one is marred

with scratches and cup

stains.

chips, and gouges.

the drawers pull

open,

but it's a struggle to

get them open

and closed again.

i never thought i'd

get rid of this desk,

faux wood, laminated,

but heavy

sturdy, the color of birch.

someone held

a flashlight

as we put it together

one night.

but after

twenty-five years,

of sitting here, typing.

doing bills,

making calls i realize

that it's time to go.

there's

always a moment

about many things

in life,

when you say, it's time.

it's overdue.

you can't be too thin, or too rich

you can't be

too thin

or too rich, someone said.

maybe Babe Paley,

or the Duchess of Windsor,

the name

escapes me

at the moment, but i think

she was

a good friend

of Truman Capote.

the little

gnome, famous for 

In Cold Blood

and Breakfast

at Tiffanys, but little else.

how he danced

his talent

away at night clubs,

and talk shows,

becoming a professional

celebrity.

fame is a fire you don't

want to walk

into.

the ashes will fill the air.

what Candy says

we're worried

that my father's new

87 year

old girlfriend might be

trying

to steal his money.

she brings him

cakes and pies

twice a week and rubs

his shoulders

and back

with baby oil.

he's 96.

i try to erase the visual

out of my

head, but it's difficult.

sometimes she whispers

into his ear,

and asks for his

pin number to his

savings account.

at least that's what his

maid, Candy, says.

the beach book

it was more

of a beach book. the type

of book

where you can skim

it a little,

while

looking out over the sand

at the water,

at people walking by.

sometimes

you'd have to go back

a few pages,

to remember where you

were,

to piece together

the plot, 

figure out where the story

might be going.

but you didn't care that

you were lost.

before the day was over,

and the sun setting,

before you packed

up your towel

and things, folded up

your chair,

you'd be

turning to the last page

to see how it all

turned out.

it was a beach book after all.

love and money

she'd take

my money, 

my checks for

deposit.

my slips

and ID's.

how quickly

she was with

withdrawals,

counting out the bills

before passing

them through.

she was pleasant

and courteous

behind the slant of glass

at the drive-thru

window.

her smile

made my day,

the flip of her hair,

her rosy cheeks,

and then she was gone,

never to

be seen again,

replaced by someone

named Pete.

the sour dough

there's

always room for improvement.

a way

to think more

clearly,

become more

educated, more open

to new

ideas.

the door is always

jar,

the windows open

to a different point of

view,

but few

take the opportunity

to do so,

already baked

and done,

through and through.

god bless you

it's a strange

set

of allergies,

sulfites,

aspirin, red wine, of course,

ibuprofen.

frozen shrimp

and lobster.

there is nothing

i can take

to relieve the pain,

emotional

or otherwise without

grabbing

a box of Kleenex

to catch

the sneezes

and blow

like it's starting to rain.

stop me before i buy again

it was an

impulse buy.

i just couldn't help myself.

i pushed

the button

and bought three more

pull over

black sweaters,

just like

the other seven that i have

hanging in

the closet.

and two more pairs

of jeans,

just like the pair i'm wearing

now.

light blue.

not to mention another

pair

of boots. black

too.

i know i need help,

but

i'm afraid to look that deeply

into myself.

looking for someone normal

feeling lonely,

i go down

to the local match maker office,

Amy's Soul Mates,

to check out their inventory.

Amy isn't in though.

but her assistant is,

Bob.

formerly, Linda.

the transition is not quite

complete, which

i notice by the cleavage

in his sweater.

so what kind of a sweetie

are you looking

for? he says,

pushing the no fault

form in front of me.

please sign this, he says,

and if it all works

out we take 

Venmo or PayPal.

no checks.

i sign the waiver and look

at him.

well, i start out.

i'm looking for a good woman.

smart, sexy.

loyal, honest.

someone like donna reed,

but with a whip.

he laughs,

with a whip?  snap, he says.

and who's donna reed?

he writes down her name.

friend of yours?

someone you knew in school?

the one that got away?

no, she used to be

a movie star.

she was in the movie with

Jimmy Stewart called

It's a  Wonderful Life.

hmmm.

he says, missed that one.

doesn't ring a bell.

is it on Netflix?

no, no .never mind.

okay, dear, so let's get specific.

what's melts your butter?

tall, skinny, voluptuous,

voluptuous are very in right now,

so we have a limited

selection of them.

big booty is trending. so what's

it going to be?

blonde, brunette? maybe

a little ginger?

just normal, i tell him.

someone down to earth, you know?

he nods, and keeps writing

things down.

normal? he says, looking up

and batting his lashes,

do tell.

what exactly do you mean by that?

before we go on,

define normal for me.

what's for dinner, pops?

i suggest

lightly to the boy, that maybe

it's high time

to get a real

job. any job.

i see they're hiring down

at Amazon.

i framed his college

degree

in a nice wooden frame

and hung it on the wall behind him.

there's flecks of grey

in his hair

as he approaches

forty.

he says, what?

as he sits on the couch

with his

hands on

the buttons of his newest

video game. he's

still in his pajamas at

four p.m. .

what? he says, again.

i'm almost

to level ten, pops,

hold that thought,

and what's

for dinner?

not chicken again?

who's steering this sinking ship?

you wonder

how

the country continues to function

with all

of its aging

senators

and congressmen,

and presidents

in litigation all year.

accusing

and defending

themselves.

is there one good apple

in the barrel?

who's running

the asylum?

what shadowy figures

have their

hands upon the wheel?

it's good to get away

it's good

to get away. to take a trip

somewhere.

whether by

boat

or train.

to visit some

distant place.

it's good to pack a bag,

to cancel

the post,

lock the doors

and wave farewell

as you walk away.

it's almost

as good as coming

home again.

while riding the escalator

when i see

people

frozen up on the mountain,

their brightly

colored windbreakers

dotting

the landscape

as they lie,

dead

and covered in ice,

in the crevices of the airless

cold terrain,

i think to myself, why,

as i hold onto

the rail

of the escalator,

what's the attraction

of climbing way

up there?

beats me, i think as i

carefully step off

the sliding

metal grates pulling me

up to the second

floor. men's department.

i lift

my feet so as not to

get my laces

caught.

ear wax removal

i lean

my head sideways

and squirt a few

ear drops

into my

ear canal.

it's warm as it

slides on down.

there's a bubbling sound.

a gurgling

noise.

now what?

i'm i permanently

deaf now.

have i completely dammed

it up?

will i have to learn

sign language,

how do i get

this goo out of my

ear now?

Cue tip,

toothpick, some sort

of suction

cup?

i miss my mother.

lost dog, please call

there's a flurry

of back

and forth on the next door

chat forum.

is the Chicken Out

closing for good?

will

Dunkin donuts take

its place?

does anyone know

what the deal is

on the speakers at the drive-thru

for KFC.

i can hardly hear

what they're saying

when i'm

driving through. it

sounds like

i'm talking to someone

on the moon.

did anyone hear that loud

bang last night?

it sounded

like a bomb, or something.

oh, and

if you see a small

white poodle running

around with

a rhinestone

collar, please let me know.

it's mine.

keeping the landlord at bay

in my youth i took

almost every job to make money.

there was no artistic muse

pushing me along.

the starving artist concept

was a stupid idea

invented by lazy people.

i got up and went out

to earn

a check, to acquire

some Bemjamins

to pay the bills

and go out at night.

i wanted

a few shekels to take

Betty to the drive-in,

and 

to buy her

flowers

when we were on

the outs.

i'd put a little away

for that

inevitable rainy

day, tucked beneath

the mattress

of Citizens Bank

of Maryland,

but for the most part

it was surviving, keeping

the landlord

at bay. putting gas

in the old car,

milk and bread

were important too,

as was

Old  Spice aftershave.

getting the paper

in the morning was  

a rare luxury

i splurged on.

slim Jen

i'd see her

in the morning in her work

dress,

picking up

rocks

and sticking them

into her pockets

and handbag.

i figured it was windy

out.

she learned the hard

way

when sometimes

i'd see her

flying in the sky with

her umbrella

like Mary Poppins.

shoveling coal

the eager

worker

won't last, he's too into it.

look at

him with the shovel

going fast.

slinging the coal

into the fire.

he's showing that

he has what it

takes,

but like i said,

his enthusiasm will

wane after a few

years of this.

he won't last.

give me the steady hand

instead.

maybe baby

i live

on the word maybe.

we'll see.

let's wait before we decide.

let's see how

the weather is.

the money

situation.

let's see if we have the time.

see if we're in the mood

when that day

arrives.

i know it drives

you crazy when

i say

maybe.

but it's a short drive

just the same.

death by numbers

how old

are you, how much do you weigh,

what's your

address,

are you the first born,

what's your

zip code

your social security number,

your bank

account

numbers.

what's your password,

your height.

how many years of

schooling

did you make it through,

your grades?

how many times

were you married,

how many children do

you have?

how much money

are leaving behind?

we need to know all of these

things

for the back page

of the paper, the obit,

and for the tombstone

above

your grave.

no one ever asks if

you

were happy.

it wasn't always this way

for no reason,

i take the long way home.

i turn left.

i roll down the windows,

let the cold air in.

i turn

off the music,

and get into the slow

lane.

i circle the park.

there's no reason to

be home early,

but it wasn't always

this way.

the transformation

a new coat

of paint would do wonders

she tells me,

as she puts

on her makeup.

sitting at

the vanity, staring into

her three

mirrors. her fingers clicking

at jars,

and mysterious small

tubs of things.

the place will look great

if we spruce it up

a little.

i watch her as

she smooths on

her red lipstick and powders

her nose.

she brushes her hair

back,

then straightens her dress,

stepping into shoes.

so what do you think,

should we paint the house

or not?

can't hurt, i tell her.

the pajama party

girls will do sleepovers,

women,

grown women

of all ages.

a veritable pajama party

of food

and drinks,

sappy movies.

men,

not so much.

they might shake

hands,

bump fists, give an

awkward hug

in the parking lot,

but they aren't spending

the night together

all cuddled up

and drinking herbal tea,

babbling on about the one

that got away,

or what's on sale

at Norstrom Rack

this coming Friday.

he tried to get away

he tried

to run away, but the nights

wouldn't let him.

there it all was

in each dream.

each time he closed his eyes,

it all came back.

all that he tried

to put behind him.

the mistakes he made.

the brothers and sisters,

the friends.

the house

he lived in,

his dog and cat.

he tried to run,

tried to get away,

to disappear into

the sand and water,

into the Florida sunshine,

but the nights

wouldn't let him.

don't judge me by my early work

please don't judge

me by

my early work, my primitive

scribblings,

my adolescent

and juvenile pieces that

i wrote

early this morning.

i've matured since then.

grown

and become wiser.

by midnight,

you'll have my good

stuff.

honest.

just one similarity

she doesn't remind me

of you.

in fact

she's the exact opposite.

she doesn't lie,

or cheat,

or gaslight,

or manipulate.

she's not a gold digger.

god bless the child who has

her own.

she's not on medication,

she doesn't go

to therapy

and has never been

in lock down

at Belleview.

no, she doesn't remind me

of you.

not one bit.

although i think you both

use the same

perfume.

i have to fix that.

emotional eating

i could use

a giant slice of cake, or an

enormous

wedge of

pie today,

apple, or peach,

makes no difference.

a tall glass of very cold

milk too.

something to fill the void.

i need an emotional

filling of baked goods.

it's been that

kind of a day.

forget the scotch

on the rocks, or

the vodka

and gin.

bring me the Boston

cream pie

in that big round tin.

the drama family

there are drama

queens

and kings, princesses

and princes,

dukes

and duchesses too.

there's even

a court jester full

of drama.

even the executioner

has his bad

days

dealing with the wife's

demands

and the unruly

kids at home.

one never knows

what's going on with

anyone these

days.

we never get to walk

in their shoes.

the mountain doesn't care

it's not a fine

line

between stupidity

and bravery,

there's no line at all.

the mountain

is littered with bright

colored

windbreakers,

of those

left behind

in the airless cold.

intelligent

and good,

some brave, some dumb,

some both.

the mountain is

ambivalent about

them all.

her recipe for paella

about nine minutes

after my

mother died a couple

of overzealous sisters

wiped out 

most of the valuables

that she

left behind.

photographs, rings

and rosary beads,

teacups

and China.

i went back to see what

was left, but

i couldn't find

what i was looking for.

her two page

recipe for rabbit and seafood

paella,

that she penned in Barcelona,

and one

for zucchini bread.

historical documents,

both gone.

farewell brandy

he was

drinking to remember.

drinking to

forget,

drinking to numb

himself

to the future,

to get over

past regrets.

it was easy and fun

to sit

in a bar with friends,

strangers,

new loved

ones.

to sing and dance.

the life of the party,

he was,

and then the liver gave

out.

but we still leave

a bottle of brandy

on his tombstone,

when

we go to visit, 

i'm sure he'd

laugh about that.

a room with a view one week a year

we were young

and dumb

on a budget, a small child

in our arms,

married for a year

or two.

what did we know

about anything?

it was so easy

to sign on the dotted line,

and buy into a timeshare,

a room

with an ocean view.

five years later,

we were underwater,

the place

was in shambles

and the maintenance fee

was out the roof.

we had to get a lawyer

and sue.

who knew?

the world has its hold

it's a quenching

of thirst

that brings joy to one's life.

a filling

of food

when terribly hungry,

a kiss

and intimacy when

the heart

and body longs for it.

the satisfaction of it all

proves that

you're still alive.

and that the world still

has its hold.

waiting on the maestro

there are maestros

in every

group of old folk,

every gang of like minded

people.

a crowd

that gathers together

for dinners,

for events,

for trips, to camp or

fish

anywhere they want

to go.

and there she is, or he

is, on the podium,

like Oprah,

with baton in hand

in full control,

informing us  

of everything 

that's good for us

and where we need to go.

a final snapshot

I look back,

I glance

over my shoulder

at what

i'm leaving behind.

what i'm walking away

from for good.

a gentle

stare,

a saving of memory.

a short

glimpse, a photograph,

a snap shot,

of her,

now gone.

forgo the whine

the more

work you have,

the less time you sit

around

staring

at your navel, pondering

the future,

what's left

behind.

you're too busy

to be bothered

by matters of the heart,

matters

of the mind.

there's work to do.

this world of yours 

won't keep

spinning if you don't stop

the crying,

don't forgo the whine.

a camel with no name

she's in Egypt now.

i know that by the picture

she just

sent

of her kissing a

camel

near the pyramids.

the sphinx.

i see the sand,

the blue sky,

the sun

beating down.

the dark glasses over

her eyes.

i write back, one hump

or two.

is that your ride?

strap yourself in

there 

is the rollercoaster ride

of love.

the peaks

and valleys, the thrills,

the screams,

the neck

wrenching fear

going around

the steely curves,

then up again.

there is no safe ground.

it's fun for a while,

but in the end.

you have to get off,

it's no way

to live a life,

tears will replace

the smile.

give them something to suck onto

if you

want obedience, if you want

to calm

the masses,

give them candy.

give them something

sweet to suck onto

for a while.

a pacifier.

a few bucks from the treasury.

a speech with

a rosy outlook.

drop the interest

rate,

send a check for a few

bucks.

tell them

there's more where that

came from,

and watch them smile.

we know what you're thinking

it feels like it

sometimes, 

that we're living in

an Orwellian

world.

the double speak,

all is well,

the need for

war to achieve peace,

the polls

and numbers are rigged

by the thought

and word

police.

we're being watched,

monitored.

every breath we take,

everything

we do

is known.

the eye of big brother

is on you.

Carnegie hall bathroom

we all

sound good in the shower.

we do

our best singing there,

behind

the curtain with

the water pouring down,

in the echo

chamber

of the tiled walls.

we hit the high

notes there, the low

notes too,

bellowing into

a bar of soap.

we're lucky

that no one can

hear a word,

not the even the dog,

still asleep

beneath the covers.

and the award tonight goes to....

i went to the Jim Bobs

last night.

not the Oscars. 

the awards were for

contractors, general

contractors and subs.

i watched as the pick up

trucks pulled up

and the men and women

in their

ripped and torn,

splattered overalls,

strolled 

down the green

indoor-outdoor runway

carpet

to the grand hall

at Bobby's Lumber Emporium.

statues went out for

the best plumbers

in a catastrophic

toilet

event,

best comedic fall

by a roofer,

most creative spill 

of paint

by a painter.

best carpenter with a claw

hammer.

best wallpaper installer,

butting

every seam

on the wall with no bubbles,

none at all.

more awards were given

to the best

food truck at a construction

site,

and a lifetime achievement award

to scaffold builders

in new york city.

the grey shuffle

you

notice more and more

the shuffle

of the grey,

the slow plodding

to somewhere,

a cart

in front of them,

perhaps.

a few things from

the store.

there's a weariness

in their faces.

their eyes

don't look up anymore.

is that you 

in a few years?

or just

the gnawing of age,

some

ancient fear

that you may go

through that door.