lunch awaits

as

the needle finds

a vein

and the blood

streams

out into the vial

you stare

off into space

thinking of blue

lakes.

white sand.

and then it's over.

they wrap

the wound,

you stand, lunch

awaits.

what could have been

on her knees,

in the garden, she'd lose

herself,

then find herself.

she'd reimagine what life

would have been

if this

if that.

by late afternoon, after

digging and planting,

pulling weeds,

she was done

with it all, and ready to

settle on

what was

and not what could

have been.

new sports at the Olympics

they keep

adding more sports to the Olympics.

i was watching

the other

day

when three countries

i've never heard of

were lined

up blowing bubbles

into the air.

the one that made the biggest

and the roundest

bubbles,

that floated the longest

before breaking would move

on to the semi-finals.

in the semi-finals

smoke rings

from a Cuban cigar

would be measured for 

shape and density.

a single cough would cause

immediate

elimination

and a trip to Guantanamo Bay.

the final round involved

big wads

of chewing gum 

from a eucalyptus tree

where each

athlete would

blow bubbles from

their mouth.

popping them only after

the judges

timed them and

checked them out.

i married the opposite

the wife once

told me, the ex-wife, number two,

that her friend

Mary

buys all of her husbands

clothes.

everything from

underwear

to socks,

to hats and gloves, to suits

and shoes.

she takes

care of him.

and she has dinner every

night at six o'clock.

she does all

the laundry, takes care

of the kids,

and cleans the house.

she has sex on

demand as well with him.

which is usually on

Saturday night.

my wife was telling me

all of this while 

lying on a massage table

in the living room,

getting the kinks out

from someone named Carlos.

the maids worked

around them,

as the doorbell rang

with a pizza delivery.

collecting dust

how many

more electronic devices

can i store inside this closet?

old and

unused for years.

how many more

phones

and monitors, hard drives,

and chargers

can i find room for?

how much electric wire can

i place inside this box,

wound up like lassos?

how many broken printers,

answering machines,

stereos and

speakers, televisions,

DVD players,

cameras and stereos

can i stack up

and push deep into 

this closet to forever

collect dust?

once necessities of life,

now junk.

too many choices

we have

too many choices

these days.

try

to buy tile for a floor

sometime,

or carpet,

or curtains,

or faucets.

try to buy anything

these days.

there are too many

variations

to choose from.

even finding love has become

harder

than it used

to be.

the matador with red shorts

somehow

a large bee of some sort gets in

the house.

i duck under

his buzzing wings,

just barely

getting out of the way

before he stings.

it's matador

time

with him.

i find a pair of silky

red underwear

that Betty got me

last valentine's day,

and 

the battle begins.

i swing

the shorts around, dodging

his attack. 

he digs in and snorts,

then flies by 

my ear

then circles back.

around the house we go.

he's not used

to this.

he's tiring, but still

not slow.

finally

i get the window open,

and swing my shorts at

him.

then out he goes.

take it up with Him

the man

next door has a beautiful

yard.

the grass,

well, the fake grass is the greenest

grass i've ever

seen.

it's basically

outdoor carpet that looks

like the golf greens

at Congressional Country

Club.

he's out there now with

a vacuum.

tidying up.

blowing away leaves.

i can't imagine

what he thinks about

my yard and the mess

it's in.

oh well.

i let nature take its course.

God is my gardener,

take it up

with Him.

a mild spending spree

i go on a mild

spending

spree at the market.

i buy two pears

instead of one.

three apples,

instead of the whole bag.

i'm cutting

coupons

and saving pennies.

so maybe i'll just buy

a pint

of milk

on this trip,

maybe bologna

instead of steak,

tuna instead of Chilean

sea bass

or lobsters.

crab cakes too

can wait.

i'm going cheap on

everything,

until after the election,

and things

get back to normal,

everything that is expect

for chocolate

cake.

chicken in five miles

it used

to be that the billboards

on the side 

of the road

told

you where to eat.

you'd be in the car

for ten minutes

heading to the beach

and you'd see

the first sign.

a giant painting of an entire

family happily eating

chicken legs.

five miles ahead,

Dave's Fried Chicken.

then

three miles,

the same sign,

then two, then one,

then you're here.

pull in.

we didn't have cell phones

back then,

so we were totally

dependent on these large

giant signs

instructing us on the best

stops to eat

chicken, or pancakes,

or Salisbury steaks,

or to get an

ice-cream treat.

but sometimes you just

had to use

the bathroom.

a long day in the woods

as a kid

when you went walking 

through the woods, exploring,

you couldn't help

but pick things up

and throw them.

rocks,

sticks, 

discarded beer cans.

you couldn't help but poke

things

on the side of the path.

snakes,

and dead birds.

frogs

and turtles. maybe you'd

try to push

over a small dead

tree with the help of your

friend, Max,

or try to imitate birds

chirping loudly.

you might even have

taken your

shoes off and gone wading

in the stream,

or find an abandoned

refrigerator

and get in,

but thankfully you're parents

weren't around you

back then

to stop you from doing

all these fun things.

the Ozempic ceremonies

it's fancy

because

it's French, it's colorful

and extravagant,

but why

is that man painted

blue

not wearing any pants?

it's hard to tell

who's a girl

and who's a boy,

but i guess that's the point.

and why

are they mocking

the Last Supper?

with an enormous half

dressed

woman posing as Jesus?

is this some kind of joke,

both dumb

and cruel?

it's sad

that this is where we

are now.

has everyone been eating

mad cow?

the political coffee clutch

it's an ugly

street fight up at the local

coffee shop.

it's a big circle of seniors

discussing

politics after playing

pickleball.

how can you possibly

vote for a

felon, Betty says,

and Jerome replies,

well at least

i don't want to kill babies

like that woman does.

and why do you hate

Jews, Mildred yells out.

to Buster, who

says, i don't hate Jews,

my lawyer

is a Jew, so is

my accountant

and my physician.

well, what about the war,

Mildred says, standing up

to brush scone

crumbs off her flowered

dress.

i think we should end the war.

enough is enough.

oh yeah,

and what about the massacre

and the hostages,

we can't take that lying

down, ya know.

i can't vote for the crazy

woman, Joe says,

the one that laughs

all the time. she wants

to defund

the police

and raise taxes.

she's more woke than

a fourteen year

old girl with blue hair.

oh, that's nothing says Ingrid,

that orange man

is a dictator, plus he slept

with a porn star and

he wants to close the border

and reduce

crime. and make everyone

have an ID

in order to vote, can you believe

the audacity of that?

well, so what, Aretha says,

that woman slept her way to the top.

she's dumb

as a rock.

how come we never have

an Asian

president, what's up with that?

Sally says.

or a Mexican?

maybe someone from Finland.

at this point everyone is

exhausted and in

need of a nap.

see you tomorrow they all

say to each other,

hugging and shaking

hands.

ten a.m. right?

yes. rain or shine.

right after pickleball.

in the arms of someone like you

i want

to care more about 

many things

that the world

deems

important. but i can't.

i can't even fake

it anymore.

i can't muster

an ounce

of enthusiasm for most

of it.

i'll give it all a cursory

glance

or two,

to be able to make small

talk

when i have to, but that's

about it.

i'd rather

spend my time,

with my head in a book

or my body

in the arms of someone

like you.

the night shift

you get used

to the noise first, then the smell

of the factory.

but it's a job.

your only fear

besides losing

a hand

is not having that paycheck

at the end

of two weeks.

it's not war, but it feels

like combat

of some sort.

in the trenches with like

minded men

and women

on the night shift.

it's the welding,

torches ablaze,

machinery

in heat needing grease.

the clang

of metal.

pipes and wrenches that

you'll hear

when the sun rises

and at last you sleep.

it's the mindless grind of it all.

the grunt,

the pull and tug of the factory wheel.

but you don't complain,

you say

nothing, you're at peace

with your hammer,

and the sandwich

that you brought to 

to work

in a bag

may be the best thing

you've ever eaten.

covered in lilacs

she liked

scented candles,

she loved scented candles,

and those plug in things

full of a liquid

concoction 

that would send

perfume all

through the house.

i smelled like

lilacs

when i left the next morning.

people in line

behind me at the store

would sniff at my

clothes, and smile,

and tell me how

wonderful i smelled.

thank you,

it's lilac, i'd tell them,

then hold out my arm

to their curious

noses.

i think the scale is off

i think

the scale is wrong.

i only

ate popcorn

yesterday,

and an orange,

and a sandwich,

and

a glass of milk, 

with four Oreo cookies,

well,

two glasses of milk

with chocolate

syrup stirred in.

how could i possibly

gain

three pounds

while i was sleeping?

there will be a cost

it's the only

religion

the world can bash without

consequences.

the others

are off limits

unless you want 

death and destruction

from bullets

and bomb

blasts.

but Christianity is fair

game to freely mock

and be made

fun of,

to openly despise

and ridicule

the savior of the world,

death

on the cross,

but in the end, every

knee shall

bow.

there will be a cost.

almost, but not quite

i feel sad

for those in fourth place.

those not

on the podium,

but in the showers

crying.

they get nothing.

the first gets gold,

of course,

then silver,

then bronze, but

nothing

for the fourth.

he or she goes home

empty handed,

despite being

a thousandth of a second

short.

taking scissors to it

it's a tight

knot i struggle with,

biting

down

onto the string.

carefully

pulling at each end,

trying to loosen

what has

tightened

and become hard.

sometimes you

have no choice but

to find

the scissors and start

all over again.

seven dogs walking

seven dogs,

all different breeds,

different

kinds,

and one man walk by

down

the boulevard.

seven

leashes,

seven collars, seven

minds

and his,

heading towards

the park.

they seem to listen

though,

as if one

mind.

he's in control of this,

with a word,

or pull,

at least this,

if nothing else in

his life.

a life on the shelf

his shelves,

full of carved animals,

wolves

and bears.

ducks,

meticulously created,

with his hands

and tools,

then painted,

each

had a story, a long

story

to which he was glad

to share.

his wife would

leave the room

when he'd begin again,

while you

sat and listened.

the bagel store under new management

are they

under new management?

i wonder

as i take a bite

of the oversized bagel

with cream cheese.

it's a loaf

of mushy bread now.

still circular

with the hole in the middle,

but a bakery

pillow of some kind.

and the cream cheese

is too silky

and wet.

the butter on yours

could be margarine,

a sticky drippy mess.

the sesame seeds are

falling off

like dandruff on a used

car salesman.

and the coffee.

how can it be cold and

bitter

before we leave

the store?

we have to get back to

New York soon.

the sooner the better.

the train will be faster,

let's go,

all aboard.

the fifty-three year old GE furnace

when

my air conditioning unit

and furnace

finally died

after

cranking out heat

and cold for over

five decades,

with hardly a cough,

the man from the repair company

took out

his camera,

put his hand on his heart

and took pictures.

i think there

was a tear in his eye,

that ran down

into his beard.

he looked at me and sighed

and said.

they don't make them

like they used to

brother. she's dead this time.

then he gave me a hug

as we both cried.

it's good to be home

the divorced

woman

gives up 

on her single life,

and moves back in with

the ex-husband,

the one with the house and

the money.

she knows

where the treasure

is buried.

it's good to be home.

he's happy

too,

as he lies in bed above

her, dying slowly,

but

all is well once more.

and now

she waits.

she tapped me out a melon

i see the woman

tapping

on the large stack of melons

at the store.

going from one green

striped melon

to another,

knocking against

the husk with her knuckles.

she seems

to know what she's doing,

so i ask her

to tap one

out for me.

so she does, and i thank her.

then i follow her

around the store.

next to the tomatoes,

to the apples

and oranges,

the breads,

and finally to the meat.

where she picks me

out a nice cut of roast beef

for tonights dinner.

i miss hearing from you

it's a private

number,

a restricted number, an unknown

number,

but i answer it just

the same

because i miss hearing

from you.

i miss

the darkness of

your deep breathing,

your silence

is deafening,

as usual and tells me

everything there is to know

about you.

past and present.

but i'm glad that you called

again, it's been a

pleasure. i enjoyed

catching up.

please,

call again,

soon.

just water please

cold

water will do the trick.

will

quench my thirst

on this

warm

day in July.

just water, please.

an ice

cold glass

of clear water.

tap water is fine

if you have it.

no need for

sparkling water,

or well water

or spring water,

or water from the melted

snow of the Andes.

spare me the electrolytes,

the fruit

flavors,

the lemons

and limes, the squeezed

berries.

just water please,

no added

vitamins

or magic potions,

just water.

is it possible

that i can have that,

and only that?

men in dresses and spring board diving

i try

to connect the pink dots.

men

dressed like women

and

the Olympics.

the world

wide every four

year sporting event

featuring

the best

and most

trained skilled

and blessed

athletes in the world.

just how

does a man

in a dress,

dancing the can can

connect to any of this?

a night at the opera

the opera

doesn't really

appeal to me.

the language barrier

and over acting,

is hard

to hear

and see.

other than

Isabel Leonard

i have little

or no interest in that particular

musical art

form.

but if she's in town,

tickets

for the front row,

please.

sticking a leg out the door

much to my neighbors

dismay, i tend

to measure the heat

or cold

of the day by sticking my bare

leg out

the front door.

turning it this way

and that,

seeing if there's

rain or wind.

is today

a day for an umbrella

or a hat?

an overcoat,

or shorts, or a bright

red speedo

perhaps?

yesterdays coffee

i dreamed

she was angry with me.

angry

for again

pouring out the cold

coffee

from yesterdays cup

into the bathroom

sink.

it left a brown stain,

a wide ring

on the white

porcelain,

to which she would not

attend to,

but leave for me.

it was just a dream,

but when

i woke up,

immediately i went

in and scoured

the sink.

the significance of the passage of time

after she puts

sleepy Joe to bed

tucking him in with a bowl

of ice-cream,

and her little

yellow toy school bus,

she tells him not to worry,

i got this Joey, she says,

then

the DEI candidate begins

her speech

by saying that there is

significance

to the passage of time,

time as we all know

passes by,

and there is significance

in that,

but she gets stuck there

like a bald tire

in the snow, going around

and around.

she says it a few more times.

rearranging the words,

laughing

and rolling her eyes.

time has significance,

she says,

as it passes. we all know 

that right?

we all know

how time works, right?

it passes.

you can't get it back.

there is great significance

in that.

she throws her arms into

the air and laughs again,

cackling at the sky.

let's not be burdened

or unburdened by

the passage of time, okay?

it's important that we do that

she concludes

to mild but befuddled

applause.

dear anonymous

another timid note

appears

on the door, 

another

pale email,

another text

from someone

who wants to remain

unknown.

a critique,

a review,

the phone call from

a private

number,

the stranger in a mask

at the door.

interesting

how people either

want

to be anonymous or

known,

safety, i guess,

comes

in the previous form.

meeting Trixie for a drink

she took the bus

to where we met

and was carrying a small

suitcase

at the end of

her long skinny arm.

when

she told me her name was Trixie,

i checked

my back

pocket to see if my

wallet was still there.

her lipstick

seemed to be permanently

smeared.

but she had great eyes,

green like a cat

and skin.

milky white. not a single

piercing

or tattoo

was anywhere

that i could see.

a tiara sat on top of her head.

something inside of me

though,

told me,

it probably wouldn't last.

a different kind of love

it's not romantic

love,

but still, it's love in

some form

that you have for the tree.

the large

oak

that's been there forever,

carved

with names

and hearts,

and holding swings,

providing

you shade

in the summer.

it's not love, exactly,

but when

they come with their

saws

and ropes to take it

down.

something akin to tears

falls from

your eyes. but it's not

love.

no, it's not, but it's close.

quirky town delray

the new owners

of the building

on main street

have

painted over the orange paint

on the trim

and doors.

they've gone with green

now.

lime green

as opposed to Florida

orange.

it's that kind

of small town though.

one that has

a charter banning

nuclear weapons.

every year they have a small

parade

of dogs and cats,

the mayor smokes weed,

and they coronate

a queen

not a king.

from sea to shining sea

people

break up over politics.

they get

angry,

and mean.

they disown you.

they call

you names, they shake

their heads

at you

as if you've gone

insane.

God forbid

if you disagree.

what a glorious time

we're living

in,

lacking one iota

of common sense

from sea to shining sea.

home was hard

school was

easy.

it's home that was hard.

school

had the playground,

your friends,

lunch,

books,

a map of the world

on the wall

and the girl in front

of you,

who gave you a smile.

school

was easy.

home was hard.

which contractor to use

the first

electrician wants four thousand

dollars

to repair

and replace the circuit

breaker panel.

the overload

in the kitchen

makes the power go out

when the maid

comes with her

powerful vacuums

and machinery.

plugging in

every gizmo she brings.

the second electrician,

charges

two hundred dollars,

half of that being the

service call

fee.

it's an easy call to make,

one not normally

seen.

no worries, it'll rain again

sometimes

you sit

and drop the bucket

down

into the well.

but there's no water,

no words

or new thoughts

to pull up.

there's just

the hollow

thud of the metal

can

hitting

mud

and rocks, gravel.

but no worries.

it'll rain again.

sorry to see you go

the beauty of getting

older

is that you say what you want,

regardless

of whom it bothers.

you stop

censoring how you really

feel. you

stop walking on

eggshells.

like an ice

cold shower

it's refreshing, invigorating

and awakening

to see who squirms,

who leaves,

who no longer is your

friend,

who leaves the room.

the playground

when

you see happy children

skipping,

laughing, having fun

on the playground,

as your son

and as you once did

so long

ago.

flying high into the sky

on the swings

as parents cheer

them on.

you nod and think, okay.

okay, this is what

we have to

get back to.

one bag of groceries

i stare

at the small bag of groceries.

seventy-seven

dollars

and change.

i can pick it up

with one finger.

lettuce,

meat, eggs, milk.

the basics.

did i get everything

i need?

no, not exactly, but

i'll be back tomorrow

and again

the next day,

hoping things have

changed.

lemon cake into the night

when i see

her coming up the street

with

a sheet cake

in her hands.

i get out the milk.

two glasses,

two forks

and a plate.

it used

to be martinis all

night

and music.

and now it's lemon

cake,

with a scoop of vanilla

ice cream.

but yes,

we were wild once.

we were young and

crazy

and we danced

and made

love

long into the night.

now here's the knife,

you cut.

whispering love into her ear

i remember

whispering into my mother's ear

as she lay

in hospice

for six months, 

being fed

with eye droppers

like a small bird,

unable to speak, 

and now

with bed sores.

i told her to let go.

to let go.

it's okay, mom,

i said,

really, we're all good

here. your children

are fine.

all seven of them.

it's time, it's time.

feel free to let go.

return to sender

as the sea

pulls

away from the sand

i find

things.

shells and bones

dead

things, alive things.

even the bottle

you threw into the ocean

with a message

to me

long ago,

but i'm sorry, i write

back,

i can't save you anymore

and with a mighty

heave i

toss the bottle out

into the ocean,

far far away

from the shore.

starting over again

the world

hasn't changed, it's just that

the old

and wise

have died

and left

what's left to the young

to figure out

and decide.

it's starting all over again

with each

new generation.

with 

each peach fuzzed

child

blowing sideways

in the wind.

who to vote for

it's a tough

choice.

law and order,

the real estate salesman,

the felon, or

the laughing lady with

a crazed look

in her eye.

who slept her way to the top

of the political heap.

who's right,

who's wrong?

maybe neither is the answer.

just abstain

and throw your hat

into the wind.

where have all the real

leaders gone?

as that once great philosopher

Rodney,

once said.

can't we all just get along?

Captain Ralph's Crab House

it's eighty dollars.

for

four crab

cakes,

browned balls

that look

like wax.

two ears of corn

and two little dixie

cups stuffed with

sugary coleslaw.

but the crab cakes

are hard,

still slightly frozen.

microwaved,

perhaps.

they're mushy and full

of undefinable

things

from the sea

and land too.

can we have our

money back, please

we ask the matey who

brings us

ice tea. no, he says,

and 

Captain Ralph

says no too, so

shove off sailor,

and leave.

just add water

just add

water, the recipe says.

i like that.

simple

and easy.

i can do that.

i have

that skill.

i know how to turn

on the water

and measure

with

a cup.

but hot or cold?

to unburden what has been burdened?

have we ever

had

a laughing president?

a president

with a high-pitched cackle,

not unlike

a hyena in the field

munching

on a carcass.

someone

who laughs at anything,

at any time, without

a reason?

someone who

talks

in circles,

tossing inedible

salads

into the air.

have we ever had someone

like that

in the white house,

sitting

in the oval office,

who seems

completely unhinged?

probably,

but this could be

different, this could

be fun

for all

if she wins.

intelligent design

when you stand

at the base

of an enormous building.

glass and steel,

an amazing feat of engineering,

do you believe

that it just appeared

out of nowhere.

that time went by, and

there it was?

never. instead

we believe

that someone, someone

brilliant

created it. it came

to be by intelligent

design.

and yet the bird in the sky,

or fish

in the sea,

or you or me,

we tend to think otherwise.

or is this it?

does the short order cook

tire

of the eggs, the bacon

and pancakes.

does he

make a face

when the bell rings

for another order

of hash browns

and onion

rings.

wiping away

the grease on his apron

as he slices

strawberries onto waffles?

does he lie in bed at

night

and hear the crackle

of the skillet,

the breaking

of shells? the grinding

of a coffee

machine?

does he dream of stars

one day

from Michelin?

or is this it?

lessons learned

the scar

on my finger is a lesson

from

fire

in the early years

of childhood.

the scar

on my face, a half

star

is from

a cut

i received, a lesson

learned

from

running in the dark.

and well,

the heart,

that's

another story altogether.

but i know where everything is

the desk

is in

disarray. papers

are scattered

and tilted

over

in heaps.

stacks of magazines.

books with

pages

dog eared. 

bills and notes.

letters

received, letters

and cards

unsent.

receipts and recipes.

a list

of things to do.

a calendar.

a photograph.

i'd open a window,

but i'm afraid

of the wind.

flag burning

strange

to see the plunder

of cities,

statues defaced,

American flags burning in the street,

the fire

surrounded

by masked

protesters, dancing

madly,

praising the terrorists

of another

country.

it's crazy what we

see.

where are the soldiers,

the police?

ambivalence is defeat.

a recipe passed down

i've never

had a dish to brag about.

no family

recipe

handed down by my mother,

or aunts

or grandparents.

i have no cake,

no stew,

no pasta dish to give 

to you,

for which i can say,

there you go,

it's a secret,

so don't bother asking

how i made it.

but i am

able to heat

things up

in the microwave,

pop a cork and pour

a glass

of wine for you.

the truth in black and white

for whatever

reason

the black and white photo 

is better.

more stark,

more revealing, more true.

there are no

colors

to persuade you otherwise.

no longer

are you distracted

by the green

grass, or the blue sky.

the trees

in bloom.

forget the indigo lake

in distance.

no. in black and white

you see the look

in her eyes

and what must end soon.

the pickle ball league

if i hear

the words pickle ball

one more

time, i'll scream.

you should play pickle ball

she says.

i love pickle ball.

you'd be good at it.

you'll have fun

and meet new people.

i'm in two leagues.

we play five times a week.

come on

it's easy. it's fun.

it'll be your new thing.

no one gets hurt.

no one sweats.

you hardly have to move,

you just stand there

like a statue and

stick out 

your arm

then let the ball hit

your racket.

it's like badminton, but

not quite as hard.

come on. let's go have

some fun.

what you remember

for some reason

i remember

her elbow

at the corner of her long

arm.

sharp

and narrow. a hard

turn of softness.

a pointed

bone.

funny how things stick

in your head

when you

find yourself

alone.

more more more

we can't help ourselves.

our eyes

watch,

our ears hear.

we absorb the world

at large.

we need, we want,

we need a new

car to drive.

we're hypnotized.

we are never satisfied,

each day

brings the same questions

around

each morning, what to

eat, to drink,

what to wear,

what to buy.

we do nothing

in other countries

if you burn

their flag, or desecrate their

statues

and monuments,

or scream racists

chants,

or death to all

who disagree

you see the firetrucks

with their hoses

going full

blast.

sweeping them down

the street.

maybe they should

add some tide detergent

and make it clean.

we're different here,

we let the deranged

children

live

and be free.

when it's time it's time

the aging

rock star,

the garage band,

with long

skinny white ponytails,

the athletes,

the actor,

the magician,

everyone is on tour

until the end of time.

and why not?

why not do what you

love until

they pull

the plug, but at some

point

a man has to know

his limitations

and get out.

don't throw your hat on the bed

do we have

nine lives, three acts,

a plethora

of second and third chances?

how many

bullets can

we dodge,

how many mistakes

can we make before they

throw dirt on

us and drive

the stake?

is it luck, destiny, God's

will or fate,

or none of that?

perhaps it's

something beyond understanding,

a mystery

until the day

you die.

i can live with that.

but to be safe, don't use

your bed

to rest your hat.

finding love at the dojo

my son took karate

lessons

when

he was five,

then six, all the ways

up to nine.

and then ten.

one day

my wife at the time

was leaving

the house

heading to the dojo

with her

hair done,

lipstick on,

and perfume. i'd never

seen her

look so good.

she said she too had

joined the program

to become

a black belt.

her white costume

was pristine.

was she wearing heels?

maybe.

a year

later we were divorced

and she was

with

the teacher,

Carlos, the Columbian.

but of course

that didn't work out

either.

childhood revisited

it's the freakish

heat

that makes people rush to the window

and look out

as if it's the end

of the world.

but it isn't.

i remember hotter days

than this,

in the small

rooms our home

on Chester Street,

the flat tar roof,

no air conditioning, 

the clunk

of a large fan

barely swinging to the left

and right.

providing a stingy

breath of warm air

upon our bare bodies.

how we laid

in bed

on those summer nights.

knowing no

other life

than this.

i don't think this is the end

of the world

at all

these days,

a hundred degrees

is nothing,

it's childhood revisited.

the bow tie men

the bow tie

rarely goes over well

unless

you're selling pop corn

working

in a carnival,

or a congressman

from

Nebraska.

or a Baptist

minister giving a sermon.

or maybe a professor

at a chalkboard

diagraming

quadratic equations.

but

most bow

tie wearers

are frowned upon as lesser

men.

silly men.

men who get snickered

at when

their backs are turned.

and yet,

they have wives

and girlfriends who never

seem to tell

them,

don't wear that,

here, put this on instead.

i'll tie it for you.

he's having trouble at home maybe

the man

in front of me, in a fit

of road

rage

gets out of his truck

and waves

an enormous wrench

at me.

i was slow

to step on the gas when

the light

turned green

three blocks

ago.

he wants to teach me

a lesson

i suppose.

i take his picture holding

the phone

up

as he screams.

finally he gives up

and drives away.

maybe

he's having a bad day,

i think.

the mannequins in the window

they're building

a new church

where the sex shop used to be.

tearing

down

the two-story building

tomorrow,

the one that sold

movies

and lingerie,

a variety of toys,

cages

and things.

the mannequins

in silk

and pastry greens

and pinks

are still there though.

the blank

stares on

their faces look out

to the road.

they've been there for

years

in the exact same pose.

through all the seasons,

dressed

in skimpy holiday clothes.

i see some people

waving farewell

to them as they drive by,

before the wrecking ball

swings through,

while others are happy

to see them

go.

deep throats

we love conspiracy theories.

we are a dog

with a bone

with them.

we just can't let go.

did we really land on the moon?

did Oswald

act alone.

has sleepy Joe

been asleep for longer than

we know?

and there's the little

green men,

UFO's.

who else was on the roof,

who held

the ladder?

around and around we go.

investigations,

books and movies,

interviews,

deep throats in garages,

and still we never know.

a drawer full of dull knives

i reach into the drawer

for the sharp knife,

not the dull

knives that have been in

there forever,

some for three wives.

i need a serrated

sharp knife to slice this

fat red tomato

i'm about to put on a

sandwich.

i need it to cut the onion

too and the peppers,

the lettuce. then

the toasted bread 

once i put it all together.

truly it's the only knife

i need in this drawer,

but how do you get rid

of the others?

running dangerously low on thin mints

a kid,

one of those medium

sized kids,

with curly red hair,

and a very clean white

shirt,

knocks at my door

asking

for a donation of some sort.

he's got

laminated paperwork

and is wearing

an ID

badge on his pocket.

i don't see his

mother and father

anywhere.

what? i say to him.

he starts going off on

a memorized

sales pitch, rolling his

marble like blue eyes around

as he rubs the sweat off

his freckled face.

i tell him to stop then

go get

a few bucks

out of the kitchen

drawer.

he looks at me

and says, mister,

don't you want to know what

i'm collecting for?

nah, i tell him.

as long as it's not for

Kamala

or the communist party.

he scurries off

as i yell at him going

down the street

to the next door. hey,

i say, hey, if you see that

little girl scout

when you're out and about,

tell her i'm running

low on thin mints.

finding an island

i completely

see the joy in becoming a recluse.

drama free.

the sanity

of aloneness.

the books

and tv,

the walks, and bike rides.

the occasional

visit from Annie

across the prairie will

be fine.

i like this field, this haystack,

this old red barn.

i like

the chickens

and the cows.

out here in the wilderness.

i like the quiet

of the sun

rising and falling,

and the hard work needed

to live on this

oasis, on 

this old great farm.

i was his queen, she told me

a week or two

after she tells me that she's found

the love

of her life,

the one true

man she's been

searching for,

she shows up on my

porch

crying.

didn't work out? i ask her

while i yank out

a cork from a bottle of pinot

noir.

no, she sobs.

i can't believe it.

he treated me

like a queen, i felt

like i was the wife

of a king.

i try not to bring up

Henry the eighth with her

and instead pour her

a large goblet

of wine, all the way

to the brim.

sediment and sentiment

there is evidence

of life

before, from long

ago, fossils buried

in the sediment

and sand,

embedded bones

in the stones.

even here,

beneath the bed,

or behind

a dresser,

buried deep within

a closet,

i find remains of you.

carbon dating for seniors

my friend

Jennifer told me about a new

senior dating

site

she joined,

called Carbon Dating.

each person

has to send in a little

piece of DNA

to correctly

nail down their age.

they mail in either a

strand of hair,

a fingernail,

or some spit

to have it analyzed at the lab.

occasionally an

archeologist

will pay a visit to examine

the new members

when there's serious

doubt

about the veracity of their profile.

everyone seems

to fudge a decade

or two when

they fill out their membership,

she says,

and this way,

you know for sure

what you're up against.

the longest meal time prayer ever

we were praying

once

before a meal, her grown

son

took over

the duties,

we bowed our heads

and put our

hands together,

while he went into

a sermon,

thanking God for

the food

we were about to eat,

for each other,

for peace

and prosperity throughout

the land,

praying for the sick

and infirmed,

the homeless,

and the men and women

in prisons,

and then finally

he ended with, and God

please help all

the people in Africa.

i peeked

over at him, and said,

okay.

sure, why not.

the food was cold though

by then.

we need the rain

the man

on tv in front of his maps

tells us

that

we need the rain.

i turn it off and go to work.

but the rest

of the day

i tell people

in casual conversation

that

we need the rain.

people say it to me.

all day

i hear the phrase

we need the rain.

we look up at the sky

together,

at the cloudless

horizon.

and then it does,

at last,

come down

and you say, well we needed

the rain,

we all nod

and agree, we needed

the rain,

but now the bridge

is out.

shears are in the shed

as i stare

at her sexy dress,

the dressed she slipped

out of late

last night,

a ball

of bright

red satin fabric

puddled on the bedroom

floor,

i reach over

to touch her shoulder,

but she isn't

there.

i hear the lawn mower

going in the front

yard

and peek out the window.

she's in my robe

and slippers

mowing the lawn.

i smell coffee brewing

in the air.

scrambled eggs

and toast.

i think i'm falling in love.

don't forget

to trim

the bushes, i yell out

the window.

blowing her a kiss.

shears are in the shed.

better living through chemistry

hopped up on 20 mg

of prednisone

for a three-day stretch

i felt ten years younger.

i felt like

i could almost go down

the stairs

without holding

onto the railing.

suddenly i could breathe

again,

i could smell and taste

food.

life was wonderful

once more.

i could even smell

that perfume you were

wearing.

my vision cleared,

i could hear

every word you

whispered into my ear.

everything seemed to be

just hunky dory

once more.

i immediately called

my physician

when the pills ran out.

can you get me some more,

doc? or do i have

to call my connection

in India.

i may start playing

basketball again.

who are these people?

he's leading

in the polls, no, she is in five

states,

now he is.

wait a minute,

she is

by five points with

a three

point margin

of error.

they're up,

they're down.

they're all over the place.

who are these people being

polled.

not me,

not you, not anyone

i've ever met or

known.

no one has called

me up

or texted

or emailed ever

and asked me who i'm

voting for.

but i did get a survey

to fill

out from Dunkin Donuts.

leaving the party early

as you

leave the party early, earlier

each time,

it seems,

the thought comes to you

that more

than two thirds of

the world is younger than

you are.

it frightens you

to some degree, but gives

you comfort too

in a strange

enduring way.

so many have passed on,

that you

loved, or unloved.

and as you look into the sky

of new snow,

you go on

with collar up

and still a youthful spring

to your step.

she seems a tad unhinged, but great teeth

the vice

president has great teeth,

i'm jealous

of her teeth, i have

to avert my

eyes when

she cackles as she's

prone to do

into the klieg lights.

the shine hurts my retinas

and blinds me

for a moment or two.

i wish i had giant

bright white

chicklet teeth

like she does, but we

had to use

baking soda

for toothpaste when

we were kids.

Colgate was too expensive.

as i said,

i love her teeth,

but will i vote for her,

probably not.

she seems a tad unhinged

at times

when talking

about unburdening

the past,

or something about

the passage of time,

or some malarky.

little Bobby had the mumps

there was a kid,

Bobby Bates,

in the seventh grade that i used

to write

excuses for 

when he missed

days of school.

skipping, as many kids did

to go drink

beer and choke

on cigarettes

at the local park.

he told his leather jacket

friends about

my skills

and before long

business boomed.

i wrote doctor's notes,

notes from

his parents,

his aunt,

his uncle.

bobby had the measles,

bobby had to go

to a funeral,

bobby's dog died, etc.

i had wonderful cursive

handwriting learned in

Catholic school

which made me quite

popular

in homeroom.

i charged ten cents per

excuse.

all handwritten with

perfect punctuation

and spelling.

by my senior year i was

driving a brand new

ford mustang,

red 

with white leather interior.

animal heaven

the little

kid

with tears in his eyes,

asks me

if dogs

go to heaven when

they die? do they

have souls

like we do?

i don't know

i tell him. but maybe.

i'm not sure,

but if you love someone,

a person,

or an animal

i'm sure God will

make provisions

for that love

to continue.

but where will they

poop

if they go to heaven?

is there dirt

and grass up

there?

what about cats?

my friend Jimmy

has a pet snake.

a pink boa constrictor.

will it go to heaven too

when it dies?

hold on, let me get 

your mother.

Verizon is the devil

i sit down

with the phone bill

and go through it line by line.

trying to figure out

why one

phone costs so much.

the list is long as i sit

with a cup

of coffee and read.

universal service

charge,

regulatory charge,

administrative charge,

gross receipts

surcharge

local business license

charge

economic adjustment

charge.

usage and purchase

charge. Messaging

charge,

long distance charge,

data, texting and video

charge.

and then the fees begin.

the 911 fee,

the state fee

the communications sales

tax fee,

the state sales tax

fee,

the county fee,

the northern Virginia

state tax fee.

the Verizon cloud coverage fee,

the mobile protection

fee.

i just want to talk

on the phone not wrap my

life around it.

if the devil

is in the details,

then Verizon is the devil.

a foreign language

i need the closed

captioning

function

on the tv.

i don't understand what anyone

is saying

anymore.

the president,

the vp,

the politicians.

they talk so fast

in garbled

words, with no

thoughts seeming to

connect.

i keep trying to listen

harder,

leaning towards

the tv,

but it sounds like a

language i haven't learned

yet.

the five layer cake

she brought

her five-layer cake, not three

or four,

but five

layers

to the county fair.

she was famous

for her cake.

tall and round, 

meticulously iced,

carefully

carried from

her car

to the picnic table

at the fairgrounds.

would it win the prize

again this year?

would the blue ribbon

once more

be pinned to her

gown?

hopefully,

because that's what

she lived for.

ex-wife number two, or was it three?

my ex-wife

used to use a white board

and a pointer

to nag me.

she'd set up

a podium

and clip a microphone

to her blouse.

she'd make diagrams of where

my shoes

were left,

or the rings

on the coffee table from

a mug i left behind.

she'd hold up pictures

of the bathroom,

the seat up,

beard follicles

in the sink.

she'd point to the kitchen

on the board

and describe

the trash that wasn't taken

out to the curb,

or the Chinese food containers

sitting in the fridge

for two weeks.

i believe, she'd say showing

the photographs

of the soles of

my shoes, that

those are your muddy

footprints on

the hallway floor.

she missed her calling.

she easily

could have been a CEO,

or a chairman

of the board.

going to DEFCON one

the government,

through secret surveillance,

two tin cans connected

by string,

overhears

the kremlin talking about

the elections

here in the states.

now that sleepy joe

is stepping down,

they're scrambling,

mystified and wondering

what to do

if the orange man

wins.

he's bonkers, Nikita,

says,

the dude is dodging

bullets

like a character

out of a clint Eastwood movie.

but what about the cackling

vp?

Demitri asks.

she's a nut.

i can't understand

a word she says,

reminds me of that woman

we put in

the gulag last year

for her high-pitched

laughter.

she may be a witch.

ever see the way her eyes

roll up

into her head

when she starts talking

in circles

about unburdening

the past.

jiminy crickets.

i'm more scared of her than

any of them.

maybe we should put the missiles

on red alert.

thank you Andy Goldberg

i've won

once more

the publisher's clearinghouse

prize

for 5 point two million

dollars

and a brand new

pearl white

Mercedes Benz.

not to mention

an additional five thousand

dollars a week

for life.

all i need to do is buy two

green dot money back

scratch

gift cards

for five hundred dollars each

and give

the numbers

to my prize manager,

Andy Goldberg

from Kingston Jamaica.

at last my ship

has come in.

it has to be real, right?

i'm heading down to dollar

general now

with my check book in

hand

to buy the cards.

thank you Mr. Goldberg,

thank you.

what lies beyond this?

it's hard

for athletes to quit.

the boxer,

the pitcher. weakened

by age,

the vision blurred,

no longer swift.

it's hard

for

politicians, for musicians.

for actors.

it's hard to leave

the stage,

to end a career.

it all goes by so quickly,

why stop? 

the idea brings fear.

so let's go on, 

let's stumble forward,

let's keep it rolling

for one more year.

another episode on the next door report

the video

is blurred, in black and white

in the dead

of night.

3 pm.

it's raining,

the images are fuzzy

of two

men breaking into a car.

it's all picked

up on

a ring camera

attached to the front door.

but they're masked,

wearing hoodies

and dark clothes.

they don't care

as they drive away, turning

on the radio,

rolling down

the windows,

enjoying the cool

the night air.

they even wave

out the window as they

head off

for breakfast somewhere.

the maple app

funny

how the brain wants something

you haven't had

in a while.

mine is stuck

on the taste of maple,

whether

in liquid form,

or mixed into the batter

of a pastry.

an icing perhaps

dripped along the hood

of a donut,

or bear claw.

i want it.

i salivate for it.

i begin to think through the options

of acquiring

this maple

desire

into my mouth.

i need an app for that

on my phone.

the crash on the other side

as i

drive by the accident on the other side

of the road

in a slow crawl,

looking as everyone

does

at a disaster,

my first thought

is i'm glad

it's not me or you,

injured, or crushed in the debris

of trucks and cars

piled onto

one another like kid toys.

the blue lights

are everywhere

on this sunlit Sunday

morning.

it's early

in the crash but traffic

is backed for miles and miles,

as far as the eye

can see.

in the blink of an eye

we're all so close

to death and mourning.

get off my lawn!

as we walk

by the White House,

we see the old man

in the window, with a hammer

and nails.

he's putting up

wooden planks

on the windows,

on the doors.

there are guard dogs

in the yard.

i see his wife with a cauldron

of boiling oil

on the roof top.

a quiver of arrows

on her back.

there's the son with his

pea shooter,

and homemade sling shot.

they've poured water

around the house

and filled the swamp

with alligators

and snakes.

they've painted on the front wall

in big bold

letters,

we're not leaving,

you can't force us out,

now get off my lawn.

what are you doing today?

I'm in Lisbon,

she writes,

I'm in Florence, i'm in Rome.

i'm in Santorini,

in Berlin,

i'm in Tokyo.

what are you doing,

she asks,

sending me a photo

of her bronzed legs

and martini glass.

what are you up to?

i'm at the mall i tell

her for the sale

at Nordstrom's Rack,

shoes and hats. i might

go to a movie

after i eat my pretzel

and a drink from

orange Julius.

the next high wave

you're

ankle deep in the cold

ocean.

feet

sinking

into the rough dark

sand,

do you go further?

knees, then

waist,

or do you give it all

up

and just dive

into the next high wave?

ashes falling

it looks like

snow.

or feathers falling, but

it's ash,

ashes from

the fire,

from the woods in

the distance.

the flames are out,

the damage done,

but the ashes,

white and grey fall

as if from

wings

shaken from above.

eating an orange on a park bench

i see the old

man

on the bench. he's there everyday

about this time.

today

he's peeling

an orange

as the sun goes down.

he's careful

with it, using a small knife

removed from

his jacket.

slowly he edges

around

the orange, until the peel

is off.

then with small bites,

he eats it, paying

no mind to anyone or anything

around.

i sense though, that

whatever was

his past,

it's never gone.

mea culpa

i take the time

to write a letter, 

a handwritten letter,

mind you.

not something i punched

out on a keyboard

in three minutes.

it's a letter

of apology,

of remorse and regret,

a letter that tries

to make amends,

for what was done,

what was said.

it's a Mea culpa note.

i say i'm sorry in ten

different ways.

but in the end,

i don't feel it, so i ball it

up, and toss

it towards the can,

but my aim is off and it

tumbles

sideways, where the

cat will find

it later

and toss it around.

take pirates for instance

behave.

we're told from an early age.

do this

do that.

walk the straight and narrow

line.

go to school.

be good,

make your bed.

eat

your vegetables.

work hard,

and save.

but not everyone takes

this path

as they

travel down cemetery

road

to the grave.

take pirates for instance,

or politicians.

money

there is an arrogance

that comes

with money.

real money, generational money.

it frees

you from looking

at the price

of nearly everything.

the rich are different.

not better,

not wiser necessarily,

but different.

having f you money

dissipates

the fear and nonsense

of what the world

puts upon you.

it frees you of your color,

your faith,

your age,

your gender.

money will give you 

all the things the poor

desire,

even friends.

with money you'll be

forgiven,

with money you'll

make amends.

a different beauty

the beauty

of youth differs from

the beauty

of old age.

the eyes, the heart,

the soul

radiates and shines

in every

wrinkle, every smile

saved.

every tear

come down.

it's a better beauty.

live long

enough and it will

be found.

under the shady tree on a Saturday afternoon

we had no

choice but to work on our cars

back in the seventies.

they were always

breaking down.

mostly fords and chevys.

we changed the oil,

the water

pumps, the oil pumps,

we installed new shocks,

new brake pads,

we put in new spark plugs

and set the points

with the edge

of a matchbook cover.

we had a toolbox full

of wrenches

and screw drivers.

we didn't need a manual,

we just knew

what to do.

we'd put our ear to engine

and listen

to what was wrong.

we were

young grease monkeys

out under a shady

tree on a Saturday afternoon.

now i don't know where

the latch is

to pop the hood.

the shuttle bus from Marymount

i used

to love to dance.

hit the clubs with my friends

back

in the day

in Georgetown,

with a beer bottle in hand,

shaking

it on

the dance floor

to the Sanford Towson

Band.

randomly

asking a girl to dance

who just got off the shuttle

bus

from Marymount.

not you?

how about you, or you?

any takers

here?

it was a random roll

of the dice,

hoping for someone

that wanted to play,

a girlfriend

for the night.

the sugarplum speeches

there's something about

a plethora

of long

political speeches

that has the same effect

on you

as an Ambien

pill.

before long, you yawn,

you stretch,

you look over to the stairs

that lead up

to the bedroom, and your

awaiting bed.

maybe one more cliche,

one more

promise, one more line

about the rosy

future ahead, and then

you stagger up,

groggy but happy

with sugarplums

dancing in your head.

get ready for the light

there's always

tomorrow,

right?

of course there is.

although

you might not be a part

of it.

so get your house

in order.

some tomorrows

never come,

so get ready for the light.

and many other lazy things

were down to this now.

texting

happy

birthday. 

happy Halloween,

happy whatever day it may be.

forget the hallmark

card,

the gift in the mail,

the phone

call,

or letter.

it's just the clicking

of keys.

and crossing the greeting

off your

list of many other

lazy things.

there it is

it takes

one bullet to change the world.

not books,

not words,

not speeches,

or sermons.

just

one

one sick man

on a roof. 

and with

one pull of the trigger,

there it is,

the world is forever

different,

poof.

a long ways from home

for just a few

short

years

we lived outside of Barcelona

in a place

called Castle de Fels.

my mother

learned how

to make the best

paella i've ever eaten.

still true to this day.

Franco

was still in power, and

the memories

of a civil war

were still fresh in the minds

of elders.

the ice truck brought

blocks of

ice to us,

which we chipped with

pointed knives.

we kicked a ball

for hours

in the field.

we learned the language,

and spent long

sunlit days

on the sand against

the green water of

the Mediterranean Sea.

sacks of leather wine

were on the table

at every meal,

and we hid when

the gypsies came

around, robed in black,

their wagons

pulled by dark horses

along

the cobblestones.

we watched as the keeper

of the house

would collect the new

born kittens

in a burlap sack, to take

them to the sea,

to drown.

a cat like that

i could

live with a cat like that.

green eyes

and black.

friendly, personable,

but giving you

space,

never quite under

your feet

though quick to find

your lap

when you take a seat.

and best of all,

never does she 

scratch.

i could live

with a cat like

that.

we need distractions

we need distractions

these days,

perhaps we always

have. we need

games,

mindless

numbing things to take our

mind

off the world

at large.

we need a stiff drink.

we need to shop for things

we don't need

anymore.

we need a beach trip.

a movie,

a good book to get lost in.

we need to make

love more.

we need the indulgence

of ice-cream

and cake. 

we need to take a deep

walk into

the woods.

we need silly friends.

dogs and cats.

we need a nap.

the boss of me

i'm late again.

but not

really.

it's my own business. so if i want

to read

the paper,

dilly dally around

and drink

coffee this morning, so what.

fire me.

which isn't going to happen,

because i like me.

i'm in charge here.

sort of.

TLC won't fix this

the machinery

is creaking,

groaning,

it's old, rusted, seen better

days,

no matter how

much oil

and grease you apply,

the screams tell you

that it won't last long.

tlc won't fix this.

giving her flowers

and chocolates

won't work either.

becoming snoop dog

the second

you become Sherlock

Holmes

or Columbo, or even

Snoop dog
in a marriage or relationship,

it's over.

but when

so many breadcrumbs are

left behind

for you to follow 

you can't help but follow

them.

every closet gets opened,

every drawer

gets pulled,

every bed is looked under,

as you find

more and more.

your gut 

has more neurons in it,

than your actual brain does.

listen to the gut,

follow it

and end the pain.

give her a swift boot out,

then change the locks

on the door.

how to ruin a business and a country

i have an idea,

she tells me.

let's not hire the best anymore,

the brightest

the most effective

and well

qualified.

we need some new faces

around here

let's diversify.

throw away

all the requirements.

height weight,

age

gender, color, religion.

let's have every

country

and race represented.

let's see how that works

out. it's time.

we need one of every kind.

a hundred and one in the shade

as we stretch out

on front porch swing,

dressed in white,

in the sweltering heat,

i feel like

Burl Ives

in an old movie.

black and white.

i start talking with a southern

drawl,

as we sip our

lemonade.

she fans herself with a

magazine, and whispers

to herself,

oh my God.

she truly believes

she could have been a movie

star.

we're lazy

and hot.

we're two peas in a pod

melting in the July

sun.

we can't even muster

an ounce

of energy to swat a fly,

or get up.

hearing the different drum

we stop

for the line of ducks,

ducklings

following their

mother across

the road

to the pond.

off they go,

one after the other,

except

for one,

who waddles in another

direction

away from mom.

there's always

at least one

listening

to a different drum.

the spoiled child

when he was

small,

birthdays were a holiday.

a mountain

of gifts and cards

came from

everywhere,

near and far.

grandparents, friends,

uncles

and aunts.

the special cake,

the confetti,

the music.

a day long party.

every wish was granted.

no gift on his list

not given.

maybe we took it too

far.

gave him too much.

because now he never

writes,

he never calls.

i'll take one tomato, please

what's the deal

with the farmers market?

is it the tomatoes,

the peaches,

the melons.

lettuce, maybe.

all free of DDT,

or Roundup,

or maybe it's the apple

cider freshly

squeezed by Marge

from Front Royal and beyond.

there's pastries

too,

pies of all kinds,

peach, lemon,

mince meat

and rhubarb. oh, look

there's

coffee and asparagus.

and

a long line

at the sausage stand

with a man

in a bloodied white apron

making change.

there must be something

here for me,

something

here for you.

how about a tomato?

they look so red, so round.

so easy to change everything

it's always

the bullied boy, the quiet

kid,

the outcast,

the misfit

that ends up crawling

onto a roof

to change

history.

the absent parents

glued

to the tv,

never asking, where

you going son?

no friends, no love

interest.

just a basement full of

video games,

twisted dreams

and guns.

in lieu of working

it's sleepy

time when the speeches drone

on into the late

night.

and the counter

speeches

from the other side.

the commentators

fact checking

what's wrong,

what's right.

it's the machinery

of politics,

cranking out

another promise,

another vow,

another pledge to fight.

what would any of them

do, if they had

to get a real

job

and wake up at the crack

of dawn

to punch a clock?

i need hotel sheets

i wouldn't label

it as insomnia, or worry,

or even

strong concern, to give

a reason

for not being able to sleep

last night.

it's not the ruminations

of love

gone wrong, or the mistakes made

in the past

concerning

so many things.

no, it's none of that.

i think it's these sheets

i'm lying on.

the thread count is way

too low

for my sensitive skin.

last nights snowfall

nobody likes

old snow.

the grey sludge melting

down

the sewer,

ankle deep

as it fills your shoe.

no one likes the drip

of pointed

icicles

in the morning.

the crackle of ice on

the windshield.

the smear of it all.

the thrill 

is gone of last nights

snowfall.

beauty is fleeting in

this cold

world of ours.

sponge Bob square pants

for some reason,

the actors

feel it necessary to stand on a soapbox

and proclaim

their opinions,

their holier than thou

take on the planet.

one week

they're cartoon

characters

in a movie, and the next

thing you know

they have all the answers

about politics

and climate change.

don't you know who i am?

they scream.

i'm Batman, i'm Barbie,

I'm the godfather,

i'm sponge

Bob square pants.

listen up and obey me.

divine intervention?

so much of life

is about

inches.

millimeters. small turns

of the head,

unconscious movements

of the body

that keeps

us alive.

is it divine intervention,

is it destiny

or fate,

or luck, pure luck

that saves us from hate?

a bucket of ice water

i set out a bucket of ice

water

for the squirrels,

the big fat one, who runs

the show

hops off the fence

and gives me the thumbs up,

he crawls in

and floats on his back,

a few skinny

squirrels dip their toes

in beside him.

he pays them no mind.

it's hot out.

i call him little 
Soprano.

the next life

it's a different life

now

than it was before. and

before that

it was a different life

then, too,

who you were, where

you worked, who

you knew,

the bed you slept in.

even the clothes you wore

were different.

a new set of friends

appeared.

and what lies ahead?

what's the next life

going to look like?

will anyone you know

be there?

will you still recognize

your face

in the mirror?

on the road

i travel

light. it's how i roll.

it's how

i go.

a small bag with a few

items,

maybe one

change of

clothes.

a toothbrush, a book,

a map.

a charger for

my phone.

i'm no king of the road,

but i know

what i need and

what i don't.

i know

what items

to stow.

the blue eyed Jesus

some need

the blue-eyed Jesus,

the one

holding a lamb,

the spirit going up

into the sky

in clean linen.

they don't want the blood,

the nails,

the cross.

the crown of thorns.

they want the resurrected

man

not the crucified

body,

or the cost.

the new age babble

the farmer,

rugged and tired,

holds a shovel up to the neighbor

next door

who owns

the apple orchard

and who has been

reading

Echart Tolle's books.

you have to live

in the moment,

he tells the farmer,

forget the past,

now is what matters,

the present is everything.

the farmer

looks out over the field

that he needs

to plow,

he sees the work he's

done, and what

he has to do.

he hopes

the sky is full of rain.

he tells the apple orchard

man he has

ten seconds to get off

his land.

does she too remember?

i fall asleep in the feathered

memory

of the girl

next door,

holding my hand and

delivering

gently a first

kiss upon

my blushed cheek.

i wonder where she

is today,

does she too remember

the moment

that hasn't faded

away?

who is the queen bee?

when you see

a gaggle of girls, or women

out and about,

in groups

as they like to do

like geese in a pond.

you look at them and try

to determine

which one is the queen

bee. who's in charge

of where to go,

where to eat?

is it the pretty one,

the plain one,

the large abrasive one,

or the shy one,

quiet and reserved.

my bet's on her.

when the ink runs out

how can this pen be out

of ink so soon?

it's only ten years old

resting on my desk.

i've used it daily

to write checks, to take

notes, to underline words

in a book,

to scribble and doodle

strange thoughts

and things.

how can it let me down now?

when i need to write

this important number down?

one more cup of coffee

is it too late

in the day

for a nap, you ask.

how will you sleep tonight

if you lie

down now

with the sun

still out?

the moon will awaken you

at three.

here.

let's go for a walk.

let's talk,

how about one more

cup of coffee.

the gentle roar of shells

she brings back

saltwater taffy from

the beach

and a white empty

shell

she found lying

on the shore.

pink and pretty

full of sunlight.

i'll hold the cup of the sea

up to my

ear

and listen to all the love

she whispers,

slipping 

out of the gentle

roar.

the long cold swim

the pull

of the ocean,

draws you in.

the rise

and fall of endless waves,

the cool

wash of salt, the globe

of blue

above you.

arm after arm, legs

kicking.

swim deep, swim long,

and return

refreshed,

ready to go on.

the dogs are barking

the world

is full of barking dogs

this morning.

i can hear them

in every yard

throughout the neighborhood,

scratching at the dirt.

the howls are

across the town,

down the streets into

the city. up the alleys.

i hear them barking

across the rivers,

the lakes,

the oceans.

the dogs are barking,

they know something is up.

don't ask.

no need to,

for we can feel it

in the air.

succumbing to the morphine drip

when my mother

was sick

with dementia, she stared

blindly

as if into some light,

or darkness

we couldn't see.

she opened her

wordless mouth

and listened, but didn't

hear or say a word.

she had no response

to questions

like did you have lunch today.

she walked

in small steps holding

invisible rails,

taking whatever hand

there was to steady her gait.

she didn't blink,

she smiled a lot.

but she wasn't there, not

really.

she went from that to five

years later,

curled in a ball in hospice.

the morphine drip

taking her slowly

to another place.

what seems far away is always near

that clicking

noise you hear are people,

tuning out,

dropping out,

turning off the blather,

the twisted news,

the cheers

and tears.

saying enough is enough,

stuffing cotton

into their ears.

the dead

are dead, their silence

has begun

already, what seems

far away

is always near.

1968 all over again

maybe it is 1968 again.

maybe nothing

has changed,

or learned.

we haven't made a single

step forward

in anything.

the wheel hasn't spun

an inch.

the angry, the sick, 

the mentally disturbed

want the bullet

to be the answer

to everything.

votes are useless, just

excuses to riot

and burn.

the story of adam and eve

someone near and dear

to you gives you

an apple,

your new friend,

the possible love of your

life, so

you look at it and don't ask

where it came

from,

or who convinced her to take

a bite.

you just say, okay,

thanks, you give it rub

with your fig leaf,

then chomp down on

the sweet 

freshly plucked fruit.

little do you know that the devil

in the shape

of serpent

is behind it all and that this

would be the beginning

of the end

for all mankind.

it's the first of many of your

never ending,

who's fault is it,

fights.

guests from out of town

a delivery car

pulls up out front.

it's early, seven a.m. .

there's a light on top of the car

in the shape

of an eclair.

a man gets out carrying a

tray styled box

of donuts.

maybe twenty-four in all.

he sets that on the neighbor's

porch

with a bag of donut holes.

then he lugs

a gallon jug of coffee

up the steps and knocks

on the door.

i believe the neighbor

has guests from

out of town this week.

the license plate

says Illinois.

they're getting the royal

treatment.

her nickname was cheese

someone posts

on Facebook the death of a high school

classmate.

after a long

battle with her illness,

Joleene Buttermilk,

succumbed

late last night. we'll all

remember

her charm and goodwill.

her love of cats,

and dogs.

and the flowers she made

out of silk.

her nickname was Cheese.

i scratch my head,

Joleene Buttermilk?

then i go to her profile page.

oh yeah,

her. i remember now.

freckles with curly red hair.

she sat behind me in French

class,

always kicking my chair.

getting off to a good start

it's raining again,

she tells

me,

staring out the window.

but we need it,

right?

i suppose so, i tell her.

i mean

we can't grow

our crops 

without rain. there'd be

no harvesting

in the fall.

what?

she says.

what are you talking about?

we don't have a farm.

she shakes her head

and leaves the room.

we're off to a good start

this morning.

give me more of nothing

there are no

shortages of words when

it comes to

politicians,

theologians, teachers

and internet

influencers.

it's an onslaught

of gibberish for the most

part.

designed to align you

with their way

of thinking.

we are living in a click

bait world

with no divining rod,

no road map,

no true way to

navigate the stars.

a sip here, a bite,

a nibble,

chew and swallow,

but hunger comes back

to you

in a few short minutes.

she may have been cheating on me

it all falls apart when

she starts

to tell me the story,

a true story, she says, hitting

my arm,

as she tells me

about how she was

abducted by aliens a few

months ago

when she was on vacation in

South Beach

with her friend Amber.

we were doing tequila shots

with a group

of frat boys from North Carolina

at this tiki bar

when suddenly

everything went black and

i woke up

in a spaceship

with these creatures staring

at me.

they had big eyes,

and long arms

she says.

and they had a language

unlike ours.

a high-pitched squeaky sound,

like minnie

and mickey mouse,

as if they were filled with helium.

they made me take my

clothes off.

i was wearing my orange

bikini and stiletto heels, at the time

with a beach towel wrapped

around me,

the one you bought me

for my birthday.

i look her as she wipes

what may be a tear from her

eyes.

and then what? i ask.

they made me lie

down on a gurney of some sort

then they started to probe me

with weird instruments.

she squeezes my hand. it was

very scary

i'm experiencing PTSD now

as it talk about it.

i passed out, and the next

thing i know,

i'm back in the hotel,

asleep, with house keeping

knocking on the door.

i swear to you it's true, she says.

pointing at her swollen

belly.

it's been nine weeks now.

honest, i wouldn't make this up.

you have to believe me.

really? okay, what's Amber's number?

it's hard not to be human

you know

they can't be all good,

you wish

that was true

as you listen

to the squeaky clean

priest or preacher.

but deep inside,

you know that they are just

like you.

with desires,

lusts and needs, with ego.

always fighting their

instincts,

tamping down

their appetites

as they preach the good news.

you try not

to believe that they're

human, full of sin,

like you, but it's true.

the Broadmoor Hotel in 1970

the Broadmoor hotel

was on

the boardwalk

facing the ocean.

five dollars a night.

no screens on the windows,

no air conditioning,

no sheets on the beds

with thin mattresses,

stained and striped.

five dollars a night.

the air was alive

with flies.

the bathroom was down

the hall, that we shared

with a blind man

who begged on the boardwalk.

we ate fried chicken

from buckets and threw

the bones on the floor.

at night we'd hear

the blind man playing his

banjo, and singing

songs.

three nights there was way

too long.

it burned down a few years

later. little effort

was made to put the fire out,

but there's a five star

hotel there now.

a wordless departure

she told me one

morning,

after making love, that

she had lupus.

she lit a cigarette

and leaned back

on the pillow

with her long legs

exposed.

don't worry about it,

she said.

it's not your problem,

it's mine.

we took a shower,

we dressed,

we ate breakfast and drank

coffee.

i told her that 

Flannery O'Conner

had that, but

she refused to talk about it.

two weeks later

without even a farewell,

she moved.

always looking back

my mother

was a shutterbug

with her small kodak camera.

when she finally expired

after five

years of a long illness

she left behind

volumes

of photographs, some

in albums,

some in boxes.

some dated with names

on the back.

the edges of many crimped

with her sewing scissors.

it warmed her to save

the world

she loved,

with family and home

in tact. they were stacked

beneath the coffee table,

in closets,

in the attic.

a record of time moving

swiftly.

she saved as many yesterdays

she could.

always

ignoring the future,

always looking back.