yoga is a wonderful thing

my neighbor,

the Swedish flight attendant,

who just moved in

likes

to do her yoga

exercises

out back on a mat.

of course

she's in

her yoga pants,

a tight fitting shiny

number

that catches the morning

light just so.

it's around

seven a.m.

when she begins her

poses,

doing deep breathing

exercises first before

putting her hair

into a long blonde

ponytail.

how she stands on her head

like that,

i just don't know.

with the window open

i can hear

all the men who work at home

pulling up

their blinds,

to look out

and drink their morning

joe.

usually around the middle of the second year

i laugh when i'm out and about

and hear

grown men,

men with muscles

and tattoos,

important jobs,

strong virile men talk

about how

they are scared of their wives.

i can't put my

feet up on the coffee table

anymore,

or watch tv

while i eat.

she makes

me take my boots

off when i come in the house.

she wants

to look at my

phone and questions every video

i've looked at and then tells me

about a trip

she's taking

to Costa Rica with her friends.

sometimes she's mad

at me and won't

even tell me why.

i have to sleep in the other

room some nights.

i feel like there are things she's

not telling me,

things she's trying to hide.

if i make one simple mistake

like leaving

the seat

up we won't have sex for a month.

i'm walking on eggshells

all day and all night.

i have to be careful

with every word

that comes out of my mouth.

how about you, they ask me.

ah, distant memories, i tell them, 

but yup,

been there, done that too.

putting on a happy face

animals

do not put on a happy face

when

stuck

in a cage or taken to the vet.

or being

carried out

into the rain

and snow

to do business.

they are not

like us.

they don't care

what you think. when

they feel pain, or stress

they let you

know

in a loud squeal

or cry,

or they try to bite you,

or claw your face,

but we're not

like that.

we put on our happy face,

regardless

of how things are going,

whether

in a bad marriage,

a bad job,

or at the dentist,

or stuck in a tin can

for a year

stranded in outer space.

all is well,

is our mantra.

my doctor Claude Rains

after

about five phone calls

trying

to get a hold of

my doctor

a nurse comes on the phone

and asks

what's wrong.

i go through the list

of ailments

and allergic

reactions to medicine,

headaches

and frequent

trips to the bathroom.

oh, i'm sorry

you're not feeling well, but

the doctor isn't in today,

or tomorrow,

or for the next

three weeks.

and yet i can hear him

in the background,

whispering to the nurse,

tell him,

i'm in another

country. he says,

tell him i'm in Hong Kong.

sir, are you still there?

he'll contact you

when he's back in the country,

but if you feel

like you might die,

please dial

911.

one pancake or two?

we were

having a late breakfast,

when

it struck

me

that we hadn't been to the beach

this year.

she asked

me if i wanted

another pancake,

and i said yes.

more bacon too.

should we go to the beach

this weekend,

i asked her.

why,

she said,

handing me the syrup

and butter.

i don't like the beach.

it's dirty,

it's crowded

and the water looks like

pea soup.

plus it's hot and the wind

never stops

blowing.

oh,

i thought you enjoyed

the beach. i have

pictures of you

under an umbrella

in front of the ocean,

you looked happy

in your little

yellow

sundress

and sunglasses.

i was pretending.

i've done that a lot

in my life, but not anymore.

one pancake,

or two?

two, please.

the back room Holiday Inn interview

and if elected

i promise to do, or at least

think

about all the things

i say

i might do,

once i figure out what

they are

and which

things will get me

the most votes

in November.

but my values have

not changed

one tiny little bit

despite what i've preached

for the last ten

years.

yes, i may be reversing

my stance

on taxes,

on fracking, on putting

illegals

behind bars, building a wall,

extending

welfare

to all, citizens or not,

and free tuitions,

not to mention

a check for 25 k to any

and everyone

who wants to buy a house,

regardless of race, creed

or color,

or criminal status

or ability to make a mortgage

payment.

oh, and did i mention

no taxes on tips,

i just thought of that too.

why aren't French people fat like us?

so why aren't French

people

fat like us,

she says to me, biting down

on a bear claw

then wiping

the glaze from her nose,

washing it all

down with a Mountain Dew.

they eat

fat stuff.

heavy creams and cheeses,

baguettes,

bouillabaisse,

and onion soup?

not to mention creme brulee.

they eat snails

by the handful.

those people love butter.

why aren't they all walking

around

Paris looking

like the Hindenburg,

like everyone is in Springfield?

what's up

with.

beats me i tell her.

me too, she says. maybe

should we get some ice-cream

next?

do you mind rolling

me into the back 

of your truck, my legs keep

sticking

to the vinyl seats up front.

you have a point there

it's better

to stay quiet about yourself

when in

mixed

company,

and not

make a fuss

of life.

steer the conversation

as far away

from health

and money, politics

and religion

as you can.

go numb

in your meditative pose,

run silent, run deep.

smile

and nod, just

benignly agree

to disagree.

getting better all the time

it's okay to change

your mind

when you get older and wiser,

more experienced

at life.

i know that when

i hit 100,

if and when,

by the grace of God,

that i'll look

back

and think what a fool

i was to think

and behave like that

at 99.

cave paintings on the CVS wall

it's new

graffiti on the drugstore

wall.

bold

bright letters in red

and blue,

green

and yellow.

so artistic and beautiful

in its own

childish way.

the faces

drawn,

the genitals of oversized

men and women

depicting

in primitive sketches

the act

of making

love.

it must

have taken a long time

in the dead

of night

to compose such a

masterpiece.

tomorrow they'll power

wash it

gone,

but i'm sure there's more,

there's always

more to come.

February 1970

in the old

days, the 1970s,

on a cold day, a freezing

morning

after a hard snow

and sleet,

many cars

wouldn't start.

there'd be

ice on the windshield

and the motor

would

turn and crank, but to

no avail.

just the whirring

of the starter

trying hard to make

the engine come alive.

the battery

dead.

no heat,

no radio,

no luck.

you got out

of your car,

opened the trunk

and waited for a neighbor

to come

out to help you.

you stood there in

the purple gloom of 

morning

with your open hood

and cables

dangling,

smoking a cigarette

as you leaned against

the ice cold car.

vote for me and get free stuff

i need the votes,

so everything i said yesterday

and the day

before,

and for the previous

twenty years

of my life,

please, ignore that.

i need your vote,

so tell me what you want

and i'll be

for that today, or at least

pretend to,

okay?

i will straddle any

fence,

or go to the other side,

in the blink

and wink of an eye.

we need your votes,

and we'll give you lots

of free stuff too.

hold on

we live

in the constant

movement

of currents. the swift or slow

movement

of air

and water.

politics and war.

we're at the mercy

and pull of

gravity,

the swirl of wind.

we shift our feet in sand,

with hardly

a dry

spot,

or rock to stand on.

all is in flux,

ever changing.

the future is not

what it used 

to be.

he's making a good point here

if you

close the border, then what?

the illegal immigrant

says, as

he's handcuffed

in the back of a squad

car for

killing someone

and kidnapping

an old lady with a cat.

who will cut

your grass, watch your babies,

who will cook

and clean for you.

who will

work in the restaurants

and

build the bridges

and highways.

who will blow all the leaves

away in

your cul de sacs?

you people are stupid,

you can't make

it without us.

you're lazy and dumb.

we are the only

ones to make American

great again.

so if you're smart, you'll

let us all in.

the braille room

it's the drugs,

the water,

the coffee the tea,

the juice,

the watermelon

slice

the size of my arm.

all of it combined

to make

me get up six times

in the middle of the night

to relieve myself,

and not just

a trickle,

but a full racehorse

stream. 

but there's

no need to turn

on the light.

i got this,

i'm Stevie Wonder,

i'm Ray Charles,

I'm Jose Feliciano

and Helen Keller all

wrapped into

one

in the dead of night.

gluing the pot back together

the boy,

a mere four years old, pushes

over

the 4 thousand year

old

pot sitting in the middle

of the museum

lobby.

it's made

of clay

and whatever else

they had

back then. but

what does he know?

he's a mere baby.

it looks cheap,

like something from target,

maybe a lamp

of some sort,

a pot to pee in or drink

from.

something to carry

water

or wine around.

let's put it where it can be

knocked over

by a child

the curator says.

and down it

goes in a cloud of ancient

dirt and dust.

we'll glue it back together

in no time,

he says.

where's the Elmer's?

a day at the beach

we go to the beach,

but it's

off limits for a five mile

stretch.

no walking,

no swimming,

no throwing the ball around,

or walking

your dog

to play catch.

and then you see the luminous

figure

on the beach chair up ahead,

stretched

out under a large umbrella,

with a blue

hat on his head.

he's surrounded by men

in black.

licking

ice-cream cones,

nibbling on caramel popcorn

and water taffy,

and other

beach like snacks.

when the kremlin interviews Putin

safe

in the confines of friendly fire,

of

those on her

side,

she brings along

her teddy

bear

new mate, to sit

beside her,

and smile, and gesticulate

when

the answers go

south in a landslide

of word

salad

with a heap of Ranch Dressing.

so

why now are you

saying

the exact opposite of what

you've been saying

you're entire life,

the bewildered

interviewer asks.

umm, well, ummm, i choose

to defer

that answer to the jolly

gentleman

sitting

next to me.

let him answer that.

Oh Henry

there was this

time,

when in the middle of making wild

passionate

love,

the ex called me Henry.

some guy

she met at her yoga class.

oh

Henry, she said

writhing

in the bed,

which made me laugh

and think

of the O Henry candy bar,

the one wrapped

in white plastic, with

chocolate

nuggets and nuts.

all held together in a creamy

gooey filling.

she took off her mask,

and undid

the ropes

around her ankles and wrists

and said,

why are you laughing?

what's so funny?

can't you ever be serious?

Strangers in the Night

i didn't know

anyone

at the wedding. they didn't

know

me, but somehow the woman

who i was about

the meet for

the first time wrangled

a plate

and a seat for me.

she drove in from Richmond

to sit at the piano

and sing

to the bride and groom,

who happened to be,

Jimmy and Frank.

one being 25 years older

than the other.

two fellows who met at a

club downtown

called the Rodeo.

i put on my best suit,

my best tie

and shirt, my shiniest shoes.

and sat

there eating cake

as my date

sang Strangers in the Night

to me.

as a gift,

she brought me an enormous

chocolate bar

with nuts

from the candy shop she worked

in. sadly,

like so much in life,

it melted in the car.

cinnamon Babka

i take

the flour, the sugar,

the dry

yeast,

the chocolate

and cinnamon,

the old baking

dish

up to the church.

putting them all into

the donation

box.

the next day i see

father

Smith

at the bake sale with

a cinnamon

Babka.

a failure to communicate

smart as whip,

the doctor was

first in his class in

taking

blood and installing stents,

and yet.

communication,

verbal communication

seems to be a problem.

his writing as well,

chicken claw

strokes

of ink, calligraphy

from hell.

there is no

bed side manner, no in the chair

manner,

no follow up

call, or explanation as to why

you're still bleeding

and feel numb.

but he has a lot of diplomas

on his wall.

the soft landing

we all

need a plan B, a plan C.

life

so often

gets in the way

of unrealistic

dreams.

we need a back door,

an open

window,

a rope to swing out

onto,

to retreat

and escape,

a soft landing

away from

the messes we've made.

when they don't leave the nest

in looking back

over the thirty-five years

we often wonder,

did we give

the kid

too much. of course we did.

on top of

all that adoration

and love, we

we were making

up for

all the things we never

got as children. stuff.

did he get

toys, good lord, yes.

clothes and books,

every treat under the sun,

playing every sport,

musical instruments.

every day was Christmas.

did he have a pony,

a bike,

a car.

was tuition paid

for?

cameras and phones.

vacations

and rents paid for.

did we give him too much?

of course we did.

and now we hope

that one day he'll leave

the nest

we feathered for him,

and get a job.

men helping men

she pulled up

in her vintage Mercedes Benz,

something

she won

in the divorce settlement.

the valet opened

her door

and took her keys.

she was wearing a cowboy

hat,

and pearls.

and a fluffy white dress.

yellow

boots of Spanish leather.

we walked

into the steak house together

where she

ordered a martini.

her go to place for online dates.

she then asked me if i was going

to cowboy up

and buy her

a 32 ounce rib eye steak

with all

the trimmings.

the specialty

that week.

i told her no, i'm not a cowboy.

and besides

the kitchen

is closed.

the bartender nodded, true,

that's true, missy,

and winked at me.

when Halloween comes early

i write an email

to the surgeon, telling him

that

i can't come

to the second visit for another

round

of medieval

torture.

of blood and pain,

of screams.

and tears.

i can't participate

in his little

shop of horrors anymore.

with cold instruments,

pointed

and made of steel

slid into my nasal passages,

millimeters

from my brain.

i can no longer enter

his little

well lit hell

and do it again.

so far no response.

taking her vacuum with her

i don't fire

the housekeeper, i tell her,

let's

do every other month,

instead of

every month.

i'm not a pig pen

like i used

to be,

i tell her.

i've grown up.

i'm much neater now.

i no longer have visitors

until the crack of dawn

or eat

cookies in bed.

but there's a language barrier.

she thinks

i'm firing her.

she begins to cry,

she tells me she will miss me.

i try to calm

her down,

but it's too late.

she's already moved on.

taking

her vacuum 

and dust mop with her.

a tight fit

the vest

pocket, the small pocket

in

your jeans.

the tight

square

sewn on

with hardly

room for a finger

or thumb.

what are we doing here?

what's this all

about.

who puts anything

in there

anymore, or ever.

for me it's

been

since the civil war?

the inside story

there's

more to this than we can see.

there's

between

the lines, beneath

the covers.

everything is

an iceberg

floating

mostly

under the sea.

what you think

and see

is a mere glimpse

of reality.

even you.

even me.

the forever tours

we've seen

them our whole lives,

the aging

rock

gods

with guitars and songs,

the long hair and

massive

crowds, with

pretty girls,

and wives. the forever tours.

on their planes

and buses,

the massive crowds,

their faces

familiar from album covers

stacked

at home.

they are the sound track

of our

lives.

giving us music to live by.

to dream with.

we are with them,

side by side.

and now as they get older,

and older, and older,

falling

onstage,

forgetting lines, singing

from wheelchairs,

bent and ravaged by

drugs and drink,

by careless living,

it scares you how brief it

all is.

how rebellious youth 

has turned into

an old

but no longer sweet wine.

pump your brakes

is it

done yet. i yell into the kitchen.

no,

she yells back.

be patient.

another twenty minutes

or so.

what's taking

so long?

i'm starving.

she peeks her head into

the room,

and waves a spatula at me.

it won't bake any faster

if you

keep yelling

at me

and bothering me.

and when

it's done i have to let

it cool

before i ice it.

so pump your brakes.

it's coming. quit whining.

the cake will

be done soon.

think happy thoughts

when someone

tells

me to think of blue skies,

chirping

birds,

kitty cats

and puppy dogs,

and

encourages me

to have good thoughts,

i tell them

to shut up.

you have no idea what

i'm going

through.

so please spare me your

new age

baloney, then i make

a gin and tonic

with a slice

of lime, and

then i hang up.

post op surgery visit

the post op

follow up visit

to the surgery was the most pain

i've ever

experienced in

my life.

and that includes

the pain endured by each

of the last

two wives.

with a thin metal prong

up my nose,

and a camera light

the surgeon found

the bone, the inflamed

tissue,

the nerve ending,

raw from surgery and made

me scream,

made me cry

as he washed

it all out with Lidocaine

and saline

and who knows what.

it made me scream out to my God,

and ask

why He had

forsaken me.

i tried to push him away,

push away his instruments

of torture to the side,

to defend

myself,

but he held his ground,

planting his shoes 

on the bloody floor

and dug deep 

into my nasal passages,

beyond  my

eyebrows

and to where

my brain

was on fire with fear.

i almost blacked out.

i was trembling, crying,

my pulse raced, i was

drenched in my own sweat.

i sat there emotionally

drained. weeping

in a fetal ball.

then he left, but not before

telling me,

okay, that went well.

same time,

next week?

the debate before the debate

she wants

a round table,

with flowers

and wants

sunlight coming through

the window.

she

wants an open mike,

with four or five

lifelines

to give her advice.

he says

he doesn't care.

she wants

notes

and an earphone,

and her husband

sitting nearby.

she wants

cookies

and coconut milk. Doritos.

he says a pastrami

sandwich from Katz's

deli

will be fine.

with a pickle of course.

she wants to pick the questions

from the friendly 

left side

and be given

more time when she

can't remember her scripted lines.

there will be no talk

about

the border,

the economy,

inflation or crime.

she wants to help edit

the finished debate

and doesn't want

it televised.

he shakes his head, and sighs.

each to his own fate

no matter

what happens, how the debates

or lack of debates

go.

the interviews,

or conversations around

the water cooler,

(do they even exist anymore?)

it makes no

difference

what either candidate says,

or proclaims,

or what the media shouts

in their Orwellian

biased way.

minds have been

made up,

either by like

or hate.

the facts hardly matter anymore.

everything is

true,

everything is fake.

each to his own

vote, each to his own

deserving fate.

ahh, sugar sugar

i read

the box of cereal

with a long list of ingredients.

chemicals

you've never heard of, but

after oats

and grain,

it's sugar.

same with the bread,

the juices,

the chips

and sauces,

ice-cream.

nearly anything in a bag

box,

jar or bottle

is full of sugar.

sugar is listed first

or second

almost always

on every food manufactured

in this country.

a single

coke has twelve grams

of pure

sugar.

heart disease, cancer,

etc.

are directly related to 

consuming sugar.

60 percent of children

are now

currently

obese

and have some form

of diabetes.

not to mention

the adults waddling around

Walmart

and Duck Donuts.

follow the money

and find

the disease.

Happy Halloween.

the plumber from Newark

i was living in the now

the other day,

yesterday

or the day

before, exploring my Beta

male

mentality,

with low

testosterone,

when i was at a stoplight,

pretzeled into

a yoga

pose,

meditating,

trying to levitate

myself away

from the world that has

its hold,

when the car behind

me honked his

horn

and yelled me when

the light changed.

A plumber from Newark,

waving a wrench,

trying to get to a job.

he told me to get off the road

and go home.

then called me bad names

which hurt

my feelings.

it's so hard

these days being in touch

with oneself,

and 

experiencing one's inner

soul.

i still get upset and cry about it

i couldn't wait to crawl under

the bed

with my three cats

when i got home.

Dear Officer Krupke

no money,

no job,

no skills or ambition,

not your country,

no problem, car loans,

student loans,

mortgages you

can't afford?

healthcare,

step right up. we got this.

tired of being a girl,

or a boy,

we got this.

stand over there and wait

your turn.

the surgeon

and pharmacist will be right

with you.

no drivers license,

no social

security number,

undocumented?

not willing to pay taxes?

criminal record, out on bail,

murderer,

rapist?

no problem,

step right up.

uncle Sam has your back,

we forgive you, we want you.

we'll coddle your children,

feed you,

cloth you,

tuck you in at night

at the Roosevelt Hotel.

abortions,

what a hassle, but it's

not your fault.

step right up.

bad decisions, we got this.

obese

and drunk,

drug addled.

none of it is your fault,

you're a victim of society,

you're misunderstood

and held

back by the shade of your skin,

the curl

of your hair,

the parents you lack.

Dear Officer Krupke take that.

the world is responsible

for f...ing you up.

so come on over the wall,

the fence,

smoke a doobie, have some crack.

let's have a group hug.

just chill and relax.

Uncle Sam has your back.

step right up.

the existential sigh

as i ride

my bike down the long curve

of paved

path,

through the swampy

woods,

heading to the lake,

occasionally

i'll run over

a slow moving

snake.

not on purpose, of course.

but you can't

tell a stick from a copperhead

sometimes.

i imagine

they scream in their own

way

as the tires roll

over them,

but it's more like

a silent cry.

a reptilian moan

of sorts.

an existential sigh.

i try to lift my legs

as i continue

to ride.

we had sticks, we had rocks

as kids

we used to sit around and have

a think

tank

on the porch, while

throwing

rocks

at bottles,

or shooting rubber bands

at each other

from sling shots.

we'd talk about inventing

something.

anything.

if we could just

think of one thing that the world

needs

and wants,

we could be rich

and famous.

something dumb, like the hula hoop,

or the slinky,

or a pet rock

or a cabbage patch

doll.

but we were stuck.

we had sticks.

we had rocks.

the trophy wife

i'm your trophy

wife,

the second wife told me once,

staring

at herself

in the full-length mirror

before going out

on a Friday night.

she spun

around,

and fluffed her hair,

pouting her

lips while

tightening the jawline

of her face.

she squirmed

and squealed,

making her body

curve like

a cat in heat.

yes. you are i told her.

but who knew

they gave

out trophies

for tenth place.

how much is bread?

it used

to be enjoyable, going out to restaurants.

before an 8 ounce

steak cost

seventy dollars.

and a potato

was fifteen with or without

a dollop of butter.

it was fun

getting dressed up

and

having

a meal

cooked for you.

reserving a table,

for your date. the food

seasoned

just right. more than you could

eat,

most times.

the professional waiter,

the linen tablecloth,

the candlelight.

the overhead

music,

everyone so

civil,

so polite.

they gave you time

to chew

your food and talk

before

rushing you out the door.

the 1980s and before,

before apps

and Styrofoam

were very good times

to be alive.

and then it begins to rain

it's been

years, but finally i find the time

to go

visit my

mother's final resting place.

a grassy

slope somewhere

in Bladensburg.

a cemetery

famous for the civil soldiers

and before

that former slaves

emancipated

by old Abe.

no trees,

no markers, no benches,

nothing to find

the spot

where they buried her.

just a rusted fence

leaning

onto itself,

a gateless gate.

i walk around for awhile,

calling out

her name.

hey, mom, where are you?

is there a Marie in the house?

i know you're here

somewhere.

somewhere below this

cold hard

ground.

and then

it begins to rain.

maybe Saturday

a week

after we

got married, she accused me of being

very clingy.

insecure and needy.

i'd come home

from work

and put my arms around

her, missing

her,

kissing her gently

on the cheek

and lips.

we're married now, she'd say.

we're no longer

in the honeymoon

phase.

the game is over.

please, please,

i need some room here.

maybe Saturday.

flexing his muscles

the surgeon

in his blue

gloves and blue mask,

is happy with his work.

numbness,

he asks,

bleeding, soreness.

feeling woozy

and light headed?

throat hurts?

eyes watering and headaches?

good, good, he says.

i think we got it all this time.

he flexes the muscles

in his arms

and chest.

now follow my nine page

set of instructions,

religiously,

we don't want you 

coming back.

i stagger out into the blinding

light of

the hospital,

but first i take a seat

on a bench,

for a short rest.

Lilly in the morning

i set

the saucer of milk on the stoop

for Lilly,

the black cat

from the nearby

neighborhood.

no collar,

no tags,

just her long shaggy self

strolling

the street

and cul de sac.

she sees me and comes

over to say hello.

slithering

her

matted body

between my

calves.

we're not in love,

exactly,

but have a fondness for

one another

that goes

years back.

both being strays of sort.

she takes

one lick from the bowl,

then is on her

way again.

sometimes

if she's in the mood,

she'll even look back.

in search of the dream girl

when young

we spend a lot of time and energy

looking

for the dream girl,

the dream

job, or car, or house.

the dream

vacation.

we want the best for us.

but as time goes on,

we stop such nonsense

and start looking not for

the dream,

but for the one that isn't

a nightmare.

she's due in June

i go down

to the bank to take out cash

to bail

a friend out

of the jump.

he's behind bars again

for nonpayment of child support.

a mere

four or five

thousand

dollars

in arrears. he was

married for one year,

one child,

and now seventeen years later,

he's still dealing

with the financial

and emotional woes

of falling in lust

not love.

he's haggard

when they let him out.

three days

in the can, his belt gone,

his shoelaces

off, and wearing an orange

jumpsuit,

just like all the other men.

but i see he's

made some new friends.

and has a new

tattoo on

his arm,

with the initials of his new

girlfriend.

Amber, a dancer,

downtown.

she's due in June.

six years later

the Jiffy

lube guy remembers me.

where have

you been? he says.

we missed you

and your Honda

car and Toyota truck.

we haven't seen you in a long

time.

synthetic oil?

right?

yes, i tell him. it's a long

story.

he laughs,

women right?

of course, i tell him.

always is.

filters, he asks?

air, cabin?

sure, why not.

rotate the tires?

okay.

we top off the fluids

for free, but you know that,

right?

thanks, i tell him.

there's coffee

and a bathroom in there,

he says,

opening the door

for me.

i sit down in the waiting

room,

picking up

an old people magazine

with Oprah on the front,

then start reading

where i left off

six years ago.

she's finally been able

to keep

the weight off.

eat, eat, look at you, you're so skinny

he tried

to eat healthy, but Mona,

his wife,

would have

none of that.

she loved to bake, to make

cookies

and treats.

she had

sugar and flour,

butter

and all the ingredients

that make

life sweet.

he tried so hard

to lose weight, to get back

in shape.

but no,

here she comes 

in the middle of the day

with another

pineapple upside down

cake.

the neighborhood watchers

i see the neighborhood

gaggle

of geese,

the condo board,

coming up the street with

their pitchforks

and

torches,

walking as one, as ducks

often

do,

making quacking noises,

and small

fowl like peeps.

pointing

at peeling paint and dead

bushes.

cars without stickers,

trash set

out early.

quickly

i close the door and fall

back into the darkness

of the hall.

i never know when they

might be coming

for me.

when we make love

we disagree

on nearly

everything, 

under the sun,

politics,

food,

movies,

music,

culture, the current

trends, etc.

but when we make

love,

we're somehow good

again.

wildfires

as wildfires

do

disease and old age

will take its toll

and thin

the herds,

the trees, scorching

the earth

to make room

for the new,

the next

generation

of flora.

the weak won't survive.

it's nature,

it's the way things

are,

get used to it.

the trial of the century

summoned

for jury duty, i immediately

try to think of ways

to get out of it.

work,

allergies,

travel, or lack of interest.

my sunning hours

in the back yard

are now from ten to twelve

in the morning

because of the upcoming winter

solstice,

plus i don't like eating out

of vending machines

or food trucks

in front of the courthouse for a week.

i have dietary restrictions.

they don't care

so i say, okay,

let's do this. but i want a big

case

i tell the judge.

like the Scopes Monkey Trial,

or OJ, 

Johnny Depp

and Amber Heard, the Rosenbergs,

or

the Lindberg baby, or maybe

Leopold and Loeb.

something fun and juicy.

i want to decide someone's

fate,

to be the right hand

of God

in deciding the future of this

criminal's nefarious

activities.

alleged,

the judge says, alleged criminal.

the defendant is innocent

until proven guilty.

yeah, right, i say. pffft. right.

and by the way,

this is case about jaywalking,

he says.

not murder or kidnapping,

then he asks

me if i'm on any meds,

or if i have regular sessions

with a psychiatrist,

receiving 

shock treatments.

maybe, i tell him.

why? it's sort of none of your

beeswax,

your honor. my medical records

are completely

confidential and sealed

until twenty years after my death.

okay, buddy, he says,

okay,

you're dismissed.

new details on the democratic policies

they are kissing

babies

now.

visiting the old and infirmed.

they are

making

promises

they can't keep.

they want to put a chicken

in every pot.

free money

for a house even

if you

can't afford the payments.

free health

care,

free tuitions,

free abortions

and vasectomies,

free food and hotels

for

the homeless

and illegals crossing

the border.

they want childcare,

and 

social workers

instead of cops.

they want to tear down the wall

and let

the fentanyl flow

across.

they want

to empty the prisons,

and give

them therapy

instead of a cell and a cot.

can't we all get along?

they want to march and

burn the flag,

paint

the statues with blood red

ink.

they want the terrorists to win.

i may have to work until

i'm eighty

to pay for all of this.

is it time already

to vote again?

now i remember why we don't get together

the sky

is so blue today, i say to him

in casual

passing

innocuous chit chat.

he looks

at me and says,

no,

not really.

see those clouds, they're

white

and some are

grey.

the atmosphere

is not really

blue,

but an illusion of many

variable

things

in space and in our

protective

halo

of air.

the sun

and lunar position must

be taken

into consideration

as well.

so you're wrong about that.

okay. well it's

always a pleasure to see you,

i tell him,

staring off into

the distance

as i pull

out my chair. take care.

 

something for you too

i log onto

my Amazon account, and start

perusing,

window shopping.

there must be something

i need,

something i need to buy,

a book

or something

that i haven't read yet.

maybe some fruit and vegetable pills

to perk me up.

some creams

and lotions for

my skin.

stool softeners,

and an ED rescue

product, four for the price

of two.

a new shirt, some shoes,

a new

toaster oven

or computer.

how about a bread machine,

or 

a lava lamp.

how about a new set of

queen

sized sheets made of bamboo?

how about a garlic

press,

a food processor

and one of those pop corn

machines.

or a nine speed

blender, hey,

maybe i'll even find something

for you.

the never ending night

pain

in any measure is hard on you.

small

or large,

grief and sorrow

will take its toll.

age you,

break your heart.

deepen

the furrows of your

brow,

make you

alone.

and yet, who doesn't

go through

it

at some point in your life?

some rise,

some don't. and sadly,

some stay put in the never

ending

night.

California girls

the four

of us,

a rag tag group of teens

from

the other side

of the track,

not even knowing

how

poor we really were,

decided

to go to California.

why not

get out of this neighborhood

of duplexes

with tar

roofs,

the city smoke,

the storm drains, the barbed

wire,

the bowling

alley,

the broken windows of

our youth?

why not flee to the sunny

shores of the west

coast.

to California sunshine,

and girls

girls girls frolicking

on the beaches.

we sang the song

as we drove,

but our Chevy broke down

just outside

of Largo Maryland.

and that was it.

dreams differed.

we hitch hiked home

after

donuts

in a coffee shop we found,

and often wondered,

what if.

she appears to be alone

what is that

purple

and blue, crimson and green

little

slithery

thing

at the threshold

of my door

slipping

through the cracks

of metal and wood.

it appears

to be

a dinosaur

from another age,

shrunken

into

a reasonable size, cute

if not

adorable

in some strange way.

he's quick,

or she is, hard to be sure

without

a magnifying glass.

it appears

to be alone

despite its beauty. but

aren't we all,

sometimes?

we need to update your receiver boxes

it's an early

morning scam call.

i'm on my first

cup of coffee,

walking about the house

dusting

my plants.

all plastic but they look

real

in the early blush

of sunlight.

the man 

is bright and bushy tailed.

excited

with not having

someone hang up

on him

when they hear his Indian

accent.

he wants

to update my 

television receiver boxes,

all nine of them.

my record

of keeping them on the phone

is 53 minutes

and spare change.

game on.

when his mother was out of town with Carlos

i remember

the day

i taught my son how to make

a banana

split on the dining room table

with the big light on.

he was blue

unable to reach his mother who

had mysteriously

disappeared

with a small piece of luggage

for the weekend.

it wasn't the drug store

counter chintzy banana split,

but the real deal.

a long trough of endless goo

with

a whole banana,

three scoops

of ice-cream, mint chip,

rocky road,

and strawberry,

nuts and cherries, chocolate

and whipped

cream,

sprinkles without limits.

i put the knife in his hand

and showed him 

after we peeled the long fruit

how to cut the banana

down the middle making

two slender halves,

setting it aside as

we waited

for the ice-cream

to soften.

getting the spoons out,

shaking vigorously

the can of real whipped cream,

opening the large bag

of walnuts, both dry

and syrupy wet,

to be laid down

accordingly at the end.

crushed pineapple

was held back,

it was only our first lesson

after all

at this feel good task.

we found out later

his mother was out of town,

with Carlos,

of course.

but those were the days

and that night

he slept like a baby

with chocolate stuck to his face.

what else is there to say

the old man,

dying,

slipping away as we all do

at some

point.

settled in his home

with lots

of shade.

deep in the hollow

of

old age.

forty years

and little has changed.

his children

not far,

the ex-wife

in the other room,

on her phone.

no pets

these days.

no strength

to garden

or rake. just the photo

albums

in his lap, as he

turns each page.

but it was a good life

while it

lasted.

what else is there to say?

what to look forward to

i was looking

at the clock and thinking about

what the VP

has often

said rambling

incoherently

in a state of verbal word

salad,

the passage

of time

is important.

we must not underestimate

the passage of time.

it seems like an hour ago

that i just

woke up,

and here it is nearing 

eleven

o'clock.

she's absolutely right.

and now

it's time to unburden

myself

from my shoes

and socks,

my shirt

and pants.

i toss them all to floor

which strangely land

in a circular

Venn diagram.

the unhappy other states

the other states

are angry,

mad,

jealous of the swing states.

they want

more love,

Alaska,

and Texas,

North Dakota.

why is Pennsylvania

getting all

the attention?

Geogia and Arizona?

what about us?

what are we chopped

liver over here

in the middle of the country

and the great northwest?

how about

a little affection

and concern

from you people,

we can flip flop just as good

as the rest

of them,

you mysterious pollsters

taking

numbers on views.

ask us

what we think.

we're Americans too.

we can see each other if we want to

it's clear

water, as we stand here at the edge

of the lake.

we can

see the bend

of golden

fish,

the underwater

greenery.

the silk

of sand and stones

the swirl

of seas,

yet to be.

we can

see the sky too, the clouds

and sun,

our faces,

our legs

our shoes.

we can see each other

in this

deceptively calm

and simple world,

we can see it all,

if we

want to.

the grand illusion

they

fact check the speech.

the long

winded

rally of words,

practiced

deep into the night,

confectionary

thoughts made of

sweet

sugary dreams

and angry

memes.

some is true, some is bleep.

but who cares,

right?

it's all

about power

and inclusion, it's all about

being

free

and democracy,

the grand

illusion.

stopping by the woods

i'm in

a post-surgical state of mind.

thankful

to be alive,

and yet

somehow,

unworried about ever getting

to the other

side.

will Peter

have my paperwork

stamped

and right?

there are still things

to do,

i suppose,

places to go,

people to love

and to be loved by.

more poems

to write.

more food to eat, hours

at night

to sleep.

it was just a short

stop by

the woods

on a snowy

winters night, the horse

and I.

we don't need men

we don't

need men anymore, the politician

says,

pushing her husband

behind her.

we don't need

hunters

and doers.

builders,

shakers and movers.

we don't need

testosterone

laden

men with beards

and bows

and arrows.

men with muscles and vision.

we need

soft men. childlike men

in aprons.

not warriors

or heroes.

we need them at home

changing diapers,

making

soufflés and quiche,

doing laundry,

walking the dogs

and children.

we need them bent and

weak,

repentant

for all that's ever been.

we don't need men.

give me the gas

humor

will save the day.

a laugh,

wit

and sarcasm.

a prat fall, a joke,

a humorous

tale,

a one liner,

a long

drawn out affair

of mirth.

give me

the smile,

the punch line,

the giggle, the guffaw,

the standup routine,

the comedy.

the wink

and nod.

give me the gas.

the laughing gas,

it's too

hard

to go on without it.

we have a lot of balloons

what are the cost

of all

those balloons?

all that confetti

falling from the roof.

people

are hungry, homeless,

needing

medical

attention.

so much is broken that

needs fixing.

but we have balloons.

we have

music,

we have celebrities

kissing

across the room.

we have balloons,

filled with the hot air

of platitudes.

look at the thousands

of them

floating to the floor,

red white

and blue.

it's a silly world at times.

a clown

show

of insufferable

buffoons.

the farmer's almanac

we know

a lot more about the weather

than

we used to.

we're way past

the leg out the door,

the feeling in our bones,

the open

window

and looking off into the distance

for a storm.

our nose

in the air smelling

rain

in the ozone.

we're all

meteorologists

now

with our doppler radar,

our maps

and 

software,

our el Ninos

and long distant forecasts

predicated

on what's come before.

we have

data now.

graphs of trends.

we have temperatures

and barometric

pressures,

we have it seven days a week,

hourly,

by the minute.

and still it's all just talk,

there's nothing that can be

done about it

just as before.

why even try to make things right

give me

quirky,

the unhinged,

give me strange and different.

someone

bent

left and right

at the same

time.

someone who would pose

for a portrait

by Dali.

give

me the basement tapes,

the grainy

film,

the dim light.

the conspiracy theory.

splatters

of paint on the canvas

saying nothing.

just blood and bone.

give me

the abstract and stream

of consciousness.

give

me the wet dream,

the long

night.

the air brushed blonde

with a staple

in her navel.

why even try to make

life right?

the growing crowd

there used

to be one man, or maybe

two.

either or both

with one

leg,

or an arm

missing,

crossed eyed 

and thin

walking the streets

of town,

in used clothes,

but often with

new shoes.

people are very generous

around here

to the ill

of mind.

they have things

to say.

these men, some women.

and they say it loudly

and with

vigor

to their invisible

companions.

veterans of war,

domestic

and abroad,

they are fed, they have

shelter.

they are always around.

it used to be

one or

two, like ghosts,

everywhere and nowhere

at once,

but now it's a growing

crowd.

shedding skins

everyday

we're new. we're born

again.

we shed our skins,

shake

off the dust

and grime

of yesterday,

cleanse

ourselves

from

the endless ravages

of sin.

we put our boots

on.

we go on with our

lives.

with or without love,

we find

daylight,

we find joy, we find

ourselves

in surrender

to a higher power,

to the kindness and compassion

of the Lord

above.

eight miles high

she makes

a spread sheet of my prescriptions.

a grid

with times

and

amounts,

all staggered accordingly

to the doctor's

order.

take this,

sip this,

once in the morning,

once at night,

twice

daily.

they're all in a row

on the round

table in

the dining room.

the paperwork,

the boxes,

the small brown jars

of jagged

little pills,

some white, some blue,

some

shaped like

spacecraft over Nevada.

i'll be

eight miles up in the sky

before noon

on an

a hallucinating binge,

flying

high with a smile on my

face in the medicinal

wind.

the coupon through the door

do i need

a dozen donuts? no.

but i have

this coupon that was

slipped

through

the door this morning.

a dozen

plus one,

and a bear claw to boot.

i see they

have bagels

too

with a schmeer of cream

cheese.

hot coffee and a wedding

cake

to go.

but i'm not that

hungry

anymore.

maybe later this year

after shoveling

the drive in winter

after a long

hard snow.

let's keep it that way

you don't know me,

she says

in a rage.

her eyes red

from crying.

her whole-body trembling

with victim hood.

you don't really know who i am,

or the hell

i've been

through.

you have no idea of the ordeals

i've had to deal with,

do you?

you're oblivious to

my struggles,

the weight i carry on my

back

every day.

you have no clue, do you, 

about who i really am, she says

wagging her finger

in my face.

nope i tell her.

and let's keep

it that way.

the infinitely small clasp

it's an intimate

thing, but

almost an impossible

task

for a woman to ask

you

to unsnap or snap

up

her dress,

or dainty

thing with your large

manly fingers.

zipper

me up, she might say,

or please

get the last

button

at the top,

near my neck.

but it's

so small, the clasp,

lost in

your big hands,

the tiniest of things,

and yet.

you try your best,

because

after all

you're a man and she

trusts

you with this.

it could mean everything.

getting back in the game

i think

i can drive today, i tell myself,

looking

in the mirror

at my swollen

face

and head.

letting

the walls hold me up.

today is the day i get

back behind

the wheel

and go somewhere,

buy

more things i don't need.

in a few

hours

when the remaining haze

of anesthesia wears off,

i'll be back in the game,

i'll be back

out there

getting things

done.

but for now

i just need a short nap

and maybe

an ice pack

on my nose.

the paper and coffee

the cool

air

surprises you as you step

outside

the door, down

the steps

in your

boxer shorts

to retrieve the paper

at the end

of the driveway.

the daily

news,

already

six hours old.

a thin

baton

thrown from a passing

car.

but you like the paper,

the feel

of it in

your hands

as you drink your first

cup of joe.

the ink smudge,

the bold headline,

the minutiae

inside

telling you again what

you already know.

lemmings in Chicago

it's a pep

rally,

a feel-good bonfire

of emotions.

a cult

of one clapping like

seals,

or lemmings

going over the cliff

in droves.

bearded boys

in football jerseys,

there's laughter

and tears

of joy.

rah rah rah.

where are the cheerleaders?

where

are the pom pom

girls,

the cow bells,

the horns

and drums.

there's a lot of hot

air

in the room,

a lot of jumping

around,

but never a single

word

about how,

or a definitive plan

to get

false promises done.

a different education

how could they know

where

we were, what we were doing

some days?

they

were dumb

and busy

with their own lives,

our parents.

how could they know

we were walking

on the ice

at the river,

or exploring abandoned

houses,

killing snakes

or carving our names

into trees

with dull pen knives.

we were

taking

the bus downtown to play

pin ball

machines

and wander the streets,

eating

eggs in diners.

how could

they know the extent of

our skipping

school

and creating a different

education

for ourselves?

far from home

all financed by

the spare change we

found

in our father's drawer.

and at the end of the long

day,

at last home,

sitting at the table for

dinner,

with smiles

on our faces,

but exhausted

they'd ask how was your

day, how was school today?

and we'd answer

just great, just great, thank

you for asking.

norman rockwell upside down cake

at thanksgiving,

around

the table you can sort of see how

the world

has changed

since you were young.

little Jimmy

is now Betty Sue

who goes by them or they,

or kitty cat.

sometimes she

meows

when she wants something,

or her

head scratched.

Frank, 

the artist,

with a spoon

for an earring,

is wearing

the mask of a vulture,

and aunt

Joan

is covered in tattoos

representing

all the state parks

she's visited

in her Winnebago with her

friends

from Yoga camp.

the twins

have glued themselves

together

in protest

for the mistreatment

of rats

in labs testing mascara.

everyone has a podcast

or a YouTube

channel now,

giving up the mainstream

lifestyle

of the old and grey.

it's still

fun though with the turkey,

the mashed

potatoes

and greens

all constructed from

soy and carob.

we hold hands and sing.

it's the best of all holidays,

i do believe.

the fat juicy peach

i see

the woman in the long

coat

stuffing

cans

of cat food into her deep

pockets.

an octogenarian

thief.

she smiles and winks.

for my cat

she says.

i help her with last

can

on the shelf,

high above her reach.

one

more i tell her,

then hand

her from my basket

a fat

juicy peach.

here, i tell her,

no one is looking,

go ahead and eat.

lingering in the twilight zone

when the anesthesia

wears

off,

i'll be back in touch, okay?

i'll

make things

right.

i'll apologize

for what i said the other

night.

i'll even

open the door when

your arrive

with your

tuna casserole,

and mincemeat pie.

just give me time,

some

room to clear my head

and get back

to normal,

my normal, just a mere

foot outside

the twilight zone.

me and the rabbits

the yard

is big enough for tomatoes,

beans

perhaps,

some sort of

healthy

sprouts.

maybe leaf lettuce

in a row,

a grape vine

for the fall.

carrots?

but who would it all

be for.

just me,

and the rabbits?

today tonight

i cup

my good

ear to the whisper,

i lean

in

to listen.

wisdom would be nice,

a small

tea cup

full of wise words.

words 

of love

and hope, words

that don't

divide.

spare me the harsh

world

today,

tonight.

a world of strays

the world

is full of stray animals.

on any

give day

there goes a cat,

or dog

across the highway.

deer

out of the woods,

squirrels

trying to decide which

way to run,

birds on the wire,

mice

in the cellar.

and people

too.

lost and confused.

wandering

the streets.

where to put them,

what to do?

the democratic confection

i try

to watch, 

the sugary sweet convention,

the big fluffy pastry

of wokeness.

i try to be a good citizen

and listen

to both

sides of the story

with my ear to the tv 

to find out what

the policies are.

what the answers are to turn

this ship

around.

crickets. just crickets.

i try hard to

settle my mind.

i sit through a few woke speeches

of the grinning has beens

chanting

that the world is fine.

we need four more years of this

cheap sour wine.

i watch with dismay

at the protests

outside.

democrats for terrorists.

part of me

is filled with disgust,

the other

is filled with sympathy

for the dying.

it's a circle of gibberish,

get an abortion

in a truck,

get a vasectomy next to

hot dog stand.

wear a dress,

wear a hat, wear a mask.

this is the our new and 

demented land.

no answers. just platitudes

and songs, grown men

wearing thongs.

now strike up the band,

let's get this party on

we can make America

worse again.

when the narcissists return

like vampires,

the narcissists rise from their

dirt beds

and come back.

they feign

forgiveness

and remorse, regret,

but they only want

to take your

soul, your blood

by biting into the veins

of your neck.

you hear their

wings at night, fluttering

in the dark,

clapping black

against the full moon,

the grinding of

their sharp teeth and claws

as they try

to fly their way back

into your life,

entering the window

of your room.

it's the wrong number again

it's the wrong number

again,

they've been calling all night.

someone

wants to talk to Sylvia.

i tell them she's busy.

she's putting a cake in

the oven,

she's putting the kids to bed.

she's making

a good home here

for the both of us.

they insist that i put her

on the line.

it's urgent they say.

they ask who i am.

what my relationship

is to Sylvia.

i tell them that she's the love

of my life.

the mother of my children,

my wife.

please, they beg, put her

on the phone.

it's important very very

important.

okay, okay, i tell them,

finally giving in. 

so i call out her name

into the empty house,

down the corridors, into

the darkened rooms,

i call out her name,

Oh Sylvia, Sylivia,

it's for you, but there's

no answer.

eventually they'll hang up.

finding Blue Stone road

the young

people, new in the neighborhood

want the road,

the cut through

to the highway

to the outside world.

they have

new babies,

new cars and homes,

new

marriages.

the cut through would

save minutes,

at least.

but the old folks,

don't want Blue Stone.

Blue

Stone would ruin everything,

they claim.

the trees,

the stream,

where will the deer

and fox go?

where will our grandchildren

play.

the world

is always this way.

given time, things will

change.

the shade tree

the tree,

the lone tree in the small yard

appears

to have given up.

the leaves

have fallen early in pale

colors.

the branches

are grey as the once

thick trunk

bends

towards earth,

a slow bow of surrender,

perhaps.

yes.

the good old tree, the shade

tree

i've watered and

watched

for years,

is giving way for what's next.

who to call just in case

in his

shirt pocket they find his list.

the last

list he wrote.

there are groceries

on it.

milk, bread, etc.

the necessities of life.

and then

there are instructions

as to where

the will is,

which

key fits which lock,

the code to the safe,

details

of insurance

and bank accounts

and lastly

who to call just in case.

in and out of the other side

the dream

is no different than the other

side.

the emotions,

the joy

and fears are all there.

in color,

in black and white.

there are words said,

there

are people you know,

some you

don't know.

it's a journey

into a strange night world

when you close

your weary

eyes

and float.

it's good to be loved

it's good

to be loved, to be adored

and

waited upon.

it warms

your heart, the gentle

hand.

the blanket tucked

in around

you,

the pillow fluffed

just so.

it's good to have the hot

tea

at your bedside,

your book,

your open window.

it's good to be loved

and to hear the words

i'll back

in a while, get some rest,

my child.

don't look out the window, just vote

the convention

is a love

fest

of hyperbole and inclusion.

a series of flip

flops

with every speech given.

pay no attention

to the real

unfiltered news.

don't look out your window.

every

race creed

and

votable color

is on the stage, dancing

singing,

juggling

the words that they read.

it's a minstrel show,

a Broadway

event

it's a carnival

of hope

and promise.

all is well

with the world.

ignore the last four years.

crime is down,

inflation is down,

illegal immigration has

been put to

a stop.

please

vote for us again.

keep us

on top.

and yet here i carry

home

a hundred-dollar bag

of groceries,

threading my way

through an angry mob.

awakening

as you

slip in and out of the greyish

fog

of anesthesia,

blinking

in the light, 

inhaling

the rooms air,

you 

realize

that you're still alive

and half

well,

connected to the tubes

and wires

of the infirmary

and blue

garbed

soldiers

of this bright morning.

you say little,

still feeling the scrapes

of the pipes,

the needle

still in the vein,

naked beneath the thin

throw

away gowns they put

you in.

you're alive again.

so another day alive,

begins.

the barbershop on Saturday morning

i miss the barber shop.

the old men

needing shaves, and trims

around their ears,

their noses

and eyebrows,

asleep with their hats

on, waiting

their turn.

the long wall of mirrors.

the enormous vinyl

chairs

that spun around,

with razor straps attached,

the shelf

with old magazines,

Hunting and Fishing,

Motor Trend,

and Bikini Girls,

the water

cooler gurgling

in the corner with

paper cone cups.

i miss the blue jars

full of combs and brushes,

scissors

getting disinfected

before the next

customer.

i miss Ernie,

my barber and his onion

breath,

his garlic and cigarettes

still

in his hands, 

in the creases of

his thick sausage

fingers.

i miss how he massaged

my freshly

shaved neck,

then doused me 

with a cloud of talcum powder

and aqua velvet.

i miss

him telling me how handsome

i looked,

how all the girls in school

must love me.

i miss how he'd unwrap

the oversized apron,

striped blue,

and white,

and snap the clippings

onto the floor,

and how he'd spin me around

at the end to ask me

what i thought.

was everything okay?

of course it was.

the part on the side,

the Bryl creme making

my wave stand up,

like Ricky Nelson, giving

the new cut

a shine.

was a quarter or two tip

for all he did

ever close to being fair?

afloat on the saragossa sea

we like

to complicate our lives.

it's in our nature.

when things are going well,

we think

to ourselves,

pondering,

with finger on our chin,

ala Rodin,

and say things like,

let's get a dog,

or better yet let's have a baby,

or buy a sailboat, or perhaps

maybe a time share

at the shore.

we're in a peaceful place,

a Saragossa Sea of sorts,

a calm

circle of

water where all is well

and we easily

are afloat,

financially and with health.

we don't see

the storms

beyond

the curve of earth,

the dark

clouds over continents

far away.

we smile at each other

and shrug

and say,

why not, okay.

the deep tissue massage

i give Olga a call 

down at the Russian

massage

parlor

in between

the liquor store

and dry cleaners.

it's where the Sears store used

to be. it's where

my mother would

take me for new school

clothes when

i was a kid.

she's sitting in the window

when i arrive

and smoking

a cigarette.

where have you been?

she says,

gruffly.

you think i don't have

bills

to pay

i have three children and

no

husband.

i have dreams and ambition

too, you know.

she takes my coat and leads

me into a dark room

where she says

take off your clothes.

she then clears the table

of dishes

and glasses, and a large

plate of chicken

gone cold.

she throws down a blanket

and says go on,

get up there.

deep tissue today?

yes i tell her, but don't kill me.

okay?

okay, she says, okay,

big baby man.

she flicks her cigarette

to the floor, smashing

it under a red high heel.

no screaming

today, she says. the children

are finally asleep,

okay?

i give them some vodka.

okay, i tell her as her boney

knee digs sharply

into my back.

and cash only.

no more pay pal, Zelle,

or credit cards.

i simplify now.

your tax man kills my

spirit.

yes. i tell her, grimacing

as i hear

a bone crack

in my back.

cash only. okay.

exit stage left

i've never

liked to clap too long

when a performance

ends and they take

their bow.

whether

a musical

or play,

or some sort of on stage

act.

i'm more of a light

tapper

against my knee

or leg.

i don't stand up and scream

or whistle,

or yell out bravo

and encore,

or hold up

a lit match.

even if i loved it.

i just want to go home now.

exit, stage left.

where's my hat?

the human rotisserie chicken

there are nights

when

you can't get to sleep.

you roll over

and over

and over again. 

you are a rotisserie

chicken

never falling completely 

out of it

in your warm bed.

you turn

over the pillows

looking for

cool relief, you

adjust the sheet

the blanket.

you peek at the clock.

you reach

for your phone and

scroll through

nine videos on making

keto cheesecake,

then peruse belly

dancers in Greece,

then one

on the best non-crimping

garden hose,

one that never leaks.

around 3 a.m.

you drift off.

then light comes.

a dress that shade of blue

we visit

the museum, getting out of the rain.

closing

our umbrellas.

and shaking

ourselves

free of wet clothes.

we find

a marble bench to sit on

and stare

at the wall

of paintings.

she points at one,

and says she'd like to have

a dress

that shade

of blue

in the Renoir.

it's not long before

we're

outside again,

in the rain,

walking down 5th avenue.

before the plows come

a blizzard

now and then is a good thing.

a whitening

snow,

waist deep.

something to stop the cars

and trains.

the planes.

something to silence

the rhetoric

for a while.

to quiet the phone,

the tv.

to let us regroup and do

nothing,

but eat and sleep,

make love,

and read.

a quiet respite,

a calm to lie in and

to not talk about

the world at large,

the world

beyond the plows.

friends and fiends

they arrest

the drug dealers, who are actually

doctors,

and local

ne'er-do-wells,

lurking in

the halls of fame

and celebrity, 

enabling

the addict with clandestine

meetings

and dealings.

scratching

his itch,

feeding his veins.

and then death arrives,

as it

nearly always does

to the addict.

it's not a moral issue,

or a spiritual 

thing,

it's the human

body,

the fragile mind

that can't escape the feelings

of joy

that are so lacking

in an everyday life.

it's all about image not substance

it's no longer

about

the issues.

now it's a finger pointing

game.

if you don't vote

for her

it's because of the color

of her skin,

or the fact that she's

a woman,

whatever that is these days.

it's no longer

about intelligence

or past performance.

or the ability

to convey direction.

it's image.

that's all it is.

not substance.

it's about make up

and hair.

friendly lighting,

and the fawning press.

please vote.

we beg of you.

we need to fill this spot

with another

DEI hire,

regardless

that the world is on fire,

that the country

is in duress.

to unburden what has been burdened

i decide

to clean out my closets.

both

literally and figuratively.

it's time

to unburden

what has been burdened

as the well worn

word salad speech

goes.

i swipe away the cobwebs

to get to the

boxes

and boxes

of anxiety

and shoes.

old clothes, old sentiments

and feelings.

from

top to bottom,

the high shelf,

the floor, everything must

go.

thread bare suits,

moth

eaten sweaters, love

strings

torn,

a basket full of her

ancient ruse.

the empty playground

the playground,

is empty

behind

the house, inside the sand

pit,

of slides

and swings.

and beside it,

the old shade tree

is yellow with leaves.

the children are in school

again.

and the ones

that have grown old

are off

to work,

to lives unknown.

but it wasn't that long ago,

when your

own son,

said, Dad, push me higher,

bright and shiny things

the eyes

like shiny things

for some reason.

we're prone

to easily

pick up

the shiny rock or coin,

a sliver

of blue

sea glass washed up

on the shore.

we like

the sheen of things,

the glimmer

of hope,

the brightness

of the new

car,

the new girl,

the new home.

we're children inside,

no

matter old

or how long we survive.

we say things

we say things

we really don't mean.

we say i'll never go back there again.

i'm done with that,

with them,

with her,

with him.

i learned

my lesson, there's

no good

in that town.

i grew up in,

but we don't leave,

we look

back, we look over our

shoulders

with each

breath we take.

it sticks in us.

nothing is left behind,

not really.

we carry it all to our grave.

grow old in love

how we

miss the long nights

with stars

on the back porch, 

the wide

yard

flickering with fireflies.

the children

asleep

as we swing back and forth,

side by side.

saying little.

saying nothing, but holding

hands

as we grow old

in love.

Chairman Mao's pantsuits

it may be just a rumor,

a gag,

or joke

of some sort,

spreading across the land

via the world wide web,

some unproven, unactual

piece of news,

but it does seem

like the VP is wearing

clothes made

by the same tailor

that Chairman

Mao used to use.

look at

the pantsuits, with

the big shoulders,

the wide shirts

and jackets made

of too much

fabric,

the pockets and black buttons.

i can hear

the drumbeats of socialism,

could it be that

the marching

will begin very soon.

we'll think of it as fun

it's packing

that's hard, the luggage

haul,

the train,

the tickets,

the flight

and jet lag.

the passport, the security

check points.

the new land

with a new language.

but we'll take pictures

when we arrive.

we'll lie

in the sun, we'll stretch out.

we'll drink.

we'll eat.

we'll make love

we'll stroll about,

and the end

despite all,

in the end,

we'll think of it

as fun.

small love adds up

small

love is really large love.

the tender

touch,

the scratch where it itches,

unreachable

but by you.

the smile

or kiss,

the easy compliment.

no you go first,

it's yours,

please sit.

the soft finger

pointing

to your ear

where the shaving

cream

still is.

here, let me get it.

a gentle hand 

reaching to remove

from your black sweater

a feathery

piece of lint.

we hardly hear these things

city life

lacks the silence

of the far

lands.

the prairie,

the fields out west

where

nothing lives,

or stands.

the quiet of dust,

the soft

blow

of wind.

the call of a bird.

the city

has little of such

things.

but we like it here.

the clash

of horns, the screams,

the roar

of trains,

the bend of girders,

the welding

of beams,

in fact we hardly hear

these things.

go drink a cup of bleach, she tells me

the crazy

Prozac

woman

finds my number again

and texts me.

i guess she escaped from

the asylum

once more,

chewing the leather straps

off her arms

and wrists.

she's complaining

once more about my so

called poetry,

which i admit,

are not all gems,

but my leanings to 

the conservative side

of things

have upset her

twisted woke brain.

she tells me to go drink a cup

of bleach

and die.

a more than enough vague theat.

my oh my.

quickly i give her number

to the police, the authorities,

the FBI. 

she might lose her job

when they easily track her down,

as they will,

which

would be sad,

but fine.

waiting for your turn

this too is life,

you

say to yourself as you sit

in the waiting

room

at the doctor's office,

waiting your

turn,

waiting for

your number and name

to flash

up on the screen.

you glance around,

not staring,

but still,

how can you not notice

the bandages,

the wounds, the blue bruises,

and feet

without shoes.

how can you not

see the tears and hear

the crying

of the young and old

together.

this too is life 

you say to yourself.

waiting

your turn, for what waits

around

the corner for what's

next.

things were cheap back then

back then

beer was cheap,

milk and eggs,

rent for a one bedroom

apartment was

two hundred

and thirty-five dollars

a month,

utilities included.

gasoline

was 29 cents a gallon.

cigarettes

were nothing

to buy out of a vending

machine.

spare change.

cokes were a dime,

as was

a phone call

from the booth on the corner.

a fried

chicken was three bucks,

with a loaf

of bread and slaw.

a burger

and fries with a large

coke

was less than a dollar.

women of the night charged

12 bucks

for a roll

in the hay, ten for the girl,

two for the room

they were different times,

only real true love

was still hard

to come by.

the rusted push mower

it was a ten

dollar yard, but i settled on

five

and pushed the rusted

mower

across the street to

the house on the corner,

Mr. Brown's duplex,

not far from

our house.  i brought

my rake

and clippers

for the edges near

the fence. which i did first,

pulling weeds along

the way.

it was July.

a very hot July.

the mower didn't so much

as cut

the grass as push it down.

at the end of the day,

i used his hose

to rinse my head

and shirtless back,

and drank

the warm water slowly

going cold.

he came out at last.

he shook his head 

and went back inside,

letting the screen door slam.

he never paid me.

years later,

when i was older,

taller, maybe seventeen

by then,

he drove by our house,

and he waved

to me. 

he strangely smiled.

feeling badly perhaps

for the yard

so many years ago.

the world is full of gifts

of course,

he's not from the IRS,

but he says so.

Andrew Goldberg

is his name.

he sounds young, he has

an accent

of some sort

and is reading from a script.

Jamaican, perhaps,

or one of someone

on a far away island.

he wants to send me money,

to reimburse

me for my overpayment

of a few

thousand dollars.

nine thousand

to be exact.

he just needs my account

numbers,

my age,

my height, my weight,

my address,

my mother's maiden name,

all of my

children's names,

and my social security

number.

it will be a direct deposit,

he says.

i smile

and drink my coffee.

the world is full of gifts.

delightful

what was

i to say, when she held out

the spoon

with her homemade

pea soup,

with a ham bone

in it,

a first try,

and told me

to open my mouth,

to open

wide and swallow.

please tell me what you

think of it,

she said,

be honest.

love was new back then,

with both of us

walking on

broken eggshells.

i had

no choice but to grin

and utter the word,

delightful.

exhaustion

exhaustion is good.

being dead

tired

of it all.

hitting the wall

and no longer

caring

about anything. just letting

the world

go.

letting the problems

fly out the window

like trapped

bats in the attic.

to lie there and wait

for sleep,

which thankfully comes

in a short minute

or two.

narrowing down the addictions

my father's addictions

were sugar,

sex,

gambling,

smoking

and drinking, and yet somehow

he managed

to stave

off death

and live to the age of 95.

the smoking

finally

ended with

money scarce,

so did the drinking, and gambling

because

of his poor eyes.

and now with a new

love interest,

his girlfriend

takes care

of the last two, always

brining him

a freshly baked cake

or pie.