they want him gone

i see one potato

rolling

around in the crisper bin.

a fat

redskin potato

that never

made it to the pot.

it makes

a lot of noise

whenever

i open the door.

bouncing from

side to side.

squishing the garlic

and jalapeno

peppers.

the lettuce,

the carrots, the onions

are not

amused.

they want him gone.

what a specimen you are

the car salesman,

is good

at his job, he tells you 

how wonderful

you look,

have you lost

weight,

i can't believe you're

really that age,

he says.

my God what a specimen

you are.

do you run,

lift weights.

there's a gleam about

you.

i bet you get all

the girls, don't you?

wink, wink.

take a stroll

with me down to the back

lot,

have i got a deal for

you.

it came in yesterday,

hardly driven,

never been

in an accident. some old

church lady

dropped it off.

she went to church

and back.

it still has that showroom

smell.

this car is you.

come on, let's take a ride.

hop on inside.

the twenty minute rule

i wait

and wait

and wait, and yet

you

don't show up.

as usual,

you're always late.

it's your

thing,

as they say.

while mine

is leaving

before you arrive.

reading the room

i can

read a room.

feel

what's in the air.

whether

joy,

or happiness,

gloom

or doom, despair.

i can feel it

without a word

being spoken.

either way,

i know when

to leave,

or when to stay, i'm

exhaustingly

well aware.

the culinary road map

i see the road

map

of the weekend on my clothes.

the spills

of wine,

the drips

of gravy.

and

what's that there?

some pie

on my shoe?

whipped cream in

my ear?

searching for real news

i used

to watch the news.

Cronkite

and Rather,

Murrow and Brinkley,

daily,

to catch up on what's

going on

in the world.

but now,

after hearing so many

lies,

and distortions,

biased opinions,

i find

the truth on

the likes of 

YouTube.

though even there,

you have

to take it all with many

grains of salt.

food for a week

as i carry

the six Tupperware

containers

full of  turkey,

gravy,

mashed potatoes,

cranberry sauce,

and pie,

out to the car

in the snow,

i wave with my

gloved hand

as you stand 

with tears in your eyes

at the window.

i remember you

i remember

you.

not your name, or where

you lived,

not your

house

number

or phone number,

not where or how

we met,

but i remember you.

i remember

how you

kissed.

she always ate last

she loved

to see us eat when

at last

she had a little money

in her purse.

turkey,

ham,

lasagna. an assortment

of pies and cakes.

home made rolls

and bread.

her instamatic

camera

clicking away.

she always ate last.

standing in

the kitchen with sweat

on her brow.

the music on her

little radio,

her parakeet in the cage

whistling. oh,

to have

one more holiday

like that.

eating pancakes like a lumberjack

we see

the B list movie star

in

a breakfast joint

in Tribeca.

a celebrity

sighting. 

we both enjoy her work,

so of course

we have to stare

at her.

she's eating

an enormous stack of

pancakes

like a lumberjack would

just coming

in from the cold

snowy forest.

she's talking with

her mouth full

and eating

bacon

with her hands.

there's a glob of grape

jelly on her chin.

we decide

not to like her

anymore.

slow bites

i'm not

reading this new book,

i'm

more or less nibbling

at the pages,

chewing

the words.

then going back for more.

starting over

for a small plate of

plot

and dialogue.

it's that good.

i don't want

it to end.

it reminds me of you,

when we're

together.

the daily dings

my phone

is insistent on sending

me messages

of things

and people i don't care about

anymore.

the ding

is relentless.

a cacophony of non-musical

notes.

i need to find

a twelve

year old,

to straighten out my phone.

nails down a chalkboard

i tell her, with

reluctance, 

that i write confessional

poetry.

none of that Wordsworth

stuff,

or old Robert Frost.

the look

on her

face is priceless.

she thinks

of nails

going down a black board,

or maybe

at the airport,

an annoying mime.

don't worry i tell her.

i will never 

write a word

about you,

which makes her smile,

and exhale a sigh

of relief.

i'm used

to telling such tall

tales,

and lies.

before we trim the tree

there is

a light feeling

of seasonal

joy

in the air.

maybe it's the lights,

the sparkle

of green

blue and red,

the star

like whites,

flowered yellows

strung

along the house.

the smell

of the fir tree in

the corner.,

still wet with the forest.

maybe

it's what's in the oven.

that plate of cookies

on the table.

that red

apron

you're wearing.

maybe it's the mistletoe

you

hung above

the kitchen door.

it almost feels like things

are back

to normal.

why worry?

i used to worry 

about things, mostly

things that i had

no control over.

people

and situations.

i'd toss and turn

all night

so much so that

i barely slept a wink.

i was

nervous all the time.

hungry

for peace of mind.

trying to figure out

the puzzles of

relationships,

the need for

money.

all the attachments

of life. i was

concerned

with my future

and where things were

headed,

but i'm over

that now,

now that the future

has been shortened

considerably.

why worry anymore,

with so little time.

the do not call registry list

i'm on

the do not call list,

the national registry, but

people

keep calling

despite of it.

my mother, my children

my ex-wives

and girlfriends.

the phone company,

the bank,

the pharmacist

the florist.

anyone with a buck

in the game

keeps calling.

old friends going through

hard times,

or good times,

they dial me up.

if the dead could call,

they would.

it's not working this

do not

call list.

at the movies with tiny tank

we found two center

seats

halfway up the aisle,

perfect for viewing

and stretching out.

early birds

we were.

it was

a double feature,

so we bought the big box

of popcorn,

the large

soda

with two straws.

two boxes of candy,

her choice being

dark chocolate

with almonds.

red Twizzlers for me.

something

to gnaw on

and get stuck in my teeth.

would we

make it

through both movies,

plus the intermission

and previews

without

making the whole row

rise up

to let us pass,

when we had to pee?

i made it.

she didn't.

twice she had to go.

tiny tank tiny tank the row

called her,

as she stood up

for number three.

the long path into the woods

we

are mad.

frenetic and woefully

dumb.

we let

the world control

us,

not the other way

around.

we

do what they tell us

to do,

how to act,

how to behave,

what

to consume.

we need the deep

woods

beside a stream,

and a log

cabin,

soon.

taking flight after looking in

the winter

bird on the sill looks

in

at me,

warm

beneath my own feathers.

my own

plate

of food,

my own shallow

dish

of water.

neither of us are

jealous

or worried

of the other though.

making

her flight easier

to

swallow.

Georgia's German Chocolate cake

i met

her in a bar of course.

Georgia

was her

name, though she wasn't

from there.

she was broke

as far

as money went, and i was

broke

as far as love

went.

so we were perfectly

matched.

she wasn't beautiful,

(but who really is?)

her nose

held her back.

and her blue eyes

were crossed a bit,

but i saw beyond all that.

she had other skills.

i took her

to the office Christmas party

that year,

where she

brought along her famous

German Chocolate

cake.

every crumb was eaten.

people were

licking their fingers.

it was shortly after new

year's eve

that we broke up. she

met another

guy with more money.

but she left the recipe

for the cake

on my pillow. i thanked

her for that.

from a mother's arms

it used

to be, back in the old neighborhood

there

was one

crazy guy,

maybe two,

maybe three, but no more

than that.

they each had their

own corner,

or box

to sit on

and preach or have

conversations

with the invisible souls

around them.

they seemed

impervious to weather

never

hurting anyone

that i know of. but people

were

afraid of them

walking

across the street

to avoid

their gaze

and rhetoric.

they were bombs

with the fuse lit,

we thought.

we wondered how did they

get there,

from a mother's arms,

from the warm

crib, and lullaby's,

to this.

who's next?

Beyonce and Oprah need your money

the losing candidate

is in

arrears twenty million dollars

from her

failed campaign.

so she

goes back

online

to butter up her

constituents

for more money,

brother can

you spare a dime

she says with that familiar

cackle.

she pleads

for them to take

another dip into their

empty pockets, 

but she's

half in the tank,

she's on the sauce,

she's into her third bottle

of Nappa wine.

it doesn't go

well,

then the lights go off.

waiting for my turn to talk

i give

the appearance

of listening.

i lean in, and nod.

my eyes

blink

slowly

with comprehension

to every word

you say,

each and every thought.

you speak

is heard to a certain

degree, but i'm

not there.

i'm

elsewhere.

at some point you'll

come up

for air.

and it'll be my turn

to talk.

calling dibs early, on a leg

i remember

my grandmother

in South Philly,

chasing

the turkey with a sharp

hatchet

in her small

hand.

in circles they would

go around

the pear tree,

until one or the other

wore

themselves

out.

usually, her.

and the turkey would

come over

to comfort her.

it was quite

a show,

but i'd close my eyes

when she

got his neck,

at last on the chopping

block.

i already had dibs

on a leg.

the online therapy session

i sign up for the online

therapy session

for a little tune up.

there's a holiday

discount going on, plus

i have

a coupon

from CVS

when i bought some

sleeping

pills and a bottle

of red wine.

when the screen comes

up, i see

a puppy of a boy,

not quite a man,

with peach fuzz.

he's a shaggy dog

come to life.

this is my chosen therapist.

by the end

of the session,

he's crying and i'm giving

him advice

about his girlfriend

and his mother.

and how he should try

and break away,

be on his own.

i give him my number,

and tell him to give me a

call anytime.

i'll take those pajamas as a clue

when she climbs

into bed,

yawning,

with her thick woolen

pajamas,

buttoned

up to her neck,

tight,

i sigh.

i don't have to be

Sherlock Holmes

to figure this out.

maybe in the morning,

i surmise.

toasting in the new year

when

we were young,

and spending

the night at a friend's house.

their

parents,

the wealthier ones,

had liquor cabinets,

with strong

wooden doors

and locks.

impenetrable

cabinets, with glass

on the front.

we could see

the loot,

but we couldn't touch.

we would rarely spend

the night

at those houses.

instead

they came to mine,

where

the whiskey

and wine were

on the counter

with plenty

of cheerful

Christmas mugs.

self-diagnosis at seven a.m.

when

the toes on my left

foot

begin

to tingle. i think of the bone

saw.

how far up

the leg could i

endure

with

some of it missing?

maybe it's the cold

air,

or my

awful circulation,

similar

to my mom's.

maybe i slept wrong.

this bug

bite, on my arm,

is not a tumor,

i tell myself.

Sunday morning bells

the church bells

used

to wake me up on Sunday

morning.

the loud

melodic clangs of the

big iron

bells on top of

St. Thomas More,

in the tower.

a sturdy white cross

hinged to the top.

but the local atheists

got together

and banned the ringing.

some sheep are

thankful,

and some, unfortunately

are still lost.

one book in you

everyone

has at least one book

in them,

that they

want or need to write

before

the lights go off.

the story of their life.

but not everyone

wants to read them.

the Jamaican tree frog

there was

a time

when everyone,

or nearly

everyone wanted a red

dining room,

or a red

accent wall.

maybe

a peacock blue

bedroom,

or a bright orange,

or granny

apple green

kitchen.

i carried

the speckles of these

paints on my

hands and face for

weeks.

often mistaken for

a Jamaican

tree frog, minus

the squeak.

in the midnight hour

she taps

me on the shoulder

and says,

are you awake?

i am now, i tell her.

i heard

a noise,

she says.

downstairs, i think

someone

is in the house.

the kitchen light

is on.

no worries, we're good,

i tell her.

it's an ex

of mine.

i told her to come over

and get

her leftover

yogurt and salmon

from the fridge.

she still has my keys.

it's good, she's

back on her meds.

she won't kill

us.

go back

to sleep.

back to pen and paper

the screen

is slow in coming up, 

what's with

this cold

curve ball of buffering?

i've

already

lost three

potential poems

when waiting.

maybe i should go back

to the pen

and paper.

candle light, the butter

churn,

and cans

attached to string

to call you.

it's health

it's health,

it's health,

it's health, of course

at any

age.

but a little dough

rey me

goes a long way

too.

not all of them have red hair

each

crowd has a bully.

each school

yard,

each work office,

or job,

has a bully on it.

each family.

you can

usually see them

in their cars,

in traffic, speeding,

red faced,

and cursing,

tailgating an

inch a way

from bumpers

as they flash their

lights.

they can't help

themselves.

and strangely not

all of them

have red hair.

the four-tiered shoe rack

sorry but i have no

room

for your red high heels.

my four tiered

shoe rack is full,

leaning

forward

heavy with so many

old shoes.

each

with a point, a purpose.

basketball,

running,

football cleats

with cobwebs,

the mud now dry.

brown and black

dancing shoes.

wedding shoes.

funeral shoes,

court room shoes.

tuxedo shoes.

tennis shoes,

and slip on loafers.

walking

shoes. blue

slippers for when

i go out

down the sidewalk

to get the daily

news.

maybe it's time to get

a rack for you.

the upper hand of silence

something

about

a holiday that makes me

weak

in the knees

with forgiveness.

my heart strings

are pulled,

wanting to put aside

past disagreements.

i buy a bushel

of olive

branches to hand out.

some take them,

others don't.

they prefer in keeping

the upper

hand

of silence.

and so it goes.

who's running this place?

you wonder

at times, who is really running

the country,

the executive branch

that is.

they take

so many vacations.

they disappear

onto islands

and beaches,

stretch out

beneath umbrellas,

away from questions

and staircases

that they

stumble up

or down.

they relax with

drinks in hand, the sea

in front of them,

eyes closed

to the world behind

them.

are their phones even

on?

or have they totally 

checked out?

done and gone.

the police report

you rarely

hear

the word brandish,

or use it in general

conversation

except when

it comes

to weapons and a cop

describing

the scene of the crime

and it's

perpetrators.

the three miscreants,

the report reads,

were all approximately

three foot two or

shorter, males,

chewing gum,

and blowing bubbles,

they were all standing

over the broken gumball

machine

brandishing wooden

mallets

apparently stolen from

their mother's

cooking utensil drawer.

the weapons

have been seized

and they boys have been taken

downtown

for questioning,

after using the bathroom,

under guard,

at McDonald's.

dark or white meat

finally

the talk of politics

settles

down.

and we sit in peace,

at least

for now.

dark meat for me, please,

i tell the host,

as she

slices

with her electric

knife

into the enormous

dead beast.

dropping the f bomb because i dropped the butter

i've noticed

this year

that i've been cursing more,

dropping

the F bomb

on occasion,

for the smallest

of inconveniences

or annoyances.

i never used to.

i think it has something

to do with the shrinking

of my frontal lobe.

but i don't mind.

finally i get to say what

i want to say

without recriminations.

people just shake their

heads and sigh,

and say. hey, it's okay,

he's old.

The Elon wife

Elon

reminds me of my ex-wife,

but without

the deep

pockets

and the brain power,

or lack

of a single job.

she wanted to buy everything

she saw

in a store window,

house or car,

boat,

or piece of jewelry.

how much

for that, she'd ask me.

we can't afford it,

i'd tell her,

rolling my eyes and

shaking my head.

well, why can't you work

harder?

get a second or third

job, so that we can.

Elon does it, Bill Gates

does it,

why can't you?

the home invasion

my neighbor,

Jack,

had his home invaded

by a group

of masked

young women.

they tied

him up,

and took his silverware

and his

cash,

his phone, and all of

the rib eye steaks

in his fridge.

the brownies

that were frozen.

they stayed for over

an hour,

played his music

and danced,

drank until the wine

ran out.

they made a nice fire

in the fireplace

and moved

his chair

closer to keep him warm.

one girl

loosened the ropes

around his wrists,

then they left him,

unharmed.

they even locked

the door

behind them.

he seemed strangely happy for

the visit.

when i talked to him,

but sad now

to be alone.

God's fault again

maybe

it's a rash. a bee bite,

a sting,

a nibble

from a passing spider,

or some

nearly

invisible thing.

the brush

of skin

against a toxic

leaf.

God's sense

of humor,

is endless, it seems

hospital food

i don't like

hospital food, so i do

my best

to not visit

them.

the stay

is hard.

the confusion

of illness

and death.

everyone

as busy

as bees

in spring.

the tapioca in small

cups,

the Jello,

the Salisbury steak,

the button

to push,

the ominous ding.

diminishing skills

the cold

orange from the ice

box is a project

you

can handle.

unlike many

things

in life these days.

the cut and slice, the

stripping

of the hard

peel is difficult,

but it's in your

skill set.

you haven't lost

it yet.

by the way, the world is about to end

as i stand

at the window,

sipping on a cold bottle

of coca cola,

a pretzel

in hand,

i see off in the short

distance

where

the White House is,

and see

the beautiful bloom

of a mushroom.

cloud.

and in the roar

of wind,

i turn

to my wife,

and say, i love you

dear.

and by the way, the world

is about to end.

the poisoned pen

there a few if any

real

newsmen

anymore,

true journalists

out there

on the beat with

pen and pad

in hand,

going in for the story.

nothing

less, nothing more.

typing it

up for the daily news.

to feed

to morning eyes

over coffee.

letting them decide

which way

to lean, 

from these

written truths.

not telling them

how to live their

lives.

the morning splash of cold water

there is something

about the cold

splash

of morning water,

winter

water, from the icy

pipes,

into your cupped hands,

then thrown

upon your face

that changes everything.

but for a moment

and then the hope

wears off.

the big brown Idaho potato

what are

these things? these small

multicolored

potatoes,

no bigger

than large pebbles

in a stream.

who made these 

exotic things?

as a kid

i remember

one potato.

a fat brown lumpy

thing

bought in meshed bags

of twenty

pounds

that my mother

boiled

then mashed

and added butter

and milk to.

gravy was a luxury,

but how quickly

we ate them down.

body language

it's not the words

that matter,

coming out

of their mouth.

it's their eyes,

their hands, how

they stand,

how they 

project their shoulders,

the lean

of their head.

the tapping foot,

how they pull at an ear,

or strand of hair.

don't listen to what

they say.

the truth lies deeper

inside that

dark

and glazed stare.

my ten year old could have done a better job

i tell

the young woman,

full

of new money,

to not touch the wallpaper,

it needs

to dry and settle

itself onto the wall.

don't pick

at it.

turn the light off and close

the door.

but no.

instead,

she rubs and pulls,

tugs

at the seams,

she washes it down

with a bucket

of water.

and in the morning she

calls me

and tells

me that it's a mess now,

the sheets have

buckled,

it's falling down.

her husband

says that

their ten year old could

have done

a better job.

i send them back their

check.

i move on.

the last one to leave

if you

knew that your demise

was tomorrow.

what would you change,

or do.

would you be kinder,

more patient,

eat all the sweet things

in the house,

book a flight to Paris,

or say at last

all the things you've

stored

and kept inside your

mouth?

or would you just

quietly lie down,

and whisper. i'm good.

the last one to leave,

please, let the dog in

and put the cat out.

what exactly do they all do?

i pay

little notice to the king

or queen,

what

each prince

or princess is up to.

i see

no reason to muddle

up

my already

muddled brain

with such

things.

but there seems to be

a fascination

with it all.

so strange, this interest

in royalty

that doesn't

reign.

once slice at a time

i like

a woman or man,

for that matter

who is proud of the pie

they took

the time to bake.

see how they smile

when they

set it on the table,

centered,

gleaming below

the light.

it's what happiness

is to them,

the first careful

slice, your first bite.

i can't get off this train

i'm going nowhere fast,

speeding

through the darkness

of tunnels,

past the fields

of nothing.

past

the cities full of

everything.

i pull

the string

on the speeding train,

but it won't stop.

i can't get off.

it's taking me to 

places

i know nothing about.

once more,

i'll be lost.

stealing poetry

i am the fox

in the hen house

stealing

them one by one.

each

clever

line of poetry i find

in these old

books

of mine.

i eat them whole,

some

simmer

on the fire,

the hot stove, others

i boil

and drink the broth

made

from their bones.

small potatoes in hand

small

potatoes, this handful

of money

is.

it pays

the bills, feeds you,

gets you

from point A to point B.

it's enough.

more than enough

to keep

you off the street.

which pleases you.

to no end.

earned

the hard way

with blood, sweat

and tears.

by back and hand.

God bless

the child who

has his own

as the long day ends.

the fire alarm again

it's a false

alarm,

and yet, what if the building

is really

on fire.

we look out the windows

for smoke

or flames from

above and below.

no fire trucks

have appeared so far.

no ladders

are on the walls,

with men

in black coats.

maybe

it's just

burnt toast

again.

i really don't want to

go downstairs

in my slippers

and robe.

when the ex-wife returns

he was old,

much older than her,

in a wheelchair, hardly

there,

mumbling

his words,

but she was able

to move

his hand across the newly

written will.

the house,

the cars,

the money in the bank,

will at last

all be hers.

good job, honey, she

said,

then went out to celebrate

with the girls.

no need to make a list

i never

think about cranberries

until

three days before the holidays.

and then

i buy a bag.

it's the same

with pumpkins,

and 

mincemeat

pies.

sunscreen in July.

the world

reminds us daily,

of things we

need to buy.

the out the door price

there's always

a hidden cost.

something you didn't figure

into

the out the door price,

there's taxes

of course.

state, local, and government.

undercoating,

delivery fees,

and the clear coat over

the paint,

you can't forget that.

tags, title

and registration,

two sets of keys.

not to mention

miscellaneous

which could be anything.

oh, and you want 

all weather mats

and a spare tire

too? okay.

let's add that on.

nothing is free.

except a bottle of water

and coffee.

the election hangover

i hear

her crying next door.

she's shaved

her head.

she even shaved her dog

in protest.

her white cat

now dyed blue.

sometimes

she pounds on the walls,

stomps

her feet,

throws things.

she hasn't gone out

of the house

since the vote

was counted,

except to put her

recycling bin at the curb.

i wave

and say hello,

but get no response,

she seems

very perturbed about

something.

maybe tomorrow?

the end

of the world as we know

it

has been

coming for sometime

now.

and yet,

here we are,

raking leaves,

drinking coffee,

shopping,

and watching tv.

maybe later we'll go

for a nice

walk

through the woods,

down

by the cold

blue stream.

doing the dishes

i like doing the dishes.

it's a challenge

and it gets

me out of small talk

in the living room.

i'll bring out the coffee

and dessert,

then tell them all,

this will just take a few

minutes.

i fill the sink with hot

water and suds,

and go at it.

scrubbing away,

filling up the dishwasher

fork and spoons,

plates and bowls,

the big pans,

one by one.

i wipe all the counters

and sweep the floor.

sometimes i sing to myself.

quietly,

happy that the night

is nearly done.

buyers remorse

it's hard

to make a large

purchase

without having some sort

of buyers remorse.

the used car,

the beat up house,

the restored

computer.

as soon as you walk

out the door

after writing the check

or saying 

i do, in the church,

you feel as if

you've done

something wrong.

just my style

i wonder

sometimes what happened to penny

karr.

the pale

girl

in art class

with the blue framed

glasses.

she looked

ill

most of the time,

but had

a great half

smile.

ala mona lisa,

or 

perhaps 

Flannery O'Conner's child.

mysterious, and clever,

just my

style.

finally turning the heat on

i find my dog

under

the bed wrapped

in a comforter, he's shivering.

his teeth

chattering up

at storm.

the cat

is inside

my sweater,

wearing

a hat and mittens.

there's a sheet of ice

on the goldfish

bowl.

their eyes are bugging

out as they rub

their fins

together.

burrowing inside

the little

plastic castle.

my wife is in the car,

smoking

a cigarette

with the car running.

drinking shots

of tequila.

okay, okay. i get it.

i'll turn the heat on.

the wet envelopes

the new mail

person

has forgotten her umbrella,

her coat

and her pith

helmet,

so the mail

is all wet from the rain.

the ink

is smeared

on each envelope.

the addresses

and names

are unreadable.

i lie

all of them out by

the fireplace,

and let them dry,

they bend

towards the heat.

each day

is never the same.

we still have time to decide

the day

can't decide which

day to be.

shall we be

cold

and windy,

sunny and bright,

warmer

than we should be?

maybe a little rain

to wet

the ground. or just

overcast

and grey,

or blue skies?

it's early yet, 

no rush,

we still have time

to decide.

horses and girls

she used

to point

our her scars, and then

name

the horse

that she fell off of.

that scar

there on my femur bone,

six months

in rehab,

was Trixie.

this scar

around my neck was

Buddy,

as you can see i can't

turn my

head to the right

anymore.

and

this scar

running down my

spine

and the one on my knee,

is from a fall i took

off of

Belle, my favorite horse,

and what about this

scar on your chin.

oh, that.

that's from my ex-husband,

George,

after he

saw the barn rent

and vet bill.

keep going, we have enough

we don't need

unidentified flying objects,

or strange

beings,

green aliens

from a far-off galaxy

to visit

and make a mess

of things. please,

keep going and don't

land here.

we already

have enough entertainment

and trouble

with our

own deranged

species.

jaguar car commercial

the old car

commercials showed

the car.

the inside,

the shiny outside.

they kicked the tires

and popped

the hood to show you

the engine,

or the spacious trunk,

then they took it

for a spin

down the highway

with two

happy people

enjoying

the music and the wind

with

children

and a dog in the back

seat.

and now

it's a group

of painted circus clowns

of unknown origin,

staring glumly

at the camera.

saying nothing

with no car to be seen.

go away, i'm not home

i'm wary

of the phone. the knock

at the door.

someone

peering

into the window, rapping

on the pane.

what is it now?

who

and why

are they here?

how do they know my

name?

i thought we were

done

with all that socializing.

i need to keep

the lights turned down.

it was yesterday, wasn't it?

how quickly

the child

grows out of his shoes.

his pants,

and shirts.

how long his or her

arms

have grown.

and then they're gone.

it was yesterday

when

we brought them

home,

wasn't it?

the window of youth

i turn the yard

chair

to the sun.

the low new

winter

sun.

a pale white

cream

of warmth.

that's good, now.

i close

my eyes, like i've

always

done.

i settle into

the memory

of youth,

until the coolness

of shade

takes away the fun.

making children

it's a block

of stone,

but already 

he sees the beauty

in what

is to become,

a sculptured

vision 

has already

begun.

we see

that in our children

too,

but

sometimes,

despite our earnest

efforts,

we're wrong.

the first of everything

it's our first car,

a junk heap,

with blue smoke

pouring out of the exhaust,

but it runs, our first

apartment

on the ground floor,

with the trash

room next door,

and the bongo

drums heard

through the thin walls.

it's our first job,

punching the clock,

the boss you hate,

the work

numbing you,

day after day.

our first wardrobe

filling the closet

of things we'll never

wear again

in a year or so.

a leather vest? really?

and then there's the

first marriage.

what we're we thinking?

i don't know.

what about carrots, mom?

i call up

my mother up to ask her

how

long can i keep carrots

in the

crisper drawer

at the bottom

of the fridge.

the plastic bag seems

to be bubbling

for some reason.

why don't you just

eat them,

she says,

are they brown?

no, they're still orange,

i tell her.

but i don't know why

i bought them

last November.

boil

them in a pot, she says,

then

when they're nice and soft,

drench them in

honey,

or maple syrup,

or a ton

of butter with salt

and pepper.

they're more edible

that way.

to kill the after taste

wash them down with milk,

or spiked eggnog.

okay, but what about

lettuce?

you have two days max,

she says,

then toss it.

maybe throw it in the woods

for the animals.

blood on their hands

is it mental illness,

this confusion about who you

are,

man or woman, or

somewhere

in between?

it's suddenly

a fad

to not know

a thing about biology.

why go to therapy,

or seek psychiatric help

when there's

a surgeon

willing to cut loose

the body parts

you were born with.

they are making

a killing,

as well

as the drugstore

filling

these half beings

with pharmaceuticals

to keep

them alive

post-surgery.

it seems

just a tad insane.

i prefer not to faint

i eat meat.

red meat.

steaks of all kinds,

chuck roasts,

T-bone,

angus and prime.

etc.

but i eat

pork and poultry

as well,

some fish too,

on rare

occasions i might

have a salad

when i'm in the mood

for a food

that offers little

but in the way

of protein.

same goes for vegetables,

leaving me hungry

immediately

after i'm through.

Morning Joe

the news

pundits are despondent.

the purveyors

of gloom

and doom

and wild claims

are sad.

now what?

they say.

how can we go on

without this

election

process and

the daily bashing

for a decade

of the other candidate?

we need a new slant

on things

now that's he won

by a landslide.

perhaps

we should ask for

forgiveness,

fly to Florida

with our tail between

our legs 

and kiss his ring.

the adjustment period

you can

always tell the newly

divorced men

in the neighborhood.

they look

sad and bewildered

as they carry

in their leftover

furniture.

it's college all over

again,

but they have a nice

car.

they're not quite

ready to wave

and make new friends.

no Christmas

decorations will go up,

no wreathe on the door.

you'll see their

recycling bin full of

bottles though.

filing away your permanent record

there's a point,

after years of knowing

someone, or shorter,

where you come to a conclusion

about them.

you file

away your opinion

of who they really are

into your internal

file cabinet.

from that point on, you

have them figured out.

it's their permanent

record,

and then,

they behave in an entirely

different way,

throwing a monkey wrench

into your whole

belief system.

surprised you shake

your head,

and say, ah oh,

now I have to find

that report

to make corrections.

what's in a name

her name

was Dorothy, but her friends

called

her Doro,

or Dorito,

or D for short.

they were always telling

her

to click her heels together,

we want to go home.

but it got old

after a while.

i asked her to change her

name,

which she refused to do.

this is who

i am, she told me.

how would you like it

if i called

you Sam, or Joe,

or Frankie?

i'd be okay with it, i told her.

a pill for everything but common sense

after a while

you suspect that the medical

world

wants to keep

you sick.

rarely do they point out

the bad

food you are eating, the lack

of exercise,

the cigarettes or

drinking.

they don't want to offend

you, be sued

for character defamation.

but they will

give you pills

by bucket full.

why change your lifestyle

when we can

give you this.

and in the end, they'll know

there

is very little privacy

these days.

everyone

knows

almost everything about you.

type

in the name.

and away you go.

where you live,

your income, your children,

your marriages,

the work you do,

how much you owe.

at some point

even your death will

be recorded,

listing how

you died

for those who need to know.

everything going south

i have

no choice

but to eat the half gallon

of ice cream.

the power is

out and everything is

melting,

everything is going

bad,

going sour.

i have a chicken

in the oven,

i'm scrambling eggs,

drinking

milk.

i'm on the floor, with

a wet

towel

soaking

up the ice pond

growing,

with the big spoon digging

into the soft

cool mountain

of rocky road.

click here, on this link

it used

to be that one had to worry

about pickpockets

when in the city,

or town,

or in a crowded

movie.

they were clever

thieves,

dipping into your pockets

so swiftly

for wallets

and keys.

you rarely noticed 

the stealth hand

sifting

through your jacket

or pants.

but things are different now.

click here,

click on this 

highlighted link,

is all they need to take

most everything.

paying out hush money

enamored

by her pig tails

and blue

framed

glasses, her freckles

and long

white

arms

and legs.

the fastest girl in

our 5th grade class.

i kissed her in the hallway,

which made

her scream

and scratch me across

the face,

but she promised

not to

report me to the principal

or parents

if i gave her

my lunch money

for the next

two years.

looks can be deceiving.

Moe the Hoover

when i had a dog,

it was okay

to be clumsy with food,

to eat cookies,

or toast in bed.

to bring a sandwich

to the couch

and let the crust fall

to the floor,

with

a piece of Swiss cheese,

or ham

slipping out

of my hand.

Moe

took care of that.

he was a living Hoover,

on the job

24-7, 

but wise to the hot peppers

and coffee

grounds.

the lovers path

i go off the trail,

deep

into the woods, 

out to where hikers

rarely go,

to where the signs

and markers end,

to where

the path is overgrown,

and the bones

are everywhere.

i see where the sun is in

the sky,

and measure

the time i have and the distance

i'll need

to travel to get

to the other side.

i follow the moss

on the north

trunk of the trees.

at last, not a can or bottle,

or piece of

trash

is on the ground.

and then i see two people

on the ground

before me,

making love in the weeds.

i tell them, excuse me,

please, don't get up,

i'm just passing through.

practice run

i buy the practice

pie,

the whipped cream.

shaking the can

madly

in the car. i put

the turkey

fillets

in the pan, cook,

the dressing and potatoes.

i stuff

the black olives

with cream cheese

like my mother

used to do.

i even run through a short

dinner

time prayer.

folding my

hands together, and thanking

God

for all things.

and putting in a request

for good

weather

and a sensible gravy

recipe.

in another week, i'll have

it all down.

a little mystery

a little mystery

is good.

keeps

things interesting.

but too

much mystery

will drive

you crazy.

a short drive

to begin with

i must add.

painting your nails black

it took

months of digging,

scratching

at the concrete

wall

with a spoon,

but eventually i made

a large

enough hole

to crawl out of.

i tunneled my way

to the fence

and wall,

digging deeper

into the ground until i

was past the guards

and guard dogs,

and then i

ran, not looking back.

with you

up in the tower,

oblivious to my leaving,

painting your

nails black.

splendid isolation

in typical

Bukowski fashion,

he says,

it's not that i hate people,

it's just

that i feel better

when i'm not around

them.

you've felt that way

for years

now.

living in splendid

isolation.

my left hand

i don't understand

why

my left hand

is no good for so many

things.

i can't write with it,

throw a ball

effectively with it,

play a guitar,

or turn a screw with

it.

i'm disappointed in

my left hand

and arm.

i've had them forever

and yet they still

haven't learned a thing,

or caught on.

dead batteries

i have a box

full

of batteries,

somewhere.

all kinds, all sizes,

triple A,

double A, single

A.

the little rectangular shaped

ones,

the round

ones,

the fat and skinny

ones.

i wish i could find

where i put

that bag,

but the house is dark

and the flashlight

is dead.

waiting for Clooney to tell us what to do

it used

to be that celebrities

could sell

cars

and wine, clothes,

and candy

bars.

presidents, too.

just a word from them,

sent us

out to the stores

to buy

the things they chose,

we even

pulled the lever

on who to vote for

because

of their

shiny cinematic

glow.

they must be right

about everything

we told

ourselves,

but things have changed,

no one cares

anymore what

they do.

it's the opposite now.

the aftermath

i guess we're

not friends anymore.

i haven't heard from

them since,

November 5th.

Laurie

and Joann,

Kimberly

and Julie.

Josh and John,

my mother and

aunt Betty.

not a peep out of any

of them.

i can't imagine what's

gone wrong.

that sneaking suspicion

she had

her own P.O.

box.

all of her mail went

there,

despite

the fact that we were

married

and living in the same

house.

was i wrong

to be suspicious?

and when

i saw

the new jewelry

she was wearing around

her wrist,

and the bite

marks on her neck,

i said to myself,

something's going on

here,

and why was she going out

jogging

in her high heels,

wearing red lipstick

and perfume?

finding things to do after retirement

i see my neighbor

with a loaf

of bread

walking down the street,

he used

to be a doctor of some

sort,

or an Admiral in the Navy.

maybe both.

i stop

and say hello,

i ask him how retirement

is treating him.

he has

bags under his eyes.

his shoulders

sag,

it looks like he hasn't

shaved or washed

his hair in weeks.

his shoes

are mismatched

and his zipper is down.

how are you, i ask again.

good, he says,

good. but i have

to go now.

i'm going down to the lake,

to feed the ducks.

the addiction

i admit

my addiction

to

the phone. i can

hardly

go ten minutes without

looking at it.

and i'm

not alone.

i'm one

of the millions

of zombies

walking about,

lost in

that world,

staring into the screen,

clicking

buttons,

buffering, scrolling.

i can't wake up

from it,

i can't go to the bathroom

without it,

it's like a bad dream.

they own

me too

it seems.

taking the Whoopi stance on bakeries

i call

the bakery up

for a dozen

donuts,

but they say the ovens

are broken

and i won't be able

to get my usual

box of donuts

today.

immediately

i think they're discriminating

against me

because

i'm a white male,

with short hair

and who

voted 

conservatively this time.

how dare they

deny me

my donuts.

especially the chocolate

glazed

and the cream filled.

wait until

yelp gets ahold of this

aberrant

behavior.

they'll pay for this.

them denying me my

daily

assortment of donuts will

be end of them.

reasons to stay home

i can

think of three reasons.

no,

maybe four

reasons

for

not going out into

the cold.

why

venture out into this

wind

and rain.

when i have food

and drink,

books,

the arms

of you.

the part we agree on

we're different.

we are.

what we like and don't

like.

we hardly

agree on

anything,

the food we eat,

what to read

or watch,

our musical tastes

don't match.

we even disagree on

where

to walk, or hike.

we're

different in so many ways,

but 

you're a girl,

and i'm a boy.

and that part i really

like.

don't talk to strangers

my mother

would often lecture

us children

about the dangers of

the outside world,

telling us

not to talk to strangers,

so i stopped

talking

to my father

for years.

he seemed to be a visitor

at times,

spending a lot

of time

in the other room

with his

things that we weren't

allowed to touch.

sometimes

he'd tussle our

hair,

when passing by,

or tell us to get our

bikes out

of the driveway.

but other than that

we rarely spoke,

until one day i asked

him if i could borrow the car,

to which he say,

no.

your hair tells me a lot about you

the way

we wear our hair has always

been

a way to tell people

how we feel

about things,

one way or the other.

short or long,

we make a statement.

braids, or blonde,

or strands

of a different color.

maybe blue.

no hair too 

seems to rile

up those

that don't agree with you.

the spot we're on

we linger

at our jobs, 

at the door, at the window.

at love.

we are slow

to move

these days

on just about everything

under the sun.

we're in no hurry,

no rush.

we believe with all our

hearts that

we have all the time

in the world.

maybe another hour

will be enough

time

to move

us off the spot

we're on.

close calls

our lives are full

of close

calls.

the knife that misses

your foot

when it falls

to the floor,

the swerve of the car

at the red

light.

the tree falling seconds

before you

stroll by.

taking a different

flight,

not the one that goes down.

putting out the fire

before

it starts,

before

the curtains ignite.

and me saying, no,

not now,

let's wait. it just

doesn't feel

right.

for no reason at all

there's no reason

for these

dark

woods, this cold

sun

going down

to make

you sad, despondent

and worried.

there is nothing about

this grey

winter world,

that you're walking

through,

of fallen

leaves and brittle

streams

that will harm you,

and yet.

it's all on you

if you

listen and lean

towards

the sound of a voice

telling you

what you know

isn't true,

and will never be true,

and you

don't walk away

or run.

what happens next

is all on

you.

an egg McMuffin at Tiffany's

i stop into Tiffany's

next to

the bagel shop

and McDonald's

on route 7,

and begin

to browse around.

i'm eating an egg McMuffin,

and a fried

potato thing,

licking the grease off

my fingers.

the clerk

sees me and laughs,

not you again

he says,

pulling out a case

full of diamond engagement

rings

and a velvet cloth.

i shake my head

and laugh with him.

no, no, put that away.

what are you nuts?

i just need to use the rest

room.

to the left if i remember

correctly, right?

and

do you mind if i use

that cloth,

my fingers are greasy?

the red Christmas sweater

it's too

early to wear the Christmas

sweater

my mother

bought me in 1985

but i put it

on anyway.

it's red

with reindeers

and snowflakes,

a Christmas

tree, etc.

the whole scenario.

it still fits,

maybe a little snug

in the waist,

but not too bad.

maybe i can get used

to the itching

this time

around.

the holes

from the moths,

have made it a little more

breathable,

which is good

when sitting around a

roaring fire,

roasting chestnuts.

he needs to look up my address and then he's on the way

he's been

calling me for weeks now.

Andrew Rogers.

he works

for the publishing clearinghouse

prize patrol.

or so he says in his strong

Jamaican accent.

i've apparently

won 2.5 million dollars,

a pearl

white Mercedes

and 

a new kitchen with 
Whirlpool appliances.

i like this new scammer.

he's inventive.

i only need to buy him

two

five-hundred-dollar

green dot money

pak scratch

gift cards from

the dollar general,

and then my prize package

will arrive.

he calls me morning noon

and night.

sometimes

he's been drinking, i hear

dogs

and children

in the background,

sometimes the crowing

of roosters.

the baying of goats.

he says he's not far away,

a few miles

and can be at my house by four

o'clock

if i have the gift cards in hand.

i ask him

if he has my address, he goes

quiet for a few minutes,

then hangs up.

a side order of toast

which way

will it go this time,

the flood

has been tried, will it

be fire

or ice

this time around,

or a combination

of both.

will nature run

it's course

or will we do our best

to push

the button

and turn us all

into toast.

more of the same old drivel

i told her once

in an olive branch

attempt

at 

getting back together

that her

art had improved,

her painting

and sketches,

were light

years ahead of her

early work,

done mostly

in her youth.

she said, i wish i could

the say

the same

about you. but

your writing hasn't budged

an inch,

it's the same

old drivel.

nothing is new.

the new caravan of limos

celebrities,

many

that you didn't know where

still alive

or active

in the business

are threatening to leave

town,

to leave the state,

the country.

they've had

enough of things not

going their way,

they're taking

their ball and going home

but they're taking

their hairdressers

and make up

artists

and chefs with them.

it's another

caravan,

but this one is crossing

the border

in a line

of limos.

my reward points

i jump

through all the telephone

prompt

hoops,

spilling out

the last four digits of

my social security number,

and the sixteen

digits on my card

and redeem my chase credit

card

reward points.

i have thirty thousand

seven hundred

and thirty-six points

accumulated, which amounts

to 29 dollars

towards my

current bill.

i can't help but think of

the peso.

someone's luck has run out

i see

a broken full length

mirror

out

near the trash bins,

leaning against

the hydrant.

it's cracked

in a hundred

places.

it's a broken

map

full of distorted

images.

there the world is

in multiples.

i see your face

stuck

inside.

someone's luck

has run out.

is it Jack, or is it Jill?

i think

the woman next door

may

be a man.

i like the sundresses

she wears,

but the beard and the Adam's

apple

both seem

to be clues

and her singing voice

in the shower,

which is fine.

live and let live

i always say,

but i'd like to borrow

some of 

the power tools

i see her

using in the yard.

the tree saw,

the hedge trimmer

and the post

hole digger.

but we haven't met yet,

and i don't know how

to introduce myself.

or what to bring

when i welcome her

to the neighborhood,

a Philly steak sub sandwich

and a beer,

maybe some pork

rinds,

or shall it be some cheese

and crackers,

white wine?

the government study on lesbian squirrels

i don't believe

the story, so i google it,

of course,

and there it is.

several articles about 

government waste.

and this was one of them.

600 K

for a study on lesbian

squirrels

in the woods.

it's true.

the government is out

of control without

our tax dollars.

it's nutty, to recoin

a phrase.

her mother's recipe for squirrel stew

it was our first,

our last date.

in fact it was the last time

we talked,

ever.

maybe it was the yellow

corvette

she pulled up in,

or the stack

of bleached hair,

or the gun

in her purse, or the fact

that she

married

a second cousin once.

maybe,

or maybe it was the recipe

she gave

me for squirrel stew

that i still have taped

to the refrigerator

door.

the red flags were flying

it was a long

smokey bar called Moe's,

that served breakfast

all day,

beer

and burgers at night.

fried chicken

and Salisbury

steaks with mashed potatoes

after 5 pm.

Frank was

on the grill.

Marge was waiting tables

and working

the register.

there's pictures on

the wall

pinned up

next to the no smoking

sign.

photos of them

when they were younger.

thinner

and had all their natural

teeth,

both them

lookers.

holiday stars

in black and white.

the edges

are yellowed though.

there was a donut case

out front,

filled daily

by a guy named Roy,

and a bottle of ketchup

on every

table. a juke box too

that took nickels.

it closed last week,

Marge died with lung

cancer, and Frank

threw in the towel for

a trailer in Florida,

near Jacksonville.

i took a fiancé there once

for scrambled eggs

and bacon,

hashbrowns

and coffee.

she had green tea and a tuna

sandwich,

without the bread.

the red flags were flying.

Christmas shopping

it's

a necklace,

a pendant of some sort.

with GPS,

it's waterproof

and 

unbreakable.

you can take a shower

with it.

if you fall,

you can press the button

and Jimmy

or Jane

will come to rescue

and pick you up.

it's only thirty-nine

dollars a month.

it's 24 7.

it comes in black or white.

there's one

for your wrist too.

i order six of them for

Christmas,

one for me,

one for you.

i hand them out to my

neighbors.

who said that i was a

scrooge?

the Xmas card list

i think

the election

eliminated about five

old

friends from

the Christmas

card list.

the party invitations

will be fewer

this year.

no gifts will arrive,

no celebratory

drinks at the bar.

no calls

or texts.

no cards.

that's a shame.

mad money

we

can go to the moon.

that's no

big deal anymore.

but why,

what for?

we have rocks here.

we can waste

money

on a million things

that don't

seem to matter, but

aren't there

better things

to do

with a billion dollars?

what about

the sick,

the poor,

the world seems

backwards

sometimes.

who's spending our

tax dollars,

who's keeping

score?

be the smart dog

dogs

are smart.

most, but not all.

they know how much they're

loved.

they run

with you

and fetch,

they play ball, they sleep

in the big

bed,

or have a space

all their own.

they can't wait for you

to get home,

sitting by

the window,

wagging their tail

at the door.

they get free room

and board

and health

care.  they are adored.

only the dumb

dogs

run

when the door is left

open.

never to be seen again.

the smart ones

stay put.

like i do with you.

one bedroom twenty floors up

the realtor

takes us to the balcony

twenty floors

up

and points down

to the apartment pool.

you have

a great view of the pool

he says,

smiling

in his seer sucker suit.

and over

there is a tree where

you can

have a picnic.

parking

by the way

is only seven hundred

dollars

for one space.

but it's all about the pool,

isn't it?

all about the view.

and if you lean

over the rail

you can see

the fire escape.

be careful though when

you look up.

recently after the election,

occasionally people

jump.

come on, let me show

show you

the kitchen, the dorm

sized fridge,

the cupboard

and the hot plate.

but who cooks anymore,

right?

which also keeps the mice

count down.

and don't mind those bongo

drums

coming from the condo above.

the tenants here

are great.

the party of joy

the love

and compassion

of the democratic

party is wonderful.

understanding and kindness

is in the air.

you can

taste it,

feel it.

the olive branch

is out.

the warm embrace

of men and women

on the left

is wonderful as friendships

are mended.

they are like

angels,

not a single sore loser

in the bunch.

no gnashing of teeth.

how lovely they are,

no ranting and raving,

no tears,

no sorrow,

no cutting of wrists,

no tantrums or shaving

of heads.

hardly a word about

revenge

or death.

how joyous

they all are.

middle aged middle weights

i had a way 

of getting under her skin.

with

words,

perhaps rolling my eyes,

or being dismissive

with a wave.

she could feel

my passive

aggressive sighs.

it made

her ball her fists up

and advance

towards me,

teeth clenched,

fire in her eyes.

ready to take a swing

and pummel me.

but i was ready

to duck,

to defend,

to weave and bob

left or right,

maybe do the Ali shuffle,

to escape

her clenches, or do

the rope a dope to tire her

out.

it was never good

for the children

to witness

as they rang the bell

late into the night.

the sticky notes

i leave myself

a note

to turn off the outside

water

before the pipes freeze.

i leave

that sticky note

next to the one about

turning off

the iron, and

closing the flue

before the fire,

paying

the electric bill,

and taking zinc.

there's one in the bathroom

to leave

the seat down

when she's around,

making sure

the fridge is stocked

with cheese,

and the last one on

the fridge

about unfreezing

the turkey

at the end of next week.

the box of sixty-four

i was always amazed

by the number

of colors

of the crayons in a box

of sixty-four.

this was the ultimate

gift for fellow

children with a new

coloring book, sitting

on the floor.

why not color the sky

mint green,

or bittersweet,

the trees a shade of tangerine,

the moon,

raspberry

or mac and cheese?

a purple cat,

why not?

no need to stay between

the lines either.

we were tripping out

on Crayolas

until our graham crackers

and milk

and then our naps.

the first night in her absence

i remember laughing

before closing

my eyes to sleep,

stretching out on the bed

owning both sides

at last,

embracing

the joy and relief

of her not being there.

how sweet life was again.

tears of happiness

ran down my cheeks.

for a good time call

no one

likes to use the public

bathrooms.

the ones in bus stops,

Trailway

depots, gas stations

and malls.

no one

wants to venture into

that slippery

world

of strange smells

and odd people who

never seem to

leave the stalls.

how careful you are to not

touch anything,

moving about with hands

held up

like a surgeon about

to operate,

and

who writes these things

on the walls.

who brings a sharpie pen

into the bathroom

and takes the time

to write a political essay,

or a poem,

or to draw large

body parts, with names

and numbers

beside them. underlining

the words,

for a good time call.

they're all good now

we assume

the elderly are good people.

look at them

on their porches,

on their swings, drinking

lemonade.

see how they wave

and nod,

saying howdy,

tipping their hats as we

go by.

wrongly

we believe they are kind

and compassionate

people, that they are nothing

like us.

i'm not there yet

one

foot into the cold water

then

the other.

inching forward i'm

up to my knees,

my hips,

my chest,

then neck, only my

head

is above

the slosh of sea.

like many things in life,

i go

part of the way,

and yet I'm unable

to completely get my

head into it.

complaining from another country

tired of her own

country,

she has

escaped into the forests

of Costa Rica,

to the white

sands,

to the narrow

roads

and inclines,

where the trees are thick

and green

where

the wild monkeys

swing

and climb.

she's an expatriate

far from home,

her heart has

burned the flag,

but she has Facebook

and Instagram,

to inform

her followers daily,

of what's gone wrong.

so it's like

she never left.

it's why they lost

she doesn't care

what the young

have to say,

the working class,

the old too, the middle

aged.

the beaten

and reformed.

don't send me their podcasts

and takes,

she says

while sipping white

wine from

her ivory tower.

like a stale perfume

you can

smell her arrogance

from across the room.

only the elite

matter. the writers at

the New York

times,

or pundits on CNN,

the Post and CBS.

they are the only ones

worth listening

to. the only ones who

can give it to you straight.

give me the Ivy League

thinkers, she says.

the degreed,

those safe behind their

community gates.

why bother

with

the rest.

why open your ears

to a difference

of opinion?

and this is why the horse

they ran 

has lost the race.

taking the trash out in my boxer shorts

there's

so much good in growing old.

the fact

that i can pretty much

say whatever

is on my mind, and not

worry about hurting

someone's feelings

is one.

and i'm not bothered

by why they say

in return.

i can hang up the phone,

block, delete

and move on, like Clint

in an old time

western movie.

ride off into the sunset

to greener and happier land.

i shrug at the marching masses,

leave me

out of your crazy woke

madness, please.

and even as i take

the trash out

for tomorrows pick up,

i don't give a damn that

i'm in my boxer shorts

and black socks.

if it bothers you so much,

turn your head, 

and stop looking out

your window,

with your two cats in hand.

is there a cobbler in town?

it's the heel of one

black

boot that's come loose

from it's

sole.

a favored pair.

the threads torn,

the glue

unfrozen.

i wonder if there's

a cobbler

in town

to save the day.

maybe,

maybe not. so much

good

seems to lie

in another century.

it had to end at some point

the world,

being the bar of soap that it is,

will

end at some point.

there's only

so much tread

on this spinning tire.

the sun

will die

out and so will we

if we haven't done

so already

by our own hands.

destroyed by

our endless

prejudices and disagreements.

it's been

heading that way

for ages,

not just in our lifetime

but in everyone's lifetime

throughout history,

starting in the garden,

with the apple

and Adam

and Eve.

Father Smith and the pre-Xmas party

I run into

Father Smith at the grocery

store.

his cart

is full of red wine

and crackers,

blocks of cheese

and fruit spreads

from

the gourmet counter.

i say hello,

he shakes his head

and rolls his eyes at me.

party?

i ask.

yes, he says. and you're

not invited.

so don't even think about it.

but, but.

don't give me your buts

he says.

i haven't seen you in church

since 

you got divorced.

are you going to a different

church now?

are you filling their baskets

with money?

i tell him no.

okay, okay. i confess, i've

been praying

at home a lot lately.

i'm recovering from

a twisted knee.

how about i come this Sunday,

to high mass,

the really really long one

with two collections.

the incense, the bells, etc.

along with a few extra numbers

from the choir.

i'll be there,

cross my heart.

i'll even kneel when i'm supposed

to instead of just

sitting there.

then can i come to your

party?

i'll bring a Honey Baked ham

and my mother's recipe

for sweet potatoes

with seared marshmallows on top.

okay.

okay, he mumbles.

you're forgiven, sort of.

oh, by the way, i ask him.

she's not going to be

there, is she?

who?

Cruella.

no.

good. see you at 7ish.

reducing brain cell damage

martinis

used to be my number one

killer

of brain cells,

other than watching

television,

especially MSNBC.

vodka or gin

did the deed.

apple

martinis in particular

with a slice

of green

granny apple on

the rim,

coated with brown

sugar.

one vigorously shaken

ice-cold martini

would make me wise

and philosophical.

full of Dylan Thomas

poetry.

two would

make me flirtatious,

ala Bill Clinton,

perusing young interns,

pretty and naive,

and three

would

put me to sleep like

a choke

hold from a cage

wrestler

putting on the squeeze.

i'm drinking milk these

days. 

A-2 whole

from the local farmer

creamery,

so the world is safer now

without martinis

inside of me.

what's wrong with you now?

i talk

to my printer.

i ask it why, why are you

rattling

on like that

with your plastic

machinery

shaking nervously

on the stand?

have i pushed a button

to awaken you

this morning?

have i disturbed you

in some way?

i see you shaking

over there,

lit up,

and trying hard to tell

me something.

what is it?

are you thirsty again?

out of ink

once more,

or is it paper this time

that's making

you whine

and be a bore?

why no work is getting done

she sends

me a long article from

the new York times

diving into

why the left is right

and the world

will soon end.

i counter

by sending her a video

of a podcast

stating why

the article is wrong.

she sends

me a clip

of lies and exaggerations,

how children

and women won't be around

very long.

i send her the funny

videos of left wing nuts,

and the celebrities

crying as they meltdown.

so many are promising,

like the last time,

to leave town.

she tells me i'm stupid,

i tell her

your momma is.

this goes

on all day.

and no work gets done.

unholy matrimony

despite

our differences 

and constant arguing,

we make

love,

somehow

we put aside

our political opinions

and do 

the wild thing,

which solves nothing,

but at least

it takes the edge

off for a little while

so that

we can get through

another day

together.

postcard from Venice

somehow

the air is different here.

the blues

are

thin between

the white of clouds,

the yellows in the sky,

pale ribbons,

as a different

sun goes down.

the reds. the tints

of paint

on doors and window

frames,

with saffron

stucco walls.

and as the gondolas

slide

by in brown

rivers.

you stand on the bridge,

as if in

a postcard

while someone takes

your picture.

when every day was gold

how

quickly the year

goes by.

the months slipping

through

your hand

like falling leaves.

waiting

to be swept up

in photographs,

messages,

so many things

you scrolled through

and didn't read.

each breath

measured

and taken,

discarded as the heart

beats on. but

it's different now,

not like

your childhood home,

your boyhood

world

where everything

made sense,

where each day was

gold.

run don't walk

i find that my legs

are built

more for the city

than

the woods or hills.

hiking

is not my thing.

the dirt trail,

the rocks

and streams to cross.

badgers

and wolves wanting

a bite out

of me.

give me 5th Avenue

any day of the week.

dodging taxis,

and now

that jaywalking

is no longer a crime.

i'm free.

the new salad dressing company

the bad thing

about losing an election

is that

you have to start looking for

a new job.

you're tired though

of talking

of giving interviews,

of telling everyone how

wonderful you are.

making hundreds of speeches

honing down

your word salads

into some sort of vague

arugula and lettuce leaves.

but you can't go back to what

you did before

so now what?

the money will run out

at some point.

someone suggests that you

start a salad dressing

company, with a picture

of you on the jar

smiling in that way you

do. bright eyes and bushy tailed.

a whole chain of dressings,

like Paul Newman did.

but this wouldn't be philanthropy,

no, this money would

go to you.

i can see it now.

Oil and Vinegar,

Parmesan and Ranch.

Blue Cheese.

each with the seal of the VP

on the label.

they've tagged you with

the moniker of word salad,

so there you go.

have at it.

go make some money.

the late night prowler

the ring

camera captures

the man

trying the doors

of cars

in the lot.

he gives

them a turn then tug

wishing

his luck was better.

he looks like a nice

man

in his Nike hat

and shorts,

his

running shoes

and hoodie.

he's very stylish as

he goes about

the lot

searching for that one

door

that opens

gently.

he's like a cat at 3 am,

prowling around

on soft

cat like feet. i strangely

admire how he

has no concern

for the cameras,

or the law.

Santa in the sky

no one says

they're religious anymore,

instead

they say

i'm spiritual, whatever that means.

when you need

something do you pray?

when you're in

trouble,

or when someone you once

loved has

passed away.

maybe it's money you need,

or a healed

bone

in your body.

it's God-lite.

a benign Santa in the sky.

not the blood

of the cross

that keeps you off your

knees.

vegetable therapy

the bag

of frozen peas

will have

to do until the ice

hardens

in the trays.

the sweet corn

too.

and the old bag

of kale,

left over from someone

i used to know.

i'll have the swellling

down in no

time

and be back on my

feet by morning to come

and visit you.

it's easy, just look it up on YouTube

it's

easy.

you look it up on YouTube.

you find

out how to do

it,

to replace

a garbage disposal

beneath your kitchen

sink.

you're on

the floor for

maybe

six hours.

the water is turned

off and your

back hurts.

your knuckles are bleeding

and the dog

is licking your face.

the flashlight is low

on power

as you stare in the abyss

of pipes,

screws and flanges.

finally, you give up,

pushing all of 

your new plumbing

tools aside.

you call Mike.

willing to pay him

double time.

the septum infections

the doctors

are busy, more busy

than usual

after an election.

the line goes around

the block.

men and women,

and the in-betweens

are holding

their cats,

their blue hair

leaking dye in the rain.

the septum infections

from nose

rings rusting because

of all the crying

are at an all-time high.

the how did you meet story

everyone

has a how did you meet

story.

the high school

sweetheart

tale

of love at first sight.

shyly

sitting next to

one another

in geometry.

then the years apart

before finally seeing

the light

and reuniting.

and then it's your turn.

senior match dot com.

you murmur.

i was having a beer

and eating tacos while

sitting in front

of my computer late

one night

and clicked

on her profile.

she didn't live too far

away and

i thought she looked nice.

to be of that kind

it's good

to be plain, to be average,

to be almost

smart

nearly

handsome or short

of lovely.

it's okay

to be third or fourth

in line.

life

is much easier that

way,

to achieve beyond

what's expected

when you

are of this kind.

a nice hard rain

a hard rain

would be nice.

not an acid rain, or

Bob Dylan's hard rain,

but a nice steady

downpour

to saturate the ground

and trees.

we need a cold rainy

day to stay home

in, to sip tea

and read.

the secret stash of candy

she had

a secret stash of candy,

squirreled away

for hard times,

he had his pint

of brandy

beneath the sink,

taking a swig

now and then when

things didn't go

his way.

they both knew about

each other's secret,

but said nothing.

this seemed to work.

and they're still married

today.

no ambivalence

there is a weird

vibe in the air,

one of

joy

one of gloom

combined.

there is no ambivalence.

you can see in

the faces,

in the sparkle

of their

eyes or the sadness

as they come

into the room.

people

are dancing in

the streets

or weeping as

they burrow deeply

into their homes.

small crackers with caviar

it's

the yearly invitation

to

the holiday

party.

you can't say Christmas

party

any more

because it

contains the word Christ,

savior of the world.

we're only vaguely

allowed to

celebrate

the day He was born.

we have

to water it down

to tinsel

and gifts,

snow globes and

Santa Claus.

mistletoe

hanging over the door.

but there will be drinking

and dancing,

and small crackers

with

water chestnuts,

some with

caviar or shrimp aboard.

blood on the boots

through

intermediators

the two

sides, or three or four.

send cryptic

messages

to one another

about

the conditions of ending

the war,

so it goes on

and on

and on

as the blood

rises

high onto the boots.

the great white hunters

people

used to kill animals

then hang

them

on their walls,

in the den where

the gun

racks are.

the heads

of the great beasts.

cut off

and stuffed.

rhinos and lions,

elephants

with tusks.

all day long they stare

back at you.

reminding you of

how brave you

were

with your gun,

hiding in

the brush.

sipping on the quiet

wisdom

comes

in quiet retreat.

with the slowed

tongue,

the lips,

the mouth.

say nothing, but

go on

with your life

as you

see fit.

peace comes

that way,

an elixir to sip

and sip

and sip.