frozen tundra pizza

it's a frozen

pizza

that i set on the counter.

the expiration date

smudged

beyond reading.

there's

an inch of frost on the box.

it's been

in Siberia for God knows how long,

but i'm tired

of eggs,

tired of peanut butter

and jelly

sandwiches.

i check the top shelf for

Imodium,

a half full box,

then

slide the pie into the oven,

with the grey droppings

of sausage

not quite

thawed out.

just one will do

if lucky,

you have a handful of friends.

true

friends.

people that you talk to,

complain with,

or share your day with.

lifelong friends.

people you miss when you

don't see them,

people you need to talk

to when

things are good,

when the chips are down.

people

that you hug or kiss on

the cheek

when they're around.

if lucky,

you have a handful,

but really, just one will do.

lost in Moscow

it's been ages

since i've heard from Dasha

in Moscow.

she's fallen off the face

of the earth

it seems.

i get no more texts or calls,

no more

weather or war

updates.

no more pictures of snow

and her

in her long

boots

and knit shawl.

i wonder sometimes, 

mostly when i'm drinking vodka,

where she may have gone.

a flying fig

i don't care

that you aren't a good person,

that you

lie,

that you cheat and steal

and pretend

to be someone that you aren't.

it's okay.

really.

i don't care what you do

with your life.

i've known too many of the likes

of you,

to give a flying fig

anymore.

i have better things to do

these days

with my time.

i've seen the light.

another shot of Novocain please

frantically i tap

the chair i'm

lying

down in at the dentist's office

and start

to shake.

i kick my legs.

my eyes water,

i want to cry out for

my mommy,

but my mouth is full

of carboard

and gauze.

the dentist has found

my last nerve

apparently.

it's a lighting strike

in my brain.

oh my,

she says. maybe we didn't

inject enough

Novocain

into your pink gums.

let's give it some more time

to get numb,

alright?

between here and there

i lie

down on top of the grassy

hill.

it's after midnight.

there seems to be nothing

between

me

and God

at this moment.

the cluster

of stars,

the blackness

of what lies beyond.

i've settled on nearly everything,

i blame no

one.

it's not over yet,

but

at times it feels close.

call for a good time

i see the phone number

on the bathroom

stall,

and the name Becky

written in black

indelible ink.

a smiley face

beside it.

call for a good time, it says.

extension

224.

i take a picture of it

with my

phone

and when i get home, i call

the number.

i'm way overdue for a good

time.

we're meeting tomorrow

for lunch.

he never beat us

the worst kids

in the neighborhood were the ones

that got

a regular

beating from their

father.

they were the kids that always

got into trouble

in school,

always in a fight, or throwing

a rock through a window,

stealing flowers

off a grave.

thankfully, our father was

rarely home.

so we behaved and for the most

part, we got good grades.

too much love

the dog

took advantage of my kindness,

my good

nature,

and so

he got fat and lazy.

he slept all day

with hardly

a bark

i gave him

too much, but out of love,

mind you.

and now

my children

never call.

the Russian teacups

i could

see the worry on her face.

the clouds,

the deep

lines of regret,

to whom

would everything go to

when

the end came.

who would get these

pictures

on the wall, the curio

filled

with years

of travel.

the Russian teacups

on the shelf,

a vase from Venice,

the jewelry in the box

that played

music, itself an heirloom.

perhaps

marrying young

and having children was not

a bad idea

after all.

willing to negotiate

his yard

was full of everything he no longer

wanted

in his house.

everything was marked

one dollar,

his shirts and shoes,

his old television,

his fishing rods

and skates,

his old

computer, his couch.

he was willing

to negotiate down

as well.

but by the end of the weekend

nothing was sold, so

he carried

everything back in,

he'll try again

next spring.

the flea market being an annual

thing.

the polka dot dress

the moment

i met her

in that polka dot

dress,

i could feel a sin coming on.

thankfully

the church

was not far away,

Saturday confession

became daily.

you knew what he wasn't

it used to be you

could

tell who a man was by his hands.

the callouses,

the scars,

by the creases

on his face,

the way he walked,

the way

he sat still,

the way he ate, said grace.

the silence

of his voice, unless needed.

life

had worn away the softness

of his skin.

he worked

for a living. he wasn't

a politician.

young whippersnappers next store

i can

tell my neighbor thinks i'm getting old.

if i leave

the lights on

in the car,

she knocks on the door,

and politely tells me so.

if i leave

the keys in lock,

she pushes them through

the mail slot.

she watches

for any deliveries,

boxes on the porch,

keeping them

until i get home.

yesterday she offered to pick

me up some

things

at the store if i needed

anything.

she tells me to be careful,

if i'm going out.

the roads are treacherous

today, and

it's hot.

very hot.

be sure to hydrate.

maybe wear a hat, okay?

that girl was on fire

there was the time

we were dancing in the kitchen,

when her

dress bumped up

against the gas burner, still

on, boiling

something in a pot

and her yellow dress caught fire.

there was smoke and heat.

she swung around faster.

i thought it was me

she was so

excited about, until she rolled

on the floor,

in flames.

finally, and not a second too late,

i doused her 

with jug of water to put her out.

all over now baby blue

his mind was sharp,

even at the end, 

though his body

was

a cookie

crumbling in warm milk.

legs,

arms, his back,

nothing

was working anymore.

but

he remembered

everything

you ever old him, he could

recount all

the memories in his life,

the good

and bad, if asked.

it was hard,

very hard to press your

fingers against

his blue eyes and close

them.

legacy in a landfill

i stick

a flash drive into the side

of the computer

and start

backing up my so called

life for the last

twenty-five years.

a meaningless

chore,

but so it goes.

pictures, words, whatever

i've accumulated

down through the years,

but why,

what for?

we're talking more landfill

here, but

instead of boxes

of pictures, mementos,

etc.,

it's this little gizmo

blinking

blue that will eventually

disappear.

i hate you Microsoft

like a car

i don't want to open the hood

and work

on the engine,

or lie under

it for any reason, to fix

a rattle,

change the oil,

peruse a leaking tire.

please.

i'm done with that.

and so it goes with the computer

on my desk,

the one on

my lap, the one on the shelf

that i never use.

i don't want to figure things

out.

i want to log on

and write, pay a bill,

look up more stuff to waste

time on,

and buy things.

it's ten years old,

but works fine with Windows

10.

and now you're trying to scare

me into buying another one,

sending me messages

that now i'll be vulnerable

to hackers

and creepy people, trying

to get in.

without Windows 11, i'll

be doomed,

my little world will end.

i hate you Microsoft

and all your

nerdy friends.

another package on the stoop

i click the button

on the keyboard, and that's it,

something

will arrive soon,

in a day or two,

or week.

there it will be on the front stoop.

it's not something i dearly

need

or even want badly,

but i click just the same.

like a child,

i'm oh so weak.

the big green chair on the curb

he couldn't watch tv

without

a bag of something to eat,

nuts,

or chips,

candy,

some sort of salty snacks

or sweets.

he'd nibble,

one hand in the bag.

one hand

on the remote.

i can see him now.

hear him crunch

and smack

his lips,

as i carry the battered

easy chair out to the curb 

for pick up.

out the other side

when

you're in the dark tunnel.

the hell

that sometimes life

is,

you can't imagine ever getting

out,

ever reaching the end.

but then

you do.

you're out the other side,

scarred

and bruised,

but alive.

you've survived, and vow

to never return

to the something

or someone that put you there.

truly, you

are through.

trying to hold a cat

the instant

you pick up a cat, it wants

to get down.

it wiggles

and claws,

scratches and meows.

it can't stand

the idea

of you holding it,

nuzzling

against it's neck,

and you

wanting affection in return.

it wants

down.

Julie was exactly like that.

no sign of anyone else ever living here

she was married

three times, but i only

see

the photo of her dog

on the mantle.

i see his

collar,

his leash still on the hook

by the door.

his empty

bowl

on the counter with his

name on it.

in the corner is his

pillow

bed,

his toy bears and other

stuffed

animals,

his squeaky toy

and the bones he gnawed

on.

there's an oil

painting of him

on the dining room wall.

there's no sign

of anyone else ever living

here.

the card game at Sam's

we're not

here anymore to play cards,

maybe we never

were.

the five of us

in Sam's basement

with the big fan in the corner,

the faux paneled

walls.

we don't smoke

anymore, we hardly drink.

those days are done.

we shuffle

the cards

and eat our sandwiches.

talking about our

grandchildren now,

not women.

the pot has grown

smaller,

and so have we,

some of us have passed

on.

we're here for other reasons.

not poker

or blackjack.

by being together we've

already won.

lobster tails were his favorite apparently

i don't remember

much

about the funeral, being

a friend of a friend,

of a friend,

but i went just the same.

did it rain?

perhaps,

was there weeping?

of course there was.

but what i remember most

was the lobster tails

on the long white

table,

the tubs of melted butter

and bibs,

at someone's home,

a distant aunt, who seemed

pleased

to serve a banquet,

whether you grieved or

didn't grieve,

pull up a chair, she said,

make

yourself at home.

statistically speaking

if you start off

our conversation with the phrase

statistically

speaking,

you may see my eyelids

droop

and come close

to closing.

i may be sleeping standing up

before you know it,

as you recite to me

the numbers

you read an hour ago

in the Washington Post.

the dog vacuum

when

i drop the plate

of stew,

the ice tray from the fridge,

the bag

of nuts,

my black sweater

full of crumbs,

a glass of milk

turned

and spilled, this is

when i miss

my dog.

i miss him very much.

Norman in the back row of the class

you had to keep

an eye on

Norman, the kid in the back

row of the class.

you never

knew what he might say

or do.

always blurting out

a crude joke,

or making noises

with different parts of his body.

sometimes he'd

punch you in the hallway,

just for fun.

he was the wild card in the class.

a strange bird.

so it was odd

when i ran into him

years later, wearing a bow tie

and married to the English

teacher we both

once had.

political table settings

i see my grandmother

packing

up all her fine China into boxes

for storage

in the attic.

genuine

bone plates and cups

from Peking.

she looks at me

when i come in and shakes

her head.

i hate politics,

she says.

but what choice do i have.

i'll bring them

all out once more,

if we're ever friends again.

but who will vacuum our carpet

the radical left,

you never

hear them complain about who

will be

our brain surgeons,

our

heart doctors, our mathematicians,

our poets

and novelists,

our philosophers.

our teachers and lawyers.

instead they

belittle a whole

ethnic group

of people by saying who

will clean

our houses,

cut our grass, change the diapers

on our children,

paint our walls

and repair our roofs.

who will

pick the fruit in our fields,

as if that's all they can do.

we will learn our lines

in time

we will have learned our lines.

we will

know where

to stand,

what to say or to not say.

we will

know how to perform

at weddings

and funerals,

we will know

how to position ourselves

in the best light

possible.

being politely silent when

the curtain

rises.

we will know when to take

a bow

or smile.

it takes time, but we

learn

how to get along.

how do you mend a broken heart?

i get a call from

my cardiologist.

i didn't even know i had one,

but i go in

to see him, just the same.

come in, come in, he

says.

sit down over there.

just brush those potato chips

onto the floor.

should i take my shirt off

i ask, staring at the stethoscope

around his neck.

no, no.

in fact sit over there in my

chair.

yeah, the one that swivels.

there you go.

i understand that you've survived

several broken

hearts over the years.

parental, with estranged children, 

ex-wives,

girlfriends, pets and friends,

all of them dying or

moving on.

i just want to know how you

do it.

how do you survive?

he takes a bottle of whiskey

out from

the drawer where the syringes

and scalpels

are kept,

and two shot glasses.

he pours each of us a shot.

we clink our glasses together

then toss it down.

going through a tough time?

i ask him.

yeah, yeah. he wipes some tears

from his eyes with the sleeve

of his white coat.

i caught my wife cheating on me

with a chiropractor.

some guy named Patel

in a private practice at the mall

next to the Cinnabon store.

can you believe that. he's not

even a doctor.

he's a fraud, a charlatan.

a clown.

he's way down there on the food chain.

i'm a freaking cardiologist, for

God's sake.

my heart is breaking.

tell me what to do?

tell me how to get through this.

there's a knock at the door,

a nurse

opens it to peek in.

Doctor, should we close

up the guy you did the bypass on?

or do you

need to take another look see?

nah, close him up.

make sure there's no sponges

in there though.

he's good.

it's me that's dying here.

ten pins

the angels 

are bowling again.

i can hear

the roll

of the ball down the hardwood

alley,

striking the pins,

somewhere above the roof,

above the clouds,

above everything we can see.

the thunder

will last through the night

i'm told.

we will not sleep.

i have no idea what this poem means

his poetry

was too hard, so unlike mine.

no puzzle

when reading me,

just maybe

a rare

rhyme.

deep enough to maybe get

your ankles

wet,

but his stuff was deadly.

i'd get a headache

trying to figure out

exactly what

the poem meant.

what the point was, what

brilliant

stroke of clever importance

was he trying

to convey.

i wasn't smart enough,

not hip or educated

enough to understand him,

though i tried.

i gave up.

and then i saw his book

on the shelf

at the last open bookstore

in town.

he had won

the Pulitzer Prize.

the blurred years

i don't know why exactly

we drank

so much in high school.

beer wine,

the hard stuff.

sending the only old enough

kid up to Mead's Liquor store

with our list.

what were we doing?

sitting around in Dana's basement,

drinking

Boone's Farm apple wine,

Schlitz beer,

Southern Comfort by the pint,

listening to records,

talking about girls, who

seemed to be in short supply

that summer.

how dizzy and sick we'd get,

finding ourselves

under the bleachers at the high school,

tossing our cookies,

wasting time.

let's have another day, please

when most of your friends

have passed away,

your former lovers,

your teachers

and old neighbors.

even the pets you've owned.

when most of everyone

that you used to talk to

has died or moved away,

and the world has completely

changed, do you sigh and

say, okay. i'm ready too.

take me Lord.

no, you don't.

hell no.

tomorrow is another day.

right Scarlett?

i was nine years old at the time

i was

maybe nine years old

when it happened,

when

i tried to hold the hand

of Linda

Baker,

a little blonde haired

girl with a pony

tail

and blue eyes,

who eventually moved

to Florida.

i remember

how she screamed at me,

then ran.

have i thought about that

moment much

through

the years? yes, i have,

nearly every day.

out the back window

leaving

is harder, almost as hard

as arriving

sometimes

when you go to places

you don't

want to go to.

Christmas

was sometimes like that.

going to my

mother's house

where she was married to a

tyrant

that we all hated.

we went

for her though, not for him.

an hour

later, after

dinner, and small talk, i'd

be sneaking

out the back window,

climbing,

then crawling to my car

in the dark,

to get away.

The Sunrise Senior Home

my friend Jimmy

moves

into the Sunrise Senior Home

up the road.

it's a big yellow building

next to a man

made lake,

but not far from the mall,

walking distance

in fact.

he calls me up, whispering

into the phone.

dude,

he says.

he always calls me dude.

you have to move in here

with me.

i'm a wolf in the hen house

here.

women are leaving cookies

and brownies at

my door.

they come by late at night,

tapping

on the door, saying hello

Jimmy,

whatcha doing?

these babes might be a little

long in the tooth,

but they're wild women

making up for lost time.

i'm the only guy here not 

using a walker,

or staring out the window all

day, eating oatmeal

and mumbling.

sometimes i wear my old tool

belt around me,

which drives them nuts.

they always need a lightbulb

changed

or the nuts and bolts on

their beds

tightened.

dude, come by this Saturday,

i've organized a pool party

after yoga class,

which i'm teaching now.

what do you know about yoga?

i ask him.

nothing, he says, absolutely

nothing, but who cares.

bring your yoga pants.

i don't sweat, i glisten

i wake

up sweating, it's hot as hell

out and inside

this house

despite the fan,

the ac being cranked down

to 68.

i reach over

and tap Shelly on the shoulder,

but she screams.

don't touch me.

you are so gross right now.

you're a ball of sweat.

i look at her.

she's bone dry, cool as

a cucumber.

how come you're not

sweating?

i'm a girl, she says we don't

sweat,

we glisten.

can you go take a shower

now? she says.

and use soap.

i'll change the sheets on

the bed.

finding the cheapest gas

my father

would drive ten or fifteen miles

out of the way

to get

the cheapest gas

although

his daily route of travel

was the post office,

the PX,

the barber shop,

and KFC for chicken.

maybe a two-mile circle.

his vision was

bad at that point,

sometimes asking me

if the light

was green or red,

as he stomped on the gas.

there's a gas station

i heard about

on tv, it's in Queen Anne,

that is ten cents cheaper,

he tells me,

opening up a map,

blocking the windshield.

Here, hold the steering

wheel

for me, he'd say, as he 

dragged his finger

along

a web of blue and red lines.

i have a coupon too for

oil if we need it.

she wants to change her name

i'm thinking about changing my

name,

my friend

Susie tells me

as we sit by the pool

drinking

pina coladas.

her politics are a little left

of Mao Tse Tung.

oh yeah, really?

to what?

i'm thinking something like,

Peace,

or Hope,

Empathy. something like that,

something

that represents

what i stand for, who i am.

how about, Drunk,

i tell her,

filling up her glass again.

three hundred photos of food

i used to take pictures

of food

too, like everyone does,

caught up

in the madness of

cell phones.

i admit it.

a salad or a steak,

a pie i made,

a soup

or a stew.

i had to get the right angle,

make the lighting

just right.

set the scene with

a fork and knife,

a spoon.

it two three or four

shots

before i sent it off,

but i got over it.

and finally stopped.

now i just eat what i made

and move on.

they flew the coop

a handful

of friends have flown the coop.

deleted

and disappeared.

fun friends,

smart

and wonderful to be around,

but gone now,

angry

at how things turned out

with the election.

still miffed

by it all.

maybe we weren't friends

after all.

but i wonder how they are.

i wish them well.

ladies of the night in old DC

for fun

as kids, tired of playing

stick ball behind

the bowling alley,

we'd drive into the city

to observe

the ladies of the night

strolling

the neighborhoods

around the Mayflower

Hotel,

or 14th street.

only one of us was old

enough to drive.

they were tall women

in short dresses,

blondes

and red heads mostly

wearing

high heels and fishnet stockings.

heavily made up

with rouge and lipstick.

it was fascinating, almost like

visiting the zoo

and seeing creatures

from a foreign land.

we yell out to each other,

hey, look at that one

over there

in the red dress.

they'd blow us kisses

as we rolled down

the windows.

telling us to come back in

a few years,

when we had some money.

it was ten and two back then.

ten for the girl,

two for the room.

the cops didn't seem to care,

in fact they

knew them all by name,

and watched over them

like guardian angels.

the neighborhood nurse

when we fell

and scraped our knees,

which was

nearly every day, when we

felt the sting

of a bee,

or sprained an ankle,

or got a black eye,

my mother had a small

box of remedies

that she pulled down

from the closet in the hall.

she was Florence Nightingale

to the entire

neighborhood of children.

i can see and hear her now

calming a crying kid down,

telling him to sit still.

let me get the stinger

out, clean it up and then

you can go. grab a cookie

on your way out.

the legacy news

when

you hate someone,

and wake

up every morning with the thought

of destroying,

humiliating,

hurting

and disparaging them

in any way possible,

with a handful

of lies,

it's hard

to print

or report on the news without

that in mind.

it's tainted,

no different then it was

in 1984

with big Brother,

the legacy news, making you

blind.

it's hard to stop what you've started

i don't want

my

musical or acting idols,

or writers,

poets

and the like

to get old,

to die.

i want them to live forever

somehow

and to not

go on tour anymore.

to not write

another book,

another poem,

or sing another song,

i want them

to live happily ever after,

not relics

staying too long

past their prime,

unable to let go of

vanity and pride.

the new regime

i remember

when the Mr. Softee

Man,

died.

Carl, and his son took

over the job.

they were from

Lebanon, i think.

the son would short

us on the cones,

two meager

swirls and he was done.

we missed

Carl,

how he gave us ice cream

if we came

up short, a few nickels

shy of a quarter.

the new regime

was horrible.

treating us badly,

making us run to the corner.

he didn't last long.

man overboard

i fill

the tub with ice,

then cold

water.

carefully i slip into

the Atlantic

Ocean

of my tiny bathroom.

the lights

are off,

there is only the sound

of me

whimpering

as if i'm overboard

in the freezing

waters

of the North Atlantic,

turning blue,

the last

man off the Titanic.

a long line to what?

i see a long

line

around the block. i have

no where

to go today, so i get in it.

it's a slow

moving line

entering a door

in the side of a tall

building.

i tap the shoulder of

the woman

in front of me and ask

her what the deal is?

she shrugs

and says,

beats me.

but i hope it moves along.

i have things

to do today, places

to go.

Lucky Charms

i imagine

that reading at the breakfast

table

started at a young age.

reading

the colorful

box of cereal,

all six sides as you scooped

Lucky Charms

into your mouth.

it was mostly sugar,

marshmallows

and candy,

and little

else.

my dentist thanks you,

even now.

what should we protest today Jimmy?

there

is so much to protest.

so much

hate

going on in the world.

at last

the masked marauders figure

it out

and make

their posters

and signs

out of white board,

easily

washed or wiped.

they use

the correct pens

now

to print the next 

hateful message

to the right.

they buy

a box of a hundred flags,

each

of a country

that they want to march for

or against

now.

it's not easy

being stupid and easily

manipulated

anymore.

stuck in between

even at this age,

she had

a mattress on the floor,

and posters

on the wall

of her teen idols, and yet

she was

fifty-four.

the walls were pink

and green.

she wasn't a girl,

or a woman,

but something

in-between.

why have closets 

or dressers when

she had

so many floors?

we used to go down

the long gravel road

to the barn

and wash

and brush her old horse,

giving him

a carrot

or cubes of sugar.

i still have bites from

the enormous

black flies.

the tight rope walker

i see my neighbor,

the tight rope

walker,

above the street, he's

walking

on a telephone

wire

in his tights

and bare feet,

he balances himself

by shifting from front

to back,

the long pole in his

hands,

wobbling side to side.

i wave to him, he waves

back,

but then falls,

losing his balance.

i wait for the ambulance

to arrive.

it's the least i can do

before

heading off to work.

fainting

as

the needle slipped

into

my vein

the world darkened

and i slumped

out of my chair

onto the floor.

it lasted all of ten

seconds

but it was the sweetest

ten seconds

i've ever had,

a dream

i hold onto until

this day.

who needs stairs?

this hill,

this grassy slope

i'm

climbing

is speaking to me.

telling me

i should have taken

the stairs,

the long flight of steps

with the rail.

but no.

i've been climbing this

hill for too long,

to stop

now.

i don't need another

fail.

a cold plate of food

the plate

on the table, beside

the napkin,

the fork and knife, the spoon,

is waiting for

me when i arrive home,

late again,

as usual.

everything has gone

cold,

and tonight

so will

you.

i'll unthink this through

i'll unthink

this through, unravel

the twine,

the string and webs,

of what

i thought was true,

and when i'm

done,

there will

be nothing left to hold

me back,

at last,

i'll be finished

with the entanglement

of you.

breakfast in the heat

i go

out to my old car,

the chevy

in the driveway

and crack

two eggs on the hood.

i toss 

a few strips of hardwood

maple

bacon

onto the bumper.

it's too hot

for clothes, so i'm wearing

a speedo,

red

with rhinestones.

i flip the eggs

and bacon

onto a plate.

neighbors are pulling

their blinds

down.

i don't blame them.

hippie mythology

the myth

of the hippie

era

is that everyone was happy,

everyone

was bright

and full of creativity,

drinking carrot

juice

and eating granola,

while strumming a guitar

in a green field.

everyone was wasted

on acid

and other drugs. it was

all about

peace and free love.

kindness and understanding.

long hair.

heroin and death,

the lost children

were

yet to come.

there were communes,

and festivals,

everyone danced naked

in the rain

and sun.

there was

no desire to make money

or massage

an ego.

the myth of those times

was that

the flower children

were sent out

by the gods

to change the world.

it was the dawning of Aquarius.

no more wars,

or racial divide,

no more hate, 

just love.

looking back it all seems

hilarious

now.

a short-lived costume

charade, 

covered

with dead flowers.

love birds

two

birds have fallen

in

love.

i see them together

in the bird

bath

in the yard, splashing

in the stone

bowl,

half full of rainwater.

how do i know

that it's

love?

i just do, that's all.

on the tip of my tongue

sometimes

the word won't come,

it's in

there,

somewhere. it's a word

you know

and have

used before, but it's

stuck and won't come out.

it's buried in

the busy creases of

your brain.

later, of course, when

you no longer

need it,

it will be spoken,

found again.

i misjudged you

i misjudged you.

but it's my fault.

i thought the rosary beads

hanging from

your rear

view mirror, meant something.

that they were

more than

an accessory signaling

virtue.

your church

attendance was stellar,

you sang

the songs

and knew which page

they were on

in the hymnal.

you recycled too and ate

vegetables

only.

you dropped an occasional

dollar into

the beggar's cup,

you owned dogs

that you

rescued.

and yet, none of it was

true.

but it's my fault,

as i said earlier,

i drank it all up,

i was the fool.

sugar lips

at 12 am

i get a call from the county jail.

it's a collect

call,

of course.

it's an old friend

i haven't talked to in

years

because he owes me money.

you have to get me out of

here,

the voice on the other

end says.

i've tried everyone

else,

no one will take my call.

they took my shoelaces,

my belt.

my phone.

there's a man in here calling

me sugar lips.

please.

help.

running for the trash truck

at six in

the morning,

i hear the reverse

bell

of the trash truck outside,

so i quickly

grab the bag

in the kitchen,

still in my underwear,

and run

towards the dark mouth

of the monstrous

green truck,

yelling wait,

stop,

stop.

i can't live another day

with the smell

of shrimp

shells and calamari

in my house.

where do you think you're going, bub?

i stop

in a bad neighborhood

in the city

at a gas

station, to use the restroom

and to buy

a drink

and a snack or two.

cameras

are everywhere,

the man

behind the counter

is holding

a gun behind the bullet

proof glass.

the rotisserie

hot dogs

are in a safe, as well

as the fried

chicken wings

and condiments.

when i get back out to my

car,

three young men

in masks,

beginner thugs,

wearing Mickey Mouse

t-shirts,

are sitting on the hood,

the smallest one

asks me,

in his squeaky adolescent voice,

so where do you think

you're going bub?

i start to laugh, having not

heard the word

bub since i was twelve.

home i tell them, excuse

me, gentleman.

i need to pass.

you have to pay the toll,

they tell me,

before you leave.

so i give them each ten dollars.

then drive off.

raise your left hand for stop

i wake

up

thinking about my dentist.

her hands

are in

my mouth.

she's asking me questions

i can't answer.

so i nod,

as i usually do or blink

or raise my

left hand

to signal,

stop.

it's a love hate

relationship that involves

money.

she reminds me

so much

of earlier loves in

my life.

wise advice

be sure

to hydrate yourself when

you go

out today,

the barista tells me

as he hands

me my coffee.

he's in

med school,

i think.

so i take his advice, 

having never

known

to drink

water when i'm thirsty

or it's been

summertime.

a little misunderstanding

we don't

understand them,

their culture,

their language,

their particular ways of life

we can't fathom

why they wear 

the clothing they do,

why they eat strange food,

why do they

pray to a
God we don't know?

and they don't understand

us either.

it's confusing.

so we fight,

never quite knowing exactly,

who's wrong,

who's right.

home in time for dinner

it used to take

weeks

for ships to sail to a foreign

land

to fight a war.

to light

the cannons

and destroy a foe.

no more.

now,

a big black bird

zips

to where it needs to go,

six thousand miles

over water

and land to drop

it's deadly load.

then the pilots are

home again for dinner.

preparing for the worst of times

there's maybe

one more

spoonful of peanut butter

in the jar,

but i don't throw it away.

a dollop of jam

too.

i may be

hungry later,

so the one saltine cracker left

in the box

is saved as well.

i'm thinking ahead these

days.

preparing myself

for the worst

of times.

always.

sending a message

a little bling is okay, i guess,

a watch,

a ring,

maybe a necklace,

or bracelet.

but when does too much

occur,

when does

the cry for attention

become obvious

and it looks like

you travel with the carnival,

or have

joined the circus?

is it the nose ring,

the ears

loaded with metal pins,

each finger

with a band,

the belly button holding

a sapphire.

the tongue pierced with what

looks like

a fishing lure?

what are you trying to tell

the world

here?

at least not yet

carefully

i pull back the curtain,

squeeze down

on a blinds slat

and peer

out the window

into the horizon.

no mushroom clouds.

at least

not yet.

changing the channel

one channel

is talking about the war, while

the other

six channels

are talking about the weather,

and flowers,

how to crochet

a hat,

weeds

and turtles.

summer drinks,

and where to pick strawberries.

there's a newsman

talking about

how this pill

will keep you from

getting fat.

people i never heard of

my mother would call

on a Sunday

morning to talk, to gossip, to

shoot the breeze

about the weather

and do

a slight of hand interrogative

dig into

my own life,

at times, she'd

start rambling on about people

i didn't know, or ever would

know, from friends to distant

relatives, throwing in names

i never heard of.

third cousins twice removed

on her mother's side.

you know, Bill, don't you,

she'd say, he worked at the Walmart,

but used to be the foreman

at the lumber yard.

no, i'd tell her. but she'd go

on anyway. well, he died.

something about his liver, 

and drinking. i ran into his wife

Elma the other day

at the Dollar General.

the list was long of people i never

heard of.  rarely was i able

to connect the dots

of who was who. 

finally i sat down with her 

and made a flow chart

of everyone she knew,

or was related to,

living or dead.

i laminated the five pages

and put them into a three ring

binder, and kept it by the phone, 

so when she asked, 

you remember  Betty, don't you?

the woman with a goiter on

her neck,

i slide my finger down the list,

alphabetized and say, of

course, i do, she was your sister's 

daughter's, Sandra,  bridesmaid 

who lives

in Baltimore. yes, yes.

i remember her well.

go on.

well, listen to this, she'd say.

the red wagon

i was thinking

about

that red wagon.

the Red Flyer,

the one

i hauled newspapers

around in

for years.

up hills

in rain and snow,

in

the heat of summer

before

the sun rose.

the dog

loyally beside me.

where would i have

been without it?

is another

kid pulling it along,

or has it rusted,

no longer

a bright red, but

with broken wheels,

that no longer

go around.

i was thinking about

that red wagon,

it seems never far from

my thoughts

about that time.

the thin blue line

the police are weary

this summer

as the streets boil over

with flames

and looting, 

madness.

the weight

of all they

carry, the guns and mace,

the tear gas,

the clubs

and tasers, the masks,

the helmets,

and vests.

all of it

bends their legs, soaks

them to the bone

with sweat.

they just want to go

home

to their families,

to their wives and husbands,

their loved ones,

their pets,

they want to get some rest.

but the crazy people won't

let them.

it's another summer

of perpetual discontent.

i'm being followed

i don't mind

being followed, 

the shadow

behind me,

half

down the block

hiding behind

a tree, or leaning into

a store front,

an alley.

i like being

followed.

it gives me joy to be

wanted,

for whatever the reason

might be.

drinking from a hose

we had

to be patient with the long

green hose

lying in the yard,

on the brown

grass

in the July sun.

sprung with holes.

it took time for the hot, then

warm

water to come oozing out,

before

it got cold.

we were not patient children,

as we were

often told.

the fortune teller

i go see

the gypsy for a reading,

to see what my future

holds,

although

i don't believe

in any of it,

and think it's all hogwash,

but she amuses

me with

her crystal ball and deck

of cards, the way

she opens my hand

to read my palm.

oh, it's you again, she

says when i come

in and sit down.

you're older now aren't

you? much older.

i see you have a cane now.

this shouldn't take long.

the red rooster

can it be

that his own clock is broken,

the one

inside

that makes him crow

at sunrise?

or is there a reason

that he crows

all day, like he does,

despite the time?

i suspect

it's love,

gone awry.

has time won?

there

are things to attend to

on Saturday,

but you're tired,

so things will be

left undone.

you

have made less plans

than

you use to make.

is it true

that

time has finally won?

the girl from Ipanema

i used to love that song

as a kid.

the girl from Ipanema

by Sergio Mendez

and the Brazil

66.

i'd hold my little red

transistor radio

up to my ear

and hum along to the song,

sitting on my front

stoop in the hood,

behind the bowling alley.

i wanted to meet that girl.

my imagination

ran wild, i wanted to know

the girl from Ipanema.

that girl

in her French bikini,

with long legs,

strolling along

the beach, the sun 

glistening on her skin,

her white hat blowing

in the wind. 

she was the one. the only

one for me,

and then i met

someone from Pulaski

named Betty.

saying and doing stupid things

i have

one pair of blue shoes

at the bottom

of the closet.

blue suede shoes,

never worn.

i was

drinking that day

when

i bought them. in love

or in some

sort of delusional state.

high on life

as they say.

it's usually when 

i'm in that frame of mind

that i do or say

stupid things i'll regret

later.

i'm glad those feelings

have gone away.

don't come around here anymore

i'll leave

forgiveness to a higher power.

i'm not in

the practice

of hand out

penance

of any sort. i have

no desire

to punish or forgive.

i have no

no Hail Mary's or Our Father's

in my bag

of empathy 

for you.

just don't come

around here,

anymore.

follow the light

i find

the matches in the drawer,

feeling

my way around the darkened

house,

the power out

from the storm.

i'm lighting candles

on the sill,

the tables,

i carry one around

up

the stairs to the bedroom.

i'm in a movie, an old

movie

a romantic movie

in black, white.

when can you get here?

the door will be open,

follow the light.

inside out

it used to be

that 

you saved your true beliefs

for your

private

life, hiding

your anger or disappointment

with the world

at large,

politics

and life in

general, by being quiet,

reluctant to start

an argument,

you kept the peace,

but not anymore.

now

you take it to the streets,

and show

your true colors

for all the world to see.

putting on your

party clothes

and setting

fire

to what you don't believe.

i'll get back to you on that

sure, sure,

i'll get back to you on that.

but let's get

together again real

soon.

let's not let another ten years

go by

without seeing

each other,

and catching up, okay?

okay.

we're just a flight away,

or three hours

by train.

seven hours by bus.

you have my number,

feel free

to give me a call.

but if i don't pick up for

some reason,

leave a message, okay?

sometimes i'm really

really busy.

you know how it is,

right?

you text don't you?

the tattoo removal parlor

there's a new

business close by.

a tattoo removal parlor,

at the mall.

i see the line

out the door,

fat and skinny people,

young and old,

having their drunken decision

making

tattoos removed.

faces of family,

or lost loved

ones,

words in Chinese,

pictures of cats

and dogs,

tombstones, and butterflies.

devils and God.

sometimes i can hear

the customers screaming

through the wall,

knee deep in oily ink,

flooding

the floors.

Moe at the Mayo clinic

i remember

visiting my dog at the Mayo clinic,

after he

had eaten

another dead bird,

or mouse,

or something rancid

on the side

of the road.

it didn't take long before

he'd be sick

and staring at me,

asking me to please help.

take me in,

i'm sorry.

they put him in a nice

room,

with an IV in his paw.

a thin blue robe was wrapped

around him.

he had a window view

so that he could

bark at people walking by,

or at other dogs.

i'd come in and sit with him

for awhile

with the tv on.

i'd tell him,

you have to stop eating

dead things

and garbage in the woods

and on the road.

you're killing me here.

do you have any idea how

much this is costing me?

he'd shrug

his little shoulders,

shaking his head, then tell

me,

that he doesn't do money.

an eon ago

the phone bill,

if i remember correctly, was

under twenty

dollars,

there was no

tv bill,

no internet service,

the paper

on the porch

was our internet

back then,

the nightly news

at six.

there was cold milk

in the bin

outside,

butter and eggs, perhaps

a sweet if

you ordered it.

the postman came

twice a day,

he often tipped his hat,

he knew your

name.

you pushed your mower

along the yard,

trimmed

your hedges by hand.

people walked

by and said hello, they

waved.

what does he possibly see in her?

as we sit on the couch sipping

our vanilla bean 

Ensure

spiked with bourbon,

a news clip of the old coach

and his new

girlfriend

appears on tv.

he's 72, she's 25.

she's wearing a red micro

bikini

as she jogs along the shoreline.

foamy waves

are splashing onto

her tanned athletic body.

he's tailing

behind her, sort of limping

on bad knees

and is wearing plaid pants,

and a captain's hat.

can you believe that? my wife,

says. the audacity.

it's disgusting, just horrible.

what does she see

in him other than money?

and him,

what possibly could he see

in her?

i sit up on the edge of the couch

and put my glasses on.

beats me, i tell her.

maybe she's a good conversationalist,

or a culinary chef.

i don't know.

by the way, does this remote

control

have a slow-motion button?

can we borrow some of your bombs?

accidentally,

the conversation is heard on

an unsecured line.

the prime minister of the country

at war is talking to

the president,

shooting the breeze

about current events.

so how's the weather?

good, good.

hard to believe it's almost summer,

half the year is gone.

by the way,

have you lost weight? 

i saw you on tv the other day

at the parade,

you look marvelous.

and where

do you go for that tan?

i need to get out of this bunker

more often.

it truly is amazing

how young and healthy you look.

so how's your golf

game?

did you straighten out your swing?

just a suggestion, but

try to turn your

hips a little more,

and put your weight on the back leg.

a 42 on the front nine

at Congressional, really?

oh wow, that's great, that's great.

oh, and by the way.

just one more thing.

one more itty-bitty thing.

could you possibly lend

us a couple of those big giant

bombs you have?

the ones that burrow

miles into the earth

before they go boom?

one might do the trick, but

two would be swell.

early Christmas shopping in LA

my friend in LA

calls me

and asks if i need anything.

anything at all,

she says.

an early Christmas gift,

perhaps.

why?

i ask,

well, she says,

on Saturday we're rioting,

i mean

peacefully protesting,

and doing

some looting.

i'll be wearing my oven

mitts

because things might

be on fire.

we'll be close to Target

and Barnes

and Noble,

so if you need anything,

clothes, or

books,

text me a list.

oh, and the Apple store is

nearby,

if you'd like to switch over

to an I phone,

i've got you covered.

the joyful demise

there's a moment

of ah oh,

when you

swallow a too large chunk

of meat

and it gets caught

somewhere

in your throat,

causing you to gag,

shutting off

the air supply.

it's a panic

situation knowing

that this may

cause

enormous joy

to the ex-wives.

sometimes they wave

there's something

about

driving a mere thirty miles

out of town

that you

begin to realize that

it's a different world out

there.

for some reason people

are unable to get

rid of their old

cars that don't run.

there they are in the driveway

or on lawns,

up on blocks,

rusting in the rain,

dull in the sun.

washing machines too,

blue

refrigerators.

ovens with the doors

open,

perhaps a cat

nestled inside.

people tend to sit out on

their porches

the further you get away

from town.

sometimes they wave their

thick arms,

with a fly swatter in one

hand,

sometimes they frown.

doing fine thank you

there are

many things i can live without.

in fact,

i'm doing it

now.

the fancy car,

the enormous house,

the pool

in the back yard.

the model

from Vogue magazine.

i'm doing fine

without them,

the butler

or maid.

adoring fans, a chandelier,

a chef to make

me marmalade.

the Pulitzer Prize

for poetry.

no thanks.

i'm doing just fine, thank

you.

i need no parade.

her safe word was blueberry

she tells

me at breakfast as she

butters

me a piece

of toast, spreading on a dollop

of blueberry

jam,

that her safe word

when she was single

used to be

blueberry.

i lower the paper just

below

eye level and stare at her.

what?

what did you say?

your safe word was blueberry?

huh?

then she smirks

and walks

away.

35 and in the basement

what's in

the egg, in the womb,

knows without

knowing

when it's time to leave,

time

to crack shell

and

be born, time to flee,

to be out on one's

own,

to leave the nest

on wings.

at least

it used to be that way,

but children

are different

now,

or so it seems.

talking out of the side of their mouth

when someone starts

off a sentence with

the phrase,

do you want to know the honest

truth?

you know

you're in trouble.

and the last thing you are about

to hear

is anything that's

factual or true.

this is exactly what the nightly

and daily news does.

giving you 

a slanted version of what is real,

of what they want

you to believe and hear.

the point where the record skips

i still

know where the scratch is

on the vinyl

record

despite 50 years having

gone by.

it's

a favorite album i've

played

over and over again,

the glitch occurs

in the middle of when

Dylan sings

lay lady lay, on 

the second track.

i know when

to lift the needle

before

i reach the scratch

that makes

the record skip.

i'll take this knowledge

to the grave

with me,

apparently.

bug crawling on the wall

i wonder

what's going through the bug's

head

as it crawls

up the wall.

a many legged

thing,

with antennas,

golden brown, with

traces

of red.

it moves

with bursts of speed

like a jacked up

Chevy

in a bad neighborhood.

this way

and that way, it goes.

is there

a plan for today?

like me, i hope so.

i'm waiting for instructions

as i lie here.

her medicine cabinet

i take

a peek into your medicine

cabinet

when i go in

to shower.

carefully i open the squeaky

metal

and glass

door,

to see how crazy you

are.

how sick,

perhaps,

how depressed,

what pills are lined up

on the shelf

that makes you 

who you're

pretending to be.

is there anything i can

catch?

anything that might

kill me?

cry me a river

what

isn't stolen land,

land

won

by war, or lack

of

borders.

migration, 

disease,

or lawyers.

who isn't living on

a plot of dirt

where others

lived before.

there's history

then more history,

until

the time before.

the sky has fallen

the sky

has finally fallen.

there

are pieces everywhere,

in the smoke

and ash.

what was

bound to happen,

has.

what's wrong with these people?

i used

to like the city until the endless

protests

and riots started

and have never

stopped.

it's hard to go out and get

a sandwich

these days

or a cup of coffee.

the tear gas,

the fires,

the protestors and cops.

don't these people

have lives,

have jobs?

have families, or dogs

to walk?

real photos of a dead alien in a government lab in Jersey

i take the bait

and click on the post

labeled

genuine leaked alien photos

in a government lab

in Trenton.

i stare at the blurry

photos

of the extraterrestrial

creature.

it's a long

white slippery looking

thing

that reminds me of

a white sausage

hanging in the window

of a New York deli,

however this thing

has big eyes, and a bald

head,

no pants,

but no genitals either,

thank God.

it looks like someone

stretched

Casper the friendly ghost out,

like silly putty,

filled him

up with air, 

and laid him there.

all floppy arms and legs.

he looks a peace, if

it is a he.

the pronouns have yet to

be decided on.

serenity now

how quiet

this house is now.

how peaceful

and serene,

the empty rooms, no

creaking

of steps,

or radios on, no

television being viewed.

just me,

and at last,

no you.

with cake on their faces

i sip on

the clear glass

of cold water

on this hot summer day,

on the front

stoop.

some children skip

by holding

birthday

balloons,

red, blue and white,

the parents in tow,

i wave.

a dog comes over

to wag

his tail, 

allowing me to pet

him. somebody's 

birthday

has gone by, such

fleeting

time.

acting brave despite

the bang

startled me like a little

girl

in the dark,

a shadow

on the wall,

coward

at heart, i am,

a fragile

kitty

on soft feet,

walking through

life,

afraid of nearly

everything, 

the day and the night,

but

acting

brave, despite.

johnny Appleseed on the high seas

my father

had nine children, that we know of.

but he was

in the navy

and sailed the seven

seas,

and wore a lot of 

Old Spice cologne,

so we suspect

there are a lot more

out there.

maybe a son,

steering a gondola

in Venice,

another

in China

making stir fry,

a daughter in Spain

dancing on a table

snapping her castanets.

each one with his

broad shoulders, his

blue eyes, and curly

blonde hair.

a recipe for dumplings

i take

a break from the riots,

the fires

and looting,

watching

it all on tv,

and switch over to the cooking

channel.

two stocky women in blue

aprons

are making

a beef stew, with potatoes

and carrots,

onions.

celery and peas.

i can almost smell it through

the screen.

i begin to salivate.

quickly i run and get

my pad of paper

and a pen

and begin to scribble down

the recipe.

the dumplings

are the hardest.

i've never been good with

dumplings.

forever war

once of age,

reading

the paper, watching the news,

i can't remember

a single year

gone by

when there wasn't trouble,

chaos and war

in the middle east.

no matter which regime

is in power.

it's endless,

until the end. 

even the Bible will tell

you so.

one more for the road

enough

drink will do many things,

it'll give you

courage

to say the things

you couldn't say,

or make you happy,

silly,

make you want to dance

and laugh,

or it will

darken you,

remind of everything

you threw away,

each golden opportunity,

each chance.

it can make

you angry and sad,

make you tap the bar

for one more,

one more for the road

before it all

ends.

her favorite chair

we found

her

in the big yellow chair

in the corner,

next to the window,

the bird cage,

the telephone.

but she wasn't asleep

this time,

she was somewhere

else,

still smiling

though,

the yarn in her lap,

the long scarf

incomplete, not quite

ready

for Christmas.

the long distance runner

like with

any addiction, there's a price

to pay

at some point.

i used run

three times a week,

five miles

or more

each day. rain or shine.

snow or ice.

and then

there was basketball,

four nights

a week,

pounding the ball on

black tops

for decades,

on broken concrete.

i left nothing

out there, used up every

chance to play,

but now

slowly i dip my legs

into ice water

each night.

running has become

a distant memory.

crowned but not a king

my dentist

refers

to my mouth as Las Vegas.

a slot

machine

coming up all cherries

when she

pulls

the lever on the one arm

bandit,

my eyes spinning

at the cost.

so many crowns and yet

i'm still

not a king.

the Sunday flip of the coin

it was a tough

decision

trying to figure out where to spend

our Sunday in

the city

with the family.

to put a blanket down

and have

a picnic.

should we go to the parade,

where soldiers

are marching,

where

bands are playing,

where the history of our

country is on

display?

the night sky

full of patriotic fireworks?

or should we go to the protest

on the other

side of the fence,

with fires burning,

rocks and

Molotov cocktails

being thrown.

flags on fire, with

men in dresses, and megaphones

cursing in our ears.

not quite fully covered

it's for the house,

the car,

for work,

for health, for the dog,

the cat,

the children,

the roof.

there's extra warranty

on the phone

the dishwasher,

the television,

the computer.

i'm covered from

head to toe.

i'm ready for what

happens next,

the inevitable storm

on the horizon.

my wrist hurts

from writing so many

checks.

even my knees are sore

from prayer.

hooking the clasp

can you help

me with this, please, she

says,

standing at the mirror

in her long

yellow dress,

the clasp slipping through

her fingers

behind her neck.

so i help her.

it's what i'm here for,

i suppose,

nothing more,

nothing less.

nothing left to say

it's beautiful, in some

strange and dark

artistic way,

the bloom of mushroom

clouds

across the world,

like lightning strikes

landing

where they may.

the blossoming of white

and grey

flowers,

then the firestorm,

the unfolding

of humanity.

nothing much is left

in the end.

there's nothing left to say.

creation

to imagine

out of a brick of stone,

of marble

a man

or woman,

the limbs and veins,

the face,

the lips

and eyes,

the strands of hair,

carved

human,

is miraculous to me.

and from

nothing

on day one, even more

so.

former lives collecting dust

i see in the cellar

and in

the attic,

the life i used have,

there against the wall

is the surfboard,

still crusted with sand

and salt,

below that

skis,

and skates,

a football, with hardly

any air left

in it.

there's all the records

i used to play

in boxes,

the leather coat i used

to wear,

the sled,

the fondue pot,

fishing rods

and tackle,

camping equipment

with an inflatable

bed.

a Nikon camera

hanging on a hook.

still friends despite not agreeing on anything

we talk for three

hours,

going back and forth,

sideways,

up and down, 

discussing and debating

the world at large.

we get

nowhere

in changing each other's

opinion about

anything.

but we're still friends

in the end.

which is a miracle

for this age and time.

discontent is on the rise

i go down

to the hen house to gather

eggs for breakfast,

but the chickens

shake their heads

and say no,

not today, not until we

have a bigger yard

to free range,

more seed to eat,

more insects on the ground

to peck at.

they are marching

with little signs,

on strike. no eggs until

we get our way.

the pigs too are unhappy,

they've barricaded

themselves

behind the slop trough,

a sign says, you'll never

get a pork chop out me.

no bacon for you today.

the cows,

the cows are marching

in a circle in the field,

mooing away,

demanding better hay,

and shorter hours.

if you want milk,

go crush some almonds,

or squeeze a soy bean.

no one is happy these days.

the mute button

i activate

the closed caption

scroll on

the tv

screen.

it's either my hearing,

or the mumble

jumble

of the speaker

spewing nonsense

all day.

the mute button has become

my favorite

button on the remote

lately.

the new world order

everyday

is like Christmas morning,

with a new gift

of questionable information

under the tree

to open up.

all wrapped in a ribbon

and bow just for us.

which

post to read,

which news broadcast

to watch,

which podcast

or tweet

to follow,

which protest or war

to indulge in.

it used to be sports,

who got three hits last

night, or

drained a three,

but things have changed,

that's the least

of our worries

in this new world order

of things.

the hospital visit

white

are the walls, the halls,

the sheets,

the doctors

are in white, the curtain

pulled around

the deceased.

nurses hurry by.

gurneys roll by with

bodies.

the smell

of antiseptic fumes 

fill the air.

the voice of some

hospital god

is overhead, giving

orders

making urgent requests.

bells are dinging,

lights

flashing.

there are tears

and people weeping

in the hall,

bent on chairs,

flowers are

everywhere. i'll find

the exit

somewhere.

somewhere.

stuck in the rally downtown

i head downtown

to get a cherry sno-cone,

but get caught up in the protest

rally.

there's a megaphone

in my ear,

repeating the same

nursery chant over and over

again.

i take some Tylenol extra

strength

and plow forward.

there's a bookstore

up ahead,

i want to browse, but there's

a gaggle of blue

haired

women and men with

man buns on their head

blocking the way with signs

and paper mâché

statues

of the president with

a little mustache under

his nose.

it's chaos down here.

it's hilarious.

i'm beginning to see the growing need

for Ozempic and better

mental

health online.

the court makeover ala my fair lady

having never owned a suit

or a pair

of dress shoes,

or a dress shirt, or tie,

or a belt,

his lawyers take measurements

of the prisoner,

then run up to J.C. Penny's

to buy him

appropriate court wear

for the trial.

a barber comes in

to give him a nice haircut,

with a part on the side.

then a makeup artist

from Sephora arrives

with mascara, blush and concealer,

to hide

the scars and tattoos

on his face, the tear drop

under his eyes.

the guns and knives

on his neck.

they use a diction coach 

to help him with his

manner of speaking,

having him repeat phrases

like no your honor, not

guilty. i'm a father, a son,

a brother, a hard worker,

a good husband most of the time

and an all around

good guy.

they tell him to stop using

the word yo,

in every sentence

and to put on a pair of work gloves.

it takes weeks, but by

the time

the gavel is struck,

his lawyers gather around him

and proclaim,

by George, i think

he's got it.

finding cold ground

it's the summer

heat

now,

the full green is here.

the sway

of trees

on a warm breeze.

the still

water of the stream.

and the dog

lying down,

still on his leash,

his belly on the cold

muddy

ground.

so easy that was to figure

out.

the paid protestor

nervously

the young man,

a legal immigrant,

recording himself

on his phone

tells how

he was called up

and asked

to protest on the streets

where the riots

are going on.

he tells

how he has been offered

two hundred dollars

a day,

to throw rocks

and fireworks at the police.

he's been told

where the palette of bricks

will be,

which streets

to cause chaos on.

he could use the money,

but thankfully, he says no.

he loves

his new country.

maybe something a little closer

the telescope

we've sent into space

a decade

ago,

sends back a signal

that hey,

we found something.

it's two trillion light years

away,

but it looks

like there are rocks

on this planet,

just like the ones on

the airless moon.

when it's time to leave

we may have found

a place

to stay.

hip hip hooray.

slide rules and pocket

protectors

fly in the air

in celebration.

climbing the ladder with a lightbulb

i have known

that the light in the hallway,

the one

twenty feet up

is burned out.

months have gone by.

i know.

i know.

but it involves the extension

ladder being

carried in

from the yard

up the steps and then propped

precariously

against

a wall, then climbing up,

with bulb in hand.

i think i can live

in darkness

a little while longer, rather

than the other

way around.

it's just a parade like all the others

it's much

ado

about nothing, as the Shakespearean

quote goes.

a parade,

a protest, the outrage.

countries

around the world have

parades

celebrating

who they are, the good

countries

and the bad, depending

on whose side

you're on.

nearly every president

has marched

tanks

and guns down the road,

proud soldiers

who protect the homeland,

many of which

have died for your freedom.

from

Washington,

to Eisenhower,

to Obama,

to Kennedy and Bush

and now

Trump.

it's just a parade.

get over it.

relax and be thankful.

go home.

the apocalyptic man buns

you wonder

sometimes, what good the next

generation

will be,

if someone pulls

the plug

on electricity

when the big one drops.

will they know what a hammer

is?

a spade,

a rake,

will they have a clue

about

how to build anything with

their hands,

grow

anything?

will they have the fortitude

to live

off the land?

to kill

or be killed.

how long will they stand there,

stunned,

with their dead

cell phones in their hand?

will they

keep their new pronouns

and on their

childish heads,

their man buns?

the Burger King protests

i see the on the talk

show

a man in a velvet pants

and cape, a crown,

a scepter,

wearing his high

boots.

despite being

draped in jewels

there's a frown on his face.

why are they picking

on me?

he asks,

forlorn and weary.

what have i done to deserve

such a fate?

why do they keep chanting,

no kings,

no kings.

i'm a king, so what. i only

want to make people

happy

with my burgers and fries,

my charcoal

methods of grilling meat,

my three sizes

of soft drinks.

yes.

i'm a king, i'm royalty,

i was born

this way. 

i was born to be a king.

i am one, i admit it.

please, give me a break. 

the same shore

as i lie

here on this beach towel

bought

from

a boardwalk

store,

i listen to my transistor

radio,

red and squared like

a box.

there's the waft

of chicken

and French fries in

the air.

i hear the ocean breaking 

behind me,

the sputter of a small

plane

dragging a banner

across the blue sky.

i'm here again,

as if i've never

left,

the same boy, on the same

shore,

no different than

it was

in 1964.

another day at the office

we used

to stand around the water cooler,

or the Mister Coffee machine,

perpetually

brewing

on the office kitchen

counter.

we gathered in a small

group,

shooting the breeze,

talking sports

and movies,

before we put in our

three hours

of actual work for the day.

there was lunch,

and maybe

a birthday party.

there were

bathroom

breaks, personal calls to

make.

there was flirting with

the new secretary up front.

small talk

in the hall about the weather,

and where

i bought this new tie.

are we going to happy hour

this Friday?

there was sitting

at a desk

in a cubicle,

shuffling papers, and scrolling

things online

ever alert for one of five

bosses to come

walking by.

clock watching

and eating peanut butter

crackers were two

of my favorite

past times.

just another day in LA LA land

i go down

to the seven elven to get

some milk

and bread,

a newspaper,

but the store is on fire.

so i walk

over to the grocery

store,

it's being looted

by an angry

crowd

of masked hooligans.

i decide to go to the park

to sit on

a bench,

and wait things out,

but rubber bullets are flying

everywhere.

just another day

in LA..

i suck on a mint as

i gag on the tear gas

filling

my lungs and mouth.

trying to quit yelp

i call yelp

to tell them that i don't want

to be

on yelp

anymore.

only the angry

Karens

ever

post anything.

things with them are never

quite right.

rarely

do the satisfied take the time.

i tell them that

i don't want my business

on their

site anymore.

take me off.

i want the memory of me gone.

they laugh,

and tell me too late,

you can

never erase the information

you've given us.

another

wife.

a memory stored

it's the wisp

of

the garden

sprinkler that awakens

you

as the sun

comes up.

the slow whisper of water

soaking

the yard,

the yet to be flowers.

it's spring,

it's youth,

it's a memory stored.

again

new.

the glossy centerfold

starving

at seven a.m.,

i stare at the menu

lying flat on the table.

my eyes fixed

on a stack

of pancakes,

with syrup and strawberries

stacked on top,

whipped cream

and butter.

two eggs on the side,

and bacon.

i loosen my belt as the waitress

approaches.

she dabs

at the drool on my lips

with a napkin,

then pats me on the head.

you'll have the number

four,

i see, she says,

pointing

at what i'm staring at.

the glossy

centerfold of breakfast food.

yes. i tell her.

of course.

she was a beauty back then

it's a long

day

on the ladder

chipping

paint

off the wood trim,

wallpaper

off the walls.

it was a beauty back then.

but no

more.

the rain through

the roof,

the weather of time,

the abuse

and lack of care has

taken it's toll.

sadly we all

get old,

some quicker than others,

i'm told.

don't believe what you see here

there is nothing

to see here,

please,

don't believe your lying eyes.

this isn't a riot.

there are no

bricks being thrown,

or fireballs,

or frozen bottles of water.

there are no

no stores being

looted,

no crime.

no fires burning.

please, move on.

don't believe what you see here.

there's nothing

wrong,

nothing going.

sure it's been six nights

and days

of mobs in the streets,

but there's nothing

to worry about.

have a nice day.

peace out,

go get an ice-cream cone.

out of context

i see my

dentist in the promenade

sipping

coffee,

reading  a book

about

root canals and implants,

i stop

and say hello,

but she looks confused.

it's me,

i tell her.

i was just in yesterday

for a cleaning.

i open my mouth

wide

to show her my teeth,

oh, oh,

she says.

hello, i didn't recognize you.

don't forget to floss,

see you

again

in six months.

mush brains

they say

you begin to lose your marbles

in your later

years.

but i think

it's happening earlier these days.

you only

have to turn

on the television

to see

the craziness of the world.

they aren't

waiting

until they're 80 anymore

to have their brains

turning into

mush.

they're already there.

who's your daddy now?

it was a small house

with thin

walls,

thin doors,

you could be walking

by your

parents

bedroom

late at night to use

the bathroom

and hear the symphony

of bed springs,

the wrestling

of love going on.

you could hear

your father's low growl

asking

your mother,

so, who's your daddy now?

what kind of question

was that?

it was confusing.

why would he be asking

her who

her father is?

and she would answer,

you are,

you are.

the four hour battle

we needed dirt,

sticks,

rocks, mud, a large

spoon

to dig with

from the kitchen drawer.

we needed

a small patch

of the yard,

maybe a jug of water

to create

an ocean,

that's it.

maybe a cardboard

box

or two.

a handful of plastic

army

soldiers, with tanks

and trucks,

and the afternoon

flew. 

aligning the soldiers of seasoning

i pull the dining room

chair

into the kitchen

to take a look at the overflowing

cupboards,

to finally organize the dozens

of spices

and what not.

flour and baking powder,

garlic

and red pepper shakers.

packets of dried

yeast.

miniature bottles of vanilla

and maple.

things i've never used, or

ever seemed

to need.

how many pepper shakers

does one

have.

how many bags of sugar,

granulated

and powdered

are on these shelves?

look at all the

small jars of sage and basil,

oregano,

dried bay leaves,

but i'm afraid to throw anything

away

one day,

it could be something i need.

the walking antique

she had

a good eye for antiques,

for art,

for vases

and pieces of China.

she knew

the style,

the era, the various makers

of furniture,

and cutlery.

she knew fabrics,

silks

from lands far away.

silver and wood.

antiques were her thing.

and now she had lived

long enough

to become one.

don't forget your bag of rocks and mask, honey

it used

to be that if you were a bad

person,

a nefarious character

up to no good

or

about to rob

a bank

or someone

you wore a mask to hide

your identity

or perhaps you wore

one to ward

off disease, the cold

or flu,

or in spreading germs,

but times

have changed.

everyone in a riot 

or protest wears one.

don't worry baby

it's the summer

of love

and Molotov

cocktails.

rocks and bricks,

setting cars on fire,

riots

and protests

fighting police,

destroying property

and looting.

and yet,

it's a warm

pleasant

day in southern California.

a good day

for surfing,

for singing

along with the Beach Boys,

Jan and Dean

let's go down

Pacific Coast Highway,

put our

feet in the sand,

the ocean is wide

and blue.

grab your surfboard,

the waves

are waiting,

they're waiting for me

they're waiting for you.

winging it

women

remember things,

like

lipstick

and mints, tissue paper,

umbrellas

and maps,

phone chargers.

walking shoes

and dress shoes.

where as men

leave the house

and wing it

for the rest of the day,

using the men's

room to dab

at the ketchup

on their shirts.

funny bones

there's funny

like

George Carlin

or Rodney Dangerfield funny,

Robin Williams,

and then

there's Bob Hope,

or Milton

Berle.

Jack Benny.

the further you go back

in time

the less

harder it was to make

people laugh.

Tom Jefferson was supposedly

a riot

the way he used

to come up behind

people and pull on their

wig.

cave men doing standup

got a lot of mileage

twirling

animal bones

talking about the echo

in their

caves, called homes.

this won't last long

she points out

that

i have spinach between my

teeth,

then

tells me that my shirt

is misbuttoned,

and that there's toilet

paper

stuck to the bottom

of my shoe.

she points at my fingernails

and asks me

if i'm still biting

them,

and that there's

paint or some kind of goo

stuck

there.

this won't last long.

meeting up with old friends

i almost feel like

i know

these people, having grown

up with them,

they're relatives

and friends

of some sort that influenced

my childhood.

Uncle Ben

and Little Debbie,

Betty Crocker,

Aunt Jemima and Captain

Crunch.

Charlie the Tuna,

Popeye on a spinach can,

Tony the tiger,

Snap, Crackle and Pop,

the Indian girl on the brick

of butter.

when i have them around

me

in the kitchen

i feel safe, i feel at home

again.

they got nothing on Betsy Ross

there's a flag for everything

and everyone

now.

straight or gay,

or somewhere in

between.

patriotic

or not with the flag

upside down.

each country has a flag,

each state

and city.

the Vatican has a flag,

and terrorists too

are proud

to wave their flags.

each brand of sexuality

has a flag.

people love

to wave their

favorite flag, holding it

up high, showing

who they are,

or where they're from.

sometimes

they burn the flags

that they don't like,

dancing in a circle wildly,

just having some fun.