the DEI post office

we talk about

how the mail service is horrible

these days.

mail gets lost,

undelivered,

bills are late, checks

never arrive,

i blurt out, that's what

we get because off

DEI,

lesser competent

people

were hired.

which makes her laugh.

really? she says,

she then tells me we

can no longer be friends

after handing

me the letter that was

for me, but dropped

off in her box

by mistake

by someone with purple

hair.

the cookie jars

it's tempting

to click

on the link,

to take the bait and see

what's on

the other

side of this page,

this

text or email.

a simple push of

the finger,

and there

we are.

stale or sweet, or

bug

filled,

who knows

until we take a bite.

we're like little children

staring

at the cookie jar

when mommy's

not around.

filing jointly again

i call up

my tax lady, Betty, in old

Manassas

Virginia,

and tell her,

i have some bad news, Betty.

i've known

her for 35 years now.

she does my taxes in a little

Cape Cod house

on the side of the road.

oh no,

what? she says. what's the bad news?

i got married again. 

i tell her.

i was smitten

by some financially bankrupt woman

and bit the bullet again.

third time's

the charm, right?

i'll be filing jointly again

this year.

oh no, she screams over the phone.

please, please tell me,

that you didn't do

something that stupid again.

ha ha,

i tell her,

just kidding, a little dark humor

for the Halloween season.

whew, she says,

readjusting the wig that

nearly fell 

off her head.

don't scare me like that anymore.

the evidence in black and white

i have

a black and white photo of my

father's

second family.

they look

fat and happy in the sun,

out in the back

yard of the house

they lived in for ten years.

the kids sort

of look like us,

the seven from the first marriage

to my mom.

and then

that train went off the track too.

and in the end

he said,

none of it ever happened.

they weren't his

children.

but here is the photo.

i have proof.

they look exactly like him.

no one is that crazy

i've never

heard anyone say,

you know what?

i'm dying for some carrots,

or kale,

what i'd like right

now is

a big fat tomato,

or some celery.

would someone

ever say,

i just can't get the thought

of some

chickpeas

out of my mind?

i need some before this

day is done.

i think it's safe to say

that no one

has ever said anything

crazy like that.

when the tubes smolder

we used

to tell my sister,

the smallest

and weakest of us all,

to stand

near

the tv

and hold the aluminum

covered

antenna

just so.

then kick the side to get

the horizontal

roll

to hold.

sometimes the big

wooden

box

would have a tendency

to smoke,

which would make us

go outside

to play

in the rain.

the night clerk

the clerk

had seen it all.

all manner of guests who

appeared

after driving

on the long road.

the young

and old. tired and beaten.

the lost and lonely.

the excited

heading to a Disneyland

in their minds,

the two

hour stays

with no luggage

and curtains pulled tight.

he knew what

life was.

the clerk with one eye,

he knew that life

was

a temporary visit with

a Bible in the drawer

to help with

forgiveness.

waiting for the sun to come out

so much

is in the shadows.

a cat

going

through the trash,

a lost key, a letter,

a box

with a man

asleep inside.

a diamond

ring thrown

aside.

hope and love.

things yet to be found.

there's

so much we don't see.

yet it's all there

waiting

for the sun to come out.

Dostoevsky blues

it was

hard to plow through

the Russian

novel, 

every character had a strange

name.

not a Steve

or Sally in the whole book.

though a Dimitri and

Anton did appear.

i had to take

notes

and make a flow chart

to try and make

sense

of the meandering

and complicated plot.

i carried the book

everywhere i went that summer,

on buses,

to the beach,

to bathroom to the park.

i wore the cover

off before i reached the middle.

i never finished it.

one day perhaps, but

maybe

i'm just not that smart.

champagne love

it was a champagne

love

affair,

a fling if you must.

all fun

and bubbly,

sparkling and sweet

the night

of,

but by six o'clock

the next morning,

the bottle

was nearly

empty and flat,

spilled onto the floor.

i removed

her cat

from my chest then

reached

for my shoes,

my keys

and wallet and wondered

where my car

was parked.

are you leaving already?

she said,

from

the jumble

of clothes and sheets

on the bed.

i nodded, ummm, 

eventually,

yes.

ten years straight of pregnancy

my father

used to give my mother the silent

treatment

for days on

end.

he'd sulk

in the easy chair

with a beer

and the tv on.

we were warned to stay

clear of him

until

he came back around.

i think it involved

sex, or the lack

of with

my mother being continually

pregnant like

a cat for

ten years,

telling him,

for once,

no.

which nearly brought

him to tears.

do i miss Milagro?

do i miss

the old housekeeper, Milagro?

sometimes

i do.

when the dust builds up,

or i haven't

made the bed

in a while.

but for the most part no.

i think

of the time she broke

the mirror in

the hall,

hit the Verizon box

on the floor

with her wild vacuuming

style

leaving me without

television

for a week.

i could never find my shoes

or my

checkbook,

the milk was all gone.

there was the time she left

the back

door open

and the squirrels came in

to nest

and eat.

the water was left running

overflowing

down three floors.

i  found a vase in a twenty

pieces, 

and all my clever magnets

rearranged

on the refrigerator

door.

was it worth the two thousand

bucks a year

i was giving her.

i'm not so sure.

judgement day

i remember

the fat vultures at the end 

of the route 5 

corridor heading east

to the eastern shore.

how they would

line up

like supreme court judges

in their oily

cloaks,

waiting for the next roadkill.

patient

on the side of the road,

wings clutched

to their sides,

talking to one

another

licking their chops

as a possum hesitates

coming out of the woods

and stops

between the dotted lines.

it's judgement

day all day along this stretch

of highway.

we're lucky living here

we're lucky

living here in the DMV,

rare is the tornado

or hurricane

that blows through

lifting trailer

courts away, there's

no wildfires to speak of,

no trembling

earthquake,

or typhon rolling across

the sea

engulfing boats

and sailors.

we're lucky here.

maybe a strong wind once

in a while,

some minor

flooding,

but for the most part, our

biggest problem

is listening

to too much news.

and now even crime is

down.

why are people doing stupid things like lying in the road?

when i see

people lying on the street blocking

traffic,

joining arms,

preventing

police from doing their job,

or keeping people

from going to work.

i wonder what's wrong with them.

what mental illness

do they have?

does this really

help their cause?

do they think this is some heroic

gesture.

that will change the world,

or one single

mind that sees it on tv?

will they recount the votes

because of this

and put someone else in power?

i don't think so.

don't they have families,

loved ones,

jobs of their own.

dogs to walk, groceries

to shop for,

why are they doing this?

why don't they come to their

senses,

and go home?

what has gone wrong?

i take note

of the green faced clock

upon the wall

over the silent printer

and phone.

why don't people call anymore?

i watch

the secondhand circle

the plate

of hours.

i'm in the moment as they

say,

perhaps too deep

into the moment.

what has gone wrong?

i've lost you

have i

lost too much weight?

why

are these trousers so loose,

they no

longer fit.

and this shirt i have on,

it hangs on me

like a tent.

i'm swimming in my

wardrobe.

is it loneliness

and worry

that has caused this melting

or you?

i look in the mirror

and see that i look like

a prisoner

of war.

i'm in a camp

hanging on the wire.

what has happened to me

in a few short

years?

how long before i'm reduced

to nothing,

just dust

upon the floor.

whatever you do, don't buy a boat

she told

me that whatever you do when

you finally retire

is to not buy a boat.

i don't care how much

you love

the water and fishing.

don't do it.

you'll regret it the moment

you set sail

and your bank account dwindles

down to nothing.

do you know

what gas costs these days?

do you know

about rust

and mildew, mold,

sewage,

and electricity?

do you know aft from stern?

do you know

how to read a map,

or navigate by the stars,

or how to tie a knot?

do you realize that Safeway

sells fish now

and you don't have to spend

all day out

on the Chesapeake Bay

trying to catch one?

blown out to sea

i visited him

on Christmas eve. touched

his foot

that stretched beneath the clean

white sheets.

he didn't budge.

there were no drinks nearby,

no cigarettes,

no angry

children, disgruntled wives.

no police

knocking at his door.

he was alone

at last. the hurricane

of him

had blown out to sea.

i said a few

words of prayer.

his eyes were closed.

i told him

not to worry, you'll be out

of here soon.

then it's back to work.

there was a calmness

in the room

i never felt

when he was alive.

for once he wasn't fighting

the world.

at last he got the respect

he longed for,

by strangers, by those

unknown.

all county center fielder

with three

degrees from three different

colleges,

i see him

behind the counter at 

Starbuck's

pouring coffee, 

grinding beans.

his face is completely 

tattooed now,

and there's

pins and needles, hooks

and rings

sticking out

of his ears and nose,

his eyebrows.

he's wearing

a pink dress

and heels.

he was the kid next door.

tanned with floppy hair.

i remember

how i used to play

catch with him

in the yard. all county

on his baseball

team in high school.

i say hello

and reach over to shake his hand.

how's it going?

i ask.

he tells me that no one

will hire him.

no one returns his calls.

he's stuck here

in this store.

everyone is still here

no one lives here anymore

the pink house

abandoned in the woods,

so we go through a broken

window

in the cellar,

our gang

of boys, exploring what's

left behind.

there's the couch against

the wall,

a tv on the floor.

a child's doll.

toothbrushes in the bathroom.

beds with the sheets

still on.

we dodge the racoon

that has made this place

his home.

a bat circles before it finds

the window.

i stop at the kitchen

and see

on the wall

the markings of children

as they grew

year after year.

the lines and dates

where their heads once rested

as a mother

made the marks.

who were these children,

where are they now?

there's even a Christmas wreathe

still hanging

on the door.

everyone is still here,

everyone is gone.

it's just a passing fancy

the blush

of sun on this 

morning ocean arouses

a strange

sense

of hope in you.

maybe the world isn't crazy

after all.

it's just

a mirage,

this violence, this hatred,

these killings

are a passing

fancy.

it will all fade

in another decade

or two.

the stolen purse

i remember

the cave of my mother's purse,

the big one

that she strapped

around her shoulder

when she went

anywhere.

it was a treasure trove of candy and gum,

cigarettes,

jewelry,

a small photo album

of family

and friends.

matches

and crackers.

bills to be paid.

pens, and a notebook.

rosary beads from her first

communion.

tissues and rubber bands.

her wedding rings.

i remember how she cried

as she sat

on the bench after

the thief ripped it away

from her,

dragging her across the ground

as she screamed

for help.

as a boy of ten,

i remember her face, sad

and pale,

frightened.

she never in her life

hurt anyone.

the pink light coming into the room

what is it,

she asks me, as we sit

without talking

in the living room.

the tv

off, our phones 

no longer clenched

in our hands.

just me and her.

what is it, she says again,

what's on your

mind.

speak.

tell me if something is wrong.

don't leave

me in the dark,

alone.

spit it out. 

i can take it.

nothing is wrong, i tell

her.

everything is fine.

look how pink the light

is as

it comes

into the room.

the bullet train

you

hardly wake up

when

it's time for bed again.

the speed

of time

seems to be increasing

with each

new day

each month and week.

wasn't it just

yesterday

you stood 

in front of a mirror

without a line on your face,

how you bounded

up staircases,

three steps at a time.

you drank

whatever you wanted to drink,

ate everything

on every plate.

the world was in slow

motion

back then.

and now it's a bullet

train.

it's getting late.

we got to get out of this place

as i sit on the front porch

sipping coffee

and listening to music, perusing

a new poetry book

i see

my neighbor Lulabelle packing up,

there's a U-Haul trailer

hooked up to her Prius

out front.

hey, i say. you guys moving

already?

yes, she says,

we can't take it any longer,

between

that radical right Maga

and Trump.

all of our rights are being

taken away.

oh really,

like what?

well, for instance, umm,

well....

i can't think of anything

exactly right now.

but we're both

afraid to go to beach and get

a tan,

ICE might pick us up,

because of our skin color.

huh?

but you were born in Baltimore

and your

dad is a cop.

your skin is almost pink.

well, i know, i know, but

they're coming

for us, you'll see. my cousin

is sort of gay

and hides under his bed all day

in his furry costume.

anyone with brown eyes

and a foreign accent,

and likes Bette Midler

or QVC is next.

i mean, my God they banned poor

Jimmy Kimmel

for almost four nights.

the suffering his family must have

gone through.

every time i see a helicopter

in the sky

i pee my pants with fear

that they're coming for us.

you'll see, you're next.

i'd put that poetry book away

if i was you.

hold on,

i need to get these 2028 Kamala and Jasmine

for president signs

into the truck.

so where to? i ask her.

we're thinking Ireland

or California.

we're not sure yet.

maybe Gaza or the West Bank.

okay, i tell her. well, best of luck.

do you need some help with

all of those

Palestinian flags rolled up?

can you keep it down out here

i go out

into the back yard

to see what all the commotion

is about.

birds on the fence,

chirping,

bullfrogs

sounding off

in their hoarse voices.

there's a snake

slithering

beneath a rock.

squirrels are dancing with

acorns in

their mouth.

a raccoon is yanking

the lid

off a trash can.

i open the door and they

all stop

to take a look

at me,

shrug and continue

on as if i don't exist.

women and birthdays

we men

almost forget our own birthday,

the day

arrives

and you see the number

on the calendar

and sigh.

so what.

you're still here,

still alive,

maybe you'll celebrate

later by having a donut

and a second

cup of coffee.

but women are different

creatures.

the whole world

seems to know that their

special

day has arrived.

they get their hair done,

their nails,

a new dress is bought.

they go to the spa.

it's a month-long event,

with dinners out,

dinners in,

parties and balloons.

dancing and drinking.

birthday cards

arriving in the mail.

gifts by the dozen,

bottles of wine.

it's Christmas,

it's New Years Eve,

it's the fourth of July.

no surrender

the threat

of clouds is far off.

the spear

of lightning, the cannon

of thunder,

but

so is tragedy and death.

there

is little one

can do about

such thoughts,

do you close the windows

bring

in the dog,

hunker down

and wait it out.

or embrace the wind

and rain

when it arrives.

Un surrendered

once again

as you rock upon the porch.

the last dog

my last dog

loved

to bark, to gnaw on shoes,

to tear

things up,

unravel

and chew on just about

anything.

a full time beggar

for a crumb

of food.

hats and gloves,

wires

were shredded between his teeth.

i still see the traces

of his mayhem

when

i look around the room.

the legs of chairs

and tables

half eaten,

bones buried in the living

room.

part of me

misses him dearly,

and yet another part sighs

with relief,

and says whew.

she's gone sailing off the cape

i call up

my broker at Morgan Stanley.

i haven't

talked to her in ages.

i know she likes

to go to Cape Cod this time

of year

and sail on her

boat, and i hate to bother

her while

she's eating lobster

and filet mignon,

but i want to ask her a question

about this RMD thing

that is coming up.

the line

is busy of course, but i leave

a message.

when she calls back, she says,

well hello dear,

long time no hear,

how are you,

the market has done marvelously

well this year,

don't you think?

you must come up to the cape

this time of year.

pack a bag and hop on a plane,

come on up 

so that we can talk.

Biff and Betty say hello,

by the way,

they're opening up another

bottle of

champagne.

how to become a paid protester

i go online to do some research

on how

to become a paid protester.

maybe i can make a few extra bucks

for Christmas this year.

i see them

in their lime green vests

on the news all the time

TikTok,

YouTube.

they attend countless protests

around the country.

the Po Po know them by name.

to hell with nine to five,

the ad says.

you can be your own boss,

set your own hours.

work outside in the fresh air until

the tear gas arrives.

it's an excellent cardio workout.

tired of being a loner with

no friends, we'll here's your chance

to meet a fun group of lost

and deranged people

like yourself.

no experience necessary.

do you have a megaphone

and lots of negative

energy, angry all the time,

do you hate your

country, know how to set

fires and make exploding

devices, that's great.

a loud screeching voice is 

a must and we

prefer non-religious workers

with no

conscience or morality.

being estranged from your family

and having

no real friends is okay with us.

an empty heartless soul

that lives on the dark web

in your mother's basement fits

in perfectly with

our mission statement

that demands that we destroy the world

and take it

back from the Man.

the big spooky Orange man

in particular.

our motto is be angry at everyone

that doesn't

believe exactly like we do.

transgenders are welcome

with open arms,

as well as college professors

and baby boomers without a life. 

we value your

past experiences

made in the 60's. please bring

your canes and walkers,

wheelchairs, rescue inhalers

and plenty of Ensure,

and be safe.

try to keep to the right side

of the road.

defibrillators will be stationed

nearby next to park benches.

we do not discriminate by age

or race,

and

we don't care if you're a he, she,

him, them,

they or a furry.

we welcome anyone in an

animal costume.

come on down and bark your lungs out.

if hired,

welcome aboard

to three or four

exciting hours of looting 

and harassing

police on the streets.

if you can travel to Chicago or

New York, that's

a plus.

we will provide a gas mask,

helmet and

bullet proof vest.

just tell us your size, height

weight, etc.

and we'll do the rest.

sorry but we only provide clothing

in jet black.

also everyone will get a starter bag

full of broken bricks

and rocks.

we pay in untraceable cash at the end

of each protest,

and will provide a student lawyer

from Columbia

if needed when you get

arrested and carted off to the pokey.

come one

come all, join our enthusiastic

and growing team.

together we can make this

world a more

horrible place

and earn good money while doing it.

no ID's or background checks are

required.

the HOA

red

is a nice color for the front door.

but

black is fine

too.

yellow or

green would be fine

as well,

but we have

rules here.

so it has to be blue.

finding a grocery list

as i enter

the grocery store i find

a folded grocery list on the floor.

it's written in black ink.

the handwriting is very nice,

i suspect that the writer

of the note

went to Catholic School

or was taught at home.

the letters are very clean

and clear

with hardly any flourish,

all of it between the lines.

bread, milk, eggs,

grapes,

toilet paper,

paper towels.

Tide and Dial Soap.

at the bottom is the word

Oreos, which may have

been written by a child,

but crossed out.

i decide to use this list

to do my own shopping,

i circle the word Oreos,

which i put into

my shopping cart first.

the martyr Jimmy Kimmel

there's

a man, a homeless man

that i

talk to once in a while

on the street.

he's been there for years.

sometimes

he's sitting in the alley

with a can

of soup.

or a bag of fast food.

we talk

after i give him

a ten-dollar bill.

he tells me it's a crying shame

about Jimmy Kimmel

off the air

for four days.

man, he says. what's the world

coming to.

poor guy.

how's he gonna feed his

family

if they kick him

off the air?

i thought this country was built

on free speech.

he's a martyr now, that's what

he is.

don't be surprised if a statue goes

up for him.

but he lied,

i tell him. he flat out told a bold

face lie

to millions of people

and never apologized.

he shrugged.

yeah, who doesn't lie? the whole

world is one

big lie.

we need to forgive and forget.

you know he

makes 15 million dollars a year,

i tell him.

yeah, but it's a hard job

coming up with new jokes

every week.

i couldn't do it. could you?

he's under a lot of stress, i saw

him crying last night

on tv when

i went to the shelter, i feel bad

for the man, really bad.

it's a hard world i tell you.

a hard hard world.

the delusion of men

i used

to think that i could make her happy.

i truly

believed

i had the power, the intelligence,

the desire

to find a way

to make her smile

and be happy.

trinkets,

flowers, 

attention

and affection, 

something had

to ring

the bell of joy in her,

but each

year

showed me how delusional

i was.

she was happiest when

she was

unhappy, a lesson,

hard earned.

the boy with blonde hair

i often wondered

what

happened to the boy who

wrapped

his arm

with a band,

then

tapped his vein and shot

heroin

into himself

as we sat around Dana's

basement

listening to the White Album.

his beautiful blue

eyes rolled

back into his head

as he lay down,

while

a wide smile stretched

across his face.

i think his name

was Henry,

the boy up the street

with blonde hair

who showed

me how to throw a curve

ball

at the age of ten.

throwing dishes across the room

at last

i know where you stand.

your anger

tells me

exactly what i need

to know

about how you feel

about me.

there is no

confusion now,

no ambiguity.

thank you for at last

telling me

where you are with

where we're at.

the plate that just missed

my head,

has told me that.

three steps down on I street

there was

solace at one time in the dark

cave

of bars,

in the music

you knew every word to,

in the swampy

haze of smoke and drink,

there was promise in

the prospect

of girls

at the front end of their lives,

unafraid

yet by men.

there

was something like

hope

in the air, in your

heart,

that this night might

change

everything. like a random

lightning strike,

maybe.

it's what brought you

there night

after night, into mornings

when the sun

was wearily rising.

making the heart sign with your hands

i knew

that eventually i'd get sick of her

when

she started doing

that popular thing

with her hands, making

a heart sign

with her thumb

and fingers.

holding it up with a big smile

for me to see.

for some reason her doing

that made

me queasy. i felt an enormous

sense of cringe, not

to mention when

she would say Ciao all

the time

when leaving,

like she was Audrey Hepburn

or someone.

i don't know why

exactly that bothered me,

but it did.

circling Rhonda and Popeyes Chicken

i circle

the fried chicken establishment

like a pining

lover

wondering

how the old girlfriend

is. i miss it so much.

should i go in.

should i get the four piece

chicken dinner,

spicy with dark meat,

with fries

and slaw,

a large drink?

or should i drive on

and spare

myself

the pain and regret later

for

trying once again.

the democratic Mayors, We Got This

the mayor

is proud,

she's beaming

from cheek to cheek

wearing her new t-shirt 

emblazoned with the logo

We Got This.

she stands at the podium

with her charts

and graphs,

and pointer.

look at this, she says proudly,

crime is down this year

by three percent.

only 578 murders

have been committed,

only

173 carjackings,

678 robberies and 

1201 assaults. not to mention,

only seventy-eight rapes.

and may i add that

of the two thousand people

shot with illegal

handguns this year,

nearly one fourth of them have lived,

though severely wounded.

i also want to announce

that

drug overdoses have fallen

to a ten-year low

since i took office.

only nine hundred and sixteen

deaths have

occurred from

fentanyl this year.

let's give ourselves a huge round

of applause.

the city is safe again.

let me repeat that loud and clear.

the city is safe once again, so

don't forget to vote

for me once more

in November

and oh, by the way

pick up your free butterball

turkey and canned cranberry sauce

on the way out.

our goal is to keep you safe.

so stay off the streets

and subway

at night and

please remember to carry

with you at all times

your pepper spray and mace

and if you have

one a rescue whistle.

remember as you cast your ballot

for me

this year, that like i said.

we got this.

Betty loves buttered popcorn

i pour

too many popcorn seeds

into the popper,

and now

the kitchen

floor is

a foot deep in popcorn.

there's not

enough

salt and butter

to go around, but i do

what i can,

sprinkling

it about.

i bring

the tv into the room

and sit down,

then call my friend

Betty

who loves popcorn.

by midnight, it will be

gone.

ode to Prufrock

yes,

the women did come and go

in

the room,

but they weren't talking

about

Michelangelo, no.

they were talking

about the yearly shoe

sale

at Nordstroms

and where to

go for lunch.

we need you ASAP

there's desperation

in his voice,

as the man tells me he needs

this work done

ASAP.

i'll pay you double

for whatever you make.

i'll even pay

for your parking tickets,

he says.

we need it done

by midnight

tonight.

can you get down here

right away

with your truck, your

tools and tall ladders.

i'll even buy you lunch.

i stare at the pictures

he's sent to me on my phone.

bare drywall.

columns,

back splashes,

ceilings with wires 

hanging down. ten rolls

of godforsaken

wallpaper

bought at a yard sale

in Timonium.

the area is 

a cave of an unlit store

in Georgetown.

i turn the phone off and go

back to sleep.

i think i'm done.

what exactly does the United Nations do?

what exactly

does the United Nations do, you ask,

other than

write letters

and complain

about the weather

and wars,

food supply and disease,

but are they actually involved

in any of this,

doing something

about it,

or just sitting around

at their desks

jabbering

with their headphones on

and then

having lunch at

Sardi's.

love the baby blue helmets though.

it's like a book club

that gathers

where no one has read the book.

they really

need to get that escalator fixed,

what are we

a third world

country?

these are not good people

you

can tell who people are,

by the condiments they

put on

their food.

ketchup

on hot dogs,

mustard

on hamburgers.

tabasco sauce on eggs.

mayonnaise on

pastrami.

these are not

good people.

you must cut your ties

with them

as soon

as breakfast

or lunch is over.

watching home movies together

it's still a scary

movie

no matter how many times

you've seen it

or how

many years have gone by,

but as Halloween approaches

it's on tv

all the time.

The Exorcist.

we make a big bowl of popcorn

and settle

into the couch,

turning the lights off,

throwing

the throw blanket

over our legs.

she opens up her package of

Twizzlers

and nibbles at the long red

squiggly

piece of candy.

i'm getting chills already,

i say out loud. 

it's like a home movie

we used to take with our VHS

camera.

the possessed girl 

reminds me so much of....

don't say it, she says.

i know what you're going

to say.

it reminds you of your

ex-wife, right?

right.

especially when her

head spins around and she

upchucks

all that green stuff.

oh brother, she says,

holding out the Twizzlers,

i take one

and begin to nervously gnaw

on it

as the tinkling of spooky music

plays on.

leaving Nova Scotia

his hands curled

and curved, scarred from

childhood

farm

work in

the great fields

which stifled

his imagination, toiling

under

the blue harvest

of a cold sky.

could he see the ocean

from

the hill

he played on?

see the ancient faces

of rocks

ragged against the shore,

could he

smell the salt and fish

on the air?

could he reason with himself

that one

day

he'd set sail

and never

come to port again,

not here?

manual transmission

it's a phantom

stick

shift in the new car now.

i don't like this push

button world.

the ease of it all.

no sweat, no feel for the road.

my hand still floats

out to the right

to pull and push

trying to shift into the next

gear.

down shifting

at the light.

my left foot searches

for the clutch

as we pull onto the highway,

faster and faster,

spinning tires,

at last finding

the sixth gear,

notching it tight.

i was that guy in the office

it wasn't that i was

lazy

back when i worked in an office.

it was

just that i really

didn't know what the hell

i was doing half

the time.

sure i knew

where the coffee machine

was,

the water cooler,

the lunchroom,

and the way to happy hour

on a late Friday

afternoon,

but office work

was something i wasn't

cut out for.

i had minimal education in

the art of

computer science.

all those numbers

and letters on the keyboard.

the meetings

and schematics on

the white boards,

the puzzling languages

of Cobol and Fortran were something

i barely learned in school.

i was the guy

they called when there was

a heavy

box on the top shelf of the storage

room, or if

the boss needed someone

to help him move into his

new house.

i lifted the new jug of water

onto

the water cooler, gave

jump starts to dead batteries

out in the parking lot.

i was that guy.

the guy in the blue shirt

i prefer

a movie with few flashbacks.

my mind

can't handle

the confusion, i want the plot

to move forward,

i don't like

the interruptions of what was

three days ago,

three hours ago,

three years ago.

let's just proceed with the story

at hand.

which brings me to you.

i don't need to know

about

the handsome guy in the blue shirt anymore

who gave you

his seat on the train

this afternoon.

the early morning tragedy

i feel

a tinge of sadness as i go down

to the kitchen

and realize that

there's no

coffee beans to grind.

the bag is empty.

no fresh pot of coffee this morning?

how can this

be?

how will i survive?

how can i scroll my phone

with no coffee,

how can

i watch tv, or read?

luckily i find an ancient

bottle of Folger's Instant

Coffee

in the cupboard,

tucked behind

a box of Uncle Ben's Rice,

left here years ago by someone

i used to know.

it'll have to do until i

remedy this tragedy.

the starter home on Pleasure Cove Court

i remember

the real estate agent saying

with pride

that this would be a great

starter home

for us kids

as we began

our journey as newlyweds.

it was a narrow

town house

with blue vinyl siding,

each house like the other

and the other,

in courts and rows

with names like Pleasure Cove.

he showed

us where the baby would

sleep once born,

and the next child.

how tall the ceilings were

for bunk beds.

he pulled up the blinds

to show us

the view from the window

revealing the playground

with swings

and a slide,

and in the distance

the middle school.

almost walking distance.

he showed us the yard

where we could put

a grill and have

cook outs,

big enough for a little doghouse,

telling us that he loved

dogs too.

he displayed with open hands

the unfinished basement

that we could turn into an

exercise room.

we signed on the dotted line

on the wobbly

card table

in the dining room.

that was forty years ago.

i'm on my third dog now

and second wife, though that too

is on shaky ground.

the kids are all grown

and living

in Seattle,

but i'm sitll here living in

the starter home,

though

minus the orange shag carpet,

which immediately

had to go, day one.

who voted for these people?

you wonder sometimes

how these people got elected.

who voted

for these

crumb bums?

who put them into office

to rule

over us?

dumb as rocks,

unkind,

uncouth.  prancing around

like peacocks

with no common sense.

how has it happened

that we ended up

with so many

dopes

in congress,

in the senate?

they can't seem to agree

on anything,

nothing profound

ever comes out of their mouths,

no wisdom,

few truths,

just a bunch of babble

and nonsense.

too nice of a day

there

were no clouds that day.

just

the blue

of sky,

and the yellow warmth of sun,

not a whiff

of grey

or white,

nothing but the grand

view

of what heaven

might be like.

so you expected bad things

to happen

before long,

you paced

nervously,

biting your nails, 

expecting

them to occur

at any given time.

the indigo sweatshirt

i couldn't wear

it anymore,

my favorite blue jersey

that i bought

in 1975.

once indigo blue,

now

faded and torn,

frayed, full of holes.

once big and thick,

how many winters did

it keep me warm?

how many

runs along the beach did i

wear it

on summer mornings,

how many nights

did i sleep in it

when the heat wouldn't

go on?

but i couldn't wear it anymore,

the collar gone,

the sleeves

ripped apart,

so i folded what was

left of it and stuck it in

the dresser,

top drawer.

the whole ugly town was covered in snow

we had

snow back then.

we loved

snow.

we loved the roads

being covered,

the houses,

the chain linked fences,

the garbage

cans

all in a row,

the telephone lines

laced

with snow,

the old bowling alley

with the caved

in roof

covered

in it.

the dump

surrounded by barbed

wire,

the whole ugly town

from

the grocery

store

to the liquor store,

to the schools,

to the shelters and soup

kitchens,

all of it covered and gone

disappeared

under the thick cold

curtain

of snow.

it was wonderful.

all with a grain of salt

some of this

is true.

some is, some isn't,

it's up to you

to weed

out the lies,

to sift through

the embellishments

to discern what is 

or isn't true, 

believe what you want,

i'll leave that

up to you.

her white feet dangling out the window

the first

thing i noticed about her was

her white

feet

that dangled out of

the truck

window

as she waited for me at

Hunan West.

she was nice enough though

to put her

sandals

on as we went in to eat.

she told me she was in AA,

trying to kick

the habit of too many drinks.

i asked her if it was okay

if i ordered a Mai Tai, she said fine,

then two became three,

by the end of the night

after General Tao's chicken

and rice

she was sucking on the orange

slices, eating chunks

of pineapple

from my glass.

after she stuck the tiny purple

umbrella

behind her ear,

i drove her to a meeting,

where they had

my Achille's heel,

chocolate cake.

visiting the pet store

there's a pet

store

in the strip mall next to the nail

salon

and the coffee

shop.

there's a bowl

of gold

fish

in the window, a glass

box

full of turtles

next to a parrot.

in the back

there's a chimpanzee

swinging

on a bar

making monkey noises.

we put our faces to the window

to peer in.

dogs are barking

in cages, while a black cat,

sitting free

on the sill

washes herself with a paw,

oblivious

to it all.

investing in tear gas cannisters and masks

i invest

in a company that makes tear gas

cannisters.

the stock

has been rising

exponentially

for the last year or so.

and gas

masks.

not to mention bull horns,

and magic

markers to make

signs.

as well as blue hair dye

and nose rings.

my broker at Morgan

Stanely

says that there is no end in sight

to the riots

and chaos

around the world.

invest

heavily she says.

next summer will be

a gold mine.

are we talking about muffins here?

she asked

me

what my favorite muffin was.

i pondered

the question.

anything warm

from the oven, i told her.

sweet

and iced.

something that puts a smile

on my face

when i take a bite

after removing the little apron.

she laughed and said,

i know your kind,

i know what you're looking for.

you want

a one-night stand,

don't you?

shame on you,

you old man.

no, i told her, just a muffin.

just a warm

muffin

from the oven, 

and coffee, that will do.

when Moe's burned down

we used

to go to Moe's Diner

for

breakfast.

the four of us.

aging

buddies, all single now,

happily

divorced.

Betty was on the grille.

fat Al was

somewhere in the back

room

with the door closed

giving instructions

to a new

waitress. it was

greasy

food,

the ceiling was greasy,

the vinyl

seats

were slick with the grease

of ten thousand

strips

of bacon,

a million scrambled eggs.

the coffee was strong, and stale,

yesterdays,

but

how could we stop going.

this was home

away from home.

finally we

did

when at last it burned down.

coming of age

when

at last of age,

to drink

to go into a seedy nightclub

where

women

danced in less clothes

than you'd

ever seen.

the smoke filled room

was confusing.

is this

what it's all about?

is this

what being a grown up

is?

and the old men

sipping

weak

drinks, in trances, elbows

on the table

holding stacks

of one-dollar bills.

still

looking for an answer,

as Ginger

leaned

in with her long legs and

gruesome

smile

to wink.

the apple tree

she talks

longingly about the apple tree

that was

in her yard.

years ago,

decades ago,

before her hair turned white.

she tells

me how red they were,

how sweet

and juicy.

how easy it was to reach up,

or to climb upon

the branches

and pick

one off.

there were so many apples

on the ground,

we made so many

pies

those days, she says.

so much cider.

and for Halloween we made

candy apples.

it was so much

fun

when i was young climbing

that

that apple tree, i can almost

see it now,

feel the scrape of the trunk

against my knees.

keep it to yourself, i can't be trusted

don't burden

me

with your secrets, don't

fill up

my promise drawer

with more

of what

i can't tell anyone.

i'm a leaky

faucet

when it comes to secrets,

a broken hinge,

a cracked window,

an open door.

i'm bound

to eek out

anything you tell me,

so don't tell me anything

anymore.

just lunch

the fat

bear on the edge of the wild

river,

sets his

feet

on the rocks, his mouth

open,

and magically,

a large

salmon jumps

and goes in,

which he bites down upon

before it falls out.

there's no work

to be done,

no shopping,

no stove

or plates on a table,

no forks

and knives,

just lunch.

unlearning

not everyday

is

a day

of learning, sometimes,

you

unlearn,

you

go backwards, erasing

the lesson

bought hard

in the past.

one step

forward,

two back. tomorrow

you'll

do better though,

you cross your heart,

you promise

yourself

to do that.

just one more game

i miss

the bumps and bruises,

the muscle 

aches,

the sprains.

the sound

the balls makes

going through a basket

or swirling

through

the air to open hands.

i miss the rough housing

of sports

played

on the field

or black top courts.

the crack of a bat,

the thud

of a ball in the mud,

the rain,

the new fallen snow.

the sprint

on freshly cut lawns.

the jostling for an inch,

the joy,

the despair of it all.

i miss

the bloody nose,

even the broken bones,

the comradery of men.

oh, to be young again

once more,

for just one more game.

the best conversations

some of the best

conversations i've ever had

were

with myself.

sometimes

while taking a long

walk through the woods,

or while

lying in bed,

listening to a fly

buzz

against the screen,

or

in the quiet of a Sunday

morning

when the door has been

shut

after someone leaves,

or during the night at

3 a.m.

i get a lot of clear thinking

done.

saying out loud,

yup,

there it is.

what's done is done.

don't look back, among

other wise

and insightful

things.

a box of linguini

i notice

when opening the top

door

of the tall cupboard

that

the box of linguini

has been

knocked over

and tunneled through.

the box

is empty.

mice

have found their

way in

from the air vent, i guess.

i see no

sign of them, no squeaks,

no note

saying thank you.

i wonder how

they got back out, fattened

by the carbs.

i add

linguini

to the grocery list.

late night tv

i think

the last late night television show

i watched

was Letterman,

but his early years,

i loved seeing

watermelons

thrown off of buildings,

and before that was Carson

with Rickles and 

Dangerfield,

Lola Falana, 

Dean and Frank, etc.

i've never saw

a night of Leno,

or any of the others.

whoever they are.

young whipper snappers

making a pile

of dough.

i don't know what channel

they're on,

what time?

what exactly is the fuss about.

lying?

who cares. it's expected in

these times.

in his ninth decade

the reviews

are unkind to Zimmy.

he turns his back

to the audience,

he doesn't greet

them,

or introduce the band, he's

in the shadows,

dressed darkly,

hands on the keyboard of a

piano.

you can't see his face,

you don't recognize

his music,

or the words coming out

of his mouth.no one sings

along.

it's a garbled mess,

but the band

plays on.

it's another sold out crowd.

how dare you be rich

as the cities

burn,

in chaos, people dressed

in black,

scurrying

everywhere

like a mob of sewer rats,

rioters

looting and attacking

the police in

Paris

and Nepal, London

and New York,

you

wonder

if it will be safe enough

to do some

shopping

and then go to the park

for a picnic,

probably not,

but

there's a sale

on bullet proof vests

and gas masks

at Target.

i'll get a cart.

the ac on, the ac off

it's one

of those weeks

of fluctuating temperatures.

neither

fall or summer.

80 one day,

60 the next.

the ac on, the ac off.

it's a battle

of wills

between me and the woman

crying

in the other room.

i sneak

the button off,

she sneaks it back on.

i pull

the windows open,

she pushes

them down.

but off course in the end

she wins.

after all,

she's crying.

at least for now.

a man or woman in uniform

growing up

in the neighborhood, whoever

had a

uniform on,

was given a certain amount

of respect,

whether the badge

on a cop,

the clerk in a store

with his tag,

the doctor

or nurse in white,

the soldier

coming home from war,

the janitor sweeping up

the school floor.

the toll both woman

in her green

shirt

and cap,

the workers on the road

in their lime

green vests

waving you forward.

the uniform was noticed.

these were people

in charge,

people of some importance.

you gave them

respect.

get a job

when

you hit a certain age,

someone

told you to

get a job, go to school

and get

a job,

do both.

work part time,

summers,

school breaks.

bring in some money,

learn

to save,

learn how to spend.

get a job,

don't be a bum,

don't be so dependent

on your parents,

your grandparents, 

your friends,

the government. get a

freaking job.

you're not a baby in

the crib anymore.

get a job.

so you did.

when the officiant does your wedding in the basement (true story)

i think

his name was Herman

Goldman,

who came

to the house to be the officiant

for our

wedding.

Cruella found him on the Thumbtack

site an hour ago.

he was wearing a short

sleeved

button down

checkered shirt,

and 

a pair of oversized American

Eagle jeans

with a big green belt.

the shirt was tucked in

close to his

pocket protector

full of pens.

he sat down with his folder

of vows,

and ceremonial procedures,

each laminated

and marked

with colored tabs.

i had set out some bottles

of war

and mixed nuts

for him to snack on while

we discussed our wedding.

may i, he asked

dipping his

hand into the nuts.

i have to be careful of the almonds,

those little slivers

get stuck in the back of my throat.

so, what are we doing here?

he asked,

crunching on some cashews.

Protestant, Baptist, Catholic?

or no God at all?

we can adjust the vows as we go

along.

we can also do the express,

or the long versions if you want

to film it.

i brought my equipment in

the car. of course that will bump

up the fee.

i can get my daughter over here to be

the flower girl,

she's working

at Taco Bell, but can get free for

an hour or so.

i looked at my bride to be,

who scrunched up her nose

in that cute way she used to do,

like a kitty cat.

she said no.

no pictures, or cameras please.

i'm not having a good

hair day,

and i haven't worked on my face

yet, and also,

i don't want the vows

to say, till death do us part, or

in sickness and in health, or

anything about me obeying him.

gothca, he said, licking

his fingers,

turning the pages of his notebook,

mumbling to himself.

i think i have the exact thing

right here for you.

it's very close to the Pagan and Wicka

rituals,

but you want God to be

involved, right? i think i saw

a set a rosary beads hanging

from your mirror when i came in. right?

we both nod yes to the idea

of God being involved.

let's see, let's see, hmmm. i thing page

one hundred and ninety-three

is the right one for you. yup.

and how about you sir, any requests

or changes that you can think of right now?

umm,

do you take Visa?

of course, of course,

cash, PayPal, Zelle, check, visa,

i take all forms

of legal tender.

excuse me, i have a question, my future

bride said.

once we're officially married, does

that mean

i have complete access to his bank

account and retirement accounts,

and is half the house

mine?

his cars and all the furniture

in the house?

of course, my dear, of course, he

said dipping his hand in

for another scoop

of nuts.

that's what love and marriage is all

about.

what's his is yours.

mi casa es tu casa.

sorry i was in Mexico last week

doing a divorce

in Cancun,

two days after the wedding,

crazy kids,

but you two

are going to make it. i feel it.

i see nothing but a long and happy

future with you two.

at this point, he looked at his watch,

and said okay, let's get this

show on the road,

the basement? right?

don't mean to rush, but i have another

wedding, then

a funeral,

and then a baptism coming

up today. by the way,

these nuts are making me thirsty,

okay if i take

a bottle of water down with me?

finding the right prayer

in

the heat of fever

and 

sleep,

the sweat

upon

your pillow, soaking

the sheets,

the fiery

ache of pain in every

bone

of your dying body,

did you

pray

for God to save you,

or to make

it quick,

did you pray

that it's okay

to take me now,

just ease off the pain

a little bit,

please.

very clean and shiny stoops

it seemed

that anyone with a front

porch

of three steps

in South Philly,

made of marble, had

to get out

there and scrub them on a

Saturday morning, which

is what my mother's

mother did.

with

a bucket of soapy water,

and a scrub brush.

she was in a long dress, usually

black, because

she was always in mourning

for someone.

she went at it

on her hands

and knees, both turning raw

and red,

until it was clean, ending

the work with one

last bucket of water

to rinse, making

a loud satisfying splash.

the no fail divorce diet

when i went

through

a divorce, after finding

out my

wife was

sleeping

with my son's karate teacher,

Carlos,

disappearing for

three day

weekends with a flower

in her hair,

i lost

a lot of weight.

it was amazing

how the pounds fell off

of me

from worry

and stress, having no appetite

for food.

i had to make extra notches

in my belt

to keep my

pants up.

i'd hear her learning Spanish

in the other room,

as she

listened to audio tapes

from Rosetta Stone.

repeating words and phrases.

Ola, she'd say

when i came into the room.

in time

my cheeks went shallow,

my stomach flattened

my legs and

arms

became spindles

as i ignored for months

on end,

any kind of food.

in the end, i weighed exactly

what i did in high school

after breaking up with the captain

of the cheerleaders,

Vivian.

maybe get a life?

i've

never worried much about

the rain

forest,

or global warming,

or pesticides,

i don't even

recycle,

separating paper

and plastic,

although i guess i should,

it would

make me a better

person i suppose

to maybe do a march once

in a while

in support of some far left

cause, to

scream and yell,

block some roads,

call

the police names, etc.

but

i just don't feel like it.

there's enough nuts out

there already,

doing such things, plus

when you're busy

with your life,

things don't seem as bad

as they

claim to be.

looking for work

the long

tall

neanderthal man

on the corner

who's been there for years

with his

chair

and bucket, his sign,

saying God Bless

America,

brother can you spare

a dime.

asks me

for a business

card as he

approaches

my car,

the window open.

i'm thinking about a different

line of work,

he says,

scratching his beard.

so i give him my card.

sometimes he calls, i can

hear him

breathing,

his familiar coughing.

but he says nothing.

i don't know where this

might be

leading,

so i drive a different route

now.

the loop of carousel music

do i want

ice cream when i hear

the haunting

music

from the old truck rolling

slowly

down

the street,

the children appearing

out nowhere

rushing towards

the open window.

no, it's not ice cream

that i want,

with a handful

of nickels

in my pocket,

it's not ice cream

that i long for,

i want my childhood

back.

four burly men from Linthicum

four burly

men

come over at the crack of ten a.m.

to gut

and renovate

my 1968

bathrooms.

pirates

with earrings

and tattoos, 

scars and bellies

full of Maryland food.

crabs

and hushpuppies

most likely,

and cold beer.

they've driven all the ways

from Linthicum,

near Baltimore, in their

big white

vans.

ten hours later.

minus twenty grand,

i'm

standing there

staring into the white

bliss

of a new

tub and shower.

i'll never have to take a bath

with the hose

in the back yard

again.

time of the season

as we

romantically dance around the kitchen,

our favorite

song

on the radio,

by the Zombies

is playing.

we swirl

and swing around.

she does a little

dipsy doo

type move.

it's fall out, and the windows

are open.

leaves are

floating to the ground.

we kiss,

we dance some more.

life is good

again.

until her dress catches fire

when she bumps

up against

the stove.

bye bye

who?

what show?

what's his name?

what time

was he on?

how long has he been

on tv?

really?

hmm, interesting.

never heard of him.

comedian?

cancelled?

oh, well.

that's a shame.

a ghoulish dish

the rancid

stew

of the internet is a ghoulish

dish

served

daily

with sprinkles of lies

and hate.

with the heat turned up,

it's a strange

brew

of humanity gone off

the rails.

something there

for me,

something there 

for you.

there's plenty of gristle

floating

in the gruel to chew.

crazy Jake in the passenger seat

on the way

to work in my old

red truck,

Jake,

my worker bee would yell

out the window

at women

walking by,

or at the bus stop.

young or old,

it didn't matter.

i had to use the child lock

so that he

couldn't roll

it down anymore.

Jake, please, i'd tell him,

as he yelled

at a pregnant woman

on the corner,

in her second trimester,

telling her,

hey, i know what you've

been doing.

the way we were

i feel

old, she tells me,

doing stretches

in the living room as the dog

stares

at her from

the couch.

she touches

her toes,

and says,

one two,

three four.

i'm not young anymore.

my best

days are behind me.

i feel chunky.

i lower the newspaper,

and say,

what?
did you say something?

i rattle the newspaper

and hold it out

for her to see.

hey there's an

old movie

in town,

Three Day of the Condor,

want to go see it?

Robert 
Redford. you loved him.

she moans with the last

jumping jack,

and grunts,

sure.

where did we go wrong

the child

seemed normal, you

did

all the right

things,

love,

comfort, food and shelter,

you were

there when

he took his

first steps,

you bathed and clothed

him,

carried him

in your arms,

took him to school.

to church.

you honored him for years,

he was

your shining star.

but you

had no idea what was

going on

underground, the evil

forces who

twisted

his supple

brain, convincing him

of a darker

world otherwise,

absent of light.

and now he's on a roof

with a gun.

here's my card, please call

thanks

for tapping me

on the shoulder

and warning me

about

the puddle i was

about to step into.

that was kind of you.

i'm not

used to such

courtesy

and niceness.

here's my card, my

number,

my name

and address. please,

please call.

i need a person 

like you

in my life.

an eventual spring

the trees

have put on new clothes.

have you

noticed

the festival of colors,

do you care,

or have you lived too many

days

and years to be

aware

of such things, now

full of regret

and disappointment

at the coming

of winter.

unable to see an

eventual spring?

i'm so so busy now

i write

down the things i need to get done

today.

the post office,

the bank,

the grocery store,

take a walk,

get gas in the car.

maybe do some laundry,

fold and put

the clothes away.

there's a lightbulb

in the hall that needs to be

replaced.

season a chicken

and put it

in the oven.

i have a few calls to make.

Lord how i miss

working

when i had no time for

such things.

the google search

you

can't help yourself sometimes,

you just

have

to find out what

happened to people,

where are they now,

did they

remarry,

get sick and die, move,

and move

again.

are they doing

okay,

are they in jail,

did they retire,

did they ever get that dog

they always

talked

about?

there's no need to say

hello,

or how are you,

you just have a hankering

to know

sometimes.

stopping to eat

great

loaves of rain clouds,

rolled grey,

darkening

and low

is what

we see as we drive north

on the interstate.

heading

home from some holiday.

we've been

silent for hours.

the wind

has picked up.

she says to me

with no inflection in her voice,

it looks

like rain.

i tell her. i agree.

when it hits we'll pull over,

okay?

are you

hungry?

i will be, she says. i will be.

then touches

my hand,

in apology.

after further review

i'm not shocked

anymore,

i'm not

surprised,

or dismayed about people

anymore.

i expect

people

to be mean and nasty,

to be rotten

to the core.

people are basically

horrible

human beings

once you pull

their masks off.

the snooze alarm

i use

to wear the snooze button out

when

younger,

delaying the day

for another ten minutes.

just ten

more precious

minutes,

was all i needed,

then another ten,

until finally someone would

come into

the room

and pull the covers

off of me,

and the dog would

leap onto

the bed to lick

my face.

get up, she'd say.

you're going to be late.

the wide dry field

i'm

out of ink,

out of paper, out of patience

waiting

for the next

idea

to arrive, to spring forward

like a seed

planted

in spring.

but no.

it's a dry field i'm on

right

now, the dust

is on my shoulders,

i can

taste nothing new.

there's not a cloud in

the sky,

just a deepening

of blue.

the next great flood

it doesn't pass

the smell test, the world at large.

what

the hell

is going on here?

people

cheering and dancing

in the streets,

celebrating

the death

of someone

who has committed no

crime.

has

the tide turned that far?

are we that far

lost,

that far gone?

are we ready for the next

great flood?

i think so.

let it rain. bring it on.

you carry them with you

they say,

that after the first death there

are no

others,

but i tend to disagree,

the line

is long

and slow,

with each new loss,

comes more

grief,

more memories,

only the weight

is different

upon

your shoulders

as you carry them along.

the late night ham sandwich

as

i cut this tomato

in half,

then into thin

slices

with my ginseng knife

that i bought

at three a.m.

six years ago

on tv,

when i couldn't get to sleep

i wonder where you are.

i lay each

red slice

upon the bread,

with a slice of ham

and Swiss cheese.

then make a diagonal cut,

like you used

to do.

at some point, i'll go

back to bed.

what else is on?

i've always

been disappointed that Mr. Ed,

the talking

horse,

never won an

Emmy,

nor did Gilligan,

or the Captain,

or Mr. Magoo,

or 

the robot on Lost in Space.

what about

Trigger,

or Dale's horse?

Rin tin tin.

these are forgotten heroes

of our

childhood.

Captain Kangaroo,

where for art thou?

Bozo the Clown.

each of them

could outperform

these new

clowns.

who are these people on

the stage

now,

making political statements

dressed like

Christmas ornaments?

her closet full of boots

i like

a girl in boots. long

boots,

horseback riding

boots,

hiking boots. boots

to sashay

around in. boots

of all colors

and fabric.

snow

boots. the frilly ones

for Christmas,

the cowgirl

ones.

show me a girl with a closet

full of boots

and i'll show

you a girl with ambition,

a girl

that's going somewhere,

but not

with me if it's sleeting

and icy out.

always three o'clock

i've made

this cup tea too sweet,

as if

i made

it for my grandmother

as she

sat by her

canary

in the stuffed Italian

chair

by the fire.

she liked Melba toast

too,

as we talked

about the weather

and other

things on her mind.

what do you know about

cuckoo clocks?

she once asked me

pointing at the brown

box on the wall,

with a cardinal stuck

out on

a plank of wood,

it had been three o'clock

since 1952.

nothing, i told her.

i know nothing about such

things.

you've made your point, happy now?

one

side, one crazy

radical

deranged side

of

society is against

the second

amendment,

against,

weapons of all kind,

all guns,

small or large,

of course,

unless they

need one

to make a point

when words and discourse

fail.

happy now?

Noah's ark, a baker's dozen

two

birds, male and female,

mother

and father,

two lions,

two

giraffes,

a boy and girl

elephant,

bears

and kangaroos.

two of nearly everything

alive

entered

the ark,

and then

the humans came aboard,

but they

had to build an extra

deck

as Noah, shook in dismay

his bearded head,

two of each had become

a dozen

as they

raised

the rainbow flag.

lemmings to the cliff

as they

often say,

life is hard, very hard,

but it's

even harder if

you're stupid

and have no

common sense.

thick heads and cold

hearts

are everywhere.

lemmings to the cliff.

you forgot a few things

it's a one

line

story in the back of the newspaper,

woman

finds

her husband

thirty-five years later

after he

left the house to go get milk

and bread.

she opens

the door for him,

leading him

up the steps,

then sends him back out

to get stamps,

and eggs.

building a nest

it comes

to you, as you lick your lips

and clear

your throat,

that something cold

to drink would

be nice

right about now.

but you don't want to get up

and miss

what's transpiring

in the trees

before you.

a red bird

is building a nest.

his wife nearby,

lingering

on a branch.

he'll have a family soon.

the great swan dive

there's

a man on a ledge thirty floors

up,

pigeons

are

there too.

he's hesitant,

undecided, but

the crowd cries for

him to 

jump.

they are living

and dying

in his shoes.

and yet, nothing is burning

it's strange

when you go outside and nothing's

burning,

no buildings or

stores,

no homes,

no cars are on fire.

no statues toppled.

no one is looting,

or rioting

or spray-painting hatred

on the walls.

there is only prayer

and vigils

for someone who has died,

murdered

in cold blood,

who committed

no crime.

how strange the behavior

of a faith filled side.

saving up for my Swedish robot

i take a look

at

my portfolio,

is it possible, are those numbers

real?

a paper boy

from

the Bronx

has that much money

in the bank?

is it real?

probably not, it can all be

gone

in the blink

of an eye, one world

wide

catastrophe,

and poof,

but i hope not.

i'll need a soft bed

at some

point with a view

of the ocean,

and a kind hand to feed

me oatmeal.

probably by then

it will be as sexy Swedish

nurse,

a Tesla robot.

Hazel therapy

i like

to clean, especially when i have

something

on my mind

that i can't do anything about.

but i can

scrub the floor,

dust,

pull the vacuum out.

i can

swirl the blue

liquid into

the toilets and flush,

take

a Brillo pad to the tub.

i can pick

up all the clothes i've

left on

the floor

and throw them into

the washer.

i can open

the fridge

and finally scrape free

the remains

of that iceberg

lettuce,

and toss it out.

by the end of the day

i haven't solved a thing,

but for some reason i feel

better.

ten steps to the door

strange

to wake up sore,

the bones

aching,

the leg stiff, the back

twisted

and bruised.

strange

to slowly crawl out

of bed

measuring the distance

between

you and the bathroom

door.

and Betty wasn't even here

last night.

filling up the trash bin

it's getting

to be

a long list of people

you used

to love

and buy their music,

watch

their movies

and buy their books,

but the herd

has thinned.

they

are wearing their true

colors

upon their chest,

showing us who they really are.

the trash

bin

is getting fuller

by the minute.

Rosalita has come and gone

i take

the long broom to sweep

the tumble

weeds

out from under the bed.

a green lizard

slithers away.

where am I?

Arizona?

New Mexico,

the Baja?

i see a sombrero too,

a margarita glass

and an empty

bottle of tequila.

there's the smell

of a sweet perfume.

i hear a mariachi band

playing out the window,

but Rosalita has come and gone,

love has ended

too soon.

at 5 a.m.

with a slice

of pink sunlight

on the horizon,

i took

aim as i tossed each

newspaper

rolled

into a baton.

it was

rare as i jogged

to not

hit the porch with

one swing of my arm,

the wagon

squeaking,

the dog,

tagging along,

loyal

at my side.

new bruises and wounds

we

need laughter.

love,

friendships. 

beauty and faith,

such

cliche

words that often

fall on

deaf ears,

but true.

without them we

are doomed

to our darker selves.

stuck

within our own skin,

lost in our

own world,

hateful,

cold

and blue.

when oil and water meet

i'm a perfectionist,

she tells me

as we sit and drink coffee

on our first date.

i'm a stickler

for detail, she says, while picking

a tiny piece

of lint off her

sweater,

then flicking a scone crumb

off my sweatshirt.

i like to be organized

and have

everything in place.

i don't like chaos or clutter

around me.

why is that baby crying,

do you hear that?

oh look,

someone brought a dog in here,

can you believe

that?

i nod, sipping on my

drink.

babies, i say, pfft.

and dogs, what the hell,

all that hair

and drooling. they get old,

the vet bills,

then they die.

exactly, she says.

i'm actually a hairless cat person.

she holds up her phone

to show me a picture

of her ghoulish

grey cat.

her name is Demon.

i take a long

look around the room

as i eat my

maple scone

and more crumbs

tumble upon me.

i figure the door is about

a hundred

feet away,

and it would take me

less than ten seconds 

to get out of here

if i zig zag through the crowd.

handling disgruntled friends

i take

on the calm attitude

of the flight

attendant

who echoes repeatedly

buh bye,

as we leave the plane,

buh bye,

they say,

smiling.

out you go, thank you

for coming

aboard,

buh bye.

watch your step as

you go out

the door.

forgiving crazy people

we forgive

our crazy people.

soft

on their mental illness,

we give

them pills,

talk to them calmly

trying to make

them like us.

we tell them it's not

their fault

that they kill

and maim

and wreak havoc

on society.

it's mommy's fault,

daddy's fault.

social economic

conditions.

the man is keeping them down.

we pat them on the back

after a quick

tune up,

and out the door

they go,

to mingle

with the innocent,

better now with a doctor's

stamp

of approval.

the riptide of crime and other deadly things

it's a numbers

game.

the tally of death

giving reason

to whatever

side

you're on,

gun deaths,

death

by knives, death by disease,

or suicide.

400 hundred thousand

a year

die from

cigarettes, shrug,

what's next,

the cars we drive,

countless die

from dog bites, lightning

strikes,

how do we

make it illegal to go

into the ocean

for a swim,

the sharks will bite.

we might drown, pulled

out by

the riptide.

finding the right words

just as

you need the right wrench,

the right

tool

to get a job done,

to turn

a screw, to hammer

a nail,

to cut wood, so it is with

words.

only the right ones

will do

when getting your point

across.

the three hundred page Ambien pill

i try,

i give it the old college

try

with this book,

slowly

digging in,

a best seller world wide,

but

it's no use, i can't read

another line,

it's a three hundred page 

Ambien

pill.

i can barely keep open

my eyes.

i had high hopes

for it,

with all the blurbs from

the New York Times,

but nah,

i'm done with it.

time to shut it down,

but i'll keep

it bedside.

choking on bones

i'm not

saying that she

was a bad

cook,

i'm not saying that at all,

but i don't think

slices of

toast

should have

bones in them.

the hourglass

each

to his own hour

glass

of sand,

the grains of years,

trickling down

the funnel.

some

will live forever,

some

won't last

a minute once

gone.

the milk of the moon

it's four in the morning,

when

i decide

to take a drive,

unable to sleep.

the highway

is a long empty stretch

of black

tar.

i'm going nowhere, but

i can't stop

it.

i need the speed, the windows

down,

the music up.

the milk of the moon

is in

my eyes.

i'm going nowhere

but i can't

stop it.

one room at a time

maybe

if i get down on my hands

and knees

and scrub

the floors, maybe if i take

the broom

to the stairs

and rooms,

dust the shelves,

wipe away the dirt,

perhaps then i can change

things.

i can clean

the world away, make

it bright

and shiny

once more, like i

once believed

it was.

a long way to get here

we've come

a long way to get here,

to be

standing

at the edge of the ocean,

at this late

month.

it's in our

eyes,

our ears, our mouths.

the wind

of salt

beats against us. winter

can't be far off.

you hear it in the cry

of gulls,

the violence of waves 

against

the rocks.

we put our feet into 

the cold brine

of green water, almost

brown,

and shiver

as we walk.

we've been here before.

dark and busy times

it's not

a fight about right or wrong,

about

politics,

about differences

of views,

it's a a battle against

good

and evil.

light and darkness.

it's a war

that we're in, a war for

your mind

and soul, stand strong

and righteous,

for

Satan

is busy.

many dark nights to come

your

dark beer will not

suffice,

the tall

bottle,

the glass filled

over and over again,

as you rail

at the sky

for reason.

forget

erasing sorrow,

forget

laughter for a long while,

for the losing

of a loved one,

will make this the longest

of many dark

nights.

no surprise that there is evil in the world

it shouldn't

be as surprise by now, 

to know that there

is evil

in the world,

demons

in pursuit

of those they disagree

with,

whether politically

or by

religion, or by the color

of their skin.

each

day

you wake up 

you see more of it.

in word,

in deed,

whether by

bullets or knives,

the dead

litter the landscape

where

a flag at half mast

limply flies.

swimming in holy water

i've had a lot of bad

thoughts

lately

about a lot of people

and what's

going on in

the news, so

i fill

up my little pool

in the back

yard

with holy water.

i've connected about seventeen

hoses

up the sidewalk

and through 

the parking lot of the church

then to

the nozzle

in the wall

where Father Pete

controls

the flow.

it takes about an hour

to fill,

i text him when it's done,

but he's

not amused.

one yellow shoe

i find

your one yellow shoe

under the bed,

the dog has had his way

with it.

it was your

Sunday, go to church

heel,

though we seldom

did.

i still remember

you leaving

on Monday morning,

barefoot in the parking

lot,

carrying the other heel

under your arm.

the bright yellow

italian leather shiny

in the morning sun,

then tossing

it into the woods

before you got into your

car.

just give it time, you'll see

i can't

believe in the theory

of evolution,

the whole

one cell into a billion,

a fish

into a monkey

and then

suddenly

you're a teller working

the night

shift

at the toll booth

on the New Jersey Turnpike.

pile up

some glass, some wires,

some bricks,

etc.

and in billion years

you'll have a building

with working

elevators

and a cafertia on the roof?