only two more months to go

i remember

my mother standing in the kitchen,

at the counter,

sweat

on her brow,

flour on her nose,

her red apron on,

making cookies, Christmas was

only 75 days away.

she'd wipe her

glasses clean

on the curtain of the open

window.

we stood

and waited for one or two samples,

at the most.

still warm from

the oven,

before she froze the rest

in wrapped

batches, carefully

labeled and placed in the ice box.

she used every

spoon, every spatula,

and mixer, every bowl,

every long tray

she had in her arsenal.

nuts of all kinds.

brown

and white sugar. vanilla extract,

chocolate,

candied sprinkles.

all without

a recipe in sight.

so many cookies, so many

children.

none of it would last long.

this one time in band camp

live

long enough, and you'll

accumulate

a lot of ribald stories,

bawdy

tales of youth

and beyond.

many that you've embellished

over the years,

expanded

and changed, honed to a fine

a point.

you've become a modern day,

Red Foxx or

Mark Twain.

you don't even bother

using fake

names anymore,

as you scrawl with your verbal pen,

because most of the characters

in your stories

are long gone.

and they can't correct

a thing.

tinkling issues

on the fourth

visit

to dribble out pee into

the dark

bathroom,

as the night drains on,

but not me,

i figure it's time to google

web md

and investigate

this prostate thing.

to find

a supplement to unclog

the pipes,

so to speak.

google will know what

to do,

or maybe the reliable

ChatGPT.

drill baby drill

this is by all accounts

the dentist's favorite day of the year.

Halloween.

in a month

or so,

he'll reap the reward

of Mary Janes

stuck in

the molars of so many children's

mouths,

the candied apples,

the double bubble gum,

the chocolate bars,

the lollipops.

all disintegrating

those young pearly whites.

what fun.

finding a place for things

so much

of life is spent finding a place

for things.

a place

to live,

a home with

trees

near water, and

where to put the chairs,

the tables,

which wall to hang

a picture on.

should the bed be near the window,

what about the orange vase

your mother

gave us

for Christmas,

in full display on the mantle?

or is there

room for it

still,

in the cellar?

guaranteed to last a life time

the ad says,

guaranteed to last a lifetime,

but i have

my doubts.

no salesman will visit your home

it proclaims,

buy three

get the fourth one free,

able to get the most

stubborn

of stains out.

we're going out of business,

everything

must go,

no credit check, it's your

last chance

before we close for good.

promises made,

promises kept.

it'll put a spring in your step,

hair on your head,

make your wife

happy.

no sugars added,

no MSG.

everything you see and buy,

is one hundred per cent

guaranteed.

money back

if not satisfied, return

the unused portion

within in thirty days,

without

a receipt.

winter travel

it's cold

and the mice

want in, i see them

gathering

at

the small crevice in the brick,

with their

long coats on,

hats and gloves,

carrying

their luggage.

papers in hand.

the line moves slowly,

but they're patient,

one at a time

the mouse at the turnstile

says.

pointing,

turn left at the vent

and up you go

to the attic.

pj's with long sleeves

after

the cold strikes,

and the rain overnight

has ceased,

the window

is yellow

with trees.

how quickly it all changes.

once you

were young,

rushing out the door

to work,

and now this,

staring out the window

in your

pj's

with long sleeves.

maybe they don't know

maybe they don't know,

i think,

as i sit on the park bench

watching

grown men

and women, children fishing

at the man

made lake.

i watch them sliding worms

onto hooks

and casting out

into the murky water,

sinking their lines

with small lead weights.

maybe they don't know

that Safeway has fish now.

a beautiful field of mushrooms

it was exciting

in a way,

the siren wailing over the elementary

school,

us under our desks,

protected by

paper

and wood, the teacher

trying to keep

us calm

before telling us to run

home to our

homes,

our dad and moms.

we didn't understand, but

we were happy

to have

an early afternoon off.

we wondered

if doing our

homework was even

necessary once the bombs

began to drop,

creating a beautiful

field of mushrooms.

tomatoes for the road

when

i see the tomatoes

still on

the vines

at the store, i pick them

up and hold

them to my nose.

there were so many

late summers

when i took

bags of them

home.

he loved his garden, his

little plot

of land

beneath the window,

beside

the concrete patio.

it's rare

to hold one in my hand

these days and

not think

of him,

his tomatoes for the road.

there's a story here

it's a reminder,

this

ring on the wood

of the old

table, once new,

a spot where many

wet cups

were set,

carelessly left,

glasses of wine,

mugs

of beer. cold bottles,

warm

drinks.

it's a tale, a quiet story,

but not forgotten

of who

was here.

sticks and stones

it was easier

when in grade school to insult

your

childhood

colleagues

that you disagreed

with or didn't like.

you called each other names

on the playground,

like fatso,

stupid,

butthead, or skinny minnie,

but truthfully

not much has changed.

now instead of saying

we don't like

you, or that i beg to differ,

we call each other names

like Hitler or

Mussolini,

or Pol Pot, or Hanoi Jane.

this land is your land, etc.

my friend Lucy,

tells me that there should be no borders,

zero.

this land is

everyone's land, like

the song says,

from California to Long Island.

hmmm,

i say.

watching her as she jabs her

arm with a safety pin.

so at night, you don't lock

your doors,

or windows.

it's okay if someone breaks into

your house,

and sleeps in your

bed or couch,

eats your food and takes your

car for a ride?

you're good with that?

paying their doctor bills, putting

their kids in school,

clothing them, tucking

them in at night?

you don't want a fence around

your house, a wall,

a security camera? nothing?

all doors swing open?

well, that's different, she says.

i'm talking about countries,

not houses.

before you order the wedding cake

it's important

to examine someone's medicine

cabinet

before making

a commitment.

peer into a few closets,

look under

the bed,

go down to the cellar,

climb the steps

to the attic,

and when you can,

dive into their phone.

open a few

drawers,

before the ring goes on,

become snoop dog,

Sherlock Holmes,

Columbo.

Angela Lansbury in

Murder

She Wrote.

that's what love is, right?

she knew how

to push

my buttons, rattle my cage,

get under

my skin,

confuse and abuse

my mental

state.

she knew how to gaslight,

to white

lie her

way through the day,

into the night.

but i looked the other way,

because that's

what love is?

right?

taking control of my life

in a desperate

move

for order, for reason and stability,

i make my bed.

i pull the sheets

up tight

around the mattress

after shaking free the crumbs

of chips

and cookies,

then carefully

lay out the blanket,

smoothing out the creases.

i fluff the pillows

as i line them up

against the headboard.

i stand back and admire my

handiwork

after adjusting a lampshade.

i'm in control here.

this could possibly

be the beginning

of a new day.

nearly every breath you take

we see things

we've never seen before.

floods and fires,

volcanoes,

twisters

and earthquakes.

we have close ups

of animals

deep in the woods,

in the ocean,

the moon

and mars,

surgical procedures.

there's someone at the door,

in the car.

we see robberies, crimes

of all sorts,

the cameras are

everywhere.

in your ears,

your mouth.

not second goes by

without 

a moment of our lives

being recorded.

everyone's a star.

nurse on reserve

i find

a piece of broken glass

on the floor

with my

left foot

causing a small but

painful

gash.

i drip blood behind me

as i walk

to the hall closet where

the red cross

box

waits for me,

and my nurse, Jenna,

who sits

me down

and cleans the wound,

wraps it

tight.

will there be anything else,

she asks?

yes, i tell her,

dinner at eight, tonight.

the quiet majority

it's less

crowded as you go to vote early.

still

there's a line, but it

moves along

quickly.

people are polite,

both left and right.

they talk

and smile, 

stamp their feet

and rub

their hands in the cold.

there's no rabble rousers

there.

no flag burning nut cakes.

this is what most Americans

are like.

peaceful and able

to agree to disagree

before

casting their

vote, then

going for coffee as they

walk around the lake.

a twist on Halloween

it's a strange twist

for the blue

haired,

septum ring

wearing

crazies on the street protesting.

the costumes

they wear,

of blow up

frogs and dog,

chickens. men in dresses,

girls

in combat boots

will come off.

this Halloween they will

clean themselves

up, take a shower,

brush their hair and go out as

normal people,

republicans.

tit for tat

is everything

a negotiation with you, she asks.

is that how

it's going to be,

tit for tat,

a transactional relationship?

maybe,

i tell her,

and if you stop

talking for one second,

i'll answer that.

the dumbing of America

what is the word?

is it

chutzpah?

is that it, what the next

mayor

of New York has.

free buses,

free housing, frozen rents,

free healthcare.

he will build us a Shangri-La

in the big apple.

he's surrounded

by men

in turbans, and young women

with blue hair,

and soy boys

with soft hands,

chanting cult like,

all of them with low IQ's.

math and economics 101,

not being

their favorite subject.

reality is coming.

good times are coming

i rub my hands

together,

pull on my red wool socks

and go

out into the yard

for wood

to build a fire.

there's snow on the ground.

i should have

put pants on,

it's cold.

i feel like a farmer

in 1929,

though less depressed.

i'm sure good times will

come back

around.

two lips pressed together

she kisses

me with her red lips

and leaves

an imprint

of lipstick on my cheek

and neck.

she's marked me

for the day.

i'm hers,

i'll have no chance

with the rest.

so that's what lipstick

is for,

ah ha.

the new year book edition

the obituaries

scare

you.

these people are younger

than you.

much younger.

why are they dropping like flies.

look at them

in their suits

and dresses,

their fine shirts with

ties.

it's a new yearbook edition

for the next

school

up there in the clouds,

higher learning

in the skies.

lemon chicken, no, come on now

i see on

the news an ex of mine at the Portland

Ice

detention center

in a gas mask.

she's throwing

rocks,

and chanting, spitting,

saying

words i never heard her say

before.

it's the angriest

i've seen her

since

we were married and i told

her i can't eat

this lemon chicken

anymore.

Sugar Town

i wouldn't know

Bad Bunny, the performer

who will be playing at the Superbowl,

if he came hopping

down

the street with an

Easter basket

full of chocolate eggs.

but then again,

i don't know a single song

by Taylor Swift,

or Miley Cyrus,

or Queen Latifa.

or Snoop Dog. i'm so far out

the loop

of music.

what the hell's a Drake?

i'm still putting vinyl records

onto the turn table.

singing to the Zombies

greatest hits,

which were only three songs,

really.

followed by Nancy Sinatra

singing,

Sugar Town.

vacancy, rooms available, free-wifi and a continental breakfast

with each

new

soul mate, i got a tattoo

on my arm,

along with

the painful

process of the laser gun

erasing,

the list of other

names,

the names of girls,

then women

i hooked my wagon to.

finally,

my arm ravaged with scar

tissue,

limp at my side

from love

gone wrong,

i had to go to the other

arm,

which read vacancy.

rooms available,

free wi-fi,

and a continental breakfast.

please apply.

stay off it for awhile

i know

this bister on my foot

will heal,

but

in the middle of it, red,

and sore,

oozing.

it feels as if it might

never end.

almost

everyday there's

something

like that,

a wound that hurts, 

but with time, and care,

mends.

the street opera

there's approximately

eight men,

a few women,

at the crack

of dawn,

all in green vests and white

hard hats,

digging into

the street, a nice tidy

square where one man

climbs down. the trucks are lined

up along the curb.

one person waves

you forward with his sign,

another person,

holds traffic coming the other way.

it's an all-day affair.

an orchestrated

play.

the jack hammers

hammering,

the shovels and tar,

the steam roller

at the end as the sun goes

down, and the world

is almost under

the stars.

the fat lady at last singing.

plumber Mike

he smiles,

knowingly, then pulls

down his welder's mask

and lights

the torch,

bends to the pipe

in the tightest

of corners,

fixing

the smallest of leaks.

a tiny

hole in the copper elbow

where

water springs out.

it could

ruin

everything, but there's

nothing to fret

about.

it's easy

for him, saving the world,

one weld

at a time.

satisfying, as you pay him

whatever

he wants

for five minutes

of time.

three wads of bubblegum lost in her hair

i was in the eleventh

grade

at the time, slow dancing to

Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts club

band,

with Vivian

my new flame,

when i accidentally lost the gum

i was chewing

in her hair.

her long black hair that she

swung around

with youthful exuberance

when doing cheers

next to the football field.

i tried to wiggle the gum out

with my lips, my tongue,

my teeth,

but only buried it deeper.

and then she screamed.

her parents came running down

the stairs,

and the other couples jumped

from the couches

interrupting their make out

sessions.

the lights went on and the music

stopped.

ice didn't work,

her girlfriends gathered around

her as she cried.

i slunk away,

out the door. backpedaling.

the following Monday i saw

her in school, walking down

the hallway,

cold and silent.

her hair cut as short as Mia Farrow's

in Rosemary's baby.

the Macaroni Grill

she arrived

at the bar in her yellow corvette,

circa 1979.

which she parked

diagonally in the lot.

her hair

was of the same era,

stacked

high on her head,

a beehive

if there ever was one.

she wore

a purple dress,

and when

she opened her purse

for a tube of lipstick i spied a pink

handgun.

a small derringer

with her initials

engraved into the handle.

i asked her

about the gun,

and she told me that she

just got off

work at her mother's liquor

store where

she worked behind

the counter,

and plexiglass.

we're robbed almost every week,

she said.

then picked up the menu

and asked,

so what's good here?

where do i put this trash?

the green

scam, the eco-friendly,

the climate

change

activists,

the environmentally

safe

paint

and oil, chemical

additives,

the blue bin

for

tin or paper,

glass

or plastic.

stop the madness

with your five barrels

for a variety

of trash.

relax,

and have a cold one,

the world

is a bar of soap, how

long can

it last.

i don't want the winner

give me

the plain, the simple,

the ordinary.

give me

the vanilla, the same thing

over

and over

again.

spare me the exotic fruit,

the smooth operator,

the special,

the extraordinary,

those who

have personality plus.

i don't want

the four star,

or the blue ribbon,

the winner

of the beauty contest.

don't give me the overreach,

give me

something normal,

someone

i can trust.

house triage

it's a long list,

a myriad

of broken things around the house.

a key

is snapped

in two

stuck in the front door.

wind seeps

through

a crack in the window.

the sink

leaks,

only one burner on the oven

works.

the light in the hall

is burned out,

the ac

is on the fritz.

what get's fixed first,

i ask my

therapist,

which makes her shake

her head

and say,

let's start with you, then

we'll go

down the list.

we need more voters on our side, so let's open the borders

it's a theory

maybe, or maybe it's true

that the

influx

of ten million undocumented

people crossing

the border

are coming over

into the open arms of a certain

political party

for free stuff,

funded credit cards,

food, clothing, 

free room and board in fine

hotels,

medical

care and schools.

plus they get to vote with no

ID, zero identification

at all.

just a guess, but you kind of

know who

that vote will be for.

one spank on a full diaper

i remember

striking

my son once on his bottom.

he was about

to stick a flat head

screwdriver

into a light switch, which

may or may not

have burned the whole

place down.

i sprained my hand on his

thick heavy

diaper

waiting to be changed.

i iced it, wrapped it

with an ace bandage and put

the tool away.

he looked at me

with tears in his eyes,

and frowned.

no wind in my sail

there is no more

wind

in my sail

for argument, for difficult

people,

for trouble

small or large.

enough

is enough, those days

are far

gone.

a handful of loved

ones,

at peace with themselves

and world,

is fine now.

before i rest what's tired

the windows

left

open over night

leaves

the house cold

when coming home.

it feels as

if might snow

in here

at any moment.

the sink

is dripping ice.

i throw another

blanket onto the bed.

another

long onto the fire,

the kettle

whistles,

bread rises in the oven.

more wood

to chop

before the sun goes down,

before

i lie down, before i rest

what's tired.

look at me, walking without a limp

when my

knee hurts, the left one in particular,

from 50 years

of sports,

bone on bone

according to my

doctor Jimmy, i try

to fake

the pain, and try to stroll

around as if

i'm still of a younger age.

i still got it.

i'm fine,

i'm not melting or disintegrating

before your

eyes.

no crutch, no walker, no

knee replacement

for me.

see, look at me walk,

look at

the spring in my step

as i grip a shopping cart.

i got this

i tell the world as i fill it

up with prunes

and Ensure,

24 in a box.

the golden age of slow motion

the commercial

for

fine dining,

and dancing,

is in slow motion, so is

the one

for whiskey

and a cruise

across the Atlantic,

the senior

home,

elderly sitting by a fire,

laughing,

all in slow motion,

pickle ball,

and fireworks,

even

the waves arriving

on shore

from the ocean.

all of it in slow motion.

they know

what we want,

don't they?

let's slow this world

down,

we have money

and we're not quite ready

to leave.

first job as a fry cook at Bob's Burgers

so where

do you see yourself in five years,

the interviewer

asked me

as i applied for the minimum

wage job

as a fry

cook at Bob's Burgers.

close your eyes

and take your time with

your answer,

the manager told me.

a kid going to

junior college studying

yoga

and bee keeping.

umm, i said.

i see myself in a corner

office

on wall street making the big

bucks,

with a big house,

a sports car

and a hot wife named Amber

who wears

a red bikini all day.

okay, okay.

the manager says.

are you willing to cut your

hair, or wear

a hair net

as you fry the potatoes?

sure, i tell him.

great, you're hired.

the weekend social warrior blues

again

i see my neighbor,

the protest weekend warrior,

on her

porch crying.

what's up, i ask, putting

my hand

on her shoulder.

she smells like

tear gas

and jail, Doritos.

i was in the pokey all night,

she tells me,

rubbing her

eyes.

her face is red as a tomato.

i shouldn't

have punched that cop,

but he wouldn't

talk to me, or answer my

questions

about the constitution.

so i hit him.

i think my ribs are bruised

from

his Billy club pushing against

me when

i joined the crowd

and tried to rush the detention

center.

i don't think i can play

pickleball

today,

or tomorrow, not to mention

go to the shoe

sale at Norstrom's

this weekend.

my left foot is swollen where it

got hit with a pepper

ball.

the secret of a good marriage

to truly

get along, we have to overlook

our differences

and smile.

we have to ignore each

other's short

comings,

faults

and weird habits.

we have to look the other

way,

when something stupid is

said,

or done.

we have to pretend

that words

don't matter,

it's the only

way

to stay together and move on.

i just made a salad, take a look

amazed

by the new phone,

the first

phone,

not the wall phone but the phone

in my

pocket, like

most people i took pictures

of everything

then sent them along

for discussion,

or a like,

or a wow.

i took pictures of sunsets,

sunrises.

cups of coffee,

even salads.

oh look,

there's a bird on a branch,

a snake

on the ground.

don't ask me why i was

such a shutter

bug, but i've changed,

i rarely

take it out now

unless it's something really

really special,

like over there in

that field,

a cow.

don't let it slide

it sends

a chill down your back

when

you realize what's true,

what isn't.

it's a bright light within

you,

and yet

there's darkness everywhere

else.

how long

can you go without saying

a word.

without telling

the world what you know?

maybe

let it slide, let it go.

no.

betting on the games NBA style

you hear

two NBA players whispering to each

other as they

sit on the bench

adjusting their

solid

gold chains

around their necks.

both multi-millionaires.

yo,

i'm going to sit out the fourth

quarter,

i've got a hundred

grand

on this game

saying that we lose.

so it's best i don't participate.

i'm going to fall

down at half time

and pretend my

ankle hurts.

dang,

the other one says, i've got

a bet down

too with Luciano Maggiano,

that i'll get three more dunks

before the game

is over.

but i'll make sure we lose, okay?

deal?

deal, brother.

new job opportunities

there are so many new

job

opportunities these days.

you can go work

for ICE

rounding up

illegal immigrants,

or become a paid protester

on the streets

protesting

the rounding up of illegal

immigrants.

each with a sizable

salary.

it's hard to decide which one

to do.

each has a uniform,

a hat and mask,

some cool boots.

one has a green vest with

a variety of signs and

megaphone to carry,

while

and the other one has

night vision goggles

and unlimited

pepper spray.

we are all know it alls now

it's a blah

blah

blah world. talking heads

blabbering

about what's right or wrong.

what to do

next.

we are all know it alls now.

everyone has an opinion,

and have had

it always.

it's just

that now they're on the street

corner,

or online

with wide open mouths,

day into night

as the sun goes down.

synthetic oil

it's a rough

tight room at the Jiffy Lube.

the walls

are yellowed, not

from paint,

but from time.

after i agree with the pirate

behind 

the cut-out window

for synthetic oil

i pick up

a magazine

off the table with Liz Taylor

on the front,

getting

divorced again,

but keeping her weight down.

i rub my fist

against the porthole in the wall

to look into

the garage

to see how my car is doing.

the hood is up,

the doors are

open. i can see someone's

arms

sticking up from under it

with a wrench

of some kind.

a man comes in looking sad,

holding

my air filter.

okay, i tell him, then

sit back down.

i see there's a bathroom

with a sign on the door

that says,

Anyone.

but i feel that

i can hold it until i get home.

the leaves can wait

with the rake

leaning against the wall,

the winter

sun

is a good sun to sit out

in.

to have it kiss you

gently

on the face,

to warm you

as the leaves fall.

it's

nice to sit here and do

nothing

letting the low

yellow

sun

wash over you.

the leaves can wait

a little while

longer.

destroying a precious shrine

i take a sledge hammer

to the shed

in the yard,

it's full of cobwebs and mold.

old rusted

tools,

a bike with flat tires,

when the condo board

president comes over

screaming, asking

what are you doing?

do you know what an

historic national shrine

that shed is?

how dare you destroy

what has stood there

since 1968. you have

some nerve, some gall.

and what do you plan to

do once this precious old

shed is gone?

build a nicer one i tell her.

something with a chandelier,

big windows to let

in the light,

a dance floor, room for

everyone that i want to visit me,

excluding you.

saving the wildlife and being a good person

i prove to myself

that i'm

a good person by stopping

the car

and carrying a turtle

across the road.

my headlights

catch the dull sheen 

of it's green

thatched shell.

it will be my good deed

for the day.

i talk to it softly, telling it,

common on slow poke,

you have to speed

it up when

crossing the road.

i take a picture of it to share

with others.

unfortunately, it snaps

and bites me

on the hand

as i pick it up from

underneath.

i had no idea that their

necks could stretch out

that far.

angered, i fling the ungrateful

turtle as far as

i can. luckily, i hear

a splash

in a nearby creek.

he didn't hit a tree or a rock,

so he didn't crack.

so i guess i'm a good person

after all.

but now to the clinic

for a tetanus shot.

the passing of Mary Beth

there's a picture

of Mary Beth in the newspaper.

i had a crush on her

in high school.

she was once

queen of the prom,

captain of the cheerleaders,

valedictorian

and voted most likely

to succeed.

she passed away in her sleep

after a long illness,

after forty years

of working at Walmart.

if i had known

she worked there i would have

gone in once

in a while.

i can still see her in that red

bikini.

i have a picture in my wallet.

don't waste your life

i unwrap

the book that comes in the mail

without

a return

address written on it.

i don't recognize the handwriting.

it could be

from anyone.

brother, sister, parent or friend.

the book is

titled 

Don't Waste Your Life.

tips on living

your best life,

being productive and putting

your best

foot forward

in all your endeavors.

it's a step by

step manual on

finding out the reason why 

you're here

on earth.

i flip through the pages,

skim,

then throw it into waste bin.

it's too late in the game

for such nonsense.

the destination wedding

they insisted

on formal wear, on tuxedos,

gowns,

bling,

shiny shoes and done

up hair.

it was a destination wedding

to Bali.

it cost us nearly three thousand

dollars

in air fare

and lodging for the week.

gifts

and luggage,

a car rental.

it was a wonderful wedding

on the beach

with a band and unlimited

food and drinks.

two weeks

later, they got divorced.

we're having our

lawyer look into this for a refund.

shut up

it's interesting

when

someone tells you that you've

had

all the advantages

that others

don't have.

that's why you have a house

and money,

a car.

things, so many things.

the color

of your skin

got you here, your parents

and their

money.

it's hilarious, funny to hear

as i think

back 

and remember the church

leaving

food on our porch,

food stamps

and social workers trying

to split us up,

the electricity 

being cut off because there

was not a penny

to pay the bills.

we had no car.

holes in our shoes.

everything was hand me down.

there was

no air conditioning in a house

with broken

windows,

one bathroom

for eight.

but we somehow survived

and made

due.

then we went to work.

what's your excuse?

even the sky seems bluer

we're not

far from the city, maybe

fifty miles

out,

heading west when we

see cows

and horses.

red barns,

long fields of corn

and grain,

clap board houses with people

on the porch

who wave.

even the sky seems bluer

above

the wind vanes.

it's another world,

another

way.

rarely anything new that's good

it's difficult

to have an original thought

when you're

plugged in

all day,

at work,

on a jog, a walk.

there's someone in your

ear

and eyes

telling you how to think,

how to behave,

teaching you

what to say.

the absence of being silent

is killing

culture.

that's why there's very

little new

music

or books, or poetry.

everything thing is less

than what it was,

or feels

the same.

dough boys

we need

more plumbers,

more electricians, skilled

carpenters

and roofers,

painters and drywall

workers.

we need men to lay tar

on the roads

to build

with wood and brick,

steel.

we need someone

to drive

the trucks,

the cranes, the back hoes.

we need

architects

and planners.

but the young want to take

the easy way out,

sitting behind

a desk

with soft hands

and manicured nails,

turning into dough.

drug cartel boats go boom

as if in

a video game, the speed boats

and makeshift

drug cartel

submarines are being blown 

to smithereens

on the highs seas.

they appear to be

full

of sacks of cocaine

and whatever

other lethal concoctions

they've made.

some say

about time, while others cry

and say

what about their rights?

shouldn't we catch them

first

and process them to see if

they've actually

committed a crime.

maybe we can talk to them

and ask them

why.

give them safe haven,

with three meals

and a bed,

health care and a psychologist

to see what's

on their mind.

sometimes a hug is all a person

needs to turn

their life around.

meanwhile,

maybe a thousand less people

have overdosed

and died.

i have no idea what anyone was talking about, but it was fun

it's a fine group

of elderly folk, some i know,

some i don't.

the ten of us

meet up

in a Mexican restaurant

located in a building

about to be torn down.

there's a sombrero on the wall.

tin placards

of tacos

and burritos,

margaritas.

photos of old Mexico

with burros

and banditos wearing long

bands

of bandoleros.

looking for trouble

riding under movie like clouds.

i don't hear a word of what anyone

is saying,

everyone talking at the same

time and the music

being so loud.

so i just nod

and smile,

agreeing to whatever the

conversation is about.

occasionally i reach for the bean

dip and stick a chip

in, being

careful not to spill.

in case of emergency dial 911

i notice

in the far realm

of the top shelf of the refrigerator

a can

of whipped cream

left over from

last Thanksgiving

when Betty came over with a pumpkin pie.

the tin bottom

has a little rust on it.

hmmm.

can it possibly still be good.

i give it a good shake,

open my mouth,

and squirt in a large stream

of sugary sweet

cream.

i throw a maraschino

cherry into

the mix,

once i run hot water over

the stuck lid.

so far so good.

but we'll see how the night goes.

i'll keep my phone

nearby.

something has to give

it's a disheartening sign

when you

hear that gun sales

are up.

but so is consumption 

of donuts

and big gulps.

potato chips

and dips.

people are emotionally eating

whiles

packing heat

in their bulging yoga

pants and under

their ponchos

and mohair sweaters,

something has to give.

taking the bait daily

the internet

is now

the National Enquirer

as it was

when growing up.

alien babies

found

on the roof of the pentagon,

Oprah,

exposed,

exclusive photos,

Marilyn Monroe,

did she really have six

toes

on each foot.

is Hillary

really a man?

Obama gay? does his

lover

work for the CIA?

we want to buy the paper

just to find out

what the truth is,

we salivate to know,

and the same goes for now,

we want to click 

on the blurb,

and take the bait,

the first milking of a cow

there must have been

for the first

time in history

when

a man took a bucket over

to a cow,

much to her surprise,

and started pulling on

her, squeezing milk

from her fat belly.

what did his wife think,

standing at the doorway

of the barn?

asking, what in the hell are

you doing now,

Elmer?

what did the cow think?

did the other animals

raise their eyebrows

and run?

mattress on the roof of a Beetle

i'm worried

about the car in front of me

with a king size

mattress

tied to the roof.

it's a small car with

a young couple inside.

just married

is written in soap on

the back window.

tin cans drag

from behind.

a strong wind

blows

the mattress

from side to side,

trying to free itself,

trying to fly.

it's a wobbly start to

this new

life.

ten hours left to go

it's a day

of mismatched socks.

spills,

trips and falls,

flat tires

and fingers caught

in a door.

i should have stayed

in bed,

but there are things

to do

despite the world

falling around me,

just ten hours left to go.

i had her wrong the whole time

i push

the bee off the rim of the cup,

but she returns,

i swat at

it with a magazine

rolled up,

missing

the cyclone of

it's gold and black

body.

it circles around and buzzes

at my ear,

it wants to land

so badly

and sting me.

finally i give up and hold

my hand out,

where

she lands and settles down.

she looks at me,

and smiles,

then flies away. i had her

wrong

the whole time.

she just wanted to give me

honey.

there's a man on the roof

there's a man

on the roof shouting.

his shirt is off as he

throws his

arms

into the air.

he's angry

at so many things,

so many people.

i understand

this man.

i wave to him and give

him the thumbs

up.

two thumbs up.

i totally agree with 

whatever

he's saying, although

i can hardly understand

a word of what

he's screaming.

it feels like the truth,

though.

maybe tomorrow i'll

take a turn up there

if the rain stops.

i'm sick of eating chicken, honey bun

chicken again?

i ask

my wife, as she takes a roaster

out of the oven

with small potatoes,

unpeeled.

yes,

she says.

now sit down and shut up

and eat.

if had actually graduated

from college

and made

more money, maybe then

we could have

a better cut of meat.

it's only Monday, but so it

goes.

the start of another long week.

which generation are we on now?

there are so many generations

after

me

that i can't make heads

or tails

as to what they are,

millennials,

x, y, z.

who knows, who cares.

with each new crop of bodies

rising

up like flowers

or weeds,

they all have to learn what we've

already learned,

and now

know.

it's their turn to struggle

with the truth,

to swim or sink.

the magician

he wasn't a good

magician,

he knew that. his card tricks

were old

and stale,

and he often dropped them

on the floor.

pigeons died

in his coat

pocket.

children laughed.

he never made anything

or anyone

disappear,

pulled nothing out of a hat.

and yet

he had this wonderful

long black

cap,

and high-top

shiny hat.

and that seemed to be enough.

starting over

i try

to remember how many jobs

i've had

over the years.

how many places

have i lived,

girlfriends

that i've had,

counting them on my fingers,

then toes,

then ears, eyes

and nose.

i lose count and have to start

over.

as usual, with most things

in life,

i'm starting over and over

again.

dancing with sunlight in her hair

i almost made

a new

friend the other day.

which is rare,

because usually at this point

in life

you have

enough friends

and don't need another one

to confuse

your daily routines.

but she seemed nice

enough

as she approached my car

at the grocery store.

she was very pretty,

well dressed,

her hair done, make up.

the whole grown up

girl thing going on.

i rolled the window down

and said, hello there.

excuse me, kind sir, she said,

but do you have ten dollars

you could spare?

my car is out of gas and i

had to leave

it on the highway.

my kids are right over there

with my mother,

who is ill

and needs several organ transplants.

hmm, i said, then

noticed that she was holding

a violin in her hand,

which she began to play.

and spin around,

swaying to the music

with the sunlight in her hair.

so now what do you do?

i remember like

it was

yesterday, forty years ago,

researching on how

to start

a business. 

what license do i need,

what insurance,

what about taxes and liability.

should it be

a corporate

enterprise, a partnership,

or a lone

wolf kind of thing.

do i need an office, what

about employees,

what about

a truck and tools and this

and that.

advertising,

and now, as i sit here,

with nothing to do,

i type in how to shut down a business.

or is it too soon?

crazy in the head, crazy in bed

we were

totally infatuated

with each other

until we started talking politics

one morning after a lusty

session of making love.

it was an unfortunate turn

of events, because i was looking

forward to more happier

times.

but then she said something about

going to a protest march.

defunding the police,

and having no borders,

or jails,

mandatory vaccines,

no voter ID's,

letting boys play

in girl's sports,

and giving free health care

to non-citizens,

not to mention free surgical

care for

transitioning boys and girls

taught by

drag queens.

we need more social workers

and cashless bail, she told me,

then revealed

a tattoo of Bernie Sanders

on her shoulder

next to a hammer and sickle.

i lay there and said nothing.

keeping my mouth shut.

maybe i can fake this for another

week or two, i thought,

before she knows

i'm on the other side.

how about i make us some

breakfast, i proposed,

leaning over to sweetly kiss

her on the cheek.

how would you like your eggs,

honey?

bacon, maybe?

wheat toast?

an old thought approaches

i see an old thought

approaching,

limping,

dragging one leg

behind

the other.

i shake my head and tell

it to go back,

go back

to where it came from.

i thought i was done

with thinking these things,

but no, and now

it's too late

to turn it away, it's

getting comfortable again

in my head

and wants to stay.

usually by noon i'm okay

i'm

not a morning person.

i need

quiet.

i need time alone

to grunt

and stumble about.

i need serenity.

peace,

coffee, a long stare out

the window.

but by noon i'm

okay. at least

most of the time.

you'll see

if you decide to stay.

no need to read a dog's mind

there's no

need

to read a dog's mind.

he'll tell

what he wants with

a bark

or a thousand licks

upon your face,

a scratching at the door,

or his nose

moving his empty dish

around

on the floor.

they tell you plain and clear.

what the deal is.

unlike you

my dear.

with you, i'm always

unsure.

to be left in splendid isolation

we want

to be noticed. to be liked,

to be

admired

and accepted.

we want to be different,

unique,

to be remembered

after we die.

we want a legacy

of some sort

when we leave a room,

a school,

a job.

we want to be cried

for

when we die.

but not all of us feel

that way,

some of us just want to disappear

and hide.

live out

our lives in splendid

isolation.

love helps too

some days,

it feels late in the game.

winter

will do that to you.

the cold

air,

the wind.

the trees going grey

and bare.

sunlight

disappearing.

sleep is welcome at times

like this.

the comfort of home

and a good book.

love helps

too.

frogs vs. kings

i see

my neighbor deflating his green frog

costume that he

wore to the No Kings parade

down main street.

he seems happy,

sweaty and tired, but happy.

good march, i ask him,

as he slips out of the rubbery

green blow up skin.

oh, he says, it was wonderful,

i think we actually changed the world,

made this place

a better place to live in.

his voice is hoarse

from all his screaming and chanting.

carefully he takes off his green

crocs and rubs

the blisters on his feet.

wow, i tell him, that's great.

so what's next on the agenda?

when is the next protest slash parade?

hmmm.

not sure, he says. i have to wait

until i get an e-mail from

the organizers on the dark web.

but i'm having my frog costume ready

to hit streets again,

i just need to wash it down,

i tripped and fell into

a pile of dog doo along the way.

but hey, it's part of the sacrifices

we make.

you should march with us next time,

he says.

ummm.

no thanks,

i actually have a real life and fun

stuff going on.

i prefer not to waste my time

on stupid stuff,

like what you do.

don't be smart and get rich

do not

become rich,

do not become

an entrepreneur,

or an inventor

of something that will

make the world

better.

do not become a millionaire

or God

forbid

a Billionaire,

if you do,

they're coming to get you.

if you are brilliant

enough

to be a success, run

and hide,

they want half or more

of everything you

have.

how dare you be smart

and hardworking,

how dare you?

to quote Greta,

the doom goblin activist.

Bill and Nancy are disappointed in you

i could see down

the hall,

Olga, the HR officer

marching towards my cubicle.

i immediately stopped

doodling and eating

a bag of chips.

it could mean

only one thing.

i was fired again.

i gathered up my things

in a box,

including the black stapler

which i loved,

and some pens,

removed all of my snacks

from my top

desk drawer and waited.

sorry, she said,

standing in the doorway

blocking out

all light and hope, but

Bill and Nancy 

are very disappointed in you,

and sad

to see you go.

but it seems like you don't

know the first thing

about what you're doing here.

i laughed and handed her

my security badge, my

parking pass,

and told her, yeah, they're

right. i don't.

from a distance we seemed normal

we had

a sugar bowl on the table.

butter

in a porcelain dish,

salt and pepper shakers,

both silver.

we had dishes

and cutlery, though

many bent.

we had a linen tablecloth.

there was a clock on

the wall

that ticked,

a television in the corner.

a couch

some chairs

with which to sit.

there was a glow in the dark

statue of Jesus

on the dresser.

from a distance we seemed

like a normal

family.

everything but common sense

it's sad

in an amusing sort of way

to see

the mob,

the crowds, the chanting

crazies

out and about 

in the street

protesting

a duly elected president,

not a king.

and yet.

delusion has no limits.

blinded

by anger they march

and vent.

would a king

allow

a protest like this?

it's so insane that you can't

wrap

your head around it.

our education system

has failed

us,

everything was learned,

but common sense.

kneeling at the tub

as i kneel

at the new acrylic tub

and shower

with

a box of baking soda

and a bottle

of white

vinegar, preparing to lightly

scrub,

according

to the instructions on

the nine

piece warranty

document

given to me after installation,

i think

about where i am in life,

and what's

next

down the road.

why even vote anymore

you reach

a saturation level with

politics,

the news,

the constant haranguing

and hatred

coming out of the sides

and front

of the mouths

of elected officials.

the world is twisted,

it's upside down,

good is bad,

bad is good.

how in God's name did

we elect

these clowns.

jumping jack flash

it seems

impossible to know so many words

to so many

songs

from the past.

each note registered in

your head,

with your hand and foot

knowing exactly

when to tap.

and for the most part it all

came out

of a transistor radio

that you carried around,

then 8 tracks

in your beat up

car,

vinyl,

cd's.

it takes hearing

just one word,

one musical note, and you're

taken back

into time. part of the band.

singing in

harmony with the fellows,

to jumping jack flash.

the last cookie ever

she slaps an Oreo

cookie out

of my hand and tells me no.

sugar is the devil.

never buy

anything in a box, or a bag,

or wrapped

in plastic.

if it has more

than one ingredient

on the label,

don't put it in your mouth.

stick with

meat

and apples,

lettuce, nuts,

eggs.

can i just finish this one,

i beg. it'll be

the last cookie ever,

i promise.

okay. she says,

shaking her head.

so whatever happened to what's her name

people often

ask

me, so whatever happened to

what's her

name.

ever hear from her?

the crazy

wackadoodle bleached

blonde bimbo

you were with

for half a minute?

the skeleton

who was cheating on you

with that married

Captain Kangaroo

man?

beats me,

i tell them.

God only knows.

she could be with her

married

boyfriend, or her old

husband,

or in a strait jacket

at Belleview

texting on

her phone.

who knows, who cares.

it all seems

like a bad dream now,

a nightmare.

a year gone terribly wrong.

the morning fire

it's cold,

a very cold morning

with wind

blowing through the house.

of course it is, she says.

you left

the windows open again

last night.

it's almost November

not June.

come here,

i tell her, let's 

warm things up

a little before

the day begins.

then the dog jumps on

the bed.

not you

i tell him, down boy,

down,

but you my dear,

instead.

the no kings rally, yawn

i see a mob

of mostly old women

and P whipped men,

tagging

behind,

teens with blue hair

and nose

rings, all heading to the no

kings

rally in town.

the soy boys dressed in

black

to be scary. for them

it's Halloween all year.

i have no idea what they're

talking about.

we have a congress,

a senate,

a judicial system,

the supreme court,

checks and balances.

elections.

the constitution and the bill

of rights.

it's amazing

how dumb the mob has

become.

what a waste of time and energy.

but it's fun

to watch,

very entertaining

as we sit upon

our velvet red couch.

the endless empty parking lot

i remember

taking

my car to a garage to get the cracked

windshield

fixed.

the flat roofed brick

building was in a nearly

abandoned

strip mall

in Woodbridge.

it was raining, dark, dreary,

the whole

horror

show climate

was at hand.

i parked the car, gave

an old man

with bleary blue eyes

my keys and started walking

for what

seemed like

miles until i found a diner

to eat

breakfast in and drink

coffee.

i don't think i've ever felt

that alone

in my life.

sitting there, staring out

the greasy window

at the ocean of nothing,

nothing but

a concrete parking lot,

vacant,

empty of cars, of people,

of sunlight.

you're his only hope

it's a feeling,

my mother talking to me.

it doesn't come

all the time, but when i need

it the most

when trying

to decide on something

i'm unsure about,

wavering

on a moral issue,

i see her at the kitchen

table,

wiping the lenses

of her glasses, because

she's been cooking

at the stove all morning. i hear

her voice,

saying, it's okay.

it's okay to bail

your brother out of jail,

because if you don't do it,

no one else will.

when all is well

for once

it would be nice

to turn on the news and have

the reporter

throw up his or her

hands and declare that

nothing happened today.

nothing.

so what we're going to do

is show you

a live

feed of the ocean

with gulls in the air

while palm trees sway.

we'll show you seals and dolphins,

waves lapping the long

white sandy shore.

no words, no music.

no boring editorials,

just the quiet of the world

when

all is well.

when the lights go out

when

the power goes out, i feel

my way

to the kitchen

to find

the matches and the candle.

the flashlight

is hopelessly

lost, somewhere in a drawer.

i set the candle

in a plate

and light the wick.

there's enough wobbly brightness

to get around

the room

then up the stairs.

the dog follows, unbothered

by it all.

but it worries me.

what about the ice box

full of food,

the clocks,

the computer, the tv.

what is there left to do?

i can hardly

read a book,

or write,

i could never be a pioneer.

good luck or fate, watch your step

we live

a life of close shaves,

close calls,

lucky

turns, the timing

is just right

to save

us from

some disastrous end.

we didn't eat

the last raw

oyster on the plate,

we didn't board

the doomed plane,

or marry

the girl that you gave

a ring.

call it

luck, or fate or divine

intervention,

but whatever

it is,

watch your step,

my friend.

intuitive snooping

is it

intuition that makes

you

open a closed door,

peek under

a bed,

look at a phone that's

not yours,

sift through

clothes in her bottom drawer?

or is it

weakness,

insecurity raising it's

ugly head.

strangely though,

you're never wrong.

that girl loved to chew gum

whenever

i have

a piece of gum and begin

chewing it

i think of Leslie.

she loved gum

in her mouth.

she snapped it, popped it,

blew enormous

bubbles.

she'd twist it 

with her fingers, pulling

it like taffy.

she couldn't sit still without

a wad

of gum,

the kind you got

from packs of baseball cards

being her favorite.

she didn't care

about the cards,

Mickey Mantle,

Mel Stottlemyer, Reggie Jackson,

Mike Epstein,

but i saved them in a shoe

box.

that girl loved gum.

she even chewed it when we

were making

love.

then stuck the wad

onto the headboard

when we

were done.

the reversable belt

i travel

light, very light.

a toothbrush,

keys

and money.

phone.

i help her with her luggage,

lifting it

into the trunk.

three changes

for each

day,

and one for each night.

she has long

dresses on hangers.

i put her bag

of shoes in the back

seat

along with a thermos

of coffee,

bottles

of water, assorted snacks

for the one-hour drive

out of town.

all my clothes are

reversable,

even the belt,

from brown to black,

so i'm set.

give me your head with hair

i use to worry about my

hair,

standing in front

of the mirror

for hours.

i had the blow dryer

going,

the comb

and brush,

the scissors,

the gel for those brief

and unfortunate

punk days.

i sat in salon chairs and had

young girls

carefully coif my hair.

had men

with large hands

in seedy barber shops,

who smelled of garlic

powdering

my neck after a five

minute

cut with the clippers.

i've had it layered 

and styled,

long and short,

Beatlesque

and a marine crew

cut.

parted on the side,

the left

or right

and once down the middle.

hair used

to be my life.

something in the sky

is that

a star in the sky.

or

a plane,

a bright angel

of some sort,

some far away planet,

something

unknown,

something strange.

a balloon perhaps

slipped away

from a child's hand,

or maybe it's nothing,

nothing

but the tears in my eyes

from crying.

maybe i've been wrong

as i water

my petunias in the back yard

i see my

neighbor

sitting on her deck. she looks

despondent.

hey.

hey, she yells back.

you okay?

yes, she says. i'm okay.

a little sad.

why,

what's up?

well the war is over and now

i don't know

what to do with

my Saturdays.

they even got the hostages

back.

i'm not sure what to protest next.

oh, fiddle dee dee, i tell her.

there's a big

no kings protest next weekend.

that should be fun.

yeah, yeah.

i know.

but i'm starting to think things

over.

maybe he's not so bad

after all.

he's trying to stop crime,

secured the border,

he's rounding up murderers

and rapists,

blowing up drug filled boats

from the cartels,

he's ending

wars, he's keeping dudes

out of women's

sports and bathrooms,

gas is cheaper,

he's all over the place trying

to make this

country better.

maybe i've been wrong.

the Camaro at the Hot Shoppes

he loves

his cars, his old cars.

classic

Fords

and Chevys restored

to almost

new,

like they were

in 67 and 69.

shiny red

a silvery blue.

they sit in the well-lit garage.

he won't even take them

out into the rain.

they're spotless.

occasionally he'll go sit

in one

or the other

and start the engine,

rev it up

and turn the radio on.

he's sixteen again

about to go pick up

Peggy Sue

and take her to the drive-in,

then

around the Hot Shoppes

for a slow roll

and spin.

loser talk

after a war

ends

and everyone goes home,

if there is one

still there,

the losers sit around

and think

it over.

maybe we should have

done this,

or not done that.

yes, we made a big

mistake

by slaughtering innocent

people

at the concert

attack.

so i guess we deserved

what we got.

which is

our entire country flattened

like a pancake,

but maybe next time

we should

plan things better, maybe

discuss

things further before we

do anything

crazy again like that.

at least we still have all

these snazzy

green headbands to wear

and keep

the sweat out of our eyes

while we're cleaning

up this mess.

build it and bring it

i've done

my time, hard time with

Ikea.

putting together

shelves

and desks,

counter tops

and tables.

chairs even.

i've sweated out the minimalistic

directions

with everything spread

out onto the floor

at midnight,

removing the shade

from the floor

lamp

to see what the hell i was

doing.

i've cursed.

i've thrown things,

i've taken a hammer

to screws

and dials,

the edges of fake wood.

i've stepped on plastic

and metal

casters, lost tiny nails.

i've tightened

things so tight the screws

have come

through the other side

of the boards.

i've flipped things over, taken

it all apart

and started over.

i've done my time with Ikea,

but never again,

no more.

the new has arrived

the new

arrives, the new phone

the new

tv

the new computer

the new

you,

the new me

it's not progress

exactly

it's commerce.

everything new is old

before you

know it.

it's all about the dough

rey mi.

a duffle bag of Hallmark Cards

i like to buy

all of my

Hallmark cards at one time.

Christmas,

New Years, assorted birthday

cards.

each holiday

from Valentine's Day,

to the Fourth of July.

Thanksgiving,

sympathy cards,

sorry for your loss cards,

graduation cards,

congratulations

on the birth of your baby.

happy retirement,

wedding cards,

get well soon cards,

and some blank ones too.

you never

know

what the year might bring.

shopping for a new mattress

i go

into the mattress

store

with my new girlfriend Clarissa,

a dancer

at the Gentlemen's Club

next to the dry

cleaners

and Japanese Steak House.

she's much more

experienced

with mattresses than i am

despite

our forty-seven year

age difference.

but i need a new mattress,

the old one

is sagging,

and the springs are busted.

i bought it three wives ago.

the nine-inch bolts have

come loose from

the scarred

headboard,

which is splintered and charred

from the time it caught fire

because of a pyromaniac

named Marsha.

it's so old there are fondue

stains on it

and dried residue

from a crockpot stew.

she hops

on each mattress, row

after row

in her glittery spandex dress

and go go boots,

which

draws

a crowd at the big window

out front.

the manager of the store opens

a beer

and lights a cigarette,

sitting on his

makeshift desk.

take your time, he says, no

rush here,

then dims the light and puts

on some music.

finally Clarissa announces

in her melodic voice.

this is the one.

she bounces up and down on

it like a trampoline,

then does a cartwheel

to dismount.

it's king-size

with handles and side bars

so that you don't roll off.

charge it, i tell the manager

and throw it onto the roof

of the car.

tomorrow we're going shopping

for a six person Jacuzzis

to put on the deck

in the back yard.

she's invited all her dancing

friends over.

salty dogs on the high seas

was Christopher Columbus

a bad

person?

who knows?

it's just rumors and hearsay

at this point.

stories passed

down by disgruntled lovers,

kings and queens,

sailors grumpy

about the weather and food

on board

the creaky wooden ships.

did he bring

measles to the islands,

venereal diseases,

a bad attitude?

maybe. perhaps.

but that's what sailors do.

you try and sail across the ocean

eating

dried meat

and crackers for six

months,

sleeping next to some guy

who snores

with his peg

leg continually clicking

against a leaky floor.

sure, he was lost, and had

no idea where he was half

the time.

but so am i.

i couldn't get around these

days without

my phone telling where

to go.

he had his finger to the wind,

a rusted sextant

and the stars.

but he got here, so leave

his statues alone.

taking a much needed vacation

a vacation

can

be small, a week, a few

days

at the shore.

sometimes

even

one single hour alone

staring

out the kitchen window

will

do the trick

and help

you go on.

disturbing news to MSNBC

apparently hell

has frozen over, the vast

legacy

media

has actually praised a man

they

daily hate

and abhor.

how dare he bring 

the hostages

home,

bring peace to the middle

east,

we needed that war

to go on,

we don't need

him doing anything good

at all.

we have to keep the hate strong.

early trash talking years

we

were young and dumb,

our trash

talking

wasn't as clever

as we thought it was

when

posing on a street corner

with friends.

your momma

was a phrase

we often

used

when hitting bottom

with slurs

and

observations about

weight

or a pair of eyebrows

that

stretched comically

across a face.

we needed more words,

bigger

and smarter

words to make fun of someone.

we needed

a thesaurus.

college helped

with that.

Amazon guilt

there's

a little guilt when i order

something

small

from Amazon.

the whole carbon footprint

thing.

What would the social warriors say?

do i need this thing

that badly,

this book,

the pot

or pan, this box

of coffee

sleeves

or pair of shoes,

but the guilt slides

quickly

away when things arrive.

i pick

the package up of the porch

and shrug,

waving to the truck driver,

then take

the package inside.

it's Christmas almost

every day.

a saucer of buttermilk

it's a porcelain

plate,

a souvenir saucer

from Italy

that i set on the porch

with

buttermilk

for the stray cat

that wanders

the street.

she's black with

green

eyes

and speaks with a low

cigarette

smoker's growl.

the milk

stripes her mouth,

drips

from her whiskers.

is she happy?

i don't know, but i am.

stuck on earth

we have

no choice but to obey

the law

of gravity.

from birth until death

things

are falling,

skin is sagging, our

legs

getting

heavier to move

across

this rounded earth.

we are glued

to it, unlike those

glorious

birds.

be patient, soon

i position

the rake by the door.

soon,

i tell her, be patient.

a few

more cold nights,

a strong

wind

or two,

a hard cold rain

and we'll be out there,

be patient,

soon.

bargaining chips for evil

the horror

that humans are capable of

is

on the screen

as men

crawl out

from under rocks

and dirt,

held captive

by evil,

deep in tunnels

for years,

the first

light of the first

day

of the rest of their life

hits their eyes

with tears.

at last home into

the arms

of loved ones.

so

what was the point

of all that,

why? it's obvious

that

the devil is alive and well,

very busy

here.

always have a prenup for the third marriage

Jimmy

calls me up on the phone.

he wants

to go have a drink or two or three

at the local pub.

he sounds

depressed, so i say

okay.

he's already at the bar

when i get there,

he's spinning his wedding

ring around

on the lacquered pine

in front of him.

dude, he says as i sit

down beside him. thanks

for coming.

i order a beer

and some pretzels.

i should have listened to you

about the prenup, he moans.

she's taking me

to the cleaners.

half of everything.

cars, furniture, house, retirement

money, stocks, bonds,

everything i've ever worked for,

and she's the one

that's cheating on me. with some

clown from her work.

told you, i tell him, taking

a sip of my beer.

the third marriage you should

always

get a prenup. an iron clad prenup.

the first and second marriages, 

you're too

stupid and in love

to think about things like that,

your little brain

below your belt is doing all 

the decision making.

when the first couple

of marriages go south

you have time to recover

your savings

and all that. you've got some

earning years

ahead of you,

but by the third marriage,

you're doomed without the prenup.

you're almost near

retirement.

at this point you're down to moving

in with three other

sad sack dudes

in an apartment somewhere

sharing a bathroom.

yup,

i'm an idiot, he says, holding

up the band of gold

that he's removed from his finger,

how much

do you think i can get for this? he asks.

hmmm. not sure, maybe

a hundred bucks or so.

maybe less if it's inscribed.

damn he says.

she had me inscribe with 

the love my life, Ethel.

oh well, that's a shame.

hey bar keep, can i get some

mustard

for these pretzels and a menu.

hungry?

i'm treating.

running into your second cousin

i don't

like running into people unexpectedly,

so i keep

my head down,

eyes straight ahead,

i move about

with purpose,

avoiding any eye contact.

i'm never prepared for

chit chat

and small talk, or seldom

in the mood, but without

fail,

there's someone

who yells out, hey, hey.

yo,

what's up, long time

no see?

how's the wife,

the kids,

work,

how's your health?

still living

in the same house?

i'm Joe,

your cousin,

second cousin

on your mother's side,

don't you remember me?

the discipline of a small child

i can't keep

a gallon

of ice-cream in the house,

or a bag

of cookies,

Halloween candy, forget

about it.

i have the discipline

of a child,

or a small

dog left alone

with a bag of trash.

my hand,

against my will, can't stop

grabbing

another bite

until i find

the bottom

of a bag of chips,

or box

of Oreos, until i scrape

the last

scoop of rocky road

from the tub

before me.

resistance is futile.

shaking things off

it's a good cry

you

have, hands on your

face,

sobbing,

your entire body is

part of it,

you shake,

you bend over

and tremble, the nose

runs,

you are a complete 

mess,

sitting in the dark alone,

full of

temporary regret,

and then

you stop.

you shake it off

and go to bed.

tomorrow can't come

soon enough.

that's over, now what

wars

come and go, cities

destroyed

lives lost,

an impossible ruin

of things

left behind,

and the world yawns.

the world

goes on.

what else is new?

turn the page,

move on.

so it's over, really

over?

good,

now what?

a trapped life

the first

pet may be a firefly caught on

a summer

night

in the back yard,

easily

snatched out of the air

and placed

into a mason

jar.

you've trapped a life

for your

own

pleasure, love

can be like that

sometimes.

the peace treaty

i give

the peace treaty about

two

days,

maybe three before the next

shot

is fired,

the next

bomb ignited.

before the next terrorist

attack occurs.

hatred is

in the blood, passed

on from

one generation

to the next

from father to son,

mother

to daughter.

with no end in sight.

and yet,

we hope it holds,

our fingers are crossed,

we pray.

where have all the writers gone, another Batman sequel, really?

when

was the last time you sat

in a movie

theater,

or waited in line to see some

wonderful

film with

no political leanings,

a movie with intelligence

and humor,

sadness

and empathy.

a movie that rang true, 

connecting

you with others

no matter race or religious

belief?

a movie without a car chase,

or monsters,

or gallons of

blood on the screen,

with

guns and dragons and creatures

from outer space.

when was the last time,

you sat in your

seat in the back row

with popcorn and a 

drink

anticipating the curtain

being drawn

and for the movie to begin

as the lights dimmed.

excited to be

watching a movie

that might

change your film

viewing life forever? 

giving you the feeling,

that to this,

i can relate?

it's not over yet

it's an over 55

retirement community

and yet

there's no one here under

the age of 70.

i see them

limping up to the pickle ball

court

in their white tennis

outfits.

head bands on,

wrist bands,

knees wrapped

with copper bandages.

the men and women wearing

enormous

Jackie O 

sunglasses.

they have power drinks and

granola

bars.

some are using walkers,

some are

riding electric

wheelchairs, or those little

rascal

get abouts.

it's a flock of sea gulls

rising

over the hill to the court.

i'm waiting patently

on the bench with my paddle,

waiting for

the games to begin.

ready to keep score.

it's not over yet.

i can resist everything but temptation

it's not going

to be

a good food day when you wake up

thinking about

French Toast.

syrup, butter, the whole deal.

sausage on the side.

this image and longing

is going to be

hard to shake.

should you give in now,

or white knuckle

it through

the day,

until at last, near midnight

you go down to

the kitchen

and heat up

the big frying pan.

as Oscar Wilde once said,

i can resist

everything,

but temptation, especially

when it comes

to French Toast.

street walkers at Hayfield High

when i use

to drop

my son off at his high school

after he'd

miss the bus,

i'd ask him

what the deal was

with all these

street walkers,

ladies of the night,

full grown women

strolling around in micro

mini

skirts

wearing lots of makeup,

with bright

red lips

and high heels.

blondes, brunettes, redheads.

some in fishnet

stockings.

dad, he'd say. those are students,

girl students.

they're my age.

really? geez, Marie.

i thought i'd made a wrong

turn and we

were circling Times Square

in the 70's.

no wonder

you're failing geometry this year,

i get it. how is it possible

to concentrate?

Jiminy Crickets.

well, have

a good day, son.

then he'd hop out 

of the car

in his cut off shorts and t-shirt

with jelly stains

on the front,

and wearing flip flops.

why are you wearing that, come back in the house, now

i'm

not sure why it is,

but for

some strange reason

the bow

tie

seems odd

these days, so does

suspenders

holding

up a pair of pants,

not to mention a vest.

who

wears a vest anymore?

i think it went

out with 

Wyatt Earp

in the old west.

a white belt,

white shoes, Spats?

when you see a politician

with a big

colorful bow tie,

you say to yourself,

what's up

with this dude?

men seem

weird

when they leave the house

looking

like a carnival

barker

or a circus clown,

i think it happens though

because

most of them

don't have wives

to help them get dressed,

or a full

length mirror.

the hot tub party

my friend Jimmy calls me up

and asks me

if i want to go

to a hot tub party

on Joe's deck.

beer and food on him.

hmmm. really? i ask.

what is it 1985 again?

come on man, he says.

Joe's cousin Jill is going to be there.

Jill, the Jill.

she used to be a cheerleader

for the Cowboys

back when Craig Morton

was the quarterback.

yeah, i remember her, but

hasn't she had five kids

since then?

so what?

she's divorced now and on

Ozempic.

her twin daughters are coming too,

they're nineteen

and stars

on Only Fans.

geez, i don't know.

how big is this hot tub?

from what i remember

Joe weighs three hundred

pounds

and is not fond of a bar of soap.

is the tub cleaned on a regular basis?

Bleach and Chlorine?

of course, of course

he found a dead racoon in it

the other day,

but he drained it and cleaned

it all up.

he's got the pump working again

and finally

the jets aren't pumping out

any rust.

so come on.

it'll be fun.

bring a towel, and don't worry

about trunks

or anything.

it should be fun.

oh, and

take some penicillin before hand,

if you have some.

what's up with this light?

we are

a people of impatience.

we want

things fast,

our food,

our line to move,

we want

the screen before us

with no

buffering,

no issues with a silly

wi-fi

or blue tooth connection.

we want our

daily

drivel

now dammit,

not ten seconds from now.

why won't this 

red light ever change to green?

there's no other

cars around.

i've been

here way too long,

almost two minutes.

and what's with this water

in the pot

i'm staring at,

good Lord, will it ever boil?

can the waitress

be any slower?

will the dog ever lift his leg

and pee?

oh no, what do we protest now?

i overhear

some young folk with pink

and blue

hair at Starbuck's

this morning

bemoaning the fact that

there might

finally be peace in the middle east.

what are we

going to do now, 

one guy/girl says.

what are we going to do with

all these signs

we made last night.

the march is at noon today.

i have my mother's

pots and pans

to bang on,

from William and Sonoma

in the car.

what can we protest

instead?

should we go back to climate change

again?

we still have the cops, ICE to harass,

the girl/guy says. 

they don't seem to be going

anywhere.

but it's just not the same.

i have my black and white

checkered board

do rag

on, my army jacket, and i just

started to learn how

to swear and chant in

Arabic.

we don't deserve him

the President brokers

a peace

deal

over the endless war.

there hasn't been peace in the middle

east

since Jesus

walked upon

the water.

but my cousin Lefty,

says,

so what.

big deal. he got lucky.

he's probably

going to put up a hotel

and a casino there.

it's all about money with his guy.

mark my words,

he says.

but, i say to my cousin,

distant

cousin, i might add.

don't you see that this is a wonderful

thing.

the hostages

being released.

no one

killing each other for a few

weeks?

yeah, well. maybe he should stop

calling

Rosie O'Donnell fat,

and saying

that Greta Thunberg needs a

therapist.

and why hasn't he cured cancer yet,

like he promised?

the enormous, big truck thing

the big

truck is a thing.

all shiny

and black,

or red with

big wheels, big cab, big

bed

in the back.

high off the ground

with extra

lights and things.

you can hear the roar

of a big engine

when they step on the gas,

and then

a little guy

crawls out the big door

after taking

ten minutes to park,

using the little

step.

what's going

on here?

what's this all about

in terms

of the evolution of man?

someone needs

to study this.

the play list

it's a garage band

of boomers

that occasionally gets a gig

or two

at Ernie's Crab House,

or at a wedding,

or birthday

party.

they have Proud Mary down,

as well as

Sweet Caroline

and 

The Rolling Stone's,

Paint it Black.

they've been working on some

new material

though.

a little country, a little samba,

a little

bit of Ice Tea,

some old-time rap.

talking to the bar bell

i stare at the bar

bell

sitting on the laundry room floor.

the same

set of weights i've had

since i was twelve

years old.

what?

i say to the barbell. what do you

want?

how many lifts today?

how many presses,

squats,

curls do you need?

yes, i see the dust on you,

the rust,

the dent in the carpet where

you've been sitting

for months.

but i'm a little busy right

now with these socks

i just took out of the dryer,

maybe later, okay?

but you live across the street

we should

do

a zoom call, she suggests.

you know,

catch up.

we haven't

seen each

other in so long.

it would be nice to see

you again.

i look out the window

and see

her walking around in her

house

across the street,

in her pink bathrobe,

talking on the phone.

i can see you now, i tell her.

look out your kitchen

window,

i'm waving.

it's not the same, she says.

go sit

by your computer

and put

me on a zoom call,

or do you do face time?

what about skype?