a serious sky

it's a serious

sky.

a bloom of black

and blue,

there's

something about to

arrive.

you can see and feel

it in the air,

in the low

hanging sky.

maybe it's now.

the end

does at times

seems

overdue.

she's an early riser

she

likes to make a smoothie

in the morning.

i can hear

the blender

in the kitchen

churning berries

and bananas,

whey protein

and a variety of nuts.

she's already

in her yoga pants

ready

for Pilates.

she yells

up,

do you want one.

can i make you a smoothie?

no,

i yell down.

pancakes will be fine,

and a donut.

why are you up so early?

it's only

ten o'clock.

green beer

we drank

the green beer, wore

our green

derby,

our green socks

and vests.

we drank all night

and sang

songs

we never learned.

we drank

and sang

until the cows came

home,

then at three a.m.

somehow we ate

eggs,

then fell asleep,

still

dressed.

waiting for pretty

it's

not pretty, the empty

trees,

grey boned

and bare,

the gloom

of slush

blackened with exhaust.

it's not a nice

a look, 

the harsh

wind full of paper

and debris.

but be 

patient.

we have to wait

a little

while longer for 

a yellow

and green dress,

for pretty.

a palm full of Old Spice

when

i removed the medicine

cabinet,

from the old bathroom

wall,

circa 1959,

when the house

was built,

i found a small mountain

of razors

rusting on

the ledge of the wooden

frame.

double edged

razors. thin and browned

now.

it's easy to imagine

who stood

in front of this old

mirror

with his face covered

in a lather

of cream and shaved,

putting tissue

on the cuts,

like Marciano.

week after week he must

have pushed

another dull razor

through the slot.

perhaps he turned

left then right,

cleaning up

with a towel, the ears

and nose,

then slapped

on some cologne

before heading out

to warm up the Chevy

before his date.

not much has really

changed.

not much.

trophy night

oh really,

the Oscars were on last night?

i didn't know

that.

who won

that little shiny trophy?

what, who?

i've never heard of that movie,

or that actor.

were the speeches

any good?

did they whine on

and on

about politics

and stolen land,

war and injustices?

i love when millionaires

behind their

golden

gated communities

get all riled

up about the littles

out there.

lost in a masquerade

after so many

years

i see that

you've give up on being

a better

person,

on turning over another

new leaf.

it's hopeless.

this is who you are

and will

always be,

why pretend, why

put on another

mask and continue

the charade?

stop the madness.

how about

we stop this

masquerade

and go our separate

way?

tornado watch

i ignore the tornado

warnings

and venture out

for coffee.

it's a mistake.

within minutes i'm

lifted off

the ground

in a vortex

of swirling wind.

i can hardly

keep my seven dollar

cup 

of vanilla latte from spilling.

i look down

at the landscape

below

as i spin around and

around.

i see you

down there hanging

onto your

rooftop,

and try to wave

and call out,

but you don't hear me,

so i dial you up

on the phone.

finally you see me.

we make

lunch plans.

perhaps a hundred miles

from here

i suggest,

if i ever land.

open the pod doors Hal

my phone

wants to connect

to my

tv,

my laptop wants

in on

it too.

my blue tooth stove,

my fridge

and

washer and dryer,

even the toaster is telling

me

it wants to join

the party,

get connected

with me.

they are all making

suggestions

on how

to live,

how to breathe.

it's out of control,

i'm scared

to think.

broken bones and skinned knees

it was

dangerous, the playground.

the iron

monkey bars

with hard dirt

below.

the chain linked

swings

with rubber seats.

a splinted

see saw,

the slide as hot as

a frying pan,

the round metal

table

that wobbled as it

spun

recklessly around.

how did we

not kill our selves

at recess

tumbling onto

the ground

of glass

and sand?

it'll come to me

i'll think

of it at some point.

your

name,

i'll remember you,

i'll

recall how we met

and where,

it will all come back

to me

in time.

just give me a hint,

prompt

me,

give me

anything, give me

a clue,

remind me

of you are, keep

talking

as i search the rolodex

in my mind.

everyday is Saturday now

you

put on your favorite pair

of jeans,

your best

walking around

boots,

you ball cap

and sunglasses,

you snuggle into

your warm old sweater.

you've put

on your Saturday

clothes

even though it's only

Monday.

at last

you've arrived to where

you've been

working to go.

suicidal empathy

they had

the nine time violent offender

in jail.

locked up,

but then

he said

he would behave, he found

God,

he was into arts

and crafts now.

going to therapy.

he was making wonderful

license plates

behind the bars.

he had turned

over another new leaf,

so they let him

out, they give

him another chance.

of course

he's in the paper the next

day,

with his bloody knife

in hand,

smiling from ear to ear.

ordering a pack of gum online

i order

a pack of 

spearmint gum online.

i'd like

some gum

to chew

as i decide what next

to do next with

the diminishing

years of my life.

i could

go down

to the local drug store

and buy

the gum,

get in the car

and go,

but i don't feel like

going out,

i don't want to be around

people anymore.

i've hit the wall

with them.

the crowds,

the unhappy faces,

the zombie

like appearance of so

many

in their sweatpants

and bad manners

milling about.

i just want gum, am i

wrong for that?

perhaps.

from an egg to this

how it

all begins, how an egg

becomes

what is.

the sinews

and veins, the bones,

the heart

the inexplicable brain.

the intricate highway

of nerves.

and there you are,

me

and you

sitting on the train

going

somewhere

again.

our luggage in

the overhead

bin.

pandora's box

it is often

said

that a writer in Ireland

is a failed

conversationalist.

i think

the world lacks

both

at this point. 

that pandora's box 

in our hand

has taken

imagination and creativity

out of many of us.

sentiment and sediment

like

sediment,

the past of you rises

in small

layers upon

the floor,

the fossils,

the thin bones of you,

the shoes,

and clothes,

the jewelry, small

things

fallen

from your hand,

relics,

the layers

of what you've left behind

is hard

beneath my feet.

i can hardly walk across

the room

without thinking

of you.

it's time

to vacuum.

the butter dish

some people

leave

the butter out all night.

i'm not

one of them.

i set it back in the fridge

to keep it

cold, and tight.

i can't live with someone

who doesn't

put it away.

this may result in

our first 

and final fight.

James Joyce vs. a red bikini

ten pages into the book,

Finnegan's Wake,

i stop reading and close it.

i put it back

on the shelf.

why am

i reading this book?

what's the point.

yes, it's a classic, a must

read for

anyone with half

a brain,

so they claim, but i can't

do it.

i'm taking nothing in.

the stream of consciousness,

the names,

the plot,

the whole story is 

baffling.

maybe if it wasn't so sunny

out, and the birds

weren't chirping,

and my neighbor wasn't

out there sunbathing

in her red bikini,

i'd try again.

you're slipping boy

if i didn't

run five miles a day,

four

days a week,

play basketball

three times

a week,

do a hundred sit ups per

day,

fifty push ups

and ride my bike on

the weekends,

i'd think i was getting soft.

not to mention

climbing ladders

onto rooftops

and painting and wallpapering

a countless number

of rooms,

if i stopped doing any

of this,

i'd feel i was slipping.

still do,

although not as much

as i use to.

higher and higher

i see

the small boy on the swing,

his father

behind him,

pushing

the child higher and higher.

there is glee

and laughter.

the wife

nearby

on the bench, taking photos.

you wish

them well.

all three of them,

for you too remember

when.

miles to go before i sleep

she says,

write something serious,

something

like

what Robert Frost might write,

how dark

and quiet the snow

is,

how deep,

how far away you are from

home,

with miles

to go before you sleep,

tell me

how a good fence

makes

a good neighbor, tell me

about the road

not taken, and

how it's made all the difference

in your life.

stop writing such silly things

like you do,

show me,

show me that you have

a lick of

talent.

go further and show me

what's really

in you.

t bone steak for lunch

the dog

greets you at the door

the way

you'd like a loved one

to greet you,

your girlfriend,

or wife,

or significant other.

the tail wagging, 

the lips

kissing,

the bark of them

glad that you're home,

home at last

hoping that in the bag

from lunch

is a juicy steak bone.

green Jello in a paper cup

the room,

white of course,

and smelling

pristine,

for after all it is a hospital

and the idea

is to make

it appear

safe and clean, able

to resurrect

your soul or whatever

might be ailing

you,

and yet,

the constant buzz

of machines,

the beeps and buttons

down

shiny halls

and the stone

faced

nurses bringing you

a paper 

cup of green Jello,

makes lies of it all.

how are you today, they

ask,

and you reply,

i wouldn't be if the answer

was i'm doing

well.

if a train is going sixty miles an hour how far would it have traveled in one hour

when you hear

young people on the street

being interviewed

and they

don't know

when the civil war was,

or what country

Utah is in,

or who was the first president,

or how

many stripes

and stars

are on the flag.

when they can't spell

or do

simple math,

it makes you sad,

but you don't laugh

or poke fun.

you wearily shake your head.

we're cooked.

we're done. truly

our education system has

failed us.

trying so hard to smooth their ruffled feathers

i've taken

the save the marriage

cruise,

the trip to Disneyland

to

make things right,

i've driven

to Winchester to shop

for antiques,

to Leesburg

to taste wine and pick

grapes.

i've bent over backwards

to smooth their ruffled feathers,

stood in long lines

at the opera,

or at flea markets as they

shopped

for a tea kettle

and interesting plates.

i've watched chick flicks until

my eyes bled.

how much kale

and salmon,

lemon

chicken can one man eat?

i've held

purses while they've tried

on dresses in the changing

room, bought flowers

and diamonds,

candles and perfume,

met the parents, the aunts

and uncles,

their disgruntled children,

and painted their

houses, wallpapered their rooms.

i've written so many

pleading words in a futile

attempt

to make them happy and to

beg for forgiveness.

whew.

glad that's over with.

wishing upon a star

there are

no

aliens, so get over it.

physics

won't allow it.

we are all

subject

to time and space,

the laws

of physics.

the speed of light

is all

we have,

our bodies would shred

into pieces

our DNA

would become trash.

there is no star close

enough

to reach

without generational

travel,

that's a lot of supplies

and gas.

movies have sold

us

an impossible bill of goods,

and when we get there,

a place

with air and water,

a habitable place,

then what?

start over?

the rolling stone

leaving

is easy.

staying put is harder.

it's easier

to wave

goodbye

than it is to remain

unhappy

and pretend to love.

no remorse,

no regrets, save yourself

it's the only life

you have.

you should have known me back in the day

at some point

i've come to realize

that everything is fiction.

everything is made

up

and twisted

by the mouth

that

gives us the story, the news,

their own

personal history.

we all do it.

we revise the past to make

us more palatable

to those

we know.

very little is truly true.

even the animals

at the zoo

say to one another, you

should have

see me

back in the day.

i was king of the jungle,

i could run like the wind.

no one had to cut

up my meat,

i could actually chew.

working over time

people used to retire

in their

late fifties,

or early sixties at worse.

they took

their gold watch and fat

pensions

with them

and disappeared into the sunsets

of Florida,

but no longer

is that the case.

the clerk

at the grocery store

is seventy,

his hands are

full of liver

spots.

the paper boy is eighty-two,

i see him

throw

the papers towards

the yard

as he drives by in the morning

in his Subaru.

the waitress

is using a walker

to bring us our

food,

she cups her ear

when

we ask what the specials are.

the congressman is asleep

at the meeting,

snoring,

drooling,

as another corrupt

politician is accused.

saving the children in Minnesota

the tax

lady calls to tell me the bad news.

you

owe the IRS

seven thousand dollars

this year

and the State two.

oh well, i tell her.

i guess it's not as bad as last

year.

plus we have to support

all the day care

facilities

in Minnesota,

the autism clinics

that have sprung up,

and there is a war going on.

one single bomb

costs

a billion dollars, or two.

so i'm glad

to do my part.

not reading the room well

i remember our

first date,

which actually was our last

date

and only date.

i had

a barbeque sauce

stain on my

shirt.

my zipper was down,

and there was

a long strand of toilet

paper

stuck to my shoe

that i dragged around.

i forgot my wallet,

so you had to pay,

and i knocked

over a glass of water

on the table,

being nervous to have

met you.

you seemed very angry

when you

sped away after i tried

to kiss you,

but i'm willing to give

you a second

chance if you would

kindly unblock me.

all things considered

i think we hit it off quite well.

what's your address,

maybe i could stop by some

afternoon?

shorter and shorter

have my

legs become shorter?

how did 

the inseam shrink,

or did the pant leg become

longer

in the middle

of the night?

what will happen in a year

or two,

a decade from

now.

will I be too short to look

out the window.

will I need a chair,

as i did as child to have

a view?

despite all, i slept well

the window

left open in the night

has

shuffled

the papers in the office,

turned

books

and things aside, 

the cold breeze has

caused chaos

to anything

without weight

to keep it earth bound.

the curtains are wrapped against

the chair,

the green

plant is still shivering

on the sill,

and yet

sleep went well.

a small brief moment in time

i transfer

the old vhs tapes into a flash

drive

and watch

the hours and hours

of when

we were young,

newly weds

in our first house,

when the boy was born,

when he was one

then five.

i look at the ex-wife,

the unhappiness

on her face,

her smile

so quickly gone sour.

there's

the house

we lived in, the orange

carpet,

the hand me down

lamps

and couch,

the wedding album

under the coffee table,

the dog running

about.

were they good times?

sometimes

yes.

sometimes no.

and then the camera goes

off.

the tape runs out.

a few squirts where needed

is it your

back,

she asks as i carry my

tools

and self

into her house, grabbing

the handrail.

no,

i tell her. it's mostly the knees.

fifty years or so

of playing

sports

has made them creaky

and sore,

depending on the weather.

it takes me

a little while to get

warmed up,

but if you have an oil can

nearby by,

please

hit me with a few

squirts

between

the bone on bone.

hitting the sweet spot

you spend

a large part of your life

simplifying,

making order

of your house,

you get the money thing

straightened

out.

everything is in its place.

you've eliminated nearly

all of the annoying

people out

of your life.

you've found love.

drama and chaos

is a thing

of the past.

you've hit the sweet spot

at last.

what have i ordered now?

i see

the big blue truck

pull up

into the cul de sac,

he's carrying

packages

to nearly every door,

large and small.

i get excited,

what

new thing have i ordered,

i wish i could

remember,

it was so long ago,

perhaps

three hours

have passed by since

i pressed

the button.

as cats are to dogs

they

remain mysterious.

as cats

are to dogs,

these

women, the fairer

sex,

the loud,

the quiet ones.

what makes them tick,

what makes

them so

different from

us?

whatever it is, we

need

more

to smooth out what

makes us

rough.

it's all my fault, please forgive me

i look

at my handwritten

apology, the same

one i've

been giving for decades.

it's laminated

and in the top drawer

of my desk.

i'm sorry for i said,

and did.

i apologize.

it's all my fault. i haven't

evolved quite

yet

and don't deserve someone

as sweet and kind

as you are.

i'm selfish

and forgetful.

i'm a caveman with no manners.

i promise to do better

if you

take me back.

cross my heart.

please, forgive me.

i swear

i'll change.

i'm begging you for

another chance.

just one more. please.

thank God no one did.

French roast

having lived

long enough, you imagine

yourself

a connoisseur

of coffee.

early morning coffee,

the first

hot cup that touches

your lips.

one sip and you either nod

and say, hmmm,

this is good,

or you turn

your head and spit.

at this point

in life,

you're too old for a bad

cup of joe.

frozen ground

i remember

the shovels breaking

as we drove them

into the frozen ground.

the long handles

snapping,

the metal cracking in two.

we had to wait

until

the sun rose higher to begin

digging

the long ditches,

nine feet deep, three

wide against

the building.

by ten or eleven it would be fine.

we waited

on the wall,

shoulder to shoulder,

boot against boot

and drank our

coffee.

we wondered

out loud

where we would be in

thirty or forty

years from now if we

kept this up.

and now we know.

i'm down with the sleep overs

she asks me why

i'm no

longer interested in marriage.

i laugh

and show her

the divorce settlements

that i've

framed and hung on the wall.

i tell her

i can't afford to give up half

of everything again,

not at this age.

and why have a business

contract for an emotion

that could change at any

moment, on any give day?

what about a prenup, she says.

protect yourself.

if you truly love someone

don't you want them to be a

part of your life

twenty-four seven,

with no room to breathe?

sounds lovely,

i tell her, but no.

although i am good with

the sleep overs

every couple of days.

nothing changes after running over a toad

some days,

out walking, you accidentally

step on

insects,

ants and bugs of all

sorts,

harmless caterpillars,

maybe a worm

or two,

you might run over

a snake

with your bike or car,

or hit an

animal

indecisive when

crossing the road,

perhaps

a sloth or squirrel,

or toad,

but somehow all of this

death

doesn't affect you.

you still sleep the same

way each night,

waking up

at three a.m.

in a cold sweat, wondering

what's to become

of you.

suspicious minds

i am

no Sherlock Holmes,

but when

i see the cat

with feathers in her

mouth

and the bird cage

open,

i suspect

something has been

done.

and the same

goes for you when

you get home

late

with your

dress on backwards,

and your hair

a mess,

lipstick akimbo.

they had to go and open their big mouths

i truly wish

they hadn't gone on these rants,

these rages,

giving speeches,

telling all the world how

they feel about

politics, etc.

the hatred that they

spew

was unimaginable.

i used to listen to their

music,

watch their movies,

i admired

their grit and talent, but

sadly no more.

into the waste can they

go.

crossing the Rubicon

i try not

to think differently about

her

as she spreads

ketchup

onto the hot dog,

the all-beef dog right

off the grill,

forgoing

the mustard

and relish, the onions.

i want to like her,

i really do,

but this might be crossing

a line

where there's no

going back.

it's the Rubicon for me

and you.

all of those Mondays

it's a month

of Sundays, of rising late

in the morning,

they are lazy

days,

nothing to do days,

but walk

and bike,

eat and drink, sleep

and make

love.

there's time to read,

to think

to write,

to be grateful for all

of the Mondays

you had to work to get here.

you need an ID to get in?

i try to get into

Costco for a new set of tires

and a gallon

of milk,

and a bag of potato chips,

family size,

but they won't let me in.

they want me to show an

I.D. three kinds.

what is this world coming

to?

so mean, so unkind.

but an election is coming up,

so i'm good there,

just sign any old name

right there on the dotted line.

bread crumbs behind you

like bread

crumbs you have left parts

of you

behind.

but what am i to do with

one shoe,

a dress,

an earring,

a hairbrush and all

the rest

you carefully

have tossed aside,

follow you home again?

i don't think so,

perhaps if i was still

infatuated

and out of my mind,

i might. but for now

i'll place them in a box

and leave them

outside.

brainwashed daily

we are

selectively informed depending

on the channel

you turn

to.

we are swayed in subtle

ways

to think one way

or the other.

it's brainwashing,

on a gentle

cycle,

as the news gets spun

to how the speaker

believes.

the same face all day

you

know you're getting old

when you

wake up

disheveled,

and you look like

that the whole day.

the shower

doesn't help,

the third cup of coffee

does no good,

nor does a scrambled egg.

there you are,

stuck all day

with the same face.

the nudist camp vacation

i regret our

decision on taking a vacation

at the nudist

camp

in Palm Springs. it was her

idea, not mine.

we spent two months

at the gym

getting ready,

running, lifting weights,

watching what we

ate and drank.

we quit smoking

and put cucumbers

on our eyes.

every morning we 

did push ups and sit ups,

sweated in the sauna

before taking the cold plunge.

we sunbathed naked

in our secluded backyard.

finally, after close

inspection in the long

bedroom mirror,

we both agreed that we

we were ready to walk

around with no clothes on.

but when we got there

no one else did what we had

done.

everyone was pasty white

and flabby,

fat and sagging in all

the wrong places,

with hairy under arms.

you could see where the sun

had stopped

and started on

their sockless legs

and shirtless arms.

they were smoking and over

eating, drinking.

anyone that lived in a double wide

and shopped daily
at Wal-Mart

was there.

it was horrifying,

i can't unsee what entered

into my eyes.

next year we're going to

Paris or London,

but with clothes on this time.

No Boots on the Ground

as the new

war goes on, the president

and his

cabinet promise that there

will be no

boots on the ground.

the war will

be mainly aerial, however

if troops are

needed and deployed

to protect our interests,

soldiers will not be wearing

standard combat boots,

but instead,

newly designed

Birkenstocks, made

specifically for the arid

Middle East climates

and terrain.

they will be sturdy and have

thick souls.

colors will be cammo green

and sand storm browns.

they will be of a unisex

style,

both breathable and comfortable

as soldiers

go about their war like

activities.

No Boots on the Ground.

promises made,

promises kept.

the veteran protester

my friend,

Lulabelle, is a veteran protester.

she's got the blue

hair going on,

the septum ring,

and is in transition to becoming

a furry

Cheetah.

she invited

me in for tea

and crumpets the other

day

to chat.

we're friends despite

her leaning

left and me

more right and down

the middle.

she has a stack of flags

neatly folded

on her table.

next to her megaphone,

her spray

paint

and whistles. i see 

a pride flag, a Palestinian

flag, an F Trump flag,

a Mexican flag,

a Venezuelan flag,

a Somalian flag, and now

an Iranian flag.

but no

American flag, to which i ask

her why.

she shrugs

and says, i don't know.

i guess i don't like

this country.

but then why don't you

leave,

i ask her. go live somewhere else.

oh, because other countries

won't let me

wave all these other flags,

so i guess i'm

stuck here in this dictatorship.

plus i have six cats

to take care of, and it would

be hard to relocate 

them.

can i get you more tea,

another crumpet?

peanut butter and jelly

i remember

peanut

butter and jelly on

saltine

crackers

and making a meal

out of it

with a tall glass

of cold

milk.

arranging them on

a plate

in front of the tv.

they were the best

of times.

satisfied

and wanting nothing

more,

nothing less.

cat like

i

see your

cat

like smile,

the twinkle of 

your green eyes,

hear

the purr of you,

notice

the wag

of your tail.

on soft

feet

you enter the room

to close

the windows.

no need for the neighbors

to hear me

scream because of your

pounce, because

of your long

red nails.

towing begins tomorrow

the condo

board

sends out a warning,

today is the last day to get a sticker

for your

car,

a new

sticker to attach to the one

you already have

hanging on your mirror.

towing will

begin tomorrow,

no excuses, no exceptions.

you are so 

warned.

so neighborly

and kind

they are.

no cookie for you

the nurse

is easy with the needle

going

into my vein

to draw

the life out of me.

she's done this

ten thousand

times,

i can tell.

i can't help

but look

after the pinch is made

to watch

the vial fill up

with a swirl of crimson

blood.

feeling a little faint,

i ask

her if there will

be cookies

and juice to follow

after

she dabs the wound

with alcohol.

she says no.

sorry.

but there's a water

fountain around the corner,

go slow,

try not to fall.

i'll get to that later, maybe

sometimes

you drop things on the floor,

but you

don't pick them up,

you say

to yourself, i'll get that later,

what's the rush?

pants,

shoes, coins out of the pocket,

a pen,

a fork from the plate

you were carrying

to the kitchen.

later, you say to yourself,

nothing is going

anywhere, perhaps later

i'll bend over

and pick these things up.

we're here to help you

i arrive at the grocery store

as the white

van with

bluebirds painted

on the side

drops off a group of senior

citizens

from 

the Sunrise home.

i file in behind

them,

as if part of the shuffling

troupe,

each with a list in hand,

in their long coats

and shawls,

scarves and hats,

woolen gloves. leaning

on the carts

which helps them to stand

and inch forward.

and then over the sound

system,

from up above, 

the music stops,

a symphonic take on

the Door's Light My Fire,

and a brief

lecture on depression begins.

feeling out

of sorts, a gentle voice says,

feeling sad

and alone. lonely, overwhelmed

with

a case of the blues,

feeling as if there is no

hope, no reason

to go on?

well, you're not alone,

we're here

with you.

if you need help or comfort

the pharmacy

can assist you. have your

red white and blue

card ready.

last aisle on the left.

there's no need to stay blue.

a penny saved

like most

men

of a certain age,

my father would drive ten

miles

for cheaper gas,

saving, but

not saving

as he went out of his way

for three

cents less

per gallon.

i'd drive his silver

Chevrolet, as he

sat beside

me,

finding his credit card

in his wallet,

sorting through the coupons

and receipts.

it was a long

day of shopping, looking

for the day

old bread,

the bin

where they kept the aging

meat.

beneath it all

she was

a mystic, who shopped

regularly

at Nordstroms.

she did Reiki

and Yoga,

got her minister

degree

from the back of a Ladies

Home Journal

Magazine.

she could twist herself

into a pretzel

and recite

the Koran, the Bible,

and quote

Erica Jong from memory.

she wore long

flowing dresses

and wore a flower in her

hair.

she spoke softly

with a manufactured

beatific smile.

peace love and joy

was her mantra

now.

but she still loved Nordstroms

and their yearly

shoe sale.

a cat maybe?

the dog,

rescued from its cage

at the pound,

makes

you a better

person.

you tell everyone it's a rescue

dog.

you saved

it's life,

saved it from inevitable

extinction.

and then

it chews up the leather

couch

that you sit

on, which angers

you,

and now

you have your doubts.

it's not over, yet

the will

to live is almost impossible

to break,

the natural instinct

to go on

despite all odds, 

despite

all calamities

and mistakes,

despite

tremendous pain.

it takes

a lot for death

to take hold,

to give up

on life, on the last

breath

within

you. to finally surrender

to the other side.

but there are days,

when you come close.

friendly, but not friends

you

want the neighbor to

be nice

and friendly,

quiet,

but not so nice as to invite

you over

for dinner,

or to sit in their yard

and chat

about life while

gulping beer,

an ample

distance apart

would suffice,

a wave

or two hello, a tip

of the hat.

maybe a brief

mention of the rain

or snow,

the wind.

but that's about it.

just a brief 

recognition of existence

is enough,

then both

of you go in

and close the door.

the participation trophy

apparently

we need prizes, ribbons

and gold

stars,

awards.

we need recognition for

the work

we've done,

something to shine

a light

on our accomplishments,

a statue

of some sort,

a trophy to put on the mantle.

it's what we

do as humans.

we want to be seen as

winners,

even us losers

do.

not listening to gramps

come sit near me,

sonny boy,

come listen to your gramps

before you

cut the grass.

let me tell you something,

nothing

ever gets cheaper.

i remember gas being 27 cents

per gallon.

a burger and fries

and a coke

was barely

a dollar,

a phone call a dime.

a scoop

of ice-cream

for a quarter, the movie

theater

ticket,

or to a ball game

a mere seventy-five cents.

a plug nickel for

a candy bar.

two cents for a stamp.

you're

not listening to me,

are you?

it's okay,

i understand.

now go on your way.

here's your fifty dollars

for mowing

my lawn.

the air brushed centerfold

i try to explain

to people

that wallpaper is not unlike

dating

a Playboy

Centerfold from back in the day

when

such

magazines existed.

there is no perfection.

the image

you see in Ladies Home

Journal

of wallpaper

hung on the wall has been

airbrushed.

no seams,

no bumps, no wrinkles

with zero

imperfections, it's

just a smooth

image of freshly hung

wallpaper

on the wall,

a work of Da Vinci art,

but then there's the light

of day,

or the morning after

that will

reveal all.

late for dinner

i lean

on the kitchen and sink

and stare

out the window, not unlike

how my

mother used to do

when waiting for my father

to arrive home

after

canoodling at some

bar

with a floozy.

arriving late

with 

lipstick and scratches

on his face.

dinner cold on the table.

when i look out

i can almost

see his turquoise Impala

pulling up,

and then him,

staggering up the sidewalk,

zipping up his fly,

while whistling out loud.

no more close ups, please

we have

become a society of shutterbugs.

is there

anything

not worthwhile

taking a photo of?

i've taken

shots

of salads and chicken

wings,

enormous shrimp

mixed

with linguini

and red sauce.

hamburgers

and slices of cake.

i've taken

pictures of cuts

and bruises,

strange lumps growing

on my

skin.

clouds

and streams, oceans

and deserts.

dogs, some which were mine.

i hold the camera

as far away from my face

as i can

before hitting the button, not

wanting the world

to see how old i've become.

i enjoy showing

friends what place

i'm in,

and who i'm with.

yes,

my self-esteem is low,

needing

likes

and praise at all hours of

the day, but i can't

help myself,

showing others how interesting

and wonderful i am.

running for daylight

the long

vine

catches my foot as i walk

along

the newly

burned field.

my hat is on,

the phone is in my hand,

but like

an acrobat

i lean into the tumble

as i roll

and hit the ground.

nothing breaks,

no bruises,

it's fun in fact as i recall

those days

of running

on the gridiron, ball

under my arm

with my number called,

avoiding

as much as possible any

contact.

i see daylight

up ahead.

talking trash

how

easily we take in the latest

inventions,

technological devices.

how we

make them a necessary

part of our

lives.

but i do miss

my old house phone,

the long

black wire

hanging from

the kitchen wall, cradling it

on the basement

steps

while i talked trash to

Veronica

for two hours

as my ear got warm,

black mirrored

when

it rains and rains,

and rains,

the pond goes black.

it's a circular mirror

of what

surrounds it.

trees and clouds,

the sun.

i lean

over the still water

to see

if i still look

the same as i did yesterday,

and the year

before that.

sort of.

raking in the pink leaves

i've

never driven into the city

and parked

without

getting a ticket

on the street,

perhaps one yearly

since 1972.

no matter the signage,

the yellow

curb,

the white curb,

the meters

and other restrictions

noted on

the wide long

sign, listing

such things as street cleaning

every

Monday, Wednesday, and Friday,

there it is, blowing like

a pink

leaf on

the windshield.

a ticket,

not a warning.

cha ching.

time is slowing down

i see

the clock has stalled,

not quit,

but is moving more

slowly in

its job

to tell time.

it's four o'clock

but it reads

three forty-five.

i think it might need

a new double A

battery

to be installed.

i find the bag of batteries

beneath

the sink

and look

for one more,

every type is there,

but the one i need.

once again.

to the store.

eating poetry

it's too late

to save

the book, now in the mouth

of the large dog.

ink

is dripping off

his tongue,

his eyes are full of words

now,

old

well written poems,

read often.

he will not be punished,

for i understand

him so.

licking clean the spoon

as i stand

in

the kitchen,

a cake

cooling

on the sill,

the spoon covered

in

chocolate

icing,

i understand the nature

of me

more clearly.

a swarm of deadly locusts

no need

for soldiers on the ground

anymore,

no grunts in trenches,

no marching,

no charging across

an open field,

crawling in mud

and blood, no.

this new war

is air bound.

the buzz

of deadly bees is what

it's all about,

the swarm of drones

flying north,

east and west,

flying south.

the sky is blackened

with their lethal stings.

maybe these are the locusts

that the Bible

prophesizes about.

sisters jumping rope

i see my

sisters out on the sidewalk

with their 

chatterbox friends,

lined

with chalked

boxes,

and jacks, tossed

dolls.

they're

jumping rope

and singing a song

that goes along with it.

they could

jump rope all day, into

the night

before they were called in.

what sweet summers

they were,

better days.

Jake's Christmas gifts

when

i went to see Jake

in the hospital,

two weeks before he died

of lung

cancer,

he told me he'd be out soon

and back to work.

pick me up at seven eleven,

same time

as usual, he said.

his head was

wrapped in

a wide white

bandage

where they had to cut

into his brain

to remove

some cells gone south.

he looked like a

Confederate

soldier

at Gettysburg who had

been through hell,

but he was in good spirits.

he asked

me to bring him a pack

of cigarettes

and a pint of Jack Daniels

the next time

i came, and a Playboy

magazine.

i said okay.

but it was too late.

the bed was empty when

i returned on

Christmas Day.

she's still waiting, i suppose

for ten years,

he would

leave her small gifts,

silver trinkets along

the path

where they could hold

hands

and walk,

away from those they

were married to.

he'd carve hearts

into trees

with their names on it,

draw hearts

in the snow,

make hearts out of twigs and

branches.

leaves

to surprise her with when

they walked.

he promised her the world

after the holidays

were over,

so she was told.

he did everything one could

do for a mistress,

but marry her.

she's still waiting,

i suppose.

a long weekend away

it's a small

beach

house we settle into for

the long weekend.

it's not

quite spring, but winter

is lessening

its grip.

we have a window, a wide

picture

window where

we can see

the ocean,

sunlit,

and the struggle of sailboats

as they plow

across the curve of the blue

earth.

even seagulls

are tossed about in this

wind.

we came here to get away

from things,

our thoughts and problems,

our disagreements,

but we've brought them with

us, i realize

as i see her

out on weathered

deck,

talking softly into her phone, 

biting

her lower lip

and crying.

we know less and less

funny

how we knew so much

when

we were young,

confident

in our voice, in our

stance

about life

and the world at large.

but funny too

how as the years went by

we knew less

and less,

no longer certain of

anything

we were taught or told,

troubled

by the truth,

having grown weary

of the lies.

if there is no crime

you can't

help but feel sympathy for the aging

ex-president

as he sits

being deposed

before the world about

his connection

to an evil

friend, long gone.

how thin he is, red eyed

and weary,

white haired,

his hand

shaking as he raises a cup

to his lips.

you can't help but want

to yell out,

enough is enough.

yes, he loved women,

it was and still is

his Achilles heel,

but enough is enough.

if there is no crime here,

no victim,

no witness, no admission

of guilt,

just let him go

to live out his life.

we all have made mistakes.

time to move on,

time to forgive.

how to scramble an egg

there should

be a class that everyone has

to take

and pass

before graduating from high school.

it would be called

common sense 101.

the curriculum

would go as follows.

how to scramble an egg.

how to change a tire.

how to balance a check book.

how to save money.

how to listen when someone

is speaking.

how to be respectful to your elders.

how to do your laundry,

wash, dry, fold and put

all your clothes away.

how to check out a book

from the library.

how to write a letter

and put a stamp on an

envelope.

how to wash your hands before

eating.

and for extra credit remembering

this.

get a job and stop depending

on your parents

as if you are still three years old.

don't drink and drive.

don't text and drive.

look both ways before

crossing a road.

don't eat the yellow snow.

turn the stove off after

scrambling an egg.

the mud room

when

someone tells me to take my

shoes off

in their mud

room,

the small room

that leads

from the 4 car garage

and yard

where the big

kidney shaped pool is,

i roll my eyes and begin

to form a

negative opinion

of them.

i know i shouldn't,

but already

the wheels of disdain

are spinning

in my brain.

i sit there, in the 'mud room',

and untie the laces

of my shoes,

which are mud free

by the way,

and sigh.

call me when the war is over

whatever you do,

Lisa tells me,

my Morgan Stanley advisor,

is don't buy a boat. trust me,

don't buy

a boat when

you retire,

you'll regret it,

or an RV to travel the country

in. just get those

crazy notions out of your

head.

imagine sleeping and going

to the bathroom

all the time in your car.

wait six months, wait

a year,

before you start spending

your mandatory required distributions

like wildfire.

although a trip to Dubai

would be nice

if you take me, once the war

is over.

slowly losing it

you are less

inclined

to wait these days, you

want

it now.

you no longer have the patience

to wait

in line,

to wait for water to boil,

for the mail

to come,

for the screen to

warm

and turn on.

you have no

patience with those that

have no

facts

and yet argue

their crazy beliefs

until the sun goes down,

have you become the grumpy

old man

your father was?

perhaps.

what else is there to know?

in the abandoned house,

the door

off hinge,

the broken window

with

winter

light and wind

coming in,

the cold breath of time

gone by

and the rag

doll on the floor, left

sadly

behind.

what else is there to know

about life?

that persistent ticking noise you hear

there are

good wars, and bad wars,

unintended

wars,

and intentional ones.

some

we have no choice

but to intervene,

the world is

at stake.

one maniac

with the bomb will crack

the earth

in half. with

others we can sit on our hands

and wait for the slow

crawl

of time

to correct how they whip

and master

their people

with centuries old rules.

so when is it right?

now?

or never?

but i suspect

that ticking noise 

you hear is not a clock.

Mon Ami Pastry

it seems

an unlikely spot for a French

Pastry

establishment

to open up

in this suburban sprawl

of strip

malls

connected like dots

and dashes

on a relief map,

and yet there it is.

snug between

the party store and gentlemen's

club,

the cat clinic

and bank.

across the lot is

the dry cleaner

lit up with

fluorescent red lights.

but there are sweets

in the window of Mon Ami

Pastry,

crullers and cakes,

macarons,

cream filled delights,

everything as light as

a feather,

Marie Antoinette

would be proud

to be part of this small

town blight.

i can't remember not knowing you

there are those

that you

can't remember not ever

knowing them.

suddenly

they appeared and have

never left

your side,

or you theirs.

childhood friends

are some,

but others came later

in life.

suddenly you were

joined at the hip,

forever,

walking

side by side.

nickels and dimes for St. Thomas More

the bells,

the church bells

awaken

me

on Sunday morning.

they toll

not too far down

the road,

down the trail,

through woods,

fields,

across the bridge.

i can almost

feel

the tug of my mother's hand

on my foot,

telling me

it's time to go, 

get ready for mass.

setting the envelopes for

the four of us

on the counter,

always an assortment

of coins

from her night

of waiting on tables,

nickels and dimes,

never 

cash.

no who's your daddy tonight

as she puts on a smear

of green face

cream, then

climbs into her thick

cotton

pajamas

with a Peter Pan collar

and two pockets,

pulls up her thick socks,

embroidered

with cats and dogs,

you know

that you are both

going to sleep soon,

and that there

will be no

fooling around tonight.

no hanky panky,

no who's your daddy.

it's a kiss on the cheek,

and nighty night,

see you when

the sun comes up.

can you get the light?

a small fish bone stuck

as we

age, we worry more about things

we rarely

worried about

before,

those carefree days

when we were young.

stray bones

in a fish, for instance,

tiny translucent

pieces

that might get stuck

in our throats,

we worry about

falling down a flight of stairs,

or when

stepping off a curb,

getting

laces caught

in the steps

of an escalator, we worry

about fiber

and 

cotton clothing, is it a blend,

or one hundred per cent

combed cotton.

i don't want to itch.

will this noon cup of coffee

keep me

up all night,

are we too far

from an entrance with this

parking spot?

we ponder,

before going anywhere,

is there a bathroom

nearby?

how's my

blood pressure,

my blood

sugar,

should i get the shingles

shot too

when i go in

for the pneumonia shot

and flu?

her new hair doo

i fell in love

with her when she was a red head,

then

accepted the new

brunette

locks, and eventually

came to terms

with

blondie, then silver,

but this new phase

of zero

hair to comb,

she may have gone

too far.

we can't walk down a street

looking

so much alike.

that slow sack of mail

nearly

everything has speeded up.

the cars,

the lines,

the online offerings

and buys,

rockets to the moon

and back,

the world is spinning

faster,

the ice is melting quicker.

only the US

mail seems

to be moving a slower

than usual

pace.

another late fee

attests to that.

hold on, there's more

suddenly

what was a headline

yesterday, is on

the back page.

the important news

of twenty-four hours ago

is now

of no, or little 

interest. how quickly

the world

moves,

these days.

a roller coaster

of highs

and lows.

we're dizzy, holding

onto each

other, wondering

what lies

around the next hill,

the next

impossible dip.

head on a swivel

there are no

aliens

from another planet,

or galaxy. 

there is no big foot,

no loch ness

monster,

no goat man perusing

Tucker Road,

no 

Abominable Snowman

trudging

through

the drifts

to steal your child,

or snatch

your life,

but there are neighbors

who are

just as dangerous,

be on alert

for that devious smile.

we're not really going, are we?

we plan,

we make arrangements,

we

write down

our future itineraries

on

paper,

we check

the trains,

the flights out,

we look at the calendar,

our watches,

we check

the weather.

we're going somewhere

at some point,

we just don't know when,

do we?

i wish i knew less about you

the less

we know about each other,

whether close

to you,  or an unreachable

celebrity,

that you'll never meet,

whether

musician

or writer, or actor,

the better off we are.

no need to dig deeper

into their

likes and dislikes,

their politics,

how

their soul rolls in this

world we

live in.

just enjoy them superficially,

the surface

of them.

put the record on,

watch the movie,

enjoy the show.

this is where we should

begin,

where we should end.

no salesman will visit your home

reserved, select,

limited

time only,

hand carved,

the manager's special,

fresh fish

daily,

going fast,

going out of business.

last call,

last chance,

everything must go,

one size fits

all,

make us an offer

we can't refuse,

no salesmen will visit

your home,

we offer rebates,

we have

coupons, 

it's a fire sale, it's

a once in a lifetime

opportunity.

you too could live here,

drive one away

today.

low rates,

the best in town.

buy three and get

the fourth one

free.

you will not be disappointed

or your money

back,

put nothing down.

bad credit, no credit,

no problem.

sign here, initial there,

we'll tie it to the roof 

of your car,

now take it home.

the office meeting

quickly

bored and antsy

with this office meeting,

the third

one today,

i stare

out the window.

there must

be something i can gaze

at

and wake me

up, to keep me from

falling asleep

and begin snoring.

and there

far off in the field

is a cow

eating grass.

i focus on that for awhile.

we need each other

it's hard

to concentrate

with this bird pecking

at the window

wanting

bread

again.

every morning it's the same.

he pays

a visit and i set out

a few

crumbs of old

bread

onto the sill. what will

he do

when i'm gone?

and worse yet, what

will i do

if he decides

to fly

away for good?

there's nothing to see here

yes, i do admit

that is me

in the picture, me lying

back in the hot

tub

with an attractive young

female

in a bathing suit,

and yes

i may have

had a cocktail or

two that evening,

but pictures are deceiving,

and yes,

that's me getting a 

massage

by a pair of strong hands

belonging

to a cute blonde,

and the other one showing

me with my

arm around the waist

of a young nubile

cheerleader, but as i've

said and i'll say

again,

pictures are deceiving.

what you

don't see in those pictures

is my fishing gear

that i take

to the island, 

not to mention my tennis racket,

my golf clubs and my 

checkbook, where i write

checks for

the underprivileged

and for climate

change in the north pole.

do you even know how much

money

i've spent on buying cookies

from the Girl Scouts over the decades?

let me make this

perfectly clear,

i did not, let me repeat it,

i did not have any

sexual relations with any

of those young women.

and just because i was on

that evil man's

plane

more than two dozen times,

accepted enormous donations

from him for my foundations,

and that he visited the white house

seventeen times

while i was in office, 

and that his 

dastardly girlfriend attended

my daughter's wedding,

that's nothing but smoke,

and in this case, when there's

smoke there

is no fire.

so there. now leave me alone,

i'm heading to the spa.

honey, where's my red speedo?

i might be home

late tonight,

so don't wait up.

stopping the world

somewhere

along the line, sports have lost

their appeal,

i have dwindling interest

in celebrities too,

or the next blockbuster

movie.

television in general

has jumped

the track.

newspapers

and magazines are nearly useless.

everything and everyone

is in your face

or phone

nonstop, you can't

escape

the world anymore.

too much of anything

is not a good thing.

time to tune out.

see how long i can last,

maybe a few

hours, at most.

those good old days

i remember the old days,

back in 

the early 2000's

when you would go into

a store

to buy things.

clothes, and shoes,

mixers

and blenders, televisions

and audio

components.

books too.

how you would peruse

the shelves

with a cup of coffee,

doing a slow search

on a rainy afternoon,

finding what

interests you.

soon to be a hazmat area

i use my old leather

tool

belt when i cook.

i snap it around my waist

at the front,

and put in

a knife, a fork, a whisker,

a spatula,

another knife,

serrated,

a small hammer for

tenderizing meat,

a thermometer

to stick into

chicken.

salt and pepper shakers.

a large wooden

spoon,

a potato peeler,

a skewer or two, for

no reason,

a string of measuring

spoons,

and an oven mitten.

then i get to work.

French Toast coming up

in about ten

minutes.

school spirit

i open

up the old yearbook,

to peruse the names and photos.

everyone

is still young,

in black and white

the drama

club,

the football team,

there's Mr. Reber

at the black board with

chalk in hand.

Coach Lamb

on field

with fury in his eyes,

Penny,

captain of the cheer squad

jumping

high on

the track with pom poms

in her hand.

Rick, president of the class,

studious in

his new suit.

Angela,

leader of the pack.

Joe,

the funniest,

his eyes wide and laughing,

Tammy,

most likely to succeed

looking

smart and angelic in her

white skirt,

a mini.

no one has

changed.

not a single one.

even me,

despite the hair down

to my shoulders,

and bell bottom jeans,

skinny

as a rail.

with no accomplishments

under my name.

she might be a lemon

if there

is no funny bone,

no smirk,

or smile,

no belly laugh, or

chuckle,

not a hint of mischief,

or sarcasm

in her

soul,

then run

for the hills, you're

in for a long

hard life,

if you

make her yours.

doing one thing well

folding

clothes is not a task,

a chore,

or mundane thing.

it's serenity,

the hand to hand

handling

of shirt and sheet,

pants

and sweaters with

long sleeves.

folding

your clothing with purpose.

squared

and neat.

it's all the socks

being

separated and balled

for the high

drawer.

it's peace.

tell me what to do

good advice

is hard

to come by these days.

where are the wise

men

and women?

the smart

and educated souls

who

listen calmly to your

troubles

and woes

and says plainly what

you need

to do,

tells you what you need

to know.

they lean on

their own experiences

and dispense

kind

wisdom.

so few

of them are out there,

gold if you

can find them.

a careful man, for the most part

for the most

part

i've been a careful man,

never one

to jump

out a plane, or scale

an icy

mountain,

it would be silly for

me to swim

with sharks

or to put my head

in the mouth of a crocodile.

i've been careful

with most

of my time

here on earth, except when

it comes

to love

and marriage.

i'm a gambler when

it comes

to choosing the opposite

sex

to be a part of my life.

a wild

man with crazy eyes

and lots

of regrets.

holding her purse while she tries on dresses

as i hold

her purse outside

the changing room, she at last

comes out

and spins

around

in a yellow dress.

it's been an hour,

at least.

what do you think, she says.

it's you,

i tell her.

love it.

buy two or three,

all in different colors.

but we need

to go soon,

the game starts at one,

and i have to pee.

dusting off the old machines

i take

a rag and dust off the old

Yamaha stereo

system,

record player, receiver

and cd

changer.

it flickers and stalls.

not a peep

of sound comes out of it.

i try to remember

the last time i turned it on.

maybe 2004

or five,

somewhere in that long ago

period of time.

it was a party to celebrate

the life

of someone who

died.

a hundred people showed

up.

ate all the food, drank

all the beer

and wine,

the cocktails.

it was a fun time.

there was dancing too.

even the cops

showed up

to tell us to keep the noise down.

i hit the power button

and play with the dials on

the receiver.

no luck.

it's gone.

so much is gone, i think

as i

unplug the system and set

it out on

the street.

island hopping

we

all could use a break,

a vacation,

a few days away from the daily

grind.

the news,

the politics, the constant

bludgeoning

on our mind

and eyes.

some island therapy,

white sand,

blue water,

a cold drink in hand

with a slice

of pineapple

on the side.

maybe you can come with me,

do you still

have that string white

bikini?

that would be nice.

so what's up, we haven't talked for a while?

we used to talk

weekly

if not daily, long talks

on the phone

with John

and Dave,

Steve and Mike, Debbie

and Lynnie,

Gary

and Joan,

Lisa and Mary,

Neva.

my son of course and

my mother

and dad.

but all have passed on,

or no longer

pick up

unless they need money

or a ride

to the airport.

we talked in phone booths,

in hotel

rooms, noisy bars,

from the train,

land lines

and cell phones.

they were not superficial

conversations,

they were

talks that showed

who we really were,

troubled or happy,

in between love

or jobs,

or in the midst of joy

or turning over

a new leaf, hoping

that this time it would stick.

if the phone rings now,

it's none of them,

just some dude in India

selling

Medicare Insurance,

the A and B plan

with an added flex card

for food.

the well traveled woman

it's ideal

to travel with a well traveled

woman.

she knows

the drill.

she's laminated the itinerary,

she has the tickets

to the train,

the hotel

is reserved, a room with

a view,

with mints on

the pillows,

a bottle of champagne

on ice.

there's everything

in her purse

that one might need to survive.

gum

and breath mints.

maps.

tissues and chargers,

water

and crackers,

assorted in nuts in 

a sealed

plastic bag.

a flashlight, pepper spray,

and two bananas

that she's brought along

for the ride.

the death of a groundhog

perhaps

it means something,

or nothing,

as i run

over

a groundhog

who's ambled casually

across

across the road

after exiting his

winter home.

i tried to brake but

it was

too late.

we looked each other

in the eye,

as he disappeared

beneath my car.

no final squeak or fuzzy wave.

i'm not sure

what this means.

six more

weeks

of winter until

spring, or something

else?

something worse.

hopefully the last will and testament

as i adjust

the will

and last testament

for the tenth time,

as the turnstile keeps

tossing

people

out into the street,

i sign all

the dotted lines and cross

all the 

t's

with regards

to money saved,

and parcels of property.

at some point, in the hopefully

distant future,

someone will be

very happy

and throw an enormous

party for me.

open bar and all you

can eat.

cha ching.

quit complaining and just leave

if you

don't love anymore,

leave

your marriage,

if you hate your job,

get a new one.

if you

can't stand where you

live,

move.

if you don't like your

friends,

the world is full of people,

move on.

if the food

you're eating doesn't suit

your taste buds,

order something

different.

if you hate your country

and everything

it stands for,

take the bus,

the train,

a plane,

and go.

don't let the door hit you

where the good Lord

split you.

Adios.

in love with a horse

every girl

wants a horse for some

strange reason.

i don't know why

exactly,

maybe it's from watching

too many

Disney movies,

but i've never met a girl

who didn't

love to have a horse

to ride.

it's not practical for the most

part.

the feeding and 

caring,

a barn,

hay, the flies.

and then they get old

or lame,

and die.

perhaps a carousel would

suffice.

God's office hours

is it possible

that God is overwhelmed

with prayer

requests,

does he sometime take a break,

take a vacation

and put

someone else in charge,

Peter or Paul, perhaps,

or one of the lesser

Saints?

does the mail stack up

on His desk,

piles and piles

of prayers that are desperate

for answers

for divine intervention

of some sort?

a thumbs up or down,

at some point,

would be nice.

i'm still waiting.

Pest Control

i admire

a man, or woman in uniform,

take the pest

control

worker, Sally, for instance,

arriving in her

truck, lemon

yellow with a frightened

bug on the side,

skull and cross bones

in its eyes.

but Sally's uniform is crisp

and clean,

the hat

stiff with a sun blocking

brim.

the white name tag

with her name

inscribed.

i respect the way

she strides into the house

like a soldier

at war,

carrying her tube of

insecticide,

spraying selectively

corners of the floor.

i'd trust her with my life.

the adults are in charge now

this session

of congress

during the Presidential

State of the Union

address, reminds me a lot of the house

i grew up in.

no one

was happy with

what was for dinner, there was

a lot of screaming and yelling,

arguing,

walking out

and the slamming of doors.

unhappy

children

who weren't getting their

way, with

tears in their eyes

they were sent to bed with

no dessert

or tv,

the adults were now in charge.

no longer Cali dreaming

i thought

about moving to California

once

when i was young, eighteen

or nineteen.

naive and dumb.

i loved the ocean,

the beach,

the sun

and of course

the mythology of it all,

the lifestyle,

the weather,

beautiful girls

and cars, fun.

but i'm glad i didn't

when

i see now

what it has become.

by your ink pen, write

just

one handwritten letter

would

be nice.
a card, a post card,

a note

tacked to the door.

just one

communication

by hand,

by ink, on paper,

would be

wonderful.

an invite, an apology,

even

an angry

break up explanation

would suffice.

God Bless You

is it a cold,

or just a stuffy nose.

allergies?

the flu?

polyps

perhaps, a deviated

septum?

are you sick

or just

badly constructed.

are you

being punished by

the hand

of God, or just a victim

of the environment,

the life

you've chosen.

Kleenex,

i need another box.

let's curl up by the fire

i want what

i don't have and don't need.

a fireplace

for instance.

i have central heating, but

a fireplace

would be nice,

make the room

warm and cozy, but then

i'd have

to buy a bearskin rug,

then light some candles

while i uncork a bottle

of red wine.

finally, i'd

need a girlfriend

to curl up to

not to mention

chopping down a tree

for firewood.

i have a lot of work to do.

the wide and easy middle years

the middle

years

are the best.

you're

no longer worried

about

the next pimple on your

face,

or concerned

about what your

friends think.

are you hip enough,

cool

enough,

are you wearing the right

shirt,

the right shoes.

and then the elder years

kick in

and it's

where's my cane,

my pills,

why does my knee

ache,

i can't sleep.

does this milk smell

bad to you?

who are you, what's your

name, again, dear?

yes, the middle years

are the best.

30 bucks an hour shoveling snow in NYC

i wanted to help

shovel

out the city from the snowstorm

and make

a few extra bucks

to help

pay for the rising

property taxes,

but the communist mayor

said that i needed five id's.

a social security

card

and a driver's license,

a passport

and a birth certificate.

two of which

would be photo

id's,

i only have two, so i'm

out of luck.

but come November

i don't need any identification

to vote,

i just have to

show up

and pull the lever,

or write in my selection

through the oh so reliable

US Mail.

socialism

at its worse.

the bank clerk

i take

it home with me,

the clasping

of her hands,

both

hands against my one.

warm

across her desk.

finished with the work

i've asked her

to do.

she's gentle

and kind,

which sadly surprises me.

i wish i didn't

expect

otherwise.

the iron bones

these ruins

are

not sad, nor bittersweet

reminders

of the past,

these bricks

and lumber

lying

in heaps,

bones of scrap

iron teetering

in the grey wind

are examples

of what is and what

was,

no tears are shed

in the crumbling

of civilization.

all in good time.

all in good time,

nature

says.

ex patriots

it's strange in a way,

weird,

in fact,

how so

many people born here

and have

successful lives

hate

this country and want

to leave,

while the rest the world

wants to abandon

their countries

and come here

to live.

people who will

do anything

to get here, to live

in the land

of the brave,

home of the free.

crazy indeed.

bagels in the city

the line

moves

quickly as we wait

in the snow

for a bagel

at Liberty Bagel

near the park.

so many to choose from.

our stomachs

growl.

we haven't eaten since

midnight

when we had

pizza

at Ray's Original

and before that

steaks

at Sparks.

but we're hungry

just the same

having walked

ten blocks

to get here.

we talk about what kind.

perhaps

cream cheese

today,

or butter on a plain,

or a 

French toast

bagel,

all sugary with

cinnamon.

finally our turn comes

and we find

a dry bench to sit upon

and eat.

then we talk about lunch.

the older dopes

just because

you have

grey in your hair,

and a wrinkled

face.

just because your hands

are old,

and that you

walk

very slow, it doesn't mean

that you've become 

wise,

a guru 

of some sort.

you can still be

a dope,

just an older one.

daily rejections

you send

a story away, a poem,

you ask

a girl

to dance,

you propose, asking

someone to marry you.

all answers

are no's.

not a yes, or maybe

in the lot

of them. but

eventually

rejection

makes you strong.

or so i'm

told.

beautifying the city

the blanket

of snow

beautifies the city. keeps

everyone

at home.

the vagrants

and bums,

the criminals.

how clean it looks now.

the streets

and boulevards with

a new

coat of

paint,

an ice castle from afar.

how lovely

the world is

when nature makes it hide.

plowing the north forty

i prefer

the cuts and bruises.

the callouses,

the nicks

and scratches,

the dripping of blood,

the strains and pulled

muscles

over office work.

give me

blue collar over the cubicle

and chair,

the screens

and meetings.

don't tell me which tie

to wear.

give me

the hammer, the saw,

the paint

brush.

show me where the ladder

is,

the plow,

the rake, the hoe.

tell me

what you want done,

point me

in that direction in

the morning

when the sun comes up,

then fetch me in thirty years

when i'm done.

a slight misunderstanding

maybe i misread

her

suggestion that we have a picnic

together

when spring

arrived.

in my mind i immediately

thought

that she wanted

to have sex.

so when i snuggled close

to her

on our checkered

sheet

and knocked

ants off of her skirt,

resting my hand

on her knee,

it surprised me

that she would slap me

like that

with a cucumber sandwich

still in my grip.

the protesters

as i

stroll through the hills

and shallow

valleys

of Central Park, i see

the gangs

of dogs,

each to his own leash

tethered together

by one arm,

one voice,

the dog walker.

do the dogs care

about being so close?

do they wish to run into

the wide

open fields still covered

in snow.

following their

own nose.

are they concerned

that they

have no choice, in this life,

but to go

where they all go,

regardless.

you too are of their kind

over time

so many of us disappear, some

by choice

some

by intelligent

design,

but you miss them all the same,

the boy

who bragged

about himself,

seeking attention,

desiring fame.

the girl,

too pretty for her own good,

her face

perpetually in a mirror

as she

crossed her legs.

the others

who knew it all and let

you know

where you were mistaken,

perhaps misled.

the white

lies of another,

the stingy ones, the rude,

the unkind.

those so full of pride.

but you miss them all,

because so often

you too were of their kind.

a morning bowl of cereal

morning joy

was cereal in a deep bowl.

something

sweet

and frosted, floating

in whole milk,

none of this skim

or 2 per cent

stuff

that's floating around.

not almond

milk either.

no one was lactose

intolerant then,

no one was allergic to

anything.

that glorious bowl 

of cereal.

the careful 

process of peeling

a large banana and dropping

slice after

coin cut slice

into the bowl.

then with a dribbling

spoon you ate

with morning hunger,

spinning

the box around,

reading every side

as if

great literature.

downsizing

it wasn't

the smell of cabbage

and goat

in the hallway

that made me

change my

mind about apartment

living,

nor was it the noise above,

the music

below,

or the clanging

of the elevator

as it rose,

and fell from floor

to floor.

no.

it wasn't that at all.

it was the feeling that

there was

nowhere

to go from here,

but down,

stretched on a gurney 

for all to see when 

the time

comes.

a more humane death inquiry

the post,

from Emily

in B-1,

on the neighborhood page

asks

if anyone

knows of a humane

way

to catch mice.

the traps seem so unkind.

snapping down

on their

grey behinds,

tricked by the wedge

of sharp

cheese.

i can't sleep at night,

knowing

that

they're trapped

and dying

in the other room,

never again to see 

the morning light.

westward ho

with

her red beret tilted

so,

she packs

her bag

and heads left,

to the west

coast.

it suits my liberal

leaning

soul,

she says,

waving from the train,

her smile

skewed by

the smudged

window.

living free and easy in NYC

if we're going

to give away free food

the mayor exclaims

from his

soap box,

if we're going to have free

buses

and shelters

and health care

and schooling

and day care

for our children,

we need to empty 

the pockets of the working

class.

the rich and not

so rich.

the ones piecing a life

together from

paycheck to paycheck

are going to have to step

up and pay more.

we need to tax the blood

out of stones.

it's time to share and

give to the lazy

and weak, the homeless,

the mentally ill,

the criminals and

downtrodden of our fine

city.

the unfortunate ones

stuck

in generational welfare,

perpetually on EBT.

and after you give

and give until it hurts,

then

we can start giving free

stuff away

as promised.

make a wish

can a child be any

more happy

than when

his mother hands

him the spoon

full of icing

after the cake has

been smoothed

and the candles

set for wishes?

waiting on summer

your

winter words

do not bother me, nor

the cold

shoulder

and the stiff breeze

that comes

when you

enter the door.

the frost of your nature

will melt.

none of this means anything

to me.

by summer

you'll be gone.

who does she think she is anyway?

it's a love

hate relationship, as it is

with

most machinery.

at the moment

i'm not on speaking terms

with my

printer.

nor is she talking to me.

it's mutual disgust

with one

another.

the rattle of her mouth,

the hunger for more ink,

the empty paper tray.

the disconnect

is beyond disappointing.

i'm done with trouble shooting

this lady

in distress.

this HP.

she doesn't know how easily

she can

be replaced,

all smug and pale as princess

on her high

pedestal.

just who does she think 

she is?

tomorrow,

she shall see.

not an heirloom, i guess

as i reach

across the bed, across

the table

to turn the light off

i see

you.

what's left of you.

something small on the floor,

the glitter

of what

once was around your

wrist,

a thin band

of silver

mixed with the tumbled

cotton

of dust.

not an heirloom,

i guess.

tomorrow i'll vacuum.

it's been

way too long.

ash Wednesday

the priest

smudges the black ashes

on our brow

at St. Patrick's

while

the stone arches,

the carved

saints and angels rise

around

and above us.

it's nice

to know that people

still believe in God,

have faith.

the lines are long

as we  wait, 

holding our

5th Avenue and Madison

Avenue

purchases.

our wrists and necks

dangling

with Canal Street

replicates.