what's the deal with Venezuela?

i've never

given much thought about the country

Venezuela,

and now,

i wake up

thinking about it.

it's all over

the news.

it's unavoidable.

but i wonder,

what's the weather like?

does it ever snow there?

is it a good

vacation spot for tourists?

the housing?

what do they eat there?

are people happy that their cruel

dictator

is gone?

is that why seven million people

left?

is it near the beach?

what's their main export

other than

cocaine?

bananas, nuts, coffee?

i think it used

to be oil,

but something went wrong.

ChatGPT is going

to be busy today.

a one dog night

it's a strange

day.

and even stranger

night.

warm

in the middle of January.

the temps

hitting sixty,

with not a snowflake

in sight.

it's no

longer a three-dog night,

but more

of a one dog

situation.

maybe the dachshund,

and that's it.

the others have to sleep

on the floor.

look both ways before crossing

i remember

my mother and father telling

me,

don't play

in the street, look both

ways

before crossing, and when

you hear a siren,

pull over

and let the police or

ambulance

pass.

have respect for them

and the job

they're doing.

be a good citizen

and obey.

cars are bigger than you

and can

run you over

like a pancake.

i remember thinking about

what a pancake

looks like

on my plate, a pad of butter

and maple

syrup

pouring off.

and now i'm hungry.

the local bakery in Fairlington

the local

bakery is in trouble

for posting a pro right notice

in their

window.

a request for patrons

to join

Turning Point USA.

a God-fearing group

of young

patriotic Americans.

the neighborhood is divided.

they love

their bread,

their pastries and cakes,

but not so

much their politics.

what's a person to do when

they want

so badly a loaf

of apple scrapple bread,

a cinnamon bun,

and a loaf

of rye

to go?

they stand at the steamed glass

window,

rubbing

their gurgling bellies,

sad,

and so torn,

so confused.

it's so hard being a socialist

these days.

a Russian conversation in a battlefield trench

i can't do this anymore,

the Russian

soldier, says to his comrade

as they lie

in a trench, wet with mud,

and debris.

i'm tired of this stupid war.

shhh,

the other soldier says.

the captain will hear you,

but i am the captain, he says,

see. he brushes the mud

from his insignia.

oh, yes. i see that.

yes, sir, sorry sir.

my wife misses me, he says,

my mistresses

miss me,

my children have grown up

without me.

i miss all of them.

plus my feet hurt with these

Chinese made boots,

none of the buckles stay snapped,

and i haven't

changed my underwear in a month.

what are we doing here fighting

like it's World War one?

trench to trench,

bombs, bullets flying over our

heads, rats

all over the place and for what?

i like these people we're killing,

and who are killing us.

they speak our language,

they have the same

culture and history, they dance

to the same music, eat the same food.

we are them, they are us.

this is crazy.

yup, the soldier says. well,

what are you gonna do?

C'est la vie.

i think it's time for lunch, 

the solider says,

looking at his watch.

i opened up a can of beans earlier,

have some if you want,

i have an extra spoon.

thanks, any Vodka left in your canteen?

three flight attendants from Sweden

the new

neighbors finally move in.

three

blonde flight attendants from

Sweden.

they all look like Heidi Klum

in her heyday.

each of them about six feet tall

in their

high heels.

i wave

and say hello,

nodding politely at the waist,

as if they might

be Japanese.

i definitely have a case of the vapors.

i begin to strategize what

i can knock

on their door for.

maybe i could borrow a recipe

on strudel,

or Swedish meatballs,

or maybe i could help

them

unload their little mini-Coopers,

carry in

some luggage.

give them a run down

on American appliances.

seeing that we don't use the metric

system here,

the stove

can be tricky at times,

not to mention

the thermostat.

suddenly,

my wife grabs me by my

ear,

and says,

down boy.

i know what you're thinking.

his sexual picadillo's

my father's last

and final

girlfriend calls me up on

the anniversary

of his passing, we share

a few

funny stories about him,

how he liked

to cook,

and read,

how he enjoyed music

and fast cars,

Texas Pete hot sauce

on nearly everything,

and then the conversation

veers

off into his sexual

picadillo's.

i cringe. 

why me?

she's 89.

i don't want to hear it,

so quickly

i turn on

the washer and dryer,

the blender,

i set off the smoke alarm,

and turn

the volume up on the tv.

finally,

she stops talking and i tell

her,

well,

glad you called, talk again soon,

happy new year.

then quickly i run upstairs

and take

a steaming hot shower

with lava soap.

finding out all of her secrets

her secret

ingredient is nutmeg,

she puts it

in nearly everything.

soups,

and pancakes,

sweets

and pastries.

stews.

i find deep in her

pantry

a box

of tins, all of them

nutmeg

waiting to be used.

i wonder what else she's

hiding from me.

tomorrow,

i'll look through her purse.

reading the room, left or right?

these days

you

can almost tell someone's

political

leanings

by the look on their face.

sour puss,

lemon,

a disturbed and angry

frown,

well,

of course you know,

they lean

left.

bright and sunny,

grinning from

ear to ear,

walking around like

a bright

light,

well,

there you have it.

where else could they lean,

but on

the right.

the best teachers

you

remember the hard teachers.

the mean

ones,

the strict ones.

the ones who didn't let

you get

away with anything.

grading papers

with their

thick red pens,

forcing you to study

and read

and read

and read again.

in the moment,

you hated

them,

called them names,

but as the years have gone by,

you're thankful for

their

discipline,

and hope

they are well as time

flies by

in

this unrelenting wind.

the Minnesota prat fall

the fat

man,

pink as pork,

with happy hands,

and bulging eyes,

is dancing

around the questions.

deflecting,

and accusing

others for the mess he's in.

not me,

he says. i'm innocent.

the music

begins to play,

it's the end of the cartoon

where

bugs bunny

appears

eating a carrot,

and says,

that's all folks.

there needs to be a

trap door

on this stage.

the age of disappearing

as i go about

my day

with a dollop of shaving

cream

still in my ear,

a banner

of toilet paper

stuck

to one shoe,

my zipper down,

and spinach in my teeth.

no one

says a word.

no one points,

or says,

softly,

hey.

finally i've reached the age,

where

i've completely

disappeared.

the giant cup of crazy

rational

thinking and common sense

seems

to be in short supply lately

as i watch

the mostly

white

liberal women

protesting

the captured of an evil dictator

who ruined

one of the richest

countries in

the world.

keeping the people

under his

heavy thumb.

why?

it's a giant cup of crazy

trying

to figure it out.

the dictator and his wife in captivity

they put the captured drug

dealing

dictator into a cell with his wife.

she's not

happy.

i don't like these blue pajamas

they gave me,

they are too loose

around the waist,

people will think i'm fat,

and that orange

jumpsuit you're wearing

is hurting my eyes.

what's with 

this yelling from the cell next

to us.

they sound like animals in

there.

farm animals making

wild love.

can you call down to the front

desk and see

what they can do about this,

plus, it's cold.

i think they should turn the heat

up and bring

in an easy chair so that i can knit.

you know

how i like to knit when we're

in trouble.

and do you mind, could you

stop pacing

for one minute,

i'm losing my marbles,

and quit leaving

the seat up on that toilet

over there.

can't you pay someone to get us

out,

what happened to all

of our drug money from the cartels?

it's been two days now.

i'm really hungry,

what time is dinner around here?

when Mamdani comes calling

the new

mayor knocks at the door

with

his cronies

and tells me that i have too much

money.

it's time to share,

show us your bank

statements,

your overflowing penny jar.

he waves his arms around

my house

and yells,

this

is too big and that i need

to open it up to others.

your king size bed can fit

three people,

at least.

you must take in

the unfortunate

others

who haven't worked as hard

as you have.

he opens my refrigerator

door.

and says.

i have too much food, you must

give half

of it away.

why do you, a single man,

have a whole

gallon of milk

and a full loaf of bread.

look at your freezer with all

those frozen

bags of sugar cookies.

do you know there are hungry

people out there

on the street?

how can you sleep knowing this,

and having

so much to share?

the same goes for the closet

with all of

your clothes

and shoes.

what's going on here?

it looks like a store in here.

we must take

most of this away.

you must begin to share your

things

with the poor

and beaten down masses.

your selfish lifestyle doesn't

work

here anymore.

the Georgetown hangover

it's just

a cramp, i reason with myself,

holding

my stomach.

it must

have been the potato soup

i made

last night.

maybe i shouldn't

have added

the clams

and oysters.

i crawl to the bathroom

and curl up

on the tiled floor.

it feels good

against my cold skin.

i wipe the sweat

from my

brow with the tiny rug

i'm using as

a pillow.

it's 1985

all over again when

i used stay out into

the wee hours,

dancing

and drinking

with 

Dave and assorted

friends.

sorry, wrong number

i accidentally

hit the wrong button

and call

one of my ex-wives.

apparently she still has me

in her phone.

i knew you'd

come crawling back she says,

without even

saying hello.

oops, i tell her, i misdialed.

didn't mean

to call you.

sure, sure. likely story.

you miss me,

don't you?

you still love me and want

me back.

ummm, no,

i really misdialed, i don't know

why i even have

your number still

in my phone.

when did they let you out

of St. Elizabeth's?

sure, she says. you are such

a liar.

so you want to meet for

lunch, right?

or take me out to dinner

and then

back to your place?

i know you.

sex sex sex.

you haven't changed one bit,

have you?

men. you are all alike.

listen, sorry to have called you.

i was trying to call

Hunan West

to order some crispy beef and rice.

okay, she

says, i give in. i'll give you one

more chance

to make things

right.

i just bought this sexy little

black dress at

Nordstrom's Rack.

see you at 8.

click.

fair weather friends

my friend,

Jennie, the eternal optimist,

tells

me, it's not how you

fell down

it's how

you get up.

i want to tell her to shut up

and put

a sock in it,

but i don't.

she's very sensitive.

she's put

bumper stickers all over

her car.

Love, Peace, Coexist,

Ukraine,

Kamala

and Walz.

save the whales,

save

the trees,

no kings,

it takes a village, and my

son

is a drama major.

no oil,

and no meat.

but somehow we're still friends,

as long

as we just talk

about the weather.

Sunday morning toast and Alpo

it sounds

like a bomb going off

and then

gunfire,

a rapid rat a tat tat.

so what.

just another Sunday

morning.

my dog doesn't even get up

to look

out the window.

there's a few

helicopters

circling above

the neighborhood,

and sirens

are going off.

i keep buttering my toast,

then open

up a can

of Alpo for Rex.

a sentimental tear drops

from my

eyes

as i recall the sound

of church bells

before they were banned

for making

too much noise.

the emergency protestors meeting

it's a late night

emergency meeting with the protestors.

we meet at

Joe's house, 

a four-story brownstone

on the West side of Central Park,

funded by a mysterious

billionaire,

named Soros,

who also chips in to make

all the signs, gasmasks,

megaphones,

and paraphernalia to carry

out a new

march down Broadway.

i sneak in

the back door,

and crouch down in a back

seat with

a checkerboard tablecloth

wrapped around my head

not unlike Aunt Jemima.

i borrowed it from TGIF

Fridays,

but will return it, promise.

okay, people, Joe shouts out,

pulling on his Stalinist mustache.

we've got

a new issue going on. we're

sort of done

with Gaza, with Epstein,

with Hunter's laptop

and the Russian collusion

fraud, none of that panned out.

BLM and DEI flopped,

plus climate change is done too.

the no Kings day was kind of lame

and cringe,

not to mention the 

Starbuck strike,

but not to worry, we have a new

protest to get

fired up about,

we've got to free this cruel

drug dealing

dictator and his wife,

who the government

kidnapped in the dead

of night.

no longer will we be chanting free

free Palestine,

from now on it's,

free free Maduro and what's her name.

okay?

are we all on board with that?

someone call Rachel Maddow and find

out what her name is.

we have to save Venezuela from

no longer

being ruled by a dictator

and God forbid

becoming a democracy.

and let us not forget all those shipwrecked

sailors

who were fishing to feed

their families

while transporting unidentified

barrels of chemicals

and bags of cocaine.

they will not be forgotten.

and also, we need to defend

Timmy Walz, our beloved

leader in Minnesota and his Somalian

minions

who are clever enough to steal

8 billion dollars

for babysitting imaginary children.

any ideas?  anyone?

a hand goes up.

do you mind if we get something

to eat tonight, before

we get started, maybe

pizza?

yes, yes. our beloved leader

Soros has given us plenty of money

to eat.

so what's it going to be,

anyone?

Chinese, someone shouts out.

Kung Pao!

Jimmy Chang's is great. four stars

on yelp.

Ray's pizza,

another voice shouts.

or Katz's deli.

how about hummus, or a veggie

plate, Julie exclaims, 

who looks like

Olive Oyl's twin sister

but with a septum ring.

we need to save the animals.

by the way, a trans them speaks up,

brushing his blue

hair out of her eyes.

i thought we were

against kings and dictators?

are we changing

the platform now? i'm confused,

he says.

(causing the entire room to giggle)

i just got my no kings tattoo

on my forehead?

the ink is still wet and i think

it might be infected.

do i have to have it removed?

try not to think on your own, Pat,

Joe says,

just follow the script, obey

and march,

chant and make a raucous. we need

to stick together.

just be a zombie, okay?

a socialist soldier.

be dumb and don't question anything.

rational thinking and common sense

is their thing, not ours.

okay, have we agreed on

food yet?

hands? anyone?

how about Starks i accidentally

blurt out,

the best steaks in town.

maybe we can see if they deliver.

suddenly everyone looks at me,

and scream,

get him.

upside down in a liberal world

funny the world

we live in,

drug trafficators

are victims,

illegal

means legal,

drug lords

and dictators are

good,

fraudsters stealing

tax dollars

are misunderstood.

murderers

are heroes,

and communism

is in fashion

despite

a century

of shedding blood.

people carrying

the flag

of terrorists, wanting

to defund

the police, tax

those who have more

than you,

let boys pretend to be

girls,

and use their

bathrooms

in schools.

the new years purge

go less.

be minimalistic.

simplify your life,

pare down

what you have and don't use.

purge

and clean,

start from the attic

and work

your way down,

get down to bare bones

then look

around

and see what owns

you,

not what you

own.

flip a coin if you can't

decide,

then toss

or find a place where

it belongs.

the forty dollar sandwich

we

wait in line

in front of Katz's deli.

we're hungry.

we're

cold.

we're the tired

and weary,

we're the people

that the statue

of Liberty

tells us who we are,

carved in stone.

we want our hot pastrami

on rye,

three pounds

stacked high,

a pickle on the side.

we have our

ticket in hand, 

as we brush the New York

snow

from our eyes.

the dot dot dot...

give

me the ampersand,

the colon,

the semi-colon,

give

me the ellipse, the comma,

the dashes,

sometimes i can't find

the right word

to say,

my thesaurus is worn

the binder

gone.

the dictionary

frayed,

i've got nothing,

give me

the dot dot dot, i can't

go on....

the Learing Center in Minnesota

we all

have crazy excuses for trying

to get out

of something,

for assuaging our guilt.

the dog

ate my homework,

your email

must have

spammed out,

or i have a new phone

and lost

all my contacts.

i missed your call,

i must have been in

the shower.

someone broke into our

office and stole

all of our

important

documents that the government

requested

to prove

we're a legitimate

day care center

and not fraudulent.

the complete list of our

clients

and children have disappeared,

whoopsie.

and our checkbook

register too.

we don't have a clue now

as to where

the one point nine

million dollars

that you kindly give us

every year

went.

what makes you happy and full of joy?

my friend

asks me what makes me happy,

what puts

a smile

on my face,

makes me laugh

and clap my

hands together

with joy.

what makes

me do a jig

and dance across

the floor.

hold on, i tell her

and run upstairs to take

the framed

document off the wall.

be careful with that

i tell her,

putting it into her hands.

oh my,

she says. 

it's your last divorce

degree

behind tempered glass

in a gold frame.

yes, i tell her, and if you'd

like to see them,

i have two more.

the bus driver from Venezuela

after years of running

his once

wealthy

country into

the ground

they

capture the notorious

dictator

and his

wife

in the dead of night

and whisk

him back

to the jail house,

in NYC,

where the new mayor

will

probably

let him out and put

him in

charge

of law enforcement,

or housing

and development,

or maybe

driving the free buses,

since

he was a bus driver

before

becoming king

of Venezuela.

putting our heads together

the coconut

presents

a problem, how to open

it,

what tool

should we use,

i ask

as i hold the hairy

brown ball

in the air, up

towards the light.

she suggests the hammer,

i point

to the power saw.

maybe

a mallet

with a long screwdriver,

or the hatchet

hanging

on the shed door.

do we really a coconut,

i ask her.

can't we take it back,

did you

keep the receipt?

it seems so violent

and destructive

to open

it up.

small pleasure

small

pleasures. this cup

of tea

for instance,

this blanket around

me

mid afternoon

as the snow falls,

the fire

full

and rich with flames.

the mail

on the floor through

the slot,

waiting to be opened.

no rush. i'm

in no hurry to be with

the outside

world.

i'm settled

with life on this

cold afternoon,

the dog in a circle

so happy

to warm my feet.

gardens of our own

i see

my mother climbing up

those stairs

with her

garden

tools, my father not

far behind,

his arms full

of apples.

they are

still young, we are still

unborn.

and yet,

we're not too far

behind,

soon to have children

of our own,

gathering

fruit from our own

gardens.

we were all shiny people

we were

all shiny people for a while.

filled with promise.

young

and confident in our

clothes,

slender

and muscled.

hardly a scar

upon us, nary a wrinkle

on our faces,

our thick hair combed.

how hard

we rode those nights

into morning,

thinking

it would never end.

the wind parade

as the wind

pushes

along the paper and cans

on the street,

the garbage

and debris,

the bags and empty

cartons,

the discards

of the day.

apple

cores and orange peels,

dead

flowers.

what is there to do 

but wait

until it's all out of sight.

pretend

that the world is okay.

you can't handle the truth

it's amazing

what

the legacy news stations choose

to cover.

CBS, NBC, ABC, CNN, etc.

it's almost as if they

want to deceive you,

twisting words

and views,

rearranging what fits their agenda.

creating their own

narrative.

they've taken

sides, choosing what news

to show you,

or not to show you.

hiding the truth

with no shame,

because,

well, you can't handle 

the truth

and if you knew the truth,

you might vote differently

come election day.

they've figured out

that if you repeat a lie

long enough,

eventually

the viewers will believe

it's all true.

thank God for independent

journalists,

for X,

for TikTok,

for YouTube.

you look marvelous

the salesman

tells me

that i look fit and healthy

for my

age.

he shakes my hand

vigorously

as we stand outside

the car dealership

in the cold

and wind.

how do you do it?

he says,

tapping his

belly.

brushing donut crumbs

off his red sweater.

what do you mean by that?

i ask him.

for my age?

yes, yes,

it's a compliment, 

for an elderly fellow,

it seems like you've

taken care of yourself.

you look great.

you don't look a day over 50.

so now, how

about

we take that new

car for a spin.

how's your credit rating,

by the way?

give me your

I.D. and

let me go get that magnetic

license plate.

impossible to keep these resolutions

i read through

my list

of resolutions for the new

year.

most of which i've already

abandoned

by day two.

one cup of coffee a day,

i shake

my head,

already deep into the pot

with a third

cup by noon.

stop buying so much

on Amazon,

whoops,

that idea has gone away too.

a new book,

a new

toaster oven,

a new pair of shoes.

and the third resolution, 

no cookies

for breakfast,

oh well.

the land pirates of Minnesota

the word

billion gets tossed around a lot

these days.

especially with all the Medicaid

and Medicare

fraud going around,

the Snap

benefits,

and welfare programs

being

robbed blind.

day care centers

racking in the dough

with nobody watching.

not a kid

or audit around.

it used to be

millions,

but that's an old

and tired

phrase.

so when someone says

that money

has been stolen or wasted,

or sent 

off to foreign lands,

we shrug when we hear

the word millions.

so what.

wake me up when it's a billion

dollars

being frittered away.

when no one is looking

as i pause

at the red light,

obedient

to the laws of the land.

despite

not a soul in sight,

i ponder

going through it.

no eyes

to see me, no cameras.

not a single

cop

around.

just me

idling in my

car,

waiting for green to appear

so that i can

move on.

i wait, not because

i want to,

but because

it's who i am.

as if i have no options

as i scroll

the endless list of movies

and shows,

searching

for something i haven't

seen before,

i realize how much

time i've wasted

sitting on

this couch

the days and nights

i've wiled

away staring

at the television,

clicking and binging on

what's next.

i could have become

a surgeon in this same

amount of time,

a pilot, a geologist.

i could have grown

a field of grapes

and made wine.

the entire work 

of Shakespeare could

have been read

and enlightened

my lazy mind.

what's it smell like to you?

what

is the shelf life

of this deli meat,

this milk,

how

long can we go on before

the expiration

kicks in

and all goes to hell,

sours

and dissolves.

how many

hours do we have before

this can

of beans

needs to be thrown away,

this piece of meat,

this loaf

of bread,

these frozen prawns.

can we take one more bite

before it hits

the can?

or have we waited too

long?

twelve grapes and black-eyed peas

i try

to eat the twelve grapes,

as the superstition

says to

do, to make it successful

and lucky new

year.

but the grapes have gone

bad,

sour,

and rancid.

i'm only able to eat three,

then throw

the rest across

the room,

where the dog eats them

and gets

sick too.

i end up in the emergency room.

it's not a good start.

and now she

wants me to 

eat some

beans or something, or carry

an empty

suitcase

around the block like

you're supposed

to do.

i'm not feeling too lucky

right now.

Uncle Scam

fraud

seems to be woven into

the fabric

of our society.

it's always been this way.

it has nothing

to do with religion,

or ethnicity

or the color

of your skin.

i can't answer my phone

without

someone trying

to scam

me out of money.

every street corner has

someone with

a sign

and pot,

begging.

they're playing violins

and singing.

holding up their chubby

children.

the pickpockets are

everywhere,

from London,

to Times Square.

welfare and childcare.

while the government seems

to be blind

to it all.

why work anymore when

Uncle Scam

will feed you from

the moment

you were born.

the ten o clock ball dropping

i set the alarm

to wake

me up a 11 59, one

minute before

the ball

drops.

but i hit the snooze button

and miss

the moment.

oh well.

maybe there should be a pre

ball

dropping

event at ten pm

for those that like to get to

bed early.

or maybe not.