cave man drawings

the cave

paintings are quite revealing.

there's a brawny

man

killing an animal

with a club,

an arrow,

or spear,

and then a picture

of him

cooking it over a fire

while flexing

his physique.

then there's a drawing

of his love

interest, or wife,

in a short

cheetah print outfit

and a glass

of wine,

winking with one eye.

clearing out the monogrammed towels, etc.

i look at all

the monogrammed

coffee

cups

in the cupboard and begin

to sort through

them,

making room for M.

there's one with the letter

C on it,

another with B,

two J's

and one G,

two with the letter S,

and three

with the letter A on them.

Amber,

Angel and Alice, i believe

i bought those

for.

next i go upstairs to the towel

closet.

this will take some time.

so what's the skinny on her now?

i need

a new grapevine, i've lost

track of

so many people,

ex-wives

and lovers, friends,

siblings

and others.

i miss the daily

gossip,

the dirt on what these

people are

up to.

i blame this strange

need

on my mother

who loved 

the phone call or

the letter,

or the long chat in

the backyard

over the fence.

the long black hair on the pillow

she finds a long

black

strand of hair in the sink,

and then

one on

the pillow,

she holds it up with disgust

and disdain,

as if she might

catch something

from this hair,

so, she says, would you

like to explain

to me

whose hair this is.

and look here's another

one on your shirt

hanging in the closet.

well, mister,

obviously,

it's not mine, she says.

i have blonde hair,

and it's not

yours, you are as bald

as a bowling

ball.

umm, i say,

shifting my legs from

side to side

and staring at the ceiling.

i think it's Milagro's

the maid.

sometimes she likes

to take

a nap in my bed

and wear my shirts

when i'm not at home.

mentally retired

before

you actually quit,

before you

physically

no longer get up and go

out the door

to work,

you mentally retire.

you've

had enough,

you're exhausted with it all,

with all you

need to do

to keep the trains on time,

to fill

the already overflowing

coffers.

you don't want

to hold up the white

flag

of surrender,

you tell yourself, just one

more year,

one more

month, one more job

and then.

and then, maybe.

but you are no quitter

and never have been.

women love cheese

it's strange

how much women love cheese,

and men

don't seem to care

one way or the other,

blue, or gouda,

or brie,

settling

for a processed 

slice of orange

American

cheese

on a ham sandwich 

with mustard.

why is this?

ask a woman about cheese

and they

can go on

for hours and hours

and then

tell you about what cracker

to spread it on

and what wine

to drink with it.

the lack of mental institutions

as kids

we used ride our bikes

up South Capitol Street

to go look

at the green pastures

of St. Elizabeths' Mental

Hospital.

we'd hang

onto the black metal

bars fenced

around

the establishment and wonder

what has

happened to these

people milling about.

ranting,

raving, talking to themselves,

angry all the time

about everything

under the sun.

they had lost their minds.

and now, so many years

later, i realize that

they are no longer behind

the bars,

but are out among us,

and voting.

held down by leather straps

some mornings

i barely

have the strength,

or ambition

to chew through the leather

straps

that are holding me

down,

keeping me in place,

covering

my mouth and restraining

me from

the day ahead.

the falling price of heavy cream

i notice

that the heavy cream

in my

grocery store has

gone down by

over a dollar and a half

for a quart,

over the past year.

why isn't this

on the news?

i haven't heard one pundit

talk about this.

all they want to talk about

is the price

of gas.

i can't drink coffee

without a dollop

of heavy cream stirred into

my drink.

we need to get our

priorities straight.

quit whining and go home

she was from

Canada,

she never let me forget

that,

mentioning

it in nearly every conversation

we ever

had.

the French cuisine,

the maple

syrup,

hockey,

and the Royal Mounted Police,

blah blah blah.

we have

universal

healthcare, we have trees,

we have

water,

and snow.

so why are you living

here,

i'd ask her, shaking my head.

go back

if you're unhappy, quit

whining and go

home.

no,

i don't like the cold.

Virginia

the game

is to get elected, 

make promises,

make vows.

promise them all

everything under

the stars

and then

take the mask off

once in office,

pulling the rug out

from under them

to reveal who

they truly are.

jumping for joy

there's

an enormous blue whale

that surfaces

every now

and then as we sit

on our folding chairs

at the beach.

it's usually early morning

when the dark

grey beast

arises from the sea,

lifting himself above

the water

in a show of strength

and joy.

i'm guessing about the joy

part,

but hope that it's true.

the apple temptation

did

Eve really tempt Adam

with an apple

in the Garden of

Eden,

or was it just a misunderstanding?

and now what,

we're in

trouble and we have

to wear

clothes.

and the world has gone

to hell

in a handbasket.

one bite

of an apple?

was it a granny green

apple,

a Macintosh,

a sour apple?

perhaps a honey crisp.

what exact kind of apple

are we

dealing with here?

i think she tempted him with

a little more

than

an apple,

if you catch my drift.

Bob was less judgmental

i remember

standing in line at the Citizens

Bank

of Maryland,

with my measly check from

digging ditches

with a shovel.

i was embarrassed

to hand it over for deposit

to the pretty clerk

behind

the counter.

Amber.

would she see what's

in my account,

hardly nothing.

no savings, no cd's,

just a simple checking account

to pay

my bills with.

i barely had enough to

take her

to movies,

or out for a slice

of pizza

at Luigi's.

so i avoided her and went

to the other clerk

at the end

of counter, Bob, i think

his name was.

he seemed less judgmental.

the long black snake

a long

black snake on the porch

feels

like an omen,

like it's a sign

that something

bad is about

to happen.

it slithers away

when the light goes

on and the door

opens.

i go back inside,

locking the door behind

me

and wait

for the phone to ring.

walking on eggshells everyday

when

women get mad, they refuse

to tell you

why

they're mad.

they'd rather hold it in.

let it simmer

inside

until they feel

that the time is right

to let

you have it.

yes, they act mad,

giving you

the silent treatment,

cutting you

off from

sexy time.

going to bed when

it's only

nine.

but they never say,

i'm mad

at you, and here are

the reasons why.

instead,

they don't answer

the phone,

or they delay in answering

a text message

that you sent

ten hours ago.

little green men, etc.

it's another

blurry

photo of something

in the sky,

the absolute proof

that there

is alien life out there.

same goes

for the loch ness monster,

big foot,

and the abominable

snowman.

and yet

everyone

has a phone that takes

pictures

and videos

not to mention that

every building

has a camera on it

recording

the night and day sky.

the sky

is full

of airplanes and satellites,

space stations,

and yet,

here's another

blurry picture, that's

the definitive

proof that there are

creatures from another

galaxy out there.

out of focus?

or just plain crazy.

making a heart

when

she made a heart

with her

two hands,

as she said farewell,

thumbs

and fingers aligned so,

i knew

that this love,

or like,

or infatuation,

was

doomed to fail.

what other silly thing

was i about

to find out about her.

the trampoline

the joy

the child finds in

the trampoline

that his father has placed

in the yard

will not last

long.

in time he will outgrow

it, he will age,

as we all do,

and be done

with youthful joys,

it just happens,

neither right,

or wrong.

music from a window

the smallest

of pleasures are the best.

the quiet

talk,

or coffee on

the veranda overlooking

the sea.

the flowers rising

in the yard,

the sound

of music coming from

a window,

not far.

and you arriving

in your

yellow dress

with a smile.

a flurry of thumbs

legible handwriting

is a thing

of the past,

you have to be at least

sixty years old

anymore

to write clearly in 

cursive,

or even print a message.

but give

a child a keyboard

and away

we go,

all thumbs and fingers

in a blaze

of misspelled

words

and emojis.

Farrah's red bathing suit poster

i remember,

when i was young,

trying meditation for a while.

it was

mixed in with

rudimentary yoga.

it was the early 70's s

when i wore

a striped headband

to keep the long hair

out of my eyes.

i'd stare

at a lit candle

in the otherwise dark room,

with my legs and arms

folded

in a pretzel like position

and breathe

in and out slowly, while

repeating

a mantra

of my choosing,

which was,

i love you Farrah Fawcett.

her famous red

bathing suit

poster was scotch taped

to the back of my

bedroom door.

i think they

called it transcendental

meditation.

sometimes i'd fall asleep,

with melted wax

on the rug,

and other times

i'd have to call up my girlfriend

next door,

to see what she was doing.

i'd ask her if

maybe she wanted

to come over for a while. 

how's the weather in your state, Mrs. Wilson

it's nice

to get phone calls from

young men

and women from all over

the world

wanting you to buy

healthcare

products,

end of life insurance,

car

insurance.

back braces

and pills of all sorts.

it's nice

to talk with them

and tell

them how old you are,

how the weather

is in your

beautiful state.

sometimes you win

two point five

million dollars three

times in

the same day,

and a fancy pearl white car.

it's a long

day of picking up the phone,

and trying to unscramble

the words

they say,

but the constant calls

help to assuage

your loneliness.

i need you to do something for me

it's just

a small favor.

a please,

can you do something

for me

request, that comes with

a smile

and gentle hand

upon my shoulder,

but already

my mind is working

overtime,

trying to find an excuse

to get out

of it,

whatever the favor

might be.

you can't lose what you never had

she

comes crying to me

over

the phone.

i can hear

her dog barking in the background.

he's always 

barking it seems.

it's over, she says.

he's left me

for good this time.

he packed his bags

and left

early this morning.

no note,

nothing.

i have no words

to ease her pain, but

try just

the same by telling her,

you can't lose

what you never had.

this doesn't help.

it never

does.

the call of the wild

i've never

heard

a teacher say, this is my calling,

my dream

job,

it's what i've been

called to do,

educating the youth

of America.

making a difference

as i instruct

the wonderful children

on the ways

of the world.

instead, i hear them

say things

like i wish we could

beat them

with a broom,

or shoot pepper spray

into their eyes

and nose,

or water board

the really bad ones.

i hear them say,

i can't wait for the bell

to ring,

and for summer

to come.

tired, paranoid, and hungry

having

dabbled a little in my

brief community

college stint,

smoking the weed,

the ganja,

mary jane

with my dopey friends

as we spun

records in Joey's basement

while his

mother was

upstairs ironing

or watching television,

we passed

a joint around.

we blew

the harsh smoke

out the casement

window.

cracked open

a little,

as we coughed and got red

eyed.

we burned

our precious pink lungs

with cannabis

from

God knows where

and laughed

as we choked the smoke

out.

i look back now and see that

it was never fun.

never fun

being tired and paranoid,

lazy

and lacking

any sort of civilized

ambition.

we were suddenly hungry

and stupid

all at the same time.

it was just one short 

summer

of passing the joint around,

and i was done.

jumping off the high dive

the diving

board

was nerve wracking

at the public pool.

there you were

up ten feet

in the air, over the water,

trying to decide

which dive

you will

do to impress the crowd

and your new

girlfriend, Lilly,

that are watching

you.

the lifeguard

is blowing his whistle,

telling

you to jump,

or get off the board.

what's it going to be?

the cannon ball,

the can opener,

maybe a flip, or a belly

flop,

or just feet first while

you hold

your nose?

before the kids jump in

we dive

into the pool, the clean

clear

pool

before the kids arrive,

and open

our eyes

to see the blue

bottom,

the white lines,

the crystal sun shining

through.

it's a diamond

we are in

as we swim from side

to side.

away

from the world until

the whistle blows

and all

the kids

jump in.

you can't make this stuff up

i try

to wrap my head around

the idea

of free

grocery stores, free

buses,

free health

care,

free tuitions, free

social services

and housing.

please

explain to me how

this works.

does free now have

a new

definition

in the Webster dictionary.

let's see how this plays

out.

someone else

works

and pays

for it with higher taxes,

so that it's free for you,

but not

for me?

leaving it all behind

you reach

an age at some point,

where

you start to think about what

you're going

to leave behind,

and who to give it too.

you look up

a temp plate for a will

and print it off.

there's so much that you've

accumulated

over the long

stretch of your life.

money

and things,

furniture, cars, books and

clothes.

you can imagine people,

strangers,

walking

through your house after

you've gone

and picking through things.

carrying out

chairs

and books.

calling dibs on the artwork,

or a pair of brand

new shoes,

unworn.

the yellow school bus

was there ever

a more dangerous

vehicle on

the road

than a yellow school bus

in the 1960's,

being driven

by a woman

the age of your mother's

mother?

picking you up

on a cold icy

morning

to take you to school.

she could barely

reach

the pedals,

or pull the handle

to open

and close the door.

somehow she tugged on

the long

gear shift

and grinded it into

first,

then second, then third gear.

the seats were as

hard as rocks

encased in steel.

no seat belts, no straps

to hold onto.

no heat or ac.

the windows were nearly

impossible

to open

with your childlike fingers.

she'd barely

stop

at a stop sign or red light

and would just

roll right over the railroad

tracks without

looking

as you slid from side to side,

hoping to survive.

maybe you need a hobby

my therapist

tells me that i need a hobby.

i should

find

something that i enjoy

doing,

something that interests me.

it will take

your mind off yourself, she says.

help you

with your ruminations about

the past.

a hobby? like what?

i ask her.

i don't know, she says.

do you like fishing,

or how about

tennis,

or pickleball?

do you like to cook?

what interests you besides

writing

and the occasional game

on tv?

i like to read, i tell her.

and watch movies on tv.

okay, okay.

that's good.

do you like to travel?

maybe you should take some

trips, day trips,

a week away might help you.

go somewhere

new, someplace you've never

been before.

like where?

i see her looking at her watch.

i know i'm exhausting her, but

hey, it's her job.

how about a dog, she says. 

get a pet of some kind

so that

you stop thinking about  yourself.

taking care of a dog will 

help you.

what kind of dog? i ask her.

big or small?

i'm not wild about dogs that shed

or bark a lot.

a rescue dog at the shelter, or a new

puppy?

what about a bird, she aks.

maybe a parrot

that talks.

no way.

my ex wife had a parrot.

it wouldn't shut up, and it actually

bit me on the thumb once.

i show her the scar

on my thumb.

finally she says, okay. our time is up.

i write her a check

and stretch my arms

out, shaking

my leg that fell asleep.

next week, i ask, same time?

sure she says.

i can hardly wait.

who's knocking at the door?

it could

be anyone at the door

at this

hour,

a neighbor,

a killer, the police,

kids

selling

cookies.

an old girlfriend,

or wife

wanting

back in,

someone in need

of help,

wanting advice.

but you don't even bother

getting up

to go

to the peep hole

and look out

anymore.

you're done with 

answering the door at

this hour.

Father Smith eating a hot dog at 7-11

i run

into Father Smith

at the 7-11,

he's sitting on

the curb

about to each lunch.

he's been jogging

and is all

sweaty. i check out

his black

shorts,

black socks

and black

tennis shoes.

his white collar

still snug

around his black

t-shirt.

he crosses himself

before he takes

a bite of a quarter pounder

hot dog

from the greasy

spinning

wheel. then washes it

down with

a big gulp

of coke.

hey, he says, when he

sees me.

please, have a sit,

join me.

he breaks the hot dog in

half

and hands it to me.

haven't seen you at mass for

awhile,

he says. what gives.

it's my

knees, i tell him.

hard to kneel because of

the arthritis.

i don't believe you, he tells me.

look,

we all have doubts my son,

but you

should come back.

he wipes mustard from

his chin then

breaks open a small bag

of Doritos

and offers them to me.

here, he says.

have some, have as many

as you like.

He'll make more.

God's love is bottomless.

can't stop what's coming

whether

deemed karma

or fate,

perhaps divine intervention,

for all the wrong

one does

in life,

we all

get what's coming

to us

at some point.

you can bet on it.

take

the money to the bank.

you can't stop

what's coming,

so best

behave

and make things right.

the cruelty of brothers and sisters

i remember

sitting at the yellow

Formica

kitchen table and

shaking

the near empty box

of Cheerios,

hoping to get one more

bowl

out of

the plastic bag

inserted in the box.

just one more

measly bowl

to pour milk onto

and eat

before

the school bus arrives

at the corner.

but

only a dozen 

hard,

stale rings fall out.

who puts

a nearly empty box of Cheerios

back on top

of the refrigerator?

what kind of a person

does that?

siblings can be

so cruel

at times.

no twisting in the wind

your

feelings have

not

changed.

they are

set in concrete.

solid

and unmovable.

your cold

skin

of stone

is not

unlike

a statue carved in

ancient Greece.

this is who you are.

motionless,

unbothered

by wind, by storm.

your feelings

have not changed.

his hand in the cookie jar

they

catch another congressman

with his

pants down,

with his hand

in the proverbial

cookie

jar of young

attractive women.

he even

films

himself, as his wife

sits at home

with the children

reading them

bedtime

stories.

yawn.

a big fat yawn.

so what else is new?

the virtuous

are so few.

at some point it all goes boom

it's exhausting.

the news.

there's been nothing but

trouble

in the Middle East

since

time began,

a thousand years

before i was

born.

what's up with these people?

wars

and bombs,

kidnappings

and the slaughtering

of thousands

that they don't agree

with.

the weather is

always gloom and doom.

hostages

and vows

of death with

the constant threat to

normal

civilization.

none of them,

can get along, or seem

to want to.

they prefer

chaos

until it all goes boom.

dogs know

dogs

and cats seem to know

who to bite,

who to scratch,

they have

an internal mechanism

that

tells them

who's

good, who's bad.

they have

instinctive radar

when it

comes

to evil.

so when i met her

and she

showed

me all the scars

on her legs and hands

from the rescued

animals

she brought home,

i had to wonder.

people on the inside

he actually

gained

weight when he was in the jump

for three months,

another DUI,

or assault

in a bar

fight, i forget

which it was

this time.

they had to buy him

new clothes,

because he had

gained so much weight

in the county

jail.

his cousin was a deputy

so

every night

was carry out food

from Ledo's

or Papa John's, or Hunan

West.

it's good to know people

on the inside.

walking the fence

how long

can you tight rope

the fence 

of belief

before you

fall

and then have

the choice

made for you?

the park paparazzi

an elderly crowd

along

the trail gathers

with

cameras

and binoculars,

expensive gear for

all kinds

of weather,

together

as one they stare 

up into

a tree

to see a bird

of some kind.

they hold up their arms

and point.

saying look,

look,

there it is.

i ask,

what's going, what's the deal

here?

a large

woman in a bright yellow

parka, holding

a Nikon camera

and a cinnamon bun

shushes me.

quiet, she says. be quiet.

we don't want to scare

it away.

we're watching a great

owl.

they're rare

in these parts.

i peer upwards as the cameras

click furiously

away, but

i can't see

a thing. just

leaves and branches,

limbs,

the brown trunk,

and a small

sparrow flying by.

new to this world

new

to this world,

day one,

the

newborn is unfamiliar

with

everything.

it's all unknown.

all

of it strange and

beyond

reason.

sometimes we adjust

and get

over it,

and other times

we don't.

they're serving lunch now

take me

home,

she said, as i pushed

the wheel

chair

away from

the Senior Home

painted 

yellow.

i miss my house,

my garden,

my dog, she murmured

over sobs.

i kept pushing

until

she stopped crying,

and then she

turned

her head

to me

and said, we should

go back.

what time is it?

i think they're serving

lunch now.

a loaf of gold

the man

on tv says, buy gold,

silver,

precious metals.

he sounds

desperate, his voice

trembles

with

the possibility an end

of the world

scenario

where money will

be rendered

useless,

and if that's the case

what

do we do

with a bar of gold,

a silver

chain,

trinkets?

what about bread?

i'm investing into flour

instead.

a mysterious white van

i like

reading the listings of the 

Next 

Door Neighborhood

Watch.

there's a strange

man

lurking about,

a mysterious white van

went by

this morning, slowing

down

at each house.

some kids were playing

loud

music in

the park,

I think that boy Jimmy

was there.

does anyone know if

a Dunkin Donuts

is taking

the place

where the car wash was?

temporary diamonds

he

told his ex-wife

he wanted

back in,

back into the mix

of suitors

who

were asking for her hand.

he bent

down

on one knee and opened

a box

holding a diamond

ring.

she took it,

giving him hope,

but then

went to mall to get the money

for what it

was worth.

she did the same with

mine,

i do believe.

the Swanson tv dinner

we learned

early

how to stay warm,

sleeping with our

clothes on.

we stayed cool

with an

old fan, that would

clunk

from side the side,

the old wire

frayed

and taped.

the house

had

no furnace, no ac unit.

we washed

dishes

by hand.

we learned how

to peel

back the foil

without getting burned

on a Swanson

tv dinner.

we had

a fly swatter to fend

off whatever

flew in

through

the broken screens.

there was a broom in

the hall

closet,

next to boots and shoes,

scarves

and gloves.

not single dish, no

matter the cracks or chips

was ever

thrown away.

were we poor?

perhaps,

but we didn't know it.

let it be

she kept

it simple, the house

and

garden,

she let God have His

way

with

such things,

unconcerned

with flowers

or shrubbery,

let the tree

alone,

she used to say.

the way

it is,

is the way things

are supposed to be.

let people be who they

are,

don't change

a thing.

which was good news

for me.

the monthly updates

as you

get older the notices

of death

outweigh

those of birth.

you can't remember

the last

time

someone told you

with excitement that

so and so

was pregnant,

or that a child was born.

instead,

so often now,

it's the 'did you hear'

she's gone,

or he's gone, followed

by the quiet sigh

of breathing

before the conversation

moves on.

a body on the ground

in the city,

on occasion you walk

past

a body

lying on the ground.

fully

clothed,

shoes, and coat,

a hat

still on, the

face

down.

asleep, or dead, it's hard

to tell

as the crowd

with great care, as

you do,

steps around.

between screen and window

as i stand

at the kitchen sink

with a warm

hard

boiled egg in hand,

looking

at the bee trapped between

screen

and window

wanting in,

or out,

it's hard to know,

i drop the shells

of the egg into

a cup,

then salt the white

before a bite.

the struggle of this bee,

i know.

she saved it just the same

looking

for something else,

she

finds

the card you

sent

so long ago.

the early

writing of youth,

the unbridled

sentiment.

the x's and o's,

the heartfelt

wishes

for

forever

in a poem.

she folds it closed

after

reading,

then proceeds

to look

further for what was

her

original intent.

another game, perhaps

it was

bound to happen.

we all

got old at the same time.

and

yet

we played on

and on

and on

each weekend morning.

the ball,

the hoop, the paved

court,

white lined.

we were

slower,

heavier, with

less hair,

less energy, but we played

on,

and when

it was over,

we left nothing behind.

perhaps

one day,

we'll choose sides again

and play

on another spring

morning

in the bluest of skies.

your comfort zone

when

you know what you like,

stick

with it,

don't wander off into

Ethiopian food,

or decide

to hang glide,

or parachute from a plane.

red

and orange are not

your colors.

you're a feet

on the ground

kind of person,

no wrestling of sharks,

no crazy

climbs up Mt. Everest.

you like

your goldfish

bowl,

the clear water

filled with light

where nothing ever changes.

just sprinkle in a little

food

when it's time.

becoming the ostrich

funny,

in a strange way,

after

not turning on the tv,

or picking

up my phone

to look into it,

i've suddenly forgotten

about the war,

about the economy,

about

the riots

and protests, about

the savagery

that occurs

around the world.

not to mention,

without reading a single word,

i've placed the newspaper

at the bottom

of the bird cage,

and suddenly

the stress and worry

is gone.

i think i'm on to 

something.

the Oz you promised me

why

are you clicking your heels

i ask

her,

as we stand

in the kitchen arguing

again.

what are

you doing?

click click click.

stop it.

i want to go home,

she says.

this isn't the Oz you

promised me.

so many moving parts

so much

can go wrong with us

from head

to toe.

we have

so many

moving parts.

a machine

of sorts

needing nourishment,

and movement,

and rest

to make it work.

each day

into another year

becomes

another test.

what love could look like

half

hidden,

the tease of sun

between

clouds

gives you just a small

taste

of warmth,

of what

love

could look like

if it

was full

and bright,

and allowed to shine.

i can't wait to get home

when and if,

we finally get back from the moon,

it all depends

on those 

heat shields, hopefully

they weren't made

in China,

i figure my legs

will be wobbly. i'll be

starving

for a steak and an ice cold

martini.

i'm tired of this

box food.

plus i've had a falling out

with some

of the crew members.

we're no longer making

eye contact, there's

a lot of tension

and pent

up resentment,

which has made the trip

almost

unbearable.

people are close talking, which

is so

annoying.

three inches from your face.

we've started to argue

about

small things, like the window

seat,

and whose turn is it

to push such and such button.

why do i have

to put

the trash and toilet debris

out the window

all the time.

why is that my job?

not to mention, there's been

a bad

smell since take off that no one

can figure out.

i lost it the other day

and told

the captain to shut up,

you're not the boss of me.

we had to

be separated by the chick

who rode along

with us.

i thought maybe, just maybe

Sydney Sweeny

would ride along

with us,

but no such luck.

my legs and arms are chaffed

from this dumb

spacesuit.

now i know why women hate

to wear pantyhose.

this whole trip reminds of the time

my dad

took us all to Florida

in the Chevy, four kids in the back

seat.

talk about deja vu.

dad in a box

my father

has been sitting on the mantle

for over a

year now.

his ashes are

in a nice metal box.

at least i think

it's him.

who's to know these things.

ashes

are ashes.

could be him, or it could

be someone

else,

unknown, or maybe it's

charred chicken,

or pulled pork.

sometimes when i pass

the box

i tap on it

and say, hey dad, what's up?

at some point,

the cemetery

will call us and say come

on over.

we have

room now, and then the show

will begin.

the folded flag, the twenty-one gun

salute

and all the fuss

he didn't want.

check in with my assistant

i look

at the calendar for April.

i see

there's a doctor's visit

on the 12th,

i pick up

my taxes on the 14th,

a dental appointment

on the 16th

and 

i get my car

inspected and the oil

changed

on the 20th.

on the 29th

i'm open for lunch

after

a short walk

around the lake.

it's quite a busy schedule

i have.

let my assistant know if you're

available

that day.

don't be white

apparently,

in New York City,

if your

skin color or lack of color

is not

the one

that's appropriate

to the current

regime,

your tax

rate will go up

or down.

the world

has gone mad.

the inmates are running

the asylum.

the more

you have, the more

will be

taken away.

it's the communist way.

don't forget

your red

raspberry beret.

short ride to Lincoln Center

the subway

is scary.

it's dark and dangerous

and smells

like

the zoo

on a bad day, before

they clean

out the cages.

before they hose

down

the elephants

and monkeys,

and spray the place

with Lysol

and bleach.

and yet here we are

standing on 

the platform

awaiting the train, our

token

in hand,

standing far enough

away

from the tracks so that

some maniac

doesn't push us in.

that's why i like you

i like

the occasional

hot pepper

mixed

in food,

scrambled eggs,

or meat, perhaps

on a sandwich,

or stirred

in stew.

red, green, orange

or yellow.

just a few

slices will do.

enough to make me

sweat,

to wipe my brow

and drink

a tall glass of water

to wash it all

down.

i like the heat.

that's why i like you.

teaching my doctor

i inform

my doctor, the young man

with the stethoscope

dangling

around his neck,

an army vet.

i tell him what i've

learned through

my vast research on

web m.d.

and the internet.

i tell him with confidence

that

i've taken a deep dive

into LDL

cholesterol, neuropathy,

A1C,

blood pressure and

triglycerides

and all the rest.

he rolls his eyes,

biting his tongue,

as he places

the cold metal ears

upon

my chest.

soon goes

i open

up the old notebook

and read

the list of names.

it's twenty years

old.

tucked away in the bottom

drawer,

finding itself

in the dark recesses

of ancient history.

i hardly

know the names

anymore

let alone the numbers

we live

in a world of erasure.

what comes

soon goes.

your summer skin

against

the white stretch of sheets

i see

your summer

skin,

browned

with sun,

the sand and ocean of you

asleep

in the soft

breeze

of your breath.

i'll leave you alone for

awhile.

i'll wait

a while longer before

i kiss.

it's over, it's not over, rinse and repeat

don't tell me

the war

is over until it's really

over,

until the last bomb

has dropped,

the last

bullet shot.

tell me when everyone

has stopped

with the madness.

that ships

can sail,

that planes can fly,

tell me the good news,

when it's really true,

when no

one else is about to die.

impatient

it's

colder than i want it to

be

at 47 degrees.

65

would be nice

with a calm

slight breeze,

jacket

weather would be

acceptable as well,

or

short pants,

short sleeves and sandals.

enough

with this frost, this

turning

on the heat.

the impatiens are

losing

patience.

it's almost May

for goodness sake.

come on

now.

we long for the beach.

what do you want now?

the cat

is perpetually careful.

on soft

feet she walks across

the table

across

the keyboard

and stares at me.

blocking

the screen.

i ask her

what?

what now?

what could you possibly

want

from me?

i can't read her mind.

her tail straightens

as she emits

a purr along with,

again,

an inexplicable

meow.

a bucket of fried chicken

i know that fried

food

is the devil,

the cause for clogged

arteries

and heart attacks, but

i can't help

but long

for a bucket of chicken

sometimes.

dark meat,

spicy and crispy,

dripping with grease

as i hold

a leg in my hand.

that blinking sign

and the short

line at the drive-thru

is calling my name

like a sultry siren

as i drive by.

man's best friend

i think it's a myth

that a dog

is man's best friend.

that they are

loyal to a fault.

not true.

i think it's all about food.

who has

a juicy steak bone

in their hand

and who has none.

breaking down a fifty

i only have

a fifty-dollar bill

so i try to make

change

as the basket comes

around

my pew for

collection

i reach my hand in

to break

it down

to two twenties

and a ten,

but

the parishioners begin

to shout

and boo.

the priest comes up

the aisle

mad as a hornet,

asking me what's going

on.

i try to explain,

that i only have a fifty

and want

to leave just

ten.

he tells me to leave,

banishing me from the church

ever again.

some like war

some

like war,

for a variety

of reasons.

it's hard to disagree

with ending

evil, but

they cheer it on

as long as the war

doesn't

affect them too much,

causing

traffic

and the cost

of gas,

or milk to go up.

will our favorite show

be pre-empted

with the news

of the war when

a scroll at the bottom

of the screen

would suffice.

we prefer war to be

far away

in other countries

to be able

to turn off the tv

and go to sleep

with

the war

out of sight

and out of mind until

the next

day.

we'd rather not know

about

the dead and dying.

just tell us when it's over.

living large at the dentist office

as i

sit in the chair

at the dentist office

being nagged by

Julie,

the hygienist, about

flossing

i ask her if i really

need

another four hundred

dollars worth 

of x-rays.

i just want a cleaning.

after all i was just

in here

six months ago

and haven't

had one piece of candy

let alone

a syrup covered pancake.

i no longer drink 

cokes.

can't you cut

me a break this time?

no she says,

then runs into the other

room

after covering

me with a lead blanket

and clicks

the button.

but i get it.

i see nothing

but Mercedes

in the lot.

Bentleys, and BMW's

each

pulling a fancy new boat.

the best neighbor ever

the old

woman next door from

Hungary,

is planting flowers

in the yard,

part mine

part hers.

yesterday she brought

me over

a bowl of hot stew

she made.

she kneels now in

the soft dirt

and smiles in the sun

with her

old face

and hair pulled back,

the silver

falling down

and asks me if it's okay.

of course

i tell her

of course, and if you

have time

the back yard as well

awaits.

the human pina colada

after ten days

in Hawaii

she comes home tanned

and happy

with a flower

behind her ear

and smelling

like pineapples.

her face

is freckled from the sun

and her

hair is wild with the island

wind

and blonder.

she's a human pina

colada

now.

what to buy in the gift shop

i prefer

not to visit people in hospitals.

i always

feel like

i might catch something,

that there are deadly

microbes

floating around in the air.

everyone

is injured

or sick

and lying in enormous

beds

with tubes and wires

sticking

out of them.

machines are clicking

furiously

as bored and apathetic

nurses

and doctors

rush about,

looking at their watches

hoping

to get off soon.

i stand in the gift shop

and look

around at what piece

of junk

i can buy to carry up to

the person i'm visiting.

flowers are so 

unoriginal,

maybe

this porcelain cow, or this

coffee cup

with a smiley face

on it,

or maybe a book about

the afterlife.

i prefer not to visit people

in hospitals,

and worse yet, are funerals.

can you post a photo please?

i see

in the Neighborhood Next Door

notification

that someone

has reported

rats

in their back yard.

rats.

not mice, or

stray cats,

not squirrels or racoons,

not chipmunks,

but rats.

i haven't seen a rat

since

i left New York City

and got

off the subway

and saw one eating a slice

of pizza

as he read

the newspaper on a bench.

i'd like to see

a picture of this so called

rat.

the horizontal hold

is it time

for a new tv. it's only been

ten

years

since i bought the last one,

but i see

in the ads

that the newer ones

are better.

clearer,

cleaner, more pixels or some

such thing.

crystals?

the colors are brighter,

more real

than real,

it will almost feel as

if you can

put your hand into the screen

and touch

someone,

even if you're watching

perpetual nonsense

and junk,

or should i wait until

next year

when they're even better?

we've come

so far from the black and white,

the rabbit

ears

with tin foil,

no remote, begging your

little sister to bang

on the side

to stop the roll,

and to change the channel

to the right.

the progressive left

the word

police are out there,

the culture

police,

the thought police,

they are watching,

listening

taking notes

of what you say

and think.

you've been reported.

they're coming

to get you.

how dare you spread

misinformation

and not

march in lock step

like lemmings to 

the cliff.

we need to banish

you,

delete you.

extinguish the rational

brain

in your head.

think like us, or

you're dead.

no later than nine

i don't use

the alarm clock anymore.

what's the point.

i have no bus

to catch,

no train, no office

to get to.

in fact

i can't remember

the last time i set it

in order

to get up on time.

it could have been a wedding

at the courthouse,

someone else's

or mine,

or a doctor's visit.

but now,

i just tell myself,

around 8 would be nice,

but no later

than nine.

beast of burden

i didn't walk

the dog,

he walked me,

he had no idea what

a straight line was,

the sidewalk meant

nothing to him.

it was all water,

as if he was a small

boat adrift.

the street was no different

than the dirt path.

he barked at everyone

for no reason.

planes in the sky drew

his attention.

there wasn't anything

that he wouldn't

put in his mouth,

lick or try to take home.

a dead bird,

a rock,

an old bone.

he'd bite through

the leather leashes

until i got

the thick chain ones,

which i'd secure

to his rhinestone

collar.

he was a beast.

crickets chirping

we avoid

talking politics these days,

or religion,

or the war,

or protests, or marches.

we don't say

a word

about vaccines

or nutrition,

we keep our traps shut

about

things we hear on

the news.

instead we sit on the porch

and swing

quietly.

we're mute.

the conflict within

i find

you sitting on the front

stoop

smoking

a cigarette, doing

yoga,

stretching

your limbs as you

face the morning sun,

you're

drinking a mimosa

and eating

a glazed

donut.

you are chanting

something,

your latest mantra,

i suppose.

adjusting your chakras.

you wait for me

to wake up

and come outside.

i see the conflict in you,

but say nothing.

it's in me too.

the enormous pink ham

as

i stare at the enormous

pink ham

resting

on the shelf

laced

with pineapple,

with only two slices

gone,

i realize the error

of my ways.

too much.

too much.

it's always been this

way.

the egg hunt

the Easter egg hunt

reveals

much about a child

and how

he or she

may turn out.

the aggressive ones,

running wild,

swinging their arms

at bushes,

turning over

rocks

and boards, digging

behind

the shed,

climbing trees

as they yell.

there are those children,

and then

the other ones.

a quiet few,

carefully

bending over to find

a single egg,

hidden between

tall blades of grass,

dyed blue.

they'll be moving soon

they'll be moving soon.

slowly

they are decluttering and selecting

a white

paint to cover

the walls

and

the door frame where

pencil marks

have noted the height

of each child.

27 years

went by like that.

the tree they planted has

grown tall

and shades

the window now.

the kids

are gone.

the stones in the yard

mark the passing

of each dog.

they'll be moving soon.

the truck will pull

up

and they'll be gone.

fly me to the moon

i'm writing this from the space

capsule

heading to the moon.

i've managed

to sneak onboard

and hide under some packed

re-entry parachutes.

unfortunately, they found

me out

after i clogged up the toilet.

my advice is to never

eat Ethiopian food before

a long trip into space.

anyway.

the crew has accepted me on

board,

i mean, what choice did they have?

i've been instructed

to not touch any of the blinking

lights and switches.

they are also keeping me

away from the door

that says Escape Hatch,

as i float around,

arms akimbo, like a monkey.

thankfully i found an extra

spacesuit in the cupboard

next to the Tang and beef

jerky. apparently

one size fits all.

we're getting to know a lot

about each other,

deodorant and breath mints are

helpful,

reminding me of summer

camp when i was young.

they told me i could document

each day,

and report to my podcast followers

our exciting journey

as long as i don't keep pointing

out the window

and yelling, oh my God,

look at that.

WTF!

i have to admit it's a little

tight in here,

right now there's a giant

space boot

resting on the side of my neck

and someone's elbow

is in my ribcage.

i'm hoping to get a window

seat later when everyone

falls asleep. i slipped a little

Ambien into their Earl Grey

Tea.

ah, those fearful early years

as a teenager,

while 'dating',

your

main

dating concerns,

other than a few bucks

to go to the drive-in

movie theater,

revolved

around pregnancy

and disease

of which you wanted

nothing to do with.

you had no doctor

to speak of,

unless you count

the Free Clinic on M

Street

in Georgetown,

and little money

to raise

a child,

which would be difficult

to say

the least

living in your mother's

basement at

the time.

often it was a game

of Russian

Roulette,

which for the most

part you often

won.

you've changed, she says

you've

changed, she says.

you're not the same person you

were when we met.

kind and generous,

uncomplicated

and compromising.

yes, i am,

i tell her. i still am

that person,

but at the time

i was just hiding who i really

was,

the person you met

was just an act

to get you into bed.

i could say the same about

you, i tell her.

i understand, she says.

same for me.

so now what?

two hundred dollar jeans

it was

a cultural turning point

in the world

of fashion.

there was

no turning back

once

there became a thing

called

designer jeans.

insanity would reign 

supreme

from this point forward.

it used to be

dungarees

from Sears or Penny's,

Levis

and Wranglers,

then all hell broke loose

with Gloria

Vanderbilt,

Lucky Brand,

Gucci and Versace.

the world has never been

the same.

hundred-dollar t-shirts

from Theory.

really?

just shoot me.

letting in stray cats

i haven't seen

the old

cat

that used to prowl the neighborhood

in weeks.

green eyed

and black haired.

it used to come

up to the porch and rub

itself between

my legs.

she'd purr and say things

i tried to understand.

sometimes she'd lick

the saucer

of milk i'd set out and other

times

she'd come into

the house and wander about,

lying in a puddle

of sun for a few

minutes,

then leave.

cats, like girlfriends,

are like that, i believe.

there are other things to worry about

i used

to care about the price eggs,

milk and bread,

gas,

but those days

are over.

i've moved on to other

things

to worry about,

things

beyond credit cards

or cash,

or having work.

i'm wondering now 

if it will

be cold out,

will it rain

before i get my walk in?

will i be home

in time

to take my nap.

pull the plug and wait

if something is not

working

properly, if there's a glitch in

the system,

if trouble abounds,

pull the plug,

turn off

the power, reboot.

sleep

does the same thing.

put your head on 

the pillow,

close your eyes

and let go.

hopefully,

tomorrow will be better

for you.

the annual check up

as i sit

on the papered chair,

awaiting

the doctor,

i see my reflection in

the mirror

over the sink.

i'm older by at least

thirty or forty years

than the

young doctor who will

be coming in

soon, with a stethoscope

around his neck.

a chart in hand

of who i am.

he's gentle

and kind with me, thinking

wrongly that

i am old now.

their usual days

not every life

is a headline, 

or deserving of front page

news,

the face

or name

never shown or

said on television,

or on social

media venues.

with no

fortune or invention

to behold,

they have no claim

to any sort

of fame.

in fact most lives are

lived that way,

quietly in desperation,

in shadows

behind the scenes,

going about

their usual day.

waiting for a fire

as kids

we hung around the old

firehouse,

station 42 up

on the hill, not far from

where we lived.

the men

were old and young.

skinny

and fat,

funny for the most

part in their

suspenders and metal

hats.

sliding down the pole

when the bells

rang out.

but most days they sat

around

and ate chicken and white

bread, slathered

in butter

or gravy,

drank milk

and ate cake they brought

in from home.

they sat there with their

large

boots and laughed

at the television.

they loved to clean and polish

the long

red trucks.

sometimes, bored, one

or the other would go to the woods

and start a little fire.

but most of them,

asleep with full bellies,

they enjoyed the long wait.

her personal phone booth

i used to wonder

what she

was doing in the bathroom

for so long.

the water running,

the light on.

a hair dryer on full blow.

why was she whispering

into her phone.

i'd put my

ear to the door and try

to listen.

lying down on the floor

to see her bare

feet, her painted toenails,

as she sat on the toilet

commiserating with

someone i didn't know.

i both wanted

and didn't want to know

about

the secret life she

was leading.

it was exhausting living

with her,

before i made her go.

an easy decision

i stand in front of the 

pineapples

at the store.

the bin full of them.

whole,

just trucked in

from somewhere.

i stare at them, wondering,

is this the day,

the year

that i actually buy one.

that i take

one of these prickly fruits

home and cut

it open,

taking the head off and

then slicing into

a dozen juicy pieces.

or do i keep pushing

the cart forward

and buy a can

of pineapples where someone

has already done

the work for me?

could be a rumor

could be just

a rumor,

a bit of gossip coming

down

the grape vine,

but

there's always a little

bit of truth

in each

new lie.

don't worry,

we'll know for sure

in time.

the Sunday paper

sadly,

the Sundays, the long

Sundays

with the newspaper

are gone.

no more

lingering with coffee

in the morning

light

turning page after page,

the news

and sports,

book reviews.

the ink on my fingers,

the smell

of fresh print,

saving

sections for later that

night.

no longer do i chase

down

the baton

thrown into the shrubs

as i go

out in my robe.

i just scroll now

to read about the world.

i scroll

and scroll.

now with your feet up

you slave

away for a good part of your life.

you collect

money,

save it for

a rainy day, for your old age

and then

you sit back

and rest,

staring at the ducks

in the lake.

the work done,

at last with no office to go to,

no boss,

no clock to obey.

this is what you've been

aiming for all

along, isn't it,

now with your feet up,

haven't you won?

wild thing

she was a rough

girl.

she used to bite my lip

when we

kissed. she

angrily pulled on my ears

for no reason at all.

she used to slap me

on the bottom

as we made

love, i had to tell her

to slow down,

i'm not a racehorse.

i have scars from her,

bumps

and bruises,

thatches of my hair

pulled out and left bald.

she was a wild thing.

she worried me in public,

in private,

i still have nightmares

about her,

and miss her, 

although

she was never fit 

to meet mom.

somehow i got there

there's an Atlas

in the closet, a thick book

of maps,

grids,

lines and colorful pages

of counties

and states.

some places marked with

red dots,

places i've been to.

there are road maps as well,

folded up,

dozens of them,

obtained from drugstores

and gas stations,

coffee stained and

torn, the debris of food

embedded in the paper

as i stared at them 

under the dome light of the car,

waiting out

another storm.

the start of a new life

i take

the new shovel

into the yard,

the long handle,

the sharp

blade

and begin to dig

a hole.

by noon

i'm four feet in,

by sunset,

i'm down ten feet

and more.

by morning i expect

to be some where

i've never

been before.

it's the start of a new

life

without you.