quietly moving forward

there

are days, when i say not a single

word

to anyone.

i'm Ghandi.
i'm a monk on a mountain.

i'm a yogi.

i'm a teller in a toll

booth

making change.

i'm on a roof

laying tile,

in a cave digging for coal.

i'm a mime.

i'm silent

as i drive home

in my car.

as i eat at the kitchen table.

as i slide

up the stairs

to sleep.

i'm happily alone.

ages and heights

she has

tears in her eyes as i stand

there with

a paint

brush about to paint

the door

frame where

every child was measured.

the names are

there.

Cindy, Joe, Lois

and Jane.

their ages and heights.

from

the age of four to eighteen.

it was a quick

good life.

but the house

is empty now.

the furniture is in the truck

outside.

the closets are empty.

the dog is no

longer in the yard.

i wait until i hear the door

close,

then paint the door frame

white.

measure twice cut once

the thumb

swells

red after being struck

by the hammers

head.

i've been here before,

and yet

it still hurts.

i still yell out the same

curse words as i did

a year before,

ten years,

twenty years.

my aim has not improved.

and yet

there will be more

nails

that i'll hold and drive

through

a piece of wood.

i'm a builder, although

not a good one,

that's what i do.

bumping into Father Smith again

i run

into Father Smith at the liquor

store

and ask him

if he has

time for a quick talk

and confession.

sure he says.

let me buy this bottle

of wine

first and i'll

meet you in the black

van

that i parked

in the handicap spot.

look for the rosary

beads hanging from the rearview

mirror.

what? you parked in a 

handicap spot.

but you're not handicapped.

he gives

me a wink.

yeah, true, but sometimes

my sciatica acts up.

he pretends to drag

one black boot along the floor.

and why are you buying

wine?

don't you already have it

back at the church?

yeah,

but it's not that good.

you'll never find a bottle of

Vatican red wine

in a Michelin restaurant. 

you know what?

let's forget it, i tell him.

is Father Flanagan back from

Cancun yet?

i'll talk to him.

peaches or apples?

i have

winter legs,

winter arms, feet.

pale as milk.

but my face

and neck

and hands are well

tanned.

rugged and brown.

i stare at the full 

length mirror after

getting out of the shower

and see

the humor in this.

people often

mistake me for a field

worker,

or a landscaper,

and ask

me what my rates are.

i ask them

the size of their lawn.

peaches

or apples?

undecided appetite

i stare

long and hard

at the cold

whole chicken on the kitchen

counter.

i sigh.

this will take hours

to bake

after seasoning

and stuffing

and side dishes.

i'm not up to it today.

i say no

to eggs too.

to oatmeal, to cereal.

to tuna

fish.

i'm hungry, but i have no

appetite

for a thing

in the cupboard or fridge.

maybe

it will come to me later

after

a bowl of ice cream

with nuts,

and a sliced banana

with whipped cream

the diary under the corner of the mattress

it's

rare for evil people

to keep

a diary,

like my second ex-wife

for example.

rarely do biographers find

under the corner

of a mattress

Hitler's secret journals,

or Jeffrey Dahmer's

little notebook

of poems,

their heartfelt

thoughts

about love and life,

with little hearts

and stars

drawn upon each

worn page.

the initials of secret

loves

all over the place.

they find nothing under

Lizzie Borden's bed,

or hidden in

her dresser drawer

next to a sharpened

axe,

no diary can be found.

apparently actions speak

louder than words.

the wide open windows

as

we lie in bed

after making loud love,

catching our breath,

the dog

on the floor, the ceiling fan,

cool

against our skin.

we 

listen to the neighbors

passing by.

almost whispering

to one another,

saying

what's with these people

on Sunday mornings?

again

and again.

benign neglect

it's benign

neglect, the plant

dying

across the room, stretching

its once

green stems

and leaves

towards the sun,

thirsty

and dry. i've let it go

too long,

being

too busy with me,

and it can't be saved.

relationships are like that

sometimes.

in the arms of his big chair

i dream

that i'm in a room with my

father.

he's no longer

old

and grey,

withered to the bone,

near blind

and deaf,

sunken in the arms

of his big

chair,

but he's in his fifties,

muscled,

and funny, his blue

eyes shining

in the light

from the window.

we don't talk about

important things,

but we know

there is love there.

same as when he was

here.

i may forget this day soon

it's an average

day,

with average temperatures,

normal for

this time of year.

i see a young couple

walking by,

pushing a stroller

holding their newborn

child.

there's

an average

amount of clouds

and sun

in the sky.

birds are in the trees

whistling

to one another,

as i sit on the porch

swing.

i'm eating an average

egg salad

sandwich on white bread

with a pickle

and chips

on the side.

nothing to write home

about.

i'm drinking a glass

of home made

iced tea.

unsweetened.

my shoes are off as i 

gently sway

back and forth.

i feel as if i may never

remember this day,

so i better

write these things down.

the cat nap

your body

will tell you when to lie down,

when your

brain and flesh

need to rest.

it will tell you

when to close

your eyes

and stretch your limbs

upon a bed.

it will tell you

when enough is enough.

listen and lie

down for a while,

don't get up, not yet.

buying Uranium from Jimmy

just about

every

country has an atomic bomb

now,

despite

most of their people

being

poor and starving.

lotty dottie and

everybody

seems to have one.

of course they'd have

to lob

it over 

to their neighboring

countries

with a sling shot.

apparently,

to build such

a thing,

you just

have to download

the schematics

online

and buy some uranium

on the dark

web,

or from Jimmy on the corner

in his trenchcoat.

some

precise

ChatGPT

instructions will assist

you

in your homemade basement

bomb

construction.

but be careful, invest in a lead

vest

like the dentists use

and safety glasses.

what's for dinner

the vultures

know

which road to wait at

in their judicial

pose,

dressed regally

for dinner

in their long

black feathered

robes.

this intersection

on the long tree lined

highway

is perfect

for roadkill, where

the lights

are ignored,

where no one slows.

at least i'll be gone by then

it's often

that i hear elderly people say

with disgust

and a disappointed

sigh, that

at least

i'll be gone

when what's coming arrives.

they don't seem

to realize that

the future is now.

we're already cooked,

like a frog

in a slow boiling pot

of water,

we're living

in a world of madness,

with more to come.

preparations for life and love

we named

the goldfish Fred, at the insistence

of my daughter

Julia.

it lasted

three days before

we found

it floating on top of

the water,

no longer swimming

vigorously

about.

i found out later that

there was

a boy in her class named Fred.

there were no services

for Fred,

no shedding of tears.

just a kind

flushing

back into the sea,

or so i told her.

she responded

not with grief, but

with a shrug of the shoulders

and a request

for another goldfish,

name yet

to be determined.

maybe this one will last

longer, she said.

that unwelcome feeling abroad

the natives

know when you're a tourist,

and don't

live there, but 

for a week or two.

they know you just got

off a boat,

or plane

and have dragged your

luggage

to some nice hotel

where you'll find the water

pressure too

weak,

the lights too dim,

and have other complaints.

they smirk at you

as you try to make sense

of the money,

the food,

always asking in broken

English for

directions to some museum,

or monument

they no longer deem

important,

or go to.

they see it in the hat you

wear,

your shirts

and shoes, the camera

around your

neck.

the belly pouch

around your American stomach

that protrudes.

they know who you are

as you unfold a map

and inquire about where to get

the best local

food.

do they take coupons?

is there a Starbucks nearby?

have you ever been a member of the communist party?

back

in the day, on a work

application,

whether it was

for a clerk

at a store,

or to become a policeman,

or government

worker

there was often a question

on the form

asking

if you've ever been a member

of the communist party,

or associated

with anyone that is a member

of the communist

party.

if you checked the yes box

to either question,

you were not hired

and the FBI were probably

going to be

knocking at your door soon.

times have changed.

you're in now,

if you do check

yes and can be the mayor

of New York City or Seattle,

or Portland,  or a Senator

from Maine

or Michigan.

making a large money withdrawal from the bank

the bank manager

comes over

to me, as i stand at the teller

with my ID

and withdrawal slip

of paper

and asks

why do i need

to withdraw, in cash,

thirty-six hundred dollars

from my checking account.

i tell him

it's to bail someone out of jail.

a sibling

who decided to no longer

pay his child support.

i explain to the manager

that they

only accept cash

in the machine

where the bail office is.

so i need cash, in large bills.

he takes me

to his office and wants

a more thorough

explanation for my sudden 

withdrawal

of my own money.

we're used to you putting money

into our bank,

and rarely taking

any out, he says, tapping

his pen against

his desk.

this is all very suspicious.

he calls security and two men

in uniform arrive.

they stand by

at the door, hands on their guns,

waiting to hear

my explanation.

don't worry, they say to me.

stay calm

and remain seated.

you're just being

detained, not arrested, at

least not yet.

put your hands where we can

see them.

nothing to fear but fear itself

we are

afraid for no reason

of the dark,

of the light, of speaking

in public.

we're afraid

of embarrassment,

of not being

smart enough,

or strong enough to get

the job

done.

we cringe in crowds,

worry

about change.

the psychology books

are full

of things were afraid

of, giving them long

fancy names that are hard

to pronounce.

we're afraid

of spiders, of bugs,

of heights,

tight spaces.

snakes and mice.

intimacy.

we're afraid of flying,

of change

and failure.

we're a crazy lot walking

this earth.