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.