when the circus comes to town

i want

the circus to come back

into town.

i want to see the man

shot out

of a cannon

and fly across the sky.

i want to ooh and ahh

as the trapeze

artists

swing from bar to bar.

i want to smell the sawdust

and the cigar

smoke,

the perfume of it all.

i want

to see the midgets,

the freaks

behind the curtain,

the fat

lady with a beard,

the clowns.

i want dancing and music,

i want elephants

and lions

to stomp the ground.

i want to eat the pink

cotton candy,

to fill my belly with soda

and cracker jacks,

with torn ticket stubs in hand.

i want it to be

1965 again.

the world is ugly and the people are sad

why

are so many people unhappy.

so sad,

and ugly.

why

do they wake up

each morning

and cry

and moan, and scream.

what's the deal

here.

what's happened

to them

to become so angry,

so disturbed,

so mean?

there's not enough therapy

and meds

in the world

to make

them wake up from their

own self made

bad dream.

leave it behind you

it's too much,

you can't carry it all with you.

some of it

you have to set down

and leave

behind.

you can't put all of it

on your

back,

or hold it in

your arms.

everything that's come

before you

and caused

you trouble and harm

has to be let go.

it's too much

to handle.

the world

is too heavy to go up

those hills

with what should

be left behind.

leaning into it

nothing like

a good

strong wind pushing you

around 

to show you

how fragile

you are.

you hold onto your hat,

button

up the coat,

and lean into it.

you press forward

in spite

of the gale force

in your face.

all of life

it's like

that.

our own communist upbringing

when

growing up, we sort of lived

in a socialist

household,

almost communist with

one

dictator

in charge of us all.

she ruled,

our mother.

we did what we were told.

we had to share beds,

share clothes,

each of us got equal servings

of food.

a slice

of bread for each.

patiently we lined up

for our

turn in the bathroom,

going easy

on the limited hot water.

we were all hungry

cramped together,

we were all cold.

did we like it,

hell no.

but once we earned a few

dollars

for ourselves, we hit the road.

when the impossible happens

of course

you don't believe you'll ever

get old.

how could you?

impossible

you think as you

stand before 

the mirror

and flex your arms.

look at how fast you run,

how strong you are,

there's not a line

on your face,

not a single grey strand

in your thick

dark hair.

you sleep well and eat

anything without gaining

a pound of weight.

your vision

is clear,

you can hear a pin drop

a mile away.

you can make love all night

if need be.

you're sharp

and happy.

how is it possible that you

could ever age.

and then.

change is going to come, sing along

so

what's on the agenda today

i ask

my liberal

boomer

friend and neighbor, Midge.

where to?

what's the next protest 

you're heading to?

what's the latest

issue

you're protesting about?

oh, my she says, showing

me her new

revolving sign.

with six sides, each

proclaiming

something

different.

from no kings, to Madura

to free

Palestine,

and now to leave the Somalians

alone.

fraud is good, sometimes.

she's wearing

a gas mask,

and combat boots.

you look tired, i tell her

as she rubs yesterdays mustard

gas out of her eyes.

maybe take a day

off, don't you think?

plus you seem to be limping

from where

that cop car ran

over your foot.

oh no, she says. no way.

we have to save

the world,

today we're going to block

the interstate

and the beltway.

we're going to shut the DMV down.

so if you need to go to

the store or

to the hospital, better do it now.

that'll teach them. you'll see

change is coming soon,

maybe not today or tomorrow,

but some day.

change is going to come.

you'll see.

could you hand me those crutches

please,

i left them

on the porch.

like she said, turn the page, turn the page

no matter

the hub bub, remember

that word?

hub bub.

the hullabaloo?

remember all the noise

about what happened

yesterday,

all the screaming

and gnashing

of teeth over what

occurred just now, or

the day

before, five years ago.

twenty years plus.

yup,

sort of, i do.

although the fog

of times

makes it hard,

makes it rough

to remember it clearly.

none of it seems to matter

anymore,

not even what happened

ten minutes ago.

poof it's gone

and along comes something

new.

the obesity of news

it's too much

food,

it's a buffet of thought,

an endless

assortment of ideas

and opinions

to pick from,

everyone digging in

with knife and fork.

eat

and eat some more

until the belly

of your mind

is stuffed

and sick. your hatband

is broken.

gobble up the news on

channel nine, channel

seven,

channel four

as if there is no tomorrow.

and yet there you are

still scrolling

for more.

one more biscuit and gravy,

once more sweet

slice of cake,

one more giant swig

of a political milkshake

before

you pass out

on the floor.

writing letters

it's a book

of letters that i open and dive

into,

sometimes i turn to

the middle,

sometimes near the end

but rarely

in order

starting with page one.

it's an intimate conversation

with someone

i used to read.

his short stories and novels.

the trilogy

of Rabbit.

i'm so glad these letters

were saved.

some to his wife, others to

a mistress,

his editors

and friends, his children,

his doctor

at the end.

it was a different

time back then,

pen onto paper, elbows

to the desk.

a light clicked on

in winter's shade.

it was a golden age.

Nick Shirley and the Legacy media

i like

how the young youtuber

Nick Shirley

has spawned a legion of others

to go

from door to door

across the country,

not just in Minnesota,

with their camera

phones

exposing fraud

and the stealing of billions

of taxpayers dollars.

it's a wonderful thing

how they've

turned all the lights on,

asking

questions.

something the government

doesn't seem

to know how to do, or want to.

nor does

Dateline,

or 60 minutes, CBS,

ABC, NBC,

or Cnn

or any of the other

legacy media outlets.

NPR? please, you must be kidding.

instead they turn their

heads

and close their eyes,

avoiding the obvious

criminal intentions.

it's all about votes and staying

in power,

once again.

two minutes of time

out of the blue

an image

pops into my mind,

a visual memory

from childhood.

i think

about my grandmother who

couldn't speak

a word

of English,

with her nylon stockings

pulled

up below her knees,

in a flowered

apron

spotted with blood,

breaking the neck of a

chicken

before plucking it clean

of feathers.

i see

a pot of boiling water

on the stove,

the rising steam, and the

cuckoo clock on

wall

sounding off,

telling her what time it

is again.

deep in thought about coffee beans

as i sit

here sipping

on a hot cup of coffee.

i stare

into the smooth raw

umber mix

of Stevia

and heavy cream,

stirred gently.

i blow onto

the steam and wonder

where these beans came from.

who leaned

over

or up

in their wide straw

hat

and snatched them from

the branches

for the burlap

bag

before being trucked

and processed,

then shipped

to my store here in Springfield.

i become lost

in thought

thinking about Columbia,

and Brazil,

jungles

deep into the heart of strange

far away

countries like Paraguay,

when the phone rings.

i'll have to get back to these thoughts

later, it seems.

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 and blood

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.

the world keeps sending the other

side weapons and ammunition

to fight us with.

they'll never run out of bullets.

yup, the soldier says. well,

what are you gonna do?

C'est la vie.

oh well.

i think it's time for lunch, 

the solider says,

looking at his watch.

i opened up a can of beans earlier,

they're from Ohio.

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.