financial advice

you have

to budget your money.

be careful

with your dollars,

you need to make

a list of the incoming

and the outgoing,

you have to sit at your

desk

and figure it all out.

don't spend extravagantly.

save for a rainy day.

have a surplus

at the end of the month.

open up a savings

account and down the road,

invest.

buy a few CD's.

i used to tell my mother

this all the time

when i'd come home

from my paper route

at thirteen.

but she never listened.

let me cook you dinner

she was in the kitchen a long

time,

making dinner

for the first

time in her life. i can do this,

she told me.

i saw my mother cooking

once.

she made pancakes for us

when we were little.

more wine?

more crackers

and nuts?

she yelled out

as i sat on the couch.

no, i told her looking at my

watch,

no thanks,

i'll wait for dinner.

how's it going in there?

i could hear her

sobbing,

crying.

the smoke alarm was

going off.

oh, fine, she said, it's going good.

i'm just trying to put

this little fire

out.

i got on my phone,

ordered,

then waited for the pizza to arrive.

earthworms

buried

deep beneath the snow

and ice,

the hardened

ground

are the earthworms.

laid back

in their

carved out rooms,

watching

television, eating

whatever small

bugs they

saved when

the last sun and rain

came out.

how nice to be able

to hibernate

like that.

all the time in the world

to do nothing

but make love,

to stretch and wiggle

about.

congressional hearings

it's comical

the congressional hearings.

the appearance

of 

unintelligible 

intelligent

women and men,

who can't

define what a woman is,

what a border is,

what's a crime,

what isn't.

blind and deaf to fraud,

looking

the other way each

year

to gather more votes,

to win

another year in office,

or on the job.

playing word

games, semantics, to

avoid

the obvious answers

of why

we're being robbed.

my kingdom for a blow torch

so many

of us

are limping from the storm.

legs

are sore,

arms weary.

fingers

and noses frost

bitten.

our backs

are strained from bending

over.

it's not

snow.

it's nothing like

snow.

it's blocks of ice

that we're shoveling in

bits and pieces.

piling it

all up into the yard.

we're using

garden tools.

pick axes, spades

and sledgehammers.

my kingdom

for a blow torch

to hold.

April can't come soon enough.

conquered land, not stolen

my immediate

knee

jerk reaction to when some dope

says

we're living on

stolen

land is to say

shut up you stupid

uneducated

moron.

and when they continue

to tell you

that there should

be no borders,

no countries, i start

to laugh.

i can't believe how

badly

our education system

has failed us.

entering the padded cell years

does one

slip

into retirement like

a pair of

bedroom slippers,

into a silky robe

to lounge around with?

yes,

it's a good start, but

what to do

with all these hours?

which room

should i go to 

to look out a window.

what's left

in this world to buy

that i don't already

have?

what country is urging me

to visit,

and why?

if these are the golden years,

why do i see

a ring of rust

around me?

i need to start

making new friends

soon

before they come

to take me

away.

taking a cruise

we take a cruise.

it's actually a barge floating

down an icy river

close to Siberia.

we found it on

the back of a magazine

at the dentist's office.

AAA

says it's great.

but it's a working

cruise.

they give us leather gloves

and heavy

clothes

for the bad weather.

rubber boots too and

a life preserver

in case

we fall in when

the winds pick up.

we have to pull nets up

loaded with fish

every morning, then scrub

the decks.

but the scenery

is fabulous

and the food isn't too bad

if you like

cod, rock fish and herring

every morning

with a cream cheese

spread.

bribing a cop with donuts

there's a cop

behind me with his party lights on.

i pull over.

he pulls

in behind me and gets out.

i put my

coffee and donut

down and

quickly

get my license out,

my registration

and acquire a nervous smile.

maybe i didn't make

the yellow light

after all.

yes, officer,

have i done something wrong.

oh, no.

he says, you're fine.

i just wanted to know

where you

got that donut.

i saw you biting on it

when

you turned the corner

and ran that yellow light.

i haven't seen a donut like

that since

the summer of love

riots.

anymore in the bag?

two cinnamon cake

donuts

and a curler,

here, help yourself.

i tell him.

i hand him the bag

and he moves on.

eleventh grade French

it's a little French restaurant

on the edge

of town.

4 stars on Yelp.

there's a view of water,

lamp posts,

the passing

crowd.

linen table clothes

and candles

are set about.

a waiter

dressed neatly

with a mustache

pulls out our chairs

and bows.

i peruse the menu

looking for a word i remember

from 11th grade

French class.

this could take a while.

cheeseburgers

and fries

are nowhere to be found.

abstract

is the abstract painting

too abstract,

too

random and disconnected

to the real

world.

is just a lot of drips

and spills

ala

Pollock?

or is it an emotional

landscape

of good and evil.

a storm

of color.

i need a face, or a tree,

or a building.

something

i don't have to imagine.

something i can actually

see.

a lighter shade of pale

he tells me

that he needs to ask his wife

before we

go forward,

before any serious 

changes

are made

in the color.

perhaps we should use

a different white,

something

less, or more

white than the one you're

putting on

the wall.

a higher power

needs to be

in on this discussion.

stop

painting where your

are.

let me

text her

and put her on zoom.

hold the paintbrush up

against that wall.

you worry too much

i promise

myself not to worry so much

about

everything.

then i begin to worry

about worrying.

is it harming me.

causing damage

to my

brain and heart.

am i driving myself to

an early

grave with all

this worrying?

i need to stop it right

now.

but i can't.

i'll try again tomorrow.

carrying in a bundt cake at 12 am

as i take the trash

to the curb,

i see

the neighbor, the new

neighbor.

again

a new neighbor. they come

and go

so quickly.

a turnstile would be

appropriate

on that house.

but i say hello

as he carries in an armful

of Tupperware

and an enormous

bag of plastic

forks and spoons.

it's nearly midnight.

freezing cold.

i'm Eugene,

he says.

his wife gets out of the car

carrying

what looks to be a bundt

cake,

uniced. it's under

a fancy

glass case.

she nods hello and winks.

she seems

nice.

don't leave yet

it's too early

for this.

rising

before dawn,

slipping into clothes

and boots.

the bed whispers, come

back.

return.

we have more sleeping

to do,

more dreams

to be hatched.

don't go. please.

come back,

come back

while the bed is

still warm.

the new years eve party

it was

New Years Eve

as we sat in the drive thru

at Jack in the Box.

the three

of us,

Mike,

Dave, me.

we were hungry.

it was snowing.

the frayed wipers

pushed

off the heavy flakes.

when we got our food

we parked

in the lot and ate, listening

to the radio,

talking about

how great

everything tasted,

washed down

with cokes.

we talked about the girl

in the red

dress. how she danced.

they were

the best of nights,

then we went home,

going forever,

our separate ways.

new essentials

what were

essentials, no longer are.

the weekend

forays

into town,

the chasing of skirts,

the long

nights

of drink and dance.

barely home

before dawn.

how fun

those years were,

sweet memories

of the past.

but other essential things

have taken

their place,

the cane by the door,

good shoes

and glasses,

the earmarked book,

an afternoon nap.

so few will

we should feel better,

shouldn't we?

at this far

point in years, so much

more

behind us

than in front of us.

the kids

beyond our leash,

the bills paid,

sheltered in

our homes with

plenty

of food and drink.

we should, at last, one

would feel

that we could sit by the fire

with a loved

one,

and full glass, and relax,

and say

what's done

is done, and yet,

so few will.

no one is all good

i'm skeptical

about

the priest, the minister,

the shaman,

the mystic

and wizard.

the gurus and yogis.

as hard

as they try to be a shining

light.

i can still

see and hear

that all is not well. that

there's something

not quite right.

fixing each other

imperfect,

as we all are, never quite

polished

and done,

finished as to the way

we wish

we were

born.

alive

with so many

faults,

but we try. dear Lord

how we try

to make

each other right,

fixing

all that is wrong with us,

when seen

in the morning

light.