click off

each

bite of the internet

is either

honey

or poison, depending on

what you

listen to.

there is no middle anymore.

what is the truth?

there's some love,

of course,

but for the most part

it's mostly hate,

mostly

ranting and raving,

it's a deafening roar.

burnt toast

most of lifes

aggravating moments

fall

under the category

of burnt toast,

spilled milk,

the stubbed toe.

coffee dripped upon

a white shirt,

and yet,

for a moment,

things feel as if they've

spiraled out

of control.

for a minute or two,

your life

is under a dark

cloud,

you feel beaten and low

after choosing the wrong

line to get into

at the bank

or grocery store.

you can somehow connect

all the dots

of these minor

inconveniences

and think,

for me,

this is the way things go.

after falling off a roof

as i lie

here, having fallen from the roof,

i see

how blue

the sky is.

the wispy white

of clouds.

i see birds in flight.

so many.

it's neither warm nor

cold, and

there's no wind to speak of.

at some point i'll stand

back up,

and 

see what's broken,

if anything, i'll examine

what blood

has left me, but for now,

i can breathe,

i'm fine. and

i'm enjoying the view

from

the ground, lying here

with the grass and dirt,

these soft

embracing vines.

gunfight at high noon

we studied

the cowboys on tv.

my brother and I.

taking note

of how 

the gunslingers

stood in the sunlit

street

outside the saloon

and shot at one another.

usually a woman

with lots of make up

was the cause.

we practiced

with our toy guns,

getting faster and faster

at the draw,

the plastic holsters

wrapped around our

dungarees.

mine had a pearl

white handle,

and a barrel that i slid

caps into.

it was a battle to the death

in the brightly lit

room,

as we shot at one another,

until the knock at the door,

and lunch was

on.

Saturday morning bowling alley

the bowling

alley

wasn't heaven, but close

to it

at the age

of twelve. the juke box,

full of Elvis

and Dusty Springfield,

the pinball

machines,

the duck pin alleys.

the cheeseburgers

on the grill

with fries.

a tall cold soda with

a long

striped straw.

there was a barber shop

too.

with leather

chairs

and a bottle of cologne,

that was slapped

on your young

fat cheeks,

a nice heavenly

shade of blue.

last trek to Clarksburg

i study

the map, google the address,

measure the distance

and time

it will take to travel

to Clarksburg

to hang

four rolls of wallpaper.

i've lost

my mind, i really have.

it's not

about money anymore,

there's more

than enough,

God has blessed me

and i'm thankful,

but apparently

i've come up short

when it comes

to common sense,

to leave

well enough alone.

squirrel versus man

i see

the squirrel on the bird

feeder

fattened

by the seed,

the nuts i poured in

this morning.

the war is on.

i have taken sides.

i move the table,

the chairs

which he sprung from

then grease the pole

with oil.

and yet still he tries,

over and over

again to climb

the slick black pole

in the middle

of the yard.

his little claws unable

to grip

and climb,

he slides back down.

so far, i'm winning.

again,

i've taken the birds' side.

there has to be something else on, Seinfeld?

as I watch

the news, specifically

the riots in Europe.

France,

Spain, Germany,

i let out a yelp when i see

the cops

hitting protestors

over the head

with Billy clubs,

giving them a whooping of wood

shampoos,  yikes,

that's gotta hurt i say

out loud to no one,

and then

the water cannons

begin to blow up

the crowd, flinging

the radicals like confetti

into the air.

frantically the firemen

try to put the fires out,

trying to save the churches

and buildings

built centuries ago.

all of the art and culture,

the statues

and fountains in ruin,

and for what?

it's a nightmare.

i grab the remote, there has

to be something

else on.

where are you Jerry, i

need you.

i'm listening, i really am

when you

talk to me, my mind wanders,

i drift off.

it's not that what

you're saying

is uninteresting, it's just that

a single

word or thought

can send me off and reeling

to a different place.

i want to save

the word

and take it home with

me

and write.

yes, my eyes are looking

up and down,

from side to side, but it

has nothing to do you,

with your story,

there's just something wrong

with me,

i'm not right.

her collection of dresses

cautious

with my words and yet

i dare

say that it's a female thing,

this

collection

of dresses

and shoes

marking each milestone

of life

from an early age.

saved in some far closet

that's rarely

opened,

nothing thrown away.

a child's first holy

communion dress

on a small hanger, then

homecoming

queen,

a cheerleader outfit,

emboldened with a C.

the prom dress in pink,

a carnation

in bloom,

to a graduation gown, to the first

wedding dress.

and of course,

the work ensembles

from a career now over,

with practical shoes.

and just one dress

in classic black

for mourning, which

waits with solemn patience.

for now, at least.

it rests.

before they took him

before

they took him,

there were mice in the house,

a bird

nest over the cupboard.

the door was

left open.

the heat was on.

old food was on the counter.

and yet

there he sat with

a golf club

in hand,

his golf shoes on.

his hat,

his gloves.

it was Saturday morning

after all,

and he wanted

one more round.

somewhere in the tool box

finding

the right wrench is everything.

the perfect

fit

around the rusted

bolt.

all will

be well with the right

tool in hand,

making that hard

twist

and turn.

the water

will go on,

and life will be good

again.

after Christmas, i promise

as i sit outside

the cafe, alone, studying

the menu,

i hear

the couple beside me arguing

quietly.

the woman

says,

i can't keep doing this

much longer.

she's near

to tears as she turns

the ring on her finger.

the man

stares into his drink

and says

nothing.

his face is dark,

brooding.

if you don't leave your

wife soon, she

says, 

i can't go on. you keep

promising

and promising.

finally, he looks up, and

whispers to her,

taking her hand.

after Christmas.

after Christmas.

i promise this time.

the burlap bag to the sea

we lived

in Barcelona for several years.

we were

young,

grade school,

and yet it didn't take us long

to speak

the language

to learn how

to kick a ball without

using our hands.

we sipped on wine,

we ate

paella,

we watched the gypsies

in black

pulling

their wagons

and naked children along.

i remember

hearing

the roar

of the crowd at the stadium

as the bulls

died in the dirt.

i can still

see the caretaker of the house

carrying

a burlap bag

full of newborn kittens

to the sea.

wondering,

what this cruelty was,

and yet

not, going on.

ambitious mornings

i remember

that feeling, watching,

the birds,

the beaver

in the pond, busy at

what they

need to do,

with nests and wood.

i recall that

instinctive ambition,

necessary

to keep

the world turning.

to keep

the trains

on time, the lights on.

i remember it well,

almost as if

it was

yesterday.

resisting the urge to sit

as you

kneel in church before

the mass begins,

resisting the urge to sit,

because your

knees ache,

you go through your list

of prayers,

your selfish petitions,

but then

strange thoughts

come into your head that

have no business

being there.

is that woman in the pew

in front

of you married?

are those extensions

in her long

blonde hair.

does she live nearby?

did she walk here, or drive?

will she turn

to shake your hand

at the end of the service

and with a smile say

peace be with you?

sunday morning tv

the actor,

wealthy and aging,

being interviewed

in a soft light, a lovely chair,

with drink

in hand,

the morning sun coming

through

the curtains, hung

yellow, with

fresh flowers nearby,

seems close to

tears when talking about

her life.

the hardships

she's endured.

i almost feel sorry for her,

as i push away

the dog, trying to lick

the blueberry jam

off of my butter knife.

this will make me feel good

i'll experience a moment

of satisfaction

with the purchase

of this coat,

these shoes, the jacket

and hat,

a matching belt to go

with all of it.

i'll get a nice hit of

dopamine,

and that will be that.

but please, when i'm

done scrolling and clicking,

please take this phone 

away from me,

i think i may have 

gone mad.

homesick again

to be

homesick, to pine

for

the old couch, the chair

by the window,

with everything

in place,

each book

you love

positioned

on a shelf,

all things finding

the right

spot to lie down on,

is a warm

feeling,

one you've worked

to find

your whole life.

and now

it's here, 

this retreat is kind.

not a fan of nuclear winter

i  hope

the day never comes where

i have to catch

a fish to eat,

or kill an animal

for a meal,

to skin it and make

a stew

in a pot with potatoes

and carrots.

vegetable gardens

are not

in my wheelhouse either.

i have no skills to capture

birds,

or chickens, then pluck

their feathers.

i can barely

keep the one plant

on my sill alive.

i'm not a fan of nuclear

winter.

not one bit.

the can opener will be

my

best and trusted

friend if the apocalypse

ever does arrive.