we agree on one single thing in this life

my friend,

Louie, doesn't believe in borders,

we're living

on stolen land,

he tells me.

there's no such

thing as an illegal

immigrant.

no, i tell him, it's conquered

land

and if you let

everyone in without documentation,

you have no

country.

it's why you lock the doors

to your house.

intruders are not

welcome, despite all of the

inclusive

flags planted in your yard.

we've had this discussion

before,

which leads to men dressed

as women,

in sports and bathrooms.

which of course leads to free healthcare

for all,

free food, free buses,

free tuition,

higher taxes and defunding

the police

and the military.

it's exhausting and exasperating,

but we do agree on one thing,

as we remain friends.

we both agree

that it's going to be a tough

year for the Redskins, our favorite

football team.

5 and 12, i suggest.

no, he shouts out,

it's the Commanders.

the Commanders. quit

calling them the Redskins

and being such a racist and a bigot.

but 5 and 12 sounds about right.

Yelp gives the trip four stars

at last,

someone yells out,

land ho,

or some such thing.

we're rolling around on the wet

boards below

deck,

seasick and green from

three months

on the open sea.

i've broken three teeth

by trying

to eat the hardtack stored

on board.

if i never see a flounder

again, i'll be happy.

and as God is my witness,

sushi will never again

enter my digestive tract.

we have no idea

what lies ahead.

there's not a store in sight

when we land.

no markets, no churches.

no one to greet us.

there's just a bunch of wild

animals staring

at us with a what the hell

look in their eyes.

and now we have to chase them

and kill them, knit their

furs together

to stay warm.

it takes twenty-one squirrels

to make one jacket.

near starvation, we

gather sticks together

to build a fire.

we're boiling water

to drink,

and making soup out

of bark and local

weeds. suddenly,

out of nowhere, arrows

are being

shot at us.

we are constantly yelling

to each other,

to get down, duck

as angry natives 

maliciously shoot arrows

at us from behind

the trees.

if only we had known all

of this before

we got on the Mayflower.

but the brochure

told us none of this.

our travel agent left out

a few things.

the new fancy dan hotel

we're not in Kansas

anymore,

i tell my girlfriend,

Josephine,

as i swipe the card

against

the pad near the door.

then again,

and three more times before

the light turns

green and we go in.

i look for the remote control

to turn

the lights on,

the one to turn on the tv,

the one to raise

the shade on the big window

facing out

towards the city.

the doors are made of castle

like wood,

and glass,

with steel trimming.

a burger on the room service

menu is

50 dollars. fries are extra.

we're tired

and hungry. we want

to take a shower,

but we can't figure

out how to turn the water on,

which spigot

is warm

which is cold.

why is it not coming out

of the top gizmo,

and just the metal hose.

from somewhere, my legs,

below my knees

are being showered

by a secret opening

in the tiled wall.

i lie down on the floor to finally

get wet.

wrapped in an enormous towel

i look out

the window

and see a motel 6 in distance,

the bright red number

flickering in the darkening sky.

what do you think?

i ask her,

should we go?

un bourbon ed by what has been

Kamala, the last VP

of

the entire country, 

slips up and says without

prompting,

that the other

side

wants us to prove

who we are in order

to vote,

it's just not fair.

now we'll have to show

an ID

to elect our President

and others

to serve

this country.

and yes, every other country

in the entire

world has to show

and ID to vote, but

why should we?

apparently,

she's not un-bourbon-ed by

what has been.

heavenly ice cream

it's hard

to be angry when eating

ice cream,

to be unkind

while

licking a double scoop

of vanilla fudge

on a sugar cone.

it's hard

to be hard, to be mean

and nasty,

no mater how hard

you try.

and with a banana split

in front of you,

you're almost saintly

for a short while.

here's an idea, collect stamps, she says

i'm in line

at the therapist office,

awaiting my turn in the waiting

room

with other old patients.

some stroking their

grey beards,

others scrolling their phones,

or staring

at AARP magazines.

all of us

have the same question.

what now

brown cow?

retired and

in a constant state

of boredom.

the day full of empty hours.

and the therapist, calmly,

to each one of us

says the same

thing.

maybe get a part-time job,

take up

arts and crafts,

or try whittling,

whittling can be quite

satisfying.

or perhaps

indulge yourself in hobbies,

collect stamps.

take a cooking class at

the community center.

what about Tai Chi?

maybe travel a little more,

volunteer.

she smiles and pats us on the back

as we go out the door,

more depressed

than we were 50 minutes

before.

how it all ends

at last,

you've stopped buying new things,

replacing

the old

with new.

you've exhausted every room

with your

purchases.

each wall,

each drawer, each

closet full.

this puts you into a state of worry.

is it over?

is this the end?

there has to be something

that needs

to be replaced

and made new.

he kind of let things go a little

as if on cue,

an actor arriving on stage

just in time,

the small grey mouse

appears

takes a look at his 

frightened audience

then runs

and hides.

it's time for me to leave,

you tell your friend

in his robe

and long beard,

drinking his morning wine.

it's curtain time.

earmarking the page

isn't that

what we all do?

we start the next day at

the point

where we left off

the day before.

like those books

earmarked,

ready for the next page

to be read.

the movie half watched.

the job

only partly done

awaiting the next

hammer,

the next screw.

tomorrow we'll make

that call,

send the letter,

finish our thoughts,

and

address

the waiting issues.

dream interruption

strange

to wake up at 3 a.m.,

to lie

there completely awake,

staring at the ceiling

twiddling

your thumbs.

watching the dark shadows

of the fan

spin slowly above you.

it's raining out,

there's thunder.

a dog is barking in the distance.

all of this

will be included in your

next dream,

once you fall asleep

again,

and get there.

snug behind the cubicle

i think the only

job

i was never laid off from,

or fired

from, or flat out quit.

was this one.

self-employed.

having my own business.

unlike now,

when employed by others

i'd use

up all of my allotted

sick days,

my vacation time.

i came in late,

left early, dilly dallied

at the water cooler

and coffee machine.

sometimes

when snug behind my partitioned

cubicle

i would close my eyes

and nod off

for a good twenty

minutes until i heard

the clicking of shoes coming

up the hallway.

i had no interest

in the esoteric

world of computer programming,

the mind numbing

details

in the small print of files

stacked upon my desk.

i was shoveling coal out of 

a towering mountain.

often i would stare out the window,

at tradesmen,

landscapers,

painters and mechanics.

all free from

this dark abyss.

it's OJ all over again

the jury

can't decide if the crazy woman

who killed

her kids

is guilty.

yes, she's nuts,

that's not the question.

is she guilty though of murder?

they deliberate for days on end.

the woman

admits she did it.

the defense

lawyers, says she did it.

the prosecution says she did it.

her husband says

she did it.

all the evidence points

to the fact

that she did it,

that she chased her children

around the house,

pushed their little

faces into the floor,

and strangled them

with an exercise band.

everything well timed

and planned

in order

to get the job done.

but the jury

seemingly can't figure it out.

it's OJ all over again.

don't be a loser

as a kid

you never heard of a peanut

allergy,

or gluten,

or the Jimmy leg.

no one

ever worried about

carbs,

or smoking,

or the dangers of eating

candy,

or chips, or drinking

cokes all day.

there was no bottled water,

just the spigot

attached to the hose outside,

or the one

in your kitchen sink

that you stood at and puddled

the water into

your mouth

because all the glasses

were dirty.

no one was protesting

meat,

or leather, or lying

on the road

blocking traffic

because it was hot out.

people had blonde, brown,

black,

or reddish hair, or were bald,

no one had blue and pink hair.

and only

farm animals had rings in their noses.

boys had penisis

and girls had

whoo hoos.

there was zero confusion about that.

your dog was never on

a diet,

or had diabetes.

heartworm pills were for

sissy dogs,

dogs on leashes wearing

sweaters and bows.

in the summer

you went home when the sun

went down,

and not before,

if you did, you were a loser.

when intrusive thoughts take over

as i lie upon the therapist

couch, i tell my

shrink, doc,

i don't know

what's wrong with me, i've

been having

intrusive thoughts

lately.

no,

not that kind, the kind

that tries to persuaded you

to kill

or maim, or injure someone.

no, it's the other

kind of intrusive thoughts.

the good kind.

the kind no one ever talks

about.

for instance.

i was walking down the street

the other day

and out of the clear blue sky,

i thought maybe it would

be a good idea to pick

up that piece of trash that's at

my feet and deposit it into

a garbage can.

so i did.

or when no one was letting some

guy with his signal on,

merge into the right lane,

it occurred

to me, that i should do it.

i'll let the poor guy in.

sometimes that voice in my head

convinces me to help some old

lady across the street,

or to toss some of my sandwich

bread to the pigeons

that are flying about.

out of the clear blue sky,

while at church,

a voice will tell me

to drop a few bucks into

the basket, not the usual

change in my pocket.

these voices have taken complete

control of me.

i might be going nuts.

what should i do doc?

One Less Egg to Fry

i get a little

suspicious

when i hear my girlfriend

playing

an old vinyl record

by the 5th dimension.

moving the needle

back and forth

again and again to the same song,

One Less Bell To Answer.

quickly i go to her

kitchen

and open up the fridge.

i lift up the lid

of the egg carton and there's

only one egg in there.

just like i thought.

one egg.

not two,

indeed.

there is one less

egg to fry.

she's not even answering

the doorbell

these days,

or picking up my clothes

when i drop them on the floor.

there's boxes of Kleenex

everywhere,

in every room.

i'm not Sherlock Holmes.

but i know exactly

what's going on here.

the road not taken

maybe spending a few

hundred

thousand dollars

on getting a degree in

Philosophy

after high school was a bad idea.

i'm pondering

this decision

as i sit on the balcony

of my one-bedroom apartment

overlooking 

a Dunkin Donut

and a Shell

station.

i know everything there is to know

about Aristotle

and Plato,

Confucius and Kant.

i can quote Voltaire or Dante

at the drop

of a hat,

but so what.

at the moment

i'm eating a bowl

of Captain Crunch cereal

with a sliced

banana as my old dog

lies in the corner,

breathing heavily because

of asthma.

i can hear the call of the harness

races

through the woods

and smell

the cigar smoke and manure

in the warm wind.

i should have followed

the advice

of my father and become

an electrician, or a plumber,

a car mechanic or

a house painter.

i'd be living it up

on the hill

in a big house if i had

taken that course.

i'd be floating around 

a kidney shaped pool like

a movie star,

drinking pina coladas

while my fiancé Loretta,

in her red bikini,

does a swan dive

off the board.

you must have a calling

to become

a teacher it has to be

a calling,

you have a strong

innate desire

to teach others.

a doctor too,

you want to help people.

to cure their

ailments, heal them.

same goes

for a minister, you want

to spread the word

of the Gospel,

bring spiritual light to

the world,

but to become a lawyer

is another

thing all together.

cha ching.

random thoughts while in line at Chic Filet

we are a callous

people.

i never once hear anyone

weeping

over all the chickens

we slaughter

day after day.

the cows

and fish. how we farm

them

and then put them

on the chopping block.

we never seem to care

about

their lives

as we slather on the tartar

sauce,

or cut into them with

a steak knife

after grilling them over

a bed of charcoal briquets.

we're cruel and oblivious

to the deeds we do.

and yet, they're so nice

here, so pleasant

as you pull up to the window

of a Chic Filet drive thru.

going too slow in the right lane

why

am i so nervous and worried

when

i see a cop

car behind

me with his party lights on,

motioning

me to pull over.

i'm not on my phone

watching

YouTube vids,

i have no dope in the car,

no bundle

of drugs,

or packets of meth.

i haven't been

drinking, there are no

open containers of

anything except

a warm bottle of Yoo Hoo

in between my legs

and yet,

i begin to sweat as i fumble

for my

license and registration,

my proof of insurance.

there's no weapon

in the glove

box.

no expired tag,

or taillight out.

there's

no one in the trunk

tied up and gagged today.

what am i even worried

about?

the world is against us

the world

is seemingly against us.

this whole

gravity

thing, the accumulation

of dust

and dirt.

the aging

process

sagging our skin,

making

us more tired by the day.

the floods

and fires

trying to wash,

or burn us away.

what's the deal

here?

hopefully in heaven

this mess

will get straightened out.