nocturnal beasts

the animals,

come out at night.

their footprints

are in the snow.

nocturnal beasts,

foraging for food.

wolves

and coyotes,

foxes

and raccoons.

look at all their footprints,

from porch to street,

back to the woods.

and then there's

yours,

the imprint of your high

heel shoe,

sneaking around

in the dark,

peering into my window.

so you.

water used to be free

it seemed

silly, back then,

and by back then,

i mean

before the 80's,

the idea of bottled water,

paying for it,

when all you had to do

was turn

the faucet on,

twist the spigot of the garden

hose and out

came

a steam of water, hot,

or cold.

though with the hose,

you had to give

it a few minutes

to wash out that rubbery

vinyl taste.

waking up to butter milk biscuits

there are times lately,

when i wake up

at the crack of dawn,

way too early, but i'm

no longer thinking

about sex, and the flight

attendant, Debbie.

instead i'm

half dreaming and thinking

about buttermilk

biscuits,

piping hot from the oven.

the kind

that melt into your mouth,

little pasty clouds,

with the soft warm

crumbs tumbling

down my chin.

a stack of them

on a plate

with a stick of butter

near by.

i may be nearing

the end.

her plastic snake boots

she had no

television, no land line,

no radio.

she had a flip phone,

from back

in the Fred Flintstone days

and the original

computer

that Radio Shack made.

she had no

chairs,

no sofa, her mattress

was on the floor,

no shades on the windows.

every room

was cluttered with boxes

and clothes,

books and magazines

with Elizabeth Taylor

on the cover.

she used to wear her pink snake

boots when

she went out to the compost

pile in the yard.

she was an interesting woman

who memorized sonnets

from Shakespeare,

seventy miles

away

on the Eastern shore.

i never quite figured out

her love language.

but i don't see her

anymore.

ten dollar bill in the window

i keep waiting for a kid

to knock

on my door

to ask me if i want

my sidewalk

cleared,

my car shoveled out?

but no.

kids don't do that anymore.

over the age of ten

they don't go

out into the snow

like they used to.

i tape a ten

dollar bill in

the window.

trying to tempt them, but

they walk

by and laugh.

i guess it's on me again,

shovel, scrapper, salt,

boots on,

here we go.

a Baskin and Robbins world

we need to know

where we've come from,

it's the new age

of science. the vial

of spit tells all.

are we

the outlier,

the bastard son, who was dad,

really?

or mom.

are they part Indian,

or Italian,

Scandinavian?

is there a smidgen

of Polynesian blood in me?

please tell me i'm not

related to Charles Manson,

or Richard Nixon,

or Zsa Zsa Gabor.

what island

was our blood spilled

on,

where did these blue

eyes

come from.

these long legs, these

red curls?

Adam and Eve must have

been wild

looking people,

to propagate this varied

world.

still loading

we live

in a world of never ending

updates.

the software,

being twisted and turned

into a new

more improved

mode.

update now, update later,

whenever,

but do it soon, or you'll

be left down the road.

don't make me

laugh at your

dumb smart tv and your

3 g phone.

the black phone on the kitchen wall

why answer

the home phone anymore?

the black

phone

on the kitchen wall.

who has that number?

no one

that i know.

and yet,

the long cord,

and circled numbers,

the permanence of it,

the memory

of youth,

crouching

behind the basement

door,

sitting on the steps,

stretching out the cord.

and in hushed tones,

sweet talking

some girl.

how can i ever let go?

pulling the red wagon

those early hours,

dark mornings, 

with the world asleep,

pulling the red wagon

along,

the dog

at my side,

the post

rolled into batons,

ready to be

tossed onto

cold stoops,

only

the squeak of wheels

on the hard road

cracking the quiet,

with the bloom of breath

before me,

those mornings

before the sun arose,

with the moon still 

sharp in the sky,

were blissful,

strangely sublime.

partners for life

we worked

side by side for years,

John and I,

together

in a vague agreement,

still young

in age,

a business shared.

and despite

the friendship

of school and

being the best man in

each other's wedding,

playing ball

until the sun went down.

we weren't

the same when it came

to work.

which ended it

in time,

though through 

the rest of life, his cut

short too soon,

we got along just fine.

she wouldn't be in for work today

perhaps too young

to see such a thing, a mere

child

of sorts,

with shaggy hair,

and loose

cloths,

together we knocked

and entered

the quiet room,

the building manager 

using her

key,

so many on a chain,

a silvered clump,

and me,

behind her,

inquisitive as i came

down the hall,

but there, on the bed,

below

the ironing board,

the iron

still hot, though the steam gone,

her dress

for the new day, still wrinkled

stretched out,

the blouse on,

as she lay

face upward staring

at the blank ceiling i had come

to paint.

who was she, who would

know

that she wouldn't be in for

work today,

or the next and then

never at all.

food, air, water, shelter, start digging

i see the family

next door, digging daily.

shovels

in hand.

the mother handling

the wet

mortar,

children with bricks

in their arms,

the father near the entrance,

a blow torch

aflame.

they're preparing for the end.

constructing

a shelter below ground,

for the oncoming Armageddon,

having watched

the news

continually, both fox

and cnn.

a shine on everything

it's enough,

this crust of bread, this drink,

this small

abode,

this bed.

it's more than enough.

more than

i ever thought i'd

possess.

coming from nothing

puts a shine

on nearly

everything, 

one would guess.

holding God accountable

as we inch forward,

moving

in small hour increments,

towards

the inevitable end,

the exit door,

another

day closer

to what surely won't be

the finish, will it,

dear lord?

your promises

will be held up to the light,

won't they?

do you need more?

is this bowl of fruit

on

the table,

proof of God?

the bright color of an orange,

the sweetness

of the apple,

the grapes

off the vine.

is this enough proof

of intelligent

design,

or do you need more.

what about

the fly

hovering, is that enough

or should

we continue?

mistakes were made

what is there

to say,

or think of the single

room

in a shared house,

the hearing of footsteps

on the floor above,

the rattle

of dishes

down the hall.

how has this come to be.

from riches

to rags,

in such a furious

fall?

what memories appear

as sleep

doesn't come.

what are the reasons

for landing

here,

alone, and poor

under the fierce glare

of a relentless sun?

politics and food

obviously

i don't let world politics

interfere

with my culinary

choices.

last night i had Chinese

food,

General Tao chicken,

and a Mai Tai.

and today,

i'm crossing the border

down south,

with a plate

of enchiladas

with beans and rice.

tomorrow i might do down

to the Russian Tea Room

for a bite,

or pour

some Canadian maple

syrup onto

my pancakes,

with sausages from Venezuela,

then smoke

a cigar from Cuba,

do you have a light?

selecting clothes for the day

pick me,

pick me, pick me,

the blue

shirt cries out,

as i slide the hangers

down,

one after the other

searching for

something to wear.

no,

not today.

i'm not feeling blue

today,

especially with white

stripes

and a collar.

a button down.

i think i'll go with that

grey sweatshirt

bundled in a ball

on the floor,

again,

the one with the coffee

stains

and the threads

unwound.

she reminded me so much of you

the dog

reminded me of you.

but in a good way.

please don't misunderstand

me.

her blonde curls

and big brown eyes.

the way

she snuggled up next

to me in bed.

keeping me warm

on winter nights.

her kisses.

her wagging tail.

her refusal

to do anything i said.

come over here and sit

i  should fix

the wobbly leg of that chair.

the one

everyone wants to sit in when

they pay a visit.

a simple screw

or nail,

or dollop of glue

should do the trick.

i'm weary of saying

to others,

please, not that chair.

come over here

and sit.

i gave a letter to the postman

the mailman,

or is the mailwoman

now?

i can't tell with that uniform

and bag

over his or her

shoulder.

and the beard.

it looks freshly grown,

like spring

grass.

can i call her dear,

or miss,

or sir?

the high heels

are messing with my head.

maybe i'll just take the letter

to the blue

box on the corner

and not bother her

to put it in the sack.

she's got me down

you don't seem like

an INFJ,

she tells me over coffee

in the park.

at least not all the time.

what's that?

i ask.

what are these letters you're

throwing around,

labeling me?

sometimes,

you can be mean and

vindicative

towards others that hurt

you,

you're not all tea

and sympathy.

but you do need structure,

don't you?

it is a blessing and a curse

to feel things

so strongly, but no worries.

i'll pray for you

as you savor your privacy

and down time.

made in China

i turn over

the salt shaker, made

in China

it says.

the table lamp,

the computer,

the radio,

the phone, my shoes.

i look at the tag

on my mattress,

made in China.

i pull back the tongue

of my shoes,

the labels

on my food.

the television.

made in China.

i'm afraid to pull

back your hair, dear,

for what i

might discover

stamped on the nape

of your neck.

you too?

tell me how you really feel

as you lie

there

in your white fluffy coffin,

costing a pretty

penny,

the lid

open,

listening attentively

to the eulogy

of loved ones,

full of praise,

that's not

what you want to hear.

what you really

want to hear

is what they say

on the drive home,

or the next day,

out of ear shot from

the family,

and the grave.

that's when you'll truly

know how they felt

about you.

it wasn't my fault sweetheart

i see the cars

and trucks

off the side of the road,

head long

into ditches.

speeding perhaps,

sliding

on the ice

when braking in

the falling snow,

the black

slick roads,

while taking a nip

or two

from the flask

of booze,

but the car is still there.

bent

in poles and trees,

broken fences while

the people,

have staggered off

to tell her their

husbands or wives,

about

the other guy.

not always this kind

as the fish, 

loses consciousness,

drowning

in air,

pulled from the sea,

tricked

into biting

what isn't bait

but a scam of sorts.,

arranged by me.

i feel bad for it.

can i be one

to kill something so

beautiful

and free,

a rainbow

of nature,

something so innocent,

just minding its

own business, swimming

around

merrily?

is that me?

with knife in hand,

butter already

melting in the pan.

seasoning

set aside,

ready

to filet its life away?

no, apparently not,

not this time,

but i'm not always this kind.

below Grand Central

it is here

below the granite of streets

and high-rise

buildings.

the darkness, the screech

of iron

and steel,

it is here where you arrive

and leave,

with one small

bag of your belongings.

already

drenched in the smells

of what

keeps the city alive.

the grease of it all,

the fairy dust,

the hollers and yells,

the horns

blaring.

all of it in a constant

bustle.

it is here where you'll

rise on the moving

stairs,

and enter this other world.

neither fair

or fair.

who goes there?

it's alive, this house,

the bones

of it rattle

on a cold night, the pipes

groan,

the stairs

creak even without

the weight

of a single

foot

or leg.

the wind catches the shutters,

making them bang

and shake.

a whistle of cold air,

creeps

through

the loose door, the untight

windows.

in the middle of the night

i awaken,

startled by the cacophony

of noise,

i shout out,

who goes there?

have i let in yet another 

mistake?

sixty going on fifty

her age

is somewhere between

fifty and seventy.

her plastic surgeon is a God.

i see no

lines, no stitches,

no misshapen skin.

her face is as smooth

as a baby's

butt,

with a similar frozen

grin.

the goose in the window

it's a good day for a steaming

hot bowl

of porridge.

whatever that is.

it's a Charles dickens kind

of day.

grey.

snowy.

with chimneys full

of smoke,

icicles hanging from

the gutters,

where's my long coat

with deep pockets,

where are the rags i use

for gloves?

i need to get

to the market

to buy a goose hanging

in the butcher's window.

keep yourself

it's better

being nobody, going unrecognized.

fame.

it's good for a moment or

two,

the paparazzi,

the  adoring fans

wanting

a piece of you, but

you don't want that

in the long run.

keep yourself

to yourself.

it's the best way to go.

you don't want

your face

your life plastered all

over the world.

it won't end well.

stroking

that bottomless and needy

pit of your ego.

just babbling here for a moment or two

so, what is it?

what keeps you alive.

i mean besides

food and water,

shelter.

but beyond that, is it love,

family.

religion.

curiosity, sex?

or is it the cinema

and books or

Netflix?

maybe it's work,

or maybe

it's wine.

what floats your boat,

melts your

butter? what makes you

get up in

the morning and do it all

over again

with nearly the same results?

what winds

your watch

and keeps you ticking.

what or who

puts a spring in your step

a smile

on your face,

and pushes you forward

into another day?

okay,

i'm done here.

i've run completely

out of cliches

for one lame poem.

the memories are almost all good

for the most

part there are good memories

with snowfall.

the sleds,

and snowmen,

the cancelling of school

for days.

the snowball

fights,

how beautifully cold

and white

it all was,

as far as the eye could see,

but i can't help thinking

at times

when i see the children

flying down the hills

on their Rosebuds,

about the kid, Kenny, 

who hit a park bench 

one night,

and lost a kidney.

the red book of stories

my mother

would read to us before bed.

she was a good

reader.

lively with the words

when needed,

or soft and gentle.

we believed everything

that she said.

she put

stories in our minds,

lighting a candle

of imagination

that has never died.

closing the book at last

and saying,

enough for tonight,

more tomorrow,

before tucking

us into bed,

kissing each one of us

equally

on the cheek, or

forehead.

she was a good mother.

four days three nights

the brochure

is full of promise.

look at how blue the water

is, the sky.

how white the sand

is curving

along the island.

look at them,

the couple, so in love,

so perfectly

fit and young.

tanned like

melba toast.

i believe they've never

had a trouble

in their lives,

nothing has ever gone

wrong.

and what about us, should

we sign

on the dotted line,

make reservations for

the flight?

are we worthy of such fun.

of such

earthly delights?

or are we off to the boardwalk

again,

a four hour drive,

to the Ferris Wheel,

to salt water taffy

and to the ocean view motel,

four days,

three nights.

i smell what you're burning

you were

never good in the kitchen.

around

knives,

or bowls, spoons or

spatula.

what didn't you spill,

or burn.

there was never an oven

that didn't catch

fire,

or set the smoke

detector off.

you were a recipe for

a disaster

with your oven

mitts,

and fancy apron,

the bones in the fish,

the cascade

of peppers and turmeric.

your cooking was better

elsewhere,

in a different room,

away from

the kitchen.

waiting for inspiration

as i listen

to the dead poet read his poetry

in black and white

in the garbled

video

on YouTube,

i wait and wait,

for that magical word

or insight

and inspiration,

to pause the poem,

and run into the other

room,

to write

my own.

the appointment at four

i'm forced

by bad weather to cancel

the dental appointment,

the blue

light therapy

session,

the podiatrist,

the colonoscopy

follow up,

the optometrist

to straighten out my

double vision,

but i think

i'll keep that full

body massage

appointment

at four

Natasha is really something

with those hands

and elbows

when she oils up

my body and hops

on board.

the red silk underwear

in a manic

state of suspicion,

she cleaned my closet while

i was at work

and found

the red silk

shorts from a paramour

in the distant

past.

an exotic

fabric shaped to reveal

almost everything.

not well worn,

but worn

for sure on some hot 

valentine day night.

she set them on my nightstand

with a note.

saying,

now i know

who you really are,

to which i replied, they aren't

even my size.

the first out to shovel

she's first

out with the shovel

and salt,

the sidewalk

squared

and bare.

first

upon her car, cleaning

it off

as if it never

snowed.

the wipers raised

in praise

of her efficiency.

i see her red wool

hat pulled

down

her matching gloves

and scarf.

but i can't help

wonder why

she stops at her car

and doesn't make it down

to mine

with more snow

about to fall.

the coming solution

there is a chance

for this.

this

world, as it turns towards

some darkness

unseen before,

there is a shot at redemption,

at a new way

of living,

but not until

it ends.

not until the buttons are

pushed

and egos served

to the almost total destruction

of all men.

then,

perhaps then,

there's a chance to start

over,

and at last begin again.

working on the time machine

as i tinker

with the time machine i'm building

in the basement,

drinking scotch

and listening

to Bob Dylan,

i wonder how far back i should

go.

what era suits me.

the fifties,

full of plaid

and pink kitchens,

the sixties, with

the illusion of free love. or

the seventies with all that bad

clothing.

do i still have my Nehru jacket?

who am i now,

i ponder, as i lift the needle

off the record

where it skips

on the song, It takes a lot to laugh,

but a train to cry.

maybe the eighties.

punk and new

wave.

i did like that hair style.

diamonds are a girls best friend

i finally

get the ring back in the mail.

the engagement

ring

that i gave her

as i bended a knee

and asked

for her hand in marriage.

drunk with 

the delusion of love.

what made

her send back the three thousand

dollar

diamond

that she wore

for a mere six months

guilt, remorse,

a change of heart?

she ran out of room with

a new and bigger ring

to put

into her jewelry box?

who's to know these things.

i'm not holding 

my breath, 

but yes,

there are two more to go.

the angry inch of snow

a mere

inch

of the white stuff, but it sticks

to the streets.

there will

be chaos.

there will be wrecks.

schools will

be canceled,

the shelves will be cleared

of milk

and bread.

the weathermen

and women will wet

their pants

with excitement.

snow at last they'll

proclaim,

proud

of their rare predictions

coming true,

at last.

miss America

i overhear backstage

the other miss America contestants

grumbling

about the winner

as they peel off

their gowns

and bathing suits,

scrubbing the layers of make

up off their faces.

i've been practicing my hula hoop

performance

for five years,

one girl says.

and me, the other girl says.

i was already to do my tap

dancing routine

to a compilation of songs from

Meet Me In St. Louis.

we had no chance against

this broad,

the others chime in,

putting down

their juggling balls

and rabbits

for magic tricks.

a raggedy doll used by

the ventriloquist.

she never even used one piece

of duct tape

to hold herself up.

smart, tall, blonde, beautiful.

for God's sake, she flies fighter

jets for the military,

and graduated from Harvard.

and now she's doing

cancer research.

and she's a nice person

on top of that. we had no shot

against her.

i hate her, i really do.

maybe in the spring

i'm sure

my mother is wondering why

i haven't visited her,

lately.

but with the snow

on the ground

and the cold wind,

the ice,

i'm sure she realizes that

i'll never

find the location where they

buried her

five summers ago.

there's not a stone

with her name on it.

or a marker, no statue,

or cross,

no map to mark

the spot,

no bench for us to sit on,

to wile away the hours,

and talk.

Winter in the Woods

she took me down into

her basement to show me

her hand

made art.

sticks that she glued onto a board,

with stones,

white stones

from a field in New Hampshire.

dead leaves.

orange and red,

brown.

it's my therapy,

she said.

she held one finished piece

up for me to see.

i call this one Winter in the 
Woods, 

and told me that it was worth

five thousand

dollars. the latest bid.

no doubt, i told her,

at least.

turning inside out

not talking,

seems like a good idea.

to go a day

or two without a word,

without a sound

coming out of my mouth.

not a whisper

or a whistle.

just the quiet hum of breathing

as i work,

as i write.

what haven't i said,

that needs

saying again?

what ear would even listen

if i did?

O'hara

his

death was in the news.

an accident

on Fire Island.

barely half

of his life

lived.

a dune buggy striking

him

over the swept sand.

taken

to die in a hospital

in a city.

his books are on my shelf.

do i love

his work, hardly,

but still,

they're alive and true.

my fiancé, joe, she says

i'm glad

she's in love, that she's

found someone.

someone to fill the void,

to ease

the ache of her

aged heart.

i see the ring on her finger.

the gleam

of it

in the morning sun

as she

carries

boxes to her car.

the tall man

beside her,

quiet, with a worrisome

look in his eyes.

i'll miss the sound of her

fingers

on the keyboard

next door.

but i'm glad for her.

at least for now.

tomorrow,

who knows.

this will have to wait

we see the approaching

storm

hovering over

the darkened sea,

boatless

and rough,

to seek refuge beneath

the canopy

of a cafe

along the boardwalk.

our talk is delayed.

as the storm

arrives,

and the wind takes over,

the howl,

the roar

of waves.

we'll live through this,

but our lives 

and the direction

they were about

to take, will have to wait.

the Clark bar incident

as she's telling me about

the joy

of camping and

hiking,

trying to convince

me to hike the Appalachian Trail

with her,

she shouldn't,

but she does, she lifts the hem

of her skirt

to show

me a scar.

a serrated patch of skin

long healed.

shark bite? i ask her,

no, she says.

kitchen quarrel with an unruly

knife.

snake bite?

no again, she says.

i was camping

and suddenly there was

this enormous black bear

who came

into my tent

as i was eating a Clark

bar.

i was lucy to survive.

indeed, i tell her, indeed.

the payment overdue

i'd forgotten

about the check

yet paid.

it's been months since the work

was done.

i've been lax

with payments due.

and now here it is,

at last,

arriving in the mail.

a small sum,

enough

to buy a few bags

of groceries,

cover a bill or two.

a paltry amount,

and yet

not unwelcome.

as trees fall in the wind

traffic,

backed up for miles,

the blue lights of state troopers

ahead,

waving with

flares,

bundled in the wind,

out of their

cars.

a tree has fallen onto the road.

an old oak?

not too exciting,

and yet

the mice are anxious,

creeping over

and over,

leaning on their horns,

in a hurry to get back

home.

so there's hope

it's a thumbnail photo.

crinkled

with a spill of some sort.

black and white,

the edges

yellowed.

partly creased.

the smile is there,

the bright eyes.

it shines with a promise

yet fulfilled.

maybe it was in a wallet

at some point,

or in a vest

pocket, tucked

away for a sailor or soldier

as he went

off to war,

staring deep into the night

at his loved one,

so far away.

did he die in battle,

maybe,

maybe not, but the picture

still remains,

so there's hope.

brainwashed left and right

is there a news

source

not bent left or right.

but straight

down the middle,

with no agenda?

is there a talking head

without

bias.

does everything have to be

a speech of some

sort?

each column,

each bit of news written

or spoken

tainted

with opinion?

if everyone is wrong,

how can anyone

be right?

things you say now but didn't say then

there are things you say

to yourself now that you would

never say when

you were twenty years old.

such as,

these shoes are very comfortable,

i think they'll be

great for walking

to the lake to feed the ducks,

or this room has great

lighting.

i can see a chair over there

near the window

to sit and read in.

and this other room,

so nice and dark, a perfect spot

for an afternoon nap.

what's the thread count on

these sheets?

Egyptian Cotton?

let's go to a matinee,

it's less crowded

and cheaper.

i'll have the hamburger without

the bun please.

what's the cheapest station

around here

to get gas?

it's ten, way past my bedtime,

i think i'll turn in.

is it okay dear to wait until

morning,

before we monkey around

again?

a contract based on emotion

he preferred

professional women.

women

of the night,

young beauties

of the red light district.

it's an exchange,

he'd say.

a transaction,

not a business contract,

long term,

like marriage,

based on an emotion.

this was

cash for services

rendered,

minus the nagging,

the get your

feet off the coffee

table,

go mow the lawn,

dig up the weeds

and walk the dog.

my mother is coming to live

with us next week,

can you paint the hall?

at the end of it no one

gets my

house, he'd say.

i don't have to get a lawyer,

or give up half of everything

i've worked for.

i don't have to move.

i keep my cars,

my life,

my dignity.

i sleep deeply at night.

and i never 

have to beg,

when i'm in the mood.

men becoming women

there are

sayings now. which are no

longer

sayings,

but are now called memes,

for some unknown reason.

live your own life.

follow your path.

it takes a village,

whatever

that means.

be true to yourself.

etc.

i remember just waking

up and going

to work

and being happy

to have 

a good forty hours

or more of

hard labor,

then at the end of two

weeks, a paycheck.

i don't recall a lot

of navel gazing to become

who i'm supposed to

be, or not be,

and all that other

mind numbing crap.

i think Phil Donahue was

the turning

point when men started

to become women, putting

on dresses,

cutting things off and 

wearing make up.

can you get this open for me?

it's not just the butter

tub

that i can't get the lid off of.

or the aspirin

bottle,

or the box of cream,

or the tube

of toothpaste.

the triple

wrapped

box from Amazon.

the ketchup

bottle that won't squeeze.

it's more

than that.

all first world problems

of some

sort

that make my fingers

bleed.

waking up to the noon clock

you can't tell

a child

about your childhood.

explaining

the lacks

in your early life.

the work,

the struggle to survive.

you can't

moan

and groan about the distance

between

school and home

that you walked in all weather.

or the empty

ice box.

the shoes with holes.

you can't

talk about your first job,

your second

job

and the ones that followed.

they stare at you

and smile.

waking up

to the noon clock,

and say that's a shame,

too bad for

you.

dad, i need the keys

to your car.

small hour glasses

i shake out the last

granules

of salt from the salt shaker

shaped

like a small

dog sitting on his hind

legs,

over my eggs.

the pepper, next.

a matching pair.

wedding gifts

from an aunt or uncle

from Philadelphia,

long dead.

it's the last of the salt shaker,

but the pepper

has a long way to go.

as i do.

i hope.

grinding January

careless

with so much.

i let things go,

get away from me.

i ignore the plant

on the sill.

bent brown towards

a winter sun.

i stop

returning calls.

i let the oil light

in the car

blink for months.

i leave

clothes in the dryer,

dishes in the sink.

i'm late with bills.

have i given

up on life.

not really, but i'm

just not feeling it right now.

maybe next month.

you're being searched for

my linked in notification

informs

me that i've been searched

a dozen times

over the past week.

who's looking for me?

a lawman,

a lawyer,

a disgruntled ex wife,

or son?

who's clicking on my

profile, checking out

my status

as to what i'm up to,

or where i've gone?

damn these footprints

in the sand.

you can never hide

anymore, you can never run.

it takes a village

when

i hear the phrase,

it takes a village.

i think

of the movie village

of the damned,

blue eyed and blonde

haired children,

perhaps aliens

wreaking havoc.

or the village idiot,

the bell ringer in the church

tower.

misshaped

and bug eyed.

i think of thatched houses

that can barely

withstand

the wind.

i think of cobble stone

streets

and chimneys.

maybe a horse and carriage,

and an old

man

smoking a pipe,

eyeing you suspiciously,

being new

in town.

i think of Salem

and the dunking chair,

lowering

a new witch into the stream.

where are the scissors?

there are days

when

i can't for the life of me find

a pair of scissors

to trim

a thread, or open a box.

and then there

are other days when any drawer

i open,

there they are.

what any of these means,

i have no clue,

i can't think about it right now,

as i stand at the dresser

looking around for that

single

matching sock.

2 a.m. 7-11

it's best

not to go into a 7-11 at this hour.

the bright gleam

of fluorescence

putting a sheen on the dirty

windows.

2 a.m.,

no matter how

hungry you might

be for a greasy

rotisserie hot dog you

roll on by.

the clerk

may rob you

if not the miscreants

in the parking lot,

talking loudly

around their louds cars,

jacked up

and painted purple and green,

like dragons.

there they are

drinking beer,

and playing music.

their muscled arms

and heads

flexing with 

confidence despite their

fading youth.

it's America, 

after the lights go out,

and the hidden troubles

of day,

appear.

carrots in hand, always

i remember

her washing her old horse in

the barn.

one last time.

sway backed,

and surrounded

by flies,

and cats,

chasing mice.

she stroked the old horse

with a brush,

talking to it gently

as a lover

might.

whispering kind words

into her ears

before tomorrow's

long night.

carrots in hand.

always.

a handful of whys

too late

to be up on this cold

night.

the dog

has one eye open,

not greeting

me at the door.

the sky black with rain.

not a light on

up the street.

but i'm up unable

to sleep.

was

it the long talk,

the drinks,

the drive. the bad food.

coffee.

or just another night,

adrift,

wondering

aloud

with a handful of whys.

finding what we both like

she takes

her coffee black and hot.

poured straight

from the pot.

i need

cream and sugar.

i need a spoon

to stir,

we're different in

so many

ways,

but there is a certain

thing

that we agree upon,

and like a lot.

empty suits empty words

what are all the congressmen

and congresswomen,

the senators,

and judges

and lawyers doing,

the legislators that run

the country?

on both sides of the aisle.

they are either in court,

in jail,

or taking the stand to accuse

or defend each other.

it never ends.

how do they have time

to serve the people

to improve the country

that they supposedly serve?

it's a soap opera of hookers

and drugs,

strippers and gold bars

in their closets.

island retreats.

insider stock tips.

who keeps the trains

running on time?

it appears that no one

is truly accountable

anymore.

there they go,

collecting money, collecting

votes, for another

free ride and term.

stealing from the rich,

but not giving back to the poor.

they were trying to kill us back then

i remember

the boy, Billy,

who burned himself on the Bunsen

burner

in chemistry lab,

and little Frankie Wallace,

his face

forever scarred by

muriatic acid.

and the girl, Jeannie,

who severed

her arm

in home-ec class while cutting

bread

on a wobbly

cutting board,

then there was

tubby Jimmy Beach,

who lopped

off his finger

in shop class making a

spatula for

his mother for Christmas.

Mickey, who

stabbed his biology

partner, Rizzoli, with a scalpel

after dissecting

the guts of a frog.

the kiln explosions,

the ammonia spills,

all good kids who met

their match,

and countless others

who fell

off the vaulting horse,

missing the mat,

or who ruptured themselves

on the parallel bars,

or who took a shot

off the side of their head

playing murder ball

in Phys-ed.

swift and cruel all at once

maybe that man

over there reading the back of a can

of baked beans

was a doctor,

or perhaps a lawyer,

maybe

he was an admiral in the navy,

or a CEO

for General Motors.

it doesn't matter,

we're all on equal ground now.

age assures us

of that leveling.

each man

wearing the same ball cap

and khaki pants,

perusing the shelves at

Safeway.

divorced men,

widowed men,

lonely men, now finding their

way alone

in the world,

which is suddenly swift

and cruel

at once.

almost gone

the news paper

is so thin now, that the paper boy

has to tie a rock

to it,

to keep it from blowing

off the porch.

i used love

the morning paper.

the news.

sports, weather,

the obituaries.

pages of

classified ads for me to

peruse,

looking for my next job.

and now.

what is it?

ads.

and lame comics.

maybe a write up on something

you've already

heard about.

i miss

the smell of it.

the print rubbing off on

my fingers.

savoring

the words of a well written

story.

unfolding the pages

as i drink my coffee,

then layering it into

the bird cage

afterwards.

it's still good for that though.

just five minutes of your time, please

honey bun,

i know

i'm going to be late

for work

again today, but do you mind

if we

spend a little

time 

this morning

in bed.

no, she says.

it's not Saturday, is it?

but, but...

no, forget about it.

i just took

a shower and put

my make up on.

plus i'm late for my

yoga class.

what's wrong with you,

you're so needy now

ever since

our wedding day,

last month.

pour some sugar on me

i finally

get back the results from

the test tube

of spit i sent in

to find out about my family

tree.

they trace my

genealogy

back to Brooklyn,

and it stops there.

it's not

good.

mostly criminals,

and court

jesters, charlatans.

a long line

of losers

and car salesmen.

prison guards and inmates

in asylums.

maybe it was just

a bad bunch 

of spit that day.

i try again, but this

time

throw a little sugar in.

what the hell is an Iowa caucus?

my friend Jimmy calls me up

and wants to talk politics.

hold on, i tell him and go make

a large batch of martinis

in the blender.

i pop open the olive jar

and stab one with a toothpick.

i pour out

the first drink.

what the hell is a caucus, he

asks me?

in two minutes or less,

without googling it, tell

me what a caucus is?

well, i tell him.

think of a coffee clutch or

a meet up of like minded

people.

a friendly gathering

to chit chat, drink coffee

and eat donuts.

uh huh, he says, go on.

well, you put on your winter

coat, hat, scarf and gloves,

break the ice off your car,

then drive a hundred miles

into the middle of nowhere

where you meet in a one room

school house,

built in 1886.  first you

build a fire

and hunker around it,

warming your hands, then

you talk about the candidates

why you like them or don't

like them,

and then you have a secret ballot.

making a black round

circle next to your choice.

not unlike in that Shirley Jackson
story, The Lottery.

didn't you date her back in the 80's.

no, no you're thinking of someone else.

anyway,

there's over sixteen thousand

of these meeting in Iowa

which has over 99 counties.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he says.

oh, and only

one fourth of the whole state

participates, i tell him, sipping

on my drink. feeling very smart.

there's nothing in Iowa, is there?

he says.

nah, not a whole lot.

farms, snow, flat land.

corn and soy fields.

where the hell is that state anyway?

not sure,

somewhere around the middle, i think.

but you know what?

Jimmy says.

i kind of understand why they do

it this way, i get it,

instead of voting on one of those

modern age electronic

voting machines.

they need to gather together.

it's loneliness.

it's looking out your window

at the miles and miles

of nothing, the wind blowing,

your cows and chickens

standing upright in the field,

frozen solid,

and you want to be

around people. right?

it's loneliness. those winter

months will drive

a person wacky.

like Jack Nicholson in the Shining,

right?

i think you're on to something,

Jimmy.

you should do this

i like

it

when people tell you to breathe,

or to hydrate,

or to get

plenty of sleep,

and knock off the sweets.

they use the words

'you should'

quite liberally.

they have figured life out.

and they are

here to help you.

you should read this,

watch this movie,

go here, go there.

you should really go to

Italy sometime.

or take yoga,

or rub this lotion in

your hair.

you should put your money

into Cd's now,

or you should try

sitting up a little straighter

when you go

to sit down.

will this affect the estimate?

she's never bitten anyone

before,

the woman tells me, as i rub

my leg,

the pain in

the fat of my calf.

i lift my pant

leg to evaluate the bite.

there's

a full set of teeth marks indented,

in the flesh.

no blood, the woman says.

that's good.

her teeth are so sharp,

yesterday she bit

a coke can in half.

i can hardly hear what she's

saying,

because of the barking.

here, let me put Trixie in

the other room while you're

here.

will this affect the estimate?

the printing press rolls on

i stare at the stack

of New Yorker Magazines

on the table.

two of them

are coasters for my coffee cup.

another is a resting

place for my tuna sandwich

and a pickle.

have i read them all?

hardly.

skimmed through most

of them

though.

love the cartoons

and movie reviews.

i wish the print was larger.

i need to email

them at some point,

and tell them that, soon.

occasionally i'll find an

article 

of interest, an essay of sorts

that i'll actually read

all the way through.

but i'm amazed at how quickly

another one falls

through the mail slot

before i'm done with 

the last one.

when i'm finished i'll give

a stack to you.

the winter wig

i've never seen hair like hers,

before.

it's a big

cloud of

Italian curls. black as

cake,

spools of it go into

the air,

and around her

face.

a spaghetti of snakes.

it has a life of its own.

i ask her,

if it's a wig, or

if that's her real hair.

a wig? she says.

really?

why, do you need one?

would you like

me to make you a wig?

just for the winter months,

i tell her.

no dependents

i prepare

my paperwork to hand off

to Betty,

who does my taxes.

and has done so for the last

twenty years.

fast years.

she's been through a few

cats since then,

a fresh tabby

is asleep on a file cabinet.

but the office is the same.

the thin shears

letting the light into

a little cape cod

affair

down the road in Manassas.

the bell rings

when you enter the door,

and out

comes 
Betty, adjusting her wig,

pulling on her

dress,

her knitted shawl.

early bird she says greeting

me at the counter,

please, she says, laughing.

please tell me you didn't

get married again.

the hay is in the barn

the tragedy

of this machine

is that one

never gets to see what happens

in the rewrite,

the original draft

is long gone.

as are

the changes made from day

to day.

there are no scraps of paper,

as there are

with Whitman,

with Lowell,

with Scott Fitzgerald, 

with Plath,

or Hemingway.

no lines crossed out,

no new thoughts

in the margins.

no balls of paper in the bin.

so much is weather and mood

related.

how happy we

are in the moment and then

sad and grey

the next morning after taking

a call,

or watching the news.

all of the toil and misprints,

the struggles are swept

away,

the work gone.

what appears instead

is the hay already in the barn.

i beg of you, mr. wu. no msg

i tell

the man at the Chinese

restaurant,

no msg,

no msg, mr. wu, please,

i'll die if you

sprinkle msg onto

my take home order

of kung pao chicken,

and egg rolls.

can you please go into

the kitchen and pass

this word along.

thank you.

thank you.

i leave an enormous

trip for his trouble.

an hour later 

after one bite of chicken,

i'm puffing repeatedly

on my rescuer inhaler,

and holding

my throat.

reaching for the phone

to dial 911.

don't roll your eyes at me

don't roll your eyes at me,

mister.

she used to tell me,

when i listened

to the latest fabrication of where's

she been and with who.

my eyes were like pinballs

in an old bowling alley

machine.

the bells and whistles in my

head going off

as the words poured from

her open mouth.

it wasn't long before,

i hit the sides of my head,

going tilt.

modern art

it's beautiful,

this slick of oil,

circular

and rippling

with colors

across the lake.

a rainbow of sorts

in the cold sun.

a ship is leaking

somewhere,

or someone has changed

the oil in their car

and dumped

the old petroleum here,

but what a lovely 

piece of art it is.

this skim

of grease and grime,

floating

so close to fish.

so wonderfully sublime.

modern art

in modern times.

temporary storage

my phone

informs me that i have too many

temporary

files

clogging up

the memory.

that i need to empty

my storage caches

if i want

things to run faster.

smoother.

i know that.

i know how i hang onto temporary

things too long.

nobody needs to tell 

me that anymore.

that's what

therapy is all about.

talking to my printer

i was talking

to my printer the other day,

as it rattled

on and on,

finished but not finished

once the printing

was done,

and the paper had

slid out onto the tray.

what are you doing?

i asked

politely.

are you okay?

you can stop now,

thanks. it's done.

why are you still making

all that noise,

shaking all over

the place?

what's with you?

do you want ink, more

paper? do you want me

to open the door, the lid?

come on.

chill, relax.

it's over. it's done.

winter music

i hear

the neighbor through

the shared wall,

coughing.

all night, he's up, he's

down.

the toilet flushes.

the water runs.

he coughs,

he blows his nose,

he sneezes.

the headboard

bangs.

it's an orchestra over

there

out of tune.

there goes the tuba

once again.

cliched parting of old friends

we agree

to disagree on just about

everything

under the sun.

but secretly despise

one another

when the day

is done.

once the conversation

has ended.

you'll go your way

and i'll go mine,

and never

the twain shall meet.

as Rome burns

asleep at the wheel,

you drive off

the road, into

a ditch, then over

the cliff

and explode

in a fiery crash

in the valley below,

and yet still,

you want our vote.

i don't think so.

why no one comes to visit us

you'd like

to believe that the world is not

some sleaze

ball

joint, a smokey dive

at the end of the dark

universe.

a hell hole,

of miscreants, and losers

with loaded guns.

the gender confused.

liars and lunkheads,

actors

and politicians,

criminals of all sorts.

lazy bums,

sitting on barstools,

boots on the sticky floor,

waiting for

the government check

to come.

but it feels that way

sometimes.

no wonder no one

pays us

a visit.

don't leave us hanging

we like,

if not a happy ending,

at least

some sort

of satisfying stop

to the story.

don't leave us hanging,

trying to guess

what may

or may not happen

next.

don't turn

the screen to black

and have us look at one

another

with credits rolling,

aghast, and say,

that's it?

these groundhog days

bored

with bland, bland

food,

bland

talk. bland news.

the weather too adding into

this malaise.

the same

old,

as they say.

again and again, repeat

and rinse.

dear lord

winter is so full of

these

groundhog days.

not every poet kills themselves

not every

poet

jumps off a ledge,

a bridge

or off some great height

to take their

life,

or choose in some

dark state

the noose, or knife.

though many have.

not every

scribe

drowns in the cold

river,

or swallows

a hundred jagged pills

to douse

their light.

some don't even drink

or drug

themselves

to death.

some continue on

and on and on,

living peacefully

to write,

until

that dying breath.

not yet, not quite

yes.

i am up late,

writing.

burning the midnight oil.

pen in

hand.

the lamp glow

going low with light.

have i said

all that needs to be said?

are you out

of my system yet?

not yet.

not quite.

burn this immediately

a true

diary. a true written

book

of thoughts and feelings,

of slights

and

resentments

with no holds barred,

a long list of who's who

and what

they meant to you,

or didn't

in your life,

has no use to anyone

once gone.

so instructions must

be given

to burn it immediately

once gone cold,

if not

sooner. and please,

in my case,

don't wait too long.

once out, with permission

once out

the door, with permission,

the children

freed

from the spying eyes

of mother

or father, decisions

must be

made

as to which direction

to go,

which friends

to follow.

which path

to take.

it's an unpaved way.

but one

that will lead to joy

or sorrow

on some unknown

night, on any

given day.

dinner theater magic

he was a failed

magician.

all the pigeons

died.

he cut his wife's leg

off in

a trick gone

awry.

everything up his sleeve

fell out.

and he never got the card

right,

when holding it

to the light.

he swallowed

the key

to chains

that held him

in a trap.

nothing disappeared

or reappeared.

smoke

turned into fire.

and the poor rabbit

ran for its life

finding a hole in his

tall black hat.

the other cheek

not plastered,

but amusingly buzzed,

enough

to try

and steal a kiss from you,

i try,

with a quick lean over.

it's awkward,

as you turn

your face

away,

landing my lips

upon your cheek.

surprise is in your eyes.

no? I say.

and you reply.

perhaps tomorrow,

perhaps,

but not today.

sweet toast and jam

in brightly

colored

jars, small spreads

of jams

line

the upper shelf

of the store,

preserves

away

from pedestrian fare.

blueberry

and blackberry,

strawberry and marmalade.

apricot too.

the yellow pouring

through.

these

are the luxury

fruits of an upper 

tier.

highly priced,

but well worth the dollar

more spent.

i imagine

the winter mornings

with tea,

and me alone,

in slippers and cotton robe,

broad knife

in hand,

buttering toast,

and these sweet jams.

the cold

paper off the porch,

spread out,

before me.

when the fliters fall away

i'm having more and more

conversations

with myself.

unfortunately,

out loud.

short ones, though.

small outbursts with cursing.

i try to keep

quiet when others are

around,

but my filter is weakening.

i'm becoming the rude

old man

i've always admired, not

afraid to say anything,

anytime, or anywhere,

to anyone.

it's a wonderful

thing.

this frontal lobe

dysfunction.

king of the junior prom

what is this

new bump near my eye?

this rippling of skin

on my arm,

this crease

in my forehead,

the lines

around my mouth.

was i in a fight last night,

while sleeping.

did the cat

scratch me,

did an ex sneak in

and pummel me

with a bag

of nickels 

while i lay in bed

asleep?

who aged me like this,

so suddenly?

it was just yesterday

i was king

of the junior prom,

sitting on a throne

with a teenage queen.

lineless and young,

care free.

getting out the magnifying glass

there's a reason

for the small print on the contract,

on the labels

of cans

and packages

at the market.

the warranties,

the marriage

and divorce decrees.

the lawyer specializes

in small print,

so does the car

salesman,

the loan officer,

the bank officer

and the real estate

agent.

it's because the small

print

reveals everything

they don't want

you to know.

it's in their best interest

for you not to read.

scratching a leg

with a mere

touch

of the button and a brief

scroll

down the screen describing

medical

ailments, you

wonder how any of us

are still alive.

the bugs,

the germs,

the endless list of maladies

that effect

us humans.

so much

unseen.

and yet, here we are

again.

standing in the kitchen,

the radio

on,

coffee brewing,

scratching a leg.

what makes her tick

with sharp

words,

pin like phrases

i pick

the lock of her brain.

i want in.

i want to know and see

what goes

on in there,

behind the safe

door.

i turn

the dials, my ear

on her chest.

turning the tick of her

heart.

but no luck,

yet.

waiting for work on a cold day

i am a farmer

waiting for

rain.

waiting for work.

looking out

at the dry fields

covered

in ice.

i've sent money out to

several

prosperity preachers,

even Joel Osteen,

and yet

the phone doesn't ring.

i'm high

and dry.

abandoned.

staring out the window.

waiting for

work

again.

i make a sign then

head out

to the curb.

will work for work

it says.

a sensitive guy

i see the mailman

sorting through the mail in his truck.

taking a break

and drinking tea,

nibbling

on a crumpet.

he seems

to be steaming open

personal letters

not yet delivered,

and reading them.

he laughs,

he cries.

he shakes his head then

seals them

back up.

he knows our lives.

a sensitive guy.

the garden hose

we move again.

the boxes

leave

the house. the chairs

and tables,

silverware

and dishes carefully

packed.

the books,

the books,

the books.

the  clothes in

bags,

in baskets.

pictures off the wall.

we turn back and stare

at the house

we once loved,

and lived in

together,

then move

in different directions.

we leave

the garden hose.

lady of the night

i don't want to speak

badly

about a cat, but the cat we

had as kids

was the town

floozy.

beautiful

and grey with soft

green eyes,

and a seductive purr.

she wore a pink collar

and walked

with her tail straight up.

she probably gave birth

to over a hundred

kittens

in her day.

she looked weary at times.

her belly full again,

a frown on her soft

tired face.

a lady of the night.

and the tom cats

loved her.

howling from the alley,

at the windows,

and at the doors

hoping she'd come out

to play.

running low on hot water

the first

in line in the cold

hall,

at the bathroom

door,

would take most

of the hot water,

by shower,

or soak in the tub.

the bar of soap whittled

down,

to a medallion

of sorts.

don't use all the hot

water

the next in line would

shout,

banging on

the door, testing

the knob,

toothbrush in hand,

towel

on his shoulder.

three more behind him.

there was good too

i'd watch

my father shine his shoes.

navy

dress shoes.

white for summer,

that went

along with his navy

suit.

he looked sharp

in his uniform.

the hat pulled

tight.

the crease in his 

trousers.

the buttons gleaming

gold.

he appeared

to be a knight

in some fairytale,

shining

in the summer sunlight.

the medals

pinned to his chest.

there was good in him

after all,

i'd think,

as i waved from

window,

ignoring all the rest.

air land and sea

i prefer

dry land, as opposed

to being

in the air,

or on water.

i like my feet on the ground.

with a relative

absence

of fear.

one foot after the other,

though there's plenty

of that to

go around

these days, with each

turn of the corner.

but of air

land, or sea,

choosing one to be the

death of me.

i choose land.

learning and unlearning

it trickles in.

this knowledge,

like rain drops

collected in a bucket.

it puddles

up inside our brains

as we learn

and learn,

bits and pieces of

information

saved,

held in place

until of a certain age.

but then

out it goes, over

the levee, the dam

broken,

most of it flowing

down some

rusted drain.

out of stamps again

funny

how there are no stamps.

i must have licked

the last one.

it seems

like

just yesterday

that i purchased two books

from

the man

at the post office.

one book

was for Christmas.

trees and elves,

reindeer

and snow.

the other book was

for inventors.

Guttenberg,

Edison and Franklin.

Madame Curie

and Einstein.

i'd love to see a book

of stamps

proclaiming the virtues

and the likes

of Marilyn Monroe.

saint Lisa

stray cats,

stray dogs, pick a war

any war,

the homeless,

the sick,

the blind,

the refugees,

the climate.

pick a cause, 

any old cause,

and she'd be there,

right behind it,

carrying her sign.

why shine the apple

we're so alike,

she says to me,

shining

the apple in her hand

before taking

a bite.

not really, i tell her.

yes,

we're alive.

we eat, we sleep, we breathe.

but beyond

that,

i see nothing

alike between us.

we think and behave

so differently.

take that apple

for instance.

i wouldn't waste my

time

shining it.

i'd cut it into fours

with a sharp knife,

and then i'd eat.

i refuse to eat that

there was a time

when i would

gracefully

praise the spoon of 

lima beans

ladled onto

my plate. i'd smile.

I'd eat.

i was a compromising

soul,

easy to get along

with,

no quarrel with

others, just accepting

what the world

would bring,

keeping the peace.

but things have

changed.

there are many things now

that i refuse to eat.

becoming alone

it feels normal,

natural

to recede

in later years, to become

more and more

reclusive.

no longer needing

or wanting

what the world

aggressively

gives.

the neon

is too loud, the music,

bland

and without

meaning.

why answer

the door, or pick up

the ringing phone.

you're apt to stay put

rather

than drive to eat

or drink,

to gather with friends.

it becomes lovely,

this singular space

you've carved

out,

embracing the quiet

of being

alone.

but be kind too

don't let the world

steal

your

sense of humor,

your

sarcasm and delight

in poking

fun

at nearly everything

sacred.

keep jabbing at the left,

at the right.

be amused

for as long as you can.

but be

kind

too.

early morning darkness

it's a nine a.m.

darkness.

almost night and the day

has just

begun.

not a glimmer

of light

but for the lamp

post.

continuing

its duty of last night.

the sun

a foreign object

once

in the sky, now

taking

a long awaited 

vacation.

bundle up.

wrap tight.

here and then gone

i didn't know

she was

gone.

dear Rose.

strange. strange how

eleven years

ago,

seems like yesterday.

her wired

arms

and legs, her brilliant

shock

of hair.

her lake blue eyes.

the energy and smile

of a thousand

lights.

gone?

impossible.

here,

and then gone.

today.

the texting diagnosis

there's something going

around.

maybe

it's covid.

maybe it's just a low

grade

fever that will pass.

a head cold.

is your throat sore?

body aches?

maybe it's

the black plague,

or

the avian flu.

maybe it's some new

bug

from China,

or Timbuktu.

have you had your

shots

this year.

pneumonia,

shingles,  tetanus,

or for

a variety of flus.

or

maybe

it's gluten.

what did you eat last night?

around and around the world

you need to travel

more,

people tell you after they

come back

from a trip

overseas.

we just love to go to new

places,

places that we've never been.

have you ever been to 

Istanbul,

or Kingston?

they ask, pulling out

their phone to show you

a fish

they caught,

or a rug they bought

when in Turkey.

You'd love

Portugal, or Berlin,

what about,

Sweden or London?

they show you their

passport,

full of stamps.

their refrigerator magnets

stuck to the door.

i stare at their luggage,

still packed.

we're leaving for Argentina

on Monday,

would you be a prince

and watch our tabby

once more?

a four aspirin morning

it's a strange

throbbing

pain

in your head.

you didn't drink last

night,

or eat anything unusual.

you had no

contact with

what's her name,

so why

the headache,

why the pain?

is it the news again?

where's 

the bag of ice?

rolling the dice for another year

we gamble

on the stock market,

when is it time to pull out

and cash in,

buy a house,

or a villa

on some far away island

or in the south

of France.

when should

we step away from the table

and take a chance?

today,

tomorrow.

soon?

or should we roll the dice

for another

year?

a fan of pigs

some of us collect things.

we buy,

or hunt down

artifacts

of great value, or of

no value.

knickknacks of some sort.

we just like possessing,

a hundred and twenty-seven 

porcelain pigs.

of all sizes,

in all shades of pink.

handmade, kiln baked,

glass

and stone.

there they are.

large and small.

on the kitchen sill.

on the mantle.

on the nightstand,

where you

wake to see them

in all their

flea market glory.

you're a fan of pigs.

God bless you.

the single bed in a rented room

going

backwards is painful.

the

one room

rented,

a plant on the sill.

a single

bed

on an old rusted frame.

a suitcase

unpacked

holding everything.

the landlord

one floor

below

counting

your money.

it's a far fall from

the mansion

on the hill.

the suite at the top.

the Mercedes Benz.

sleep

is a wish

and is not your friend.

under the back door

i find your note

slipped

under the back door.

folded thrice,

neatly,

as you are prone

to do.

the back

door, of course,

i'd expect nothing less

than stealth

out of you.

unsigned, but clearly

your handiwork,

line by line.

i know how you cross

your t's

and dot your i's.

there is little i don't

know about

you, but it's fading,

fading slowly.

but all in good time.

the bird on the plank

even the clock maker,

at his

work bench, repairing

the dials

and hands,

the machinery of

these boxes,

reworking

their inner life,

even he can't explain

the passage

of time.

the movement of seconds

into minutes,

the bells, the chimes,

the bird

on a plank

at each new hour

crowing loudly.

even he is baffled

by it all.

this you will treasure

i will leave

you something, he tells me,

short

of breath, in a quiet

way,

his hand on my hand.

not riches,

not gold or silver.

or some item that the world

holds dear.

no.

it's nothing like that,

it's

how we talked together,

the memory

of our laughter,

the love

of two men, brothers

in arms.

friends.

this you will treasure,

and remember

forever.

one size fits all

i want everything

to fit.

one size

fits all.

one charger for every

phone, one cup

that fits

into every cup

holder.

one size battery,

stretch pants and

stretch shoes.

one set of wires that

connects

to everything.

let's simplify, lets

coordinate our efforts

and end

the confusion.

what comes next has already happened

it's a small

condominium on the ocean,

a mistake

of sorts,

a time share

bought when love was

in the air.

the sun was out.

it's

nestled somewhere

between floors

of the once white, but

now weather beaten

building.

it shows its age,

but we all do.

the wind

is in our face as we look

at the turmoil

of a sloppy ocean

going black at night.

the sand is

brown, and dirty.

littered with trash.

the seagulls, 

have tightened

up their wings,

strapped them to their

chests..

we say nothing.

for what is there to say

on this final visit together.

what comes next

has already

happened.

hunger pangs

i try to remember

real hunger.

the weakness

from lack of food,

lack of nutrition,

that pang

in the stomach,

the limp arms and legs

that refuse

to move.

i try to remember hunger

like that,

but i can't.

it was a different kind

of hunger

when with you.

i do remember that.

when you meet a cup of crazy

i'm not a doctor

not

a psychiatrist,

or a psychologist, or even

a therapist.

however,

i know a cup of crazy

when i run

into one.

i hear it in their voice,

see it in their eyes,

see it in

how they stand,

or use their

hands when

they talk.

it's how they text,

or call you on the phone.

the tone

of voice.

i can smell it on them,

like a shoe

that's stepped through

a field of

well fed cows.

my spider senses tingles

from head

to my toes.

when they show you,

who they are, believe

them.

run forest run.

she bought a yellow vase

it started

with a small vase found

at a flea

market. a porcelain

piece

for a five dollars, marked

down from eight.

it was yellow.

a bright

canary yellow.

she set it on the sill

in the kitchen

and put some daffodils

in it.

the next

day

there were curtains

on

the window. a pale

shade

of yellow.

then the rug beneath

the table

became yellow.

when i came home

from work,

she showed

me a paint

chart

and told me that she

wanted the walls

a different color.

yellow of course.

so i did.

soon, her dress was yellow

her hair

too.

there were bananas

in a bowl

on the table.

sticks of butter were

left out on the counter.

she started drinking egg nogg,

and eating

yellow peppers

for dinner.

no more fea markets for her.

this is a very bad idea, Mimi

my new love

interest, Mimi,

wants to go to a nudist

camp

for vacation.

i look at her as i sip

my coffee,

and say,

what?

what did you say?

i think we should experiment,

think outside

the box

and jazz our life

up a little,

let's go to a nudist camp

this summer.

there's one in Pennsylvania,

called,

Naked Lunch.

it looks like fun.

my mind is suddenly filled

with the image

of William S. Burroughs.

with clothes on,

thank God.

what about bugs, i say to her.

sunburn.

i see a hygiene problem

and besides that

are we in good enough shape

to be strolling

around in the buff?

no one cares,

she says.

there's fat people, skinny

people there.

no one cares.

but what's the point?

it's just being free and part

of nature.

we'd be like Adam and Eve,

before

they ate the apple.

what about we start slow,

i tell her,

maybe a topless beach

in Miami?

i really don't want to be

Buck naked in front 

Of strangers.

i'm quite shy like that.

the grocery clerk at Kroger's

i could see

that the grocery clerk was

in deep thought

as she moved

my groceries along

the belt,

neatly

packing things

into bags.

she wasn't there.

there was a long

snake

tattooed up her

arm,

slithering to her neck.

where was she? what was

her plan

for life?

was this it?

was this the end of the road?

the beginning?

or a bus stop along the way

until things

got right.

she handed me

my change,

my receipt, never once

looking

into my eyes.

i would have known more,

if she had.

a summer morning

as we stood

in the warm water

of the Potomac River,

ankle deep,

casting out towards

the Wilson Bridge

and the Blue Plains Sewage

Treatment Center,

next to the Naval

Research Center, we

could see the Washington

Monument

in the fog of a summer

morning.

1966.

dead fish were everywhere.

the world was changing,

but we were still

young,

unbothered by nearly

everything,

just wanting to cast out

into the river,

and fish.

remember this

remember

this, i tell myself as

i sit

on the back

porch

with a pink sun rise

sifting

through the trees

of an azure

sky.

remember this beauty.

save it

to memory.

it will save your

life

at some point

in time.

the fall of everything

the death

of society is having no

man

in the house.

no father

or mother around much.

the absent parent

is killing

the country.

there is rarely

a family anymore.

kids are wild in the street

with no

remorse,

no conscience,

no one telling them, to be

good,

go to school

go to church.

work

and be home by ten.

there's no one

checking

in on them

at their beside when

children.

twelve months of hell

i could handle

the silent treatment

for days at a time

by the ex wife.

that was

no problem.

and the no dinners

or lunches,

or going out to the movies,

or to the beach

or a day

trip to anywhere.

i got used to

being ignored and alone.

the tv censored.

i could handle all of that,

but cutting

me off from

sex for five months was

pushing things

too far.

i hadn't been that lonely

and frustrated

since my freshman 

year in high school.

i have no comment on that at this time

if i was president.

the only

thing i'd ever say

after the long

campaign

and at last in office,

would be,

no comment.

anything

they'd ask me, all i'd say

would be,

no comment.

i'd keep them in the dark

about everything.

i wouldn't even

tell my wife

what i was thinking.

i'd keep the media

running around like chickens

with their heads

cut off.

how could i go wrong

with no policy

spoken on anything.

it would be gold Jerry,

gold.

everyone on both sides

would be happy

and unhappy

at the same time.

Andy Kaufman would be

proud of me.

no vacancy here

the smartest thing

i did last year

was getting

rid of the bed in the guest room.

ooops.

my bad,

it's gone.

but you know what?

there's a nice

hotel

right up the road,

a mere stone throw

away.

here's the number,

i think their vacancy

sign is on.

just stop and go home

whether

a bike ride or a walk,

or run,

or drive,

or a relationship

that's falling

apart.

there's a point of boredom

that overcomes

you.

you've seen these streets

before,

this path,

these trees,

a hundred times.

maybe you go on

a little further,

another

mile

or half mile, but at

some point,

you stop and just go home.

sitting next to the ex president

i remember sitting next

to the ex

president on the plane,

on the way to

the island.

he looked anxious,

happy,

rubbing his hands together,

staring out

the window.

he kept yelling out, are

we there yet?

are we almost there?

his flip flops

were tapping

on the floor

and his face was all red.

he wasn't wearing

a shirt and had on a bathing

suit with

a towel around

his shoulders.

he couldn't sit still.

my friend Lisa was with

me. she was in a master

class for full body

acupuncture and studying

to be a massage therapist

at NYU.

i was her guest.

i whispered to Lisa,

whatever you do when we

get there,

don't put on that black beret

in your bag, okay?

please, no beret.

banging erasers against the school wall

the teacher,

thought it was some sort of punishment,

sending us

out into the cold

to bang chalk out of

the erasers

against the school wall.

but Jimmy and I

liked it.

Jimmy would smoke

his cigarettes,

and sit down

on the cold ground and watch

me as i banged

each eraser over and over

again

against the red brick

wall near

the incinerator,

releasing clouds

of chalk dust into

the air, and into

my nose.

we were both very happy

and red eyed

by the time we went back in.

sleepy in fact,

and no longer, 

any trouble to the rest

of the class.

winter storm Stanley is on the way

they're naming

winter storms now.

jimmy and Fred,

Billie jean,

and sally Mae.

boy and girl names, and

some

that can go either way.

it used to be just

hurricanes

that were given a name,

but winter storms have

feelings too.

why should they be left

out of the fun?

next it will be strong winds,

and cold fronts,

rain storms,

tornados,

and sleet.

typhon 

Debbie, or earthquake Ernie,

why not?

let's not leave anyone

out, let's embrace

our weather,

and have a giant group

hug.

swinging as hard as you can

no matter

how hard you struck the wiffle

ball

with the plastic

bat

it only went about

five feet in the air

and then

came to a dead stop

in the grass.

some days are exactly

like that.

flying to the infamous island

as the list of names begin

to trickle out

of all those men

and women,

that visited the infamous island,

known for it's debauchery,

you begin to hear

the reasons,

the excuses of those that

frequented the place,

and why they were friends

with

the Lord of the Flies.

it was business, they say.

politics,

i'm his lawyer, his car mechanic,

his chef,

his friend, his accountant.

i was writing a book,

we were brainstorming,

it was another sweet sixteen

birthday party.

i got on the wrong plane.

it wasn't me.

it was just lunch.

we played cards all night.

it was a fishing expedition.

we were bird

watching.

he owed me money.

it was his annual cheerleading

outfit contest

for college scholarships.

we played charades all night.

really, that's it all was.

lost and found

i make

the mistake of asking her

if she

left

her reading glasses

on the nightstand

beside

the bed.

or her diamond

earrings,

or her silk stockings,

which i find

curled together

on the floor.

are any of these things

yours?

i ask, cautiously.

big mistake.

i'm sorry, what's your name, again

some people

never forget a face,

or a name.

they can

place someone ten

years later

and remember who

they are.

i'm more of a three

second guy.

once

i turn my head and

go get another

shrimp

cocktail,

my mind goes blank

on everyone

i just met.

an hour later and i'm

in a room full

of strangers again.

responding to her leg photo

she sent me

a picture of her leg once.

just one

leg.

bare and pale.

stretched out

across a bed.

i think it was her leg,

but it could

have been anyone's leg.

it had the thigh,

the knee,

the ankle,

the foot,

toes.

your basic leg with

no shoe on.

i didn't know how to respond.

so i sent her a picture

of my arm.

i haven't heard back yet.

i'm very very sorry

i start the new year

off by

apologizing

to people i may have offended.

it's a generic

card,

laminated.

it says.

i'm sorry if i've hurt you.

please

forgive me,

and let's move on.

i print off a few dozen,

but quickly

run out.

by nightfall i've got a

multitude of phone calls,

from people telling

me that they didn't

get theirs yet.

i go back to the printer,

it's going to be

a long night ahead.

becoming the maestro

the ophthalmologist

tells

me that after this procedure

of releasing

gas

trapped behind my new

lens,

the old one covered

in a web

of a cataract,

that i'll begin

to see some new floaters.

he wasn't just whistling

dixie

about that.

i'm seeing unidentified

flying objects

all day.

i'm swatting flies away

that aren't even

there.

a flock of bees.

birds.

i'm Leonard Bernstein

with my hands

now,

flying around in the air.